#casting it now and hoping it hits me when i need it most

[alexanndrite]

PELASEPLAPSEPALSEPLEASE

somehow I got 95/20 on an assignment

I hope they never fix it and leave it this way forever

[sugucide]

two weeks.

it's been two weeks since kento has been inside of you. He's gone months, hell even years without sex before he met you and he was fine. he didn't even wish for it like most of his bachelor counterparts did.

but now that he's had a taste of you? two weeks may as well be a death sentence. which is ironic, giving the nature of this sex ban. everything you do is inviting: maybe it's just his underworked sex drive or maybe he's reverted back to his teenage years because he sure does feel like an impatient, entitled brat whenever you walk past him.

he can smell you. not the smell of your perfume you spritz on each morning. not the product in you hair. not the moisturiser you use. but you, the scent of your self, your body, the skin he's so often inhaled as he bit down between your thighs or up the column of your neck. he can smell the memories of sex, sweaty and tangled in pheromones and all things primal.

he can hear you. not your words or laughter or the way you hum absentmindedly when you're pottering around the house. he can hear that sharp little intake of breath when you accidentally, or not-so-accidentally, brush against him. he can hear that whining tinge to your voice when you tell him you won't sleep with him, that you're punishing him, as if its moreso a punishment for you than him. he can remember the way you'd moan for him, desperate and glassy eyed and oh so perfect for him as he ruins you from the inside out.

he can't take it anymore.

"two weeks is more than enough time for me to think about my actions," he tells you over dinner one night, eyes cast downwards at his plate. "...and to come up with a suitable apology."

you place your chopsticks down at his last words and look up at your husband. "oh? let's hear it then."

over the frames of his glasses, kento's eyes meet yours. "i apologise for worrying you and risking my life for my work."

you tap your fingers against the table. "and will you continue to do it?"

"yes," he admits. "it's my job, one that i do well. if i die doing it, i hope it's in place of someone who didn't sign up for it, like you."

kento reaches over the table and takes your hand. "i can't just stop being a sorcerer. that would be too selfish of me. but i do promise that i will make more of an effort to reduce my chances of getting hurt from now on: no more unnecessary risks. okay?"

though that was all you needed to hear from him, you start to wonder if lifting the sex ban was a good idea when your pent-up husband is swiping plates from the dinner table to make room for you to lay back on it. claiming he can't wait the few extra second to carry you to the bedroom, he has you stripped and laid bare on the dining room table in no time, and he's ready for his meal.

"missed her," he mumbles as he parts your legs with a strong hand and bends down to kiss once at your clit. that's about and gentlemanly as it gets, though, because soon after he's making out with your pussy like he's a virgin. no technique, no precision, nothing but unfiltered need and its so much hotter than you'd imagine it to be.

eyes locking onto yours from between your thighs, he adds two fingers and works you open. two weeks was a long time for the both of you, so he'll need to get you used to the stretch of him again. he scissors his fingers inside of you, curls them upwards to hit your g-spot and smirks like a saint when your back arches off the table in response.

"missed you ken," you ramble on as your climax nears. "missed you so much. hated doing this. love you. loveyouloveyou god i love you."

you cum hard, harder than you've cum in a long time and kento laps it up like he's never tasted anything so good. he savours your taste on his tongue like he would an aged wine, something expensive and delicious and worth keeping bottled. though he's harder than diamond and worried he'll cum in his pants if he doesn't sink inside of you soon. so he stands and undoes his belt in record time (with those lovely hands of his) and repositions you at the end of the table with his leaky cock already pressing against your wet entrance.

he leans over you and shares a kiss with you as he pushes in. he inhales the gasp you let out at the stretch and moans into your mouth as a gift in return. he pulls out almost entirely, so it's just his head nestled in your tight pussy, and then slams in again. hard.

"god kento—" you start, about to chide him for being so rough with you when you notice his face dip into your neck and the sudden warmth filling you from the inside. kento's hips stutter and he bites at the skin of your shoulder to muffle the heavy moans that ache to free themselves from his chest.

"did you just—"

"don't," he cuts you off, cock twitching inside of you with his release. he's plugging you up, keeping you full of him and his cum. "give me a minute and i'll fuck you so stupid that you forget that just happened."

"you just—"

"don't laugh."

"im not laughing! it's just, you know like our first time..."

"shut up." kento's hips pull away and then slam back into yours as he starts a brutal pace with you.

that shuts you up good.

[urmum-lovesme]

Ok but toxic!dad!rafe where this don’t effect the children’s life but when it come to the mother of his kids he’s still very overprotective. I mean she is a MILF.

This is the best thing I've ever heard anon I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.

Toxic!Rafe as a dad?

Surprisingly present. 

His kid adores him, and in their eyes, he’s just their cool, protective father. He spoils them, takes them out on the yacht all the time, and he makes sure they have everything they could ever want. He told himself he would never be like Ward if he ever became a father, and he- for a change- was living up to his word.

But when it comes to their mom? That’s where the real problem is.

Because Rafe does not change when it comes to Y/N.

Y/N falling pregnant, certainly wasn't planned. It wasn’t supposed to happen. She was young, she had a future and more than anything, she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to stay with Rafe, let alone have a baby with him. She didn't tell Rafe right away. Not because she was hiding it, but because she knew- deep in her gut- that he wouldn’t react like a normal person. She needed time to think, to weigh her options, to figure out what she wanted before he got involved.

But Rafe found out anyway.

Y/N had been so incredibly careful, she didn't leave any trace of the positive pregnancy test in Tannyhill; but he just knew her too well, sensed that something was off when she stopped drinking.

“What?”

His voice was quiet at first, his brows furrowed, like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. But then the realisation hit. His blue eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and he stepped closer, the room suddenly feeling too small. His voice was calm, but there was something dangerous underneath it.

“You were gonna tell me, right?”

“Rafe, I—I don’t know what I’m going to do yet—”

Wrong answer. His hand shot out, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

“The fuck do you mean, you don’t know?” His breath was hot against her face, his fingers digging into her skin.

“That’s my kid, Y/N.”

Her stomach churned, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“I just- Rafe, I need time to think—”

“No, you don’t.”

He cut her off, shaking his head like the idea itself was ridiculous, angrily running a hand through his messed up hair.

“You don’t need to think. It’s already decided.”

She tried to take a step back, but his grip tightened, his other hand settling on her waist, firmly keeping her closer to him.

“We’re having this baby.”

Her breath caught in her throat as the words passed his lips, tears stinging her eyes before she could stop the feeling.

“I don’t- Rafe, this is my choice—”

His fingers pressed harder, his face inches from hers.

“No, it’s ours.”

Even now when they have a child together, he still watches her like a hawk. Still gets unreasonably possessive when she dresses a certain way, still makes a scene when he catches another man looking at her for a second too long. And she knows better than to fight him on it- most of the time.

It’s a summer afternoon, and she’s lounging by the pool, drink in hand, wearing a bikini that makes Rafe’s jaw clench. The sun was high, casting a golden glow over her as she adjusted the thin strap of her bikini top. It was tiny- too fucking tiny. The black fabric barely covered her tits, which, thanks to breastfeeding, were even fuller now, spilling slightly over the edges. His jaw clenched as his gaze dragged down, taking in the way the strings hugged her hips, digging into soft, newly gained curves that had him gripping the bottle in his hand just a little harder.

His friends are over, and while they’re talking, his eyes keep flicking toward her, watching the way the fabric clings to her curves. And then- Topper nudges him, nodding toward one of the new neighbours talking to her.

Rafe’s face goes dark.

She’s laughing at something the guy said, totally unaware of the way Rafe’s grip tightens around his beer bottle. He doesn’t make a scene- not yet- but when the guy finally walks away, Rafe strides over, towering over her as she peers up from her sun bed. His voice is deceptively smooth, but she knows that tone.

"Having fun, baby?"

"Yes."

His fingers skim her thigh, tracing the edge of her bikini bottoms.

"You looked like you were having a little too much fun."

She sighs, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on her head, she had a feeling she knew exactly where this was going.

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious." He leans down, voice dropping.

"Go inside and cover up."

She scoffs, shifting to sit up, the towel underneath her crumpling slightly as she moved,

"It’s our backyard and it's a pool party-."

"-I don’t give a fuck."

"Rafe, you’re being ridiculous."

"Yeah?" His grip tightens on her thigh.

"Then why’s he looking at you like he wants to fuck you?"

Her stomach flips.

"Stop," she hisses, even as heat creeps up her neck. But Rafe just smirks, leaning in so only she can hear.

"Maybe I should remind you who you belong to, huh?"

Her breath catches.

And the way he says it? The way his hand tightens on her thigh, just enough to send a warning? It sends a shiver down her spine, even as she glares at him. Because she knows- if she doesn’t listen now, he’ll make her.

Somehow, their kid never see this side of Rafe, he makes sure of it.

To them, their dad is just protective, he just 'cares about mommy so much!'. They never see the way their mother bites her lip in frustration when Rafe pulls her away from conversations. They never see the bruises he leaves- not always from violence, but from gripping her too tight, kissing her too hard. They don’t hear the way she argues in hushed tones behind closed doors, or the way she eventually gives in and melts into him anyway.

Because as much as she hates his jealousy and his control, she loves him too much to walk away.

He is the father of her child after all

[chanifesto]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 mr. fix it | yeon sieun

pairing: yeon sieun x afab!reader (weak hero)

synopsis: yeon sieun was notoriously known as your program’s tech handyman. when he wasn’t hunched over calculus problem sets, sieun was busy fixing his peers' laptops, for a price of course—one that was nonexistent for you because you seemed to make his software hard.

genre: another smutty university au

word count: 6.9k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, grinding, making out, oral (f rec.), pussydrunk!sieun, piv sex, protected sex, many consent checks, sieun is so so gone for you, you are literally his pretty little angel, if devotion was a person it would be him, sieun can’t figure out his goddamn integral

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina. reader is described to look ‘small’ at one point. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

this fic was requested – thank you so much, i loved coming up with the concept .ᐟ

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐ park jihoon uggghhhh need need need him. had the most exquisite time picking out the concept pictures.

“You broke it again?”

  His voice sounds flat, but there's a tinge of hope, a sense of subdued anticipation perking his last few syllables.

  Sieun stares at the half-solved integral on his desk, phone pressed to his cheek, screen cold against his skin, fingers loosely gripping the sides. The warm glow of his lamp casts a nimbus over the mess made of a barely punched in calculation and his calculus textbook, pages worn from flipping back and forth between the chapter problem sets and appendix answers. Outside his window, the campus sky is dim, too gray for six in the evening.

  “I didn’t break it!” Your voice crackles through the line, scratchy with frustration. Sieun can hear your breath over the receiver, rough and rushed.

  “It just won’t turn on,” you continue, “I don’t know what happened. I just opened my tabs, and then—dead.” 

