#and i was just like ':) nope. i am in and out of here.'

[lonerslug]

hihii would it be possible for you to do Sevika dating a bimbo reader?

sevika x bimbo!reader ;; slow burn fic ;; smut, men dni, read at your own discretion

You stood in the center of the Last Drop in heels too high for the floorboards and a top that barely clung to your chest. The smell of metal and whiskey didn’t quite match your lip gloss, but you didn’t mind. You were used to not fitting in.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” the bartender asked, already looking amused.

“Nope! I’m meeting someone,” you said brightly, tugging your miniskirt down a little. “Is this the place with the…um, illegal fighting?”

He stared. You blinked.

“Sevika,” you added, lowering your voice like that would help. “I’m here to see her.”

That made his eyebrows jump.

Moments later, the door to the back creaked open.

And then she appeared.

Broad-shouldered. Scowling. Arm glowing dim red, Sevika. She looked you over like she was being forced to participate in some sick joke, eyes dragging from your lashes to your shiny little purse.

“Who the fuck let Barbie into my bar?”

“Oh my God,” you gasped, “you do talk like that.”

Sevika turned back toward the door. “Nope.”

“Wait, wait hey!” You scrambled in those dangerous heels to follow her into the back room, dodging crates and that weird damp smell. “I’m here about the ad you posted.”

“There was no ad.”

“You know,” you chirped, flopping down into a metal chair like it was upholstered in velvet. “The one that said, ‘Need someone dumb enough to be bait for a gun deal? Willing to wear a wire and shut up when told?’ That one.”

Sevika looked at you. For a long time.

Then she snorted. “You’re serious.”

“Very! I even brought my own wire. I don’t really know how to use it, but it looks super cool on my hip.”

“You’re gonna die,” Sevika muttered, dragging out a cigar. “And I’m not babysitting a walking liability in six-inch heels.”

“Seven,” you corrected helpfully. “And I’m not that dumb. Just sparkly.”

She lit her cigar. Didn’t answer.

You watched her with wide eyes and soft lips parted slightly, attention rapt like she was the main event at a fashion show instead of an exhausted middle-aged woman with blood on her boots.

“You’re hot,” you said finally, like it had just occurred to you. “Do you get that a lot?”

Sevika coughed. Like physically coughed.

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

She waved a hand at you. “Out.”

“But I brought snacks,” you pouted, pulling a glittery little pouch out of your bag. “And I’m good at pretending to be a dumb girlfriend. You don’t even have to teach me. I am one.”

“Oh, fuck me.”

“Maybe later,” you smiled.

Three Weeks Later

You were still around.

Still trailing behind her in your short skirts and perfume that didn’t belong in a place like Zaun. Sevika told everyone you were temporary. “A phase.” A joke she was barely tolerating.

But she hadn’t kicked you out yet.

And you had this way of saying “Vikaaa,” all whiny and syrupy, that made her jaw clench so hard it popped.

You offered her pink drinks at the bar with little straws in them. You swung your legs when you sat, leaned into her arm when you laughed, blinked those long lashes like your brain was made of cotton candy and slow, hot honey.

And Sevika kept lighting her cigar.

Lighting it.

Lighting it again.

Never smoking it.

Because every time she looked at you, her hand drifted low under the table and had to grip the edge so hard she left marks in the wood.

_

It started with the lollipop.

Pink. Sticky. Loud.

You were curled in her office chair, legs spread lazily in that tiny skirt that had no business surviving this long in Zaun, sucking on the candy like it owed you money.

Pop. Slurp.

“Sevikaaa,” you sang. “I’m borrrred. Can’t I do something useful? You’re always reading those scary crime books and brooding —”

“I’m working.”

“You look like you’re brooding. Brooding and sexy.”

You winked.

Her eye twitched.

The second time the lollipop popped out of your mouth and you ran your tongue around the tip, slow, like you were practicing something, she stood up.

You froze, still mid-lick.

“Babe?” you said innocently, blinking. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The chair scraped loudly as she dragged it back from the desk. You squeaked when she grabbed you by the hips and spun it around to face her, your knees falling open wide between her legs.

“You really like playing games, huh?”

You smiled, all pink and glittery and sweet. “You’re fun when you’re mad yknow.”

Her hand closed tight around your throat, not choking then your lollipop hit the floor.

“You’re gonna shut the fuck up for once in your life,” Sevika growled, leaning in until her lips brushed your cheek. “Or I’ll make you.”

“Ohmygod,” you whispered, breath catching. “Please.” you giggled

That was all it took.

She yanked you up and slammed you against the wall hard enough to make the frames rattle. Her mouth crashed into yours, teeth and tongue and smoke. You moaned, high-pitched, whimpering, and rutted against her like you needed her to take you apart.

“You have no fuckin’ idea what you’re asking for, princess,” she growled against your mouth.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you to use me.”

Her grip on your waist tightened. “Yeah? You want me to bend you over the desk like a dumb little toy? Shove my cock in that sweet, needy cunt and make you cry?”

You moaned like a slut. Full-body, shameless.

“God, yes yes, Sev, Miss Sevika!”

That made her snarl.

She spun you around, pushed you over the desk, and yanked your panties down. Your skirt bunched at your hips, and you heard the click of the strap harness before anything else.

You whined, legs trembling.

“You ever even had anything this big inside you, baby?” she asked, grinding the fat silicone head against your dripping folds. “Bet they were all scared of you. Too pretty. Too fuckin’ dumb.”

“I…I tried,” you babbled, back arching as the tip slid in just a little. “But no one ever, no one ever fit —”

“Course they didn’t,” she grunted. “This pussy needs someone who knows how to break it in.”

She shoved forward, and you screamed.

It burned in the best way, stretching you, filling you so deep your hands scrabbled at the desk, nails catching on the edge.

“Shh,” Sevika murmured, suddenly slower, gentler. “That’s it, baby. You’re okay. Fuck, you’re takin it like a good girl.”

Your mascara ran. Your mouth dropped open. You could barely even moan anymore, just little squeaky breaths between sobs of pleasure.

“I can’t!”

“Yes you can,” Sevika said, fucking you harder, one hand wrapped in your hair now, pulling your head back. “You wanted this, remember? Walkin’ around all soft and slutty like a dumb little bimbo, beggin’ for attention.”

You cried out as she slammed into you again, and again, the sound of wet slaps echoing off the office walls.

“God, you’re so tight,” she hissed, rutting harder. “This dumb cunt’s never gonna forget me, huh?”

Your legs gave out, but she held you up with a bruising hand on your hip, pounding you until you were gasping nonsense.

“M’gonna come,” you sobbed, gripping the desk like your life depended on it.

“Yeah? Go on then,” she grunted. “Soak my cock, sweetheart. Show me how bad you needed it.”

You screamed.

Climax slammed into you like a truck, hot and dizzy and wet. Sevika groaned low in your ear, her thrusts slowing as you shook against the desk.

She didn’t pull out.

Instead, she leaned down, bit your shoulder, and whispered, “I’m not fuckin’ done with you.”

taglist: @sapphicstrawcore @sevikaswinkinghole @riotstemple29 @shanesevikasfuckdoll @sevikas-whore @mistershotz @barelykiramman

[mingapace]

𝕰𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓 𝖒𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴀɴᴀʟ ꜱᴇx (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘᴇɢɢɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6ᴋ

Your mornings used to start with bright sunlight. Now they start with Remmick.

A cool arm tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush against an immovable chest, bare and chilled like marble beneath sheets. You felt the tickle of dark hair brushing your neck, and a soft groan as he buried his face into the curve of your shoulder. His hair is still damp from last night’s bath — you always help brush it out, and he always insists he doesn’t need it, then makes that soft, pleased little noise the second you start.

He holds you like if he loosened his arms, you’d slip into the air and disappear.

Which, in his defense, you’ve done before. Once. For five minutes. To brush your teeth.

That was apparently enough for him to spiral into grief.

This morning is no different.

You shift a little in his arms. He clutches you tighter immediately.

“Don’t,” Remmick murmurs, voice still thick from sleep. “Ye gave yer word.”

You smiled, already too used to his particular brand of dramatics. “I’m not going anywhere,”

“Mh” He nuzzles into your neck. “Good.”

In fact, you had managed to take a week off work because lately, Remmick had become increasingly unstable and in need of attention. He had started getting very clingy before you left the house, always finding some excuse to make you late.

Often, when he returned from a hunt, he would silently slip between your legs — still dirty with blood and soil — and drain you of so much energy that when the alarm rang just a few hours later, you were still completely wrecked.

One of those nights, as he tilted his hips against yours and rubbed his erection along your folds — still dripping from your shared pleasure — ready to start another round, you had begged him to let you rest, promising in return that you’d ask your boss for a whole week off to stay home with him.

That had calmed him.

You sigh. This is normal now. This very specific brand of obsessive clinginess — but it’s never suffocating. Not really. Remmick’s the kind of touch-starved that’s more endearing than frightening. A centuries-old creature of the night who wants nothing more than to be tucked under the covers like a dog and held.

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just slides a hand beneath your shirt and lays his palm over your stomach.

“I could keep ya here 'till the end o' time,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I'd feed ya, dress ya, keep ya warm with meself every day.”

You arched an eyebrow, face still against the pillow. “You’re being creepy again.”

“I’m a soft-hearted fool, I am,” he protests weakly. “I’m adoring ya.”

“Like a creep.”

“Like a proper lovely husband.” He nips your shoulder, not even sharp enough to mark.

You laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes finally open — glassy and grey in the low light. He blinks at you like you’re too bright to stare at for too long.

You cup his face. He melts into it, instantly.

“Is that a proposal?” you tease.

He grins. “It’s a threat.”

You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

His hand slips out of your t-shirt, and reaches your hands, fingers locking with yours. He shifts above you without hesitation, settling between your legs like he belongs there. His mouth finds your neck again, lower this time, the cold tip of his nose dragging across your collarbone.

“Let me stay curled up here all day.”

“You do that anyway.”

“I mean in the bed. With you. Inside ya, if you'd have me.”

You snort. “Is that what you want? Morning sex?”

He gives you the most pitiful look — somehow fragile and greedy at once.

“Nope,” he whispers. “I want…y'know, to be close.”

You stare.

“And maybe a bit of sex, yeah” he adds.

Of course.

He kisses your collarbone. Your jaw. The little hollow beneath your throat. Everywhere except your lips — like he’s saving them.

“Ya always smell so fuckin' good,” he murmurs. “It drives me mad, so it does.”

When you finally guide his mouth to yours, he groans like he’s been starving — and maybe he has. Not for blood, but for this. Intimacy. The kind that’s deeper than skin. The kind he panics without.

You don’t even need to speak. You just tug his shirt off, slide yours up, and pull him down. His hips slot to yours like muscle memory, his kisses growing hungrier, needier.

But it never turns rough. Never hurried.

Remmick isn’t like other lovers — not greedy for climax, not detached after. He clings. He holds your hand, kisses your knuckles, presses his forehead to yours as he rocks into you slowly, like he’s trying to stay connected at the deepest point possible.

“I missed ya,” he whispers, voice cracking.

“I was here all the time.”

“I still missed ya.”

It’s always like this — even when it’s barely been hours. You’re the sun to his cold-blooded orbit. He can’t help it. You let him cling.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. Not at all. Just lays on you, face pressed between your breasts, arms wrapped snugly around your torso. You stroke his hair, the way he likes. He’s humming something soft under his breath — a lullaby in a language you don’t know.

It’s domestic in a way that surprises you. He was all shadows when you met him — blood-slick and unreadable. But now, in the hush of morning, with your scent still on his skin and your name still soft on his tongue, he’s just your Remmick.

The phone rings.

Sharp. Loud. Inevitable.

Remmick stirs, the line of his nose pressed between your ribs. He lets out a small, wounded whimper, as if the sound physically pained him.

“Leave it now, don't,” he mumbles immediately, voice muffled and slurred from sleep. His arms tighten around you like an anchor, dragging you deeper into him.

“It might be important,” you murmur, voice already laced with guilt.

Remmick exhales hard. “There's nothin' more important than meself.”

You glance at the phone without moving too much—just enough to read the name glowing on the screen.

Iwan.

Of course. Work. Again.

You try to twist, just a little, to reach the phone on the nightstand. Your hand stretches. Your fingers graze the corner.

And then—grab.

Remmick's hands clamp hard onto your hips, pulling you down and back under him with surprising force. A deep, warning growl rumbles in his chest.

“You'd pick up the phone,” he hisses, outraged. “While I'm holdin' ya close...in me arms like. D'you hate me that much?”

You laugh despite yourself and press a kiss to the top of his head. “Stop being ridiculous. I don’t hate you.”

“You’re leavin' me behind, so you are” he accuses, dramatic as ever, “right here in our bed.”

You try to slide out from under his weight, but he locks his arms tighter, like a python constricting around prey.

“Remmick.”

He looks up at you, with his big grey eyes and genuinely wounded. “I’ll lob it out the fuckin' window.”

You sigh. “Let me take the call.”

With a groan that sounds like the death of romance itself, he flops onto his back, sheets twisting around his hips, his hair a disheveled mess of sleep and defiance. His pout is theatrical. He watches you grab the phone like you’ve just chosen to betray your nation.

You answer. Quietly. Calmly. Regretfully.

“Iwan, hey.”

“Sorry, I know you’re at home,” comes the too-eager voice from the other end, “but I can’t find the May order file. I’ve checked the whole drive and—”

You bite your tongue. Hard. “Sure. Give me a sec.”

Sliding out from under the blankets, you sit on the edge of the bed, your body still bare save for your underwear, skin kissed red in a few places where Remmick had clearly claimed you earlier in the evening.

Remmick watches your every movement. 

Like a man injured.

Still, he behaves. For a while.

You grab your laptop, open the folder, fingers typing quietly, carefully. The soft click of the keys fills the room like rain.

Iwan keeps talking.

And talking.

You try to stay professional, but the edge in your voice is rising with each needless question. You’re spoon-feeding him answers he could find himself. Patience thins. Muscles tense.

And then—movement.

You don’t notice it at first. A shift in the sheets. A shadow at your back.

Then: the long press of Remmick’s thigh curling behind you.

The warmth of his skin against yours.

His hand. Resting on your knee. Innocent. Still. For three seconds.

He moves.

Fingers sliding in light, teasing strokes. Just enough to make your breath catch—not enough to call him out. The kind of touch that dares you to pretend it’s nothing.

You keep typing.

Iwan asks something about export folders. You answer through gritted teeth.

And then, a pinch.

Sharp. Right on the inside of your thigh. You jolt, inhaling a gasp.

“Everything okay?” Iwan’s voice filters through the speaker.

“Yeah. Just—uh. Stretching a little.”

Behind you, Remmick presses a slow, smug smile into the nape of your neck. You feel the brush of his nose first, then the heat of his mouth. His hand trails up your bare stomach. You twitch.

You try—gods, you try—to push him away. But it’s a weak push. A push that means not now more than stop.

And Remmick knows the difference.

He chuckles. Low. Sinful.

His mouth lowers to your collarbone, tongue dragging lazily before his sharp teeth graze the skin—just enough pressure to make your jaw clench.

“Rem…” you whisper, eyes darting toward your laptop.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he becomes more deliberate.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to ignore the rising ache, the heat blooming between your legs, the pulse under your skin.

“Okay Iwan, the file’s there. Under ‘archive–invoices–2025.’”

Your voice is steady, measured — more or less. You’re proud of that, honestly, considering the warm, taut body practically wrapped around your back like a second skin.

“Oh! Got it. Perfect. Wait though—”

Remmick’s hand slips into your panties.

Your eyes fly wide open. Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Everything okay?” Again. That faraway voice, so out of place in the heat you are drowning in.

“Yeah. Yes. It’s just… the cat. Bit me.”

A scandalized little gasp explodes into your ear as Remmick presses his lips behind it.

“Liar,” he breathes. There’s amusement in his voice, but darker heat beneath it. “It's not the cat that's got ya all wet like that.”

His fingers start to move. Predatory. Slow. Certain.

He knows you. Knows exactly where to touch you.

Where to press. Where to tease.

Where to ruin you.

And you try so hard to stay quiet but the filth of it only turn you on more.

“Iwan, really, if you found everything, I—”

“One last thing, sorry—uh, the shipping doc? With the labels?”

Remmick bites your shoulder, gently. 

You gasp — sharp, involuntary — just as he pushes two fingers into you without warning.

Your legs jerk. You have to blink hard to see what words are on the keyboard.

“The document…” you echo, in a daze. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

You don’t got it.

What you got is Remmick’s fingers inside you, thrusting deep, wet and slow, curling perfectly — each motion slick, obscene, muffled by the blanket twisted around your hips. The air around you is thick with heat and unspoken sounds.

He reads your body like a language he’s fluent in: the way your breath hitches, the goosebumps rising on your arms, the involuntary roll of your hips when he grazes just right.

And then he speaks again, so quiet, so close:

“Let me shower ya with all me love.”

You freeze.

Because you know that tone — the false sweetness. The danger underneath it.

It’s the same voice he uses before making beautiful disasters of you.

He grins, grabbing you by the hips to put back your legs on the mattress and slide in front of you again. 

He disappears under the covers.

You fall back against the pillows, struggling to balance the laptop on your knees as he eases between your legs.

The heat of his breath undid you. You feel him breathe you in, savoring you, like he wants to taste how close you already are.

And then—

His tongue. The wet muscle flattened against your mound, tracing the entire path until it reached your entrance.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. You smother the moan, clawing its way out of your throat.

“You okay?”

You nod—too fast. “Yes. I’m fine. Just… just send me an email, okay?”

“But if you could just—”

You hang up.

Breath shatters. Back arches.

The phone hits the floor, replaced by his head, his hair, his body consuming you like you were the only thing that could satisfy his hunger.

“All that just to get me off a call?” you hiss, your hips grinding into his mouth on instinct now.

“No,” he says, licking his lips. “All this just to remind ya who gets served first, darlin'.”

You feel him before you see him rise again — the trail of his cool breath brushing over your skin as Remmick’s mouth makes its slow ascent.

He kisses the inside of your thigh — a gesture almost punitive, a reprimand for your impatience. Then your stomach, the edge of your ribcage, the hollow center between your collarbones. He skips nothing. He takes you in, inch by inch, as if mapping a territory he already owns.

When he finally reaches your face, he looks at you.

And in that moment, you realize: the pleasure he gave you wasn’t for its own sake. It was a ritual, a soft submission, a gentle form of reverence.

An offering.

He stares at you — long, shameless, indecent.

Then he leans in and kisses you.

His mouth claims yours — cooler than your own, wet, with deep, constant pressure. He parts your lips with his tongue without asking permission, but without brutality. He slides inside and tastes you like he wants you to feel every inch of the pleasure he just gave.

His hands come up to cradle your face, fingers strong and cool, holding you still. His mouth moves against yours with an oppressive slowness, dragging lips, gently sucking your lower one before plunging back into a wetter, deeper kiss. His tongue strokes your palate, retreats, then returns like it never intends to leave.

You let him.

Just long enough to let him believe he’s still in control.

Then your hand shoots up and grabs his chin.

Hard.

And you pull him back.

He blinks — confused, surprised — a flicker of hunger still caught in those red-ringed eyes. But the expression fades the moment he sees your face.

The narrowed eyes.

The mouth curled into a vicious little smile.

“Is that how you think you should behave?” you ask, voice low and steady.

Remmick swallows.

Slowly.

“I was only tryin' to—”

“Quiet.” The word lands like a bite.

He freezes.

You sit up, never looking away from him, your gaze anchored deep in his. You watch him kneel back on the bed, his face flushed, smeared with your pleasure, his breath still shaky.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide your soaked panties down your legs and toss them aside.

He watches — hungry. But he doesn’t dare move.

“Did it seem like a good idea, Remmick?” Your tone is laced with venomous sweetness. “Licking me while I was on a work call? Trying to make me cum mid-conversation?”

There’s a sliver of a smile — sharp-edged. Dangerous.

Remmick opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

You crawl down the bed until you’re in front of him, kneeling. Your bodies barely touch. Your gaze slices through him.

Your hand wraps around his cock — hot, swollen, tense beneath your fingers. The skin is flushed, glistening. Remmick gasps as if just the touch might undo him entirely. His eyes plead, glassy with need and anticipation.

“Where did all that arrogance go?” Your voice is calm. Controlled. Lethal.

