#but when i do fall apart i just can’t stop

[minkieater]

most to least likely in ateez to wanna share their girlfriend with the members…?

SHARETEEZ ☆ atz ot8 x fem!reader

please i love this topic so fucking much, thank you for asking this !!!!! shareteez is so important to me. the only government ship i used is yungi because im insane and addicted to them 😄 not proofread sorry 4 any mistakes <3

smut mdni 18+ | wc ~4k

most likely …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐖𝐀 ☆

idk what it is about hwa but something about him screams voyeurism to me. i think he’d be the one to bring it up, and i also think he’d share you with every single member if he could. as the oldest, even if he doesn’t share his personal items, something about sharing you gives him a sense of control. he’s always sitting in the corner of the hotel room, watching, analyzing as one of his best friends makes his girl feel good, but also, something about watching two people he loves together, right in front of his face, gets him off. he doesn’t wanna be involved— he wants to sit in his corner and watch, see how you react, see what the others do that he does or doesn’t do, watch how his members fall apart because of you. he’s prideful about it, it’s a way of showing you off, showing his members what they can have for a night but never to keep. he’s never jealous if you cum quick or if you’re screaming for another member, he’s watching with calculated eyes, taking notes, trying to ignore the ache of his cock that he doesn’t touch until he can’t take it anymore.

his favorite person to share you with is san. san is a passionate man in everything he does, his motivation never dies, and god does that statement remain true when it comes to sex. seonghwa is addicted to letting san fuck you, he’s the only member that’s fucked you more than once, hwa is obsessed with how you react for him, how easily you fall apart under his touch, the sounds the two of you make… seonghwa nearly asks for his wrists to be tied to the chair. its impossible not to stroke his cock while san’s eating you out, to not cum at the same time you do, to not drool as he watches the muscles in san’s toned back flex as he fucks you. hwa is a mess in his corner, his lap covered in cum, hand slick and wrist aching while his cock lays flaccid and utterly spent— but he still can’t stop, not when san hasn’t finished yet, not when you aren’t brainless and lifted to that fuzzy space that only san brings you to so easily. seonghwa could watch you for hours, his own personal movie, his favorite part would always be when you twisted your head to stare at him as you came, every single time. seonghwa would die a happy man in his corner if he was watching one of his best friends fuck you stupid.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐍 ☆

san would quite literally do anything his gf asked of him, but i think san is a fucking freak to begin with and watching you with someone else would be a dream to him. he’s obsessed with your pleasure, a demon possessed when it comes to getting you off, there isn’t a day that goes by where you aren’t finishing from some ministrations of choi san. if you even so much as look at another member with lingering eyes he’s on it— he’s observant, he’s horny, and his mind is always going, thinking of something new, trying it out with you, getting you past the finish line with it. san is a quiet man but he’s always storing details away, saving them for later, rewording them into propositions to make you think it was his idea. when san drops the idea of you hooking up with someone else, you’re the one shocked as if he’d just stripped you bare, peered inside your mind, as if all your thoughts were written across your forehead. san doesn’t get jealous, he’d do anything to get you off, and he means that.

san giggled to himself when he watched you approach yeosang in the backlit bar. quiet and meek, san would have never expected yeosang to agree to dance with you— but the blush that crossed yeosang’s cheeks, how his ears tipped red, san knew he was going to have fun with this. san stood with wooyoung as he watched you dance with yeosang, grinding on him, hands around his neck, lips ghosting his skin, san’s pants were agonizingly tight and only grew tighter every time yeosang glanced their way with worried eyes. he didn’t stop, though, he never asked for permission, and for some reason it made san hornier that yeosang knew you called the shots. so when the three of you made it back to your shared place and you sat with your back pressed against san’s chest and yeosang between your thighs, it was no surprise to any of you when san ended up finishing untouched, ropes of hot cum painting your back, sticking your skin to his. it was so hot, hotter than san could have ever expected, too hot to not make the occurrence a regular thing. after that night you invited the rest of the boys to your bedroom, one by one, it became a game to you and san. who could get you off the fastest, who did new things that you could incorporate into your own sex life, who you wanted to invite back into the bedroom. san was always present, always watching, always right there, always touching, always finishing at the same time as you.

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈 ☆

mingi would share the world with yunho, so yungi topping mingi’s gf is so real to me i’m 100% convinced it’s true. unlike the other two before him, mingi is possessive and jealous by nature, he can be shy and insecure, but never when it comes to yunho. he’s third on this list because i think he’d be dating his gf for less than six months before he let yunho get his hands on her, Grade A Lover Boy ™, he’s so open to the idea that he’s the one pushing it to happen— he’s been having threesomes with yunho ever since he started having sex, so when it comes to you, his perfect little girlfriend, why wouldn’t he want to show you off to yunho? he boasts about you all the time, how pliant you are for him, how your pussy is the best he’s ever had, how your body was sculpted by god himself. it makes yunho drool and fills mingi with such a sense of pride he needs to show him as soon as he can, let him experience it for himself, but asking you is the hard part. somehow explaining the relationship between the two without making it sound like he’s objectifying you in any way, because he’s not, you’re the two people in this world he loves the most, and he’s just as confident in yunho’s skills as he is in how he feels about you.

when you agree without a second of contemplation mingi knows he’s found the one. so he invites yunho over to your shared apartment on a random weeknight, a couple glasses of liquor between you to ease your one sided nerves, and you were laid out bare on your mattress before you had a moment to second guess. two huge men towered over you, taking you for everything you were worth, making you finish over and over and over until you had nothing left to give. yunho’s long fingers inside you combined with mingi’s thick, calloused hands roaming across your body, in your mouth, in your hair, when the both of them filled you up, at the same time, you were a sight to be seen by the end, the end that you weren’t sure would ever come. you didn’t want it to, and neither did mingi, who loved everything about it. he enjoyed threesomes with yunho always, but with you, they’ve never been more in tune with one another, it’s never been so intimate. fucking has always been fucking, but with you it was more, it was a dance, a rhythm, a mutual agreement never spoken out loud. mingi’s relationship with yunho changed after that— aspects of your own relationship with mingi changed after that. it didn’t stop with just that one time, neither you or mingi could let it be a one time thing, yunho kept coming over, the two of you kept seeking him out, even when you were in public yunho became regular, routine, never spoken about, only enjoyed.

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 ☆

even if wooyoung is a fucking freak i think this would definitely take him by surprise. i KNOW he is the mayor of freakville and would do anything at any point in time, but i think inviting someone else in, someone he knows so closely, so intimately, might make him double take just for a second. especially because its neither you or him that initiates it, it’s the third party peering in, the third party who has watched you, listened to you, can’t stop thinking about the two of you and wants to join in on the fun. you’re down immediately, but wooyoung…? as much as he would be down for a threesome, inviting a member in makes him think logistics. for once he’s thinking with his brain and not his cock when it comes to you, you’re his, and as much as he loves to show you off, a shred of insecurity lies deep in his gut somewhere. he thinks on it for a total of two (2) days and then he can’t stop thinking about it, what you’d look like under him, what you’d sound like, how he’d look inside you… it’s all too much for him all at once, the realization that he needs it, that he’d beg for it if it came down to it.

but he quickly remembers that it was him the two of you needed that final yes from. seonghwa comes over as soon as he shoots the text and the three of you are stripped bare without as much as hello, wooyoung thinks that maybe the two of you have him beat in freakiness. he doesn’t feel left out for a moment, though, not as seonghwa slips into easily found dominance, giving the two of you instruction, watching you make out sloppily on the bed before he’s pulling you apart and making you obey him. wooyoung’s cock was rock hard the moment he stepped foot into your bedroom, as soon as seonghwa used that voice on him, hitting that sweet submissive spot in his brain he couldn’t always tap into so easily. you were both switches in your relationship, neither of you dominant all the time, usually switching in an out of roles during one singular session, but seonghwa tamed you both with ease and wooyoung ate it up, he was a whimpering mess before he knew it, cock overstimulated and red and angry, laid against his stomach still wet from seonghwa’s mouth as he watched him fuck into you with no mercy— you were a crying, screaming mess, too, already came too many times, yet none of you wanted to stop. seonghwa was toying with you both and wooyoung was obsessed, he let it go on until either you or seonghwa had enough, and it seemed you had the same idea, too. both of you wanting to please him, satisfy him, give him what he wanted from both of you. only on nights where both you and wooyoung were reminiscing particularly hard did you call him and beg him to come over again, to dominate you both, to send you back into that headspace you’d never forget.

𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐆 ☆

yeosang is only down here cus i think if you brought it up poorly you’d hurt his feelings. he’s really a chill guy and he’s super versatile when it comes to sex, i think there’s not much that he’d say no to, but he’d definitely have to think it over for a long time before deciding to say yes to opening up your relationship to anyone, let alone another member. you’d have several conversations about it before even thinking about choosing a partner, setting boundaries for one another, what a threesome would consist of, why you’re doing it in the first place. choosing someone was another week-long conversation, going through every single member before deciding on one together, the reasons why you were choosing him, making sure none of this was being easily decided. yeosang is heavily aware that this is a big ask of another member, and he won’t be anything but wise in his choosing, in his intentions. then it came down to actually asking him, the safety of it all, precautions and boundaries, what would actually happen during the encounter. yeosang would want all bases covered before going into it, you’re too important to him to lose, and his members are too important to him to fuck up his dynamic with any of them. it’d be months of just talking and planning before anything actually happened.

the two of you choose wooyoung because he’s the closest to you both, you spend a decent amount of time together just you three, wooyoung going as far as joking that you adopted him to the other members all the time. he’s kind, respectful and light-hearted, you both trust him deeply, and you think you could show him a good time, and vice versa. wooyoung is def thrown off when you approach him with the seriousness of it all, he’s probably like yeah sure and then you two throw a five page long essay about why you chose him and what would happen in said threesome. not really. but it probably feels like that to wooyoung, who’s ready to strip his clothes off when you asked him if he’s open-minded. yeosang is feeling confident when the night finally comes, and falls into pace and rhythm with wooyoung easily, the two of them bouncing off one another and leaving you a writhing mess. it’s a dance of hands and spit and tongues and cum, kissing yeosang while riding wooyoung’s face, blowing wooyoung while yeosang stretches you out, relying on two sets of strong shoulders while they both try to fit inside you, fighting to keep your eyes open to watch as they messily makeout over your shoulder. it was a true threesome; not one of you left out, no one left untouched, wooyoung was exactly what you expected him to be, if not more. it left yeosang feeling so confident that he’s the one to suggest it happen again— after you caught him making out with wooyoung after one too many beers at the bar.

𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐎 ☆

jeong yunho is a deeply possessive man, we all know this, and i think there’s only one way this could possibly go. he isn’t possessive out of insecurity or jealousy, but because you’re his, and no one else should be able to see all of you, hear you the way only he gets you. soft and submissive, bendable, pliant, obeying— that’s how he loves you, how he needs you, yunho is dominant, extremely dominant, and when it comes to your sex life, you will not do anything unless he asks it of you, or unless he makes you. so when you make a silly joke about fucking mingi, he takes it personally, he almost spanks you for it— why would you want to invite anyone else into your bedroom? why do you want someone else to fuck you? you had a long session that night, yunho took it upon himself to fuck some sense back into you, because yunho is all you need, jokes or not, you know better than that. as the days followed, yunho found himself daydreaming about fucking both of you, dominating you at the same time, two people crying and begging at his mercy… it was less about sharing you and more about making the both of you his, even if it was just for a night. his cock was standing tall at the thought, he could see it in his head, thinking of his best friend that way opened another can of worms he wasn’t sure he even wanted to act on, so he didn’t. not for months.

then there’s that one time he’s out with you and mingi somewhere completely innocent, like the farmer’s market, somewhere the three of you go often, probably twice a month when your schedules allow. the two of you are deep in conversation standing in front of a fruit stand, and yunho’s speaking to you, trying to get your attention but neither of you hear him, and it pisses him off. he snaps his fingers, something he does to you when you’re lost in a session, when your mind floats away even with all of your training, when he needs you to come back down to earth. but instead of your head snapping up it’s the both of you, with wide eyes and parted lips, waiting for yunho to say something, waiting for instruction. it awakens a feeling he buried deep in his gut that he couldn’t help but get you both in the car and back to your place immediately. the bond the three of you shared has never gone unnoticed in your years of being friends, and that mental link you had was proving itself more than ever now, how both you and mingi went straight to the bedroom, sat yourselves quietly on the bed awaiting yunho’s instruction. it was heaven to yunho, as he instructed mingi on how exactly to make you cum, how to suck on your clit, how to curve his fingers inside you to hit that one spot that made you squirt on demand. it was even better when he instructed you on jerking mingi off, how he held mingi’s hands behind his back, how he made you edge him over and over until he cried, abdomen clenching and sweat beading down his skin. yunho’s favorite was when you both sucked him off at the same time, how your tongues danced with each other on his cock, how you both had that gleam in your eye solely to please him. yunho couldn’t get enough after that— having one person completely submit themselves to him was one thing, but to have two? it’s safe to say that was not the last time mingi was in your shared bedroom with yunho.

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆 ☆

another possessive demon freak is hongjoong! you would piss him off so bad if you didn’t bring this up in a delicate way, honestly even if you did bring it up delicately he’d still prolly be pissed off. i think he’s the only member that would get mad mad tho, like not speak to you or sleep on the couch or something. why would you need anyone but him? he gives you everything you ask for, and it’s still not enough? when would it be enough for you???? it drives him insane for days, bro can’t work because he’s legitimately tripping over you thirsting after another one of his members. plus your sex life is great, he breaks your back every time he fucks you, he doesn’t consider it sex unless you’ve came two or three times. why would you need anyone else??? even if he could accept the fact that you wanted more— he has to come to terms with the fact that he’s to share you? the thought is ridiculous. someone else seeing you spread out, writhing, hearing you, possibly touching you? it makes him homicidal tbh he’s actually fucking crazy. knowing you have exes makes him rage enough, but to willingly let someone else see you is a whole different ordeal.

but he hated the idea of letting someone else watch a little less, so there’s your compromise. you let him choose because he’s insane and he tries to think of someone who would get the most pleasure out of sitting off to the side and just enduring, someone borderline pathetic, someone so horny they’d say yes to everything. naturally his mind leads him right to wooyoung, who said yes in a heartbeat. sat in the corner of the room in a cozy chair, wooyoung already had his pants pulled down to his thighs when hongjoong had just started kissing you. he smiled into your lips, knowing he was putting on a show, pride consuming him at the fact that he got to show this part of you off. as much as he hated the idea initially, he warmed up to it quickly when he realized how desperate wooyoung was, when he saw how badly wooyoung wanted to join in, wanted to be touched… depriving him of that made his cock harder, made him want to please you more, wanted to show wooyoung what he’ll never fucking have. hearing wooyoung whine and moan and gasp whenever he locked eyes with you, when hongjoong made you cum again, it made hongjoong want to work harder, want to make you cum again and again and again, just to hear you, to hear him, to dangle you right in front of wooyoung’s face. hongjoong never thought of himself as an exhibitionist but i think that experience definitely changed his life, and he wouldn’t mind showing you off for someone else again.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎 ☆

tbh i think jongho would be weirded out. he doesn’t see a point in opening up your relationship unless he wasn’t enough for his gf, and at that point he’d just end the relationship lol. if he was invited in to someone else’s relationship i think he’d literally say fuck no. too easy to get messy, for feelings to get involved, what if another member got jealous and couldn’t look at jongho the same way? these guys are his brothers, he doesn’t need to know what the inside of their girlfriend feels like. that’s territory he’d legit never cross. he trusts the members and their intentions but his relationship with them is too important to let a night of fun mess all of that up. but if you begged him for a threesome, like really begged, and strategized in a way that’d leave jongho with no more valid arguing points OR leave him with the feeling of not being enough for you, the one person he’d share you with is hongjoong. hj knows how to keep a secret, he can turn the switch off to separate his feelings, to realize when a situation his purely situational. he trusts hj with every bone in his body, he knows hj would take care of you, and if jongho never wanted to speak about it again he knows hj would never bring it up first.

what jongho has never realized because why would he is how versatile hongjoong is when it comes to sex. when jongho laid down the ground rules hongjoong was respectful, which was the most important thing to jongho, about yours and his boundaries— no kissing, no saying names, no cuddling, no spending the night. everything else was free game, though, and hongjoong took advantage of every unchecked box. it came down to worshipping you, and he was everywhere jongho wasn’t, you wondered if the two even realized the other was there. if jongho was inside you, hongjoong was feeling you up, fingers pressed to your clit, his other hand tweaking your nipples, whispering nasty shit in your ear. if jongho was kissing you he was behind you, licking and sucking down your back, his hands roaming every inch of untouched skin, praising you about how soft you are, how sweet you taste. jongho was pleasantly surprised, hongjoong slipped in like he’d done this a thousand times before, like your pleasure was all that mattered to him, and that was all jongho could ask for, aside from his rules. they totally never spoke about it again tho.

… least likely

masterlist

perm tags: @chimivx 😛

[hyuckiefluff]

casual | mark lee

pairing: idol! mark lee x waitress! fem. reader genre: fluff, strangers to lovers wc: 8k summary: you wouldn’t normally fall for a guy who left his number on a dinner bill. too bad that guy was mark fucking lee. content warnings: slightly suggestive content (making out), light cursing, food mentioned, parasocial themes, reader works a service job, a very overworked mark lee :(. no explicit smut in this part. a/n: hiii before anyone yells at me—yes, i know this isn’t the haechan fic i’m supposed to be working on (promise i’m still on it!!) but listen… i went to the smtown concert last week and it fully reignited my delusions, so i wrote this as a coping mechanism :P ik we’ve all been out with friends maybe at a restaurant, and thought, “what if my bias walked in right now?” right?? that’s basically the entire premise of this fic. pretty unrealistic but super fun to write & i hope it’s just as fun to read! also no smut… yall know what that means lol if you want a part 2... just say the word. ps: if you’re ever at an italian restaurant, do yourself a favor and get the gnocchi. trust me.

giving up your one free day to cover someone else’s shift wasn’t how you planned to spend saturday. but when your coworker begged with teary eyes and a story about her sick cat, saying no felt impossible.

so instead of sinking into your couch with a pint of chocolate ice cream and pride and prejudice on repeat, you were hustling through a saturday night at one of the city’s busiest restaurants.

it was hour six of your shift and you were at that breaking point where one starts fantasizing about quitting—or at least hiding in the walk-in freezer for five peaceful minutes.

any weekend here was a carnage with nonstop orders, zero patience, and customers who thought yelling would grill a steak faster.

but it was finally past eleven which meant the dinner rush had slowed and the only remaining stragglers were either couples too in love to notice the time or office workers too tired to cook at home. just two more hours, you thought to yourself.

“y/n! table four,” your coworker called, rushing past with a stack of empty plates.

you snapped out of your daze and walked over, expecting tired business executives or another couple feeding each other breadsticks. instead, you made eye contact with the two people you least expected to see here.

mark lee and johnny suh were looking right at you.

your heart dropped to your ass. for a second, you actually considered turning around. but even with your brain buffering, you knew you had to keep it together. the last thing you wanted was to make them uncomfortable.

you stopped beside their table, immediately recognizing the other two who had their backs to you as haechan and jungwoo. internally, you were combusting, but externally you prayed your expression didn’t scream that you were seconds from melting into the floor.

“hi, welcome to cecconi’s,” you said, voice steady enough despite your heart hammering your ribs.

when you handed over their menus, your fingers brushed mark’s briefly and you hoped he didn’t notice you flinch. that’s when you noticed the book peeking out of the front pocket of his hoodie.

you recognized the cover instantly— south of the border, west of the sun by murakami.

you cleared your throat, smiling before you could stop yourself. “that’s a good one.”

mark’s eyes followed where you were pointing and his eyebrows shoot up when he realized “wait… you’ve read this?”

you nodded, trying to be casual, as if you hadn’t picked that book apart alone on your bedroom floor at 2 a.m. two months ago. “i’ve read all of his stuff. but this one was a whole different experience.”

“i literally can’t put it down.” mark said, angling his body to yours with excitement. you could see he was tired but the small talk seemed to give him an energy boost.

“right? anything by murakami makes me feel like i’m eavesdropping on my own memories,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“that’s exactly it!” he said, eyes going wide. “i never knew how to put it into words before.” you had to look away before you got caught smiling at how boyish he looked when he got excited.

the other members stared with amused expressions on their faces, so you quickly straightened up and went back into server mode.

“right… uhm, our special tonight is black truffle gnocchi in a garlic cream reduction, topped with parmesan and chive oil. would you like something to drink while you look over the menu?”

“what kind of beers do you have?” johnny asked, leaning back in his seat.

you rattled off the list, stepping in to point them out on the menu. your hand was visibly shaking, but you hoped they’d chalk it up to general social awkwardness and not the fact that your four favorite idols were sitting in front of you.

