#and like. I know in my heart I loved her and she loved me

[satzumosupremacy]

Ignite The Spark II

Male reader x Kazuha

Tags: Smut 4.5k Words

Part 1

What truly matters is that your home carries deeper meaning. You wouldn’t settle for anything less when the empty chair across from the dining table belongs to Kazuha, or when you go to sleep and wake up together every day.

A smile crosses your face as you step into the apartment. Your gaze is drawn to the hoya kerrii plant, with its iconic heart-shaped leaves perfectly placed by the window. It wasn’t something you initially wanted in the home, but you didn’t see the point in having a small, silly argument over a plant. She thinks it’s a romantic addition to the space, and, over time, you’ve somehow grown fond of it.

“Zuha,” you say, walking through the short hallway into the bedroom and smelling her shampoo in the air.

“Hey, you’re home!” she smiles.

“What do you think of the dresser? It was the one you wanted.”

“It’s amazing,” she says and comfortably takes off her towel that’s wrapped around her body to set it on the rack. Kazuha smirks mischievously, and you seem to have an idea about she’s thinking. Super obvious enough.

“I sent my friend home after they helped out with this dresser.”

“You didn’t tell them how we broke the old one right?” she says, her voice carrying a teasing smirk as she brushes her fingertips across the dresser.

“No, Babe, why would I?” you softly say.

What really happened to the old one? Well, you bent her over, got a little bit too rough, and one of the legs unexpectedly snapped at the bolts. The truth is, the dresser was old, and the materials had seen better days—it wasn’t going to last much longer anyway. Consider it the perfect excuse to upgrade to a much sturdier one. 

“Maybe the first thing we can do is test the quality of this dresser. How about that?”

“Zuha,” you say, chuckling, because you couldn’t say no, because she’s already naked. What can you really do about it as she leans on the dresser with her hands behind her back, just waiting for you?

“Naughty boy," she says, beckoning you to come closer, and so easily, you do. Kazuha places her hands on your chest while you grab the sides of her hips, gently massaging her as you stare right into her eyes. “Thanks for building it, babe.”

“I swear, if this one somehow breaks, you’re buying the next one and building it yourself,” you chuckle, sarcastically teasing her.

“That’s not fair,” she utters. You love how she looks insanely hot with her hair damped. And just that fresh smell of her out the shower makes you impulsively want to fuck her. You gulp, and she looks directly into your eyes, “what are you waiting for, Babe?”

“You’re making me nervous. Okay?”

“Oh, shut up,” she chuckles, leaning in for a quick kiss on your lips. You lift Kazuha up and set her down on the cold surface of the dresser as she chuckles again. “You know this will be put to good use, right?”

“Mhm, I know. But dressers aren’t made for what we intend to do.”

“So what? Who’s stopping us?” Kazuha mischievously chuckles, and she looks so hot that it’s starting to be a problem. A good one.

“What’s with you today?” You didn’t mean to be rude, but those eyes of hers are so seductive that it’s becoming a problem. Again.

By all means, she’s both a problem and a solution. You're always torn between wanting some fun and taking things seriously, caught in the pull of her charm and the chaos she stirs.

“Were you waiting for this moment too?”

Honestly, and quite literally, you did. You knew Kazuha was on her way home after you dropped off your friend, so instead of admitting it, you decide to tease her for fun. “Maybe. Maybe not.'"

“I hate you,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“I love you,” you say, leaning in to give her a quick peck on the lips.

Kazuha pulls back just as quickly after getting a kiss, “fuck me like you mean it then,” she starts to roll up your shirt.

You chuckle, “oh, is this how it’s going to go?”

“C’mon, fuck me, Babe. What’s stopping you? I need your attention fully on me today.” If she say so, and if she’s pulling onto your shirt to come off, you might as well fuck her right on the dresser. Kazuha throws your shirt across the room as it lands on the lamp near the bed and pulls you in to meet her lips, kissing and breathing heavily. “Baby, do you even realize that you’re hard? I know you never get enough.” Maybe Kazuha got you right there. It’s not your fault when she’s naked in front of you with her legs spread open, skin so pure and soft to the touch.

“Take off my��” you say, and you didn’t have to tell her, she’s already pulling your pants down as it drop to the floor. You had no idea when she unzipped your pants.

“Too slow,” she seductively chuckles. You can feel her hand grabbing your cock. It’s always the best feeling when her soft-small hands are all over your it, like she owns it. Your breath becomes heavy and sees her spitting onto her hand to lubricate your cock.

“Push it in,” she whispers with the tip of your cock inches away from entry.

“We’re moving way too fast,” you utter, which, honestly, you’re just worried for her. Having sex was her was planned, but you didn’t think she would rush it.

“Just put it in, Babe,” she spreads her legs wider, demanding for you to get all up inside her.

“Fine, if you say so,” and you gently drove your cock inside, slow enough to get her to moan, deepest you can go in her slick pussy. And little did you know, the shower head did come in handy as a toy for her while you were gone. You hear her shallow gasps and moans. It’s nothing new, but it’s satisfying to hear her gorgeous voice whenever you’re inside her. It’s brings you joy, especially when her legs tense up as she tries to sit still on the new dresser.

You feel her arms getting tighter on the sides of your stomach, and the way Kazuha’s nails digs into your back as you kept thrusting back and forth into her pussy. There’s no need for words, you know she’s loving it, and you’re loving it, arguably more than her.

“Harder,” Kazuha moans out, trying to catch her breaths. She rests her chin on your left shoulder, and just to seduce you more, she whispers in the most erotic voice ever, “fuck me harder, Babe.”

She’s making you go insane. Your mind isn’t where it was. This woman, actually, your girlfriend knows how to push your buttons after all the naked times together. And you will fuck her as much as you mean to love her.

“Fuck,” you groan, and you’re slowly finding the sweet spot to set the pace. She’ll be taking every inch, and every drop of cum that she didn’t get today.

“Babe,” she grunts, “oh gosh—.”

“Take it,” you growl, so aroused by the way how she’s moaning right in your ear.

The dresser rocks back and forth. There’s nothing in it. It was just built hours ago, and somehow, fucking her is the first thing you do on the dresser. And while she’s moans so beautifully, her arms cling to you desperately, one wrapping around you after the other, as she struggles to get a firm grip. Kazuha can’t even get a word out her mouth. You’re so deep inside, penetrating through her slick walls.

“Zuha,” you groan and gasp, hugging her in your warm embrace, slowing down to catch your breath while hearing hers.

“Keep going, I want it,” Kazuha murmurs softly into your ear, her breath sending a tingling sensation across your skin, like the brush of a gentle breeze. “Love me. Have me. Cum in me, like you always do.”

Her words make you smile, the curve of your lips pressing gently against her neck. She can feel the warmth of your cheekbones against her skin, and though you can’t bring yourself to respond with words, the smile speaks for itself. It’s an answer more honest than anything you could say.

You breathe on her neck, and slowly, again, driving your cock in and out Kazuha for a feeling of ecstasy as she arches back and her head leans against the wall from how deep you’re inside her. She grips right onto your broad shoulders, squeezing them in rhyme with your thrust. Her gaze is filled with love and passion, pulling you deeper into the endless depths of her ocean eyes. It’s as if time has ceased to exist, leaving just the two of you in this perfect moment while the rest of the world fades away. The room feels smaller, and the silence between both of you fill with unspoken emotions. Despite the weight of it all, you feel an irresistible pull, a need to keep going, no matter how difficult it is to not cum.

You’re so into the moment as Kazuha moans her feelings out with no one to judge, and so was the look she gave you—intense, tender, and entirely unforgettable. It was something special, something that's only meant for you, carrying a depth of emotion that words could never capture. Kazuha can feel your cock throbbing, and again, you’re not stopping. It’s not an option.

“Baby,” she whimpers and gripping into your shoulders harder as she lets out a chorus of endless moans. You feel her squirming around, legs tightly wrapped around your back, cumming.

“Kazuha,” you groan, feeling the tightness of her walls not letting you go. And you kiss the underside of her jaws as she catches her breath to offer you some help with her legs on your back. It’s not looking good for you at the very least, you’re bound to cum any second by how deep she’s pulling you in harder with all her might. “Zuha,” you grunted, like it’s a last chance of her top stop and continue for longer.

She’s not stopping as you take a deep breath, knowing that you couldn’t go any further.

And so, you cum as Kazuha leans back up to hug you in her warm-loving embrace. Nothing feels better than being in her arms. That warm, fuzzy feeling of her heartbeat syncing with yours creates a comfort, as if the world melts away while your cock throbs to fill her womb.

“Kazuha,” you say again, softly whispering, yet gasping with a heavy breath. And if only you can see how she’s smiling behind your back. “We could have went longer.”

“I really wanted it,” she chuckles and hugs you in tighter. "I'm sorry."

“By the way,” you say, catching your breath, “the quality of this dresser is amazing. For now.”

“The reviews were right, at least not for what we just did. It did rock back and forth a little bit though.”

“Babe, that’s because there’s nothing inside,” you chuckle, being witty enough that she chuckles from such an obvious reasoning. There’s no response from Kazuha, other than her chuckle as the two of you hold each other while your souls are intertwined. Outside, the birds chirp, and the distant honking of cars drifts up from the street below. It’s in her arms, in the quiet of this embrace, that you begin to notice the little things that had gone unnoticed just minutes ago.

“I have to go blow-dry my hair,” she says softly, releasing you from her embrace. Her arms linger for just a moment before she pulls away.

“Need some assistance?” you say with a playful grin.

“Wait for me, I need to put on my panties,” Kazuha smiles and gently hops off the dresser. You nod and pick up your pants to put it back on. Kazuha opens the closet and grabs the first panties she sees. Neither could you stop yourself from checking her out, even if she catches you and laughs.

“Are you just putting on your panties only?” you question, sitting right front of her as she puts on her panties, one leg at a time, and up to her waist.

“Yeah, figured we can do it on the bed right after? I’m just letting you get a quick rest,” she chuckles and grabs your hand to take you to the bathroom.

“Naughty girl,” you utter, laughing along with her as you flick the bathroom light on. Kazuha grabs her hair dryer, plugs the cord in, and then hands it over to you with a sparkle in her eyes. As you shuffle through her hair with the dryer in your hand, the warmth of the air mixing with the soft rhythm of your movements, you catch her gaze in the mirror. She’s smiling, and something about her eyes lights up makes you ask, “what are you thinking about?”

“Isn’t it funny how we ended up here to dry my hair after our quick little fun?” she shyly chuckles. “Don’t you think we haven’t been doing it much lately too? I mean, we didn’t do it for five days now until today.”

You wave the hairdryer around, carefully distributing the heat, your thoughts momentarily drifting as you search for the right words. “We’ve been very busy, Zuha. Let’s understand that,” you say, the hum of the dryer filling the space between your words.

“I know,” she pouts playfully, her eyes lingering on you as she watches you dry her hair in the mirror, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. In that moment, there was nothing but the quiet intimacy you both share. “I love it when we spend time together. Just like right now,” she adds, her voice softening, the warmth between you both making the moment feel even more special.

“I love you, Kazuha,” you say, softly, yet clear enough for her to hear besides the noise of the hairdryer in the bathroom.

“I love you too,” she says, smiling and chuckling. You continue to dry her hair, your hand gently shuffling through her scalp, the steady hum of the hairdryer filling the quiet space. Despite your focus, Kazuha doesn’t take her eyes off of you, her gaze soft yet intense, as if she's studying every flicker of your expression. There's a playful tension in the air, a shared sense of comfort and curiosity, as she silently watches you, letting the moment linger.

It’s like she owes you the world, though you know she doesn’t. You took her in during her struggling times, offering her a safe place when she needed it most. What started as friendship slowly blossomed into something more, a love that was found in the quiet moments between the chaos. You both navigated the shift and now, it feels like fate—two souls who once spent a night for some comfort, now bound by something deeper, something undeniable. You struck gold in multiple places when it comes to her.

With mischievous intentions, you couldn’t help but smirk as you’re almost done drying her hair. “I dare you to turn around,” you say, turning off the hairdryer, deciding to let the rest of her hair to air dry. She only has panties on, you just have to do something about her.

Kazuha turns around to face you, just staring right into your eyes and you feel her hands sliding down to your crotch as a tease. “Should we?”

Without answering, you gently lift her onto the vanity, your hands steady as you guide her with care. As she settles, you lean in and give her a soft kiss. Kazuha digs into your pants with chuckle, not letting you have any more rest.

“Round two,” she utters with a heavy breath. "How do you want me?"

“Bent over,” and that’s all you say, firmly, a want, and a need.

Kazuha just laughs. She expected this from you. “Okay, Babe.”

“Think we should start here?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispers.

“Bend over.”

Quick and easy, it can be the best when it comes to moments like this. A start of a kiss that’s simple, yet full of meaning. Just the feeling of being together, everything else can wait.

You give her space as she hops down from the vanity to quickly bend over. As you get a glimpse of her gorgeous back, you’re already so impatient to be grabbing her by the hips and hearing her moans echo throughout the bathroom. For all the right reasons, you deserve your time with her, however you want her. And so, you drop your pants down and get closer to pull her panties to the side, grabbing your cock, then lightly slapping it on her ass before you put it in.

“Just put it in already, Sweetie,” she lightly chuckles, impatiently. And after listening to her little cute plea, you insert the tip of your cock slowly in, pushing your length in as she grips onto the marble counter.

Her moans echo, just like you wanted to, so crystal clear in the bathroom as she arches back with her eyes closed. You give her a kiss on the neck. Then clearly, another smile that she can’t hide. You love seeing her smile, it’s such a weakness when you would fuck this woman to sleep on some nights she would want it so bad.

And so, you pull her up gently in front of you, hugging her from behind with your cock still inside, not a single thrust. “We should go to the bed after,” you murmur, getting a whiff of her hair.

“I’d love that,” she whispers, heavily breathing as you push your hips against hers. You close your eyes, slowly thrusting into her again. And with your hands, you explore her chest, groping her tits, giving her nipples some flicks as she chuckles and moan at the same time. Kazuha holds onto your hand, wherever you decide to touch her body, she’ll be holding it as your hands go lower down to her clit.

“Oh my gosh, Babe,” she chuckles, swirming around in your embrace. There’s a deep breath she took, and slowly, neither can she hold herself up with the sensation you give her. "It's sensitive."

“Put your leg up,” you say, almost like a demand as she bends over again when you let her off of you and even your cock slips out when she props her left leg up onto the vanity. Your cock is drenched in cum as you insert it back in. Forget about the mess if there was any, Kazuha is fully getting your attention.

You grab onto the side of her hips, continuing to drive your cock in and out as she moans over and over. The bright lights of the bathroom shines over her body that you still can’t get enough of. Your cum leaks out down to her right leg, slowly trickling down her thighs while you shove your cock in and out, in the most passionate ways that she loves.

Moments go by, not knowing how long it really is. You pull out with your cock drenched in the creamy consistency of your own cum that was inside her. You’re so addicted to her in every way, from her body, to her heart. This nerd, sometime a sore loser at times, yet such a naughty girl is everything you want. A beautiful face, stunning body, and to the way she’s so flexible in bed makes you lose your mind.

“Get on the bed, Zuha,” you gasp, pulling out.

She quickly catches her breath, and before you can fully come back to reality, Kazuha gets down on her knees to suck on your cock without even giving you a heads up. This woman is surely yours, and neither is she going to miss out from getting a taste. She’s smiling so happily, yet so exhausted by how much love you show her, and it’s only right that she gives you the same attention.

It’s quite romantic.

“Kazuha,” you gasp again, grabbing her nape and looking down to see both your gazes meet each other.

She pulls off and licks her lips, taking in the delight that's rightfully hers. You brush her hair to see that gorgeous face of hers. Kazuha gets up and holds your hands to drag you to the bedroom. Quickly, she crawls on the bed, stopping right in the middle with her ass out for an invitation.

“Come here, Babe,” she says, laughing and having a good time with you.

You crawl on the bed from behind her as she awaits for you to insert your cock back in, and slowly, she feels your tip brushing on her clit, enough for her to softly whimper with a smile. Kazuha groans once you insert your cock inside, grunting harder the deeper you push against her ass.

“You feel so fucking good,” you groan, letting out a gasp right after, cock throbbing deep inside of her. Slowly after driving your cock in, you catch your breath, not knowing whether one more thrust could be the end. You wouldn’t want that, but to Kazuha, she won’t even complain.

“Can’t go on, Babe?” she softly says, turning back to get a look at you with a chuckle. “Should I do the honors?”

No, she shouldn’t. You know damn well that she’s going to make you cum when you see the smirk from the corner of her mouth.

“No, Zuha. I got it.”

“Should I lay down on my stomach?”

And with a mischievous smirk, you give her a gentle thrust to make her gasp while still on all fours. “I’ll tell you when you can lay down, Babe,” you softly say.

You continue to thrust as Kazuha clenches her teeth and her head hangs down, bobbing. “Yes, Baby, right there.”

You’re admiring her ass bouncing from the way you start holding onto the side of her hips. There’s no better feeling to hear her moaning and seeing her tightly gripping onto the blanket up front from the sides. You give her ass a slap, then another—a harder one, then one where Kazuha would scream out a louder moan while you continue to shove your cock deep in her pussy. And while you’re have the time of your own life, she arches even more, to the point where it’s driving you crazy, giving you the testimony of your own limits for such a view.

Let her moan all she want, and that’s what you also want. This woman is all yours. You’re going to fill her womb for the second time within a period of the day. The slickness of your own cum coating your cock in her is already motivating to keep going. You just want more of a mess to see her panties stained in cum by the next morning. And Kazuha should know who she belongs to.

“You’re such a good fucking girl,” you groan, almost growling by clenching your own teeth and giving her ass some touch of love after a spanking.

Both of you are so distracted that the bed creaks, and it’s actually unsurprising at this point where neither of you couldn’t honestly care less about it. And as she feels you pushing against her ass, you slowly trace your hands onto her back to grab her hair, looping it around your wrist. Kazuha’s facing forward, moaning and panting as you give her the treatment she’s been fiending for. The handful of the hair you grab stiffens the more you pulled her back. She’s almost looking up to the ceiling with her back arched, smiling, loving the kink.

“Babe, Ugh,” she grunts, mouth wide open to get all the air she can to take your cock.

You release her hair and gently push down onto her back, the cue for her to lay on her stomach as she slowly and smoothly props herself down with your cock still in her.

“Oh, Babe,” she softly moans, brushing her hair back and comfortably lean on her arm that’s on the pillow. “Such a romantic.”

And so, to what she doesn’t expect, you lean down, kissing her on the left shoulders, then to the right, equally giving Kazuha’s body some attention. “I know you love this position.”

“I fucking do,” she says with passion, and a smile on her face that you saw a glimpse of as you lean back up to put both your hands on her ass to spread. Kazuha’s breaths get heavy with every inch of your cock. She looks so comfortable with her eyes closed, taking deep breaths, moaning whenever your cock penetrates deeper into the creamy walls of her pussy.