He doesn’t answer — just a low, fractured whimper escapes him. His thighs twitch, already tightening under the strain of held-back pleasure.

You squeeze — not to hurt, just enough to warn.

Just enough to remind him: every second with you is a gift, not a guarantee.

“Then we start here.” Your voice cuts like a blade. “Apologize.”

He trembles.

His pupils widen instantly — those familiar red flecks blooming in his irises, mouth parting, lips already flushed and damp. He wants to obey, but his body is caught somewhere between thought and need. Between control and surrender.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean—”

Slap.

Sharp. Clean. Not cruel — but undeniable. His cock jerks sideways with the motion, followed by a choked cry from his throat. You’re already stroking him again a moment later, your fingers returning like a balm after the burn.

“‘Didn’t mean’ isn’t an excuse, and you know it.” You lean down toward him.

Remmick inhales, but the breath stutters in his chest when you slide two fingers between his lips, pushing in slowly but firmly, forcing him to open for you.

His tongue brushes your knuckles involuntarily. A small, guttural sound slips from his throat.

“If you won’t talk, I’ll use your tongue myself. Maybe I’ll sit on it. What do you think, hmm?”

Then you smirk, watching the way his eyes flash with mischief.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Mute under me, mouth full. That wouldn’t really be punishment.”

He lets out a filthy, disappointed moan. His hands twist in the sheets like he’s trying to stop himself from coming just from your words alone.

“Apologize.”

You draw out the words slowly, deliberately, like a sentence being handed down.

Finally, he gives in. His voice clumsy against the saliva and your fingers.

“Please… Ma’am… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, so I am. I was bein'… a bit bratty. Dis-r-rrespectful, I know.”

He stumbles over the word, but you don’t help him. You want to hear him trip over his own shame.

You nod slowly, approving.

Your fingers slide from his mouth with a wet pop, and then you take him by the nape, your hand warm against his neck, dragging him gently but with no room to escape toward you. His lips brush yours, his breath tangler there. Your foreheads touch.

Remmick lets out a sound—wet, shaky—vibrating between his teeth. His eyes seek yours, flushed and shining.

“Do you want me to teach you not to interrupt me while I work, Remmick?”

He tries to respond, but only a broken moan escapes—frantic, breathless.

You grip his throat, firm but not cruel, just enough pressure to make him return to earth, eyes flying open.

“Speak clearly, pet.”

“Ah, yes! Yes, please. Make me pay, I’m beggin' ya.”

There’s desperation in his voice—but beneath it, hunger. A need only you know how to satisfy.

You smile, just slightly. Good boy.

You push him back. One hand to his chest, the other on his shoulder. His back hits the mattress, and he drops like a broken doll. His legs fall open instinctively. His cock is hard, flushed, leaking precum across his stomach. It looks like it’s begging as much as he is.

You look at him. Laid out. Offered. Submissive.

Your fingers trail over his stomach, drawing lazy spirals over the soft hair above his groin, while the other hand holds his trembling hip still.

You lean down and blow softly across the head of his cock without touching.

The sound that leaves him is wet, wrecked, humiliating.

“Look at you tremble,” you murmur, voice warm and calm but edged like a blade. “I haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already falling apart.”

Then your fingers move lower, sliding slowly between his thighs, your fingertip pressing lightly over his perineum. He jolts under you, the muscles in his legs tightening, then relaxing in surrender. A tremor runs through him from the inside.

“A needy little whore like this…” you whisper, pressing your middle finger lightly against his entrance. You don’t push in—just circle, letting him feel how close you could. The small ring of muscle flutters against your touch.

He gasps louder. His hips twitch. His cock jumps. His fingers clutch the sheets.

“…clearly needs to be fucked.” You lower your head and kiss the inside of his thigh gently. “Is that what you are, Remmick?”

“Y-Yeah…” he breathes, voice thin and already unraveling.

But one word isn’t enough. You press your fingertip more firmly, drawing the truth out of him.

“Say it better.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open in a fractured sigh.

“Aye, I’m… a right ol' whore. I want to be fucked. By ye. Always…”

This time, you push in. Just a little. The warmth of him welcomes your finger, slow and steady. Your other hand shifts underneath, knuckles brushing his perineum, your palm cradling his balls with slow, teasing pressure—too light to satisfy.

His breathing becomes ragged as his body draws you in, clenching greedily around your finger. You spit between yourselves, wetting the fingers with saliva, letting the slick, obscene sound fill the space between you.

Then you push them to his entrance again—already soft and sensitive—and begin to enter the second finger in beside the first. Gently, insistently, stretching him.

You watch his face closely. The way his lashes flutter. The heat blooming across his cheeks. The way he bites his lip to keep himself from crying out.

His thighs tremble. Now visibly. Desperately. His cock twitches against his stomach, shiny and swollen.

You push deeper. The two fingers move slowly, precisely, until you curl them forward at just the right angle.

And there it is—the spot.

The reaction is immediate. His whole body jolts, a sudden jerk like a jolt of electricity. A moan rips from his throat, uncontained, trembling.

Your smile spreads slowly.

Satisfied. Inescapable.

Like a hunter who knows they’ve hit the nerve.

Maybe… maybe you should make him come like this.

After all, that week off was for him. He hadn’t asked for much—just your time, your body, your attention. You were the one who promised rest, who said, “I’ll give you everything. Every minute. Every touch.”

But then work messages came. Fatigue. Half-nights. Rushed kisses. He’d been patient, as always.

And now here he is—laid out beneath you, legs open, body shaking, breath heavy with expectation and quiet frustration. His cock is hard, red, aching from too long denied. Pulsing like it’s begging to be seen.

You lean down, lifting your hand to stroke him—to give him at least this.

But the moment your fingers brush his sensitive skin, Remmick tenses, jerking his hips away like your touch burned him.

You freeze.

Surprised. Concerned.

Your brow furrows. For a split second, doubt creeps in.

Did you misread something? Go too far? You’re about to ask—

But he beats you to it.

His voice reaches you — cracked. Tight.

“More.”

“More?” you whisper, your hand still between his legs, fingers buried in his warmth, still inside him, still wet with your spit and his surrender.

Remmick lets out a sound — low, deep, desperate — and rocks his hips toward your hand.

“It’s not… nearly enough,” he pants, voice catching between a moan and a plea. “Ma’am…”

His gaze shifts—quick, longing—toward the far corner of the room. Toward the wardrobe.

Your eyes follow.

And land on it.

The box.

That black velvet box you both know too well. Where you keep your toys.

Where your strap-on waits.

Your chest tightens. Your fingers, still slowly curling inside him, go still.

Silence descends.

Then—a sharp smack splits the air.

Your hand slaps the inside of his thigh, a precise slap, and his body jerks violently, a broken moan catching in his throat from the hypersensitivity. His legs try to close but you’re already there, holding them open with your knees, looking at him with the kind of look he knows all too well.

“You keep sticking your nose where you shouldn’t, honey.” Your voice is low, slippery like warm honey. “I’m pretty sure it said not to open the fucking box.”

Your fingers go back to work, slow, merciless. Two inside him, straight, deep, the others pressing his perineum with merciless sweetness. Remmick writhes, searches for air, a thread of breath that doesn’t come. Then you find it again.

That spot.

His body tenses again. His heels lift off the bed, his throat making a sound that no longer has any form. He’s choking on pleasure. Under your fingers he’s becoming a beautiful mess.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” you whisper in a venomous caressing tone. “After all, naughty whores don’t deserve to be fucked properly.”

“No!” he gasps immediately, his voice breaking. Remmick's sharp teeth glint in the dim light of the room. “No, please, Ma'am. I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I just—”

Your gaze freezes.

You didn’t ask for explanations.

You never wanted justifications.

Remmick understands. And changes his tone. His voice drops, pleading, a hoarse thread of words that seem to come straight from the heart:

“I’ll be good, love. I’ll be a fuckin' saint all month, so I will. I won’t makin' ye late for work, I swear it on me ma. I won’t be clingin' to yer feet tryin' to stop ye leavin' in the mornin… I won’t…fuck…put up with that bleedin' furball on the couch if you just—”

Your fingers strike with mathematical precision that spot inside that shatters him. Remmick pants hard, almost sobs. His hands fly to his now-dripping cock, his belly tense in spasm.

For a moment you think he’s about to touch himself, to give in… But you see him do something completely different: he grabs the base of his cock, squeezing hard, trying to block the orgasm.

He wants to wait.

He wants to explode only when you let him.

Your smile bends, slow, carnal.

“Fuck me,” he says. His voice broken, raw, sincere. “Please, me love.”

You stand up calmly. His eyes follow you, continues to beg.

You walk over to the closet, and with a slow, controlled gesture you take the box. You carry it to the bed, open it in front of him.

Inside, the belt. Black. Heavy. The long, thick, perfect silicone dildo. The buckle shines in the warm light of the room.

You look at him.

Remmick is still there, lying between the rumpled sheets, his chest heaving in jerks, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes red and haunted, his mouth open… and that damn puppy voice that knows how to break you.

“Please, me love.”

You smile as you close the box and put the belt on with fluid movements.

You can’t help but think: who the fuck has ever been able to say no to him, when he talks like that?

Certainly not you.

From the heat, from the urgency that you feel growing in your gut, you climb between his legs, his thighs opening for you as if they were created with a single purpose: to welcome you. You grab his hip, hard, as if to carve the command into his flesh, and you push him gently to the side, indicating that he should turn, to offer himself to you completely.

But then you stop.

Because he doesn’t move.

Remmick looks at you.

Tearful eyes, wide open in a request that doesn’t need many words.

“Would ya…” his voice is a whisper scratched by pleasure, “would ya let me watch ye fuck me?”

There is a moment of silence. And in that silence, a thousand things: the erotic tension, the crazy heartbeat, your hand still on his hip… and his truth.

Remmick doesn’t just want to have sex. He wants to be there. He wants to see your eyes as you take him. Hearing your voice up close. Feeling every gesture with your soul before your body.

He wants to be loved even as he’s being torn apart.

You look at him for a moment, and there’s a change in that look. It’s not less domination—it’s just another kind of domination. Not just about strength and control, but about understanding, about caring, about absolute presence.

Nodding slowly, you cup his face in your hands. You caress him with your thumbs, wiping away a tear he’s not even sure he shed.

“Of course you can, Rem.” Your voice is low, rounded, almost a caress. “I want you to look at me. I want you to see everything.”

You ease him down, his ass against the pillow you’ve moved beneath him, his legs flexing, and you calmly position yourself in the middle. You pour a generous amount of lube onto your strap-on and brush against his taut skin, sliding against the inside of his thigh as you adjust yourself.

Remmick’s breathing is short, but his gaze is fixed. Not on what you’re about to do, but on you.

When you enter him, slowly, steadily pushing all the way in, his mouth opens wide in a deep moan, and he doesn’t stop looking at you. His hands seek you. One grips your hip. The other rests behind your back. He wants you close. He wants to touch you.

And you let him.

You lean in, chest against his, mouths brushing, breaths merging. You begin to move inside him gently. Each thrust is full, round, precise—but neither breaks the contact of your eyes.

“Like this?” you whisper on his parted mouth. “Is this what you wanted? To watch me take you?”

Remmick nods frantically. “Ye’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set me eyes on, love.”

His cock—neglected, stiff, now dripping—throbs between you, pressed against your lower abdomen, skin against skin, heat against heat. The contact sends him into a frenzy, and you can tell by the open, honest moan that escapes his lips. His voice vibrates in your throat, amplified by the nonexistent distance between your bodies.

A toothy, sly smile appears on his lips when you pull back a little, just enough to start moving your hips. His eyes peer at you from under half-closed lashes, languid, lost, as you press into him slowly and precisely. One of your hands slides down his chest, following its curve with determination, as if to remind him who’s in charge.

Then he squeezes you with his legs. He wraps them around your waist like someone who doesn’t want to let you go, someone who needs you to stay inside. It’s almost ironic, almost tender: that hold is the perfect mirror of how you usually find yourself, underneath him. Only now the roles are reversed. And you love him like that.

Every thrust of yours finds him ready, almost dancing. Remmick moves his hips in sync with yours, with that instinctive naturalness that only those who belongs in body and soul have. It's a choreography made of skin, breath and humidity.

But you maintain control. You feel it between your legs: the crazy heartbeat, the need that throbs against you, and your breathing that becomes deeper, warmer. Every muscle is contracted to hold the rhythm, to not be overwhelmed.

A drop of sweat slides from your forehead and falls on his chest. It mixes with his, already there for a while.

Under you, he moves, agitated. Brazen in his impatience. He takes your wrist with one hand and he guides the same hand to his throat, forcing you to squeeze slightly.

“Darlin'… fuck, please. I won’t break. Let me feel it.”

The throbbing between your legs explodes as your clit rubs against the material of the belt. You can’t respond. The words evaporate. All you can do is lean into him and kiss him.

And as you do, a clawed hand circles the back of your head and holds you there, his tongue sliding into your mouth with urgency, almost ferocity. He arches against you, pressing himself against your body, seeking your skin as if he could melt into it. And again, as your body moves into his, you feel his cock pressing desperately against your belly.

“Remmick…”

His lips move. They kiss your neck, then your ear, hot, wet, pleading.

He whispers dirty words, broken, almost prayers: that he wants you. That he needs you. Who wants to be fucked, taken, loved like only you know how.

His words hit the small of your back, burn between your thighs. The fingers still clutched at his throat contract before you push him down, hard, against the bed. Maybe harder than you wanted. But he welcomes it with a blissful breath. Happy.

He tenses, clings to the bed with his nails, the fabric breaking under his claws. Your thrusts get harder, deeper. You leave no more space. With your eyes you follow every thrust of your dildo that sinks heavily, with precision, as if you wanted to leave your name engraved inside him.

And when you look up, you see him.

There is drolls on your fingers. He is drooling, literally, and he smiles.

His head thrown back, his neck exposed, his skin clear, stained with love. You have dominated him in many ways but never like this. You have never seen him reduced to this condition — so dirty and beautiful. Every part of him is tense, open, lost in the pleasure.

He makes a low, irregular sound, almost an animal squeak. You feel his heart going crazy under the palm that still tightens his throat. You see his belly tense, his legs tremble, his cock twitch reflexively at every thrust you make.

“Ma'am… love… I’m so close… nearly there…”

The tension in his muscles is perfect. Unstoppable.

Your fingers slide along his neck, down his chest. Your nails leave red marks. He tenses under the touch like a rope ready to snap. You adore him. You love him.

You reach out between the glued bodies, find his cock—wet, throbbing, almost exploded—and take it hard, with the same ferocious cadence with which you are fucking him. Your hand caresses him with a firm rhythm, while your thrusts make him pant in a perfect crescendo.

You feel yourself burning. In your belly. Between your thighs. Between your teeth.

And Remmick, beneath you, says nothing more. He can’t. Not a line, not a coherent sound.

His breath hitches, his back arches in a violent spasm, his fingers clawing at your arm. And then he comes.

You feel him lunge forward, moaning your name like a dirty prayer. His cock explodes in your hand, a warm, abundant wave that splashes across his chest, his abdomen, between you. His body jolts again, shaken by continuous little spasms.

You don’t stop right away. You make him ride the wave until the last contraction, accompanying him with your hand and your thrusts — gentle, now, but still present, still inside him.

When his body finally collapses, without strength, without defenses, you feel him exhale a long breath that tastes of gratitude and surrender. His arms and legs loosen. His chest moves slowly. Sweat shines on his skin.

You brush his black hair from his forehead and leave him a delicate kiss.

Pulling away from him with extreme sweetness, you still hold his throat with your hand, now only as a caress. His eyelashes tremble, and his eyes search for you, tired but happy.

“Darlin'…” he murmurs with a helpless half-smile, his teeth now retracted, his voice hoarse. “You tore me apart.”

“You deserved it.” you reply, with a soft but confident tone as you use the covers to clean him.

You snuggle back into the pillows, as Remmick rearranges himself against your side like he’s done this a thousand times. One arm around your middle, one leg over yours, chin on your shoulder.

After a while, he mumbles:

“You’re me whole world, so ya are, y'know.”

You glance at him.

His eyes are closed, but he’s awake. Just nestled. Just content.

“I know,” you whisper. “You’re mine too.”

He exhales, satisfied.

[roxilliaana]

The Dare

Persassy Percy Jackson x Reader

Fluff

Word count: 706

Warning: Kissing, cliche, kinds sucks but Percy sucks you as well

You should’ve known better than to challenge Percy Jackson to a game of truth or dare. Most of your friends have already returned to their cabins, while you two were still bickering.

Especially after three rounds of stolen Dionysus-stash wine.

The campfire crackled between you, casting flickering shadows over Percy’s unfairly handsome face. His sea-green eyes gleamed with mischief, his smirk lazy and way too confident for someone who’d just lost rock-paper-scissors three times in a row.

“Truth or dare, Jackson?” you taunted, swirling the cheap wine in your cup.

Percy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Dare. Obviously.”

You grinned. “I dare you to go jump in the lake. Fully clothed.”

He didn’t even blink. “Boring.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s nothing,” he scoffed. “I’ve fought gods, sweetheart. You think a little water scares me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. Jump in the lake and sing the Camp Half-Blood anthem at the top of your lungs.”

Percy’s smirk deepened. “Still not impressed.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.” You threw your hands up. “What would impress you, oh mighty Sea Prince?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Just for a second.

Then he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just sent your pulse into overdrive. “Dares are supposed to be risky. You’re playing it safe.”

“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms. “Then you give me a dare. Let’s see how risky you are.”

Percy’s tilted his head. “Careful. I don’t half-ass dares.”

“Neither do I.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

“Alright,” he said, voice dropping low. “I dare you to sit in my lap for the next five minutes—”

You snorted. “That’s it?”

“—without blushing,” he finished, cocking an eyebrow.

Oh.

Oh.

Your face burned instantly. Percy’s grin turned triumphant.

“That’s cheating,” you hissed.

“Nope. That’s strategy.” He patted his thighs. “Well? You backing out?”

“No.”

You moved before you could second-guess yourself, swinging a leg over his lap and settling onto his thighs. Percy’s hands immediately found your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he’d been waiting for this.

“Timer starts now,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard.

This was fine. Totally fine. You were just… sitting here. On Percy Jackson’s very solid lap. With his very warm hands on your hips. And his very distracting smirk inches from your face.

No big deal.

Except—

“You’re blushing,” he teased.

“Am not.”

“Yeah, you are.” His thumb brushed over your hipbone, and you definitely didn’t shiver. “Two minutes in, and you’re already losing.”

“Shut up.”

Percy chuckled, low and rough. “Make me.”

Your breath hitched.

That was a challenge.

So you kissed him.

Not some shy peck—no, you crashed into him, fingers tangling in his stupid soft hair as your mouth slanted over his. Percy made a noise of surprise, then immediately kissed you back, hands tightening on your waist as he pulled you flush against him.

The campfire, the night, the world—none of it mattered. Not when Percy kissed like this, all heat and hunger and barely restrained want. His teeth grazed your lower lip, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’d been waiting for this chance.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

Percy’s eyes were dark.

“...You definitely lost the dare,” he rasped.

You rolled your eyes. “Worth it.”

His grin was pure trouble. “Best two out of three?”

[eumppapasmom]

⋆°•☁︎°⋆. Closer than ever .⋆°☁︎.𖥔 ݁☾

~ new year ~ maknae line

~ synopsis: It’s New Year’s Eve, frustrated because all your friends ditched you claiming that they are "busy". You have no choice but to stay at home, sulking. But when your brother’s best friend surprisingly offers to take you for fun, unexpected (?) feelings and emotions arise.

~ pairing: brothersbestfriend!enhypen x fem!reader

~ genre: acquaintances to ???, slow burn, fluff ^^, one shot

~ word count: 2173 W (combined)

~ warnings: None!!

~ notes: im a bit (very) late but I loveee the new years tropee. not proofread. ENJOYYYYY <333

Full Masterlist I hyung line

~ Kim Sunoo I You had exactly one plan for New Year’s Eve:

A bath, face masks, a fluffy blanket, and a kdrama binge in peace without disturbance.

You’d even turned your phone on Do Not Disturb.

So when your doorbell rings at 9:00 PM, you shuffle to the door with a towel turban on your head, a sheet mask sliding halfway off your cheek, and your cutest, comfiest pajama set.

