#and then I end up with nights like tonight where I’ve been trying to sleep for hours

[papayainsectorone]

Teach me more

════════════════════════

summary: Weeks after the tender one-night encounter, Oscar reaches out, sparking a quiet, intimate reunion where vulnerability and longing open the door to something deeper.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink, Soft angst, gentle intimacy

word count: 6,5k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this was just screaming for more parts

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

════════════════════════

It’s been a few weeks.

Not that you’ve been counting. Not exactly.

Life moved on, at least on the surface.

You're sitting in bed, the dull glow of your phone lighting up your face, when a message flashes across your screen from a number you don’t recognize.

Hey. Um. It’s Oscar. I think I forgot to get your number that night.

A pause. Then another bubble.

Unless you meant not to give it to me. In which case—sorry for texting. I just. I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.

You freeze for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, a little breath caught in your chest. His name feels strange here, ordinary among the chaos of your inbox. Like a secret slipping into the light.

The night at the hotel hadn’t exactly ended with a plan. Just soft kisses, flushed skin, words whispered against each other’s mouths before sleep pulled you both under. You left the next morning with a kiss to his shoulder, the room still warm with his scent. He had stirred, but only slightly. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

You hadn’t expected this.

Another buzz.

I didn’t mean to wait this long. I kept thinking I’d find the right time. But I think I was just nervous. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want to talk to you again. Is that okay?

You stare at the message a little longer than necessary. The honesty in it—awkward, gentle, completely unpolished—makes something flutter quietly in your chest.

You type a reply, then delete it. Try again. Keep it simple.

Hi, Oscar. Of course it’s okay. I’m glad you reached out.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then your phone lights up again.

Can I see you?

That’s when it hits you—not just the memory, but the weight of what it felt like to hold him, guide him, watch him break apart in your hands. You remember the way he looked at you, like you were something fragile and holy all at once. And now he wants to come back. Or maybe not just come back—maybe he wants something more.

You glance around your room. It’s quiet. The night is early. You’re not wearing anything special—just soft joggers and a loose shirt—but your heart’s thudding like something important is about to happen.

You type:

You free tonight?

The reply is almost instant.

I can be.

You give him the address. No more questions. No hesitation.

Just a quiet understanding settling between you.

And as you set the phone down and head to the mirror to check yourself, brush your fingers through your hair, adjust the curve of your lips—just a little—you feel it.

That same spark from before. But different now.

Not a reunion.

A continuation.

He doesn’t knock like someone unsure of their welcome.

It’s more like a quiet question at your door—three light taps and then stillness. You open it to find Oscar standing there in a hoodie too big for him and jeans that hang a little loose on his hips, like he forgot how to be casual and dressed in what made him feel safest. His hair’s a bit messier than before, curls that weren’t quite tamed, and his eyes meet yours for half a second before they dart away.

But he smiles.

It’s small, sheepish, and utterly sincere.

“Hey,” he says.

You step back to let him in, and he walks past you slowly, the space between you briefly electric as his shoulder brushes yours. He smells the same—something warm and quiet, like fabric softener and something you can’t name but remember instantly.

You both stand there in the soft light of the living room, the quiet stretching between you—not tense, just... full. He’s hovering like he’s not sure how to greet you. His arms shift like he’s thinking about hugging you but second-guessing himself.

You tilt your head and smirk a little, stepping closer.

“Oscar,” you say, a lightness in your voice. “Come here.”

He goes scarlet.

It blooms up his neck to his ears, blooming across his cheeks. But he laughs—half-breathless, half-mortified—and finally, finally moves in.

The hug is shy at first. He steps into your space and wraps his arms around you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold tight. But when you press in, close and warm and solid against him, he exhales. His arms tighten just slightly.

You feel him sink.

Not all the way, not yet—but it’s a beginning. His cheek rests just briefly against your shoulder, and for a second, you just breathe together.

Then he pulls back, eyes still pink around the edges, and says with a crooked smile, “That... might be the best welcome I’ve ever gotten.”

“Then you should come over more often.”

You guide him toward the couch. He hesitates before sitting, like he’s still not sure what this is—what you're expecting, what he's allowed to want. But he follows, folding down onto the cushions with a little exhale like he’s been holding something in since the second he texted you.

You sit beside him, close but not crowding. The silence stretches again—comfortably this time—and you just let it. You can see him working something out behind those soft brown eyes. Turning it over. Trying to get brave enough to speak it.

You don’t push. You never have to.

Finally, his voice comes quiet and tentative. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Since that night.”

Your heart gives a little stutter, but your smile stays easy, inviting. “Yeah?”

He nods. Then: “I… I wanted to text you. Right after. But I didn’t have your number. And I didn’t want to ask at the front desk, because…” He flushes again. “I think I forgot how to function as a person for a few days after.”

You laugh, soft and low.

His smile flickers wider for a second before his expression turns shy again, his gaze dropping to his hands. He fidgets with a thread on his sleeve, and when he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I want to return the favor.”

You blink, then tilt your head slightly, warmth blooming low in your chest. “You want to…?”

He looks up—eyes big, cheeks pink. “Do something for you. Like you did for me. Not because I feel like I owe you or anything, just… I’ve never done it before. Not properly. And I—” He swallows.

You let the quiet sit between you for a few seconds longer before reaching out and laying your hand gently over his. “You sure?”

He nods, quick and eager. “I’ve been thinking about it. About how you made me feel that night. And I want to do that for you. If you want to teach me that is.”

That earnestness in him is still there—the nervous edges, the twitch of uncertainty—but there’s something steadier underneath it now. A real desire to learn, to explore, to care for you the way you cared for him.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Okay,” you say.

You shift a little on the couch, angling your body toward his, your knee brushing his. He hasn’t stopped glancing at your mouth—not in a lewd way, more like he’s curious. Hungry, maybe. Definitely nervous.

You smile softly and nudge him with your shoulder. “So… do you want to do it now?”

Oscar’s eyes snap to yours. “Wh-what?”

You laugh under your breath. “You want to try, right? Giving. Touching. All that?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. No—I mean yes. Fuck.” He rubs his hands over his jeans, like he’s trying to wipe the nerves off his palms. “If you want to. But you obviously don’t have to. I didn’t mean like right now unless you—unless you're cool with it. Not that I expect—shit.”

You tilt your head at him, smiling slowly. “Oscar.”

“Yeah?”

“Last time I had your dick in my mouth. You really don’t need to be this nervous.”

He turns a vivid shade of red and drops his face into his hands with a groan. “You cannot just say that so casually.”

You lean closer, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I absolutely can. Come here.”

When you open your arms, he hesitates only for a second before melting into your hug. He’s warm, solid, and still a little tense—but there’s a relief in the way he exhales against your neck that makes your chest squeeze. Like this is the part he didn’t know he needed. Just being close. Just being held.

You murmur against his ear, “So… do you want to?”

His voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” You pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted. “Then let’s start with a kiss.”

He swallows. “You mean like… now?”

You don’t say anything. Just smile and wait.

He swallows again, the nervousness still there, but his eyes search yours for permission. It’s all in the way he’s leaning in just a little, testing the waters. You don’t say anything at first, letting the silence hang for just a beat longer than necessary. Then, you give him a soft nod.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “just kiss me, Oscar.”

It’s like a switch flips inside him. His hand, still on your waist, moves to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. He pauses there, waiting—his lips brushing lightly against yours. Soft. Almost unsure.

You smile against him, keeping it light but encouraging. “Relax. Let go a little.”

His lips move gently over yours again, this time with a little more intent, a little more pressure. He’s still a little tentative, but his breathing’s deepening, and his hand around your neck gives a small tug, pulling you closer, testing the boundaries of your proximity.

You let him guide you, not rushing him but making sure he knows what feels good. As he leans into the kiss more, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to show him the right angle. You let your lips part a little, just a breath away, enough to encourage him to follow your lead.

“Open your mouth a little,” you whisper, just above a breath. “Not too much—just enough for a kiss to deepen.”

Oscar does it—hesitant at first, but you feel the way his body relaxes into the movement, his chest pressing against yours. He gets it. The tension is starting to fade, but he’s still figuring it out. You kiss him back slowly, just enough to keep him moving in the right direction, giving him the confidence to let go of that nervousness and trust his instincts.

You pull back for a second, just enough to look into his eyes. “That’s good. Now, try this: gently move your lips over mine. Like you’re tracing a line. Just… feel the way my lips feel against yours.”

His brow furrows in concentration, but he does as you say, shifting his lips against yours slowly, like he’s mapping out the motions. It’s clumsy at first, but there’s something so sweet in the way he’s trying. His hands, a little unsure at first, are now gently guiding you closer. His touch on your neck is warm, secure, and his other hand—after a moment’s hesitation—moves to your side, resting there.

You can feel the way his breath stutters when you respond to his kiss, your hands moving to his shoulders and guiding him closer. “Good. You’re doing great. Now—try to move with me.”

His eyes flutter open for just a moment, unsure but eager. “Move with you?”

“Yeah.” You grin softly, guiding his hands with yours so they settle around your back, your body shifting a little, pressing him closer. “It’s not about thinking too much. Just feel the rhythm. When I move, you move. Follow my lead.”

Oscar takes a deep breath, his hands tightening around you, and he follows your motion. It’s like a dance. A slow, soft one where every shift, every touch, feels like a conversation between your bodies. His kiss deepens again, but this time with more trust, more confidence.

“You’ve got it,” you whisper, and the words seem to fuel him more than you expect. He lets his lips linger longer this time, his hand moving from your back to the side of your face, cupping it gently. You can feel the way he’s starting to get lost in the moment, the way he’s learning to just let go and feel what you’re doing together.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, a teasing edge to your voice. His face flushes, but he doesn’t pull away, leaning in even more, following the rhythm you’ve set. His lips press firmly against yours, his movements more fluid now, like he’s finding a way to match your pace.

You can feel the intensity growing, and you guide his hand—gently, slowly—down your body, just showing him the way. “Let your hands move, Oscar. It’s okay to touch. Just pay attention to how I react.”

He hesitates only for a moment before he slides his hand lower, his touch tentative, like he’s still unsure of himself. You let out a small, satisfied hum against his mouth as his hand brushes against your waist, and that seems to be enough to push him forward.

You pull back again, just a bit, watching him. “That’s it. Just keep following. Trust your instincts.”

As Oscar’s hands slide under your shirt, his touch is careful, almost reverent, like he's trying to navigate uncharted territory. He’s already getting the hang of kissing, but the way his fingers hover, hesitant, grazing lightly over your skin, tells you he's still not entirely sure of what to do next.

You break the kiss, just enough to murmur softly against his lips, keeping him close. "You're doing great, Oscar. Just take it slow." Your voice is warm, reassuring, the kind of softness that encourages him to keep going, but without rushing him. “The touching, the way you move... it gets easier when you lose some clothes. Let your hands explore, but do it slowly, okay? You’ll find the rhythm.”

He nods, the nerves still there, but his gaze is a little more focused now, more intent as his hand inches higher, moving carefully up your side. There’s a slight hesitation, then his fingers brush over the curve of your breast, just the faintest touch, and you can feel the way he holds his breath, waiting for your reaction.

Your hands slide up his arms, guiding him a little, showing him the way. “You’re almost there. Don’t overthink it. Just feel the way I react.”

His fingers linger for a moment longer, like he's trying to figure out if that’s okay, but you can feel the way his thumb moves in small, tentative circles over your skin, testing the response. It’s delicate. He’s waiting for some sign that it’s right. You let him feel the way your body leans into his touch, how your chest lifts slightly under his hand as you breathe deeper.

“Good,” you whisper, “Keep moving like that.”

Oscar’s breath quickens, and the kiss he presses to your lips is a little more urgent now, as if he’s feeding off the way you respond to him, the way your body relaxes under his hands. His fingers trace the edge of your bra now, still tentative but searching for the next step.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. “Don’t be afraid to touch more, Osc. I want you to feel confident. You don’t have to rush, but trust your instincts. Just let your hands go where they want to go.”

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, but there's something else there too—a flicker of curiosity, of determination.

“Relax,” you murmur, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. “You’re fine. You don’t have to worry about making a mistake. Just take your time.”

The moment is quiet except for the sound of his breath and the gentle rustle of clothing. He shifts again, this time pulling back a little to give himself a moment to think. His fingers tug lightly at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for a sign from you.

You let him do it, your hands resting on his shoulders, letting him feel the movement, feel the control shift a little more in his favor. The shirt comes off, tossed to the side, and you stay close, your bodies pressed against each other, both of you warm, hearts racing a little faster. His hands, now bare against your skin, move with more confidence, cupping your breast gently.

“Good,” you say again, your voice soft but filled with approval. “You’re doing great.”

Oscar’s fingers flex slightly, still unsure but starting to gain more confidence. The kisses become deeper, slower, and as his thumb brushes against your nipple, you feel a small gasp escape you, your body responding instinctively to the sensation. You shift a little, pulling him closer as your lips move against his, offering more encouragement.

“See?” you murmur, lips still on his, the breath between you hot. “You’re getting it. Trust yourself.”

He kisses you with a new sense of purpose now, the nervous tension still present but not overwhelming, replaced by something else—something softer, more intimate. His hand moves again, cupping your breast more fully, his fingers kneading gently, exploring. You feel the way his thumb traces slow, deliberate circles, and it makes your breath hitch slightly.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper, “Is this okay?”

You smile softly, cupping his cheek with your hand. “Yes, Osc. It’s more than okay.”

You guide him, letting him learn the rhythm of your movements, the way you react to his touch. He’s learning, discovering how to move with you, how to match your pace. There’s a new sense of confidence in him now, the kind that comes from knowing you’re there, guiding him, encouraging him with every movement, every kiss.

And when his lips press against your neck, when his hands move to the small of your back and pull you closer, you know that this moment—the slow, tentative exploration—is becoming something more. It’s not just about giving. It’s about feeling each other, learning each other’s rhythm, and trusting in the connection you’re building together.

“Good,” you whisper against his ear. “You’re doing everything right, Osc.”

And with that, he kisses you again, his movements a little bolder this time, more assured, as if he’s finally letting go of the last bit of hesitation. And you welcome it, savoring the feeling of him learning, trusting, and most importantly—letting himself be the one to give.

He pulls back slightly, lips still tingling from the kiss, his chest rising and falling with a little more urgency. His hands hover over you, not quite sure where to go next. The intensity in his eyes is undeniable, but there’s still a trace of nervousness that’s impossible to miss. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, but filled with eagerness.

“I want to do more,” he says, the words tumbling out with a kind of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten.

You smirk, a playful glint in your eyes. “Okay,” you reply, voice teasing as you lean in just a little closer. “But how’s that gonna work with my pants still on?”

Oscar’s face flushes instantly, his gaze darting down to your pants as if he’s just realized the physical barrier between you. His breath catches, and you can see the way his mind works overtime, trying to figure out the next step.

You watch the way his hands twitch at his sides, clearly debating whether or not to move, before he hesitantly mutters, “Okay, so... uh, how do I... do I just pull them off?”

You laugh softly, leaning back a little to give him space, your voice smooth and teasing. “It’s not complicated, Osc. You can just take them off.”

His fingers tremble as he watches you, his breath quick and shallow. There’s an eagerness in the way he shifts his weight, but also an unmistakable hesitation, like he’s testing the waters, unsure of the next step. His hands hover near your waistband, a question in his eyes as he looks up at you, searching for some kind of reassurance.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, offering a gentle smile to calm the nerves still showing on his face. You can see the uncertainty in his eyes, but also a quiet determination, like he’s ready to move forward.

With a soft exhale, he nods and slowly lowers his hands, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your pants. He pauses, and you can tell he’s still figuring out the rhythm, unsure of the exact moment when it’s okay to go further. The tension between you both is palpable now—his body language speaks volumes, his eyes wide and still a little shy, but his touch more deliberate.

“Just... take your time,” you add softly.

He swallows, his throat tight with nervous energy. “Okay...” he whispers, more to himself than to you, before gently pulling at the waistband of your pants, easing them down just a little at first. His movements are hesitant at first, then grow more sure as he pulls them further down your legs.

As your pants fall to the floor, Oscar stops, eyes flicking between your face and the exposed skin of your lower body. His breath is shallow, chest rising and falling as he hesitates, unsure of what comes next.

His lips are still close to yours, but he pulls back slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, then, with a nervous glance, his voice barely audible, he asks, “Can... can you take your bra off?”

You smile softly at his shyness, the way his hands are still unsure, his movements delicate like he’s handling something fragile. You giggle, the sound light and teasing as you reach up and tug at your own shirt. “You can do it too, Oscar.”

He looks at you, cheeks flushed a deeper red, embarrassment making him fumble slightly with his words. “I—I don’t know, I think that’s complicated.”

You gently guide his hand, placing it against your back, your fingers trailing over his skin, feeling how his breath catches at the contact. "It's that easy," you whisper, giving him a reassuring smile.

Oscar’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the clasp of your bra, and for a moment, you feel a hint of hesitation from him again. His fingers brush over the fabric, then find the clasp. The tension in his hand is almost cute, a stark contrast to the quiet confidence he’ll soon find in himself.

With a soft click, the clasp releases, and you help him slip it off your shoulders. He watches you carefully, almost mesmerized by the movement, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and awe.

You let the bra fall to the floor, your skin now exposed, and Oscar’s gaze lingers on you, his breath quickening as he takes in the sight of you before him. You notice how his eyes darken, the uncertainty still there, but now there's a spark of something else—a hunger that's new to him, but unmistakable.

His hands, once hesitant, now hover near your waist, fingers grazing the soft curve of your body as if he's unsure where to touch next, the weight of his touch still gentle, unsure.

Oscar’s eyes flicker downward—just briefly, but enough that you catch it. His gaze lingers at your chest, hesitant, as if he’s thinking something but unsure whether he’s allowed to want it. It’s shy, not presumptuous—like he’s asking without speaking, uncertain whether it’s okay to take that next step.

You smile softly, reading him with ease. No need for him to stumble over the words. You lift your hands slowly and place them gently over your chest, just above your heart, then slide them outward in a quiet invitation.

“It’s alright,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You can touch them.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, eyes darting up to meet yours—like he’s making sure you mean it. And when he sees the patience there, the warmth, he nods a little, more to himself than to you. Slowly, his hands come up, tentative at first, brushing lightly against your skin. His touch is feather-light, reverent, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real.

You can feel the faint tremble in his fingertips, but it doesn’t distract from the care behind every movement. He’s paying attention—watching your breathing, your reactions, adjusting as he goes.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, your voice a steady anchor.

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He leans in again, and this time, his mouth brushes over your collarbone, tentative and soft. You feel the warmth of his breath before the touch of his lips, the slow press of his mouth moving down, finding new terrain with care. When he brings his lips lower, there’s a pause again—checking, gauging.

You tilt your head and say gently, “Try using your mouth. Just… go slow. Feel what I do.”

His eyes meet yours once more, wide and focused, and then he nods. The next kiss he places is more deliberate. Then another. His lips find their way over your skin, curious, unhurried. His mouth is warm, his movements careful, and when he finally brings them to the soft curve of your chest, there’s a deep inhale from him—like he’s taking in the gravity of being allowed this closeness.

You rest your hand lightly on the back of his neck, a steady presence as he explores. The gentleness in him is unmistakable—every motion driven not just by want, but by intent to care, to learn, to give. And though there’s still a touch of awkwardness in his pace, there’s something so earnest in it that you can’t help but be moved.

When he looks up again, your eyes meet, and you catch the flicker of a question there—half uncertainty, half hope. You don’t need him to say it aloud. Instead, you brush your thumb gently across his jaw, nodding once. Go on.

He dips his head again, slower this time, guided not just by your reassurance but by something beginning to settle in him—an instinct, a quiet want to understand what makes you feel good.

His mouth finds your nipple, warm lips pressing gently against the softest part of your chest. Then, after a breath, he lets his tongue move—tentative at first, a careful sweep over the most sensitive skin.

You exhale sharply, your body reacting before your mind can catch up, and a soft moan escapes you—quiet but unmistakable.

Oscar freezes.

He pulls back a little, wide-eyed, almost as if he’s afraid he did something wrong. But you can see it—behind the surprise, there’s something else. A flicker of pride, of wonder, like he hadn’t expected to cause that sound. Like he’s just realized what it means to have that kind of effect.

You don’t make him wait in the silence. You rest a hand against his cheek, anchoring him again.

“That was so good,” you say softly, breath still uneven. “ Keep going.”

His lips part slightly. “Oh.”

There’s a flush creeping up his neck again, but now it’s mixed with something else—something less uncertain. Like he’s starting to believe he can do this, that he’s allowed to want to make you feel good.

He nods a little, almost to himself, and then lowers his head again. This time with purpose. His mouth moves more deliberately, tongue tracing over your skin in slow, careful motions. He listens—truly listens—with his whole body. To every shift in your breath, every sound you make, adjusting, learning.

His hands stay light on your waist, grounding him, giving him balance as he explores, and you let yourself feel the sincerity in each movement. There’s no rush in him, no ego. Just a quiet, growing desire to understand what it means to give.

Your breath comes quicker now, soft and uneven, as his mouth lingers and learns. He’s warm above you, steady in a way that grounds you—but you can still feel the slight tremble in his limbs, like all of this is still so new and so much.

Your hips shift gently beneath him, a quiet arching of your back, searching for more contact, more of him. A soft sound escapes—his name, just a murmur: “Oscar…”

He pauses for a heartbeat, breath brushing your skin, eyes flicking up again like he’s listening with his whole body.

You reach for his hand resting at your waist—warm and tentative—and guide it slowly with yours. There’s no resistance, only his quiet breath hitching in his throat as he lets you move him, trusting the way you wordlessly teach him what you want.

You draw his hand lower, inch by inch, between your thighs, your own fingers still covering his. His palm presses against you over your underwear, and even through the thin fabric, the sensation is enough to pull another quiet sound from your throat.

His whole body stills at the sound, like he’s memorizing it.

He swallows, nods once, and his thumb shifts slightly under your hand, tracing gently, carefully. It’s not practiced—but it’s focused. He’s tuned into every reaction you give him, like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to understand right now.

You press your hand gently over his again, showing him the motion, the pressure, how to move just right. Each small adjustment draws more breathless sounds from your throat—soft, unfiltered, real—and he absorbs every one like a secret meant only for him.

Then, in a hush, like it’s just dawning on him:

“You’re… wet.”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips, even through the haze of building sensation. “You did that,” you murmur, tilting your head so your nose brushes his.

Oscar blinks once, like he’s not sure he heard you right. But then something shifts behind his eyes—like pride, like wonder—and it warms his expression all the way through. He smiles, shy and stunned, and the sight of it makes something tighten in your chest.

His fingers hesitate again at the edge of your underwear, barely grazing. He looks at you, asking without words—but his voice follows anyway, low and reverent:

“Can I take them off?”

Your breath catches. You nod, brushing your lips over his. “Fuck yes.”

His hand trembles as he hooks his fingers at the waistband, and he moves slowly—like he’s still making sure it’s okay, like the act itself feels like more than undressing. Like he’s unwrapping something delicate, something he wants to treat with reverence.

And even though he’s the one undressing you, he looks the most undone.

Oscar’s breath stirs the space between you, shallow and uneven. His eyes flicker over your face, like he’s trying to commit every expression to memory. And even as he keeps touching you, something shifts—less uncertainty, more instinct.

You feel it in the way his fingers move—still careful, but surer now, guided by the sounds you make, the way your body leans into his. He’s learning you like a language he’s just begun to understand, but one he’s determined to speak fluently.

And then—like his hand has a mind of its own—you feel his touch dip lower, sliding down with a growing sense of purpose.

You inhale sharply, your hips shifting on instinct. Oscar freezes for just a second, eyes searching yours as if silently asking: Was that okay?

You nod, biting your lip, breath catching as you whisper, “Keep going.”

His fingers flex, moving carefully, reverently, like he’s trying to match every movement to the rhythm of your breath. And when he brushes right where you’re aching for more, a soft sound escapes you—one you weren’t planning to make.