“just water for me,” mark said softly. despite his smile, you could clearly hear how strained his voice was.

“great, i’ll bring those right out.”

they must’ve come straight from the venue. tonight’s show—the very one you’d missed because of this shift—had ended less than two hours ago. and now they were here, in your section, eating dinner. 

you walked to the bar, filled the glasses as requested except for mark’s. for him, you brewed a mug of hot water, dropped in a slice of lemon, a swirl of honey, and a small nub of ginger. it wasn’t even on the menu but something about his tired eyes and strained voice made you move on instinct.

you brought the tray back with all the drinks, placing them down carefully. when you reached mark, you set the mug in front of him.

“i hope this is okay,” you said quietly. “honey-ginger tea. it’s good for your throat.”

mark blinked, taken off guard. “oh… thank you.” he looked down at the mug, then back up at you. “seriously. that’s really thoughtful.”

you just smiled, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “are you guys ready to order?”

they each placed their orders, nothing too extravagant. jungwoo wanted pasta, johnny asked for a steak medium rare, and haechan—after a dramatic five minute debate with himself—settled on the truffle gnocchi. mark went last.

“can i get the steak medium rare? and the mashed potatoes instead of the fries, if that’s okay,” he asked, glancing up again, voice still carrying that soft exhaustion.

“of course,” you said, jotting it down. “i’ll get those in for you.”

you dropped the order slip at the kitchen window, still feeling weirdly out of sync with your body. it didn’t help that you had to keep circling their table to serve other guests. table five had just ordered dessert, the group behind them needed their wine refilled, and your feet barely touched the floor before you were moving again. 

still, awareness prickled at the back of your neck whenever you passed their table.

you turned your head slightly, pretending to scan the room. mark was looking right at you but quickly glanced away, suddenly very invested in the tea in front of him.

you hesitated. maybe they needed something?

smoothing your apron, you walked back to their table. your heart thudded way harder than it needed to, but you managed a smile.

“everything okay here?” you asked.

mark cleared his throat, shaking his head as a faint flush crept up his neck. “we’re good. thanks, though.”

johnny’s lips twitched, and haechan was very clearly hiding a smirk behind his glass.

you smiled again, warmth rising in your chest at how shy he looked. “no worries. food should be out soon.”

back behind the bar, you tried to focus. really, you did. but your eyes kept drifting back to their table. thankfully, they seemed too wrapped up in their conversation to notice. every now and then, though, mark’s gaze would flicker your way.

he’s probably just zoning out, you told yourself. or exhausted, probably both. don’t be weird about it.

still… he kept looking. did you have something on your face? was it obvious you recognized them? god, what if he thought the tea was too much?

you groaned softly and buried your face in your hands when no one was looking.

pull it together, y/n. finish the shift. freak out later.

they are pretty quickly and eventually, their table quieted down. it was past midnight now, and the restaurant was finally starting to shut down. you printed their bill, then hesitated, chewing your lip as your pulse ticked higher.

should i?

this was your shot. it was maybe a little silly and borderline embarrassing, but if you didn’t say something now, you’d regret it forever.

before you could second-guess yourself any more, you scribbled a note at the bottom of the receipt:

"hii, hope this isn’t weird but i’m a really big fan. you’re amazing and i hope you enjoyed your meal and that the tea helped. get some rest tonight! :)"

you took a breath, walked back over, and placed it gently in the center of the table.

“here’s your bill,” you said quietly. “no rush, of course.”

mark looked up first. the smile he gave you was a little tired, but genuine.

“thank you,” he said warmly.

you nodded and stepped away, legs wobbling slightly as you disappeared into the back.

it’s done, you told yourself. no going back now.

as you busied yourself cleaning other tables, you watched from the corner of your eye as they got up. haechan said something that made mark laugh quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your stomach flutter helplessly.

then they were gone.

you waited a few extra minutes before heading over just to be sure. as you cleared the plates, you reached for the bill with your heart already racing, though you told yourself not to expect anything.

but when you opened the leather folder, your breath hitched.

they’d left a generous tip—but that wasn’t what caught your eye. there was something written under your message, a response scribbled quickly in neat handwriting:

"thanks for taking care of us tonight. especially the tea! :)"

followed by a number.

your heart kicked so hard you had to brace a hand on the table edge. there was no name at all, just the number. the ink looked a little smudged near the dash like whoever wrote it had closed the presenter in a hurry.

holy shit.

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

it was past one when you finally made it home, hair smelling like garlic butter and burnt steak. the city lay quiet, your apartment even quieter, yet your brain refused to join the calm.

with a tired sigh, you tossed your bag onto the couch and collapsed beside it, fingers still gripping the bill tightly.

you’d reread the message ten times already. the ink was even more smudged now from your fingers, but the number was still clear.

you exhaled loudly, then groaned into a throw pillow.

“what the hell is happening.”

it had to be mark. right? it felt obvious. 

then again, maybe another member had simply appreciated the gesture and thanked you on behalf of mark. after all, their handwriting wasn't exactly familiar. you’d seen them a few times on signed albums or online fan letters, but not enough to be certain. 

suddenly determined, you sat upright, snapped a quick photo, and zoomed in immediately.

“this is insane,” you muttered.

 but that didn’t stop you from opening a tab to search: mark lee handwriting.

this wasn’t your best moment. you were tired, emotionally compromised, and clearly spiraling. still you opened a second tab and went deeper until you were staring at stan twitter handwriting threads for half an hour.

after many more side-by-sides, you sat back and stared at the screen like it could confess to you.

“it looks like his,” you whispered.

just text him. what's the worst that could happen?

the thought alone conjured every embarrassing scenario possible and made you nearly throw your phone across the room. how would you even start that conversation?

“hi, is this mark lee from nct? because i’m lowkey in love with you and i really hope you're the one who left your number at my workplace tonight?”

your heart nearly stopped at the thought. you glanced at the clock again—2:17 a.m.

yeah. no. you needed to lie down. you’d sleep on it. calm down a bit and gain some perspective.

but three days passed.

three whole days. that’s how long you spent agonizing over a single text. you'd written and deleted at least twenty drafts—too casual, too eager, too weird. one even included a joke you cringed at the second you typed it, and deleted just as fast.

he’s probably already back in korea, you reminded yourself while folding napkins at the restaurant on tuesday. fan accounts had posted airport photos before you even got out of bed. mark in a beanie and headphones, eyes puffy with exhaustion.

two more days passed. eventually, courage outweighed dread.

on thursday night, curled up in your pajamas, you stared at the too-bright glow of your phone while netflix asked if you were still watching. just do it, you told yourself. again.

you opened a new message. typed. erased. retyped. your pulse pounded, drowning out mr. darcy’s proposal in the background.

hi! this is y/n, the server from cecconi’s last saturday night. i know you’re probably crazy busy, but i just wanted to say thanks again for coming in. hope you’re resting well :)

friendly. chill. not over the top—right?

you hit send and immediately shoved the phone under your blanket, like that could somehow shield you from the rejection.

an hour passed. then three.

nothing.

you forced yourself to sleep, pretending the tight knot in your chest wasn’t disappointment. the next morning, you checked your phone before even opening both eyes.

still nothing. no read receipt. no message.

it’s fine. they were idols. they were busy. you’d waited too long anyway. the group was back in rehearsals, buried in schedules. who had time to answer a text from a random server in another country?

another day passed. still no reply.

you tried to talk yourself down while making coffee. maybe it wasn’t even his number. maybe it was a manager’s. maybe his phone was off. maybe international sims are weird. maybe—

“why did you wait so long,” you muttered into the couch, face buried in a pillow.

you were just about ready to let it go when your phone buzzed softly against the coffee table.

your heart nearly launched itself out of your chest. you scrambled for it, almost knocking over the entire table in the process.

a new message.

sorry!! things got crazy once we got back to korea. i’m really glad you texted though. and we’re resting (sort of haha). it’s mark btw :)

you stared at the screen.

read it. then read it again. and again.

warmth flooded your chest. you'd been right.

it was him.

your thumb hovered over the keyboard, brain scrambling for something to say. but for the first time in days, all you could do was smile.

you hadn’t realized how easily a single text could flip your whole mood until he replied. you must’ve read that message ten times before you even responded.

somehow, the conversation flowed naturally from there.

it started with casual back-and-forths. he’d talk about the tour, and you about your shifts. it quickly turned more personal though like blurry late-night snack pics from his studio, or mirror selfies of your server fits before dinner rushes.

none of it felt forced. but still… what was this?

you’d be wiping down table six or pulling espresso shots for a regular who never tipped, and suddenly your phone would buzz with a text message.

mark: can’t believe you’ve never seen inception…

you: maybe i was busy having friends

he sent back a string of laughing emojis and a photo of his laptop playing it.

mark: you’re watching it with me next time. no excuses.

next time.

you didn’t know what that meant, but it echoed in your head for the rest of the shift.

by the second week, it wasn’t just texts.

sometimes he’d call when your time zones aligned, and you were both free. once while you were folding laundry. another while he walked home from the studio, breath fogging the cold air as he complained about his busted heater.

“i feel like an old man,” he said once, voice scratchy. “my knees hurt”

“you’re twenty-five.”

“and breaking down.”

you laughed until your stomach hurt. he was quiet for a second, then said, “i like your laugh.”

you had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

a month later came the first video call.

it was early morning. you were still half-asleep, texting with one eye open, when your screen lit up with a facetime request. you froze.

no makeup. puffy eyes. pimple cream still on your chin. but your fingers accepted the call before your brain could stop you.

he was lying down, hoodie half over his face.

“oh thank god,” he mumbled. “i thought you weren’t gonna pick up.”

“i almost didn’t,” you laughed, pulling the covers up to hide half your face. “you caught me in a vulnerable state.”

his eyes crinkled. “you look cute.”

you didn’t know what to say to that, so you just tucked your face further into the blanket.

after a few hours, the call fell into a comfortable silence, his eyes starting to flutter shut as you both lay in your respective beds.

you should’ve hung up, but you didn’t. you just stayed on the call, watching him sleep.

video calls became routine after that.

at first, they were short—ten, maybe fifteen minutes. he’d call after practice, his hair a mess, face still damp with sweat. the phone would be propped against his water bottle as he peeled off his hoodie and complained about sore calves.

but the calls started stretching longer. sometimes he was lying on a hotel bed, cheek pressed into the pillow, telling you about his comeback preparations. other times, he wandered through whatever city he was in, showing you the neon signs, quiet side streets, and cafés tucked into corners no tourist would ever find.

“i’ll take you here one day,” he said once, camera panning to a ramen shop. “i mean… if you ever visit.”

you didn’t answer right away. just smiled and pretended the idea didn’t stick in your chest like a pebble you couldn’t shake loose.

you started saving little things throughout the day just to tell him later. customer stories, songs that reminded you of him, strange headlines you knew would make him laugh. without realizing it, your brain made notes labeled tell mark this later.

he did the same. he sent you photos of whatever snack he was eating on set, told you about a dream where you both worked in a space bakery, asked what you thought of new songs he was writing. he never sent full demos, just a few seconds here and there—but it still felt intimate.

you started noticing things you hadn’t, even after all your years as a fan. how he bit the soft skin of his knuckles when he was anxious or the fact that he brushed his teeth for 6 minutes (yes, you counted).

neither of you brought up what this was. and maybe that was okay.

still, on some nights, you’d wonder does he text other people like this? has he done this before, video calls, sleepy laughter and quietly sharing his day?

you never asked.

you didn’t want to ruin the quiet magic of it all by needing too much too soon.

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

mark eased you into his life bit by bit.

on a random thursday night, you were sprawled on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through tiktok when your phone buzzed. you smiled automatically when you saw his name and hit accept.

but it wasn’t him when the call connected.

“yo! she’s real!” johnny’s voice boomed through the speaker, far too loud and way too amused.

you blinked. “wait—what?”

the screen shook as mark scrambled to get the phone back. “okay, okay, stop—hyung, give it back!”

“nice to meet you,” jungwoo added brightly in the background. “finally!”

haechan’s face popped into view next. he hovered close to the camera, flashing a crooked grin. “she’s the one, right? the reason he’s always giggling at his phone like a loser.”

they were all speaking in korean, except for johnny—who made sure you caught the gist. you weren’t fluent, but you knew enough to piece it together. their tone said a lot, anyway.

“what did he say?” you asked, laughing nervously.

johnny leaned in. “he said mark’s obsessed with you.”

mark groaned in the background. “don’t translate that.”

“he talks about you,” haechan added in english, still half-hiding behind jungwoo but clearly enjoying himself. “all. the. time.”

you stared at the screen, wide-eyed, face already burning. “oh god—wait, we just—”

“aigoo, she’s cute,” jungwoo said with a grin, nudging haechan’s shoulder. “mark, you’re done for.”

mark finally got his phone back, his flushed face filling the screen. he was breathless from laughing.

“i’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “that was… i didn’t mean for that to happen.”

you were still blushing but grinning too. “so you talk about me all the time?”

he covered his face with one hand. “please. don’t start, they won’t let me live this down”

after that night, it became a running thing. sometimes you’d call just to talk to mark and end up ambushed by his members. taeyong once popped into frame with a plate of fruit, offering you a piece through the screen like you could actually take it. “for energy,” he said in halting English, then smiled and wandered off.

chenle appeared a few times asking random questions as if you’d been friends forever, one time he asked “do you like mark as much as he likes you?”

you sputtered something while mark tried (and failed) to shut him up.

renjun showed up once too, squinting at the screen. “so this is the girl,” he said, then walked off dramatically without another word.

it was chaotic, awkward, and constantly embarrassing but it also made your chest ache in the best way. knowing you weren’t some secret he was hiding. you were someone he wanted them to know.

and then one night, a few weeks later, mark called with a different kind of energy.

“guess what?” he said, barely able to sit still.

you blinked at him through the screen. “what?”

“we’re going to the US,” he grinned, and your heart nearly stopped.

“wait, seriously?”

“yeah, for a festival. just one weekend, but i’ll have a couple free days before the flight out. i—” he paused, scratching the back of his neck. “i was really hoping i could see you.”

you stared at him, stunned for a second.

“you want to see me?” you asked softly.

“yeah,” he said immediately. “i mean, only if you want to, obviously. i just… i’ve been thinking about it for a while. texting and calling is great but,.. i kind of miss being in the same room as you.”

not just the same city,  not just in passing. but in the same room with you.

you swallowed past the nerves bubbling up in your chest and nodded, trying to keep your voice steady.

“i want that too.”

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

you tried for tickets the second they went live.

you had alarms set, several tabs open, your card ready. but none of it mattered…

they sold out in minutes.

you stared at the screen in disbelief, refreshing the page over and over hoping the outcome would change. it didn’t. your chest tightened with each failed refresh.

you were so close. and now, you had no idea how to tell mark.

you waited a whole day, thinking they’d release more tickets, maybe someone would resell—but the prices were insane, triple what you could afford, and the longer you waited, the more hopeless it felt.

when he finally called you that night, you tried to act normal for about ten seconds before it all came spilling out.

“i didn’t get tickets,” you said, voice cracking before you could stop it. “they sold out so fast and now the only ones left are like impossible. and i know you’re going to be super busy and probably won’t be able to meet up anyway, but i was really looking forward to seeing you perform, and now i don’t even know if i’ll get to see you at all—”

“hey, hey, slow down.” mark’s voice was soft. “breathe, y/n.”

you inhaled shakily, pressing your forehead to your knee, curled up on the couch. “sorry. i just… i really wanted to be there.”

“i know,” he said gently. “and i want you there too.”

you went quiet, biting the inside of your cheek.

“but we’ll figure something out, okay?” mark continued. “don’t stress about it too much. just… trust me a little.”

“what do you mean…,” you said slowly, suspicion creeping in.

he chuckled. “nothing. just saying... maybe don’t give up hope yet.”

you narrowed your eyes at your phone. “you’re being cryptic.”

“am i?” he said, way too innocently.

you groaned into your pillow. “don’t do this to me.”

“i’m not doing anything,” he replied. “just... keep the day of the festival open, okay?”

you wanted to press him, but the look in his eyes was too confident. so you nodded slowly, heart still a little heavy but soothed by the warmth in his voice.

the day they landed in the US, you got the call while brushing your teeth.

your phone lit up with his name, and you answered with a mouthful of foam, spitting it out quickly as you mumbled, “hey, did you land?”

“we did,” mark said, voice laced with excitement. “and i have good news.”

your heart jumped. “what?”

“a car’s going to pick you up the day of the show,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “my team helped sort it out. we wanted to make sure you’d be there.”

you blinked, wide-eyed, toothbrush still in hand. “wait—what? you—what do you mean? mark—”

“you’re coming to the festival, y/n. you’re not missing this. not if i can help it.”

you clutched your phone, stunned into silence, overwhelmed by how much care he’d tucked into those few words.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” he interrupted, voice softer now. “but i wanted to.”

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

you’d never felt more anxious getting ready for anything in your entire life. not for job interviews, not for first dates, nothing compared to the fluttering anxiety buzzing in your chest right now.

it was almost ridiculous how much effort you'd put in. your hair was carefully styled in waves that took you half an hour to do, your makeup was done and redone multiple times until you finally settled on something subtle but pretty. your outfit had taken ages to choose, you didn’t want to look too casual but also didn’t want to make it seem like you were trying too hard. so you settled for a regular black skirt and a white long sleeved top, it was comfortable but not boring. you wanted to look good, even though mark had already seen you at your most tired, sweaty, and disheveled.

the car arrived precisely at the time mark had promised. your heart jumped to your throat when the driver opened the door for you, offering a polite nod. 

your hands trembled slightly in your lap the entire ride to the venue. you felt giddy, overwhelmed, and deeply nervous all at once.

but when you finally arrived, the excitement abruptly shifted into self-awareness. several staff members glanced at you warily, some whispering to each other and throwing quick looks your way. suddenly, you felt very out of place, shrinking slightly under their scrutinizing gazes.

“excuse me,” came a sharp voice behind you. you turned around to see a woman approaching, her expression serious, a clipboard held firmly in her hands. “you must be y/n?”

“yes,” you replied nervously.

“there are some documents you'll need to sign,” she informed you.

“documents? like—”

“standard NDAs, confidentiality agreements, liability waivers,” she cut in and handed you a clipboard, flipping briskly through pages filled with dense legal text. “you'll need to sign these before we move forward.”

you stood frozen for a moment, feeling incredibly naive and small as reality hit you like a slap to the face. you’d let yourself get carried away, almost forgetting who exactly mark was—who exactly these people were. they weren't just regular guys; they were idols, celebrities, people with management teams and carefully guarded images.

this was serious and you had somehow underestimated all of it.

the woman noticed your hesitation, her expression softening just a fraction. “it’s standard procedure,” she said, “mark personally asked us to ensure you’re comfortable, but we need to protect everyone involved.”

“okay,” you whispered shakily, taking the pen from her hand. your fingers felt numb as you signed, barely registering the words printed on the paper. 

once the woman was satisfied, she took the clipboard back, nodded curtly, and gestured for you to follow her. your heart thundered in your chest as you walked through the busy hallway.

then she stopped in front of a dressing room door, knocking sharply once before opening it slightly. “mark? your guest is here.”

you held your breath as the door slowly swung open, your pulse so loud you could hardly hear anything else.

mark appeared in the doorway, eyes widening slightly as he took you in. suddenly, all the anxiety, paperwork, and awkwardness faded into the background. his expression softened immediately, that familiar warmth returning as his eyes crinkled in a gentl smile.

“hey,” he breathed softly, clearly just as relieved to see you as you were to see him. “you made it.”

mark steps fully into the hallway, blocking the view of the bustling green-room behind him. for half a beat you both just stare, soaking in the fact that you’re finally sharing the same oxygen again instead of pixels on a phone screen.

“wow…” he breathes, cheeks coloring as his eyes scan you. “you look so—” he catches himself, smiles sheepishly, and opens his arms. “can i?”

you nod before your brain supplies coherent language, letting him tug you forward. the hug is quick—he’s hyper-aware of everyone around you—but his hand stays at your elbow afterward, grounding you.

“sorry about the fuss,” he murmurs, voice pitched low so only you can hear. 

“it’s okay… just a bit intense.”

“i know.” his thumb sweeps a tiny circle on your sleeve. “but you’re here now. c’mon, the guys are waiting.”

when you walk inside the room is buzzing with energy. there’s stylists zipping garment bags, a makeup artist following jungwoo around to touch up his lips, haechan drumming on a folding table with two half-empty water bottles. the second he spots you, his face splits into a grin.

“look who made it!” he crows, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “mark’s special guest.”

johnny swivels in a chair. “oh, the infamous y/n at last.” he stands, offering a hand that turns into a gentle half-hug when you take it. “nice seeing you again.”

jungwoo waves from a corner, cheeks puffed with gummy bears. “hi! mark’s talked a lot about you,” he says around the candy. 

mark groans. “ignore them, they’ve been insufferable since i told them you were coming.”