You’re not giving the roughest pounding that will send her to sleep right after. This woman’s loving every second and minute of your cock. And by the amount of time passed by, you’ve lost track all because of her.

“Kazuha,” you groan, deciding to get closer as you lean down to her ears with the intentions of making her heart flutter, “Baby.”

Again, she smiles without hesitation, enjoy the romance, so comfortably lying down and feeling your cock throbbing more and more between her tight walls. You’re reaching your limit at this point, and you’ve done enough that she’s enjoying the moment being shared.

So, without much thought, and because of your desire to fill her womb every chance you get, you cum, pressing your hips against her ass, mashing your cock so deep that she lets out a quick whimper. Kazuha feels your cock throbbing, pulsating, so much of your warm, sticky cum being dumped in her that makes her so happy. You crash down and press against her body while the two of you catch your breaths. And there’s not a single moment that both your smiles fade away.

Slowly, and even gently, you pull out after giving her a kiss on her cheek and lay right beside her. Kazuha gets up on her knees and with a chuckle, she crawls to your cock. She licks the tip, then down the sides to taste the remaining cum that’s left for her. “Should I wake you up like this tomorrow morning?”

With a smile, you’ll never say no this. “Best way to wake me up.”

“That’s for sure,” she smirks, wiping the cum off her lips with her tongue. “By the way, I have to get on a call for a project in an hour.”

“I’ll be out the bedroom for you to focus when the time comes.”

Kazuha gets up and goes to the bathroom to turn on the faucet. “You don’t have to, Babe. But what should we do tomorrow? It’s the weekend.”

“I don’t know? Maybe laundry and shopping? We do need groceries.”

She turns off the faucet and picks up your pants that was left in the bathroom to give it back to you. “It’s my turn to pay, remember?”

“And I can see the unnecessary stuff that you’ll buy, Zuha.” you say, reaching for your pants from her hands.

“I promise that I won’t buy too much,” then she murmurs quickly, “it would be nice if you buy me a promise ring.”

“A what?” you say, which you didn’t catch the part she murmured.

Kazuha laughs, “never mind.”

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is type A and suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

[les4elliewilliams]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫.

⭑.ᐟ｡𖦹°‧ warnings . . . approximately 7k words, smut with plot, cheating, older!ellie (reader is 23), chef!ellie, body hair, fingering/oral (e!receiving), no use of y/n, food play, ellie drinks coffee in this one :p 𐔌.author's note.ᐟ ֹ₊꒱ first post of the year!!! muahahaha (totally not proofread :p) HAPPY NEW YEARRR!!! i just wanted to take a moment to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to each and every one of you who reads and interacts with my writings/posts in general. it truly means the world to me. :3 i also wanted to let my moots know that i love you all, y'all are so funny and cool, and i appreciate you more than you know. even if we haven’t interacted much, just know i’m lowkey stalking your blogs (in admiration, ofc… i’m definitely not hiding in your basement as you’re reading this)

It wasn’t supposed to go this far. You’d never planned to walk this road, never imagined the day you’d become someone like this. A homewrecker, or whatever the fuck people called it. This wasn’t you, not really. At least, that’s what you told yourself. 

But as you kneeled before the Ellie fucking Williams, none of that mattered. Your soft hands held on to her hips with a fervent grip, almost as if your life depended on it, tongue dragging up her dripping heat, collecting every bit of that sweet, sticky honey from the slit of her soaked pussy to the carved ridges of her toned abs. She was a masterpiece, sculpted by Michelangelo himself, and you were hungry for her essence, desperate to savor every inch she had to offer. No matter how many times you have done this before, it never gets old—she never gets old.

Golden syrup trickled from the curve of her perky breasts, pooling in the valley between them before rolling down to her hardened nipples. You couldn’t just ignore them, couldn’t leave them standing there neglected. Slowly, deliberately, you made your way up, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, your mouth worshiping her as she deserved. She whimpered—soft, breathy, almost vulnerable.

You’d done that. You made her sound like that.

But Ellie wasn’t one for patience, not in the kitchen, nor in a different context. That was her thing—impatience, control—making things happen whenever she wanted it. Her calloused hand gripped your shoulder, pushing you back down with the kind of force that sent a jolt straight through you.

“Get me off, like you always do, will ya?” her voice rasp and lazy, dripping with authority. 

You looked up at her, smirking despite your knees throbbing from the cold tile beneath you, bruises blooming on your skin like pretty violets, a dark reminder of how many times you’d been down here like this lately. “Yes, chef.” 

You didn’t break eye contact as you sank lower, lashes fluttering, bambi-eyed and eager. Ellie always had this power over you, this hold that went deeper than lust. You admired her. You wanted her job, her life, her. You wanted to be her, and fuck, you wanted to be with her, too. But that was a dream too big for the likes of you, and you knew it.

So for now, you gave her what she wanted, what she demanded, losing yourself in her, the scent of her, the taste of her. Your tongue laid flat and ready, exposed for her, and she didn’t waste a second. Instinct took over as her hips bucked against your pretty face, her throbbing, greedy clit grinding against the wet muscle of your tongue. Her desperation only fueled you, and as her heat consumed you, your breath hitched. Your free hand slid down, pressing against your own aching core, rubbing yourself through your soaked panties while you devoured her.

In minutes, you were a wreck. Hair tangled and wild, her hands yanking at it with no care for gentleness. She didn’t give a single fuck if she was hurting you—not now, not ever. That’s just how she was, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way. The pain only made you hungrier, needier, leaving you gasping for more.

“God,” she gasped, her voice breathless, “She doesn’t do it like you do.”

Your heart skipped, your cheeks flushed, and you couldn’t stop yourself from humming proudly against her. The vibrations made her hips jerk, her clit twitching against your warm tongue as you worked on her with even more determination. Your fingers moved faster, circling your swollen bud through the drenched fabric of your panties. The soft moans that escaped your throat only made her rougher, fingers digging into your scalp, pulling you closer as she chased her release.

“Fuck…” she cursed, her voice breaking as her head tilted back, her eyes fluttering shut. She was gone, completely lost in what you were giving her. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

The words hit like a shot of adrenaline, causing a fluttery, erratic sensation to erupt in your stomach. You sucked harder, more hungrily, her juices dripping down your chin and mixing with your spit, your tongue lapping it all up like you couldn’t get enough.

A low moan rumbled from your chest as you got more of her taste, vibrating against her clit and making her cry out in return. Her toned thigh tightened around your head, pulling you impossibly closer. You could barely breathe, your nose buried in her trimmed, reddish bush, but you didn’t care. Her other hand released its grip on the steel counter behind her, letting her back fully press against it to seek steady support while she trapped her stiff nipple between her fongers. Each calculated motion you made left her gasping, her shallow breaths hitching as if she were on the verge of losing control.

Your fingers slipped past the waistband of your white panties, eagerly teasing your slit before pushing them into your pulsating walls without wasting a second more. You were too wet, too sensitive, and way too horny to be patient, couldn’t wait until she came to feel good. You winced slightly, stifling a soft mewl as you sank them deeper and deeper.

She noticed, of course, she did. “What a fucking slut you are,” she chuckled, her voice a breathless mix of amusement and disbelief. Her hips ground impatiently against your mouth, her grip on your damaged hair tightening to the point of pain. “Just like that,” she gasped, her head tilting back again as her body tensed. “I’m close already.”

You couldn’t stop a giddy chuckle to slip past your lips. The sound was soft, playful, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Her head snapped downward, her brows furrowing in confusion as her gaze locked onto yours.

“Something funny?” she asked, her voice sharp despite the breathlessness.

“What, your wife doesn’t touch you at all?” you taunted, your voice laced with mock innocence as you pulled back just enough to meet her hooded gaze.

“She does,” Ellie shot back almost instantly, her voice sharp and defensive. But her actions betrayed her words as her hand gripped the back of your head, forcing you down again with the kind of need that spoke volumes. She was selfish about it, pressing herself against you without hesitation, demanding more of you like she always did.

You gave in, plunging two fingers deep inside her, curling them just right, finding that sweet spot that made her body restless and her moans grow louder. Your mouth stayed busy, lips and tongue working on her rose nub in tandem, sucking and flicking in rhythm with the movement of your hand. Her body was tight, trembling under your touch, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride knowing you were the one making her feel like this—pulling sounds from her that her wife hadn’t in years. It was wrong, but Ellie couldn’t bring herself to stop. Not with the way your fingers worked inside her, not with the way your tongue seemed to know exactly what she needed. 

You looked up at her briefly, catching the flicker of something in her eyes—guilt, maybe, or shame—but it was quickly replaced by hunger as her fingers tightened in your once-soft hair. “Don’t stop,” she rasped, her voice growing desperate. And you didn’t.

How could you sleep with another woman’s wife? The thought lingered in the corners of your mind like a restless echo of a whisper, making you feel guilty and disgusting, until your gaze landed on her again, and suddenly, the guilt felt distant, almost irrelevant, like it was never there to begin with.

Even a blind person would succumb to her allure, you told yourself, as if that excused anything. That charisma of hers—it wasn’t just a pull. It was a wicked spell that left you weak in the knees. The world around you always seemed to fade into a hazy blur as she walked into the room, her presence overwhelming and intoxicating. Self respect? It vanished the moment her soft lips crashed against yours, leaving you drowning in the pounding of your heart and your feelings for her.

Maybe it was her beauty, effortless and unassuming, the kind that seemed to defy time itself. She wore it effortlessly, as if time itself had conspired in her favor. She looked fresh, radiant even, no matter her age. Thirty-six. Was that too old for you? Surely not. There were worse gaps out there, you reasoned, though even the thought of reasoning felt ridiculous when it came to her. She made rationality crumble, made you question things you never had before.

Ellie hadn’t always been this person, this version of herself that took and took without restraint. She hated it, hated the way she’d sunk so low, but she couldn’t stop. Not when it came to you. She’d had plenty of pretty girls come and go in her kitchen, of every age, bright-eyed and eager to prove themselves. But none of them had caught her attention the way you did. There was something about you that made her stomach twist and her chest flutter in ways she didn’t want to admit.

 It made her feel disgusting.

The guilt clung to her like a parasite, heavy and suffocating, consuming her at night as she lay next to Dina. Sweet, devoted Dina, who didn’t deserve any of this. Dina, who kissed Ellie goodnight with the same tenderness she had ever since high school, who still looked at her with love in her eyes, even though Ellie knew she didn’t deserve it.

But the truth was undeniable. Dina didn’t make her happy anymore. Maybe it wasn’t even Dina’s fault, maybe the problem was Ellie herself. Years of love, years of marriage, and yet something had changed. Dina was steady, reliable, safe. But safe had grown boring. Too domestic, too… predictable.

Then you walked into her restaurant.

Ellie remembered that day like it had been etched into her memory with a hot iron. You had this nervous energy about you, your manicured hands trembling slightly even as you tried to project confidence. It was endearing the way you squared your shoulders and forced a smile despite how jittery you clearly felt. Ellie couldn’t take her eyes off you.

Your nerves were a tangled mess, a whirlwind of excitement and dread swirling in your chest. Meeting someone you had admired for years was thrilling, yes, but it was also overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected. Your love for cooking had always been an anchor in your life, a passion ignited by your dad—a man whose laughter echoed in every inch of the house on cozy Sunday afternoons, whose hands expertly kneaded dough or seasoned a sauce with precision and care. Those moments were your happiest memories, fragments of a simpler time.

When he passed, it felt like a part of you went with him. Alongside the grief came a determination that burned quietly within you. You owed it to him, you told yourself. You had to carry on his passion, keep alive all the little tricks and lessons he had passed down. He never got the chance to go to a culinary school, never had the means to chase the dream he so clearly deserved. You’d been luckier. You had opportunities he could only ever dream of, and for that, you couldn’t complain.

However, somewhere along the way, doubt began to creep in.

It was subtle at first—a quiet voice in the chambers of your mind that questioned if you were truly good enough. That voice grew louder with time, eating away your confidence. Even after you graduated from a prestigious culinary school—one that rarely opened its doors to just anyone—you couldn’t shake the feeling that others were better. 

More talented. More deserving.

Still, you pushed forward. Giving up wasn’t an option, not after everything you’d invested: all your savings, grueling hours of study, sleepless nights, sacrifices you had made, and the moments you had teetered on the edge of failure, only to claw your way back. Quitting now would mean throwing all of that away. Worse, it would mean letting down the one person whose opinion mattered most to you.

How would your dad react if he were still here? Would he understand your struggles, or would he shake his head in disappointment? Those unanswered questions haunted you late at night, swirling endlessly in your mind as you tossed and turned in your bed. Would he be proud of the path you had taken? Or would he see your insecurities as a weakness?

You didn’t know. You might never know. Yet that was part of what kept you going, clinging to the hope that, somehow, all of this would be worth it.

When your culinary school recommended Ellie Williams’ restaurant for an apprenticeship, your heart nearly stopped. You couldn’t afford not to say yes, but that didn’t stop the nerves from turning your stomach inside out. She was a legend, known for her perfectionism, innate talent, and the kind of reputation that inspired both awe and fear. She wasn’t just a great chef. She was the chef, and to top it all off, she’d walked the same halls at your school. Knowing she had started where you were now gave you hope, but it also set the bar impossibly high.

Ellie was why you chose that school in the first place, and now you were walking into her domain, hoping you wouldn’t screw it all up.The interview wasn’t something you could avoid, no matter how much you wanted to. Everything about her was intimidating—the stories of her strictness, her infamous zero-tolerance policy for mistakes, and her disdain for laziness in any form. All of it left you shitting your pants in anticipation.

The moment she stepped into the office a waitress had told you to wait in, the air felt like it had shifted, and the chatter of the bustling restaurant beyond the door suddenly muted. She carried herself with confidence, the intimidating kind. Her auburn hair was pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a few rebellious strands framing her freckled face. The years had carved faint lines into the corners of her olive eyes, but they only added to her beauty. Her gaze was piercing, the type that made you feel stripped bare with just one glance.

She wore her chef’s jacket open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms adorned with faint scars and a faded tattoo. Her stance was casual but strong, her crossed arms flexing toned muscles beneath the freckled skin. She looked like someone who had worked for everything she had and who wasn’t afraid to call you out if you hadn’t done the same.

The interview itself was mercilessly brief. Ellie didn’t waste time, her words were stern and straight to the point. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable except for the slight downturn of her lips. It wasn’t just that she looked unimpressed, it was as if she had already decided you had something to prove.

Her voice cut through the silence with a rasp that spoke of too many late nights and maybe one too many cigarettes in her youth. “I’m not here to hold anyone’s hand,” she began, “And I don’t give out praise for showing up. I want to know why you think you can keep up here when most fresh-out-of-school types run for the door the second they realize what I expect.”

You stumbled over your words at first, her intensity throwing you off balance. Her stormy green eyes stayed locked on you the entire time, dissecting every word that left your mouth. You couldn’t help but notice the faint quirk of her brow, a hidden challenge laying in its arch, daring you to falter.

When you finished answering, her expression didn’t change, her arms still crossed in that stance that screamed impatience, like she had better things to do. She let the silence stretch, as if weighing your every word. Finally, she nodded, just once, curt and decisive, before standing.

Your posture straightened awkwardly, every muscle stiff as you tried to hold her gaze. You didn’t want to look nervous, not to her. Ellie Williams wasn’t the kind of person who tolerated insecurity, and the last thing you wanted was to give her the impression that you didn’t know what you were doing.

“I’ll give you a week,” The older woman conceded, “A trial. During that time, you’ll work every shift I tell you to—no complaints. If I think you’re slacking even once, you’re out. Understood?”

Anxiety coursing through you at her words, the pressure settling on your shoulders like a lead apron. You nodded, swallowing your nerves and summoning every ounce of determination you had left. “Understood, Chef.”

“Good.”

Ellie pushed herself off the desk, her hand extended toward you, and for a second, you froze. When you finally reached out, your fingers met hers—rough, calloused, worn down by years of relentless labor in kitchens like this one. Her grip was firm and commanding, her knuckles marked with tiny cracks and the faded scars of burns long since healed. You couldn’t help but notice how her hand lingered just a second too long, enough for you to feel the weight of her scrutiny.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, “Don’t disappoint me.” 

“I won’t,” you promised, your voice cracking slightly, betraying how much you wanted to sound confident.

Easier said than done.

The week passed in a blur. Each day felt like a battle that tested you to your limits. The kitchen wasn't just hectic; it was hell. A scorching inferno of non-stop work. Pans clattered, oil sizzled, and the air seemed perpetually thick with heat and the aroma of garlic and herbs. Voices shouted over the din, and orders barked with urgency. The counters gleamed under the lights, every inch of the space immaculately polished, ready for Ellie’s scrutinizing eyes to find fault in it.

And find fault she did.

It was like suddenly, you couldn’t hold a knife to save your life. Ellie would swoop in, catching you mid-slice with a firm, “Stop—just stop for a second.” Her voice cut through the noise, causing the chattering to quiet down. Suddenly, all eyes were on you. It felt so humiliating. “Are you a chef, or are you a five-year-old holding a knife for the first time?” She’d stand there, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked, watching you squirm. You tried to steady your hands, gripping the knife tighter, and all you got was a scoff, a look that made your stomach twist.

Then it was the mess. “Look at this mess! You think I’m running a playground here?” The older woman would gesture around your station, eyebrows pinched, lips in a tight, judgmental line. “Clean as you go, or you’re out of my kitchen.” There was no leniency. Her gaze was like a hawk’s, sharp and all-seeing. The second you moved a dish or reached for a towel, her eyes were back on you, always expecting you to fail.

And food presentation? Forget it. “Did I ask for a food explosion?” She’d glance at the plate you’d put together, her mouth twitching in that grimace that made you feel about three inches tall. “Plates come out looking perfect, not like someone took a bite out of them before they left the kitchen. This isn’t cafeteria food; it’s a reflection of our work—my work. Start over.”

Every mistake felt magnified, like each misstep was some personal insult to her craft. One evening, she caught you hesitating by the stove, trying to balance the pan with a little too much caution. 

“What are you afraid of, a little fire?” She stepped up, snatching the pan from your hand and demonstrating with quick, fluid movements, flames licking up as she seared the dish. “If you can’t handle a hot pan, you’re not going to last five minutes here. Heat means flavor—no hesitation. Either own it, or let someone else do it who actually knows what they’re doing.”

Each critique came hard and fast, like she was testing just how much you could take before breaking. But you’d see that flash in her eyes, just for a second, when you corrected yourself or caught her rhythm without her saying a word—a glint of approval, almost pride, though she’d never admit it. That kitchen was hell, and Ellie was the one lighting the fire.

Gradually, you grew on her in ways Ellie refused to acknowledge. At first, it was your dedication that caught her attention. You were so damn passionate, throwing yourself into every task with a fire she hadn’t seen in years, not even in herself anymore. It reminded her of how she used to feel about cooking, back when it wasn’t just a job, back when she wasn’t doing it for anyone but for herself. A sparkle that had been her whole world until the sparkle began to fade.