It hits him like a shot of light. His gaze flashes up, cheeks flushed, lips parted in quiet awe. He doesn't speak—but you can see it in his face. He felt that. Felt you.

And he wants more of it.

You guide his hand a little more, hips lifting instinctively as you press his fingers exactly where you need them. Oscar watches, lips slightly parted, stunned again by how much you trust him with this. With yourself.

Your breath hitches, and so does his.

The position is a little twisted now—your legs parted, his arm angled awkwardly between you. He hesitates, glancing down, then shifts with quiet determination, settling lower. His body moves between your thighs, shoulders easing into place like he’s not even thinking about it—just following the path you’ve traced out for him.

And then his head dips, hovering just above you.

You watch the realization settle on his face—how close he is now. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven with nerves but anchored by something steadier underneath. Curiosity. Want.

He looks up at you again, seeking something wordless.

You nod.

He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, before leaning in—not rushed, not certain, but ready to try.

His eyes flick up at you again, wide and a little wild with nerves—and something else. Hunger. Wonder.

You whisper, soft and sure, “Just like you did with my nipples, Osc.”

Something clicks.

He nods slowly, almost imperceptibly, and then he lowers his head again. You feel the first hesitant brush of his mouth—warm, gentle—like he’s still testing what this means, what it does to you. His lips part, tongue moving with cautious care, mirroring the rhythm he found earlier.

Your breath catches.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His hands tighten slightly on your thighs, anchoring himself there, and he does it again—more confidently this time. You moan, soft and open, and you feel the way he reacts to it, the way he leans in, driven by every sound you make. It’s almost as if he’s listening with his whole body.

You shift your hips just enough to guide him, not too much, not to overwhelm. He gets it—he always gets it. That focus, that eagerness to learn, to give, pulses in every slow stroke of his tongue. He’s shaky, but present. Nervous, but determined.

You thread your fingers through his hair, murmuring praise, letting the sound of his name fall like a reward. And even through the nervous tension in his shoulders, you can feel it: the beginnings of confidence. He’s starting to feel the effect he has on you.

Your hips twitch under his mouth, a stuttered gasp escaping as the feeling mounts—his tongue moving with growing rhythm, driven by each sound you let slip. You murmur his name again, soft and unguarded, and something in it must hit him because his grip tightens slightly at your hip, like he’s holding on for dear life.

But there’s still one of his hands, fisted in the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with it. You reach down, unraveling his grip with care, your fingers weaving between his. He hesitates, lips still working against you, until you guide his hand lower.

You line up his fingers, just where you want him, and press gently, urging him inward. It’s slow—you’re slow—because this part matters, too. Not just what he’s doing, but that he’s learning how to do it, that he’s feeling it.

When the tips of his fingers slip inside, you let go.

He stills for half a breath, mouth never leaving you, and for a moment you think he might ask again, but then—you feel it. The tiniest movement. A slow, tentative curl of his fingers, careful and attentive. And then again, a little deeper, more sure.

Your body arches up, a soft, broken moan slipping from your lips.

That sound does something to him—you can feel it in the way he leans in more, how his tongue and fingers begin to find a rhythm, syncing with the rise and fall of your hips. He’s watching, even when he’s not looking. Listening, even when you can’t speak.

There’s reverence in his movements, but also a growing hunger. Like now that he’s seen what he can do to you, he wants more of it—wants all of it.

And then it hits.

When he feels it—really feels it—the way you clench around his fingers, the way your body pulses and quakes, and a groan escapes him, low and guttural. It vibrates against your core, deep and unfiltered, and the sound alone sends another jolt through you. Your hand still tangled in his hair, fingers twisting, and he responds in kind—tightening his grip around your thigh like he needs to ground himself just as much as you do.

Like a slow, rising wave that suddenly crashes—your breath catches, your back arches, toes curling tight as that first ripple of release rushes through you. It builds and breaks again, and again, thighs tightening around his shoulders as if your body can’t bear the intensity of it without anchoring to him. You hear yourself—soft, desperate sounds leaving your lips without permission—and he doesn’t stop. Not until the tremors begin to crest.

He rides it out with you, mouth still pressed to your skin like he’s drinking you in, letting you unravel completely beneath him.

You’re still catching your breath, body loose and trembling, when he finally slows down. His fingers still for the first time in what feels like forever, and he leans back slightly, face flushed, chest rising and falling. His lips glisten, his cheeks are pink, and his wide eyes search yours—hopeful, almost stunned.

You laugh—a breathy, wrecked kind of sound—and run a hand through your hair. “Fuck, I— I never felt it that hard, Osc.” You’re not sure your voice even sounds like yours. “That was… that was amazing.”

His whole face lights up like he’s just won something he didn’t think he could. “Really? Oh my God—really?” He sits back on his heels, grinning helplessly. “It felt so good—doing that. I’m just… I’m glad it was good for you.”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. And then you notice—his face, painted in the evidence of what he’s just done. He looks blissed out, messy, proud. You barely have time to say anything before he glances down at his fingers—still slick—and without thinking twice, lifts them to his mouth, licking them clean.

Your eyes widen. “Oh fuck…”

He grins at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself now, and you reach for him—pulling him in until he’s draped over you, your hands moving gently over the warm, freckled expanse of his back. You kiss the curve of his shoulder and whisper, “Do you want me to do something for you too?”

He lets out a small, flustered laugh against your skin. “Uhm,” he starts, shifting his hips a little—and that’s when you see it. The small, darkened patch near his waistband. “I think you already did enough,” he says, cheeks turning crimson again. “I really… I really loved the sounds you made and when you - .... when i felt it.”

You blink—then let out a soft, incredulous breath of laughter, overwhelmed and charmed in the same breath.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, hand curling protectively around the back of his head as he nestles against you.

He hums.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft sound of your breathing, both of you still trying to come down from the intensity of what just happened. Oscar rests his head against your chest, his body warm and solid against yours. You run your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, lost in the feeling of him close to you—like it’s all finally starting to settle.

You both know what just happened, but neither of you rushes to fill the silence. Instead, you just hold each other, the weight of the moment still fresh, both of you feeling the aftershocks of the closeness you just shared.

Oscar sighs softly, his voice a little rough when he speaks. “That was… wow. I don’t even know how to say it. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

You chuckle softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s okay to be speechless. I think I might be too.”

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, and you squeeze gently, your voice soft as you look at him with a playful, yet sincere grin. “I can’t believe this is really the first time you’re doing this.”

Oscar meets your gaze, his cheeks flushed as he smiles. “I have a great teacher.”

Your heart skips at the sincerity in his tone. “Well, you’re a quick learner, Osc,” you tease, reaching up to gently ruffle his hair. “I think I’m impressed.”

Oscar chuckles softly, the shyness still there, but it’s mixed with a sense of quiet pride. “Guess I had a good example.”

The warmth between you doesn’t fade. It lingers, soft and steady, as you both settle into the quiet, the world outside fading away for just a while longer.

And for the first time, it feels like something more than just a shared experience. It feels like connection. Like the beginning of something deeper.

Oscar squeezes your hand, pulling you a little closer. “Can we… just stay like this for a bit?”

“Of course,” you whisper, your heart a little lighter than it was before.

And in the comfort of the quiet, you both drift into a peaceful silence—knowing there’s more ahead, but for now, content just being here.

[solace-seekers]

screaming into the void <3

[elprupneerg]

Turns out putting the exhausted physically disabled person who’s entering midterms in charge of groceries was. A very very very very very very bad idea

[reveriebae]

Bunny in His Bed

pairing(s) : Song Mingi x reader

word count : 4922

summary : You're the soft, innocent girl who only ever had one vanilla experience—with no idea what real filth could feel like. That is, until you end up rooming with your best friend’s older brother, Mingi. A pervert with a teasing mouth and no self-restraint when it comes to your cute sleep dresses and breathy little moans. He takes it slow, then ruins you completely—making you beg, cry, squirt, and ride him until you’re too dumb to think. But he still makes you breakfast after, calling you his princess in between filthy whispers.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Slight somnophilia vibes (consensual, implied history), Innocent but perverted reader, Best friend’s older brother, Roommate AU, Pussy slapping / squirting, Spanking (lots of it), Orgasm denial + overstimulation, Crying during sex (pleasure), Dirty talk / praise / teasing, Light dumbification, Reader wears cute sleep dresses, Mutual pining masked as lust, Fluffy aftercare with continued filth

A/N : This might be the last fic I uploaded this month, or maybe I'm gonna take some rest for a while😮‍💨

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

It wasn’t the first night you walked into the shared kitchen in one of your tiny little sleep dresses—but this one had lace trim that swayed with every step and straps thin enough to slip off your shoulder. You weren’t even trying to be sexy. That was the worst part. You were just… comfortable.

And Mingi was already sitting at the counter, hoodie pulled halfway down his arms, curls messy from sleep. His eyes trailed up from your bare legs to the way the fabric clung to your hips. Silent. But you felt him staring.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, padding across the tile barefoot, opening the fridge for a water bottle.

“Not really,” his voice came low. Rough. “You?”

You shrugged, turning around to face him, and leaned back against the fridge—completely unaware of how the thin fabric stretched across your chest. “Kinda warm tonight.”

Mingi didn’t say anything at first. He just kept looking at you, jaw ticking like he was holding something back.

It’d been two months since you moved in. Your best friend’s brother had offered the extra room when you said you needed a place. You trusted him. You knew he was older, a bit… different from the boys you’d dated before, but he never did anything to make you uncomfortable.

Until lately.

Lately, he lingered.

Watched.

“You always wear stuff like that to bed?” he finally asked, voice lower now.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“That little dress.” His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the hem rested dangerously high. “You walk around in that, knowing I’m home?”

You laughed a little. Nervous. “It’s not that short…”

Mingi stood up slowly, towering. The way he walked around the counter felt too quiet, too smooth, until he was right in front of you—so close you had to tilt your chin up just to keep eye contact.

“You’re either real clueless,” he murmured, reaching one hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “or you want me to stare.”

Your breath hitched. “Mingi…”

He smiled—lazy, dark, dangerous. “You ever been fucked right?”

You froze.

Your voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ve… only been with one guy. It wasn’t like that.”

Mingi groaned. “Figures.” He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Bet you’ve never had someone stretch this cute little pussy open, make you cry, huh?”

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t answer.

“You’d let me ruin you?” he muttered, voice thick. “Make you drool all over this kitchen counter?”

That was it. That was the moment something snapped. You nodded—tiny, trembling—and whispered:

“...Please.”

Mingi didn’t wait for you to say more. The second that quiet please left your lips, his hand was on your waist, dragging you flush against him like he’d been holding back for too long. You gasped when you felt how hard he already was—thick and pressed against your stomach through his sweats.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t soft or shy or sweet like your ex used to kiss. Mingi kissed like he wanted to eat every breath from your lungs. Tongue in your mouth, lips moving against yours with filthy hunger, like he needed to claim you before you could change your mind.

Your little whimper was swallowed by his mouth.

He gripped your hips, pulling you closer until your thin sleep dress rode higher up your thighs. His hands were so big—touching too much, yet not enough. One slipped down to squeeze your ass through the fabric, and he groaned into your mouth. “Fuck… you’ve been hiding this from me all this time?”

“I didn’t know you looked at me like that,” you mumbled breathlessly between kisses, hands fisting into his hoodie.

He pulled back just enough to stare down at you, pupils blown wide. “I’ve been looking at you every fucking night, bunny. You walking around in these tiny little dresses, all innocent and sweet, acting like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me.”

You whimpered at the pet name—bunny—and it only made him grin darker.

“Not gonna fuck you for the first time in the kitchen,” he muttered, gripping your wrist and tugging you toward the hallway. “Not when I’ve waited this long. My room. Now.”

You followed, dizzy and needy, barely noticing how your thighs brushed together with every step.

His room smelled like him—clean laundry and something warm, masculine. It was bigger than yours by far, and the bed looked like it could swallow you whole. He didn’t even turn on the light—just kicked the door shut and pushed you gently until you fell back onto the mattress.

You sat there, wide-eyed and flushed, legs folded under you.

Mingi’s hoodie was already coming off, revealing bare skin and toned arms as he stepped closer. “Take it off,” he ordered softly, nodding at your sleep dress. “Wanna see all of you.”

Your fingers trembled a little as you reached for the straps, slowly pulling them down one by one. The fabric slid down your chest… then over your waist… pooling around your hips before you pulled it off completely.

You sat there naked, knees pressed together, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

Mingi’s gaze dragged over you—slow, heavy, drinking in everything. “Fuck, baby… you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped to his knees between your legs and pushed them apart gently, licking his lips.

“You ever been eaten out, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, shy. “No…”

His grin was wicked. “Good. You’ll remember your first.”

“Lie back for me,” Mingi murmured, guiding your shoulders until you were sprawled across his sheets—legs parted, chest rising and falling in uneven little breaths.

He kissed up the inside of your thigh first. Slow. Teasing. You whimpered when his nose brushed close to where you were already wet, and he groaned low in his throat.

“Shit… you’re already dripping.”

Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as his breath ghosted over your folds. And then—his tongue. One long, slow lick up your slit that had your hips jerking off the bed.

“Oh—Mingi—!”

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbled against your pussy, voice already wrecked. “Sensitive little thing, huh? Gonna cry just from my mouth?”

You shook your head, biting your lip, but the way your thighs trembled said otherwise.

Mingi didn’t tease for long. He licked you open and flat-out devoured you—his tongue dragging through every inch of you, dipping into your hole, circling your clit until your back arched off the bed. His grip on your thighs kept you spread, even as you twisted, even when you whimpered, “Mingi, I— I think I’m gonna—!”

He didn’t stop.

He growled into you, “Give it to me, bunny. Wanna taste how cute you cum.”

Your thighs shook. Your stomach tensed. And just as you hit the edge, his tongue flattened against your clit—and then slap—

His palm smacked against your dripping pussy. Just once. Light. Experimental.

You screamed.

Not from pain. From how violently your orgasm hit. It tore through you in messy, uncontrollable waves—and then you felt it. That hot rush, the release, the wet spray that soaked his mouth and chin and dripped down your thighs.

“Oh—oh my God—!”

You were trembling, toes curled, hands gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

Mingi pulled back just enough to see the mess—lips wet, eyes blown out with shock and arousal. “Fuck, baby… you just squirted.”

You were still catching your breath, wide-eyed and teary, lips parted. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He laughed. Dark. Proud. “Don’t apologize.” He leaned up, licking your slick from his fingers. “I’m making you do that again.”

Still trembling from the mess he’d pulled out of you, you tried to close your legs—but Mingi’s grip was firm.

“Ah, ah. Not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravelly and way too calm for someone who just got squirted on. “Still so sensitive... what, already crying?” he cooed as his fingers brushed your soaked clit.

You whimpered, legs kicking at the overwhelming touch. “I-It’s too much, Mingi—!”

But he just grinned, licking his lips. “Mm… I think you can give me one more. You got another one in this pretty pussy, right?”

You were too dazed to answer, and that only made him laugh—low and dark.

Then came his fingers. Two of them, thick and slow, sliding into you while his thumb pressed on your clit. He watched you with hungry eyes as your back arched again, moaning out broken little gasps.

And when you got close—that sweet, tense twist in your belly coming back—he stopped.

Pulled his hand back entirely.

You blinked in confusion, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a soft whine. “W-Why’d you stop…”

Mingi leaned down, nose brushing yours, smirking. “You think I’m gonna let you cum that easy, bunny? After that messy little squirt? Nah. I wanna watch you fall apart first.”

You squirmed under him, legs rubbing together for friction, whining softly as he started teasing again—light flicks over your clit with the very tip of his tongue.

Then fingers. Just pressing at your entrance, not pushing in.

You were twitching, gasping. “Please, Mingi, wanna cum… I wanna—wanna feel it again…”

He let out a low hum, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Such a needy little baby. One good orgasm and now you can’t even speak right?”

“Mingi—please!”

He slapped your pussy again. Sharp. Hot. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Say it better, sweetheart. Use your words. What do you want?”

You sniffled, eyes glassy. “Wanna cum… wanna feel your fingers, your tongue, anything— please, Mingi, I’ll be good—”

“Shit.” He sucked a breath through his teeth, finally sliding two fingers in again, pumping hard. “You’re too fucking cute when you beg.”

This time—he let you cum.

And you screamed, all messy and twitching, a moaning little thing with your back off the bed and your thighs trembling around his head. You sobbed through it, babbling nonsense, fingers gripping the sheets as your slick dripped down his wrist.

But Mingi didn’t stop.

He kept going.

Sloppy thrusts. No rhythm. Just filthy, greedy, overstimulating pleasure while you whimpered, “T-Too much—gonna break, Mingi—ah, ah—!”

“Oh, baby…” he groaned, tongue dragging up your soaked folds one more time. “You’re already broken.”

He’d barely given you time to catch your breath before pulling you into his lap—legs trembling, lips parted with a dazed little pout as you straddled his hips.

“C’mere, baby,” Mingi said, voice low and wrecked, “Wanna see you ride this cock. Wanna watch those pretty tits bounce while I ruin that dumb little head of yours.”

Your hands pressed against his chest for balance, thighs already shaky as you lined yourself up—his cock thick and heavy against your folds. He didn’t even help. Just laid back with that smug, perverted smirk on his face like he had all the time in the world.

“You gonna do it all by yourself, sweetheart?” he teased, thumb brushing your lip. “Show me how bad you want it.”

You whimpered, biting down on his thumb, and slowly sank down.

“Oh fuck—”

Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he filled you up, inch by inch, stretching you so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes fluttered shut, the burn so good, the pressure perfect—and when you finally sat flush against his hips, you were already shaking.

Mingi hissed through his teeth, staring up at you with that hungry look. “Shit, baby, look at you—taking all of me like that… Tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively. “Mingi… s’too big…”

He grabbed your waist, dragging you up just enough before letting you drop back down. “Nah, baby. You’re made for this. For me. Show me how you fuck.”

So you moved.

Bounced.

Slow at first, thighs burning from the stretch, your tits jiggling with every drop. And Mingi? He looked feral. One hand behind his head, the other lazily cupping your breast, watching it bounce with a low groan.

“Fuck… fuck, look at you,” he growled, thrusting up once to meet you and make you yelp. “Look how cute you are—riding my cock like it’s the only thing that matters.”

You cried out, little sobs slipping past your lips as you bounced harder, sloppier, the sounds of your slick echoing in the room.

“Am I makin’ you dumb, bunny?” he grinned, pulling on your waist to make you slam down harder. “You’re mumblin’ again…”

“I—ahh—feels s’good, Mingi, too good—dizzy—!”

“Yeah? You gonna cum on this cock?” he grunted, thrusting up to meet you again, fast and deep. “Gonna soak me like a filthy little slut?”

You nodded frantically, sobbing now, fingers clawing at his chest. “Please—please, wanna cum, please, please—!”

“Then cum.”

He sat up, mouth sucking one of your nipples into his mouth as you shattered—screaming, spasming around him, thighs locking up as you came so hard your whole body convulsed. Mingi groaned, holding you down on his cock, watching you lose your mind on top of him.

“Shit… You’re my favorite fucking toy now.”

Your thighs were quaking, tears running down your flushed cheeks, but you didn’t stop riding him. Not even when your head dropped back and your voice cracked from all the soft, incoherent sobs spilling out of your lips.

“S-s’too much—Mingi, f-fuck—can’t—!”

“Oh, but you can, baby.” His voice was wrecked with hunger, obsessed with the way you looked losing your mind on his cock. “You’re so cute when you cry like this. Makes me wanna keep you stuffed and full forever.”

He grabbed both of your tits, squeezing them roughly as he thrusted up into you hard enough to make you scream.

You sobbed, nails digging into his chest, your thighs trembling violently as the pleasure got too sharp, too deep, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Mingi—! Gonna cum again—!”

He grinned, lazy and smug. “Yeah? Show me.”

You came with a sob, body locking up as you spasmed around him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you collapsed forward on his chest.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

“Turn around.”

Your hazy, tear-streaked eyes blinked at him. “H-huh?”

Mingi didn’t wait—he flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass was in the air, your face buried in the mattress. You were so sensitive, so wrecked, and you felt him line back up without missing a beat.

Then—

SMACK!

You yelped.

“God, this ass is too fucking perfect,” he groaned, giving your cheek another hard slap. “Could stare at it all day.”

“M-Mingi—!”

SMACK!

“Say thank you.”

You whined, face burning. “T-thank you…”

“That’s my girl.” He slammed into you without mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust.

Your scream was muffled by the sheets, fists grabbing at the blankets as he pounded into you from behind—relentless, filthy, insatiable.

He grabbed your hair, yanking your head up. “Let me hear you beg again. C’mon, say you love this cock.”

You hiccupped on a moan, body trembling like crazy. “L-love it—love your cock, Mingi—please, more, please!”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, thrusting faster, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the room. “I’m gonna make you squirt again. Gonna spank you while you cry on my dick.”

SMACK!

You screamed.

SMACK!

Tears spilled down again, body burning from both pleasure and pain as you felt yourself losing it all over again.

“I—I’m gonna—!”

“Do it. Squirt for me, baby. Make a mess on my cock.”

You cried out, body convulsing as you exploded, the gush of your release soaking his cock and thighs as you collapsed forward, babbling nothing but broken moans and needy whines.

And Mingi? He kept fucking you through it, whispering filthy things in your ear while he used your soft, fucked-out body like it was his personal toy.

Your legs gave out underneath you, dropping you in a trembling, sticky heap on the bed. Your thighs glistened with slick and spit, your chest rising and falling as soft hiccupy sobs slipped from your lips. Mingi had just pulled out, thick and hard and soaked in everything you’d given him—again.

But he hadn’t finished.

Not yet.

You peeked up at him through heavy lashes, eyes glassy and lips glossy with drool, a faint little whimper catching in your throat. Your body ached, pussy twitching with need, and your brain was too fogged up to think straight—but the emptiness was too much.

“M-Mingi…” Your voice cracked.

He stood at the edge of the bed, stroking himself slowly, watching you fall apart with a low, smug chuckle. “Look at you,” he teased. “Cute little thing, still crying. Didn’t I just make you squirt all over me?”

You shook your head, sniffled, and crawled to the edge of the bed on shaky hands and knees. “I-it’s not enough…” you whimpered, blinking up at him with big watery eyes.

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “You still want more, baby?”

You nodded, sniffling again, reaching out with both hands to grab at his thighs, pressing your cheek against the base of his cock like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Please… please cum inside me… I w-want it so bad, Mingi, want you to ruin me…”

He groaned, grip tightening around his shaft.

“Been so good, haven’t I?” you mumbled, voice all cracked and wet and soft. “Let you use me however you wanted… I d-did everything—so please, fill me up…”

Tears ran down your flushed cheeks as your voice dropped even more—sweet and whiny and broken. “Don’t wanna be empty anymore…”

“Fuck—” He hissed through his teeth, eyes dark with lust as he looked down at you, trembling and begging and so fucking perfect.

He grabbed you, hard, lifting you up with ease and laying you on your back again, legs spread wide and shaking. “You wanna be full, baby?” he growled, lining himself up. “I’ll make sure you never feel empty again.”

You gasped when he slammed back inside you, and a sob broke out of your throat.

“Th-thank you—thank you, Mingi—!”

He groaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pounding into you with feverish need, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other held your hip steady. “Crying while you thank me? Shit, baby, you’re gonna kill me…”

You were blabbering now, voice high and pitchy, clinging to his back as he drove you into the mattress. “Feels so good—so deep—Mingi, I’m gonna break—!”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart.” He kissed your temple, whispering like a lover even as he fucked you like a demon. “And you’re so fucking cute like this. So desperate, so messy, all mine right now…”

And when he finally came—hard, with a deep groan and his face buried in your neck—you cried out again, feeling the heat flood your core, your hands clawing at him as your body twitched through the aftershocks.

Still gasping, still trembling, still mumbling barely-there thank-yous.

And Mingi just held you, sweaty and breathless, as if he was never letting you go.