You open it, already annoyed.

Sunoo stands there. Holding two iced boba cups.

“Surprise,” he singsongs, fox eyes wide like you should be honored.

You stare. “What the hell?”

He brushes past you like it's his parents' place.

“Okay, first of all,” he says, turning dramatically once he’s in your living room,

“you’re not actually staying home tonight, right? That’s just a cute little joke you made to your group, right?"

You cross your arms. “ No, It wasn’t a joke I'm planning to have a cozy alone time night.”

He gasps.

Like, genuinely gasps.

“Y/N. You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Goodnight, Sunoo.”

You turn, already heading for the hallway.

“Nope!” he says, skipping after you. “Y/N...I already bribed Heeseung with ramyun. He said I could kidnap you. And I will. Pleaseeee.”

“I have a sheet mask on.”

“You look stunning,” he says, deadpan.

Then he grabs your wrist. “C’mon, Y/N. I know you. You hate missing out.”

You hesitate. “Why do you care?”

He falters.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He clears his throat. “Because you deserve fireworks and boba and all the cute moments this stupid night has to offer.”

You stare at him. “You’re-.. amazing.”

“And fabulous.” He holds out a hand. “So? You in?”

You roll your eyes. But your heart’s already giving itself away.

He drags you to a rooftop party that’s half chaos, half Instagram aesthetic.

Lanterns overhead, music playing from a Bluetooth speaker. Fairy lights wrapped around the railing.

Sunoo drags you into every group selfie. Forces you into a dance battle. Smears glitter under your eyes when you aren’t looking.

“This is feels so illegal right now,” you mutter as he adjusts your hair.

“It’s enhancement,” he replies. “Just be grateful your date is this hot.” he says while fixing his hair.

You nearly choke. “Date?”

He goes still.

Then he flashes a grin. “I mean, unofficially. But yes. Obviously. What did you think this was, a sibling errand run?”

Your cheeks burn trying to hide your feelings. You reach for your drink to hide it.

But Sunoo watches you over the rim of his own cup. And for the first time tonight, his smile is slow. Soft.

Almost serious.

Later, when it's quiter, most people have wandered inside for warmth. You and Sunoo sit side by side on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling, your jacket zipped up to your chin.

He speaks first.

“You know I always act like it’s just fun. Like I’m just here to be the mood maker.”

You glance at him. He’s not smiling now.

“But when I heard you were staying home alone, it kind of made my chest hurt.”

The wind hums. Your heart trips.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty,” he adds quickly. “I just… I don’t know. I wanted to be the reason you had a good night.”

You reach over and take his hand.

He stills.

“You are,” you whisper.

Then Sunoo turns toward you. And his voice is so small, so full of hope it makes you ache.

“Can I be the reason you start your new year smiling?”

Your lips part. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

You nod. "yes..."

And before you can say anything else, Sunoo leans in.

The kiss is sparkly. Bright. Like soda fizz on your lips. But underneath, it’s something steadier. Something that makes your fingertips curl and your breath catch.

When he pulls back, the countdown echoes from below.

“Ten! Nine! Eight—”

He smiles.

“I’m never letting you miss another New Year’s.”

You grin.

“Good. Because this one is kind of perfect.”

~ Yang Jungwon I You were going to let the year end quietly.

Everyone else had plans. Your brother had vanished hours ago with a quick, distracted, “Be back after midnight.” Your friends were all over your feed, arms looped around each other in selfies, sparklers and laughter lighting up the screen not even bothering to invite you to any of the activities.

But you had tea, a warm blanket, and a romance book that hadn’t been touched since summer. That was enough. Or so you thought.

Until your doorbell rings at 8:37 PM.

You hesitate, frowning. You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you open it, Jungwon is standing there, black scarf tucked up to his nose, dark hair messy from the wind.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"...What are you doing here?"

He blinks. “Your brother told me you were home.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you thought…what? You’d drop by?”

He shifts awkwardly. “He left his speaker in my car. I came to drop it off but he’s not answering.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So? Give it to me already.”

He nods. But he doesn’t hand it over. He doesn’t move at all.

You raise a brow. “Jungwon?”

He stares at you like you’re the question to a riddle he still doesn’t know how to solve. “Can I come in?”

Your mouth goes dry. “…Why? Jay isnt home yet.”

A pause.

“Because if I leave now, I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to say it.”

The air crackles.

You look at him. And your chest tightens.

Because the last time you saw Jungwon, he was standing just like this: caught in your doorway in July, the night everything between you shifted and neither of you knew how to handle it.

He’d almost kissed you. You’d almost let him.

Then the spell had broken. And so had the closeness.

You hadn’t spoken since.

You step aside.

He walks in.

You're curled on the floor, across from each other, the speaker untouched beside the door. There’s music playing faintly from your phone now, something ambient and slow.

Jungwon leans back on his hands, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for a sign.

Finally, he says, “I thought maybe if I stayed away long enough, it’d go away.”

You don’t need to ask what it is.

“…Did it?” you whisper.

He turns to you slowly.

“No.”

You exhale shakily. Your fingers tighten around your tea mug.

“I hated you for not calling or even checking up on me,” you admit.

“I hated me for freezing that night.”

The silence between you stretches and deepens, until it begins to crack.

He shifts closer. Your knees bump.

“I kept thinking about the way you looked at me then,” he says, voice softer now. “Like you wanted me to be brave.”

You nod. “I did.”

He swallows. “Would it be too late if I was brave now?”

You lift your eyes to his.

The tension in the room is almost unbearable. It’s not loud. It’s quiet, fragile, like glass about to tip off a ledge. And you know—you know—if you say yes, nothing will be the same.

But wasn’t that the whole point of a new year?

You reach for his hand. You don’t say anything.

But you don’t have to.

Because he’s already leaning forward, forehead brushing yours. The fireworks outside begin early, distant and crackling like the sound of breaking ice.

And in the quiet between each boom, he whispers,

“Can I start the year with you?”

And this time, you don’t flinch when he kisses you.

~ Nishimura Riki I You were supposed to be at your cousin’s house.

That was the plan. Movies, food, sparkler photos for Instagram. But then your aunt got the flu, the gathering was canceled, and your brother left early for the New Year’s Eve carnival downtown with his friends.

So here you are.

Alone on the balcony of your apartment in a too-big hoodie and thermal socks, with a half-drunk soda and a heart full of complicated feelings.

The city lights blink lazily below you, quiet in their own way, like they know you’re not in the mood to be comforted.

A rock hits the balcony railing.

You flinch, nearly spilling your drink. You lean forward to see what lunatic is chucking things at your building.

It’s Ni-ki.

Your brother’s youngest friend.

Wearing a bomber jacket, standing in the dark just under the streetlamp, with one gloved hand raised like he’s not entirely sure why he’s here either.

" What the hell, Niki? You could’ve texted," you call down.

"Would you have come?"

You pause.

He smirks. "Exactly."

You sigh.

Then you go back inside, grab your coat, and meet him at the front door.

The walk is quiet for a while. The air is biting, but he brought you hot cocoa in a to-go cup from the shop near the station. It’s too sweet, but you don’t say anything.

"Did you get dragged into this?" you finally ask.

"What, spending New Year’s with you?"

You glance at him. "Yea."

He shakes his head. "I volunteered."

Your stomach does that thing it does whenever Niki says something you don’t know how to process.

"Why? What am i charity?"

"Because," he says, not looking at you, "you looked sad yesterday."

You stop walking.

He keeps going for a few paces before realizing.

When he turns back, your voice is barely above a whisper. "You noticed huh?"

Niki shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s snow in his hair now, catching on the top of his tall figure.

"I always notice."

You can’t speak.

He looks away. "I know I’m not your favorite person. But I thought maybe—"

"You are," you interrupt.

He goes still.

You bite your lip. "You are my favorite person. That’s the problem."

He takes a slow step toward you. "Why is that a problem?"

Because it makes everything harder.

Because you see him laughing with your brother and feel like the ghost in the room. Because he’s always been just out of reach too young, too distant, too unknowable.

But tonight he’s here. And the cold bites less when he’s looking at you like that.

"Come on," he says finally. "I want to show you something."

He takes you to the rooftop of an old parking structure. You protest the entire time up the stairs, but he insists.

When you step out onto the roof, the entire skyline is spread before you. Lanterns drift above the buildings, delicate and glowing, and you can hear the hum of music from blocks away.

"We used to come here when I was in middle school," Ni-ki says. "Before anyone could afford festival tickets. We’d sneak up and watch the fireworks from here."

You look over at him.

His eyes are trained on the sky, like he’s lost in a memory.

"I haven’t brought anyone up here since then."

Your heart thuds.

"Why me?"

He finally looks at you. Snowflakes dance between you.

"Because I wanted this year to end with you."

The tension is sudden and absolute.

You’re standing so close now. Closer than you’ve ever been. The tips of your fingers ache with the urge to reach for him.

He takes a shallow breath. "Can I tell you something?"

You nod.

"I think I like you. Heck maybe im in love with you"

Time stops.

You whisper, "There’s no such thing."

He steps forward. One hand reaches for yours. His fingers are freezing but sure.

"Then can I do something stupid before the year ends?"

You don't answer. You lean in.

His kiss is hesitant, reverent. Like he doesn’t believe this is real. Like if he moves too fast, the dream will shatter.

When you pull away, the first firework cracks above you. You both look up, faces lit by pink and gold.

[stillmonster07]

THE DOOR BETWEEN US PT. 1

Pairing: Jay x AFAB reader (ft. Jake)

Disclaimers: 18+, mdni, mentions of unprotected sex (please use protection), public sex (don’t do this)

A/N: There are plans of a second part but I haven’t even started writing it so I don’t know when it’ll be available

YOU

You shifted uncomfortably on the bench, silently cursing yourself for being uncharacteristically rebellious. You would have normally worn a sundress or something simple like a linen shirt and jeans. Instead, you now felt self-conscious in a deep burgundy tank top and a skirt that somehow felt too revealing for a drinking establishment. “Since when were breweries family-friendly?” you thought as you slipped on your leather jacket.

“What am I even doing here anyway?” you wondered as you brought the beer to your lips. You were surrounded by couples — families with young children and their dogs. Every once in a while, you looked around carefully, hoping to spot anyone who looked even remotely single. Occasionally, you’d see a man — not exactly your type, but not exactly not your type either. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you’d spot a woman catching up to him, and you’d realize he was definitely not single. You felt conflicted — both happy and jealous to see it. Not because you were particularly attracted to him, but because it was mildly upsetting to see everyone else around you so happy and in love.

You finally let your mind wander to Jake and how hard you’d been trying not to think about him. What would you be doing if he were here right now? Would you be like one of these women, eyes glowing as they looked up at their partners? Or would you crumble at his touch?

You weren’t supposed to feel this way. Jake was an accident, but he was taking over your life. You groaned and checked your phone to see if maybe Jake had been thinking about you too. Just as your phone unlocked, a message came through. It was as if Jake knew you were expecting him —. as if he’d hacked not only your phone but your thoughts.

“Hey, can we talk?” the screen lit up. “Please?” it lit up again.

“Nope. Don’t feel like it,” you replied, then tossed your phone back into your bag. You weren’t usually this short, but somehow Jake always managed to bring out the worst in you — the most insecure, ugly parts. You missed him but never wanted him to know. You were attracted to him but made him beg for your attention. And yet, no matter how demanding you were, Jake was always willing to give in, always willing to let you have your way — except when it mattered.

You closed your eyes and put your earbuds back in, stretching your shoulders as the buzz from the beer crept up on you. Your head was still tilted toward the sky when you opened your eyes—and found yourself locking eyes with someone else.

“What the fuck?!” Your body jolted backward and you would have fallen off the bench if he hadn’t caught you from behind. Frazzled, you ripped one earbud out of your ear.

“I’m so sorry — didn’t mean to startle you,” the man apologized quickly, stepping back and lowering his hands once you regained your balance. “I was just wondering if I could share this table with you,” he gestured. “There are screaming kids everywhere else, and this one is closest to the bar,” he added. “But it’s cool if you’re saving this table… just thought I’d ask.” He smiled gently, clearly a little embarrassed.

You looked at him, then glanced around. “Mmhmm, sure. Go for it,” you shrugged and popped the earbud back in.

“Thanks!” His eyes curved into two crescent moons as he flashed you a bright smile. He circled to the other side of the table, took a seat across from you, opened a book, and took a sip of his beer.

You glanced up at him discreetly. You’d been too startled before to really look at him. He had a great smile, and something about him felt… safe. The way his eyebrows were furrowed, his lips slightly pouting as he focused on his book, made him feel endearing. You couldn’t help staring. Your eyes trailed to his jaw — angular, sharp, precise. “He looks like he’d have a girthy cock,” you thought, before checking for a wedding ring. None.

When you looked back up, your gaze met his again — and you nearly jumped. He’d caught you. You quickly looked down at your beer and took another sip. The man pulled off his headphones and tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to invite your attention.

“How rude of me — I forgot to introduce myself because I was too distracted by how pret—”

“Sorry—” you interrupted, digging into your bag as your phone rang. It was Jake. You sighed deeply and declined the call. A text followed almost immediately. “Are you busy?” You silenced your phone and tossed it back into your bag.

“Sorry about that. What were you saying?” you turned back to the man across from you.

“Oh yeah. I was, uh, just going to introduce myself,” he smiled sheepishly. “I’m Jay. Thanks for sharing your table with me.” He stuck out his hand for a handshake.

You smiled—your first smile today—at that goofy grin and reached out. “No problem. It’s not like I own the table. Nice to meet you, Jay. I’m Y/N.”

---

It was crazy how just a second ago, you were sharing beer preferences and giggles with this stranger and now, you were sharing saliva as your tongues tangled. Jay cradled your neck gently and pressed into you, deepening the kiss until you let out a soft moan. Your lips crashed together until you had to break away to breathe, only to gasp again when his lips traveled to your neck, growling as he kissed your clavicle and then back up behind your ear.

Your back hit the cold porcelain sink, and you groaned. Jay noticed and immediately slipped a hand behind you, protecting your back and pulling your hips closer. You could feel his raging erection through his jeans. Jay continued to kiss your neck, occasionally nibbling and sucking on it, as if to mark his territory.

“Ja—Jay,” you moaned, and his other hand moved under your shirt, slowly tracing upward until it reached your breasts. He circled your nipples with his fingers, teasing and tugging lightly.

You couldn’t take it anymore. His touch made your skin feel like it was burning. You reached down to his pants, clumsily looking for the end of his belt buckle. You were clearly struggling - your head so heavy and dizzied by your unexpected mid-day arousal. Jay moved his hand over your’s, leading you to the end of his belt and helping you unbuckle it. He moved his lips back up to yours and kissed you, completely drunk off the feeling of your lips on his.

You wrapped your hands around his shaft, stroking him slowly. He closed his eyes, shuddering from the sensation. Without warning, you took him into your mouth, deep, driving it right to the back of your throat. Jay groaned, louder than he meant to and the sound of his arousal echoed in the bathroom walls.

You increased the pace, taking him all the way in. Instinctively, he brought his hands to the back of your head, guiding you.

“Oh my god, Y/N. You’re so fucking beautiful,” he panted.

Your own arousal was overwhelming. You could feel how soaked your underwear was and craved the sensation of him inside you. He looked so good like this — brows furrowed, eyes shut, jaw clenched. You almost rose to pull him back into a kiss and beg him to fuck you, but he beat you to it, pulling you up to your feet and kissing you hungrily.

His hand slid under your skirt and paused when he felt the wetness through your underwear. You were still kissing, but even with closed eyes, you could feel him smirk.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered into your ear.

You moaned at his words and grabbed his hand, guiding it to move your underwear aside. His fingers grazed your bare skin. He pushed one finger into you, carefully watching your face. You buried your head in his neck, breathing him in — he smelled like sandalwood and musk. His strokes grew deeper, and when he added a second finger, your breath quickened. Your hands gripped his cock again, stroking him so he wouldn’t feel neglected.

“So, so tight,” Jay mumbled against your hair. You kissed his neck, leaving small marks, until you noticed something between his jaw and collarbone. It was small, shaped a bit like a heart and a bit like a butterfly - maybe a birthmark, maybe a faded hickey but whatever it was, you wanted to leave your own mark. You wanted to claim it. So you sucked over it, hard and with purpose.

That made his cock twitch. He pulled his fingers out of you, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness. He tugged your underwear down, letting your wetness trail down your thigh. Then he turned you around, gently bent you over the sink, and aligned himself with your entrance, sliding his tip through your slickness.

“Put it in please. Jay, please fuck me,” you managed to say between gritted teeth. “Oh fuck,” He moaned as he pushed the tip of his cock slowly into your vagina. You feel yourself stretch and even though you were wet and prepped, you weren’t sure you’d be able to take all of him. “Sorry, I’ll be gentle,” he whispered when he felt you tense up. “N-no. Fuck me like you mean it,” you began. “I want to feel all of you.”

That was all he needed. He thrust into you — hard and fast.

“Fuuuck,” you cried out, gripping the sink. “Jay, please don’t stop.”

“Are you going to cum for me, pretty thing?” he asked, watching your reflection in the mirror.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror too. The realization hit you — you were being fucked by a handsome stranger in a brewery bathroom. It was reckless. You weren’t reckless.

Was your buzz wearing off? The buzz that made you feel so bold that you forgot that at the core of it, you were just a little loser yearning for love? A mild panic started to wash over you. What if someone was on the other side of the door? What would you do if the two of you open the door when you’re done and only to be met with a line of impatient parents with their kids who had been waiting to use this bathroom? How would you even explain yourselves? How would you rid the bathroom of the scent of lust, sweat, and sex?

Jay must have noticed your energy shift. He gently cupped your chin and turned your gaze to meet his.

“Baby, focus — eyes on me,” he said, then turned your chin back to the mirror.

You had a full view at how he was fucking you from behind. Jay was undeniably attractive. You almost can’t believe this was the same man that you had described as comforting before. It wasn’t that he suddenly wasn’t anymore but somehow, watching him through the lens of sex, he felt different. He felt untouchable but here you were, touching him with your most intimate parts. He brought a hand back to your nipples and flicked them with his thumbs, until they were erect just like the cock between your legs.

You were close — so close. You reached down and rubbed your clit in circles, clenching harder around him. Jay panted behind you.

“Fuck, Y/N. You’re going to make me cum.”

“Cum for me then,” you challenged. “I want you to cum inside me.”

That was all it took. You felt his release pulsating inside you, triggering your own climax. You trembled, clutching the edge of the sink as your orgasm rocked through you.

“Damn, you are amazing,” Jay murmured, collapsing slightly against your back.

You turned to face him, breathless. He leaned in, planting a soft kiss on your lips. It was different now too - less hungry but with intention and you swore that your heart must have skipped a beat.

“Want to come back to my place?” Jay asked, grinning.

Without hesitation, you nodded.

---

JAKE

Jake paced in his room, glancing at his phone every other minute. You had never screened his calls before. He was starting to spiral, replaying your last conversation over and over again in his head. He’d already called six times — not to mention the dozen unread messages he’d sent.

Jake didn’t understand why you couldn’t understand him.

It was clear he had feelings for you, but somehow it felt like those feelings were never enough. He finally tossed his phone on the bed and sat on its edge. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift back to the first time he met you.

He’d been visiting his parents on the other side of town — partly because his mom bribed him with galbijjim and partly because he hadn’t seen Layla in a few weeks. He loved his dog, but his apartment building had a strict no-pet policy. Why anyone would choose to be that cruel, he had no idea — but at least she was safe and happy with his parents.

“Hey, mum! I’m taking Layla for a walk. I’ll be back before dinner!” he shouted as he pulled on his shoes.

“Be careful out there!” she called back, not looking up from the cutting board.

Jake missed living in the suburbs sometimes - it was so simple there. Sure, it was a bit boring but the hustle and bustle of the city made him feel a bit suffocated at times. He enjoyed this little break, soaking in the sunshine, and taking deep breaths of the unpolluted air. He was just about to turn the corner to their favorite dog park when he heard a sudden shriek. “Layla!!” A voice shouted from the other side of the street.

There you were - waving excitedly from across the street and Layla jumped up and down, just as excited. You jogged towards Layla, who was so happy to see you that she basically met you halfway, dragging a very confused Jake along behind her. “How are you doing, sweet girl??” You squatted down right next to Layla, giving her chin scratches as she leaned forward to repay you in doggie kisses. “Uh, hi?”