That same drive she once held was mirrored in you, and it hooked her in a way she didn’t let you see.

At first, it was harmless, or at least, she told herself it was. Viridescent eyes would wander absentmindedly while you worked over the stoves, catching the way you moved, the confidence in your hands, and the soft furrow in your brow when you were deep in concentration. It wasn’t even intentional at first, just a passing glance, a stray thought. Then she noticed the way her gaze lingered longer each time, how her mind wandered just a little too far. And once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

She made sure you never noticed. Ellie was good at that—at control, at holding the reins so tight they left marks in her palms. Whenever you turned her way, she’d tear her eyes away before you could catch her looking, busying herself with anything else. But there was no denying the way her focus shifted, no longer just assessing your technique or critiquing your timing. Her gaze followed you for other reasons now. The curve of your body in those faded denim jeans seemed to pull at her attention no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, and every time she brushed past you, the accidental touch of her hand against yours sent a spark up her arm that she couldn’t shake.

Still, she kept herself professional. She corrected you like she corrected everyone else, keeping her harsh tone and her words blunt. You weren’t special, she told herself. You couldn’t be. And yet, when her fingers lingered a second too long while adjusting your grip on a knife or guiding your hand to the perfect spot on the cutting board, she felt the edges of her resolve begin to fray.

Then came the night that changed everything.

The last customer had left, the dining area was quiet except for the faint buzz of the lights. The rest of the crew had clocked out and gone home, leaving you alone in the kitchen, scrubbing at a caramel spill that had hardened into the countertop like cement—a clumsy incident of yours. Your movements were hurried, and your brows knit together in frustration as you scraped at the sticky mess.

Ellie stayed behind, like she often did, overseeing the final cleanup before heading home to Dina. The thought was always there, hovering at the back of her mind like a shadow, but tonight, it felt distant, blurred. She stood at the far end of the counter, arms crossed, her gaze glued on you without even realizing it.

Something about the way you moved hypnotized her. The way your lower lip caught between your teeth, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead from the heat of the kitchen, the fluid way your body bent and shifted—it all made her stomach twist in ways she hadn’t felt in years. You were stunning, achingly so, and the red-brown-haired woman couldn’t stop herself from noticing every little detail about you.

Her chest tightened as she battled the strange, unwelcome flutter deep in her gut. It wasn’t just attraction—it was something more insidious, something that made her feel both exhilarated and ashamed. She didn’t feel this way when she went home to Dina anymore. She hadn’t for a long time.

Ellie furrowed her brow, her thoughts an unsteady swirl as she watched you wipe at the counter, your features etched with determination. She told herself to leave, to walk out and go home, but her boots stayed rooted to the floor. 

When you finally finished and prepared to leave, you took a deep breath, the familiar wave of intrusive, overthinking thoughts gnawing at your self-esteem all over again. You steeled yourself, fighting the inner tension, before turning toward Ellie. She was focused, double-checking a few final things, but your stomach twisted with nerves. You couldn’t let her walk out without asking, without knowing. It might have seemed pathetic, but you needed the truth, needed to know if you’d wasted your time, if you should’ve just walked away and taken a job at McDonald’s instead. Because if that was all you were capable of, then why bother aiming higher?

“Can I ask you something?” you ventured, stopping the older woman in her tracks. Your voice carried a note of hesitation, the vulnerability in it impossible to miss.

Ellie paused, glancing over her shoulder before turning fully toward you. She wiped her hands on the apron snug around her waist, her expression shifting from its usual intensity to something softer. “Sure,” she uttered, curiosity flashing in those green eyes.

You hesitated for a beat, your fingers nervously brushing over the edge of the counter. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Am I completely helpless? Like… am I trash?”

The insecurity in your voice hung in her ears, and for a moment, Ellie just stared at you, her mouth tightening as the question sank in. Something about the way you stood there—your shoulders slightly hunched, your gaze fixed somewhere below hers, bracing yourself for the worst—tugged at her chest.

She recalled that feeling all too vividly. The nights spent doubting herself, the pit in her stomach as she questioned if she was good enough to stand in a kitchen like this. It was a memory she thought she’d buried, but now it resurfaced in the form of you—young, insecure, and so painfully earnest.

“No,” Ellie reassured, her voice was firm but not unkind. She stepped closer, her apron swaying slightly as she moved, and her eyes softened into something warmer, a nuance you had never seen before in those irises. “You’re not trash. You just… need time to find your footing. Everyone starts somewhere, and I’ve seen enough to know you’ve got more potential than you give yourself credit for.”

You weren’t helpless. You were just trying to figure it all out, and she couldn’t help but see herself in you, more than she cared to admit.

It wasn’t then that things started between you two. Not that night. But exactly a week later, it began.

It happened during a chaotic morning when you accidentally nicked your finger while chopping vegetables. The cut wasn’t deep, but the sight of blood had you panicking. Ellie had swept in with a surprising amount of care, guiding you to her office to patch you up and calm you down.

She hadn’t pictured you as the panicking type—self-assured was more the image you projected—but that moment revealed something else entirely. You were sweeter than you let on, a little naive, even, but there was a warmth to you, a vibrancy she hadn’t realized was there.

At first, it was innocent enough. A lingering touch as she wrapped the bandage around your finger. Then came the late nights in the kitchen, staying behind to help her with something small or lingering because she had promised to teach you a few of her tricks, always claiming you were the only one worth teaching. 

Initially, it felt special, as if you were being singled out for something significant. You didn’t realize that those excuses were designed to keep you there longer than anyone else. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. Ellie was subtle and calculated in her approach, so it never occurred to you that she might be making a move—especially with a whole wife waiting for her at home.

Ellie knew what she was doing, she always did. Once you had let her see the cracks in your confidence, the way you second guessed yourself, she used it to her advantage. Whenever you vented about your insecurities or the weight of expectations, she was there, whispering reassurances in that husky voice of hers. Her praise was addictive, and you found yourself craving it more than you’d ever admit.

Before long, the lines began to blur. Innocent late-night conversations with a married woman gradually evolved into deep discussions over shitty after-hours coffee as you sat on cracked stools in the empty kitchen of her restaurant, the smell of grease still lingering in the air. She’d vent about her wife, about how distant things had gotten, how they barely spoke unless it was to fight. All you’d do was nod, offering words of comfort because that’s all it was supposed to be. Comfort. But then her hand brushed yours one night, and everything started spiraling.

Those comforting touches soon escalated into stolen kisses in her office, the kind that left you breathless. Her hands explored you sinfully, and she couldn’t get enough. Then you’d find yourself waiting for everyone to pack up and leave, your heart thrumming in your chest like never before. For the lights to dim, and the sound of keys to jingle when Ellie locked the front door, making sure to keep any potential intruders out. When the coast was finally clear, she’d be on you, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Her lips, as soft as petals of a blooming rose, would crash into yours like she’d been starving for it, her hands rough and desperate, would shamelessly yank at your shirt, your pants, anything that was in the way.

It was always messy. Messy and quick, like you didn’t have time to think about what the hell you were doing—perhaps because she didn’t want to think about it, not before, not during, and certainly not after. She’d leave the moment it was over as if it had never happened, leaving you with only the echoes of what had happened. She’d shove you up against the cold steel of the prep table, and it’d be so fucking wrong but so fucking good all at once. Her lips, her hands, her voice—it was addictive. The way she whispered filthy things in your ear completely contrasted the sweet nothings she used to talk her way into your bed.

The only other sounds were the occasional car passing by outside and your obscene whimpers, loud and unrestrained as she shoved her fingers deep inside your cunt. She liked it that way, liked seeing you lose control while she stayed so composed. Her wedding band glistened under the low kitchen light, covered in your juices, the gold stained with the sin of what you both knew shouldn’t be doing.

It wasn’t love, not really. Or maybe it was, in some twisted, fucked up way. Whatever it was, it kept you coming back.

Maybe it was because of the way she looked at you as if you were a risk worth taking—it made you feel invincible. Special. Because she had chosen you, of all the girls that worked for her. She hadn’t even chosen her wife, Dina, who waited at home every night as she fucked you roughly on the kitchen counters, bending you over the surface as your hard nipples pressed against the cold metal and her fingers plunged deeper into you. That was enough to make you dumbly believe she couldn’t live without you, that she’d be willing to leave Dina for you.

It was in those moments that you felt like you were her everything.

After six long, agonizing months, the truth hit you in the back of the head like a ton of bricks—you weren’t special.

You weren’t the one she picked. You were just another victim of her lies. She was just that—a cheater. And just like every other cheater, she promised you love and loyalty only to pull the rug from beneath you when you least expected it. 

Your heart dropped when you saw Dina walk into the restaurant, bouquet in hand, her son clutching her hand like a lifeline. It felt like the world spun too fast, and all you could do was stare as she sauntered into the kitchen, greeting everyone with that perfect, beaming smile of hers.

And then Ellie—your Ellie, the one who made you believe in something real—just kissed her. Not a quick peck, but a real kiss. One that felt too familiar. A kiss that made you sick, made your stomach churn like you had swallowed rusty nails. You could hear their voices, muffled through the noise of the restaurant, but the words were clear as day. Trivial shit. Talking about their son. Pet names. Casual chatter, the kind that could’ve been any couple. But it wasn’t supposed to be them. Not when Ellie had kissed you like you were the fucking air she needed to breathe, like her wife had failed her in ways you couldn’t even begin to understand. Ellie kissed you with that desperate hunger, like she was starved for something real, and you naively fell for it.

When the auburn haired woman looked back at you, for a split second, everything froze. She saw the pain hiding behind your strained, faint smile, the hurt you were barely managing to mask. Her face went pale, and then, like a fucking coward, she ditched her wife, brushing her off with some lame excuse about being too busy. You saw the fear of being caught. The guilt. The shame. All of it etched in her face, and you hated her for it.

You confronted her, demanded answers, tried to make sense of the lies she’d spun to you for months. But she stuck to her story, every word coming out of her mouth an excuse to protect herself. “It’s not like that, it’s all a facade. She’s not like this at home.” Fucking bullshit. Dina was the perfect wife. The kind of woman anyone would kill to have by their side. Ellie was the fucking problem. She couldn’t stay away from things she shouldn’t want—you. She never could.

She convinced you, promised you she would leave Dina, that one day, it would be just the two of you. But when that night came—the night you spent together, tangled up in sweat and passion—it was the end, one you never knew was coming. You were still panting, your heart pounding, when she rolled off of you.

“Babe, where’re you going?” You croaked, your voice strained and filled with disappointment. Your arm reached out slowly, but she was quicker, already perched on the edge of the bed, ready to up and leave. You could hardly keep yourself together as she pulled on her clothes.

“Home. To Dina.” The words fell from her lips so casually, as if they didn’t tear you apart to hear them, as if the aftermath of your activities wasn’t still gripping your chest, stealing your breath. You propped yourself up, your hair a tangled mess clinging to your sweaty forehead, forcing a playful expression, masking the pain inside you with a fake pout.

“Five more minutes? Where’s my aftercare?” You hoped your teasing would soften the moment, maybe make her cave the way she always did. It was a little game you’d played, and it usually worked. 

In return, she dropped a whole bomb on you that made your chest tighten painfully and your stomach sink, “Look, we can’t keep doing this.” Her back was to you, her muscles flexing as she reached down for the rest of her clothes, the soft moonlight casting a faint glow over her freckled skin, leaving you drowning in the silence that followed.

“What?” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. Your eyes trailed over her back, over the red scratches you’d left there in the heat of it all, unable to comprehend how things had turned upside down so fucking fast.

“You heard me.” Her voice grew colder all of the sudden. “I have a wife, and I’m not gonna divorce her, no matter how bad things are.” She sounded so final, like her decision was set in stone and nothing would sway her.

You tried everything. You begged her, your voice breaking as you told her to stay, to not walk out of your life just like that. You yelled, you cried, you threw every last ounce of yourself into making her see what you two had, what she was throwing away. Nothing worked. She still left. 

It didn’t just end there. She had one more kick to land. A week later, she fired you.

Fired you.

She called you into her office, and just when you thought she was about to offer even a shred of compassion, there was another cold punch to the gut. She handed you a card with a number on it, and you stared at it, bile rising in your throat. As if everything you two had could be wrapped up in a neat little package with a goodbye card like you were nothing more than some evidence she needed to get rid of in order to clean her conscience and carry on with her life like you never happened.

“What’s this?” You had questioned, confused, pissed off by the lack of any emotion in the exchange.

“Another restaurant that would much appreciate your devotion. She’s my friend and—” she kept going, but you couldn’t hear it anymore. The more she spoke, the more you felt the anger boil inside, hot and suffocating. You couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Are you firing me?” you snapped as the realization hit you harder than it should’ve. You’d fucking hated this job, she made you hate it, but it had been the best thing that ever happened to you. And Ellie knew that, she knew how much it meant to you. She simply couldn’t stand to look at you anymore. Guilt had started eating away at her—after six months of sleeping with you, no less. 

Ridiculous.

“No, my friend Abby told me she needs more—” She tried to bullshit her way out, but you saw right through it. She sighed, frustration in her voice as she planted her hands on her hips, looking down at the floor, avoiding your gaze like the coward she was. “Yes. I’m firing you,” she finally admitted, cutting through her own bullshit.

“Is it because of—”

“Yes.” She confirmed, not even letting you finish the question.

“Wow.” You blinked at her, the words heavy in your mouth, disbelief written all over your face. You barely managed a faint frown, feeling your insides twist. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stomped out of her office, ripping your apron off like you were shedding the last bit of dignity you had left.

That’s what led you here. Sitting in your car, parked in front of Ellie’s house—this massive, gaudy mansion that felt like a fucking slap in the face. Too perfect, too shiny, too fucking out of reach for someone like you. Your fingers dug into the steering wheel, gripping it as if you wanted to rip it apart, your eyes locked on Dina’s silhouette as she paced back and forth behind the windows. Meanwhile, Ellie was still at work, living her life as if nothing had happened, while you were left drowning in your stupid, fucking choices. Only because you fell for her words, her kisses, her promises.

She couldn’t just ruin your life and walk away without consequences. No, you wouldn’t let her get away with this shit. You felt like a goddamn homewrecker, not only because you had slept with a married woman, but because of what you were about to do now. 

Your hand hovered over the doorbell, your fingers shaking as you tried to convince yourself this wasn’t a mistake. 

It was too late to back out.

The seconds dragged on like hours before she appeared. Dina, standing there at the door with that look on her face—confused, curious, like she was trying to place you before she realized she had never seen you before.

“Sorry? Do I know you?” Her voice was soft, too soft, as if it was meant for someone who had slept with her wife. Those warm, brown eyes staring back at you made you feel like the lowest piece of scum, causing your words to catch in your throat, tangled and desperate. It was as though they were trying to strangle you from the inside.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything, sweetie?” Her tone shifted, softening as she noticed the panic clouding your eyes, the tremble that gripped your body. But no amount of softness could quell the scorching anger inside you. You wanted to throw it all out—the truth. The ugly truth.

Before you could even utter a word, her son appeared from behind her, his small hands holding up a drawing, pride beaming from his small face. “Mommy, look!” His innocent, excited tone cut through you, “Can’t wait to show mama, too.”

Dina gently hushed him, running her fingers through his brown hair, and your eyes locked on the ring glinting on her finger. Your gaze lingered on Dina for a moment before drifting to the family photos adorning the wall behind the woman. Some captured small trips, others moments on the beach, while a few were wedding and baby pictures. Then, your eyes returned to the child’s innocent face, his tiny hand clutching the drawing—it made something inside you crack, without a warning.

You swallowed hard as you blinked, fighting to compose yourself.

“Sorry, I was looking for... Jake. I must’ve gotten the wrong address.”

[helenisaweirdo]

the small bundle covered in blankets felt heavy in kaiser’s hands. kaiser was by no means weak in; but when the previously crying baby was coaxed by your exhausted voice to sleep, millions of doubts weighed down on kaiser—even heavier than the weight of his father’s hands on kaiser’s neck when he was a child.

“i think she’s fond of you. she must have heard those conversations you had with her when she was still in my stomach.”

your small, almost inaudible voice brought your husband out of his trance. the soft blonde hair peeking out of the pale blue beanie—the hair most definitely being inherited from kaiser—were like golden rays of sun. kaiser looked down at you, sitting down on the bed you were currently lying down. kaiser moved his gaze to his daughter, who slept peacefully.

“i don’t know,” he swallowed, a tattooed hand gently caressing his daughter’s cheek. “am i…really cut out to be a father? what if i become just like him? what if i accidentally hurt her just like that piece of scum did with me? what if she hates me? what if—“

your eyes soften, remembering the days in your childhood with kaiser, when he was always playing with the stray dogs while soot and bruises, and sometimes even blood, ornamented his body. you’ll never forget the days when you were both 14, when he finally told you; his father’s treatment of him, his father’s constant drinking, how his mother left him, and how his goal was just…to be loved.

and that’s when you realized: he had no home—no an emotional one, at least. a boy who was never taught manners or how to survive or how to properly speak, a boy who was never taught what was good for him and what was bad for him. and he never even went to school either until bastard münchen taught classes.

you reached forward to reach his hand, kaiser once against moving his glance to you. “michael, you won’t. i know you won’t. you’re not him, michael. you’re you. and unlike when you were growing up, i won’t leave you or our daughter. ever.” you brought his tattooed hand up to your lips. “it’ll be hard, but im sure it will all turn out okay, michael.”

and suddenly kaiser feels a sting, tears beginning to pool at the brim of his eyes as his chest tightens. damn it, he didn’t even cry during your delivery…but when the two most important women—no, people, in his life are right in front of him, one of them looking at him like he’s the most precious treasure in the world, how could he not be vulnerable?

kaiser takes your hands and placed it on his chest—right where his heart is. he runs his thumb over the cool surface of your wedding ring on your finger, his daughter seemingly beginning to wake up, though still quiet.

“thank you for being in my life. i love you.”

———

to anyone who says “ooc” “kaiser would never do this” etc,

lemme just remind you that kaiser has stated MULTIPLE TIMES throughout the bastard münchen vs PXG match that his goal was just to be loved. another thing is that in kaiser’s official character profile (from the egoist bible), his type is described as “someone who’s beautiful, smart, and full of love”

(if anyone says “omg ness is literally his type” in the comments then im actually going to scream because i hate kainess with a passion. it’s so toxic and kaiser literally sees ness as a dog and ness’ so-called “feelings” for kaiser is just a result of manipulation. plus, ness doesn’t actually match kaiser’s type. ness is smart, yes, but ness has never been stated to be good looking in any way shape or form. in fact, judging from ness’ backstory, he might even be canonically ugly. plus, ness doesn’t ACTUALLY love kaiser. again, it’s just “feelings” that began to form from manipulation.)