  He exhales. “And you tried plugging it in?”

  “Yes, Sieun. I tried everything you taught me—nothing worked,” you huff, “I have an essay due Monday, and everything I need to write it is on this damn laptop.”

  You sound slightly breathless, your voice hoarse with the kind of air that clings to lungs on chilly evenings. Wind rushes past the speaker, muddling your words with static. Sieun’s ears pick up on this.

  “Where are you,” he asks, dull, but more abrupt than intended.

  You’re silent for a few beats.

  “Outside.” Another gust of wind bleeds through the receiver.

  He feels the warmth of perspiration prick across his palms. “Where?”

  The brisk, hollow rustle of plastic, and then, “Walking to your dorm.”

  Sieun feels his breath dissipate in the back of his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” you start. Sieun squeezes his eyes upon hearing these words in your soundwaves, words he thought were too unnecessary when masked in your voice.

  “I saw the forecast, there’s going to be rain—shoot, I forgot my umbrella, I knew I was forgetting something—anyways, I figured I'd head over to yours before it hit,” there’s an unmistakable sincerity in your voice, “I really need you right now, Sieun.”

  Need to murder him, he thought. Clearly, that was more fitting for the illusive objective of your last sentence, one that roused his hand to the back of his neck, called his fingers to smooth over his golden skin, wailed for them to curl against his flesh in hopes of helping him get a grip of himself. Literally.

  He sighs, half flustered, half enlivened. “You’ll be here soon?”

  “Yeah, just five minutes more.”

  There’s a pause. “Okay.”

  A quick exhale breaks past your lips, a restrained puff of air that had been trapped in the back of your throat, waiting for a green light to let it loose. “Thank you, Sieun.”

  He can still feel the ghost of icy plastic against his cheek when you cut the call. Unfocused eyes cloud over the sheets and pens and smudged writing lazing atop his desk.

  Of course. 

  Of course you’re coming over. Because why wouldn’t you? Your laptop’s dead, and he’s the tech guy, and this is just what happens. He fixes things.

  And right now, you need him to fix your things. He couldn’t help but feel his heart jump at the idea, an eagerness creeping into his chest, fogging up his lungs and grabbing hold of the air that dared to escape up his trachea.

  Sieun, as cold as he seemed, felt warmth fixing your things, like he’d swallowed the sun and it dissolved into his blood. Unlike the peers on your campus, he does it for you free-of-charge—hell, he thinks he’d pay you just to let him fidget around with your laptop’s battery that burns to touch or the program functions you can’t seem to figure out even after using the ‘help’ tab. He’d never admit to it though.

  Not yet, at least.

  His eyes flicker to the unfinished problem adorning his notebook, numbers and symbols half-formed, abandoned mid-line. The solution sits just out of reach.

  Much like you.

  His unfinished integral mocks him.

  Your cheeks are flushed, supple and radiant, the dermal symptom of cool drizzle and dewy autumn air. Sieun’s eyes surf the strands of your hair, glinting from subtle rain droplets that catch even in the dim fluorescent light of his dorm hallway.

  You look small like this in his doorway, backpack straps sagging over your shoulders, your sweater sporting little wet spots that are sure to smell like petrichor. Your hands tightly clutch a white plastic bag to your abdomen, the vertices of a cardboard box poking out at him.

  You smile at him, small and sweet and a little flustered. “There was some drizzle when I turned onto your lane.”

  Sieun’s gaze, currently traveling across the ridges tenting your plastic bag, snaps to your face.

  “Oh.” It’s a soft expression, a barely-there phoneme he manages through concern for you—how dare the clouds cry over your angel face?—and some muffled curiosity.

  Sieun just can’t help the fall of his gaze. He stares blankly at the bag in your hands. He’s not surprised when you take notice.

  “It’s brownie mix!”

  He peers at you again.

  “Brownies?”

  You grin sheepishly, fiddling with the plastic handles. “Yeah, I thought, well– you work so hard, you deserve a fun break, one you can get a sweet treat out of!” You pause. “And, I guess it’s also thanks for my laptop. You’ve saved me a lot of money I already don’t have, more than once now.”

  He’s still staring at you, face blank, unreadable, lips sealed in a line, but his eyes gleamed. Whether it was annoyance or humour, you weren’t sure, but his dreamy, tired eyes gleamed.

  Your eyes go wide. “Oh gosh, I should’ve asked you if brownies were okay. They looked so good on the box, I just had to pick them up. You could be allergic to chocolate, or maybe you don’t even like brownies–”

  “Brownies are cool.”

  Sieun watches your lips halt their rambling, configured mid-sentence, before they slowly spread into a toothy grin, one that radiates a warm feeling into his bones and almost—almost—makes his lip twitch up to match yours.

  All you needed to do was force start.

  That’s all.

  No hardware to trifle with, no delinquent software meddling with your computer programs.

  All Sieun had to do was press a couple buttons in tandem before your screen lit back up to life, resurrected from its cry of wolf.

  Your cheeks had heated, bashful from your ignorance, but also a little humoured.

  They blazed further when you caught sight of the calculus massacre on his desk, hurried apologies spilling past your pretty lips to wash out the guilt that crawled up your chest.

  Sieun reassured you all was well—It’s fine, I was almost done anyways—with a look in his eyes that had you capitulating to his sincerity.

  “Can I repay you with brownies?” you had prompted, fingers twiddling behind your back as if it would have subliminally helped rouse the answer you sought after.

  Sieun slowly flattened your laptop to a shut before his Bambi eyes peaked at you and whispered exactly what you needed to know, exactly what you wanted to hear.

  So, you’d both clambered in his tiny, cozy dorm kitchen, ingredients and bowls and utensils scattered across granite, instructions serenading the walls in your voice, Sieun’s hands working to mix the dark sea of cocoa batter.

  You had assumed the role of a conductor but managed to pull a mess over you like a magnet. Whatever hadn’t been mixed into the warm batch of brownies basking atop Sieun’s countertop had found consolation on your being—cocoa powder and melted butter and drying batter decorated your skin and sweater.

  Sieun thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

  Of course, Sieun had missed any defiant ingredient attacks entirely.

  You’d both picked up a piece each, melted chocolate furnishing your mouths while Sieun, starry-eyed and attentive, listened to you babble about your stress baking and how, no matter the many times you made something, you’d always be left with a bit of a messy souvenir from the process.

  It was during this instance when the rain had hit.

  Hard and harsh and pattering ferociously against the window of his measly living room. You and Sieun had snapped your heads at the sound, sticky embellishments of chocolate coating your fingers.

  You’d looked so worried, so consumed in the thought of how you’d walk home through what was practically a typhoon. You hadn’t checked for a storm warning, all you’d known was a chance of rain. Your umbrella wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  You’d looked so worried, so it felt almost natural when Sieun suggested you just stay over.

  “...Really?” Your eyes were breaking past their sockets, and Sieun had nerely felt the weight of his words crash over him until your orbs softened and he saw the ghost of a smirk brush past your lips.

  “Yeah, you can’t get home through that,” his voice had been tinged with his radiation of care for you. His eyes swept over your chocolate-covered frame. “You can use my shower if you want. I’ll give you some clean clothes to wear.”

  You’d obliged. Quite happily.

  And now, Sieun sat at his desk, unfinished integral staring up at him, the muted sound of his shower silking through the wall, almost louder than the merciless storm outside his window. 

  Sieun hadn’t touched his sheets or pens since he’d retreated to his room, changed into his own set of nightwear, and lowered himself into his desk chair. He couldn’t focus.

  How could he? When you were just a dozen feet away, naked and wet under the rush of his shower.

  He knew he shouldn’t think about it, begged himself not to, but when his mind slipped over the way you had chocolate powder flowering your neck and underneath your sweater, he couldn’t help but let his mind run, just a little.

  Run over the way your fingers probably tucked under the bottom of your sweater, dragging it up along your beautiful body and over your head. What had you worn underneath? Had you even worn anything? 

  In Sieun’s little fantasy, you hadn’t. You’d been bare for him under your clothes, and he’d been ready, quick to ravish you, to kiss and suck and bite at your warm skin.

  But, that was just a fantasy.

  In reality, it didn’t matter whether or not you’d worn anything underneath your sweater. Sieun had just helped you out, made things a little easier for you, eased your anxiety by offering an innocent sleepover so you wouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself to what was the making of an ocean outside his dorm.

  It didn’t matter, just like his integral, still unfinished. Deferred. Mocking.

  The blood had barely made it to his cock before it was rushing back to his brain.

  A couple minutes more of unsuccessfully undressing the math symbols littering his half-blank page and you were padding your way into his room, feet bare, heels marginally lifted off the cold floor of his dorm. Your clothes were folded, carried atop your forearms, and your cute body was swallowed in his t-shirt and shorts, sleeves too long, neck hole too wide, fabric swaying just over your knees with each of your scampered steps.

  You gaze at Sieun from the edge of his bed, clothes now tucked away in your backpack, the hem of his shirt twirling in your fingers. 

  God, Sieun thought you looked ethereal, bare-faced and in his clothes. The warm, mellow glow of his desk lamp illuminates your face like a halo. Your sweet angel eyes are drowning him far past the storm outside.

  Sweet oblivious angel eyes. If only they could see the mess he’d made of you in his head.

  “Are you ready to sleep, or do you want to study some more?” Your voice is so soft, so melodious bouncing within the confines of his skull, and your eyes twinkle just right, brightened from his lamp and the mere cast of moonlight simmering through his window.

  “I’m done,” Sieun starts, “You take the bed. I’m going to sleep in the living room.”

  He’s about to push himself up when you cross your cute arms, defiant and determined. He watches your eyes narrow, eyebrows dip with a scrunch.

  “Absolutely not!” you chide, your squint piercing. Sieun stares, half stood. He sits back down.

  “It’s not fair to you! I showed up, practically unannounced, had you press a couple buttons on my laptop because I was too incompetent to figure it out myself, then made you make brownies with me against your will since you don’t take any economic compensation! And I know you’re not done with your problem set, I can see it from here. It’s exactly how you left it before we made those godforsaken brownies! I completely butted into your evening and messed up your studying, so you best believe you’ll be sleeping in your own bed and getting a good night’s rest!”

  You puff at the end, like you’d said it in one breath, forearms glued to each other, fingers digging into your biceps.

  Sieun is still staring at you, face blank, eyes gentle.

  “You’re not incompetent.”

  You blink.

  “That’s not the point, Sieun.” You huff, pointing to his blankets. 

  “Now, get to bed.”

  His eyes flick, your attention on his bed now shared. There’s an ease in the air, one that helps to hoist Sieun from his desk chair, click his lamp off, and carry himself over to the side of his bed. He lifts the corner of his duvet, slides underneath, and lets it fall over him. All without a peep.

  His eyes scan to your frame, still at the edge of his bed, still in his too-baggy clothes, still looking too ethereal for him to indulge below the moonlight’s gaze, even in your quarrelsome stance.