You looked up at him. “Oh my god, you must be Jake! It’s so good to meet you!” you said brightly.

“Hi…? Wait, do I know you?” he asked.

“Err — no, I guess you don’t,” you said, a little embarrassed. “I live nearby. I see your mom and Layla all the time. She mentioned Layla was her son’s dog and that your apartment doesn’t allow pets, which is honestly evil. I mean, who doesn’t love dogs?!”

Jake smiled, watching you ramble. You didn’t know it yet, but in that moment, he was completely taken by you — your warmth, your energy, your face when you nervously tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I guess you know my name, but I still don’t know yours.”

“I’m Y/N,” you grinned.

That chance meeting bloomed into something neither of you had expected. You were deep in a self-love journey, recovering from a breakup that left you emotionally raw. Your ex had cheated on you with a coworker he had repeatedly insisted was “just a friend.” You hated feeling jealous and he took advantage of that - making you feel like you were being crazy and gaslighting you into feeling guilty for even suspecting anything.

Jake, too, had come out of a long-term relationship. His ex-girlfriend had been his high school sweetheart. They’d planned to marry — but over time, they simply grew in different directions. When they split, he started rebuilding his life. New job. New apartment. Taking care of himself again.

You loved being around Jake. He was kind, thoughtful, smart — everything you could want in a partner. You two talked like best friends, laughed like soulmates, and once in a while, something electric would pass between you that made it impossible to believe it was just friendship.

But you were never quite sure. Jake was too sweet to be playing you, but something about it felt like he was. He called you every night, asked how your day went, showed up when you needed him. But never crossed the line. Never gave you clarity.

You finally couldn’t take the ambiguity.

“Jake,” you began. “I’m not sure if I’m being delusional but I think it’s pretty clear that my feelings for you are beyond just a normal friendship and call me crazy but it feels like you might feel the same way?” You blurted, almost immediately regretting your decision to bring this up.

There was silence. Too long. It made your stomach twist.

“Y/N, I…” Jake sighed. And the pause that followed was deafening.

You panicked. “I’m sorry, Jake. I must have misunderstood. Gosh, how embarrassing of me, really! You know, I gotta go. I think my laundry is done so I really should probably go grab it from the dryer before my clothes get wrinkled - I, yeah, sorry Jake! Ha ha ha but no hard feelings at all, okay? Okay, sounds good gotta goooo - byeeee!!”

“Wait, Y/N-“ he started, but it was too late. You’d already hung up. You faceplanted into your pillow, mortified. You’re so embarrassed that you don’t even pick up the phone when Jake called you back.Eventually, your overthinking lulled you to sleep - until the doorbell rang.

Groggy and confused, you checked your phone. 1:27am. Who the hell was ringing your doorbell?

You saw Jake’s name among your missed calls. The doorbell rang again.

“Y/N? Are you home?” Jake’s voice called out, followed by a knock.

You jumped out of bed, scrambled to smooth your hair and clothes, and opened the door.

“Jake?” you started to say. “What are you—?”

But he didn’t answer. He pulled you into his arms, stepped inside, and kissed you.

Soon, you were tangled together in your bedroom, your lips only separating to gasp for air. Jake clumsily stumbled as he pulled off your clothes, both of you desperate to feel each other’s touch. When you finally reached the bed, you paused, staring at each other — naked, vulnerable.

Jake brought his hands to your waist and pulled you in. Your breasts pressed against his bare chest and for the first time, you felt like he really, really wanted you. “I wanted to tell you that I feel the same way too,” he whispered into your ear. “I - just, you know it hasn’t been that long since my breakup and I’m just not sure I’m ready,” he continued. You could understand this but for some reason, hearing him say it out loud broke your heart a little. You were so ready to let him into your life but his hesitations made your stomach turn.

“But, whatever this is between us - I’ve never felt this way about anyone before and even though it’s scary, I want to keep exploring this,” Jake said, briefly pulling away to look you in the eye. “I mean, as long as you’re open to it too,” he looked at you, almost pleading. You don’t answer with your words but lean in for another kiss.

That night became the start of something. But it wasn’t a relationship. It was a limbo. You felt the same confusion — except now, it was more complicated because you were also fucking. A lot.

If you had met Jake earlier, you believe that you could have been his one true love. But his heart still had a corner carved out for Eunjin. You knew they were over. You even knew she had a new boyfriend. But the way Jake always picked up her calls — especially when you were around, gnawed at you. And even though he never gave you reason to distrust him, you couldn’t shake the insecurities your last relationship left behind.

They followed you like shadows.

---

YOU

You and Jake had a perfect day planned. He’d been to your apartment more times than you could count, but this would be your first time visiting his. The two of you had just finished grocery shopping, and you were double-checking the list one last time.

“Alright, we’re here,” Jake said as he pulled into a parking spot. “I don’t think JJ is home today, which is a bummer because I think you’d really get along.”

Jake had mentioned JJ before — his roommate and best friend since grade school. “Aww, it’s okay. I’m sure I’ll have another chance to meet him,” you said, smiling. You secretly hoped this meant Jake saw more chances for you to be part of his life.

“Oh, of course,” Jake said, flashing that signature grin.

When you walked into the apartment, you instantly took it in. You’d only seen glimpses of Jake’s place through video calls. But the real thing was… beautiful. Warm. Surprisingly well-decorated.

“Wow, Jake. I’m really impressed! Your place feels so… cozy,” you said, your eyes lighting up.

“Ah, yeah. That’s all JJ,” he said, waving it off. “He’s such a nerd about interior design. I just live here.”

You followed Jake into the kitchen and were greeted with stainless steel appliances, a magnetic knife board with what looked like professional-grade knives, and an espresso machine you’d seen in your Pinterest dreams.

As you ran your fingers across the counters, Jake noticed the spark in your eyes. “Ready to cook?” he asked.

You nodded excitedly and moved toward the sink to wash your hands when you heard it - a loud, hacking cough from down the hall.

“What the — JJ might actually be home,” Jake said, walking toward one of the closed doors. “JJ?” he knocked. “You there?”

A beat of silence. Then another cough, more muffled this time. “Y-yeah, I’m here,” came a hoarse voice from behind the door.

“Dude, you sound awful,” Jake said, pressing his ear to the door.

“Caught the flu, I think,” JJ replied, clearly struggling to talk.

You made your way beside Jake, concerned. “Oh no! JJ, do you need anything? Tea? Soup?”

“I’m okay, but thanks,” he called out weakly.

Jake shrugged and led you back toward the kitchen. But before you got very far, his phone rang. You glanced down instinctively and saw the name - Eunjin.

Jake was just about to answer when you reached for his wrist.

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, hoping he would understand — hoping your eyes could say what your voice couldn’t.

But he turned away.

“Hello? Eunjin?” Jake answered. “Wait — calm down. Don’t cry. What’s going on?”

You turned away too. Your heart sank. Your face flushed with heat. You didn’t want to cry — but your heart was already cracking.

You’d had this conversation with Jake before. Told him how much it hurt that Eunjin still had so much access to him. You weren’t asking him to cut her off. But her timing was always convenient — and inconvenient. Late at night. In the middle of your plans. When you were most vulnerable.

And Jake always answered.

You wanted to scream, but instead you stood frozen, trying to keep your tears from falling. If they didn’t fall, maybe you could still lie to yourself that this didn’t hurt.

Jake finally ended the call and turned to you, already looking guilty. “Y/N, I’m so sorry but—”

You cut him off. “Jake,” you said softly but firmly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued.

“You have to choose. It can’t be both.”

“No, no, no — it’s not like that,” Jake said quickly. “There’s nothing between us anymore. She just really needs me right now.”

You felt your throat tighten. “I need you too, Jake.”

He stepped forward, reaching for your hands. “Please don’t make me choose,” he said, holding your gaze. “I just need to help her through this. I’ll be back soon, I promise. Please — just stay. Wait for me.”

He was out the door before you could even respond.

Silence fell over the apartment.

And then, you collapsed to the floor.

You cried with your arms wrapped around your knees, your body heaving as you tried to understand how this pain felt worse than your ex cheating on you. At least then, there were clear roles. A villain. A betrayal.

But this? There were no clean lines here. Jake hadn’t made any promises. And so technically, he hadn’t broken any either.

You didn’t know how loud your sobs had gotten until you heard it - the soft strumming of a guitar. You froze.

The sound was coming from down the hall.

You followed it — slowly, quietly — and stopped in front of JJ’s door.

You leaned against it and listened.

The melody was simple and gentle. It carried your sorrow in its strings.

When it stopped suddenly, followed by another bout of coughing, you wiped your tears on your sleeve.

“Thanks for the song, JJ,” you said through the door.

He cleared his throat before answering. “Sorry about Jake,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll come back and fix this.”

“I don’t think this can be fixed,” you said softly. “But thank you. Really. And… please drink lots of water and rest, okay?”

It sounded like JJ was about to say something, but you didn’t wait. You turned and walked out of the apartment.

---

Jay held onto your hand tightly, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go. You turned to glance at him and, outside of the context of sex, he looked comforting again. When he felt your gaze, he smiled and turned quickly to catch your eyes before you could look away.

“What are you looking at?” he teased, grinning as he turned his attention back to the road.

“Just your face. You look handsome when you drive,” you replied, cheeks warming.

He laughed softly, then lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the back of it gently. You turned your gaze to the window, watching the familiar streets pass by — and that's when your stomach dropped.

This was Jake’s neighborhood.

You hadn't been here since that night, but everything was exactly the same. The coffee shop you’d visited before grocery shopping. The colorful murals you passed on your way to his apartment. Even the exact same grocery store.

You didn’t say anything. But your heart began to race, your mind a blur of pain and memory. You were so deep in your thoughts, you didn’t realize the car had stopped until Jay squeezed your hand again.

“Y/N?” he said softly. “We’re here.”

You blinked, startled. “Huh?”

He was already out of the car, walking around to your side. He opened your door, hand extended. You took it automatically, but your breath caught when you looked up at the building in front of you.

Jake’s apartment complex.

Your feet didn’t want to move, but Jay’s gentle tug led you forward. You felt like you were floating outside your own body — silent, dizzy, and numb.

Maybe it was a coincidence. A big complex like this probably had dozens of units. You told yourself that over and over as Jay led you down the hall. But with each step, the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

And then Jay stopped walking.

In front of Jake’s apartment.

Jay pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. “Welcome to my place,” he said, turning to smile at you.

You couldn’t move.

The door opened.

A familiar voice called out from inside. “Yo, JJ—do you know where the remote is?”

And that’s when you saw him.

Jake Sim.

Standing in the middle of the apartment where your heart had broken weeks ago.

Jake froze when he saw you. His expression was blank for a second, then slowly contorted into confusion — then shock as his eyes locked on your hand, wrapped around Jay’s.

You looked up at Jay— JJ.

[kaizzz]

Part 2 here!!

This one might hurt😔

Part l Part ll Part lll Part lV

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ﾟ:*·:*¨

Title: Ashes and Roses

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ﾟ:*·:*¨

….

The moment he unfolded the paper and saw the handwriting, he knew.

Another Wildflower letter.

Only this one…

This one felt different.

He read the first line.

And stopped breathing.

They only cheer when you’re loud, don’t they?

It didn’t feel like praise this time.

It felt like being seen.

His chest tightened.

He kept reading. Quiet. The usual smirk didn’t come. Not even the amused eyebrow quirk. Nothing.

Just his eyes moving across the page slower and slower — like he was afraid the words would disappear before he could finish.

You are enough just as you are.

Even if no one tells you that.

Even if you can’t believe it yet.

I do.

He stared at that last line for a long time.

No joke surfaced.

No instinct to yell out guesses or show it off like a medal.

Instead, he sat back on the edge of his bed, letter loose in his fingers, the morning creeping in through the window behind him.

Hookfang stirred outside.

Snotlout didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Because someone — whoever she was — had seen something in him he hadn’t dared name.

And suddenly, the room felt heavier than his armor.

He stared at the letter for exactly thirty-seven seconds.

Then stood up too fast, tripped over his own boot, and nearly face-planted into his shield rack.

“Nope.” He tossed the letter on the bed and stepped away like it might explode. “Nope. Not doing this. Not getting soft. I am Snotlout Jorgenson, future chief, dragon-riding legend, full-time heartbreaker.”

Hookfang peered in through the open window, unimpressed.

Snotlout spun back toward the bed, pacing.

“She said I’m enough. What does that even mean? Like… like emotionally? Because obviously I’m enough. I’m more than enough. I’m too much. Girls can’t handle me.”

No one was listening.

That didn’t stop him.

“She sees me when I’m not loud?” He waved the parchment like it was some kind of betrayal. “So what — now being quiet is attractive? I’ve been wasting years of prime vocal power!”

He sat down again.

Hard.

Then picked up the letter.

Read it again.

Slower this time.

You are enough just as you are.

Snotlout folded it neatly.

Then less neatly.

Then folded it again so small it nearly tore.

He stared at his fists.

“…She saw the bruise.”

Hookfang snorted behind him.

Snotlout groaned and flopped backwards onto his bed, letter still crushed in his grip.

“This is so not fair,” he muttered to the ceiling. “I mean, come on. Mysterious admirer writes stuff that sounds like it belongs in a saga and sees the real me? What kind of emotional sneak attack is that?”

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t boast.

Just lay there, blinking up at the ceiling like it held the answer.

And whispered, quieter this time:

“…Why me?”

He didn’t say it like he deserved it.

He said it like he didn’t understand how someone could look past the noise and still choose him.

And it messed with him more than any letter had so far.

The next letter stayed with him longer than he wanted to admit.

Not just tucked into his armor. Not just hidden in the leather pouch beneath his tunic. But lodged in his brain — the way a single ember lingers after the fire’s out.

He didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t write back.

(He wouldn’t know how.)

But the next day, something was… off.

Not different, exactly.

Just more.

He cracked louder jokes. Sparred harder during drills. Flipped off his dragon midair with extra flair.

“You’re bleeding,” Astrid pointed out flatly as he rolled out of a tumble, a fresh gash slicing down his shoulder.

“Battle scar,” he grinned, chest heaving. “Wildflower’ll write a whole ballad about it.”

“Or a eulogy,” Fishlegs muttered.

“Same thing.”

No one thought much of it.

He was just being himself.

But inside?

He was spiraling.

Because now he didn’t just want to find her.

He wanted to earn her again.

Whoever she was.

So he started staying late after drills. Polishing Hookfang’s scales. Helping the younger riders with their tack, pretending it was because he was “basically a dragon-saddle genius.”

He even let Gothi check a cracked rib without whining.

The others blinked.

“You feeling okay?” Hiccup asked.

Snotlout smirked. “What? I’m just evolving.”

But it wasn’t growth.

Not really.

It was desperation.

Because someone saw past the armor — and didn’t flinch.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

So he performed harder.

Tried to match the man she thought he was — without changing anything he’d have to admit.

And when no new letter came the next day?

He nearly lost it.

He didn’t show it, of course.

Just told everyone, “She’s probably working on something epic. Like a love sonnet. Or a statue. Or a tapestry of me holding two axes and standing on a defeated Skrill.”

But that night, he stayed up late in the stables.

Long after everyone else had gone to bed.

Reading her letter again.

And again.

And whispering her name — not out loud, not really — just mouthing it into the dark.

Wildflower.

—

You knew the moment he read it.

Not because he said anything.

Not because he looked your way or said your name or changed overnight.

But because you’d always been watching him.

And now?

He was trying.

Too hard.

He started flying bigger stunts again. Bragging louder than usual, cracking jokes twice as often, making a show of everything — but this time, it didn’t feel like confidence.

It felt like scrambling.

He stayed after drills. Re-did the saddle hooks for Ruffnut without being asked. Carried buckets for Gothi. Sat perfectly still for a check-up and didn’t even make a scene.

And the next morning, you caught him in the stables alone — brushing Hookfang’s wings with quiet care.

There was a crease in his brow. His mouth was tight. Not proud.

Determined.

And you knew.

You’d said he was enough.

So now he was trying to prove it.

And gods, it broke your heart.

Because he didn’t need to.

Because you already loved him this way — when he wasn’t trying to be anything else.

⸻

Letter VI — The One That Hurts to Write

You left it at the edge of his table this time.

No saddle pouch.

No pillow.

Just wood and ink and the sound of your heart cracking quietly, like a whisper under too much weight.

I see you again.

I see you trying harder. Flying higher. Helping more. Laughing louder.

And I need you to know something.

I didn’t write those things because I wanted you to become someone else.

I wrote them because I saw you — the boy beneath the noise.

And I liked him.

Still do.

You don’t need to try so hard for someone else.

Not for a name you don’t even know.

Not for love you think you have to earn.

Do it for you.

Because you matter. Because you’re worth that effort. Not for approval. Not for praise.

Just because you are.

And selfishly… seeing you try that hard?

Made me fall even harder.

And it hurts.

— Wildflower

You didn’t wait to see him read it.

Didn’t want to.

Because if he was still trying to be more than he already was —

If he still didn’t believe it —

Then no letter would ever be enough.

You didn’t mean to cry.

You hadn’t cried in years. Not when you broke your wrist mid-flight. Not when the forge burned your arm. Not when your dragon was wounded and you had to fly with a limp wing until you landed safely.

But this?

This ache?

It didn’t have a source you could cut out or stitch shut.

Because how do you mourn something that never really belonged to you?

He was out there somewhere, probably making a scene. Probably laughing too loud or trying to lift something twice his size. Probably saying something dumb and brilliant and brave in the same breath.

And you loved him for it.

But gods, you wished you didn’t.

Your dragon pressed her snout gently into your shoulder as you sat curled against the rocks behind the forge, arms around your knees, breath hiccupping out of your chest.

“I didn’t mean for this to hurt,” you whispered into the cold. “I just wanted him to see.”

But he hadn’t.

Not really.

And so the tears came. Silent. Quick. Salt slipped down your soot-streaked cheeks as you buried your face in your arms.

No one saw.

No one ever saw.

Except him.

But not in the way you needed.

He didn’t notice the letter until nearly midnight.

He’d come back late — bruised, sore, soaked from a half-rainstorm, half-ocean splash he swore was part of a totally intentional training maneuver.

He kicked off his boots, yanked off his vest, and collapsed onto the bench near his bed with a grunt.

And there it was.

Sitting on the table.

Unfolded, like it had been waiting for him all night.

His name wasn’t on it — of course not.

But her name was.

Wildflower.

He stared at it. Jaw tight.

Then picked it up with hands that were suddenly not as steady as usual.

The words hit like ash in the lungs. Soft, choking, undeniable.

I see you trying harder. Flying higher. Helping more. Laughing louder.

I didn’t write those things because I wanted you to become someone else.

I liked you before that.

His throat closed.

He didn’t finish reading aloud.

He couldn’t.

He read it again, silently this time — fists clenching tighter and tighter around the page until the edges crumpled.

Seeing you try that hard made me fall even harder.

And it hurts.

Snotlout stood so fast the bench nearly tipped over behind him.

“Why would that hurt?!” he snapped — at the air, the shadows, the empty room. “I’m trying! I’m finally doing something right!”

He ran both hands through his hair, breathing hard.

“She sees me. She sees me, and it still hurts her?”

He didn’t get it.

He wanted to.

But all he knew how to do was perform.

He didn’t know how to just be.

And now she’d seen that too.

He folded the letter once. Twice. Then pressed it against his chest and sat down hard on the floor, Hookfang’s tail curled quietly nearby.

And for the first time in years, he whispered to no one:

“I don’t know how to be enough for her.”

It started mid-flight.

Not a battle. Not a storm. Just a routine scout along the western ridge — quiet skies, crisp wind, your dragon flying steady beside the others.

You should’ve felt free.

But your chest had been tight since morning. Not panic. Not even pain. Just… pressure. Like your ribs were holding something too big.

You blinked against the wind, adjusted the reins.

And then it came.

A warm trickle over your upper lip.

You touched your glove to your face. Pulled it back slowly.

Blood.

Dark, vivid, wrong.

You wiped it fast, before anyone looked. Pinched the bridge of your nose beneath your flight wrap, blinking hard.

Snotlout was ahead of you, racing Astrid in some ridiculous maneuver, shouting back over his shoulder like a boy who never learned silence.

You didn’t hear the words.

Just the echo of a letter he hadn’t read yet.