[melminli]

Ddakji Man

summery - you were always struggling to make ends meet, despite having three separate jobs and you doubted that that would ever change. it felt like you were working out of your own casket and it would probably be more sustainable to invest in one at this point.

pairing: (gong yoo/ji-cheol) the salesman x fem. reader

word count: 1,5k

contains: slight arguing, cursing but nothing too graphic tbh

"Are you sure that you don't want to come?" One of your friends asked you a little sadly since you were about to leave the group. They rarely got to see you anyway, did you have to leave so early? "You never come with us when we go out for a drink, we miss you there, you know?"

You smiled a little tiredly as you strolled casually through the streets. "I'm sorry guys, I just have to work tonight." you tried to explain. Besides, I'm fucking tired and just want to get some sleep before then. I miss my bed.

Your best friend pouted as she hugged you from the side and you welcomed it, even if it made walking a little more difficult. "It's always work this work that. Live a little for once, all this stress is not good for you. You need a break." she spoke up before a thought came into her mind that made her a little furious. "Don't tell me that you're using work as an excuse to cancel on us. We can do something else if you want to. I'll even invite you, come on!"

You took a tired breath. I don't have any energy for this. "Trust me, I'd love nothing more than to get drunk with you and I'm not being sarcastic or anything." you clarified. Besides, I wouldn't work this much if I didn't have to.

"All right." she gave in unhappy. "We'll catch you one of these days, I can feel it..."

You laughed softly. "Please do," you replied and stopped in front of the stairs that led to the subway. This was the place where you had to say goodbye to your friends and you did with a few more hugs. You enjoyed spending time with them and loved your friends with all your heart, but you were still happy to be a bit on your own now.

So you plugged in your cable headphones and played your current favorite song at the loudest volume before checking when the next train was going to arrive. Another twenty minutes? The last one must have just left. You decided to just sit down on a bench and wait while staring blankly around and quietly mumbling the lyrics to yourself.

A few minutes later, a person sat down next to you and you could see out of the corner of your eye that it was probably some kind of businessman or something. You didn't look closely out of politeness and turned your gaze somewhere else after checking the time on your phone.

"Excuse me." the unknown man tried to get your attention, but as expected, you could barely hear him over the booming music. He placed his briefcase in the space between you before leaning closer to your figure and looking towards you with a smile and finally, you seemed to notice his stare and turned in his direction. You took out one of your earbuds as you met his gaze. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

The man leaned back again. "I haven't said anything yet. I wanted to ask if I could talk to you, do you have a moment?"

You looked around a little uncomfortably as he maintained uninterrupted eye contact with you. "Ehm, well..." you stumbled slightly over your words. "I'm not religious or anything, sorry," you replied, having no patience for another discourse about Jesus and the church. This is the fourth time this week, lucky me. You thought to yourself as you were about to put your earplug back in.

The salesman held a hand in the air to stop you from doing that to keep your attention. You just looked at him uninterestedly and waited, it was going to be a while before your train arrived anyway. A smile graced his face after you were willing to listen to him again. "That's not what I wanted to talk about, I just want to offer you a chance."

Your face tightened a little in disgust and you were quite irritated by now. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of answer and didn't say anything else, so you had no choice but to interpret his words. He doesn't look like that kind of guy, but I guess it's always the ones who look the most decent. "Listen to me asshole," you said openly this time, all politeness gone as you pointed at his chest with your index finger. "I don't know you, maybe you're one of those men who try to talk in riddles to seem mysterious or something, but right now it just sounds like you're looking for someone cheap to fuck." you replied as you tapped his tie with each syllable and leaned a little closer to him as you whispered. "And I'm not cheap, so you might want to look elsewhere."

This time it was you who grinned as he looked at you in surprise and he let out a small grunt after you finished your sentence. The salesman straightened his tie while watching your figure before reaching for his briefcase and revealing its contents, "That's too bad, but also not what I was talking about," he replied as you looked at the money and colored paper in confusion. "Have you ever played Ddakji?" He asked you as he took out the red and blue paper. You just shook your head. "That's no problem at all, we can still play it if you're up for it." 

Your gaze alternated from his hand to his face. Oh, so he's crazy. You finally concluded. I guess he is too handsome to be just a normal guy, huh. You turned your head away from him, something about the whole thing just seemed perverse to you. "No thanks, I'll pass."

"You sure?" He asked again, knowing he'd convinced you as soon as he brought the money into it. These people are all the same, she'll snatch the paper right out of my hands after I start talking a language she understands. "Every time you win, you get 100,000 won from me." He began, watching the look on your face. "But if I win, you owe me 100,000 won and -"

You sighed and interrupted him. "Yes, I'm sure. I still don't want to play with you, okay?"

This time the man looked at you with a cold, icy stare. A few minutes passed like this and you just tried to ignore his gaze, but then he started talking again. "All right. 200,000 won." he finally said, but couldn't seem to get your attention back. He tried again. "Is it because you've never played the game before? We can have a practice round if that would make you feel more comfortable." he tried again and got irritated when you continued to ignore him. He looked around the area as he considered his next move. Is she waiting for me to increase the prize money further? These people usually jump up happily at the first amount since they're so desperate. He tried to collect himself again. "500,000 won." he finally said. "I've got the money right here, you just have to go for it."

When is this stupid train coming. "Look, I don't want your fucking money, understand? I'm not a gambling addict or -"

"You may not want it, but you need it," he said, annoyed. This has never happened before, is she stupid? He then spoke out your name and described your miserable living situation as if you didn't already know about it yourself. "You also have quite a lot of debt for someone who is still relatively young, are you seriously going to turn down the money I'm offering you? For what, to prove a point or something?"

You didn't know what this man's fucking problem was, he should be glad that you didn't want to take his money, and how did he even know all this? You got up from your seat next to him when the train finally arrived and turned to face him one last time. "Fuck you," you told him and then went to the doors. You even looked out of the window at him as soon as they closed before you, to show him your the middle finger.

The man in the suit watched your figure irritated until it was gone and then, took the little card out of the inside pocket of his suit, that was meant for you. He turned it over a few times in his hand before closing the open briefcase with his other one. He had already played and lost a few Ddakji games in his life, which was the point of the whole thing - to recruit players for the actual game. However, the thought of what awaited them there meant that he was still in control of the situation. He was always in control of the situation. "I didn't loose, we haven't even played." he tried to reassure himself.

And yet the whole conversation with you left him feeling like he was utterly defeated.

[ventismacchiato]

17 stuck with you — jealousy jealousy !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

content warning: oblivious idiots

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT: YOUR POINT OF VIEW

When you and the others returned from the island, you walked into the dorms to find everyone either drunk or in the process of getting there. When Yae asked what everyone wanted for catering, the unanimous answer was alcohol—until Jean reminded them they’d need food too.

You’d had a drink or two and were playing a halfhearted game of cards on the floor with Venti and Aether. Nobody seemed interested in going to bed. Getting drunk was the perfect way to forget the stress of the show.

Scara sat near the door, absentmindedly pulling out blocks in the game of Jenga Fischl had set up beside him. The atmosphere was surprisingly calm…for now.

Then Mona stood up from where she’d been teaching Yoimiya how to make a drink and plopped down next to Scara. He didn’t look too thrilled by the move.

“So, Kuni?” she slurred.

You froze at the name. Scara had made it clear that nobody but you called him that.

“Don’t call me that,” Scara muttered, his voice flat.

“Aww, why not? I thought I meant more than that,” Mona teased, clearly influenced by the alcohol.

“Can you go bother someone else?” Scara shot back.

“Don’t be like that!” Mona huffed, nudging him with her shoulder. “Want a massage? You used to love my massages.” She said the last part while looking directly at you, her hand casually caressing Scara’s shoulder. You quickly looked away, trying not to make it obvious that you were listening.

Scara removed her hand from his shoulder, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Mona didn’t let it go.

“Why won’t you just pay attention to me?” she whined, leaning closer.

“Can you not?” Scara finally turned to face her, his voice sharp. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

At this point, the whole room was trying to act like they weren’t paying attention, but it was clear they were all watching

“I just wanted to talk—” Mona began, but Scara interrupted her.

“I mean, what are you doing on this island?”

“I came to win you over,” Mona said, as though the answer was obvious.

“You’re the one who broke up with me,” Scara huffed, crossing his arms. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Mona took a long swig from her drink, unfazed.

“I didn’t want to,” she sighed, her voice thick with alcohol. “I would’ve stuck it out if your mom hadn’t… well…”

You felt a flush of heat spread across your face at the mention of Scara’s mother. You weren’t the only one who noticed; Childe, Aether, and Kazuha exchanged glances, each looking more uncomfortable by the second.

Scara grabbed Mona’s glass from her hand, his fingers tight around it. “You should shut up.”

Mona, however, was too far gone to be deterred.

“How could I not take the contract? You know how bad my old management was. I had no choice. It was either that or you. You know how it is.”

It was only when she noticed the entire room was staring at her that a little sobriety seemed to return. She clamped her palm over her mouth and stared at Scara, wide-eyed.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to say that,” she mumbled, her voice the most sincere it had been all night.

Scara didn’t answer. He just stared at the ground, his face unreadable, while Mona rambled her apology. The rest of the room shifted awkwardly, unsure if they should intervene or just let it pass. You could feel your heart race, had that been the real reason for their breakup? You had always thought Scara had ended things on his own terms. 

Mona reached out for him, but Scara stood up abruptly, stepping over the scattered Jenga blocks on the floor as he moved toward the door. It creaked open, letting in a cold gust of night air before slamming shut behind him.

The room fell silent for a moment. Then, Mona stood, swaying slightly, and started after him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…” Kazuha murmured, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the door shutting once again.

“Did you guys know about all that?” Venti asked, turning to Aether.

“Since it’s out in the open, yeah,” Aether sighed.

“We need to stop giving her drinks,” Lumine muttered under her breath.

“I’m kind of worried about Mona going after him,” Childe said, rising from his seat to peer out the window. “Knowing Scara, he might drown himself… or her.”

“I’ll go be a witness to the murder then,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Childe gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you made your way out the door.

You didn’t know why you felt the sudden urge to follow him. It had always been about trying to surpass him before. But tonight…tonight you just wanted to catch up to him. To be equals.

SCARA’S POINT OF VIEW

The bench is cold beneath him and the sea breeze is a sharp slap against his face as he stares out at the crashing waves. It’s quiet but it does little to distract him from the turmoil in his chest. His fingers curl around the cigarette, the thin paper already loose from where he pocketed it earlier. He twirls it between his fingers absently, trying to focus on the motions instead of his thoughts.

The urge to light it is almost unbearable. He can almost feel the familiar ache, the way the smoke would crawl its way down his lungs and quiet everything inside him. It would help him forget. At least for a little while. 

But he promised he wouldn’t. 

Your words echo in his head like a soft, repeated prayer, something that clings to him even when he’s alone. He knows if he takes that drag, it’s one more step back from everything he's trying to hold onto. One more thing he’ll have to explain to you, and he can’t stomach that right now.

So instead, he flicks the cigarette into the sand, watching it settle there like a tiny, forgotten thing, and then turns his gaze back to the sea. His breath hitches in his chest. If it isn’t the lack of nicotine that’s bothering him, it’s something else. Something sharper, older.

Something that happened more than a year ago. 

Mona’s slurred words made the memory hit him with the force of a slap. It wasn’t her betrayal that stung, not really. He knew the two of them were never that serious. But it was the fact that she had chosen his mother over him. The fact that his own mother had paid her off like it was nothing. 

Mona had once been sweet back when they first met. Her determination to be an idol had reminded him of you in a way. Maybe he was just searching for a piece of you in anyone he could find. 

“Scara?”

He doesn’t have to turn to know it’s her. He can smell the alcohol before he hears the soft, slurred voice, and when he finally looks up, there she is, weaving on unsteady feet, her hair tangled around her shoulders, eyes glazed.

She’s drunk.

God, what a fucking mess.

“I—uh—can I sit?” She hiccups, and despite himself, he shifts slightly to make room on the bench, the muscles in his back tense, coiled, but his body obeys the unspoken politeness he’d long been taught.

Mona doesn’t wait for a response. She just slumps beside him, her hands gripping her knees like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says after a long silence, the words coming out in a rush, broken by more hiccups. “I didn’t mean to say it to everyone. I swear, I didn’t. I was just—I was just trying to make you… jealous, or something.”

Scara doesn’t say anything. He can already feel his patience wearing thin, his hand tightening into a fist. He knows where this is going.

“You know how I get when I drink,” she continues, her voice small, vulnerable in a way that makes his gut twist. She leans into him, her breath warm and sour with alcohol. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you. I thought... maybe it’d make you care more. Maybe it’d make you feel something for once, you know?”

He stares ahead, trying to focus on the horizon, trying to avoid the heat of her body next to his, the smell of liquor clinging to her like a second skin. She’s slurring more now, and with every word, the tension in his chest grows heavier, pressing down until he’s almost suffocating.

He can feel her swaying beside him, her body suddenly lurching forward as she clutches her stomach. He reaches out instinctively, used to her being like this, his hand awkwardly rubbing her back just to keep her from falling over. She feels so fragile in his touch, but that fragility doesn’t excuse the way she’s always tried to pull him back into her drama.

She leans in, too close again, her words spilling out in a rush like she's been holding them back for too long.

“You know...” she starts, her eyes dark and unfocused. “I only started acting out because you wouldn’t pay me any attention anymore. You were always complaining about YN. Always.”

She lets out a short, frustrated laugh, and then hiccups, her face flushing. “I know it wasn’t love, Scara. I’m not stupid. It was just a stupid distraction wasn’t it, from whatever you felt for them.”

He looks over at her, eyebrows furrowed.

“Even if you didn’t realize it back then, I did. Even if all we had was physical you can’t deny it worked. We were good at that. So yeah, I got a little carried away. But if you hadn’t been so busy chasing them around, maybe we wouldn’t be here right now.”

He can’t even find it in himself to deny it. After he had started dating her you’d started avoiding him for one reason or another. Maybe you thought everyone would get the wrong idea.

But it killed him. 

“That doesn’t mean you can just run off and take the first offer my mom gives to you,” he snaps, his tone cutting. “If you really didn’t like the way I treated you that badly, you could’ve left. You could’ve walked away. No one was holding you here.”

He shakes his head, frustrated they were having this talk now of all time, “But you didn’t, did you? You stayed. Because you knew being with me—even if it wasn’t love—would give you the eyes on you that you wanted so damn badly.”

“You’re right,” she admits, the words coming out quietly. “ But I didn’t know what else to do. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care.”

Scara scoffs at that. 

“It didn’t look like it. All I saw was someone who was more interested in being the center of attention than me,” He shakes his head, turning his back to her for a moment. Honestly, he could keep going. But they were only having this conversation because she was drunk. There was no point, he was over it. 

He exhales sharply, his tone flat when he speaks again, as if he’s just given up.

"Yeah, okay," Scara mutters, voice distant. "It's fine. It’s not like you’ll even remember this tomorrow, anyway.”

It’s the only thing he says, just to make the whole thing stop. He knows she’s looking for something else. An apology, maybe, or some kind of validation. But he’s too fucking tired to give her that now. And it’s not like he’s going to receive one.

"Really?" Her voice rises in a way that makes him want to shove her away. "You're fine with it?"

He doesn’t respond, though now he’s just waiting for her to puke all over him. The sound of the ocean lapping against the shore is the only thing filling the silence, until she’s leaning in closer, her breath hot on his ear, her face too close.

“You know,” she whispers, her words slurred and soft, “I wouldn't mind going back to what we had. Just for a night.”

Before he can stop her, she’s pressing her lips to his, soft and insistent, her body leaning into his as though this is what she’s been waiting for all along. Her mouth is warm, her hands finding their way to his chest, and for a moment, Scara’s heart stops. 

Not because he wants it, but because he doesn’t.

He’s frozen, a quiet alarm ringing in his head. This isn’t real. This isn’t what he wants. Not from her. 

Even if it was only for a few seconds, the moment stretches too long until he can finally pry her away from him. And when he does finally pull back, his hand is shaking. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, voice tight with something: frustration, anger, confusion, maybe a little bit of pain. “Don’t try to fix this with... that.”

She blinks at him, confused, the haze of alcohol still clouding her eyes. "But... but I thought... we could—"

He stands up abruptly, cutting her off before she can make this worse. "Just... don't." The words hang in the air, heavy with finality.

She looks rather pitiful sitting on the bench like that, and he almost feels bad. Almost.

“You should just go,” he says, his voice flat, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.

But then, as he turns to leave, he sees you.

In the distance, walking towards the kitchens, your figure framed by the fading light. Seeing you makes something inside him twist. He starts to wonder why you’d come out soon after he stormed off. The idea of you coming back, walking over to him like you actually care. Just that thought is enough to loosen the tight knot in his chest. He didn’t even realize how much he was holding his breath, waiting for it. For a moment, he lets himself imagine you doing it. He almost expects it, but the longer he stands there, the more he realizes it’s just a fantasy. He watches you for a moment, then his stomach drops when he realizes if you were out there you must’ve walked by him. 

You had seen the kiss.

YOUR POINT OF VIEW

Your feet moved before your brain had a chance to tell you no. It was a strange instinct, one you didn’t quite understand. You’d never been one to comfort Scara. You’d been at odds with him for as long as you could remember, enemies in every sense of the word. 

But after what you’d learned about his mother just the thought of him being alone, struggling with it, gnawed at you. You wanted to check on him. You needed to check on him. 

The island was massive, and Scara wasn’t exactly known for his athleticism, so you figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find him. Still, your mind raced as you walked, trying to come up with something, anything, that would make him feel even a fraction better. What could you say to him that wouldn’t sound patronizing, or worse, awkward? You weren’t even sure you could help him, but you had to try.

And then, there it was.

The beach. The bench. The figure slumped against it. Scara. The cigarette in his hand. You’d found him.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you tried to steady yourself. This wasn’t a time to lose control. But before you could take another step, your eyes caught the familiar outline of someone else. Mona. She was walking toward him, wobbling a little as she approached, and suddenly the moment felt off.

You stopped in your tracks, half hidden by a few tall bushes nearby, your body suddenly rooted in place. You should’ve turned around and gone back to the party. Scara was clearly occupied. He would be okay, right?

But no. Your eyes stayed locked on the two of them. You couldn’t tear your gaze away.

Mona was standing next to him now, her chest heaving slightly from hiccups, and her words were slurred as she spoke. Scara wasn’t saying much, but his hand moved, almost instinctively, it seemed, to rub her back, slow and careful. As if he was...comforting her. You felt your pulse quicken, a strange sense of something building up in your chest, something like a heavy weight pressing down on your ribs.

A normal person would’ve walked away, turned around and walked back to the party, chalking it up to nothing more than two people talking, nothing more than Scara being himself. But you were never normal when it came to Scara. So instead, you stayed rooted in the shadow, just watching like some creep. The words you had rehearsed in your head seemed meaningless now, overshadowed by the confusion swelling inside you. What was happening?

And then, without warning, you saw it.

Mona leaned in, her lips pressing against Scara’s.