You didn’t even realize you were still leaking around him until he shifted his hips, still buried deep in your swollen, overstretched walls. Mingi’s hand rubbed soothing circles into your back, his lips brushing over your forehead in soft little kisses. You felt so warm—so full—your breath slowing, your heartbeat steadying under the weight of his body.

But his cock was still inside you.

Still thick, twitching every now and then.

And he was hardening again.

You mumbled something incoherent, more like a dreamy hum than actual words, nuzzling into his neck.

“…You awake, baby?” Mingi whispered, voice hoarse, raspy with exhaustion.

You nodded sleepily, cheeks sticky with dried tears and your thighs aching deliciously. “Mmhm… still inside…”

“Still warm,” he groaned, grinding his hips just enough to feel your pussy clench. “Fuck… you’re hugging me so tight, baby. You gonna let me use you one more time?”

A sleepy whimper slipped out, and your fingers curled into his back. “T-too much…”

“Just one more,” he murmured, voice sweet but filthy. “You’re already so full, might as well keep stuffing you, yeah?”

He rolled his hips again, deeper this time, and you gasped—tired, overstimulated, but already soaking all over again. “Mingi… I can’t—”

“You can,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “You’re doing so good, baby. So pretty, even when you’re crying… my cute little roommate.”

He slowly started thrusting, every movement gentle but deep, dragging out the squelch of his cum between your legs with each slow stroke.

You whimpered, head tilting back, your legs falling open for him like instinct. “Ngh… f-feels good…”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Just let me fuck you through it, baby. Let me feel your cute little pussy milk me dry.”

You moaned louder this time, slurred words spilling from your lips in breathy little gasps. “So deep—Mingi, y-you’re still so big, why’s it still so big…”

He chuckled softly, eyes dark as he stared down at your fucked-out face. “Because you’re too cute, baby. Can’t help myself…”

He kept going, slow and thick and messy, not even bothering to pull out as his cum dripped down between your cheeks, mixing with your slick and his spit. You blinked up at him, dazed and broken and glowing all at once.

And when he finally came again with a quiet, shuddering groan, you whimpered at the warmth flooding you for the second time.

“…Mingi…” you breathed out, nearly incoherent. “Y-you’re gonna break me…”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart,” he murmured, laying soft kisses along your collarbone as he rutted lazily into you a few more times before stilling.

“But fuck, baby… I’ve never seen anything as pretty as you falling apart.”

The sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds when you stirred, your legs twitching from the dull ache between them. You were wrapped up in warmth—Mingi's chest against your back, his heavy arm draped around your waist, and his cock still lazily nestled against your ass, soft but twitching with every slow breath.

“Mingi…” you whispered sleepily, voice hoarse and sweet.

He groaned low, nuzzling into your neck. “Morning already?”

You giggled softly, your body sore in all the right places. “My thighs hurt…”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good. That means I fucked you right.”

You turned your face toward him, cheeks hot, eyes still puffy from last night’s cute little crying fits. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert.” He smirked, biting playfully at your earlobe. “And you loved it.”

You hummed. “I did…”

There was a beat of silence, and then you sighed. “But I’m sticky. We’re gross.”

“Guess we should clean up, huh?” he whispered, voice already heavy with mischief.

Before you could protest, he rolled you both out of bed and scooped you up bridal-style, your sleep dress barely hanging on your shoulders. You squealed, arms flying around his neck.

“Mingi—!”

“I said we’re showering. Gotta make sure my baby is squeaky clean.”

He kicked the bathroom door open and sat you on the cold counter, standing between your legs with his hands on your bare thighs. He just stared at you for a second—at the messed-up lace, the little bruises, the faint red handprints he’d left behind.

And then, “You gonna let me clean you with my tongue again, baby?”

You blinked at him, lips parting.

“…You’re hopeless.”

But when you opened your legs for him again, you both knew you didn’t mean it.

Mingi turned the shower on, steam curling into the room as the water heated up. While it warmed, he leaned down and kissed you—slow and deep, his tongue lazily exploring your mouth while his big hands slid under your sleep dress, dragging it up and off your body.

“Still so cute even when you’re wrecked,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep and lust. “Wanna fuck you all over again.”

Your body twitched at his words, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “I’m still sore…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he said—though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

He picked you up again and stepped into the shower with you, water cascading over both your bodies, his arms strong and steady around you. You let out a shaky breath as the warmth soothed your aching muscles, but your comfort didn’t last long.

Mingi pinned your back to the slick wall tiles, water running down his broad shoulders as he grabbed your thighs and hoisted them around his waist. His cock was already hard again, flushed and throbbing against your core.

“Y-you said gentle,” you mumbled, flushed and wide-eyed.

“I said I’ll try,” he corrected, smirking. “But you’re too damn addicting, baby. Can’t help it.”

You whined as he rubbed his cockhead along your folds, spreading his cum and your slick from the night before. “Mingi… I—”

“You’re always so wet for me,” he groaned. “Still leaking, baby? God, look at you…”

He pushed in slow—just the tip—and your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in a soft moan as your head thunked back against the tile. The heat of the water, the steam, his body against yours—it was all too much and not enough.

“F-fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, gripping your thighs tighter. “Even after everything I did last night…”

You gasped as he slid in deeper, your arms locking around his neck. “M-Mingi… ah—nghh—s-still sore…”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, kissing your cheek. “But you can take it. You always do. My good girl.”

His hips began to move, slowly at first—just enough for you to feel the stretch all over again. You whimpered into his shoulder, legs trembling, but your pussy clenched around him greedily.

“Making those cute noises again…” he muttered, voice almost desperate. “Say something for me, baby.”

“F-feels good,” you managed, your voice slurred, high and breathy. “So big—s-stretching me again…”

“You’re dripping,” he whispered against your ear. “Fucking leaking around me, and I’m not even moving fast yet.”

You let out a sob, your fingers tangling in his wet hair. “Please—Mingi—feels too good—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He began thrusting harder, the sound of wet skin slapping echoing in the shower, water spraying off his back while he fucked you raw against the tile. You whimpered, moaned, your head rolling as he hit that same deep, sweet spot over and over until your body was convulsing in his arms.

“Cum for me,” he grunted. “Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And you did—your eyes rolled back, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your whole body shaking as you came hard around him. And right after, with a strangled groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you again.

For the fourth time.

You both panted, clinging to each other as the water kept pouring over you. Mingi kissed your temple softly.

“I should get a gold medal for this,” he muttered playfully.

You mumbled into his shoulder, barely coherent. “Mm… just feed me breakfast…”

He grinned. “After I eat you for breakfast again.”

After the shower, your legs barely held you up, so Mingi wrapped you in a towel and carried you straight to the kitchen like you weighed nothing. You were wearing one of his oversized shirts now—still damp and clinging to your soft curves, the hem brushing your thighs with every step you took.

Mingi was shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hair still damp and messy. And the way his eyes kept dropping to your bare legs as he cooked? That hungry look never left.

“You know,” he muttered, flipping the pancakes in the pan, “I could bend you over this counter right now. Bet your pussy’s still twitching from the shower.”

You whimpered into your glass of juice, squirming in the stool you sat on. “Mingi…”

“What? I’m just saying,” he smirked, setting the plate down in front of you. “You looked so cute, all dumb and crying on my cock. How am I supposed to not talk about it?”

You pouted, hiding your red face behind your fork. “You’re so dirty…”

“And you love it,” he whispered as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You love when I talk to you like that, don’t you? Gettin’ all shy now, but you were begging me to spank your pussy five minutes ago.”

Your thighs clenched automatically, eyes fluttering. “That was… different…”

He kissed your temple and slid into the stool beside you. “Nah. You’re just my pretty little pillow princess who gets shy after being ruined.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks hot. “Eat your pancake, pervert.”

But your voice was so soft, your smile too wide—because you did love it. Every filthy word, every dirty look he gave you like you were his favorite thing to ruin.

Mingi leaned on his elbow, watching you eat with that same smirk tugging at his lips.

“After this… I’m putting you back in bed,” he murmured lowly. “And you’re gonna sit on my cock nice and slow while I kiss you. Let’s see how many times I can make you cum without moving my hips.”

You choked on your juice.

He patted your back, completely unbothered. “Careful, baby. Can’t have you dying before I ruin you again.”

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Sleeping, Dancing and Mistletoe

Summary: Logan x Fe!Reader -> Times when people found evidence that you and Logan were possibly a couple, and the one time you both finally confirmed it.

Disclaimer: Mostly fluff, mentions/illusions to sex, Logan checking you out. Couple of swear words here and there. This has been unfinished in my drafts for at least a week so...yeah. This is finished. little Christmas at the end. Not Proof Read.

For what felt like the thirtieth time in the hour, you turned over with a huff and pressed your pillow to your ears, trying to muffle the sounds coming from next door. 

And just as it finally died down, you sighed and was just about to thank some ancient being for hearing your prayers when…it started again. 

“That’s it.”

Changing out of your longer pyjama bottoms and into some sleep shorts, you made your way out of your room, keeping your footsteps as quiet as you could until the noises faded away and you started to reach your intended room. 

Opening up the door, you found exactly what you were looking for. 

Shaking his shoulder as he lay on his stomach, you whispered his name, hoping he’d hear you. 

“Logan.” You shook him for a third time. “Logan.” 

Nothing. 

With another sigh, you slapped his face gently and said his name once more, a little louder and firmer. 

“Logan.”

Finally, he groaned. “What?” 

His voice was muffled by his pillow but you could hear him just well enough. Or maybe you were just used to his grunts that they were starting to become their own language you could understand. 

“Move over. I’m sleeping here tonight.”

“What’s wrong with your bed?”

“Nothing.”

“Then go and sleep there.” Logan turned his head away from you and scrunched up his pillow beneath his head.

“I can’t. My neighbours have decided tonight is Valentine’s Day 2.0.”

You pushed half of his body with your hands until he finally got the cue to turn over. 

“Too much information.”

You shook your head, “Too much information is what I’ve been hearing for the last hour.”

Finally, Logan rolled onto his back, his covers covering his bottom half, and groaned. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Logan straightened himself in his bed, giving you room to get in beside him. And the minute you touched his covers, you were glad you had changed into shorts. 

Logan was like a furnace. Just constant heat radiating from his body and for as much as it, at times, got too hot to stand near him, he was also, in your opinion, the best person to fall asleep beside. 

“Just shut up and go to sleep.”

Laying on your side, it wasn’t long until you closed your eyes, thankful that you could hear nothing other than Logan’s steady breathing and the distant clock down the hall that was forever ticking. 

However, just before you fully drifted off, you felt Logan’s hand take hold of yours and you smiled. 

He could be gruff all he liked, but when it came to you, he could be a softie. 

By the time morning rolled around, Storm was in search of both yourself and Logan. So, when she found your bed empty and cold, she figured Logan would know where you were. 

But he was asleep. 

Right beside you. 

Storm leaned against the door frame for a while, taking in the picture in front of her. 

Logan was fast asleep, something that was a miracle in itself, with you right beside him, your head turned towards the windows in his room, his own looking towards you, all the while, his arm slung over your midsection and one of your own hands, holding his. 

“Storm- what are you- Oh.”

Jean looked inside. 

“Looks like someone had a good night.” She smiled before looking back at Storm. “Do you think we can finally ask if they’re together?”

“I’d say this is confirmation enough.”

You shifted in your sleep as did Logan, and the two girls hid behind the corner for a moment. 

You turned your head and the rest of your body towards Logan, all the while his arm held you in a stronger grip and pulled you towards him. 

It took you a moment but you finally opened your eyes, adjusting to the light before your vision finally cleared on a sleeping Logan. 

For a moment, you allowed the hand between you both to reach up and brush the stray hairs from his eyes. It was rare you ever got to see Logan this…calm. 

Serene. 

Rested. 

Unknowingly, you started to run your left thumb over Logan’s arm that still held onto you. 

Then his fingers twitched, running over the exposed skin at the bottom of your back. 

“Are you watching me sleep?” His voice was rough, the first words in the morning. 

“Not anymore,” you smiled, brushing the final parts of his hair out of his face. 

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

Then a cough came from the door. 

Logan groaned. “Is this a new hobby; watching people sleep?”

Jean and Storm laughed from the door. “You two look cosy.”

You lifted your head and glared at Jean. “There is one reason I’m here. Maybe I think it’s time you make an investment in soundproof walls.”

Jean turned a little red and Storm laughed. 

“Look, we’ve got a busy day. You can kiss your boyfriend later.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you called out just as Logan called; “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Storm and Jean nodded and just as Jean snapped a picture, she sent it to both yourself and Logan as they walked away. 

“Sure.”

Leaning up, Logan reached for his phone to see the notification pop up before he placed it back down and you climbed out of bed. 

“They’re got a point.”

“About us being a couple?”

You threw a t-shirt at Logan. “Having a busy day.”

Logan laughed a little, scrubbing his face as he watched you leave his room before he reached behind him and took hold of his phone once more. 

Jean and Storm were right. 

From the picture…they did look like a couple. 

A couple of days passed and you were sitting in the quiet living room, the fires on both sides roaring. 

All classes had been finished for two days and some kids had returned home for the holidays, which meant you had some free time on your hands. 

And for you, that meant finally reading. 

Until you sensed someone stood behind you. 

“If you want to know what happens, you could just ask me.”

Logan plucked the book from your hands and circled around the sofa before coming to sit down beside you. 

“Logan! Give it back.”

“I want to see what it’s about.”

You sighed and sat up, “It’s a romance, Logan.”

“A romance?” Logan had a hint of a smirk on his face. “Like the…trashy kind?”

“Like the romantic kind.”

Logan looked at you and smiled. “The trashy kind.”

You rolled your eyes and took the book back from him, leaving him to fix the blanket so it rested over both of you. He placed his arm over the back of the sofa, allowing you to lean into him, whether you noticed you were doing so or not. 

“Just because you might not believe in romance, doesn’t mean the rest of us are the same.”

“I believe in romance.” 

“Yeah, right.”

Logan couldn’t help but smile. “What?”

“The Wolverine,” you said with a deep voice. “Believes in romance?”

Logan nodded. “Occasionally.”

“Occasionally?”

“Do you just like repeating everything I say?”

You nodded and smiled. “Occasionally.”

Logan rolled his eyes and took the book back from you and read a line out loud. 

“People really talk like this?”

You leaned into Logan. “No, but in a book it’s not so bad. Go on, read some more.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You nodded. “You’re like my own personal audiobook.”

Logan gave a short smile before getting a little cosier and continued reading out loud. 

It wasn’t long before Logan found you asleep against him and he shifted in order to avoid you getting a crick in your neck. 

“Keep reading.”

“I thought you were asleep.” 

“Now I’m awake.” 

“Fine, just be quiet.”

You gave a fake salute. “Yes, sir.”

Holding his arm around your body that was pressed between himself and the sofa, Logan quickly kissed the top of your head and went back to reading. 

And ten minutes later, you were asleep. 

And so was he. 

An hour passed before someone found either of you, but this time, it was Scott and Bobby. 

“They might be in- oh. What do we have here?”

“Oh my god, Rouge has to see this. I told her they were together.”

Bobby rushed off and soon returned, pulling Rouge with him. 

“What is it?” Then she gasped. 

“Believe me now?”

And what Rouge saw made her smile. 

On the slightly too small sofa for Logan, you lay both between him and the sofa, as well as partly on him with your hand a little over his heart. His head was turned towards you. The blanket had fallen a little, so she reached over and pulled it up both of you before turning around and throwing a log onto the fire. 

“Come on, let's leave them.”

“But-”

“No, you are not going to disturb them. Come on.”

Rouge dragged the pair out and closed the door behind her. 

The third time people suspected you and Logan were an item was one late evening in October. 

Half of the kids were playing outside with all the freshly fallen leaves, whilst some of the older kids helped them find different critters and point them out, and build them habitats. The rest of the kids were either in their rooms or studying. 

Save for two. 

Bobby and Rouge were hiding outside of the kitchen watching yourself and Logan cook. 

“I didn’t even know he knew how to…chop. Let alone cook.”

“You should have more faith in him.”

“Come on, Rouge. You can’t tell me you weren't thinking it, too.”

And she couldn’t. Because she was. 

Meanwhile inside the kitchen, Logan was watching you from the kitchen island as he continued chopping the veg. 

There was something different about you. From the way you practically danced around the kitchen finding the different items for the recipe, to just…you. Whilst he was (semi) shirtless, just having his zipper hoodie on, along with his jeans and socks. He would have been fully dressed, except you had come and ambushed him in his room – even though you denied the word “ambushed” – to get him to help. 

And you were just simply in your pyjamas (of sorts) along with one of his zipper hoodies. 

“Bub,”

Logan laid down his knife and walked over to you as you stood by the stove, standing a little higher to see how much water was left in the pot at the back. 

You hummed a questioned response, but was met with a question…you didn’t expect. 

“Dance with me?”

“What?”

Logan smiled lightly as he pulled the wooden spoon from your hand and pulled you closer to him, despite him walking backwards. 

“Come on,” his voice in a light whisper. “Dance with me.”

“Didn’t take you for a dancer.”

Outside the door, Bobby and Rouge mouthed to each other; “They’re dancing.”

And you both were. 

Gently swaying to the music for a while, you allowed Logan to lead you around a small space in the centre of the kitchen. 

“We’re gonna burn the sauce.”

Logan gave a slight smile at you as he spun you out and back in, “We’re not gonna burn the sauce.”

“Logan.”

“Can’t you ever just enjoy a moment?”

“When that moment doesn’t include burning the house down, yes.”

“Bit of a jump, don’t you think, from burning the sauce.”

“Ha, so you agree. We’re gonna burn the sauce.”

Moving over, Logan turned down the heat on one of the pans before taking your hand back into his. “Now we won’t.”

Bobby and Rouge watched, in shock, the rest. 

For one, Logan knew how to dance? Since when? And since when did he…cook and dance in the kitchen? Unless…

Then Logan did something even you didn’t expect. 

He dipped you. 

You hand tightened its grip on Logan’s arm as you let out a small, if a little nervous, laugh. 

Logan had been full of surprises recently. From the impromptu audiobook session in which you woke up in his arms, to him not only dropping off a cup of coffee during your break from teaching but also a freshly baked muffin. 

And now he was dancing with you in the kitchen. 

And dipping you. 

When you had rushed him out of his room to help you cook, you hadn’t expected him to know the recipe for the sauce from the top of his head. Something he just happened to rattle off whilst you were looking for the cooking notebook that should have been in the cupboard beside the oven. Let alone be the one to ask to dance in the kitchen, and dip you. 

Bring you back up, both of you gave a slight chuckle as you turned around, the music slowly fading away in the background. 

“Logan…”

Looking at him, you forgot what you were going to say. 

Had his eyes always had so much green in them? 

Logan’s palm became warm against your back as it pressed further into you. Or maybe you pressed further into him and he just held you tighter. 

Slowly, your hand left his bicep and trailed towards his chest all the while your eyes studied his face. You’d known him for years and seen him a thousand times or more. 

So why did now feel like you were seeing him for the first time? Noticing him? Noticing each particle he was made up of that allowed him to sway with you in the kitchen to the music that had changed on the radio?

Only, before the space between yourself and Logan became any more closer, a noise came from outside the door. 

A sneeze. 

A sneeze that shocked you and Logan back into reality. 

Still holding you, Logan looked towards the door and gave a hint of a smile when he saw the flash of white disappear behind the beam. 

Realising what was happening, you lowered yourself back to the ground and slowly stepped out of Logan’s arms. “We should finish up.”

Logan nodded in agreement, however did look back at you when you got back to the stove, not noticing you do the same a few moments later, watching him pick up the rest of the veg and toss it into the collider to be washed. 

Time passed and after more music, more conversation - including a burnt tongue from when you had shoved a wooden spoon with fresh sauce on, into Logan’s mouth for him to try - and a lot of scrubbing later, you found Logan sitting inside the library and collapsed next to him. 

“Good news, the kids loved the food,” you told Logan. “Double good news; Jean and Scott are on cooking duty tomorrow.”

“Thank fuck.”

“Thank you for helping me.” Turning to look at Logan, you found him already looking. 

“You did ambush me.”

“I didn’t ambush you.”

“I wasn’t dressed.” Logan examined himself. “Technically, I’m still not.”

You rolled your eyes with a slight smile. “Fine. Maybe it was a mini, tiny, miniscule ambush.” 

You made a small space between your fingers. “Like this big of an ambush.”

Logan looked at you, at your fingers and then back to you in slight disgust before moving your fingers wider with his own. 

“That big of an ambush.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your hand. “And they say us women are dramatic.”

It was Logan’s turn to roll his eyes. However, as he did so, his arm wrapped around you, and pulled you back into him and the sofa. 

“Just shut the fuck up for a minute and listen.”

You did so. 

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s the point.” Logan’s eyes were shut as his head rested on the back of the sofa. 

Eventually you gave a shrug and joined him. 

An hour later, Storm found you both fast asleep beside one another so with a knowing smile, she found a blanket, covered you both up and closed the door behind her. But not before reminding herself she needed to get verbal confirmation from you both. 

She wasn’t handing over any money to Jean and Xavier until she had verbal confirmation of what exactly was going on between you two. 

And she didn’t have to wait long…at least in the long run, she didn’t have to wait long. 

Until then, there were plenty more incidents of falling asleep next to each other, bringing each other coffee, dancing to music in the kitchen, smiling and laughing – all before she finally got verbal confirmation that the inevitable had finally happened. 

Finally, it was acceptable to decorate for Christmas. 

Two days prior, Rogue, Logan and Storm had been helping you find all the old decorations in the attic and bring them down. Storm did try then to bribe something out of Rogue, but she apparently was just in the dark as the rest of them. 

But the smile she gave when she looked over at Logan, who was placing down another box from the back of the pile for you to take a look at, told Storm something different. 

“I can’t believe you leave it this late to decorate.”

Logan looked at you. “We’re still in November.”

“So?” 

Taking hold of the garland, you started to climb the ladder. Logan held onto the bottom just to be safe. 

“If you had it your way, the decorations would be up all year round.”

“Hey, no.”

“Hey, yes.”

“I’d take them down for…” you tried to think. “Halloween. You’d have a little break.”

Logan didn’t look entirely thrilled. “Halloween is one day.”

“Technically, it’s a month.”

“To you, it’s a month. To the rest of us, it’s a day.”

You looked back at him. “To you it’s a day, to the rest of us it’s a month.”

Then you looked back at the garland. “How does that look?”

“Great from where I’m standing.”

You looked a little confused for a second before quickly looking over your shoulder, realising where Logan was, in fact, looking. 

Not at the garland, but at your ass. 

You smiled and started to step down the ladder, hitting his shoulder on the way down. 

“I meant the garland.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Logan looked up. “Looks great.”

You laughed. “You didn’t even look.”

With a smile as you finally stepped back into his arm, he looked to the side and up. “It looks great.”

“Good. Now,” Logan turned back to look at you and you kissed him quickly. “We have to put up five more.”

“I get to watch you put up five more.”

You smiled. “This is why you’re my favourite person.”

Logan smiled. He could help you with everything else, but when it came to the garland, you had full control on where it went. Which, he didn’t mind. So long as he got to watch you put it up. 

You quickly kissed him once more, only to be pulled back when you tried to walk away. 

Then Logan gave you a real kiss. 

A little dizzy, you smiled and placed a hand on his chest and closed your eyes. “Wow.”

He gave you a quicker, lighter kiss. “You better get going before Rogue comes back with another box of lights.”

“Light?” Then it hit you. “Oh, yeah.”

Logan smirked a little as he watched you walk away and down the hallway. 

It was a couple of hours before everyone was in the same room, making the final touches all the while most of the other kids were either playing outside in the snow, were taking naps or decorating their own rooms. 

And the others had been watching you and Logan all day. 

The stolen glances, the stolen touches, the slightly knowing smiles from both Rogue and Bobby. And then, as Logan was helping you down from the ladder, his hand on your thigh, Bobby went to make the final hammer to hang up the mistletoe. 