Or maybe… had.

You tightened your grip.

Steeled your breath.

And kept flying.

⸻

Later — Back on the Ground

The group returned to the forge to repair a few damaged stirrups and regroup before dinner. You worked in the corner, oiling blades, acting like your knees weren’t weak and your head wasn’t still full of copper and ash.

Your hair was tucked up. Your scarf wrapped higher. No one saw the faint red at the edge of your collar.

They were too busy laughing.

And Snotlout?

He was being Snotlout.

Gods help you.

“Okay, I’m done,” he said loudly, waving a crumpled letter in the air like a battle flag. “Wildflower? You broke me.”

Ruffnut perked up. “Ooooh, another one?”

“I don’t even know what this one wants!” he said dramatically, flopping back against the table with a groan. “She tells me I’m enough, right? That I don’t have to try so hard. Then immediately writes that watching me try made her fall harder. Like—what am I supposed to do with that?!”

Fishlegs blinked. “Feel appreciated?”

Snotlout pointed at him. “Unhelpful.”

Astrid crossed her arms. “You’re yelling at someone who isn’t here.”

“Exactly!” Snotlout said. “She’s not here! She just drops truth bombs on me and vanishes. Who even writes like this?! It’s like being loved by a ghost with better handwriting than me!”

They laughed.

And you?

You didn’t.

You kept your head down, scrubbing at a blade with hands that shook a little too much.

Because he was yelling.

And joking.

And making everyone laugh about your heart.

And you couldn’t even blame him.

Because he didn’t know.

He wasn’t supposed to.

Your dragon nudged your ankle under the table. You stiffened, holding still.

And let them keep laughing.

—

You hadn’t planned to write again.

The blood had scared you.

Not the color — you’d bled before. From blades. From dragon claws. From your own stubbornness.

But this?

This was inside.

And that made it worse.

Your hands trembled more when you worked. Your chest ached longer after flights. You coughed once this morning and your dragon turned so sharply toward you you had to pretend it was nothing.

You didn’t know what was happening.

But you knew it wasn’t stopping.

Still… it wasn’t enough to silence you.

Not after you heard him.

Not after he waved your letter around like a torch and shouted into the forge that you were confusing.

That your words hurt him.

That he didn’t know what to do with being loved this way.

And maybe he didn’t mean it harshly.

But you felt it like a blade to the ribs.

So you wrote. One last time. With slow hands and too many pauses. With your dragon watching in silence. With your chest aching and your heart—full. Still. Always.

⸻

Letter VII — The One She Never Meant to Be Found

You said I confused you.

I’m sorry for that.

I didn’t mean to hurt you. That was never the point. I never expected my words to change anything. I only wanted to write down what I saw.

And I saw you trying. I saw you flying higher. Helping more. Laughing like you were fine.

And I fell. Harder than I meant to.

But it didn’t feel like you were trying for yourself.

It felt like you were trying for me.

And maybe that’s selfish of me to say.

But that’s what hurt. Not the trying.

But the reason behind it.

Because you don’t need to chase the version of you that you think someone will finally love.

You’re already enough.

You always were.

You don’t have to believe me.

You don’t even have to read this.

I write because I have no other way to love you.

Not out loud. Not with a name.

Just here. Just like this.

And if all I get is to admire you from afar, then… that’s enough for me.

Even if it hurts.

— Wildflower

You left it on his windowsill this time, folded once, tied with a single ribbon that matched nothing you ever wore.

You watched the wind stir it.

You didn’t go inside.

You just… stood there. One hand on the sill. The other against your ribs.

And when you walked away, you felt something pull in your chest again — deeper this time.

You pressed your hand to your scarf.

And kept walking.

—

You didn’t collapse.

You didn’t stagger.

That would’ve made things easier.

Instead, your body betrayed you in pieces. Quietly. Shamefully.

Your coughs deepened. Came more often. You stopped flying as high — told them it was wind sickness, altitude pressure, a pulled muscle. Anything but the truth.

And the bleeding?

It returned.

This time while you were alone in the forge, sharpening the backup blades for the next mission.

It came fast.

Hot, bright, and sudden. Dripped onto the hilt you were polishing.

You choked on it. Bent over the worktable, one hand to your chest, the other gripping the edge like it could anchor you back to earth.

Your dragon shoved through the side door within seconds. She’d felt it. You knew she had.

You wiped the blood away with the back of your glove and smiled like it was fine.

“Just iron dust,” you whispered. “That’s all.”

But your knees didn’t stop shaking.

And when the bell rang for afternoon drills, you didn’t go.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because you were afraid if you did, they’d all see.

He saw the ribbon first.

A flicker of pale blue on his windowsill when he stepped into his room, mud on his boots and dragon soot on his sleeves.

He stilled.

The world outside kept moving. Seagulls shrieked. Riders shouted. Wind howled over the rooftops.

But he… didn’t.

Not for a whole minute.

Then he walked over. Quiet. Careful.

Unfolded the parchment.

Read it once. Fast. Like a reflex.

Then again. Slower. Like a wound.

You don’t need to chase the version of you that you think someone will finally love.

You’re already enough.

I write because I have no other way to love you.

Not out loud. Not with a name.

If all I get is to admire you from afar, then… that’s enough for me.

Even if it hurts.

His hand trembled.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t shout something loud enough to echo through the hall.

He just… sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, letter gripped in both hands like it might fall apart if he let go.

Because now it was real.

Not just someone swooning over his smirk or making fun of his stunts. This was someone bleeding onto paper. Someone loving him like it cost them.

And he had no idea how to carry that.

No idea who she was.

But something about that ribbon — pale blue, soft, left without flair — sank into his chest like a stone.

He didn’t speak.

He just rested his forehead against the parchment and whispered:

“I’d love you back if I knew how.”

—

The wind was too loud.

No—everything was.

The beating of your dragon’s wings. The pull of the air. The sound of the sea below. The pressure behind your eyes. All of it pressed in like a scream you couldn’t muffle.

You shouldn’t have come on this mission.

But you’d insisted.

You always did.

Another border flight. No combat. Nothing high-risk. Just a patrol with the rest of the dragon riders — routine.

And it was routine.

Until your vision blurred.

Until the ringing started.

It came without warning — a high, shrill whine like metal against metal. You flinched mid-flight, hand shooting to your ear, breath hitching.

Then came the pounding behind your forehead. Blunt. Heavy. Throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

You tried to sit straighter.

Tried to breathe slower.

But the blood followed.

Warm. Metallic. Dripping from your nose, smearing across your glove as you pressed it away.

You blinked hard — once, twice.

Everything swam.

Below, Snotlout was racing Hiccup again, yelling something about “sky dominance” and “muscle-powered velocity.”

You didn’t hear it.

You didn’t hear anything anymore except the ringing in your ears and the frantic thrum of your dragon’s concern as she tilted beneath you.

You coughed into your sleeve — more blood.

Your dragon dropped altitude sharply.

And no one noticed.

⸻

Later — After Landing

You stumbled into the forge after the mission ended. You didn’t speak. Didn’t stay. You dropped your tools with shaky hands and disappeared into the back under the pretense of sorting flight harnesses.

And that’s when you heard him.

Louder than anyone else, of course.

But not yelling this time.

Pacing.

Talking fast. Determined.

“Snotlout, what are you doing?” Astrid asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“I’m writing a letter,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“A what?”

“A letter,” he repeated. “A Wildflower letter. You know. To… answer her.”

Fishlegs blinked. “You’re responding to an anonymous admirer with… an anonymous letter?”

“Exactly!” Snotlout said, still scribbling on what looked like a slightly torn scrap of mission parchment. “It’s genius. She’ll find it. I’ll say all the things I should’ve said already. Boom. Romance.”

“Like what?” Ruffnut asked, suspicious.

Snotlout straightened. “Like: I’m still loud. I’m still annoying. I still don’t know how to shut up. But if you really do see me the way you say you do, then… don’t stop.”

Silence.

“I mean, she writes like she’s hurting,” he mumbled, quieter now. “Like she’s already given up. And I don’t want that.”

He paused.

“Whoever she is… I don’t want her to give up on me.”

Your hands shook around the harness buckle you were pretending to sort.

You bit down hard on your lip.

And when you pressed your knuckles to your mouth to stifle a cough, you tasted iron.

—

Snotlout had never written a letter before.

Not a real one.

Not one without “P.S. I look amazing” at the bottom.

But this wasn’t that kind of letter.

He’d paced for thirty minutes outside the stables before finally sitting on an overturned feed bucket and writing it on the back of an old mission checklist. He used a broken charcoal stub, because of course he did. Because ink felt too serious.

He didn’t think much as he wrote.

Just let the words spill.

And when he was done

He definitely didn’t leave it on a windowsill or under a pillow or anywhere normal.

No.

He tucked it into the hollow space behind the forge’s side wall — the one no one ever checked except him, because he used it to stash snacks and spare bootlaces and once a whole sketch of himself riding Hookfang through lightning.

He figured: if she really saw him — if she meant all that stuff — she’d know.

He dropped the letter in. No note. No ribbon. Just the weight of it.

And walked away like he hadn’t just exposed a piece of his soul.

⸻

The Letter He Left Behind

Okay. So this is weird. I don’t write letters. You know that. Probably.

But I figured if you’re gonna keep writing to me like that, I should try to say something back. Even if I mess it up.

I don’t know who you are. That’s driving me insane, by the way. Just so we’re clear.

But your words stuck. I keep hearing them. Over and over. Especially the ones where you said you see me when I’m not trying.

No one sees that part. Not even me, sometimes.

_But you did.

And I guess… I don’t want you to stop._

So if you’re still out there — even if it hurts — I hope you keep writing.

I’m listening now.

I promise.

— Snotlout (yes, the real one. You’re welcome.)

⸻

You found it within five minutes.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The moment your dragon nudged you toward the forge’s outer wall, you crouched down and reached behind the warped beam — the one Snotlout always lingered near when he was pretending not to watch you work.

You smiled. Tired. Warm.

The parchment was smudged. Folded unevenly. Slightly crumpled at one corner. So him it almost made you cry.

You unfolded it slowly.

And read every word like it was a prayer.

He’d answered you.

He didn’t know who you were.

But he answered.

You don’t know what’s happening to you — you only knows that it hurts, that it’s getting worse, and that it’s coming from somewhere deep and silent and impossible to fix.

And Snotlout?

You doesn’t want him to fall for a ghost.

For a pen name.

For someone who exists only in folded parchment and aching lines.

Because even though every word was real — your love was real — you knows that real love has to begin with knowing the person, not just the parts they choose to show.

Letter …— The One That Doubts It Can Be Enough

You wrote back.

I didn’t think you would. I didn’t think I wanted you to.

But I did.

And now I don’t know what to do with the ache in my chest.

I meant everything I wrote. Every word, every moment I saw you when no one else did — it was all real.

But it’s hard to believe someone like you… could fall for a few letters. For a voice without a face. A name without a person.

You don’t know me.

Not truly.

Not the way love demands.

Maybe you feel something. Maybe it’s curiosity, or warmth, or that strange pull when someone sees the parts of you you’re not ready to show.

And I can’t be someone you fall for just because I wrote you nice things.

Even if those things came from the truest place I know.

So don’t chase this because you feel something stir.

Don’t try to love me out of guilt or wonder.

I couldn’t bear that.

Just… be you. That’s all I ever wanted.

And if one day, somehow, your heart finds mine — really finds it — I’ll still be here.

Even if it’s just in ink.

— Wildflower

—-

You weren’t going to write again.

You’d said what needed saying. You’d made your peace.

But then he smiled again that morning — tired, messy, hair half-braided and armor off-center — and gods, you were helpless.

So you wrote again.

Not to change him. Not to confess.

Just to speak.

To give what you could while your body still let you.

The letter was shorter this time. Folded more gently. No ribbon. Just ink that dried slower than usual because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And when you passed by the stables that afternoon — your dragon nudging Hookfang in greeting — you slipped the parchment quietly into the side pouch of Snotlout’s flight gear.

No one saw you.

He wouldn’t find it right away.

But that was okay.

You had time.

(You told yourself you had time.)

⸻

A Few Days Later — Snotlout’s POV

Snotlout was digging through Hookfang’s saddlebag like a man on a very personal, very urgent snack quest when his fingers brushed something crinkled.

He froze.

“Don’t be a note,” he muttered.

Pulled it out.

Folded parchment.

No markings.

His heart immediately did that annoying thump thing it only did when he read her letters.

“YES!” he fist-pumped into the air. “I knew she wasn’t done with me!”

Hookfang groaned.

Snotlout spun dramatically in a full circle like the letter had gifted him divine inspiration.

“She says she’s done and then bam, surprise emotional ambush through a saddle pouch!” he announced to no one. “Classic Wildflower move. I respect that.”

He turned to Toothless, who had unfortunately wandered too close.

“Bet she says something devastating again. Something like—‘I saw your soul in the way you tied your bootlaces, and it broke me in half.’”

Toothless blinked.

Snotlout unfolded the letter, dramatically clearing his throat.

He read the first few lines.

Then stopped.

His smirk faltered.

His mouth stayed open for a second too long.

He cleared his throat again.

This time not for show.

He read silently, jaw tightening.

His eyes flicked across the words, over and over — slowing on every sentence that sounded like goodbye even when it wasn’t one.

I couldn’t bear it if you tried to love someone who isn’t real.

Don’t try to love me out of wonder.

Just be you. That’s all I ever wanted.

Snotlout folded the letter once.

Then twice.

Then shook it in the air like that would help it make more sense.

“What do you mean you’re not real?!” he shouted to the sky. “You’re real! You’re writing me letters! That’s literally the most real thing in the history of anything!”

Hookfang huffed.

“She thinks I’m gonna fall in love with a pen name,” he scoffed. “Like I’m that easy!”

Beat.

He paused.

“Okay, I might be that easy, but not for just anyone, okay?! This is different!”

He paced a full circle around the saddle.

Then stopped again.

“Wait… why am I yelling? She’s not even here!”

He sat down hard on a barrel, letter still clenched in his fist.

“Ugh. Why are you like this?” he asked the parchment.

Then, quietly:

“Why do you already hurt like someone I miss?”

He didn’t get an answer.

But he held the letter like he was waiting for one.

The sun hung low over Berk, casting long gold across the training grounds.

You sat cross-legged on a half-cracked barrel near the arena, a whetstone in one hand and a chipped dagger in the other. Hiccup and Astrid were bickering about flight formations nearby. Ruffnut was balancing an entire chicken on her head for no reason, and Fishlegs was trying to pretend he wasn’t impressed.

You laughed. Genuinely. Just once.

It was quiet here. The forge had finally cooled for the day. Your dragon lay stretched in the grass behind you, eyes half-lidded.

And for just a moment, you almost forgot about the ache in your lungs.

Almost.

Then—

“Hold the applause, I’ve arrived!” came his voice, as loud and arrogant as ever.

You didn’t even need to look.

Snotlout.

Strutting in like the sun answered to him. Grinning like he hadn’t caused half the training casualties that week. Arms folded. Hair mostly falling out of whatever braid someone had tried to give him earlier.

“Great,” you muttered, not glancing up. “The silence was getting too peaceful.”

He grinned wider. “Miss me, Forge Face?”

“I miss the five seconds you weren’t here.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest. “You wound me.”

“If I wanted to wound you, I’d use something sharper,” you said sweetly, flipping the dagger in your hand with a satisfying clink of steel.

Fishlegs made a “don’t encourage them” noise. Astrid rolled her eyes. Hiccup looked up like he was weighing the odds of ducking out unnoticed.

But Snotlout?

He was in his element.

“Ooh, threatening me with weapons again? You really are obsessed.”

“Only with how you keep surviving every mission despite your lack of brain cells.”

“Lucky for me, I’ve got muscles to spare,” he smirked, flexing.

You made a show of shielding your eyes. “Gods, warn us next time before you traumatize the entire village.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

“I’m not pretending.”

That made him falter.

Just a flicker.

Something quiet passed between you — like it always did when the banter dipped too close to something real.

But before either of you could acknowledge it, Ruffnut threw the chicken.

Snotlout screamed. Your dragon woke with a grunt. And the moment shattered like it always did — back into noise and nonsense.

And you?

You laughed.

Even though your ribs ached when you did.

Even though your fingers curled tighter around the whetstone to ground yourself through the rising burn in your lungs.

Because for now, this was still normal.

And you didn’t know how many more of those moments you had left.

—-

You shut the door behind you with the same care a healer might use to close a wound — gently, deliberately, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

The laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in your head.

That back-and-forth with Snotlout. The easy rhythm. The safety in pretending things were the same.

You’d even smiled. Real, or close to it.

But now…

Now your ribs ached from holding yourself together too long.

You crossed the hut slowly, armor half-peeled off, gloves tossed to the floor.

You didn’t make it to the basin before the cough hit.

It came up fast. Brutal. No warning.

You choked, staggered, caught yourself on the side of your table.

Another cough — this one deeper.

And then you felt it:

Warm. Sharp. Wet.

Blood.

It dripped from your lip to the floor.

You opened your mouth to breathe—

and something soft slid past your tongue.

You fell to your knees.

Gasping. Trembling.

And there, in the center of your bloodstained palm—

A blue rose petal.

Small. Weightless. Unbelievably soft.

But it stole the air from your lungs.

You stared at it like it might vanish.

But it didn’t.

Another cough.

More blood.

Another petal.

Then another.

Then three more — all the same shade:

a pale, ghostlike blue, as if winter had found a way to bloom inside you.

Your heart pounded so loud it echoed in your ears.

You tried to speak, but all that came was a breathless rasp.

Your dragon scratched softly at the outside wall.

She knew. Somehow, she always did.

You pressed your back to the cold stone and let your head fall back, the petals trembling in your open palm.

This wasn’t just sickness.

This was something else.

Something that bloomed and bled and shouldn’t exist.

And it was beautiful.

And you were terrified.

—

The sunrise came, as it always did.

Unfairly bright.

You rose with it, moving slow, careful not to jolt your chest. Not to rattle the ache sitting sharp behind your ribs.

The petals were gone.

You’d burned them.

Not out of shame — but out of fear someone else might see them.

Your gloves smelled faintly of smoke.

Your dragon watched you the entire time. She didn’t ask anything. Just stood nearby, wings half-furled, close enough to touch if you dared to lean.

You didn’t.

Instead, you sat at your desk.

Still in your undershirt. Still pale.

Still breathing — for now.

And you wrote.

Not because you wanted to.

Because you had to.

Your hand shook halfway through, and you had to pause, swallowing the copper at the back of your throat.

But when it was done…

You folded it neatly.

Pressed it once against your chest.

And tucked it into your pocket.

Not his saddlebag.

Not his bunk.

Not even a hiding place he might someday find.

Just you.

You would carry it until the day you couldn’t anymore.

⸻

The Letter That Never Left Your Pocket

You gave me that name — “Forge Face.”

Honestly, it was awful.

And I loved it from the first time you said it.

It made me feel like someone you saw. Someone real.

Someone whose ash and scars didn’t make her less — just part of the world you joked with.

You always talked too loud, you know.

Always tried too hard when no one asked you to.

But I saw you anyway.

In the quiet moments.

When you thought no one was watching.

And now I think…

maybe it’s time I say it plainly.

I love you.

Not the way everyone else does — for your fire, your voice, your ridiculous swagger.

I love you in the space between those things.

The cracks.

The parts you don’t perform.

So this is it.

The last letter.

(Probably.)

I’ll always be your Forge Face.

Even if you never knew it was me.

— Forge Face

—

You were tightening your dragon’s harness when he swaggered up behind you.

“Hey, Forge Face,” Snotlout called out, too loud as usual. “Try not to cry when I outfly you today. I’d hate to ruin your whole aesthetic.”

You smirked, not turning around. “I think the only thing ruining my aesthetic is your voice.”

“Ouch. Sharp tongue this early?” he grinned, leaning against the stable post with a confidence that belonged to someone with half his scars. “You must be obsessed with me.”

You glanced over your shoulder, feigning a sigh. “Only with the miracle of your survival.”

He grinned wider.

Hookfang nudged your dragon like an overeager sibling. Your girl snapped at him in warning. You gripped the saddle tighter as the pressure behind your lungs throbbed.

But your smile held.

“You ready for patrol, or just here to make my day worse?” you asked, strapping your bracer on tighter.

“Oh, I’m ready,” he said. “I’m always ready. Question is—can you keep up?”

“I can fly circles around you with one arm tied behind my back.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“Sounds like a fact.”

And for a moment—just a moment—you almost forgot the taste of blood in the back of your throat.

⸻

Later — Mid-Mission

The air was thin.

You knew the path well — just a border run past the western cliffs. No hunters. No threats. Just high-altitude glide and sweep.

The others were laughing somewhere above.

Snotlout had looped you twice already. Show-off.

You should have been able to banter back. To shout something snarky and pull ahead.

But your hands were shaking.

Your dragon called to you — a soft pulse of worry.

You tried to steady yourself. Tried to breathe.

But the pain in your chest was unbearable now — like thorns, like something cracking inside.

Then came the cough.

You leaned forward, clutching the saddle.

Then the second.

Then blood.

You felt it spill over your lip, hot and coppery.

You gasped.

And choked—

On a petal.

A blue one.

Then another.

Then three.

They scattered into the wind.

Your dragon dove instinctively, sensing your collapse. But your grip was loose. Your eyes blurred. The sky tilted.

And you fell.

Not far.

But far enough.

Enough for the others to notice.

⸻

From Below — Fishlegs’ POV

He saw it first.

A flicker. A blur. A sudden drop in formation.

Then the dragon’s screech.

“Wait—Snotlout, look—!”

You hit the treeline before anyone could catch you.

Your dragon twisted hard to shield your fall, but it was messy. Leaves burst upward. A crash echoed through the woods.

The riders screamed your name.

Fishlegs dove first.

⸻

On the Ground

You were barely conscious.

Breathing shallow. Blood on your lip. Blue petals scattered in the dirt beside you.

And just beyond your curled fingers…

A letter.

It had slipped loose from your pocket in the fall.

Fishlegs landed hard, running to you.

“G-get Gothi!” he shouted to the sky.

He dropped to his knees, trembling.

Then he saw it.

The letter.

Folded.

Signed.

He picked it up.

Read the name.

And froze.

He looked at you.

Then at the others as they crashed through the clearing.

And he said nothing.

He just slipped the letter into his vest, hands shaking, eyes wide.

Because he knew.

He didn’t understand everything yet.

But he knew enough.

And he knew the one person who needed to read it…

Wasn’t ready.

—-

She was pale.

So pale.

Blood lined her lips in a thin, vivid trail. A few bruises already bloomed along her cheek and collar. Her hands were curled tight in her lap, knuckles white.

And beside her — on the grass — were blue petals.

Blue.

Fishlegs didn’t say a word.

He stayed crouched just behind her dragon, hand hovering just above her boot. Eyes locked on the letter now hidden deep in his vest.

Astrid dropped to her knees first, brushing the hair from your forehead.

“She’s burning up.”

“No,” Hiccup muttered. “She’s cold.”

Snotlout finally stumbled into the clearing, covered in branches and dirt, looking wrecked.

“What happened? Is she—”

His voice cracked.

He didn’t finish the question.

No one answered.

|Part 3 soon|

[gymbunnycandiehart]

A Late-Night Post-Date Journal 🖊️ 1:03 AM – Bedroom lights low, heart still full

Okay. Deep breath, girly. That actually just happened.

I went on a date. A real one. Like, flowers and dinner and everything. And it wasn’t a double date with my besties as my buffer or a quick coffee where I could make an easy exit if things got weird. Nope. This was just me... Candie... and Ethan.

We ended up talking for so long outside the theater. That park bench? Might as well have been a little world all to ourselves. We laughed over childhood movies, talked about bucket lists, even teased each other about who would win in a hiking race (me, obviously). At one point, the conversation just slowed down… like even the crickets hushed up to let the moment stretch out.

And I caught Ethan looking at me. Not like, “what’s he wearing?” or “does Candie even like me?”—but with this kind of quiet, respectful warmth. Like he was glad I was there. Just as I am.

I didn’t let him kiss me. But I wanted to. And maybe he could tell, because the way he brushed his hand against mine when we said goodnight? Ugh, butterflies. I’ve got a whole butterfly zoo in my stomach.

Taylor and Gina totally knew. I walked in and they just shrieked and demanded every detail. We may or may not have eaten leftover pizza and toasted with sparkling water like total dorks. They're the best. I know I was nervous before... but I’m so glad I listened to them.

So now I’m in my room, still in my date outfit because I can’t quite bring myself to take it off yet, shoes kicked to the floor, lights soft. The world is quiet, and I’m just here... glowing a little.

I don’t know what happens next. But I know how I feel right now.

And it’s kind of magical, being the boy I am and being treated as the girl that’s always been in me.  It all might sound mixed-up, upside down, and sweet at the same time.  But hey!  It’s Candieland.

💗 – CandieHart

[slattlicker]

literally so obsessed just thinking about reader streaming with schlatt , just the reader being so down bad and the chat disappointed in her taste, date or host set up or recording content and reader can’t lock in and is just giggly. Bonus points if schlatt returns the same energy or just mentions being into reader and reader full on cheers into her mic and bangs the table cause same. HE JUST LOOKS SO GOOD IM SICK OF IT. 😭🙏

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * a gamble for devotion ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: one mic, one camera, one man who won’t shut up—and a chat that’s watching you lose composure in real time. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: based on an ask that had me gigglinggggg...i luv a good streamer!au. shoutout to the girlies who fell for schlatt after seeing him on love or host. he knew what he was doing <3 and i'd like to just say here, that I am sorry if this is not fully accurate, i'm going based on my memory of the love or host streams, and that was a while ago.

warnings: streamer-style flirting, public humiliation via handsome man, light threats of chat bans, and someone absolutely folding live on mic.

enjoy! (≧∀≦)人(≧∀≦)♡

✧✧✧

“okay, chat—we’re gonna take a short intermission while our contestants get ready for the next round.”

you click the ‘brb’ screen and kill the voice channels, leaning back in your chair like your spine just gave up. there’s a water bottle in your hand, but you haven’t even unscrewed the cap. you just sit there, blinking.

“you good?” austin asks in your ear, voice dry and amused.

you groan.

“they’re all actually trying, austin. like… trying trying.”

“that’s the point.”

“no, the point was content. the point was funny flirt banter and bit farming. not—” you wave vaguely at your monitor, “—people saying they could see a future with me.”

he laughs.

“so what i’m hearing is…you’re flustered.”

“no, you’re hearing i didn’t expect them to be hot and earnest. it’s gross.”

austin hums. “so, who are your top picks so far?”

you pause. “i mean… miles is sweet. super funny. kinda dry. i like that.”

“yeah, he’s a fan favorite.”

“and then there’s remy. he said he’d fly me out to see a terrible movie and split popcorn in silence.”

“god, he’s good.”

“right? i felt that shit in my soul.”

austin’s quiet for a second.

“anyone else?”

you hesitate.

your mind flits to someone who isn’t even in the bracket. someone who could’ve been, if he ever answered his fucking texts. someone who said “dating shows are cringe” and “if you ever made me do one, i’d sabotage it on purpose.”

you shake your head.

“nope. that’s it.”

you glance at the clock. just a couple more rounds and this whole thing will be wrapped. maybe you’ll do a silly little post-show breakdown stream. a “where are they now?” style q&a.

and then you hear it.

discord ping.

you freeze.

your brain registers a name. a voice channel entry. one that was not supposed to happen.

“what’s up, sweetheart?”

your blood leaves your body.

the camera overlay hiccups. a new box opens. a familiar face slides into frame—lazy grin, headset slightly askew, hoodie zipped halfway, mutton chops fully operational.

schlatt.

live. in your show. on your stream.

you don’t move.

he leans forward, resting his chin on one hand like this is casual.

“didn’t think i’d miss your big love confession stream, did you?”

your soul exits through your mouth.

“i—what—no—how—”

austin is cackling. you can hear him wheezing off-mic.

“schlatt, what the fuck.”

“production let me in.” he shrugs. “or maybe i threatened someone. who’s to say?”

you slam your water bottle down.

“you are not a contestant!”

“well,” he says, adjusting his mic with the smuggest little tilt of his head, “you haven’t eliminated me yet.”

chat is frothing at the mouth.

chat:

“THE CHOPS HAVE ENTERED THE ARENA” “not him crashing her emotional arc” “we lost her. gg boys.” “he’s not even playing and WE ALREADY KNOW HE'S GOING TO WIN”

“schlatt—no. i—no. you don’t get to—”

“you look good tonight,” he says suddenly, cutting you off. “cute little headset. soft lighting. whole date night vibe goin’.”

“that’s because i’m on a date. with twitch.”

“lucky twitch.”

you let out an actual scream.

austin’s back in your ear, smug as hell. “should we add him to the bracket?”

“no.”

“too late,” he says, already typing. “production loves him.”

“AUSTIN, YOU ARE PRODUCTION!!”

schlatt grins wider. “told you.”

your heart is going feral. your hands are shaking.

and all you can think—over the roaring in your ears and the chaos in chat—is: he didn’t come here for content.

he came here to make things harder on you.

✧✧✧

“ladies and gentlemen,” austin announces, voice already smug, “we have a last-minute addition to the bracket.”

“this is so illegal,” you mutter.

“it’s called dynamic programming.”

“it’s called chaos.”

austin ignores you. “chat, please welcome our tenth contestant—he’s loud, he’s tall, he owns one pair of jeans—it’s schlatt.”

the camera cuts to him. he hasn’t moved. just blinks once, nods slightly, and goes:

“i chose love, y/n.”

you flinch.

“you’re—you’re supposed to wait to reveal that—” you stammer.

“oops.”

“you can’t just—”

“too late, sweetheart,” he says, smirking. “i already made my choice. and i think...it's the best one i'll ever make.”

your mic picks up the softest, tiniest whimper.

chat loses their mind at your reaction.

chat:

“HE SAID HE CHOSE LOVE???” “WHATTTT” “SHE’S GONNA EXPLODE” “i would honestly quit if i were a guy atp look at her”

✧✧✧

you try your best to regain control of the stream.

you’re down to your final four: miles, elijah, remy, and… unfortunately… schlatt.

miles goes first. he’s sweet. charming in a sort of awkward way. his hair’s fluffed up like he styled it for this. he leans forward with a crooked grin and says,

“if i had one day with you, i’d probably take you somewhere quiet. museum maybe? or that weird little bookstore you tweeted about once. and then we’d go for coffee, or ice cream, or whatever you were in the mood for. nothing huge—just time. just us.”

it’s so earnest it makes you blink.

“aw… that’s really cute,” you manage.

“thanks,” he says, glancing down. “i mean it.”

chat:

“MILES SUPREMACY” “NOT HIM KNOWING ABT HER FAV BOOKSTORE 😭” “BRO IS SWEATING FOR HER”

elijah goes next. still flustered from earlier interruptions by schlatt, but rallying himself.

“i’d fly you out,” he says again, with a little shrug. “rent a cabin or something. we’d cook together. or try to. probably burn everything. and then we’d watch horror movies and pretend not to be scared.”

you smile despite yourself.

“do i strike you as a horror movie girl?”

“nah,” he grins. “you’d talk over the movie explaining how they did everything behind the scenes. but i’d let you...hearing your voice is way better than watching any movie.”

chat melts.

“HE GETS HER 😭” “SHE’S GIGGLING AGAIN” “OKAY ELIJAH WAIT A MINUTE”

remy’s the wildcard. he doesn’t smile much. soft-spoken. he's kind of...intense.

“i think you’d hate a big gesture,” he says quietly. “you’d think it was fake. staged. so i’d keep it real. just show up at your door with something personalized—like your favorite gas station snacks. and i wouldn’t say anything. just hand it over. and stay there...be there with you.”

you go still.

it’s so specific. so simple. it feels like he peeled something back just enough to make you feel it.

“…damn,” you whisper.

“yeah...i got you, baby.”

chat is sobbing.

chat:

“THIS IS A NETFLIX DRAMA” “NOT HIM BEING THE QUIET KING” “i’m voting remy idc if schlatt’s hot”

and then it’s schlatt’s turn.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t sit up. doesn’t prep a speech.

he just looks at the camera, cocks his head a little, and says,

“i’d come over. probably unannounced. you’d act annoyed, but you’d let me in.”

you swallow.

“i’d sit on your couch. bring some dumb snack that i know you like...but you like a ton of them, so i'd just bring all of them. then i'd bring over some liquor you haven't tried, and you’d pretend to hate it, but you’d drink half of it anyway...we could share.”

your fingers curl around your pen.

“we wouldn’t talk about what we are. labels...nah. we’d just… exist. same room. same energy. tension, like how there is now. i’d take one look at you and know you had a shit day. and you’d say you’re fine. and i’d say i know you better than that.

“schlatt,” you murmur.

he shrugs.

“and when you finally lean your head on my shoulder and sigh like that,”—he mimics it perfectly—“i’d kiss you. real soft. like you’ve already been mine. i'll show you what forever feels like, y/n.”

you say nothing.

no one says anything.

even chat is silent for a beat. just hearts.

then—

chat:

“OH MY GOD.” “HE’S CHEATING. THAT’S CHEATING.” “REMYYYYY NOOOOO” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘LIKE YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN MINE’???” “SOMEONE GRAB HER SHE’S FLOATING”

you stare at the camera.

“i hate you.”

“nah,” he smiles. “you hate how much you like me.”

and the worst part is—

he’s right.

✧✧✧

“okay,” you say, voice shaky, hand barely steady on your mouse, “it’s time.”

your overlay flashes. the final four line up in little rectangles beneath your cam. miles. elijah. remy. schlatt.

chat:

“SWEATING.” “OH GOD NOT LIKE THIS” “REMEMBER WHAT SCHLATT SAIDDDDDD” “WHO’S GETTING HOSTED I CAN’T WATCH”

austin clears his throat dramatically.

“all right, y/n—it’s your show. who are you eliminating first?”

you close your eyes for a second.

then:

.

.

.

“miles.”

his camera window dims.

“shit,” he says, laughing, rubbing the back of his neck. “fair.”

“you’re sweet,” you say honestly. “and thoughtful. and i think someone’s gonna love that bookstore date idea. but... it doesn’t feel like us.”

“yeah. i get that.” he smiles. “thanks for not clowning on me.”

chat:

“NOOOO MILES” “HE TOOK IT SO WELL” “A SOFT KING TILL THE END”

austin clicks something on the backend. your screen shifts.

“and now,” he says, grinning, “let’s reveal what miles picked.”

miles sits up a little straighter.

the card flips.

HOST.

you scream. immediately.

“WHAT—!”

“WHAT?!” he echoes. “i thought i had NO CHANCE—”

“YOU MENTIONED MY FAVORITE BOOKSTORE! YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD—”

“i panicked! it's one of the first things that come up when i looked up your username!”

austin is howling.

chat:

“MILES YOU SNAKE 💔” “HE PLAYED THE LONG CON” “HOWWWW I WAS ROOTING FOR THEM”

you collapse into your chair, laughing and a little horrified.

“okay. okay. three left.”

you look at their cams.

remy’s face is unreadable. elijah’s bouncing his knee. schlatt is… smirking. like he already knows the ending.

“my next elimination,” you say slowly, “is…”

.

.

.

“…elijah.”

his smile falters. just a little.

“damn,” he says. “knew that horror movie line was a gamble.”

“it was really good,” you say, sincere. “and i hope someone says it back to you and means it. because you’re great. really.”

“yeah. thanks.” he nods, and then gives you a little wink. “you’re kind of a menace, though.”

“i’m...aware.”

chat:

“HE’S SMILING THROUGH THE PAIN 😭” “ELIJAH WE LOVED YOU KING” “OKAY WHO VOTED HOST LET’S FIND OUT”

austin hits the reveal.

card flips.

LOVE.

you blink. “wait—”

“i wasn’t faking,” elijah says, shrugging. “maybe next time.”

your jaw drops. you look at austin, completely shocked.

“you’re telling me i just eliminated someone who actually wanted me???”

“yep.”

“and miles didn’t?!”

“yep.”

“this game sucks.”

chat:

“ELIJAH BABY NOOOO” “MILES WAS THE RED HERRING” “Y/N LITERALLY FUMBLED OUR KING” “AND NOW IT’S DOWN TO TWO”

you look between the remaining cams.

remy. schlatt.

your heart’s in your throat.

“this is insane,” you mutter.

austin leans in like a game show host. “so. who’s it gonna be?”

you stare at the screen for a long, long moment.

and then:

“…remy.”

remy’s expression doesn’t change. not at first.

then he nods. slowly.

“figured.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you’re—god, you’re so genuine. and cool. and intense in a way that kind of scared me, but in a good way. but... my heart’s somewhere else.”

he gives a little shrug.

“then go after it.”

you’re about to thank him again—until austin hits the card reveal.

HOST.

you nearly fall out of your chair.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE.”

remy finally cracks a smile.

“was curious if i could make you pick me.”

“YOU WERE MY FAVORITE, REMY?! I CALLED YOU A NETFLIX DRAMA.”

“well, now you’re in the season finale of one.”

chat:

“HE HOSTED...all men do is eat hot chip AND LIEEE” “REMYYYYYYY NOOOOOOOO” “Y/N IS DOWN BAD AND BETRAYED” “IT’S ALL UP TO SCHLATT”

you turn to your last camera.

schlatt hasn’t moved.

he’s just watching you. still leaning back. still calm.

you take a breath.

“you said that you picked love right away.”

“i did.”

“you’re sure that wasn’t just you being cocky? and trying to trick me?”

“i’m always cocky...and it's up to you if you don't trust me."

you glare. “that’s not an answer.”

he sits forward. finally. eyes locked with yours.

“you want the real answer?”

you nod. look at your screen at the pixels that make up his face.

“yeah. i picked love. because i already knew how i felt about you.”

your stomach flips.

austin’s mouse hovers over the card.

“wanna see the official choice?” he asks.

you don’t even look away from schlatt.

“…i believe him.”

chat:

“SHE BELIEVES HIM” “NO CARD REVEAL??????” “SCHLATT LOVE ARC CONFIRMED” “I’M SOBBING”

you smile—small, helpless.

“i fucking hate love or host.”

schlatt grins.

“but you love me. and you'll love me either way.”

"let's get these lovebirds together one last time, before the final reveal!" austin announces with his best game-show host voice.

the overlays vanish.

chat is gone.

you blink and suddenly it’s just you.

him.

and a blank black backdrop with both your cams up top. no emojis. no alerts. just your names in little white text.

you: y/n him: jschlatt

you breathe. shakily. you can hear your own heartbeat through your headset.

“they kicked everyone else out,” he says.

his camera quality’s too good. he’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, rings glinting under LED glow. he looks obnoxiously smug.

“just us now.”

you try to laugh but it comes out half-sigh. “this is so weird.”

“yeah. private moment in front of, what, two million vod viewers?”

“shut up,” you groan.

“you picked me,” he says, all too casually. "knew you would. those other guys..."

he blows a low whistle, rolling his eyes.

“...they wanted a highlight reel. i wanted you.”

you go quiet. it lands heavier than you expect it to. no teasing. no chat or twitch notifications to buffer the silence. just him, looking straight at you, steady as hell.

“schlatt…”

“nah, lemme finish.”

he leans forward now—forearms resting on the desk, chain glinting under the soft LED lighting. his mic picks up the quiet scrape of it.

“look, i knew what this was. austin’s little, weird show. twitch content. supposed to be funny. dramatic. a little messy.”

he pauses. smirks, but it’s softer now.

“but the second i saw you on that screen, all dressed up and pretending like you didn’t already know who you wanted?” he shrugs. “i got serious.”

you’re still. swallowing past the ache in your throat.

“i didn’t come here to win, sweetheart. i came ‘cause it’s been driving me crazy—watching every other guy try and fail to figure you out. trying to flirt with someone i’ve been falling for since the first time i saw you stream, and realized it got recommended to me because you were using MY spotify playlist.”

you let out a shaky laugh. “it was not. we just happen to have very similar taste if you play our stream songs on shuffle.”

he laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“nah. you used it.”

you raise a brow. “prove it.”

“january 3rd, 2:13 a.m. your stream title was literally, ‘let's talk real vs fictional men—schlattcore edition.’”

your jaw drops.

“THAT WAS PRIVATE!”

“it was public. twitch dot tv slash your name. i was THERE.”

you fling your hands up, speechless. he’s still laughing, his smile tugging crooked and boyish now, all smug and warm.

“you’ve been stalking me, schlatt.”

“i’ve been listening.” he leans in, tone dropping low. “big difference.”

and god, the way he says it. smooth. serious. the kind of voice that slips past your headphones and settles under your skin.

you look away before your cheeks betray you again. he sees it anyway.

“you’re blushing,” he says, grinning.

“you’re annoying.”

“you like annoying.”

you huff. and then softer:

“i like you.”

he goes quiet.

for the first time in the call, he’s the one caught off guard. not a smirk in sight. his eyes soften like you just pulled the rug out from under him.

“…say it again for me?”

you bite your lip.

“…i like you.”

a beat.

“god,” he breathes, tipping back in his chair. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“...because you picked host?”

“yeah,” he says again, voice like gravel now.

you blink. “you’re joking."

his gaze drops. to the desk. the mic. anywhere but you. and it’s the first time he looks unsure. the cocky facade, the flirting, all of it—slipping at the seams.

“i just—i didn’t know if you’d actually pick me. i didn’t think you’d…say that. not to me.”

your chest tightens. “but you came on the show.”

“for content. that’s what i told myself. ‘crash it. flirt. make chat laugh.’”

he meets your eyes again.

“but then you started flirting with all these other guys, but you rejected them all for me, said you liked me. fuck, y/n...i'm so sorry.”

you open your mouth—right as the screen flashes.

BREAKOUT ROOM ENDED.

you’re back in the main stream layout.

the chat is already moving at the speed of light.

chat:

“WHAT WAS THAT???” “DID HE PICK HOST??? IS HE KIDDING???” “HE LOOKED GUILTY ASF HELP” “WHERE’S AUSTIN. AUSTIN DO SOMETHING”

austin’s voice crackles back in.

“well! that was certainly something…”

you’re frozen.

he’s still in the call. eyes locked on yours, but distant. withdrawn. unreadable now.

“…over two million people tuned in today,” austin continues. “making this one of the biggest ‘love or host’ finales we’ve ever hosted.”

you barely register it. the ringing in your ears is worse than stream audio delay. worse than your heartbeat.

austin’s grinning, voice smooth. teasing.

“but none of that matters… if love doesn’t win.”

he pauses.

then clicks.

the final card flips.

jschlatt chose...

.

.

.

.

.

LOVE.

the screen flashes red and gold.

the chat erupts.

chat:

“HE CHOSE LOVE HE CHOSE LOVE HE CHOSE LOVE” “IM SOBBINGGGGGGG” "fucking liarrrrr !!!!!!!!" “WHY DID HE PLAY WIT HER HEART THO 💔” “this was literally a movie wtf”

you don’t move. can’t. you just sit there, blinking at the screen, lips parted like the words are buffering behind your teeth.

then, faintly:

“you asshole.”

schlatt flinches—visibly—and then starts laughing. full-bodied, stupid, breathless laughing. he doubles over in his chair, chain clinking, the mic barely picking up the sound over your mic:

“YOU MADE ME THINK YOU PICKED HOST—ON LIVE??”

your voice is shaking. not from tears (yet), but from pure, overwhelmed, rage-laced joy.

“YOU—YOU GASLIT ME IN FRONT OF TWO MILLION PEOPLE—”

“i panicked!!” he howls, wiping his eye. “you said you liked me! i blacked out!”

chat is losing its mind, a sea of caps-lock.

chat:

“BRO LOVEBOMBED THEN GASLIT” “GIRL STAND UP 😭😭😭” “hello youtube” “WHAT IS THIS HBO???”

austin’s in the corner wheezing. you don’t even think he knows what to say. you don’t either. you’re too busy putting your face in your hands and screaming into your mic.

“i cannot believe you did that to me,” you whimper.

“you picked me,” schlatt says again, and you can hear it—how close he is to grinning like an idiot again. “you like me.”

you peek through your fingers.

“chat,” you say. “this is my villain origin story.”

chat:

“AS YOU SHOULD QUEEN” “nah that’s ur HUSBAND be so fr rn” “ I SHIP IT. I’M DELUSIONAL. I’M ALREADY DRAWING FANART.” "this shi is literally so fake and scripted tbh" "wait what happebned to elijah"

schlatt leans into his mic, trying to look calm.

“can i fly you out?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“no.”

he makes a noise—somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “what? why not?”

“you bullied me.”

“i love you.”

“YOU MADE ME CRY ON STREAM.”

“and i’ll kiss you ‘til you forget the entire chat spamming Ls.”

you raise an eyebrow. "no they aren't."

"well, now that i said that, they are."

“schlatt!”

he just grins wider, folding his arms like he didn’t just throw a molotov into your frontal cortex.

“come on, sweetheart. i got frequent flyer miles and emotional damage. let me treat you.”

you smack your desk. “OH MY GOD—”

“say yes and i’ll wear the suit. that one.”

"the..."

"yeah. the one all the actors you ranked S-tier were coincidentally wearing. i may have, pulled some strings...but i can't write it off my taxes unless we make content together..."

your mic peaks.

your voice cracks.

you yell directly into it: “CHAT I CAN’T DO THIS HE LOOKS TOO GOOD IN NAVY!”

chat:

"girl bffr we all wanna see yall matching" “NOT THE SUIT. ANYTHING BUT THE SUIT” “i’m so embarrassed for her rn and also same” "FOLD FOLD FOLD FOLD"

you slap your forehead. "i'm going to block you."

"no you're not."

"i'm going to mute you."

"then how are you gonna hear me whisper 'you look pretty even when you're mad'?"

your chair squeaks from how hard you roll back.

"NOPE. NOPE. MODS, BAN HIM. BAN HIM FROM MY LIFE."

“you picked me, sweetheart. i’m legally yours now. according to our sponsors at cash app.”

you groan. loud. dramatic. half-muffled by your sleeve.

“i hate you.”

“nah. you hate how much you like me.”

chat:

“SOMEONE GRAB HER SHE’S MELTING” “SHE’S SMILING. SHE’S SO GONE.” “I WANT A LOVE LIKE THIS BUT WITH LESS PUBLIC HUMILIATION”

you sit up, barely holding back a grin.

“…one stream. one collab. and that’s it.”

“sure,” he says. “we’ll call it that.”

you narrow your eyes. “what does that mean.”

he reaches off-screen.

brings something into frame.

first—a single boarding pass.

your city. your airport. departure: tomorrow.

you blink.

“schlatt.”

his voice is softer now. lower. like you’re the only one still in the room.

“you said no when i asked to fly you out. so i’m coming to you.”

chat:

“HELLO????” “ROMCOM TWITCH EDITION.” “omg well that airport is gonna be packed tomorrow”

“you’re serious,” you breathe.

“completely,” he says, and then—he reaches off-screen again.

and pulls out two more tickets.

international.

first class.

japan.

your name’s already on one of them.

your hand flies to your mouth.

“you told chat on your birthday stream you’ve never been,” he murmurs. “said it’s your dream trip. i’ve been. i know the spots. figured we could go together.”

you’re fully speechless.

chat:

“I’M CRYING INTO MY MONITOR” “PLS. HE BOUGHT HER A DREAM TRIP” “TAX WRITE-OFF MY ASS HE’S SO GONE FOR HER”

“this is a content trip and a date,” he adds, like it softens the blow. “if you agree to come, you have to hold the camera and kiss me once per vlog though.”

you choke. “schlatt.”

he grins.

“say yes.”

you’re laughing now, bright and breathless and so clearly doomed.

“…what do i even pack?”

he leans in. slow. smug. voice warm and low and loaded.

“not much.”

you blink. “what?”

he smirks. “i’ll help when i get there.”

a beat.

“…help you take it all off.”

you gasp.

chat:

“HE SAID WHAT HE SAIDDDD” “IM SWEATING IN MY GAMER CHAIR” “MA’AM YOU NEED TO TURN OFF THE STREAM RIGHT NOW” “NOT IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN (me)”

your jaw drops. your whole soul leaves your body.

“schlatt!”

“what?” he shrugs, unbothered. “it’s a content trip.”

“you’re sick.”

“and you,” he says, eyes dark and soft and dangerous, “are gonna let me ruin you in three time zones.”

you SCREAM.

then slam your desk.

“MODS END STREAM. CHAT CLOSE YOUR EYES. I’M REPORTING HIM TO HR—”

“no takebacks, sugar lips,” he purrs.

click.

his cam goes dark.

you sit there in stunned silence, chat pinging in your ears.

then quietly:

“…i fucking hate love or host.”

you reach for the end stream button. offer a stupid smile to the camera, and wave to chat.

“...i gotta go buy a suitcase.”

stream ended.

chat:

"OMG OMGGGG" "heyyyy I just got here what's happening" "I WAS HERE I WAS HERE" "HI FROM JAPAN !!!" "cash app sponsor me pls"

[deeversuswords]

‧˚₊ Truth Exposer 1: Uncovered — Ch.12

PAIRING — Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki/Vigilante F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n ◆ married bakugou katsuki—not to reader—and has a daughter too ◆ characters are in their late 20s SUMMARY — Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person who’s your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsuki’s life, it’s not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a living—his salvation.

➥AO3 LINK // ➥AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST

CHAPTER SUMMARY — The unexpected finds a new way to surprise you.

CHAPTER WARNINGS — some crude language and behavior

WORD COUNT — ~3.8k

a/n: I'm sooo not rubbing my hands together for next week. Nope, nope. I'm not. The whiplash between last week's chapter and this one, tho 💀

“How in the world am I supposed to find this guy?” You stopped in the middle of the shady red-light district, hands on your hips. “He could be anywhere.”

“He likes alcohol and women, so…” Ayumu’s voice crackled through your earpiece. You could almost see him scratching his scalp like that might shake out an idea. “Maybe start with the back alleys? Ask around? Eavesdrop?”

Your gaze slid to the side, landing on a narrow alley near a hostess bar, lit by spasming pink neon lights. Flies buzzed in the glow above heaps of trash and dubious puddles. Your insides shriveled at the faint odor wafting from the alley into the cool evening air, but you dragged your feet toward it, pulling your mask higher over your nose. Pointless. The stench of rot, alcohol, sweat, and other things you refused to name assaulted your nostrils through the fabric.

“Can’t we just hire someone to find the guy while I go home?” you whined.

“Is it that bad?”

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

Ayumu made a gagging noise. “No thanks. You’ve got this!”

Grimacing, you sidestepped a murky puddle and sneaked behind the building. “Can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“I hope you got enough cash on you.”

“I do, but maybe I’ll try charm first—” You ate up your own words as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

“What’s—”

“Shh.”

You slowly turned to confront whatever was putting your instincts through the wringer. Nothing, just your shadow and the many insects dancing over garbage. You glanced up discreetly, eyes tracing the moonlit edges of the rooftops. No movement.

Odd.

The air seemed to hold its own breath, fearful of an invisible presence.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered, unconsciously clasping your forearm, pressing hard on the healing scratch you couldn’t remember getting. “I’m being paranoid, or something. Moving on.”

You were. Ever since visiting your parents, you’d felt off. It wasn’t unusual, as grief had a way of messing with your mind, but the scratch on your forearm was. That was new. Probably happened when you fainted, bumping your arm against the edge of the niche.

Because you had blacked out. Most likely from a mix of heavy incense, the suffocating mood in the room, and the terrible sleep you’d been getting. When you came back to yourself, you were sprawled on the floor, and your head felt like it was being split open.

Lingering for a moment longer, you turned your attention to the long strip of pavement between the towering buildings and the few people ahead, mingling under the crepuscular glow of the alleyway. Shaking off the feeling of being hunted, you reached into your jacket pocket for the printed photo of your target and took cautious strides forward.

Your target was none other than Lakki Café’s former chef. He’d worked there from the early days until this spring, when he quit without explanation. Since then, his life had gone into a steep downward spiral, the descent so fast that you and Ayumu both agreed it was too sudden to be a case of ridiculous bad luck.

Especially after a supposed accident left him with permanent amnesia.

You schooled your expression into something stoic and began asking the magic question: “Have you seen this man?” You observed each face, ears tuned to any hesitation or shift in breath.

Almost two hours later, and nothing. No one had seen him, and you hadn’t spotted anyone even remotely resembling him. Back alleys, bar entrances, side streets—you scoured them all.

Irritation simmered deep in your gut as you glared at the photo. His appearance might’ve changed, but not that much. Unless he got plastic surgery.

“So it’s come to that,” Ayumu said, his discontent not helping yours.

“Mhm.” You leaned against the back of the bench, knee bouncing as you rescanned the area. “Make sure it’s the shadiest, most notorious club, bar—whatever fits the bill.”

“I’m gonna hate sending you in there,” he muttered. “On it.”

The clicking of Ayumu’s keyboard was the only sound easing your tension, cutting through the bass-boosted club beats blaring from nearby bars, drunken shouts, and crass laughter. If you focused on it long enough, it might even drown out the fool puking somewhere behind you, and the not-so-subtle moans of the couple going at it behind the dumpster across from you. They thought they were sneaky. They weren’t.

Laughter bubbled up from your belly at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Some balloons here, a few more there, a couple extra splashes of color, maybe a confetti cannon or two, and voilà—this could be your dream gig: ringmaster of your very own circus.

Truth Exposer? They should call you Clown Puppeteer instead.

You removed your mask and stuffed it in your pocket, instantly regretting it. The delightfully perfumed air had your nose crying for mercy. And you nearly sobbed in relief when Ayumu finally gave you names, along with a suggestion on where to start.

“Yeah, okay. That nightclub definitely fits,” you deadpanned, surveying the building like it offended your sense of taste. Its entrance, decked out with a colorful banner promising free booze from 10 p.m. to midnight, blazed with the street’s most obnoxious LED logo. Outside, a long line of people inched forward at a snail’s pace.

Waiting to get in? That couldn’t be you.

“Apparently, it’s run by a gangster. For the love of, please stay out of trouble.”

“No promises. Later.”

With your earpiece joining your mask in your pocket and your phone switched off, you sashayed toward the nightclub, determined to bribe your way in. Time was of the essence; screw the queue.

The bouncer’s thick neck craned in your direction, his dark, beady eyes sharpening as he noticed you walking straight toward him instead of joining the line like everyone else.

“Queue starts there,” he said, motioning mechanically to the end of the line. Then he widened his stance and crossed his arms, which you eyed with interest.

You’d bet one of your secrets that this gym-rat-looking man didn’t just lift heavy to get those pumped-up muscles. One smack from him, and K.O. would be your fate. Still, he probably wouldn’t mind bending the rules for someone who preened his ego.

You forced a flirty expression to take over your face—sultry smile, foxy eyes. “Can’t you make an exception?”

“No exceptions. Get in line.”

“Are you sure?” You pinched your jacket’s zipper and dragged it down, subtly teasing him, revealing the top beneath. From between your breasts, you drew out a tight roll of bills, holding it between two fingers. “I’m happy to sweeten the deal. If it gets me in right away, of course.”

He ogled the money, then your chest, as the people in the line started to complain, a few even bitching at you directly. Your smile stretched wider. If he asked you to flash him, his balls would have a date with your knee before you made a run for it.

He cocked his head, a sleazy grin curling at his lips. “A pic of those tits, and we got a deal. Squeeze them together.” He extended his phone toward you.

“One titty pic coming right up,” you chirped, trading the cash for his phone, your fingers intentionally grazing his thick ones. Clown Puppeteer clowning her puppets. An acting award would be in order; your expression stayed flirty, suggestive, even as your stomach turned.

“Running low on good material?” you teased as you opened the front camera and angled the phone.

“Willing to provide more?”

“Depends on what I get in return.” You pulled your top lower, pressed an arm beneath your breasts, and posed. The flash went off. A spectacular shot of the overflowing trash can behind you was now saved in his phone’s memory. “There we go. Let me through first, and you’ll get your phone back. Maybe with a little extra, like my number?”

He licked his lips before stepping aside, openly raking his heated gaze over your body. Maybe his gray matter was what went into those muscles because it sure wasn’t in his head.

You brushed past him with a wink, tossed him the phone, and bolted for the club’s heart.

The interior was smaller than you anticipated, but it made up for it with three floors, the highest of which housed the VIP area. In the center, the dance floor pulsed with sweaty bodies, swaying and grinding under laser-like lights to the sensual beat. To one side, tables were packed with groups of people, their surfaces cluttered with alcohol bottles and half-empty glasses. The other side belonged to the busy bar.

Now this was the kind of environment you died to be in. Was the way you came from the only exit? You pressed the heel of your palm to your temple. Barely a minute in, and your head was already pounding with the bass.

You weaved through the strangers, pushing through the sensory torture. Outside was bad, but in here was worse. The air was thick with alcohol vapors, sweat, cheap perfume, and people’s natural odor, and it was hot too. Like summer never left, trapped between these dark walls.

By the time you reached the bar, sweat had already slicked your back in a sticky sheen.

Claiming one of the bar stools, you rested your elbow on the counter and rubbed your fingers together, waiting for the bartender to finish dealing with the drunk guy beside you.

“More!” the man barked, slamming his fist on the bar. “I got money. Lots of money,” he slurred, obviously a guy who lacked the notion of limit. He was so wasted, you could almost name the alcohol on his breath.

“I apologize, sir, but that’s not possible. You’ve reached your quota for the day,” the bartender shouted politely over the music.

Hard to argue with the denial. The guy was swaying on his feet, his upper body slumped over the bar like a sandbag. He flailed, trying to grab the bartender, who stepped just out of reach, his brows pulling into a frown.

“Can’t you get someone to deal with him?” you asked, gesturing toward the drunk.

The bartender’s gaze slid to you, his frown deepening as he stepped in front of you. “What can I get you?”

“An answer, hopefully.” His brow twitched up. You took out the former chef’s photo and set it on the counter. “Have you seen him around?”

“What’s your business with him?” he asked, caution glinting in his eyes.

Bingo.

“He’s my father.” You pressed a hand to your chest like the weight of the words physically hurt. “I lost contact with him a few months ago. I’ve been looking everywhere ever since.” Your voice softened as you leaned in slightly. “Please…if you know anything that can help me, I’d really appreciate it. The price doesn’t matter.”

Seconds danced away to the rhythmic beats of the music. Your heart eventually joined in, pounding harder and harder as the bartender scrutinized you like you were here to blow the place up. He squinted at every visible pore, line, and angle of your face, searching for the resemblance between father and daughter.

Your features didn’t exactly scream “related”—you’d planned to chalk it up to taking after your “mother.” But the wig’s color and your contact lenses were a perfect match to the former chef’s.

It wasn’t long before his critical examination started to irritate you. You played your next card.

Your mind hurtled itself into the past, sifting through the mountain of misery to pull a few moments cutting enough to slice your composure.

You remembered waking up after your Quirk first manifested in a hospital bed, hooked to machines. Your mother was wrecked by sobs, your father holding her from crumbling to the floor as the doctor explained they had to keep you longer, worried you might slip into another shock. Another temporary death. And you did exactly that. Panicked so hard you couldn’t breathe, terrified your Quirk might trigger again.

You remembered the day you clawed through rubble, desperate to find them. You’d used your Quirk again and again until noise felt like knives stabbing into your skull, forcing your body to pass out just to protect itself.

Ever so slowly, your eyes began to well. Your throat tightened. Your nose grew stuffy. You sniffed, pressing a hand to your mouth as a whimper pushed past your lips.

The first tear fell. Then the second.

Memories morphed into a lie. The lie dressed in truth.

“P-please. I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay.” A sob tore from your chest. “I can’t keep living like this. Please…just tell me.”

The bartender’s expression softened, but that wasn’t enough. You wanted him melted into a puddle of pity, so he wouldn’t second-guess his own words.

You placed your hand over his gloved one, letting a subtle tremor run through your fingers, and perfected your expression into the saddest, most grief-stricken look you could muster. Eyes wet, lashes heavy, you peered up at him like someone on the verge of falling apart. He’d do well to give you information, not a hug.

The bartender exhaled slowly, and you saw it—the exact moment he gave in. Not even the drunk on the next stool seemed to matter anymore.

“He’s working for my boss. But you’ll have to ask him for more details.” He offered you a weak smile and gave your hand a brief, comforting squeeze before turning to grab a bottle from the shelf behind him. “Get him a glass of this. He’ll know you’re here to discuss business.”

You flicked your eyes to the bottle. The boss liked expensive liquor. Really expensive liquor. “I’ll b-buy the whole bottle.”