“insufferable?” haechan clutches his chest theatrically. “hyung, we’re just supporting your relationship!”

you feel your face go nuclear. “it’s not— we’re just—”

“friends,” mark supplies, shooting haechan a warning glance. but the tips of his ears have gone pink, and the little smile tugging at his mouth totally betrays him.

johnny leans closer, whispering, “lies, he’s always grinnung at his phone like a middle schooler whenever you talk.”

you let out a mortified laugh that turns into a squeak when mark nudges johnny away. “we have to be on stage in ten minutes, maybe focus?”

jungwoo claps. “right! you can watch backstage with staff.”

an assistant appears then, handing mark an in-ear pack. he hesitates, then squeezes your hand once before following the others toward wardrobe.

“sorry i gotta get dressed,” he says over his shoulder, “see you in a bit.”

you exhale for the first time since stepping off the car, pulse finally settling as the door swings shut. you tuck a stray hair behind your ear, catching your reflection in a vanity mirror. your cheeks are flushed and there’s a stunned little smile on your lips.

the staff member that escorted you in approaches again, her expression now more polite but still distant as she walks you down a narrow hallway. “you’ll be watching from here,” she explains as you reach a curtained-off section just beside the stage entrance.

the space is just wide enough for a couple of folding chairs, and a monitor showing the stage feed. even through the curtain, you can hear the low rumble of the crowd growing louder by the second—cheers, screams, the crowd chanting “ilichil, we love you!” 

you perch at the edge of a chair, feeling entirely out of place and wildly overwhelmed.

what am i even doing here?

this wasn’t some fantasy anymore. you weren’t watching fancams in your pajamas or whispering to your screen during late-night video calls. you were backstage, in their world, and everyone around you belonged to it except you.

you looked down at your outfit again, smoothing invisible wrinkles, suddenly doubting every choice you’d made that morning. your nails, your shoes, even the way you’d done your eyeliner. it all felt too much and not enough at the same time.

a soft noise pulls your attention back to the side curtain. one of the stylists slips through, handing off a mic pack to someone just outside your view. you recognize mark’s voice quickly.

he’s laughing at something jungwoo said, but even through the laughter you can hear the edge of nerves in his voice. it makes you feel… less alone in your own.

you peek around the edge of the curtain. they’re all gathered near the wings, adjusting their in-ears and bouncing on their heels to shake out last-minute jitters. mark’s back is turned at first, but then he glances over his shoulder almost like he can feel your eyes on him.

your breath catches when his gaze finds yours. through all the chaos and noise, his eyes meet yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t wave or call out—he just smiles.

he turns back as staff starts to guide them toward the entrance tunnel, and you’re left sitting there with your heart doing an unholy rhythm in your chest.

you hadn’t expected this, the building pressure in your chest, the way your emotions feel too big to hold.

but underneath all of it, layered between the nerves and the noise inside your own head, there’s a flicker of anticipation.

he’s just a few feet away now. he’s about to be on stage, doing what he was born to do, and you’ll be right here, watching not just as a fan anymore.

but as someone who matters to him.

the stage lights cut to black, and the low hum of the backing track pulses through the arena like a heartbeat. from your narrow perch in the wings you can feel the vibration under your soles, a physical reminder that this isn’t a dream.

a lone spotlight slices across the darkness—jungwoo steps into it, and the crowd erupts. the boys fan out behind him in practiced formation.

mark is near the center, head lowered, hand cupped over his earpiece as he settles into position. you’ve watched this opening on countless fancams, but up close everything is magnified: the hiss of their in-ears, the snap of jacket fabric when they turn, the ragged inhale before the first line.

johnny’s deep vocal rolls out, haechan answers with his bright harmony, and suddenly the whole place is singing along..

mark’s part hits next. he steps forward, eyes scanning the sea of faces before flicking to you. it’s only a second, a brush of attention so quick the crowd would never catch it, but it lands like a spark in your lungs. he grins, then pivots into choreography.

you never understood how performers could look both effortless and deadly focused until now. sweat beads at their hairlines within minutes, but they don’t miss a beat. haechan riffs a playful ad-lib, doyoung shoots him a mock glare, johnny laughs into his mic; the crowd screams, drunk on the interaction.

halfway through the set, they perform gold dust as a surprise, the stage lights go yellow. mark moves to the far edge closer to you and delivers his verse straight ahead. but on his last bar he tilts his head, eyes skimming the shadows where you’re standing. his voice drops into that warm, gritty register you know too well from late-night calls, and despite the roar of the arena the moment feels impossibly intimate.

you tuck your hands under your arms, trying to calm the goosebumps, but the sheer thrill of seeing him own that stage while still tossing these tiny pieces of himself your way is overwhelming.

the final song explodes in confetti cannons. the boys hit their last pose, breathing hard, grinning wide. the screams from the audience are deafening; even the backstage staff exchange awed looks.

mark bows with the others, shouting “thank you!” into his mic, but as they turn to exit he catches your gaze one more time. he taps two fingers against his chest, then points subtly toward the hallway where you’re waiting and mouths the words stay right there, i’ll find you.

and you waited exactly where he told you to.

or… at least tried to.

but the moment the boys disappeared off stage, chaos swallowed everything whole. several stagehands rushed past with crates, wires and gear flying in every direction, staff barking orders into walkies while backup dancers and security weaved in and out of the narrow corridors.

you stepped back into the corner, trying not to get trampled, but every second you waited the crowd thickened, people shouting over each other, crew passing by so quickly that you were bumped into more than once. you caught glimpses of the members being swept off into different directions—haechan laughing breathlessly with a towel around his neck, johnny taking a water bottle from someone. but there was no sight of mark.

“you can’t stand here,” someone snaps, grabbing your elbow and steering you quickly away. “please, move along.”

“wait, i was supposed to—” you start, but your protest drowns in the noise as you’re guided through the maze of corridors. 

you glance over your shoulder anxiously, panic rising in your throat. mark said he’d find you but you don’t even know where you’re going.

the staff member stops abruptly near a back exit, where a van is parked outside the open door. he gestures hurriedly. “wait in there, please. someone will be with you shortly.”

before you can question it, he’s already vanished back into the building. hesitantly, you climb into the empty van, settling awkwardly on the leather seat. not even a minute later your phone buzzes with a text from mark.

mark: where are you??? backstage is insane, i can’t find you.

you quickly reply: someone moved me to a van near the back entrance?

your heart pounds as minutes stretch into eternity and doubt starts gnawing at you—they will probably film some behind the scenes content now, interviews, livestreams, what if he doesn’t have time to find you before he’s sent away?

but just as anxiety peaks, the van door suddenly slides open. your eyes widen as mark appears, breathing heavily like he ran to reach you, his stage makeup slightly smudged, hair damp and tousled from the performance. he sighs in relief, shoulders visibly relaxing the second he sees you.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes, climbing quickly into the van and closing the door behind him. “i was so worried. everything okay?”

“yeah, it was just really hectic—” you start, but your words fade as he sits beside you, closer than you’ve ever really been. close enough that you can see the faint glitter along his jaw, the sweat glistening at his temples, the warmth in his gaze as it settles fully on your face.

“you were incredible out there,” you say softly. “i’ve never…  it’s different seeing it up close.”

his cheeks pink despite the post-performance flush. “i kept looking for you.” 

“i noticed,” you admit, smiling.

mark’s gaze drops to your hands twisting in your lap and he reaches out.

“thanks for being here,” he murmurs. 

your laugh is a shaky exhale. “i wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“also…the NDA,” he starts quietly. “i didn’t want you to feel like i was cornering you into some weird situation. that’s not what this is.”

“mark, i didn’t think that. i mean—it was overwhelming, yeah, but i get it. you’re…” you gesture helplessly. “you.”

he laughs softly, but there’s no real humor behind it. “i hate it. you know, not being able to just… hang out with you. not having the freedom to do normal things, like… i don’t know—go get coffee or show you the city or tell people about you without it turning into a whole thing.”

“is that what this is? am i…” you hesitate. “something you’d want to tell people about?”

he looks up at you, and there’s not a trace of hesitation when he says, “yes. i think about it all the time.”

you blink, throat suddenly dry.

he leans in slightly. “i just… i didn’t want you to think i was trying to make you sign your silence just so i could keep you a secret. it’s not about hiding you. it’s about protecting something that means a lot to me.”

and there it is. the part he hadn’t said yet.

you mean a lot to him.

your chest tightens with the weight of being chosen in a world that doesn’t make space for this kind of closeness, that demands boundaries, a good image and clean lines drawn in ink. and yet here he is, blurring those lines for you.

“thank you for saying that,” you murmur, voice trembling a little. “i didn’t realize how much i needed to hear it.”

mark reaches across the space then, taking your other hand. “i don’t want this to feel like you’re walking on eggshells because of my life. i want it to feel real.”

your fingers tighten around his instinctively.

“it already does,” you whisper.

and when he finally closes the distance between you, pulling you into a quiet, careful hug, it feels so right.

his arms wrap around you and for a second the world outside the van ceases to exist. he’s warm even through his stage jacket, you can feel his heartbeat thudding fast against your cheek. you breathe him in, clean sweat and fabric softener.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t release your hand. his thumb brushes lazy paths over your knuckles.

“i kept picturing this,” he admits quietly. “all week. wondering if it would feel the same in person as it did in my head.”

“and?” you whisper.

“it’s even better,” he says without hesitation.

he shifts slightly, the space between you rapidly shrinking. his gaze flickers briefly down to your lips, and the movement sends your pulse racing.

“mark,” you whisper, voice barely audible, “i—”

his other hand gently finds your cheek, thumb tracing lightly along your skin, tipping your chin up just a fraction. he searches your face, breathing shallow and eyes heavy with something soft and vulnerable.

you lean in instinctively, eyes fluttering closed as his breath ghosts warm over your lips—

and then the van door suddenly swings open, a burst of noise and harsh backstage lighting flooding in.

“mark hyung, manager hyung says—oh shit.” haechan freezes halfway inside the doorway. “ohhh, sorry… was i interrupting something?”

mark jerks back, cheeks blazing crimson as his hand quickly leaves your cheek and lands awkwardly in his lap. “dude, are you serious?” he groans, dropping his head with a sigh and muttering a very un-idol-like curse word. 

you cover your mouth, laughing breathlessly through the embarrassment even as your pulse continues hammering in your ears.

“sorry, sorry,” haechan says, grinning wickedly, clearly not sorry at all. “but uh, we gotta go. manager hyung’s freaking out. we got an interview, hurry up.”

“yeah. coming.” he searches your face, apology written in his eyes “they’ll herd us to the hotel soon. can you wait a little longer? i want to ride with you after they clear the crowd.”

you nod, trying to ignore the throb of almost-kiss still sparking across your lips. “i’m not going anywhere.”

“give me twenty minutes tops, and then i’m kidnapping you for actual food.”

“bold of you to assume i’d say no.”

as he slips out, you catch the faintest curve of a smile before the door thuds shut and you’re alone again.

thirty minutes later, mark slips back into the van. this time freshly changed, hair still damp but swept under a dark cap.

“sorry that took forever.” he drops into the seat opposite you, knee bouncing with leftover adrenaline. “do you wanna come meet the other members properly before we leave?”

you follow him back through a quieter service corridor to a smaller green room that smells heavily like hair spray. inside, half the members are sprawled on sofas in various states of post-show exhaustion. the energy shifts the second mark ushers you in.

“guys, this is y/n,” he says.

taeyong shoots up first, hand extended. “the legend herself,” he jokes, grinning wide enough to prove he’s still riding his performance high. jaehyun offers a shy wave and drags over a chair so you won’t have to hover. yuta, also walks over and introduces himself politely.

doyoung is the only one who stays seated, arms folded. his eyes flick between you and mark, assessing. it lasts all of three seconds before he notices how relaxed mark looks—those shoulders that usually sit somewhere near his ears are loose, his smile easy. doyoung’s expression softens.

“thanks for cheering him up,” he says quietly, a little sheepish. “he’s been impossible the last few weeks.” the tease lands gentle, and mark flicks a sweat towel at him in retaliation.

the small talk bubbles up easily. the topic shifting from favorite festival moments, to whose in-ears cut out, and the confetti that caught in doyoung’s mouth during a high note. the atmosphere is warm and surprisingly normal, until a manager pops his head in to remind everyone they’ve got early rehearsals tomorrow.

mark steers you quickly back to the van after saying a quick goodbye.

“so…” he ran a hand through his hair and put his hat back on. “food?”

“please,” you groaned, head falling back against the seat. “i’m starving.”

“wanna go to a restaurant?” he offered.

you winced. “too risky.”

he nodded slowly. “true, my hotel’s worse.”

you turned your head to face him. “sasaengs?”

“they wait outside sometimes, follow the vans from the venue” he trailed off, already looking annoyed with the reality of it.

“we could…” you swallow, then barrel through. “we could go to my place? it’s not far, and no one knows where i live. we can order in.”

mark’s head tilts, surprised but already nodding. “are you sure?”

“only if you’re okay hiding out in a tiny apartment that smells like scented candles and stale coffee.”

he smiles brightly. “sounds perfect.”

you rattle off your address to the driver, heart hammering as you drive through the city. mark’s knee bumps yours every time the van hits a pothole, but neither of you moves away.

he glances over. “thank you for trusting me with your space.”

you breathe out a shaky laugh. “thank you for trusting me with… all of this.”

his fingers brush yours on the seat between you. outside, the van slows to a stop at your curb. the driver kills the lights for discretion. thankfully, the street is empty.

you turn to mark, pulse racing for an entirely new reason now. “welcome to my part of the world.”

he grins, tugging his cap lower and reaching for the door handle. “lead the way.”

your apartment is small, cluttered with book stacks and half-burned candles, but it’s yours—and when mark steps in, slipping off his shoes at the door like he’s done it a hundred times, it feels suddenly, impossibly domestic.

“so,” he murmurs, looking around with quiet curiosity. “what’s good for takeout around here?”

you settle on thai food after a chaotic five-minute debate that ends with mark looking up from your couch and going, “okay but do you trust me with your spice tolerance?”

you blink at him. “mark. i watched you cry eating jalapeño chips during that one livestream.”

“they were ghost pepper!” he defends, slightly pouting. “and i didn’t cry, my eyes were just... dry.”

you giggle and the tension that had followed you into the apartment fades with it.

while you wait for the food, he wanders around your space with curiosity. never touching too much, just observing. he stops at your bookcase, smiles at the titles stacked sideways, fingers brushing one of the cracked spines.

“so this is where you’ve been calling from,” he says as he returns to the couch, flopping down beside you. “it’s cozy.”

“that’s code for small, right?”

he tilts his head, grinning softly. “no. cozy means i don’t want to leave.”

you glance over at him, heartbeat spiking in your throat. his hoodie’s a little rumpled from the ride, cap tossed somewhere by your front door, and he’s leaned so close your shoulders brush.

“you’re kind of the only boy who’s ever said that,” you murmur.

“then they’re idiots.”

your lips twitch with a smile. mark leans his head back on the cushion, you get distracted by the cute bump on his nose and the lines of his jaw.

you both fall quiet for a while, your legs stretched out beside his on the couch, ankles knocking occasionally. your body relaxes more than you expect, as if it remembers this feeling from all those calls and imaginary versions of this moment.

when the takeout finally arrives, you both eat cross-legged on the couch, plastic containers open between you, your playlist humming low in the background.

you talk through mouthfuls of noodles about everything and nothing—his weird craving for peaches whenever he’s overseas, your childhood phase of putting ketchup on rice, how you both secretly judge people who don’t rewind movies when they pause.

somewhere between “i really miss my mom’s kimchi stew” and your story about the nightmare customer who demanded gluten-free breadsticks, your shoulders touch. a minute later his arm slips along the back of the couch, fingers grazing your shoulder each time he shifts. your nerves fizz under your skin, but the contact feels safe.

You lean into him. He doesn’t move away.

the conversation slows and when you glance up to make a joke, your nose brushes the edge of his jaw. his breath hitches at this, then a warm hand settles on your knee.

“this feels…” he starts, swallowing. “kinda unreal.”

“yeah.” a whisper—because your voice has gone missing.

his palm lifts to your cheek, thumb soft against your skin. “can I kiss you?”

you’re already nodding.

the first kiss is shy and careful, more smile than pressure. The next slips deeper, mouths moving in a lazy rhythm neither of you rush. Your fingers tangle in the hem of his hoodie; his other hand skims your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the quiet drum of his heart.

eventually the couch gets too cramped. mark breaks the kiss with a sheepish laugh. “my back is dying,” he murmurs.

you tug him down the hall to your room, giggling when he nearly trips on a sneaker. he perches on the edge of the bed and you climb into his lap without thinking, legs draped around him. his hands settle on your hips and he sighs.

“i really, really like you,” he says, forehead resting against yours.

“i like you too. a lot.”

he kisses you again. you spend the next half hour like that, trading soft laughs and softer kisses until the adrenaline drains from his limbs. head falls heavy on your shoulder, he mumbles something about the best night of his life…and falls asleep mid-sentence.

You ease him back onto the pillows, kick off your skirt, and curl into the space beneath his arm. One leg hooks over yours; his hand rests at the small of your back, protective even in sleep.

it’s the tenth call that finally wakes him the next morning.

mark groans into your pillow, dragging his phone blindly toward his face. “what…”

a second goes by and then he jolts upright. “shit. shit.”

you blink groggily, one arm reaching out for him. “what’s wrong?”

he’s already stumbling for his shirt which he doesn’t even remember taking off last nigh. “i slept in. i never—fuck, i never sleep in.”

you sit up slowly, watching him try to shove his hat over tousled hair while checking his phone. “i have like ten missed calls.”

he answers the incoming call hurriedly, voice tense and apologetic. “yeah, i’m sorry, i know… i’m on my way now, just got… held up. i’ll explain later.”

he glances down at you then, taking in your messy hair, swollen lips and sleepy eyes, and the look on his face softens just a little.

when he finally hangs up, he rushes back to your side, quickly pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i gotta run, but i'll text you as soon as i can. i promise.”

you smile sleepily up at him, already missing the warmth of his body against yours. “go. don’t get in trouble.”

he pauses briefly before leaving. “last night was… perfect. thank you.”

and then he’s gone, leaving you to curl back into your pillow, still feeling the ghost of his touch and the lingering warmth of everything you shared.

[neonbonded]

Grovel, Pretty Boy.

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x reader ♡ cw: heartbreak, emotional damage, angst, miscommunication, rain-soaked apologies, slow-burn second chances

Xavier

You knew something was wrong when he stopped falling asleep beside you.

He’d always been quiet. Reserved. But this was different. This wasn’t shyness or stoicism. This was distance.

Nights on the couch instead of your bed. Missions he didn’t tell you about until he was already gone. Kisses that never quite landed. Hands that never lingered.

You asked once. Just once.

“Xavier… do you still want this? Do you still want me?”

He didn’t meet your eyes when he answered. Didn’t hesitate either.

“You’re better off without me.”

That was it. No explanation. No tears. Just a single, low sentence—delivered like a death sentence.

So you left.

You packed a bag. Took the key off your chain. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t ask him to stop you.

And he didn’t.

The silence that followed was louder than any fight you’d ever had.

Xavier told himself it was right. That he was protecting you. That one day you’d thank him. But he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Barely moved.

He left your toothbrush in the cup. Kept the extra pillow on the bed. Replayed your voice in his head like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet.

It wasn’t until he found your jacket—folded and forgotten on the back of the chair—that something in him cracked.

He sat on the floor of the apartment, holding it to his face, inhaling like it could bring you back.

He finally broke.

It’s been three weeks when he shows up at your door.

You hear the knock first—quiet, tentative. Then again, harder. Urgent. When you open it, he’s standing there—wet from the rain, hood down, eyes red like he hasn’t slept in days.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time after living underground.

“You look…” His voice fails. He shakes his head, swallows, tries again. “I was wrong.”

You don’t move.

“I thought letting you go would keep you safe. From me. From this life. From the way I mess everything up.”

You cross your arms, biting your lip.

“So why are you here?”

His throat works. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“Because you left. And I thought I could live with that. I thought I could survive knowing you were better off.”

“And?”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I can’t.”

“Xavier—”

“I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I hear your voice every time I close my eyes. Every place I go reminds me of you. And I just—” His voice breaks. His knees hit the porch.

You step back instinctively, shocked. He stays kneeling, eyes wide, voice shaking:

“Please. I know I hurt you. I pushed you away. But don’t let me be right about losing you.”

“Don’t let that be the last thing I ever say to you.”

There’s silence. Only the rain. His breathing. Your heart pounding in your ears.

Then—your hand moves. Slowly. Carefully.

You reach out and touch his cheek. He leans into it like it’s the first warmth he’s felt in weeks.

“I’m not promising anything,” you whisper.