“Wait, no. Not there.”

“Where then?”

Storm looked around. “I know. Y/n, hang this just above there. We don’t need a remake of Mistletoe Central 1997.”

Logan looked at Storm. “Do I wanna know?”

Storm shook her head. “Here.”

She handed you the mistletoe before Logan passed you the hammer back from his belt. 

Three knocks and the nail was set in and the mistletoe was above you on a corner beam, just a little to the side of the christmas tree. 

At least this way, those looking for it, would find it. 

"Oh, no, wait.” Jean said, looking at you. “Have to kiss someone. It’s tradition. You’re under the mistletoe.”

There was no one else apart from Logan.

Logan looked around at the others. He wondered how long it would take. 

Coming up behind you on the ladder, you moved over for him to stand beside you. His palm on your back held you steady and, leaning his other arm on the ledge of the ladder, his hand cupped your face and he kissed you. 

Lasting a little longer than the others had expected, you soon heard Rogue giving a little cheer, as well as a couple of whistles from the others. 

“Okay, I think they get it.” You whispered to Logan as he finally pulled away, a smile very noticeable on both of your faces. 

“Happy now?” Logan asked, turning towards where Jean and Scott were standing. 

“That was some kiss.”

You felt yourself blush at the comment. As did Logan. 

He helped you back down the ladder before you both turned and really saw the other's expression. As well as the exchanging of money between people. 

“Sooo…how long has this been going on?”

You were leaning into Logan, his hand around your back and on your hip. 

You looked at Logan, “A couple of months. We’re…what? November now so that would…”

“That would…” Logan counted back in his head. “May…June, July…six months.”

You looked back to the others. “Six months.”

A chorus of shocked faces and loud voices sounded out; “SIX MONTHS?!”

All before a small call from Rogue was made, which made both yourself and Logan smile. 

“I knew it!”

[formulaonecrumbs]

hi!! i’ve just like binge read all of your stuff and it’s so beautifully written

do you think you could do a charles fic with the co-parenting to lovers trope? like their kid helps them get together or like he flys out to see their kid and realizes that life is so much better with them? i have a whole like plot im sorry 😭

stay a little longer 🕯️

Charles Leclerc x ex(?)!reader

summary: co-parenting finally turns into something more when their daughter decides it’s time for a date.

warnings: co-parenting to lovers, kid matchmaker, suggestive content, kissing, car makeout, implied smut, love confessions, second chances

A/N: thank u anon for the requuessttt!!! i feel like i still don’t write charles very well 😭 like yes i believe the guy is romantic but i think i made that his whole personality in this WHOOPS. random but i love when drivers have girlfriends cuz now i got sm material for the mood-boards. i hope u enjoy it and as always love u ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you never expected him to show up.

not like this, not without warning, not with that soft look in his eyes and a suitcase in his hand.

it’s been almost six months since you saw charles leclerc in person. six months since he kissed your cheek at the airport and promised he’d try to visit more. six months of facetime calls with your daughter holding your phone too close to her face, grinning with her tiny teeth and telling him she lost another one. six months of you pretending that you were completely fine raising her mostly alone while he chased podiums around the world.

but now he’s standing on your porch like it’s nothing. like he’s not the father of your child and also the person who once broke your heart in the softest, most unintentional way.

“hi,” he says.

you blink. “charles? what—what are you doing here?”

he looks down at his shoes. he’s wearing sneakers that used to live in your hallway. the ones your daughter would trip over every time she tried to run to the door. “i had a week off. i wanted to see her.”

you let him in because you always do. because she misses him even when she doesn’t say it, and because you’ve never been able to fully close the door on him.

your daughter screams ‘daddy!’ the second she hears him. he drops his bag and catches her mid-run, spinning her around in the tiny living room you’ve made your home. you watch from the kitchen, hands still on the mug you were making, heart doing something stupid and warm and dangerous in your chest.

“you’re not leaving tonight, are you?” she asks him, small hands on his cheeks.

he shakes his head. “not tonight. not for a few days, actually.”

and you swear, you see her little face light up with something more than excitement. something like hope.

it’s not supposed to be easy, but it is.

charles fits back into your space like he never left. he sleeps on the couch and does the dishes after dinner. he drives her to school in the mornings and makes up silly songs about brushing her teeth. he folds laundry while you’re at work and lets her paint his nails on the weekends.

and you keep waiting for it to feel like a mistake. to feel like a tease, like you’re slipping back into something that already ended.

but instead, it feels like healing.

like late nights where he sits across from you, whispering stories about races she’s too young to hear. like laughing over wine after she’s gone to bed, both of you tipsy on nostalgia and something heavier. something that tastes like maybe.

he doesn’t flirt. not really. but sometimes, he looks at you like he remembers every moment you ever shared. and sometimes, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, he stares at you like you hung the stars.

it happens on a tuesday.

you’re rushing to get out the door for work. your daughter can’t find her other shoe and you’ve already yelled twice, which always makes you feel like a terrible mother. charles is standing in the kitchen, packing her lunch like he’s done it every morning for the past year instead of the last five days.

and then she says it.

“daddy, are you staying forever now?”

you freeze. so does he.

“because i think you should,” she continues, completely unaware of the tension she’s stirred up. “you make mommy laugh again. and you’re really good at pancakes.”

charles doesn’t look at you. he kneels down and kisses her forehead. “i love you, chérie,” he says quietly.

you don’t talk about it.

not until later, when she’s asleep and you’re both sitting on the back steps with a blanket around your shoulders and the sky full of stars.

“she wants us to be a family,” you whisper.

charles’s voice is soft. “i do too.”

your chest tightens. “charles…”

“i know,” he says. “i know i left. i know i haven’t been here like i should have. and i’m not trying to ask you to just forget it. but i want to be here now. not just for her. for you, too.”

you stare at your hands. your heart. the little cracks that never quite healed after he left.

“why now?” you ask.

he takes a breath. “because every time i see her smile, i see you. and every time i talk to her, i wish you were beside me. and because… i thought i was doing the right thing. giving you space. letting you live your life without the mess of mine. but i’ve never been more wrong.”

you look at him. really look. and he looks scared. vulnerable in a way he never is behind the wheel. and you realize, in this quiet moment under the stars, that maybe you’ve been scared too.

you don’t say anything. you just reach out, take his hand, and let your fingers intertwine like they never stopped knowing how to.

he moves in slowly.

a toothbrush at first. then a drawer. then he’s picking her up from school without you asking, buying groceries like he knows the list by heart. you fall back into love like it’s muscle memory. slow, steady, familiar. this time, without the fear.

your daughter starts calling you her “mommy and daddy house.” she draws pictures of the three of you holding hands, all smiling with the sun in the corner.

one night, she asks if you and daddy are married again.

charles chuckles. “not yet, chérie.”

you shoot him a look. “not funny.”

he leans in, his voice low against your ear. “it could be.”

and you feel it again—that dangerous, stupid hope that maybe this time, it’s real.

because he came back. because he stayed. because your little girl believed in love enough to put it back together. and because this time, you’re ready to believe in it too.

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

she catches you holding his hand in the kitchen.

it’s not a big deal, really. just fingers brushing as you pass him the milk. but charles catches your pinky with his, gives it a gentle squeeze, and you smile in that way you only ever do with him.

your daughter sees it all from her seat at the table, eating cereal like it’s the most important meal of her life.

“are you guys in love again?” she asks, spoon halfway to her mouth.

charles pauses, milk almost spilling over the edge of his glass. “what?”

“you heard me,” she says, chewing dramatically.

you shoot charles a look. he shrugs, trying not to laugh.

“i think you are,” she continues, totally unfazed. “you look at each other like the people in mommy’s movies. and you sleep on the couch together sometimes. and daddy made you pancakes in a heart shape.”

you can’t even deny that one. he really did.

“okay,” she says, pushing her bowl away. “it’s time.”

“time for what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“you’re going on a date.”

charles raises an eyebrow. “we are?”

she nods. “yes. i’ll stay with mamie. and you two can go somewhere fancy. with candles and music. and then you’ll kiss.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “what is it with you and kissing lately?”

she grins. “uncle pierre says it’s how people fall in love.”

charles makes a face. “i’m going to block his number.”

you get ready while she helps charles pick out a shirt. you hear her scolding him for choosing the boring grey one and insisting he wears the one with the tiny flowers because “mommy likes when you look like a soft boy.”

you come out in a dress that hasn’t seen the light of day in years and charles just stands there, looking like he forgot how to breathe.

“wow,” he says softly. “you look…”

you raise a brow. “like a soft girl?”

he laughs. “like the girl i’ve been in love with since before i even knew it.”

you blink.

he smiles, nervous and sweet and very charles. “too much?”

“no,” you say, cheeks warm. “just enough.”

you drive to a little italian restaurant tucked away in the quieter part of town. it’s dimly lit, with fairy lights above the patio and old music playing inside. it’s romantic in a kind of unintentional way. the kind of place that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t need to.

charles pulls your chair out for you and keeps glancing across the table like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real.

“this feels weird,” you say, sipping your wine. “in a good way. but weird.”

he nods. “like we’re pretending we’re not already a family.”

you smile. “yeah.”

“but i want this too,” he adds, eyes soft. “the dating part. the butterflies.”

you meet his gaze. “you still get butterflies?”

he reaches across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “every time you look at me like this.”

and god, you feel it too. that flutter. that full-body warmth that only ever comes when you’re really, really falling.

after dinner, he takes your hand and suggests a walk. it’s chilly but not cold, and the stars are out like someone painted them just for tonight.

“this is the part where we kiss under the moonlight,” you joke, bumping your shoulder into his.

charles stops walking.

“what?” you ask, turning.

he steps closer. “i was waiting for the right moment.”

your breath catches. “is this it?”

he nods, eyes flicking to your mouth. “yeah. i think it is.”

and when he kisses you, it’s slow and soft and everything you’ve been missing for years. it’s full of promises and apologies and second chances. it tastes like wine and laughter and home.

you stay like that for a long time, under the stars and the streetlamp, kissing like you’re twenty and just discovering how good it feels to be wanted.

when you get home, the lights are low and the house is quiet. your daughter is asleep, curled up in her bed with her stuffed giraffe and the nightlight glowing faintly beside her.

charles shuts the door gently behind you.

you turn to him, heart racing, still a little breathless from the night.

“so…” you whisper.

he walks toward you, slow, eyes locked on yours. “so.”

“was this the part where we’re supposed to kiss again?”

he nods, grinning. “definitely.”

he backs you into the couch and kisses you until you’re both laughing and gasping and tangled in each other. his hands in your hair, your arms around his neck, the world spinning just slightly off its axis in the best way.

“we probably shouldn’t wake her,” you mumble against his mouth.

“then we’ll be quiet,” he whispers back, kissing down your neck.

you end up in the car—because it’s late and you can’t quite make it upstairs, and also because there’s something wildly thrilling about being wrapped around each other in the dark leather seats, trying not to fog up the windows too much.

his hands on your thighs, your lips tracing every freckle on his collarbone, his voice low and hoarse as he says your name like a prayer.

after, you sit in the front seat, legs curled into his lap, his hand resting gently on your bare knee.

“we should do this again,” you say, grinning against his shoulder.

charles kisses your temple. “i plan on it.”

and you believe him. completely.

because this time, he’s not just here for the night. this time, he’s here to stay.

THE END :>

[dollbrbie]

oh, you were embarrassed. sleeping with your ex, sae after a night out was definitely not what you meant when you said you were gonna make some bad decisions tonight.

you feel the sun shining through his blinds, causing him to let out the sexiest groan you’ve heard before turning onto his back, getting a glance of you, “mornin.”

you give an awkward smile before covering yourself further with the covers, “morning.”

he pushes himself up, leaning onto his headboard before grabbing his phone to check the time, “how’re you feeling?”

why is he acting like he cares?

“i’ve been worse, i guess..”

he settles his phone back down, turning himself to face you, the veins on his muscular arms popping out slightly. god, he knew how to distract you.

“do you want me to order food for us? or i can make breakfast.”, he offers, his eyes flickering from your eyes down to your lips.

you frown, “what are you talking about?”

he pauses, “i’m talking about breakfast.”

you sigh at his words, rubbing your forehead in frustration, “no i mean, what do you think this is? why would you get us breakfast? we’re not together you’re not obligated to do that shit anymore.”

he’s silent for a moment before shrugging, “i dunno, we usually get back together when we end up like this.”

“yeah, well that’s not happening this time. this was a mistake, sae. we broke up for a reason.”

he smiles slightly, “you always say that.”

“i mean it this time. we can’t just get past what happened.”, you sigh. there’s no way you could get back with sae again, it was too draining. and after seeing him choose his career over you countless times, constantly invalidating how it made you feel, you just couldn’t do it. your last break up was way too messy.

“so you don’t miss me? you don’t even wanna try?”, he teases, knowing just how badly you did want that.

you shake your head at his blatant audacity, grabbing your clothes from the night before off his floor, positioning yourself in a way that would keep you covered as you slipped yourself back into your underwear and silken dress.

“what’re you doing now?”, he sighs, sitting up slightly.

“i just think it’s best i leave.”

“why are you being so dramatic? you know you’re gonna come crawling back either way.”, he says in his usual nonchalant tone.

you pause, “you really think i have that little self respect?”

“if you wanna put it that way.”, he continues, “i’m just saying, you’re not the kind of girl that stands on business.”

you wasn’t. and that’s what made his words even worse, sae knowing that he could have you back whenever he wanted. it hit you harder than you’d like to admit, rushing to get yourself dressed while holding back the tears that threatened to spill.

sae just rolls his eyes, not bothering to notice your glossy eyes, and not even bothering to stop you either, “whatever, i’ll just call you later, i guess.”

you didn’t bother replying, grabbing everything you had, not even uttering a word to sae, scared he’d hear the strain of your voice, and leaving his room. you already knew your way around his house, being here countless times during and after your relationship with him.

the door was unlocked, probably sae forgetting to lock it from how drunk he was when getting you both to his apartment, turning the knob where you finally gave yourself the grace to let out the emotions dying to fly out of your system.

and you couldn’t ignore the churn in your stomach when sae didn’t even bother to call you that night like he said he would.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[josephandrewstarkey]

beach fight - part 2

part 1 here

warnings: fingering, kind of public, cheating, mentions of ruthie, jealousy

disclaimer: making a part 3!! message me to b on the taglist <3

pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!reader

It had been a week since the showdown on the beach. Ruthie had ended up with a busted lip and bruises, and Y/N’s knuckles were still sore from that fight. Word spread fast, and now, wherever Y/N went, people whispered. She didn’t care. Ruthie got what she deserved. She wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.

Tonight, the Pogues were hitting up a huge summer party at a Kook mansion, and as expected, there were plenty of stares as soon as Y/N walked in. People threw shady looks, some even whispering to each other when they thought she wasn’t looking. But Y/N just rolled her eyes, keeping her head high.

“Let them talk,” she muttered under her breath as she entered the party, brushing it all off.

She quickly found Kie and Sarah dancing in the middle of the room, music blasting so loud you could feel the bass in your chest. With a smile, Y/N joined them, laughing as they pulled her into the rhythm. The three of them danced, their energy wild and carefree. Y/N threw back a few drinks, feeling the buzz settle in, making her forget about all the drama for a while.

Across the room, Rafe had been hanging around with Sofia, who tried to pull his attention toward her. She clung to his arm, making a big show of laughing at his jokes and trying to stay close, but his mind was somewhere else. Every time Y/N moved, Rafe’s eyes followed, unable to stop himself. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

It pissed him off seeing her like that—dancing with her friends, completely unbothered, like he didn’t exist anymore. Especially when she hugged Pope. That nearly sent him over the edge. She wrapped her arms around him, laughing about something, and Rafe clenched his jaw, jealousy burning in his chest. He hated that she could be so close to them.

“Rafe, you’re not even listening,” Sofia said, snapping him back to the moment, tugging on his sleeve.

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from Y/N for a second. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, clearly distracted.

Sofia rolled her eyes, frustrated. She knew where his mind was, and it wasn’t on her. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” she finally snapped, crossing her arms.

But Rafe ignored her, his gaze back on Y/N as she laughed and danced with Sarah and Kie.

Eventually, Y/N excused herself from the group to get some air. She walked away from the crowd, heading down one of the quieter hallways. Rafe didn’t hesitate. Without a second thought, he brushed off Sofia’s protests and followed Y/N, his heart pounding as he watched her disappear around a corner. Sofia called after him, but he didn’t stop, too focused on catching up with Y/N.

Y/N had noticed him watching her all night, but she didn’t care. She had felt his eyes on her, burning holes into her, but she wasn’t going to let him ruin her night. Still, she knew him too well, and when she rounded the corner into the hallway, she leaned against the wall, waiting. When Rafe finally caught up, she raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Why are you following me, Rafe?” she asked, arms crossed as she subtly pushed her chest up, making sure he noticed. His eyes flicked down, staring at her for a second before meeting her gaze again.

Rafe hesitated, trying to come up with some excuse. “I was just heading to the basement…got some shit to sell,” he said, a weak attempt to brush it off.

Y/N scoffed. “There’s no basement in this house, Rafe. You really expect me to believe that?”

He dropped the act, knowing she wasn’t buying it. “I miss you, alright? I’ve been thinking about you ever since we broke up. It’s driving me crazy, seeing you with them.”

Y/N shook her head. “You don’t get to miss me, Rafe. You have Sofia now, remember?”

Rafe stepped closer, his voice low, desperate. “I don’t care about her. I never did. You know that.”

But Y/N wasn’t having it. “You made your choice. You chose her, Rafe. So why don’t you go back to her?”

He ignored her words, his hands already finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer. Before Y/N could push him away, he leaned down, kissing her neck softly, making her breath hitch.

“Rafe, stop,” she whispered, her hands on his chest, trying to shove him off, but her voice wasn’t as firm as it should’ve been.

“You still want me. I know you do,” he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her neck. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“You have a girlfriend,” Y/N said, trying to hold on to some sense of control.

“I don’t care about her,” he repeated, his voice husky, hands gripping her waist tighter as he pressed her back against the wall. “You’re the only one I want. Always have been.”

“Stop,” Y/N repeated, but it was weaker this time, her resolve slipping as he kissed her harder. Before she knew it, he was dragging her into the nearest bathroom, locking the door behind them.

The moment they were inside, Rafe didn’t waste any time. His hands slipped under her shirt, fingers tracing her skin, and Y/N gasped, feeling the familiar rush she’d tried to forget. His lips crashed against hers as he lifted her onto the bathroom counter, his hands roaming everywhere.

She tried one last time to resist. “Rafe, you can’t…you have a girlfriend.”

“She’s not you,” Rafe growled, pushing his hand into her shorts, finding her wet and ready despite her protests. Y/N’s breath hitched as he slid his fingers inside her, his mouth inches from hers as he whispered dirty things into her ear.

Y/N couldn’t think straight, the heat between them clouding everything else. Her body betrayed her, responding to his touch despite the voice in her head telling her to stop.

Meanwhile, outside the bathroom, Sofia stood in shock, watching from the hallway as Rafe dragged Y/N into the bathroom. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her heart sank, anger and jealousy bubbling up inside her. JJ, who had been passing by, saw it too, his face twisting into a mix of confusion and frustration. Not knowing if he should tell the pogues about this.

part 3 here

taglist:

@carolina6677 @lovrsin @alayaaaahhhhhh @esquivelbianca

[burningembers91]

Rare - The Salesman x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Follow up piece to:

Freak of Nature

On Display

A Game of Cat and Mouse

Crime of Passion

Synopsis: The Salesman wants to play a game with you. But when he changes the rules, so do you

A/N: I am immensely proud of this series. It’s unlike anything I’ve written before and I love exploring the darker sides of characters. This particular fic is probably my favourite so far. I wanted to thank everyone for the frankly mind boggling love I have received on all my fics so far. Thank you ❤️

It had been two weeks since your mysterious man in the grey suit had saved you. Two weeks since you’d given in to your desires. The day after he fucked you so hard that your bed slats broke, an entirely new bed arrived. One with a plush, cream, fabric headboard and a mattress that felt like you were sleeping on a cloud sent straight from heaven.

His heroics in the alleyway, the transition from something psychological to physical had changed the dynamics of your relationship. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel himself falling under your spell. It was a constant struggle to maintain the upper hand, to continue the illusion that you were entirely at his mercy. But you both knew it was a mutual torture, that each of you had the other twisted so deliciously around your respective fingers. The other night he had come so close to telling you his name. It had been so long since he’d spoken it, he wasn’t entirely sure he knew what is was anymore. But there was something about you, something deliciously dark bubbling after your soft, shea scented skin. You could be the death of him, this beautiful femme fatale. He wasn’t quite ready to relinquish control to you though; he still wanted to try and break you.

You received a phone call one day, requesting your attendance at an incredibly high end dress store in Myeong-Dong. As you made your way through the doors, the eye watering price tags made your jaw drop. You could never in a thousand lifetimes afford a dress like this; but you knew someone who could.

You were whisked into a private area, where several women with tape measures took measurements of your body. They didn’t speak to you, didn’t answer any of your questions. You were there less than five minutes, after being instructed to return to the store the next day to pick up your purchase.

“But I didn’t order anything,” you exclaimed, “can you just tell me what’s going on.”

“Our client is very discreet,” the store manager responded. “Please arrive promptly tomorrow to collect your purchase.”

You couldn’t text Mr Grey Suit to ask him what he was up to. You still weren’t privy to any personal information about him, including his phone number. He didn’t come to see you that night, leaving you to stew in your own thoughts about what he could have possibly ordered you.

The next day, you arrived at the time requested, and were once again greeted by the store manager who handed you a dress bag, with a note attached. I will see you tonight, 7pm. DO NOT LOOK IN THIS BAG UNTIL THEN. I will know if you do. You headed home, desperate to look inside the bag. You didn’t dare though, you had absolutely no doubt he would know if you took a peek.

Your grey suited man arrived at your apartment at 7pm sharp. He nodded appreciatively at your immaculate hair and makeup, cupping your chin in his hand as his eyes explored yours.

“Tonight,” he explained, “you will do exactly what I say, when I say it. If you disobey me, you will be punished. If you perform satisfactorily, you will be rewarded.”

“If I perform satisfactorily?” You scoffed. “I didn’t realise I was a circus monkey.”

He wiped his thumb along your lower lip, smearing the lipstick you’d applied not 10 minutes ago.

“You will do exactly what I say,” he growled. “Now, get dressed into the gift I gave you. And clean your face up. You have 5 minutes. Do not keep me waiting.”

You did as you were asked, presenting yourself like a piece of meat on a platter for him. He nodded approvingly, his hand trailing down the burgundy silk of the evening dress that fit you like a glove, the one he’d had made especially for you. You were a vision, an angel sent straight from heaven. He wasn’t going to tell you that though; he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

He took you to the most expensive restaurant in Seoul, where a private room had been set up especially. The staff were very discreet, and he’d need exactly that for what he hand in store for you tonight. You sat down opposite him at the small table, classical music quietly playing through the speakers. The room had no windows, lit only by the dimness of the candles dotted around the room.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Mr Grey Suit said. “I’d expect you to eat every single bite.”

Champagne arrived, followed by oysters. You hated oysters with a fiery passion, but you forced yourself to finish every single one. You refused to show your distaste for them, refused to grimace as the slimy substance slid down your throat. Next up was steak, rare, the meat still oozing blood into to your plate, seeping into the accompanying potatoes. Your stomach turned; you hated red meat. You hadn’t eaten it since you were 10, the smell of it sending your stomach churning.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the metallic smell of the dead animals blood seeping into your nose.

“Are you disobeying me?” He asked, tutting as he tucked a linen napkin into his shirt. “I’m supposing you want to be punished then?”

“Please,” you choked, “anything but steak. I can’t, it’s the smell.”

“Stand up.” He told you. You stood to attention, ignoring the rising bile in your throat. “Come here.”

You did as you were told, your breath hitching as he pulled up your dress to your waist.