“You will?” The bartender’s eyes grew wide in surprise. “It’s pricey.”

“The whole bottle, please,” you insisted, putting force behind your voice.

Before you were tempted to flip the script, you got what you wanted and climbed the stairs to the third floor to meet the boss—probably the gangster Ayumu mentioned—choking the bottle’s neck.

The good news? Your target was alive and kicking.

The bad news? Whatever waited in the room with the boss. You could only hope he kept minimal company. Things were bound to go sideways with people like him.

Your free hand drifted to your inner pocket, checking for the custom EpiPen. Still there. Just in case.

Two security guards blocked your path as you reached the top of the stairs.

“Area’s off-limits,” one of them said. “Leave.”

You raised the expensive liquor bottle. “I’m here to talk business with your boss.”

They both burst out laughing, mouths twisting with mockery. As much as you wanted to play nice, their vibe practically begged for a label. Dumb and Dumber, it was.

“What kind of business would that be, cutie?” the other—whom you’d tagged as Dumber—asked, swaggering into your space.

“Are you the boss?”

“If I say I am, are you gonna give me your,” he gave you a lecherous once-over, “time?”

A solid kick to the balls, a rearranged nose, or a firsthand experience with your Quirk were the only things on the menu. For him, or his buddy, or both. They seemed to be friends; it was only fair that they went down together.

“I’d be too busy questioning why you’re out here guarding the door like a good dog, instead of inside partying like the boss you claim to be. So, no.”

Dumb whistled, smacking his hands together like an excited seal. “Shit, man. She’s got a mouth on her.�� His grin twisted into something uglier. “Boss likes them like that. Let her through.”

You pushed open the double doors and felt your blood pressure drop. Two shady-looking men lounged with scantily clad women in their laps, cigars burning and shots disappearing down their thick throats. Your stomach curdled at the sight, but it was the smell, laced with sex and musk, that made your skin crawl. Oh, the joy of the city’s darker corners and the dubious businesses thriving in its underbelly.

“Hah?! Who the fuck? Our new bitch?” The fucker who noticed you first had a buzz cut and barely fit in his seat. His lustful stare locked on your face as he crooked a finger. “C’mere. I got something nice for ya.”

Disgust exploded in every cell. Through sheer will, you managed to suppress a shudder and make a face at this pig. If the boss had the same attitude, there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d leave this place without getting into trouble first.

“You’re not the boss.”

He glanced at his companion, then squinted at you. “What makes ya think that?”

“Someone’s expensive tastes tend to show in the way they talk and behave.”

He shoved himself out of his seat, the woman in his lap squeaking like a rat cornered in a cage. She stumbled on her peep-toe heels and fell hard to the shiny floor. The thud of her bony knees made you wince.

Buzz Cut’s nostrils flared, his round face turning a worrisome shade of red. He opened his mouth, but when the words failed him, he stomped toward you. Four steps in, and a hoarse voice cut in from across the room.

“Sit down before you make a bigger fool of yourself.”

You’d bet this was the boss.

Casual-formal outfit. Hair gelled stiff. Confident strides that screamed ownership, and a calculated glint in his gray eyes. Oh, and the faint outline of a four-leaf clover tattoo on his neck. White ink, maybe?

Behind him, two women staggered out, mascara running, lipstick smeared across their mouths. They looked… happy. Satisfied. A dazed kind of bliss that had you glancing at the table again, scanning for the source of their joy. Not alcohol, you’d guess. Something different. More illegal, but suited for the context.

“Apologies, missy, for my guys’ lack of manners,” he said, adjusting his leather belt. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m looking for my father.” You stepped forward, set both the photo and the expensive liquor on the cluttered table. “I was told you know where he is.”

A wild grin broke across his face at the sight of the bottle. You couldn’t help the slight jaw-drop as he bowed, multiple times, quick and eager, then skipped like a child on Christmas morning to snatch the bottle and plant a kiss on its thin, glassy neck.

Your job had its absurd moments, but today was taking the whole damn cake. First the bouncer, then Dumb and Dumber, and now this wannabe boss with what appeared to be an alcohol kink.

You rubbed the back of your neck, working out some of the tension, and sighed. What a fucking circus.

“Ah, my favorite baby! And a whole bottle too.” The wannabe boss beamed, hugging the liquor to his chest. “Tell me, gorgeous missy, how can I be of assistance? Think of me as your humble servant.”

He could start by helping himself to a doctor.

“Can you tell me where my father is?” you asked the magic question, curious how fast he’d backpedal on that whole humble servant act. Seconds? Minutes?

“Running an errand for me at the Lovers Den,” he said, stroking the bottle like a cherished lover.

“What?”

“Hmm?” His gray eyes lifted to yours, and alarm bells clanged in your skull. Something slithered beneath his lax attitude, something that smiled with too many teeth. He snapped his fingers. “I see! You thought I was gonna drag this out like a cliché villain, huh?”

You stared at that wickedness for a second too long before easing toward the exit, forcing a laugh. “No. Just surprised by your honesty. I appreciate it,” you said as he picked up one of the thick cigars from the table. “Thank you—”

A sudden pinch in your thigh cut the words short.

“Your father has only two sons. No daughter. Not even from some mistress.” He tossed the fake cigar over his shoulder and perched on the edge of the table, legs spread. “I know everything about my men. And my men don’t lie. They understand the value of life.”

You gulped and reached for the object in your thigh, fingers closing around it with a restrained tremble. When you pulled it free, your breath escaped in a huff.

A small needle attached to an elongated, now-empty vial.

Bits of your mask crumbled. Your heart galloped, as if trying to outrun the strange dullness encroaching on your senses. You’d accounted for your story falling apart, but not this.

“Don’t worry, missy. Just a little something to even the playing field,” he said smoothly. “No offense, but my men’s lives are in my hands. It’s my job to protect them from threats.”

“I’m a threat?” you scoffed as panic surged like a furious wave. “If I were, wouldn’t I have stormed this place instead? Made a ruckus?”

“You’re targeting someone who’s keeping a very low profile, and I’ve got a few ideas why.” He pointed at you, lazily circling his finger in the air. “You’re a threat. So here’s how this goes.” His grin didn’t reach his steely eyes. “You can be well-mannered, like me, and tell the truth. Or you can deal with the consequences. Either way, I’ll get it out of you.”

“Hmm. And what kind of consequences would that be?”

“Look at them.” He gestured to the dazed women. “You’ll be joining their little club. Unless…your Quirk’s interesting. You do have one, don’t you?”

The pause that followed was loud with implication. You let it bang against the walls of your mind, using those precious seconds to brace yourself for a failed escape. Luck seriously had a twisted sense of humor. Today, it cackled like a witch unleashing her most powerful, most destructive curse.

You dropped the dart on the glossy floor and crushed it under your heel. “I don’t know. Isn’t that your job too? To figure it out.” Your hand eased into your jacket’s inner pocket. “I’m sure you could use the mental exercise to stay sharp while quality-checking the goods before delivery. Is she paying well?”

His gray eyes flared with excitement. Suddenly, you were just as interesting as his beloved liquor bottle. “Who are you?”

A dry chuckle spilled from your mouth. “Damn it, Boss. I thought you said you weren’t like a cliché villain, but then you go and ask me that question?” You shook your head, jabbing the EpiPen into your thigh. “Disappointing.”

Adrenaline tore through your veins, banishing panic and setting your nerves ablaze with wild euphoria. Your senses snapped back into razor focus. Your instinct turned feral, famished for a fight.

His ugly, arrogant laugh grated in your ears. “I’m starting to like you,” he said, then dropped his gaze to your thigh. “What’s that you just injected?”

“A little something to even the playing field.”

The little something your escape hinged on.

Your Quirk…

You couldn’t feel it.

It wasn’t there.

taglist: @lunaryasha | @tomiokasecretlover | @fiselle | @5oftkitty | @lousypotatoes

[whisperedmeg]

so like…how do we feel about the idea of a greenaway!reader…

it quite literally came to me in a dream last night (I wish I was kidding and could say I have cooler/more normal dreams but. nope. here i am.) and I don’t know what to do about it because I am a spencelle lover myself, so it feels a lil icky to even consider…but still…like, hear me out. elle’s grungy, tough younger sister who shows up >a year after elle left mayhaps?

hmmm…thinking thoughts…always a dangerous thing when I think thoughts…

(this will probably go nowhere fair warning but I am soooo very curious to hear how anyone else feels about this just in case I do decide to pursue the idea in the future)

[justlookatthosesausages]

Frozen the Musical proshot reaction and review list!

they put so much effort and love into this filming I am SO happy

it's clearly been shot multiple times for close ups and i really wonder if the audience got to see it twice in a row or something or they just did the close ups shots when the theater was closed... anyway bless close ups so we see how freaking dramatic this story is

the actors are so different than the last version I saw I am always fascinated at how the whole atmosphere changes based on the interpretation despite the general guidelines that remain identical. I've seen 5 different casts of this musical since 2017 and every time it's like a different musical all over again. Kudos for everyone in the cast who understands their character fully yet interpret it in their style and it still works

sidenote, I've seen so many different casts in this musical and not a single kid Anna or kid Elsa knows how to make placements subtle lmaooo sorry but it's true- kids are told to go here then there and they just do it without bothering to mask it as staging lol

the audience was LIVING IT. at some point I was like no way those are actual laughs and not fake but after a while I was like oh no they're just FANS and cheering in support

you could tell that the performers put their whole heart into it since it's filmed and yet that they give this energy 7 times a week to every audience

"Call on us anytime, we love children" from Bulda made me laugh jfdhgjfdsgs

the costume changes rate and speed in this musical is insane. Hugest kudos to the entire crew who has to run every performance

Laura Dawkes has my ENTIRE respect she's a hilarious version of Anna and she completely understood the assignment

update: after some research; Laura DID act as Anna BEFORE the musical, for kids and stuff, she knows the role since years I love it no wonder she nails it

Samantha Barks is SO sweet and tender and strong at the same time, she really incarnates Elsa's charm

also not surprising given her past work on Les Misérables - Disney really does know how to cast

@ soldier actor on the left who entered with Weaseltown and decided to slay, I see you and I love you

the "very much" that was the first in sync between Anna and Hans is really good

I wanna kiss the Lopezes on their foreheads, I haven't listened to a single song from the recording since ages and I still know every song my heart, even those I don't like, BLESS YOU for those catchy gems

will Dangerous to Dream ever not give me chills? nope. nope nope nope. still a banger from beggining to end, still brillant on its composition, and WHAT a performance in this west end version

not me being triggered because the coronation cape wasn't straight when Elsa turned around dfjgjkfdlhgkjfdhg

the "chocolate!" sync was really good, kinda impressive actually

once again the close ups bring a lot of life, it feels like a movie at some parts

Hans' actor did a very decent job too; when you already know he's evil you SEE all the moments he's like "ok wtf well let's roll with that" as he improvs around Anna, it's a fraction of a second of an expression but it's THERE

every single time I watch this musical I'm astonished at how the actress who plays Elsa has to perform the most iconic, important song of the musical while holding for most of it that incredible costume that is the coronation outfit layer above the ice outfit layer, and that must be SO FREAKING HEAVY and inconvenient to walk and perform with due to the crystals, eternal respect to every actress just for that

Also obviously each and every single time I watch the musical I'm 1) stressed out at the let it go costume pull change part like it's something I personally am doing and don't want it to fail 2) stunned at how the Elsa actress ALWAYS nails it like it's no big deal and not an incredibly precised stage trick 3) in love with it because it's genuinely well thought, impressive to an adult audience, and kids must 100% believe she genuinely transformed

this version of WDYKAL is very cool, kudos to the end slide, but it truly is no match to the original version with the stunt and all, I miss it

this version of Let it Go also has good points like the soul approach of Samantha, but it's... flat? I know, it's cheeky to say considering how HUGE this number is, but still, it feels flat to me

the way they made sure to not show the wire tricks with the close ups in the editing hjfdhgdfh they were like yeah we know you know it's basically fishing wire that pulls the glove and the cape away but you shall NOT see it close lmao

continuity error, of Elsa unclipping her cape then the following shot she still has in on, just to trigger me

OMG THAT REMINDS ME OF THAT TIME CAISSIE'S GLOVE TRICK DIDN'T WORK AND THE GLOVE JUST FELL ON STAGE LIKE A DEAD FISH FLOPPING SO SHE YEETED IT OFFSTAGE

anyway where were we? oh yeah the most impactful song of the 2010's

Samantha NAILED the transformation, the audience was LIVING IT, she truly deserves the cheer, 10/10 effect

musical performers are something else. secret bonus lung or something. how the hell can the Elsas belt that "GOOOONE" and "here I stand" in the same breathing

the feeling they must get, the chill that must roam their spine, when they all belt that final ANYWAAAAY and turn around as the lights turn off and they get hit with a wall of cheer omg

also forever a fan of the musical's rewrite of Let it Go, the final line ending in a rising note is even better than the movie version

gosh I remember when I watched the musical for the very first time and after the Let it Go number I was like "ok nothing can top this and the next number will be soooo overshadowed-" and then the Lopezes slapped me and dropped that freaking banger that is Hygge

WAIT THEY REMOVED THE FINAL DANCE WITH THE BRANCHES??? I AM SUING

wait maybe it's just not in the final edit. because Disney+ are cowards. someone who saw the musical in West End recently: DID THEY REMOVE THE BRANCHES DANCE???

Yeah ok based on the clumsy edit, the huge Hygge sparkling, the audience cheer and, above all, Laura changing way too fast, it's clear that it's part of the musical but Disney+ didn't want it in the final edit. BOOOO

Congratulations to Laura and Samantha for making me like I Can't Lose You in this version because it's been 3 years and I'm still bitter they replaced the FTFTIF reprise with that..... (the Carolines version obviously is the best so far though sorry they're just heaven incarnations of Anna and Elsa)

shit I forgot how genius the climbing singing to "open that door" was, NEVERMIND this song is less terrible than I remember

that almost random "you'll make a great queen" when Elsa walked away fdgjhfdhs YES SHE WILL BUT DON'T SAY IT LIKE THAT

omg the trolls' hat is too big for Anna and almost drops to her eyes it's such a funny detail I love it

the way Elsa just. stood there. menacingly. legs spread apart to show her new pants. i'm YELLING.

ooooh I love that in this version of Monster Elsa yells "IN A CAGE"

(narrator's voice: it was, alas, the only thing she liked about this version of Monster. She can't put the Caissie version out of her brain)

you see that angry pingu meme? that's me still grumpy that they removed True Love which was SO important like. Monster was Elsa's suicidal thoughts song and True Love was Anna's depression song they have NO RIGHTS to make it uneven by removing one

the end is SO cheesy especially on this version lol

not a fan - at all - that it looks like Anna asked for Elsa's permission to punch Hans... maybe it wasn't the intention and rather a 'go on' nod but it definitely looks like Anna punches Hans because Elsa told her to do more, and not her decision

CONCLUSION!

despite this version being pretty decent, my preferred version remains the original broadway one from 2018. I love the Frozen 2 additions and retcon in this but the other changes are big mehs to me and they, in my opinion, alter the general rhythm and ambiance of the musical. (And it's genuinely not first-time-nostalgia talking because the very first version I saw was the Denver one in 2017)

in conclusion, I loved watching this proshot because the close ups are SO good, but this version of the musical feels disappointing and generally dull in my humble opinion. It's like they tried so hard to round off the edges that in the end it looks like a Frozen musical, but not THE Frozen musical. You know?

[3-cheers-for-chaos]

It’s 4 in the morning and my mom just walked into my room and was like “what the fuck are you doing?”

And I’m just like: “chillin”

And she’s like: “do you know what time it is?”

Me: “nope” *taps phone* “4 am”

Her:“You were supposed to be asleep six hours ago!”

Me: “oopsies”

Her: “who else is awake?”

Me: “I dunno”

Her: “then who were you texting?”

Me: “nobody, I was scrolling and listening to fall out boy”

Her: “why the hell were ya doin that?”

Me: “ma’am I woke up at 2:50 pm, I can’t be awake for less than 12 hours”

Her: “you need to get more sleep”

Uhh… No… Not really… I get more sleep than anyone else in my generation that doesn’t have depression… I’m good with my routine of ‘go to bed in the morning and wake up in the afternoon’, that workin out quite well for me.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk/stand up comedy act/rant

Good night morning (America)

Here’s an emotional support Mikey way:

[hcppilyneveraxter]

"As long as your sure it won't be too much of an imposition." Elijah insisted rubbing the back of his neck apprehensively. "I'd hate to be the reason you didn't get to enjoy a break Marco." He added gently. Elijah knew what it was like to end up working so hard you never took a break, after all that was why he had missed lunch and was in this situation in the first place. He really didn't want his poor planning to impact someone else. "Just black is fine, but I wouldn't say no to a splash of oat milk if you have any." Elijah replied, already thinking about how it would be just the pick me up he needed.

Elijah's eyes lit up as Marco offered to let him try a new recipe he had been working on. "Are you sure? That would be amazing. I'd be honored honestly." He told Marco warmly. "I'm sure it'll be delicious. Admittedly I don't eat out too much but everything I've had here since since you've taken over as head chef has been nothing short of incredible." Elijah assured him. "Nope, no food allergies. So I am more than happy to try anything you want to whip up."

Marco couldn't send the man away, not when he could audibly hear his stomach rumbling. "It's fine. If we were that worried about it we would have locked the door." He pointed out with a chuckle. "It's basically just to make sure the staff have a break." He admitted, heading over to the espresso machine. "How do you take your coffee?"

He looked at the recipe he'd been working on before turning back to him. "If you wanted, I'm going to be trying out a recipe I'm trying to perfect. I can't promise how good it will be though. You don't have any allergies, do you?"

[egophiliac]

queen of diamonds, upright + reversed 💎

I've redone this like eighty times, I have to just be done with it now and stop staring at all my mistakes oh no 🫠

[vaguely-concerned]

every so often, varric will write a black fox story. not anything fancy or for publication or anything, just for fun and because he knows hawke has a soft spot for them. ("an intrepid hero getting into and out of all kinds of trouble and the merry band of misfits following inseparably in his wake? can't imagine why".) some of them are experimental, some of them are straightforward retellings; they're generally pretty short and quick to do, so he allows himself to play around with form and genre and language more than he does in his professional work. stretching over the span of almost twenty years as they do, they contain some of his favourite pieces of his own writing, and some of the most '...was I huffing lyrium fumes or drunk or both for this one, hawke? what the actual hell is this' pieces. hawke keeps every single one of them. varric speculates that this is either because they're just that sentimental, or possibly that it's for future blackmailing purposes. he usually has one ready for their birthday. they have so much blackmail material on him anyway by this point, he figures, what's one more piece of ammunition going to do one way or the other.

varric finishes one of these black fox tales a couple of nights before he brings rook with him to minrathous — the last one. it's about the very last black fox story, the one where the black fox and his friends all disappear together into the depths of arlathan forest, where those in the know say you can find them to this very day, if you know where to look, or if you ever find yourself in trouble and in need of a helping hand. they'll turn up to aid a traveller in need, and disappear back between the shaded trees again once the day is saved, squabbling all the way, seeking treasures and unlikely quests yet unfound and unimagined.

they say on some days, you can hear them as laughter and friendly bickering on the wind from a couple of clearings over. it's not the end, it's just other adventures, some other place. that's the thing about stories. they're funny that way.

(once he wrote a book for his mother on her deathbed and read it to her through the comfortless and drawn-out hours of the troubled nights, and he burned the book the day she died and never spoke of it again.)

after he finishes the manuscript, he sits with it for a long time in the quiet and the candlelight before he wraps it up properly and sends it off back home to kirkwall. he attaches a note -- a story, to the best of all my stories, the one I'd tell forever if I could. take care of each other while I'm gone. first one to arrive saves seats at the bar, right? happy birthday, and send all my lack of love to the merchant's guild, as always. —Varric

he sends that to hawke. just in case. and then he gets up and he goes to find rook — it's time to get going.

[call-me-pup2]

Ask follow up questions 🗣

You know, actually try and find information about the person you're talking to thats deeper than just, for example, finding out the name of their favourite movie. Ask them why its their favourite, would they recommend it, how does watching it make them feel, there's so many details to get!

Its not that hard to show a little interested because otherwise you just look like you don't actually like the person you're talking to 🥴

(This isn't about my asks on here lol I mean in actual one to one conversation)