  You stare back at him.

  “Okay… good.” You sound stifled, almost suspicious of his obedience.

  Your arms unclasp, a little dazed at how fast he’d listened to you. With a hesitant scratch to your neck, you shuffle to what would be your side of Sieun’s bed, just for tonight.

  Even though Sieun wishes it could be a less transient arrangement.

  But he was doing this to help you. 

  Afterall, you’d looked so worried.

  Sieun watches your warm body roll onto his mattress, feels it dip with your added weight from across. You shamble to face him, the duvet bunching in your hands, a relaxed, content tilt gracing your lips. Your cheek presses against the pillow, eyes squinting with warmth and kindness and gratitude and what Sieun could describe as a fatally contagious ray of tranquility.

  You look so sweet like this, cuddled into his bed in clothes—his clothes—that swallow your body whole. The rain had slowed, granting permission to an even larger crowd of moonlight to flow over your face.

  Sieun thought you were unreal, a mythical being from a dreamy world far beyond the current celestial limits.

  A mythical being who saw him only for his technological abilities.

  You were only here for tonight. Sieun was just helping you.

  Because you had looked so worried.

  So, he rolls onto his side, nearing the edge of the bed, hands tittering close to an abyss.

  “Goodnight,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother to pull the duvet to his front, lets it hang just over his side, as if any extra movement would make him appear more visible to you.

  You gape at his back.

  “Sieun!”

  Sieun closes his eyes. Perhaps the world around him wouldn’t see him if he couldn’t see the world.

  You puff, a frustrated push of air that has Sieun squinting his eyes shut further. He feels the duvet minutely ruffle behind him, feels the dip of the mattress sink gradually.

  “I don’t get it, are you actually upset?” Although you were quiet, you sounded so disgruntled, confused. Sieun could only wish he was better at this so he wouldn’t have to bear your honey-like voice convey such emotion, like thrones stuck in a cloud.

  But, Sieun was Sieun. A man of minimal words who spoke the truth and nothing but—until now.

  “No, just trying to get a good night’s rest.” Just trying to keep my mind off you, so close, for just one night.

  “Ugh! Will you just turn around so I can talk to you?”

  Your hand reaches out and grips the collar of Sieun’s shirt, a tight grip pulling him towards you, a gentle grip to avoid attempted murder.

  His eyes pop open, a hand catching onto the taut fabric around his neck. If there was the slightest chance Sieun’s conscious was to succumb to strangulation tonight, he thinks he’d only remember the warmth of your fingers fogging over the back of his neck.

  Sieun yields to your force, falling onto his back. Why are you so damn strong?

  With a hatch of his neck, his eyes find yours in the dark room, the patch of moonlight from his window dimmed from the roar of thunder and familiar strikes of heavy droplets against the glass.

  There’s light provocation simmering through your face, playful like a child in a game of tag.

  “Talk about what?” His voice is quiet but firm, his body a statue sandwiched between the mattress and sheets, daring not to move a millimeter.

  You peer at him, words hanging along the tip of your tongue, as if debating whether they were worth speaking into the medium shared between your beings.

  You decide they are.

  “I know you take a fee from others when you fix their laptops.” There’s a quirk in his neck, a twitch at the corner of his lips that urges you further. “You’ve never taken one from me, even when I mention it. Why is that?”

  Sieun feels a gradual quickening of his heartbeat at this concoction of your voice, and, like the start of a tornado, the thoughts in his head rampage into a whirlwind.

  To be or not to be? Sieun, who previously seemed to lack any cognitive resources to solve his monster integral, was now calculating his next move with rigorous intricacy.

  Maybe it was the kick in adrenaline that had him instigating your little game.

  Sieun chose to be.

  “Why do you think?”

  Your eyes narrow in an instant, the entire play a chain reaction. Were you also debating your next actions, words? Were you also aware of the string snapping taut between you, tense and nearing a strong, sudden tear?

  Sieun definitely was. Like always, he knew what he was getting himself into, knew he was igniting something far beyond repair, unlike the many laptops he’d resurrected.

  Sieun knew what he’d started. He’d calculated it, perhaps from the very beginning, from the moment he uttered the word “stay.”

  He was just helping you, for one night. Just one night.

  You’d looked so worried, of course.

  Perhaps Sieun had wanted your eyebrows to furrow from another force of nature—him.

  Say something.

  A quirk to your lips. Dark shadows in your eyes.

  And a hand reaching out for his neck, this time to pull him to the plushest centre of your visage.

  His lips graze the fullness of yours when you whisper in a breath.

  “I knew to force start.”

  Sieun isn’t spared a chance to retaliate his sockets stretching back when you press into him.

  The dense pressure molds his own lips flush against yours, an electric fog swarming your face and down the flanks of your neck.

  It’s a reflex, an abrupt, consuming, greedy reflex, when his arm curls over your back, big hand hastily grazing along your spine to knot into your hair.

  Had Sieun fallen asleep?

  This has to be a dream.

  But your lips were too soft against his, too warm.

  And your back curved so well along his forearm, strands so luxurious curled around his fingers.

  Your hand on his chest, basking down his torso… Sieun believes he doesn’t possess even a speckle of the imagination required to muster a feeling as heavenly as that.

  Definitely not enough to muster a feeling as heavenly as your hand sliding over him through his thin flannel pajamas.

  You were a fallen angel who had come to play unsacred games.

  And Sieun proved to be a worthy opponent.

  His fingers grip around the base of your skull to pull you from his lips.

  His eyes are heavy with a murmur of inquisition, flitting over your lips before boring into your own with words unspoken. You mirror his gaze with equal weight, savouring his quiet inhale when you push further down over his hardening curve, feathering your hand up to rest against the supple part of his abdomen.

  “You know where this is going.” It was a statement, a quiet, breathless, almost restrained mutter carrying all the responsibility and uncertainty and anticipation littered within Sieun.

  You gaze, knowing, unbothered.

  “This is what you want? This is what you came for?”

  “Yes,” you whisper, “Take it as part of my thanks.”

  “I thought the brownies were your thanks.”

  You smirk. “That was just the appetizer.”

  Sieun scoffs quietly, a humble pfft to accompany the fingers gently rubbing over the bottom of your scalp, a means of easing into his next utterance.

  You were drowning in his milk chocolate orbs, a velvety sea full of nothing but care and adoration and awe for you.

  “Are you sure you want to go further?” Any quieter and the storm battering upon his window would have drowned his sound completely.

  “Yes, Sieun.”

  That was everything he needed to hear.

  A gentle push to your neck has your lips pressing back into the plushness of his own.

  It’s a slow kiss, chaste but blazing with the need you’d both been bearing for months. You move against the other, the ghost of anticipation urging you further into it.

  Sieun definitely is not dreaming.

  All his prior frustration, graced from his still unsolved practice set and the many long, agonizing weeks of indirect contact with you, melts away, leaving a tender warmth to dry in its place. Your lips feel as soft as—no, they were softer, so much softer, and warm like sun rays on cold skin—the many times he’d imagined the ghost of them wisping against his.

  A transient ghost, barely lasting a mere tortuous ten seconds. He’d stop himself from savouring it, pry the ghost away before his hopes shot higher than the sky above him.

  But now, you were here, tangible, with your mortal lips on his. They were so supple, so plush and warm and real. And they were flush against his. No one else but him.

  Sieun had spent so long denying your fabricated being, the one who would distract him from his problem sets, urge him to isolate from the many gadgets his peers would throw his way in times of technological misfortune.

  Sieun decided it was finally time to show you what your ghost had been doing to him.

  He sucks in your bottom lip, hands grazing over your hips to pull you over his growing hardness with a delicate hold, treating your vessel like original vintage artwork. Fragile. Authentic. Godly.

  The duvet shifts against your back while you shift over him, the core of your heat finding solace over his own. The hem of his borrowed t-shirt rides up your torso like it knows what’s coming.

  It’s an abrupt, consuming, visceral feeling when you first connect with the stiff rod bulging against the stressed material of Sieun’s pajamas.

  It’s the same for Sieun, so when a small groan muses from the depths of his throat at the feeling of your heat radiating along his length, he remains basking in its aftermath.

  Lips still working into each other, you almost don’t acknowledge the slow, tantalizing roll of your hips.

  Sieun does, and it drives him crazy.

  Sieun, who was always so cool, composed, and distant was now growing hot and undone, all while pressing himself further into you, meeting you at an undefined middle, ridding any and all separation from your heating bodies from the insufferable vexation of need.

  His hands knead into your hips, bearing your heat further along him, before they configure to push himself up while embracing you flush against his chest.

  You’re consuming him, physically and mentally. Your lips on his, your body wrapped tightly around his own, hot cunt slowly grinding over the hard curve of his cock, a barrier of too much fabric plastered between your beings and pushing you both into frustrated desperation.

  Your name, your scent, the suppleness of your skin, they all fog his head, conquer it with the ghost of you.

  Both your mortal and immortal forms had possessed him, consumed him whole until he was nothing but a spec of utter devotion to you and you only.

  Your hips grind again, slow, sinful, and Sieun’s breath stutters against your mouth.

  You feel the shiver that rebounds through him like a tremor, feel the tight grip of his hands at your waist falter before steadying again, tighter this time, as if he needs to anchor you, or maybe himself.

  His lips leave yours only to trail hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your crescent of skin beyond the shirt’s collar, the devotion in each press of his mouth turning you molten.

  “You feel…” he murmurs, barely audible, like he’s speaking to himself, “…too good. Too good to be real.”

  You tilt your hips forward again, slower, answering him with equal desperation, and Sieun’s head tips back, a ragged exhale pulling from his throat. The sight strikes you—his lashes trembling, his brows knit together in pleasure so raw it borders on pain. He looks ruined.

  Kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, shades of pink colonizing his visage in the shower of eventide luminosity.

  You don’t realize you’ve gasped until his gaze finds you again, pupils blown wide and gleaming with disbelief. His thumbs rub along your hip bones, a fragrant sensation even through the fabric of his shorts you adorned.

  Your hands glide under his shirt, pushing up until he’s reaching for the edge himself, prying the shirt past his head and letting the fabric fall to the cold hardwood beneath his bed.

  His hands slip beneath the hem of your own, and his touch is hesitant, wavering, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he reaches too far.

  “Can I…?” he asks, voice husky and threadbare, already tugging at the fabric.

  You nod. His hands glide up, slow and reverent, brushing over the curves and valleys he’s only ever imagined, each touch leaving heat in its wake. 

  He drinks in the sight of you like he’s been thirst-starved for days, gentle eyes falling over your face and down to your taut peaks. You weren’t a ghost anymore—you were a dream, glowing and radiant beneath the muted haze of damp moonlight.

  And when your bare chest presses to his, skin to skin, nothing between you but the thundering pace of your hearts, Sieun chokes out a soft, desperate moan.