He nods.

“I know. I’ll earn it. Every day. As long as it takes.”

You open the door.

He doesn’t move until you say it—

“Come in.”

And he does.

Soaked. Shaking. Hopeful.

For the first time in weeks— Xavier smiles.

Zayne

It started slow—like all things with Zayne.

A few late nights at Akso Hospital. Then it became weekends. Then the messages got shorter. The kisses fewer. The promises thinner.

And you tried. God, you tried.

You made dinner and waited until it got cold. You left sweet notes in his lab coat pocket that he never mentioned. You curled up on the couch with takeout and a blanket, waiting for the sound of keys in the door—waiting to feel like a priority again.

But he never noticed how you stopped reaching out.

He thought your silence was peace. You thought his silence was neglect.

And when it finally broke—when you stood in the kitchen with tears in your eyes and said “I feel like I’m alone in this relationship”—he blinked at you like he didn’t understand the words.

“You know I’m working,” he said. “This is important.”

“And I’m not?”

You left two days later.

Zayne didn’t react at first.

He told himself you were being emotional. That you’d come back. That he didn’t have time for a personal crisis when three cardiac procedures were scheduled back-to-back.

But your side of the bed stayed cold. Your mug disappeared from the cabinet. Your toothbrush was gone.

The first thing that truly broke him?

A spoon.

He reached for the sugar in the morning, went to stir his coffee— and found your favorite spoon still in the drawer, tucked under the others.

The one with the tiny chip on the handle. The one you always used. And he stared at it like it was your ghost.

It takes him six days to gather the courage.

Six days of waking up with chest pain that has nothing to do with his heart. Six days of sitting in the apartment, surrounded by surgical journals and silence. Six days of not hearing your voice. Not seeing your face.

When he shows up at your door, it’s raining.

Of course it’s raining.

He’s in a gray coat. No umbrella. His glasses are fogged from the downpour, and his hair drips water onto his collar.

He looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Because he hasn’t.

You answer slowly, cautiously, wrapped in a sweater that isn’t his.

He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like you’re light and air and everything he thought he could live without—until you were gone.

“I need to say something,” he starts.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move.

“I know I didn’t show up for you,” he says, voice steady at first—but tight around the edges. “I know I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

“You were working. Like always.”

“No.” He swallows. “I was hiding.”

Your breath hitches. He sees it—but he keeps going.

“I told myself I could love you in the background. That my work was enough. That you’d understand.”

He looks away. Rain drips from his chin.

“But you cried alone. And I didn’t even notice.”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours.

“I let you carry everything. And I kept pretending I was too busy to see it. But I see it now.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough that you can feel the weight of what he’s carrying.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quietly. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants to try… tell me how. Tell me where to start.”

Silence.

Only the rain and the sound of his voice, breaking open for the first time in forever.

And you—heart still tender, eyes burning—you take a step back.

He doesn’t follow.

Until you say:

“Come in. We talk. That’s all.”

He nods. Just once.

But his breath? It shakes. Like he just got handed a second chance and he’s terrified he’s going to break it again.

Rafayel

You always knew Rafayel had sharp edges.

They came hidden in sugar and sarcasm, tied up in flirtation and jokes. He kissed with a smile. He apologized with a wink. But every now and then, when he was tired or tangled in his own storms— he’d say something that cut too deep.

This time, he didn’t just nick the surface. He gutted you.

It started as a fight.

Something small. Something stupid.

You were frustrated—he’d missed another dinner, another gallery event. He brushed it off. You didn’t. It escalated.

“Do you even take me seriously?” you snapped.

He scoffed, deflecting like always. But this time you didn’t back down.

“Do I mean anything to you outside of your inspiration?”

That’s when his face changed.

A flicker of something dark crossed his eyes. And he said it.

“Maybe I was better off before you.”

The silence after was louder than the slam of the door.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You just left.

He didn’t chase you.

Not at first.

He stood there in the middle of the studio, staring at the empty space you used to fill. At the unfinished canvas you were supposed to pose for. At the tea mug you left behind with your lipstick still on the rim.

And then it hit him.

What he said. What it meant. What he’d just destroyed with seven words and too much pride.

He tried to paint.

He couldn’t. His hands shook too hard.

So he drank instead. Paint-stained fingers trembling around a wine bottle, mouth twisted in self-loathing.

By the next morning, his studio was in shambles. Canvas slashed. Paint spilled like blood across the floor.

And in the center of it all? One still, untouched portrait of you.

It takes him four days.

Four days of pacing. Of rewriting texts. Of standing outside your apartment and turning back before knocking.

When he finally shows up?

It’s late. His clothes are wrinkled. His eyes bloodshot. His fingers still streaked with dried blue pigment.

He knocks once. Twice.

And when you open the door?

He falls silent.

He stares at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like his memory never did you justice.

“Hey, cutie.”

His voice cracks on the word.

You stare at him. Quiet. Guarded.

“I shouldn’t have said it.”

Still, you don’t speak.

“I was angry. Scared. You cornered me and I panicked.”

“So you hurt me.” Your voice is soft. It kills him more than yelling would.

“I know.” He swallows. His hands twitch like he wants to reach for you, but doesn’t. “And I would take it back a million times if I could. I’d burn every canvas in that studio if it meant you’d look at me the way you used to.”

“Rafayel—”

“No.” His voice cracks. His mask slips. “I’ve spent four days trying to paint and all I see is you walking out. All I hear is your voice in the back of my mind telling me I crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“I didn’t mean it. I’ve never meant anything less in my entire life. You’re not just my muse. You’re my home.”

There’s silence.

And then—

He reaches into his pocket.

A tiny, folded paper scrap. You recognize the sketch immediately. It’s you—from the last morning you spent curled in his bed.

It’s crumpled. Smudged. Like it’s been clutched in his hands over and over.

“I kept this,” he whispers. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I thought if I gave you this, you’d know I don’t want to forget. I just… want to start over.”

You reach for it. Slowly.

And he lets go. Hands shaking.

“Let me prove I’m worth one more brushstroke in your life.”

You stare at him. Your eyes sting.

“One condition,” you whisper.

He nods too fast.

“Anything.”

“You tell me next time. When it’s too much. When you’re scared. When you feel like you’re drowning.”

“I will,” he promises. “Just… don’t walk away from me again.”

You open the door wider.

“Then come inside. We start from page one.”

He steps inside like he’s never been more grateful in his life.

Sylus

You always knew there were things Sylus didn’t tell you.

You didn’t mind at first. He was powerful, dangerous—Onychinus’s leader, cloaked in shadows and whispers.

But you loved him. And he let you. In his way.

Slow touches. Bare confessions. Fingers brushing your jaw like they weren’t stained in blood. He never told you what his nights entailed. But you knew. You just didn’t know he was keeping you in those files.

You found the classified record by accident.

You were looking for a comm drive, trying to help organize his equipment for an upcoming drop. Instead?

You found your name in a dossier stamped with an Onychinus seal. Your file was red-level encrypted. And beneath the encryption: A full surveillance report.

Your work. Your location. Your medical records. Your passwords.

A protected asset tag.

Your hands shook.

You weren’t a partner. You were a risk to be monitored.

You didn’t confront him.

You left.

And Sylus? He came home to silence.

At first, he just stared at the empty apartment.

Then he saw the unlocked desk. The data drive pulled out.

The second he realized what you’d found, something in him snapped.

He didn’t rage. Didn’t shout.

He just… shut down.

For three days, no one saw him.

Onychinus command went dark. All orders rerouted. No public appearances. No messages returned.

The next time he walked into HQ, his eyes were dead and his voice was a loaded gun.

“Do not ask me where she is,” he said to his second-in-command, “unless you’re prepared to hear me break.”

It takes him a week.

A week of calling in every favor. Canceling every op. His pride long since discarded like a broken blade.

When he finds you?

You’re not at your apartment. Not at your safehouse.

You’re in a shitty little cafe near the old city walls. Neutral ground.

And when he steps inside, the whole room goes still.

Because Sylus—tall, sharp, all black coat and blood in his gaze—doesn’t belong here. But he’s not here to make a statement. He’s here for you.

Only you.

You don’t speak when he sits across from you.

You just look at him.

He looks tired. Worn. Haunted.

“I know what you found,” he says first. His voice is low. Controlled. “I know what it looked like.”

You don’t move. Don’t blink.

“It looked like I was never yours,” you say. “Like I was a project. A file. A threat.”

He closes his eyes.

“You were the only thing in my life I didn’t want to control.”

“But you did.” Your voice shakes. “You stalked me. Tracked me. You filed me under protected asset—like I wasn’t someone you loved. Just something you were afraid to lose.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“I was afraid,” he says. “Because you’re the only person I wouldn’t survive losing.”

He leans forward. His hands are shaking.

“So I lied. I covered. I convinced myself it was safer if you didn’t know how deep I’d gone.”

“How deep?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“There is no version of this world I’m willing to live in without you.”

Your breath hitches. He watches it. Memorizes it. Still doesn’t reach for you.

“But I understand why you left.”

A pause. His voice drops even lower.

“And if I never get you back, I will spend the rest of my life protecting you from a distance—without surveillance. Without control. Just… me.”

“Wanting you. And never touching you again.”

The silence between you is thick. Heavy.

And then—your hand moves.

Just slightly. Across the table. Near his.

Not quite touching. But not pulling away either.

“Start over,” you say. “No secrets. No files. Just you. Just me.”

His breath catches.

Then he covers your hand with his. Fingers curling. Tight. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.

“I swear,” he whispers, voice shaking. “No more lies.”

Caleb

You never wanted to be the jealous type.

But there’s something about seeing him like that— Caleb, your Caleb, in a low-lit bar, laughing softly while someone else leans into his space.

She’s gorgeous. Confident. Her fingers on his sleeve, her mouth too close to his ear. And he’s not pulling away.

He’s not kissing her. But he’s not saying no, either.

And that’s enough.

Your stomach turns.

You don’t make a scene. You don’t even wait for him to notice.

You just leave.

You cry that night.

Hot, silent tears soaked into your pillow as you stare at the wall, waiting for your phone to buzz.

A text. A call. Something.

It never comes.

It takes two days before Caleb even realizes you saw.

He doesn’t notice the missed messages. The silence. The sudden drop-off.

He thinks you’re just busy. Until he opens your shared calendar and sees:

“Pick up the rest of your stuff.” Saturday. 8PM.

He freezes.

And something inside him shatters.

When he finally gets to your door?

It’s pouring.

He’s drenched. Shaking. Breathing too hard to look calm anymore.

He pounds on the door once. Twice. A third time—harder.

“It wasn’t what it looked like!”

You open the door slowly.

You’re calm. Barefoot. In a hoodie. Eyes puffy.

“Wasn’t it?”

His breath catches. His fingers curl against the doorframe.

“She’s my handler. She was drunk. She got clingy. I didn’t���God, I didn’t even notice you were there until I turned around and you were just… gone.”

You raise a brow. Arms crossed. Silent.

“And you didn’t come after me.”

He swallows hard.

“I know. I know I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

And that’s when it happens. The soft, calm expression on his face—cracks.

He takes one shaky step forward, dripping on your floor, his voice breaking apart:

“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You stare.

He keeps going.

“I saw your face, and I thought, ‘That’s it. She saw everything. She’s gone.’ And I—I froze. Like losing you was just the punishment I earned for not being what you needed.”

“But I was wrong.” “You were there. And I didn’t choose you fast enough. I didn’t run after you.”

His hand lifts—hesitant. Trembling.

“So I’m running now. Okay? I’m running now. I’m standing here—soaked, stupid, and sorry—because I’d rather beg you in the rain than spend one more night trying to pretend like I can breathe without you.”

Your lip trembles.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

“You didn’t show it.”

“Then let me now. Let me prove it. Let me fix it.”

He falls quiet. Soaked to the bone. Voice gone. Heart in your hands.

You stare at him for one long, aching moment—

And finally, you open the door.

“One shot, Colonel.”

He exhales like he’s just been pulled back from the brink of death.

“That’s all I need.”

[buckysouvenir]

hi :3 would u do a request of bucky masturbating and he gets caught 👅

caught in the act “I want to see you fall apart, Bucky.” warning: 18+ content a.n.: thank you for sending this plot, i never really thought about it. 😵‍💫

The elevator dings softly. You step into the quiet hallway of the Avengers Tower, your heels clicking lightly against the marble as you walk toward your room. There’s a pleasant hum in your chest from the wine — not quite drunk, but warm and loose, your laughter still lingering from the bar. The night clings to you like perfume: electric, indulgent, alive.

You pull out your earrings as you go, still smiling to yourself.

The red dress hugs every inch of you — short, tight, impossible to ignore. It clings to your hips and thighs, the hem scandalously high, and the plunging neckline leaves little to the imagination. Your cleavage is on full display, framed by the bold cut and just a hint of shimmer from the bronzer you dabbed on earlier. You hadn’t worn it for anyone in particular — but you had wanted to feel seen. Desired. Devoured.

You don’t know that someone had seen.

Bucky had caught a glimpse of you when you left earlier — your laugh echoing off the walls, the flash of red silk catching his eye like firelight. You didn’t notice the way he watched. Didn’t see the way his jaw had clenched, the way his fingers twitched like he could reach out and stop you. But he had watched. And when the elevator doors closed, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Couldn’t stop feeling you.

Now, back in the quiet hallway, you pass by his door without a second thought — until a sound stops you.

A low, rough groan.

You freeze.

It’s soft but distinct. That unmistakable edge of need.

You glance around the empty hallway. Everyone else is either still out or tucked away in their rooms. Curiosity flickers through you — sharp, unexpected, burning hotter than it should. His door is cracked open just enough.

You shouldn’t.

But you do.

You move closer, breath catching in your throat as you peer through the small opening. And what you see hits you like a shockwave.

Bucky is sprawled across his bed — sheets tangled and pushed low around his hips. His torso is bare, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat, every muscle drawn tight with tension. His metal arm lies slack at his side — but his other hand is busy, moving slow and deliberate along the thick length of his cock. His head is tipped back, lashes low, lips parted. A low, breathless curse escapes him.

You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.

He’s beautiful like this — so completely undone. Stripped of all that quiet control he wears like armor. His brows knit together with each stroke, muscles tensing in his thighs and stomach. It’s almost reverent, the way he moves. Like he’s chasing a ghost. Like he’s clinging to a fantasy.

Then you hear it.

Your name — soft, raw, whispered like a secret.

Your lips part.

He’s thinking of you.

The knowledge is fire in your veins. Your heart pounds, blood rushing hot under your skin. Before you can stop yourself, you lean your shoulder against the doorway — silently, confidently — letting the shadows cloak you in suggestion. A smirk plays at your lips.

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice low and unshaken.

Bucky jolts like he’s been electrocuted, eyes flying open, hand stilling immediately. “Sh*t—Y/N, I—” He scrambles for words. “I didn’t know you were—”

“I said don’t stop,” you repeat, stepping into the room like you own it, like the moment was yours all along.

He blinks. Disbelieving. But the hunger in his gaze returns fast — darker now, more desperate — when you reach behind yourself and slowly pull the zipper of your dress down, inch by inch. The silky fabric loosens over your shoulders, teasing skin, heat, promise.

“You wanted to get off thinking about me?” you ask, voice like silk over steel. “Go ahead. Show me how bad you wanted it.”

His breath hitches, but he obeys.

His hand moves again, rougher now — no longer careful, no longer pretending. He watches you the entire time, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. His eyes trace the curve of your body, the way your dress clings, the dangerous dip of your neckline, the way you tilt your head when you smile just so.

“Tell me,” you whisper as you step closer, hips swaying, “what were you thinking about?”

“You,” he breathes. “You in that dress. The way it hugged your body. The way you laughed when you walked past.” He groans. “The way I wished you’d come back to me.”

You sit at the edge of the bed, close enough that your perfume wraps around him like a noose.

“Did you imagine me doing this for you?” you ask, fingers dragging lightly along your own thigh. “Touching you? Watching you like this?”

“All the time,” he gasps. “But this—watching you watch me—f*ck.”

You cross your legs slowly, and the dress slides even higher. His eyes follow the movement like prey scenting blood.

“Faster,” you murmur.

He listens.

His hand moves faster, rhythm desperate now. His hips twitch, his breath catches, and every sound he makes is for you — a trembling offering at your feet.

“You’re doing so well,” you purr, leaning close enough that your breath brushes his cheek. “Such a good boy for me.”

The noise he makes is wrecked — guttural and desperate.

“You’re gonna come just from touching yourself, aren’t you?” you breathe, brushing your fingers featherlight along the inside of his knee. “Right in front of me?”

“Please,” he groans. “Please let me. I’m so close, I—God—”

“Then do it,” you say, your voice all velvet and command. “Come for me.”

And he does.

His whole body tenses, hips lifting off the bed as pleasure overtakes him — brutal and consuming. He moans your name like it’s the only word he remembers, spilling across his hand and stomach in thick, hot ropes. Every muscle quivers with it — every breath ragged.

The silence afterward is heavy. Sacred. Only the sound of his breathing fills the space.

You reach out and gently trail your fingers along the edge of his jaw — tender now, affectionate. His skin is flushed and damp, his hair tousled, his chest rising and falling with the aftershocks.

When he finally opens his eyes, they’re dark with awe. With need. With something that feels dangerously close to worship.

You smile down at him, slow and wicked.

“Next time,” you whisper, bending closer to brush your lips against his ear, “you’re not finishing alone.”

[revelboo]

Hiya! This is my first ever request and I’ve been enjoying your content for a long while! Are you able to do a roleplay (🌶) between Animated Starscream and user where they praise him? :] He’s my favourite character amd favourite version of Starscream!! <3

Sure! 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Praise

TFA Starscream

• “Just like that,” you moan, little hands resting on top of his on your waist as he lazily moves you on his spike. “You feel so good.” Smirking as your wet heat grips his spike, he growls when you roll your hips. Lifting up so his spike nearly slips free and then watching you ease back down, he can’t tear his optics from the sight of his length disappearing inside you. “Ruining me for anyone else.”

• Watching his wings flare out slightly from hooded eyes as you ride his spike, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Because you’d figured out early on that the way to deal with him was to stroke that massive ego of his. Getting to play with his big spike had just been an expected bonus. “Those fools should fall down at your peds,” you groan, laying it on think and he drags you down against him and rolls so you end up under him. “You should be leading.”

• “I will,” he snarls, hips pumping against you. Imagining overthrowing Megatron and taking his rightful place as leader of the Decepticons. Might even keep you, make a little spot for you at his peds. Since you’re so loyal to him, you should be rewarded and he’s not nearly ready to give you up. You feel like you were made just to take his spike, all slick heat. “I’m the only worthy leader, the obvious choice.” Thrusting harder to make you moan and hook a leg against his hip, he smile indulgently.

• Right there. Whimpering as he shifts over you, thick spike stroking deep until you’re struggling to think. To keep babbling praise so he’ll keep fucking you silly. “Not just the Decepticons, the world. Nothing can stop you,” you whimper, only half aware of what you’re saying. “It’s all yours.” And his thick spike is yours. Body coiling tight as you moan, back arching and you come apart with his next thrust.

• Snarling as you tremble and milk his spike, his hips snap against you, rutting into your wet heat in hard drives. Listening to your little noises and ragged breathing mingling with his own rough venting. It’s unseemly how out of control you make him. That he’s so hard for a little organic. It’s that it’s so taboo and obscene that makes it so delicious, overloading hard to fill you, hips shallowly bucking as he groans. Because you’re right. It’s all his. Including you.

[busyw0man]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ💋ɞ˚‧｡⋆ 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬

❝ i don’t like you. i just… don’t want you to get hurt. that’s all. ❞

❝ stop being so kind to me. it’s confusing. ❞

❝ why does it always feel different when it’s you? ❞

❝ don’t pretend you don’t feel it too. ❞

❝ i hate that you understand me better than anyone else ever has. ❞

❝ we keep doing this — arguing, pushing each other away — and still… we end up right here. ❞

❝ i should walk away. i should hate you. but i don’t. ❞

❝ this isn’t supposed to matter. you’re not supposed to matter. ❞

❝ tell me to go. tell me you don’t want me. i’ll believe you. ❞

❝ you weren’t supposed to mean anything. so why do you feel like everything? ❞

❝ if i let myself want you, i’ll never be able to stop. ❞

❝ do you really hate me, or does it just hurt less than wanting me? ❞

❝you ruin everything, you know that? including my ability to stay away from you.❞

❝ say it’s nothing. say it doesn’t keep you up at night, too. ❞

❝ if you kiss me right now, i’m not going to be able to pretend anymore. ❞

❝ what are we even doing? we fight, we hurt each other, and then we end up like this. ❞

❝ i wish i didn’t care. i wish it didn’t tear me apart when you look at someone else like that. ❞

❝ i should hate you. but all i feel is this ache when you’re not around. ❞

❝ you’re the last person i should fall for. and the only one i want. ❞

❝ this was never supposed to happen. not with you. ❞

❝ i don’t want to want you. but you keep making it impossible. ❞

❝ i can’t lose you. not when i finally figured out what you really mean to me. ❞

❝ you make me feel everything i’ve spent years trying to shut down. ❞

❝ is this still hate? because it doesn’t feel like it anymore. ❞

❝ you drive me insane… and i’d still rather be near you than anyone else. ❞

❝ i know we’re supposed to be on opposite sides, but i can’t stop thinking about you. ❞

❝ i’ve tried to forget you. god knows i’ve tried. ❞

❝ say you don’t care. lie to me. maybe i’ll believe it this time. ❞

❝ when did you start looking at me like that? ❞

❝ maybe if we’d met under different circumstances, this wouldn’t hurt so much. ❞

❝ i kept telling myself it was just tension. just adrenaline. but it’s not, is it? ❞

❝ you broke something open in me. and now i don’t know how to close it again. ❞

❝ i’m not supposed to love you. i’m not supposed to want this. ❞

❝ for someone i’m supposed to hate, you make me feel way too much. ❞

❝ just tell me it didn’t mean anything to you. say it to my face. ❞

❝i wanted to hate you. but you saw me, and now i don’t know how to forget that.❞

❝ we can’t do this. so why does it feel like we already are? ❞

[unstablecherries]

i love all the jinx content sm but at the end of it all im just a girl who wants her to fuck my soul away after a bad week :[

(pls dont crucify me i just need smn to take care of me)

No one's going to crucify you. Your neediness is valid and understood. I bet a lot of people feel like you, me, included. ♡ thank you for this!

Break Me Better, (NSFW),

Oneshot, Jinx x Reader

Contentೀ : dom!Jinx, fingering, oral (receiving), overstimulation, rough handling, emotional vulnerability, possessiveness, biting, light choking, mild degradation.

short Summary;

After a long, brutal week, you show up at Jinx’s door strung-out and silent, carrying a weight you can’t put into words. She sees it immediately and decides the best way to break the tension is to break you. What follows is a chaotic, feral, and unrelenting release: Jinx pinning you down, pulling you apart with her mouth, her fingers, and her filthy obsession with making you come until you forget everything else. Even when you're trembling and begging, she's not done because ruining you is the only thing that makes her feel whole.

The door creaks open.

You don’t even get a word out before she’s in front of you, barefoot, grease-stained tank top, goggles pushed up into her hair, a wrench still in her hand. She takes one look at your face and her grin fades.

“Whoa,” she murmurs, stepping in close. “Someone’s had a week.”

You swallow. Try to smile. Fail.

Her fingers reach out, trace your jaw. She tilts her head like she’s studying a bomb mid-countdown. “You gonna explode on me?”

You manage, a soft “Maybe.”

Something dark flickers in her eyes.

“Then let me light the fuse.”

You don’t remember how you get to her sleeping spot, just that her hands are suddenly everywhere, tugging, peeling your clothes off like they’re a problem to solve. And she’s whispering, half-mocking, half-reverent:

“Poor baby,” she coos. “You’ve been holding it in, haven’t you? All that stress. All that need.”

Her mouth is hot, demanding, nipping your throat, biting your shoulder. She pushes you back onto the mattress and climbs on top, her hips straddling yours, her hands pinning your wrists.

“You didn’t come here to talk,” she says, voice low and wicked. “You came here to be ruined.”

You gave her a small nod.

“Ohhh, I love when you're honest.”

She slides down your body, not gently; knees digging in, smirking when you gasp. Her fingers find your thighs, spread them, grip them hard enough to bruise.

“You’re soaked already,” she murmurs. “Bet you’ve been like this all week. Walking around needy, no one touching you right.”

She leans in, tongue hot and slick, licking a long, slow stripe up your center, you arch, breath hitching;

“Fuck- Ji-”

She proceeds to moan into you, messy and loud. Her tongue works in circles, then tight flicks, then long strokes again. Her fingers press in next, one, then two; curling just right. You’re already shaking.

“Sensitive, needy thing,” she purrs. “C’mon, let go. Let it break.”

And you do let it break, sharp, fast, stars behind your eyes. But she doesn’t stop.

“Good,” she breathes, still working you through it, your thighs trembling. “One’s not enough.”

She grabs your hips when you try to pull back. “Uh-uh. You came to fall apart, remember?”

Your chest rises and falls in short, stuttering breaths. You’re twitching, your skin slick with sweat, legs spread open and aching from how hard she pushed you the first time. But Jinx hasn’t moved far. She’s crouched between your thighs, fingers idly tracing every sensitive spot she just tore open.

You whimper when she grazes over your clit again.

She grins, wild and sharp. “That sweet little noise? That’s the one.”

You try to close your legs, but she throws one leg over her shoulder and pins the other open with her elbow.

“You wanted this.” She says, big smirk on her face.

She kisses her way back up your body and leaves wet bites on your hip, your ribs, your chest. One hand wraps around your throat again, firm, just enough to make your pulse jump under her thumb.

“You’re gonna give me another one.”

“Jinx- please-” It’s too much. You feel your mind going blank.

She licks into your mouth when you try to speak, muffling your protest into a moan. You feel her shift her hips; grinding down just enough for you to realize she’s been wet this whole time too, needy through the chaos.

Her voice drops lower, hungrier. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. Ruined and desperate. I wanna watch you come until you forget whatever even broke you in the first place.”

She doesn’t tease this time.

Fingers deep again, hitting that perfect angle. She watches every twitch, every cry. Her other hand strokes your throat, then your jaw, then grabs your face and holds you there, making you look at her.

“Keep those eyes open,” she demands, breath hot and harsh. “You’re gonna look at me while I break you again.”

You try. You really try. But the way she’s touching you, filling you, her palm grinding down against your clit, her body moving in rhythm.. it’s too much.

And when you come again, it’s not a clean break, it’s a collapse. Soundless at first, then messy and raw, your whole body convulsing beneath her.

She moans at the sight of it. “Ohhh fuck, you’re so gorgeous like this. Don’t stop, ride it, yeah, ride it out for me, pretty.”

You’re sobbing into her neck, limbs weak, nails dragging down her back without meaning to.

She loves it.

Loves how undone you are. How completely hers you look like this, arched, broken and trembling with pleasure. She slows down, finally, as you go limp beneath her.

Jinx lays on top of you, breathing hard, her mouth at your ear.

“You still with me?” she whispers, surprisingly gentle.

You nod weakly, your hand gripping hers.

“Good,” she says, brushing a thumb over your jaw.

“Because next time… I wanna hear you beg.”

I hope you enjoyed it!! I put my whole pussy into this ;P

[secretlittlerandezvous]

Number One - Will Smith

Summary: Y/n, a pro volleyball player, breaks down under pressure and distance during her busy season away from Will. After a phone call where she breaks down, he drops everything and surprises her at her next match.

Words: 1000

The season had swallowed them whole.

Y/n was weeks deep into a relentless stretch of away games, early practices, sponsor events, and constant physical strain. She hadn’t seen her apartment in what felt like forever, barely slept in her own bed, and when she did, she slept alone. The ache in her muscles had become dull and constant, and no matter how many wins she racked up, she felt like she was gasping for air in a life she used to love.

And Will… God, she missed Will.

They used to talk every night. FaceTime until one of them fell asleep, send voice notes just to hear each other’s voice. But lately it was down to occasional good luck texts and rushed “love you” messages. He was just as swamped, his NHL season in full swing, the pressure of proving himself, traveling, performing, somehow surviving.

There was no fight. No anger. Just distance. And that hurt even more.

She hadn’t cried in weeks, holding herself together like the athlete she was taught to be: strong, composed, stoic. But now, in a dim hotel room at the edge of some unfamiliar city, staring at another wall that wasn’t home, her strength cracked.

She stared at her phone, thumb hovering over his name.

She doubted he’d answer. It was late. He’d be exhausted too.

But she pressed “call” anyway, heart hammering in her chest.

To her surprise, the phone rang once, twice and then…

“Hey,” came Will’s familiar voice, soft and slightly worried. “Y/n?”

The sound broke her.

A sob left her before she could stop it, her breath hitching, tears falling fast.

“Whoa, hey, hey, baby what’s wrong?” Will’s voice shot up in panic, fully alert now. “Y/n? Talk to me. What happened? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see. “I’m just, I’m so tired,” she cried. “I feel like I’m drowning. I’m trying so hard, and no one sees it. No one cares how much I’m breaking.”

Will went silent on the other end, trying to process the pain pouring out of her. “Baby… oh my God.”

“I miss you,” she whispered. “So much it hurts. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending it’s okay that we barely talk, that I’m always alone, that this is just what our lives are now.”

Her voice cracked; each word pulled from somewhere deep inside her chest.

“I feel invisible. I feel like I could disappear, and no one would even notice.”

Will sat on the edge of his bed, fingers gripping his hair. He hated that she was feeling this alone. Hated that he hadn’t noticed how far she'd fallen.

“Y/n,” he breathed. “You’re not invisible. God, you’re everything to me.”

She cried harder.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, firmer now. “I know I haven’t said it enough lately, but I am. I see how hard you’re working, how much you’re giving. I’m sorry I haven’t been there. I’m sorry I let the space between us grow this wide.”

Her sobs got quietened, just slightly, as he continued.

“You’re the strongest person I know. But you don’t always have to be. Not with me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I’ll get there,” he said. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll be in the stands, front row, screaming your name the second I can take a breath from all this.”

Y/n swallowed, the weight on her chest easing just slightly. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said softly. “And until then… I’m right here. Even when you feel like no one sees you I do.”

A few days later

Y/n had stopped letting herself hope. Hope was dangerous. It made her heart flutter at every buzz of her phone, every shadow near the bench, every cheer that sounded remotely like his voice.

So, when she stepped onto the court for her final game, a nationally televised one, packed crowd, big pressure she told herself to focus. To lock in. To forget the ache still lingering in her chest.

It wasn’t easy. Her shoulders were heavy with exhaustion, both emotional and physical. Her team was counting on her, and if there was one thing Y/n still clung to, it was that she could always show up for others.

She hadn’t even looked into the crowd.

Not until the second set break, when her coach pulled her aside, water bottle in hand, and smirked. “You’ve got a visitor,” he said with a nod toward the stands.

Y/n turned.

And her knees nearly gave out.

There, tucked behind the barrier just a few rows from the court, stood Will.

Baseball cap low over his curls, hoodie half-zipped, a bouquet of flowers comically stuffed into his arms and a homemade cardboard sign hanging crookedly from his hands that read: “Y/N’S #1 I <3 her and her killer serve.”

Y/n blinked, lips parting in disbelief.

Will grinned and held up the sign higher, pointing at it like he was so proud of himself.

She felt her throat tighten instantly. The crowd around him clearly recognized who he was, phones were out, fans were murmuring but he didn’t care. His whole attention was on her. His eyes sparkled, soft and sure and filled with something only she got to see.

He had flown across the country during his only longer break.

Just to keep his promise.

After the match (which her team won, though she could hardly remember how) she rushed past the cameras and press and sprinted toward the exit tunnel.

Will was waiting.

She practically crashed into him, arms flying around his neck as he dropped the flowers and hugged her back just as fiercely.

“You came,” she whispered, still breathless, still not believing it.

“Told you I would,” he murmured into her hair, tightening his grip. “Didn’t want to miss the chance to watch my girl be a damn superhero.”

Y/n pulled back, just enough to look at him. “You’re insane for flying all the way here.”

“You’re worth it.”

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Close Enough Part 2

It starts with a mug.

Nika notices it sitting alone on the coffee table, abandoned mid sip…Y/N’s favorite one, a chipped UConn logo on one side and a fading gold ring around the rim. Usually, she rinses it out, flips it upside down to dry by the sink. But not today. The inside is crusted with coffee that’s gone cold. That’s the first red flag.

The second comes when Nika hears coughing down the hall. Not just a casual morning throat clear, but that heavy, chest deep kind that makes her freeze in place mid stretch in the kitchen. The kind that sounds worn out.

She pads quietly toward the hallway, socks sliding a little on the hardwood. Her body’s still waking up, hoodie sleeves too long over her hands, but her brain’s already on high alert. She stops outside Y/N’s bedroom door and taps the edge with her knuckles.

“You alive?” she asks softly.

There’s a long pause. Then a congested groan. “Barely.”

That’s enough.

She opens the door, just a crack. What she finds makes something in her chest tug, painfully.

Y/N’s in bed, curled on her side with blankets pulled up to her ears. Her hair’s in a loose, falling apart braid, skin pale except for the flush across her cheeks and nose. Her laptop sits untouched beside her, midterm review screen dimmed. A half used tissue box rests on her chest like a sad accessory.

“Oh, babe…” Nika says instinctively. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“I feel like it,” Y/N mutters, voice raw. She tries to push herself up on one elbow and immediately winces.

Nika’s beside her in two seconds, hand hovering behind her back as she helps her sit up.

“You’re burning up,” she murmurs, pressing her fingers gently to Y/N’s forehead. It’s too warm…that slow building fever warmth that makes Nika instinctively shift into full care mode. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Y/N shrugs, small and guilty. “Didn’t want to bother you. Thought it’d go away.”

Nika doesn’t answer at first. She just sighs, long and low, like she’s trying to exhale the ache behind her ribs. She reaches down and straightens the blanket at Y/N’s legs, smoothing it like it’ll help somehow.

“Okay” she says, already standing. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’m going to the store.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“I do,” Nika interrupts, already grabbing her wallet and keys from the counter. “I’m not about to let you rot in bed and suffer. You’d do the same for me.”

Y/N gives her a look, tired but touched. “You’re kind of overachieving right now, you know that?”

Nika shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as her heart slams stupidly hard in her chest. “Can’t help it” she tosses back over her shoulder. “I’m European. We’re dramatic.”

The store trip takes longer than it should…mostly because Nika keeps second guessing everything.

She stands frozen in the medicine aisle, staring at three different types of cold remedies, mentally debating which one won’t knock Y/N out too hard but will still break a fever. Then she grabs both, plus cough drops, tissues with lotion, vitamin C powder, and a tiny stuffed bear from the dollar bin that makes her feel like a loser until she imagines Y/N laughing at it in that low, sleepy way she does.

She adds a pack of lavender scented Epsom salts at the last second, unsure if Y/N will even use them, but somehow it feels like something someone would do if they really cared.

By the time she’s back at the apartment, she’s sweating through her hoodie but refuses to let the plastic bags cut into her wrist too deep.

Y/N hasn’t moved much…now curled into a tighter ball, visibly shivering, laptop screen shut. Nika slips into the room as quietly as she can, setting the grocery bags on the desk and pulling out items one by one with the precision of someone laying out medical instruments. Soup, Gatorade, crackers, a forehead thermometer, DayQuil. She even cuts the orange like her mom used to, fingers flying out of habit.

When she turns back around with a tray in hand, Y/N is watching her.

“You really did the most” she rasps, weak but smiling.

Nika sets the tray down beside her and kneels at the edge of the bed. “Only the best for my favorite roommate.” Immediately regretting the words.

“I’m your only roommate.”

“Exactly” Nika says, tucking the blanket higher over Y/N’s chest without thinking.

There’s a beat of silence. Y/N looks at her, eyelids drooping from exhaustion, but her smile softens into something small and warm.

“Thanks, Ni” she says, and it’s so soft it barely registers.

Nika’s throat goes tight. God, she hates how good it feels to be needed by her. To have an excuse to hover close, to care too much, to fuss and touch and stay.

“You wanna sleep?” Nika asks, voice gentler now. “I’ll be here.”

Y/N nods, sinking back into the pillow, face turned toward her. “Will you stay for a bit?”

The words are barely there. But Nika doesn’t hesitate.

She climbs up and settles on top of the covers beside her, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Their arms are close…so close…but she doesn’t touch. She just stays. And stares at the ceiling. And listens to Y/N’s breathing slow.

After a while, Y/N’s hand slips over, brushing lightly against Nika’s wrist…an unconscious reach, maybe, but it feels like everything.

Nika stays still. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just closes her eyes, lets herself memorize the sound of Y/N breathing beside her, lets herself feel the pulse in her own throat.

Eventually, Y/N drifts off, face soft in the half light. Nika watches her sleep.

It’s unfair, really…how beautiful she still looks with messy hair and a red nose and faded chapstick. It should be illegal. And it makes something inside Nika ache in that familiar, hopeless way. The feeling that’s lived under her ribs for months now, quiet but constant.

She leans her head back against the wall and lets herself just… watch. There’s no one else to see her staring. No one else to catch how her fingers twitch every time Y/N shifts closer. There’s a whole kind of grief, she thinks, in loving someone who leans on you this tenderly and doesn’t realize how much it’s costing you not to kiss their forehead and stay forever.

She doesn’t mean to stay for hours.

But the light outside their window shifts from late morning to golden afternoon, and still, Nika doesn’t move. At one point, Y/N murmurs something in her sleep and her hand slips further toward Nika’s arm…fingers resting, barely curled around the hem of her hoodie sleeve.

And Nika lets it stay there.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe too loud, doesn’t blink too fast…like if she holds still enough, the moment won’t break.

Just this, she thinks. Let me have this.

Now, it’s barely dusk. The light in the apartment is a sleepy gray, and Nika’s phone buzzes quietly beside her…but she doesn’t reach for it. She’s too busy watching the slow rise and fall of Y/N’s breathing. Her hair’s a mess and her skin is clammy, but to Nika, she looks…God, she looks so soft. So hers, even if she isn’t.

Then suddenly….Y/N jolts upright.

“Whoa…hey,” Nika says, startled. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N doesn’t answer. She throws the blanket off, hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide and panicked.

And Nika knows.

She scrambles after her before the pieces fully click. “Y/N?”

She hears the retching before she even makes it down the hall. The bathroom door is ajar and Y/N’s on the floor, one hand gripping the toilet seat, the other braced against the tile.

“Oh my God,” Nika breathes, dropping to her knees beside her. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”

Y/N’s too far gone to respond. Her shoulders tremble as she heaves again, and Nika doesn’t flinch once. She gathers Y/N’s hair gently in one hand, the other rubbing slow, firm circles between her shoulder blades.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, low and steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When it finally stops, Y/N slumps back with a ragged breath, eyes glassy and face pale. Nika immediately wets a cloth and presses it to her forehead, heart hammering at how weak she looks.

“You should’ve told me you felt this bad,” she says, voice too soft to sound mad.

“I thought I was just tired” Y/N croaks. “And then you were warm, and I didn’t want to move…”

That sentence shouldn’t mean anything.

But it does.

Nika swallows hard and tries not to focus on the way it curls inside her chest, warm and awful and hopeful all at once.

“Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She helps Y/N to her feet, careful not to let her wobble and guides her back to the sink. She runs the water, offers her toothbrush, fills a cup. Y/N leans against her the whole time, completely unguarded.

Back in the bedroom, Nika coaxes her into clean sweats and one of her own hoodies without comment. She fluffs the pillows and remakes the bed, easing Y/N under the covers like she’s something delicate.

“Sorry I ruined your night” Y/N whispers, eyes barely open.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Nika says and she means it. If anything, her heart feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

She brushes Y/N’s damp hair off her forehead. “You scared me, that’s all.”

“You stayed.”

“Of course I did.”

Y/N’s hand finds hers under the blanket.

“Can you stay a little longer?”

Nika’s voice catches in her throat. She nods. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

[mintyys-blog]

Hi minty

How would the variants comfort their significant other who is dealing with a miscarriage more so with a reader who has some anger issues but this is the first time she’s like gotten this emotional to the point where she’s hysterical , inconsolable and blames herself for it even though there’s really nothing she could of done.

I really like how you wrote shiesty mark being more serious/mature when it came to his S/O

HEADCANONS | variants with a s/o who has a miscarriage

invincible masterlist

warnings ; miscarriage, blood, grief, anger, emotionally distant, self doubt

MAIN MARK

You’re sobbing so hard you can’t breathe. It’s not just tears—it’s a violent, shaking kind of grief that feels like your body is trying to split open from the inside. Your throat is raw, your chest aches, and nothing in your life has ever hurt like this. You’re not angry. Not in the way you usually are. No yelling, no breaking plates, no screaming into pillows or slamming doors. You don’t even feel like you have the strength to be mad. You’re just ruined—and for once, you can’t fix anything.

“I should’ve done something,” you choke out, curled in on yourself on the floor of the bedroom. “I should’ve known. I should’ve taken it easier, or—God, I should’ve been better, I should’ve—” Mark drops to his knees beside you, hands trembling, eyes red. You’ve never seen him like this—never seen your Mark look so gutted, like someone took the sun out of the sky and crushed it in his hands.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just pulls you into his chest like you’re going to disappear, like he’s trying to hold you together with nothing but his arms. You don’t fight him. You sob into his shirt, your fists clutching at the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering you to the planet.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispers, voice cracking as he says it. You shake your head furiously. “I was the one carrying it, Mark. Me. I was supposed to protect it.”

“You did.” His voice is firmer now, but still soft. Still heartbreakingly gentle. “You did everything right. You loved them. You already loved them.” That word—loved—breaks you all over again. You scream into his chest this time, a raw, broken sound that echoes off the walls and makes his arms tighten around you instantly.

“I didn’t get to hold them,” you sob. “Didn’t even get to say hi. And now I never—I never get to say goodbye—” Mark cups the back of your head, pressing his lips to your hair. His voice is barely audible now. “We did lose them. And it hurts like hell. But you didn’t fail. You didn’t. You’re not alone in this.”

You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter, and he doesn’t let go—not even when his own tears start falling again, soaking into your skin. He doesn’t try to stop your crying. Doesn’t try to fix it with superhero logic or hollow platitudes. He just holds you. Lets you collapse into him, lets your grief pour out in ugly, hysterical sobs until your voice is nearly gone.

And when you finally go quiet—when the storm in your chest starts to dull into silence—he’s still there. “You’re still here,” you whisper, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it. He looks you dead in the eyes, and for a moment, you swear you see pure devotion in them.

“Always,” he says. “Even if we’re falling apart, I’m not going anywhere.” And in the wreckage of what should’ve been a beautiful chapter of your lives, you find the smallest sliver of something that feels like a start. Not healing yet. But holding. Breathing. Surviving. Together.

SINISTER MARK

You’ve been staring at the bathroom floor for twenty-seven minutes.

The blood’s been cleaned up, the nurse’s words still echo in your skull, and your hands won’t stop shaking. You should be angry. That’s your default. That’s where you live. But all you can do is sit there—empty, dull, gutted. Mark doesn’t speak when he walks in. His footsteps are silent, his shadow long against the sterile tile. You don’t look up.

“You should be lying down,” he says. Not unkind. Not particularly soft, either. You laugh once—sharp, humorless. “Why? There’s no baby to protect now.”

Silence. Mark leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, face unreadable. You know that look. You’ve seen it when he’s wiped out a battlefield, when he’s stood over broken bodies and never blinked. But this—this version of him, watching you break—it’s different. There’s tension in his jaw. A flicker behind his eyes. Like a man watching something precious fall off a cliff before he even realized he wanted to catch it.

“I didn’t think I’d care,” he finally says. “About the baby.” You flinch. He continues anyway, voice low and methodical. “I thought it was a distraction. I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t want it.” You want to scream. Throw something. Throw him. But your body won’t move. Your grief is too big for rage right now. You’re tired. Tired and broken and cold.

“But now that it’s gone,” Mark says quietly, “I feel…” He trails off like he’s disgusted with himself for feeling anything at all. You finally look up at him. “You what, Mark?” His eyes meet yours. They’re steady. But not emotionless. Never that—not with you.

“I feel like I lost something I didn’t even get the chance to understand.” He exhales, gaze flicking away. “And I don’t like watching you cry.” Your lips tremble, and this time, the tears come harder than before. Hot and humiliating. You press your hands to your face, trying to smother the sound of your sobbing. Mark’s steps are deliberate as he walks to you. Kneels in front of you. Not touching—but close.

“I’m not good with grief,” he says, blunt. “You know that.”

You nod into your palms.

“But if you want…” He pauses. “If this—if you want to try again. We can. I’ll do it the right way. For you.”

You pull your hands from your face, blinking at him. “You’re offering to give me another baby like it’s a treaty negotiation.”

“I’m offering to build something,” he replies. “Because I saw what it did to you to lose it. And I don’t want to see that again.”

You don’t answer right away. You just stare at him—at this paradox of a man who can level cities and still kneel before you like he’s helpless against the weight of your tears.

“I don’t know if I can do it again,” you whisper. “I’m scared.”

Mark nods once, slow. “Then we don’t. Not until you’re ready.”

You blink again. “You’d wait?”

“I’d live with it,” he says. “I’d live with whatever you decide.”

You study him—this closed-off, tactical man trying to build something soft with hands made for war. And for the first time since you lost your child, something in your chest doesn’t ache. Not entirely. Something flickers. Hope, maybe. Or the idea of it.

“I just need you right now,” you say.

His voice drops, quiet and firm. “Then that’s what you get.” And for the first time in days, you let yourself fall into his arms. No promises. No decisions. Just the shape of him around you—silent, strong, and yours.

MOHAWK MARK

He hasn’t said a word since you got home from the hospital. You kept waiting for something—anything—to crack through that numb, unreadable wall he’s wearing like armor. But it’s been hours. Just the sound of your own ragged breathing and the buzz of silence thick enough to choke on.

You sit on the edge of the bed, still in the hoodie he pulled over your hospital gown, legs pulled tight to your chest. You can’t stop shaking. Not from the cold. Not from pain. From emptiness. You were supposed to feel something else. Relief it was early. Anger. Maybe even shame. Instead, you feel like you’ve been scraped hollow and left to rot.

Mark’s in the doorway, staring at the floor like if he looks up, he might combust.

“Mark,” you croak, voice splintered. “Say something.”

His jaw twitches. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s everything to say!” you snap, and your voice finally breaks, your whole body breaking right with it. “I lost them! And you’re just standing there like nothing fucking happened!”

Your chest caves in on a sob so violent it throws you forward. You clutch your stomach instinctively—where there was once life, now nothing. And it hits you all over again. A tidal wave.

“I wanted them,” you cry, fingers digging into your shirt. “I didn’t even know how much until they were gone. I—I didn’t get to hold them, I didn’t get to—” Your words crumble into pure noise, ugly and loud and full of grief. And that’s what does it.

You don’t hear his footsteps. But suddenly he’s there, dropping to his knees in front of you like something inside him finally shattered too. His hands are on your arms. Gentle, shaking. “Don’t do that,” he says, voice low, but not cold. Not anymore. “Don’t make it sound like you failed.”

You can’t even meet his eyes. “Didn’t I?”

“No.” It comes out fast. Harsh. And then he softens, thumbs brushing your skin. “You didn’t.” You glance at him through your tears. His Mohawk is messy, unstyled, like he’s been running his fingers through it too much. His eyes—those tired, furious eyes—look wrecked. And not in the way he usually hides.

“I thought I could just move on,” he says, voice breaking like it physically hurts him to admit it. “Pretend I didn’t care. Pretend it didn’t matter because I didn’t ask for it. Because it was safer to feel nothing than to—”

He swallows, hard. “—than to feel this.” You let out a broken breath. “So it does hurt you?” He nods, and now he’s the one who can’t look at you. “Watching you break like this? It fucking kills me.”

You reach for him before either of you can think, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him in until your forehead touches his. Your breath hitches when you feel his arms wrap around you. Strong, solid, desperate. “I didn’t want to need you this much,” you whisper.

“Too late,” he breathes. “I’m already in this with you.” You stay like that—tangled in each other, on the edge of grief and something deeper. Something wordless. Something that might never heal but still matters. Still lives. And for now, that’s enough.

VILTRUMITE MARK

You can’t stop crying.

Not the soft, quiet kind. The kind that drags up from the deepest part of you, raw and loud and uncontrollable. You’re trembling in his arms like your body’s rejecting itself, and he’s holding you through it—arms ironclad, unmoving, the one solid thing left in a world that suddenly feels like it’s caving in.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this. Minutes. Hours. Your fingers are twisted in the front of his shirt, and he hasn’t said a word. Just sits with you on the edge of the bed, grounded and silent, letting you come undone.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out against his chest, voice muffled and broken. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry, Mark.”

His arms tighten just slightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak yet.

“I know how badly you wanted this,” you go on, hiccuping through your grief. “I know—I know you were already thinking about names, and you were trying so hard to act like you weren’t excited, but I saw it, I knew, and I couldn’t—” You sob again, your fingers tightening like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “I couldn’t hold onto them.”

You feel him exhale, slow and controlled. He shifts just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering there like a vow. His voice, when it comes, is low and absolute.

“Don’t ever apologize for this.”

The words are so steady, so sure, they silence your sobs for a beat.

You blink up at him, your face flushed and damp, barely able to meet his gaze. “But I lost them.”

“You carried them,” he says, voice firm and full of something sacred. “You gave them everything you could. That’s not failure.”

You shake your head, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “I should’ve done more—”

“You did everything,” he cuts in, and there’s steel in it, the kind that breaks through shame. “You don’t apologize for grief. And you sure as hell don’t apologize for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Your breath catches again, but this time it’s different. Slower. A little less frantic. His presence is overwhelming in the best way—warm, protective, heavy with the kind of love he doesn’t say out loud but shows in the way he holds you like you’re the center of gravity.

“I didn’t want to do this without you,” you whisper, fingers still clutching his shirt.

“You’re not going to,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. I’m always going to be here.”

He doesn’t promise it’ll stop hurting. He doesn’t lie. But he holds you until your body finally gives into exhaustion, tears still clinging to your lashes as you fall asleep in the arms of a man who would’ve destroyed galaxies for that tiny life you lost—but stays anchored to this one, just to hold you together.

OMNI MARK

You punch a hole in the wall. Then another. Your knuckles are split and bleeding, but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything except the pressure in your chest threatening to crush you from the inside out. The rage comes in waves—hot, erratic, blinding. Like if you break enough things, maybe you’ll stop remembering the blood on the sheets. The nurse’s voice. The silence where a heartbeat should’ve been. Mark doesn’t stop you.

He’s standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed, face locked in that terrifyingly still expression he’s perfected since taking up his father’s mantle. Omni-Man. Omni-Mark. The most powerful being in the world. And he looks completely powerless.

“Say something!” you scream, spinning to face him, your chest heaving. “Scream at me! Blame me! Hurt me! I deserve it—”

“No.” His voice is low. Sharp. The kind that cuts through chaos without needing to shout.

“I couldn’t save them,” you gasp, tears finally burning hot down your cheeks. “I—I did everything right, and it didn’t matter! They died anyway, Mark. And I can’t do anything about it!”

He walks to you slowly. Not like he’s approaching glass, not like you’re fragile—but like he is. Like you could break him with one more word.

You’re shaking, fists clenched, teeth bared like you’re ready to hit something again—maybe even him. But when he reaches you, all of that collapses. His hands come up, large and steady, and you don’t stop him when he wraps them around yours, blood and all.

“I don’t want to be touched—” you start, voice cracking.

“Yes, you do,” he says, not harsh, just honest. “You want to be held together. Let me.”

You collapse forward before you realize what you’re doing, fists pounding into his chest once, twice, until the rage fizzles into sobs and your legs give out. He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your body like a fortress. He kneels with you there on the floor, your face buried in his neck, your body wrecked with grief you can’t contain.

“I should’ve protected them,” you whisper, broken. “I’m supposed to be strong.”

“You are strong,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “But even strong people bleed.” You choke on a bitter laugh. “I hate this. I hate this so much.”

“So do I.”

There’s something buried in his voice now. Not just pain—shame. Like for all his strength, he couldn’t stop this either. And that truth sits between you both, quiet and ugly. But he doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t try to explain it away.

He just holds you.

On a battlefield, Mark would tear the stars apart for you. But here, on this cold hardwood floor, with your rage burned out and your heart in ruins, he fights the only war he can win—by being still. By being yours. By staying.

PRISONER MARK

The safehouse is too quiet.

Mark hasn’t said a word since he landed—blood still drying on his shirt, dirt streaked across his jaw. The stress hangs off him in waves, shoulders tight, gaze fixed on the cracked wall like if he stares hard enough, it might split open into a solution. Or an escape. Or anything that isn’t this.

You’re curled up on the mattress on the floor, blanket wrapped around you, knees to your chest. You haven’t spoken either. Not since you told him. Not since the words came out of your mouth like a death sentence: “They’re gone, Mark.”

The moment you said it, you saw it in his face—something pulled out of him by force. And now it’s just silence. He’s pacing again. One slow lap of the room. Then another.

“Stop,” you say suddenly, voice raw.

He freezes.

“Please,” you whisper, trembling. “You’re making it worse.”

He turns slowly, eyes burning—but not with rage. Not even grief. With something far more dangerous: helplessness. “I can’t fix this.”

“I know.”

“I should’ve been there. If I had come back sooner—”

“You couldn’t,” you snap, and it sounds harsher than you mean it to, but your throat is raw from holding it in. “You were running for your life, Mark. You were trying to keep me safe—”

“And I still couldn’t protect them.”

That silences you. His voice breaks on the word them. He almost never lets his voice crack. Not anymore. Not since the Viltrumites took Earth and he became something else. Not just Mark. Not even Invincible. Just a man hunted by his own blood, haunted by everything he couldn’t save.

You stand slowly, blanket falling from your shoulders. You cross the room to him, barefoot on cold concrete, and look up at the man who’s been breaking himself to keep you alive.

“I didn’t even get to hear their heartbeat,” you whisper.

Mark closes his eyes.

You place your hand flat on his chest, right over where his heart thuds like a war drum. “I carried them through battles and running and hiding and all of this bullshit—and I still lost them.”

He wraps his arms around you before you can fall apart. Strong and trembling. You bury your face in his chest and finally sob, fists curled in the fabric of his shirt. You cry like it’s never going to stop. Like the weight of it might crush you both.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I know you wanted this. I know we didn’t say it out loud, but I saw the way you looked at me when I told you I was pregnant. Like it gave you something good in all this hell.”

He lowers his head, lips brushing the crown of yours.

“Don’t ever apologize,” he murmurs. “Don’t ever say sorry for something you never had control over. You didn’t do this. Stress didn’t do this. You didn’t fail.”

“But it feels like I did.”

“I know,” he breathes. “God, I know.”

You don’t let go of each other for a long time.

There’s still a war outside. There are still wanted posters with his face on them. The Viltrumites still want him dead, and Earth is still burning.

But in this broken, quiet place, where you lost something you barely got to hold, Mark holds you like he’s still trying to save something. Like even if the universe took your child, it won’t take you.

Not while he’s breathing.

💋 — TAG LIST ; @onlybatsyy

[anglbunny]

sweet ♡ suguru geto

cw: Smut mdni, soft sex, virgin reader, bunny!reader, HEAVY praise, based on this ask

୨୧

You barely hear the door open.

You’re curled up on the far side of Suguru’s bed, legs tucked to your chest in your favorite oversized hoodie—his, of course. You haven’t moved much in the past hour. The week wore you down; classes piling up, people everywhere, the weight of everything pressing on your shoulders. You don’t even have the energy to cry.

But then he steps into the room—and just like that, you start to breathe again.

“There’s my girl,” Suguru murmurs, voice deep and smooth, as he walks toward you. “Tough week?”

You nod, barely. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

He sits on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand over your leg. “Poor thing,” he coos. “Bet your head’s been spinning all week, huh?”

You nod again, lips trembling, and his gaze softens even further.

“C’mere, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You hesitate at first—but you never can say no to Suguru. He makes it so easy to melt, to let go, to be the soft, quiet thing you always are around him.

So you crawl into his lap, fingers curled into his shirt, face pressed into his neck.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers, hands smoothing over your thighs. “You’ve been working so hard. I think you need to be spoiled a little.”

Your breath catches as his fingers start to slide under your hoodie, tracing bare skin. “Can I, baby?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

You nod—small, shaky—and that’s all it takes.

He undresses you slow, like you’re delicate. Like you’ll break if he’s not careful. His hoodie comes off your frame, revealing soft skin and pretty panties, and the look he gives you is enough to make your whole body warm.

“Look at you,” he says, voice dropping. “So fuckin’ pretty, baby. All mine, huh?”

You nod, blushing, your legs twitching when he cups your thighs and spreads them open over his lap.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You nervous, sweet girl?”

“...A little,” you admit, voice barely audible.

He tilts your chin up. “You trust me?”

You nod again. He smiles.

“Then just relax. Let me take care of everything.”

His fingers are warm and slow as they trail between your thighs, stroking you through the soaked fabric of your panties. Your head drops back, a soft whimper escaping your throat.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my sweet thing.”

He slides your panties to the side and slips a single finger between your folds, moaning low in his throat when he feels how wet you are.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “All this for me? From just a little touch?”

You hide your face, embarrassed.

But Suguru’s not having that. “No hiding,” he says, tilting your chin up again. “I wanna see every little expression you make when I make you fall apart.”

He keeps talking to you like that—praising you, petting you, kissing you—until you’re soaked and aching and blinking up at him, dazed and needy.

“You ready, baby?” he asks, pulling his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick and flushed and so much.

You hesitate. He’s big. And it’s your first time. But he leans in, kissing your lips so gently it makes your chest ache.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “I’ll take care of you. Just be my good girl, yeah?”

And you are. Every inch he gives you makes your breath hitch, makes your thighs tremble, makes you whimper his name.

“Doing so well, baby,” he groans, buried deep inside you, holding you still in his lap. “You’re taking me so fucking good.”

You clutch at his shoulders, crying out as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts, his hands steady on your waist, his lips everywhere. Your neck. Your shoulder. Your jaw. Like he can’t stop tasting you.

And when you come, it’s like the world stops.

He holds you close, praises you over and over, never stops moving until he spills inside you—deep and hot, groaning your name like it’s the only word he knows.

Then he lays you back against the pillows, still inside you, still touching you, still whispering sweet things “Mine.” he coos, lying your limp body on the bed

“You did so good, baby.” he kissed your forehead then your shoulders

“My perfect girl.”

And you fall asleep in his arms, sore and spoiled and safe.

TL: @samm1e13 @syleepy @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @yanderebluelockfan @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @valexqpt @snowsilver2000 @mitsurisupporter @meikstv

A/N: i posted and edited this on my phone. Was so hard

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[karikarasuno]

part three | part four | wc: 3.4k

Even though your day had been busy and the kids were rowdier than usual, you decide to stay late at the studio to learn a random TikTok dance some of the girls were begging you to teach them. The lights are dimmed in the room you’re in and Nami is sitting cross-legged in the corner texting rapidly on her phone. 

Your phone is propped on the ballet bar as you play the video on a loop while you try to catch the dance moves from the original creator of it. You’re so focused that at first you don’t see the movement behind you in the reflection of the mirror. It isn’t until you look up that you see a very familiar figure staring at you through the mirror. You’re frozen for a second as you just stare back at him. Mostly out of confusion at first because what the hell is Ace doing at your job?

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the doorframe leading into your room. 

“Why are you here?” You ask as you slowly turn to face him. You notice the way Nami’s head snaps up in your peripheral vision.

“Robin’s power was out in her office,” he answers and his eyes quickly track over your body. You can feel it. And you have to suppress a shiver. You’ve been battling memories of your night together for the last two weeks and it’s been driving you insane. 

“And what does that have to do with you?” 

“I’m the electrician.” There’s a light chuckle that follows his words as he motions to his belt with all kinds of tools you assume are for his job. “She called me to fix it.”

“Right,” you nod, trying hard not to shift between your feet to give Nami any ammo about how nervous Ace actually makes you. And he makes you very nervous considering he’s the only reason you fall asleep at night. With the help of your fingers. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What’re you still doing here?” 

“Some of my students want me to teach them this viral dance so I figured I’d stay an extra hour to learn it.”

“Well isn’t that sweet?” He smiles. And you get the sense that he hasn’t realized you two aren’t alone because he takes a step towards you, breaching past the entry of the door and his boots thump against the vinyl flooring.The thickness is back again. The oxygen is starting to be snuffed out by flames you can’t even see but have the unfortunate pleasure of feeling. They lick at you. 

“Yeah, Nami was supposed to be helping,” you stop to glare at her and she’s hiding a grin that you have come to recognize as somewhat devious behind her hand, “but she decided her phone was a better use of her time.”

Ace’s gaze finally falls on her. You were right. He hadn’t seen her sitting in the corner before. And now you wonder what he would’ve done if the two of you were actually alone. He was walking towards you with intent. Purpose. Now you’re annoyed that Nami is here.

“Hey, Nami,” Ace greets her, smiling. Charming as ever. There’s only a brief flash of discontent in his eyes when he looks her way but he covers it up quickly. He has manners. 

“Hiii, Ace.” Her smile broadens like she’s privy to a secret you know for a fact you haven’t told her. “Nice of you to stop by to see us.”

“Wouldn’t be any good at my job if I didn’t show up for it.”

“You’re such a smartass.” Nami shakes her head with a laugh. “You think you can stop by the apartment and check out my AC unit next?”

“You gonna pay me this time?”

“You never heard of a favor?” She says, attitude and all. 

“You have a habit of not repaying those either,” he replies, quickly, playfully. And a part of you wishes you were comfortable enough to talk with him like this. So casually. Simply. But you made the silly mistake of fucking him before getting to know him, so now all of your interactions are riddled with a memory you can’t really speak about. Not when you’re consistently in the presence of others. 

“Oh, boohoo.” She rolls her eyes, and you’re not sure that’s really helping her case, but Ace chuckles regardless. “Summer's round the corner and it’s getting too hot in my place. Come on, please.”

She’s giving him the same face she gave you when she asked you to cover her shift at Whitebeard’s. But Ace isn’t really buying it. Which you appreciate. And probably need to learn how to do before she gives you more trouble than she’s worth. 

“I’m not Sabo, that won’t work on me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” She whines, throwing her hands up. Dramatic.

“Don’t think I don’t know.” They’re sparring. Gazes locked. Intense. You’re confused yet thoroughly entertained. 

“Oh,” she nods and claps her hands together. “And you don’t think I know that you and-”

“Ace.” Robin walks into the room. More like floats. A ballerina never really loses her grace. “Since you’re still here I wrote up that check for you.”

She hands him the slip of paper. Her neat cursive loops on the check as he takes it from her. “Thanks again for coming by so short notice.”

“Anything for you,” he says, tipping his head at her. A smile gorgeous enough to make your knees melt decorates his features. You refuse to be this down bad.

“Anything for you,” Nami mimics childishly, “but you can’t come over and see what’s wrong with my fuckin’ AC. I guess I’ll have a heat stroke and die since you don’t care.”

“Stop your whinin’.” His smile falls when he rolls his eyes. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Early.”

“Not before 10,” she clarifies, standing from her spot on the floor. 

“I’ll be there at 9,” he corrects.

“You’re impossible,” she complains with her hands on her hips. 

“That’s rich comin’ from you, sweetheart,” he laughs. It’s deep and a little condescending. And oddly enough, it turns you on. But at this point anything he does would turn you on. It’s an unfortunate circumstance of already knowing what he feels like inside you. 

He waves everyone goodbye. Waltzing out of the room with smug satisfaction. You assume their bickering is a frequent occurrence. One that everyone seems to find mildly amusing. 

“Can’t believe you fucked that guy,” Nami says when Ace is out of the room. You nearly choke on your shock. Her bluntness alone is enough to stun you. 

“How…” You don’t even possess the wherewithal to finish your question as you look rapidly between Nami and Robin. And pray that Ace is far away enough not to have heard her. 

“You’ll learn soon enough that the rumor mill round here works fast,” Robin giggles. “Secrets are never hidden for long.”

***

Power outages seem to be a running theme right now. You’re lounging in your living room reading on your day off when suddenly everything in your home goes dark. The fan stops spinning. The oven clock is blank. You even check your phone to see that the wifi is out. 

An hour passes and nothing. The house is eerily quiet without the usual hums and whirs of technology. You were kinda hoping that this would resolve itself. That maybe there was a general outage that would be fixed soon. Unfortunately, you don’t have neighbors close enough to ask. And the heat is starting to seep into your home. Your shirt is beginning to stick to your back and you begrudgingly accept that this is an issue only one person can fix. 

Ace can’t possibly be the only electrician in town. 

“He is,” Nami says when you call her and ask. “Guess you have to call your lover to come save you.”

“Why do you have to be like this?” You groan, throwing yourself back onto your couch. 

“What? Beautiful and funny?” She laughs at her own joke. Nami really only lives to entertain herself. 

“It was only once and we’ve barely spoken since,” you say, the heat starting to give you a bit of a headache. 

“There isn’t much talkin’ needed for what you two were getting up to,” she laughs again, breathy and tickled. 

“How did you even find out about that?”

“Funny you ask,” she pauses, probably for dramatic effect knowing her. “Ace told Sabo. Sabo told Zoro when he went to pick up his pork order. And you would think Zoro isn’t much of a gossip considering he never really has anything useful to say. But he tells Sanji who cannot keep a secret especially if you bat your lashes at him. Who told me and Robin when we went in to grab some breakfast one mornin’.”

“Great,” you sigh, covering your eyes with your arm, “so the whole town knows.”

“Practically, but you don’t gotta worry. No one really cares.”

“That’s good to know I guess.” Slightly relieved that the looks from the old lady at the supermarket weren’t because she thought you were some loose woman. 

“Marco was kinda grossed out when he found out y’all fucked in the parking lot of Whitebeard’s though,” she cackles and you can just imagine the way she throws her head back from the force of her own laugh. 

“I’m never covering for you ever again,” you grumble, turning to bury your face in your couch cushion. This is just embarrassing. “Just give me Ace’s number so we can get this over with.”

“Oh yikes, I forgot his phone broke.” Fucking great. “But I can get you his address. He actually lives a few miles down the road from you.”

“Since when?” He’s everywhere yet nowhere at the same time. You should be running into him every second of every day with how interwoven your lives seem to be. 

“Since the Roger’s estate was built a million freakin’ years ago.”

“Ok whatever,” you groan, annoyed. “Text it to me.”

****

When Nami said estate she wasn’t exaggerating. The house is huge, almost like an overgrown cabin. And the driveway leading up to the home is endless. You can see the stables an acre or so away. There’s also a large pick up truck parked in front of the steps leading up to the door. You park behind it, sitting in your car for another minute after you���ve shut it off just to wrap your mind around what you’re about to do. 

Showing up at Ace’s doorstep isn’t something you ever expected you’d be doing. And for some odd reason, a restless anxiety sputters to life in your chest. He makes you nervous. Like ‘if you do something embarrassing you might flee town and never show your face again’ type of nervous. Which you shouldn’t be. He’s just a man. 

The doorbell is loud as it chimes through the house. So loud you swear you feel it vibrate the floor beneath your feet. You shuffle awkwardly while you wait. And you wait quite a long time. Maybe no one’s home which would suck for you since you can’t even text Ace about your issue. Also a waste of gas driving out here for no reason. But just as you’re about to descend the front steps and eat your losses, the door swings open. And the man standing before you is definitely not Ace. 

He’s the size of a giant. Tall and overbearing. His mustache is even harsh beneath his nose, bushy, white, and severe. And with an energy so intense and palpable you think the earth actually shakes when he says “who are you?”

You want to say no one. Because really who are you compared to this goliath of a man? 

“I was looking for Ace,” you say timidly. Like a child. “My power’s out and he’s an electrician, so…”

“He’s out,” he replies gruffly, his voice is rough with age. 

“That’s okay.” You take a step back, closer to the steps. “Can you let him know I stopped by? I live down on Jinbe’s ranch.”

He sizes you. It’s intimidating and now you’re nervous for a completely different reason. This man really is terrifying and you’re almost ready to run. 

“He’s just out back. Come in, I just put on a pot of coffee.” He turns around without another word. You’re stuck in place for a moment, unsure if to follow him inside or not. Your mother may not have been the greatest but stranger danger was something she instilled in you. That sentiment feels applicable to this situation. 

“Hurry up. You’re lettin’ the hot air in.” He scolds you over his shoulder and you follow without another thought. Still wary, but not feeling like you have much of a choice. 

He leads you to the kitchen where he’s grabbing two mugs from a cabinet. He motions for you to sit down at the small breakfast table by a window in the kitchen. It’s cute and quaint. And not at all the style you imagined Ace would go for when decorating the house. There’s a round jute rug under the table and cute multicolored cushions on each seat. Bohemian and totally surprising. 

“Milk and sugar?” He huffs out.

“Yes, please.” You don’t even want coffee, but you can’t refuse. He simply nods in acknowledgement before he heads towards you and places the mug in front of you, much more gentle than you would’ve expected him to be. You take a sip, pleasantly surprised by how good it actually is. Not bitter or acidic. It’s soft, maybe a light roast. Decaf perhaps. 

He shuffles back over with his own coffee and a platter with miscellaneous snacks. He struggles to sit down across from you. His sheer size gets in his own way, but you just noticed the oxygen tank he’s been rolling around. The clear tubes beneath his nose were easy to miss when you first saw him due to his mustache. 

“You like tinned fish?” He asks, opening a can with a pop. “It’s the fancy kind.”

You cock your head to the side and say “never had it.”

“It’s good for ya,” he replies, plucking a slice of toasted sourdough off the plate and scooping out a few sardines from the can. “I make Ace go into the city every now and again to grab me some. That place all the young folks like. Trader Jim’s, I think.”

“Joe’s,” you correct instinctually.

“Who?” He questions, but you just shake your head deciding that explaining is not worth it. 

“Here.” He holds out the toast for you to have. The sardines are smushed on the top and it looks like olive oil is soaking through the bread. It doesn’t look the most appetizing but you take it anyway. To be polite. 

“Thanks,” you say hesitantly. You aren’t even all that hungry, but you take a bite anyway. It’s not the first snack you would choose for yourself but it's edible, so you swallow it before you place it on the small plate he gave you. 

“You a friend of Ace?” He asks and you know it’s out of curiosity because he doesn’t seem like the type to be uncomfortable by awkward silence. You’re almost positive he could sit here silently with you until Ace shows up, but a part of you is grateful for the question. Maybe he senses your unease. 

“Something like that,” you answer, taking a sip of your coffee. “We met at Whitebeard’s a few weeks ago.”

He nods, chewing his toast thoughtfully. “You like the place?”

You furrow your eyebrows at the question, not really expecting his interest, but you say “sure. Under any other circumstance, I think I would’ve had a really good time.”

“Whaddya mean?” He’s staring at you intently and you try not to squirm in your seat. 

“Well, technically I was working. I was the line dance instructor that night since Nami couldn’t be there.”

“Ah, stage fright,” he nods in understanding. 

“It’s an intimidating crowd,” you breathe out through your nose, trying to laugh it off. 

“They’ve been unruly since I opened the place up,” he laughs hoarsely. It teeters into a wet cough. 

“You’re Whitebeard?” You remember Marco saying how he helps out at the bar because the owner was old. But now you can see the owner is also sick. 

“One and only,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal. But from what you’ve heard he’s a local legend. You honestly started to believe Whitebeard was part of the town folklore with the way everyone spoke about him and no one ever saw him. 

“Didn’t realize I was in the presence of town royalty,” you tease, and there’s a tense moment where nothing is said. And you begin to feel like you overstepped, like you made yourself too comfortable in his company. But suddenly and without warning, Whitebeard laughs. It’s booming and the table quakes a bit from the force of it. You pick up your mug so that the coffee doesn’t spill over, but you smile. A little proud of yourself for getting such a reaction from a man who seems so stern. 

“What’s so damn funny?” Ace’s voice cuts through Whitebeard’s laugh. He’s rounding the corner into the kitchen, taking off a dirty pair of gloves before he looks up and immediately makes eye contact with you. “Wait, what’re you doing here?”

“Where’re your manners, boy?” Whitebeard answers firmly. “That ain’t no way to speak to a lady.”

You feel your face heat up. Ace looks at Whitebeard and they seem to have a silent conversation. One that Ace very obviously loses. “Sorry about that. Welcome to my home. May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

It’s riddled in sarcasm. He even softens his accent in an attempt to sound more formal. Whitebeard huffs in annoyance and you try your hardest to keep from chuckling. Ace sees the way you hide your amusement and he grins. Clearly pleased with himself. 

“I didn’t mean to drop by unannounced,” you start explaining. “I would’ve called but Nami said your phone was broken so she gave me your address instead. Anyway,” you shake your head when you realize you’re rambling, “my power went out this afternoon and I was hoping you could come over and check it out. Whenever you have time, obviously.”

He looks over at Whitebeard, who is quietly eating his afternoon snack. “Yeah, just gimme an hour. I gotta take this guy to his doctor’s appointment first and then I should be free.”

“That works, thanks.” You stand from your place at the table, unsure of what to do next. Weirdly enough you feel your palms start to sweat. At this point, you think you should also see a doctor because Ace’s effect on you truly isn’t normal. “And thanks for the coffee and company, Whitebeard. I appreciate it.”

“You can call me Edward, darlin’,” he says. He raises his mug to you in goodbye and you smile despite having been so afraid of him not even twenty minutes ago. He’s not so bad.

“I’ll walk you out,” Ace says when you face him. He’s standing much closer than he was before. His hands are on his hips and he’s looking at you with the weirdest expression on his face. It’s an odd mixture of fondness and confusion. And you don’t know him well enough to determine whether that’s a good or bad thing just yet. 

“You don’t have to. I parked right out front.” 

“And where would my manners be if I let a lady walk out the house without an escort?” He smirks at Whitebeard when he says that. The words clearly intended for him. You don’t see Whitebeard’s reaction to his words, but by the look on Ace’s face and the obvious amusement shining in his eyes you assume it involved a middle finger and a scowl. 

“Let’s go,” Ace says with a laugh, putting his hand on your back to lead you out. It’s a nice gesture. A polite one. But his palm is so warm, even through your shirt. Heavy too and you know for a fact it’s not the full weight of his hand resting on you. You’re completely aware of the power in Ace’s grip. The light bruises on your hip the day after you slept with him were a good indication of how strong he is. 

Now you’re tense. So tense you may or may not have forgotten how to breathe. And dread, full and consuming, washes over you when you realize that in an hour the two of you will be alone. In your house. Alone.

taglist: @a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @nico-ith @chillerkiller @jozhenji @starchild-unnamed @certain-tragedies @hannahbarberra162 @kanekisheart

[neighbourscat]

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who sweats profusely as he takes position between your clammy thighs. he steadies himself, mindful, heart thumping ‘nd on its way to leap out of his mouth. he’s very careful with this next part. extra mindful upon lining himself up between your pussy lips, and moving his tip around. it was absolutely painful .. being rock-hard, obviously, but by seeing you lay there, looking so ready and not just ramming himself in. no, he wasn’t a patient man — in any aspect of life — but with this, with you, he knew he had to be.

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who is literally falling apart before you. you’ve taken his breath away, he could cry. rafe leans in for a sloppy kiss, more so to distract you from his advance, because now .. he can’t help it ): you’re just too pretty. and as he points the tip between your labia, you gasp softly and grip his biceps; flexed and working. “tell me how you wan’it .. ‘nd i’ll do it,” rafe whispers softly, blinking down at where you and he connect, “.. promise. however you want it ..” his kisses are getting hungry and desperate, and even louder, with heavy breaths along the way.

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who melts completely at the way he stretches you out. “‘m sorry baby, ‘m so sorry, y’know i hate hurtin’you.” and he doesn’t stop filling you up like you’ve never been before. his forehead drops to meet yours as you and he struggle in two different ways. he whines through his nose, your walls gripping him oh so tight .. he swears he could die. every pull and push into your body has rafe’s voice doing somersaults. he’s so talkative. grunting and whimpering into your ear, yet still very attentive .. because he’s still taking care of you. your pleasure will always come first. eyes sagging low and heavy, “tell me how’s’it feel .. p-lease baby.” your shaky hands snake to his backside, nails dragging up and down. “ .. s’b-big -“

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who sees the pain he’s inducing and stops himself. he drags out slowly, terribly slow, clearly trying to savor your warmth. he is so pent up ‘nd still so eager to finish for you. only rafe’s tip remains inside now. the air hitting what was previously buried inside of you made for a surefire way to make him toss his head and bite his lips.

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who sweetly apologizes before plugging into you again — a clean thrust, so slippery, your legs start trembling. and he presses his front into yours and he’s whispering in your ear more .. to add some extra spice. “- lettin’me in s-so fuckin’ good.” smooth gliding and a wet little smack whenever his hips return. his mouth presses kisses along the side of your neck, distracting himself this time. rafe adjusts slightly, squeezing harshly at your hips, digging even deeper. you arch, your teeth almost sewn closed from the pressure. “sl-slow down. please!” .. and he obeys.

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who picks up again, but maintains a soft and thorough pace. you’ve truly shut off his brain now. and he’s trying so hard to hold out .. he’s gritting his teeth, huffing into the junction between your shoulder and neck. “fuckkkk -“ he growls.

༝༚༝༚ boyfriend!rafe cameron .. who’s eyebrows furrow apologetically at how hard he’s going. he can't help it. what is he supposed to do when you look at him like he is the only thing that matters in the world? the head of his cock brushes something deep inside of you and there’s a moment where you know for a fact you are about to break. especially when his thrusts grow erratic and uncontrolled, similar to how rafe is as a whole. he’s getting himself closer and closer .. his hand finds its way between, fingertips brushing your clit in quick motions. “rafe!” he wants more than anything to feel your cum drip down his dick, and he wasn’t going to cum until it did. 

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — YOU HAVE A BREAKDOWN AND HE’S THERE TO CATCH YOU

a/n: after everything that’s been revealed about mc, she deserves to have a valid crashout. also i’ve made lots of fluff posts recently so it’s time for some delicious hurt/comfort

ZAYNE

You don’t remember pulling the weapon — only the sound of your own breathing, harsh and ragged in your ears, and the way everyone else suddenly froze.

The air is too thin. The world is too loud.

You stand in the center of the room with your hand trembling, knuckles white around the grip. The others have backed away, eyes wide, uncertain whether to speak or run. They're shadows now, irrelevant.

It’s not them you see.

It’s everything else.

Every choice.

Every failure.

Every moment you told yourself it was fine when it wasn’t.

Your vision blurs at the edges, a red haze creeping in, your heart thundering behind your ribs like it’s trying to break out. You can’t tell if you’re furious or terrified. Maybe both.

“Hey.”

His voice cuts through the fog — not sharp, not demanding, but steady.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Zayne.

He doesn’t raise his hands. He doesn’t step back. If anything, he moves a fraction closer, gaze never leaving yours. He’s the only one not afraid of you right now — and somehow that makes it worse.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly.

You flinch, eyes flicking to the weapon in your hand as if you’ve only just remembered it’s there. It shouldn’t be there. It was never meant to be.

“They don’t get it,” you whisper. Your voice cracks in the middle. “They don’t know what it’s like. Everything’s on me. Every time. I screw up once, and it all falls apart.”

You grip tighter, muscles locked like a storm is passing through you and trying to tear you in two.

“I know,” Zayne says. “I know it’s too much. But this isn’t you. This — this is the fear talking.”

Your hand shakes harder. Your throat feels like it’s caving in on itself.

“I can’t — Zayne, I can’t breathe. I can’t fix it. I don’t know how.”

He finally takes a slow step forward. You don’t stop him.

“You don’t have to fix everything alone,” he says gently. “Not with me here. Okay?”

His voice is like a balm — low, patient, warm even in the middle of all this wreckage. It presses into the chaos in your head and makes a little space where you can breathe. Just barely.

“I don’t want to be like this,” you whisper

“I know,” he says. “Then let it go.”

Your grip loosens. First your fingers twitch, then uncurl, the weapon slipping from your hand to the floor with a dull clatter that sounds far too loud.

And then — then it all crashes in.

The sob starts in your chest and works its way out like a scream that never makes it past your teeth. You collapse before you can stop yourself, knees hitting the floor. Arms around your stomach like you can hold the broken pieces inside if you squeeze hard enough.

Zayne is there before you can fall all the way.

He catches you, strong arms wrapping around your frame like they were always meant to be there. He doesn’t say anything at first — just holds you, steady and still, while you shatter.

You bury your face in his shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt, and cry like the world ended.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice warm against your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, even in all the wreckage — you believe him.

XAVIER

You don’t mean to aim it.

You’re not even sure when you drew it. All you know is that the weight in your hand feels both alien and familiar, and everyone’s gone still—like time has snapped tight around you and won’t let anyone move until something breaks.

Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts. Cold sweat trickles down your spine.

They're talking, maybe. Someone's trying to reason with you, but their voice is too far away, like it’s muffled through water. Your heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

You didn’t want to hurt anyone.

You just wanted it all to stop.

“Put it down,” someone says — but not sharply. Not fearfully.

Xavier.

Your eyes snap to him. He’s standing still, calm but alert, his eyes locked on yours — not on the weapon.

He doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, quiet and even. “You’re not this person.”

Your throat tightens, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. You want to scream, to run, to disappear. Anything but this. Anything but them all staring at you like you’re a loaded bomb.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you choke out.

“I know,” he replies softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

You shake your head, vision blurring, hands trembling. “I keep breaking things. Hurting people. I can’t think straight — I can’t breathe— I can’t—” You bite off the rest before it comes out as a sob.

Xavier doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t rush you. He just looks at you, with that steady, unreadable expression of his — but his eyes… his eyes are soft. Almost sad.

“You’ve been holding yourself together with thread and wire,” he says gently. “And pretending it’s fine because you thought no one would stay if they saw you unravel.”

You say nothing. You can’t.

“But I see you,” he continues, and there’s something deeper in his voice now — low, almost reverent. “Not just the anger. Not just the fear. I see you. Even like this. Especially like this.”

Your hands shake harder. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.

He takes one step closer. Still not reaching. Still giving you the choice.

“You don’t need to keep fighting everyone. You don’t need to fight me.”

You let out a broken, fragile sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a breath.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Xavier’s voice lowers to a hush, like he’s saying it only for you:

“There is nothing wrong with you that makes you unlovable.”

Something in you cracks. Shatters.

Your fingers uncurl, and the weapon falls with a soft clatter to the floor. A breath rushes out of you like you’ve been holding it for hours, and your knees give out.

He’s there instantly — arms catching you before you hit the ground, pulling you close. You don’t resist. You can’t. The tears come too fast now, hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face against him.

Xavier says nothing at first. Just holds you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm on your spine like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs against your temple. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.”

You sob harder at that, clutching him like a lifeline.

“And if the world’s too much,” he adds, brushing his fingers through your hair with exquisite gentleness, “then let me carry some of it with you.”

RAFAYEL

One moment you were arguing — no, begging— to be left alone, and the next, your hand was up, aimed with shaking precision. The room froze. Every voice died. Eyes widened. A collective intake of breath, like the whole world was teetering on a ledge with you.

Someone took a cautious step back.

Another reached slowly for their communicator.

Fear bled into the air.

But not from him.

“Hey,” Rafayel says — and it’s not the voice you expect. Not teasing, not smug. Not flippant. Not him, the way he usually is.

No quips. No grin.

Just… quiet.

Serious.

You flick your gaze to him without moving the weapon. He’s standing a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides, eyes fixed on yours — not in judgment, not in fear, but something deeper.

Understanding.

“You’re not okay,” he says softly.

The words hit harder than any accusation. Not because they’re harsh, but because they’re true. You feel them like a tremor in your chest.

“I said stay back,” you snap, voice cracking in the middle.

He doesn't move. Doesn’t flinch.

“I know what this looks like,” he says, calm and steady. “But I also know you. And this?” He gestures gently toward the weapon. “This isn’t you. This is what pain looks like when it finally gets too loud to hide.”

Your fingers twitch.

“I wasn’t trying to—” You stop. You can’t even explain it. Not to them. Not to yourself.

Your vision is spinning. Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“Everyone always says ‘you’re strong,’” you mutter, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “But what if I’m not? What if I’ve been lying to them — to me — this whole time?”

For a moment, silence.

And then — Rafayel speaks, and it’s the softest you’ve ever heard him.

“Then you’re human,” he says. “Not weak. Not broken. Just… tired. Tired of carrying too much with too little help.”

You look at him, really look, and for the first time, he’s not wrapped in theatrics or ego. There’s no sparkle in his eye, no dramatic hand on his chest. Just him — open, present, serious in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“I always joke because it’s easier than saying what I really feel,” he says. “But I’m not joking now. I see you. I see what this is. And I’m not afraid of it.”

Tears slip past your lashes.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says gently. “But it’s okay to scare people sometimes if it means someone finally notices you’re hurting.”

The weapon in your hand feels like it’s burning now.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Rafayel continues. “You never did. You just didn’t think anyone would stay if they saw the real you.”

His voice drops to a hush, steady and warm.

“But I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not when it actually matters.”

Your fingers let go. The weapon clatters to the floor like a gavel calling your sentence to an end.

And then it hits you.

The weight. The shame. The grief. The unbearable pressure you’ve carried too long.

You sink to your knees before you even realize it. The sobs come fast and raw, unstoppable, and the air feels too thick to breathe.

Rafayel is there in an instant — no flourish, no bravado. Just him. He kneels beside you and pulls you into his arms, holding you like something fragile and precious all at once.

His hand moves slowly along your back. The other cradles your head as you bury your face in his shoulder and cry like the world cracked open.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, quiet and firm. “I’m not going anywhere. Let it out. I’ll stay until you’re ready to stand again.”

No mask. No performance. Just truth.

Just Rafayel — more real than you’ve ever seen him.

SYLUS

A part of you is outside your body, watching the barrel shake in your grip, watching the way everyone else freezes — afraid, unsure, waiting for someone else to say something.

Your heart’s a war drum in your chest. Your lungs won’t expand. Your fingers are clenched so tight your knuckles scream.

You don’t want to hurt anyone.

You just want it all to stop.

The pressure. The silence. The weight.

They’re talking — too many voices, too many hands hovering, eyes wide and frightened.

And then one voice cuts through all of it like gravel underfoot.

“Enough.”

You whip toward him.

Sylus.

His eyes are locked on yours — sharp, grounded, and not a trace of fear in them. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. He just looks at you, like he’s trying to will you into stillness.

“Put it down,” he says, low and firm.

You shake your head, throat burning. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” he snaps — not cruel, but sharp enough to slice through the panic clawing at your brain. “I get it more than you think.”

You swallow hard. “It’s too much. I can’t keep holding everything together — I’m trying, but I’m not — I'm not enough.”

Sylus steps forward, slow but deliberate. “Bullshit.”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me,” he growls. “That voice in your head lying to you? Telling you you’re a problem, a burden, too weak? That’s not truth. That’s fear. And fear’s a goddamn liar.”

You try to keep the weapon steady, but your hand’s shaking now. “Don’t talk to me like you know what I’m—”

“I do know,” he cuts in, voice rough but close now. “I’ve seen you bleed for people who never said thank you. I’ve watched you fight when you had nothing left. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not enough.”

Your lip trembles. Your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward.

“I’m tired, Sylus,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

And then — he softens. Just barely. A shift in his voice. The steel’s still there, but wrapped in something quieter. Something meant just for you.

“You don’t have to keep going alone,” he says, his voice dropping, steady and real. “You don’t have to carry it all. Not with me here.”

He takes one last step, eyes never leaving yours.

“Put the damn weapon down,” he says gently. “Let someone see you for once.”

You stare at him, chest heaving.

And then you drop it.

The sound it makes as it hits the ground is louder than it should be. Like a final breath being released.

Your knees give out with it.

He catches you before you can fall all the way. His arms are strong and solid, pulling you into him without hesitation, like he was waiting for this — for you — to finally break.

You cry like you haven’t let yourself in years. Ugly, shaking, desperate sobs that tear out of your throat like your body can’t hold them anymore.

And Sylus just holds you.

One hand in your hair, the other around your back, firm and grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “Even when you’re a goddamn mess. Especially then.”

You grip his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you on earth.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Tough,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t just get the pretty parts of love. You get the storm too. And I’m not leaving because it’s raining.”

You shudder against him.

He stays. He holds. He doesn’t let go.

CALEB

You hear someone call your name, but it’s distant — muffled, like it’s coming from the other side of glass.

Your hand’s shaking. The weapon’s raised.

You can’t remember drawing it. You don’t even know who you’re pointing it at anymore. Maybe everyone. Maybe no one. Maybe just the noise in your head that won’t shut up.

Too much. Too fast. Too loud.

All of them standing there, watching. Not seeing. Never really seeing.

And then — his voice.

“Pips, please… put it down.”

You don’t turn, but your body goes still. Everything tightens.

Caleb sounds wrecked. Like something in him is breaking just from looking at you.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You hear his footsteps — slow, cautious, like he’s approaching something wounded. Dangerous.

“I didn’t see it,” he says, his voice rough. “God, I should’ve seen it.”

You glance toward him, just for a second—and your breath catches.

He’s not angry. Not scared.

He looks destroyed.

“I thought I was helping,” he says. “I thought you were okay. I wanted to believe you were okay.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and your grip on the weapon falters for a split second.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you rasp. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he cuts in, voice cracking. “You are not a burden. You’re—”

He stops himself. Swallows hard. Takes a breath.

“You’re someone I was supposed to protect. And I missed it. I missed you. And now you’re standing there like you’re at the edge of something you can’t come back from.”

You look down at the weapon. Your hands are trembling so hard now it’s nearly slipping from your fingers.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “It hurts all the time. And I feel like I’m disappearing and no one even notices.”

“I notice,” Caleb says, voice low and raw. “I see you. I always have. Even when I didn’t know what I was looking at.”

He takes one step forward.

“I know you’re drowning. I know it’s dark. But I’m right here, okay? I’m not letting you go under. Not tonight.”

The tears break loose before you can stop them.

You let the weapon fall. It hits the floor with a soft thud.

Then you’re sinking, knees hitting the ground, sobs tearing out of you like something’s broken loose inside.

Caleb’s there before you can even blink.

He doesn’t say anything at first — just pulls you into his arms, holds you tight to his chest like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I should’ve had you sooner, but I’ve got you now.”

You cling to him, crying hard and silent into his shoulder. And still he holds you, arms strong, steady, warm.

“I’m sorry,” you sob. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for hurting,” he whispers. “Just don’t ever think you have to hurt alone.”

His hand cradles the back of your head, his other arm curled around your back like he’s shielding you from the world.

“You’re not too much,” he says. “You’re not too far gone. You’re mine, and I’m staying.”

And with your face buried in his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you finally, finally let yourself fall apart — because this time, someone’s there to hold the pieces.

[b1eedthefreak]

Hey hey! I’ve been eating UP your writing recently! I was wondering if you could write something where Daryl gets unexpectedly turned on and he can’t stop pushing his hand against himself??

I think it’s cute when he’s desperate

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Desperate

⌇daryl dixon x reader

summary⌇daryl flees to the room after getting hard, only for you to accidentally walk in

warnings⌇smut, masturbation (daryl)

word count⌇1.9k

a/n⌇anon thank you :3!!! i love and appreciate you! here is desperate daryl because who doesn’t love him??

heat in Alexandria that day had been unrelenting, thick and lazy, crawling down Daryl’s pine like sweat. You weren’t even doing anything. Just existing—in little shorts, in that soft tank top that clung in all the right places. You’d worn it a hundred times before, but somehow today it hit him different. Or maybe he was the one who was different.

Maybe it had been building for days. Weeks. That slow kind of want that creeps up on you until it’s too loud to ignore.

You’d brushed past him in the hallway earlier. Said something sweet. Smiled. It was nothing. But the warmth of your skin, the sway of your hips, the way your collarbone peeked out from the tank top strap slipping off your shoulder,

It sent his pulse skyrocketing.

He grunted something in response, but barely made it to the bedroom before he was already unbuttoning his jeans. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t even want to need it like this. But it hit him so fast.

The second he closed the door, the tension hit him like a brick wall.

He leaned against it for a second. Staring down at the bulge in his jeans, pressing painfully against the denim. His breaths were already shallow.

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The hell’s wrong with me…”

But he knew exactly what was wrong. It was you. Always you.

He kicked off his boots without bothering to untie them, yanked open the button on his jeans, and shoved them down his thighs. His cock strained painfully against the fabric of his boxers, and his whole body flinched when he touched himself over the cotton, just a light press of his palm, just enough to feel the shape of it.

He let out a guttural noise and dropped down onto the bed.

Sat on the edge, legs spread, panting already.

“Goddamn,” he whispered to himself, hand sliding under the waistband. The skin on skin contact was almost too much. Hot, wet, aching. He was already leaking at the tip.

His fingers curled around the base, and his eyes fluttered shut, head falling back. His hips jerked upward instinctively.

“F-fuck…”

His strokes were slow at first. Savoring it. Letting it hit.

He imagined your voice in his ear. The sound you made when you kissed down his stomach. That look you gave him when you climbed onto his lap, eyes all heavy lidded and hungry.

He was panting now. Stroking harder, hand flying down his cock like he was chasing something he couldn’t even name.

“Y/N” he murmured, voice cracking.

He started moving faster. Rocking into it. Breathing harder. Whimpering quiet little things he’d never let anyone else hear.

He didn’t hear you walking down the hallway. Didn’t hear your soft steps or the creak of the floorboards. He was too far gone, too wrapped up in the feeling of you inside his head. So when the door cracked open,

You froze.

You were holding a glass of water for him, thinking he was overheating from the weather. But the second your eyes landed on himc sprawled out on the bed, jeans halfway down, cock gripped in his fist, you couldn’t move.

He didn’t notice you.

Not yet.

And you didn’t say anything. You just… watched.

Daryl’s hand was moving fast now, his knuckles slick and glistening. He looked desperate, undone, like he hadn’t touched himself in days. His free hand gripped the edge of the mattress, holding on like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Fuck baby,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “Need ya so bad…”

His thighs trembled. Hips bucked.

And thenc

Your breath caught, just a little too loud.

He looked up. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

“Shit—!”

He yanked his hand away and tried to sit up, cheeks burning, eyes frantic. “I—I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t hear you—”

You didn’t move.

You just set the glass of water down.

And slowly stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Daryl’s breath caught in his throat. His cock was still hard, resting heavy against his stomach. His hands trembled like he was unsure whether to cover himself or beg you to stay.

“…You were thinkin’ about me?” you asked softly, voice just above a whisper.

He nodded. Swallowed hard. “Couldn’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, it’s you.”

The air was thick with heat. Tension. Something sacred.

You took another step closer.

“Didn’t even do anything,” you said with a faint smile.

“Exactly,” he breathed. “And that’s what did it. ‘Cause you weren’t even tryin’.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

You knelt in front of him, between his knees, hands on his thighs. His eyes fluttered shut like he was about to lose it all over again.

You leaned up slowly and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. His hands shook when he touched your face.

“I got you,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

He broke on a breath, eyes filling, mouth parting in a soft, ruined sigh.

“…I love you.”

You smiled against his jaw.

You slipped quietly into his lap, moving slow and steady like you were grounding him. Your body a warm anchor against his storm of need. His eyes locked on you, wide and dark and full of something raw and unfiltered, like he was both desperate for you and afraid you’d slip away if he looked too hard.

Your hands moved over his chest, fingers tracing the taut muscles, damp with sweat and tension. His breath hitched, shaky and uneven, and you could feel him trembling beneath your touch, as if the smallest movement might send him unraveling completely.

His hands clenched into fists against the sheets, nails pressing deep as if trying to hold himself together. But you could see right through it. The way his body fought a losing battle against the ache building inside him, thick and relentless.

“God, I didn’t mean for it to get like this,” he rasped, voice raw, laced with frustration and need. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you… couldn’t hold back no matter how hard I tried.”

You pressed your lips gently to his jaw, soft and warm. “It’s okay baby. You don’t have to hold back with me.”

His breath hitched again. His hips shifted slightly, cock hard and pulsing, pressing insistently against you. His hands finally came up to rest on your thighs, fingers trembling as they gripped you. Needing something solid to hold onto.

“I feel like I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind,” he murmured, voice breaking under the weight of his need. “You got me so damn desperate, I can’t even think straight…”

You ran your hands soothingly along his arms, letting your touch speak the words he couldn’t find. “I’m here,” you whispered, voice steady and soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His head lolled back, eyes fluttering closed as his body shuddered. “I don’t know how to make this stop,” he breathed out, voice thick with need and vulnerability. “I’m burnin’ up… ‘cause of you.”

Slowly, you slid your hand down between you, fingers wrapping around him gently, carefully, like you were holding a fragile thing he never wanted broken. He gasped—sharp and ragged, his hips jerked slightly, betraying the desperate hunger he couldn’t hide.

You kept your strokes slow and sure, each movement deliberate, letting him feel every inch without pressure, without rush. Your thumb brushed soft circles over the sensitive tip, and his breath caught, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Daryl…” you murmured, voice low, full of nothing but care and warmth. “Let me take care of you.”

He shook his head weakly, almost in disbelief, voice barely a whisper. “I’m a mess. Can’t even—fuck—I’m just… damn, I’m so damn needy for you.”

Your hands held him steady, your lips pressed softly to his temple. “It’s okay to be needy with me. I love every bit of it.”

His hips twitched again, cock pulsing in your palm. His fingers dug into your thighs, voice cracking as he whispered your name like a prayer.

You leaned closer, breath warm against his ear. “Just let go baby. I’m right here.”

His whole body trembled, heat spilling from him in waves as he gave in to the pleasure you were giving. He cried out your name, voice thick and raw, as his release shook through him, hard and fast, spilling over your hand, leaving him trembling and breathless.

You held him through the tremors, lips brushing over his damp skin, whispering gentle praise to soothe the wildness fading from his eyes.

When he finally opened them, he was lost in you. Messy, spent, utterly undone. His voice was rough but soft. “Fuck. You got me all to hell and back.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his sweaty hair, tender and sure. “You’re mine,” you said simply. “I’ll always be here to hold you when you’re like this.”

He pulled you closer, arms wrapping tight around your waist. “I never wanna be anywhere else.”

You laid your head on his shoulder, the quiet settling around you like a warm blanket. His breath slowed, heartbeat steadying as he whispered, “Thank you… for takin’ care of me.”

[cherrywriterrr]

ripe pt.2

warnings: sexual content / farmer!rafe / established relationship / rough & passionate / light restraint / overstimulation / dirty talk / “baby” use / he’s obsessed with the reader / mdni

the barn door creaks behind you, thick summer air curling around your ankles.

the floor’s dusty. smells like hay, sweat, and old wood. warm from the sun baking the roof all day. it’s quiet, except for the hum of cicadas outside and the steady thud of your heartbeat.

you barely make it past the doorway before rafe spins you.

his mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and desperation, like he’s been needing this for weeks and not just since he saw you up on that ladder.

he kicks the door shut behind you. it slams with finality.

“take your top off,” he mutters.

you breathe out a laugh against his lips. “yes, farmer.”

he grins darkly. “that’s fuckin’ right.”

you peel your tank top over your head and toss it into a pile of burlap sacks, chest rising and falling. your nipples harden in the warm barn air.

rafe stares, jaw tight. “jesus christ.”

“what?”

“you wanna act all innocent pickin’ cherries, but you come out here braless, wearin’ nothin’ but them little shorts, lookin’ at me with those eyes?”

he steps closer, hand sliding behind your neck, thumb resting at your pulse. “you wanted this.”

you blink up at him. “what if i did?”

he growls and lifts you—just like that—hands gripping your ass and carrying you like you weigh nothing.

you gasp as he drops you down onto a hay bale. it creaks under your weight. loose straw sticks to the backs of your thighs.

he leans over you, caging you in with his arms.

“look at you,” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice thick. “pretty lil’ thing. my baby.”

you drag your nails up his stomach, over the sweat and dirt smeared on his skin. “take your jeans off.”

“no ‘please?’”

“please,” you whisper, breathless.

his pants hit the floor.

he’s hard already—painfully so—and the way his cock slaps against his stomach makes your eyes flutter.

“you see what you do to me?” he mutters. “i ain’t even touched you yet, and look at this.”

you whimper. “then touch me.”

he kneels between your thighs and pulls your shorts down slow, kissing your inner thigh, tongue brushing the sensitive skin until you’re squirming.

he licks once—just one teasing stripe—and smirks when you gasp.

“so fuckin’ wet already,” he growls. “fuck, baby.”

you bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, but he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

“nu-uh,” he grins. “you’re not runnin’ this show.”

“but—”

“who makes you feel this good?”

“you do.”

“who’s the only one that gets to taste this sweet lil’ pussy?”

“you.”

“damn right.”

he eats like it’s his job.

no, worse—like it’s his last meal.

lips, tongue, teeth��he gives you everything. sloppy, unrelenting, grunting into you like he’s been starved.

you cry out, hips bucking, thighs trembling around his head.

“stay still,” he growls.

“i can’t—”

he grabs your hips and holds you down, strong hands leaving imprints in your skin. “yes you fuckin’ can.”

you fall apart a minute later—eyes rolled back, mouth open, moaning his name like a prayer.

he doesn’t stop.

he licks you through it, lets you ride the wave until you’re twitching from overstimulation, sobbing, chest heaving.

only then does he finally come up for air, face glistening, chin soaked.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in and kisses you like he didn’t just ruin you.

“bend over,” he says.

“rafe—”

“bend. over.”

you obey—legs still trembling, hands gripping the hay bale as you lean over it.

he runs a palm down your back.

“look at you. perfect fuckin’ view.”

he slides in slow—inch by inch—until he’s fully inside, buried to the hilt.

you moan like you’ve never felt him before.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, breath shaking. “you always so tight after i eat you out like that?”

you nod, barely able to speak.

“gonna fuckin’ wreck you.”

and he does.

hips snapping, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. his thrusts are deep, filthy, relentless. the sound of skin slapping skin fills the barn, echoing off the rafters.

you’re moaning his name like a song. again and again. dizzy, stupid, ruined.

“say you’re mine,” he pants.

“i’m yours.”

“say it again.”

“i’m yours, rafe. fuck, i’m yours.”

he reaches around and rubs circles on your clit, fast and messy.

you choke on a gasp. “rafe—”

“that’s it, baby,” he grunts. “cum for me. i got you.”

you fall again. hard. legs shaking, vision blurring.

he follows with a deep, broken moan, spilling inside you with a final, punishing thrust.

you collapse onto the hay bale, boneless and limp.

he kisses your shoulder, then your spine. “you alright, baby?”

you giggle weakly. “barely.”

“good.”

he tucks himself back into his jeans and helps you stand, one arm around your waist to keep you steady.

“you still hungry?” he asks, smug.

“i was cherry picking, remember?”

he pulls another from his pocket—stolen from your basket—and holds it between his lips.

“come take a bite, then.”

you kiss him instead.

and bite.

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesfavegf