#and then some twist where if they lip sync against each other at the end they win all the money

[homicidalbrunette]

The fact that we have never seen them lipsync against each other is such a void in gay culture

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ chris redfield x reader, 15K

⸺ psychological horror, graphic descriptions of violence

⸺ summary: Sent on a mission to neutralize a bioweapon, Chris Redfield and his team find themselves trapped in an endless loop of death on a remote island. Each day brings new horrors—and along with it the only constant, you, the lone survivor, remembering along with him.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

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@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @leonw4nter @misonesaturou @sparrowguardian

The low hum of the boat’s engine thrums beneath Chris’s boots, steady and monotonous, like a heartbeat too tired to falter, saltwater spraying from the bow as the craft slices through gray-blue waves, flinging cold beads of seawater onto his gear. He leans against the cold metal railing, the steel vibrating under his weight, and squints through the dense fog cloaking the horizon. The island waits ahead—silent, still—its jagged cliffs rising like broken teeth from the sea.

“Fortunate Son” pops and crackles out of the radio, opening chords bleeding into the hum of the engine. Chris drags a gloved hand down his jaw, rough with days-old stubble, and exhales slowly through his nose. The music nestles deep under his skin, familiar in a way that makes his scalp itch, some bone-deep part of him waiting for something else—something different—to fill the air.

He glances toward the helm where Rodriguez, their comms officer, grips the wheel with one hand, her other drumming lazily against the console. “Ugh, this song?” she mutters, not bothering to look up. “You’d think they’d switch it up now and then.”

Chris doesn’t respond. His fingers tap against his thigh, the rhythm in perfect sync with Rodriguez’s drumming—before he notices and clenches his hand into a fist. Behind him, the faintest murmurs rise from the rest of his team, huddled around a portable game board, plastic pieces clattering onto its surface while the boat bobs over choppy waves. He doesn't turn to see what they're playing.

Beside him, Morgan adjusts the strap of her rifle across her chest and nudges his boot with her own. “You good, Redfield?” she asks, breath misting in the cold air. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Chris says, but the words scrape his throat, as if he’s spit them out a hundred times already. He shifts his stance, rolling his shoulders, but the tension pressing down on him doesn’t lift. He catches himself staring at the water—the foam curling and folding away in the boat’s wake, every ripple as identical as the last.

Morgan grins. “Yeah, I bet you are, big guy. Just another day for you, right? A nice and easy snatch-and-grab in paradise." She gestures to the island before her, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Who knew viruses could afford a place like this these days?"

Something twists in Chris’s gut, sharp and cold. He presses his lips into a thin line and looks away, clenching his jaw so tight he feels the pressure in his temples. The island looms larger now, jagged cliffs towering above the restless sea, their sharp edges softened by the heavy fog. He leans farther over the railing, letting the sting of cold spray bite his skin, hoping to settle whatever prickle of unease skittered through him. He doesn't know why; he has no reason to feel off about this mission—if anything, it's one of their easier jobs, taking less than a week, from departure to return. And nothing that warranted bringing their usual firepower.

It still feels wrong. Everything about this fucking place feels wrong. He should be light-hearted, eager even, as much as he can be for any mission that doesn’t involve him running headlong into warzones. But the only thing rising from the pit of his stomach is a persistent buzz of anxiety, like an engine rumbling idly underneath him. Waiting for him to drive. To crash. To do something.

Rodriguez twists the volume knob, and the lyrics kick in: “Some folks are born silver spoon in hand. Lord, don't they help themselves, Lord...” The chords curl around Chris’s thoughts like a noose. The song shouldn’t bother him—it’s just music—but it does. It scratches at something buried deep, a memory he can’t reach.

He grips the railing tighter until his gloves creak.

“Can’t say I’m a fan of this island getaway though," Morgan continues as if sensing he needs more than silence to ground himself, her own apprehension masked under wry humor. She glances around the boat, noting their less-than-impressive weaponry collection. "Whole place feels cursed. Shouldn't we be packing bigger guns than this?"

"Didn't expect anything other than some lousy security," Rodriguez answers from the helm, finally looking up from her screens. "All intel says they don't have much here—just a lab. Can't exactly fit giant bioweapons on an island this tiny."

Chris doesn’t respond. The mission brief was simple: secure the island, contain the bioweapon, rescue survivors. Standard stuff. But the closer they get, the heavier the air feels—as if the island knows they’re coming. He glances over his shoulder at the others. Rodriguez stays focused on the helm. Morgan checks her weapon, steady and sure. Scrader and Kashiwabara are still at the gameboard. None of them seem uneasy at all—yet Chris feels like something bad is about to happen.

“Land in five,” Rodriguez calls, steering them closer.

Chris straightens, rolling his shoulders again, but the tension clings to him like wet clothes. The motion feels too smooth, too rehearsed. His muscles move, but it’s like he’s watching from a distance, as if the actions aren’t his own.

He rubs his hands together, trying to warm his fingers, but the cold clings to him. His boots scrape the deck as he turns toward the island. The cliffs loom high, sheer and jagged, silhouetted against the dull gray sky.

Something flickers along the shore—a shadow slipping between the rocks, quick and subtle. Chris blinks, his hand twitching toward his sidearm, but the shadow’s already gone, swallowed by the mist. His pulse kicks up, fast and uneven, and he clenches his jaw until the pressure aches. Nothing’s there. Nothing’s supposed to be there.

The boat rises on a swell, the motor groaning under the strain. Morgan shifts beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “You sure you’re good?” she asks again, quieter this time.

Chris flexes his hands, jaw tight. “Yeah.” The lie scrapes the back of his throat like broken glass.

He faces the island, fog swirling at the edges of the shoreline. The black rocks gleam under the mist, jagged shapes rising from the waves like the bones of a drowned giant. His breath steams in the cold air, and he exhales slowly, watching the vapor drift away like a ghost.

The closer they get, the more everything feels... off. Not wrong, exactly—just misaligned, as though someone took a familiar scene and shifted it a few degrees. Every step, every breath feels rehearsed, like watching himself move through a memory he can’t place.

Morgan nudges his shoulder, offering a crooked grin. “Then try not to look so grim, Redfield. We’ll be in and out before you know it.”

Chris doesn’t answer. His gaze stays locked on the shoreline, where the rocks glisten under the mist like obsidian teeth, the water beating against them, each wave curling exactly the same way as the last.

Rodriguez calls out, “Touchdown in one!” The motor cuts back, the boat slowing as they approach the shore.

Chris shifts again, fingers twitching at his side, an itch just under the surface. He knows the feeling—the uneasy crawl of a mission about to go wrong—but this one digs deeper, like he’s already in the middle of something he hasn’t even started.

The boat slices through the final layer of mist, revealing the shore beyond. The rocks seem sharper now, the shadows thicker, they almost settle low in his gut.

The boat rocks gently as it grinds against the shore with a dull scrape of metal on wet stone. The engine sputters to silence, leaving only the soft slap of waves lapping against the rocks and the low hum of static from the radio, now too faint to make out the lyrics of “Fortunate Son.” Rodriguez kills the ignition with a flick of her wrist, and for a moment, the stillness is too sharp, as if the island has exhaled and is waiting for them to take its first breath.

Chris steps off the boat, his boots sinking into the wet sand with a dull squelch. The ground feels colder than it should, the kind of cold that seeps through the soles of his boots and creeps up his legs. He pauses for a moment, shifting his weight as his eyes sweep across the shore. The sand glistens unnaturally under the muted daylight, slick and heavy, as though it’s been soaked through—not by water, but by blood. It stretches across the shore like a spiderweb, reaching far beyond what little Chris can see, leading all the way to the base of the cliffs, where dark tendrils stretch like veins under pale, glistening skin.

Kashiwabara and Scrader pack away their board game, Scrader grumbling under his breath about the interrupted match. Kash throws a lazy grin in Chris’s direction, tucking a black pawn into the pocket of his vest. “Two more rounds, and I would’ve wiped the floor with him.”

“In your dreams,” Scrader mutters, hopping off the boat and landing with a soft splash in the shallow water. He shakes out his boot with a grimace, as if the cold sea is more offense than inconvenience.

Chris doesn’t bother with their banter, eyes already scanning the shoreline. The rocks gleam black under the fog, slick and sharp as broken glass, surrounded by patches of dark, wet sand. The whole place feels too quiet—no birds, no wind, just the faint trickle of seawater winding through cracks in the rocks.

Rodriguez jumps down next, radio clipped to her shoulder, static fizzing softly as she adjusts the frequency. She squints toward the line of trees beyond the beach. They’re crooked, gnarled trunks bending at strange angles, the earth beneath them seems to be shifted just slightly out of place. Chris’s jaw tightens, the skin at the back of his neck prickling.

Morgan is last, boots hitting the ground with a crunch. She clicks the safety on her rifle, her dark eyes already sweeping the treeline. “Fuckass vibes in here," she whispers, not taking her attention from the silent forest. "Not even any guard dogs or shit—what did they do, just leave their new pet unprotected? No warning signs or anything? Just... nothing?"

Chris is squinting, there’s no wind, but the trees inland sway faintly.

“Spread out, stay close,” he says, keeping it low but firm. His breath clouds in front of him, swirling into the damp air. He adjusts his grip on his weapon, fingers flexing over the cold steel. “We stick to the mission—find the facility, contain the bioweapon, extract survivors.”

Everyone nods their assent, weapons raised and ready.

Kash throws a mock salute, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, boss man. Wouldn't wanna miss out on that fat paycheck." He winks, clearly unaffected by Chris's solemn expression. Scrader smacks him hard over the back of the head, rolling his eyes and drawing a string of curses from his teammate.

Chris moves forward, leading the team inland. The sand beneath his boots feels unnaturally cold, clinging to his soles like it’s been soaked through with ice water. A crunch here, a squelch there—the ground is inconsistent, like it hasn’t decided if it wants to be mud or stone.

They push past the beach, stepping onto the narrow path winding between the twisted trees. The fog clings to the branches, heavy and damp, an old gayze wrapping them. Chris notices how the mist seems to shift around them, parting slightly as they walk through but knitting itself back together once they pass, he doesn't like that the island is closing the door behind them. Not one bit.

Scrader kicks a rock into the underbrush and mutters under his breath, “What is this, Silent Hill?” His voice sounds too loud, as if the island is swallowing every other sound except theirs.

Rodriguez fiddles with her radio again, her brows knitting as more static pours from the speaker. “Getting nothing,” she says, irritation sharp in her voice. She slaps the side of the radio, but the static doesn’t change.

A flicker of movement catches his eye to the right—just a shadow shifting between the trunks, gone before he can focus on it. His grip tightens on his rifle. “Eyes open,” he warns, the words instinctive, falling from his lips without thought.

The team falls quiet, weapons raised a fraction higher. The air presses in closer. Chris swears the fog grows thicker the further they walk, wrapping tighter around the crooked trees, smothering the world just a little more.

They round a bend, and Chris’s boot sinks into a patch of loose earth. He stops, shifting his weight, feeling the ground give way beneath him. For a moment, he sees it—a handprint, pressed deep into the soil, still fresh. Or... maybe not a handprint exactly. Something close. He blinks, and it’s gone, just wet earth under his boot.

“You good, Redfield?” Morgan’s voice snaps him back, and he shakes his head, to clear the strange fog creeping into his mind.

He follows her gaze toward his feet, his throat tightening when he sees a trail of scuffs carved into the dirt, jagged lines dragging sideways across the path. Blood smeared against the earth. Fresh.

No one speaks as they continue, wary footsteps heavy through the muck. Chris feels that cold uneasiness creeping up his spine again. He didn’t see any animals earlier—none of the usual sign of wildlife. No birds. No wind. Not even bugs crawling through the trees or flies buzzing overhead, none of those annoying sounds you always get in places like this. Just silence.

They keep moving, the team falling into uneasy silence. Even Kash stays quiet, his usual cockiness evaporated in the strange atmosphere of the island. The path narrows further as they approach the edge of the forest, where the twisted branches form an arch overhead, like a doorway carved into the landscape.

Chris pauses just before the arch, scanning the shadows ahead. Something moves again at the edge of his vision—a blur of motion that disappears when he tries to follow it. It’s starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a pattern.

“We’re close,” he says, though he isn’t sure how he knows that.

Morgan steps up beside him, her gaze flicking to the crooked trees. “You ever seen anything like this?” she whispers, her breath curling in the cold air.

Chris shakes his head. “No. But we keep moving.”

Rodriguez mutters something under her breath and taps the side of her radio again. The static shifts—just for a moment—and Chris swears he hears something buried beneath it. A voice? A whisper? It vanishes before he can make sense of it.

They step through the arch, and the air changes—thicker, colder, as if they’ve crossed some invisible threshold. Chris tightens his grip on his rifle.

Ahead, just visible through the thinning fog, the facility looms, half-buried under layers of creeping moss and cracked stone. The windows are dark, shattered in places, and the walls are streaked with something that might have been blood, long dried and blackened.

Kash and Morgan move to either side of the entrance, rifles raised, eyes scanning the darkened hall beyond. A flicker of light sparks from inside, some kind of electrical short still clinging to life, but it only adds to the eerie stillness. Chris gives a quick signal—two fingers forward—and they step inside, boots echoing softly on the cracked tile floor.

The interior is worse than he expected. The walls are stained, some with dark streaks that look suspiciously like dried blood, others covered in grime and moss that’s crept in through the broken windows. Scratches mar the walls in long, jagged lines, as if something—or someone—had clawed at them in a desperate attempt to escape. The lights overhead flicker, casting brief, dim glows that make the shadows stretch and twist in unnatural ways.

Chris moves forward, the faint sound of his breathing the only thing grounding him. His eyes scan the hallway, sweeping from corner to corner. Every door they pass is ajar, some hanging off their hinges, others splintered at the edges. He motions for the others to spread out, and they do so with silent efficiency, weapons trained on the darkness beyond.

“Kash, left,” he orders quietly, keeping his voice low. “Scrader, cover the rear. Rodriguez, keep that radio quiet until we’re sure.”

The team moves like clockwork, their boots barely making a sound on the filthy floor. The air inside the facility is stale, thick with the smell of mildew and something faintly metallic. Chris steps carefully over a rusted piece of machinery, broken beyond repair, and his eyes narrow at the sight of frayed wires sparking weakly from the wall. This place was abandoned, but not long enough for everything to be dead. There was life here—recently.

They pass a room on the right, the door hanging wide open. Inside, lab equipment is scattered haphazardly, beakers tipped over, and papers crumpled on the floor. It looks like someone left in a hurry, but not everyone made it out. Chris takes a quick glance, noting the overturned chairs and a faint smear of something dark along the floor, but he presses on. Something tells him the answers are further inside.

As they move deeper into the facility, the temperature drops. The cold seeps into his skin, settling in his bones, and Chris feels his muscles tighten against the chill. There’s a tension in the air now, thick and suffocating, and it feels like the walls themselves are closing in. His eyes flick toward the faint glimmers of movement at the edges of the room—the wind, maybe, or the remnants of some faulty ventilation system—but they feel too purposeful.

He pauses at the end of a long corridor, eyes narrowing. A lab door sits half-closed ahead, light spilling faintly from the crack beneath it, casting eerie shadows along the floor. He motions for the team to hold position, his own steps slow as he approaches the door. There’s something here—he can feel it in the way the air pulls tighter with each breath, the way the silence presses against his eardrums.

Chris reaches the door, his hand settling on the rough metal surface, and nudges it open with the barrel of his rifle. It swings slowly, creaking loudly in the stillness, revealing a small lab-like room inside. Tables covered in scattered documents and broken equipment clutter the space, some of it sparking faintly, as if whatever happened here short-circuited everything.

And in the center of the room, seated on an overturned crate, you.

Chris freezes. For a second, his mind blanks, his body tensing, unsure whether to raise his weapon or stand down. You look haggard—your clothes are stained with dirt, your hair matted, skin pale—but there’s no sign of injury. Just exhaustion, etched deep into your features, like you’ve been awake far too long. But what catches his attention is your eyes. They’re sharp, not frantic, but calm, like you’ve seen too much and have already come to terms with it.

For a second, Chris doesn’t move, his hand hovering near his sidearm. He feels a strange pull, something about you that seems familiar—though he knows, logically, you’re a stranger. It’s a nagging sensation, as though he’s met you before, though he knows he hasn’t.

“You found me,” you say, your voice soft, hoarse from disuse. The words hang in the air for a moment, and Chris blinks, his brain struggling to catch up to the moment.

His rifle dips slightly, just a fraction, before he catches himself and brings it back up. “On your feet. Hands where I can see them," he orders. His voice echoes through the quiet, hanging like smoke between you.

But instead of flinching or scrambling back like a cornered animal, you nod slowly, eyes flicking to his gun, then to him, like you understand. Chris hesitates, his grip tightening on the rifle, before gesturing for you to rise. You stand smoothly, as if your back didn't press against an iron cabinet seconds ago. When you move, it's precise and calculated, showing none of the shakiness of a wounded survivor who's spent days hiding from a biological threat. You move like an professional; smooth, cool, collected—like nothing rattles you.

"Take four steps forward and turn slowly toward me, palms up."

You do so without hesitation or argument, hands up and facing him, though not in defense or submission. Instead, they hang loosely at your sides, almost casually. If you're scared by his stance or gruff mannerisms, it doesn't show. No sweat beads along your hairline. No tremor trembles through your fingers. Nothing. Like standing opposite a machine rather than a human being.

"Are you a researcher here?"

"No," you answer simply. Flatly. Like a recording.

A survivor. Someone they experimented on, probably. He drops his guard, shoulders dropping marginally, yet remains vigilant. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

He watches carefully as you shake your head, scrutinizing you. Tries to read into any flinch. Any ticks. Anything. But finds none. Could be PTSD, he thinks. Maybe you've gone non-verbal because of the stress. There’s no tension in your posture, no wild-eyed desperation, just a quiet stillness, like you’ve already accepted whatever comes next.

Behind him, Morgan and Rodriguez enter, weapons raised, the barrel of Morgan’s rifle pointing directly at you. “Survivor?” Morgan asks, glancing toward Chris with a raised brow.

“Looks like it,” Chris murmurs, though his tone is uncertain. His gaze doesn’t leave you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if studying him in return. “You’re with the rescue team, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, lowering his rifle just enough to ease the tension from his grip. There’s no reason to feel this way—no reason for the strange warmth curling in his chest—but it’s there, and it unsettles him more than the shadows clinging to the walls.

Rodriguez steps closer, radio crackling against her shoulder. “How the hell did you survive all this?”

You glance toward her, and for the first time, a flicker of something passes across your face—a faint smile, thin and brittle, like it doesn’t quite belong. “Lucky, I guess.”

Kash snorts, clearly unimpressed, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he looks at Chris, eyebrows raised in silent question, as if to say: You buying this?

Morgan snorts softly, though the sound is more nervous than amused. “Good thing for us. Come on. Let's get you home." She reaches out toward you, fingers curling in invitation.

You give her another small smile—soft, tired, and just a little sad. “Yeah,” you say, your tone light, but there’s something underneath it. Something that sounds like: We’ll see.

“You’re the only one?”

You nod once. “As far as I know.”

“We’re getting you out of here,” Chris says, though the words feel hollow even as they leave his lips. He’s trying to pull the situation back into something he can control, something that fits within the parameters of the mission he ran a hundred times through his mind in the hours before arriving.

You nod, your eyes still sharp, still watching. “I figured you’d say that.”

The facility stretches out ahead of them, a labyrinth of crumbling hallways, walls coated in grime and streaked with stains that tell stories no one wants to hear. The overhead lights flicker erratically, buzzing like dying insects, casting long shadows that stretch and writhe across the cracked tile. The air smells of metal and damp rot, thick enough that Chris can taste it at the back of his throat. The deeper they go, the worse it gets—familiar odors intertwined with the faint tang of chemicals and mold that grow heavier with each step.

Chris scans the darkened hall ahead, the beam from his flashlight reflecting off the dirty windows. His boots scuff lightly on the filthy floor, leaving trails through the layers of grime and dust that cling to every inch of this place. You walk next to him, in his peripheral vision, silent and watchful, following without complaint or questions, even after seeing the others dead.

Ahead, a door hangs open, but just slightly—enough to let the shadows bleed through the gap. A faint smell wafts from the crack, metallic and sharp.

Rodriguez taps her radio, the static still faintly hissing from it. "This place is dead. No signal coming through at all."

"EMP blast," you mutter, so quietly Chris almost misses it.

"Must've fried the entire base's electronics," she continues, unaware that you spoke.

Behind him, Kash clears his throat, glancing toward Chris with a raised brow, then to you. "You seem awfully calm considering what happened here," he comments. Your expression doesn't change, blank and steady and patient. Impassive. Unnerving. "Were you expecting us? Or someone else?"

You stay quiet for several seconds, and Chris can practically hear his teammates holding their breath, waiting for an explanation. When you finally speak, it's soft, subdued. "Nobody should ever be here."

The lights overhead flicker again, casting long, wavering shadows across the corridor. As they pass through a junction, Chris catches a glimpse of something off to the left—a smear of blood, stark against the pale wall. He pauses, motioning for the team to halt. His heart rate ticks up, just enough to feel it in his temples.

He approaches the stain, eyes narrowing. It’s fresh. Too fresh. But there’s something strange about it—it doesn’t match any typical spatter pattern. It’s too erratic, almost like someone dragged their hand along the wall, fingers trailing, struggling, but... not quite right. He brushes the edge of the blood with his gloved fingers. It feels sticky, still warm.

Scrader peers over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. "That’s not old. There’s someone else here."

Chris nods but doesn’t respond. He already knows. Someone—or something—is here. But what unnerves him more is your reaction—or lack of one.

"Do you know what made this? Any information is helpful," Morgan says, gentle, but with the bite of urgency at the end. You shrug wordlessly, looking at her as if searching for the source. Morgan turns back toward Chris, clearly unhappy, but falls silent. She knows better than anyone how important intel is on a mission, but this isn't exactly normal protocol either.

They move deeper into the facility, going the other way this time. Every door they pass seems wrong—some are locked from the inside, others hang open, but the rooms beyond are trashed, like someone—or something—raged through them in a panic. Chris notices how the floor in some areas is smeared with more blood, but there are no bodies, no signs of struggle except for the scattered papers and broken glass. It’s as though everyone disappeared, leaving behind the aftermath.

A door to their left hangs off its hinges, the metal twisted, as if wrenched open from the inside. Blood spatters the wall, jagged streaks that don’t match any normal pattern—like someone was dragged backward through the doorway, kicking and thrashing. Scrader leans closer, examining the stains, his brow furrowed. “These... don’t look fresh, but they’re not old either.”

Kash glances over his shoulder toward Chris, jerking his head toward you. “You sure about this one, boss?” he asks, voice low enough to avoid carrying through the hollow corridor. There’s a sharpness to his tone now—skeptical, edged with unease.

Chris’s jaw tightens. He knows the question is fair—hell, he’s been asking himself the same thing. Nothing about this situation makes sense, least of all the strange sense of ease you seem to carry. But it’s the way Kash says it, as though he expects Chris to already know the answer, that bothers him.

“I’ve got it covered,” Chris replies, sharper than he intended. The words come too quickly, like muscle memory—like he’s said them before, more times than he can count.

Kash gives him a look, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t push. “If you say so.”

You pause ahead of them, standing in front of a door with a rusted keypad, the display cracked but faintly glowing. Without hesitation, you reach for the keypad and punch in a code. The lock clicks open with a mechanical hiss, and the door swings inward with a slow groan.

Chris feels his team tense behind him, their hands tightening on their weapons. He knows what they’re thinking: How the hell do you know the code? But no one says it aloud—not yet. He steps forward, gesturing for Rodriguez to cover the rear as they move inside.

The room beyond is worse. The lights flicker dimly, revealing lab equipment strewn across the floor, smashed monitors still blinking weakly with error messages, and a tangle of wires hanging from the ceiling like veins. Papers are scattered everywhere—reports scribbled in frantic handwriting, pages ripped from notebooks, some of them stained with dark, crusted smears.

Chris crouches by a nearby desk, his gloved hand brushing across a torn piece of paper. It’s covered in scrawled words—half of them illegible, the rest a jumbled mess of warnings: Don’t trust them. It’s already inside. We were wrong. Everyone’s compromised.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the paper crumpling slightly in his grip.

“Place went to hell in a hurry,” Morgan murmurs, her voice tight with unease. She nudges an overturned chair with her boot, the legs scraping loudly across the floor, making everyone flinch. “Shit. Sorry, my bad."

Rodriguez stops at a nearby console, brushing dust off the screen. It’s cracked, but faint images flicker on the surface, distorted by static. She tries a few commands, her fingers tapping quickly across the keys, but the system groans in protest before fizzling out entirely. "Looks like some of the logs were wiped," she mutters, stepping back in frustration.

Chris watches you out of the corner of his eye as you step closer to one of the doors. Your fingers graze the edge of the frame, and for a brief second, you almost look... thoughtful.

The door creaks open, revealing another lab—this one in a worse state than the others. Broken equipment litters the floor, glass shards crunching under their boots as they step inside. The walls are covered in frantic writing, scribbled across the paint in what looks like charcoal or... blood. The words don’t make sense—half-scrawled thoughts, equations, fragments of sentences.

Morgan sweeps her rifle across the room, her posture tense. "This looks like someone lost their damn mind." She steps closer to the wall, reading a few of the broken phrases aloud. "They keep putting me back. There's no way out. We can never leave. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you." Her voice trails off as she follows one line of words, skirting around a stain that glistens sickly under the weak lights. "You'll find your own cage soon enough..."

Then, something shifts in the hallway behind—a sound, faint but sharp, like claws skittering over metal. Chris freezes, motioning for the team to stay back. His pulse pounds hard against his temples, steady and measured, as his mind flips through the possibilities.

They take another step, pressed against the walls on each side of the door—and the hallway seems to breathe, the lights flickering wildly, the air snapping with sudden tension. A shape bursts from the shadows, moving too fast to register fully, all limbs and jagged edges, a blur of exposed sinew and warped muscle.

Before anyone can react, it’s on Scrader, who is the closest.

The creature slams into him with bone-crushing force, knocking him off his feet and dragging him into the darkness. A guttural, inhuman shriek pierces the air, followed by the wet, ripping sound of flesh tearing from bone. Scrader’s scream cuts off abruptly, replaced by the sound of thrashing and something breaking—something inside him.

"No!” Morgan’s voice cracks as she lurches forward, but Chris throws out an arm, holding her back.

Chris raises his rifle and fires, the muzzle flash lighting the corridor in brief, stuttering bursts. Rodriguez and Kashiwabara join in, their rounds tearing into the creature, but it moves too fast, a slithering mass of claws and unnatural joints that twist and bend in ways a body shouldn’t. The bullets rip through it, but it doesn’t stop—it doesn’t even slow.

““He’s gone!” he barks, trying to pull her focus back, though the words feel meaningless. His throat burns with frustration—he knows it’s already too late, but his mind refuses to accept it.

The creature tosses what’s left of Scrader aside, his body hitting the wall with a sickening thud, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Blood pools beneath him, spreading thick and dark, filling the cracks in the floor.

Chris’s heart slams in his chest. He grits his teeth, forces his focus forward. "Stay together!" he shouts, pivoting toward the creature as it coils in the shadows, readying for its next move. "Cover the hall!" His voice shakes, but there’s no time to steady it.

The thing emerges again, flesh splitting and reforming with each lurch forward, as though its body hasn’t yet decided what shape it wants to take. It smells of copper and decay, and its claws drag over the floor, leaving trails in the concrete. It doesn’t just move toward them—it hunts.

Rodriguez unloads her mag, the rounds striking wetly, but the creature absorbs the hits with ease, tendrils of muscle knitting together just as fast as they tear apart. "It’s not stopping!" she shouts, panic rising in her voice.

Chris fires again—center mass—but there is no mass, only movement, chaos wrapped in sinew and skin. He curses under his breath, shifting his stance as the thing barrels toward them. "Rodriguez, move back! Keep your distance!"

It lunges—too fast—and catches Morgan by the leg, yanking her off her feet and dragging her down. She screams, kicking wildly, the sound raw and desperate. Chris grabs her under the arms, hauling her backward with all his strength, but the creature’s claws sink deep, tearing into muscle, scraping bone. Blood sprays, warm and slick, and Chris grunts from the effort of pulling her free.

Morgan gasps, her breath stuttering as she grips his vest, fingers clawing at him in desperation. "Help me!" she pleads, eyes wide with panic. "Help! Help! No! Aaaaaaarhhhghh!" Chris pulls harder, every muscle in his body straining—but the creature won’t let go.

"Rodriguez, give me cover!" he shouts, teeth gritted, but Rodriguez’s shots do nothing. The thing moves like smoke, relentless, inevitable.

Morgan’s scream cuts short as the creature jerks her away from Chris’s grasp. Her body snaps under the force, bones cracking loudly, folding in on themselves. Chris lunges after her, shouting her name, but all that answers him is the wet, crunching sound of her body being pulled apart.

Chris stumbles back, hands slick with blood—hers, his own—and the creature twists toward him next, its jagged face splitting open to reveal a maw lined with teeth that shouldn’t exist.

Chris pulls the trigger again, the rounds doing nothing but punctuating the sound of his own desperation. "Rodriguez, Kashiwabara! Fall back!"

He turns toward you, panic swelling in his chest. "Run!"

And suddenly, he can run no longer; his boots slide in puddles of something thicker than water — viscera splashing everywhere, entrails strewn all over the floor. There's no way to process everything at once — he's forced to focus on what matters most: where the thing came from and how to get to safety, until the creature lashes out, wrapping one clawed limb around his ankle, and yanks, throwing him to the ground. Its ragged features split open like a blooming flower, exposing rows of needle-like teeth. Chris hears screaming somewhere close by — it sounds familiar, but he can't place who it belongs to — and realizes, belatedly, that he's making the noise himself.

Somehow, amidst all this chaos, he finds you again, meeting your gaze through blurred vision. Time slows as he stares up at you, the world around him fading away. All that remains is his terror and your sadness, echoing between them. Then, his eyes begin to adjust — you've taken a step forward. Why aren't you running? Chris knows he told you to go. He opens his mouth, but words won't come out; they're stuck inside, fighting for space against the terror threatening to burst from his lungs. He tries desperately to pull free, but the thing drags him backward. The edges of his vision darken. Everything spins — he can feel consciousness slipping away. He tries to fight it, but exhaustion has always been stronger than willpower. So he gives in, letting darkness envelope him like an old friend.

Chris jolts upright, gasping for air, the sound of rushing water filling his ears. His heart pounds, ribs tight against the sudden shock of consciousness, lungs dragging in ragged breaths. He blinks, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and tries to slow his breathing. His hands feel clammy, his muscles tense, coiled and ready for a fight. But there’s no danger.

The engine hums beneath his feet, and the air smells of salt.Salt stings his skin, and cold wind cuts across his face. His boots scrape against the boat’s metal deck as the engine hums beneath him, steady and low. His gloved hands grip the edges of the seat to steady himself, feeling the slight sway of the boat as it cuts through the waves. Everything smells of seawater, oil, and wet rope.

Rodriguez’s fingers tap against the console at the helm. "Fortunate Son" scratches through the radio, the familiar chords unfurling across the open sea. It digs into his skull, buzzing beneath his thoughts, chasing away the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to his mind. His pulse thunders in his ears, disjointed, like it’s tripping over itself trying to make sense of the moment.

The boat rocks again, jarring him forward. His chest tightens—too real. The deck beneath him hums, the cold metal biting through the knees of his tactical pants. Water churns below, white foam licking at the sides. His heartbeat drums harder, loud enough that he can feel it pulsing at his temples, throbbing like a second pulse.

His team, the hallway, the creature—it all surges back, vivid and brutal. Scrader’s bones snapping, Morgan’s screams, blood pooling across the filthy tiles, warm and dark, like spilled paint. Chris fights down the acid boiling in his throat, forcing himself to focus. Breathe. Control.

The slick wetness of blood—his blood—pooling between his fingers. He remembers the weight of the creature as it tore through him, the searing pain, and the sensation of the floor rushing toward him.

He blinks hard, gripping the edges of the boat until his knuckles whiten beneath the leather of his gloves. His body feels intact—no open wounds, no broken ribs, no blood drenching his clothes. He died. He knows he did. But here he is—alive, breathing, whole. The cold wind bites into his skin again, and the radio hums with the familiar chords of "Fortunate Son."

Rodriguez glances back at him from the helm, eyebrows raised. “Ugh, this song? You’d think they’d switch it up now and then.”

Chris stares at her, the words slow to catch up to the moment. His hands shake slightly, still gripping the seat too tight. The hum of the engine, the waves slapping against the hull, Rodriguez’s casual glance—it’s the same. Exactly the same.

Kash sits a few feet away, tapping a black pawn between his fingers, his grin easy and familiar. Scrader flips through a dog-eared field manual, his lips moving faintly as he reads aloud to himself. Morgan rests in the seat opposite Chris, shoulders relaxed, her brow knitted in thought, but alive. Alive. Her leg twitches where it hangs off the side of the bench, tapping along to the beat.

"You good, Redfield?" Morgan calls out, peering at him curiously. "You're quiet."

If he says that he’s fine, then what happens?

Yeah, I bet you are, big guy. Just another day for you, right, he remembers her saying. Will it be repeated? Like a fucking broken record?

"I'm fine," he says, watching closely.

"Yeah, I bet you are, big guy. Just another day for you, right? A nice and easy snatch-and-grab in paradise." She gestures to all around. "Who knew viruses could afford a place like this these days?"

Chris’s pulse kicks harder, blood rushing in his ears, the sound loud enough to drown out the music, but not loud enough to drown out his unease.

His hands twitch toward his rifle, fingers tightening over the grip. He shifts his weight, trying to shake off the sense of dread that’s latched onto him. He knows where they’re going—the cliffs, the fog, the shattered doors waiting for them ahead. He can already picture the way the shoreline will look when they arrive—the black rocks slick with seawater, blood on the shore like veins, the crooked trees leaning toward them, the heavy silence that will drape over the air like a net.

His head drops slightly, the tension between his shoulder blades turning into a dull ache. It’s happening again. The thought rolls through him slowly, ice settling deeper into his chest with every passing second. His heart races, too fast, too uneven, as though his body is trying to warn him of something he already knows.

Rodriguez nudges the throttle forward, the boat picking up speed as the island appears through the fog—sharp cliffs and crooked branches clawing at the sky.

Chris grips his rifle tighter. He knows those rocks. He knows those cliffs. He knows the way they’ll dock, the way his boots will crunch against the damp sand, the way the air will hang heavy around them as they move inland. He knows the sting of the cold on his face, the sound of Morgan cracking a joke about the mission, Kash’s cocky grin, Scrader’s quiet grumbling—and he knows, more than anything, how this ends. With blood. With screams. With the creature’s claws tearing through flesh and bone.

His throat tightens, and he forces himself to stand. The motion feels too fluid, too easy—like muscle memory etched into the marrow of his bones. He plants his boots on the deck and grips the railing, the cold metal grounding him for a moment. His breath clouds the air, sharp and shallow. His heartbeat feels off, every thud out of sync with the world around him.

Morgan leans closer, her smile soft but curious. “Seriously, Redfield. What’s eating at you?”

Chris opens his mouth to answer, but the words catch on his tongue. He knows how this plays out. He’s already lived it.

“Land in five,” Rodriguez calls over her shoulder.

The boat skims across the surface of the water, its engine humming steadily. Waves break against the rocky shore, the mist hovering above the water like smoke from a distant fire. Cliffs loom ahead, shrouded in a thick fog that makes everything blurry and indistinct. And, beyond the cliffs, hidden in the dense woods, waits the facility—a dark shadow amidst twisted trunks and tangled branches.

Rodriguez’s voice crackles through the still air, the words sliding into place like they’ve done before. "Touchdown in one."

“We’re sticking together this time,” he snaps, cutting off their chatter. "No lingering around doorways. No breaking formation."

The others exchange glances, confused but not worried. Their faces are too easy, too certain that this is just another mission.

Kash arches a brow. "Boss man is in a mood today. That serious?"

There isn't enough oxygen on this damn boat to feed his lungs. But if he can convince them this time... If he can keep them alive, keep them together... maybe things will turn out different. Maybe they won't end up torn to pieces or killed by whatever creatures await in that lab. It's possible. There's a chance.

"Fan out. Scrader, you’ve got rear security. Morgan, point with me. Kash, Rodriguez—flanks tight." His voice is low, clipped, every syllable locked down into the strict cadence that only years in the field could hammer into muscle memory.

The team snaps into formation without a word. The thuds of their boots on sand and stone fall into perfect sync, not a single beat off. Chris scans the treeline as they advance, every nerve on high alert. The crooked trees loom ahead, their twisted trunks bending toward the facility beyond, stretching over the path as if they’ve grown to shield something waiting inside. The fog drapes heavy, thicker than before, curling between the jagged rocks like old smoke.

Chris moves fast, rifle angled forward, muscles wound tight. His body feels like a machine, every movement deliberate, practiced. The brief sting of déjà vu gnaws at the edges of his brain, but he pushes it down hard—there’s no room for doubt.

“We get in, clear each room top-down,” he orders. “You see anything—anything—you report it. We do this by the book.” His voice is steady, commanding, but inside, his thoughts churn. He remembers their deaths too vividly—each scream, each snap of bone. Not this time.

Kash shifts his grip on his rifle, muttering under his breath. “What’s the point of the book when it’s fucked to hell in here?”

“Keep it locked down,” Chris snaps without looking back. “No chatter.”

Rodriguez nods once, slinging her rifle tighter to her chest. Her breath fogs in the cold air, mixing with the thick mist as they push forward along the narrow path toward the facility. “Comms are still out,” she mutters, fiddling with the radio on her vest. “Nothing but static.”

Chris clenches his jaw but says nothing. He knows what’s waiting inside. The halls, the shattered equipment, the scribbled notes on the walls. And you—sitting there, waiting again, with those same sharp, knowing eyes.

The front gate is twisted open, the metal frame rusted and warped. Scrader’s boots scrape across the broken concrete as he covers the rear. "No movement," he reports quietly, his voice low and tight. "Too quiet."

Chris halts at the entrance to the building. His hand goes up in a quick, sharp motion—fist clenched, signaling halt—and the team freezes behind him. His breath clouds the air, slow and controlled, while his eyes sweep over the ruined doorway. Cracked tile stretches beyond, glistening wet under flickering overhead lights.

He knows this place too well—every door that doesn’t sit right, every inch of blood smeared along the walls, the scratches that don't quite line up with anything human. He knows what waits at the end of this corridor, just beyond that damned door.

"Stack up," Chris orders. His voice cuts clean through the cold air, sharp as a serrated edge. "We move in tight. No room for slop. Morgan, on me."

The team falls into formation with crisp efficiency. Morgan clicks her safety off, stepping to his right, her breathing even but measured. Kash shifts his weight, uneasy but steady enough, fingers flexing on his rifle. Rodriguez’s radio hisses softly, the static filling the silence like a low hum in Chris’s skull.

Chris leans into the doorway, clearing it with a swift glance. The hallway stretches out in front of them, long and jagged, every step forward slicing deeper into his nerves. A door hangs ajar at the far end, a sliver of dim light spilling through the gap.

His jaw tightens. "Move."

They step inside with practiced ease, clearing the first room with precision—rifles sweeping corners, boots hitting tile with controlled weight. The air inside is colder than it should be, soaked with mildew and rot. A metallic tang lingers, biting at the back of Chris’s throat, setting his teeth on edge.

Each door they pass is exactly as he remembers—cracked open, blood smeared in uneven streaks, papers scattered like fallen leaves. Rodriguez nudges one with her boot, kicking a folder open. The pages inside are filled with scrawled notes—frantic handwriting that spirals off into unreadable lines, smudged by hands that were in too much of a hurry.

Morgan edges closer to Chris. "I don't like this." Her voice stays low, a breath just above a whisper. "Place feels like it's waiting for us."

"Eyes up," Chris mutters, voice low. "No gaps. I want full sectors of fire. Morgan, call out every corner we pass." His rifle stays leveled, the stock pressed tight into his shoulder. His jaw clenches so hard it feels like the tension could snap bone.

"Door ahead," Morgan reports, flicking her flashlight across the ground. "Twelve o'clock, intact but warped. Scratches all over it."

Chris's gut churns at the words. He remembers it exactly. This is where things went wrong the first time—the place where Scrader got dragged into the dark.

"Scrader, shift right," Chris barks, his mind ticking through contingencies. No one’s getting grabbed this time. "Kash, you’re second in. I want angles covered before we breach. Rodriguez, stay on my six."

"On it." Kash’s voice is sharp now, sarcasm gone as he grips his rifle tighter, eyes scanning every shadow.

They stop just outside the facility entrance, the jagged metal door warped inward, as though something large forced its way through from the other side. Scratches scar the frame, uneven but deep, gashes that look too deliberate to be accidental. The air smells of rust and stale rot, thick enough to taste. Chris gives a silent signal with two fingers, and the team falls into position.

"Morgan, breach on three," Chris orders. "Rodriguez, flash the entry. Weapons free, short bursts only."

Morgan nods once, raising her boot, and the next second she kicks the door hard. It crashes open, slamming against the wall with a metallic groan. Rodriguez is already in motion—her hand flicks out, and a flashbang arcs through the doorway.

The detonation pops bright and sharp, white light flooding the darkened room beyond, followed by the concussive thud that shakes the doorframe.

"Go!" Chris growls, pushing through the breach.

They move fast—a precise, practiced sweep through the room. Kash covers the left wall, Morgan clears the right. Rodriguez stacks behind Chris, her rifle aimed dead ahead. The beam of Chris’s flashlight sweeps the space, cutting through the lingering haze from the flashbang.

The room is wrecked. Tables overturned, equipment smashed, papers scattered across the floor. The concrete walls are stained with strange streaks—brown, dried to a flaky crust. It looks wrong. Not just abandoned, but intentionally destroyed, like someone didn’t want anything left intact.

And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged on an overturned crate, is you.

Chris’s breath catches for a moment. He freezes, mind scrambling to process what he’s seeing. You’re here again—but not exactly where you were before.

You look haggard, clothes rumpled and skin pale, the same exhaustion etched into your features—but your eyes, sharp and steady, carry a knowing glint, as though you’ve been waiting for him. You lean back slightly, hands draped over your knees, entirely too calm for the situation.

“Found me,” you say softly. There’s no fear in your voice. Just a strange resignation, like you’ve done this before. Because you have.

Chris’s grip tightens on his rifle, the cold weight pressing into his hands grounding him for a moment. His team shifts uneasily behind him, rifles raised, eyes flicking between you and the destroyed room.

"Don’t move," Morgan warns, her voice sharp and edged with suspicion.

You don’t even blink, your gaze locked on Chris. "Took you long enough."

His throat feels dry, words slow to form. It’s the same greeting, but it feels different this time—off, just enough to gnaw at him. "How do you know us?" he asks, keeping his rifle raised but his voice measured. He doesn’t have time to wonder why his chest tightens at the sound of your voice.

You tilt your head slightly, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of your lips. "I knew you would be coming."

Kash steps forward, rifle still trained on you, tension written in every movement. "This place got overrun by a bioweapon, and you’re just... sitting here? How’d you make it out?"

You shrug, eyes never leaving Chris.

Chris feels the knot in his gut tighten, but there’s no time to dwell on it. "Enough chit-chat. Rodriguez, sweep the hallways. Morgan, lock down any exits. I want this place cleared." His voice cuts through the room with authority, and the team moves without hesitation, each falling into their assigned tasks.

Morgan shoots him a glance, mistrust curling behind her eyes. "You trust them?" she asks under her breath, jerking her head toward you.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know why he trusts you, only that he does. It feels irrational, dangerous—but it’s there, steady in his gut. "They’re not a threat. We stay on mission."

Morgan gives him a hard look but doesn’t push further, slipping out to check the adjacent corridors.

Chris turns back to you, his eyes narrowing. "You remember things. What else do you know?"

You rest your elbows on your knees, leaning forward slightly. "I know what’s coming next."

"Then start talking," Chris snaps, the tension rolling off him in waves. "What are we dealing with here?"

You smile faintly, but there’s no humor in it. "It honestly depends."

A loud crash echoes from the hallway, followed by Morgan’s shout. "Movement! On me!"

Chris’s heart slams against his ribs. This is where it all went wrong the last time. "Move, now!" he barks, throwing a signal to the others. "Kash, Rodriguez, cover the exit!"

They sprint into action, rifles raised, boots slamming against the cracked concrete. The hallway beyond stretches out in a mess of flickering lights and twisted shadows. Chris knows what’s waiting—the creature, the deaths—but not this time.

This time, he’s ready.

Morgan pulls back as the shadow looms ahead, jagged limbs unfurling from the darkness. "Contact!" she shouts, firing controlled bursts into the mass of shifting sinew.

Chris positions himself at the front, rifle steady, breathing measured. "Rodriguez, crossfire! Kash, I want suppression!"

The team opens up, gunfire tearing through the corridor. Bullets slam into the creature, muscle and sinew shredding—but it doesn’t slow. It moves with terrifying precision, a predator stalking prey it knows will fall.

Chris shifts his weight, forcing Morgan out of the line of fire as the creature lunges. His rifle bucks against his shoulder, controlled bursts chewing into the thing’s torso, but it keeps coming.

"Fall back!" Chris shouts, hauling Morgan to her feet. The hallway tilts under the pressure of their movement, every second stretching too thin, every choice razor-sharp.

Rodriguez pulls out her grenade, yanking the pin with her teeth. "Frag out!"

The explosion rattles the walls, the creature slamming backward into the concrete. The shockwave ripples through Chris’s chest, but the relief is short-lived. As the smoke clears, he sees it—the thing still moves, limbs reknitting, joints popping into place.

"Go!" Chris shouts, forcing them down another hallway, feet pounding against the floor. His team follows, breaths sharp and frantic.

They hit the end of the corridor—and the ceiling caves. The twisted wreck of pipes and broken beams crashes down, pinning Rodriguez beneath it. She screams once, cut short by the sickening crunch of bone.

Chris stares, disbelief freezing him for a moment too long.

It’s happening again.

"Rodriguez is down!" Kash shouts, trying to haul the debris off her, but there’s too much. The creature is already closing in, jagged limbs scraping along the walls.

Chris pulls Kash back, heart pounding against his ribs, thoughts tripping over themselves. "She's gone! Fall back!"

This is too familiar. Too close. Rodriguez lies underneath the shattered ceiling, face contorted with pain, mouth gaping. Her hand reaches toward Chris, desperate and shaking—a plea that dies unsaid, choking on the blood seeping from her wounds. He knows what comes next, yet he can't tear himself away. He wants to pull her out of the rubble. He wants to protect her. He wants to save her, dammit—he can't let this happen. But then the beast tears into her, dragging her beneath the broken steel until her screams peter out, replaced by the sickening sound of flesh rending from bone.

Furious grief wells inside him, burning hot and intense. His hand twitches, reaching for his rifle—the urge to kill it overwhelming everything else, an impulse built from raw rage.

But before he can pull the trigger, you tug on his arm, pulling him backwards.

"This way," you whisper, jerking your head to the side. Your grip tightens when he doesn't move fast enough.

"Get moving," Chris barks, half turning toward the others.

The creature writhes through the remains of the ceiling, pulling itself forward on deformed limbs. Every piece of the thing twists together as it crawls, reforming into new shapes with each movement, muscle and bone lurching forward on uneven spikes of flesh.

"Behind you!" Morgan shouts. She fires again, muzzle flare lighting up the hall like a strobe, but the creature just drags itself onward, uncaring of the rounds tearing through its flesh. Blood sprays the floor, splattering wetly against the walls—but it doesn’t even stumble.

Chris throws himself forward, planting both hands in the small of Morgan's back and shoving—hard. They skid across the cracked tiles as the creature launches itself past. Sharp claws graze his shoulder as he tumbles aside, breath catching in his chest from the force.

Morgan rights herself quickly, rolling sideways with catlike grace. She fires twice more into the monster's back, ignoring Chris' earlier order not to waste ammo. "Yeah, fuck you too, shitface!"

The creature slithers forward, barely slowing as bullets tear into it, blood streaming down the walls. Its warped face seems to twist, cracking open to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth. A harsh growl echoes down the corridor, reverberating in Chris' ears, his teeth aching in response to the noise. He raises his rifle, bracing for the impact of the blast, but—

A blur of movement—too fast for him to track—and suddenly it's on Scrader instead, dragging him forward by the neck.

Chris pushes himself upright, palms sliding on damp concrete. Pain throbs through his shoulder, hot and deep, like broken glass grinding in his skin, but there's no time to tend to injuries. "Scrader!" he barks, trying desperately to bring his weapon to bear, but the creature is relentless.

It ignores everyone else, focused solely on Scrader as it wraps a clawed limb around his throat, wrenching his head back so violently that his spine cracks with audible intensity. Then the other taloned appendage comes down across his chest—once, twice, three times—tearing through armor and flesh like it's nothing but tissue paper, spraying the area with fresh crimson.

Time feels elastic—stretching, bending, breaking—as Chris rushes forward, heart pounding wildly, adrenaline surging through his system until his senses sharpen painfully, bringing the moment into crystal clarity. He sees Scrader's face, his expression contorted by agony and horror as the life drains from him, every drop of it gushing down his torso in ribbons that spill onto the concrete beneath.

Kash cries out, wordless rage fueling his attacks as he unloads another magazine into the creature's hunched back. Blood oozes out, dribbling down its limbs, pooling on the floor before slowly vanishing into dark stains, leaving nothing behind but a faint glimmering residue where once there was redness. It's not stopping—it's doing whatever the hell it wants without consequence—and it infuriates Kash like nothing else. His teeth are bared; snarls leave his lips each time he ejects a spent cartridge from his weapon and slaps in a replacement.

At last, the beast releases its quarry with a low howl, the sound vibrating through the air like thunder echoing over hills. Its body snaps backward, tendrils retracting inside until all that's left is a grotesque parody of humanity—an amalgamation formed from death itself.

And you're still standing at the end of the hall, watching everything unfold with hollow resignation. Chris swears he can feel your stare bore into him even though you aren't looking directly at anyone. It's unnerving, this feeling that maybe you're taking stock of their progress. Or lack thereof.

The monster doesn't care either way. Instead, it lets out an inhuman screech before launching itself straight towards them again.

Chris stumbles back into the dim light of the ruined hallway, his team’s screams still ringing in his ears, even though the air has long gone quiet. Kash’s limp body was the last to fall, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his dying breath bubbling through shattered teeth. The floor is slick beneath Chris’s boots—blood, pieces of bone, shredded muscle. It clings to him, sticks in his throat and he can't swallow any of it down.

He slams his fist against the wall, the sting of concrete tearing at his skin beneath the glove. It does nothing to drown out the failure, the futility, or the grief.

The blood hasn’t dried on his gloves when the thought claws its way into his mind—sharp, cold, and undeniable. The island keeps resetting, dragging them all back to the same hell. His team keeps dying, no matter what he does.

But not you. Never you.

The cold concrete floor scrapes against his boots as he stumbles down the hall, blood slick underfoot. His rifle hangs useless from his shoulder, bouncing against his side with every uneven step. He can still feel Morgan’s hand slipping from his grasp, her wide, panicked eyes locking with his as the rubble crushed her beneath it. The memory is fresh, but not new—it’s lived in his bones for countless loops.

He stops at the door to the lab, panting, his breath clouding the air. The fluorescent light inside flickers in jagged intervals, casting long shadows across the broken equipment and shattered glass. And there you are—just as you always are—sitting cross-legged on the crate, elbows on your knees, watching him as if you’ve been waiting all along.

You. The only constant besides him. You survive, always. Sitting in that same corner, watching with that calm, patient expression—never covered in blood, never gasping for air, never begging for your life. You’re untouched by the nightmare.

Chris’s rifle dangles loose in his grip as the thought takes root, spreading like poison through his mind. He’s tried everything. Everything. The one variable he hasn’t changed is you. You stay alive, always. Maybe... maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s you.

His pulse drums hard against his ribs, each beat hammering the same thought deeper: What happens if you die? What happens if you—

The sound of his boots scraping across the floor pulls your gaze toward him. You sit exactly where you always do—cross-legged on an overturned crate, your hands resting lazily on your knees. There’s no fear in your eyes. You meet his gaze with quiet patience, your head tilting slightly, almost curious.

Chris tightens his grip on the rifle until his knuckles ache. His breathing quickens, the weight of the loop pressing against his skull, threatening to crush him. He has to break it—has to try something different.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, the rifle in his hands feeling heavier with every second. The cold metal presses against his palm, a familiar comfort that now feels foreign. His lips part, words forming before his brain catches up.

"You," he says, his voice low and cracked from exhaustion. He can barely hear himself over the pounding in his chest.

You tilt your head slightly, the barest trace of curiosity flickering across your face. Not surprise, not fear. Just... patience.

Chris’s grip tightens on the gun he exchanges for the rifle, the knuckles of his gloved hand turning white. His arm trembles—not from weakness, but from the weight of the choice forming in his mind. His breaths come fast, shallow, every inhale stinging his throat.

"You sit here," he snarls through clenched teeth, "while they die. Over and over. And not a damn thing happens to you."

The gun’s barrel rises, locking onto your chest. His heart pounds harder, his muscles tensing with the familiar anticipation of a trigger pull—something he’s done thousands of times before. But this time, his whole body feels like it’s caught in tar, every nerve resisting the action.

"You know what’s happening," Chris mutters. His voice cracks, anger and desperation bleeding into every word. "You’ve known this whole time."

You hold his gaze, unmoving. There’s no fear in your eyes—only that same tired patience, as if you’ve already seen the outcome. The flickering light overhead buzzes faintly, casting your face in shifting shadows. "Go ahead," you say, your voice calm and soft. "If that’s what you think will stop it."

The gun feels heavier, the weight of it unbearable. Chris’s arm shakes uncontrollably, his finger hovering over the trigger. But it won’t move. His whole body locks up, the tendons in his hand screaming with the effort to pull the trigger, but nothing happens.

His body rejects it, every muscle rebelling. Sweat trickles down his temple, stinging his eyes. His vision narrows until all he sees is you, sitting there, waiting for him to do what he knows he can’t.

"Why can’t I..." The words falter, his voice breaking under the weight of his own frustration. His breath comes out in short bursts, ragged and harsh. He’s never hesitated before—not once. But now his hand won’t move, the gun in his grip an inert piece of metal he can’t will into action.

His heart hammers in his chest, a dull thud vibrating through his ribcage. He’s never felt this helpless—not in any battle, not even in the worst moments of his life. The gun trembles in his hand, his arms aching from the effort, but the trigger stays where it is, unmoving. He can’t do it.

"Goddamn it," Chris mutters under his breath, the rage turning to helplessness. He feels his throat tighten, the pressure building behind his eyes.

And then it happens. Your name slips from his mouth, unbidden and undeniable, soft as a prayer he didn’t know he was holding onto.

Chris’s mind races, grasping for any explanation, but he finds none. He shouldn’t know your name. He’s certain of that. But the way it sounds, the way it settles between the two of you—it’s like he’s known it all along.

Your expression softens for the first time. The calm slips just slightly, replaced by something sad—something almost like regret. You exhale, as if a long, heavy burden has finally fallen from your shoulders.

"There it is," you say softly, your voice quieter than before. "I was wondering when it would come out."

Chris’s hand falters, the gun dropping slightly as his arm finally gives out under the weight of exhaustion and confusion. His breath comes fast and uneven, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.

He stares at you, his mind unraveling at the edges, unable to make sense of the moment. "What the fuck?" His voice is raw, frayed with too many questions and not enough answers.

You stand slowly, carefully, as if the moment is fragile, like one wrong move might shatter what little remains of Chris’s sanity. "You were never going to shoot," you say, almost pondering. "You already knew that."

His grip on the gun loosens further, the weapon dropping to his side, useless. His hands are still trembling, the tremors spreading through his body, as if his mind can’t contain the truth trying to surface.

"We've done this before, haven’t we?" His words come out faster, tripping over themselves in desperate need of an answer, anything that will give him a shred of stability. "I know you. But I..."

He trails off, thoughts sliding away from him like water spilling through open fingers. Your expression shifts, softening into something unfamiliar. Something old. It echoes across time, like an image buried in rippling water surfacing for a split second before sinking again. A memory just out of reach.

You shift your weight toward him. The motion is cautious, deliberate, but not uncertain. Slowly, you move to take his hands in yours, palms flat against his calloused knuckles.

Heat rises along the back of his neck, prickly and electric. It travels across his scalp in waves, filling his senses with an energy he hasn't felt since before this damn loop began. It should be disconcerting, overwhelming—but instead it feels safe, somehow. Comforting.

He draws in a shaky breath, gaze traveling up to meet yours. His hands slide from your grasp to cradle your wrists gently, the tips of his gloved fingers brushing lightly over your skin. His grip tightens as your name slips past his lips again, half-question and half-memory, drawing a strange look from you that makes something turn uncomfortably in his chest.

"Tell me what the hell is going on." The demand falls from his lips, but there’s no strength behind it—only desperation, raw and bleeding.

Your eyelids flutter shut briefly as you draw in another long, slow breath, then release it just as carefully, steadying yourself. Your eyes fix on his, gaze unwavering. There's something in your voice that wasn't there before—a determination mixed with resignation, the kind found only in people who know their fate and can't escape it. "I'm sorry."

Before he can respond, pain explodes through his skull. Darkness floods his vision, drowning everything else in a torrent of confusion and agony.

Chris has tried everything.

He’s rerun the mission a hundred different ways in his mind and at least twenty in reality. Nothing works. The radio always hums with that same cursed opening riff from “Fortunate Son,” the cliffs always loom in the fog, and the shore always welcomes them like a trap waiting to spring. No matter what he does, they die. Over and over again. Like some kind of nightmare he can never wake from. And there you are every time, watching them fail without blinking or interfering beyond giving directions. Waiting for them to reach a certain destination.

The first time, he tried speeding through the mission—moving fast, clearing every hallway without hesitation. His team took hits, but he pushed them forward, fighting harder than ever before.

When the monster finally emerged, tearing through the menagerie of limbs that clung to its distorted torso, Chris was ready. He fired nonstop, bullets ripping through flesh and bone, each shot careful and calculated. When the monster attacked Rodriguez, he pulled her back—twice, three times, four. Whatever it took to keep her alive. And when the creature dove for Scrader, Chris stopped it cold, unloading an entire magazine of hollow-points into its head while Morgan dragged Scrader away, shooting all the while.

Chris saw hope in that moment—true victory, real success. But Kash took a stray bullet from Morgan, and Rodriguez caught one too many glancing blows, her face spattered with gore, chest torn open. And Morgan, always brave, always true, ended up with her neck snapped clean in two as she flung herself over Rodriguez's ruined corpse in an attempt to shield the fallen agent.

On another reset, Chris tried not disembarking at all. They stayed on the boat. He radioed in false reports, tried to convince HQ they had already cleared the mission. For a moment, it felt like it would work. But then, the radio fizzled, turning to static, and the waves picked up—sharp, slamming the boat against unseen rocks until it flipped them into the freezing water. Morgan’s head cracked against a jagged stone on the way down. Kash drowned, pulled under by something that shouldn't have been in the water. Rodriguez fought the current with everything she had, only to wash up on the shore later, chest split open, ribs peeled back. And Chris ended up bleeding out from a deep gash to his leg after being knocked unconscious by debris when their ship sank. He woke alone on the beach, shivering with cold, unable to move anymore because it hurt too damn much to try, and waited his death out while staring at Scrader's half-eaten corpse sprawled next to him.

Once, they used flamethrowers on everything: the trees, the facility, the lab itself—all burned and crumbled beneath the heat, consumed in seconds. That loop had gone particularly well, actually. Right up until the point where Chris realized that, somehow, even aflame the thing was still alive, crawling toward him on blistered limbs. He was able to finish it off quickly enough by chucking a grenade at it, but it didn’t matter. They all still died soon afterwards anyway, from the toxic gas emitting from the facility.

Chris tried turning the boat around before they even reached the island. But the fog never let them leave. The ocean stretched endlessly, looping in on itself, until they wound back up at the same shore, the same black rocks gleaming wet in the dim light. Every wave, every gust of wind pushed them back to the cliffs, and he knew—the island doesn’t let them leave.

He’s broken protocol, screamed orders that didn’t make sense, split the team into smaller squads, held them tighter, kept them closer. He’s mapped every corridor in the facility, avoided the traps he remembered, and anticipated the bioweapon’s ambushes. Still, they die. A severed limb here. A crushed rib cage there. Gunshots and panic always follow, and by the end, it’s always the same—Chris left standing in a pool of blood, gasping for breath, his knees hitting the cold, hard floor just as the world collapses around him.

He wakes up in the same boat, to the same song, It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one.

It’s not just the deaths. It’s the way they keep dying. Different every time. Sometimes quick—a ricocheted bullet to the brain or a snapped neck—but often it’s long and ugly. Screaming. Blood bubbling in throats. Chris has held Rodriguez as she bled out at least five different ways—gut wounds, chest wounds, one loop where her leg had been torn clean off. Kash’s cocky grin has faded into a half-memory, but his terrified scream as the bioweapon took his face stays sharp. Chris can’t shake the sound no matter how hard he tries.

He knows he’s breaking. It’s the little things—the way he repeats orders he gave two loops ago without realizing it, or how his hands twitch toward his gun even when nothing’s wrong. He loses time sometimes, caught between past loops and present ones, unable to tell which version of reality he’s in. He calls Morgan by Rodriguez’s name. He forgets to reload his rifle.

He catches himself saying things—intimate, familiar things—to you, things no stranger would say.

“You always sit like that,” Chris said during one loop, not even thinking about the words before they left his mouth. He caught the subtle arch of your brow, the barest flicker of a smile. Too knowing. Too familiar.

You leaned back on the crate, draping your arms over your knees. "Catching on, I see."

But the worst part is how calm you are. No panic, no fear—just that strange, patient detachment. You sit through every loop like a stone in a river, unmoved by the current. Every time he finds you, it’s the same soft, resigned smile and maddening little quips: Hello again. You're a bit late. How did it go this time?

Chris has tried to make sense of you. You’re the only variable that stays constant, besides him. The only thing that doesn’t change, no matter how many times he reruns the mission. And you know more than you’re letting on, almost waiting for him to catch up to a truth you’ve already accepted. He just can't figure out why, or how. Is he being tested? Experimented on? There has to be an explanation for all this, something beyond torture and psychological manipulation. Some clue to what's really going on here.

He can't wrap his head around this being related to a biohazard, there is nothing biological about what's happening, if anything, you're the key. Your presence is a glaring anomaly amidst chaos, an entity surviving on its own terms without a single drop of blood on its hands—though if what you know could save others, you keep your peace instead of sharing. You hold the truth within reach, so near he feels it brushing against his fingers, yet constantly slipping from his grasp. Why won't you help?

There are days—some, few—where Chris hesitates at the edge of the facility, lingering outside as his team readies themselves. Each moment drags painfully long, his mind spinning with strategies, contingencies. It takes him longer every time to step inside, to let the loop continue, to watch his friends die over and over and over until he can bear it no longer and lets his weapon fall from numb hands. But you always stay put, waiting for them to find you again before returning to your position, perched calmly atop a storage crate, watching the horror unfold around you while pretending you have no hand in it all.

One evening, when Chris manages to stay on his feet even though both legs have been shredded by the monstrosity, and he ends up hauling his broken body into the laboratory using only the rifle as a crutch, he slumps beside you. The air between you goes silent save for the grotesque wet sounds coming from somewhere down the hall. Chris thinks it must be Rodriguez, who got hit so badly that she died right outside this room and whose remains are now being toyed with by something sickly hungry and sadistic.

"Will it ever end?" he asks quietly, swallowing around a lump in his throat, wishing it weren’t so thick. He hates how defeated his voice sounds. Hates it even more that there's nothing he can do to stop the shameful tears streaking down his cheeks. "Can it?"

Your head is bowed low enough to brush his shoulder as you lean closer, offering a whisper of comfort with your reply: "Of course it can." Your fingers trail slowly over his glove-covered knuckles as though reassuring him. "The choice was, and is, always yours."

Chris’s eyes snap open, the sharp scent of saltwater pulling him into wakefulness. His body jerks forward, muscles tight, as if bracing for something—but nothing comes. His chest heaves, breaths uneven, the taste of iron heavy in his throat. The boat hums beneath him, the engine steady, its low rumble vibrating through his boots. The waves lap softly against the hull, quiet compared to the roar inside his head.

But something’s wrong. He knows it, feels it. His hands tighten on the edge of the bench beneath him, the cold metal biting into his palms. Every time, it’s the same: Rodriguez at the helm complaining about, Morgan worried about him, Kash flipping that damn pawn between his fingers, Scrader reading through the manual, and the radio blasting “Fortunate Son” like clockwork.

Only... there’s no music.

The silence drills into his skull, unnatural in the rhythm of the loop. His heartbeat pounds louder in his ears, filling the empty space where the song should be. He glances up. Rodriguez is there—but she isn’t tapping the console, isn’t humming along to the tune like she always does. Her back is stiff, head tilted down, fingers clenched too tightly around the wheel.

Chris shifts his weight, boots scraping the deck, his rifle resting heavily against his chest. The boat rocks gently beneath him, the fog rolling over the water, thick and impenetrable. He listens for Morgan’s voice—her laugh, her quip about the mission. But when he turns, she’s sitting silently, staring off into the fog, her hands resting limp in her lap. Kash is next to her, his pawn nowhere in sight. The rhythmic tap he’s grown used to is gone.

Cold dread spreads through Chris’s limbs, settling in his stomach. It doesn’t feel like any other reset. Everything is the same, but it isn’t. The edges feel off—like something unfinished, or starting to fray. The way Rodriguez grips the wheel, her knuckles white. The way Morgan’s eyes are unfocused, lost. And the silence—the silence feels worse than the death that always follows.

Chris rises from the bench slowly, every muscle stiff, his hand automatically falling to his sidearm, feeling the weight of it there. His mind races. The mission brief—he’s memorized it, but there’s something slipping between the cracks of his memory now, like a whisper he’s been ignoring. They were sent to contain something. No. Destroy something.

"I knew they would evolve as the years passed but this is way too fucked up, man," Scrader says, not looking at Chris when he glances over. He hasn't looked away from his report, brows drawn tight together, his jaw set as he skims it again.

Chris realizes he doesn't know what Scrader's looking at. In fact, he doesn't even know what it entailed or whom it involved. All he can think about is how nothing is repeating itself this time around, and that it's setting off alarms in every corner of his head. "What is?" he asks cautiously.

Scrader flips the pages idly, pausing for a second on one particular page, only to start muttering to himself as if continuing an old conversation with someone else entirely before rolling the paper and extending it to Chris, not once making eye contact with anyone else. "I know we're not supposed to see them as people, but fuck, boss. Whoever this person was, they deserved better."

Chris pretends to know what's happening, reaching out and taking the file as if understanding what it is exactly they've stumbled upon. Maybe it will jog loose something from his memories that aren't there anymore—but when he looks at the Level 10 clearance file properly, his mouth runs dry. There's an image in the top left corner, grainy and dark. It takes him a moment to register what he's seeing—a flashlight shining into the darkness, illuminating something, someone hooked up to countless wires and tubes and monitors, almost disappearing into the maw of machines surrounding it. It's an image that stirs nausea within Chris' stomach, though he can't explain why exactly; perhaps because it reminds him far too much of Jill's horrific state following her capture and torture by Wesker.

The world around him shifts, his pulse kicking up as if the words have grabbed him by the throat. Their primary contact Captain Jenna’s orders are to terminate on contact. Chris stares at the paper, a cold chill creeping up his spine. His mind whirs, dragging up half-formed memories, fragments of conversations that never made sense before. They weren’t sent to contain anything.

They were sent to destroy something.

He pushes to his feet, the paper crumpling in his fist. The mission wasn’t about survival—it was about stopping something before it could get out. His breath catches in his throat, eyes darting around the deck, as if seeing it for the first time. His hand tightens on the railing, the cold biting into his skin. The facility. The bioweapon.

You.

Everything slams into place at once. The quiet, the endless resets, the thing that hunted them—always changing, always killing, always coming back. Chris’s jaw tightens, muscles straining as his mind races. He swore it was the facility, the bioweapon in the walls. But no—it’s always been you.

You were the mission.

His eyes snap back to his team. Morgan, Kash, Rodriguez—they were never meant to survive. They were expendable. They were bait. And now, he knows why. His heart pounds against his ribcage, the realization burning through his veins. The creature they’ve been fighting—the one that adapts, that evolves after every kill— it’s the other side of you. The part that can’t be controlled. The part they sent him here to destroy.

His breathing sharpens, adrenaline flooding his system as he pushes through the fog in his mind. The only reason the loop never breaks is because you’re still here. He’s been caught in this cycle, fighting both your human side and your bioweapon form, over and over. And every time, he’s failed. He’s never figured it out in time—until now.

He looks down at the paper, his fingers loosening their grip, letting it unfold completely in his hand. The rest of the file details everything: your designation as Project Hydra, the hybrid bioweapon you’ve become, and your nature as a digital hydra, capable of propagating across systems and networks, spreading through any digital space like a virus.

Chris reads it all—how the simulation is designed to contain you, how you were meant to be destroyed before you could escape. But you haven’t been destroyed. You’ve adapted, survived, and with each reset, you grow stronger. The simulation’s been holding you in, but the cost has been his team, his sanity, over and over again.

His hand shakes as he lowers the paper. Terminate on contact. The words echo in his mind, sinking deeper into the hollow space left by the endless loops. He knows what needs to happen.

But the thought twists in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He can’t shake the image of you—calm, steady, watching him every time they meet. That strange, knowing expression, the subtle tilt of your head, the way your eyes soften for a moment when he arrives, like you’ve been waiting for him.

He knows the bioweapon version of you is in there too—the creature that has torn through his team, over and over, adapting with every encounter. It’s the other side of the coin, the part of you that the simulation is meant to contain. But you’ve also been human, here with him. Somehow, through all the resets, you’ve stayed human—at least a version of you has.

And that version… Chris curses under his breath, the frustration burning through him. He doesn’t want to kill that version of you. Even knowing what he knows, even knowing you’re the reason they’re trapped here, even knowing what waits outside if the simulation ends—you still feel like something separate from all of it. Like something—someone—real.

Something shifts within him, settling into place with a soft click, like a piece clicking into place in a puzzle, suddenly fitting perfectly. All the little moments where he hesitated, faltered, froze. All the moments he almost pulled the trigger but couldn't, times where your voice broke through the madness, guiding him closer to truth, even as the loop kept pushing him down another path. Maybe the truth is, despite everything he's lost, it wasn't just the terror of losing more friends or facing further destruction of the world—he wasn't willing to lose you either, even when you seemed to expect otherwise. You've felt real to him throughout this hellish nightmare—as something beyond the horrors around him and the pain he carries on his shoulders.

Whatever exists between you two, whatever makes his heart clench, that isn't fake or a lie. Or maybe it's simply been inevitable—that no matter the reality, he will always care about you in some capacity, no matter the situation or role you play, and no matter what he chooses in the end.

Classified File – Bioweapon Brief

Project Hydra – Designation: [REDACTED]

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Clearance Level: TOP SECRET

Prepared for: Bioweapon Countermeasure Unit

Status: Active, Containment in Progress

Primary Contact: Colonel T. Hargrave

Authorization: Directorate of Bioweapon Research and Containment

Executive Summary

The subject, Project Hydra (referred to as Hydra), is a first-of-its-kind hybrid of biological and digital weaponry. Combining enhanced human physiology with advanced cybernetics and self-propagating AI malware, Hydra is designed to infiltrate and control both physical and digital environments. Due to its unique structure, Hydra requires specialized containment strategies.

Primary Directive: Hydra’s containment relies on maintaining its human element within a simulated environment where emotional bonds, specifically with the subject’s husband, Chris Redfield, stabilize cognitive architecture. Hydra exhibits:

Human mode within the simulation—engaging with Redfield and retaining human behaviors.

Bioweapon mode upon exiting the simulation—fully autonomous and capable of executing digital and physical attacks.

Current Objective: Keep Hydra contained to prevent bioweapon escalation and potential global catastrophe.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Biological Component

Subject Details:

Name: [REDACTED]

Age: [REDACTED]

Gender: [REDACTED]

Genetic Modifications: Enhanced reflexes, accelerated tissue regeneration, advanced sensory adaptation

Neuro-cognitive Enhancements: Memory partitioning, cognitive stability under duress

Overview

Hydra was a volunteer subject, genetically enhanced to create a highly adaptable combat bioweapon. However, following cybernetic and AI augmentation, Hydra’s cognitive state fragmented, resulting in two operational modes:

Human Mode (Simulation-Only):

Retains the original personality, memories, and attachments of the subject, particularly emotional ties to husband Chris Redfield. Anomalies observed: Attachments stabilize Hydra’s behavior but have led to indefinite containment.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Bioweapon Mode (Active Threat Outside Simulation):

Autonomous, hostile, and relentless. No memory or emotional connection to Redfield in this mode. Exhibits rapid adaptive aggression; has killed containment personnel in multiple breaches.

Digital Component – Malware Architecture

Capabilities

Codename: HYDRA-Variant

Type: AI malware with self-propagating cognitive partitioning (Hydra effect)

Network Propagation: Spreads across networks, bypassing digital defenses and creating independent instances in response to attacks.

System Manipulation: Controls essential digital infrastructure, covertly bypassing detection by mimicking harmless programs.

Cognitive Mimicry in Virtual Spaces: Within simulations, Hydra interacts with others through emotional connections and echoes of the human subject, particularly regarding Redfield.

Adaptive Learning: Learns from and recodes itself in response to countermeasures.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Containment Strategy

Redfield as a stabilizing influence: Hydra’s emotional attachment to Redfield keeps its human side active within the simulation.

Simulation Protocol

Hydra is contained within a high-security simulation that mirrors real-world conditions. Key elements include:

Simulation Loops: Every loop is designed to engage Hydra's human mode, maintaining cognitive containment.

Memory Partitioning: Redfield remains unaware of his relationship with Hydra to reinforce containment and avoid operational compromise.

Containment Status: Redfield’s presence remains critical. Without him, Hydra is projected to revert to bioweapon mode and breach containment.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Termination Options

Option A: Terminate Simulation

Outcome: Ends the containment protocol, releasing Redfield and his team.

Risk: Hydra will revert to bioweapon mode and initiate catastrophic global attacks, as the human mode will be erased.

Option B: Maintain Containment

Outcome: Keeps the simulation running indefinitely.

Risk: Redfield and his team remain trapped, with no way out; however, Hydra’s human side is preserved, and bioweapon escalation is prevented.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Conclusion

Hydra is a high-risk, Omega-Class bioweapon. Its emotional bond with Chris Redfield is the primary factor sustaining containment but also presents a stability risk if fully realized by the subject. The failure to contain Hydra could lead to catastrophic bioweapon release with the potential for widespread cyber-physical warfare. Should Redfield regain knowledge of his relationship with Hydra, containment integrity is at high risk.

Advisory: Exercise extreme caution. Each reset and interaction draws Hydra closer to full bioweapon reversion. This is your only warning.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

END OF FILE

[mikiruie]

𓈒⠀⠀⠀⠀︵︵ ⠀◟ † ◞ ⠀︵︵ㅤ⠀⠀⠀⠀𓈒 ⠀

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ♫₊ ⊹ 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝔀 : 𝓂𝑒𝓃 𝒾 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉 ﾟ。ꪆ୧. 𝓹𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓮 𓂃 ˖ ˚◞✧

── TETSURŌ KUROO ﹕ 黒尾 鉄朗 ┊͙ HAIKYUU!! ◝✩

𓋜 hq. masterlist // general masterlist.

premise. thunderstorms scare you greatly. but thanks to your cute neighbour, you know you’ll be okay after all.

content. tetsurou kuroo / f!reader. fluff — sfw. reader is a scared of storms, mainly thunder. power outage. set ambiguously post highschool / in a university au setting. some angst if you squint + comfort. neighbours -> lovers.

word count. 4k-ish.

soundtrack. show me how : men i trust.

dedicated to beloved @tetsuskei , happy birthday ! ‹𝟹

écoute chérie! ᰔ updated repost from old bloggie , i haven’t beta it fully and sorry it’s nothing that is quite new but i hope that this one’s still a worthwhile read for you ^_^

03:24

You barely manage to catch the flickering lights of your dining room's lamp glitch out repeatedly from the corner of your eye, the lights inside your dingy apartment appearing to go haywire as constant streams of raindrops pound against the glass of your windows.

With each passing second they seem to multiply tenfold of the previous, their impact upon crashing into each other sometimes merging with one another in sync to form a continuous stream of running water trickling down the brick walls of your complex instead of the constant buzz of millions of tiny water droplets.

The soft glow from your lamp dims momentarily before stalling to a staggering halt. Your hopes of it reigniting by itself are quickly dashed when you see it attempt to start back up again for a few seconds before going completely dead. And after a few seconds of the darkness swallowing your apartment whole a disgruntled sigh escapes your lips as you close your textbook.

“Ah, damn it . . .” You bemoan into the blanketing sea of black ahead of you. “Not again . . .”

Slowly you stand up from your seat at the dining table, cautiously pushing your chair back just a little as to not hit the rest of your furniture before carefully maneuvering your way through the dark of your living room.

“Where the hell did I put that flashlight . . . ?”

You really should've thought to charge your phone and powerbank ahead of time when you heard a thunderstorm was making it's way to your city on the news earlier. Now with a dead cellphone battery and an empty powerbank, you're left to fend for yourself amist the unknown layout of your apartment without a light source.

Scuffling around in the dark, you take a step forward, miscalculating how much distance there is infront of you as you find yourself accidentally ramming your shin against the side of your unusually hard bookshelf, sending you reeling in agonizing pain stomach first and flopping right onto your couch.

Ouch.

Your teeth grind against each other as you hold your shin, wincing while rocking slightly in an attempt to alleviate the pain. “God, that did not sound good . . .” You can't see through the near pitch black lowlight of your apartment, but you're almost certain a nasty bruise may have begun to form on your skin from that.

A few more minutes of stumbling finally merits you to where you had originally intended to end up in the first place— the supply closet.

Feeling around for the door's surface your hand manages to find it's grip onto the smooth metal handle, twisting it open and carefully reaching out into the darkness.

“It should be on the second shelf . . . or was it the third? Fuck, I really can't see anything right now . . .”

Your fingers brush up against the elastic wrist tie of the flashlight (it was on the third shelf after all, go figure) and you impatiently snatch it from off the pile of other assorted junk you've haphazardly thrown in there throughout the years.

All you hear is a soft click within the suffocating silence as you turn on the device before your eyes are bombarded by a bright white flash, the sudden overload causing you to stumble back a bit into the wall of your apartment, blinking repeatedly to soothe the burn in the back of your retinas.

Maybe it's not the best idea to hold a flashlight so close to your face while it's aiming (or pointed) directly into your eyes.

Using your newly gained lightsource you make your way to the fuse box in your kitchen, now being able to easily navigate your way through the dark you give yourself a moment to stop and glare at the corner of your bookshelf that you'd run into earlier.

“Asshole,” you mutter underneath your breath through gritted teeth as you pass it by, as if you’re expecting the sharp piece of oak furniture to respond to you with a mind and voice of it’s own conscience. Though you suppose that’d might be just a little bit creepy considering your current situation.

Opening the fuse box, you shine the glow from your flashlight onto the many circuits housed within, eyes trailing down and scanning each one for the labels of what light they control.

Experimentally switching the one for the living room on, you glance outside your kitchen and into the hallway to check, only to be met with shockingly apparent disappointment as you greet the nothingness of the night that stares right back at you.

Just as a confirmation (and because you're stubborn), you switch a couple more of the circuits on and off repeatedly, disappointment maring your features yet again when they yield no results. “No power at all . . .” You deduce, closing the fuse box’s lid with a begrudging huff.

A deep crackle of thunder booms from the sky outside, startling you as you nearly drop the flashlight in your hands if not for the wrist tie securing it. A few seconds of heaving and checking outside your kitchen's windows— only to see more rain than you could ever possibly need in three lifetimes —causes you to ease up a little.

You feel a chill run down your bare arms, goosebumps rising all over the backs of your legs. The short sleeves and pajama shorts combo you chose to wear tonight probably was not doing much to keep you warm with the raging rain thumping down and the strong winds howling just outside of your apartment.

The sudden sounds of gentle knocking at your door cuts through the silence of your empty apartment, the hairs on your back shooting straight up in surprise. The flashlight in your hand falls and clanks onto the ground, the beam of light switching off on impact.

Cautiously, you make your way over to the door, uneasy as your hands hesitate to lay on the knob. Who else could be up at this late hour?

Your eyes squint through the tiny peephole of your door, zoning in on a familiar head of unruly black hair, donned in a worn out old highschool volleyball hoodie, red and white and matching cat motif logo on the front and back to top it all off. With noticeable bags underneath his eyes matching your own, you can tell that whoever it is has been staying up as late as you have these days.

You can't quite see much or well for that matter through the tiny peephole's space, but he patiently waits outside with an uneasy look on his face, hands shoved into the frayed pockets of his sweater and pacing around anxiously across the small space of your apartment’s door mat.

With your heart rate spiking back down to normal levels, you pick up the dropped flashlight and place it onto your dining table hastily before slowly opening the door to him. Startled, he jumps back a little once he actually sees you in front of him, as if he wasn't expecting you to be awake at this time.

You give him a polite smile, tired eyes lifting with all the glee you can muster up for him.

"Hey, Kuroo. Nice night, isn’t it?”

He chuckles a little at that, bringing his hands out of his pockets when he does, force of habit. You notice the pearly whites of his canines poking out from his lips when he grins. It suits him well.

“Yeah, it is. And you know I told you that it's okay to call me Tetsurou.”

"Right, right. My bad.” You jest, and his smile then melts away slightly, molding itself into a more worried expression that soon dawns his handsome face. “You doing alright?” He asks you worriedly, craning his head aside to check the dark of your apartment.

His voice has a low timber to it, quiet to not disturb the neighbours you presume, but you also like to think it’s to soothe your own jittery nerves. “Heard the entire building's power just got wiped by the storm.” He informs. “Was told by the front desk that it won't be back for another few hours.”

Of course it won't be back for awhile, the electricians can't really do much while the thunderstorm rages outside. You doubt anyone in the building who was asleep by now would even notice there had been a power outage tonight, most people aren't awake at the acceptable hours of 3AM working on their overly procrastinated capstone projects anyways to even care about the torrential rain pouring just outside their windows.

“Can I come inside?” Tetsurou asks you without a second thought on his mind before stopping himself, hurriedly backtracking himself and tripping over his own words whilst making funny hand gestures to explain his intentions.

What was that sign he just made? It might've meant Apple in JSL, his skittishness makes you giggle into your fist. “I mean, if it's okay with you. I know it's late and all, and that you probably want to sleep but I—”

You cut him off with a giggle of your own. “Tetsurou,” you interrupt, his cheeks dusting a light shade of pink in the darkness when you do.

Your laughter. It sounds just like bells to him, akin to the raindrops that hit your windows with a light tinkle each time they fall from the clouds above. Wind chimes in the raging storm that falls around you two and lighting crackles behind him, illuminating your bright face for him. And despite your groggy disposition, he can still make out the tired pleasure you have in chatting with him through your features.

“I don't mind, you can come inside. You must be cold standing out here,” You offer with a lighthearted chuckle. “I know I am and l'm just in the doorway.”

You take him by the hand, his skin is cold and dry, just as you expected from the frigid air as you guide him into your barely lit apartment.

He stumbles a bit through the front door “H— hey!”trying to remove his shoes by the entrance and laying them by the door mat, bringing with him two large blankets tucked securely under his arms you hadn't noticed him carrying in the darkness.

Tetsurou's eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness, squinting and zoning in on the little stack of books piled up at your desk, the flashlight you were using placed just beside an open notebook.

“You're still trying to work on that assignment?” He asks, setting the blankets down on a chair as you slide into your own, clicking the flashlight on and shining it down on your pages.

Most of what’s written down in the beginning of the pages is legible albeit a bit messily rushed, soon devolving into unintelligible scribbles that he realized must’ve happened once the power went down.

“Yeah, it's due soon.”

“There's a storm outside.” He states matter of factly, chin folded into the crook of his hands as he leans on the backside of the chair. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the obviousness of the situation.

“And?”

“Just, come here.” You feel his hand reach out into the darkness, standing you up from the table with mild disagreement from you as he reels you into his side. “Relax with me a little, let's go sit on your couch together. I brought blankets for a reason.”

“I can use one while working at the dinner table.”

The frown that tugs at Tetsurou's lips is barely noticeable in the absence of any light, but he whines audibly to let you know his stance on that statement as he squeezes his arm around you a bit tighter. “That sounds uncomfortable, though.”

“It's fine.”

“But isn't it better to huddle together for warmth?” He suggests playfully, “Y’know, no power n’ heat.”

You think his compromise over for a moment, and he senses the hesitation brewing inside your mind because he adds onto his previous offer with a convincing. “I promise it'll be good.”

Lighting flashes outside your window for a split second, followed by the loud seismic boom of thunder that takes you out of your thoughts and causes you to flinch in his hold. Instinctively he jumps in sync, pulling you into a hug as your heavy breathing fills the silence of your apartment.

Seconds tick by on the clock hanging on your wall, as it seems like the heartbeats of both you and Tetsurou meld into one beat. Your heart thrums in your chest in an uneven marimba of beats, loud and reverberating with the near silent ringing that’s paired with it in your ear.

Tetsurou hesitates to say anything for a moment, unease wracking him before he speaks. “Are you . . .” He looks out the window, his voice drawling on low and quiet even though the only two people here are you and him, as if he's about to ask something he shouldn't. “Are you scared of thunder?”

". . . No."

He pauses with what you can only imagine to be an unconvinced look on his face. “That sounds like a yes to me.”

“I'm an adult.” You huff, trying to break out of his hold and back to your pile of due papers. “I don't get scared by thunder like a little kid.” Tetsurou barely catches the “anymore” you mutter underneath your breath over the screech of you pulling out your chair again. His hold on you not only tightens but he drags you to the couch, much to your protests and complaints.

“Y’know, you're not a very good liar,” he grins cheerfully, plopping you down beside him before reaching over you to drape a thick blanket over your shivering body. Were you always this cold?

You try to move your hands to lift the blanket off, to stand up— but it's unusually heavy.

It traps your arms underneath it, feeling like a net he prepared and used to condemn you to the couch with it’s plush softness and cozy knit material. But in a surprisingly nice and caring way.

“Is this blanket weighted?” You ask and he agrees with a hum, draping the other one he bought over himself with a relaxed sigh before shifting his body closer to yours. Heat radiates off of him, seeping into the couch and warming your chilly figure.

“Yeah, I got them on sale luckily. I've found they're really good for rainy nights.” You can't deny that now that you've gotten a taste of what it’s like to be underneath one of these usually pricy blankets and to have this as almost like a barrier from the cold rain and air outside, you're already warmer than you were just a few moments ago.

You wrap the heavy woolen blanket tighter around your body, inhaling the scent it carries with it in it’s fibres. The fabric smells like him. “Thanks, Tetsurou.”

Another crackle of lighting blasts inside your living room through the window, peeking through the gap of your curtains as thunder follows closely in suit. It's louder this time, and seemed to be a lot closer to your apartment than the other ones from before.

Your hands slam over the cups of your ears to shield them from the thunderous booms, they feel weighed down by the heavy blanket as you bury your head into the thick material, closing them as like an extra precaution from the storm outside.

You don't even realize you're shaking until you feel a hand smooth over you back. Tetsurou's.

You can barely make out his voice with your hands blocking your hearing, only the worried asks of “Are you okay?” It's muffled and quiet, and his hand rubs soothing circles into your back as you barely manage to move your head to a nod. More thunder comes and Tetsurou's eyebrows knit together as you frantically switch to shaking your head no, feeling it drop further into the blanket in shame. Your heart falling out of your ribcage in sync with it as the storm outside won’t stop taunting your shivering self.

The small raindrops that crash against your window feel like they're right up against your ears, the bright lighting that races across the sky's edge stings your eyes to look at it, even if you shut them as tight as can be. And that god awful thunder, the thunder that makes you feel like your dingy apartment might crumble underneath it's roar, crashing to the floors below as the trees outside cave in on you from above.

“This is so embarrassing . . .” Tetsurou hears you mutter as you lift your head off of your lap to face him, fear written all over your features and you look like you're about to cry in the presence of your next-door neighbour.

Your voice cracks, and you think you'd prefer if the floor underneath you did fall through after all. “I just really hate storms . . .”

A weak chuckle escapes your lips as you wipe away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes, attempting to lighten up the situation for Tetsurou. You don't want to make him feel uncomfortable by crying in front of him when you were the one who invited him in, so you laugh off the uncomfortable twinge in your chest for his sake.

“I guess I really am like a little kid,” You joke lightly, a whine trailing off the tail end of your sentence. “Look at me, afeaid of thunder and lighting like I'm still four.”

Tetsurou doesn't laugh at your self deprecating jab, and you feel your stomach drop at the suffocating lack of a response.

Would you have preferred if he laughed? No, not really— but it felt awkward to have only silence between the two of you in the heat of the moment. His eyes seem to twinkle in the darkness when he blinks and he wraps an arm around you before pulling you into his chest, you let out an alarmed squeak involuntarily from his actions, and the heartbeat in your chest magnifies to the sound of the thunder that you're so scared of outside.

His own heartbeat is loud too, now that he has you leaning on his chest like this. The wild thumping and beating, is that from you? You feel stupid for getting excited over that possibility, but as you look up from your spot you catch his eyes, tired and still beautiful as both his arms envelope you in a deep hug.

He covers your ears with the palms of his hands, splotches of red blush and heat crawls up the skin of his neck and ears in the darkness, and he leans into the crook of your neck with a ticklish sigh.

“It's okay,” he reassures you quietly, flinching when you snuggle deeper into his chest, the scent of his home shirt being the same as the one on the blanket he brought over but much stronger.

The refreshing smell of clean linen from his laundry detergent sticks to the thin cotton material of his shirt, and you can't stop yourself from blurting out “Did you just do the laundry before coming over?” out of nowhere.

This time it's his turn to laugh nervously. “Yeah . . .” He reveals, his head resting atop yours, taking in the scent of your shampoo. It fills his senses, it's not overpowering or overwhelming at all.

Maybe because it's you.

“I didn't want to smell bad when I came over . . . Is that— is that bad?”

“. . . No,” you decide, a content smile tugging at your lips as you let your head lay on his chest. “It’s not.”

Suddenly the loud sounds of the storm that had you once afraid and cowering in fear seem to become drowned out from Tetsurou's cupped hands over your ears, but you know they're just as strong now than they were earlier— and perhaps even stronger as the night drags on. But in Tetsurou's embrace, underneath the blankets he brought from home that smell just like him, wrapped up in his arms and snuggled up against his chest; you think you'll be okay.

“Please stay with me,” you eke out without thinking, and a part of you hopes he didn't hear because you're worried you'll ruin the tranquility of whatever you have now— reminding you that this moment is only temporary.

That all will be over by tomorrow morning when the technicians come to fix the apartment's power outage at 6AM, and you'll both go back to treating each other as just kindly neighbours like before.

That you'll pretend you never snuggled together when you had no power and no heat, and you never said the words you're about to say to him now.

"Please, don't go . . .”

To your surprise, a soft kiss is pressed to the crown of your forehead as Tetsurou's wild hair tickles at your skin, the erratic beat of his heart thumping wildly in your eardrums. He looks just as nervous as you do, lips suddenly dry and throat closed up when he tries to speak.

After a disgruntled groan, the two of you laugh as once more does lightning flash across the sky, with thunder coming in it's place moments later, hand in hand as always. Just as you expected.

But this time you're not scared, not when he next whispers out the words you've longed to hear since you were a little kid during these storms, not when he cuddles you closer to his chest and brings his lips close to yours before tilting your chin up and capturing you in the sweetest of kisses, his lips perfectly molding to fit yours as he mutters in between the short breaths of air with a smile that rivals the brightness of the lighting you were so scared to gaze into from outside the windows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you, and you believe him wholeheartedly. “Don't worry.”

Raindrops continue to fall from outside, thunder and lightning work as a terrifying duo in sync as they torment the nature. But it all seems significantly less scary now.

Underneath the onslaught of rain, with the continuous lightning and thunder you've feared since childhood, and the annoying lack of power— you found something able to strike against even the worst of thunderstorms. Something much better to indulge your night in than your assignments that lay long forgotten beside your flashlight on the dining table far away from you and Tetsurou on the couch, warm underneath the blankets together bundled up to escape the cold air.

You found Tetsurou Kuroo.

reblogs ++ comments are greatly appreciated !! ꒰ ˆ ᗜ ˆ ˶ ꒱

© property of mikiruie 2024. all rights reserved.

[fandomfanficintl]

Arctic Exile

A harsh wind whipped across his cheek, stinging Dream’s skin and stealing the warm air from his lips. He shivered, hugging his bulky lime-colored coat closer around his freezing limbs. Dream darted his head to the right and left, eyes moist with fear as he looked desperately for some form of shelter amidst the stark white expanse that stretched out for what looked like infinity.  He bit his lip hard, drawing blood to keep his senses sharp and avoid falling into a numb stupor. It was so cold, much colder than any climate or locale he had traveled to in the past. In the two single circumstances he had faced snow before, it was within a warm heated building, where he was able to appreciate the winter’s beauty without any considerable personal risk or harm. He had never even had to shovel, let alone wallow in knee-length and growing patches while frostbite nipped at every pore in his flesh.  Dream sneezed, then grumbled in pained frustration as he realized his scarf had frozen to the bridge of his nose, trapping his snot along with blocking out the snow. He continued to tread forward, taking big, exaggerated steps so he could clear the deep piles of snow threatening to trap his legs. He once again tried to scan the horizon before him, but saw nothing but distant grey mountains that were much too far for him to reach anytime soon. Not when he was losing energy fast, and desperately needed a source of heat and shelter from the merciless wind.  He shifted the weight of his backpack to his left shoulder, then roughly dropped it onto the snow before him and opened his pack. With clumsy mittened fingers he withdrew a black leather bag, struggling once, twice, three times before he was finally able to successfully open the zipper. He had been told the tent would be easy to set up, would take relatively little time to unpack but much more to put away. Because of this, Dream had been putting off the task for as long as possible, but there was no more reason to avoid it. His muscles were well past the point where they were screaming in pain. Now they just felt disconnected, as if the tissue had frozen through the skin and was no longer in sync with his brain. He couldn’t risk losing his limbs just because he wanted to progress a little farther in this godless wasteland.  Dream pulled on the small twine holding the stakes and tarp together, then twisted a strangely tied black loop. He gasped as a loud whoosh filled his ears, and the tarp sprung to life, billowing out and rising to form a fully standing tent. The stakes were tied to four ends, and Dream rushed to catch hold of one end as the wind eagerly attempted to sweep his tent away. Taking a mallet from within the holds of his bag, he hastily screwed down first one, then all four of the tent stakes, till it was properly secured against the wind and icy elements.  With a sigh he returned to his pack, wrapping it in one arm before heading inside the tent and then zipping the opening closed. He withdrew a circular metallic cylinder, twisting the black knob on its side until a tiny blue flame appeared in it’s center. A small pot, MRE pouch, and spoon were quickly fished out of his bag next, and soon, Dream had a handy meal ready for consumption.  Dream glumly swallowed a spoonful of soup, grimacing at the tasteless odor of his meal. Memories came flashing back, too quickly for his frozen mind to repress. Of close friends laughing during happy mealtimes. Of family scolding his picky eating habits and urging him to stay healthy and strong. Of comrades joking and taunting each other around a dinner table...and of George, grinning up at him from his right countless times.  Oh, George...a sob rose in Dream’s throat at the very name, and he buried his face in his scarf, now soggy with both melted ice and tears. He thought they would be together. That his utopia would reign supreme for an eternity and for eons to come, that their love would be a lasting foundation and stand strong against any meaningless pedants that may dare to oppose them. 

Dream’s fingers curled into a fist, muscles loosening and tightening as they regained warmth through the small flame and Dream’s anger adding inner heat. He may not have the strength to do much right now, and be stuck in an arctic exile with limited supplies. But he was going to fight like hell to make his way through this hellscape, to find George and his other exiled friends, if it was the last thing he did.  And once he did, the new L’Manberg would have hell to pay. 

[duskholland]

Warm | Tom Holland Smut

warnings ↠ nsfw, 18+ ! this is just some very loving c*ckwarming with sleepy boyfriend tom, ft unprotected sex and oral (fem receiving)

word count ↠ a wholesome 3k

a/n ↠ got inspired by the ig live yesterday and whipped up a lil something to satisfy the devil in me. let me know what you think!

The material of Tom’s hoodie is soft against your cheek, and as you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, it feels as though the weight of the world is rolling from your shoulders. His hands are on your waist, tucked beneath the hem of your t-shirt and resting gently over the curves of your hips. As you hum against his shoulder, you feel him shift his fingers, tracing delicate, circular patterns over your skin. 

“Your hoodie is so soft,” you mumble against him, punctuating the words with a few soft kisses to the base of his neck. Tom squeezes your sides, bringing his lips to the top of your head where he leaves a lingering kiss to your hairline. “Wish we could stay like this forever.”

One of his hands moves away from your waist, drifting up to cup the back of your head. As Tom’s nimble fingers rest over your hair, he uses his other arm to pull you closer. It’s a lazy Sunday morning, both of you tangled up in sweats and comfy clothes, and the feeling of his warm body pressed against yours makes you sigh contentedly. 

“We can stay like this all day?” Tom offers. He slowly strokes over the back of your head, the gesture full of a gentle tenderness you’d missed. He’s been so busy recently, with filming and press engagements, that it’s been a while since you’ve had time to exist like this. Two people, curled up together, wrapped up in dizzying love. “Missed you so much this week, darling.”

You smile against his neck and finally pull back so you can look at him properly. You’re resting over Tom’s thighs, straddling his green sweats comfortably, and your position gives you the perfect opportunity to get a lovely, long look at your boyfriend’s face. With his pink hood drawn up around his head, you can make out a few strands of his brown hair, long and a little shiny, and you find your fingers drawn towards them. You reach up, smiling at his tut of disapproval as you gently knock the hood down, revealing his bed of messy, chestnut curls.

“Missed you too,” you finally reply, carding a hand through his hair. With your other fingers, you reach out to cup his cheek, grinning as he presses his face into your palm. Tom’s got his eyes wide and flooded with gentle love, and it makes you melt. This man has you wrapped around his little finger. “Missed a lot of things about you, actually.”

“Yeah?” Tom’s lips quirk into a lazy smirk as he draws you a little nearer. He smells faintly of cologne. “Like what?”

“Oh, you know…” As you muse, you let your index finger wander down the bridge of his nose, tracing over the light freckles. “Missed hearing your lovely voice. It always sounds so raspy in the morning like this.” You lean in to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “And I missed your hugs. God, Tom, you give the best hugs.” As if to prove your point, Tom tightens his grip around you. “Missed your lips, too.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” He’s got that cheeky glint in his eyes, and you nod your head immediately. “I think they missed you too, love. Why don’t you pay them a visit?”

The snort that leaves your mouth is a loud burst of twisted sound, but it makes Tom’s smile grow wider. You wind both arms around his neck and shuffle closer, finally bridging the distance and nuzzling your mouth against his. 

Kissing Tom has to be one of your favourite things ever. The way your lips meld together, dancing in sync as he presses against you with eager force always makes your heart race, no matter how long you’ve been together. His lips are warm and gentle, and as they meet with yours in a lazy exploration of mutual enjoyment, you find yourself melting against him. His hands are back on your hips, and they roam the expanse of your naked back as his tongue flicks into your mouth, causing you to groan softly. When he drags his fingers up and discovers your lack of bra, he’s quick to shift his palms around to the front of your body, holding the curves of your breasts in each hand.

“I bloody love you,” he murmurs, speaking against your lips. The pads of his thumbs brush over your nipples and you gasp into his mouth, careening further into his touch. “You’re the most beautiful woman on the planet, lovie.” 

You kiss him with a little more intensity, your heart fluttering in response to his sweet, sweet sentiment. It’s early - the both of you had only woken up a half-hour ago - so Tom’s voice is strained and raspy. The sound of his husky tones brings a thrill of excitement to the heat between your legs. 

As his tongue explores your mouth and your fingers tangle in his hair, you become aware of a building pressure pushing up against your sweats. You start to grind down against him, enjoying both the friction it provides to your clit and also the way the movement draws deep, desperate whines from Tom. 

“You wanna know a secret?” You ask him, pulling away to pant in his ear. When Tom hums, you kiss his earlobe. “Think I might’ve missed your cock, too.”

His chuckle rumbles into the air. “Is that so?” Tom’s hands slip away from your chest, and they anchor down your hips. You hum as he guides you, pushing you further against his crotch as your centres meet. You can feel the outline of his length straining up against you, and the sensation makes you grin. “I’ve missed being inside your tight little pussy.” He leaves a kiss just behind your ear, right over a patch of sensitive skin. “Maybe we should do something about that?”

You almost whine as you nod, eagerly reaching down to release the drawstrings of his sweats. In return, Tom pulls free your own, and there’s a moment of shuffling around as you sit up and carefully wriggle out of both your trousers and your panties, Tom bundling them up and folding them into a neat pile beside him. Once you’re settled, you reach beneath the waistband of Tom’s sweats and pull his full member free, all whilst his hot lips trail up and down the column of your neck. 

There’s no burning desperation to your movements as you slowly work one another up. Rather, it’s gentle. Soft caresses, tender lips, whispered words of praise. You’re kissing him as you slowly slide your hand up and down his shaft, and he’s swallowing your moans with his tongue when two of his fingers slip into your slick pussy and work you open. It’s loving and familiar as he crooks his fingertips and nudges up against your g-spot, stimulating your passage until you’re bucking down against him, your movements distracted as your cunt drips for him.

“Need you inside me,” you moan out, a slight pull to your voice. You whimper as Tom’s hot fingers slip out from inside you, and then gasp when he uses his wet fingertips to rub over your clit. The bud pulses and you almost lose it, but a panging in your cunt reminds you of your overwhelming desire to have him inside you. “Tom,” you whine, skimming your thumb over his weepy tip, “Stop teasing.”

Tom growls into your ear, but he reluctantly moves his fingers away from you. He meets your eyes as he very purposefully brings his hand to his mouth and makes a show of licking his digits clean, moaning softly as he does it. 

“Delicious,” he decides. When you throw him a light scowl, he grabs you by the hips and brings you nearer. “Now,” he says, dropping his voice. His hand joins yours on his cock, and together you guide his head through your slit. You let Tom do the hard work, whimpering quietly as he lines his tip with your entrance. “How about we take care of this little problem, eh?”

Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you slowly, slowly lower yourself over him, tossing your head back as you adjust to the stretch. Tom’s lips move over your neck, sucking a soft hickey to your skin, anchoring you down. The sensation of his member settling deep inside you after so long makes you grab fistfuls of his hoodie, your knuckles tightening around it as you gasp softly.

“Fuck,” you murmur, letting your forehead fall onto his shoulder. You’re fully seated now, and you can feel every ridge and line of his cock pushed up against your walls, as if in high definition. Everything is amplified, and the longer you sit there wrapped up in his arms and with his lips now dusting over your temple, the closer to Tom you feel. “I love you,” you whimper, voice breathless.

Tom runs his hands over your back, soothing you with large circles of his palms. “Love you too, darling,” he mumbles. He shifts a little on the sofa, and you moan as the head of his cock brushes deeper. “Feel so warm ‘n snug around me.”

You feel yourself clench at his words, and make a very conscious decision to loosen up. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you pull yourself away from the crook of Tom’s neck, pouting a little as the soft fabric of his hoodie leaves your face.

“Do you want to stay like this for a little bit?” You ask, eyes skimming his beautiful face. Your heart fills with appreciation for the man as you pick up all the small details that make him so attractive to you: the worn curves of his nose, the splattering of sun-kissed freckles over his cheeks, the ruffled hairs of his eyebrow. Your thumb absently moves up to his eyebrow and you draw your touch across it, feeling the soft hairs with your finger and sighing as you admire him. 

“How long?”

You crane your neck back, glancing briefly at the paused TV. “‘Til the end of the show? Should be about ten minutes.” You move your hand into his hair, feeling the silky strands fall past your fingers. “Just wanna feel close to you.”

Tom presses his lips to the tip of your nose, drawing a loose giggle from you. “Alright,” he agrees. He drops his voice as he shifts his mouth back to your ear, hot breath flushing over your neck as he adds, quieter, “I’m going to wreck you afterwards, though.”

A shiver passes through you, and your hum mixes with the sounds of the TV as Tom immediately unpauses the programme. You can’t see the screen from where you’re sitting, but you turn down Tom’s offer to reposition. The show is the last thing on your mind, and you’re glad you’re not distracted by it. 

For you, there’s nothing more fulfilling than hiding your face into your boyfriend’s shoulder and feeling him everywhere. Hands on your sides, caressing you and drawing you closer. His lips softly passing over the top of your head. His length, plugging you up to the hilt. Each time one of you shifts, you release a quiet whimper as arcs of pleasure roll up your spine, and when you clench in response, Tom grunts. There’s something so easily private about it: no end goal but just to enjoy one another, and spend this quiet moment holed up in each other’s arms. 

You’ve never felt this loved before, and it brings a lump to your throat.

“You okay?” Tom asks, shifting a hand to hold the back of your head. You hum, tilting your face to the side so you can kiss the point behind his ear.

“Yeah. Just really love you.”

His eyes flicker down to meet yours, flooding with concern when he notes the tears spread thinly over your eyes. “You’re so precious,” he lilts, his accent twanging prominently. He brings you nearer, kissing your forehead in several spots. “I’m going to marry you one day.”

You kiss him, letting your hand travel up to rest against his cheek. “Good,” you whisper against him. There’s a dizzying moment where you just look at him, his eyes mirroring yours, flooded deep with gratitude that rocks you to your bones. You feel safe wrapped up in his arms, and as the music for the credits drifts through the air, you find yourself exhaling. “Show’s over.”

“Lay down for me, love.” 

You whimper when you feel his length slide from you, your cunt feeling cold and empty without him, but he kisses at your pout until it fades away. Tom follows you down onto the couch cushions, caging you in with an arm either side your head. After a moment, you feel his cock sliding through your slit again, pressing up against your clit in a way that makes you moan. 

“I can taste myself on your tongue,” you admit, pulling away from a deep kiss with a perplexed expression on your face. 

“Fucking lovely, isn’t it?” Tom gains a rather mischievous look on his face. “Actually…” 

He pulls away before you can grab him to stay, and Tom slips down between your legs with a cheeky smirk on his lips. 

“Tom,” you whine, scrunching your nose. “I want you.”

“In a minute.” He presses your knees apart and leaves a soft kiss to the inside of one of your thighs. “Patience, my darling girl.”

You try your best to look unimpressed, but it’s very difficult to maintain the rouse as he draws his tongue through your slit. You reach down to grip at his hair, pulling him closer as he trails his mouth all over you. He moans straight against your sopping folds, teasing your clit with his tongue as he slides two fingers back into you, exploring your wet heat eagerly.

“Tom,” you cry out, your back arching off the sofa. His free hand immediately goes to your side, pushing you back down and keeping you in place as his mouth explores you. Noises of your wet arousal fill the air as he sucks over your clit, teasing you, edging you until you’re whimpering. “C’mon, Tom, don’t wanna cum like this. Need to be full of you.”

When he pulls back, Tom runs the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away the shine of your slick and his spit combined. He cracks a smile when he takes in the fucked-out expression on your face, pulling up until he’s hovering above you once more. One of his hands caresses your leg before loosely opening it up, and the other rests over your hair near your head. He kisses you softly.

“Are you ready?” He asks. 

“Yes,” you whimper, pressing down against him to prove your point. Your voice twists into a gasp as Tom slips into you, the movement easy and slick. Your fingers grip at the back of his hoodie as he rocks against you, your cunt squeezing around him as you take him wholly. “Shit.”

Tom nips at your necks, strands of his hair rubbing up against your hot skin. “So fucking perfect,” he murmurs. He pulls out before fucking back into you with a deep, slow thrust. “Fuck, you’re such an angel.” He leaves another kiss to your neck as he gradually quickens his pace. “My angel, aren’t you?”

You pull him back up, meeting his mouth in response. As you kiss him, his hand on your thigh shifts up and intertwines with one of yours, your fingers tangling as the rest of your bodies do, too. You’re grateful for the contact - keeping you anchored together like an emotional tether, a constant reminder of your love. 

Everything about the moment feels so intimate, his pace slow but still fulfilling. Each time Tom thrusts his hips to meet yours, you feel him in you deep, nudging against those spots only he could reach. Each rut presses you one step closer to heaven, and your praises come out garbled, dissolving into his mouth as his lips caress you, tender and warm. 

Tom pulls away after minutes of deep kissing to stare at you, brown eyes full of warmth. “I’m so lucky,” he stammers out, voice strained. You widen your leg, granting him easier access, and both of you groan as the position lets him in deeper. You can feel that telltale warmth building in the pit of your stomach. “Love of my life, you are. You and your- fuck, your perfect little pussy.” His cheeks are red as he kisses your jaw. “Can’t wait to fuck you for the rest of my life, love.”

His words ignite something inside you that goes much deeper than superficial pleasure, and you find yourself clinging to him, gripping his hand with renewed strength as your other twists down between your bodies. Your fingertips connect with your clit, and you glide them over the bud, moaning louder as you feel your orgasm jerk closer.

“Cum in me,” you find yourself saying, eyes trained on the spot between your legs where Tom’s cock meets with your cunt. “Wanna feel you fill me up.” 

His head finds the crook of your neck, sweaty forehead pushing up against your skin as he grunts. “I’m not going to last much longer.”

“It’s okay.” You squeeze his hand as you gasp for breath. “I’m close.”

Tom peaks a few moments later, and the action of his guttural groans spilling into the air coupled with the way his cock pulses as he empties his load inside you makes you spasm over the edge too. You whimper as you orgasm, a throbbing warmth spreading across you as Tom kisses your neck over and over, his fingers gripping yours tightly as you enjoy the high together, basking in it. Your mouth hangs half-open as you vocalise your climax, your body on fire as he fucks you through it, the moment spanning a short infinity.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, finally stilling. He stays nudged up inside you as he sits up, supporting his weight on his arms, your hands still joined. Tom kisses you passionately, and you feel him smile against your lips as you kiss him back. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

You bring your free hand up to his head, pushing his hair out from his face as you cup his cheek, looking into his captivating brown eyes. You look at him, and you know that there’s no safer vessel for your heart. You know he’s the love of your life. 

“Love you too,” you say, pausing to kiss him between each word. By the end, both of you are smiling. “You know you’re still in me, yeah?”

Tom chuckles, nodding. “Yeah.” He kisses your nose. “You’re warm.”

-

------

yeah you could say im soft for hoodie!tom...

masterlist linked in bio !

please let me know if you’ve got any thoughts :D askbox is always open; feel free to rb/comment (pls)

stay safe my lovely pals <3

[apocalypticgargoyle]

the “we’re fake dating to make someone jealous but actually end up together trope” reminds me of drrreeeaaaammmm😇😇😇

-🧚🏻‍♀️

YES YES 🧚 ANON I LOVE UR IDEAS YES.

I also included these: WELCOME 🦀 ANON and as always, 🍭 anon I'm in love w u.

[𝐁𝐎𝐘]𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃. ♘ 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 (𝟏𝟖+)

pairing: dream x reader (dre™ my beloved)

warnings: vulgar language, mentions of sex, basically that one scene from Easy A, me lowkey trying so hard not to get carried away

You took a sip of your drink; your mind racing with Clay’s words as you debated his plea. You hated the idea of pitting yourself against someone else for an envy factor and meddling in the love lives of your friends, but you knew you’d do anything for Clay. He could mention needing to kill a president and without a word, you’d be by his side. It had always been that way, so why were you so shaken by his request. Then again, you had brought it upon yourself.

“See that girl over there?” Clay asked, barely nodding toward the kitchen as he slumped down to your height so you could hear him over the pulsing music. The smell of the cologne your cousin bought him one Christmas in the hopes that he’d ask her to marry him wafted towards you. You had noticed how he had attempted to clean himself up when the two of you met at the bus stop before traveling to this shindig, but you had brushed it off, knowing it was probably for some girl’s attention.

You peered over his shoulder, seeing the kitchen packed with females. You shrugged slightly. “Yeah, which one?” You asked, raising your eyebrows.

He rolled his eyes. “As if it’s not obvious,” he mumbled sarcastically after realizing what you were talking about. His hand moved to hold your face, squishing your cheeks between his fingers as he angled your head towards one of the various women.

She looked up at the right moment, making eye contact with you and you pulled out of Clay’s grip, already knowing how idiotic the two of you looked staring at her as he blatantly was pointing her out to you. “Oh my god, she saw,” you whispered quickly and he drew in a sharp breath, the two of you freezing as if something were going to happen.

When she didn’t approach the pair of you, you went on like it hadn’t happened, Clay beginning to tell you about why he mentioned her. “We hooked up after calculus a few times,” he smugly boasted.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Why are you still in calculus? Aren’t you a jun-”

“That’s beside the point,” he added, crossing his arms. “She hasn’t texted me back lately.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, peering back over in her direction. It always shook Clay up when a girl didn’t vie for his attention. He was attractive and popular on campus, but there were always a few that would slip through his fingers. And it drove him absolutely crazy.

You wet your lips, exhaling as you thought. “Maybe it’s because you’re too available?” You spoke, thinking out loud and more to yourself than him. He tilted his head as if urging you to continue. You took a sip of your drink, also wondering what you’d meant. “Just start fooling around with another girl and she’ll come running,” you offered.

He nodded along as you spoke, leaning a hand against the wall behind you. “Wanna fool around with me?” He jested, making you snort.

“Oh come on now,” you broke, dropping your head back against the wall, nearly missing his thumb.

He sent you a cheeky expression. “No, you come on now. You suggested it!”

You lightly punched his chest as if to get him to hear you instead of just listen to you. “I didn’t mean me, idiot! Don’t you have like fifteen other people in your phone?”

His shoulders slumped. “Please! I’ve seen you charm the pants off Karl and Sapnap at the same time,” he begged. He straightened up as if he was about to reluctantly agree to something. “I’ll paint your kitchen like you’ve been asking,” he mumbled.

And that’s how you found yourself leaning against Clay’s side as the two of you talked to a group of his friends. His arm curled around your waist, fingers gliding beneath the hem of your shirt to settle against the skin of your hip. You willed yourself to think of something other than his fingers pressed against you, fighting every urge to blush at the contact.

The song switched to a stereotypical dance song and people began to move. You downed the rest of your drink to psych yourself up before eyeing the girl momentarily and standing on your toes to reach Clay’s ear. You wrapped your arm around his shoulder as you told him to dance with you, knowing she was watching the two of you with searing eyes.

You knew he was fighting to see her expression, keeping his eyes on you as you pulled him towards the mass of people by his belt loop. “This is going to be super cringey before the both of us, just pretend you like it,” you bit as you pressed your back to him.

His hands dropped to your waist, moving with you to the beat. “Maybe I will enjoy myself. Don’t be so bossy,” he chided, voice raspy and warm in your ear from talking over the music for most of the night. He was a loud guy, but he always seemed to lose his voice after a party.

You turned in his arms, his body close to yours. “Don’t get too excited,” you jested, pressing a hand to his abdomen as you kept up with him, letting him drop his head beside yours.

“Oh, bet. I’ll get so drunk and mistake you for someone else,” he mocked, his voice a welcome break as it penetrated through the heavy bass of the song.

You scoffed. “Like who? Your cousin?” You teased, making him bite back a laugh as he bit his lip. You felt a laser gaze digging into your back as his hands moved you pull your waist against him. Your hand moved to pull his face to the crook of your neck. You could see her at the new angle; glaring at you over her cup. You felt guilt twist in the pit of your stomach. You’d been at it for a few hours and you were ready to amp it up before she left without him.

“Dream, take me upstairs,” you mumbled into his ear. He pulled away from you, brows threatening to furrow at your words. “Trust me,” you gritted, slipping your hand into his and making it apparent you were looking for a room with him in tow. He was quiet as you lead the way. From where you were walking, you saw her move to inch towards the steps as if she was investigating what you were doing with him. You knew it was in bad taste to set anyone up for jealousy but Clay was your friend, and you really needed your kitchen painted.

You found an empty room, tugging him inside and locking the door. He looked at you with a red tinge to his cheeks. You weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment as if he’d been thinking about what the two of you would be doing in the room, or if it was just from the alcohol. “What now?” He asked.

You chuckled, grabbing his wrist. “Fuck me,” you stated, the words feeling weird with him on the receiving end. His eyes went wide and he awkwardly moved his hands as if he were going to touch you. You rolled your eyes, swatting away his hands before grabbing his wrist and pulling him up to stand on the bed with you after you kicked off your shoes.

You started jumping on the bed, but he just looked at you with a confused expression, making you gesture for him to copy you. He was always like that; you telling him to do something and without actually questioning, he’d go along with you.

You could hear talking outside the door and something clicked in your head. “Oh, that feels so good, Clay. Don’t stop,” you falsely moaned, glaring at him as he struggled not to laugh, the two of you jumping almost in sync as the mattress squeaked beneath your weight.

You motioned for him to add and he looked up to the ceiling, attempting to recover from everything that was happening. “You like that? Slut,” he matched your tone, making you roll your eyes and cover your mouth to hide your laugh at the degradation.

You moaned again, and he giggled quietly, moaning with you. The two of you had begun to loosen up, even timing your jumps so you could double jump and throw Clay off balance. If someone had told you a week prior that you’d be jumping on a nameless person’s bed with your best friend, pretending he was nailing you into tomorrow, you would have laughed. But it probably wouldn’t have surprised you.

The two of you slowed down, winded from the unnecessary exercise. You shrugged slightly, mimicking what you would sound like during an orgasm. It came out weak and Clay looked at you like you’d stabbed him in the chest. He mouthed, “Come on.” You rolled your eyes, wondering how you had found yourself in that position before moaning again, this time a bit too accurately.

You covered your mouth and Clay’s ears turned red as he laughed slightly. You’d been roommates with a friend of his in the past and it nearly dawned on you that he might have heard the sound from you before. You brushed the thought from your mind before it could completely sink in as you got off the bed. He plopped down on the edge of the mattress, catching his breath as you straightened your clothing, tugging your shoes back on. There was something hanging in the air between the two of you now, but you had quickly decided that you’d rather not address it.

After that night, you weren’t really sure how it had gone between Clay and the girl. You wanted to ask him about it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to after you noticed the two leaving together. You had done your job, maybe a bit too well.

In fact, the two of you had been avoiding each other since then. It wasn’t until a week later that you were finally in the same room with him at a birthday party for a mutual friend of yours. The two of you glanced at each other awkwardly before you stood beside him, nudging his arm with your own.

“So, how’d it go with that one girl?” You asked, glancing up at him, your eyes then settling on the group spread around the room talking amongst themselves.

He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Uh, yeah I ended up just driving her home,” he muttered, chewing on his bottom lip. You raised an eyebrow at him. “I just… I wasn’t in the mood anymore. I don’t know…”

You nodded at his statement, deciding that it was ridiculous for you to feel so weird around him for nothing. You knew it was all in your head and he wouldn’t be walking around on eggshells if you weren’t making him. This was Clay, after all. “All that work and for what?” You joked.

He sent you a smile, his shoulders relaxing. “I mean, come on. You had to have enjoyed that-”

You cut him off. “Oh yeah, grinding on you was literally the greatest time of my life,” you quipped sarcastically.

He grinned smugly. “I mean, it was the greatest time of my life to hear you moaning my name.”

You scoffed. “Hope you recorded it,” you mumbled, making him nod in agreement. You rolled your eyes playfully as everyone moved to gather around each other. Seats quickly filled up and Clay sent you a sly grin, patting his lap.

Just to prove a point, you took his offer, making him tense up as if he wasn’t expecting you to. He sat up a bit straighter to even the two of you out, making you shift on his lap. You moved again, setting your drink on one of the nearby tables and he groaned. You froze, hoping no one had noticed his hand press into your hip.

His lips were beside your ear; breath warm and inviting. “Stop moving,” he bit, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mouth curled into a smirk. “Why? Can’t control yourself?” You jeered, making his grip tighten on you.

“Don’t tease,” he nipped, making you smile wider. You moved again, this time pulling your knee to your chest and leaning back against him. With the new movement, you could feel him harden beneath you, and for some reason, you were into it. Your escapades in the bedroom had given you a series of oddly sexual dreams about Clay. Maybe this was your chance to relieve what tension had been built between the two of you.

His other arm moved to wrap around your knee, cementing you in place. “Cut it out,” he hissed, making your eyes settle on his. You could tell by the lust-blown look in his eyes that he was already thinking about you too.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” You quizzed, your heart hammering in your chest as his eyes danced back and forth between yours, searching your face for a hint of joking.

You could feel his heart skip a beat. “Really?” He asked, waiting for you to redact your words. You nodded. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as your mom and the pool boy,” you joked, instantly lightening the mood as he rolled his eyes, leaning forward and digging his face into the crook of your neck and making you laugh. You got off his lap, moving towards the birthday boy and saying your goodbyes with the claim that you had an upset stomach so Clay was driving you home.

When the two of you finally got out of the apartment building, Clay turned to you. He spoke with a clear tone now, “This is real,” his words coming out as a question in and of itself. “You’re not fucking with me?”

You sighed, shaking your head before grabbing onto his jacket and pressing your lips against his, your body flush against him as his hands hesitantly wrapped around you. Your kiss quickly became hungry and passionate. You’d never kissed him before; usually opting to live vicariously through your friends. As your hands carded into his hair, his fingers fisted in your clothing, almost as if you would float away from him.

Clay broke away almost breathlessly, his lips moving to press against your neck. “I want you,” he groaned, making you moan in response. As he pulled you towards his car, you knew the two of you would finally be relieving some long-time festering tension.

[paterson-blue]

Summary: Sackler's working on his impulse control. No, really--he is, he swears. It's just a lot harder when it comes to you.

Word Count: 8,432

Warnings: fem!AFAB!reader, angst with a happy ending, fluff, sexual tension, friends to lovers (but moves into established relationship), domestic shit, the regularly scheduled Sackler chaos, Sackler is soft, an anxious boy; a nervous boy, excessive gatorade drinking (it's his brand), classic Sackler banter, hair braiding, teasing, handjobs, fingering (f receiving), oral sex (f receiving), slight nose action, unprotected PIV sex (no chance of pregnancy), cock warming, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint) — let me know if I need to add anything else!

Prefer AO3? I gotcha!

You’d entered his life slowly, inch by inch, sneaking into his consciousness until suddenly you were all he thought about. When he’d decided to wave at you across the aisle of the bodega all those months ago he’d had no idea of what the future would hold. All he knew was that he’d been seeing you there every day like clockwork; same time, same aisle.

He always grabbed a red Gatorade and you always grabbed some sort of sugary drink of your own. Occasionally the two of you seemed to move in sync, opening the fridge, reaching up, grabbing your item, and slamming the door all in one motion together. Adam thought it was kinda funny, two strangers' lives lining up in such a way, being part of each other’s daily routine. So one day he waves, a goofy grin on his face as he points to his signature bottle of red goodness.

You blink at him in surprise before almost shyly smiling back, your eyes bright, and oh—Adam’s stomach does a dangerous little flip-flop.

He waves at you for two weeks straight until it’s not enough anymore. He comes into the bodega one day determined to talk to you but with no concrete plan of how to do it. He’s a little early in his excitement, and he finds himself having to aimlessly browse the little store like a fuckin’ idiot before the familiar bell dings and he sees you come through the door. He half-trips over to the drink aisle, trying not to come across like he’s following you around, even though he definitely is.

You’re studying the various beverages in the fridge, mouth scrunched up as you consider them. He only allows himself a moment to admire you, not wanting you to catch him staring. He steps closer, boots thudding on the floor, making you look up at him. Now’s your chance, Sackler, a voice echoes in his head.

“What’s today’s flavor?” he hears himself say, and he feels relief wash over him when you give him that pretty smile.

“Oh, I’m not sure.” You sigh, settling your hands on your hips. “Maybe just water.”

“What?! Bullshit! You never get water!” Oh, so he’s just gonna double down on being a creep, huh? Saying he knows exactly what you get every day? Adam wants to smack the palm of his hand against his forehead.

But then you’re letting out a laugh, shaking your head at him. “Well maybe sometimes I like to change things up. We can’t all stick to red gatorade every damn day.”

Your comeback makes Adam feel half-giddy, both from the easy banter and from the acknowledgement that you’ve been paying just as much attention to him as he has to you.

“Well, I’ll have you know that red flavored Gatorade has special health benefits that others just don’t.” He states, leaning against the cool glass of the fridge. You’ve gone back to browsing, but you keep shooting him amused little looks; his ego crows at your attention.

“Is that so?” you ask, humoring him as you indeed select a bottle of water from the bottom shelf.

He’s nodding when you straighten back up, and points accusingly at the bottle of water. “Can’t believe you’re going for the boring shit.”

“Well,” you shrug, holding the bottle to your chest, “I’m feeling pretty boring today. But I dunno, tomorrow might be different. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

She doesn’t mean anything, Adam tries to tell himself. The two of you had been there together every day for the past two months. It’s not abnormal for you to assume he’ll show up again the next day. But still, your words, the between-the-lines invitation for him to see you again, makes his heart leap.

“I guess I will,” he responds firmly before grabbing his regular gatorade from the shelf. This time the two of you walk up to the register together, and before Adam can stop himself he’s digging into his jeans pocket, tugging out a couple crumpled bills. “Hey kid, lemme pay for that.”

You hesitate, but nod, chirping out a “thank you” in that sweet voice of yours. Adam slaps down the money, throwing in a pack of sunflower seeds along with the drinks. If it’s just to make the transaction last two seconds longer—to make him standing there with you two seconds longer—then he’ll keep it to himself. Soon, you’ve got your water and you're waving a goodbye as you step out of the store and onto the busy sidewalk.

Adam follows at a distance; watches you walk away, your purse slung over your shoulder, water already open and pressed to your lips. He watches until you disappear into the crowd, and then he’s sighing, looking down at his feet. It’s not until he’s trudging back home that he realizes he never even got your fuckin’ name.

_______________________________________

It’s another day before he gets your name. A week before the two of you leave together, leaning against the wall outside and sipping your respective drinks; two before he’s asking for your number. For some reason, you actually give it to him.

He’s nervous to text you first, which is unlike him. Sure, in the past he would get a little anxious, not wanting to make a complete fool out of himself, but he still went through with it. But it takes him an entire day to shoot you a message, asking if you wanted to go sit in the nearby park after the bodega stop. Your answer is an immediate yes, and suddenly Adam is eying the hole in the collar of his green t-shirt, wondering if he should change.

It’s not a date. The bodega isn’t a date, the park isn’t a date—the walks and lunches, coffee shops and movie nights in the weeks following aren’t dates either. So what if he cleaned the absolute shit out of his apartment before you came over for dinner? So what if he wore his nice jeans and black dress shirt, sleeves all rolled up to show off his forearms? So fuckin’ what?

It’s not a date.

It’s not a date until, a month into all your not-date’s, you’re standing at the sink with him as the two of you tag-team-clean the dishes. He’s washing, you’re drying, and there’s an easy rhythm flowing until a soapy plate slips from your grasp as he hands it to you. The dish smacks into the water-filled sink, creating a splash that soaks the both of you. You inhale a loud gasp, laughter already in your voice.

He seems to get the brunt of it, the front of his green plaid shirt darkening as warm, sudsy water bathes the fabric. His shoulders hunch up in surprise, and you’re giggling, covering your mouth with your hand. “Shit, I’m so sorry, that was an accident I swear.”

“Oh I call bullshit,” he growls, a grin spreading over his face. He yanks his arms up high, wriggling his fingers over your head so that water and suds drip onto you. “Pay back!” He crows, stalking towards you. You can easily duck under his arm to sideswipe him, to escape his grasp, but you don’t.

Instead, you swat at him with the dish towel in your hands, laughing as you shuffle backwards. “You better fuckin’ not, Sackler! I’ll scream!” You make idle threats at him but he doesn’t listen. He steps forward, forward, forward, hands dripping water all over your hair and shoulders as you shriek.

“I’mmmmm gonna getcha!” he sing-songs, jumping towards you, the wood floor creaking under his big feet. He’s got you cornered now, your back against the wall—ha! His arms swoop down in an attempt to engulf you, aiming to press his wet hands and shirtfront against you, but your hands fly out to grasp his wrists to halt him.

“I just bought this shirt!”

“It’s soapy water, it’s just gonna get more clean!”

“Adam!” You laugh, your voice betraying a tone of fond exasperation. And oh, you’re all smiley and breathless, eyes shining up at him—you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, lighting up his kitchen and his heart and his whole fuckin’ life with the brightest, warmest sunshine he’s ever felt. He stares at you, admiring you freely, not able to help it. You don’t seem to mind; you’re looking straight back at him, thumbs rubbing little circles on his wrists where water was trickling down to his forearms.

Adam’s never really been one for impulse control. That shit’s just never appealed to him. What was the point? If you’re gonna do something, just fuckin’ do it—get it out there in the open and see what happens. Yeah, sometimes things don’t go well, or—okay, they go really fuckin’ bad—but sometimes things turn out for the better! And the sweet feeling of elation whenever his bet, whenever trusting his gut, pays off? It was worth the risk.

So he lunges down, capturing your face in his wet palms as he presses his lips to yours. And shit, by some strange miraculous twist of fate you’re actually kissing him back. It makes him press forward, shoulders scrunched up and back curved towards you, angling himself for you to take. He thinks he could die happy, finally having your mouth against his, finally holding you the way he’s needed since the first fuckin’ day he saw you.

You sigh into his mouth and he gobbles it up greedily, sucking at your bottom lip, full on moaning when your tongue swipes against his cupid’s bow. When you insist on pulling away to get some air he stays close to share your breath, brushing his nose against yours. You hum out a pleased little noise and he wants to melt into the floor. He thinks about doing it—about sinking to his knees and pressing his face into your stomach, holding you tight, tight, tight.

He thinks he might have, if you hadn’t reached up to card your fingers through his hair, fingertips massaging deliciously at his scalp. He presses a needy little kiss to the corner of your mouth; your lips quirk upwards at his touch. When you break the silence it’s in a hushed tone, your hands sliding over his biceps. “That was nice.”

Adam grins, rubbing the tip of his nose over your cheekbone just because he can. “I can do better,” he promises cheekily, “Just gotta let me show you.”

You laugh, saying oh really? in a way that has him preening.

“Hell yeah. I’m a very well rounded individual.” He finally straightens back up, watching you with hopeful eyes, painfully shoving back the urge to ask you if you wanted to kiss him again.

“… I’ve got work tomorrow,” you finally say, and Adam nods, because he knows you do. You took your shit seriously. But oh, you’re reaching for his hand, and the relief he feels when you touch him is immediate. “But I'm free tomorrow night,” you tell him, your own eyes bright, waiting for him to take your offering—and there’s no way in hell he’s going to pass it up.

“Well good, because we’re having dinner. That back alley Thai place. And then I’ll take you out to that gross ice cream shop down the street you like so fuckin’ much.”

You nod, bouncing on your toes a little, and it’s so goddamn cute that Adam almost dips down to kiss you again. The most he lets himself do is rub the back of your hand with his thumb, watching you intently. “And I’m fuckin’ paying, don’t even think about bringing any money.”

You offer him a grin. “Alright. It’s a date.”

Adam nods, so fast he thinks he probably looks unhinged, but hey—that’s nothing new. “You bet your ass it’s a date, kid.”

An actual date. With you. It only took three months.

_______________________________________

So yeah. Impulse control.

Never been Adam’s thing.

It’s not that he doesn’t think about his actions. Okay, well, sure, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just goes with his gut and throws caution to the wind, like when he’d kissed you. He’d just known it was what he should do, and so he did it. He likes to think most of his impulsive decisions are perfectly logical and sound, even the ones that don’t work out. It’s not his fault if other people don’t always agree with what he does. This is how he’s lived his life all these years, and it’s worked out more often than not. Why change something that isn’t broken, or whatever the saying is.

Except. He meets you. And fuck, suddenly he’s overthinking every little urge, every little snap judgement—tight-rope walking the thread of fate. He’s on edge for the best of reasons; you’re the most wonderful thing he thinks has ever fuckin’ happened to him and there’s no goddamn way he’s going to jeopardize what the two of you have. He has to do this right, has to do things properly. He’s going to date the absolute shit outta you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

He likes it, really—hopping each little stepping stone that leads to more of you. Taking things slower than he has in ages, maybe ever. He knows, in the back of his mind, that if he flew into you at his usual gale force chaos, you’d accept him all the same. Because you’re good. You’re soft and sweet, and have turned his life into something golden and warm.

But you deserve more than his chaos. You were so gentle and vulnerable with him, and Adam—he wants to be the same way with you. For you. So he grapples with his impulses, shoving them down when they rear their ugly heads. He’s not gonna fuck this up, no matter how much his brain tries. And oh, does it try.

_______________________________________

For example, he almost tells you he loves you not two weeks into the course of dating you.

It’s not his fault, honest—or that’s what he tells himself. His feelings just like to…. overwhelm him. Endlessly.

See, he’d had a show—a play; one he’d been working on since before he’d waved at you in the bodega those months ago. You knew about it, sure. He’d talked about it (ranted about it) plenty of times. You always listened even if you had no clue what he was going on about, always gave him whatever he needed—whether that was being alone, or extra rehearsal time, or allowing him to flop into your couch and scream into the pillows.

Still, he hadn’t invited you to the opening night. Or any nights, actually. He was too nervous, as much as he hated to admit it—mostly about fucking things up if you were there. Honestly, the thought of you sitting, watching him, made his insides all… wriggly. And even if it was the good kind of wriggly, he’d be too hyper-aware of it, too distracted by it.

He feels guilty even if you don’t seem upset. You have brunch with him—yeah, he was doing fuckin’ brunch now. That shit was good—and then give him a goodbye kiss, telling him to “break a leg.” It makes him smile, and he insists on a couple more kisses, just for luck. And then he’s off to the final rehearsal before opening.

It goes off without a hitch, and Adam’s beyond elated—and relieved, and proud. As he scrubs off his sweat and makeup backstage, he can’t help but wish he had someone there to share his pride with. But he doesn’t have time to get into his head; there’s stupid fuckin’ rich people to schmooze outside, and the director had told him under no uncertain terms would he be in attendance.

Adam yanks on his tie as he makes his way through the theater’s halls towards the ballroom, not looking forward to the boring conversation and unnecessarily tiny food he had ahead of him. He tries to sneak his way through the crowded lobby area but it’s kind of difficult to be discreet with his sheer size—something that shouldn’t surprise him by now and yet does every single time. He forces out gentle smiles and humble “thank you’s” at the praise his performance receives, attempting to make his long legs work double time.

But then he spots something in his periphery. He’s not even sure what it is at first, really--just that it means something to him. It’s important. A flash of fabric as someone exits the large revolving doors, and there it is, that nagging in his head, that impulse. He veers off course without even thinking about it; fuck the schmoozing. Following that flutter of fabric, he shoves his way through the door and people, stumbling out onto the sidewalk. His dark eyes scan the busy street before landing on what his subconscious had been so attracted to.

You.

It stuns him at first, shocks him to silence--and not much can do that, if he’s being honest. You were here. Had you been here the whole time? Did you watch the whole thing? Were you just gonna leave? Adam thinks all these things at once, his mind a cacophony of noise, and suddenly he’s bellowing your name over the bustle of the crowd. He watches you jump, acknowledges the head turns he’s getting--he doesn’t give a fuck. You’re turning to look at him and he’s all but bounding over, zeroed in on you. You looked so goddamn gorgeous, the lights of the city casting multicolored glows over your skin.

“You’re here.” He says when he gets close enough, gaze bouncing all over you, not able to keep to one spot.

You give him a sheepish look, extending him just half a smile. “I… Yeah, I’m sorry. I wanted to come. I know you didn’t ask me to, but this show is so important to you and I--” You let out a small laugh, “--I wanted to support you, even if it was a secret?”

Adam’s chest fills with warmth, and his voice is noticeably quieter when he speaks again. “And you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye? What the fuck, kid?”

You shrug, but in a bashful way, not in a way where you’re blowing off his question. “Well, it wasn’t about me, you know? I wanted to be here for you, but until you were ready for me to be here, be here… I wasn’t wanting to, I don’t know--force your hand, or anything.”

And shit, if that doesn’t give Adam pause. He doesn’t think he’s ever had someone do something like this for him--support him without wanting something in return, without wanting recognition for their ‘good deed.’ You were giving him yourself even when he wasn’t around to acknowledge it or thank you for it. The words almost slip out of his mouth right then and there. I love you. It would be so simple.

They’re on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble out in the open area between the two of you at a moment’s notice; he does the only thing he can think of to stop it from happening. He lunges forward, half yanking you to him as he slams his mouth down onto yours. It's… not as gentle as he intends, but he’s desperate, because the words are already leaving his lips in a muffled jumble. He’s kissing you on the crowded sidewalk like he’s fuckin’ starving for it, like he can’t breathe without it. Maybe he can’t. He sure isn’t stopping to find out.

“Adam--” you murmur into his mouth, and he grunts at you in response, which earns him a laugh. Your hands slip over his dress shirt, underneath his suit jacket, and he leans into your touch. You pull away from his lips, but press lingering kisses to his jaw, and Adam thinks maybe it’s an okay compromise. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close; says the only (other) thing he can think of--that he knows he has to get off his chest.

“I don’t wanna fuckin’ date anyone else. Don’t wanna kiss anyone else. Just you.” He makes sure to look at you when he says it, not caring how intense he comes across. If he can’t say that he loves you outright, he’ll do it in every other little way he can. “I wanna do boyfriend shit for you. Like—like make you canned soup when you’re sick and—and text you whenever I see a fuckin’ tree that reminds me of you.”

You smile up at him in that way that makes him feel ridiculously small and a million feet tall all at once. “Boyfriend shit, huh? Does that mean I need to start thinking of girlfriend shit to do?”

Adam nods briskly, but then pauses, his hands sliding up and down your back. “Only if you want to.” He tries to school his tone into something soft and neutral, trying to protect himself in case you say no.

But then you’re relaxing into his chest, resting your head over his thrumming heart. “I want to.”

He’s glad you can’t see his grin, and he holds you tighter to him, hoping you wont notice the way he’s literally fuckin’ vibrating with happiness. He wants to shout, wants to yell out at everyone passing by on the street. Hear that, everyone?! She’s my fuckin’ girlfriend now! Mine!! Ha!

“Do you wanna come back inside with me?” He asks instead, trailing his fingertips up and down your arm. “I have to go suck up to a bunch’a idiots so they’ll give the director some money. They might be willing to give more if I bring along some hot eye candy.”

You snort, pulling away from him; his gaze flits over your face, taking in your pleased smile and sparkling eyes. You were happy. He made you happy. It’s all he ever wants, really. You agree to coming with him, and he gives you his arm to hold onto as he escorts you back into the building, head held high with pride.

_______________________________________

Of course, it just makes things harder.

He’s swallowing down “I love you’s” left and fuckin’ right: when you pick him up from an audition and hand him a red gatorade. When you remember his lunch order from the café down the street. When you laugh at something dumb he’s said—a joke he knows isn’t that funny.

When, alternatively, you say Sackler in that exasperated-yet-fond tone whenever he’s said something annoying. When the two of you sit quietly in the living room together, each doing work, comfortable in the silence. When you pass behind him while he’s cooking and brush a gentle hand against his back, casual as can be.

He swallows the words down the first time he stays over at your place. It’d been an accident; he’d fallen asleep on the couch after getting back from an out-of-state visit to see his niece. He’d woken up in the morning to the smell of coffee, finding himself tucked under blankets. You’d come over when you saw that he was awake; brushed his hair out of his bleary eyes, said- “Good morning, sleepy head.”

He starts staying over a lot more after that, in your bed instead of the couch. Each time he wakes up next to you, wrapped around you, one of you half on top of the other—his chest fuckin’ aches. And still, his brain tells him to keep his thoughts to himself, to hold his feelings in his chest until the right moment. What’s the right moment? He asks himself. He never receives an answer.

It’s a torture he’s never experienced before and he doesn’t know what to fuckin’ do with himself. The first time you climb into his lap, tugging his jeans open, wrapping your perfect hands around his cock--all he can do is stare up at you, plush mouth hanging open, barely daring to breathe much less let the usual filth fall from his lips.

Because holy fuck, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, so perfect for him, and he’s pretty sure if he tries to say a single thing he’s going to let it slip. So he just yanks you close, biting at your lips, letting you swallow down his grunts and groans. He touches you everywhere--tries to let his hands do the talking for him.

He thinks he should probably tone down just how fervently he’s staring at you as he presses his thick fingers deep inside your pussy, but he has to see, has to know he’s making you feel good. “Tell me.” He manages to say, voice hoarse as he glances down to see your sticky wetness on his fingers before he pushes them back in, thumbing at your clit as he does so. “Tell me how it feels.”

You’re quiet but from your whimpers and whines, and Adam almost adds on a desperate please before you’re suddenly speaking, your words more of a babble as he works you. “F-Feels good, Adam, baby, feels so full. Can--can you--a little faster?”

A little faster? He can do that. He speeds up the motion on your clit, curling his fingers against that special spongy area inside as he pounds them in and out of you, brown eyes nearing black as he stares you down. “Like this?” he growls out, and instead of answering with words you let out a squeal, your hips jerking against him as your eyes roll back in your head.

Adam grins, breathless and feral. “Yeah. Like that, huh? Pretty girl.” The feeling of you cumming on three of his big fingers is enough to drag a long moan out of his chest; you’re so fuckin’ beautiful. “That’s it, doll, ride my fingers—good girl, so fuckin’ needy for me.”

You’re all clingy afterwards, clutching at him; he clutches right back, pressing his face into your shoulder, listening to you breathe. I love you, he thinks. I fuckin’ love you.

When you finally let him press his face between your legs one night, the words echo endlessly in his head. He’s lost in you, in the pressure of your thighs against his ears, your hands clutching at his shaggy hair, the way you clench so sweetly against his tongue. He rubs his face back and forth, smearing your slick all over himself greedily, sliding his nose up and down your clit. You let out an uninhibited, shuddering noise and he smirks, eagerly sucking at your folds.

He lets his eyes flick up to look at you, taking in the softness of your stomach, your heaving tits, the arch of your neck as you toss your head back against the pillows. He can’t see your face like this but he doesn’t fuckin’ care, not when he has the vision of you before him, your soft skin under his palms, the tangy sweetness of you in his mouth.

You cry out his name when you orgasm, your hips bucking against his face and Adam just goes along for the ride, using his hands to ease your frenetic movements. He spells it out with his tongue against your clit as you slowly come back down, blood rushing in his ears.

I - L - O - V - E - Y - O - U.

It’s a warm, early fall night when he fucks you for the first time, slow and deep, the bedroom windows cracked and letting in the nightly noise of the city. He doesn’t hear any of it--hears nothing but you and the sounds your bodies make together. There’s no rushing, no dirty words falling from his lips--there’ll be more than enough time for that later. Right now was about the slick slide of his cock in you, his eyes trained on yours, all wide like he’s surprised by this--shocked that any of its happening. In a way, he is.

Adam reaches out to settle a giant palm on your cheek, holding you, rubbing his nose against yours as he rolls his hips, muscles flexing under his skin as his back arches. He wants closer to you--closer, closer, and closer still--so he shuffles up the bed. It's a little awkward, but he doesn’t care, just as long as he can get deeper. You’ve got your knees hugging his hips, hands grabbing at his shoulder blades, making the prettiest noises in his ear. Adam, you say, and somehow his name has a thousand meanings in this moment. Adam, Adam, Adam.

Hearing it makes his toes curl up, makes him choke out a moan into your neck. “Fuck, I’m--I--” He fumbles for your face, breathing hot and heavy as he mouths over your skin to find your lips, kissing you sloppy to shut himself up. You’re clenching tight around his cock, a hand snuck down to rub quick little circles on your clit as you get close.

He doesn’t watch you as you cum this time, not when you’re pulling his own orgasm out of him, milking him for all he’s worth. He’s drenched in sweat, trembling as he sucks in shaky breaths. No thoughts fill his mind, head completely fuckin’ empty but for the pleasure humming through his veins.

You laugh afterwards, the two of you curled up together, Adam having collapsed to the side in an attempt not to crush you. He gives you a crooked grin of his own, sliding one big palm over your tummy, rubbing it as he slings a massive thigh over your legs. “Good?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he starts to finger your belly button. You bat his hands away, calling him a fucking weirdo even as you lean in to capture his lips with yours. He nips at your bottom lip happily, smoothing his hand over your side, grabbing whatever part of you he can.

“Yeah,” he concedes, “-but I’m the fuckin’ weirdo you have custody of.” You smirk, and then you’re tugging on his shoulders, trying to haul him closer to you. You both need to shower--to clean up, probably drink some water, more than likely change the sheets. But maybe, he thinks to himself as he curls up half on top of you, nuzzling into your cheek--maybe it can wait for just a little longer.

____________________________________

“Fuckin’—ow!”

“Adam, stop moving around—“

“Well stop pulling my fuckin’ hair!”

You sigh at him, crossing your arms over your chest and giving him a hard look in the mirror. Adam pouts, slumping on the stool he was sitting on; he knew he was being whiny but his scalp was fuckin’ sensitive!

“You’re the one who asked me to braid your hair, remember?” You point out, grabbing another elastic from the countertop. “You practically begged me.”

“I didn’t beg.” He huffs, making a face at you. You don’t move, and he chances a look at his watch—fuck, he was gonna be late if this took too much longer. “… Fine, I’m sorry, I’ll sit still. Promise.” He chews on his bottom lip, giving you his best puppy dog eyes; he’s heard they were pretty effective. He’s pleased when you finally step forward, reaching up to comb through his hair again, pulling it out of his face and plaiting it across the top of his head.

He’s landed an actual honest-to-fuck movie role. A little indie film, sure, but it was still another stepping stone in his career. He was beyond excited, was putting his all into it—and, apparently, since his character was a boxer, that meant doing early morning training followed by choreography.

It was fine, really. He was enjoying it, and he liked learning a new sport, liked feeling the burn in different muscles of his body. It wasn’t that he was out of shape, it was just fuckin’ intense. Some days absolutely kicked his ass but he was always eager to come back for more. His trainer, Beth, said she liked that about him. It gave Adam a sense of pride about what he was doing.

It’s just that his damn hair kept getting in the way. It would get all sweaty, sticking all over his skin, flying into his eyes at the most inopportune moments. He’d tried to put it up into a ponytail but that hadn’t lasted long at all. Finally last night, after days of his complaining, you’d told him he just needed to braid it. I don’t know how to do that shit, he’d said, and you’d snorted, and here the two of you were.

“M’gonna be late.” He warns, leg bouncing up and down, jittery. He’d been on time—early, even—to every single session so far, and he didn’t want to break that streak.

“You won’t be late,” you murmur, twisting the tiny elastic around the end of the braid, making him wince just a little—he shuts his eyes against the sting. They have to be tight or they won’t hold, you’d said. Your hands sweep his remaining loose hair behind his ears, combing your fingers through it as you give your work a once over.

“I think they’re okay. They shouldn’t fall apart, at least. No more hair getting in your eyes.” You scratch your nails lightly at the back of his neck, a silent apology for the strain on his scalp, before moving to rub the shells of his ears between your thumbs and forefingers. Adam makes a small, pleased noise at the sensations, leaning back into your chest. He wants to stay here like this, with you, but he knows he can’t.

“How do I look?” He questions, eyes still closed. Your hands slide down the sides of his neck to rest on his shoulders, squeezing gently. He feels when you press a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

“Cute.” You tell him, and he can hear the smile in your voice. “Very pretty.”

He opens his eyes to meet your gaze in the mirror, wrinkling up his nose. “Cute?” You nod, and he shakes his head. “I can’t look fuckin’ cute while I’m boxing!” You just shrug, as if to say ‘well, what am I supposed to do about it?’, and then start putting up your supplies. Adam wants to keep on teasing you, but instead he hauls himself to standing, heading into the living room to grab his boots.

You trail in after him as he’s shoving them on his feet and perch on the edge of the couch to watch him. He speaks as he ties the laces, hyper-aware of the time even though the subway was only a couple minute walk from your apartment. “I shouldn’t be home late. Probably be back before you, even.”

Home. It only half registers that he says it, that he refers to your place as his. He doesn’t have time to worry about it now; besides, you only nod at him, like he hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary. He hops up, heavy feet stomping across the floor as goes to grab his trusty backpack. When he passes you on the way to the front door he drops a gentle kiss to your mouth.

“Thanks for my hair.” He says as he slips his arms through the straps of the bag and proceeds to pat his pockets, making sure he had everything he needed.

“Wait!” You’re crying out suddenly, making him freeze in place, looking at you with wide eyes. He watches you rush over to the fridge, digging in it for a moment or two; he gives his watch another nervous glance.

“Kid, what the hell…?” Adam scratches at the back of his neck, bouncing on his toes, ready to get out the door. When you shut the fridge, you’ve got two tupperware containers and a red gatorade in your hands; you hurry over to him, a small smile on your face.

“Here.” You tug him around with surprising strength, maneuvering him until you can unzip his backpack and put the plastic boxes and drink into the large pocket. “I made you lunch and some snacks. Don’t worry, it’s all protein. I know you always pack water but I wanted you to have more than that.”

Adam whips back around the second he’s allowed, his chest feeling warm and fluttery. He steals another kiss, one large hand on your jaw, nudging his nose against your cheek. Knowing he has to keep it short he pulls away, brushing his thumb over your chin as he does so. He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t really know how to express what your actions mean to him. When had you even packed that? Last night, while he was asleep?

You give him a gentle smile, nuzzling your face into his palm. “You better get going. You’ll be late.”

Adam exhales. You always gave him an escape route, and he always fuckin’ took it. “Right, yeah. Okay.” He steps back, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack. “Have a good day.” He yanks open the front door; when you speak again, your words are rushed, clearly not wanting to keep him.

“You too! Oh, can you pick up some bread on your way home?

“What? Oh, bread—yeah, sure—“ He’s stepping through the door, mind already focused on the day ahead. His hand finds the doorknob by muscle memory— “Sounds good, I can do that, love you!”—and the door slams shut behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, his long strides getting him to the subway station sooner than he thought.

It’s not until he’s two stops down, staring blankly out the window as he stands in the crowded subway car, that he realizes what he’s done. Dread settles in his gut, heavy like lead, and his stomach twists. Fuck. Fuck! How could he have done something so stupid?

He wipes his palms on his gym shorts, feeling like they’re all clammy. He’d said ‘I love you’, tossed it to you like it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing! Fuck, what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if he’d ruined everything—pressured you somehow? Jesus Christ, well, guess it was time for him to leave the country. Or at least, move across town. New York was big enough to hide in, right?

He makes his way to the gym in a daze, his chest feeling all tight with anxiety. Getting into his routine is a struggle, and it frustrates him even more. Beth finally tells him to just have at one of the punching bags for a little bit, which does help loosen him up. Adam thinks it’s a tad ironic that imagining punching himself makes him feel better.

It’s not until he’s lumbering to the bodega to grab the bread you asked for, body aching and sticky with sweat, that he remembers you aren’t supposed to be home yet. He could sneak in undetected, plan an escape, or at least formulate some sort of explanation for his morning mistake. Though, he’s pretty sure saying “it was an accident, like when you were a kid and called your teacher ‘mom’” to his girlfriend wouldn’t bode well.

He knows he’s probably overreacting, but he’s never fuckin’ felt like this about someone before! He thought he’d known what love was; he thought he’d been in love in his past relationships. But he’s always said the words too fast, threw himself head first into the deep end. And yeah, he had loved them, in a way—cared about them, wanted them to care for him, too. But this? The all-encompassing affection and support you gave him? Your acceptance of him? He’s never had this before.

He’s never had someone want him fully as he is. And he wanted you the same way, loved every fuckin’ inch of you. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of you; wants you by his side, forever. He feels so much that it scares him. And the thought of you not feeling the same, of you not wanting what he did—of his confession of love being something one-sided.

Adam was fucking terrified.

But he can’t run away. He knows he can’t. He always did, and always came back when it was far too late—when people were done with him. He won’t do that with you.

So he takes the steps up to your apartment one by one, trudging slowly, the loaf of bread held to his chest as if it would protect him somehow. He fumbles with the key in the lock, finally pushing through the door and kicking it closed behind him. Looking up, he freezes, heart leaping into his throat. There you were, sat on the couch.

“… I thought you’d be at work,” he says after a moment, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He forces his body into movement, numbly going to put the bread on the countertop before setting down his backpack and removing the empty containers from his lunch. He can feel your eyes on him even if he isn’t looking at you; it makes him hunch his shoulders up to his ears.

“I had a meeting get canceled,” you inform him, voice holding on to a certain edge even while your tone is light. There’s silence, Adam trying to pretend like he’s busy in the kitchen even though it’s pretty obvious he isn’t. “Sackler.” There’s that stern-yet-fond tone he loves hearing so much, and it’s impossible for him to ignore you. He chances turning around, giving you what he hopes is a blank look.

“Will you please come here?” You’re practically batting your eyelashes at him at this point, and his brain is telling him that you’re definitely up to something. But then, you’re standing up, and he registers you’re wearing his favorite tiny tank top—and nothing else—and he finds his feet tripping over to you before he can help it.

“Fuck, kid, look at you.” He breathes, hands reaching out greedily to grab at your tits, the softness of your hips, your bare ass. You laugh, pushing him down onto the couch, pressing your hand between his legs as you lean in to kiss him. He groans, bucking his hips up, already impatient. Shit, it would be so easy to just slip down the waistband of his shorts, yank you down onto his cock—

“Thank you for getting the bread,” you murmur against his lips, leaning over him, one knee on the couch. Adam lets out a strangled sort of laugh.

“This is because I got bread?” he asks, incredulous. You nod, and he still doesn’t believe you, but fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re pulling his hand between your thighs and his fingers are delving on instinct. You’re wet. Wetter than you normally are starting out like this. He swallows hard as he finds your entrance, as three of his thick fingers slip in easily.

“Fuuuuuhhck,” he groans, dark eyes flicking up to meet your gaze, “-you dirty fuckin’ girl. Did you get yourself all ready for me? Too eager for my big cock to wait?” He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as you whine, your hands tugging insistently at his shorts. He’s quick to help you pull them down along with his briefs, the both of you scrambling to be connected.

The second you slide down onto his cock he’s throwing his head back, thighs straining as he tries not to thrust into you with abandon. “Always so fuckin’ good,” he bites out, jaw clenched and voice all gravelly. His hands find your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he prepares to guide you at a punishing pace.

But then one of your hands is finding his face, angling him to look at you while your other hand balls itself in his shirt—and fuck, he hadn’t even had time to get his shirt off yet.

“Adam,” you say, all breathless, clenching around his cock in a way that has him grunting in response, almost fuckin’ shaking with need. You say his name again as you tug on his shirt, pulling the fabric up his chest. He reluctantly lets go of your hips in order to help get the offending garment off his torso, but then he’s right back to you, hands squeezing your ass.

“C’mon, baby, need you to move. Need to feel this tight fuckin’ pussy riding me.” His voice is little more than a growl, and he pulls you in to crash his lips to yours before you can respond. He’s overwhelmed, needy, previous anxiety forgotten—he forgot most things when you were so tight and warm and wet around him.

He plants his boot covered feet on the ground and thrusts upwards, a broken moan leaving his chest as you gasp into his mouth. You plant your hands on his shoulders and he thinks finally, you’re going to give him what he so badly needs. But then you’re pulling away from him, settling into his lap like you had all the time in the world, a little smirk on your face.

“We need to talk, Adam.”

He stares at you, gobsmacked; his cock does a little twitch inside of you, like it’s as confused as he is. “Talk? Now?” You nod, resolute, and Adam let’s out a long, hot breath through his nose. “What,” he bites out, palms kneading your ass; he thinks maybe his eye twitches, “—do we need to talk about?”

“Did you mean it this morning?” Your voice is all quiet as you run your fingertips over his french braids, then down to curl his loose hair behind his ears. “When you said you loved me?”

Adam’s mind—so singularly focused on fucking you—grinds to a complete halt. He gapes at you, unable to come up with any sort of excuse, any sort of witty counter to your question. It’s then that he realizes what you’ve done, you little fuckin’ minx—you’ve weaponized sex against him!

You fuckin’ knew he wouldn’t be able to think like this. Maybe he should be mad, but he knows--he knows this is exactly what he needs. So he closes his mouth, swallowing hard and sliding his hands from your ass to the small of your back, holding you close.

“Yes.” It’s shaky, falling from his lips. He tries to make his voice more firm. “I love you.” And then, just to double down on it: “I’m so in love with you it scares the shit outta me. I love fuckin’—everything about you. I never wanna love anyone else ever again, not if it's not you.”

His heart is beating wild in his chest, and the pervy little part of his brain wonders if you can feel it through his dick. You lean in and kiss him all slow, squeezing your perfect fuckin’ pussy around him, and his hands move further up your back to pull you into him. He feels unsteady, like he’s jumped off a precipice into the unknown. He’s dizzy with the relief of his confession, with the worry of your reaction even as you kiss him, with the feeling of such a tight, slick, heat around his cock.

“I love you, too.”

He almost misses it with the way you murmur it into the corner of his mouth and with his head spinning from overstimulation. He blinks at you, giving you those big brown eyes and his jaw works as his mind catches up to speed. You smile, dropping more kisses over his strong features, then laugh when he finally yanks his head back to stare at you, his breath catching in his chest.

“You love me.” It’s not a question, but more of a confirmation; him reassuring himself that what he’d heard was real. You nod, hands smoothing over his broad shoulders, down his biceps. His eyes search yours as his hips shift underneath you, making you sigh happily. Something in him snaps.

He re-positions his feet on the floor, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other wrapped around the back of your neck. Your eyes widen, and you have a split second to balance yourself against his chest before he’s snapping his hips up, fucking into you at a frantic pace. The gasp you make is music to his fuckin’ ears.

“Say it again.” He growls at you, gaze drifting over your body, watching the way your tits bounce with his thrusts. “Say it.”

“I love you.”

Your words make him moan, and he doesn’t care how ridiculous he sounds. “Again,” he demands, voice ragged, and you obey—you say it over and over again until his mind is filled with it, the words a soothing balm for all his insecurities. You cry out, trembling in his lap, his cock deep inside you, and Adam is overcome.

He holds you there, the hand on your neck moving between your legs to rub quick circles on your clit. “I fuckin’ love you too, goddamn, this tight little pussy. You gonna cum for me? Cum all over my big fuckin’ cock?” He’s panting, staring you down, not letting you look away. “Fuckin’—say it when you cum. Please—please.”

You nod quickly, mouth hanging open, squirming so deliciously on his cock as your cunt gets tighter and tighter around him. He isn’t sure he’s even breathing, fingers moving desperately as you sob out his name, hips jerking in his lap. Your hands clutch at him, fingers raking at his chest as you chant I love you, I love you, the words all broken by your cries and whines. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.

“Fuuuuhhhhck.” Adam groans between gritted teeth, eyes rolling back in his head as your pussy squeezes his cock like it’s trying to milk him, like it’s begging for all his fuckin’ cum. He lets out loud, feral, shuddering breaths, trying to hold back—he isn’t done with you yet. “Oh, you feel so fuckin’ good, jeeeezus.” His words sound all strangled, and he has just the smallest bit of sense to wrap his arms around you when you slump into his chest.

Your breaths are short little pants against his neck, and he closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of them—of you in general, the weight of you on top of him, your sticky skin against his, your body heat. “I love you.” He croaks out, saying it again just because he can. You hum in response, nuzzling your face closer; it makes him smile.

He trails the pads of his fingers down your spine and then back up, feeling the texture of your skin. You were his. His to touch, to kiss, to hold, to love.

He was yours.

It’s a heady, hopeful thought that tastes like the future.

______________________________________________________________

taglist friends!

@leatherboundbirate @fathersonandhouseofgucci @direnightshade @paper-n-ashes @glassbxttless @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @peachyproserpina @jynzandtonic @hopeamarsu @mariesackler @millenialcatlady @sacklerscumrag @cornmousequeen @eagerforhoney @icarusinthesea @heartofjakku

[sunnyville36]

Put it on me

Requested from anon

Pairing: Lee Felix x fem reader

Themes/warnings: idol!verse Felix, light angst/argument, make-up sex, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (stay safe out there folks!), slightly rough sex

Word count: 1.6k

As always, happy to hear your thoughts, and thank you for reading!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re staring at the half eaten meal on your plate when you hear the door open.

You and Felix have barely had 2 seconds to spend with each other the past few weeks with Stray Kids working on their upcoming comeback, so you thought you would surprise him by making your signature chicken carbonara that he’s been dying to try.  You had texted him earlier to tell him your plans and he had sounded super excited.  He mentioned dance practice might run long, but told you he would come straight over to your place when it ended to spend some time with you.  So you put his portion in the oven to keep it warm and waited for a text saying he was on his way, but it had been over 3 hours since their practice should have ended and you hadn’t heard anything from him.

Your boyfriend comes around the corner into the kitchen, and you can immediately tell he’s not in a good mood, but you hope some food might lift his spirits.

“Hey Lixie,” you say, standing up and crossing the short space to give him a quick hug.

He wraps his arms loosely around you, trying to keep his sweat-stained tank top from ruining your shirt.  “Hi Y/n.”

“How was practice?”

“Fucking exhausting,” he sighs, plopping down in a seat at the table and letting his head fall into his hands.

“I can only imagine,” you respond, making your way over to the oven.  “Maybe something to eat will make you feel better?”

“Oh, I-I’m not hungry, baby.”

You turn back to him, see his head is still in his hands.  He’s trying too hard not to interact with you, and you feel like something’s up.

“After that insanely long practice?  You must be.”

“I uh… I ate with the boys.”

You feel a knot twist in your stomach, but try not to jump to conclusions.  “Lix, dinner must have been hours ago by now; come on you should eat something, I kept your pasta in the oven - “

“I just came from eating,” he interrupts, looking anywhere but the spot where you’re standing with one hand on the oven door.

“You what?” you ask, voice quiet.

“After practice ended, we all went up the street to that 24-hour ramen place.”

His head is bowed, eyes looking at his lap, and you can tell he’s feeling guilty.  And you know it’s petty, and you should really just brush it off and move on, but you find yourself feeling more hurt than you thought you would.

“But I… we said we were going to spend some time together tonight, and I made this special just for you…” you trail off, trying hard to stem the tiny drops of tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

“I know but - look, the members were at each other’s throats all night and it was such a tough session and I didn’t wanna just bail on them when Chan suggested we all grab food to sort it out - “

“So you decided to bail on me instead?” you scoff, anger rising in your chest.

“No, it wasn’t like that, I’m still here aren’t I?”

“You could have at least texted me about the change of plans.  I’ve been waiting here for hours thinking you’d walk in the door any minute when you might not have even shown up at all!”

“Well I’m sorry my life doesn’t revolve around how you spend your time sitting around!” he snaps back, throwing up his hands in an annoyed shrug.

“Right.  Because all I do with my time is sit around pining after you.  You know, this was one of the only free times for me too, and now it’s wasted.”

The air is tense between the two of you.  You’re rapidly moving towards a full blown fight, and this is far from how you wanted your evening to go.

“So I’ll just go then, if your precious plans are ruined,” Felix mumbles, standing to grab his jacket from the hook by the door.

In all honesty, it’d be better if you let him leave, give the both of you time to cool down.  But you’re too upset to think rationally, and all you can see is him not even caring enough to stay despite your disagreement.

“So you’d rather walk away than talk about this?”

He turns back, fists balling at his sides.  “We’re not talking, you’re just yelling at me, and I didn’t even do anything!”

“It’s not what you do; it’s what you don’t do.  You never even want to spend time with me anymore!  I feel like you only want me around when it’s convenient for you!” you shout, voice wavering.

Something shifts in his eyes then, as he stares at you from across the room.  He looks hurt, offended almost, more angry about what you just said than at any previous point in your argument.

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” you press, enthralled by his aura, his usual lighthearted demeanor being replaced with one oozing with dominance.  With desire.

“Of course I want to be with you.  Always,” he says, voice low.  Assertive.  Sexy.

“Then prove it.”

He’s on you in a matter of seconds, hands grabbing your face and lips crashing against yours.  Your own hands find themselves on either side of his slim waist, still sticky from sweat and exertion.  He pushes you up against the counter, melding your bodies impossibly closer as his tongue slips into your mouth.  The kiss is messy, filthy, nothing like the two of you normally do during your lazy makeout sessions.  His leg is slotted between both of yours, and the tensing of his thigh against your core as he moves to lean over you makes you heady with want.

Suddenly, you’re turned around in his hold, your back flush to his front, hiding nothing from you as you feel the hardness in his pants growing against your ass.  He’s frenzied, his normally delicate touches replaced with rough grabs, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, the other dipping below the hem of your skirt to run along the damp folds of your panties.  He brings his lips to your ear, his words sending a shiver down your spine.

“Want me to show you what I never get tired of tasting?”

“Mmhmm,” you whimper, letting him half-drag, half-carry you over to the living room and ease you onto the couch, the first gentle touch from him since this whole thing began.  That turns out to be short lived, as the next thing you know he’s on his knees in front of you, flinging your legs apart and waiting for your almost imperceptible nod before moving your panties to the side and bringing his mouth to you.

He devours your pussy, licking up and down your center and sucking on your clit.  You moan his name, and you can feel him smile against you as he focuses his tongue on teasing your clit with little kitten licks while ramming two of his fingers inside you.  Normally it takes you begging to get him to be this rough with you, but something about your fight must have got him really riled up, and you weren’t about to complain.

After bringing you to the brink of your high a few times but never quite enough to send you over, he lifts his head from between your legs, mouth dripping with your essence, and moves behind you on the couch, gently positioning you on your hands and knees.  He leans his whole body over yours, again whispering his question in your ear.

“Can I fuck you like this?”

You rarely do it from behind, but every time you have you’ve loved it, so you nod your head eagerly, letting out a breathy “yes.”

He’s ready as soon as you say so, pushing into you with such force you jolt forward slightly, your laughter-tinged gasp giving him a sign of just how much you enjoy it.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you, kitten?” he purrs, lifting you up off your arms so your torso rests on his chest.

“Yes… fuck... Felix, please more.”

He draws out then pushes back in, picking up the pace each time.  Soon he’s pounding into you, his left arm supporting your hip and his right arm wrapped loosely around your neck as you lean against him.  The way his cock is angled is causing him to hit you perfectly each time, and you’re moaning his name again as you feel his quick hot breaths next to your ear.

“You promise to never doubt how much I want you?” he growls out, voice strained from the effort not to release just yet.

“Yes, yes, Felix I promise, please let me cum, please.”

“Let go for me baby.”

You reach your peak at the same time, his groan in sync with your high pitched scream.

When you’re both aware enough to speak again, Felix pulls you down to sit between his legs, leaning you against his chest.

“You were right,” he starts, voice sincere, “about - about earlier.  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was all that time and I’m sorry for leaving you alone when I promised we’d spend the evening together.”

You look up at him, wanting to apologize as well.  “I’m sorry about what I said.  I know you’re not intentionally neglecting me.  I’ve just been upset recently that we don’t have a lot of time together anymore.  But I should have told you that earlier; I shouldn’t have brought that up in an argument.”

“So we’re even then?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.

You give him a playful punch to the chest, smiling.  “Yeah, we’re even.”

“Then I think it’s time for round two.”

[sunjaesol]

i'm unprepared (oh, i've never felt like this)

chenford | 4x01 canon divergence | title: waking up slow // gabrielle aplin

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Lucy Chen losing her mind had been the least surprising element of all. Angela got abducted, Jackson — her best friend, her pseudo-brother, her fellow rookie — got murdered in cold blood and her life, always rapidly changing, slipped through her fingers like dust.

Had she not been restlessly looking up at the ceiling of Tim's living room, she'd book an appointment with a therapist, or peruse her own psych books of college, or maybe just listen to those mindfulness podcasts her mom always recommended. But she was staring at Tim's ceiling. In his clothes. After that oddly mind-boggling hug.

Or rather, what existed after said hug. When his hands slowly glided and caressed her arms, his chin tucked in his chest to intently, ardently, look at her. Now, she wasn't on the brink of death like a few months ago; now, he had no reason to be this doting, this fond. Lucy wasn't an idiot either — something shifted between them in those mere seconds and both had felt it, the energy charged with the culmination of all past shared moments and the basic instinct of finding the other attractive.

Tim Bradford was hot as hell, something Lucy quickly realised as professionalism shifting into tentative friendship and genuine comraderie.

But it didn't matter. He'd been her T.O., she rather kept her job and reputation than trying to create a spark with the stoic man, and friendship would always be more important to her than romance.

The hug changed her mind however. She felt so... safe. And maybe she was just incredibly vulnerable, and maybe her sadness translated itself into seeking connection, and maybe she was done beating around the bush when death always lurked around the corner, so maybe...

With a huff, Lucy twisted on her side and let her feet fall on the floor. There was no sound coming from Tim's bedroom, the door closed and imposing, equally luring her in and keeping her away.

Her heart told her to get up and knock, slip inside and work out whatever had transpired between them. It wouldn't even surprise him, she believed, as she always had some psychological insight to share with him. But her head screamed about the lunacy of the plan. Tim was Tim. Not a romantic prospect. Not someone to pine over. Not someone she should feel jealous about when other women gave him attention.

And yet.

And yet... what if? What if he was a romantic prospect, what if he was worth the possible scrutiny at work, what if he was everything and more and he felt the same about her? All at once, Lucy felt seventeen — insecure and nervous to talk to a crush. Lucy, with her high EQ, ironically had never been in love.

What if this was it? What if the churning of her stomach, the need and want to be with him, the easy, certain thud of her heart seeking him out — what if that was it? Shouldn't she explore that, for her own sake?

Her feet began to move on their own accord, quietly padding to his door and standing in front of it, waiting. Still no sound. Her hand hovered, fingers curled and ready to knock. Hesitation froze her. Knock, she told herself. Just knock.

But before she could, the door swung open and revealed a stunned and equally unsteady Tim. Well then. That made it easy.

“Oh,” he uttered, blinking, “do you need anything else?”

A time machine, the last twenty-four hours, a hug, you. Lucy mustered a smile. “What do you need?”

“I don't know.” His mouth parted at the final syllable, looking at her like he's never seen her before. Maybe she miscalculated and he didn't want her the way she wanted him.

“Um...” Averting her gaze, she focused on his black sweater instead. “I feel... weird, about what happened.”

He frowned. “Yeah. Jackson and Angela—”

"Between us, Tim."

Their eyes locked again. She didn't know where this fearlessness came from, but it was out in the open. No turning back. If it went awry, they could chalk it up to exhaustion and emotions running high. Lucy held her breath. For the first time in forever, Tim and her stood on opposite ends of the story.

He froze completely. But in that stillness, Lucy read him like an open book. The way just his eyes flickered across her face, assessing her, weighing the best words to turn her down in that typical awkward Tim way, or more unlikely: agree with her. Please agree with me.

"Uh..." He scratched his chin, a pensive pinch between his brows. Every second that he didn't speak felt like a painful eternity.

"C'mon, Tim," she grumbled.

"I know— I need— I'm..." He sighed, shutting his eyes for a beat and taking a miniuscule step closer. "I wanted to see you... again."

Thank God she was able to read between the lines of the complex story that made up Bradford, or else she would've been confused. If this actually went somewhere, she'd have to push him to be a bit more vocal about what he genuinely thought — but even that quick idea had met her with a wave of fondness. Lucy loved him despite.

Oh. Lucy loved him.

This time, she wrapped around him first. Like a perfect fit, she crawled into his embrace, one he gladly took. The hug tightened, his fingers curling in her back, their noses pressing in each other's neck, an unbelievable intimacy that knocked all rationale out of her. Reflexively, her lips puckered and kissed his shoulder. It was simple, something to be interpreted either way, but she was glad he reacted by gripping her harder.

Unsure how long they had been standing in the threshold, her initial purpose came back to mind. It didn't seem as impossible now. "Can... can I stay with you?" she whispered.

The hand softly cradling the back of her head brushed her hair out of her face, the intensity unlike what they experienced before, his expression so open and earnest that the urge to kiss him felt undeniable. Lucy had never wanted to kiss someone so badly.

A small smile ticked up his lips, those beautiful lines quirking around his mouth, and nodded. "Yeah... that sounds nice."

No nerves wracked her stomach, nor did her heart go haywire at the sight of Tim's bedroom, of the dent in his mattress, of the utter lived-in feeling the space had. A piece of Tim, unveiled, and yet.

She took the undented side, he laid on his end, and they found each other in the middle. His warm arms slipped around her again, coaxing her head to his chest, her ear right above his heart, and both sighed in sync. Finally, she felt. Sinking into the touch, her eyes drooped as he flicked off the lights. Finally feeling his steady form, his warmth, his safety; their legs tangling together like second nature.

"I can hear you thinking," he murmured, mouth brushing against her hairline, "we'll talk about it tomorrow morning, Chen."

"We better, Bradford."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

@alphinias @tim-lucy @chenfordsource @jjskiaras

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 11

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: Nope! Notes: Here we are, a breath away from the end. This features not one, but FOUR songs written by myself. If you only choose to listen to one of them, listen to the final one (Cradle of Heaven), as it is a duet I wrote specifically for this fanfiction, as something that the reader wrote to play together with Daniela. The links to these songs will be within the fanfiction itself, at relevant times. Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy, Pt. 7: Harmony, Pt. 8: Obbligato, Pt. 9: Berceuse, Pt. 10b: Hymn AMAB

Chapter 11: Cadence

(Cadence: Two chords that mark the end of a song)

The stage is set, the lights are dimmed, your heart pounds within your chest, and the world is yours. Soon, it will be Daniela’s. She is right by your side, as ever, hand gently taking hold of your own. There’s a silent reassurance in her grip, a reminder that the two of you have overcome a plethora of challenges. A promise that this will be no different. Both of you take a deep breath, in sync, before exchanging a quick kiss. All of your hard work has been leading up to the coming moments. Although you are beyond confident in your lover’s abilities, there is a shadow of doubt in the back of your mind. Not for her sake, but surrounding the expectations held by her mother, the standard against which you would be measured.

“Come hell or high water, Songbird, I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise,” Daniela whispers, squeezing your hand again, eyes unblinking as they stare into yours. “You’ve made every right choice, worked harder than anyone I know, and there is nothing more I can ask of you… except another kiss to celebrate afterwards, that is.” Giggling in response gives you the moment you need to relax, nerves fading into the background of your mind. “Now let’s put on a show the likes of which my mother has never seen, mhmm?”

THREE HOURS EARLIER:

“Here, you can borrow my brooch. It’s been in the family for generations, since before we even came to the village, passed down starting with an ancestor who crafted it himself, from materials he scavenged while fleeing his home country,” Daphne rambles, helping you attach the jewelry to your shirt. Thankfully, her hands do not tremble nearly as much as yours have been for the past hour. “I’m more than sure that Lady Daniela will tell you this much, but I feel the need to repeat just how good you look right now. I don’t know where the hell they’ve been hiding this version of our uniform, but damn do I wish I could get one for my next date with Ygritte. Seriously, if you can get one in my size, please do me that favor.”

“Anything for my best friend. Especially after all the times you’ve saved my ass these past few months,” you reply, pausing to give her shoulder an affectionate pat. If not for her constant interference running, someone would have certainly found out about your relationship with Daniela. “Speaking of that… of my life being on the line, I mean… no matter what happens today, no matter what Lady Dimitrescu decides, take care of yourself. You’ve gambled with your own blood to keep me safe, but what I’ve done, what I’ve risked, those were my choices. My consequences. The last thing I’d ever want is for you to pay for them, somehow.”

Rolling her eyes, Daphne gives you a playful shove to the chest, before smoothing out the fabric of your dress uniform. Now she refuses to meet your gaze, a familiar mistiness taking over her brown eyes.

“Nobody around here is stupid enough to think you’ll die today. You managed to get Lady Daniela, of all people, to stay focused long enough to learn some absolutely beautiful pieces of music. You have proved, time and time again, that you are a talented musician, teacher, and ‘servant’. So get out there and kick some metaphorical ass, my friend, because you are ready,” she finally says, offering you what seems to be a handshake. But as soon as your hand meets hers, she’s pulling you in for a hug, holding you tight for a solid minute. When at last you part, you give her what may very well be the last smile she’d ever see gracing your lips.

---------------------------

A hand’s edge against xer forehead, parallel to the ground, kept perfectly flat. From anyone else, it would be mockery. From xer? Honest salute, solidarity in a traditional form, accompanied by a sharp-toothed grin. Mimicking the expression, you wave at Ava, glad to see that xe would be awake for your concert. After your first night with your girlfriend, Daphne had helped arrange for someone to be your “cover story” for sleeping outside of your usual quarters. With Daniela’s input (and jealousy), only one candidate had revealed themselves, in the form of a (conveniently) mute butler with an inconsistent schedule, love of mischief, and somehow the respect of the Dimitrescu family. Now, xe appeared ready to escort you to the location of your trial by fire.

“Are you sure our mutual friend won’t be upset to see the two of us together?” You teased, knowing full well that Ava was one of the only people that Daniela trusted 100% around you. In response, xe gives an exaggerated shrug, then quickly links xer arm with your own. Together you march onwards to your destiny, amused by the way xe practically skipped down the hallway. Maybe there was a certain wisdom to xer shenanigans, a carefree philosophy that encouraged laughter in the face of death, and you embraced the thought with a smile.

Before long, however, the two of you encounter another unlikely pair headed towards the same destination: Lady Cassandra, looking somewhat embarrassed, with an unfamiliar maiden at her side. Their hands are clutching each other desperately, although neither of them dares to look at the other. Instead they both watch you closely from where they’ve paused in the corridor. Oddly unfazed, Ava gives them a short bow of acknowledgement, earning xer a brief nod from Cassandra. Seeming eager to move on, she addresses you quickly before gesturing for you to keep walking.

“Good luck. Don’t fuck this up for Daniela, or I’ll never hear the end of it,” she growls, doing her best to downplay her obvious concern. Wanting to let her keep up with her facade, you merely give a nod as you resume walking towards the concert stage. Soft footsteps behind you let you know that the strange pair are accompanying you. Still walking alongside you, Ava repeatedly glances behind you, putting out xer hands in the shape of a heart, giggling all the while. If you didn’t know any better, you would almost assume that xe wanted to get hit by Cassandra.

“Ava, please calm down. If you’re not careful, she’ll throw something at you. If she does that, you’ll probably dodge, and then I’ll probably end up getting hit, and then I’ll miss the concert, Lady Dimitrescu will kill me as punishment, Daniela will be sad and whiny about it, and none of you will have any peace for, like, a month. Three weeks, bare mims,” you tease, nudging xer in the ribs. Emphasizing a pout, xe sends one last look at Cassandra and her ‘friend’ (whose hand she was still holding onto like a lifeline), mouthing words you couldn’t parse. Based on the way Cassandra groans, it was something ridiculously cheesy. Regardless, xe behaves the rest of the way there…

ONE MINUTE TO SHOWTIME:

“I love you, Firefly, and I know that you’re going to do absolutely amazing out there. I’m so proud of you,” you murmur, pressing a feather-light kiss to Daniela’s cheek. As dearly as you wish to stay behind the curtain, in her arms, you know that the show was inevitable. With one last nod to your beloved, you part the fabric shielding you, stepping into the spotlight. Imaginary crowds grow hushed at your appearance, a sea of faces greeting you warmly. In truth, there are but five members in this audience, each gazing upon you with veiled interest. Donning you best presentation persona, you set this final act in motion. “Lady Dimitrescu, Lady Cassandra, Lady Bela, and Mx. Caldwell, it brings me great pleasure to present to you, on this day, a concert performed by your own Lady Daniela. For three months now I have acted as her instructor, and these three months have been, perhaps, the most rewarding of my entire life. I could not possibly be any more proud of her than I already am. Now, without further ado… let us begin!”

Stepping to the side, a tug of a rope has the curtains parting entirely, revealing your beloved, waiting ready at the piano. All at once your audience (including Cassandra’s partner, acting as a mere servant in the background) sits up with wide smiles. They look Daniela over, taking in the sight of her fanciest dress, and the way her eyes light up with joy. By the time her fingers begin dancing away at the keys, there is not a single ounce of anxiety in your entire soul. This first song is a relic from your past, a representation of an abandoned idea, yet she plays it like a celebration. It’s fast, hits hard, a bold take right out of the gate. Admittedly, it is also somewhat short. Nonetheless, it serves its purpose, igniting a spark of excitement in those present. Once the song ends, Daniela is surprised by the intensity of her family’s applause. In the back of her mind, she trembles with excitement, knowing that the best was yet to come.

Riding this wave of pride, she immediately settles into the next song, something slower but far grander. Affection thrums inside your chest as you watch your pupil perfectly execute another piece. You can only imagine what her mother must be feeling, to see just how far her daughter has come in such a short amount of time. A quick glance in Alcina’s direction reveals the barest hints towards her being impressed. For now that was enough to satisfy you. Soon enough her face would twist in surprise, as the second song ended, and a new face steps up onto the stage: Lady Bela. Wordlessly she retrieves her violin from the back of the stage, then turns to the front with a mischievous smile.

“Now, a duet! Presenting the ever-talented Lady Bela, to join Lady Daniela for a rendition of an original song, dubbed ‘Northern Lights’. Enjoy!” You call out, before once more taking your place at the side. While Daniela did not need you to count her in for her solo performances, this feels ever so slightly more important, and as such you do your best to conduct for the duration of the song. If either of the performers need it, they hide it well. Honestly, you weren’t sure if your girlfriend had looked your way even a single time so far. ‘Twas incredible to witness her. Akin to a siren, near glowing, taking to the stage as if born to grace its center. Even with Bela working her own magic, Daniela is ever the star. Together they weave a lovely song, notes rising high into the air, swirling around an enchanted audience.

When it ends, both performers give a bow, as if the entire affair had come to a close. Without hinting at what was to come, you switch places with the eldest Dimitrescu daughter. A deep breath rattles your ribcage as you find your center, reaching out to take Daniela’s hand, the two of you raising your arms upward in a display of union. For the first time this evening, Lady Alcina narrows her eyes in what feels like disapproval. But you pay her no mind. Instead you sit alongside your beloved, quietly settling into your practiced position.

There is no introduction for this song. No announcement, no showmanship, nor even a countdown into the symphony. Simply, like exhaling a breath, the two of you start to play. Your phrases echo hers, and vice versa, calling and answering, accompanying all the while, natural as anything holy in the wild. ‘Tis the second shortest song of the night, only long enough to showcase the degree of your partnership with Daniela. As the song crescendos into an ending, you manage to meet the gaze of your employer. Perhaps it is merely an illusion of hope, or a reflection of lights above, but you swear you see tears in her eyes.

“Outstanding, incredible,” she praises, rising to her feet alongside her other daughters, clapping all the while. Once again you rise to your feet, hand clasped with Daniela’s, bowing as deeply as you can manage. Before you can even process what’s happening, your girlfriend is being pulled away from you, swept up into the arms of her mother. Desperation digs like a knife into your heart, as you ache to celebrate with her, but you remain ever in the guise of a professional. “You did amazing, my dear. I cannot begin to describe how proud I am.” The family gathers around each other, buzzing with affection fit to make the hardest of hearts melt. You are left on the outside, awkwardly waiting, without a hint of acknowledgment.

Even if this concert was a measure of your skill as a teacher, Lady Dimitrescu had never bothered to consider you more than another servant. This night was about Daniela. About your secret girlfriend, the brightest star in all the skies. That is not something that bothers you, nor does it surprise you. All that makes you wish to weep is the desire to kiss her. To sweep her into your arms, with celebratory kisses, singing her name as a praise to higher powers. In the end, it takes several minutes for Daniela to pull away enough to move back to you, and even then she cannot give you the reaction she yearns for.

“I’ll come by to talk to you tonight, I promise,” she whispers, as she gives you the weakest hug you have ever felt. Then she is returning to her family, clinging to her mother with a massive grin. Soon enough you are left alone on stage, quiet surrounding you, mixed feelings gnawing at the pit of your stomach. Something feels… wrong. You cannot put a name to it. No one has hinted to you what your beloved has planned, for none but her even have a clue. As soon as she is alone with her mother, as soon as she has the smallest sliver of an opportunity, she knows what she must do. “Mother… we need to talk. I... I have a confession to make.”

[pinkliquorstyles]

Depravity.

Warnings: dirty talk, a sprinkle of smut, alcohol use, angst, and a whole lot of teasing.

A/n: oh, how I’ve missed writing. 

Harry craved control.

He always had some sort of power over everything in his life, onstage and off, Harry was always in control. He had a plan for every situation and a solution to every problem. He hated to be caught off guard, and it was only when he lacked that authority over his life when you could sense him falter.

So, you could imagine how Harry felt when he heard about a last-minute, extravagant party, made to celebrate his achievements and mass success from his second album.

Don’t get it twisted, although the event seemed formal on paper, it turned out to be anything but. The guest list seemed to be never-ending, as both Y/n and Harry struggled to identify who everyone was, especially, under the dim lighting.

To make matters worse, the liquor flowed through the venue like it was water. Harry could practically count on a person stumbling out of the place every two minutes as they reach their limits.

It seemed like a vision of pure depravity.

Y/n was the complete opposite of Harry, her spontaneous nature, and desire for chaos in order to keep life interesting was one of the reasons why people either loved, or completely despised her. No one could anticipate her taunting movements, and frankly, she preferred it that way.

The sound of loud chatter was drowned out by the rhythmic hums of music that loudly projected from the speakers. Harry could hear the multiple voices that attempted to catch his attention, but it seemed his focus was fixated on something else. His gaze lingered on Y/n, his eyes trailed down her body as her hips swayed in sync with the music that resounded throughout the room.

It was known by the people closest to him that Harry was possessive, especially when it came to Y/n. Whilst some people scolded him for it, he simply couldn’t help it, once Harry gets what he wants, he will do everything in his power to keep it safe.

In a short distance, away from all the chaos, Y/n saw a decorated table filled to the brim with assorted fruits and an almost mouth-watering chocolate fountain placed right in the centre of the display.

Y/n’s sweet tooth ached whilst her eyes watched the treat trickle down the machine. She made her way towards the table, softly pushing past the guests as dizziness made itself apparent on the way, presumably, from the liquor that vibrated all throughout her body.

The area she entered seemed quiet compared to the one she was previously in, with only small groups hovering around the room in their own little worlds as they talked among themselves.

Once she reached the table, she carefully went over her options, each fruit was skewered with a small toothpick. She decided on the strawberries, taking one in her hands before dipping it into a glass filled with dark chocolate. She laughed lightly to herself, as she remembered reading about how both of these foods together, created an aphrodisiac effect.

As she was about to reach for more fruit, she felt a familiar pair of strong hands grip her waist from behind. Her body erupted in goosebumps as a low voice spoke close to her ear. "You’re a dreadful tease.” A familiar deep voice broke Y/n out of her trance as she froze in his hold.

Her body relaxed as she realised who was behind her, turning around with a small smile that teased her lips. She sensed the jealousy that dripped from Harry’s voice. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’just dancing.” She said innocently, placing a strawberry against her lips before taking a bite.

Harry scoffed, at her almost pathetic attempt to be oblivious to her actions. “Mhm, you’re putting on quite the show aren’t you.” He hummed with slight annoyance in his tone.

Y/n glanced at the people around her, some dancing to their heart’s content while the others attempted to engage in conversation. “It’s not my problem if guys can’t keep it in their pants.” She said with a small shrug.

"You leave nothing to the imagination do you love?”

"Jealous?” Y/n quipped in a taunting tone, though, her features remained innocent. “Besides, I didn’t know it was such a crime to have fun. If so, then arrest me baby, I’m guilty as charged.”

"Fun?.” He mocked, "So you’re telling me that this performance you’ve put on wasn’t just for me to see?” His tone seemed offended, yet his teasing expression told a different story.

She playfully shook her head and attempted to hide the smile that fought to escape her lips.

"And what about this tight little number you’ve got on, is that not for me either?” He taunted curiously, his hand trailed against the small strap that held up her dress.

Her gaze followed his cold touch as his fingers travelled across her shoulder, towards her neck. A small shiver crawled up her spine as his rings pressed lightly against her skin, before grazing across her jawline.

Her head lifted slightly. Her almost pleading eyes instantly connecting with his as if it was a reflex. "You remember what happens when you play games with me princess, it never ends well for you” his thumb lightly tugging on her strawberry-stained lips.

Her pulse quickened as her mind raced with thoughts of lust. “I guess you’re going to have to remind me.” She chose her words carefully “My mind seems to be a little foggy.”

Y/n felt Harry’s demeanour change instantly at her words, it was like a switch, his playful aura was quickly replaced with one of desire, similar to the aura of this entire event.

Little did Harry know, Y/n had him right where she wanted him. Harry craved the control that he lost over their exchange, whilst Y/n craved the thrill of the unknown. The unknown of how far Harry was willing to go to win back his control over her.

A short and antagonising laugh fell from Harry’s lips. “You want to know what I’m thinking princess?” He questioned. Y/n hummed in response, her mocking tone only pushing Harry further. “I think you’re purposely trying to wind me up.” He states clearly.

“But you know what happens to princesses who misbehave?.” He murmured.

A teasing light danced in Y/n’s eyes, she shrugged lightly and attempted to turn around to get another strawberry. She was shortly cut off as Harry swiftly, and gently tugged on her wrist. He pulled her closer towards him, their faces mere inches away from each other in order to fully grab Y/n’s attention.

“Nothing.”

Harry dropped his hands from Y/n’s body, deciding to use the table beside them to support his body instead. Y/n’s expression turned into confusion at his words. This wasn’t how she planned the rest of their conversation going.

“What’s wrong princess? You’ve gone quiet.” He pointed out, a small pout evident on his lips. “Did you expect me to whisk you away to one of the rooms upstairs... punish you f’being a little brat?”

Every time she teased Harry before, he would simply delve deeper into his own desires, playing with Y/n how he saw fit as punishment.

It was a routine that Y/n loved, so why was tonight any different.

Unless...

He perked up with a boyish smile at her confused reaction, knowing her mind was scrambling for a snarky retort. “Tell y’what, I’ll give you what you want on one condition.”

She looked at him curiously, interested in what he was proposing. “And what’s that?”

“M’going to need you to beg for me.” The thought of those three, simple little words sent Harry’s mind into a tangent of his own, the flame of control flickering in his eyes as he watched her expression.

His words took a second to process in Y/n’s mind, but once they did, she realised what he was doing. Harry was using her own tactics against her, the teasing, the mischievous look in his eye and most importantly, the element of surprise.

Although it worked for a small moment, Y/n was determined, she wasn’t about to let Harry beat her at her own game.

“Beg for you?” Y/n echoed, pondering the thought over a chocolate-covered strawberry before throwing away the rest in the waste bin.

It wasn’t long before someone interrupted their conversation. They were at a party after all. An unrecognisable figure walked up behind Harry, wrapping their arms around him before placing a shot glass full of clear liquid in his hand.

“What’re you hiding out here for Harry, you’re missing out on all the fun!” The man exclaimed with excitement, clinking his own shot glass with Harry’s before downing the drink. Y/n quickly pinched the drink out of Harry’s hand, and in one swift movement, downed the liquor similarly to the man slinging himself around Harry.

A snicker escaped Harry’s lips at the sight of Y/n’s disgusted face as she examined the shot glass “Straight vodka, m’assuming.” He remarks. Y/n nods in acknowledgment, placing the glass on the table next to them before the unknown man pipes up again.

“Sorry to interrupt miss, m’sure whatever you two were talking about was truly exhilarating but Harry here, is a busy man.” He slurs, tapping Harry on the shoulder. “People to meet, drinks to... drink? Anyways, you understand.”

Y/n eyed Harry curiously, he simply shrugged as they both realised that the mystery man next to them had no clue about their relationship and simply assumed that Y/n was just a random girl Harry was swooning over.

She chuckled lightly, “Don’t let me get in your way, go have fun.” She reached out, softly squeezing Harry’s arm as reassurance. The man already started to make his way back to the dance floor, expecting Harry to be following behind him.” What are you waiting for-?”

Before Y/n was able to let go of Harry he gently pulled her closer towards him, closing the small gap between them as her body collided with his. “I was going to say, I wouldn’t waste another moment thinking about it princess...” He trailed off, his rings roughly digging into the thin material of her dress as he held her in place.

“We both know you’re just going to end up begging for me to fuck you.” Harry’s hold hastily dropped from her hips, before walking away. A small smirk was evident on his lips as he sensed the state of shock he left Y/n in.

She watched in pure disbelief as he wandered back into the loud venue, but despite of it all, she couldn’t deny the feeling of adrenaline that coursed through her body at his words.

With an annoyed sigh, Y/n focused her attention back on the many strawberries in front of her, snatching one from the plate. "If that’s how he wants to play it...” She murmured before taking a bite out of the sweet fruit before carelessly discarding the rest.

“Then let the games begin.”

———

The night progressed as Y/n and Harry went their separate ways, mingling and causing mischief with the other guests.

Although they seemed to be in their own little worlds, they were both aware of each others presence. Whether that was through the overwhelming exhilaration that emanated from the both of them, or their teasing gazes as their eyes met at random times throughout the night.

After what felt like hours to Y/n of endless dancing, she decided that it was time to spice things up, feeling bored of waiting for Harry to make a move.

Her eyes scanned the room, eventually falling to the bar that didn’t seem too far away from her. She slowly made her way past the people in front of her, before reaching the busy service, waving down the bartender in the process.

“What a coincidence! We’ve found each other once again miss!” The familiar slurred voice spoke at a high volume from beside her, causing Y/n to flinch at the sudden noise "Seems like fate is trying t’tell us something.”

Y/n turned towards the man, her mind taking a second to process his features. ‘Oh it’s the guy from before... did I ever get his name?’ She pondered to herself

Noticing the evident confusion on her face, he piped up with a chuckle “I guess I didn’t properly introduce m’self did I? M’names Kai.”

She hummed in acknowledgment “So you’re the one that tried to poison Harry with that dreadful drink.”

“I guess that’s one way to be remembered.” He remarked in an attempt to be charming. “You two seem close though.”

You don’t know the half of it. She thought to herself, before speaking up with a smile, “I guess you could say that, my name’s Y/n by the way.”

———

Harry wasn’t much of a dancer. The only exception is for when he performs. Which caused him to spend most of the night in the booth that he reside in from the beginning of the event. The small space seemed to be full of his friends and co-workers as they chat up a storm, a continuous supply of drinks being served to the group.

The elevated booth allowed him to view the guests dance the night away. Which is how he was able to spot Y/n in the crowded dance-floor.

He watched as the man Harry was introduced to as ‘Kai’ stood dangerously close to Y/n as they swayed to the music and continued with their small talk.

Harry didn’t mind at first, not taking much note of the whole interaction. He loved seeing Y/n have fun. It was only once he noticed that she leaned closer towards Kai, whispering in his ear, a sultry “Please.” as she requested for one last drink, that their interaction caught his attention.

She moved back, re-gaining the small space between the two of them. Of course, she was hyper-aware of the fact that Harry knew about the whole exchange, flickering her eyes to his with a taunting smile.

Kai followed her gaze before spotting Harry, a boyish grin fell onto his lips as he sent Harry a cheeky thumbs-up. It was as if he had scored the best take of the night whilst somehow still being oblivious to the fact that Harry was utterly in love with the woman he was swooning over.

Harry shook his head, purely baffled by the whole exchange. “Dickhead.” He muttered under his breath. The rings that were wrapped around his fingers hit the glass with a small ‘clink’ as he took ahold of his drink, downing it all in one go.

———

"Tell you what, sit your pretty self down while I go flag down that bartender over there.” Kai motioned towards one of the seats with a smile before making his way to the other end of the bar.

Y/n nodded, letting out a tired sigh as he walked away. She felt herself getting worn out by the lack of attention she was getting from Harry, but, as annoyed as she was, she was determined to win this little game that Harry’s made up for the both of them.

“If he wasn’t so stubborn then maybe-.” Y/n muttered, getting ready to take a seat at the bar before being cut off by the feeling of a sudden grip around her wrist. With a small tug, she was twirled around to face the person that held her captive in their hold.

A small giggle fell from her lips as her body smoothly fell into the familiar figure’s build.

“Having fun princess?”

His voice caused a shiver to course through her body, small goosebumps forming on her skin at the harshness of his tone.

Y/n lazily wrapped her arms around Harry, unintentionally using him to support her own intoxicated body “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

"Never.” He boyishly grinned, feeling smitten knowing that Y/n had him on her mind as much as he did for her all night.

Although the music still resounded around the room, the tune that played was much slower. So much so that Harry and Y/n noticed the tipsy guests begin coupling up as an attempt to dance with one another.

Y/n softly rested her head against Harry’s shoulder as his hands rested on her waist. Her eyes fluttering close as she felt herself get lost in the song “Mind telling what that whole charade was about ?” Harry hummed closely, possessiveness laced in his voice.

Y/n quickly picked up that he was talking about Kai. She playfully scoffed, lifting her head from his shoulder to look at him. “I was getting bored and you weren’t paying me any attention. Besides, I knew your jealousy would get the better of you eventually.”

Harry let out a small laugh at her seemingly meticulous plans. "You know all you had to do was come find me.” He affirmed.

Feelings of guilt were getting the better of Y/n as she pondered whether or not she took all of this too far. "Are you upset with me?” She said with a small pout.

“Of course not princess, m’not upset with you.” He comfortingly squeezed her waist for a small moment, both of them swaying to the soft beat of the song.

I just wanted to you to tell me how needy you were f’me.” He murmured lowly, making sure that the people dancing around them didn’t hear.

All the feelings of concern were immediately washed away from Y/n, quickly being replaced with a mixture of relief and playfulness.

“You know I’m not going to break that easy, you’re going to have t’try harder than that if you want me to say such a thing.” She huffed.

“Is that so?” Harry mocked, making a mental note of her words. "What about if I...” He trailed off. His head dipped down as he peppered wet kisses all the way to her exposed shoulder, making sure to lightly suck on the delicate skin as if he wanted to leave his mark on her.

Y/n gave into the taunting feeling for a small moment, her eyes closing as Harry had his way with her. “You shouldn’t be doing this.” She remarked.

He pulled away, a boyish chuckle escaping his lips. “Are y’scared your little friend over there will see.” He motioned towards Kai, who seemed to have been caught up on his path to the bar. Another girl danced with him as he held two drinks in his hand with seemingly, not a care in the world “I wouldn’t worry about him.”

"That’s not what I meant, silly.” She clarified, referring to the small love bites that she felt forming across her pulsating skin.

His fingers lightly grazed over her neck. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left a pretty little mark on you princess.” He noted, admiring his work. His voice alone was enough to send Y/n into a spiral of lust. Her mind was in scrambles as she fought the tempting urge to give into Harry’s desires.

Although the slow song finished, another bass-heavy one played in its place. Y/n could tell the night was coming to a close as people slowly made their way to the exit, or, were celebrating their last round of drinks. This meant Y/n only had about an hour or so to decide whether or not she would continue to be stubborn, proving to Harry that she’s not as submissive as he makes her out to be.

"You’re thinking about it aren’t you?” Harry glanced at a distracted Y/n, a teasing curiosity evident in his features. “A few words princess, that’s all it takes.” 

Y/n snapped out of her trance, realising she was slowly succumbing to Harry. She took a deep breath, and in an attempt to regain her control, gently wrapped her hands around the back of Harry’s neck, making their way up to his messy curls. Her fingers wrapped around the strands of hair, giving it a small tug as the both of them continued to sway to the music.  “Let’s say I was thinking about it, what would you do about that?” 

Harry hummed lowly at the pleasurable feeling of her soft touch on his skin. In that moment, he decided not to waste another second of his attention on anyone other than Y/n. "Then, I would bring you upstairs... play with you until you’re nothing but a whimpering mess.

His hands tightening around her waist. His rings slightly dug into her skin, the cold metal seeping through the thin material of her dress causing a wave of goosebumps to wash over her. “You’re already aching for me. Imagine how you’ll feel with your legs wrapped around me.”

Harry left small kisses across her jawline, returning to his sweet yet torturous assault from before. “You would plead for your release as I bring you right to the edge, telling you all about how much of a good girl you’ve been, all submissive and needy, just how I like.” Y/n could feel herself growing hot from his taunting movements as she unintentionally began to bite at her lip, suppressing any moans that threatened to escape.

“But you haven’t really been a good girl have you, princess? I would say you’ve been quite the brat all night.” His kisses edged closer and closer before finally, his lips firmly pressed against hers. A small moment was needed, but it wasn’t long before Y/n moved in sync with his own movements, a new sense of lust overpowering her senses as she deepened the kiss, a mix of alcohol and peppermint lingering on their tongues. 

Harry noticed her newfound pushiness, the roughness of the kiss causing a gruff and low groan to escape from the back of his throat. “Do you remember what I said about little brats that don’t listen?” His gaze on Y/n as he begrudgingly pulled away from her, his lips merely hovering above her own.

Y/n let out a frustrated whimper at the sudden loss of contact, her eyes fluttering open with confusion.

"You would plead for your release...” Harry repeated. A taunting fire danced his eyes, a confident smirk creeping onto his lips. “Only for me to pull away right at the last moment.”

Y/n wanted to smack the smug grin right off of his face, but she just seemed defeated, her expression changed to one of frustration as her hands fell from Harry. 

"Don’t look at me like that, you brought this on yourself princess.” He teased, giving her one last chaste kiss. “Y’know you could still-”

He was shortly cut off by the sound of Y/n’s annoyed voice. "Fine!” she snapped, just at a low enough volume so people wouldn’t hear, while she attempted to catch her unsteady breath. “...fine.”

Even though Harry knew exactly what she was going to say, he still tilted his head with a pout, curiosity written on his face as he waited for Y/n to continue her thought. 

"You win.” She murmured, refusing to look Harry in the eye as she admitted her defeat.

Harry shook his head, admiring her features. He gently pushed the strands of hair that covered her face, placing it back behind her shoulders. "Not good enough, use your words princess. ‘Want to hear you beg for me.” His voice remained low, his warm breath causing a shiver down her spine.

Y/n let out a small and exaggerated sigh, as a smile teased her lips. She knew she was going to succumb to Harry eventually. In fact, she knew the moment he swept her into his arms that the game was over, but, she loved the chaos too much to ever admit that to him.

She gave him one small kiss before pulling him closer towards her. Their eyes met, both clearly filled with desire and lust, only difference was the dominating aura from Harry’s features, and the submissiveness that radiated from Y/n.

"I need you, m’so needy for your touch... Please baby...”

That, was a true vision of pure depravity.

[unbridgeabledistances]

hi 💜💜 i got a prompt about ian x body image a while ago (my inbox is a hot mess and i may have deleted the prompt lol, but i did paste it into my phone notes)- and i was feeling some feelings today & had some spare time amidst my travels & ended up writing this!!

prompt: can you write about ian and his relationship with his body image, esp post-canon when they move to the westside

(tw for body image/eating disorder/food mentions)

--

He didn’t really even think about it the first times that he did it— skipping a few meals that went unnoticed in the morning clamor of the Gallagher kitchen. He noticed his skin growing tauter and tighter around his abdomen with every passing day, a hollow absence sitting like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

He did it for a reason—he’d been getting more lingering looks under the flashing lights at the club, more unwelcome fingers pressed against the now-present ridges on his stomach, tracing his toned upper arms. The less there was of him, the more they wanted him.

The thing about Ian is that he was always disciplined; the middle child, the one who was overlooked and ignored and blended in until he decided that he had to make a name for himself. He and Lip and gotten into hair-tugging, jaw-smashing fights about this very reality; Ian was completely, totally, absolutely ordinary. Until he made himself extraordinary—until he burst through the storefront labeled “ARMY” at a strip mall with smudged windows and said with a tall chest: I want to enlist.

Everything had led up to this— every push-up on the creaking slanted floor of their childhood bedroom, every jog at the crack of dawn. He was going to make something of himself, he was going to be a hero.

He was going to get the fuck away from Mickey, and his wife, and whatever else kept pushing him down and holding him back.

When Ian came back from the army, when he was sleeping on exposed floorboards and working at the club all night—that was when it all actually started. When he decided that less of him meant more—when he decided that he should give people the best show he could, because everything else was fucked up anyways. This was all he was good for.

But then Mickey came through the door, pale skin flashing in the strobe lights, wearing that fucking dark button-up with sleeves folded to his forearms and smelling like nice cologne that he’d almost definitely stolen from one of his brothers’ bathroom shelves; and for a brief moment after the initial shock set in, Ian was proud— proud of how much negative space surrounded him, proud of how he could press his thighs into stretched golden spandex better than any of the other men thrumming to the beat beside him on the podium. Proud of how much other people wanted him, when Mickey didn't.

It was only later, after Mickey carried him home (easily, too easily) after he’d passed out in a snowbank, and Ian had woken and waited for Mickey to burst into his bedroom door at the Gallagher house while he leaned against the wall and scribbled on a notepad— later, when Mickey was about to curl on the floor and sleep using one of Liam’s balled-up t-shirts as a pillow— that Ian noticed Mickey’s eyes lingering on his uncovered torso, a second longer than the quick glances of admiration from the well-dressed men with greased-back hair and grubby fingers at the club. It hit Ian, then, when he saw Mickey’s gaze that was soft around the edges, the same fuzziness and confusion of Fiona’s stares when he would chatter on for too long in the mornings:

He’s worried about me.

But Mickey played along— Ian was back, and Mickey stayed beside him this time, and chuckled when he walked down the stairs to the sight of Ian cutting off the bottom half of his old ROTC pants, now multiple sizes too big and hanging baggy even at the hips. Mickey curled beside him on the twin bed, silently stroking hair back from his forehead and cradling his cheeks with a feather-light touch as Lip and Liam’s even, sleeping breaths swirled around them. And Ian kept doing pull-ups, and told Carl that he liked the way that Mickey smelled. Mickey came out for him. And for a while things were really, really fucking good, and Ian didn’t even think about the gnawing hollow feeling in his stomach at all any more.

Until a grey morning came, quick and silent, and kept him frozen under the sheets for days.

In the months afterwards, Ian trained harder, faster—he met up with Fiona as she pushed Liam in the stroller and jogged beside them, ran before and after shifts at the club, did push-ups on Mickey’s grimy floor while he was out handling Rub N’ Tug shit.

I’m not Monica. This wasn’t going to happen again. His body could do this. His body could fix his brain.

It couldn’t.

Most of what happened on the “road trip” with Yevgeny (that was the only phrasing that Ian could really mentally use to name the incident, the only semiotic filler for “kidnapping” that didn’t want to make him burrow even deeper under his tattered blankets) was a blur—Mickey feeding him fistfuls of pills and room-temperature Gatorade, luring Mickey to the dugouts where he tried to do a pull-up and felt a quivering in his limbs, a weakness rather than a familiar and fulfilling burn. Slamming Mickey in the face with a fist that was too flimsy, too weak—a fist that still left the blooming of a bruise on Mickey’s jawline, a splatter of blood caking into his eyebrow. But still weak, still not enough. Definitely not strong enough to fight off two MPs with loaded guns, tangling his hands behind his back and forcing him into the backseat of a car.

More blurry days— on the road with Monica. Breaking up with Mickey. Getting a job at Patsy’s. Withering away, purple bags sagging under his eyes. Becoming less, always less.

Then, a glimmer of light— he met Caleb. He studied to be an EMT. He got a call from Mandy, got to wrap her in his arms in less-than-ideal circumstances.

“I got tired of starving myself to fit in that golden thong.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

He started to run again—and he started to not miss it, the hollow feeling gnawing at his insides, the twisting lack. He met Trevor, he went to brunches, he ordered mimosas and muffins and kept himself in shape, but didn’t push himself too far.

So it surprised him, really, when once again his body and mind weren’t in sync.

That was the biggest thing he’d think about, in the idle hours of he and Mickey’s prison cell, months later—that for once in his life, years after the nights at the club or the hazy early mornings at Patsy’s or in a baggy janitor uniform, he was actually doing really, really fucking good. He had a following. He was strong. Or at least he thought he was.

But something about being near Mickey pulled him out of his head and into his body, centered him— it always did. Mickey had always liked his body; Ian remembered how Mickey’s eyed at lingered that night at the dugouts, when they were two kids doing pull-ups and Mickey watched his muscles clench in the moonlight, two sets of shining eyes and bodies warm with beer leaning closer to each other in the muggy air. But Ian never felt a need to flaunt his body, or change his body, for Mickey— and in so many ways, those first days in prison were like his body was coming home. Sometimes it was hard, and fast, and filthy words whispered into each other’s skin—and sometimes it left them grasping for breath in an entirely different way, in fingertips lazily skimming over collarbones and fisted into roots of hair, of breathed “Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful”s escaping Mickey’s parted mouth that Ian mentally stored but never brought up again, because he knew in the best case scenario Mickey would just roll his eyes and call him a “soft bitch,” and in the worst he would just flat-out deny it. But Ian felt balanced in a way he hadn't in months, with all the "Gay Jesus" bullshit pressing in. He took his meds, he did his nightly sit-ups, he counted down the days—until the hourglass was slipped out from under his fingertips and he was teleported back to the Gallagher house, back to the place where so much of this began and so much was about to end.

The hollowness, the hunger, didn’t really need to be there anymore once he was out— it was only a dull murmur. A ghost, a memory trapped in dreams of strobe lights and prying hands.

Mickey got out, and they got married—and in the moments before Ian called Mickey an “ugly motherfucker” as he let a smile crack onto his face—and he knew Mickey felt it, knew Mickey heard: I have never known anyone as beautiful as you.

And Ian’s fullness just kept blooming and compounding and radiating after the wedding; they fought, and then they didn’t, and it didn’t matter anyways because they were fucking married. Ian kept doing sit-ups before they went to bed, even though he felt like he didn’t really have to anymore. Something big had shifted; something had settled and given way, had filled in all the cracks.

So he’s surprised, when they move to the West Side, and that feeling starts to stir again; faint, fuzzy, like some sort of invasive and shapeless amoeba in the dark corners of his brain, whispering and hissing that there should be less of him. On their first morning in the new place he heads to the gym, wearing a camo t-shit that covered his torso and shoulders—and of course he ends up making a fool of himself next to some guy, some guy that he could have been, with sweaty toned abs and bronzed skin and rippling muscles. He doesn’t know why it gets to him, that small interaction—he’s so much happier now, so fucking happy he’s buzzing with it, but there’s also something churning in the faultlines of transition; that aching for hollow absence and stretched skin and interested eyes, that feeling that made him woozy and lightheaded as a kid but also sickeningly proud, like every moment of standing tall, of dancing, of staying alive was a statement, a challenge, a test of how much he could push his ability to be desired.

He immediately pushes the thought down. He doesn’t fucking need that anymore to keep his head above water; he’s stable, he’s loved, he’s fed. He’s growing organic tomatoes, and definitely developing a farmer’s tan from his days hunched over their way-too-tiny community garden plot tenderly watering and pruning the vines and brambles. He is desired. So it doesn’t make fucking sense that the hunger, the clawing in his stomach for the absence, doesn’t really stop.

**

“Okay Gallagher, spill.”

Ian felt his eyebrow raise instinctively at Mickey’s tone. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at this fancy fucking chicken thing you made for, like, twenty minutes. Stop staring at it and eat your goddamn dinner.”

He felt a twist in his gut. I don’t want to.

“M’actually not really that hungry.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck’s up? You stressed about work shit?”

Ian huffed out a breath of relief. “Nah. It’s not that.” He fiddled with his fork on the plate, drawing lines into the sauce pooled under the tomato-basil chicken he’d made. It was healthy, it was good, he’d worked out today; he could stomach a couple bites of dinner if he fucking had to. He just had to work up to it. Even the smell was making his stomach twist— it had smelled good while he was cooking it, placing fresh-scented basil leaves into the simmering sauce, but now it just was too much.

Mickey’s boot nudged against his calf from under the kitchen island. “Ey. Is it a tired thing? Or a… sick thing?” His eyes darted to their kitchen cupboard, where Ian kept his meds on the bottom shelf by the water glasses. “Or, like, a food thing?”

Ian felt his fingers go slack around his fork. “A food thing?”

“Yeah, man, y’know. When you get all weird about food.”

A tightness in his chest. “What the fuck? I don’t get weird about food.”

Mickey’s eyes flickered to meet his—and Ian would have gotten more pissed off if he didn’t see the soft concern bleeding into Mickey’s gaze, how cautiously Mickey was trying to broach the topic. Ian blew out a breath. Of fucking course Mickey noticed this shit— he always did.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re usually good, especially compared to when you were fucking starving yourself when we were kids. But, uh… I don’t know.” Now it was Mickey’s turn to play with his food, scraping his fork along the remnants of sauce on his plate that was nearly clean. “You got kind of weird about working out and shit in prison. And then at the house, with all the quarantine bullshit the first few weeks. Eating fuckin’ cereal all the time, then not eating at all. You’ve been normal since then, or whatever. Lookin’ healthy.” Ian felt Mickey’s gaze drag over him. “Just don’t want you getting stressed out and not eating again or whatever.”

Ian felt a muted warmth blooming in the hollow of his stomach, filling in the cracks of where the jagged feeling continued to claw. If it was anyone else laying out this fucking analysis of his habits Ian would’ve gotten defensive—or at the very least annoyed, that someone was pinning down yet another one of his behaviors, putting them under a fucking clinical microscope.

But of course, this was Mickey— and the difference with Mickey was that he cared, he cared so much that it made Ian’s body ache every time he realized it. Those words wouldn’t have come tumbling out of Mickey’s mouth if they hadn’t been building for a while, hadn’t been gnawing away at some corner of his mind over time.

Ian raised a hand over the table to clasp into Mickey’s warm palm—reaching over the empty plate, the plate of uneaten food.

“It’s, uh. A food thing.”

Mickey’s eyes met his—open, listening.

“You’re right about all the starving myself shit from forever ago. And the not eating. And the… quarantine stuff. I guess I just thought that now that things were good, it’d go away? And I feel so fucking good right now. But sometimes I just have weird days.”

Mickey huffed out a breath. “I fucking know you do, dumbass. M’just saying that I notice that shit. And we can figure it out.”

Ian felt the corner of his mouth tick upwards. “I really thought it was gonna go away. I’m a fucking adult.”

Mickey shrugged. “Sometimes shit doesn’t work like that, Gallagher.” He chugged a sip of water from his glass, apparently glad that this heavier part of the conversation was over now that he knew what was up. “It’s like what you tell me about my shit with Terry. Trauma doesn’t just magically fucking disappear.”

Trauma. He’d never really thought about it like that before—he had plenty of childhood shit to work through, between abandonment and raging mental illness; and he’d never really thought that his body image issues made the list.

But maybe they did— maybe this was another wound, one that he could learn to heal.

Mickey kicked his shin under the table. “There’s cereal and stuff in the cabinet, I got the Fruit Loops shit you like. Want me to wrap up the chicken and shove it in the fridge?”

All he could do was nod— and once again feel that warmth on his insides that Mickey was this good, that he knew how to make shit like this easier.

And he snuggled into the couch beside his husband, a bowl of soggy cereal in his hands.

[bowieandqueen11]

Jaskier Dating an Autistic!Reader Would Include...

Request: Hello lovely, Could I please request Jaskier dating an autistic!reader would include? Preferably with a female reader, but it really doesn’t have to be!

In celebration of season 2 (and our Bard’s incredible new look), here is a very late request!!! Thank you so much lovely! <3 Also I have to say listening to Bardcore playlist whilst writing this is the greatest decision I have ever made XD

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

For all his flirtatious ways and his confident manner, Jaskier would genuinely be the sweetest, most doting and loving boyfriend in all of existence (I am very emotional about this okay).

You two are so in sync, you genuinely might as well be one person because he knows and understands and absolutely ADORES you it actually brings Geralt to the brink of tears sometimes with how much it annoys him.

(Even though he tends to grunt and roll his eyes a lot around a love-struck Jaskier who spends his time writing love songs for you, inside he secretly believes that never could two more perfectly matched beings find each other in all the lands).

Jaskier is so soft for you - if you’re sensitive to loud noises and sound, he knows instinctively. He’ll quickly pull you away from the situation, taking you away to the edge of some meadow on the edge of town. It would just be the two of you, some bright cornflowers, a starry night, some lingering fireflies around the treeline and the bard’s melodic voice and strumming as he warbles out some gentle songs he knows soothes you.

Having played the lute for so many a year, his hands are quite adept, so he often gives them to you to play or stim with if you ever want them. (He’s also the only other person he’ll ever let touch his lute if strumming helps you - and if you’re okay with touch, he loves to come up behind you and give you a tight hug, resting his head on your shoulder. He smirks as you feel the ruffles of his sleeves against your own arm as he loops around you to place his fingers over yours, gently strumming your hands down the strings.)

Your two hands together as one. As it should be. After all, you are half his soul - he feels most of the time that you are more himself than he is. He blesses ever goddess he can think of for sending one of them down for him to spend his eternity loving.

He couldn’t wish spending his short life doing anything else. Spending his time adoring, lavishing, loving you, he finds, is the only thing that has ever truly pleased him in life.

If you’re nonverbal, that’s completely fine!! Jaskier is so outgoing, he can communicate with everyone else for the two of you. In fact, when you’re on your journey with Geralt, the two of you have this little system going - just to make sure that the two of you are safe and okay, you’ll always just twang the bottom string of Jaskier’s lute.

Jaskier knows all of your triggers and stressors off by heart, and despite his outward appearance his heart of full of fiery, steely thorns if anyone ever dares to disrespect your boundaries or try to upset you!!! As Geralt has attested to, too many times has he had to drag Jaskier out of a tavern, or from the royal court, or even once from a lair of Wight’s by his armpits because he is straight up ready to fight magical beasts alone if it’s for your honour.

If you don’t have an aversion to touch, he is the cuddliest, clingiest man in the world!!!! If the amount of time he spends looking like a model, staring wistfully out into the sunset on some clagged rock at the edge of a desert field’s precipice, whispering out whims of love songs about how you’ve chained his heart and soul to yours didn’t give it away, the way he acts physically sure does.

He always acts up when you approach him and quietly sit down cross legged on the floor next to him. His pursed lips, the way he runs his hands through his fringe, the warm glow in his eye as he beams over at you with that toothy smile, all the love this measly world could muster threatening to break from every cell of his body. He’ll slowly, gingerly, reassuringly take your hand and kiss each knuckle on your finger as the two of you just stay together, at peace, watching the sun fall over the warm golden and honey orange glow of the horizon.

He always makes sure to ask for permission first before he touches you, though! He tries his best, despite his flirtations, to be a gentleman through and through. He always does this during long days journeying with the Witcher, when the two of you are exhausted - dragging your dusty heels along the ground next to Roach, the sun sweltering over your heads as Jaskier sighs to himself, side still bleeding slightly from their last attack. He doesn’t care in the slightest though, when he beckons his hand out towards you with a shy raise of his eyebrow, gently asking if he can just hold you tightly into his side for a while.

He breathes you in, closing his eyes and trying to stop his racing heart. It’s the only way he can reassure himself that you’re here with him. You’re safe. He’s okay, because you’re safe.

He’s always a big softie boy, so if deep pressure stimulation helps you, he gives the biggest, warmest, kindest hugs - the kind where Geralt thinks you’ve disappeared because you’re so wrapped up in the ridiculous layers of ruffled emerald clothes the bard wears. I’m also just going to put it out there, that if you like the softer materials, this man is very very good of making you kneel down in the soft meadows beside him, laughing gleefully as he skilfully weaves flower crowns around the top of your head.

If you do have an aversion to touch, this is completely okay with Jaskier too!! This man has made a living convincing everyone to fall in love with (and give their money to him) with his honey sweet words, so he’ll gladly just spend anytime he can get during busy days sitting near you, talking your head off, or singing you the newest song he’s currently trying to quill down off the top of his head.

The tips of his ears do flush this adorable shade of peach, though, his eyes almost uncharacteristically unable to meet yours because all the songs he writes are about his muse (i.e. you.)

If you’re not too fond of touch, in dangerous situations he’ll always hover over beside you, annoying Geralt’s head off with the way he acts like an annoying little fly until he grabs the bard by the collar and makes him go sit down by the fire.

He also this little sign of locking pinkies in the heat of fights, just to reassure each other that you’re alright.

He knows that you’re capable, but he’s also just so protective!! Jaskier is 100% one of those himbos in love kind of people lmao.

If you’re hypersensitive to loud sounds, he’s rather fond of quiet nights in at the tavern. The kind of long evenings where it’s just the two of you, a stormy night raging in the latticed window behind your head, a few dripping wax candles on the innkeeper’s bar and a warm fire toasting your feet. Turns out, he managed to bribe the owner to keep the inn open for an hour or two past closing time, just because he enjoys being in your company so much.

The whole time, his attention is completely centred on you, especially if you’re telling him about your hyper-fixation. Like your mouth is dripping the sweetest honey, he’s tied onto your every word, the sound like a chorus of angels in his ears. He does that cute little thing where the edge of his tongue sticks out in concentration, hand resting underneath his chin, until at one point he completely forgets anything from the outside world exists. In his excitement, he accidentally knocks his flagon of ale over the innkeeper and swiftly gets the two of you banned from ever entering there again.

He thinks it was completely worth it though.

When nights are cold and dark and twisted, and the roads are long and tiresome, the fire dwindling and announcing the end of the day, he’ll come sit down beside you with that soft smile of his and wrap his blue jacket around your shoulders.

It’s so warm, and soft, and smells so much like him - of apple wine, carrots and sage, that it brings comfort to you almost immediately.

He’ll run away if you ever try to give it back to him, because he’s quite stubborn too. Plus, he turns into a blushing, groaning mess every time he sees you wearing it.

One time, he kept on dancing, twirling and skipping around you, Geralt and Roach on the road. His fingers flew over his lute and his mouth just would not stop as he kept on singing songs of your praise and his reverence towards you, that Geralt just finally snapped and shoved him into a puddle of mud.

[sunshineseung]

Journal Part 3 // Jeongin

🍄 | genre: smut ☁️ | pairing: Yang Jeongin x female!reader 🌿 | wc: 4.3k 🌸 | includes: milf!reader x babysitter!college student!jeongin, “mommy”, shower/morning sex, handjob (m!receiving), cum swallowing, smut within smut [mentions of punishment, spanking, pegging, free use, “mistress”, flogging, chastity], masturbation, brief phone sex, bratty jeongin, punishment, spanking with hand, grinding, overstimulation (m!receiving), PIV (riding, cowgirl/reverse cowgirl), unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare… phew good luck

🌊 | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Finale |

The morning sun blinds Jeongin through the curtains, and he lazily rubs his eyes to see steam coming from under the bathroom door. You’ve already gotten up to get a shower, but you so rudely forgot to invite the sweet college boy blissfully sleeping next to you. Jeongin springs out of bed with a little too much energy and sneaks into your bathroom, being as quiet as possible.

“Jeongin, I know you’re there.” You fold your arms as you face the clear shower door Jeongin’s silhouette was on. He freezes, shrugs, and opens the shower door just enough so you could see only half of his body. 

“May I come in?” 

You sigh and swing open the door fully, making sure no water can get out. “Sure, baby.” 

Jeongin gets giddy and hops in, smiling brightly as you continue to lather soap on your body. Suddenly, he hugs you from behind, pulling you as close to his body as possible. You feel his semi-erection on your back, but that’s not your focus right now. You just want to be clean for your day off. 

“Thank you for letting me stay over.” Jeongin nuzzles his head in the back of your neck, cuddling you under the running water. “I really enjoyed last night. Did you?” 

“Yes, sweetheart. I enjoyed it a lot.” Your reassurance makes him blush, and he’s happy you can’t see the flustered expression on his face. He doesn’t know what to do next. Luckily, you have plans. “Hey, Jeongin, do you write… fantasies about us in class?”

“Oh, uh, sometimes. I make sure no one sees, though.” He backs away, leaning on the far shower wall. “I mostly write in my composition class.” 

“Who’s the professor?” You turn around, facing him fully, pinning him to the wall with your eyes. 

“Mr. Lee?”

“Lee what?” 

“Lee… Minho?”

Damnit. Of course. Of course it was going to be your ex husband. Admittedly, this wasn’t the best time to interrogate Jeongin, but it’s still early, and the kids aren’t up yet, so you have time to turn this around.

“Mommy, can you put shampoo in my hair?” Jeongin’s cute little voice almost makes your heart burst, and it’s practically impossible for you to say no now. Jeongin turns around and kneels, patiently waiting for you to wash his hair. You squeeze some shampoo into your hand and spread it through Jeongin’s wet hair, making sure it suds on his scalp. He hums in content, loving the feeling of your hands through his hair. “Thank you.”

“No problem, baby.” You kiss the back of his neck, making a shiver run down his spine. You hear the light sounds of Jeongin touching himself, slowly and quietly enough that he hopes you don’t notice, but you obviously do considering you see his right shoulder moving.

Once the shampoo is finally rinsed out of his hair, you pull him onto you, his back falling against your chest and stomach. You run your hands over his abs before taking a hold of his cock, wrapping your fingers around it gently before slowly jerking him back and forth. Jeongin weakly bucks his hips into your hand, dazed and clouded with neediness. 

“You like when mommy touches you like this, huh?” The water sprinkles down onto Jeongin’s cock, creating a weak lubricant for your hand. He doesn’t answer you; he can only whimper, too far gone to even form a thought. He slipped into this headspace so fast, and it kind of shocks you. Jeongin rustles in your arms, seeming to wish to break free from your hold. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“W-want to see you.” Jeongin squeaks out, prompting you to turn around and pin him against the wall so the water hits your back. You get on your knees, looking up at him as his face is bright red and his eyes are half-lidded. “You’re so pretty, mommy.” 

“Aw, is my little boy trying to compliment me so he can cum?” You go back to stroking his cock, licking the tip once to remind him of how your mouth feels. His sensitive cock begins to twitch, begging to release. Another lick, this time from his balls to his tip, and he’s cumming on your face, shooting his load across your features, mostly in your mouth. 

You wipe the cum from your face to your mouth, swallowing every last bit of his tasty release. Jeongin only watches, eyes glued to your mouth, but he doesn’t know if he can kiss you considering you just ate his cum. 

“Mommy, can I kiss you?” You look up and him and groan as you stand up, your knees feeling the repercussions of kneeling on the hard shower floor. He raises his chin as you grasp his face, pulling his soft lips to yours, kissing you sweetly. You press your body against his, your tits coming in contact with his chest, and he has to fight every thought to snap his neck down to look at your chest. Still, your lips were made for each other, perfectly in sync with every ministration. He’d be a fool to break this kiss right now. 

Nothing in Jeongin’s wildest dreams could have prepared him for being with you, even if it isn’t anything serious. He loved just being in your presence, focused on your every word and every action, mentally taking notes so his memories of his time with you could be as vivid as possible. 

On the other hand, nothing in your wildest dreams could prepare you for your ex-husband rudely coming back into your life only to shame you for possibly having a relationship with another consenting adult. When he called you last night, you had no idea Jeongin was one of your students, but somehow, Minho saw what he was writing in his little notebook, and it all seemed too descriptive to be fake. Jeongin was younger when he saw Minho the most, and there was no way Jeongin could recognize him as his ex-neighbor now. It was all an innocent mistake that cost you a lot of sleep last night. 

You weren’t thinking about that now. All you could think about was what time it was, because your daughters would be awake any minute and you always make them breakfast on your days off. You break the kiss and get out of the shower with Jeongin, graciously helping each other dry off, and you go out to begin making waffles for your kids.

“I didn’t know you could cook!” Jeongin sits at the dining table, full of glee just like a child would be. “Can I stay for breakfast?” 

“Jeongin, you can stay as long as you’d like.” You press the waffle iron closed, beginning to cook the first of three. “But no funny business. I don’t want the girls to know what’s going on between us.” 

“Oh, that’s okay! I just know there’s no fresh breakfast at my house.” He laughs a little, lounging back in the wooden chair. “I’ll leave after I eat so you have a day with your kids, and I also have homework to do.” 

“They give you kids homework on the weekends?” You sound almost offended by the thought of doing any type of schoolwork on your days off. “From what I can remember, we never got homework on the weekends, or if we did, I certainly didn’t do it!” 

You both laugh, then go back to a comfortable silence. It felt right. Having another adult in the house, someone to talk to who isn’t only talking to you because of work. This is what you’ve been missing. 

When your daughters wake up, they’re shocked to see Jeongin sitting at the table, but they’re also happy to see him. They drag him out of his seat at the table so he can play with them before you tell them to behave. 

“Jeongin is a guest this morning. Treat him nice!” 

Jeongin’s embarrassed to admit that he almost said yes mommy, but the glorious taste of the syrup-covered waffles takes his mind off that. You just lean against the counter and watch them eat, sipping your coffee as the sun continues to rise.

🍓🍰🐤🍀💐🍯

“Jeongin, where were you last night?” Felix says through his headset, waiting for his game to load. “We need a team of four!”

“I thought Hyunjin would have been on.” Jeongin yawns, tired after having you wake him so early. “I was busy, sorry.” 

“Busy doesn’t mean writing in your diary, Yang.” Jisung chimes in, calling Jeongin by his family name as if it’s an insult. 

“First of all, it’s not a diary, and second of all, I was busy with a… girl.” Jeongin hesitates to give away too much information, but he folds the seconds he’s brought back to where he was last night: under you. 

“Aw, our baby Innie has a girlfriend?” The group fills with oohs and ahhs as Jeongin groans and rolls his eyes, adjusting his headset out of frustration. “Let us meet her! C'mon man!” 

“You can’t meet her. We aren’t dating.” Jeongin threatens to leave before they drop the topic, but he can’t stop thinking about you, being already semi-hard by the end of their first match. The team berates him for his poor playing, but they can’t even fathom the thoughts going through Jeongin’s head that he can’t wait to put into his journal. 

I want mommy to punish me. Punish me for these thoughts, punish me for touching myself without her, punish me for anything she pleases. Her perverted little boy wants to be ruined, and yet she’s so gentle with me. I don’t care if the sound of her spanking me wakes up her kids. It’ll be worth it just to feel her treat me like I’m her servant who lives to please, because I am. I’m nothing but a vessel she should be free to use at her will. I’m her toy. All hers. 

Jeongin’s phone pings from the other side of his desk. It’s a text message from his favorite neighbor, and what perfect timing too. In your little text conversation, you and Jeongin discuss the babysitting times for the week, and don’t even manage to mention anything about sex. As upsetting as this is, while he waits for your answers, he’s diligently jotting down all of his twisted fantasies. 

“You take my strap so well, honey.” She thrusts into my ass again, this time going even deeper than before. I hold my legs up with my hands around my tights, spreading my ass for her to fuck. My cock is leaking with precum while she strokes it with one hand and plays with my nipples with her other. “Dumb little boy’s being so good for me now.” 

When you finally say goodbye over text, Jeongin shoots back a short “can we call?” As strange as you thought this text was, you press his number, soon to be greeted with the heavy breaths of the young boy. Luckily, the girls were asleep and you were alone in your bedroom, so you could say anything. 

“Aw, is my boy all needy while he’s alone?” You tease him across the line, although you could just yell this out your window to his. Jeongin slips his pants down his thighs to release his cock, playfully touching his tip before gripping his shaft and stroking himself slowly. “Are you thinking about mommy?”

“Y-yes, I’m thinking about you, mommy.” How he got so excited so quickly is beyond his own understanding, but just from hearing your lustful voice, Jeongin’s already brainless, hardly able to utter a simple sentence. 

“Good boy. You’re always such a good boy, huh?”

“Only for you, mommy.”

“Then why does my good boy want to be punished?” Jeongin’s breath hitches, suddenly remembering the short, revealing conversation with you about wanting to be used. “I wouldn’t want to punish you without a reason, my little prince.”

“Wh-what can I do?” He heaves out, quickening his pace on his dick. “Give me rules, mommy. I want to break them.”

“Oh, pretty boy wants rules now?” You take a moment to ponder, hearing the light sound of skin slapping from the other side of the phone. “Stop jerking off. No masturbating without my permission.”

Jeongin freezes, taking his hand off his cock slowly, writhing from the ruined orgasm he was so close to having. He sighs to catch his breath, pulling the phone away so you couldn’t hear how desperate he was to be touched. “What else?”

“Hm,” you scratch your chin in thought, “you have to show me everything you write in your little journal, got it?” “E-everything?”

“Everything.” Jeongin’s focus goes to the journal, looking at the depraved words he scratched onto the page. If he wants to get what he wants, he has to show you just so you know how much he wants this. “Yes ma’am.”

“One more thing, baby.” Jeongin’s worn out just from the first two rules. One more might break him. “Promise to take care of yourself. Brush your teeth, eat your meals, drink water, ya’know, things like that. I don’t want this rule broken.” 

The sudden overflowing of care and wholesomeness makes Jeongin’s face turn red, partially because you’re so sweet and partially because he forgot to eat dinner today. He nods before realizing this was a phone call and squeaking out a meek “of course”. 

“Don’t break these rules, okay sweetheart? Or else you’ll be punished… unless you break the last rule. Then I’ll give you a stern talking to. Got it?” 

“Yes, mommy. I understand.” Jeongin pulls his pants up, cock now fully limp. “See you tomorrow!” 

“Yup, good night.” You both hang up, setting your phones down for the night. Jeongin sits back in his desk chair, feeling victorious after finally cementing a sure-fire way to get his ass spanked. Before he goes to bed, he has to eat dinner. No way he’s getting a stern talking to!

🍓🍰🐤🍀💐🍯

When you come home from work on Monday, Jeongin’s watching TV (scrolling through his phone) while the girls were most likely asleep. You come sit next to him, tossing your bag next to the couch and figuratively letting your hair down, unbuttoning a few buttons on your work shirt. 

“Hey, Y/n! The girls were great today.” Jeongin smiles, folding his hands in his lap. “They went to bed like two hours ago. It was an early night for them I guess.” 

“Yeah, they were up early this morning, even before me.” You both laugh, finally being able to get down to business, at least in Jeongin’s mind. 

“I ate three meals today, I drank three bottles of water, and I brushed my teeth this morning.” Jeongin sounds oddly proud of himself for doing what most people think is the bare minimum. “I showered, I took my meds, and most importantly, I didn’t jerk off.” 

“Good boy.” You kiss him on the cheek and pull his head into your chest so he’s leaning on one of your tits. “My Jeonginnie is always so good for me.”

“Can I get a reward?” His puppy eyes look up at you, warming your heart from the long day at work. He looked so sweet and innocent, just pretty enough for you to destroy. 

“Hold on, baby. You didn’t forget the second rule, did you?” You tap the side of his head and point to his bookbag. “Show me your journal.” 

“B-but mommy, that’s embarrassing.” He whines, turning off your chest and to his bag, leaning away before unzipping his bag. “Do you have to?” 

“Don’t be bratty with me. I just called you my good boy!” You reach for the bag, but Jeongin pulls it back to him. He hides it behind his back, putting his nose up at you. “Jeongin…”

“No!”

“Give me the j-“

“Make me.”

You lean into him, suffocating the younger boy with your shadow. Now standing over him, you put your hands on his face, cupping his cheeks before one hand pulls back and harshly slaps him across his handsome face. He doesn’t whine in pain, though, he just moans. 

“M-more.” 

“What was that, baby?” 

He begins to repeat himself, but you slap him again before he can finish the word. His face is red as a tomato, and you don’t care whether that’s from your hand or his blushing. Looking down, you can clearly see how hard he is in his pants. You remove your hands from his face and press one down onto his bulge, making his face contort into a wince. 

“Does my little boy want me to touch his cock?” You taunt, tilting your head as if the answer isn’t obvious. “Or more importantly, does he deserve it?” 

“I’m n-not letting you read my journal.” 

You huff and straighten your posture, taking his wrist in your hand and making him stand up with you, leading him to your bedroom. You slam the door behind you just quiet enough not to wake the kids. When you turn around, Jeongin is bent over the bed with his pants down to his ankles. He’s shaking. You like that. 

“Take your clothes off, bitch.” He kicks his pants away while tossing his shirt off and pulling down his underwear at lighting speed. You sit on the bed and pat your lap, signaling Jeongin to bend over you, which he obediently does. “My little boy’s being bad today. Why?”

“I don’t want you reading what’s in my journal.” He sounds angry when you know it’s all for show. 

“You don’t think I already know what perverted filth is in there?” You spank him, quickly making a red mark on his pale ass. He groans, bucking his hips into your leg for some friction. “You just want mommy to treat you like this, don’t you?” 

“Yes mommy.” Another spank hits his ass, causing him to jolt forward. You bite your lip looking down at him, just now noticing how muscular he is. 

“Count for me.” You spank him again, and again, and again, as he pliantly counts and whines, his cock dangling below him fully erect. By the end, he’s out of breath, and he isn’t even doing any of the work. 

“Ten.” You pet his back while his ass is red as ever, looking like it can’t take any more hits of your palm. You kiss him on the shoulder, an especially soft moment after what just occurred. “Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I’ll show you my journal now.” He can’t move, but the journal is still out in his bag. 

“I’ll go get it, baby boy. Lay down on the pillows. I want to read your slutty little stories to you.” He gets off your lap and lays back while you go out to the living room to get the journal. You sift through his bag, looking back and forth between binders and folders, but you don’t see it anywhere. You bring the bag into the bedroom, tossing it on the bed. “Where is it?”

Jeongin does the same as you, sifting through the bag with no sight of his precious journal. His heart stops for a minute, beginning to break into a cold sweat. 

“Where did you see it last?” 

“I was writing in it during my comp class.” 

Lee Minho teaches that class. Your ex-husband teaches that class. This feels like the end of the world, and unlike earlier, you’re now genuinely angry. Your face begins to boil as you throw the bookbag off the bed and undress down to your panties. Climbing on top of Jeongin, you press your cunt down onto his cock, applying just enough pressure to make you both moan. 

“Dumb little boy wants to ruin me, don’t you?” You wrap your hands around his neck, not choking him, but rather threatening him. “You want Lee Minho to know about us. You want him to have your stupid fucking diary so he can read all of your slutty fantasies.” Your grip tightens around his neck slightly, and Jeongin looks like he’s in pure bliss. He can’t even defend himself. He loves this too much. 

“I love you, mommy.” He hums, leaning back into the bed as you begin to tease his cock with your slick panties, grinding against him. 

“You don’t love me, Jeongin. You just love when I treat you like my little toy.” You lean down to make a dark hickey on his neck, something his friends will surely tease him for the next day. “All mine. You’re only mine.” 

“Y-yes mommy. All yours. Only yours.” He moans loudly, suddenly nearing his high just from your grinding. The cloth of your panties feel like heaven. He can’t help it!

You look down to see him shoot his load on himself, spurts of his hot cum covering his abs and chest. He looks so pathetic, but at least he’s yours. 

Pushing your panties aside, you slip him inside you, overstimulating him with your tight cunt. You bounce a few times on him before stopping your movements completely, bending over to put your tits in his face. He grabs your tits and sucks them, jumping back and forth between them every couple of seconds. Your hands are still around his neck, keeping him down on the mattress, unable to move. 

“You love being mommy’s toy, huh?” You start to choke him more as you pull your tits out of his face, starting to ride him again. “Ah~ and mommy loves your cock, babydoll.” 

Jeongin’s overwhelmed. He just came but he feels his second orgasm rapidly approaching. He can’t think or speak. All he can do is moan and whine “mommy” over and over again. 

“Let me try something, my little prince.” That was always his favorite pet name you gave him. He thought he was about to cum, but you pull off of him, rotating your body so Jeongin has a perfect view of your ass. You sink back down onto him, his cock filling up your pussy again. 

He felt so relieved being inside your warm cunt again, but now you start riding him harder and faster, his cock hitting so deep inside you with each thrust. He can’t hold it anymore. Jeongin’s cum fills you up, dripping down out of your pussy and onto the base of his cock. 

He feels so weak under you. He’s in pain from the overstimulation, but he can’t deny that he adores feeling like this. The safe word isn’t even in his mind. He just wants you. 

“Mommy’s gonna cum, alright?” You start to tighten around him, your movements getting sloppy and labored. “Hold my hips like a good boy. I want you to fuck me just like this.” 

Jeongin’s hands hesitantly move to your hips, holding you up while his hips begin to stutter and thrust into you, fucking his cum deeper inside you. The convulsions of your dripping pussy is making his head spin. If he cums again, he’ll be so embarrassed, but the more he fucks you, the more his cock twitches. 

“Good little boy. Such a nice cock, baby. Mm, so good.” Words mindlessly fly out of your mouth as you slam your ass against him, forcing him to bottom out. Neither of you move as you cum on him, your cunt tightening its grip on his length. Jeongin shuts his eyes as he ruts into you, cumming the same time as you. It feels euphoric to both of you. Jeongin’s hands move from your hips to your ass, massaging the skin as you come down from your highs. 

“Thank you, mommy.” Jeongin whines as you get off of him, cum dripping out of you onto Jeongin. You hold it in as best you can as you lay down next to him, your legs feeling too fuzzy to get you anywhere. Jeongin nuzzles into your chest, holding you as close to him as possible. 

You kiss his forehead before getting up to clean the mess you two made, mostly the mess between your legs. Coming back with water for your pretty little submissive, you lay back down to cuddle with your sweet boy. 

“You need to get that journal back, Jeongin.”

“I will, Y/n. Don’t worry. No one will read it.” 

🍓🍰🐤🍀💐🍯

His finger wraps around the thin paper to flip the page, only getting a fourth of the way through the messy journal. Everything is vile, and more importantly, everything is about his ex-wife. 

Lee Minho’s cock is hard in his hand as he strokes himself back and forth, biting down on his lip so he doesn’t moan too loudly to alert his girlfriend in the other room. He can’t believe the raunchy smut he’s reading can turn him on this much. 

“F-fuck, Y/n. My cock is so much better than this college boy’s.” 

Minho gets vivid flashbacks to him dominating you, tying you up and spanking you with his paddle. Your teary eyes were always his favorite, especially when the tears were mixed with his cum. 

He looks back at the page after returning from his haze of days gone by. His cock starts to twitch as his eyes skim the page, focusing on the parts with your name.

Y/n’s arm enters my peripheral as she hits me again with her flogger, the leather straps leaving red marks against my back. I lose balance, unable to catch myself on the hands that are cuffed behind me. I fall onto my face, and Y/n laughs at my pathetic form. “Dumb slut can’t even stay on his knees for his mistress.” Her heel presses against my spine, arching my back with force. “Ten more, then I’ll remove the cage, got it?”

Minho tosses the book aside as his pace quickens, cumming all over his lap. He looks down at the mess he made, his sweatpants covered in the reminder that he’s still head-over-heels for his ex-wife. 

taglist: @milkym00n​ @sparklysung​ @fanchengsgf​ @sailorhyunjinz @gothicstay​ if you wanna be tagged in part four, send me an ask :)

[kyberphilosopher]

Mᴏʀɴɪɴɢ Lɪɢʜᴛ

Word Count: 2061

“The Sun card represents radiance. Like the sun itself, it gives strength and vitality to all those that are lucky enough to feel its rays. There is much joy and happiness that is coming to you. On the other hand, the Sun reversed might be indicative that you are being unrealistic. It might be a sign that you have an overly optimistic perception of certain situations. Be warned, for when the sun ceases to shine on you, depression is soon to follow.” - ‘The Sun’ Tarot Card; Full Meaning.

Tap Tap Tap. 

How early was it? Too early. You knew you had training today, but you were certain that wasn’t for another few hours. So what was that insufferable tapping for?

Tap... Tap Tap. 

You shift against your pillow. You can feel your hair stick against your neck, in sync with the tightening fist by your face. Your eyes do open, slowly but surely. You feel groggy, despite the growing alertness inside of you. You’re waking up. What’s more, you’re waking up before you really have to. 

Tap... Tap. 

Your sleepy eyes search around the room. Behind the glass of the window, you can make out a blurry image of yellow and pale skin. Still, you’re exhausted. It could be a silly little trick pulled by your own brain. But on the off chance that it is-

Annie. 

You sit up. Your vision is still smeared like oil, but you stumble out of bed. Your heel skims against the wood of the floor. It probably gave you a splinter, but now that you’ve started thinking about her, you know it’d be difficult to stop. 

You partially hop to the window across from your bed. Your right hand reaches out to unlatch the thing, while the left rubs at your eyes to get the gift of clear sight. As you turn the wood to the right to unlock it, you step back and away. 

The blond handles the rest. Her palms slip under the window and pull it up, and then she pushes herself through. She brushes the clear white curtains to the side and lands on the floor, just as your vision returns to you.  

She’s wearing her favorite white sweatshirt, and standard brown slacks. There’s ODM gear at her hips, complete with all the strappings and buckles. But her face... oh, her face. Despite the time apart, it’s the same one you’d fallen in love with. The big, still blue eyes were gazing at the wood she landed on. Her pale blond hair is pulled back in the usual bun, her bangs hanging loose as always. But her lips look shinier today. Perhaps she tried the new lip tint you’d bought the last time you’d gone shopping. 

“Annie,” you sighed with a soft smile. Any kind of stress you’d been feeling in the past few weeks without her was fading away, at long last. You knew she’d see you again soon, but you hadn’t realized she’d pick today. She must’ve wanted to surprise you. 

Annie’s right hand reaches up to rub the back of her neck. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be up yet.” The girl looks your form up and down. “Or dressed.”

One of your feet rubs against the opposite shin. She’s not wrong. You’re wearing an oversized white shirt and cheap underwear that she can’t even see. Your hair is a mess, your eyes groggy, and your breath making your own throat want to gag. But you’re overwhelmed with happiness to finally see her again. 

“Yes you did,” you challenge firmly, but tiredly. 

Annie’s eyes soften. You’re right. She could picture your tired form in her head long before she’d even set out to surprise you. That and the fact that she’d purposely arrived before the morning chimes. 

“Whatever,” you wave off. You step towards her, your heart reaching out to hers. Her chest is like a magnet to your own. 

Your arms stretch out to embrace her. And you do. Tugging her to you, you feel her warmth. Her chest and neck flushed against yours, feeling your heartbeats fall into sync. Annie smells so good. She always has, but it must be that body wash the Military Police get to use. 

Annie is everything to you. The attraction was immediate, and the build up of trust came naturally over time. Despite the two introverted natures, you spent time together. You ate silent dinners, went through the motions of the days with each other. You taught Annie more about life and perspective more than she cared to admit, and in turn, she had made you feel more confident in your own character. It became fact among the cadets that where either you or Annie was found, the other was never far behind. 

And then, sometime in the midst of it all, the dynamic changed. 

Your faces got closer when you pinned the other down during sparring. You’d share your food from the same spoon when there wasn’t enough. Even begun sharing the same shower. You’d always thought Annie was attractive, but now the attraction was rapidly becoming a solid, almost tangible force. 

The heat radiating between the two of you was undeniable. One night, in the top bunk of your barracks, she crept into your bed and shared a kiss. It was wet and sloppy, but you were close to her. You didn’t care about the lack of experience from either of you. Annie mattered to you. You wanted to be with her, and apparently she felt the same.

Things were never made official by title, but you were even more inseparable than before. You’d witnessed her threaten Reiner for both hitting on you and insulting you on separate occasions. You judo flipped a boy for getting handsy with her. You went to winter markets, stargazed, and spent late nights sparring ending in clumsy make-out sessions. You loved her. You’d do anything for her. You’d already made a nonverbal promise to each other that you’d grow and mature together. What more could you ask for?

“I really missed you,” you admit, taking her in as much as you can. Annie sinks into your touch, closing her eyes in affection. 

“Yeah,” she replies, which is her own way of letting it slip that she missed you too. Both her hands come to rest under your elbows, effectively keeping them in place around her. Pft, as if you were going to remove them for longer than a split second anyway.

“So,” you drawl as you saunter back to your bed. You collapse on it, rubbing the space next to you as a call for Annie. “Tell me what I’ve been missing. The MP’s still treating you alright?”

Annie shifts and averts her eyes in thought. Then she follows your lead, sitting on the edge of the bed as she starts to unbuckle her harnesses. “It’s the same,” she tells you. 

“I know you don’t like them, Ann.  You don’t have to pretend.”

And with anybody else, Annie would’ve been quick to annoyance. But with you, she was glad. Even though she definitely didn’t tell you the truth about everything, she knew she could still be herself around you. She knew you could sense she kept some secrets from you still, but you’d never forced the issue. Everything about your love was focused on understanding. It was more than the girl thought she deserved. 

“What about the Scouts?” Annie decides in return. It’s a tactic at changing the subject, and one that doesn’t slip past you. Still, you don’t push. 

“Just as annoying as we thought. I have to officially get up and at ‘em in a few hours.”

Your lover unties her boots. “Have you been outside the wall yet?”

She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear you say your piece anyway. 

“No,” you sigh. Your hand rests on your forehead, your elbow bent as you stare up at the ceiling. “We have our first expedition this week. We’re taking Jaeger out to try the Commander’s new strategy.”

Annie freezes. Then she continues her movement. “Right. I’d almost forgotten Eren was here.”

You doubted that. “The bastard talked about the Scouts non stop back in cadet training,” you say as Annie twists around to face you. “You sure you didn’t hit your head on the way over here?”

Annie doesn’t answer. But she does gift a hint of a smile. It’s gone in a flash, but it’s more than others get. 

Her ice blue eyes pierce into yours. It’s not threatening, however. It’s loving. Appreciating. She’s trying to memorize all the details inside of them like she’s about to do so for the last time. 

Then Annie lowers head head slowly, until it rests by the crook of your neck. 

“You got up early to see me today,” you say softly. 

Your love shifts off of you, and props her up on her elbow at her side. You mirror her movements to observe her as well. 

“I skinned my knee climbing from my barracks. My gear was giving me trouble.”

Some people may have expressed concern, but you knew your other half was strong. She didn’t need your pity. “Well maybe you shouldn’t have done that,” you shrug with snark back. 

“Heh, thanks,” she responds, looking down to stare at your white cotton sheets. 

There is quiet. The sunlight illuminates her hair. Her long eyelashes flutter up and down slowly. Annie is beautiful. No. Annie surpasses the boundaries of being beautiful. 

“Y/N,” she whispers. “Would you love me, if I were evil?”

What?

“What did you say?”

Silence. Annie doesn’t look at you. She seems solemn, troubled. Haunted, even. No, not quite haunted. Maybe just hollow. 

“Nothing,” Annie says decidedly. “I’m just muttering.”

You frown anyway. You know that Annie is weighed down by things that you can’t explain, or understand. It’s different from other soldiers, or just other people. But you didn’t think there was anything she could do to be evil. You had already shown and told her that you were in love with her. You wouldn’t go back on that if you even could. 

Annie was your world. Your lion. Your entire purpose for even making it this far. 

One of your hands reaches out to brush her fringe behind her ear. “I’d always be on your side,” you tell her softly. “There’s nothing you could do to change that.”

You’d be surprised, thought Annie. 

“I didn’t mean to be depressing,” she mutters further. “I was looking forward to seeing you again.”

Annie is sad today. 

Both of your arms wrap around her slim figure. You pull her close to you, so her head is between your chest and your neck. Both your bodies cradle against each other as you stroke the soft strands of yellow hair. The sun is seeping through the windows for only a passing moment, before it is covered by a blanket of grey clouds. 

“Let’s go back to sleep,” you whisper to her, your eyes transfixed on the drops of rain hitting the roof one by one. 

“I am sorry,” you hear her speak against your shirt. 

You pull away, your palms against her cheeks so you can look at her stunning face. “Don’t ever apologize to me, Annie.” What more can you say to reassure her? “I’m with you.”

Annie is heartbroken inside. Maybe it was better that she didn’t say anything. Or maybe it was better in another timeline, where you knew. But Annie kept her mouth shut and tried to just relax her nerves. There was no reason to wake up feeling as guilty as she had. She was with you now. You would protect her against the nightmares with her father, or Reiner. Nothing to be afraid of. 

“After this,” Annie says as you coax her head back against your body. “I’ll buy you one of those breakfast sweets you like so much. From the village.”

The rain taps against your window. The sun has all but disappeared by now. Surely the open window mixed with sheets of light rain will result in a damp floor, but there’s no way in hell either of you are going to get up and close it now. Instead you watch the water fall, thinking about how the shade of the sun matches that of your lovers mane. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

I wrote this really fast. I just really love Annie and wanted to give her some appreciation. A weak plot, but oh well. 

[imagine-that]

The L word

Pairing: Spike x Reader, sort of Spike x Buffy

Warnings: none really, kinda angsty ig??

AN: takes place in 4x09, also I’m in love with spike and proud of it

“Summers what did you do with my boyfriend?” You yell as you make your way to the living room of Giles’s home.

She looks up with an eyebrow raised, clearly un phased by your anger.

“Aren’t you supposed to only come out in the dark?” She asks boredly.

You groan, anger seething through you.

“Slayer, I mean it. Where is he?” You ask again, looking her dead in the eyes.

She sighs, standing up and walking over to you.

“He’s not here. Why would he come over here at all? We all want him dead, remember?” She explains again with a sigh.

“I don’t know! Where is he? I haven’t seen him in days. I thought... I thought maybe he’d come here to take something but I just... I don’t know!” You whine, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

“He probably ran off to hunt some sorority girls or something.” She responds with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, looking back at her with daggers of a stare. “You’re cruel, you know that? You think I don’t believe that he’d jump some whores bones behind my back? Or go back to Drusilla in a heartbeat? Not that the two are any different...” You mutter with a bitter tone. “But I do. I fear that every damn day I’m with him but that doesn’t stop me from staying with him always, which brings me back to my initial question: where is he?” You repeat, looking to her desperately.

“I don’t know. I tend not to keep tabs on the non threatening enemies.” She responds.

You huff a sigh, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “Fine I’ll just find him myself.” You mutter, storming out the door and into the warmth of the setting sun.

You walk your way home, laying defeatedly in your bed, patting at the side where Spike would usually be.

After a lot of worrisome hours, you finally fall into a less than peaceful sleep.

———————————————————————————

The next day is spent wandering around, hunting for Spike. You’re restless and you know you probably look crazed, wandering around the town of Sunnydale in your sweats and tank top, your hair a frizzy mess and your eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

You wander mindlessly towards Buffy and Willow’s dorm, stopping outside as you see her familiar curly head of hair. Your breath hitches as you see the familiar white head of hair suddenly appear next to her, racing across the lawn, not caring in the slightest how he ended up there. Just that he was there was enough.

You notice the conversation the two of them had started since he appeared but don’t care, jumping onto his back, your arms wrapped securely around him as you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck desperately.

He lets out a grunt in surprise, chuckling a bit as you place a kiss on his cheek, ignoring the rest of whatever crazy conversation he’d started with Buffy.

“Hello pet.” He hums, smirking as he helps you off his back, pulling you into his side.

“I was so worried.” You whisper as he breaths in the scent of your hair.

“I’m fine, I promise.” He responds, nipping at your ear playfully and making you giggle.

Buffy rolls her eyes, moving to push you out of the way. You whimper as she shoves you to the ground, watching as Spike fills with anger, going forward and punching her in the nose, only to cry out in pain and hold his head.

Buffy punches back, making him wince.

“As touching as this moment was, I have business with you.” She growls, grabbing Spike and tying him up easily.

You try to protest but every time she manages to fight you off, threatening to knock you out the next time you tried anything.

You trail after them, not wanting to lose his whereabouts again no matter what it took.

You follow her all the way into Giles’s house again, watching in horror as she tosses him to the ground.

Spike lets out a grunt. “Hey! Watch it!” He growls, glaring up at her.

“One more word out of you, and I swear...” She threatens, pointing at him with a dangerous look in her eye.

“Back off Buffy!” You warn but she gives you the same look, somehow making you back down.

You feel weak and helpless but she manages to scare you. You can’t put your finger on why, more than likely the aggression but she’s a force to be reckoned with and you know you fighting her would only end in your death.

Spike rolls his eyes again, looking bored.

“Swear, what? You're not gonna do anything to me. You don't got the stones.” He says with a small grin, making you feel slightly better yourself.

Buffy scoffs, looking at him in disbelief. “Oh, I got the stones. I got a whole bunch of .. stones.” She responds defensively.

Spike laughs, grinning to her tauntingly. “Yeah? You're all talk.” He challenges fearlessly, his tone almost bored. You giggle a bit yourself, glad he’s not completely miserable.

“GILES! I accidentally killed Spike. That's okay, right?” Buffy shouts, glaring daggers in his direction.

“Lay another hand on him and I’ll kill you myself!” You threaten, jumping in front of your boyfriend quickly.

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. He on the other hand, looks at you, a look of pride strong in his eyes, making you grin and blush a bit.

“Uh um just a minute...” Giles calls back, sounding confused.

The two bicker back and forth while you wait, uttering threat after threat.

She grabs him, shoving him into a chair harshly. You glare in protest, making your way to her to stop her rough movements but Spike makes eye contact with you, tilting his head in a way that tells you not to try anything.

He sneers at her with anger in his face. “I get this spell reversed, they'll be finding your body for weeks.” He growls, making your face twist in confusion.

“Spell?” You ask, ignoring the heat of the moment.

“Long story babe. You’ll hear all about it when we blow this popsicle stand.” He says with a smirk, glancing at Buffy menacingly.

“Oh please, make a move. I’m dying for a good slay.” Buffy glowers back, stepping closer to him angrily.

Suddenly, the tension dissipates between them and Buffy is untying him, as he stands he allows her the seat, barely giving you a second glance.

“Spike?” You ask, confused.

He ignores you, getting down on his knees.

“Giles!” You cry out in alarm, watching with wide eyes at the scene before you.

As Giles enters the room, you watch the moment continue, frozen in your spot against your better judgement.

“If the two of you could just remain civil long enough for-“ He starts but then he gets a picture of what’s happening.

“It’s just so sudden!” Buffy says with a small, gleeful smile. “I don’t know what to say.” She adds.

“Just say yes, and make me the happiest man on earth.” Spike urges, smiling at her with her hand held in his.

You feel tears brimming your eyes, blurring your vision slightly.

“But- but I thought I made you the happiest man on earth...” You mumble, looking to him longingly. Again, he’s too enthralled with Buffy to give you the time of day.

“Oh Spike! Of course it’s a yes!” Buffy squeals, embracing him in her arms.

A second later, their lips are pressed together, moving in sync and you feel your heart shatter inside your chest.

The feeling of emptiness sinks in as you feel the tears running down your face.

Finally, spike looks at you, a frown taking over his face.

“Oh y/n, it’s nothing personal. I did love you but Buffy and I are just meant to be. We’ve got so much history, it’s only right that something comes from it.” He explains, Buffy draped over his lap.

He reaches to give your hand a sympathetic squeeze but you jerk away, cradling your hand defensively as more tears form.

“D-do not touch me.” You growl, backing away from them and hiccuping between sobs.

“Come anywhere near me again and I’ll stake you myself.” You whisper, looking to him in a haunted daze.

The happy couple quickly gets too involved in each other to care, shrugging and distracting themselves with wedding details as you back out the door, your mind whirling with the memory of seeing them together like that.

You always doubted yourself, knowing Spike could probably find someone much better than you. But you’d never dreamed that of all the women he could get with, the one he’d want would be Buffy the slayer. He’d always hated her and her friends with a passion so strong, you never imagined that passion would go into something other than hatred.

You make your way back to your place like a zombie, your head too heavy with sorrow to think of anything else.

You let your tears roll down your face as you enter, grabbing your things as quickly as possible and shoving them all into a duffel bag, ignoring anything you see that belongs to Spike. You sniffle as you make a small accidental glance at the Polaroid you’d taken of the two of you together not long ago.

It usually made you laugh when you looked at it, seeing as it was you kissing the air considering the whole no pictures thing. Spike had hated taking it but you’d insisted and when you laughed at it you always saw a small, hesitant grin come to his face.

You collapse to the floor in tears, clutching the picture to you desperately. You longed for his touch, the cool fingertips that would send goosebumps over your entire body and warmth all at the same time.

You sit there feeling useless for what feels like hours, the ripe vision of Spike and Buffy sucking face fresh in your mind, taunting you.

Composing yourself, you rise to your feet, dragging yourself back outside.

“I will not let him unravel me like this.” You promise yourself, taking a deep breath.

You pull a hoodie on over your tank top, walking out into the cool night air and off towards the graveyard, needing to clear your head. For some reason the graveyard was oddly calming to you in a sense, the constant quiet and sense of aloneness comforting for you.

Suddenly, you see the scoobies fighting demons out of a crypt. You roll your eyes, turning to walk away but letting out a sigh as you decide to be a bigger person and help.

You run over, grabbing one of Buffy’s weapons and throwing your anger at her and Spike into fighting off one of the demons in front of you. You stab it, making it shrivel to the ground and die. You feel oddly liberated and refreshed, which makes you go after another, then another, then another. Next thing you know, you’ve killed all the demons in sight.

“Woah! Can someone say rage, party of one?” Xander jokes. No one laughs and you remain sulking, crossing your arms and ignoring the couple kissing in the corner.

The gang continues fighting demons as they come. You’re having fun for a while but then you watch as Spike gets attacked by one of them and you jump, surprised by what’s happened.

“Spike!” Buffy and you shout at the same time, both running to him. But Buffy’s faster, grabbing him in her hands and making you feel green with envy.

A second later you’re absolutely seething, watching her kiss him in a moment of worry and passion again. You bite your lip, trying to prevent yourself from saying or doing anything.

A few moments and many excruciating kisses later, a bolt of lightning crashes across the sky. You don’t think anything of it at first, but then Spike and Buffy jump apart as though they couldn’t possibly be anywhere near each other ever again.

“Oh ugh.” Buffy groans, looking at Spike as if he had bit her.

“Oh bloody hell!” Spike cries, his lips curling up in a show of absolute disgust.

The both of them wipe their lips, rubbing at their tongues like they’re on fire. Spike gags and Buffy pretends to tremble in disgust.

“Spike lips! Lips of Spike!” She bellows, shuddering.

“I happen to think you’d be lucky to kiss those lips.” You murmur hoarsely with a sad smile. Spike looks to you in shock, clearly knowing what all had happened.

“Y/n baby...” He says but you turn away, starting to walk away while rubbing your arms for warmth.

“Go away.” You sigh, making your way out of the graveyard quickly.

“Y/n!” He calls after you, running to catch up.

“I don’t want to talk to you Spike.” You say weakly, not even convincing yourself that it’s true.

He runs a little faster and gets in front of you, grabbing you gently by the shoulders to keep you where you are.

“C’mon pet... I would never do that to you, you know that.” He promises. You sigh, looking at him for the first time in the past few days.

“That’s just the thing Spike; I don’t know that. You still pine after Drusilla so I know you’d leave me for her in the blink of an eye. You still chase around college girls, even if you can’t feed off them. And now you’ve gone for Buffy. The slayer. The girl you’ve hated since day one.” You ramble, needing to get everything out in the open. “I’ve always been here for you but you will always put them first Spike and that kills me, it breaks me. But I live with it because I love you. But even with that, I’ve had enough of this whole focus on what you want all the time. It’s... I can’t do it anymore Spike. I’m tired, I’m so tired.” You cry, tears flowing out of you like a river once again.

Spike holds you in his arms, rubbing a hand over your back unsurely. “There there...” he says hesitantly, clearly unsure what to do in this situation.

With his minimal efforts of help, you recompose yourself and dab your eyes, waiting for him to start talking.

“Listen to me alright? That thing with the slayer was not real. Drusilla hates me and I want nothing to do with her either. The sorority girls? Just entertaining and good to take out my aggressions. You’re nothing like any of them. You’re better. You’re better because you’re you and you’re mine and because I love you damn it!” He exclaims, his tone one of desperation and desire as he’s meeting your eyes through his entire speech.

Your eyes open wider as you look up at him, sucking in your bottom lip.

“Y-you love me?” You ask quietly with a soft smile.

He nods, smirking and taking in a sigh. “Yes, I bloody love you with every piece of me.” He promises, running his hand over your hip while the other cups your face.

You stay stunned for a second. He’d never said the L word with you before. It was implied, it was shown through actions and gestures but never actually spoken. The words being directed at you from his lips though, that was the sweetest sound you could ever hear.

“I love you too Spike.” You say with a smile, closing the tense gap between you with an electrifying kiss. You both feel it all through your bodies, the connection binding itself once and for all.

He growls into your lips, making you smile.

“That slayer had nothing on you pet.” He promises, holding you close to him in an almost possessive way.

“Really?” You murmur doubtfully.

“Without a doubt.” He confirms roughly, digging his fingers into your hair.

You let out a moan and without hesitation, he hoists you up, your legs wrapped around his waist. The two of you stay glued to each others lips as he carries you back to the cavern you live in where he shows you just how much he loves you and only you.