The world tilted on its axis. You didn’t even know how to react at first. A cold knot of jealousy, something sharp and unexpected, wrapped around your chest, and you felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs. 

Scara, someone you’d considered your mortal enemy, the person you had spent years fighting against, was kissing Mona. She wasn’t even trying to hide it, her hands clinging to his chest. Just the sight was enough to leave you standing there, paralyzed. 

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

It was a mantra you were repeating in your head. But the jealousy gnawed at you in a way you didn’t understand, the sting in your chest a sharp reminder that maybe you cared a lot more than you’d ever let on. You’d always been jealous of Scara throughout the years, that feeling was something familiar. But this was something different. Your stomach is twisting with something you couldn’t name. Something that hurt to acknowledge.

Oh.

Oh.

Without even thinking, you turned away, stepping back into the shadows, your feet felt heavy beneath you. You had no idea what you were feeling anymore. Or you did, but you couldn’t even voice it. 

Scara was kissing Mona. Your Scara. Your Kuni. And you were standing there, like a fool. 

If you had run after him a bit faster would you be the one he’d be kissing? That wasn’t the problem, though. No. The thing that bothered you the most was the way it made you feel like an outsider. The way it reminded you, in an almost painful way, that you weren’t the one he turned to for comfort. 

That was how it had always been. Always. It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

You didn’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the way he looked at you when he was angry, or the way he tried to hide his vulnerabilities. Maybe it was the constant back-and-forth, the challenge. Maybe it was the fact that he was always there, whether it be to hit you with a snarky remark or laugh at you when you fell second to him again. He’d always been there.

But you cared. And that made you want to punch something, or scream, or both. You’d never imagined a day when you would care about Scara in any way other than annoyance, or the irritation of seeing him always one step ahead. 

Suddenly, your feet moved as fast as they could to get you out of there.

The walk from the beach to the kitchens feels like it takes longer than it should. The adrenaline from earlier is wearing off. 

You step into the kitchens, the cool air inside a sharp contrast to the warmth of the night outside. The lights are low, casting shadows over the countertops, still littered from the dishes from earlier. A clink of glass catches your attention first, and then a familiar voice. 

“You finally made it in here.”

You stop, looking up until your eyes land on Heizou. His casual smile is the same one he always had, though there's something softer in it tonight, like he’s been waiting. He’s got a glass of water in his hand, and you realize he must’ve been looking for you. He’s the last person you want to see right now, but he doesn’t seem surprised by your presence.

“You didn’t go back to the party,” he continues, setting the glass down on the counter. “I figured you might be hiding in here. You don’t look like you’re in the mood for another drink.”

You’re about to reply, but he catches you off guard by speaking up.

“Are you okay?” 

You pause. It’s a simple question, but for some reason, it feels heavy. Before you even know what’s happening, the words just spill out.

“No, I’m not okay,” you start, your voice a little more brittle than you intended. 

“I just... I just watched him. Scara. I saw him with Mona. It’s like everything I’ve been trying to avoid came crashing down in front of me. I don’t even know what to feel. It’s just... why is everything so complicated? Why does he have to make things so complicated?”

Heizou doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t look at you like you’re insane for spilling everything. He just watches, his calm expression making the chaos in your head even more prominent.

“Is that really what’s bothering you?” he asks softly, the faintest hint of concern in his eyes.

You blink, realizing that you’ve been ranting and completely unaware of how you’ve been projecting everything onto him. Heizou seems to sense it too, because next thing you know, he’s stepping closer, his presence warm and steady as he leans a little into the counter beside you.

“Hey,” he says, his tone gentle. “Come on. You need to relax.”

Before you can protest, Heizou wraps a reassuring arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. He places a hand lightly on your head, urging you to lean into him. You hesitate for a moment before giving in, resting your cheek against his shoulder. His body is a familiar comfort, though you didn’t expect it to be this comforting tonight. In the quiet of the kitchen, you realize how exhausted you are. 

“You know,” Heizou says, his voice quiet but teasing, “I have no chance now, do I?”

You blink, not fully processing his words. “Huh?”

Heizou laughs softly, caressing his hand over your cheek, “Still as oblivious as ever, huh?”

You feel your brow furrow. “What are you talking about?”

Heizou’s fingers brush through your hair gently, like he’s trying to sort through his own thoughts. “It’s him, right?”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart beating a little faster. “What? No. I—”

But before you can finish, Heizou cuts you off, a playful glint in his eyes. “You know, I saw you two kiss on the show. The hot tub.” He pauses, studying your face for any shift. “It was... something, wasn’t it?”

You feel your stomach tighten, the thought of the kiss now a distant, uncomfortable memory. “You know that was fake, right?” you say quickly, trying to downplay it. “It didn’t mean anything. It was just part of the show.”

Heizou’s eyes stay locked on yours for a long moment, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He nods slowly, but there’s a slight edge to his tone. “Yeah, I get it. But it was your first kiss, right? It had to have meant something. At least to you.”

You swallow, the words suddenly feeling sharp. Your chest tightens, and you know you have to say something. You didn’t want to hurt Heizou’s feelings after he came all the way out here. 

“No. It didn’t,” you say, your voice firm but tinged with something that feels more like a lie than you want to admit. “It was all fake. The kiss...everything. It didn’t mean anything.”

You don’t notice at first, but Heizou’s smile falters just the tiniest bit. “Yeah. Sure,” he says, his voice warmer now, almost wistful. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but the silence between you both stretches out, heavy with unspoken understanding. You feel a little stupid for saying so much, for trying to convince him, or even yourself, that it was all nothing. You knew it was far from nothing.

Heizou finally breaks the tension, grabbing the water bottles he came in for. “Yeah, sure. Well, I guess I should get back to the others and sober them up. But... good luck, okay? With everything. With…him.”

You stand there, watching him leave, suddenly realizing you’ve just unloaded more than you intended. But before he walks out the door, Heizou looks back, giving you one last knowing look, then disappears back into the hallway.

You’re still standing there when you hear a soft voice outside the kitchen door.

“Interesting.”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat.

You turn slowly, your breath catching in your throat when you see Scara standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, like he’s been listening the entire time.

For a second, all you can do is stare at him. And then it hits you, the way Heizou’s words must’ve sounded to him. The way you had tried to downplay the kiss. The way you’d tried to convince Heizou that it meant nothing.

Scara raises an eyebrow, looking almost amused, but his eyes were glazed over with something else. “Didn’t mean anything, huh?”

The words stick in your throat, and before you can even try to explain, the hurt in his eyes is enough to make you realize he’s probably already misunderstood.

SCARA’S POINT OF VIEW

Scara barely registered the words Mona was slurring anymore, his thoughts still tangled in knots from everything that had just happened. The sour taste of her lips still lingered. That wasn’t what bothered him. What bothered him was the thought of you seeing him like that. Seeing him with Mona.

He had to get out of there. Fast.

His mind raced as he stormed off, barely even registering where his feet were taking him. His body moved on autopilot, following after you towards the kitchens.

When he reached the door, he paused for a moment, chest tight with a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. There was a soft clinking sound from inside. The low hum of voices.

And then he heard it.

Heizou. Of course. Scara narrowed his eyes, already annoyed. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with him.

The door was slightly ajar, and without even thinking, Scara found himself inching closer, the need to know what was going on outweighing the nagging voice in his head telling him to turn around. To leave.

What he saw made his stomach churn in a way he hadn’t expected.

You were standing there, your face softer than he’d ever seen it, as Heizou pulled you into his side. The way your body melted into him like it was second nature to be close to him was unsettling, like something sharp had just slid under his skin.

For a second, Scara froze. His thoughts were clouded with the absurdity of it. You with Heizou? Who didn’t know you like he did? Absurd.

It wasn’t like you owed him an explanation. Yet the sight of you resting against him, affectionate, something Scara hadn’t seen you do with him made him... unseen. Like he didn’t belong in your life at all. The knot in his chest pulled tighter.

His breath caught, and before he could do something stupid he stopped himself. What was he even supposed to say? He wasn’t entitled to anything from you. He wasn’t yours. 

So he stayed outside, watching. Listening. 

He could hear Heizou’s voice, low and teasing, and then yours, soft but firm.

“No. It didn’t,” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet kitchen, and Scara’s chest clenched painfully. “You know that was all fake, right? It didn’t mean anything. It was just part of the show.”

His heart skipped a beat, the words slicing through the silence like a blade. His stomach churned, and the weight of them hit him harder than any punch. 

It wasn’t supposed to matter. It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Scara’s fingers dug into the frame of the door, his knuckles white. The words rang in his ears, repeating over and over. He tried to steady himself, tried to remind himself that it was all a game. The hot tub wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him, until it did. 

But hearing you say it, hearing you so casually dismiss the kiss, made him feel like he was choking on something sharp and heavy. It was all fake. He had no right to feel that way.

The worst part was, he didn’t even know what to do with it. With you.

You’d both made it clear from the start that this wasn’t supposed to be anything. A show, a performance. The kiss was meaningless. Just another part of the script. He didn’t expect anything different. But hearing you say it so coldly and without any hesitation made something in him snap. 

Before he could take a step back, Heizou’s voice drifted through the door again, a quiet laugh in his tone. “Yeah, sure.”

Scara could practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Yeah, I get it. But it was your first kiss, right? It had to have meant something. At least to you.” The burgundy haired nuisance continued. 

Scara's breath hitched, his chest tightening even further as he leaned in closer to the door, his pulse quickening. He felt an uncontrollable wave of frustration crashing through him. He could feel the words hitting him, one after the other, like Heizou’s voice was a punch to the gut. But worse was the feeling that came with it. The one that told him Heizou was right. That it had meant something. That he had somehow allowed himself to believe that the kiss between you and him had meant something beyond a simple game. He hadn’t realized how stupid you were making him. 

But then your voice came through, clear and harsh, “It was all fake. The kiss...everything. It didn’t mean anything.”

Scara’s fingers trembled at the doorframe. The knot in his chest was tightening, twisting around his lungs. You were denying it. Denying him. The kiss, the heat, the rush of it. You were dismissing it like it had been nothing more than a convenient illusion. You weren’t wrong, the rational part of him knew that. That didn’t mean he had hoped you’d thought otherwise. 

Everything he had been fighting so hard to bury flared back to life, hotter than before.

Heizou chuckled, a lighthearted sound, but it only made Scara feel more exposed. “Yeah, sure.” Heizou’s voice grew quieter, and Scara heard him getting ready to leave. “Well, I guess I should get back to the others and sober them up. But... good luck, okay? With everything. With…him.”

The kitchen door creaked as it swung open, and Heizou left without a second glance, his footsteps fading down the hall.

He was about to turn and leave, he had too. But just as always with you, he couldn’t help but fight back. 

“Interesting.”

You stood there in the doorway, looking caught between embarrassment and something else, your face pale, your eyes flicking nervously between the open door and him.

Scara stared at you for a long moment, his throat tight, before he spoke, his voice low and strained.

“Didn’t mean anything, huh?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

YOUR POINT OF VIEW

Scara lets out a dry chuckle, sharp and almost bitter, before walking off. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline surging through you. The confusion is all still a blur.

And yet you follow him. 

Something you’d never do, especially with him. But a part of you still wants to make sure he’s okay. And a bigger part of you doesn’t want him to walk away with the wrong idea. 

“Why’d you follow me here?” you ask, your voice louder than you intended, still thick with that adrenaline.

He stops abruptly and turns around, eyes dark, but there’s something else there, too: vulnerability. 

“Why did you follow me?” he shoots back, his voice low, taunting almost, but you can hear the frustration beneath it.

You stand there for a moment, trying to find the right words, but your thoughts feel tangled. “I just... wanted to see if you were okay,” you say, quieter now, your shoulders sagging. “I know your mom sucks, but...it seems like you were occupied.” You didn’t mean it to come off as bitter as it did.

Scara freezes for a split second, his gaze narrowing into something hard. “She’s the one who came onto me, okay?” His voice is biting, “I shoved her right off. And you can’t say shit, you were all over him back there.”

For a second, you can’t say anything. You feel a hot flush rise to your face. You take a breath, and then the words spill out, almost before you can stop them. “That didn’t even mean anything,” you mutter. “He was just... comforting me. I said that so he wouldn’t feel bad.” You don’t want to explain why. You’re glad he wasn’t there for the entire conversation.

Scara’s eyes flicker with something sharp. “Fine,” he spits out, hands gesturing in exasperation. “It’s all fake, then. Fine! It doesn’t matter. Whatever, you don’t need to explain yourself.”

You feel the words sting, and before you can even think, you’re snapping back. “Fine! Fine, Scara. If that’s what you want to believe, go ahead.”

You both stand there for a few seconds, glaring at each other, neither of you willing to back down. And then, just like that, you both start walking in the same direction.

You glance at him, a little incredulous. “You go first.”

Scara doesn’t even look at you. “No, you go first.”

“I said it first!” you protest, taking a step forward.

“No, you go.”

A beat of silence. Then, in unison, both of you groan.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath. “This is stupid.”

Neither of you says anything else, but you both start walking again. Side by side, but without speaking. The tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, but now it’s more muted, like you’re both too tired to keep fighting.

By the time you reach the door to the dorms, the adrenaline has started to drain away, leaving only the residual ache of whatever you two just went through. You both stop at the doorstep, standing for a moment in the cool night air.

Scara's eyes drift lazily over to a bottle resting on the corner of the porch, a forgotten drink from earlier in the evening. Without a word, he picks it up, twists off the cap, and offers it to you, his face impassive.

“Want some?” His voice is quieter now, a little less sharp, though the remnants of the earlier tension still hang in the air.

You take it without thinking, your hand brushing his as you grab the bottle. Your throat feels dry, like you’ve just run a marathon, like everything from tonight has left you parched. He’s always left you out of breath.

You take a long sip, the alcohol burning down your throat, and pass it back. Scara drinks, then hands it back to you with a quiet gesture. You both settle onto the steps, the weight of the night pressing down around you, but the silence feels somehow comfortable now.

You’re not sure why, but with each sip, you feel a little less tense, a little less angry. It’s still there, but it's somehow quieter now. Maybe because it doesn’t feel like you need to have all the answers, not right now. Not with him sitting next to you like this.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore and the occasional sip from the bottle between you. You pass it back and forth like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The weight of the argument is still there, sure, but somehow it doesn’t matter so much anymore.

SCARA’S POINT OF VIEW

The quiet hum of the night surrounds you both as you sit on the porch, the sounds of crickets and the occasional hum of the waves filling the spaces between breaths. The bottle you’re passing back and forth feels less heavy now, unlike the unspoken things still floating around like ghosts between you and him.

You break the silence first, your voice quieter than you intended. “So, what were you and Mona talking about?”

He doesn’t answer right away, taking a slow swig from the bottle, his eyes fixed somewhere off in the distance. His lips press together in a tight line, but he finally turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Well, she was talking at me, really. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She was asking if I was ever in love with her…”

You raise an eyebrow, curious, “Well, were you?”

Scara’s gaze shifts. His body is tense. He doesn’t meet your eyes immediately, instead looking off to the side, like he’s searching for something. 

He feels the precipice you're both on. 

He wants to jump. 

“No.”

The word hangs there, and for a moment, everything is still. He can feel the air between you both shift, like the ground beneath your guys’ feet has tilted slightly.

“Really?” you ask, more quietly this time. “How did you know you weren’t in love with her?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He shifts on the step, his foot tapping idly against the wood. He wants to say he just knew, as cliche as that sounds. His eyes are fixed forward now, knowing if he looks at you his words won’t leave his mouth. He takes a swig.

The words come out slowly, like he’s still figuring them out as he speaks.

“I don’t know... I just knew, I guess.” He hesitates, then adds, “What I felt for her is different from what I know love is.”

The silence stretches, and he feels like you’re standing at the edge of something with him. 

He’s waiting. He thinks he’s always been waiting for you.

“And you… know what that feels like?” you ask, voice softer now, almost hesitant, like you’re testing the waters.

His eyes finally rake over you.

“I do now.”

You opened your mouth, and he’s hoping something, anything, comes out of it. He felt like he’d just sliced his chest open and was bearing his heart to you with bloodied hands.

His words hang in the air for a long moment, strange and heavy. Your gaze catches his, and for just a second, there’s a flicker in your eyes, something guarded but knowing. Scara holds your gaze, and for a fleeting moment, it’s like everything in him stills. The air is thick, as if the words you’ve both danced around are hanging just out of reach. His fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle, the cool glass a stark contrast to the heat creeping up his neck.

He knows this feeling all too well. The way his chest tightens when he realizes something he’s been waiting for will never come. His mother’s attention. You. It’s a feeling he’s all but accustomed too. But there you were, just out of his reach. He doesn’t expect you to understand. Hell, he doesn’t even understand himself half the time. But in that moment, sitting next to you, he wants you too. 

The weight of your unspoken words presses on him. But maybe that’s all this will ever be, a weight. The knowledge that he’ll never feel the same way about anyone else and that you’ll never feel the same about him. That thought stabs at him like a shard of ice in his chest, cold and sharp. He wants to say something, but the words aren’t there. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. 

“We should go inside,” he murmurs, breaking the silence, his voice almost a whisper against the night’s stillness. 

His voice drops further, and he shifts slightly on the step, his leg brushing against yours. It’s an unconscious motion, but it feels deliberate somehow. Like he wants to be closer but knows better than to ask for it. 

“Yeah,” you pipe up from beside him, “We should.”

Yet you both sit there for a few more minutes, passing the bottle until nothing is left in its wake. He doesn’t look over at you again, doesn’t dare too. Instead he gets up and goes inside, leaving you behind. 

Something you’ve always said he’s good at.

[00:00:00] POST PARADISE DATE TAKE ONE

YAE: So, do you want to talk about today?

SCARAMOUCHE: Talk about what?

YAE: The kiss, obviously. What else would we talk about?

SCARAMOUCHE: What happened to "Hi, how are you?"

YAE: [LAUGHING] This is a safe space.

SCARAMOUCHE: It absolutely is not, but you want to talk about the kiss? Fine. It wasn't real. I didn't even kiss her back, she was drunk and I don't love her. And I'm not that much of an asshole to take advantage of someone drunk. I'm a terrible person, but not that bad.

YAE: [SPEECHLESS]

SCARAMOUCHE: This is fucking stupid. Why did l even have to explain myself? I have nothing to prove to anybody. [GETS UP]

YAE: Scaramouche, wait—

SCARAMOUCHE: [WALKS OFF SCREEN]

stuck with you!

materlist — prev | next

(typos) *slide 6: feelings wheel / *slide 8: i just had this realization

first update of the year wow!

sorry guys i’m scared to do the keep reading button so…😛

after typing oh. oh. i was like ooh bitch i ate

also ignore how scara lowk littered uhm he picked up his cig after dw! environmentally friendly king!

pls comment or send me an ask if u enjoyed i need motivation 🤗

comment on the MASTERLIST if i can use ur user as a fan in the au!

notes — four updates during break ur welcome! my break ends in two weeksish so idk if ill be able post another one before then so let me rest xx

synopsis — after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!

taglist — (closed) @na1lea @cindywasneverhere @lunavixia @aestherin @mlaakai @camvrin @retiredmommylover @iheartpieck @cartierfiles @loveariel @silly-ez @mochipls @pomeiu @flowerypesky @creammpuff @boxdisappeared @kissingkzuha @webbywill @kazusboyfriend @s3xpistolss @bunns-wonderland @lordbugs @localgirlywithnolife @kosumos @danfelions @featuredtofu @pinxeajin @haeunoo @scaradooche @pglt19 @chemiru @childesbabygirl @simonisferal @shutingstar @ttalgi @esuz @tokkishouse @kitsuvil @scarasmood @ihearttori @nomurahayami @starringyau @androxphobic @reivelmin @animeobsessed56 @femaholicc @vi0let-writes @izayumi-chan @aloflapse

[ubeb0nes]

Things Sevika says as your lover…

❧ ❧ ❧

Let me do it. / I'll handle it. / Don't worry, I'll take care of it.

She wants to take care of you so, so bad. Whether that's opening every door and pulling out every chair for you, or wiping someone off the face of the earth in your name.

She's in her element when she's of service. Deep down, she thinks that as long as she proves useful then your continued affection is almost guaranteed.

Can't do that anymore, my woman/partner said so. / Wrap this up. I gotta get home to them.

She is yours, no ifs or buts about it. And she makes sure everyone knows how fiercely loyal she is, she will not be doing anything to disrespect your boundaries or your relationship.

Obviously her work and her abrasive nature will put a natural strain on some parts of your relationship, but she's never intentionally causing you distress. Loyalty's her most important personal value, and you have the most of hers.

No, get behind me! / I said stay here. / I need you safe, understand?

You're a culmination of everything she's fighting for. All the beauty of Zaun, her reason for sticking her heart in this city, you are all of that personified. So you can't die. You can't get hurt.

If she has to lock you in the house to keep you from following her into a death mission, she will. You'll understand. She's always taken a beating for the ones she loves, the role thrust upon her that she now clings to like a hardy mask.

Stand down. / Down, baby. / I don't care if you don't like it, follow orders.

If you follow her into combat, good luck with getting bossed around like crazy. She always keeps you in her line of sight, preferably also within three feet of you so she can jump in front of you to sacrifice another limb if need be.

She's also absolutely zero nonense while working. She isn't flirting with you or showing vulnerability in front of her crew, but she is relishing in getting to tell you what to do (and she expects you to heed immediately).

'S all for you, doll… / Mm-mm, you're not getting up… / Pretty thing… so warm… love you so much…

She only ever talks like this when she's sleepy, or just waking up. She doesn't say I love you much (outside of when she's leaving for work), as to her, it takes away from the weight of it (WRONG imo, but in character i think lol).

The sweetest sweetheart ever when she's all wrapped up in your arms. Her voice is even lower in the mornings, with a distinct gravel to her tone. She uses it to her advantage, whispering such sweet things in your ear as she "subtly" traps you in her arms to keep you in bed.

She keeps repeating the same things over and over again, praising you and professing her love like there's no tomorrow. Her favorite love language switches to words of affirmation while she's drowsy lol.

So good to me, god you keep me sane. / I'm gonna fuckin' give you everything… / You smell so good, I could eat you (she then does actually try to bite you and you scream and push her off the bed)

Nsfw under the cuttt~

Uh uh, don't run from me. / Stop moving. / You're gonna take it either way, don't whine.

One of your favorite games is to see how long you can hold out being a brat (i.e., closing your legs every time she spreads them, shifting your hips away, etc.) before you make her snap and she just manhandles you.

Her displays of strength are usually subtle, like lifting you steadily off the floor and laying you down slowly on the bed without struggle. But when you do finally get her to snap, she's flipping you over on the bed like a pancake, and holding you up against the wall with just her human arm as she fucks you. She barely breaks a sweat holding you down on the bed, no matter how strong or how determined your bratty ass may be.

I'm never fuckin' sharing you, baby. / Look at me. Don't look away, those are *my* pretty eyes, I wanna see them. / Is that good, doll? Whose making you feel good? Mhm, and don't forget it…

Chances are that you end up being the jealous one in your relationship rather than her. But she is extremely possessive. When she gets especially in a mood, she's intent upon fucking you until your brain melts and you're nothing but putty in her hands, obsessed with her.

She reminds you how good she makes you feel, and how she's the only one that can fuck you that way. You're always extra cuddly and touchy in the days following, and she loves it because she knows it means she's stuck on your mind.

[harunayuuka2060]

MC: ...

MC: Would you like to repeat that, my child?

Diavolo: I'm in love with you.

MC: ...

MC: My child, it appears you are wrestling with confusion in your heart.

Diavolo: *chuckles* I knew you'd say that.

Diavolo: And it's what made you endearing.~♡

MC: *makes a disgusted face*

MC: *clears throat* Alright then, let us pray that these romantic feelings you have for me vanish, all in the name of our Lord.

Michael, Simeon, and Raphael: ...

Simeon: What?

Michael: ...

Michael: Did he just- No, he shouldn't be doing this.

Raphael: ...

Raphael: MC caught his attention?

Simeon: Looks like we're not the only ones watching him haha...

MC: ...

Diavolo: *smiling*

MC: ...

MC: What are you smiling at, child?

Diavolo: *chuckles* I was the one who confessed to you earlier.

MC: *his expression immediately shifts to one of unwelcoming coldness*

Diavolo: Ouch, you're hurting me.

MC: What are you doing here, my child?

Diavolo: Haha... I'm here to make a donation.

MC: All donations are handled through Mother Superior, my child. If you would, I kindly suggest you speak with her rather than with me.

Diavolo: *pouts* But I've already spoken to her and she asked me to approach you instead.

MC: We have a finance officer. *wants to end the conversation badly*

Diavolo: *knows that* She's not present either.

MC: ...

Michael: ...

Michael: I'm going down there.

Simeon: Calm yourself, Michael.

Raphael: I'll travel there myself.

Simeon: *breathes in* Can't we just all calm down for a moment?

Michael and Raphael: ...

Michael: ...

Michael: No.

Lucifer: Diavolo-

Diavolo: Yes? *holding a plushie that looks exactly like MC*

Lucifer: ...Why do you have that?

Diavolo: One of the kids at the church gave it to me! Isn't it adorable?

Lucifer: ...

[doraambrose]

This hurts my heart more than anything. I am an ally and an activist for everyone to have the same basic human rights as human beings. I'm a cis woman, but i know so many people who are trans that are the best people, but you dont have to know someone trans to know that they are humans just like us cis people. My dad is a trans woman (she and I had a discussion and she's fine with me still calling her dad) and she really is a perfect example for me of how trans people are just like everyone else. People like to showcase the extra flamboyant (which isn't even a bad thing either) in a stupid attempt to paint the trans community a certain way, but most trans people are just normal everyday people with families and jobs. My dad had some major depression for a good portion of my life, and is so much happier now that she feels like who shes meant to be. My dad likes to wear conservative dresses and pantsuits and minimal makeup. She works a 9 to 5 job, she loves dogs and cats, classic rock, video games, and her children more than anything. I love my dad and I'd hate to see her rights get stripped away and her safety in danger just because she's finally happy in her own skin. And i know so many people in this world have similar stories and loved ones who are trans who feel the same way. So please spread the news and keep up the good fight to maintain rights for everyone ❤️

Don't Fall for this scam.

Transgender community, please please please do NOT use this product! It will kill you if used, please do not use it whatsoever.

Please reblog and spread the word

[celestiamour]

haiii >_< could i request a myunggi (player 333) x fem reader. reader meets him at the games and falls for her because of the way she takes care of junhee and her baby (player 222)! i hope this isn’t too vague 🙈 do whatever ur heart desires with this!

ft. lee myung-gi x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ falling for your kindness towards jun-hee & his faults┊0.5k words

contains: fluff! newly established relationship, past myung-gi/jun-hee but not anymore obviously, reader is very kind

➤ author's note: love girls supporting girls, but the reader is kinder than i am, i would have beat his ass (another short one, i’m so busy omfg i hope to have a proper fic coming soon)

it seemed a little strange to him at first when he realized how much attention he was paying to your interactions with his jun-hee, but truthfully, he was nervous about it all. you had only been dating for two weeks, and he had no idea how you would react to being told that his pregnant ex-fiancee was in these death games with the two of you. he’s surprised you didn’t tear his head off when it was revealed he had a little over a billion won in debt compared to the hundred thousand won he lied to you about, and you were only in this shit because you wanted to help him out too.

it’s only now that he’s noticing that your kindness seemed to have no bounds and that your sincerity was like that of an angel. when you first approached her, he half expected you to start a fight like most of his previous partners did when meeting each other: establishing their position as his girlfriend, telling the other to back up, and maybe even getting physical if they both were in a bad mood.

yet you did none of that, coming to her with all genuine smiles and concern for her well-being.

at first, she was a bit stand-offish for obvious reasons as she’s seen you plenty of times with the ex-youtuber, but once she saw your persistence to make friends with her, she eventually gave in and even smiled that myung-gi is a lucky man for having you in his life. after all, she couldn’t stay indifferent towards someone who went out of her way to help make makeshift accommodations for her pregnancy whether she needed extra food when eating for two, another pillow to sleep comfortably, or a buddy to go to the bathroom with. there was nothing you wouldn’t do for her and sometimes you even spent more time with her than your boyfriend. 

“aren’t you mad?”

“what do you mean?” 

“aren’t you mad at me for having a pregnant ex-fiancee? aren’t you jealous?”

“well, you didn’t know about it until we got here. besides, she said she doesn’t want you back anyway even if you are the father.”

“right, but… what about me keeping the severity of my debts a secret?”

“you didn’t want to worry me, i forgive you! listen, we’re all human and make mistakes, i’m not mad at you about anything. i just want to get out of here alive and use the money we earned surviving to pay everything you owe back then we can start being a real couple without all that on our shoulders.

he stared at you with his mouth slightly agape and shook his head lightly. there was nothing negative in your tone, nothing indicating that you didn’t care or that you just wanted to get the matter over with, you really were accepting the apologies made for his shitty past decisions out of the pure kindness of your heart. it made his own soar like a bird gliding along with the wind, feeling like he had the chance to improve and finally be the man you deserve. 

[natasha-romanoff-off]

Flirting with fire

During an innocent dinner with friends, a playful question about Wanda spirals into an unexpected revelation.

“Don’t you think Wanda is beautiful?” Carol asked out of the blue as the four of you sat having dinner. The question cut through the casual chatter like a sharp knife, and you froze momentarily, unsure of the intent behind her words.

You turned your head to the left, locking eyes with the witch, who was already staring at you with a curious glint in her gaze. “Mm, yeah,” you replied cautiously. “She is gorgeous.”

“Thanks, honey,” Wanda said with a small smile, her tone sweet but tinged with something mischievous, almost as if she were testing the waters.

Carol, not one to let the conversation falter, leaned in with an amused grin. “Weren’t you single?” she asked, her blue eyes narrowing with mock curiosity.

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized where this conversation was heading. You leaned closer to Carol, whispering frantically, “What are you doing?” trying desperately to catch the thread of control slipping through your fingers.

Before Carol could answer, Natasha’s attention shifted sharply to you. Her green eyes were piercing as she asked, “Are you?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, but I don’t see why that matters,” you replied, your voice more defensive than you intended.

Wanda’s smile widened as she casually speared another bite of food with her fork. “Good to know,” she murmured, her tone laced with amusement.

“And why is that?” you asked, the nervous energy bubbling up as you tried to regain some semblance of composure. Perhaps a bit of flirtation would help.

Wanda tilted her head, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “Why don’t you figure it out yourself?” she teased, her words an open challenge.

“Maybe I will,” you shot back, your voice low, as if daring her to continue.

Natasha suddenly interjected, her voice soft but deliberate. “My love, can you pass me the salt?” she asked, her words directed at Wanda. The term of endearment hit you like a freight train, leaving you confused and more than a little embarrassed.

“‘My love?’” you repeated under your breath, glancing between Natasha and Wanda. Surely, you must have misheard.

Carol couldn’t hold back her laughter any longer. “Yeah, they’re girlfriends,” she said, her amusement clear as she gestured between the two women.

Heat rushed to your face as you struggled to process the revelation. “Oh,” you stammered, feeling utterly foolish. You turned to Natasha, who was now watching you with an expression bordering on smug satisfaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you two were together.”

Natasha’s smile deepened, her green eyes glittering with amusement as she leaned closer to you, her voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “Don’t worry, darling,” she purred. “But if you keep flirting with my girl, you might have to start flirting with me too. I don’t bite... unless you want me to.”

Wanda chuckled softly, placing her hand gently on Natasha’s arm in a soothing gesture. “What Natasha is trying to say,” she began, her tone playful but warm, “is that there’s always room for one more... if you’re interested.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind reeling as you tried to process whether she was joking—or serious. Natasha smirked knowingly, her gaze lingering on you for a moment too long, as if daring you to respond.

Carol leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a wide grin. “Well,” she said, clearly reveling in your dilemma, “this just got a lot more interesting.”

You opened your mouth to reply but found yourself at a loss for words, the air around the table charged with possibility.

[thewidowsledger]

Agent

© thewidowsledger 2025 - DO NOT REPUBLISH AND PLAGIARISE

Pairings: Undercover Agent!Natasha Romanoff x Mob boss!Female Reader

Word count: 693

Tags | Warnings: None, is the sexual tension in the room with us (?)

Author's Note: This is not a fic, more like a drabble👉👈 I hate how so many good ideas are running in my mind when I am heart broken, so just let me spoil y'all as long as I can :))

Navigation | Masterlist

⧗

"Go home, get some rest."

Natasha lingers by the doorway, shifting uncomfortably. Her eyes darted around the room, and her clasped hands fidget behind her back.

"Nat." You called.

She sighs, leaning against the doorframe and stealing a glance out the window.

"Natasha." You called again, much firmer this time.

Ah, she's in shit now. She knows damn well she's in deep trouble when she hears her full name being used especially by you. "Sorry, boss, guess I'm…distracted."

"That much is obvious." You offer a brief smile from your desk, but it fades just as quickly. "What's wrong, Natasha?"

Oh well, the list goes on and on. Where to begin? First, she's an undercover agent walking a tightrope, knowing her bosses are ready to pull the plug on the operation. Second, she's not a very good agent, since she became too attached to her target, the woman she's been guarding for six months. Lastly, she's an agent, and she's wondering if she should be.

Not that the answer is to join organised crime, either. But she's probably not as…objective as she used to be.

"I'm not sure about tomorrow," she finally admits. She doesn't like lying to you.

"What makes you unsure?"

Tomorrow looms large. The brass is forcing her hand. Natasha already delayed delivering you to them three times, and tomorrow, in the middle of your biggest land trade in years, her fellow agents are going to storm the place. There will be chaos, and you're likely to get caught in the crossfire. And despite her divided loyalties, she knows she'll put her life on the line to protect you. Whether they will question her credibility if she's a traitor or not.

Well all because she's just the agent who fell for her target—the Romeo of the operation. She just hopes that the story doesn't end in tragedy.

"Are we sure the meeting place is secured?"

"You went with Bucky to secure it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You're nervous," you interrupt smoothly. Your smile is as polished as your satin night dress and the faint, fabricated English accent you wear like armor. Natasha knows it's a front—like her own.

"Can't help it," she shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Your heels click on the floor. The sound haunts her in her dreams.

"I know you can't." You almost sound like you're soothing her. "But try not to let it cloud your judgement."

She nods, brushing a speck off her jacket. It's the best she's ever dressed in her life, all thanks to you. Steve loves to tease her about it, especially the set of black shirt she's never ran out.

You blink as she catches your hand before you can pull away from her completely. "Natasha."

"You," she begins, breaking the strict rule against using names—real or fake—in the office. But you had told her your name yourself, and it's been etched into her mind ever since, like a treasure on a pedestal. "Just…think about tomorrow again."

She meets your gaze, both faces unreadable. Natasha's mastery of concealing emotions comes from years of training, while yours seems effortless. "You're concerned about me?"

She inhales, squeezing your hand tighter. Finally free to tell the truth, she says, "your safety is my top priority."

Something changes in those eyes of yours, but she can't quite tell what it is.

Natasha blinks as you lean in, pressing a light yet deliberate kiss to her cheek. She fights to keep her composure, knowing that you, the boss, rarely shows affection—mercy even less so. But her focus is entirely on calming the storm of butterflies in her stomach.

Oh idiot Romeo, indeed.

You lock eyes with her, your hand steady on her cheek. "We'll be fine," you say with unwavering confidence.

She holds your gaze, resisting the urge to hope for another kiss. Slowly, she lets go of your hand. "If you say so, boss."

You arch a brow. "Back to boss, is it?"

She felt a smirk but more like a smile tug at her lips. "Would you rather I call you something else?"

"Hm, mommy sounds good or perhaps mistress..." A sly smirk crept in your face. Then your hand glides down her chest, skimming over her leather jacket until it rests on the concealed weapon at her belt.

"You tell me, agent."

[theartofkensanoni]

Patience knocked at the door, rain water dripping off the sides of the walkway balcony above her, expecting the worse. She had heard from Adams' grandmother, who hadn't called Patience in over 30 years. Patience wasn't on speaking terms with her, after all, and while Patience still loved her, the relationship was strained. There was no response at first, and after fidgeting with her timepiece, Patience knocked again. She had time. She could wait forever for ... she lost track of how many grands there were in the child's relation. It was more than enough, really. A tenor voice came from behind the door "What do you want?". The speech was a little slurred, and confused. Honestly, that was to be expected. When you have as many great grandchildren as Patience has, it's hard to keep up with all of them.

"Adam? I'm Patience. Your grandmother called me. She's so worried about you. Can I come in?" There was a pause, and the door opened up a crack, and Patience saw Adam's face. It was confused, but the eyes were read and puffy, and the bare shoulders were shaking a little from the distress. His brown hair reflected the light in such a warm color, and his eyes were as storm clouds reflecting an ice sheet. His forehead barely touched the chain that kept the door from being completely open. "Who? What's my Grandmother's name?", he asked suspiciously. Adam looked very much like Patience's daughter, from all that time ago. Memories came back to Patience, but she pushed them aside. "I'm Patience. I'm a relationship to your Grandmother, Connie Lucy Edwards. She's heard that you had a fight with your mother, and that you had a bad breakup. I.. I was hoping I could maybe help?" Adam took a long hard look at Patience. "I don't know you. Why do you care?" Patience danced on the knife edge. Small lies first. He just wouldn't know. "I'm sort of like a god parent? I know we've not seen each other since you were really, really, little, but I..." The door closed, and Adam went deeper into the home. Patience sighed. How could she ever explain it to him? How could she honor the ever living reflection of her daughter that her beyond great grandson shared with her. The boy was crying, and the pain was still fresh. Maybe if he wouldn't open up to here, maybe she could visit the man who made Adam cry, and find out the heart of the truth. (Maybe to be continued? Adam had a love with Eric, and Eric and Adam broke up because Eric wanted Adam to be more of a woman, and Adam is trying so hard to be a man, even though his appearance is so much like Patience's child, it's obvious that he may never break free. Some exploration on if Patience feels responsible, and an attempt to comfort and telling Adam that he deserves to be what he wants to be, no matter what he actually looks like. Unclear at this time if Eric and Adam can mend the differences, or if Eric leaves Adam, and Adam finds another relationship that he feels comfortable in. Because, let's face it, I'm not sure if I'm ever going to get back to this)

An immortal once had a child. She was kind and gentle and beautiful, and the immortal doted on her endlessly, but the child was mortal, and she died of old age. Centuries later, the immortal is still looking after her descendants, and… tragically, they all look exactly like her.

[wandaslittleweirdo]

Whisper

⋆⋆౨ৎ pairing: 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚡!𝚣𝚘𝚘𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

summary: On a still, quiet night in your remote cabin, you relax on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate and your favourite childhood movie. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow outside is followed by three sharp knocks on your door. You peek through the curtain to find your ex-girlfriend, Zooey Kern, standing out in the cold on your porch. You reluctantly allow her inside, but the night quickly spirals into something far darker than you could’ve ever expected.

warnings: noncon, top!zooey, dirty talk, praise kink, obsessive exes, forced intoxication, toxic relationships, pet names (bunny, baby, sweetheart, etc), manipulation, fingering, zooey takes photos of you nakey TwT, a sprinkle of after care for the little softie in me

A/N: happy new years to the sick adorable cuties who like my blog !!! sorry I didn’t upload anything for Christmas, was busy >_> — masterlist.

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this is a dark fic. 18+. wlw. men & minors dni!

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You’re nestled on your couch, your feet propped up on the worn-out wooden coffee table, a knitted throw blanket draped over your legs with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows in your hands. You’ve always loved your own company, preferred it even, the silence and the space giving you a sense of comfort and order. The film's soundtrack played, a soft, cheerful backdrop to your peaceful evening. The plot is familiar, a fantasy movie you had watched every year since you were a child—it was comfort food for the soul, the kind that didn't require much thought.

As you slowly took a sip of your drink, the sound of something outside startles you.

These weren’t the usual little crunchy noises of a wild animal in the snow or creaks on your porch made from the old floorboards. These were powdery-like sounds of someone moving through the snow, and thumps made by boots. Footsteps, clumsy but unmistakable. The steps were followed by three distinct knocks, a shuffle, and then silence. You paused the movie, your eyes narrowing slightly.

Who could be out at this hour, especially in the hushed embrace of the woods? The isolation of the towering surrounding trees didn’t usually invite unexpected visitors. You slowly tip toe over to the window and crack open the curtain, the sight of your ex girlfriend causing you to gasp and snap the curtain right back into place.

You frowned. This wasn’t the Zooey you remembered. Her blonde hair once always controlled waves now a mess of tangles, and her body swayed, clearly struggling to keep her balance.

You let out a scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. How did she find you here, in the middle of nowhere? You hadn’t spoken or seen each other in a year.

You approach the door cautiously, wondering if the woods had finally led you into insanity and hallucinations.

The peephole provides a distorted view, but you know it’s her. The woman you used to love with all your heart and more, in all her disheveled glory, waiting at your door and looking up at the stars with a gaze softer than you had ever seen it.

She stood there, silhouetted by the moon as she pushed one of her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. She chews her bottom lip while her eyes wander over your seasonly decorated porch, reaching out to fiddle with the antlers of a wooden reindeer you had sat on your porch swing.

You unlock the door, swinging it open with an emotionless stare. The crisp night air hits your face, bringing with it the faint scent of pine and something else... alcohol?

She's wearing a brown leather jacket with fur detailing, unzipped to show a white tank top hidden underneath, paired with simple dark blue jeans. Your eyes then fall to her necklace, delicate and silver with a heart pendant intertwined with another. Your stomach twists when you remember it’s the one you gave her for your two year anniversary.

Her eyes snapped to yours when she heard the creak of the door opening. She seems surprised for a moment, but her stunned expression was quickly replaced with a lopsided smile. "Hey, bunny!” She slurs, the confidence that once made her so irresistible now marred by a tipsy wobble.

You fold your arms and lean against the doorframe, blocking her entrance. "What are you doing here, Zooey?"

She tries to straighten up but fails, her hand reaching out to the porch railing to steady herself. "We haven’t talked in forever, Y/N. I wanted to see you.” She replied simply, her voice a little too loud for the quiet night.

You feel a twinge of pity, but the hatred from last year flares up again, causing you to grimace. “Okay, you’ve seen me. Bye now.”

Zooey's eyes widen, and she stumbles forward, her hand shooting out to grab the door. "Wait, I can’t go.”

You took a step back when she suddenly lunged forward, avoiding any close proximity with your hand tight on the doorknob. "Why not?"

She takes a deep breath before answering. "I don't know. I was driving to come see you, found a liquor store, stopped to buy some, and then I was driving again. Then I found a liquor store..." She trailed off, her speech slurred as her brows knitted together. Rolling your eyes, you fight the urge to slam the door in her face.

"And then what, Zooey?" you huffed, making it clear that you don’t have the patience or tolerance for her like you used too.

Her eyes refocus and she blinks rapidly. "Then my car broke down, but I realised I was close enough to walk. So here I am!” She says with a dramatic flourish, as if revealing a grand secret.

"Zooey, it's the middle of the night, you're drunk, and you expect me to just let you in after what you did?”

Her eyes widen even more, a look of shock flashing across her face as if she expected you to drop everything and help her like you used too. "B-but, baby, I just—“ She wobbles again, this time almost falling over. You can't help but catch her, the old instincts kicking in.

You groaned, propping her up by wrapping an arm around her waist and moving her arm to rest around your neck. "My god, Zooey,” you sighed, carefully leading her inside.

Zooey giggles as you guide her to the couch. “Sit down. Watch out for the rug.” She plops herself down and sprawls her legs out in front of her.

“You were never the one to give me orders, remember?" She smiled as her eyes ran around the room. The same old couch, the same knick-knacks on the shelves. But everything is in an entirely different home, away from the place she broke your trust and abandoned her loyalty.

“Just stay there, I’ll get you some water,” You called out as you walked into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

By the time you return, Zooey has made herself fully comfortable, watching your movie with droopy eyes and munching on one of your half-eaten chocolate chip cookies. You hold out the bottle to her, and she takes it with a sleepy smile. "Thank you bunny," she murmurs, her eyes never leaving the screen in front of her.

You continue to ignore the nicknames, taking a seat on the single chair opposite the couch. "The guest room is ready, sleep in there." You deadpan. Zooey's smile fades, and she looks over at you in confusion.

"What?" She asked, setting the water on the coffee table without taking a sip.

"You’re sleeping in the guest room," you cross your legs as you lean back into your chair. "You're not staying in my room. I don’t trust you.”

"But I miss you," she whines, but you only shrug.

"Missing me doesn’t mean anything," you reply coldly. "Your car broke down, it’s too far out of town to call anyone at this time of night, and you aren’t sleeping in my bed. So, the guest bedroom or your car. That’s your choice, I couldn’t care less.”

“Why are you being so mean, Y/N/N?” The subtle pout on Zooey's face is the same one you used to find endearing, but now it only fuels your annoyance. You take a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check.

"Zooey, we broke up because you’re a cheat. You took any sort of respect I had for you, this is your fault."

But she doesn’t seem to hear your harsh tone. "That Ruby friend of yours? She lied to you, she wants you for herself. I still love you, Y/N. Only you.” She whispers, her eyes searching yours, looking for something that isn't there anymore.

Your eyes widen, the words hitting you like a punch in the gut. You had been split up for over a year, and as far as you know, she wasn’t bothered to even try and contact you. Her eyes are genuine, but the alcohol clouds their depth, making it hard to discern truth from drunken rambling.

"Love?" You repeat, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. "You have a funny way of showing it." You stand up from your chair and hurriedly walk to the kitchen, hoping she’ll recognise your need for space. But she follows anyway, her movements inept and awkward from the alcohol.

“Go to sleep, Zooey.” You clenched your fists, but she persists, wobbling after you like a lost puppy. "Come on, Y/N!” she slurs again, a hopeful look in her eyes. "Can we talk? Please, my love.."

"We're not doing this, Zooey." You say through gritted teeth as you grab a bottle of wine and a clean glass from your top cabinet, unsure if you could continue talking to her sober without someone getting hurt.

Zooey sighs dramatically and leans against the counter. "I just want to talk to you.”

You shake your head, your hand tightening around the bottle. "Talk about what? You’ve said a lot already and you’ve invaded my space. I should be kicking you out right now.” You pour yourself a generous glass, bringing the cup to your lips and taking a large gulp.

Zooey's eyes follow the movement, her gaze trained on your lips. "We can talk about anything," she said quietly, reaching out to touch your arm again. "Everything. I just want to be close to you again.”

She tried to place her hands on your waist, but you jerk away from her touch, the revulsion clear in your expression. "Don’t touch me.” You hissed. “Do you hear yourself? Do you even hear me? I’m saying no and you’re talking crazy! You don’t love me and you don’t miss me. You miss controlling me. You’re sick.”

Her eyes harden almost immediately, as if you had flipped a switch inside of her. You see the anger that starts to seep through her irises, and you felt a pit form in your stomach. She leans in closer, the smell of cheap alcohol overwhelming your senses.

"I’m going to bed," you announce, your voice a little shakier than you wanted it to be. You make a move to step around her, but she mirrors that action, blocking you with her towering frame. The kitchen suddenly feels claustrophobic, the walls closing in on you as you tense and stare into her chest, refusing to look up and meet her eyes.

"I've had enough of your shit.” Her voice is lower than before, your heart skipping the same way it used to when you heard that tone.

"You think you're tough now, but you're still that fragile, weak little girl that let me break her heart over and over again a year ago." She pushed her finger into your chest, poking at the tender spot where your heart used to flutter when she said sweet nothings. Your eyes water, and she doesn’t miss it, the corner of her mouth twitching into a wicked smile as she watches you shrink.

Your eyes flicker up to her face, your vision blurred from the tears in your eyes. "I've changed, Zooey." But your voice is weak, showing the truth behind your words. She's right. You’re still the same, but every part of you wishes you weren’t.

"Aw, see, look at that." Zooey's tone held its teasing edge, her fingers reaching out to wipe away the tear that had spilled down your cheek. You flinched at her touch, your body instinctively recoiling from the warmth of her skin . “You're still that sensitive baby you were when I left.”

Still avoiding her eyes, you clenched your jaw. "I'm not a baby, Zooey.” You mumbled.

She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re so cute.” She chuckled as you bit your quivering lip, feeling the heat of the wine in your cheeks. Your eyes sting, and you blink back the tears, determined to not let her see you vulnerable. Although it was far too late. She could already see the crack in your shell, and she knew what to say to get you to break completely.

"Just leave me alone.” You said shakily, barely audible as you sniffled and wiped your leaky nose with your sleeve. She leans in closer, her breath warm and alcohol-laden against your cheek. "You don’t really want that though, do you? Somewhere deep down, you still want me to hold you, kiss you and love you." She cooed, ever so softly, her hands slipping around your waist except this time, you don’t fight.

You feel the salty sting of the tears run down your face, and for a brief moment, you let her hold you. You couldn’t tell if her touch was welcome or not as she wrapped her arms around your head so she could pull you into her chest and shushed you. She had created a space in your head where you truly believed you needed her, even when you went an entire year healing and barely thinking of her.

But the sob that rips through your body isn’t one of longing, but of sadness for what you’ve lost. Your self-respect and the naive belief in true love, the hope that one day she’d change and you’d be the perfect couple you had dreamt about in the beginning of your relationship.

"Why are you doing this to me?" You sobbed again, your voice hoarse from holding back your emotions.

"Because you're just so easy to be mean too, honey," she replied, her voice devoid of affection, her smile cold. You recoil from her grasp as if it burns, and she laughed lightly, a sound that rings in your ears.

She's right. You do still have feelings for her, a dark and twisted part of you that you had buried deep down, hoping it would rot away. But here it is, blooming again like a poisonous flower in the middle of the night.

"Come on, baby, just one more night," she cajoled, “You know you miss me.”

She gently pries the bottle from your fingers, twisting the cap off with ease. The liquid streams into your cup, filling it to the brim with a deep, rich red. She extends the cup toward you, her eyes shining with something you couldn’t put your finger on. "Don’t forget about your drink. It’ll help you feel better.” She reassured. Her voice is soothing, almost hypnotic, reminiscent of a serpent’s hiss, coaxing its prey with sweet promises of relief.

You pull back slightly as the alcohol fumes rise to tickle your nostrils, but the tremble in your hands gives you away. She chuckles softly, putting the cup back down and bringing the bottle up to your lips. “Open.” You obey and part your lips without thinking, feeling it warm your insides as she starts to guide you to the couch.

She sits you down and takes a seat on your lap, her legs straddling yours as she lightly pushes you to lean against the back of the couch. The weight of her body presses down on you, and you feel the strength in her thighs, the dominance in her touch as she strokes your hair just like she used to. "You know,” she started, “I never stopped thinking about you."

Her words made you want to cry more, and you take another gulp of wine, hoping the alcohol would wash away the pain and the doubt. You want to push her off of you, scream at her that she has no right to be here, but the warmth of her body is a comfort you haven’t felt in so long.

As you drink, her hand moves to rub your back, the motion gentle and slow. You hate how good it feels, how your muscles loosen under her caress. It’s been a year, but it’s as if no time has passed at all.

"Why are you.. here?" you mumble, your words slightly gargled and muffled from the drink she’s feeding you. Zooey tipped the bottle towards your mouth again, ready to ignore your question until you pulled back. She sighed, taking the bottle away from your pink stained lips.

"Because, my love, I know you. I know that under that cold exterior, you’re still the same girl who cried in my arms every time we fought." She pecks your lips. "And I know that no matter how much you say you hate me, there’s that little place in your heart where you still love me, even when I hurt you. I can’t get enough of it.”

You can't argue with the truth, so you don’t. Instead, you lean into her, letting the warmth of the wine and the familiarity of her presence seep into your bones.

Her hand moves from your back to cup your jaw, tilting it back to allow the wine to flow, her thumb brushing over your chin to catch a stray droplet. The gesture is so intimate, so loving, but her intentions are far from that.

A warm, electric buzz coursed through your body, each nerve ending alive with an intoxicating tingle. Your hands, heavy and unsteady, rested against the center of her chest, as if trying to push her away, though any real effort was utterly futile. The rich, velvety wine pumped through your veins, leaving you feeling achingly vulnerable and helpless, your strength sapped from the alcohol.

Zooey’s hand drops down to yours, squeezing a few times to ensure you don’t miss a word as she talks. She tells you about her travels, the adventures she’s had, the places she’s seen, and the moments she missed you and wished she could’ve shared with you.

Then you remember. The pain, the humiliation, the countless nights spent crying over her, and all the effort you made to live happily on your own. “Stop.”You mumble, moving your head to the side and attempting to scoot back further into the couch. But she doesn’t move, her grip on your hand tightening.

"Just one more, please. For me, darling." She murmurs softly as she nudges the cool glass bottle to your lips. Despite the warning bells ringing in your mind, urging you to resist, you find yourself surrendering to her charm, tilting your head back to take a long swig.

“There we go, you did so well. How do you feel now?” She asked before placing the empty bottle onto the coffee table behind her. You cough as the alcohol starts to blur the edges of your reality, feeling Zooey's hands move to your shoulders, her thumbs working into the tight muscles that have held years worth of tension. Your eyes flutter, your mouth parting slightly as a soft moan left your lips.

"I'm okay... you should go to sleep, you’re drunk." You waved her away, your gaze glazed over and confused as if suddenly lost in a distant fog. You made an attempt to stand up, but halfway to your feet, your knees buckled beneath you. You stumbled back, sinking into the soft cushions once more, the world around you swirling slightly.

"Oh, Y/N/N, look how sleepy you are. You need someone to take care of you."

One of her hands leaves your shoulder and moves to rest on your hip. You know you should stop her, that this isn’t the way to heal, but the words seem to jumble together as you try to speak.

Her other hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt, her nails gently scratching the skin of your tummy. "No..” you mumbled, but it's lost in the sound of her breathing, ragged and hot against your neck. You tried desperately to find her hands to push them away, but your vision and common knowledge is muddled from the alcohol.

"I don’t- stop," you try again, but it's weak, a feeble protest that she ignores. Her hand slides up, her thumb brushing against the bottom of your breast, and you suck in a breath, the chill of the air biting at your exposed skin. You buck your hips in an attempt to wriggle away, but the friction you received from her knee slotting between your thighs made you gasp.

"Zooey?…” You try to push her away again, but your muscles feel like they’ve turned to jelly. She chuckles, low and dark, her teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck.

"Shh," she soothed, her lips trailing further down as she spoke. "You're hurting. I'm taking care of you."

Zooey's hand moves upward to squeeze your breast, and you whimper loudly. It's a sound you hate, a sound of need and desire that you never thought you'd make again, not for her. But your body remembers the way she touched you, the way she could make you feel alive even when you were practically dead inside.

Her fingers play with the sensitive peak, and your breath hitches. You're not sure if you want her to stop or to keep going, but your body is betraying you, your breath quickening and your heart racing.

Zooey notices the subtle change in your breathing and smirks, taking it as a sign to continue. She inches closer, her breath warm against your skin, and captures your lips in a kiss that feels both achingly familiar and foreign. Your lips part on instinct, and she deepens the kiss, her tongue slipping inside to reunite with yours.

She moans into your mouth, her hand underneath your shirt roughly groping and squeezing you. You move your head to the side and out of her reach, trying to form coherent words through the haze of alcohol.

"You’re so soft," she whispers, her voice a sultry murmur that warms the air between you. As she pulls her hand out from beneath your shirt, she grips your shoulders and gently maneuvers you, coaxing you to lay flat on your back.

In an effortless movement, she shifts so that her hips press against yours, her hands moving to unbutton your shirt with surprising deftness. The cold air hits your skin, sending a shiver through your body that she mistakes for excitement.

Her cold hand slides down your stomach, and you arch your back, a breathy moan escaping your throat as she pushes her hand into your pants and reaches your core, cupping you with her cold hand.

You’re laid out on the couch now, your legs kicking as she rubs you. Your panties are damp, clinging to you shamefully. The wine is doing its job, the buzz making it harder to resist her as she starts to pull down your pants with her free hand.

Hearing you moan her name again after so long made her growl, nipping at your bottom lip as she traced your slit through your thin panties. You can feel your body respond despite the horror of the situation, your pussy pulsing under her touch. "I can feel you," she husked. "You’re all wet and throbbing for me.”

"Zooey!" You whined loudly, struggling to tighten your muscles and tug your pants back up.

"Please, wait," you begged. Your heart hammers in your chest as you try to sit up, but she's too fast. Her hand whips up to your shoulder, her fingers digging into you as she shoved you back down.

"Don't you remember, baby? You used to beg for it. Every night. Zooey, I need you. Zooey, please touch me, right here…”

Your cheeks burn with a mix of humiliation and arousal as she recounts moments you'd buried under the weight of anger and resentment. Her fingers prod at your covered cunt, and you bit down hard on your lower lip to stifle a whimper.

She watched your chest rise and fall quickly as you panted, your cheeks and neck flushed and tear stained. "Tell me you need me."

You remember the passion, the heat, the desperation. But you also remember the betrayal, the pain, the coldness that settled in your chest like a rock when you heard she had been with someone else. "Stop it," you whisper, weakly trying to pull her hand away.

Her hand moves from your shoulder to your face, her thumb wiping away the tears that are now streaming down your cheeks. "Aw, but I don’t want to stop. I just want to make you feel good,"

You stare at her, your eyes glassy and distraught from the wine. Your body shakes with the effort to push her away, but she’s too far gone now. “Say it. Say you need me.” She pulls your panties to the side and her thumb circles your bare clit, and you bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning. "Please, Zooey.." you begged.

But she just smirks, her eyes sparkling as she slowly pushes two fingers inside of you. Her lips part and she sucks in a shaky breath hearing you gasp, your body twitching from the sudden intrusion. She moves them roughly, her thumb circling your sensitive bud as she invades you with a brutality that feels almost animalistic. You whimper, the pain mixing with a corrupt pleasure that makes you want to hate her even more.

“You’re so cute.” She kisses you again, her tongue finding its way back into your mouth, tasting of bitter wine. Her fingers work inside you, each stroke bringing a tear to your eye, a whimper to your throat. You want to stop it, want to push her away and tell her to leave, but your body won’t listen, your hips moving with her hand and your toes curling.

Her thumb presses down harder on your clit, and you can’t hold back the tiny moan that escapes your lips. The sound seems to fuel her, her hand moving faster, her fingers pumping into you skilfully.

"There it is," she breathes, "Just like that. Keep making those pretty noises for me,”

Her thumb works your clit in a brutal rhythm, her fingers plunging into your wetness as if she's trying to claim you again, to prove that she still owns you. You're close to the edge, so close, and you can feel it. You can feel it in the way your walls tighten around her fingers, the way your breaths are coming in short, desperate gasps.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, focusing on the pain, grounding yourself in it. You push another moan that's fighting to get out back down into the pit of your stomach, where it belongs. You don’t want her to hear it, to feed on it like a vampire craving for blood.

Her eyes narrow slightly, sensing your resistance, and speeds up her movements. You can feel your orgasm approaching, but you refuse to let it happen. You dig your nails into the couch cushions and squeeze your eyes shut. You bite down even harder on your cheek, the taste of coppery blood flooding your mouth. The pain helps, it’s something you can focus on, something to hold onto as she tries to pull you back into the abyss.

Her breathing is harsh in your ear, the hand that’s not inside of you snaking it’s way up to your neck, holding you in place. You can feel her hips moving, grinding urgently against your thigh.

"You can’t hold out on me for much longer, baby,” You try to push her away again, but she's too strong, her grip on your neck tightening. You feel your body start to give in, the beginnings of a climax threatening to overwhelm you.

"No no no," you say under your breath, trying to squeeze your thighs shut. She smiles, her hips rocking against you in time with her hand, her eyes looking for yours, watching the battle between your need for release and your need to resist her.

Your body arches upwards, a silent scream trapped in your throat as the orgasm rips through you, shuddering and raw. She grins, her eyes glowing with a twisted triumph as she feels you squirt around her fingers.

The room spins as she pulls away, leaving you gasping for breath. "There you go, sweetheart. Wasn’t that nice?” she readjusted her jacket as she stood up and reached for her phone on the table.

"What are you doing?" you rasp out.

"Just going too.. capture the moment,” she says with a wink. She opens the camera app, and before you can react, she points the back camera at your tear-stained face and your exposed, trembling body.

"Look who I found,"

Your heart sinks as you realize what she's doing. "Zooey, don’t," you warn, trying to shield your face with your hands. But she's too quick for you, snapping a few pictures with a cruel smile.

"Oh, come on, don’t be shy. You look so cute!" She praised. "It's been so long since I've had you all to myself like this."

Your face is the picture-perfect example of humiliation, flushed a deep shade of red that matches the bruises she left on your neck. Tears clung to your lashes, sparkling like diamonds in the low light, tracing paths down your cheeks to your neck. Your shirt is gaping open, revealing the soft curves of your breasts and the smooth plane of your stomach, your jeans pulled down just enough to expose the skin of your upper thighs.

"Please, Zooey," you hiccup, your voice hoarse and pleading. She ignores your pleas, taking a few more shots, zooming in to ensure she didn’t miss a single detail.

You feel more exposed than ever with the cold, clinical flash bouncing off your skin. You attempt to sit up, but your legs are jelly, and your strength is waning.

"What are you going to do with those?" you ask, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

“They’re just for me, honey. A little souvenir of our reunion. You don’t mind, do you?” Zooey’s voice is sweet, but there’s a bite to it that makes you tense. She sits on the edge of the couch, flipping through the images with a sadistic smirk.

She tucks her phone away with a dramatic sigh. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, darling. It’s a New Year, I’d hate for you to stay like this.” She says, her tone switching to something strangely close to affectionate. She walks away to grab a warm, wet cloth from the bathroom and returns to your side, her movements surprisingly gentle. You flinch as she wipes away the tears and the smudged makeup, and again when she uses a different cloth to clean up your other sticky mess.

Zooey carefully dresses you in a festive Christmas sweater that you had neatly folded in your top drawer. You watch her in a daze, unable to process what's happening. She tugs it down over your head, the smell of fabric softener and her woody perfume a painful reminder of happier times.

"There, you look much better.” She says, stepping back to admire her work.

With a sigh, Zooey sits beside you, her hand finding its way to your thigh. "You know, I missed this," she whispers, gently taking your chin between her fingers and turning your head to look up at her. "Missed having you here, all the time, right next to me.”

Her hand moves higher, her thumb tracing the edge of the sweater, grazing the valley of your breasts. You stiffen and your breathing stops when her fingers brush against your throat. She chuckles when she catches your reaction, and leans in, her lips brushing against yours.

“Happy new year, bunny.”

⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘

[melminli]

Could you store something with jun-hee (player 222) x f!reader plz🙏

Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby

summary - it may sound a bit cliché, but you were in love with your best friend. even though you always wanted to tell her, you strongly doubted that she could use your love - you didn't know that she thought the same. you two were really stupid, huh?

pairing: kim jun-hee x fem. reader

word count: 1.1k

contains: wlw, angst w/ comfort, arguing, fluff, pre squid game au, hidden feelings

a/n: i went to a cas concert a few months ago and it was insane. this was the song that just stuck with me since then and i thought about her when i listened to it again after watching the show! hope u like it ;p

"Oh man, they forgot our spring rolls." you realized disappointed after you went through each package of food one by one until there was nothing left but napkins in the bag. You looked at your best friend as you said. "Should I go to the store and get them? I know how much you like them, and I think the owner likes me, who knows, maybe we'll get an extra portion or something, huh?"

Jun-hee just shook her head with a gentle smile on her face. "That's all right. I want to eat with you and by the time you come back, the food will be all cold and mushy." she said, reaching for the chopsticks after opening her box of fried noodles.

You sat down on the opposite chair of your little dining table in your small kitchen. "I guess, I can't argue with that." you gave in and reached for a spoon to mix your fried rice a little.

You had turned on the radio a while ago and the music it was playing accompanied the pleasant silence between the two of you. You could hardly stop yourself from thinking about how homely this all felt right now with her, as you often did in the last few days. It was sudden and you were definitely caught off guard when Jun-hee suddenly appeared at your doorstep with a packed bag in tow. You didn't know exactly what happened, but you didn't need to because you could imagine that it probably had something to do with her parents or something - it didn't matter. She would tell you when she was ready.

"I heard that this one popular show is getting a second season soon, you know..." you started to tell her and then tried to think of the title when you suddenly heard a soft howl. You immediately stood up when you saw Jun-hee sitting huddled up with her arms covering her face. "Hey, what's wrong..." you asked worriedly, not used to such an emotional reaction from her since she was usually such a collected person. This was a very rare occurrence.

She interrupted you before you could say anything else. "I'm pregnant!" she cried out, feeling the lingering guilt inside her finally take over her entire mind as she uttered those words. A few minutes passed with you just holding her like that and Jun-hee clung tightly to you, sobbing. She was worried that you might let her go - in fact, she expected you to, which is why she didn't tell you for so long.

I can't blame her for anything, I really am the worst. She thought to herself when she still couldn't bring herself to let go. No matter how selfish it might be of her.

"Is it from that Mingyu guy?" you finally asked her and she nodded vaguely, but it was enough for you to understand. Jun-hee didn't even bother to correct you when you said his name wrong.

You just sighed and even if you didn't say it out loud, she could feel how angry you were with her - how disappointed. "You're mad at me," she stated while you continued to stroke her back reassuringly, even when the position you were holding her in was a little uncomfortable for you. "Of course I am, the guy's an asshole and you're only in your early twenties," you answered her honestly, comforting her with your own broken heart. "Does he even know? Last I heard, all his fans were sending him death threats because he stole their money or something."

She didn't even want to think about it. "He's not answering my calls and I have no idea where he is."

You let out another heavy sigh. "You're really stupid sweetie, I knew that guy was like this from the beginning, really," you spoke up before looking confusedly at Jun-hee after she lifted her head from your chest and met your gaze with a furrowed brow. "Can you stop rubbing it in my face? I already know that I fucked up!" she exclaimed, completely exhausted as she continued to rub her reddened eyes.

So she wants to keep the baby, her parents probably kicked her out as soon as they found out. You massaged your forehead, exhausted. "So, what now?" you just asked her, elaborating on your question when she looked at you with a confused look. You just wanted to kiss her right now and tell her that everything would be okay again and at the same time, you wanted to smash your head through a wall and cry. "What are you going to do now with a baby on the way? Do you have a plan for how you're going to look after it?"

I don't have a job or any money. I don't know what to do. She didn't answer you right away and just avoided your gaze, embarrassed, so you reached for her hand to get her attention. "If you don't know what to do and you want me to help you, then you have to tell me," you finally said and you were probably the stupid one this time.

Jun-hee looked at you in surprise and took a few seconds to really understand what you meant. "Are you sure? You don't have to do something like that for me..."

You interrupted her relatively quickly. "I want to do this for you because -" and your love confession was almost half hanging from your lips when you stopped yourself from saying it out loud in the last second. What am I doing? This is completely the wrong time for this. "- because you can always count on me, even if no one else does."

Oh, that's right. Jun-hee thought to herself as she held her pounding heart and smiled a little forcedly. I thought she was going to say something else, how stupid of me I mean you're pregnant with another man's child right now Jun-hee, wake up. She brought herself back down to earth. You already gave her more than enough. "Please, help me."

You spread your arms out again to catch her in a hug. "We'll work it out, don't worry..." you tried to reassure her further, any unspoken feelings remaining as you both made the decision to keep them a secret.

[little-diable]

Bloody and needy - Dean Winchester (smut)

It only felt right to use this Dean story as my first fic in 2025. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. Xxx

Summary: The reader has been plagued by dreams of Dean but when a hunt leaves her bloody and freezing, Dean is set on taking care of her.

Warnings: 18+, fingering, unprotected piv, friends to lovers, blood

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (1.7k words)

Her heart beat faster with every passing moment, heavy breaths sucked into her aching lungs that tried to hold onto the air as if she was about to drown. And perhaps she was - drowning in everything he was, consuming every part of her body and soul like the icy ocean set on calling her home.

“Look at me, baby.” Dean’s hand found its way up her body to rest on her throat, not tight enough to squeeze but enough to draw a soft gasp from her swollen lips. His green eyes had a darker touch to them, staring down at her with something possessive swimming in his pupils. Slowly, his thumb began to move, touching her soft skin until he found her parted lips.

(Y/n) could only whisper his name, getting lost in his eyes as he pushed his thumb past her lips. She instantly wrapped her lips around his finger, sucking on it to make a groan claw its way out of Dean. Sparks shot down her spine, leaving her trembling while her shaking fingers found his belt loops to impatiently tug him even closer.

A storm was brewing inside of her, her boat would sink, the crew would drown, only her aching need for him would survive.

“(Y/n)? Are you even listening?” His raspy voice ripped her out of her thoughts, forcing her to blink a few times to shake off her memories - memories of an all-too-vivid dream she had been ripped from hours ago. Dean was staring at her, his eyes flickering between the road and her every few seconds.

“Sorry, I’m just tired. What were you saying?” Dean began speaking again, telling her about his plan for their hunt, knowing it would most likely spiral into a bloody mess. But (y/n) was too far gone once again, caught up in the memory of yet another dream that had found her days ago.

“Fuck, you’re a sight for sore eyes, baby. I bet you’re dripping just from sucking my cock, huh?” Dean’s words had an almost condescending touch to them, making her shudder while humming around his cock. Tears dripped from her glassy eyes, salty like the waves of the ocean clashing against the uneasy raft she was clinging to.

“I could stay like this for days, that mouth of yours drives me crazy.”

A small groan left (y/n), fingers rubbing her tired eyes. She needed to get rid of these thoughts about Dean, knowing she was close to losing her last shred of sanity.

…

In retrospect she should have listened to Dean, should have paid his warnings some attention. And now as both were driving back to their motel, covered in blood, (y/n) couldn’t help but curse herself. No words were shared between them, only Baby’s gentle hum could be heard and the whimpers she let go of every now and then.

“We’ll be at the motel soon, sweetheart.” Dean mumbled his words, trying to keep his voice calm even though he was still riled up from their gruesome hunt. His hand found her knee, softly squeezing for a moment to ground her.

But (y/n) kept quiet, she was too focused on the way her body was freezing, fighting against the cold taking up her system. She had to hold onto Dean as he guided her into their room, couldn’t let go of him as they found their way to the bathroom, needed to rely on him to undress.

Even though she was a trembling mess, (y/n) couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering to Dean’s face. Blood was sticking to his freckled cheeks and nose, making him appear even sharper and more focused. She felt his hands on her body, peeling her clothes from her frame one by one until only her panties and bra were left.

“Dean,” his name rolled off her tongue like a prayer she knew by heart. A sound so comforting it could soothe his every pain. “Don’t let go, please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, swallowing any words that were close to leaving him before he stepped out of his clothes. Dark green eyes wandered up and down her now naked frame as (y/n) stepped into the shower, moaning at the feeling of the hot water cascading down her back.

“I got you, sweetheart. I’ll never let go, I promise.” Dean whispered the words into her ear, front pressed against her wet back. She only hummed, hands finding his forearms to prove to herself that he was actually there with her, keeping her warm.

“Talk to me, what do you need?” (Y/n) needed a few moments, pondering over the question. Dean’s hands moved slowly, exploring their newfound territory with soft touches. He was sure that he could count every single goosebump covering her skin, guiding his path up her chest like a lighthouse set on saving yet another lonely ship.

“Your touch, you, whatever you can give to me, Dean.” He didn’t reply, at least not with words. Dean cupped both her breasts, pressing himself further against her with a heavy groan. He kneaded her flesh, hoping that he could forever remember the feeling while (y/n)’s head rolled back against his chest, eyes fluttering close. Whatever he wanted to do to her, she’d take it all, finding a home in his arms.

“My pretty girl, I should have known that this is what you need right now, huh?” Almost reluctantly his hands let go of her, moving down her sides to her heat. (Y/n) was aching for him, folds already covered in her arousal - all because of some simple touches.

Dean pressed his calloused fingertips against her pulsing bundle, making a moan claw out of her. Her teeth were buried in her lower lip, close to drawing blood similar to the one that had been washed down the drain moments ago, reminders of another cruel evening tying the two closer together.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for my touch.” No warning was spoken as he pushed two of his fingers into her tightness, spreading her walls. Her hand shot out to find the cold tiles, pressed against the wall to balance her trembling frame. Too many sensations were clashing through her, the feeling of his fingers fucking her, the feeling of his hardening cock pressing against her behind, the feeling of her racing heart pounding in her chest. She was his as much as he was hers, two lonely hearts finally finding one another.

He built up the speed of his movements, fucking her faster to draw the sweetest sounds out of her. Dean was high on (y/n), on the feeling of her body falling prisoner to his touch, forever claimed by it. (Y/n)’s orgasm was building up faster than she had anticipated, desperate to let go with his name bleeding from her tongue, something Dean clearly seemed to pick up on.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby. I want to feel you clenching around my cock.” He pulled his fingers away, turning (y/n) towards him to press his lips against hers. Their lips moved in sync, perfectly fitting together, moments of distraction Dean used to press her against the wall, allowing the water to keep teasing his muscular back.

His right hand picked her leg up, fingertips pressing into her thigh while she reached for his twitching cock. The moan Dean let go of was almost animalistic, loud enough to reverberate through the bathroom - just like a cry for help late at night, a sound only the sirens would pick up on, crawling from the sea to eat a sailor’s heart.

Their lips broke apart for a second, inhaling heavy breaths to brace themselves for the upcoming moments. Dean’s eyes found hers as he pushed into her, groaning at the feeling of her walls fluttering around his cock. For a moment, he held still, relishing in the new sensation, all while she tried to keep herself focused. He felt better than anything she had ever felt before, making her tremble against him - no longer from the heat but from his touch.

“Fuck me, Dean, please.” His hips instantly followed her call, pushing in and out of her to fuck her against the wall. She bared her neck to his wandering lips, quivering whenever he sucked on a spot that made her lose her balance. Dean had a tight grasp on her, and even though he’d never let her fall, she couldn’t stop herself from clawing her nails into his skin, marking him up in her own way.

The shower swallowed most sounds the two made, the snapping of his hips against hers, the moans and groans, even the praises he spoke. But (y/n) heard them all too clearly, praying that she’d never forget them.

“You feel so good, like you were made for me, baby.” Heat crawled up her spine, set on finding its way to her cheeks - a heat so biting not even the shower managed to tame the inferno.

Only his name could leave her, no further words but the only sound she wanted to remember until her very last day. Her body guided her closer to her high, fingers pressed against her pulsing bundle to give herself the last needed push. (Y/n) shook against Dean, eyes squeezed shut, forehead falling against his chest.

Dean kept fucking her through her high, pulling out seconds before he lost his grip. He came with a heavy groan, painting her stomach white with his release, letting it wash down the drain seconds later.

Both were heavily panting, searching for the right words that were swallowed the second he kissed her again, and again, “I’ll always be there for you, sweetheart. No matter what, no matter when, you’re mine.”