“Bend over,” he instructed. You obeyed, hearing the sound of his steak knife slide through the fabric of your lace underwear. You cried out as a sharp, swift slap was delivered to your right cheek, quickly followed by another, and then another. Each hit was harder than the last, tears streaking your face. The mixture of pleasure and pain was exquisite and yet so unbearable.

“Will you do as you’re told now?” He asked, his breath slightly ragged. You were soaking wet as you nodded, and he to resist sliding his fingers inside you. He was supposed to be punishing you after all, not giving you what you wanted.

You sat back down, the skin of your ass stinging as it made contact with the leather chair. Mascara smudged your cheeks, your face flushed. You looked down at the rare steak, then back up your mystery man. He was smiling so smugly at you; he clearly thought he’d won this little game. You smiled sweetly back, picked up your knife and fork, and sliced into the meat. You did your best to ignore the blood that seeped from it. You hardly breathed as you ate, swallowing the bile that continued to rise. A flash of anger contorted his usually handsome features; you were besting him yet again.

You proudly showed off your empty plate, sweat peppering your forehead from the immense effort. You refused to show you him how unwell you felt, choosing to down your glass of champagne to remove the metallic taste from your tongue. He begrudgingly poured you more, both of you smiling as you tried to figure out the others next move.

“What do I get then?” You finally asked, when the silence became too much.

“I’m sorry?” He said, dabbing the corner of his napkin as he surveyed you.

“You said if I did everything you asked, you’d reward me,” you reminded him.

“Ah,” he chuckled, “but you didn’t do everything I asked.”

“Yes, I did,” you snapped back. “I wore the dress, I ate the oysters and the fucking steak!” Eating that piece of meat had almost made you sick, but you’d done it. And he was reneging on his end of the bargain.

“But I had to punish you before you would eat he,” he smiled.

“And I did,” you hissed back at him, fists clenched under the table. “You can’t do this.”

“I can do whatever I want,” he whispered.

You looked him up again, his smug face looking entirely slappable in that moment.

“And so can I,” you decided. “Goodnight.” Throwing your napkin down on the table, you headed for the door.

“Wait!” His voice was desperate, panicked. He didn’t want you to leave. You stopped in your tracks, turning slowly to face him. He looked uneasy, wondering why his game wasn’t going the way he wanted.

“Fine, you sighed, “I’ll stay, but you’re going to play one of my games now.”

You fucked him on the floor of that private dining room, straddling him as you pressed the steak knife to his throat, the one he’d used to slice off your underwear. He quivered underneath you, entirely at your mercy as your slick, tight walls swallowed him again and again. He came with a strangled cry, thrusting his hips up into you as you drained every last drop of his seed.

Leaning down, you planted a single tender kiss on his lips.

“Goodnight, Mr Grey Suit,” you whispered. Standing up, you left him lying there on the cold marble floor, his cock still hard and his breathing ragged.

He had seriously underestimated you. What had started as a game of control, was now something entirely new to him. For the first time in his life, he was entirely at someone else’s mercy.

[lieslab]

I'm stuck with a phobia

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Og8 X gn reader

Summary: You're struggling with your anxiety when your boyfriend comforts you.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 5.3K

Anxiety resources

Trigger warning: General anxiety, testing anxiety, anxiety surrounding hospitals and doctors/nurses, brief mention of insecurities, social anxiety, and over-stimulation.

A/N: To whoever requested this, you requested 3racha members specifically, but I didn't want to leave the other members out, so they're all here. Each scenario is different and most are based on different scenarios that can cause anxiety/anxiety attacks. Some of these are a little more serious than others, but I think you get the gist.

_ _ _

Chan: 

You couldn’t remember the last time that you weren’t in a constant state of anxiety. Anxiety always draped over your shoulders like a shawl you couldn't rip off. A suffocating scarf that grew tighter and tighter around your throat. 

Your heart bucked against your chest, a weak attempt at trying to dislodge from the anxiety in your body. It never worked. It tried and tried and tried, but your sternum was far too strong. 

Despite being there, you learned to live with it. You learned to try to ignore the heavy thumps and distract yourself with simplicities; anything to get away from the feeling of your soul being caged. Usually, you could distract yourself, but tonight was different. 

It uprooted from nowhere. A current of anxiety pulled you into the depths of your head and suddenly, still half-asleep in the middle of the night, the what-ifs were coming back. What if you weren’t good enough? What if you weren’t a great person? What if Chan’s love for you was all a lie? 

Beside you, Chan’s eyelashes cast shadows on his sleeping face. Soft lips pressed together and, for once in his life, that furrow of concentration didn’t hang in his brow. That grit of determination was gone. For tonight, he wasn't just a leader. He wasn’t a member; he wasn’t anything other than Chan, your boyfriend. 

You tried to be quiet as you shifted the blankets and attempted to leave the bed. The squeak of the bed frame and the dip of the bed stirred his sleep. Your name left his lips and a hand stretched out to touch you, but you were already standing up. 

“Baby?” His half-lidded eyes open. Darkness swarmed his vision and you froze. He blinked and blinked and blinked, trying to cast shapes to the shadows. “Baby?” 

“I’m right here,” you finally whispered. “Go back to sleep. It’s too early to get up.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To get a glass of water.” Your voice came out groggy and unconvincing. 

He reached up, rubbed his eyes, and his mouth stretched into a yawn. “What are you really doing?” 

“I’m anxious and I can’t sleep. It’s never ending and I’ve been trying to sleep, but over the past few hours, I kept waking up. I’m not sure what it is, but it won’t go away. Go back to sleep, I’m going to-” 

His arms stretched out in your direction. A silent and simple command, come here. You hesitated and didn’t budge from your spot. “You should go back to sleep. Seriously, Chan, you have to be up early tomorrow.” 

“You either get in my arms or I follow you to the couch.” 

He was so stubborn. You didn’t know if it made you hate him or love him. So stubborn, so determined, such a pain in your ass. A constant nag and a forever reminder that you weren’t alone. 

You sighed, stepped back, and crawled back into the bed. He wrapped his muscular arms around you and pulled you closer. The scent of his body wash was faint, but the woodsy masculine scent still lingered. 

“Close your eyes.” 

You let your eyes fall and sighed again. He pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head before softly beginning to sing. The worry in your heart melted away instantly. You began to relax and let his sleepy voice lull you back to sleep. 

Dating a singer had more perks than you’d like to admit. 

_ _ _ 

Minho: 

“What is wrong with you?” Minho asked. 

The two of you were sitting in his living room and watching a movie. Halfway through, you shifted in your chair and became fidgety. You shrugged and waved him off, not wanting to distract him. 

His eyes narrowed at you, but he didn’t prod. Knowing you, you probably just needed to adjust your spot or something. You were never great at sitting still for long periods of time. After a few more minutes, you shifted again. Your nails curled into your palms and the sharp edges bit into your skin. 

You shifted to comfort yourself a few seconds later. When your knee started bouncing, Minho grabbed the television remote and paused the screen. “What are you doing?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t do that. Your thing-” He gestured towards you. “You’re anxious or something. Your knee is bouncing and you can’t sit still. Why are you anxious?” 

“Because I’ve never seen this movie and what if my favorite character dies?” You slumped back in the seat with a frown. “Don’t you have a heart? How are you not anxious about this?” 

“So anxious, to where you can’t stop moving?” 

Your hand went up in defeat. “I can’t help it! I’m always like this when I don’t know the ending of a movie. I’m trying not to look up how it ends, but I want to. I can't stand the suspense!” 

“Hold on.” 

You watched as Minho slid across the hardwood floor and disappeared into the kitchen. Upon his return, he presented you with Dori's familiar black and brown coating. His feet dangled helplessly as Minho approached. 

“Have a cat.” 

“What is-” 

“Hold on.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, but you grabbed Dori anyway. You shifted, trying to keep him comfortable. Small paws pressed into your lower stomach. He tried to pull away from you to lie on your thighs. 

Your head poked up at the sound of incoming footsteps. When you looked up, an unhappy Soonie glared at you. You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “What is this?” 

“Have a cat.” 

“Minho, this is-” 

“Wait.” 

You tried not to laugh as he disappeared again. Dori shifted and Soonie’s head went back with a loud meow of distress. You reached up and gently patted his head, trying to calm him down. 

Footsteps patted your way for a final time and when you looked up, the sleepy eyes of Doongie were staring back, full of obvious annoyance. Minho pressed him further, nearly pushing into your nose. “Here, have a cat.” 

You let him place Doongie on your chest. He reached out and used a finger to tap the top of each of their heads. “One cat, two cats, three cats, and-” 

You glanced up and, to your surprise, he tapped the tip of your nose. “Four cats.” 

“I’m not a cat!” 

“Four cats.” 

You grumbled and complained, your anxiety long forgotten about. Doongie shifted, nearly falling off your chest. You quickly grabbed him and leaned back so he wouldn’t roll. “There are too many cats in my lap.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

You opened your mouth to bicker, but your words halted. Minho shifted Dori and Soonie, so he could squirm into your lap with them. Your eyes widened as he sat across your lap. “What are you-” 

“Five cats.” 

“Lee Minho!” 

“Sorry, I only speak cat.” He picked up Dori’s paw and waved it in your direction. Garbled meows in various pitches fell from his lips. All you could do was stare at him blankly as he took Dori’s paw and gently booped your nose with it. 

Clearly, growing up as an only child with three cats has drastic effects on the human psyche. 

_ _ _ 

Changbin: 

You decided when you were a kid that quizzes were your worst enemy. Ever since you were in elementary school and colorful motivational posters plastered the walls, you knew you’d always hate tests. Tests. Quizzes. Finals. All of it. 

As you grew up and enrolled in college, things didn’t change. Your kitchen table was full of opened textbooks and sticky note reminders. Highlighters swept over topics in notebooks. A headache had been pulsing behind your left eye since you started. 

You were drowning in academics. Even worse, you were drowning alone. Changbin was out at a photoshoot and you were on your own until sometime late tonight. It was perfect in your head. You were two weeks away from finals and now you had plenty of time to study. 

You were trying your best. You did what you could, but the more you pressured yourself into studying more, the more the content wasn’t sticking. There was too much stuff for each subject and not enough space in your head. Everything you just spent two hours drilling into your frontal cortex; it was gone. 

You scanned the pages of the textbooks, reading the words, but never truly soaking them in. Words and words and words and words. Some are more complex than others, but it was all the same. You were so focused and anxious about forgetting and failing; it was the only thing taking up space in your head. 

You shoved everything away from you in a fit of rage. A textbook snapped shut and hit the floor with a loud thud. Your neatly stacked vocabulary cards that were in alphabetical order, they slipped over the edge too. The twenty minutes you spent organizing them were all for nothing. They scattered in every direction and brought tears to your eyes. 

Your face found your hands and that’s where they stayed. Elementary tests were far different from college tests. Twenty percent of these finals went to your final grades. Your final grades were important, especially in the classes you really struggled with. The difference between passing and failing was huge. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Changbin called out. “I’m home and I brought food! Have you eaten anything?” Footsteps echoed from the living room and moved closer. 

You didn’t bother looking up. On the verge of bursting into sobs, you stayed buried in your hands. Changbin’s eyes went to everything covering the table. “Woah! What’s all this?” 

He placed the plastic bag on the side of the counter and approached you. “Hey, what’s wrong?” A comforting hand found your shoulder. “Why are your note cards and textbook on the floor? Did something happen?” 

You pulled your face away from your hands with tears in your eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m stressed and anxious. As you can see, I’m trying to study, but nothing is sticking.” You sniffled and wiped away a tear. “Why are you home from the shoot early? Did something happen?” 

“No, we finished early. Apparently, we all behaved well and behaving means getting work done earlier. That’s not the point. Do you have tests coming up?” His fingers started at your crown and gently tugged back your hair. 

“Finals. They’re two weeks away and I could use the head start, but-” You gestured at the mess, “it’s not going so well.” 

“I can see that. How about-” He gently grabbed a fistful of your hair and leaned your head back to face him. “We clean this up and we eat. After dinner, we’ll pick one subject and start there. I’ve heard that if you can successfully teach what you’re learning to someone, it means you’ve mastered understanding it.” 

Your lips tugged into a pouting frown. More tears filled your eyes and you reached up to wipe them away. Changbin followed your reaction with his own frown. “Why are you crying?” 

“Because you’re sweet and sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you.” 

“Nonsense, everyone deserves their own Changbinnie.” He reached down and placed a soft kiss against your pouty lips. “Go clean up and I’m going to stack these on the counter.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too. Now hurry!” He pulled away and shooed you. “The food is going to get cold and you know how I feel about cold food. Bleh.” 

_ _ _ 

Hyunjin: 

“Sweetheart, you can’t stay in the car the entire day.” Hyunjin hung against the wide open passenger door with an amused smile. “You know I’m stronger than you, right? I could just simply lean down and tug you straight out of there.” 

You threw him a weak side eye. This morning, you woke up feeling awful. Since it was his day off, Hyunjin had been taking care of you the entire evening. Every few hours, he had been taking your temperature. When it spiked three degrees in ‌a few hours, he insisted on taking you to the hospital. 

The only issue? You hated hospitals and doctors. Not once in your life had you ever trusted a nurse. In the middle of your fever, your anxiety sky-rocketed. You begged him not to take you, but here the two of you were now. He parked right beside the emergency room door, but you refused to get out of his car. 

“What if I go in there and they only give me twenty-four hours to live?” You hoarsely uttered. 

“Then we better get in there to make sure you have twenty-four hours and not twenty-three.” 

“What if they tell me I have cancer?” 

“Sweetheart-” 

“Or what if it’s worse than that? What if I have a broken bone that I’m not aware of? My foot has been hurting since I rolled it a few days ago and maybe it healed wrong. What if they have to break it again and it goes wrong? What if it gets infected and I lose my entire leg?” 

He called your name, but you didn’t respond. You were too busy voicing your concerns out loud. “What if,” you continued, “they find out I’m really sick and they have to give me a shot in the butt?” 

He blinked, completely surprised. “What if they what?” 

“You heard me, Hyunjin! What if they have to give me a shot in the ass? Why can’t we just go back to that sweet pink medicine that was stored in the fridge? Why do doctors cause misery?” You threw your head back against the seat and continued whining. 

You knew you were being dramatic, but between your high fever and your anxiety, you were spiraling. Just thinking about going in and being poked and prodded in your state.  It was unfathomable. 

“Or, I know this sounds crazy, but what if you just go in, they diagnose you, give you some medicine, and we go back home?” 

“Why would they do that? They’re evil doctors,” you whined as your head slumped to your chest. You were exhausted and trying to fight with Hyunjin, it was getting harder and harder to stay on topic. Your body ached and wanted to nod off. 

“They’re not evil and I’ll be right there with you the entire time.” He reached down and scooped you into his arms. “Do you think I’d let them hurt you? No way.” 

You groaned as your head shifted against the warmth of his chest. “They’re gonna kill me, probably. Kill me and rip my limbs apart. They’re going to feed me my feet and they’re going to-” 

He snorted and squeezed you tighter. “Sweetheart, what are you talking about? Doctors wouldn’t do such an outrageous thing. They want to help you, not feed you your own feet.” 

“I forgot you’d eat my feet.” 

“Huh?” 

“You ate Minho’s foot in that one photo.” 

“Honey, I think you’re delirious from your fever.” 

Your eyes drooped and the emergency doors swung open. The scent of disinfectant hit you and your eyes slipped shut. You mumbled his name, but he didn’t stop walking to the front desk. He started explaining the situation to a nurse. 

That didn’t stop you from trying to explain how you needed your feet as you succumbed to sleep. 

_ _ _ 

Han: 

“I’m anxious,” you uttered as you laid on the living room floor. Your limbs sprawled out and your gaze caught the spinning ceiling fan. Wooden panels whirled around so fast that they were a giant blur. 

“Me too.” Han agreed as he laid a few feet away from you. “I don’t know what I’m anxious about. What are you anxious about?” 

“The future, I think. How does it happen? What if it goes wrong? What if I make the wrong mistakes? What if I fuck it up?” 

Han’s eyes widened and his adam’s apple bobbed with a gulp. “Okay, cool. Now you have me anxious about the future, too.” 

“What if we break up?” 

“What if we’re together for the rest of our lives?” He countered. 

“Woah, are we prepared for that? For this forever? I want to say that I am, but forever is an awfully long time.” 

“Isn’t it a good thing?” 

“Listen, I’ve been a victim of your farts.” 

He reached over and playfully slapped his hand on your shoulder, causing you to laugh. “Shut up!” He whined. “Yours are ten times worse than mine.” 

“Nuh-uh!” 

“Yeah-huh!” 

“Prove it!” You challenged. 

“Stage one, denial.” 

You burst into a fit of giggles and he followed. Your hands curled up over your stomach as you shook. For a few brief moments, you pushed the anxiety from the front of your head. You sucked in a deep breath and let it out. 

“But really,” you continued, “how do you stop your anxiety?” 

“I ignore it by watching anime. How do you stop yours when it’s bad?” He shifted so he could stare at you. You didn’t move from laying on your back. His arm moved up to prop his head. 

“I do whatever I can to escape reality. Most of the time, it’s social media or shoving my nose in a book.” 

“Sometimes I bother one of the guys. Life feels better when I’m with them. Even if it’s just one, I feel less stressed. We’re always laughing together so…” 

“I understand, it’s a really special bond that you have with the other group members. I’ll admit that it makes me jealous. It just sounds nice and what you have, it’s so authentic and real, you know? You don’t just have one good person, you have seven. I’m sure you have more than that, but-” 

“It really is special, isn’t it?” He smiled to himself and shifted back onto his back. 

“Yeah.” 

“Sometimes when I’m really stressed, I go visit Minho. Every now and then, we’ll go to his parents’ house to see his cats. That’s my favorite way to ease anxiety.” 

“If only you had a pet.” 

He nodded in agreement and the two of you sat in silence again. Tangled in your own thoughts, your eyes went back to the spinning ceiling fan. You watched it spin around and around and around and-

“Holy shit!” You jerked upright with wide eyes. “Han Jisung, you idiot!” 

“Huh?” 

“You have a dog!” 

“I have a dog?” 

“Bbama!” 

“Obama?” He echoed, feeling more confused. “The former president of the-” His eyebrows furrowed until he gasped and slammed a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I have a dog!” He shoved himself to his feet and grabbed your arm. “Come on, we gotta go visit Bbama!” 

“Obama,” you mocked him as you followed. 

He turned around and stuck his tongue out at you. Yours poked out and caused him to huff. “Shut up,” he finally grumbled. “So I forgot I had a dog! Sue me!” 

“Bbama might.” 

_ _ _ 

Felix: 

“It’s not funny!” You childishly stomped your foot and placed your hands on your hips. 

Across the way, there were tears in Felix’s eyes. The two of you had been posing in front of Hyunjin’s camera and trying to take cute photos together. The last one came out with your eyes in two different directions and half-closed. 

Hyunjin was trying not to laugh, for your sake, but Felix was losing it. For the past two minutes, he’d been on the ground with a hand on his stomach. Just when he thought he composed himself, laughter broke back out. 

“Baby, p-please,” he weakly uttered. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to-” His words cut off with more laughter. 

You didn’t want to do this because of this reason. The two of you were supposed to go official with your relationship and you wanted a cute photo to announce it on Instagram. Hyunjin offered to take it, but none of them were coming out right. 

You were anxious, worried that the photos would all come out ugly, and here you were actually living that scenario. Your cheeks were red with humiliation, but it didn’t seem to bother Felix. He was still cracking into fits of giggles. 

“It’s not funny,” you mumbled again, feeling more and more miserable. “I told you this was a bad idea.” 

Felix shook his head and blonde tendrils went flying. “No, i-it wasn’t a bad idea. This was the best idea. I just wasn’t expecting that angle. It was one poor photo and-” 

“It feels like every photo has been a poor photo. I’m not doing it right. I don’t know how to pose like you do. I’m not used to-” 

“Hey,” he shoved himself off the ground, “it’s okay, really.” 

“No, it’s not. You keep laughing at me. I feel like we’re wasting Hyunjin’s time. So much of his time that he just disappeared to go find a snack while we recouped.” 

“Hyunjin is a growing man. You couldn’t help that if you wanted to. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I just-” He reached forward and gently cupped your cheeks. “I love you so much, you don’t understand it.” 

“I don’t like being laughed at, even if it’s just a silly photo. I’m always afraid that-” 

His head shook. “I’m not laughing at you. I mean, I am, but I’m laughing at the pose you ended up in. Think about it. Wouldn’t you laugh if Hyunjin snapped a photo of me in that same pose?” 

“I guess.” He narrowed his eyebrows at you. “Okay, I guess if the roles were reversed, I’d probably laugh a lot. I look like an idiot.” 

“Exactly.” He pressed on your cheeks and caused your lips to press together. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I love you so much.” 

Your cheeks went red and your lips grew into a smile. He grinned and leaned forward and then- 

Flash! 

Felix jerked away with a groan and you blinked rapidly, trying to gain your vision back. His hands went up to rub his eyes. “Hyunjin?” 

“I got it! This is the perfect photo! Oh, you guys are just so cute!” He squealed as he stared at the screen on his camera. “That speech? Disgustingly cute. This photo? Fan wars are going to be caused.” 

“Hyunjin,” Felix warned. 

“What? I’m just saying.” He shrugged and spun the lens towards the two of you. “What do you think?” 

As you stared at the photo of Felix’s twinkling eyes, a smile on his face, and your own blushing smile; you knew he was right, it was perfect. _ _ _ 

Seungmin: 

“And this.” Seungmin grabbed an item from the shelf and placed it in the grocery cart. “And this. One of these,” he picked up two more items and dropped them into the cart. “Three of these and-” 

Your arms curled around yourself tighter. To Seungmin, grocery shopping was a necessity. To you? It was, but specifically, when the store wasn’t thriving with customers. Showing up around five on a Friday evening was the worst thing you agreed to do. 

Seungmin had the list and he was carefully marking items off one-by-one. You were behind him and stressed out. The moment you walked into the store beside him, you swore you could feel the pulsing and stressful energy of the crowd. 

People were rushing in and out of the aisles. Some were getting pushy while waiting for their turn to look at a specific product. Seungmin didn’t seem to mind the chaos. Maybe he did and he just tuned it out somehow, but you? You didn’t work like that. 

You were feeling stressed and wanting to cry. More and more people were slowly entering the front of the aisle that you just came down. You swore you could feel the annoyance of some. It didn’t help that Seungmin kept stopping every few feet to check off an item and calculate the prices of everything. 

“Seungmin?” You spoke up nervously as you glanced over your shoulder. 

“Hm?” 

“Can we please leave this aisle?” 

“Hold on, let me add these two numbers together.” 

You sighed, but continued waiting. Your brain screamed and begged you to get out of the aisle, but you stayed close to Seungmin. You shut your eyes to focus on your irregular breaths and when you opened them a few moments later, Seungmin was gone. 

Your eyes widened and you stepped forward, but before you got far, a cart hurried past you. You jumped, side-stepping, and trying to get out of the way as a random woman sped by. Your hands curled into fists and you pressed yourself against the colorful cereal boxes, trying to make yourself smaller and take up less space. 

Out of the aisle, you glanced around, but Seungmin was missing. Cursing beneath your breath, you hurried to the next aisle and glanced down at it, only to find it void of the light blue hoodie he was wearing. 

You searched and the more you searched, the more your anxiety grew. The overhead lights were too white and too bright. The chattering of people grew louder and louder. Your own heartbeat hammered against your ears. 

A lump built in your throat, but you forced yourself to swallow it. You hated crowds; you hated the congestion of people, and more importantly, you hated that feeling of suffocation that sat upon the top of your chest. It compressed your lungs and made breathing barely operable. 

Blinking rapidly, you tried to focus on the task at hand. Walking around felt nearly impossible. Too many people had carts and weren’t paying attention. Someone was texting and another one was making a phone call. Someone else stopped in the middle of an aisle and pressed buttons on their phone. 

“Excuse me,” you uttered as you walked around them. 

You squeezed your eyes shut at the huff that left their mouth. “Some people have no manners,” they grumbled. Unaware that they did anything wrong, they hurried away, only to stop in front of the opening of another aisle to pull out their phone again. 

You wandered around again, trying to find Seungmin, but to no avail. Your hand reached into your back pocket to grab your phone. Just as you considered talking to him, you pulled your hand away from your phone. He shut his phone off at the beginning of the trip, not wanting to be interrupted. 

Frustrated and too upset to function, you checked a few more aisles, but you couldn’t find him. You began to head towards the door, assuming you’d just wait in the car until he got back. You walked and walked and walked until a car bumped into the back of your ass. 

You wheeled around and there stood Seungmin. His grin fell when he took in your teary eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” 

“There’s too many people. I couldn’t find you and I’m so overstimulated. I thought you were a stranger and I just-” 

“Breathe,” he reminded you as he stepped out from behind the cart. “I’m sorry. I thought you were behind me when I left the cereal aisle. I turned around and you were gone. I was grabbing items in another aisle and I figured you’d find me. I didn’t think-” 

“It’s not your fault. I can’t help my social anxiety, it’s just so busy. Some woman was so rude to me. I just want to go wait outside. I feel overwhelmed and it’s becoming a struggle to breathe.” 

“Do you want me to go with-” 

Your head shook. “Finish shopping and I’ll wait for you in the car. I’m sorry, I wanted to help you, but-” 

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I should have considered how busy the store is at this time of the night. You go to the car and I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?” 

“I love you.” 

Not caring that he was in the middle of the store, he leaned up, grabbed your cheeks, and pressed his lips against yours in a soft kiss. A sweet unexpected gesture that tasted like spearmint and your salted tears. 

“I love you too. Now get out of my store,” he grinned. “No adult supervision. I’m going to get dino nuggets.” 

_ _ _ 

Jeongin: 

Jeongin had seen a lot of stupidity over the years. He saw it in his fellow idol members. He saw it blatantly stamped all over the idol industry. It was rare that the stupidity came from you, but today was different. 

He shielded the top of his head with his arm to block the rain from his vision. The keys jingled in his hand and his shoe squeaked on the entry to your shared home. He grumbled and ripped off his damp coat. 

The rain hadn’t stopped pouring for what seemed like hours. A constant downpour that was steadily sprinkled with thunder and lightning. Earlier, the power to his company’s building went down after lightning struck a nearby power cord. He finished the rest of his schedule via a backup generator. 

He kicked off his shoes and called your name. He expected you to be taking a nap. On certain evenings, you did. Some days, you stayed up late, came home, and indulged in a few hour nap. He grew used to the routine, but you weren’t on the couch. 

He headed to your shared room and, to his surprise, you weren’t there either. You had to be home, he knew that. Your phone was there on the nightstand and face down. Your shoes, he put his own right next to them. 

He called your name, but you didn't respond. Just as he was about to call your name again, there was a flash. Through the glass sliding door, the balcony lit up and there you were. Squatting on the ground, huddled around yourself, and soaking wet, you sat in a small ball. 

His eyes widened and he rushed forward. He tugged on the balcony door, only to find it locked. He cursed, flipped the lock, and swung the door open. “What are you doing out here? Get inside now!” He called out over the loud sound of heavy rain. 

Your eyes half-opened at the sound of your name. You glanced over to find a worried Jeongin. He grabbed your forearm and tugged your dripping and shivering body back inside. His eyes scanned you up and down. 

“What happened to you? What did you do? Why were you locked on the balcony?” 

“I was anxious,” you mumbled. “I went out to get fresh air and I must have slammed the door shut too hard and the lock flipped. When I went out, it wasn’t raining.” 

“But it’s been raining for hours!” 

“Has it? I just woke up freezing cold a few minutes ago, I think. It’s not too bad after you get used to being soaked.” 

He sighed and grabbed the end of your shirt. “Arms up.” 

You didn’t fight him tugging off your shirt. “You’re such an idiot,” he mumbled. “You’re going to catch a cold by wearing these soaking wet clothes. You’re going to wake up with a fever and sniffles.” 

“On the bright side of things, I don’t feel anxious anymore.” 

“Because you’re too cold to feel it.” He sighed and grabbed the warmest blanket he could find. “From now on, if you go out onto the balcony when I’m gone, crack the door.” 

“Okay.” 

“What were you anxious about, anyway?” 

“I don’t know. I’m too cold to remember, but this blanket is so warm. Have I ever told you I love you?” 

“Sometimes I think I should reconsider my offer.” 

“That’s not nice.” 

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way at certain times.” 

“Only when you wear ugly shoes.” 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

[scoupsakakitty]

The Edge of Us | idol!S.coups x reader | angst, fluff

It was nearing 1 a.m., and the apartment was shrouded in a tense, almost oppressive silence. Choi Seungcheol sat on the couch, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. He stared at the app on his screen, the small dot marking y/n’s location at an unfamiliar address in the city.

For weeks, his life had revolved around the comeback—early mornings, late nights, endless rehearsals. He barely came home except to sleep, and even then, their moments together were fleeting. He hated it, but he’d told himself she understood. She always had.

Now, though, as he sat in the dark apartment, his chest tightened with unease. She hadn’t mentioned going out tonight. She hadn’t answered any of his calls.

His thumb hovered over her number again before he let out a frustrated sigh, grabbed his jacket, and left the apartment.

————————————————————————————

The drive was short but tense, his mind running wild with thoughts. He wasn’t proud of tracking her location, but the nagging fear in his gut outweighed any guilt. She hadn’t told him where she was going. Why? Was she angry? Trying to avoid him?

When he arrived, he parked a few houses down and stared at the modest, warmly lit home. His jaw clenched as scenarios filled his head. Was she with someone else? Was this the beginning of the end he’d been too afraid to face?

He dialed her number again, his heart pounding when she finally picked up.

“Seungcheol?” she answered, her voice laced with confusion.

“I’m outside,” he said curtly. “Come out.”

There was a pause. “What do you mean, you’re outside?”

“I mean, I’m outside. At this random house you’re at,” he said, his frustration bleeding through his words. “Come out. Now.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then a heavy sigh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

The line went dead, and a minute later, the front door opened. Y/n stepped out, visibly annoyed, her arms crossed as she walked toward his car. She climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door harder than necessary.

“Explain,” she demanded, glaring at him.

“Where were you?” he shot back, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“At my friend’s house,” she said, her tone defensive. “Why are you even here, Seungcheol? Why couldn’t you just trust me?”

“You didn’t tell me you were going anywhere,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “You didn’t answer my calls. What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to think that maybe I needed a break,” she snapped. “Or maybe you’d realize that I’ve been sitting at home alone for weeks while you’re too busy to even notice me!”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t let it show. “You could have still told me,” he said, his voice rising. “Instead, you sneak off and leave me to figure out where you are through your location? Do you even understand how worried I was?”

“Worried?” she repeated, laughing bitterly. “No, Seungcheol. You weren’t worried. You were paranoid. There’s a difference.”

The car fell into heavy silence as her words lingered between them.

————————————————————————————

When they got back to the apartment, the argument picked up right where it left off.

“You think I haven’t noticed how distant you’ve been?” she said, pacing the living room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “For weeks, it’s been nothing but your comeback. You leave before I’m awake, you come home after I’m asleep, and when you’re here, it’s like I don’t even exist!”

“I’ve been working, Y/n,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m doing this for us. For our future.”

“No,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re doing this for you. Don’t pretend this is about me when I haven’t even been part of your life lately.”

“That’s not fair,” he argued, his frustration mounting. “You knew what you were signing up for when we got together. You knew how demanding my job is.”

“And I’ve been nothing but supportive!” she shot back, her voice cracking. “But I’m human, Seungcheol. I have limits. I can only take so much before I start feeling like I don’t matter to you anymore.”

His chest tightened at her words, and for a moment, his mask of frustration cracked. “You do matter,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “You matter more than anything.”

“Then why don’t you act like it?” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “Why is it that the only time you care is when you think I’m slipping away?”

Her words cut deeper than she knew, slicing through the fear and guilt he’d been carrying for weeks.

“I’m scared, okay?” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I’m scared that one day you’ll realize I’m not enough for you. That you’ll leave because I’m too busy or too selfish or too—” He stopped himself, his throat tight with emotion.

Y/n’s anger softened slightly, but the hurt in her eyes didn’t fade. “Seungcheol, you’re not losing me because of your job. You’re losing me because you don’t let me in anymore. I can handle the late nights and the busy schedules, but I can’t handle feeling like I’m not a part of your life.”

He stared at her, his heart aching with regret, but he didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t do this right now,” she said finally, her voice small and tired. “I need space. Sleep on the couch tonight.”

She turned and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

————————————————————————————

The couch felt like punishment, but Seungcheol knew he deserved it. Sleep was impossible as he replayed their argument in his head, her words haunting him.

When the clock struck 3 a.m., he couldn’t take it anymore. Quietly, he got up and slipped into the bedroom.

Y/n was asleep, curled up on her side. The soft rise and fall of her breathing was the only sound in the room. He crawled into bed carefully, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry for shutting you out. For making you feel like you’re not enough. You’re everything to me, Y/n. Please don’t leave me. I’ll do better. I’ll make this right.”

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, leaning instinctively into his touch. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, his heart aching with guilt and love.

————————————————————————————

The next morning, Y/n woke to the smell of coffee. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, surprised to find the bed empty.

When she walked into the kitchen, she saw Seungcheol standing at the counter, a plate of eggs and toast waiting for her. He looked up when he heard her, his expression filled with nervous hope.

“Good morning,” he said softly.

“Morning,” she replied cautiously.

“I took the day off,” he said, fidgeting slightly. “I thought we could spend it together. If you want to.”

She crossed her arms, studying him. “Why now?”

“Because you’re right,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I’ve been so focused on work that I haven’t been there for you. And I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t a priority. You are, Y/n. You’re the most important thing in my life.”

Her eyes softened, and after a moment, she let out a small sigh. “I missed you, Seungcheol. I just need you to let me in.”

“I will,” he promised, stepping closer. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She hesitated, then reached out to take his hand. “Okay.”

Relief washed over his face, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. For the first time in weeks, the distance between them felt like it was finally starting to close.

————————————————————————————

[klaus-littlestwolf]

an you please write some yandere Daemon hc's

Yan!Daemon T. HC’s

(I also received a request for Daemon and Rhaenyra’s sister HC’s so I’m going to combine them for this one-sorry it’s so short but I just wanted to write a short Daemon one tonight)

Honestly I’m kind of sorry I’m never in more Daemon moods rather than Aemond. Aemond is my Babygirl and my fav Targaryen of all time and ofc my fav little war criminal but I love Daemon and I’ve been asked if I would be willing to write for him more so if you have any specific Daemon requests that you think I would pull off well go ahead and send them🤷🏼‍♀️

~Daemon adored you the moment he laid eyes on you

•He was the first person besides the Maester to hold you. Your mother was sleeping soundly after the difficult birth and as the Maester was bringing Y/n to the King, Daemon cut him off and insisted he would do it himself

•He took his time getting to the small council where the King waited to see his second child, he was content just playing with you as you kept snatching his thumb and trying to suck on it, squeezing tightly which he was impressed by-already a tough Targaryen, he couldn’t wait to see the strong Dragon Rider you would become

•It wasn’t often that Daemon held babies but you were the cutest little thing he had ever laid eyes on and it was difficult to release you.

‘It is a girl brother.’ He announced as he walked in, all men now staring at the vicious Targaryen man that was wild enough to mount Caraxes, as he cradled a small babe who held his fingers tightly without making a single sound.

‘She is beautiful.’ Viserys stated as his younger brother handed him his daughter, grinning like an idiot at the sweet little girl.

‘Another girl. I am sensing a pattern my King.’ The Lannister teased and before the King could comment, Dark Sister was at the idiots throat and he dared not even swallow to avoid being nicked by the Valyrian Steel blade.

‘That is enough brother. You have taught him his lesson. Come now, let us go and find Rhaenyra, she will want to meet her little sister.’ Viserys stood but Daemon cut him off.

‘Actually I believe I should go to the pits, she will need an egg in her cradle tonight. I will choose the most beautiful one possible, brother.’ He nodded and Daemon was off to get his niece her first gift though if he had it his way he would teach his niece to fly right beside him on Caraxes, cradled like their mother had done for them.

~Y/n looked up to her uncle and loved him very dearly all her life

•He was the first one to comfort her when her second egg did not hatch when she was given it at 6, she was heart broken but her Uncle made her feel better

‘Of course you will have a dragon, it will just take time. You will mount your own dragon like a true rider, you’ve nothing to worry about my darling.’ Daemon kissed the girls head before leaving her to her studies as soon as her tears had dried up.

~Daemons affection for her grew as she got older and once she was 17 years old he knew he needed to make her his

•The men fighting for your hand were boys, children who could never care for his precious niece like she deserved and so Daemon took her for himself

•He stole you away in the night and married you, finding the fact that your Uncle loved you as you did him to be something you could not live with married to another man

•Your father lost his mind, he tried to annul the marriage but it had been consummated already and you refused to leave Daemon, getting angry at your father for hitting your husband (though you hadn’t seen the smirk Daemon wore at the idea of having you all to himself)

•You fought with your father viciously once you both returned to the Red Keep and though it went on for almost an hour, eventually your father dropped the subject-not wanting to risk losing his second child over a marriage that he didn’t approve of

~Daemon and his Niece!wife ended up on Dragonstone with Rhaenyra and her sons

•His first two daughters lived on Driftmark with their grandmother and visited often, both loving their cousin/step mother dearly and begging for more common visits however it didn’t happen much once Daemon first filled you up with a baby

•Daemon had never been happier than the day that you went into labor-unlike most men he insisted on being in the room and holding onto your hand tightly (allowing you to squeeze his hand as firmly as you needed)-refusing to let what happened to Laena Ever happen again and telling the Maester months before the delivery that if he so much as even considered cutting his wife open as an option in any way that he would cut him open from balls to brains and find them a new Maester that knew what he was doing

•You gave Daemon his first son the first time you gave him a child and he was over the moon! Once the Maester handed him his son he didn’t want to ever let him go, pacing with the baby boy-Daemion- until he began crying and Daemon realized he was keeping his son from his very first meal as his wife looked over at him truly exasperated

•Once you finally fell asleep as your son had been cleaned and fed Daemon took him down the hall-the King had come when you wrote and asked for his presence since you were so close to giving birth

‘Brother…would you like to meet your first nephew?’ Daemon asked, peeking into the library where his brother waited upon hearing your screams of pain, everyone else having joined him.

‘A boy! Yes! Wonderful brother!’ He grinned, holding out his arms and taking his brothers first son into his hold.

‘What has she named him?’ Rhaenyra inquired, moving to see the silver haired angel along with Jace and Luke, as well as Helaena and Aemond who moved to peek at the boy as well.

‘Daemion. He is in perfect health, and my wife is doing splendidly, even after breaking 2 of my fingers.’ He joked, though he knew it was true as he looked down and still couldn’t move his last 2 fingers on his left hand.

‘May I have the pleasure, Uncle?’ Rhaenyra asked, unable to look away from the perfect little Angel that she called a nephew.

‘Of course Rhaenyra.’

•Rhaenyra loved Daemion more than she thought possible, Aemond, Aegon and Helaena also loving their elder sisters son and her next 3 sons and daughter as well-Y/n having been very good to them in their childhoods in ways that their mother was not, all looking to her for comfort in their youth-it was her in the end that kept the family from killing each other more often than not

~Once the King died, Rhaenyra was promptly settled as Queen thanks to her younger sister-though it was completely unintentional

•Aemond set out to find Aegon as their mother told him to, however both brothers rode for Dragonstone not an hour later with Vhagar and Sunfyre

•Rhaenyra hadn’t realized how much her younger brothers loved her sister until they landed outside of the courtyard, everyone coming outside in question of the impromptu appearance, and she knew in that moment that if it wasn’t for her sisters kind heart in raising those boys when Alicent didn’t that the idea of her being Queen may have just been a fantasy

‘My sweet boys!’ Y/n smiled, raising her arms and hugging the both of them to her firmly, Aemond and Aegon hugging the girl back as they always did (Y/n ignored Daemons jealous growl at the interaction-he hated the fact that he knew his nephews had “Mommy Issues” and they were much too in love with his wife in his opinion-Both boys just avoided the subject since they knew he was right, keeping it very well hidden from her all their lives)

‘Hello Sister!’ Aegon smiled, kissing her cheek.

‘What brings you both here like this…what has happened?’ She worried, looking to Aemond to explain as she picked up her daughter, holding her tightly as she was now worried at the looks on her brothers faces.

‘We wished to avoid a war all together. Father is dead…and our Mother is determined to see Aegon ascend the throne. Grandfather insisted that you should all bow to the new King or he would send Vhagar to burn Dragonstone to the ground…I could never in my life have come to hurt you or your children sister, nor could Aegon.’ They all knew that there was no love lost between Rhaenyra, her sons, and her brothers but everyone knew that both brothers and Helaena loved Y/n passionately.

‘Helaena could not get the twins and fly with us quickly enough however she is waiting for you all with excitement.’ Aegon told her, pulling something from his bag and stepping closer to their eldest sister, unwrapping the object and presenting Rhaenyra the crown of “Jaehaerys the Conciliator”. ‘My Queen.’ He spoke softly, clearly not enjoying it but kneeling in front of her, Y/n taking the crown and setting it onto her sisters head as everyone around them knelt before their new Queen, Y/n joining them quickly.

~Daemon and Y/n moved back to Kings Landing with Rhaenyra and her family

•Daemon ended up on Rhaenyra’s council along with his wife who forced him to work with Aemond in controlling the Queens army

•Rhaenys made a wonderful Hand of the Queen as the last hand ended up in the Black Cells for the rest of his life

•Daemon was content with his wife in the Red Keep as his days were not full of commanding the Army and impregnating his wife who ended up giving him 5 sons and 3 daughters all together-Caraxes providing almost all of Daemons children with dragons with both Silverwing who Y/n ended up mounting and Syrax-also providing Aemond and Alys’ sons with dragons of their own a few years later as well (Daemon having introduced the two in order to keep Aemond away from his wife who he seemed to become more and more obsessed with the more babies she gave Daemon)

~Daemons obsession and marriage to his young niece seemed to have given almost everyone everything they wanted-at least it gave Damon everything he wanted and that’s all that mattered to him in the end

Daemon T. Masterlist

[brittle-doughie]

Spooky Cookie Tales: Five Nights with Dragons

Feddy

Congratulations, you have been selected to spend a week at the home just beyond the trees. Many cookies had participated in the event, so it’s your lucky day that you had been chosen.

Be sure to pack everything you need for the stay, guides will be stationed at the front to help you with your things. For now, take the load off and relax. This is your reward for winning amongst the crowd.

Let sleep take you away…

———————————————————————

N I G H T 1

You suddenly awoke to a banging noise somewhere in your little vacation home. You get up from your bed and notice a monitor on a desk to the wall parallel of your bed, next to the monitor was a tape recorder.

It looked like..a camera system? It was connected to the various rooms of the home and on the camera directed to a window…was this red dragon cookie, their eyes glowing brightly as they stare at the camera with a menacing grin…

You gasped at the sight and wondered what to do, you turned to the tape recorder to the side of your desk and pressed play. The voice sounded like one of the guides that helped you with your things…

“Welcome to your vacation home, it is with great pleasure that we invite you here. The Ivory Dragon has requested you as the sacrifice, we apologize if we deceived you into coming here.”

“However, the dragons have decided to give you a fighting chance and play along with a game they’ve made for you to not fall into their hands. Use the camera system we provided to you to keep track of where the dragons will be in the home.”

“The dragon coming to see you tonight is the Red Dragon, they are impatient compared to the other dragons and will try to take shortest route to your room. It is in your best interest that you hide under the desk when the Red Dragon is about to enter your room, they won’t search for long and leave once they see the room is unoccupied.”

“Try and survive until sunrise, that will be when the dragons will leave for the day. We hope this inconvenience doesn’t ruin your vacation stay as much as it already has been. End recording.”

Were they kidding?! Sacrifice?! The Ivory Dragon?! Five nights of this?! All of the dragons will be here soon?!

Sigh….maybe winning that event was too good to be true…

But the night was simple enough with a few close calls here and there. As explained to you, the red dragon flew out of the home at the crack of dawn. You breath a sigh as relief as you lay back in your bed.

Might as well enjoy your stay while you still could…..

———————————————————————

“This is the cookie the Ivory Dragon wanted?”

“Yes, the Ivory Dragon is requesting this specific cookie for them.”

“Y/N Cookie…I think I’ve heard of this cookie before, they’ve been a traveler of these lands for a while.”

“Let us make haste, we need to form a plan to bring them here.”

———————————————————————

N I G H T 2

The tape seemed to be replaced with a new one without you seeing anyone come in your home to replace it…you played it.

“You are still here when I came in to replace this tape, that’s good to see. That’s not good to the dragons, more will appear throughout the nights, each of them eager to be the one to get their hands on you.”

“A new dragon will be coming for you tonight, the Yellow Dragon. This one demands your attention to it when they have marked their arrival. Once you find them, you must simply watch them until they satisfied and leave.”

“It is advised that you handle this task as soon as possible, the Yellow Dragon does not like to be disrespected. If you miss your window, there’s nothing stopping the Yellow Dragon once they start making their way to your room. End recording.”

Your aptitude was correct, the dragons will be making their appearances throughout the nights, each with their own ways of dealing with them. It was still pretty simple to handle, though the Red Dragon should not slip under your watch while you watch the yellow one.

You could breathe a sigh of relief when morning came.

The dragons have left for now….

———————————————————————

“What is it now?”

“It would appear we are not alone with our plans. The followers of the Red and Yellow Dragon are also seeking Y/N Cookie.”

“What a headache. This only complicates matters…”

“We all share the same goal, can’t we just work together to get the sacrifice?”

“For a cookie as important as Y/N Cookie, maybe that’s a possibility….”

———————————————————————

N I G H T 3

As expected, a new tape replaced the previous one.

“We congratulate you on making it to night 3, you are making progress. The dragons have expected you to fall by now, so lasting this long is beating their expectations. They won’t give up though, things will only get more…hasty.”

“You may notice that you hear a mandolin playing somewhere in your home. The Blue Dragon has decided to make residence in your home for the night, in the main living area. The dragon likes to play their instrument often, but they don’t have an audience.”

“That’s where you come in. If you ever hear the mandolin stop playing, you must switch the main room camera and watch the Blue Dragon for a moment, they will go back to playing their mandolin shortly. Keep up this routine and you should be alright. End recording.”

Great, just what you needed. A music box mechanic…or something like it.

Wait, what were you talking about?

You shake your head and focused on the cameras. The Red and Yellow Dragon don’t seem to be moving any faster, so the pace wasn’t as hectic to manage.

Yet.

You decided to get some tea when the sun rose today. You needed some for the remaining nights…

———————————————————————

“Have you heard what happened to that one guide?”

“Yeah, I have. I warned her countless times about not staying the night at the home we’ve selected, but she didn’t listen. The only reason the others were made aware was the screaming they heard last night.”

“We had to go recover her, or at least, what was left of her. Her strawberry jam stained the floor and wall. I nearly retched at the smell.”

“Oh my crumbs….”

“Yeah, the dragons made sure we understood now. Only the sacrifice can stay the night at that home, they can not leave…

———————————————————————

N I G H T 4

You sat down and played the tape. You knew what to do now.

“You’re still here? I…I should give you praise for that, the previous night was expected to be your last. The dragons are not letting up on you just yet. A new one will be joining you tonight.”

“The Purple Dragon will be appearing at the window leading into your room, you will know when you hear a giggle behind you. From there, you must close the blinds and wait for them to leave. It’s recommended that you do this if you want an easier time.”

“While the Purple Dragon entering your room won’t be the end of your night, it will majorly hamper your movement on the basis that the Purple Dragon will cling to your body in a tight hug. Trust me, you’re going to need the quick reaction time for all the dragons you’re facing so far. End recording.”

Cute? You guess? How thoughtful of the dragons to give you an adorable dragon to cuddle while you’re fighting them off.

How swell. The sunrise couldn’t come fast enough….

———————————————————————

"Is everything set up?"

"Yes, the festival drawing will begin shortly."

"Remember, the sacrifice must draw a certain ticket in order to be the winner."

"I've made sure to let the other guides know that the sacrifice will be heading to the drawing at the right time and place."

"Good. That's...good to know. Now, go to your spot. The drawing is starting."

———————————————————————

N I G H T 5

You wake up a little bit early. You didn’t know why, but you felt like something was wrong this night. Something was very wrong….

You make your way to the desk and sat down. You hesitate to play the recording, but the possibility of some great evil awaiting you this night overtakes your fear.

You play the tape…..

“Y-You know, Y/N Cookie. I can see why the dragons chose you to be the sacrifice. You far exceeded their expectations compared to the cookies before you. I don’t really know what happens now….”

“I’ve never seen any cookie made it this far and just…why? Why didn’t you run while you still could? Was the vacation worth it that much to you? Or was it something else? The dragons are much angrier than I’ve ever seen them before.”

“We both know there is only one way this ends. For you to crumble.”

“Y/N Cookie, this may be the last time you hear from me. May the Sugar Swan have mercy on the both of us.”

W-where was the hint? There was no indication of a new dragon arrive-

There they were. The Ivory Dragon.

You felt a chill deep within your soul, their piercing eyes much more overbearing then any of the dragons ever could be.

You quickly learned that keeping your camera on Longan slowed their progress to your room after they lingered in a room longer than usual.

You felt sloppy, more sluggish in your movements from fear. So many things at once. Looking for the yellow, hiding for the red, watching your back for the purple, and paying attention to the blue. All the while, giving your attention to the ivory.

You breathe deeply when the sun rose…only to see the Ivory Dragon rushing for your room!

You quickly hid under the bed and waited, holding your breath….

You see the Ivory Dragon walk into the room and stop for a moment….

“You should’ve known I’d find you, little cookie…”

The dragon then rushed to your desk and lifted it out of the way before lunging at you.

T I M E ‘ S U P, Y / N C O O K I E !

———————————————————————

Local cookie vanishes after vacation stay.

The authorities were called to the home of resident Y/N Cookie after they failed to show up for work at the Time Balance Department, they entered only to find it unoccupied with some items missing.

Their last known whereabouts was an email sent to an acquaintance that they were going to take a vacation week within the premises of the Lotus Palace. When asked about it, the locals could only give a description of loud screaming coming from the home amongst the trees.

The home was searched and found mostly intact with the exception of the bedroom with a turned over desk and destroyed monitor, showing signs of a struggle. Traces of tiny crumbs were found at the doorway leading outside, suggesting Y/N Cookie was roughly dragged out of the home.

Their current whereabouts remain unknown….

[pretentious-blonde]

realisation

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: it’s a feeling he hasn’t touched in years—something selfish and dangerous and impossible to let go of

warnings: therapy, big big feelings from steve, migraines, anxiety

a/n: soft steve always has my heart <3

series masterlist

Steve never liked the quiet, that’s part of the reason he loved his job. The noise in his classroom was gentle, filled with curiosity—excitement. It was an odd definition of peace, but he never questioned it. Kids brought out something within him he thought was lost, he liked that about them.

That’s also why he never enjoyed going back to his own place. It was the kind of quiet that felt too suffocating. When he first signed the lease after leaving his parents' house, he thought the isolation would be a blessing—a sanctuary where it was just him, no drama, no outsiders.

No threats.

But as time went on and memories resurfaced, that same quiet began to feel heavy.

He found himself remembering what it was like when he first moved here, when progress was just beginning—because in a way, it was again.

Slashed, back to fucking zero.

He could no longer move forward. Couldn’t talk about it anymore—not in the way he needed to.

He couldn’t safely open up in his therapist’s office, couldn’t make you understand now, not really.

All he had left was Robin—the same Robin who had nearly fallen apart trying to hold him together at the start of all this—and he couldn’t do that to her again. Wouldn’t.

That is why he has to do this. 

It’s late afternoon, and he’s got one sock on, one sock half-off, pacing across the tiny stretch of kitchen linoleum with the phone pressed to his ear. His free hand scraped through his hair, again, again—like maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll comb away all the thoughts circling in his head.

He hasn’t slept. The therapist’s words from yesterday rattle in his mind, reverberating through every breath. 

Intervene. 

He’s replayed the warning all night, half expecting someone to burst through the door and threaten him again. It churns in his stomach. All the guilt and fear—he can’t figure out which is louder. 

He just knows he’s been lying in bed, eyes wide at the ceiling, again. 

The excuse he comes up with is a simple one, not really a lie. Because in a way, his head does ache. It’s not the blinding kind of pain that used to knock him off his feet after a particularly bad episode, but the pressure’s there, right behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

He might as well call it a migraine if it keeps you at arm’s length—keeps you safe from whatever might be going on inside his mind. But that’s not really true anymore.

The threat is, once again, in the real world.

He closes his eyes the moment he hears your voice on the other end of the line. He tries to answer in a steady tone.

“Hey,” he begins. “I—hey. Um. I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

It’s quiet as he waits for your answer, like you're feeling out the tone of his voice. 

“Why?”

Didn't take much to sense something was wrong. You were observant. 

Too observant. 

That’s why he had to create this distance. 

“I’ve got a migraine coming on,” he manages, voice unsteady. “Just… sort of crept up on me. Thought it was gonna pass but… doesn’t feel like it.”

He can picture the worried fold between your eyebrows, the way you’d tilt your head if you were standing in front of him. 

“Is it bad? Y’know… like last time?” 

You ask it so gently, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Last time.

The last time—when he nearly lost everything you had built together.

The last time he left you scared.

The last time he really fucked up.

“No,” he speaks quickly. “Not that bad. Just a bit of pressure. Thought I should stay home—sleep it off.”

He hears you exhale, a soft sigh that says you’re not convinced. 

“Steve…”

“Sweetheart,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light, “I’m alright. I just… need a quiet night.” He punctuates it with a half-hearted laugh, like it might sell the story better.

“Okay.” There’s a pause on your side. “Well—I’m coming over.”

His chest constricts. 

Of course you are. 

He knew you would. It’s one of the things that scares him most about letting you in: you show up. 

Always. 

“No—no, you don’t have to,” he blurts. “Really. I’ll just be in bed. It’s not exactly good company.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for thrills,” you tease, voice warmer. “Let me take care of you a little.”

He almost loses it right there. The phone cord wraps around his wrist as he paces in a tight circle, sock skidding on the tile. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. So he says it out loud, in a voice that cracks just a bit. Hopefully he can blame it on the “pain.”

“Maybe,” you answer, and he can practically see your small smile, the tilt of your lips. “But I like you. So that’s kind of your problem now.”

He can’t fight it anymore. He'll say it's his lack of energy.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Door’s unlocked.”

He hangs up too fast, like if he stays on the line a second longer, he’ll give up the entire game. The phone slips from his hand onto the receiver with a dull clack.

He just stands there in the fading sunlight, staring at the pattern of the kitchen countertop. He can’t figure out if he’s more relieved that you’re coming, or more terrified that you’ll see the cracks he knows will soon show. 

He moves into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions sink under his weight like they’re trying to swallow him whole. He feels like an idiot as he scrubs his hand over his face. He should’ve just faked the entire day, come up with an ironclad excuse—maybe said he had to run errands or something. 

But then you’d ask questions, you’d want to help him, and he’d buckle anyway because he can’t say no to you. Not when you sound like that. 

Not when your first instinct is to care.

He glances at the stack of second-grade spelling tests on the table and pushes them aside, annoyed at the very sight of them. He was trying to keep busy, to put a pen in his hand and shut off his brain. But the weight in his chest is too big, too heavy to ignore, and nothing about marking a dozen attempts at the word “elephant” is going to clear the images swirling in his mind.

Last night was bad. 

Worse than usual. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, drifting into shallow snatches of sleep that delivered him into the Upside Down, or a half-memory of it. The vines. The pulsing lights. And you, off in the distance, looking at him like he was a stranger. 

He’d woken with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. Spent the morning sipping lukewarm coffee with no music, no TV, no noise at all—just the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knew this would happen, especially after his last appointment, but it still hurt all the same. He hadn’t had a dream like that in weeks, proof that all of his progress feels like it’s been ripped from under him. 

Everything about this is too much and not enough. He’s tiptoeing on a razor’s edge of fear and yearning, wanting to protect you but also wanting to crash into your arms. He doesn’t deserve how you look at him, the way you always ask if he’s okay. 

And now you’re on your way over, and he can’t stop you. 

Doesn’t truly want to stop you.

Because in the back of his mind, he knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

Knows what it does to a person.

It always starts slow—just a ripple, a toe in the water—until suddenly the tide’s pulling you under and there’s no surface left to reach for.

He knows what it means to drown—in both senses of the word. But this time, it’s worse. This time, it’s not his choice whether he comes back up.

This time, it’s yours.

And all he can do is hope that if it comes down to it, he’ll be the one sinking. 

Not you.

The front door swings open quietly, you don’t bother waiting for an invitation. By the time Steve looks up, you’re already stepping inside with that urgency in your eyes—like you’ve come prepared to handle any crisis he’s trying to hide. 

He hates that he can read your body language. Hates that he can see how cautious you are, bracing yourself for whatever version of him you’ll find.

And he hates even more that you’d still come anyway.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was halfway through tidying up, something to move his stiff body. Make you think that your boyfriend can at least seem to hold his life together. 

He’s in his usual knit jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, hair a little mussed from the nervous nap he never took. The lighting softens him, makes him look more fragile than he feels, it traces the curve of his jaw and the soft downturn of his mouth. 

He’s tired. You can see it instantly—the weighted slump of his shoulders, the slight effort in his exhale. Maybe there’s a pang of guilt in his chest at being so transparent, but he can’t quite fix his expression into something more reassuring. 

Not tonight.

“You look rough,” you say, raising your eyebrows in that gentle, teasing way.

He can tell you’re worried. It’s there in the careful tone of your voice, the way your gaze flicks over him like you’re scanning for damage.

“Yeah…” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “I know.”

Before he can stumble out a courtesy greeting, you close the distance, slipping your arms around him and drawing him into a hug. The warmth of your body presses flush against his chest, and he stiffens for half a heartbeat—like he’s not quite sure he has the right to accept this comfort. Then instinct kicks in, and he melts. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he drops his head to the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent. The one he never knew he would crave so deeply. 

His arms rise to wrap around your waist, palms splayed against your back as if to steady himself.

“Hi,” you murmur into his hair, voice muffled against his temple.

He breathes you in, a tired sigh slipping out. 

“Hey,” he answers, almost inaudible.

The quiet in the room no longer feels suffocating—it feels like a shared breath, something that belongs to both of you. Your fingers slide into his hair, combing it back gently, and his eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks about how a hug like this might’ve been a luxury in another life—before nightmares and secrets twisted everything into shadows. 

But with your arms around him, he lets himself believe it could be simple. 

Just for a moment. 

He’ll give himself a moment. 

When you finally pull back to look at him, there’s a softness in your expression he’s not sure he deserves. Your attention drifts over his shoulder, landing on the small table behind him. Paper after paper is scattered there—spelling tests, wobbly handwriting, even a few crayon doodles. You tilt your head, curiosity nudging your brow. 

“What’s all that?”

He steps out of your hold, just enough to glance at the mess over his shoulder. Reluctance flickers across his face. 

“Just… some papers I needed to get through,” he says, swallowing. “It’s nothing. Spelling stuff.”

“You can’t possibly do that when your head’s hurting.” 

He’s dealt with worse. 

He shrugs one shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. 

“It’s not so bad,” he tries, though the hesitation in his voice betrays him.

You don’t buy it. He can see the resolve in your stance, the way your chin sets. 

“Trying to concentrate on eight-year-old handwriting is not how to cure a migraine,” you say flatly, giving him a look that shows your playful exacerbation.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he insists. But even as the words leave his mouth, they sound weak. 

He’s still holding onto that white lie, and guilt gnaws at him from the inside. You’ve already started marching past him toward the table, your gaze determined. 

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” you say, lifting one stack of papers. “I’ll do it.”

He follows, hand raised in a weak protest. 

“No—hey, that’s my job,” he says, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Like, my real actual job.”

The one he needs to keep. 

Your grin appears, brightening the mood without effort. 

“I think I can handle some spelling tests,” you retort, eyeing the pages in your hands. “Pretty sure the complexities of second-grade grammar won’t defeat me.”

He sighs, a smile finally curving his lips for real. It’s small, but it’s genuine. 

“Am I gonna convince you otherwise?” he asks, half-rhetorical.

“Nope,” you say simply, lips shifting smugly as you slide into one of the dining chairs. It’s a look that tells him you won’t budge on this. 

Stubborn as always. 

He stands there for a second, torn between wanting to help and wanting to give in. There’s this warmth building under his ribs, relief and something else—something so dangerously close that he daren’t name. 

“Okay,” he finally murmurs, stepping back. The tension in his spine eases a fraction, and he can almost feel the exhaustion settling in now that he isn’t forcing himself to keep going.

“You gonna stand there or go lie down properly?” you ask, not looking up from the first spelling sheet you’re scanning.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and drags his feet over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with an exhale that betrays how tired he truly is. 

“Here’s fine,” he says quietly. 

The idea of vanishing into his bedroom feels unbearable right now. 

Too far. 

Too alone.

It’s selfish—how much he needs to stay near. Near enough to hear your voice, the soft scratch of your pen, proof that you’re there.

He rests his head against the arm of the couch, turning just enough to watch you from across the room. You spare him a glance, understanding flashing in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you accept. .

You stand abruptly and move to the lamp in the corner. A soft click and golden light spills into the room, bathing the scuffed hardwood floors in a gentle sheen. The overhead light blinks off with a flip of the switch, and suddenly everything feels softer, quieter—like you're tucked away in a little sanctuary, a space carved out of the world, just for two.

He shifts, propping one arm under his head, blinking against the change in light. 

“Hey now,” he jokes, words a bit slurred with fatigue, “it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Maybe,” from over by the lamp, you look at him and shrug. “But your head.”

His mouth twitches—he can’t help it. The weight in his chest lifts, just a little. 

“Right,” he mutters in agreement, the fight slipping out of him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to keep up the migraine ruse anymore, but it’s too tangled in everything else. Better to just let you have this small comfort. 

You deserve it.

You’ve been way too good to him—and because of that, he’s dragged you into this mess.

And the worst part? 

He knows he won’t be able to let you go, half-truths are going to have to be enough to compensate for his carelessness. 

You go back to the table, pulling out a chair and settling in with the stack of papers. Your face furrows in concentration as you pick up a pen—his red marking pen, the one he’s been avoiding all day. The faint sound of your writing tip against paper is a soothing background lull.

He watches you, eyelids heavy. He just lets his gaze linger on the shape of your face in the lamplight, the slope of your shoulder as you lean over a misspelled word. He breathes, in and out, feeling a tug in his chest every time you shake your head in mild amusement or scribble a little note in the margin. He closes his eyes, so filled with longing he cannot figure out where to put it all. 

Just let him have tonight.

Let this be all he feels tonight. 

Seconds bleed into minutes, and he’s not sure when his breathing slows, or how his tense muscles start to loosen. Eventually, he feels the calm settle over him, the quiet that used to feel like a noose around his neck. Now it’s more like a blanket—soft, encompassing, safe. He exhales as his eyelids droop.

His mind drifts in a liminal space between wakefulness and the pull of sleep, cocooned by the low lamplight. 

You clear your throat and tap the tip of a red pen against a test paper, amusement lacing your words. 

“One of your kids spelled kitchen like kitchin. I kinda like it,” you say, a small laugh escaping. “It feels… softer.”

He murmurs a response, voice thick from exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes fluttering open just enough to find your silhouette at the table. “Bet that’s Jackson. He says breakfirst too. I never wanna correct that one.”

His words slur slightly, and he barely registers that he’s smiling. You lift your attention from the paper, your own playing at the corner of your mouth.

“Breakfirst makes sense,” you tease, the pen still in your hand. “It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up.”

He chuckles softly, shifting against the pillow. The motion tugs at his shoulders, reminding him how tight his muscles are. 

“Mhm,” he drawls, eyes sliding shut again. “He told me last week he wakes up thinking about pancakes. Said it just… appears in his brain.”

You snort a laugh, then set the test paper aside, leaning back in your chair. 

“I think I’d like him,” you remark, mock-serious. “He’s got the right idea.”

It’s so easy for him to picture Jackson—a scrawny seven-year-old with an overbite and an endless supply of energy. The image floats into his mind and settles there, a soft spot in the midst of his own troubles. 

He can almost see the bright classroom, the crayons and the whiteboard, the echo of little voices calling him. It feels like a life unshadowed by therapy sessions and the secrets choking him from within.

He lets the moment linger, a comfort in the back of his mind. Then a memory surfaces—one he rarely shares: his mom, the aroma of melted butter, the slowness of an early morning without his dad. It nudges at him, stirs something bittersweet in his chest.

“My mom used to make pancakes when my dad was out of town,” he hears himself say, the words spilling out so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s speaking aloud. He feels you pause. You don’t respond right away, giving him space to unravel the memory if he wants to.

Like you always do.

He swallows, blinking slowly at the ceiling. 

This is a safe one to share.  

“He traveled a lot,” he continues, voice quieter now, each syllable steeped in nostalgia. “Work stuff. Sales, I think—always sounded vague. But when he was gone, it was like… things relaxed a little. She’d let me sleep on the couch, and we’d have pancakes in the morning. Not the box kind, either. She did the whole thing—batter from scratch, butter in the pan, bubbles on top when they were ready to flip. Real old-school.”

Your pen lands gently on the table. He can feel your eyes on him across the distance. He knew you’d appreciate another piece of his past, no matter how small.

What scared him was how much more he wanted to give you.

How easily he’d hand it all over—just from the look on your face.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your voice subdued, maybe to match the mood he’s set. He wonders if you can tell how vulnerable he feels, laying this out for you. 

“She’d put bananas in them sometimes,” he murmurs. “I hated it—but I never told her. Didn’t wanna mess it up. It felt like… I don’t know.” His voice wavers, and he breathes out carefully, as if exhaling might scatter the memory. “A good thing.”

For a moment, all he hears is sound of his own breath. Your voice comes softly across the room. 

“You didn’t want to change it.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyelids heavy, almost speaking more to himself than to you. “Exactly.”

He slips deeper into the cushions, a sort of melancholy peace settling in his bones. Remembering those mornings—milk and flour and eggs whisked in a bowl, the hiss of the stove, his mom’s rare, relaxed laugh—feels comforting and too big to hold onto. 

It reminds him of being a kid, back before entire worlds twisted into nightmares and scars. Before he had to figure out how to keep people safe by keeping them in the dark.

Outside, the sky is darkening, casting shapeless shadows across the walls. You rustle the papers again, returning to your marking with diligence. That rhythmic scritch, pulls him back from the edges of old memories.

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, barely conscious, his words filled with drowsiness. A little piece of anxiety wells in him suddenly—intrusive. 

It’s about the kids—about whether they notice the days he can’t quite summon his usual energy. The way he knows he’ll be tomorrow, when the smile won’t come as easily, no matter how hard he tries.

He hates asking you this. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually save for Dr Avery, but that isn’t an option now. It feels cruel—testing the waters just for his own peace of mind, leaning on you to give him the direction he can’t find on his own.

His voice is small when he finally asks. His eyes half-lidded, drifting toward you, too tired to stay open all the way.

“D’you think the kids…"

Fuck, this is hard.

"D'you think... they know when I’m having a bad day?”

You pause for a moment, shaking your head as your eyes meet his, looking at him like he just hung the moon. It undoes him utterly, the way you let out a gentle sigh,

“I think…” you speak slow, perhaps to allow his exhausted mind to keep up, but the words end up hitting him twice as hard. 

“I think they know you’d still show up for them anyway. It’s… just who you are, Steve.”

It's just who he is...

Is that how you see him?

He absorbs the statement slowly, like it needs time to settle in his bones. There’s a kind of weight to it—the raw honesty behind every word you offered, like you handpicked them with care, laid them down gently just for him.

It loosens something deep in his chest. A knot he didn’t even know he was carrying starts to unspool.

He doesn’t feel like he’s a failure.

Maybe he is a mess. Maybe he’s always been a little broken, stitched together with stubbornness and guilt and whatever scraps of hope he can still find—but he’s here. 

He’s trying. 

He’s still showing up.

That has to count for something.

His eyes drift shut at last, sleep too heavy to fight. Maybe he can let himself rest a little. Just for now, with you close by. He breathes out, chin dipping into the pillow, and finally gives himself permission to fall.

As his consciousness fades, he holds onto one stubborn wish: later that evening, when he opens his eyes, you’ll still be there, still close enough to chase the doubt out of his mind—at least for a little while longer.

When Steve’s eyelids flutter open, it takes him a second to remember where he is—or why everything suddenly feels this peaceful. 

The living room is draped in darkness, the overhead lamp turned off in favour of a single warm light coming from the kitchen. For a disoriented moment, he hears nothing. Then a soft clink of metal on ceramic reaches his ears, followed by a faint hiss and the gentle scrape of something in a pan.

He pushes himself upright, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The couch creaks and the fabric of his jumper feels slightly rumpled from dozing. He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, wincing at the dull ache there. 

A quick glance at the window tells him night has fully settled over Hawkins—streetlights glow faintly outside, their beams catching on the air.

The heaviness he’s carried around for days has receded, at least for the moment. His head doesn’t throb. His chest feels looser, the anxiety dulled. 

That sure as hell isn’t just from the nap. 

Slowly, he stands, letting the blanket slide off his hips, and runs a hand down the front of his jumper. His bare feet touch the floor with soft thumps as he pads toward the kitchen, one sleeve pulled over his hand like a restless kid, not even realising he’s doing it.

The closer he gets, the more the smell of butter wraps around him. He’s struck by how surreal it all seems—like stepping into a memory. Except it’s not some dusty recollection from his childhood. 

He stops in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, and sees you standing at the stove. You’ve rolled your sleeves past your elbows. There’s a mixing bowl on the counter, a spatula in your hand, and the sizzle of batter hitting hot butter is the only real noise besides his own breath. 

Plates are stacked on a small portion of the counter you’ve managed to clear. A current of tenderness runs through the space—through him—that has little to do with the heat of the stove.

“Hey,” he says softly, still a little groggy. His voice is low, reverent, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter the spell.

You glance over your shoulder, a quick smile flicking across your face as you meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” you answer, tone hushed not to hurt his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He swallows, stepping into the kitchen a bit more, hand trailing against the wall. 

“Much better,” he admits. 

And he realises, in that moment, it’s true. 

The tension in his spine has eased. When he looks at you, all sweet in his space, the last of his fears feel like they’re retreating into the corners of his mind. 

“What’re you doing?” he adds, voice soft, curious.

“Making dinner,” you reply with a casual shrug, turning back to the stove.

You slide the spatula and lift it, revealing a perfect golden underside. As you flip, the batter sizzles, sending up a little puff of fragrant steam. You nod toward the mixing bowl. 

“Figured something simple might do the trick,” you say quietly. “And, y’know, you mentioned them.”

He lingers a step longer, breath catching in his chest as he’s catapulted back into the memory he shared with you earlier. The smell of a hot pan threads nostalgia through his core, tangling with the gratitude he feels in this moment, watching you do something so unexpectedly thoughtful. It renders him speechless.

“Pancakes,” he manages finally, the word falling from his lips, soaked in wonder.

You glance back, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, catching the weight of that memory in his eyes. “You don’t have any bananas.”

You really were something else. 

He exhales a shaky laugh through his nose. It’s almost real—almost. It slips out unsteady, because there’s something about the simplicity of it all. The way you act like the world could be set right with just this—this one small, human thing.

And what floors him, is that for a second—God, maybe longer—he believes you.

Believes it could be that simple. 

You gesture with the spatula toward the small dining table. 

“Go on,” you suggest, “sit.” 

There’s a gentle command in your tone, like you’re used to looking after him—even if, not so long ago, he would’ve insisted he didn’t need it.

He obeys, walking over on slightly unsteady legs. 

Obeys.

The word sounds strange, but it’s accurate: you speak, and he follows. Not because he’s weak, but because you make him feel safe. You make him feel seen. And in that safety, he allows himself to lean on you more than he’d ever planned.

Drawing a chair out, he settles into it with an exhale, placing his elbows on the tabletop. The wood is cool through the knit material, and he can feel the faint vibration of your movements through the floor. Figures form in gentle arcs along the cabinets, as if the night outside has pressed its nose to the windows but hasn’t dared to intrude.

He’s spent a lot of time alone here, pacing the small perimeter while his mind churned with old memories. 

He wonders if this is what normal looks like. If other people get moments like these all the time—moments where the person they trust wanders into their space, rummages in their cupboards, whips up something simple that tastes like childhood. 

If so, he thinks he’s missed out for too long. 

Please let him keep this.

Just for a little while.

He’s not sure how long he watches you. He’s content to let the seconds stretch, your quiet movements hypnotising him. The whisk tapping the side of the bowl, your gentle footstep shifting weight. 

When you finally switch off the burner and turn to face him, plate in hand, he’s still staring. You serve the pancakes on the two most similar plates you can find—he doesn’t exactly have a matching set. You slide one in front of him, the other in front of you, the only sounds are the dull scrape of forks cutting through soft batter, the occasional drip of syrup pooling on porcelain.

He lifts a bite to his mouth, nodding in faint approval as he chews. His jaw still feels tense, like it’s absorbing some leftover stress. Beneath the table, his leg bounces with restless energy, but outwardly, he tries to keep calm. You watch him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. Neither of you speak until you finish the first few bites; the tension in the air is subtle, but it lingers.

“You going into work tomorrow?” you ask, casual enough that someone who didn’t know him might think it an idle question. But he senses the concern under your tone. 

You’re not prying, exactly—just checking in.

“Yeah.” He nods, quickly swallowing. “I’ll drop you back home after this, don’t worry.” 

The words come out automatically, as if he’s already set a plan for the day: take you home, show up, teach the kids. Everyone safe and accounted for.

You carefully set your fork down, the faint clink slicing through the atmosphere. Your gaze holds him a second longer than normal. 

“I’m not leaving,” you say softly.

“What?”

“What if…” Your voice takes on a cautious edge.  “What happened last time… happens again?”

Last time?

Oh.

Angel, don’t do this to me. 

He goes rigid. The memory knifes through his mind like a jolt of cold water: the flash of your startled eyes when he’d woken gasping, his fingers clamped around your arm before he even registered he was awake. The shame of your worried face as he stammered an apology, trembling with leftover panic from the dark corners of his sleep. A strangled feeling clutches his chest, and he drops his gaze to the plate. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” he murmurs, his voice guilty.

“I already packed my pyjamas.”

He sits back in the chair. 

The effect you have on his is downright dangerous. 

A part of him wants to argue—he doesn’t deserve this level of care, not when his baggage bleeds into reality and threatens to drag you with them. 

“No, seriously,” he presses, voice quieter now. “I’m gonna be just fine.” 

There’s a self-loathing edge to the words because he knows it’s not true. You sense it in an instant.

“I’ll take the couch, alright?” you say. That softer note creeps into your voice, the one that tells him you’re not afraid of him—you’re just concerned. 

“Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worried about you.”

Something clenches in his throat, and he drops his head into his hands. His fingers thread through his hair, gripping it lightly as if that might keep his thoughts from spiraling. Another ragged breath escapes him. 

“You’re not taking the couch,” he mutters, muffled behind his palms. The image of you spending the night curled in discomfort while he’s holed up in his bed feels all wrong.

“If you’re feeling rough,” you insist, “you need your own bed. Please just… let me stay.”

He can’t look at you right away, eyes still trained on the dark space between his knees. The weight of everything squeezes his stomach. He drags his eyes up. And there you are, watching him with genuine concern—no pity, no judgment. 

He sees it in your eyes—there is no budging on this.

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses your features, one he has no right to feel pride at. You pick up your fork again, like this decision was the easiest thing in the world. 

He glances at the swirl of syrup pooling around the edges of the plate, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. 

All along, he thought he was the selfless one.

He lies in bed, sheets tangled around his hips, trying to convince himself that stillness might bring sleep. 

One arm is flung over his eyes, pressing down as if he can block out the cacophony of thoughts that refuse to be quiet. The dark presses in, broken only by the light of the clock—each minute passes in silence, ratcheting up his restlessness. 

He rolls onto his left side, then back onto his right, shutting his eyes as hard as he can. 

Come on, breathe in, breathe out… 

His therapist’s voice echoes in his memory, urging him to focus on his heartbeat, to ground himself. But his brain crackles with tension, refusing to comply.

The advice feels fake now, anyway.

He flips again, this time onto his stomach. It doesn’t help. His jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the ache up into his temples.

When the sheets start to feel suffocating, he snaps upright and shoves them away. His legs swing over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cool floor. A hiss of breath leaves him—everything feels too loud despite the silence. 

He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin like he’s trying to scrape away the anxiety. He stands, letting the duvet pool behind him as he pads barefoot out into the hallway.

The living room is dim. He notices the lamp's still on, a small puddle of light that silhouettes your form on the couch. You’re curled up, fast asleep under an old throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. Your breathing is gentle, the rise and fall of your shoulders almost imperceptible. 

You looked so soft.

He tells himself he should go back to bed, not disturb you, let you have your rest. But there’s a stronger voice in him—the one that urges his forwards. 

It’s a jarring realisation that knocks something loose in him.

You’re becoming the next point of call when things get rough. The person he turns to now, instinctively, without thinking. And what unsettles him most is knowing you’d be glad to hear that. You’d take it as a sign of closeness, of trust.

But it feels cruel.

Cruel that you’d take pride in being his safe place when you still don’t know the full extent of what you’re stepping into. Cruel that he’s letting you play nurse to wounds he hasn’t even shown you yet.

He shouldn’t need you like this.

But he is going to be cruel, just for tonight. 

He brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. The small touch makes you stir, and your eyelids flutter open. Confusion flickers across your features until you register it’s him crouched there, face etched with concern.

“Steve?” You mumble, voice foggy with sleep. “Are—are you alright? Did something happen?”

You’re panicking because of him, and it makes it ache even worse.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as he tries to soothe you. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

You start to push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off one shoulder to get a better look at him. The shape of your arm emerges, goosebumps prickling from the cool air. He swallows, feeling another wave of guilt that you even have to sleep out here. 

On the couch for God's sake. 

“I just… can’t sleep,” he admits, voice dropping. The confession tastes vulnerable on his tongue. 

It sounds pathetic—like a kid who never figured out how to function.

“Bad night?” you ask, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Even that tiny touch feels like a lifeline.

“Yeah. I don’t know.” He nods as he lets out a shuddery breath. “Everything feels… loud.”

His request is simple, but the desperation laced in his voice betrays just how badly he needs the answer.

“Will you… come to bed with me?”

You still. The air between you tightens. He can see the caution in your eyes, the trace of a memory of the time before. He hates that he’s the cause of that worry. 

“Steve, I—I don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your lap as you recall his grip on your wrist, the way he shot out the door without so much as an explanation. “Last time, you were so out of it, and I didn’t know what to do, and you—”

“I know,” he interrupts, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I know. And I’m sorry—I really am.” His voice wavers, and he takes a shaky breath. He wants to reach for your hand but forces himself to keep still, give you space. 

“But—but it’s not gonna be like that tonight. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You search his face, like you’re checking for any sign of doubt. Your gaze wanders over the weariness lining his eyes, the way his shoulders slump, the vulnerability in his expression. 

“...Are you sure?” You ask softly, a thousand questions and concerns pooling behind the simple words.

He’s sure. 

He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger. 

“Yeah. I just—please.” 

He doesn’t care that it sounds like begging. Right now, he is begging. 

Your eyes dart between his, and you sigh softly. In the low light, he looks worn down—like that earlier nap had only skimmed the surface of whatever’s been dragging him under. 

It doesn’t take long to decide. The fact that he’s asking at all tells you everything. He wouldn’t, not unless he was sure. This isn’t casual. It’s something close to desperate.

“Okay.” Another short pause, your hand still on his forearm. “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

You shift the blanket aside and stand, the couch springs creaking as you move. He rises too, unfolding himself from his crouch. There’s an awkward silence where neither of you speaks. He feels like he should apologise—but where to start, he isn’t quite sure yet.

He extends his hand, fingers itching to hold your own. He leads you down the hall, every step slow. At the threshold of his bedroom, the air cools, and he can feel your hesitation in the slight drag of your feet. It sparks another pang of guilt. 

He nearly drops your hand, ready to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do this. But you tighten your grip, an assurance that you’re choosing to stay.

The bed is still rumpled, blankets half on the floor from where he stormed out. Silently, you both gather them up. You toss one over the mattress, smoothing it down just enough to make room to lie on.

When you finally slip under the covers, he follows, gingerly settling next to you on the mattress. He keeps to his side at first, giving you space.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three. 

The tension is palpable, and he regrets getting up in the first place. You turn onto your side, facing him, catching his eyes with your own. They’re wide, and beautiful. 

So fucking beautiful. 

There you go, looking at him like that again 

You look weary, and he bets he does too, so he can blame the sleep when he reaches out. He slips an arm around your waist and waits—just waits. Allowing you to choose how close to him you will get. 

He doesn’t let out his breath until you nestle closer, allowing him to tuck his chin over your head, the long exhale that seems to pour into the darkness. 

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He hopes he will be. 

He senses your small smile, lips curving upward against his jumper, a subtle shift in your posture as you settle down. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, reaching curl your arm around his waist, mirroring his position. 

“I will, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. 

He will, but not yet. 

First, he waits for your breathing to slow, for your shoulders to uncoil, for sleep to settle over you. Guilt weighs on him for putting you through this—sleeping beside someone you believe isn’t okay. 

He isn’t, but there’s a sick sixth sense inside him that warns when a night will be rough. Tonight won’t be, though. 

He’s sure of it.

What he’s just done feels like a trial, a test of whether you’d follow him, stay with him. It troubles him the more he thinks about it, but there’s no other way to explain it. 

He needed to know if you would—because if you did, it’d mean you feel for him what he feels for you.

He might be hopeless when it came to saying how he felt—couldn’t talk to his parents, had to be cornered by Robin, nearly let it all slip through his fingers just trying to name what was going on. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Steve felt things—deeply, messily, all at once. Always had. He’d felt this particular emotion before, or thought he had, in flashes: in borrowed bedrooms, first relationships, and soft pink roses. Young and dumb, sticky and sweet, like he saw in the movies. 

But it was never like this. This was bigger than him, something that carried a risk—like most things now did. 

Everything in his life felt more intense now. 

This was no exception. 

He felt it in every part of him. For the first time in years, he was glad he could still feel that much. That he hadn’t gone numb to it.

He held you, a secret he needed to keep. Even if he couldn’t give you every word of it, Steve Harrington knew what this was.

He knew what love felt like.

He’d fallen into it.

He knew better, but he chose to anyway—damned the fallout, and damn the cost.

It meant he could keep you to himself, just a little while longer.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[makeitmakesomesense]

The Early Morning

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Day 5: I've merged a lovely request from a lovely friend with the @taylorswiftmicrofic prompt for the 5th of January, which is 'blind'.

It is just past the middle of the night. You have officially entered the early morning. You find yourself awake. You went to sleep right after your last mission. This is your consequence. 

You don’t try to fight it, instead you roll out of your bed and make your way to get something to drink. Ever since Vision and Wanda have become part of the Avengers, things have been a little different. You’ve all done your best to welcome them to the team, but they have kept to themselves far more than you expected. The changing dynamics have been something to adjust to.

You let yourself enjoy the easy peace of the quiet nighttime. 

You walk to the kitchen and freeze for a second. 

Wanda is sitting at the dining table. Her hair is wet. Her face is ashen and her hands are cupping a hot mug of tea. Her eyes flit wearily to you. 

You hesitate, not sure how to approach. You’ve never spoken to her alone.

‘You okay?’

Wanda turns back to her tea, she doesn’t answer. 

You watch the ends of her hair drip onto the tiled floor. 

You refill the kettle and turn it on. You take a seat next to her. 

Wanda’s wearing a grey sweater. It’s too big for her. The sleeves have ridden up and her forearms are exposed. Goosebumps coat her skin. 

You try again. Something more direct. 

‘Are you cold?’

Wanda’s eyes meet yours and you know that she is. 

The kettle boils and you stand up, your hand touches her shoulder as you pass by. You feel her shudder.

You bring her a new mug. The steam curls promisingly above the liquid. Wanda leans over it. Her hands wrap around the ceramic, even though it must be burning hot. She shudders again and closes her eyes.

You sit next to her with your own mug and think.

Dim light seeps through the large windows and illuminates Wanda’s face. Her eyes have dark shadows under them. You can tell she must not be sleeping. You wonder where Vision is.

As if she can read your thoughts (and you can’t help wondering if she can). Wanda answers your silent question.

‘Viz doesn’t sleep. Not like people do. It’s more... robotic.’

You picture immediately a long cable connecting the android to a computer. You push down the ridiculous image that's probably not so far from the truth. You nod at Wanda silently encouraging her to continue. 

‘At night, he goes offline. Really offline. Missiles could go off and he’d be blind to it.’

You try to understand the subtext of Wanda’s words. There’s a strange suspense to your next question, it is the possibility that she might say yes. 

‘Do you worry about that? About missiles going off?’

Wanda smiles at you. Her head tilts. It could be playful if her eyes weren’t full of pain. 

‘It’s all I worry about.’

You give a half smile back, you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. 

‘I’ve done all my sleeping for tonight.’ You tell her carefully. ‘If you want someone there… someone awake. I was going to watch a movie anyway and I can put on headphones.’

Wanda takes her first sip of the slowly cooling tea. 

‘Thank you.’ She says a moment later, her small smile now weighted with relief.

Wanda follows you back to your room that night. She waits for you to prop some pillows against the headboard and lie back on one side of the bed. She falls readily onto the other side of the mattress. 

She’s not self conscious, not like you’d half expected. 

She sinks into the bed like it’s been calling her for days. You listen to her breathing even out before you put on your headphones.

.

It becomes a routine of sorts. Your new sleep schedule is not nearly as difficult as you expect. You switch your mindless after-dinner screen time with an early nap.

Wanda knocks on your door in the early hours of each morning. You plug in some headphones and watch whatever film you can think of.

Wanda lies beside you. Now that the worst of the sleep deprivation has abated, she is slower to fall asleep. Sometimes you even talk for a few minutes, about the day before or the film you’re planning to watch. 

It’s easy to talk to Wanda, much easier than you ever expected. You try to understand the distance she’s always kept from everyone on the team except Vision.

Each morning, you wait patiently for the inevitable long pause in coversation, for the moment that her eyelids slowly start to close. 

There is something comforting about her steady breathing beside you.

It is too easy to be comfortable. Despite your best efforts, it only takes a week for you to become lulled to near sleep yourself. 

You’re not quite asleep, you’re still following along with the dialogue from the movie. But your mind has drifted and your eyes have closed. 

They fly open at the first feeling of movement beside you. You startle suddenly as you understand your inadvertent mistake. You move backwards unthinkingly and hit your head sharply on the edge of the headboard.

You hiss out and apologise automatically. 

Wanda is still lying in the bed next to you, she has turned to face you. Her head is resting on the pillow. She looks exhausted with a different kind of fatigue. She sits up very carefully, as if her presence is inherently scary.

You don’t know how to explain. That your automatic panic came only from the disorientation of nearly falling asleep by mistake. 

Wanda speaks before you can. Her mouth twists into the same bitter smile that you’ve seen once before. She is watching you rub the sore spot at the back of your head.

‘It’s your amygdala.’ She explains.

‘What?’ You ask unsurely.

‘That’s why you’re afraid.’ 

‘My amygdala.’ You repeat dumbly.

‘Yes. Vision explained it once. It’s what makes you afraid of me, even if you don’t want to be.’ Her words are rehearsed. They sound calm but you can hear something else simmering behind them. ‘Your amygdala knows the danger that comes with being near me.’

‘And what about Vision’s amygdala?’ You ask sharply, suddenly hating the implications of her words. ‘How does he manage?’

‘It’s synthetic.’ 

‘That’s lucky.’ You comment dryly.

She stares at you seriously. An overwhelming loneliness fills her eyes. 

‘Yes.’ Wanda says quietly, looking down at the bedspread. ‘It is.’

You watch Wanda leave. 

.

You spend the day caught between a wish to apologise and a lingering uncertainty that something else is wrong. Something more complicated than you’d realised.

You seek out Natasha in the end, trusting her advice and needing someone to speak to. You find her as she’s leaving a boardroom after a meeting. She invites you back into the room and you sit together. You start to tell her about Wanda. You try to state the facts. The sleep deprivation. Vision’s words. Her isolation from the team. 

You hope you don’t sound biased, you hope your concern doesn’t seem excessive.

Natasha’s lips twist and you can tell she doesn’t like the details either. She tells you other things, small moments she’s noticed. Their separate meals from the rest of you. His frequent appearances in Wanda’s room without warning. How it's the one thing he can’t seem to learn not to do. A sudden lengthy monologue about the benefits of Stark’s technology, unaware of Wanda stiffened posture beside him.  

You exchange a long look with Natasha, it holds something that you recognise in your bones.

You decide to worry together. 

.

That night you find Wanda before the time she usually comes to your room. It is just past midnight and she is sitting at the dining table. Her dark hair is wet again. 

She startles violently when you call her name. Her shoulders relax immediately as she turns to find you. 

Wanda stands suddenly and moves to the kitchen counter. You watch her refill the kettle and turn it on. She takes out two mugs. She smiles at you again. There’s relief in it. 

‘Good evening.’ She says at last. Her fingers tap out a steady rhythm against the marble countertop. 

She notices you watching and her hand stills suddenly. She stares down at her fingers. Her mouth closes and her jaw ticks. She is lost in thought. You know she is remembering your last encounter.

This time, you speak first. You start slowly.

‘I’m not afraid of you.’ You tell her carefully. 

Wanda doesn’t look up. You watch the familiar bitter smile that makes your gut twist unhappily.

‘Then you are not paying attention.’ She says simply. 

‘I am.’ You counter stubbornly. 

‘We can’t change who we are.’ Her voice is monotone and you can tell that she is quoting someone else. ‘We can’t relinquish the dangers that comes with our power.’

‘But we can always have family.’ Your argument is quiet. ‘We can still have love and care. We can forgive ourselves for who we are.’

Wanda goes very still. After a moment, she reaches for the kettle that has now boiled. You watch her pour the water into the two waiting mugs.

‘Vision -’ She begins at last, looking at you unsurely. ‘It’s hard’

‘What is?’ 

She hands you a mug of tea and you watch her grip her own drink like it’s a life support system. 

‘He would never do the things I’ve done.’ Her voice cracks with barely repressed guilt. ‘It can be hard to not feel alone.’ 

You drink your tea and watch her for a moment. Wanda's breathing is shallow. Her pupils have dilated in the dim light. Her dark eyes are watching you, waiting. 

‘I would’ve.’ You confess softly. ‘If I’d been you. I think I would have done the same things.’

A thousand emotions flit through Wanda's expression. It settles somewhere between fear and longing.

You move forward and place your mug on the countertop, carefully you take Wanda’s from her too. When her hands are free, you hold them gently in your own. 

She grips them tightly. You can feel her shaking. 

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ You offer softly. ‘Just for a few days. We can borrow a car. We can go right now.’

Wanda is so close to you now. You feel the hitch in her breath as you much as you hear it.

Wanda’s expression fills with the same look of longing and she glances outside at the full moon that is brightening the darkest part of the night. 

‘Viz’ll wake up soon.’ She hesitates. ‘He hates it when I leave this place.’

You shake your head. You give her a small smile. ‘Natasha said they’re using his offline time tonight to update some of his old programming. Getting rid of some of the biases that Tony created back when it was only Jarvis.’

You pause. Wanda is looking at you like the world is something new again.

‘We have time.’ You tell her and it feels like a promise. 

Her small smile is full of sudden happiness.

Wanda leans forward and her head rests against your shoulder. There is a weightlessness to her tired relief.

You are grateful that your amygdala is very real. That you can feel this entirely.

‘Okay’ She says finally against your shirt. ‘Do you mind if I sleep while you drive?’

You laugh and wrap your arms around her. The wet ends of her hair drip onto your arms.

You leave the Compound before the sun has risen.

.

.

Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

.

[luckykiwiii101]

SLEEPING MONSTROSITY

| | IF THIS DOESN’T WAKE YOU UP, NOTHING WILL | |

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

ཐི you might just live this life forever…ouch ཋྀ

And for you extra failure desensitised east siders -> CLICK ME!

Hey Upper East Siders.

Lately i’ve been thinking about how big of failure you are. And how you keep coming up with more stupid questions to ask bloggers because you can’t accept that life is just easy. I’d call you sleeping beauty, but unlike you, she actually woke up.

I want you to ask yourself how it feels knowing that even though you have all the power, you still don’t have the will to save yourself. Yet you think it’s all going to be okay. You still think you’re going to eventually manifest your dream life, and that this nightmare will come to an end.

Pardon my harsh words but that’s pathetic. Why? Because you told yourself the same thing months ago, and look where you are. You haven’t gotten anywhere. You may understand the law better but you haven’t done anything with it. And knowledge is useless when it’s held by…well, you. A lazy, hopeless, pathetic dreamer.

What actually makes you think that you’re going to be living your dream life by the time it hits 2027. You’re just staying still, and you’re going to continue to. You’re not on an escalator, you’re on a treadmill. Getting absolutely nowhere.

And as i’ve said before, leave those Pinterest boards on Pinterest. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to doom fully stare at something you know you’ll never give yourself. And save your dreams for nap time because that’s the closest you’ll ever get to seeing them.

The amount of people that have left this app, without their dream lives…and you’re just going to end up being another one of them. Another day you take to procrastinate turns into a week, then into a month, 6 months, a year, two years, five years…twenty.

“I’ll persist later!!!” Yes. Exactly. You’ll persist “later.” Later as in, next week? next month? next year? Seconds turn into minutes, minutes turn into hours, hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, months turn in to years, and years turn into decades, and decades turn into small little segments of your tragic little life, spent doing what? Trying? Procrastinating? Sulking? Or living the life of your dreams? Call it Russian roulette, but YOU’RE the one holding the gun to your head. Nowhere to run.

“I’ll try to enter the void state again tonight.” Yes. Exactly. You’ll TRY again. And you’ll try again the night after that, and the night after that, and the night after that. and so on…and so on…

But you know what’s the most shocking of all? The fact that you actually believe that everything is going to be okay. “I know i’ll win in the end.” Are you sure? Because you don’t win by staying the same. And that’s all you’ve been doing since forever.

You’re going to wake up tomorrow and make the same decision you’ve been making all your life. You’re going to deliberately and willingly choose to be someone you don’t want to be. As usual. Because that’s what’s comfortable to you. What can I say. You’re only human. And that’s all you’ll ever be.

But for someone like Blair Waldorf, failure is the end of the world. Because she’s uncomfortable with something she isn’t used to experiencing. But it’s only if she gets used to it, that she gets comfortable, and starts to let it in. And take over her. Sound familiar? Because it’s exactly what you’ve been doing to yourself. You’re so desensitised to failure that you read wake up calls in your sleep. Shrug them off, and move on. As if the words on this screen aren’t literally your reality.

If this doesn’t make your heart sink, i’m not sure what will. For some, the pain of knowing this might be too intense to ignore, for most of you, you’ll feel nothing. Your desensitisation to failure will be the death of you. What have you done to yourself…

Ouch!

- gossip girl

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL