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4mrplumi · 2 days ago

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ZERO (iii) : SCAVENGERY . (ms/prev/next)

-> plot synopsis - you don't think you're as odd and horrifying as the news makes you out to be. but you have never much cared for the validation of others, and certainly not theirs.

-> batfamily x serial killer reader. playlist (wip) ask 2b added to taglist

-> tw; gn reader, guns, violence, child neglect, messed up legal system, mention of death, poor living conditions, bug taxidermy, everyone's a b, paranoia, ocd, full list on master list.

> a/n; the prologues are text heavy... i'll try more dialogue for the first chapter (next upload) and onwards. in the mean time, feel free to send asks and ideas, i'd love to discuss and tie up my own lose ends too. hope this suffices for the reader's relationship with the bat family!

“family business”, you squint at the sign, “12th sector conveniences, run by a family business!” the print on the plastic sign is misspelled, and fading away completely. red into pink, orange into pale yellow, and green into cyan. a lovely place to be at for what you’re doing.

family has always been an iffy subject for you, in your mind and verbal exchanges. you never humoured your friends’ prods at you to talk, and were especially vigilant about shutting down conversations about family.

you’d already brushed over the meaning of the word in your head, on terms with the fact that you would most likely never understand it in this lifetime, but the experience with it still stung. sometimes.

at ten years old, the landlord of your apartment, who’d let you stay for free since it was so horribly kept, passed away. it meant you had effectively no place to live, since it wasn’t legally in your hands anymore. nothing much about your situation was legal, but he’d argued your case for you for years, and the neighbours were supportive of it too.

gotham is a gritty place, and even with the varied dictionary of swears they used to poke away security, it was a little show of squishy softness from the people.

after he died, your friends’ parents and your neighbours shuffled you around in their homes, month to month to keep you around. no one thought of calling fosters, or the police, since you were their kid as much as their children were. “love” was an odd word to use, people in your alley married for benefits and children were kept about for that reason too. there were exceptions, but the reason for your staying was obligation.

at eleven, you got caught directly in between a scuffle on the streets. the guys must’ve been waiting to put off steam, since it got bloody way faster than you’d ever seen. but honestly? you could’ve gone past it, it was nothing unnatural for the city, and having grown up in it on your own, you would’ve been fine.

but gotham was a city full of interruptions. buses, classes, going to the store for chips or even walking back home, you would be interrupted. by a gun, a fist, or if you were especially unlucky, the big old bat and his big old car. you wonder if you could’ve saved yourself all the trouble, the tax on your mental state and the worry you keep everyday of your life now, if you had just been a bit faster, fast enough to avoid the batman’s interruption. maybe, you would’ve been in the stairwell with your friends now, eating chips or running from old mister ford on the sixth floor.

you’d been put in the police station down the road, the same one your friend had thrown a brick through last week, while the caped weirdo, batman, told you it’d be alright. alright? you were fine. what did he mean, alright?

you’d nagged the officers to let you go, lying that people at home would be worried (maybe they were, you never got to know), but they’d sat you down and expected forced, timid compliance from you. these guys are always expecting better. one lady even had the gall to put on a show for you on the tiny tv in one of the “comfort-rooms” and you’d gone biting, screaming and struggling.

‘radicalised’ was what your landlord-uncle had called it. gotham’s people, even those not submerged in the high of crime, couldn’t help but grow up to be hard and rough at the edges, hating the people who put them here. the divide between the common people and the socialites was so jarring, so far. you didn’t want to comply with what these guys were telling you to do. all the adults hated them! why wouldn’t you?

it had taken two hours of watching a few pink-haired girls run around behind the screen, in cold, cold anger before you were let out. “a new home,” the lady officer had said, “safer.” it wasn’t until later that you got to know the reason they didn’t let you leave or shoved you in a care-home you could've run from, and instead pushed you into the manor; was because of your lack of legal documents. most noticeably, your birth certificate and the absence of your parents.

you think now, that maybe batman had expected you to be broken, ruined and lonely like his other odd children. fact of the matter is, that you were fine. you were none of those things, until he intruded in your life. why he never let you go… perhaps he feared any resentment you held. you held none, until him.

the fight never left, you’d hissed all the way home at the old guy and the other man who’d come to pick you up, swiping at a hand offered to you. a new home? a new home? you had a home! they were waiting for you, you think, what do these people mean about a new home? why would you trust a badge and cap or a suit and tie, on their judgement of safety?

you want to go home.

the house they put you in was gargantuanly huge, your room the size of your old shared apartments. it made you sick. the ceiling was too high, and the corridors too long. admitting to fear was a sure way to get snuffed on the streets, and you didn’t admit to it, spending hours hiding in a bathroom alone, still too big for your liking. you hid and hid and you still hide. all the time.

when you got used to the place, pangs of loneliness and homesickness hit you. having never talked much, it was an unusual habit to reach out to someone. the flats you lived in used to be small enough for three people to have to sleep in the same bedroom. and the other four to crash on top of each other on the couch.

it’s different here, you’re alone. there’s no situation where everybody has to be together. you could tail along with the old guy while he cleaned, or stalk the boy who came to visit every month, but you avoided the man who got you here at all costs. you hate him, it would be betrayal to yourself to want to be around him. but seeking out company was too taxing, too new a thing for you. no one else came to you on their own, never needed anything from you. you were isolated. lonely. scared.

you weren’t forbidden from going outside, but always tailed by a security guard your “father” would set on you. the place where you grew up was blocked off your mental map too, a firm hand on your soldier from the boy, richard grayson, and his voice telling you it was off limits.

when you demanded a snarled “why?” with a dark, dark scowl, he’d just shook his head. an answer never came to you on its own, but it was quite clear you’d never be able to disobey. so you scuffled around, lonely, the shadow of the manor on you making street-kids you’d get along with otherwise frown at you, everywhere.

a few months after your glorified kidnapping, another boy came into the polished picture of your family photo; jason todd. he was about the same age as you, with a noticeable and heavy gothamite-accent that you recognised immediately. though you still didn’t much enjoy seeking out the company of anyone in the house, jason’s was by far, the easiest to go to.

he was a surprisingly tender little kid, you’d expected a meaner, more similar to you type of guy, but it didn’t matter much. you’d sit in the same room as him when he studied, listen to him whisper under his breath about some composition of something, watch him run around in the garden after alfred to help him, gain the favour of the man, and wonder where he’d gone at night when you tried to stay awake with him in either of your rooms. the two of you were unalike, but the comfort of knowing rags better than rugs brought you together, just a bit.

towards the… end, he’d become more biting. more snappy, on edge. the change had come suddenly, and made you conflicted. on one end, you were delighted at his hostility, seeing a familiarity of behaviour with him. he was finally growing into the hardened shell. the other end just made you sad. what happened to the kid? to your brother? what happened to him?

it’s safe to say his death destroyed any neutrality you had for this place. when you’d seen bruce one night, he’d looked absolutely horrible, and you hadn’t understood why. you couldn’t much bother to ask, assuming it must’ve been bitchy-bad billionaire-blues, and the shock, the blunt punch that came to your gut at attending jason’s funeral the next day made you sick.

dick had stood crying, his face in his hands, alfred had put an umbrella down to his face in what you assumed was sorrow, and bruce’s expression was unintelligible under the shadows that fell on it. you only stared, and stared, and stared at the stone of his grave, as though wanting to erode it, dig him out. jason. jason. a good soldier.

soldier?

you were livid, entirely unable to express your emotions in any way possible, no outlet among your family, no friends, no social circle or activities to let out even the smallest sliver of your anger out. you hadn’t cried, mourning was never one of your customs, but you were so horribly angry. he was gone. gone.

what probably made it worse was that you never knew how he died. he disappeared one day, and came back dead the other. your only half-friend in your whole life, was gone, the sweet, helpful little boy, gone. your brother. gone. you shut off entirely, unwilling to accept dick’s offers to spend time together, snarling that his attempts at being a better brother to you would never undo anything that he’d ever done. with no knowledge on the cause of his death, you blamed everyone for jason todd’s story.

dick had pulled away his hand, expression darkening, and did very pointedly avoid you from there on. thinking back, you wonder why he couldn’t excuse your grief. you were a child too. how did he manage to excuse everyone else?

tim drake’s arrival had been a thing of great disgust to you. he’d become an outlet for your fury, shoving past him in the corridors, muttering curses at him at the smallest issues, and flashing a scowl and a glare at his direction whenever he spoke. from the very beginning, tim knew about your distrust, your hatred of him, and avoided you in return to avoid trouble.

maybe you shouldn't have, and you don’t anymore to anybody, but you’d often go at him when you were at home. snarky comments on what he did, brushing off efforts he didn’t even present to you. you could see the slight effect it had on him, reclusivity, him thinking twice over his words. that on it’s own, and grayson’s narrowed glare and muttered “lay off, (name)” had almost made you guilty.

almost.

he’d come to eventually just spit back at you, or ignore you, and you’d leave him be too. it’s just that the impact that period of time had on the both of you was irrefutable, and harsher exchanges would come out much easier from your mouth now. again, you wonder, why he couldn’t excuse you. you would take any hatred back from him, face the consequences of your actions and accept what you did was terrible. even if he never forgave you for being so unwelcoming to the little boy he was, if it meant that one day, tim drake would look your way without a scowl. but why did he never excuse you?

around this time, you took up many things. jason’s death had soured you against the crime in gotham way more than your arrival at the manor did, so you took to listening to the news and skimming through pamphlets. the common figures of the batman and robin had created a semi-permanent furrow in your brow, and you pitied the robin-boy who’d have to work along the incompetent, interrupting, annoying bat-hag. batman.

the repetition of’ saves the day’, ‘exposes the scene’ and ‘back at arkham’ formed a slight obsession in you, and you had to know who these… geeks in costume interrupting everything were. if they could so skilfully weave through the riddler’s intricate puzzles, handle the joker’s lunatic schemes and avoid the bristling thorns of poison ivy’s attacks, how could they not put their minds to the little guy? the smaller problems?

from stalking tim and watching his work methods, without his awareness, you picked up a pin and a photo, and got to work. school was never challenging, maybe initially with your lack of an uneducated pre-teens, but easy to catch up to with your abundance of time. with all the hours freed up from not having to do homework you’d already finished, you made it a personal goal to find out who batman and robin were. the man and the boy who failed you, jason, and all the kids down the road.

and you found out. in february, wearing a short sleeved shirt ‘cause the heating was always up, with a final thread of glittering blue thread, you found out. the anger that had built up over the years had started to die out, and snapped with a fizzle when you understood.

you hate them. bruce wayne, dick grayson, tim drake and even, even jason todd. you hate them all. incompetent fools. idiots.

a sense of emptiness lingered in you for days, a morose sense of nothing to do. you came across a video of a girl stuffing a hollowed spider with cotton, and gently placing it’s dangly limbs on top of pins like they were footrests. the spider’s paws were limp on her sides, but she looked alive. she looked alive, even after dying.

maybe it would’ve passed on a fleeting interest, if you had not come to the terms with the fact that rich people could do just whatever. without asking anyone, you’d gone out to buy a board and some bob-pins, signed your name off as someone else on the shop record book and left. two habits, hobbies, created on the same day. taxidermy and paranoia.

you were not paranoid.

when you were now sixteen, bruce- no, batman, had gotten home troubled, more so that usual. it had peaked your curiosity, and you couldn’t help but eavesdrop through a micro communicator tim had so considerably left out in his room when you snooped through it.

the silhouette of a red hood trailed their conversations, troubling them with drugs and guns and knives. you’d found it all very amusing, minus the fact of his crimes. anyone who troubled the batman was amusing, but crime? you never excuse.

the relevance two months down that jason todd was alive, when you left the communicator on on a sleepless night, jolted you fully awake. a similar resurgence of not knowing, and fear, and worry engulfed you, much alike the same feelings you felt coming to the manor five years ago.

you wanted to demand for answers, weasel out how, why, where he was. why he wasn’t coming home and why bruce was so incompetent at getting him back to the manor. but you couldn’t. no one could know you knew, no one could know you had that information, of their identities on them, and have that leverage over you. you bit your tongue.

you never spoke to him, or saw jason face to face after his “rebirth”, catching glimpses of his voice on the mic’s that inputted into the oracle’s connected networks at night. you caught a glimpse of a large figure, draped in a leather jacket jumping out the window from the kitchen, but too late and too awkward to call out.

he’d gotten so tall. grown up. it hurts so bad, and you’ve never hurt before. never admitted it.

how had he managed to regain just the littlest bit of ties with the rest of the family, but not with you? you knew he snuck in on some nights, and he rarely ever came to the manor to talk to anyone, but how was it so easy for him to just, forget you? did he ever wonder where you were? did he ever want to see you again? you know he couldn’t, wouldn’t, but would he want to?

the pain that comes from seeing damian enter the manor is ten folds that. another little boy, falling to the bat’s trap of glory and growing up like jason and dick and tim, trapped. you want to warn him, but his kohl-lined eyes and scowling face makes it too difficult.

he reminds you too much of yourself, and that’s just about the scariest thing you know. self-importance and snarkiness.

the worst thing? their tolerance. their excuses. dick’s grin at damian a day after the loudest scuffle, the meanest words you’d heard come from a ten year old’s mouth, him being excused. tolerated. tim excusing him, and bothered to still talk to damian even after all the insults and demeaning of his work, the tolerance he received.

bruce wayne’s hand on his shoulder, showing him around to help him adapt to the new, unfamiliar place. why had no one done that for you? why did no one excuse you, see if you were okay? why were you like this? what had damian done that you hadn’t, and what had you done that he didn’t?

��the blood son”, he had declared at you the first time the two of you spoke, “has come to show his worth to the family. remain on the sidelines from your unimportant and tarnishing stain on father’s name, or struggle against my defense.” you didn’t respond to his edwardian monologue, and left despite his appalled scoff at your indifference. the blood son. he had a family. you could never compare to the concern or the trouble they put in to be with him, because he was family.

family.

you could’ve ignored damian if he didn’t come into your business so often. poking at the posters you’d put up to cope with the large, empty walls in your room, scoffing at the music you’d put on to drown out the ring in your ears from the silence and snapping your last nerve upon stealing a cricket from your board to bury in the garden.

you’d said nothing, quietly taking it back when he was faraway, straightening the legs of the insect with a motherly tenderness. he had soiled a lifeform put in your hands over his own sense of honour and humanity, effectively disgracing the ideals you had been raised on and live on now.

you knew of his upbringing, and you knew better his horror at your practice. but nevertheless, it was yours. he didn’t excuse you, he demeaned you, he didn’t consider you family.

he was not your family.

none of them were, and none of them will be. they’re self-prestiged vigilantes with overblown egos and no semblance of shame or understanding. they know nothing, and you can’t abandon a city so unfortunate to be in their care like this. they don’t know anything, because the ceiling they live under is too high to need to crouch and hide, and the corridor is too large for them to have to squeeze through when running.

a tap on your shoulder brings you out of thought, and your reply is a gruff “you’re late” at the girl in front of you. the salty green-white lights of 12th sector conveniences buzz on as you make your way inside, and garcia’s grin is too wide for someone so inconsiderate of your carefully mapped plans.

you hate your family, and their poor work. so you’ll have to scheme in different run-down hell holes to undo their messes. but order and control is important. if you’re in hell, why should you stop here? “one day”, your ‘girlfriend’ had said, “all these places you take me-” “you all,” you had interrupted, “i take you all” “-will be as clean as your nails, (name)”

you hope that she’s not mocking. and you hope she’s right.

> a/n; nothing much left 2 say! i notice my writing habits have switched up a bit, way less unnecessary words and stuffs. this is queued for tmrw so hopefully im not spamming anything. re-added the tags i left out for zero:ii too. idk when my next upload will be since my first exam is day after tmrw, but i wanna really write for the plot soon.

thanks for reading!!

taglist: @boredselkie @shirp-collector-of-fixations @randomlyappearingartist @bat1212 @maicenitas @xjesterxjacksx @heartjwonie @lucienneb1ue @vikkus-main @adornedlace @cuntiesweet @minorlyatfall @staarflowerr @ithoughtthinks @crazycaoticsimp

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artificial-people-ai · 2 days ago

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I often wonder if someone who has lived basically thousands of years and could go on to be practically immortal, but, it's faced with a limited time left before his most possible execution even if he did change at the end, what would be his "mental space", you dig?

I mean, would he be a bit afraid that this is his last journey? or maybe be at peace at the idea? maybe even embrace the notion of getting unalived?

It's obvious that in the comics he's acting composed because he knows what he did in the past and also doesn't want to make anyone else in the lost light feel like scrap about what's about to happen to him, but we all know by now Megatron is quite good at hiding how he truly feels about stuff, so, was he really that chill? ...or what was he really thinking as an inmortal being facing the end, specially not in a battlefield but on a court..?

(Still, sad as hell.)

Just a short animation. Megatron broods over the past aboard the Lost Light.

#transformers #transformers idw #megatron #lostlight #megatron mtmte #animation #idw #mtmte #fananimation #maccadam #tf

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mochacoda · 2 days ago

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[teaser] python | csc

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x GN!Reader

Synopsis: When you broke up with your boyfriend to work in a different country, you didn't expect to see him ever again. But when you transfer to your company's Seoul branch four years later, the department head is your ex, and he’s made it his objective to make your life a living hell for leaving him all those years ago.

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Exes to Lovers | Office AU

Tags: emotions, miscommunication, heartache, workaholic!seungcheol, insecure reader, drinking, a lot of crying, begging, konglish w/ translations, no "y/n," this is for everyone who voted for cheol in the poll, loosely connected to too nice (joshua)

Word Count: 8K (est. full)

Release Date: February 14

Masterlist

“I hate him,” you seethe, your fists balled up, crumpling your rejected proposal. “God, I hate him.”

Your coworker, Joshua Hong, looks up from his cubicle with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

You breathe in deeply, willing your rage to dissipate at the sight of his confusion. Poor Joshua doesn’t deserve your anger. “No one,” you say, clenching your jaw.

Open-mouthed, Joshua blinks rapidly, eyes flitting over to glance at the office you had just walked out of. The door to the room is marked with a name plate that has 최승철 [Choi Seungcheol] in bold, gold letters.

“I’m fine,” you insist, hands uncrumpling the document you had just attacked.

“Uh, okay?” he says with a healthy dose of doubt, elongating the “o” in “okay.”

“I just—” you begin, then immediately shut your mouth. “Ugh, forget it.”

It’s one thing to crumple a proposal up, and another thing to start bad-mouthing your boss out in the open. You throw the tattered outline onto your desk, then plop yourself into your chair. You rub your temples, and then mutter under your breath, “How did I get here?”

“Good question,” Joshua laughs. “Company synergy?”

You groan, “Don’t ever say that word again in my presence.”

“Mmh,” he says, walking over to your cubicle. “You won’t have to worry about my presence in a few months.”

“Don’t remind me,” you sigh, dropping your head in your hands.

Joshua would be leaving the Seoul branch and transferring to the New York branch in a few weeks.

Curse your company for its commitment to “workplace synergy,” swapping out a handful of employees across all departments in its international branches every few years. If it hadn’t been for this horrible program, you wouldn’t be here right now.

You want to rip out your own hair, at this point.

How did it even get to this? You shut your eyes, thinking back to simpler times.

When you first got a job offer at the New York branch of your dream company, your initial reaction was elation. Your second? Doubt. Leaving Seoul was almost unthinkable, not to mention the fact that you’d be leaving your boyfriend behind, too.

For the first few days after hearing back from the recruiter, you knew you’d accept, but kept the news to yourself. You’d heard of so many horror stories about long-distance dating, and after a long period of consideration, you wondered what the point was.

You knew your boyfriend—really knew him. You knew he’d make sacrifices for you at the expense of himself, and it was impossible for you to accept bogging him down with a 14 hour time difference. He’d stay up waiting for your calls, instead of getting much needed rest. He’d worry about you all the time, checking the weather in Manhattan instead of Seoul and calling you constantly instead of his family and friends. He’d wait on you for as long as you needed, in an almost obsessive way, thinking it could make up the difference in distance. But he deserved someone who could love him in person, all of the time.

It’d be better for Seungcheol if you just let him go, freeing him to focus on what mattered more to him. Like work.

He loved you too much to break things off with you himself, so it was better that you did it. For his own good.

That’s what you told him, at least.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“Cheol,” you said, teary-eyed. “Cheol, look at me.”

Seungcheol stared blankly at the ground, face frozen.

“Please?” your voice cracked.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t handle?” he suddenly choked out, eyes flashing with hurt. His hands clenched, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

You swallowed thickly, reaching for his arm. “Cheol, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, snatching his hand away from you.

────୨ৎ──── Present

But you had swallowed the real reasons for the breakup.

Because, deep down, you had always suspected otherwise. Somehow, everything had just become so complicated. Loving Seungcheol—which had once been something as easy as breathing—had become a dull pain in your chest, clouding your every thought with insecurities.

Even from the start of the relationship, you’d loved him more, anyway. Back then, you didn’t mind it because you loved him so much, and he was always so, so sweet to you. But around the time of the job offer, paranoia had reared its ugly head, kicking your uncertain thoughts into overdrive.

It was obvious that he didn’t really love you anymore. While you were job seeking, he was distracted. Always checking his phone, not really listening to what you had to say. He made time for you, but he didn’t necessarily make you feel like he loved you as deeply as you did him—it didn’t feel like he was the same guy that you started dating.

Something about his actions just felt like he did them to claim that he loved you, rather than because he actually loved you. His actions were laced with a kind of surface level, superficial quality.

He’d take you out to a fancy dinner, open the door for you, pay for the meal, drive you home—all the gentlemanly things he did when you started dating, too. But on the car ride there and back, and while sitting down eating together, he wouldn’t remember the things you had said about the little things happening in your life—a major change, when compared to the start of your relationship.

And sure, he didn’t have an obligation to remember your next door neighbor's name. But shouldn’t he remember your favorite kind of pie, or your closest cousin’s name? Shouldn’t he just know not to check his phone every time it pings with a new email, or leave you to eat your stupid expensive pasta alone as he takes a call outside?

It was almost like Seungcheol had fallen out of love with you, but was staying with you out of some kind of obligation to continue what he had started? That was your only explanation for why he’d spend time with you, but wouldn’t pay close attention to the things you said. Every Thursday was movie night, and in hopes of trying to keep him away from work, you let him choose the movie every time. But what use was that, when he spent more time looking at his phone than the TV—and more importantly, you, for that matter?

You’d been dating a ghost of a man. While you loved him, he tolerated you.

If the two of you stayed together when you went abroad, he’d probably double down on texts, but he wouldn’t really remember anything you’d said if you mentioned details about them in calls.

You didn’t bring any of these fears up to him, because you knew that he would continue to deny it. In fact, you’d imagined it in your head so much that you could see it when closing your eyes to sleep. If you confronted him, he’d deny that he didn’t love you anymore. But he’d be staring at the ground instead of looking at you. He wouldn’t admit that he was only with you because he enjoyed the consistency of your affection, and because he somewhat pitied you—and most importantly to him, because he wanted to prove to himself that he chose correctly when he started dating you.

The pain of watching the love of your life push down his repulsion just to be with you was decidedly more horrifying than the pain of breaking up with him altogether.

Right before breaking up with him, it had occurred to you that Seungcheol might not have ever loved you in the first place, and that just hammered in the idea that you were making the right decision. He’d get over the breakup fast. He’d probably be thankful for it in a few years, even. If you saw him again, you’d both probably laugh, and in his head, he’d realize that he was grateful that you ended things so that he could focus on his real love, his career.

If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that there was a bit of selfishness driving the breakup, as well. There was no way you could handle Seungcheol sacrificing things for you—if he lost sleep over you, if he worried about you, if he was distracted by you—because you knew he wouldn’t be doing it for love.

Because he only ever cared out of a superficial need to prove to himself that he made the right decision in asking you out all those years ago. Not because he really loved you.

Yes, he probably never loved you, and he would never know the real reason why you ended things.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You give up so easily,” he spat out. “Was I nothing to you?”

Tears were running down your face. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Seungcheol laughed, then buried his head in his hands. “God, to think I almost—”

He stopped, jaw tightening, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

────୨ৎ──── Present

A hand comes down sharply on your desk, jolting you awake.

“Sleeping while on duty?”

Wide-eyed, with tear-stained cheeks, you look up to face your ex-boyfriend. “부장님! [Department Head!]”

Upon seeing your red-rimmed eyes, Seungcheol falters.

Swiping at your under eyes quickly, you bow your head to him slightly. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

He swallows roughly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to ask you why you were crying, and your heart drops.

You will crumble if you hear the tone of voice he had used when you broke up with him.

“Excuse me,” you blurt with choked words.

You don’t dare to look at his eyes. Instead, you get up from your seat, then immediately flee to the bathroom.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You can focus on work, now,” you squeaked out.

Seungcheol scoffed again, a cruel sound of disbelief. “What makes you think I give a damn about work right now?”

“Don’t you? Always?” you sniffled.

His eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite describe. He seemed angry, but not just at you. At himself, too—his hands were balled into fists at his sides, fingernails digging sharply into his palms. His throat bobbed, and you could see the intense restraint he was forcing on himself. He opened his mouth with a sharp breath, then closed it again, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

Masterlist

Author’s Note: get ready for a rollercoaster

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc’s!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone - @fragmentof-indifference - @junniesoleilkth - @woncheecks - @peachypie97 - @viciousdarlings - @11zzyy

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heechwe · 10 hours ago

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anything for you | 𝐣𝐰𝐰

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ MY FIC FOR JUPITER'S SECRET CUPID COLLAB

୨୧ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 3k ୨୧ genre: slight comedy, fluff, smut ୨୧ tags: best friends to lovers au, drunk confession, dirty talk, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating ୨୧ synopsis: Wonwoo has been your best friend forever. And maybe something more could be in the cards with a mature, sophisticated confession. Or a lot of alcohol.

⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Inspired by LANY's song "anything 4 u"! Big thanks to my betas for this fic Tiya (@gyubakeries), Honey (@heesuncore), and Mitchie (@seokgyuu)! I love you all so much. And this fic is for my Secret Cupid Ally (@lovetaroandtaemin)!! I love you loads and you're an incredible friend. I'm so glad I got you so I could share a small token of appreciation for our friendship. I hope you love this story as much as I did writing it! ♥︎

Valentine’s Day weekend. The one weekend you have to suffer through everything being doused in red, pink, and white decorations. It’s everywhere: across your work office, all around the city you live in, and even plastered around the hole-in-the-wall bar that all of your friends are drinking in now.

It’s not one of your least favorite holidays, per se. But the intensity of it can be incredibly draining. The constant declarations of affection, the emotionally gooey visual representations of one’s desire for another person, it’s too much even for some of your own friends who are coupled up.

The reality of your loneliness pushes your mood down just enough that staring down your third bottle of beer makes you yearn for another, despite your alcohol tolerance being less than stellar. And to make matters worse, it sucks to be surrounded by others’ happiness when you’re so alone in love and in love with someone too enmeshed in your life as a friend, rather than a person of romantic interest.

Wonwoo sits with Vernon and Soonyoung at the high-top bar, nursing tequila shots and Coronas without bothering to look back at the rest of your table of friends. Yes, you were all celebrating Soonyoung’s new promotion and Vernon finally nabbing a girlfriend in time for Valentine’s this year, and they only stalked off a few minutes ago to share a few drinks on their own, but you wish Wonwoo was sitting next to you again.

You always mocked him for telling you to slow down. To drink water to avoid dehydration or to eat something to offset your alcohol intake. With all of his parroted wisdom that drives some of his closest friends crazy, you love him for it. You love him for a lot of reasons, really.

“Maybe you should just tell him, you know?” Seokmin says across from you, looking over at you from the rim of his Whiskey Sunrise. It’s a sickly shade of red, grenadine mixed in with the other ingredients to commemorate the holiday season. You wonder if it tastes like cough syrup, because it sure looks like it.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” You ask with a slur, licking the remaining beer on your lips. “It’s not that easy to destroy seven years of friendship.”

“Come on. You act like nobody else has noticed when it’s plain as day, babe,” Seungkwan pipes up next to you, elbowing you softly in the ribs with an accompanying waggle of his eyebrows.

“And what is your best course of action, Dum and Dee?” You split your stare between both of your friends, your irritation peaking. “I just go over to that bar and confess everything to him. Then he’ll say he’s felt the same this entire time and we ride off into the sunset together?”

“One, you don’t need to be rude,” Seokmin responds. “Two, you don’t have to make it so dramatic. Get him alone tomorrow, maybe. Talk it out, see where it goes.”

“Exactly,” Seungkwan says. “It doesn’t need to be this big movie scene thing.”

“What movie?” Soonyoung asks, sitting back down next to Seungkwan and in front of his empty bowl of ramen. The other boys follow suit, Vernon alongside Seokmin and Wonwoo next to you once again.

It feels like torture and sanctuary in the same moment, so close but so far from what you wish the two of you could be.

“Nothing, just this documentary we all saw the other night,” you respond. You press your lips to your bottle again, pouting when the last droplets hit your tongue. “I’m gonna get another,” you say to nobody in particular. Wonwoo perks up once he notices you stumbling to get out of your chair.

“Not so fast,” Wonwoo says as you fall back into his arms. “I think I should get you home.”

“No, the night’s still young!” You whine into his jacket, your hair ruffling the skin on his neck. His chest rumbles with laughter, but nothing at the moment is funny to you. You don’t want to leave just yet, and he doesn’t need to treat you like a baby. “We still haven't even gone to karaoke.”

“Another night. Go sleep it off!” Vernon calls from behind you.

“You kids have fun!” Seokmin says with a conspiratory wink. You and Wonwoo walk towards the entrance of the bar, and you want to throw something at Seokmin to make your idiot best friend’s dumb smirk and even more ridiculous idea of confessing your feelings to your mutual friend blip out of existence.

Wonwoo has seen you at your lowest. He consoled you after you ran your car into a parked motorcycle when you were sixteen, your humiliation palpable the whole three hours you both waited for the police to show up. He’s held you in his arms after every failed romantic relationship, telling you it was always them and never you when it ended poorly. There’s nothing the two of you haven’t been there for each other for, no experience too vulnerable to share and overcome together.

But Wonwoo holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you throw up may just be the all-time low of your embarrassing moments. He whispers in your ear that you’re okay and rubs your back with a soft hand, and you feel all the worse for it. How could he ever love someone this prone to disaster, this cringeworthy?

“You should go home,” you cry into the toilet bowl. “I’m disgusting.”

Wonwoo says your name in a mocking tone, pretending to be serious but in no way critical of you or the situation. He takes off his plaid button up and throws it in some random corner of your bathroom, free to hold you as close as possible as you continue dry-heaving. “You’re not disgusting.”

“Of course you’d say that, you’re you.”

He laughs again, tucking what hair he can from your face so you can lift your head off of the toilet. “And what’s that?”

You look at him with puffy, half-open eyes. “Perfect.”

He helps you up from the tile floor and moves you to your bedroom on your weak legs. He sheds off your overshirt as you kick off your denim jeans. Your mind rumbles with a whirlpool of thoughts as his brain ruminates on the word you used when comparing himself to you.

“I’m in no way perfect, kid,” he whispers. The nickname he’s used on you forever feels like a backhand, a copious amount of salt in a wound you know will never heal. He’ll always see you at a distance from him, his feelings leagues away from yours.

“Don’t call me that,” you cry into your pillow, resting your cheek deep into the material to muffle the quiet sobs in your throat. He can’t be serious, talking to you so tenderly when you’re falling apart.

“Hey, can you look at me?” You shake your head and settle deeper into the pile of comforters and throw pillows. Wonwoo suddenly feels his gut turn into a dozen knots. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, how to fix it, or what to say to make things better, and it kills him. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Because you’re too perfect to love someone like me. But I love you so much, and it fucking sucks,” you hiccup, the darkness of your bed making you believe he’s not there, this isn’t real, and it’s okay to release all the words in your heart into the dark. “And every time I see those damn red and pink hearts all over the place, I think of you and I want to die.”

The force of your confession almost knocks Wonwoo on his ass. At the very least, he settles onto the desk chair near your bed and hears your whimpers give way to light snores.

He runs his hands through your hair again and tucks the covers up to your chin. He holds himself back from pressing a kiss to your forehead, the one thing he’s always done when you’ve passed out countless times before in his presence, but never recalled the next morning. This time, though, he prays you’ll remember your drunken admission.

“I hope you meant everything you said,” he whispers before retreating to your couch to fall asleep to the sounds of the cityscape below.

You wake up to low jazz playing from your living room TV and the smell of sizzling eggs. Each limb aches from the heavy sleep you fell under last night. You quietly pad out of your room to find Wonwoo cooking what looks to be the perfect mix of breakfast and hangover food. A makeshift Bloody Mary sits on the counter next to him, waiting for you.

Wonwoo turns when he senses you behind him, and he grins. “Hey, you’re awake. I was worried you’d be passed out until the afternoon. I wouldn’t blame you, though.”

You blush a shade deeper, still sporting your tank top and clad in a pair of boy shorts. You forgot you had taken your pants off before slipping into bed the night prior, but it isn’t the first time Wonwoo’s seen you half-clothed. You drink half of the concoction and set it down, your headache throbbing a little less. “How bad was I last night?”

He smirks. “Bad enough to throw up another three times.”

You groan into the back of your hand and hitch yourself up on the counter across from Wonwoo, his focus still on the over-medium eggs in the pan. “I’m sorry you had to take care of me again.”

“I wanted to,” he says without looking up at you. “I always want to be here when you need me.”

“I know, I know, it’s your job to say that,” you joke.

He drops the metal spatula next to him on the stove, and you jump up at the sound. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t say a word for a moment, and you’re unsure if he’s even breathing when you ask him if he’s okay. “So, you don’t remember then?” His question comes out almost like a statement, but the wavered edge of it proves he is concerned with whatever has slipped your mind.

“Woo, you’re freaking me out.”

He turns the stove to a low, simmering heat before facing you. His eyes look sad but expectant, waiting for the inevitable to come to you. “You really have no idea what I’m talking about?”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, and in that instant, you recall that last hour before you fell asleep. Wonwoo helping you into bed. Crying in your bed. And all the words that followed.

The memories bring tears to your eyes and your hands to your face. “Oh my god—”

Wonwoo takes your palms away and holds them to his mouth. “Stop running from me.”

“Don’t make me say it again, Woo, please.” Your bottom lip trembles. You fight every instinct to run from the kitchen and out of the apartment altogether, wanting to accept the continuous pain of hiding your feelings than the truth that this could be the end of the both of you as you know it, for better or worse.

“Fine, you don’t have to.” Wonwoo’s lips curl into that grin you’ve adored for almost a decade. “I’ll say what I need to first, then.”

He takes a deep breath and sets his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you since the minute you threw your ice-cream at that biker who almost clipped me in the foot on the way to school. Remember? I may have loved you long before that, but that’s the moment I realized.

“And I don’t want to lose you. I want to be more than just the guy you call your best friend. I want to be the only friend that matters, the friend that kisses you goodnight and tells you how beautiful you are because there’s no other way to describe you. I love you, too, kid, whether you realized it or not.”

A breathy yelp leaves your mouth before you kiss Wonwoo on the mouth. It’s a hard one, a clash of teeth and a bit of tongue, but you didn’t expect less from such an unexpected and perfect confession. Maybe this was the way you rode off into the sunset together. Sure, there was the smell of burning eggs instead of the sounds of a white stallion gallivanting off to the unforeseeable future, but it’s perfect. It’s yours.

Wonwoo shuts the burner off entirely before he takes you by the hand into your bedroom. When your bed is in full view, he kisses you long and slow. It’s nothing like the first kisses you shared a second ago, but it’s earth-shattering all the same.

You moan into his mouth when he presses a free hand to your breast, teasing the skin above your shirt until your nipple pebbles.

“Is this too fast?” He asks in a gruff voice. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not comfortable, I just—”

You press a finger to his lips, effectively shutting him up. “If you do not take my clothes off right now and fuck me, I will never speak to you again.”

Wonwoo smirks and kisses you once more, only stopping to pull your tank top over your head and rip your underwear off of your legs. His fingers delve between your folds, and you shudder in his hold but refuse to let him take his hand away.

“You like this,” he whispers, the statement thick with his lust.

“Yes, it feels so good,” you whimper. You gasp when two of his fingers curl inside of you, his thumb still nestled on top of your clit to swirl around with the pad. The amount of pleasure he’s already given you is indescribable, and he hasn’t even truly done much yet.

You whine when he takes his hand away, but it’s to discard his own clothes and sit at the edge of your bed. He beckons for you to sit on top of him, and he doesn’t think twice about swirling himself between your essence and lining the head of his dick with your entrance. His tip is so swollen and covered in pre-cum, there’s no problem sinking it inside of your heat.

You share a mutual curse of pleasure when he bottoms out, his pelvic bone meeting your skin. You stay like that for a moment. You’re so full and unable to move from the size of him filling every empty space inside of you, you think this has to be a dream. Last night has not given way to day yet, and now is just a conjuring of your cruel mind.

You get lost in your thoughts for so long Wonwoo brings his hand to your face and traces his fingers over your cheek, staring at you lovingly. “Where’d you go?”

You smile shyly and kiss his nose. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“I guess I’ll just have to remind you it’s real.”

He takes your ass between his hands and spreads you out before thrusting up inside of you, making you gasp hard. He moves long and slow underneath you, almost taking his cock out of your pussy completely before delving back into you.

“I want to give you everything,” he pants. “All that I have—will have—is for you. You know that, right?”

“Yes, fuck,” you whisper, meeting his hips with yours as you try to set your own pace, sinking down onto him with every thrust where your skin meets with loud smacks.

“I love you so much,” he says into your neck before biting down on your soft skin. You moan loudly and press yourself deeper and harder against him. His cock hits you at the perfect angle as you straddle him, and you feel the start of your climax deep in your stomach.

Seven years of missed opportunities. More than too many chances for days and nights like this spent together so intimately gone to the wind. It’s easy to be regretful for all the time that you’ve wasted without each other, but you realize it’s not wasted at all.

Every step, every thread of fate that tied you two together, brought you here. Whatever comes of today is just an extension of what has already existed in your hearts. So what more is there to ask for?

“Fuck, I’m so close,” he growls in your ear. His balls smack against your skin as he continues to slam into you. Tears spring in your eyes as he moves even harder, trying to take you both to your peaks together. “Where can I come, baby?”

“Inside of me. I want all of it, all of you. Please,” you beg. You bounce harder on top of him, circling your clit with your fingers to fall off the precipice with Wonwoo by your side.

“You want to feel all of me, yeah? So full of my cum it’s all you’ll think about?” He smirks and replaces the fingers on your clit with his own. “Maybe I’ll fuck a baby into you with how much cum I give you. Would you like that?”

You see stars behind your eyelids as you listen to the beautiful, dirty words on his lips. You nod vigorously, wanting nothing more than for him to claim you in this way. It’s all you’ve thought about for years, truthfully.

“God, I’m coming,” you say into his neck, thighs quivering as the rest of your body goes slack from the pleasure. Wonwoo grunts into the shell of your ear as he orgasms himself, his seed spilling into you so deep you think there’s no way any remnant of him will slip out.

When he takes himself out of you, he swirls the mixture of both of your releases on his fingers before you take those fingers into your mouth, sucking them dry.

Wonwoo chuckles and kisses you deeply, the taste of the two of you on both of your tongues. “That’s one way to end Valentine’s weekend, don’t you think?”

You giggle and kiss him on both cheeks, too eager to see the rest of your future together. “You could say that.”

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @okiedokrie-main @brownbunnyb

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @/sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

#kvanity #kstrucknet #keopihausnet #lapydiariesnet #wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen fics #svt x reader #svt fic #svt fics #[ lexi's works ]#[ lw - seventeen ]#[ lw - events ]

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munsonsmixtapes · 2 days ago

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Expect me to creep into your inbox whenever you ask for requests 👀 I am always going to annoy you because you are so talented

Eddie smut with a plus size reader? Maybe she’s there at one of Corroded Coffin’s gigs at The Hideout and Eddie is just like

girl you keep giving me a big head (don't stop) and I love writing about plus sized!reader so your wish is my command!

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it) public sex

You enter the smoky bar, looking around the place to take everything in. It's exactly what you thought it'd be but that doesn't mean you don't like it. It's exactly your scene and you love live music so when you heard that a local band preforms there every week, you just knew that you had to check it out.

You make a beeline for the bar to get a drink as the band is setting up. Your eyes immediately catch the guy at the front of the stage fixing up his microphone. He's got long curly hair and the tight t-shirt he's got on is so distracting. You swore to yourself that you weren't going to do this again.

You're trying to not get involved with anyone but that doesn't mean that you can't have a little fun, right? He's exactly your type with the way he's dressed and those large rings he's got on his fingers are making your head spin with the dirtiest thoughts.

Eddie's eyes lock on yours and he's immediately in love. He's always loved curvy girls but there's something about you specifically that is making hearts appear in his eyes. It's the way you carry yourself like you're hot shit and fuck are you.

The tight pants you're wearing are making him dizzy. He wants to have you in the back of his van and love on every inch of you, telling you how beautiful you are. You've got such a hold on him and he doesn't even know your name.

His eyes follow you as you head over the bar and he’s so close to following you just so he can know what name he’s supposed to moan. He just has to have you and straight after the gig, he’s going to ask for your number.

You give him a little wave and he winks at you before you turn and head to the bar where you take a seat before ordering a drink. Eddie’s watching you the whole time, wondering what you’re drinking, wanting to sit next to you and let you talk his ear off the whole night. You’ve completely captivated him and he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s seen you.

The set starts and you get closer to the stage, fully intending on being in the action. You just want to be near him. You want to see how pretty he is up close with the sweat dripping off him in the heat of the bar. You want to feel the scruff of his beard against your skin as he kisses his way down your body.

You’re nodding along to the music, really hoping that they have a tape or something so you can listen to it on repeat. The lead singer’s voice is nothing like you’ve heard before. It’s deep and raspy and you just know that you’d run the tape out because of how much you’d listen to it.

His eyes are shut tight and it makes you wonder if that’s what he’d look like as you topped him, pretty hair fanned out on your pillow, his eyes shut tight as his hips buck against yours, trying his best to keep up with your pace.

You clearly haven’t been out in a while because why are you thirsting over the first man you’ve seen? But considering the other women around you seem to be thinking the same, you feel a lot better, more sane for thinking about this stranger in such dirty ways.

His eyes open and he’s staring straight at you, a smirk playing on his pretty lips as he strums on his guitar, pulling away from the mic as he goes into a guitar solo, his fingers moving down the neck in a rapid motion. You’re not even sure how that’s possible, but at least you know he’s good with his fingers.

Eddie’s trying his hardest to focus on what he’s doing, trying not to turn his head and look at you because if he does, he’s going to fuck up the set then take you by the hand to go somewhere private where he can kiss you absolutely stupid.

But he can’t help it. You keep catching his eye and he’ll just stare before he’s pulled out of his trance and thrown back into the song. He can tell you want him too because of the way you’re staring back with that flirty look and he’s counting down the seconds until he’s finished.

So as soon as the set is done and the crowd begins to disperse, Eddie jumps down from the stage and takes you by the hand, pulling you to his chest, your body flush to his as his hand rests on your back.

“Hi,” he greets.

“Hi,” you smile and watch his gaze drop to your lips.

“I’m Eddie.” You’re not sure how, but the name suits him, almost as if it was made specifically for him.

“Y/n.”

“Well, y/n, I hope you don’t have any plans tonight.” You don’t and for the first time, you’re glad for it. You have a feeling you know exactly what you’re going to get up to.

“Just whatever you’re doing,” You reply, twirling a strand of his hair. Oh yeah, he’s definitely wrapped around your finger now.

“I need to pack up my equipment but as soon as I’m done, it’s you and me.” His lips press to your cheek and then he hurries back to the stage while you stand there, waiting for him to be done. You watch him bend over to put his guitar into the case and can’t help but stare at his ass as he does so. You want to just give it a squeeze and hope you get a chance once you’re alone.

He finishes up pretty and quickly hands his guitar off to one of his bandmates before heading over to you, sticking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. His eyes are raking over your body, his tongue slowly licking across his bottom lip as he does so.

They get to your thighs and he so desperately wants to give them a squeeze, to bury his head between them and eat your pussy like a man starved. Fuck, he’s never been so attracted to anyone like this in his life and he needs you so bad.

As his band mates flee, he takes you by the hand and lead you out to his van. He pins you to the side of it and his lips find yours in a hot kiss, not afraid to slide his tongue into your mouth as his hands grab a firm hold of your waist.

You push his jacket from his shoulders and he lets it fall to the ground behind him before pulling to the back. He opens the doors and helps you inside before climbing inside himself and closing the door behind you.

Once you’re safely inside, you’re quick to undress each other between heated kisses. His lips are hot in your skin as he presses them to every new inch of skin that’s revealed as another piece of clothing is removed. He’s mumbling compliments into your skin and you’re so glad that you’re sitting because you feel like you’re melting under his touch.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows exactly what to say and what to do and if just making out with him is making you melt, you’re not so sure how you’re going to handle the sex. Once your bra is off, he lays you down onto the floor of the van, his lips kissing down your chest before wrapping around your hard nipple.

His tongue swipes across it gently and you let out a whine as if asking for more. Eddie pulls away to give you a shit-eating grin before going back in, giving your nipple a suck as his tongue flicks back and forth across it, his other hand reaching up and massaging your other one. You’re whining at the feeling and he takes that as an invitation to continue, going in with his teeth to bite down on it which causes a loud moan to fall from your lips.

So Eddie does it again, harder this time, causing you to grab fistfulls of his hair, yanking on it to show just how much you’re enjoying yourself. He lets out a little yelp in response, but that doesn’t stop him from biting you again. In fact, it only makes him do it again and again until you’re close to an orgasm.

And when he moves onto your other nipple, you swear that you’re seeing stars as he does the exact same thing, your back arching in pleasure as you keep tugging on his hair, feeling yourself getting progressively more wet as he does so. It’s soaking wet between your legs and you need him between them so bad. You need him to fuck you so hard that you can’t walk for days.

“Need you,” you whine and spread your legs so he knows exactly what you mean. So his lips travel down your torso and you gasp as his teeth grab onto the waistband of your panities, pulling them down so slowly because he’s such a goddamn tease. He’s looking up at you as his eyes darken, almost looking black.

He then removes his own before taking out a condom from his jeans pocket and rolls the thing on. He spreads your legs as wide as possible so that they’re touching the floor then positions himself so that he’s lined up with you before going in, pumping as hard as he possibly can, watching you respond to every touch as you lie beneath him.

You’re watching him in awe, getting even more wet as you take in his tattoos and the way his hair falls, the chain around his neck hitting against his collarbone in a rapid pace because of how hard he’s fucking you.

“Look so pretty on my cock, sweetheart. And you’re taking me so well already.” His cock is not even halfway inside and you need to feel all of him. You’re desperate for the whole thing, to see just how much you can take so you grab hold of his ass and push him farther inside you until his bush is pressed up against you.

You gasp at the feeling and tears well up in your eyes because of how big he is, but it just feels so good. Your nails dig into his cheeks and he takes the hint, fucking you with his whole cock as he picks up the pace, moving in and out so quickly you can hardly keep up as you buck your hips against his.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he says as his lips press to your neck in a soft kiss. “Like fuck, this is just unfair sweetheart.” He reaches up and swipes some sweaty hair from your forehead. He then picks up the pace even more as he sees that you’re close, making sure to insert all of himself as he does so.

And when you finally do come, he continues thrusting into you until you’re crying his name. Once you’re coming down, he pulls out and disposes of the condom before helping you get dressed, being nothing but kind to you as he does so.

And once you’re both dressed, you drive around the city talking about everything and nothing until it’s early in the morning. He then reluctantly drops you off at your car and is quick to make plans to do this all over again because there’s no way he’s only going to do this once. He’s got to see you again because he’s pretty sure that he’s already falling in love with you.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x plus size!reader

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starcharmed · 2 days ago

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phainon seems like the type of person, who once under the realization that he can in fact distract you with a kiss, exploits it to the fullest.

you're really under the image that he's an awkward kisser - stars help him with beating those allegations - but naturally he begins to start being more confident with his 'abilities'. whenever you're there fussing over his reckless habits, he's leaning over and pressing a kiss to your cheek; mumbling petnames and giving you that boyish smile he wears.

he kisses your hands, runs his thumb over your knuckles. it's become a habit he genuinely cannot break. he's been greeted with the taste of sours, spices, and all alike he's fully prepared if he wants to lay a kiss whilst your cooking. you've failed to give him more than five minutes worth of your attention once he's entered home, so now he has to lift your hand up and give the palm of it a kiss.

mission succeeded, now you're both flushing and the food's burnt. which means more quality time?

phainon rarely kisses your pulse points. he would rather not place his lips only to find out he kissed stone. he doesn't fear for the thought of you dying, more for the fear that he's been living in an allusion of life.

"my dear, i can assure you that i do not need to check your pulse since i can hear your heart from here." he's lying, that's his own heartbeat going faster than a lightning bolt. he wonders if it would stop if the coldness of your body ever froze him to his core.

he rests his chin on your shoulder. moving his head enough to kiss it yet not disrupting his position. a cheeky move that often befalls when your head is turned from him.

denying him a kiss always makes him look like a kicked puppy. moving away without having verbal communication. no verbal communication with phainon? so you think you can sing without a voice then?

"not right now, phainon." oh so he did do something wrong. he overstepped? now he has to die. he has to leap from a terrance after proclaiming his apologies in front of the entire city.

"it's not you." he could jump up and click his heels in joy. the thought soon dissipates after he realizes you're, in fact, upset.

maybe you really should let mydei dunk phainon's head in a bath for good measure.

#brainrot for the fellow flies.#i only did that quest for him i'm ngl #does anyone see my vision #insert that one hades gif #word rot bc i don't have enough on him yet to write a longfic </3 #hsr drabbles #phainon x reader #phainon x you #hsr x you

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redcherrystars · 2 days ago

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Braids 🥀

A/n: STRONGLY based off the mullet Sylus has for Tomorrow’s Catch-22, and what he says in the dress up menu when you change his hairstyle (pulled this morning, got Caleb and then my beloved Sylus ❤️❤️ +his outfit and hair)

Content: (wc 1k) lnds Sylus x afab reader, loads of fluff, pampering Sylus, pet names (sweetie, baby, etc.), just toothrotting fluff

It’s been months since your boyfriend has gotten a haircut.

Sitting criss cross on your bed, you watch as Sylus unbuttons his pressed black button down and peels off his slacks, only to put on a red teeshirt and black pajama pants with white doves on them (you obviously bought, as Onychinus’s leader would likely not purchase for himself). It was a miracle you found a pair of pajama pants in his size so you wouldn’t have to send them to a tailor.

Sylus runs his fingers through his messy white hair, the ends of his mullet like hairstyle now brushing against the top of his shoulders.

“Hey Sy?” You bounce off the bed. Unsurprisingly, you’re dressed in one of his teeshirts, so large it hung off your shoulder, revealing tantalizing collarbone and smooth shoulders

Sylus turns around to face you moments later, pulling his shirt over his head, giving you a brief glimpse of his abs. What a view.

“Yes, sweetie?” Sylus nearly purred. His hands go to your waist, holding you close as he inhales by your scalp—the man just liked your natural scent.

“I can’t sleep!” You whine, internally smiling at a clever idea you concocted.

“Can’t sleep Kitten? What would you like to do then, with all this extra time on your hands?” Sylus glanced to the alarm clock on his nightstand—it was 11:46 PM.

You grin at him cheekily. “Can I do your hair?”

“Can you do my hair now, hmm…let me think..” your boyfriend puts on a fake pensive expression, his white brow furrowing in thought. “I suppose that can be doable.”

“Can I do your skincare too?” You’re beginning to get excited, and he can feel it.

“Alright.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching his nose bridge. You giggle and beam at him, before kissing his jawline, feeling slight scratchy white stubble tickle your lips-it seems he hasn’t shaved in a few days either, not that you mind one bit.

With a giggle you slink out of his arms (much to his disappointment), prancing into the bathroom. Your boyfriend ensured his beloved lived in luxury, and the master bathroom was no exception. High ceilings, a crystal chandelier with warm ambient lighting, black marble tile, and a huge walk-in shower. There was even a clawfoot bathtub large enough for two with space to spare elevated on a black marble platform by a large window, overlooking the cityscape in the N109 zone. With tinted glass, this view was yours and his to share.

On the black shelf next to the double sink, you grab a little bag full of various skincare products, a little plastic container of clear elastics, and your pink hairbrush. Plopping down on the fluffy rug on the bathroom floor, you gesture to Sylus to come and sit between the space between your legs. Reluctantly, he sits down, and lets out a pleased moan when you begin to run your fingers through his hair, messing with the white stands. You wonder if (and if so, when) he will cut his hair, or keep it the same length. His slightly grown out—more of a wolfcut did make your knees weak.

You gently detangle any knots or snags in his hair with your brush, and he sighs with relief as the brush’s bristles massage his scalp. Then, with nimble fingers, you begin putting dainty little braids in the length of his hair, pulling the elastics you used wide with your teeth before securing the braids you made.

“Feels good, huh?” You murmur, grabbing his face with a gentle hand, turning it slightly towards you, and kissing his cheek.

“Feels good.” He confirms. “You’re too sweet baby. I should be the one pampering you.”

“Oh hush you big bogey.” You crawl over him, now sitting between his large legs. With a warm washcloth, you gently wash his face before applying a moisturizer. Sylus had absolutely no idea what the creams you were applying to his cheeks, nose, under eyes and forehead did, but it felt so nice. Once you put a pink kitty face mask on him, you let out a surprised squeak when he flips you around in his lap, and picking up your hairbrush off of the bathroom tile.

Before you know it, his warm fingers are threading through your hair, untangling knots, and brushing out any broken strands of hair. Then Sylus is braiding your hair too, deftly, and one peak in the mirror tells you it’s a french braid.

“When did you learn to do this?” You lean your head back once he secures your braid. Your hair was so long it nearly touched your butt.

“Online video tutorials. Luke and Kieran involuntarily became my models.” All of his efforts made your heart ache and flutter at the same time.

How this man loves you.

“Is this why I found many pink and blue wigs tucked away in the closet a while back?” You ask as he puts a grey crow sheet mask on your face, gently smoothing out the sheet’s wrinkles.

“Mhm. The twins insisted if they were going to be volunteered for practice, they would get to pick out their wig color.” Sylus’s red eyes crease in the corners with mirth.

“Are you sleepy now?” Sylus tilts his head a you.

“Maybe a little..” you mumbled.

“Come on, Sweetie. We can watch a movie until you fall asleep if you’d like.” He offers.

You nod, almost eagerly, and squeal when your big boyfriend scoops you up off of the bathroom floor and carried you into your shared bedroom. Sylus practically tosses you onto the red blankets of your bed, and crawls over you, before rolling under you, having you snuggled up on his chest. Pulling one of the blankets up to your waist, he presses three kisses to your neck.

Sylus puts on a cute animated movie—one you both have watched together a thousand times. “I love you.” He murmurs, tilting your face up and placing a soft chaste kiss to your lips.

“I love you.” You rest your head against his chest, your heart full, your body warm and relaxed in the embrace of his.

You should let Sylus braid your hair more often.

#sylus x you #sylus qin #sylus x mc #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #fluff #pampering #romance #lads mc #lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace

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r3starttt · 18 hours ago

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ACT ONE

PAIRING: Caitlyn x reader

SUMMARY: all scenes where Caitlyn appears in act one but with reader.

CW: mentions of grief. angst. lots of fluff. oral. public sex.

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @nosferatuv

At this point, you may as well live with her. The house has become an echo of silence, too hollow and too heavy for Caitlyn to bear alone. Tobias is a ghost himself, drifting in and out, his presence marked only by the faint clatter of cutlery as he eats in solitude, retreating once more into his room. And Caitlyn is haunted. Haunted by faces and moments that play on a cruel, endless loop. Jinx. Her mother. What she could’ve done. What she should’ve done. Choices to act, to protect, to pull the trigger—all left untouched, unclaimed. The weight of it all presses against her, and the only lifeline she allows herself to reach for is you.

So now, she’s here, curled up beside you on her bed. The room is cold, its stillness mirroring the emptiness that seems to stretch across every corner of this place. Even the outside world mourns. The rain has been unrelenting, a quiet lament that soaks and taps against the windows like a reminder of shared sorrow. You can’t help but wonder if this is the right place for you, if immersing yourself in this sea of grief is the wisest choice. But then you look at her.

Her hands are tucked beneath her cheek, her face serene yet marked by the faint shadow of unrest. Her brows furrow, even in sleep, as if the storm inside her mind refuses to quiet. Gently, you cradle her face, your fingers tracing the soft contours of her jaw, brushing over the faint hollows of her cheeks. Your touch moves upward, combing through the messed strands of her hair. The knots formed from her restless tossing untangle beneath your fingers, and the soothing rhythm of your hands feels like the only lullaby she can bear.

A quiet hum escapes your lips, a melody you don’t think much of but one that seems to work. Slowly, her frown eases, replaced by a soft, almost hesitant smile—a smile she seems to fight, as though afraid it might shatter. It’s been so long since you’ve seen her smile.

“Morning,” she whispers, her voice low and rasping with the weight of sleep. Her hand shifts from under her cheek to find yours, her fingers threading through yours in a tender, grounding gesture.

“Morning,” you murmur in return, your voice soft as you lean closer beneath the cocoon of sheets. You press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, the warmth of her skin against your lips grounding you both. For a moment, the world outside, with its rain and sorrow, fades. For a moment, it’s just her, and that feels like enough.

But you’re not the only one here. Violet has been wandering through the house, a presence so quiet yet heavy, a living reminder of everything that’s fractured. Caitlyn had insisted on letting her stay, her voice stained with a kind of reluctant understanding that pain like this doesn’t belong to just one person. It is shared, diffused, seeping into every corner of the lives it touches. When Caitlyn told you, you said nothing. Not in agreement, nor in protest. You didn’t dare show that you cared.

There was something tender about Violet—the softness in her manner, the raw edge to her grief. She carried herself with a quiet dignity, but her eyes betrayed her: red-rimmed and glassy, too burdened to hold anyone’s gaze for long. From the little you knew, it was clear she had deserved better. Tobias, however, saw none of that. For him, the very sight of her was a wound reopened. His anger sat on the edge of his tongue, unspoken but omnipresent, simmering beneath the surface. He was mad, sad, heartbroken, and everything in between. Having a stranger in his house, a woman whose sister had brought devastation to his family, felt like betrayal in its purest form. Caitlyn's insistence on Violet's presence was a knife to his already shredded heart.

And you? You stayed silent. You sat there, an outsider observing their silent war, pretending not to notice the sharp glances and terse words exchanged when they thought no one was looking. You understood, or at least you told yourself that you did. You saw their pain, raw and jagged, and tried to hold space for it all. But understanding wasn’t enough. Because in truth, you couldn’t bring yourself to place blame—not on Violet, not on Caitlyn, not even on Jinx. It all felt too tangled, too complicated, like a string knotted so tightly that pulling at any thread might unravel the whole thing.

The tension in the house was suffocating, building and breaking in whispers and murmurs that swelled into shouting. You pretended not to hear, ignored the raised voices that crept under doors and through walls. That was their fight, their privacy, and you had no right to disturb it. At least, that’s what you told yourself—until Caitlyn pulled you into it.

She had become more meticulous, more controlling, as if the chaos inside her mind demanded order in the world around her. Every movement, every decision, she dragged you along. It wasn’t just habit or need, it was fear. Fear of herself, of what she might do if left alone. She was terrified of causing more harm, of making one more mistake that might not only hurt but destroy the fragile pieces still holding her together.

The shadows of her guilt loomed large. Jinx had stepped into her shower once. Jinx had taken her mother. The thought of what else Jinx might do—to you, to Tobias, to anyone Caitlyn still dared to love—paralyzed her. And yet, she feared the reflection in the mirror even more.

You could see it in her eyes, the way they darted toward you every few seconds, as if checking that you were still there, still breathing. She had made you her constant, her refuge, her proof that not all was lost. But it came with a cost. Being tethered to someone drowning in their own despair meant you were always at risk of sinking with them. And yet, you stayed. Because Caitlyn needed you. And you needed her too.

"This is all my fault." Caitlyn’s voice was uneven, frayed at the edges, carrying the weight of yet another argument with Violet. Her steps were restless, almost aimless, as she paced into the living room before collapsing onto the couch beside you. The cup of tea she'd abandoned earlier sat cold on the table before her, its surface a quiet testament to her neglect of even the simplest comforts. Her strength seemed spent, reserved solely for crying and, occasionally, your embrace.

The letters scattered across the coffee table mocked her in their neat lines of shallow condolences. Hollow phrases of regret and empty assurances from people who couldn’t begin to fathom the depths of her anguish. You’d taken to opening them in her place, sparing her the cruel repetition of their false sincerity. Tobias had tried to help, his presence a strained and fleeting support, but after the faint echoes of raised voices, he’d muttered an apology and retreated to his room, leaving you alone in the quiet.

"Love… you know it’s not," you said softly, leaning back and reaching for the cup of tea, hoping it might bring her even a shred of comfort. "Did Violet say something? We heard—"

She cut you off, her hand pushing yours down, the motion sharp but lacking the force of true anger. "Stop." The plea, despite its brusqueness, was so fragile.

You fell silent, your gaze locking onto hers. Her eyes, glassy and red, carried an exhaustion that seemed to seep into her very being. You searched for a clue, a flicker of understanding as to what torment had clawed its way back into her mind this time.

"My mother was right," Caitlyn murmured, her voice weak, almost swallowed by the room’s stillness. It cracked under the strain of her sorrow, and your chest tightened at the sight of her—this woman you admired so deeply—reduced to such cruelty toward herself.

"My arrogance led me to take on more than I could handle." Her fists clenched, her knuckles pale as if trying to anchor herself.

You could feel the anger radiating off her, sharp and bitter, not just toward Jinx or Violet, but toward herself. Toward you, even. Toward everything and everyone that had become tangled in this mess. She hated the circumstances that had left her exposed and hollow, hated the gnawing insecurity that whispered she wasn’t enough. And yet, what pained her more was the thought that no one around her—neither Violet nor Tobias nor even you—could be enough for her either. It was a loneliness that festered, a wound that refused to heal.

But then, the room shifted.

A black envelope appeared. It bore no ornamentation save for a symbol pressed into the dark paper. They cared little for the pageantry of their position, choosing instead to let the symbol do the speaking. Unlike the many others envelopes you’ve opened so far, written with the fanciest tones and even decorated.

Caitlyn’s frown deepened as she took it, her expression darkening further as she recognized what it meant.

You handed her the envelope and the badge enclosed within. Her eyes, those piercing blue orbs, scanned the words printed on the letter. With each line, her grip on the badge tightened.

And then, without a word, she stood.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t explain. There was no request, no demand, not even a glance to acknowledge your presence.

You were left behind. Again.

Left alone to the silence of the room, to the scattered letters and the burden of her absence. Caitlyn, as much as she loved you, was taking advantage of your presence, of your devotion. She left you to clean up the pieces, to sift through the meaningless apologies on those envelopes and tidy the remnants of her spiraling grief. She left you to endure the aftermath while she chased whatever closure—or recklessness—her heart demanded.

You gave her space—not the kind that pushed her further into isolation, but just enough to let her breathe, to gather her scattered thoughts. You ate with her father, the meal tinged with a shared hope that hunger might coax her out of hiding. Yet, her absence was a weight neither of you mentioned aloud.

Tobias offered you a small, knowing smile, one that carried the quiet gratitude and understanding only a parent could convey. It was a look you’d seen before, in Cassandra’s gentle glances—their shared acknowledgment of the love and care you held for Caitlyn.

"Look in the garden," Tobias said softly, his voice lined with something between encouragement and resignation.

And you did. The air cool and fragrant with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. The space unfolded before you like a living painting, the greens vivid, the blossoms vibrant in the soft light of the day. The path ahead seemed to glow faintly, a trail of violets guiding your steps like a whisper from nature itself.

“Cait?” you murmured, your voice low as not to disturb the fragile tranquility of the moment. You placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling the slight shiver that ran through her. She didn’t flinch, but her breath quickened, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. You lowered yourself onto the bench beside her. “Everything alright?” you asked, hesitant, the concern in your voice brushing the air between you. You were on the verge of apologizing for intruding when her gaze finally shifted to you.

The relief that washed over her face was almost luminous, softening the sharp lines of her anguish. A small, fragile smile broke through as she reached for your hands, cradling them. Without a word, she leaned into you, her cheek pressing against your shoulder as though finding shelter in your presence.

“Ever since it happened...” she began, her voice a quiet tremor, “three faces keep spinning through my mind.” Her words were slow and deliberate, each syllable heavy with exhaustion, as if speaking them aloud cost her a piece of herself.

“I see Mother—when they found her.” Her voice cracked, and the pause that followed felt like a knife held at your chest. “Every fiber of me just sinks, like a stone swallowed in dark water.” She stopped, her silence thick and oppressive, and you could feel your own heart missing.

“And then there’s Jinx, laughing.” The sound of her sigh was uneven, almost a gasp, as though the memory itself had taken the air from her lungs. “I want to tear that laugh from her throat forever.”

The venom in her voice made you freeze, the raw, unchecked fury a side of her you’d never known. It was a wildfire in her eyes, consuming everything in its path, and it frightened you—not because you feared her, but because you feared what that anger might do to her.

“It’s so easy to hate them...” she whispered, her voice trailing off into the rhythm of the windmill nearby. Its blades turned steadily, the faint creak and groan of wood mingling with the soft rustle of petals caught in the breeze. The air seemed to carry the garden’s sorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest.

You squeezed her hands gently, your thumb tracing slow, soothing patterns across her skin. “And the third one?” She tilted her head back slightly, her eyes finally meeting yours. They were tired, lined with shadows that no amount of rest could erase, yet there was something luminous in their depths—something that spoke of vulnerability and trust.

“You,” she said softly.

The single word hung between you, delicate and profound, as her gaze searched yours for a reaction. Her brows furrowed slightly, the faintest trace of worry in the lines of her face.

She leans into you, her chapped lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes you shiver. The kiss is brief yet lingers in your chest as haunting as it is sweet. When she tilts her head back, her eyes meet yours, and the moment feels suspended, as if time itself has paused to honor the weight of this intimacy. Your skin tingles where her cold fingers trace up your arms, their path slow. They find their way to your neck, her touch a mix of hesitancy and need, before her lips return to yours.

This time, the kiss deepens. There’s a fervent gentleness in her movements, an urgency tempered by care. You respond instinctively, matching the rhythm of her lips. Your breaths interwine, until you pull away just enough to press another kiss to her lips, softer this time, a silent assurance that you are here.

But Caitlyn doesn’t stop. Her mouth finds yours again, her tongue grazing your lips. For a moment, you hesitate. Perhaps it’s the rawness of her emotion, or the vulnerability of being in this open space where anyone might stumble upon you. Maybe it’s the Caitlyn you see now—a woman so familiar yet so distant—that makes you pull back, just slightly.

“Cait...” you whisper, your voice breathless, your eyes searching hers for clarity, for reassurance.

Her response is a smile, a rare one you’ve missed, the one you’ve longed to see for what feels like a lifetime.

And it undoes you.

Your lips find her neck, trailing a line of kisses along her skin, each one a confession of the emotions you can’t put into words. Your hands move instinctively, slipping beneath the fabric of her uniform, seeking the warmth of her thighs. The soft give of her skin beneath your palms.

Her hands rest on the bench, her fingers curling slightly as if anchoring herself to the moment. Her lips part, a soft gasp escaping as your touch deepens. Her breath mingles with the cool air, each exhale carrying a note of longing. She tilts her head back, and her body shifts subtly, her legs parting in silent invitation.

There’s no need for words. Her body speaks for her, a language of trust and desire that you understand without effort. You lean into her. Your lips press on her legs, starting with her knees as you pull her uniform up enough to slide your fingers into the hem of her panties. Her hips adjust, allowing you to pull her underwear down her legs and slid your fingers near her folds. You kiss your way up her inner thighs, never leaving her out of sight. Your thumb rubs small circles around her clit, feeling the wet growing. Caitlyn holds herself in place, letting out quiet whimpers and gasps while fighting for her legs to stay wide open for you.

You slid your hands once again at the sides of her thighs, leaning closer to press small kisses on her clit and down her slit, savoring every inch of her before sliding your tongue up and down, slurping obscenely while moaning against her. "Please..." you begged breathlessly. "Cum for me."

You stand beside her during the speech, her arm looped tightly through yours. Her fingers fidget with yours, nails that expose the restless and uncertain in her with the scars they leave in your skin. Yet, there’s a softness in how she squeezes your hand, as if reminding herself that you’re there. When her mother’s name is mentioned, you feel the slight tremble in her grip, a signal of the tears gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill. You glance at her, catching the sheen of vulnerability in her gaze, and your heart aches to comfort her.

But before you can whisper how you're here for her, the moment shatters. A thunderous boom cleaves through the air, its force rattling your chest. A streak of red light arcs into the sky, burning your view. Screams erupt all around, high-pitched and frantic, mingling with the sound of chaos. The crowd scatters and you freeze, caught in the disarray, until you feel her hand pulling you—urgently, forcefully—dragging you away from the danger.

“Are you alright?” Caitlyn’s voice cuts through the noise, firm yet tinged with worry. Her hands cup your face, her eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you forget the pandemonium for a second. Before you can fully respond, she snatches a rifle from a fallen enforcer. You nod, though your legs feel unsteady beneath you, your mind swirling with fear and confusion.

A red-haired enforcer grabs your arm and ushers you toward the back of the stage, guiding you to the safety of a waiting truck. As you climb into, surrounded by panicked council members, your breath quickens, the fear of something happening to Caitlyn pounding in your chest. It's so loud and so strong you fear it might stop. And it does, when a sharp impact swallows you into darkness.

When you wake, the room feels colder than usual. Caitlyn’s voice breaks through the haze, her words sharp and trembling. “A memorial...” she mutters, her tone teetering between outrage and disbelief. She’s seated at the edge of her bed, you see in her muscles how her back is tight and rigid, her hands balled into fists on her thighs. A nurse exits quietly, leaving you alone-- you almost pray she doesn't.

Her frown is a weight too heavy to watch, her teeth biting hard into her bottom lip, drawing blood. "What kind of animals..." she spits, her voice rising, "All they did is piss me off!"

This side of her is uncharted territory—raw, angry, and terrifying in its intensity. It’s a version of Caitlyn you’ve never seen before, and the sight of it scares you. But still, you move toward her, crawling onto the bed to approach closer.

Her head tilts slightly, leaning into your presence as if drawn by gravity. The fire in her expression falters, replaced by a heartbreaking vulnerability. Her eyebrows tremble, her lips quivering as she fights to contain the sobs threatening to break free. “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses, her voice cracking as her hand rises to cover her face.

She trembles beneath her own emotions, her fingers twitching as her hands drop uselessly into her lap. "She dies and leaves and I’m just supposed to fill this hole like she was never there to begin with." Her words come out in fragments, each one cutting deeper into your heart.

A single tear escapes her, carving a trail down her cheek, and it feels like the final crack in a dam about to burst. Gently, you reach out, your thumb brushing away the tear, your hand trailing down to her chin to lift her gaze to yours. “Hey,” you whisper softly, the word laden with all the comfort you can muster. “We’ll be alright.”

Her eyes meet yours—red and glossy, matching the rawness of her chapped lips. Her exhaustion is etched into every line of her face, the weight of her grief pressing down on her like an unforgiving tide.

“Come here,” you urge, your voice tender yet steady. She hesitates, her hand reaching up to cup yours for a fleeting moment before brushing it away. She wipes at her tears, a futile attempt to hide her vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, her voice faltering. “It’s just...” You silence her with a shake of your head. You understand the walls she’s built, the weight she carries, and you refuse to let her bear it alone.

“It’s all coming apart,” she whispers, her tone fragile, almost defeated.

“No, it isn’t,” you counter, your words firm before cupping her face, your touch grounding her. “We won’t let it.”

The warmth of the fire casts a golden glow across the room, dancing along the walls and casting flickering shadows on the green upholstery of the ornate armchair you occupy. The tea in your hands sends soft tendrils of steam curling into the air, the faint scent of chamomile mingling with the woody aroma of burning logs. The book in your lap lies open, its pages half-read, but your eyes stray to the flames, their hypnotic sway lulling you into a rare moment of stillness.

The sharp crack of the door swinging open shatters the serenity. The sound echoes like a gunshot, startling you enough to spill a few drops of tea onto the small, polished coffee table before you. Your gaze snaps to the doorway, and your breath catches in your throat.

She’s standing there, framed by the doorway. Her face is a canvas of bruises, the darkened hues of purple and red marring the thin curves of her cheeks. Scratches crisscross her skin. Dirt clings to her clothes and streaks her hands. But it’s her eyes that root you to the spot—red-rimmed and glistening.

Her lips are parted, and though no words come out, the tremble in her bottom lip betrays the raging inside her. She’s been crying—you can see it in the rawness of her expression, the puffiness around her eyes—but there’s something more, something primal and consuming in the way she stares at you.

“Are you alright? What happened?” you ask, your voice urgent, almost stumbling over the words as you rise from the couch. The tea and book are abandoned on the table, forgotten in the sudden shift of your world.

She doesn’t answer, at least not with words. Instead, she steps forward, her boots heavy on the floor, carrying the weight of her anguish with every movement. The firelight catches the tears that threaten to fall again, and you notice the subtle wince in her steps, the stiffness in her posture.

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against the dirt-streaked fabric of her sleeve.

“Talk to me,” you urge, your tone softer now, pleading.

For a moment, it seems as though she might speak, her mouth opening slightly, but then it closes again. Instead, her eyes find yours, wide and glassy, searching for something—reassurance, safety, understanding.

The fire continues to crackle behind you, its warmth a stark contrast to the coldness that seems to cling to her. Your hands gently brush against her hair, now tangled and dusted with remnants of the outside world.

"Where’s Violet?" you ask softly, the question laced with unease. The mere thought of losing someone else, of her standing before you so battered and with more grief on her shoulders, sends an icy jolt through your veins.

Her reaction is immediate, sharp—her eyes roll in irritation, her teeth sinking into the flesh of her bottom lip as though she’s trying to chew away the words she doesn’t want to say. She pushes past you, the faint scent of dirt and sweat trailing her as she tosses her gun carelessly onto the nearest surface. The dull thud of metal on wood makes you wince.

"She stopped me," she spits, each word drenched in fury. "I had Jinx—right there—and she stopped me... for a stupid child." Anger ripples through her, but beneath it lies a wound far deeper than she wants to admit.

You don’t interrupt her. You simply stand by the door, watching as she paces, her movements frantic yet constrained, like a caged animal desperate for escape. Her words tumble out in disjointed bursts, a storm of emotion too overwhelming to contain. But even as you listen, the weight of her pain settles over you, a burden you’re all too willing to share if she’d only let you.

Her rambling halts abruptly, the noise of her anguish giving way to a silence that feels almost oppressive. You take a hesitant step forward, your voice calm, steady. “Let me...”

She doesn’t argue, doesn’t resist, and that alone tells you how exhausted she truly is. You guide her gently to her room, allowing her to step into the bathroom.

The shower runs, steam curling into the air as you help her wash away the grime of the day. Her movements are slow, mechanical, but she lets you guide her, her trust in you unspoken yet profound. You don’t rush, letting the water and your careful hands work to soothe her, to strip away the evidence of whatever nightmare she’s just endured.

Later, as you sit behind her, combing through the damp strands of her hair, you feel the tension still clinging to her. Her shoulders are tight, her neck marked with faint bruises that stand out against her pale skin. Your fingers work gently, unraveling knots, both in her hair and, you hope, in her mind.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where her hairline meets her temple. "It’s going to be fine."

She doesn’t say anything, but you catch it—the faintest curl of her lips, a smile so small it’s almost imperceptible. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it’s enough. Only you, it seems, can quiet her fear for a moment.

But perhaps you had been wrong all along. Perhaps it wasn’t only Caitlyn you were trying to convince—it was yourself.

The name, "Caitlyn Kiramman," rings out suddenly, the sound sharp and cutting, turning acrid as it settles in your ears. It twists your stomach into tight, unrelenting knots, your pulse quickening with an instinctive dread.

Your eyes snap to her, wide with disbelief. She’s too far away, standing on that raised platform like a figure in some tragic play. There’s nothing you can do—no hand to grasp, no words to whisper that might reel her back. You can only hope, pray even, that the Caitlyn you know, the one who always looks for you in a crowd as though you’re her anchor, will see you now and find her way.

But she doesn’t.

Her eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments, not with the steady resolve you’ve clung to, but with something unrecognizable—mocking, almost defiant. Her gaze burns.

You see her chest rise and fall, her breath shallow and erratic, her hands twitching at her sides. Her skin glows with an unnatural warmth, a fever born of anxiety and mounting pressure. The ceremonial uniform clings to her, an ill-fitting armor that seems to suffocate rather than protect her. Her face, once serene even under the heaviest burdens, now betrays her unraveling composure.

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, each hushed gasp and whispered word a dagger in your heart. She hears them too. It’s evident in the way her shoulders tense and her brows curve inward, forming lines of worry and doubt. Her nose scrunches as though trying to block out the suffocating air around her. The bruises and scratches you’d helped her hide beneath layers of powder now peek through the flush of her reddened cheeks, revealing a fragility she seems desperate to mask.

Her lips part as though to speak, but no sound comes. Instead, her breaths grow uneven, quickened, fluttering with no escape. She hesitates, falters, her steps unsteady as she moves toward Ambessa.

Your heart plummets.

This wasn’t supposed to happen—not like this. Everyone around you seems to agree, their silent nods and approving glances affirming Caitlyn’s every move.

Everyone but you.

Your throat tightens as you watch her bite the inside of her lip. It’s the kind of detail that would normally endear her to you, but now it feels like a weight pressing against your chest.

And then it happens.

Caitlyn steps to the forefront, her figure illuminated by the dim light of the grand hall. Ambessa looms before her, a towering figure draped in authority and power. The room stills as the older woman steps forward, placing a heavy cape over Caitlyn’s shoulders. The gesture is deliberate, ceremonial, and it feels like the final blow in a battle you’ve already lost.

You watch Ambessa lean in, her voice too low to hear but her lips close enough to Caitlyn’s ear to utter something significant, something that makes Caitlyn’s expression waver for the briefest of moments.

You can’t take it.

Your heart screams at you to intervene, to shout, to do anything but stand there frozen in your disbelief. But your body betrays you.

This cannot be your Caitlyn. The Caitlyn you’ve fought for, bled for, loved beyond reason. The Caitlyn who was supposed to fight for what was right, not be swallowed by it.

But she stands there, and for the first time, you wonder if the Caitlyn you thought you knew is already gone.

#𝕽EQ'S﹕⠀ ❪ arcane ❫#A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( arcane )#( 𝕽 𝜊S.mut )#caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x you #caitlyn x y/n #caitlyn smut #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn kiramman x female reader #caitlyn kiramman smut #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x female reader #arcane smut

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thewitchandtheassassin · 3 days ago

Text

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Part Four (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Every action has a consequence.

Words: 1540

Warnings: Arguments, talks of death, canon death, language?

A/N: I'm alive. I haven't forgotten this. I also have Covid so forgive me. K, thanks!

-X-

Agatha’s feet carried her forward, through endless expanse as she searched for Nicky before—

Two small, thin arms wrapped around her, his head pressing against her stomach as he barreled into her. “Mama!” his voice cracked, burrowing deeper into her grasp.

Breath catching painfully in her chest, Agatha sunk to her knees, gathering him into her arms and just… holding him, silent tears streaming down her face. He smelled just like she remembered—of earth and rain and everything good in her world. Everything good she’d ever done.

-X-

Trembling hands caressed your face, wiping away sweat and tears as your breathing grew shallow, lips paling.

“W-what’s happening?” Teen asked nervously, flinching at Rio’s cold, unwavering glare.

“Which part? The part where you shouldn’t exist right now and neither should this godforsaken Road? How your powers just sent (Y/N) and Agatha into the realm of the afterlife because you can’t control your abilities? Or the part where—” Rio choked on her words, staring down at your unmoving body, “—Life is dying?”

Teen’s jaw dipped open, eyes wide with horror. “W-what?”

The other witches took a step back, sensing the brewing storm within Rio, eyes flickering between the boy and the scene before them.

“You, Teen, are Billy Maximoff. Son of the Scarlet Witch and the creator of the Witch’s Road. Congratulations, you’ve turned a con into a reality and in doing so, have damned Life to die because you briefly gave Agatha Harkness enough power to drag my other half into the fucking afterlife!” her words were sharp, cracking around the edges. “The living can’t come back from the afterlife! In letting Agatha have exactly what she wanted, Life made a choice… and she…”

Shaking fingers drifted along your cheeks.

“God, why did you do it?” she asked your still form. “You idiot. You stupid, wonderful, selfless idiot.”

“Wait, wait, hold up. (Y/N) is Life?” Jenn repeated, her eyes jumping between you and Rio. “So does that make you—”

“Death,” Lilia finished, though it wasn’t a question.

Tilting her head slightly, Rio’s eyes never left you. “Ding, ding, ding. Thank you for playing, witches. So, unless anyone has any useful ideas right this second, I need you all to shut the hell up while I think.”

For once…

The Road was silent.

And Rio had no ideas of how to solve this fucking mess.

-X-

Staggering towards Agatha and Nicky, you forced your body to keep moving, even as the afterlife demanded more from you the longer Agatha remained. Seeing her clinging to Nicky tugged at your heart and you hated yourself for what you were about to do. Dragging her away.

“Mommy!” Nicky gasped, peering over Agatha’s shoulder at you, his excitement fading into worry. “Are you okay? You don’t look okay.”

Stiffening slightly, Agatha glanced over her shoulder at you, eyes widening at the blackening veins pulsing on your face, the paleness of your lips, the shadows nipping at your heels…

“Hey, baby,” you rasped, collapsing beside Agatha and gently combing your fingers through his long hair. “I uh… I’m okay. I have to take Mama home though. I’m sorry, we can’t stay.”

Nicky’s expression dropped but he nodded. “I know. It’s not Mama’s time.”

Reaching up, his small hand touched your cheek, knowing something’s wrong even if he can’t understand it. His other hand touched Agatha’s.

“Please stop fighting,” he whispered to Agatha, holding her gaze. “It wasn’t their fault. Someday, we’ll be a family. All of us. You and Mommy and Mami… we’ll all be happy again.”

Maybe it’s the light shining in his eyes or the actual health keeping his face colored or maybe it’s the confidence in his voice but something—even if she didn’t want to admit it—began to warm in her chest, regret flooding into her eyes as she really took you in. How sick you suddenly seemed. The way you were panting, despite not needing air. The way your glow seemed…

Dim.

Smiling softly—in pain, in heartbreak—you grabbed Agatha’s hand and tangled your fingers together before closing your eyes, yanking both of you back into your bodies before she could try and stop you.

Then…

There was only darkness.

-X-

Agatha awoke with a gasp, sitting upright abruptly. The Road. She was on the Road again—lying in the wet mud—but…

Glancing around, she saw everyone surrounding… something.

“And here I thought this coven would be happy to know I’m fine,” she half-joked, staggering to her feet and wandering over to group, almost offended by the lack of reaction. “Really feeling the sisterhood here.”

Before she could even reach the circle, Rio’s hand was wrapped around her neck, shoving her into a tree. Scathing remarks on the tip of her tongue, she froze at the look of absolute fury on Rio’s face. Of all the things she’d said and done over the centuries, she’d never been on the receiving end of this expression…

This hatred.

“Agatha Harkness, you selfish, thoughtless woman! Hate me all you want but she—” Rio choked on her words, emotion swimming so deeply in her eyes that it nearly stole Agatha’s breath. “—she always saw the best in you. Forgave you for whatever you said; whatever you did. But this? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What fucking mess you’ve caused? No, because you don’t ever think about anyone other than yourself!”

“What are you talking about?” Agatha choked out, fingers wrapping around Rio’s wrist in an attempt to loosen her grip.

Dragging her by her throat over to your body, Rio snarled, “Look!”

There, motionless on the ground, you lied. Pale in the moonlight of the Road, eyes fluttering, chest barely rising—

You looked like a damn corpse, something Agatha never once expected to see. You, so full of energy and life, snuffed out like a candle in a windstorm, only embers remaining where your flames once burned. Your fingers twitched, as if reaching out for something unseen but too weak to find.

“Nothing living can return from the afterlife. It demands a price, a price, for any mortal that passes through—and she fucking paid yours.” Rio’s lip trembled, staring at the dying body of her counterpart.

Her perfect other half.

For the first time in her existence, Agatha Harkness was struck speechless. You, who always stood by her side even when she screamed and raged and hated… you, who vowed to love her even as Agatha scorched the earth around her… you who could’ve left her to the afterlife…

“(Y/N),” she breathed, dropping to her knees beside you, a trembling hand reaching out to touch your face, only to be caught by Rio and yanked away, nearly knocked backwards onto her ass.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” she hissed, carefully lifting your body into her arms to cradle you to her chest. Feeling the way your heartbeat was waning beneath her palm. Sluggish. Barely beating. “You’ve done enough.”

Agatha’s lips parted, but no words came. There was nothing she could say. For once, the woman who had spoken her way into and out of every situation imaginable—who always found an angle to tip the scales in her favor—was utterly, horrifyingly speechless. For all her dark knowledge… she was completely unprepared.

A broken, strangled sound escaped her lips, and she moved again, reaching for you instinctively. “Rio, please—”

“No,” Rio spat, pulling you tighter against her chest. Her arms curled around you as if shielding you from the very woman who had caused this, her visage flickering for a split second. An unspoken warning. “You don’t get to ask anything of me. Of her. Not anymore.”

Agatha recoiled like she’d been struck, breath hitching sharply in her throat. She wanted to argue, to lash out, to fix this—but there was nothing she could say, nothing she could do. For the first time, she actually felt how powerless she really was.

"Please, baby," Rio whispered, this time directed at you. At the barely-there rise and fall of your chest. "Stay with me. Don’t leave me; I can’t do this without you."

But even as she begged, even as she reached for something unseen, something that was already slipping between her fingers, trying to call upon something—anything, the truth sat heavy in the air.

You were dying.

And there wasn’t a damn thing Death could do to stop it.

Jenn took a step forward, hesitant. “There has to be something we can do.” Her voice wavered, but there was determination in her eyes, staring at your still body. “Life isn’t a mortal, so that means the afterlife can’t just… take her.”

Rio let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. “Oh, sure. Go ahead, Jenn. If you have a way to defy the fundamental laws of existence and the cosmos and the afterlife I’ve cultivated for millennia, be my guest. Clearly a bunch of half-assed witches know more than an actual cosmic entity.”

Jenn bristled but she kept quiet, knowing this wasn’t just anger—this was unadulterated grief. The panic of not being able to stop what felt inevitable.

And if they didn’t hurry…

There would be no life left to save.

#agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #rio vidal imagine #reader insert #reader imagine #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x rio

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