  The ghost of you has vanished.

  What remains is you—real and soft and warm and all his.

  And he’s no longer a boy haunted by longing. He’s a man who’s finally allowed to feel.

  Your fingers find the nape of his neck, weaving into the soft strands of his hair, and the sound he lets out—broken, hushed, completely unguarded—settles somewhere deep in your chest.

  Sieun’s lips return to yours with more urgency now, less caution, the kind that only comes when desire and restraint blur into the same overwhelming thing. His tongue traces your bottom lip before slipping inside, gentle, exploratory, worshipping, like he’s memorizing you.

  Every movement of his hips under you is hesitant but needy, as if he’s still trying to slow himself down, still trying to process that you’re not slipping away.

  “You’re driving me insane,” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse and cracking like lightning behind the storm-glassed windows.

  He kisses you again, softer now, almost like an apology for how his hands are now gripping at the swell of your thighs with mounting desperation.

  Then, with a breath that shakes against your lips, Sieun pulls back. Only just.

  “Lie back,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before. Anticipation, maybe. Hunger, definitely.

  You do, painfully unlatching from his warmth and sinking into the pillow behind you.

  Sieun follows, crawling down the length of your body like a man crossing sacred ground, his drowsy gaze never leaving you. It lingers on the slope of your neck, the lines of your collarbone, the tender stretch of skin bare to the cool air of his bedroom. Each inch he memorizes like scripture, utterly fascinated and unspeakably enamoured.

  “You’re…” he begins, almost too quiet to even comprehend, but trails off, like no word quite fits what you are to him.

  And then you see it. The way adoration turns to ache.

  A valley of creases between his brows, a marginal slit parting his pout, the quickened wisps of air trailing out of him. He’s wrecked, far past.

  And you had barely touched him.

  Sieun’s hands slide up your thighs, calloused fingertips brushing along the waistband of the very shorts he lent you, the ones riding too low on your hips, the ones he's dreamed about you in far too many nights to count.

  He kisses the inside of your knee.

  Then your thigh.

  Then the soft dip just above your hip bone.

  His hands move, thumbs hooking into the waistband. There’s a beat—one last, wordless check—and then he draws them down.

  And stops breathing.

  You’re bare beneath them. No panties. Just slick, glistening proof of how long you’ve wanted this too.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, like it’s been torn from him. His jaw goes slack, eyes shadowed with affection and disbelief. “You didn’t wear—?”

  He doesn't finish. He can't.

  His hands twitch.

  You’ve rendered Yeon Sieun speechless.

  Sieun blinks once, twice, like he’s trying to process the sight before him, trying not to let it undo him entirely.

  But it does.

  It does.

  He swallows hard, jaw flexing as his eyes drag along the slick sheen glistening between your thighs, warm and glimmering and pooling out of you sans constraint.

  His hands settle on your hips again, firm, needy, desperate.

  “You’ve been like this this whole time?” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes flickering up to meet yours, the question half-shattered already. “Wearing my shorts… like this?”

  You don’t have time to answer.

  Because Sieun leans in, drawn like a man starved, mouth ghosting just above your heat and breathing you in.

  His composure fractures there.

  A low, guttural sound breaks from his throat as he presses a slow, devoted kiss to your core. Just one.

  Then another. Then again, deeper, wetter, until his tongue slides through your dampened heat with a shuddering groan of restraint and craving colliding all at once.

  Your hips twitch and Sieun’s grip tightens instinctively, his fingers digging into your waist to anchor you to him like you might vanish otherwise.

  His tongue moves again, slow and patient, still trying to worship even while losing his mind.

  But you’re so wet, and he’s so gone.

  Each soft moan that slips from your lips draws another shaky exhale from him, each roll of your hips a crack in his control.

  He tries to keep it measured. Gentle.

  But then he hears you gasp his name, all broken and raw, and something inside him snaps.

  His pace quickens.

  He licks into you deeper, more desperate, tongue flicking, flattening, circling like he’s chasing a high that stubbornly runs just a step out of his reach. His nose brushes your clit and he doesn’t even think to pull back.

  He wants it all.

  You feel his moan against you, deep and wrecked, and you realize:

  Sieun isn’t composed anymore.

  He’s hungry.

  Possessed.

  And completely, unbearably devoted to the taste of you.

  You’re gasping now, each breath shallower than the last, and Sieun can feel you trembling beneath his palms.

  It spurs him on, wrecks him in ways he never knew were possible.

  His thumbs rub slow circles into your hips, as if to soothe you, steady you, but his mouth is relentless, nose tirelessly working into your nub. His tongue is languid one moment, then firmer the next, lapping through your folds with aching, focused precision, memorizing all that makes you fall apart.

  You roll into a nimble arch, head tipping back, and your thighs quiver where they rest over his shoulders.

  “Sieun—” you whimper.

  His name breaks in your throat, and that’s what crumbles him.

  He groans into you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core as he licks you harder now, deeper, more rhythmic, mouth coaxing you right to the edge, right to the place he’s been aching to take you.

  His hands are cradling your hips now, keeping you spread open, helpless, vulnerable, his.

  And then he whispers it, barely audible, a prayer into your skin.

  “Come for me.”

  Your breath catches.

  “Let me taste all of you,” he mumbles again, like he’s asking for divinity, like your pleasure is holy.

  And when you finally do, when your body tenses and your thighs clamp tight around his head and that beautiful cry of his name leaves your lips, Sieun doesn’t stop.

  He groans into you, licking you through it, drinking it in like he’s never tasted something more sacred.

  Like he’s never belonged more to anything—anyone—than he does to you in this moment.

  And even after the tremors still, even when you’re limp and gasping and glowing beneath him, he keeps kissing you softly, as if he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

  As if this is how he says I’ve wanted you like this forever.

  You’re still panting when he pulls back, lips slick and pink, eyes hooded and blown wide with awe. He looks stunned. Disheveled. Like a man undone by worship.

  But you, squirming and aching and desperate to have all of him, manage to find your voice.

  “Sieun,” you whisper, reaching for him. Your fingers trail along his jaw, coaxing him up until he’s hovering over you again. “I want more.”

  His breath hitches.

  Your palm slides over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his ribs. “I want you inside me.”

  Sieun stills completely.

  And then his eyes close, jaw tightening as if your words alone could undo the last shreds of his composure.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough with disbelief.

  He kisses you, not hard, not hurried, but slow and deep, like it’s all he can do to keep from losing control. You savour the heady taste of your slick coating his lips. He presses his forehead to yours, and mutters shakily, “One second.”

  You watch as he reaches for the drawer beside his bed and pulls out a condom from the crumpled blue box Hu-min had shoved at him weeks ago with a stupid grin and no explanation.

  He’d meant to throw them out. He hadn’t.

  He tears the foil open with controlled fingers and slides his flannels and boxers off his body, finally bearing himself free.

  He’s thick, flushed, already leaking from the tip. He hisses under his breath as he rolls the condom on, fingers twitching like he’s barely holding it together.

  When he settles between your thighs, eyes drowning in your sight, the air changes.

  Gone is the boy who’s too quiet, too closed off, too powered from the urge of indignation.

  What remains is Sieun drowned in passion, eyes wide and dreamy and dazed by the sight of you spread open for him, the warmth of your body beckoning his own.

  “You sure?” he asks again, voice almost too tender.

  You nod, pulling him down into a kiss, and guide him with a soft whisper, “Yes. Please, Sieun. I want all of you.”

  He exhales shakily.

  Then he lines himself just beyond your heat, and with a leisurely push of his hips, he slides inside.

  You both gasp.

  You’re hot and wet and hug onto his inching cock, and he sinks in like he’s always meant to belong there. 

  “God—” he grits, arms quavering on either side of you as he tries not to lose it too fast, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

  “You’re…” His voice cracks. “So good. So—gosh, I don’t—”

  You wrap your legs around him, anchoring him to you, and moan when he rocks forward again, deeper this time. You feel everything, every inch, every pulse, every lazed drag.

  He starts slow, shallow, testing your fit, his own restraint. His hips roll into yours with a tender kind of ache, like he’s afraid to break you, like each inch of him inside you is a miracle he can’t fully comprehend.

  But your body answers with desperate softness, clinging to him like silk caught in wind. You tilt your hips, chasing more friction, and whimper at the way his cock presses deeper, fuller, perfectly where you need him.

  Sieun moans, a sound so broken and quiet it nearly guts you.

  “Please,” you breathe, clutching at his back, your voice hitching with each movement. “Don’t hold back.”

  His jaw clenches. His eyes flutter shut.

  And then he moves deeper, hips rocking into you with a fluid rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your legs tighten around him.

  The friction is delicious. The stretch, overwhelming yet cosmic.

  Sieun presses closer, burying his face further into your neck, panting softly against your skin.

  “You’re so—” He chokes on a groan as your walls flutter around him. “You feel unreal.”

  You drag your nails lightly down his spine, whispering back between moans.

  He fucks into you slowly, like it’s sacred. Each thrust is a vow, a prayer, an unraveling. His hands are everywhere—one gripping your thigh to anchor you to him, the other cradling your jaw like you’re too precious to let go.

  Your body sings for him. You meet each movement with your own, hips rising to greet him, rolling and shifting to take him deeper, to keep him close.

  Your moans mingle with his gasps, the heat between you building with every thrust, until there’s nothing left of restraint, only the desperate, languid drag of two bodies finding rhythm in devotion.

  Sieun lifts his head to look at you—really look—and what he sees makes his hips stutter.

  Your face, flushed and shining, lips parted, still pink and swollen, eyes glassy with bliss and admiration.

  You’re breathtaking. And right now, you were his.

  He moans again, broken and stunned, and leans down to kiss you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t, slow, messy, teeth grazing lips, all while his hips begin to move faster, harder, chasing something he’s never dared imagine before you.

  Your bodies are slick with heat and need, the world around you reduced to nothing but the way he fits, the way he fills, the way he worships you with every thrust.

  Sieun is whispering your name like a lifeline, like it’s the only word he knows, murmured into the skin of your throat, your jaw, your lips, as if it can tether him to reality while he teeters on the edge of something vast and consuming.

  “You feel so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse and reverent. “So perfect—you’re perfect.”

  Your back arches, body shuddering as he angles his hips just right, deep and slow and precise, hitting that spot inside you that makes gush over his length.

  Your moans turn high and breathless, desperate.

  “Sieun—” you gasp, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “I’m close—oh god—”

  He knows. 

  He feels it, the way you start to flutter and squeeze around him, the way your breaths collapse into whimpers. And even through the haze of his own rising pleasure, Sieun slows down just enough to draw it out for you, to feel every quivering second of it.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispers, breath stuttering. “Come, please.”

  And you do.

  It rushes over you in waves—white-hot, pulsing, unstoppable—your climax washing through your entire body with a strangled moan, your limbs tightening, your voice shaking as you cry out his name.

  Sieun swears under his breath, something desperate and soft, and then he loses it.

  The way you clamp around him, slick, pulsing, so warm, is all it takes to send him spiraling. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, muscles trembling as the pressure finally breaks. He groans, deep and guttural, and spills into the condom with a few last shallow thrusts, his whole body curling into yours like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together.

  And when it’s over, when the tremors in both your bodies begin to subside and your chests press together in exhausted, blissful rhythm, he stays. 

  Buried in you, breathless, consumed. His forehead pressed to yours, his lashes fluttering, lips ghosting your cheek.

  And finally, his lips quirk at the corners, gracing his features with a small, gentle smile.

  Because he decides he won’t be washing his shorts.

  And he thinks he’ll get you to ruin another pair when you bring your laptop over for him under the guise of fixing it again.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  i decided for a soft, feral rendition of sieun’s university au. this will be the last weak hero fic i write before i move onto skz and atz! need more? you can read hyuntak’s version over here  ⌯⌲  smart girl

───── how do we feel about starting a taglist?

© chanifesto

[magical-reid]

Hi I’m sorry to bother but I wanted to know if you have read or seen a fic with Bucky and he has a girlfriend he hasn’t told anyone about but him, nat and Sam so they meet her

I'm not the best person to ask for recommendations, but I'll make you what you're looking for! I hope you like it!

Secrets and Surprises

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 900

Summary: Bucky has been keeping his relationship with you a secret from most of the team, only confiding in Sam and Nat. But when the truth finally comes out, it’s not at all how he imagined.

You stretch up on your tiptoes, reaching for a coffee mug from the top shelf in Bucky's apartment. The morning light filters in through the kitchen window, casting soft shadows on the floor. Just as your fingers graze the handle, you feel a pair of strong hands settle on your waist, pulling you gently against a broad chest.

“Morning, doll.” His voice is husky with sleep, and you feel the warmth of his breath against the side of your temple as his lips brush lightly over your skin.

You smile softly, turning to face him. “Morning,” you murmur, your fingers still on the mug as you give him a teasing smile. “I was going to bring you coffee in bed.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam with mischief as he leans casually against the counter, his arms folding across his chest. “Sweet of you, but you know I can’t stay in bed when you’re up.”

You roll your eyes playfully and hand him his mug. “You’re too soft for me, Barnes.”

He lets out a chuckle, his usual steel-hard exterior slipping as his gaze softens. “And you love it.”

It’s true. There’s something endearing about seeing the once-feared Winter Soldier, a man who had faced battles that would break most people, now wrapped around your finger. But it still made you laugh, watching him melt in ways only you had seen.

As you’re about to tease him more about it, his phone buzzes on the counter. Bucky glances down at it, and his expression falls slightly.

“What’s up?” you ask, sensing the sudden shift in his mood.

“The team. Steve’s calling a meeting.”

You arch an eyebrow, setting the coffee pot down. “You gonna tell them about me?”

Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression is conflicted, but not out of shame. It’s more complicated than that. After everything he’s been through, he wanted something untouched by scrutiny, a part of his life just for him. He’d only let Sam and Nat in on the secret—because, well, they weren’t easily fooled.

“I will,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a hint of regret. “Soon.”

You nod, your heart understanding his need for space. You’re not in any rush to share this with the world.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, the day unfolds in a way you never anticipated. You're sitting at your favorite café, sipping your latte, when your phone buzzes with a text from Sam.

Sam: Come to the compound. Trust me.

You furrow your brow, looking at the message. Sam was never cryptic without a reason.

Without hesitation, you gather your things and head to the Avengers Compound, curiosity gnawing at you. When you arrive, FRIDAY greets you smoothly, letting you in without question. That’s a red flag in itself—Bucky must’ve given her clearance to let you in.

As soon as you step into the common room, a silence hits. The entire team is there, staring at you.

Natasha’s smirking, her arms crossed, while Sam’s wearing a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat’s. And Bucky... Bucky looks like he’s about to burst into flames, his face turning slightly red as he meets your gaze.

“Uh…” you start awkwardly, shifting on your feet. “Hi?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, his expression shifting from confusion to suspicion. “You have a girlfriend?”

Wanda’s jaw is slightly dropped, and Tony raises an eyebrow. “I thought Bucky was sneaking out for midnight brooding walks… but no, turns out he’s been sneaking out to you?”

Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Okay, before anyone starts—yes, we’re together. Yes, I was going to tell you all. No, I didn’t because…”

“Because he’s a secretive little punk,” Sam cuts in, clearly enjoying the moment.

Bucky glares at him. “Not helping, Wilson.”

You suppress a laugh, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “So… surprise?”

Natasha leans back, a satisfied grin on her face. “About time you met them. I was getting tired of being the only one who knew.”

Clint raises a hand. “I have one question. Why were we left out?”

You glance at Bucky, who shrugs sheepishly. “Didn’t want you all scaring her off.”

Tony gasps dramatically, hand over his heart. “Us? Intimidating?”

You snicker, shaking your head. “Maybe just a little.”

The room erupts into overlapping conversations, questions firing off from all directions. How long have you been together? How did you meet? Why the hell did Bucky think he could keep a secret like this from a team of superheroes?

Bucky pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around you, a sign of both protection and reassurance. “Guess the secret’s out.”

You grin up at him, squeezing his hand. “Told you they’d find out eventually.”

Sam slaps Bucky on the back with exaggerated force, clearly enjoying the drama. “Man, you really thought you could keep a secret from us? Rookie mistake.”

Bucky groans in frustration, but you just laugh, feeling more at home with these people than you expected.

This definitely wasn’t how you envisioned meeting the Avengers. But looking around, at Bucky, at all these people who had been through so much and yet still felt like family—this was perfect.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Late Night

Pairing: Dark Hawks x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female Reader

SUMMARY: Keigo hates threatning you - only when necessary.

WARNINGS: Implied Kidnapping; Threats.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

–

"Hey, c'mon, don't cry..." 

He tries, tentatively reaching with a hand but instantly stopping at the abrupt increase of your sobbing. 

"Y/n? Babe, pretty please..." he sighs, rubbing his tired eyes, "Let's just go to sleep, yeah? It’s getting late and I have to wake early tomorrow."

"Leave me alone." you howl the words out, as if you're a wounded dog. You feel like one, to be fair. Bunched up in a corner of this huge room, face contorted as you cry ugly tears and snot. 

It's only been a week since you were taken from the comfort of your life, and you still can't stop the aching pain that burns your heart whenever you think about it. 

During the day, it’s slightly more manageable to pretend that it’s fine, that you’ll eventually escape him, that everything will be fine.

But as soon as the dark cast of the night hits, it’s like all the overwhelming weight of sad reality starts to wear you down. 

You’re so tired of him. You just wanna go home and hide underneath the safety of your blankets. 

“Babe….”

Keigo sighs once again, leaning back at the adjacent beige wall as he runs his fingers through the blonde hair. 

"Hate to ask, but any chance you can speed this up? Not to the part where you relentlessly beg to go home, to which I'll say no - obviously." Keigo says with such normality as if he’s asking you to turn the lights off.

"Also not the part where you cry your pretty eyes out for another 20 minutes, yell shitty things, threaten me, and so goes on…”

You gulp, with a new batch of tears forming as he tilts his head to the side, lips curling into a half-smile as if your despair amuses him. 

“... but yes to the part where you finally shut up with the hysteria and we go to bed.”

You tearfully glare at him, indignation flaring up at his nonchalant words. 

“I hate you. You kidnapped me!" you continue, half-choking in your own tears, hoping the hatred and anger in your face is enough to show him just how much you hate him. “I hate you!” 

Keigo dismissively shrugs his shoulders, despite the new tension in his jaw as he glances at his wrist watch. 

“I’m not the bad guy here, babe.” 

“You-” 

“If I was the bad guy…” he interrupts you, an unpleasant glint in his eyes showing that deep your words didn’t sit right with him. “...right now I’d be punching a hole into your pretty face for being such a brat. Or maybe I’d be ripping your tongue out with my bare hands, so you won’t speak bullshit like that. Maybe you’d like that better?” 

Your eyes widen at that, body freezing as fear takes control of you. 

For most times Keigo is laid-back and chill, but times like these are the ones that remind you that he’s just as dangerous as a villain is. He could easily hurt or even kill you within seconds, and there was nothing your quirkless ass could do to stop him.

You are at his mercy, much like you’ve always been ever since he took you. 

You hate how helpless you feel. 

Keigo notices your mortified reaction and walks closer, crouching in front of you. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you, babe.” he says with a jovial tone. “But I really need you to behave, ‘kay?”

His hand elevates and he ignores your flinch as he brushes away a few tears. 

“Enough with the tears, you’re too pretty to be cryin’ like that.” he smiles, hand lowering to grab your forearm.

He stands up, pulling you with him towards the bed. 

“Now, let’s go get our beauty sleep.”  

[konigslittleliebling]

## LITTLE PUP.

enjoy this little piece while cherry’s next chapter is still in editing 💌

table of contents; time jumps (s1, 4 + 8), reader is iconic after the time skip, sexual tension, mentions of rape but literally just the word, possibly triggering language, use of a pet name, age gap (but your age isn’t specified), you’re a snow but not physically described, eventual p in v, hate-fucking, sub(ish) sandor, cum-dumping, brief mentions of bleeding, honestly i can’t be arsed to list everything so mdni please.

a/n; idk what trope this is. i think i invented a new one cause you literally hate each other.

the halls of the red keep are like mazes to you. they like to go on forever, curling back on themselves but still somehow taking you in opposite directions. it seems to you that the targaryens were spindlers of bricks; weaving and spinning a cobweb of pillars and towers that seem to pierce the sun and cast shadows on the sky.

the north is so simple and you miss that. but here, you are lost.

you stumble upon a dead end. you swear your chambers are on this floor, they certainly were yesterday. or did you take a wrong turn? the winding stairs, the long stroll through a high-rising courtyard, then more stairs, then another long stroll. . . where on earth have you ended up? this corridor looks familiar, or do they all look the same? you don’t recall.

“lost again are we, pup?”

you swivel at the voice, almost knocking over a rather expensive looking vase. the queen’s dog. he always appears when you least need for it, like he tracks you when you’re at your most vulnerable. sniffing for your confounded scent.

“no,” you tell him, gasping when your back hits the wall. “and stop calling me that.”

he sniggers, sauntering closer. “i think the little pup has lost her way.”

you take a ponderous swallow, the weight of it dragging down your throat. “i am not lost.” he half expects you to stamp your feet. “go away, leave me alone.”

his smirk doesn’t waver, and his large frame continues to draw closer. his size casts a shadow that stretches ahead of him, carpeting the hallway with a dreadful umbra. it shades you, engulfing you in its darkness. you swallow again, harder this time, and you hear a grim chuckle which tells you he must’ve heard it.

“the queen sent for you.”

you stand a little straighter, hoping he cannot see the way you shudder in his presence. he’s almost reached you now, heavy boots ringing against the floor.

“i will make my own way.”

a low, gravelly laugh booms from his steel-plated chest and you cave in at the husk of it. “you don’t know where she is.”

“is she in the throne room?” you implore, meek.

you can smell his musk now. sweat, ale and flesh. “do you know how to get there from here?”

you falter and peer out of the window with a desperate sidelong glance. all you see is sky. “how did you find me?” you interrogate, snapping your gaze back to his encroaching soma. he’s nearing you. the hall seemed longer when you were alone but somehow his imposing stride has claimed it in short succession.

“i was waiting for you,” he rasps, his dark eyes more hooded than usual. “in your chambers.”

you frown, yelping when your back hits the wall again. you hadn’t even realised you were backing away.

“but you never came.” he’s in front of you now, large hand finding purchase at the bricks beside your head. “i thought maybe you’d taken a wrong turn.” he pushes himself from the wall slightly so his view of your body is a little clearer. his eyes rake it from top to toe, hovering at your chest before returning to your face. he smiles, crooked. “i caught up to you a few wrong turns ago.”

“why didn’t you stop me?” you find your voice again, and the question comes out sharper than intended. his expression hardens and you shrink into yourself.

“the little pup forgets herself.” he drawls, trapping the thin flesh of his lower lip between two teeth.

“i can talk to you how i like. you’re not a ser, you’ve said so yourself.” your tone shocks you — you’re not sure from where you’re finding such confidence.

a gritty chuckle slips through the lopsided crook of his smirk, eyes seemingly darker than before. “pup is relying too much on my forbearance.”

“i’m not a pup,” you tell him, tilting your head high. “i’m a lady.”

“you’re a bastard.” he spits, almost hatefully. “your mother was a wench or a common whore or both, no doubt with an arse full of custard and tits like saucers.”

you do well to handle his words, allowing them to bounce right off you with stoic ease. “would you rather the term woman?”

“aye,” he shifts on his feet, intense stare sinking below the realms of your comfort. “you’ve bled, then?”

suddenly a sickening befalls you. “. . . no.”

he adjusts his stance again, but this time his eyes remain focused on yours. “that so?”

you opt for silence. it’s thick and deafening.

he takes note of your pause, nodding. “late bloomer?”

“i suppose.” you lie, shuffling awkwardly as you lower your head.

he hums, bowing his head again to soak you in. “but these have bloomed.” his armour clinks when he raises an arm, finger pointed to your cleavage.

you berate yourself, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “they haven’t, not entirely. it is just the corset.”

the hand that previously gestured to your chest travels to your middle where it pinches, cupping your side. you jump, the cool kiss of his gauntlet shocking you through your silk. “you’re not wearing a corset.” he squeezes your waist once, then lets his hand drop.

hot tears start to well in your eyes and you become weak at the knees, leaning back against the wall for balance. “please—”

“they’re well-rounded for a girl who hasn’t yet bloomed,” he speaks lowly, leaning down. “tell me, pup. what babe do these intend to feed if you have not bled?”

“i don’t know,” you mumble, trying not to cry. “the body can work in mysterious ways.”

he lets out a crass, dry chuckle. it’s vicious and forced. “i thought you were a woman.”

you sigh deeply, expelling it from your nose. he’s laid down the foundations of a trap and you stumble straight upon it. “i am. i’m a woman who does not wish to be raped.”

then something in his face shifts, like a switch has been flipped. you heave out a breath, anchoring yourself to the wall.

but he does nothing, only looks down at your cowering figure with pitiful disgust. “i’m not a raper.”

“of course, you are. that’s just your kind.” you spit, regaining your confidence. “it’s in your nature.”

“my kind? i’m no knight, pup. meryn trant beats helpless girls so i’d wager he’s raped his fair share, too. but i only take pleasure from drawing blood with steel.” he talks through his teeth, his shoulder-length hair falling between the two of you like curtains.

“you’re still a man,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you’re all the same. my mother always told me to assume every man means to hurt me, because most of them will.”

a sort of sadness or something similar dashes across his features and for a second you believe the hound, one of westeros’ most feared men, might actually be capable of empathy. then his eyes turn back to their usual sourness and your face stares back at you in their reflection.

“if you live by that rule, you will get hurt, pup.” he returns to his full height, taking one step back. “to assume the worst is no way to survive.”

“you’re a hateful man,” you tell him. “that’s why you’re so at home here.”

“you’ll be thankful for my hate when a time comes that trant or worse gets their hands on you, and believe me, there is far worse than trant.” he leans close again. “but he’s no man, and he’s less of a knight than me.”

you fidget under his stare, cringing when his hot breath licks at your neck.

“and here’s another token of wisdom, don’t ever fight back, ‘cause then you’re showing him how strong you are.” he retracts from you, still smirking. “and they’ll always be stronger than you.”

you consider him for a fleeting moment, your apprehension beginning to dwindle. “the queen will be wondering where i am.”

you push past him. he does not follow you this time.

“you’re dying.” you speak the words monotonously, dead-faced and bleak.

he grunts, dragging himself up the cliff side. his weight slips down again and he growls, clutching at his leg where a spur of bone spears through its skin. “aye, unless there’s a maester hiding behind that rock, i’m done.”

you ought to swish your skirts and do a pirouette, this is the best thing that’s happened to you for some time. “killed by a woman,” you smirk, watching him struggle. “you’ve no idea the joy that brings me.”

“i’m not dead yet.” he groans, clenching his teeth as blood continues to seep from his wounds. “but if you’d like to hurry things along, i won’t stop you.”

“i’d rather you went slowly.” you deadpan, kneeling beside him. his injuries are grisly, and if they don’t take him soon, mountain lions or vultures will.

“you’re a bitter little bitch aren’t you, pup?” even now he can still muster irritancy. “all these months, i’ve kept you fed and watered, and this is the thanks i get.”

“i didn’t ask you to do any of it.” you remind him, making yourself comfortable whilst he moans in agony. “i’m only here cause you wanted a woman to keep you in warm company.”

“and you’ve not even been good for that.” he rasps, glancing over at you. “i should’ve had you the night of the blackwater. yeah. . . i should’ve fucked you bloody.”

before, a statement like that would’ve rocked you. now you feel nothing. “not a raper, he says.”

“i should’ve fucking raped you.” he spits, then lets out a throaty groan when the soil beneath him shifts, causing his leg to move.

“i know what you’re trying to get me to do,” you stand, looking down at him. he lets out a whimperish sound and it delights you. “i’m not going to end your suffering. killing you would be a mercy.”

“you know you want to.” he taunts, big brown eyes gazing up at you. he almost looks soft. “how many times have you thought about it?”

“oh, i want nothing more.” you crouch down and reach for his belt, plucking the bag of silver that was fastened to it. he goes for you out of instinct, trying to swipe the bag. “you won’t be needing this.”

and you step over him, gravel crunching beneath your feet as you make haste to catch up to the tall woman.

“kill me.” he pleads, armour chinking against the ground. “kill me!”

you leave him there, leaving his fate to the gods. or the mountain lions. it doesn’t make a difference to you.

last night was long but the north prevailed. arya stark killed the night king, and with him, his army of fallen soldiers finally fell again.

you stand next to sansa stark, a dear childhood friend. around you, people celebrate the victory over mead, stew and women. theon greyjoy and lyanna mormont were lost to the battle, amongst many others. their losses weigh heavy, and it’s obvious that people are finding comfort at the bottom of an alehorn.

a little ways ahead, at an empty table, sits the man you left for dead; a jug to himself, and two empty bowls. “i left him to die.”

from your peripheral you see her head turn rather sharply. “who?”

“sandor clegane.” you tell her, his name leaving an aftertaste worse than the strongest wine in your mouth. it almost feels like vulgarity to speak it. “he begged me to kill him, i didn’t.”

“sandor clegane begged you to kill him? you lost me at the word ‘begged’.” she snorts, sipping from her cup.

you smile. it would sound pretty alien to somebody who wasn’t there. “he was already dying, he just wanted me to end it quickly.”

sansa nods. “why didn’t you?”

you finally tear your eyes from the man, blind to your gaze. “do you remember how much you loathed joffrey?”

she nods a yes.

“when he was dying, had he asked you to finish him and spare him the misery of death, would you have?”

she’s silent, then shakes her head no.

you turn back to him, and a pair of brown eyes glare back at you. your heart lurches and you harden your stare, lifting your cup to take a drink.

“he’s seen you.” sansa murmurs, hiding her mouth behind her cup. “i assume you have not spoken.”

“no,” you swig generously from your wine, then pass her your empty cup. “i intend to remedy that.”

he watches you approach, not blinking and unmoving. you settle down opposite him and take his alehorn from his grip, helping yourself to the jug. you pour what remains of it, then take a greedy slurp, deliberate and loud.

“i have a question.” you clear your throat and slide the empty alehorn back toward him. he catches it, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “are you immortal?”

“fucking hope not.” he gruffs, waving down a serving girl.

you smirk. “it’s just, i’m pretty certain i left you for imminent death.”

“aye, i hadn’t forgotten.” he grumbles, snatching a jug from the girl.

“and you survived the army of the dead.” you rest your chin in your palm. “it seems to me that you’re hard to rid of.”

“does that sadden you?” he asks, rhetorical.

“a little.” you humour.

he offers you another drink, you decline. “i hope you made use of that silver.”

“i made more use of it than you would have.”

he looks up at you and chuckles. “you’ve changed, little pup. it used to be you couldn’t look at me — out of fear, out of hatred.”

“i still hate you.” you smile, tilting your head. his gaze flits to follow yours. “but i’ve seen worse since you.”

he straightens in his seat, chewing at his lip. “been bedded yet?”

“as it so happens, i have.” you fold your arms. you knew he’d bring it up eventually.

“broken in rough, were you?”

you squint at him, jaw ticking. “does it matter?”

he holds your hard stare for a second. “no.”

what you don’t tell him, is that it was him who you dreamt of the night you were taken.

when you knocked on his door, which took courage and much of it, you didn’t wait long enough for it to open and started to take your leave.

“little pup,” he leaned against the doorframe. “come to finally finish me?”

“something like that.”

what a sight, you twitching and writhing above him in the low candlelight. his massive palms curve around your rolling hips where they squeeze, anchoring you to his crotch.

he’s gained weight since you last saw him, his stomach soft with pudge. his thighs make for thick cushioning under your hind and you mewl, fingers nipping at his belly as he drags your clit against the salt and pepper curls at his cock’s base.

a man of his size would be well-endowed, wouldn’t he? the guy is hung like a horse, and the moment you speared yourself onto him it felt as though you were being ruined for the first time again.

you like him like this. for one, this is the longest he’s gone without imprecating you. but mostly, you’re in control for once.

and he looks devastating beneath you. a crude sheen coats his cheeks and forehead, glistening against the uneven surface of his scar. his brows are furrowed, pupils blown to the point his eyes look black, and his nostrils flare with each staggered gasp for breath.

a groan rips from his throat, raw and croaky. the wiry hairs of his chest seem to stand to attention, soaking the cotton of his undershirt. sweat catches in the stubble of his thick neck, teeth gritted in a snarl.

your hips stutter at the sight of him, snapping wildly. his hands alternate between bouncing and grinding you down onto him, skin slapping skin and the stench of sex filling the room.

the gape of your cunt as she stretches to accommodate him is immense and it aches beautifully, clinging to him like a sheath would a sword. every so often he knocks against your cervix, jolting you above him. you allow a moan to escape you, nails cutting into his chub.

with ease he’s able to reach around your waist with two large hands, guiding you along every ridge and vein. he flexes inside of you as you fuck yourself on his cock, pulsating around him.

nothing about it is loving or caressive or attentive. he won’t rock his hips or make effort to please you. he hasn’t kissed you or asked how you like it and only touches you when your pace slows. he seldom even makes a noise.

all it is, is two people chasing the same thing. a good fuck.

and gods, is it good. raw and ravenous and filthy. tooth and claw.

a frantic pant bursts from your lungs and you rut against him like something animalistic has taken you. intense pleasure starts to blossom in your stomach and your back arches, then a warm hand cups the back of your neck where it tilts your head down, forcing you to look where you’re connected.

“you’re fucking falling apart.” he drawls, slurred. you jerk away from his grip, shoving him away so he falls back into the pillows with a lazy grin.

all those years of pent up hatred, brewing and festering, igniting ever fibre of your beings, finally erupts when you both go rigid. you stiffen atop him, mouth falling open into a silent scream. a low growl reverberates through him and you feel it in your core, his fingers biting into your thighs as he dumps his load within you.

he twitches and you groan, lifting yourself off him and collapsing onto the mattress. your pussy aches at the sudden loss, your loins sore and burning. you peer down at the stickiness between your thighs and the red that curdles with the cream.

a grating chuckle irks you then and you sit up, scanning the room for something to clean yourself with.

“so i got to fuck you bloody after all.”

“i fucked myself bloody,” you grumble, rising on quivering legs. “you just laid there.”

“aye,” he watches you, amused. “and still you struggle to walk.”

“it’s been a while.” you parrot back, wincing as you wipe yourself with a spare sheet.

“no wonder you didn’t kill me,” he carries on, eyes closed and arms crossed. “i knew you wanted it as much as me.”

you scoff at that. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“i don’t need flattery when it’s my seed that drips from your cunt, little pup.”

“i’m no pup.”

“no, of course not. you’re a little bitch.”

“you’re learning.”

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

hii, can I request a ninth member fic where the reader is on live and gets comment saying that she should kill herself or leave the group? maybe she’s like oh yeah haha maybe I should and acts fine but likes it’s obvious she’s not. and like the boys are watching the live and are like frick no. (can she be aged between Felix and seungmin js so that it’s like she’s younger than most)

Sorry for such the late response!!!

You started the live like any other night - too tired to think straight, too loyal to Stay to skip it.

The camera lit up in your bedroom, the soft fairy lights casting a golden blur behind your head.

You were still in your dance hoodie, bangs a little damp with sweat, sleeves pulled over your fingers. You offered the lens a soft smile and waved.

“Hi, loves,” you whispered, voice hoarse from practice. “I missed you all.”

Comments rushed in instantly - fast, excited, familiar. You leaned closer to read them, smile softening as usernames you recognized flew past.

“she’s glowing even in low light 😭” “queen of killing me with one look” “what did you eat today 🥺 tell usss” "how does she look so majestic even when shes tired" "ONE CHANCE PLEASE ONE CHANCE" "she makes me question my sexuality" "did you eat anything yummy today?"

You laughed a little. “Does electrolyte water count? I forgot to eat until, like, fifteen minutes ago, but my water was lemon flavored.”

You leaned closer to the camera as you placed both your hands around your warm mug, answering comments softly.

"A lot of you are talking about exam season. I hope you guys are studying well."

Heart emojis exploded in response. You settled back against your pillows, sipping tea, doing your best to focus on the warmth in the chat - not the emptiness in your chest.

It had been going on for a few weeks now. After a Princes and Princess themed photoshoot, where you took swoon worthy romantic pictures with not just one, but all the boys, hate had started to become very obvious.

It wasn't like there was anything of the sort going on. The people at the magazine just wanted something to stir up publicity.

But it also stirred up an already wavering fanbase.

Your last-minute addition to Stray Kids debut lineup a long while ago had taken some getting used to for a lot of Stay who had followed them pre-debut. Years later and some people still viewed your position in the group as odd. And one silly photoshoot seemed to backtrack any progress you had made with the fans.

You had been used to seeing hate when you had stalked the web with your fake account.

But it had never been as bad as it had been now.

You tried to shake that feeling, take another sip of tea-

Then it hit.

A comment so sharp, so immediate, it felt like your stomach dropped through the floor.

“you should just kill yourself and stop embarrassing the rest of skz. no one wants you here anyway.”

You froze mid-sip. The mug clinked too hard when you set it down.

You stared at the screen - not even blinking - until your face started to go numb, you could tell your cheeks were painted pink.

“Oh,” you said, too softly. “Wow.” You swallowed. "Chat is getting a little spicy, no?"

You laughed. A little. Just once. But couldn't help see the other comments that agreed with it.

Then you tilted your head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Well…maybe they’ve got a point,” you said lightly. “Maybe I should leave. It's not like I haven't thought about it before. Just a matter of whether or not its permanent.” You gave another laugh, not even sure why you felt the need to add that on.

The comments hadn't been affecting you that harshly...had they?

As you zoned out and ran through what you said once more you realized that-

Yeah. Maybe they had been. For too long too. Like some sort of erosion. Slowly chipping away at me, but unnoticeably until a strong gust of wind showed me just how deep these things had dug down to...

The chat stalled for a second - long enough for some fans to panic, for others to laugh, for a few to flood the screen with

NO NO NO STOP what did she just say?? wait what happened?? someone translate is she okay?

But you waved it off.

“I’m kidding,” you said, voice too high, too smooth, too practiced. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

You kept going - talked about music, a new movie you wanted to see, made a joke about Lee Know being the your food police- but something in you had already curled up and gone quiet.

You ended the live with a heart and a too-bright smile.

“Love you,” you said. “Be safe, okay?”

And the moment the screen went black, your smile cracked clean in half.

Somewhere away from you they were already watching.

The boys had gathered all together in Chan's dorm to watch your live. They saw you as family, and like the 8 supportive brothers they were, they had to see what you talked about. Joking and placing bets on who you'd throw under the bus this week, what embarrassing little secret you'd laugh about, what had been your favorite memory you had created since last speaking with Stay.

The second you said those words - soft and sarcastic and deadly - Chan’s heart had dropped.

“Go back, can you go back?” he said, standing up.

"It's a live Hyung, of course we can't." Jisung murmured, itching his hand in nervousness.

Seungmin was already reaching for his phone on the other side of the room, planning to call you. Hyunjin sat up slowly, blinking at the TV screen like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“She didn’t mean that,” Jeongin said, quiet. “Right?”

“She's not the type to say it to be funny,” Felix whispered. “She meant it.”

“She’s still alone at the company, right?” Changbin was already on his feet, grabbing a hoodie. “I’m calling the manager.”

“No,” Chan said. “No calls. We’re going. Now.”

The studio was quiet.

You hadn’t moved since the live ended. The laptop sat closed on your desk. A mahogany one Hyunjin said fit the aesthetic of your mini studio. Paired with a futon you sometimes crashed on. Also, courtesy if Hyunjin. Your mug of tea was still half-full, forgotten. You sat on your swivel chair, your knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves bunched around your fists, staring at the dark screen like it might answer the question you couldn’t voice:

Why does it hurt this much?

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even breathe too hard. You just sat there, hollowed out by the weight of something you couldn’t name.

You didn’t hear the frantic knocking. Or the bang of Changbin and Chris' shoulders into the door, more or less breaking the lock.

You didn’t hear the footsteps, the whispered voices, the way someone dropped keys on the floor in their rush to get to you.

You only looked up when someone wrapped their arms around you, the familiar smell of vanilla extract and laundry detergent jumpstarting you.

You peeked out from over Felix's embrace, Chan the first one you noticed, face pale, shoulders tense, still in the doorway. Behind him were the rest of your members. Your family.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can we come in?”

You opened your mouth to say yes, but nothing came out.

So he stepped in anyway.

And they followed.

They moved you over to the futon, Hyunjin sitting at the edge, Seungmin dropped onto the floor, Han and Jeongin hovering near your desk, the first one's chin quivering, the latter's eyes watery. Minho and Changbin joining Seungmin on the ground and Chan embracing you along with Felix.

Felix sat next to you, his hand brushing yours.

“Why didn’t you call one of us?” he asked, voice so gentle it nearly broke you.

You looked away. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Y/N,” Chan said, soft but firm. “You said you should leave. On live. With thousands of people watching.”

“I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t,” Seungmin said. “We know your voice better than that.”

Silence.

"I'm fine-"

"Noona, you won't hurt yourself will you." The heaviness that followed Jeongin's watery voice told you all you needed to know about how to answer that heavy question. You looked up and saw his fox like guys looking at you expectantly, a heartbroken pout on his lips.

And then it cracked.

“I’m just so tired,” you cried. “Of pretending. Of acting like all the hate doesn’t get to me.” You shook in Felix and Chan's embrace, Felix crying along with you.

Which then propelled Han into water works as well.

“You could have told us,” Han said through his sobs launching himself haphazardly at you somehow managing to knee Minho in the chin. "You're our baby." He said petting your head. "We're horrible fathers." He cried. "Horrible."

You knew you were hurting when you couldn't even manage a laugh at Seungmin's response to Han's dramatics.

“I don’t want to be the reason we get hate. I don’t want fans to leave because I’m in the group. I already get told every day that I’m just here to ruin it and it seems like it's just getting worse-”

“Then they’re not fans,” Hyunjin snapped, placing his hand on your knee, or doing his best to as Jisung was still laid over you. “They don’t get to call themselves Stay if they treat you like that.”

You blinked, startled at his sharp tone.

“He's right.” Seungmin said, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. “You’re not some extra. You’re my noona. You taught me how to harmonize. And held my hand during our first concert even if I told you not too. You- you...you were the first person who made me realize my smile was beautiful because even if people hated it, it was born from countless memories with you."

Jeongin spoke next. "You're my noona too. You were the first person to call me talented when I thought I wasn’t. The first one who told the world I was more then just a cute face or a spoiled maknae. You made me realize what it truly meant to believe in myself.”

You opened your mouth - and then closed it, because what do you say to that? You tried blinking away your tears and then Minho spoke.

"You’ve always been the one holding all of us together," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "You cheer for us when no one else does. You see the things we don’t even notice about ourselves. It’s about time someone saw you, too."

Changbin’s hand reached for yours.

“You make this group better,” he said. “More complete. I don’t even want to imagine Stray Kids without you. And I won’t.. None of us will.”

Felix sighed. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to quit? How many times I thought I was dragging everyone down?”

You looked at him. He nodded.

“I may seem happy. We all may seem happy but we struggle to. And then you come around. And you smile. And we stay.”

You choked on a breath.

“We’re a team,” Chan said with finality. “We rise together. We fall together. And if you ever - ever - feel like disappearing again…”

He paused. Voice thick.

“Take me with you.”

You stared.

“All of us,” Minho added. “If you go, we go. That’s how this works.”

Something cracked inside your chest.

And then, finally- finally - you broke completely and utterly.

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, and your face crumpled as you tried to bite it back. But all the guys were already jumping into the embrace, 8 strong arms keeping you steady, 8 sets of tears being added to your own.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

They just held you - as if their touch alone could glue the pieces of you that you hadn't even noticed were breaking back together.

And maybe it could.

The night was long. None of them left your studio.

When you finally slept - curled under three blankets Seungmin had finessed from a storage room and two members - your last thought was that maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay.

But the next morning, when you woke to bright fluorescents and shuffling of productive activities, you realized the dull ache behind your eyes still lingered, the pit in your stomach remained.

Until Chan quietly placed a warm mug in your hand and sat beside you.

“We’re going live,” he said, brushing your hair back with a gentle hand. “As a group. We’re going to talk about it. All of it."

You didn’t ask what "it" was. You knew.

You hesitated. “Should I be there?”

He smiled - not the leader-smile, the brotherly one. The one that showed up when you were hurting.

“No,” he said gently, still messing with your hair. “Not if it’ll hurt more. We’ve got this. You just rest okay? We'll get you something to eat and change into.”

You nodded, blinking too fast.

But deep down, you already knew you’d watch it live.

Later that afternoon, after you somehow found your way back to the dorms, you got the notification.

📢 [Stray Kids (9)] LIVE: A Message to Stay 💬

The chat exploded before the stream even began.

You watched from your bed, phone glowing in your palm, heart pounding.

When the screen lit up, the boys were seated tightly on the couch - all eight of them.

You found yourself chuckling.

Typical of them to not know what personal space is.

Although their usual chaos was gone.

This was serious.

And the chat seemed to pick up on it quickly.

Well, the majority of it at least.

A few familiar users seemed to be completley oblivious to the tone of the meeting.

Chan looked straight into the camera.

“Hi, Stay. We’re going to be really honest with you. You all know we joke a lot. We play around. But this isn’t that kind of live.”

He took a breath. "As most of you know, something happened during Y/N’s solo live yesterday. You probably saw it - or at least heard about it., as things tend to escalate rather quickly.”

"For those who don't know there was a comment. A really bad one. And it hurt her. Deeply. Ther have been multiple comments, and much hate going around.”

“And we’re here to make sure you understand that that is never okay.”

"Stray Kids debuted planned to debut as eight. Then became nine. That wasn’t a marketing move. That was a decision - one we made together.”

"We. Are. Nine."

The sharpness in his voice seemed to cease the majority of the comments in the chat. Some people scolding others, others saying they felt as if they were in trouble even if they didn't post any hate.

Felix spoke next.

“She didn’t audition to be loved by everyone. Not one of us did. But we are a family. And she is part of us. She makes us stronger. She works harder than anyone I know. And the idea that someone would tell her to-”

His voice cracked. He looked away for a second.

Chan took over once more. “There are thousands of comments. Most are positive. But sometimes it only takes one to destroy someone’s day. Or their outlook on things. Or..."

He swallowed. "Or worse."

He waited a moment before speaking again.

“If you're a Stay, you protect, not harm because that’s what fandom is supposed to be. A place to love each other and uplift."

“To everyone who reached out with kindness, to those who reported that comment, who showed love - thank you. You continue to remind us why we do this, and we love you for that."

"But more need to be done to make sure this never happens again. Not just to her. To anyone. If you don’t like one of us, that’s your opinion. But if you wish harm on someone, you’re not Stay. And that goes for any fandom you belong to. You are not a fan if you can't love and appreciate what everyone contributes. If you can't set aside you opinions for that. This isn’t about canceling anyone. This is about protecting each other.”

All the boys nodded.

"She's our family. A sister. And we do everything to protect family." Changbin said.

"She is special to each and every one of us, and if you can't respect that you can leave." Minho said sharply.

"Because of yesterday's incidents, we've come to the agreement to cancel our upcoming schedules." Chan said suddenly.

The chat became frantic, and your eyes were wide as you leaned in closer to your phone.

"If you want one of us to leave then we all leave. Simple." Chan said firmly. "Until that lesson can be learned this is what is right to do. Any more hate spread will have legal action followed. We stand firm in these decisions."

The chat was still frantic, but the boys didn't care.

"Y/N-ah. We know you're watching." Chan said.

"You’re our little sister." Jisung, Hyunjin, Changbin, Chan, Minho and Felix said.

"Our Noona." Jeongin and Seungmin parroted.

"Our teammate."

"Our light."

"We wouldn’t be here without you.”

“We love you. Not just when you’re strong. Not just when you smile. All the time.”

“You’re enough. Always were.”

“Stay needs to hear us say it, and maybe… you do too.”

“You’re stuck with us forever.”

“Stray Kids is nine.” All the boys said.

“And that will never change.” Chan said, getting up to end the live. "Thank you, Stay. Let’s be better - together.”

[Live Ended]

You shut off your phone with trembling fingers.

You didn’t cry this time.

You smiled. Not a fake one. A small one, real and quiet.

You didn't realize how long you sat there until you heard a soft knock.

"Noona! Can we come in?”

Jeongin's voice. Happy and bright.

You wiped your face, not realizing you had in fact shed tears.

Of relief. Appreciation,

“Of course.”

Because you weren’t scared anymore. You knew where you stood. Who you were to both yourself and the boys you had grown with.

You were no longer scared.

Not today.

Not with them.

Not with Stay.

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

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy

[lukolathoughts]

Miss Nicola - supporting LGBTQI rights

Dearest gentle reader,

I have been itching to write a blog post now for a few weeks, but not really knowing where to begin. There have been frenzied weeks and days of activity, but then silence and the fandom meanders like a lost boat at sea. We are often rudderless without the reassuring presence of our ship captains - Luke and Nicola. This also tends to get the sub fandoms spouting nonsense claiming to have seen Nicola in Birmingham or some ridiculous crap. I didn't want to bother her by asking for a photo! No photo, no proof my friend.

I'll talk about me for a moment. I had a week from hell last week. There was something so upsetting for me to deal with, I couldn't go into work as I was crying that much. Try to explain this to your manager: that nasty comments on YouTube made you late for work. Luckily, she is an understanding person and I have told her about my YT channel. Saying some things out loud to real life people make me sound barking mad. But it is the price you pay for being public on YouTube. It also makes me an easy target. I am used to online trolls and people who hate me for saying that Jake is gay and believing in Lukola, but when the stab in the back comes from a supposed friend, it really is the ten of swords. My phone blew up that much, I opened my eyes that morning genuinely thinking Lukola had launched. My hope turned to ash, when I saw what was really happening. I share this with you all because, I have had to have a reckoning with myself the last week. My online life and my real life are not the same. My real life is way more important and I actually need my job, so messing it up because I've got people I don't really know online saying mean things about me, that are not true, shouldn't matter. But it still hurts. But I also realise, they are trying to stop me sharing and trying to ruin my credibility and reputation in order to send me off into my discord crying never to return again.

Well think again. No one tells a Sagittarius woman what they can and can't do. I am made of stronger stuff. Love will always conquer hate. No one puts Baby in the corner, and I will not stand for it. I have scaled back most of my online life now. It had helped me cope with the last year and losing my friend, but sometimes you have to go back into reality. I'm never leaving the ship though. You'll have to chuck me overboard and I'll still jump back on like Rose from Titanic. "I couldn't go, Jack! You jump, I jump, right?"

Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about Nic. I love Nicola by the way and nothing I say here is a criticism of her or her choices. I see what you're doing though, miss Nicola. I said in my last blog that the shit would hit the fan when Jake has to start press for his new upcoming BBC3 drama What it feels like for a girl. I will admit I have not read the book. Regardless of who Jake is playing, it is reportedly an all queer cast, a queer director and at least one queer writer that I know of. Why would the director of an all queer cast hire a straight man in a homosexual role? If this show is as big as It's a Sin, that aired on Channel 4 a few years ago, then there will be press and a lot of it. There will be press from queer magazines also. Jake is currently in an awkward position, because some press believe he is in a romantic relationship with Nicola Coughlan, a woman who is also 14 years his senior. So, what will Nicola and Jake do?

Jake is holding onto his cash cow with both hands and Nicola needs Jake to continue to pose as her boyfriend to stop the media digging. But honey, they know. It was clear all the press at the SAG awards knew exactly what was going on and they were not afraid to say it. The 'happy ending' comment levelled at them directly by a reporter, had Nicola stunned and Luke smiling like all his Christmases' had come at once.

Nicola knows what is going on. She knows there is a deadline and she knows if she doesn't extricate herself from the narrative she is dating a gay man, she is screwed basically. What is she doing? She's getting out her, I love gays!! T-shirt, hats, scarfs, sunglasses, whatever. She is doing it. Look at me, I love queers! I love her for this and I already know she is an advocate for LGBTQI rights. She has a ton of gay friends. The fandom knows this of course, but do the general public?

At the Neutrogena event on 27th March 2025, there was a very tall drag queen doing some MCing. We know Nic loves drag queens and has been to many shows, so this is nothing new to us. I'm not being overly cynical that the drag queen might have been there for a reason, right? Neutrogena is a product that is targeted at women mostly for their skin products. What has that got to do with a drag queen? I just found it odd.

Next up we have Nicola's Pink Pony Club Post that she shared to both her Instagram stories and grid last Thursday 10th April. The song by Chappell Roan is synonymous with the gay community and one that Jake danced to at her concert last year in a pink cowboy hat. "You guys, remember when my old flat was a gay hotspot!" Nicola, posts 4 polaroid's of her looking fabulous in pink and lays them on a pink blanket. What made you feel so nostalgic, Nic? Or are you sending a message? Look at me, I have loved my gay besties for donkey's years. Prominent gay friends such as JVN and Jack Rooke commented all in agreement, that indeed, Nic's flat was the place to be. And, no I do not think Nicola is coming out herself as gay. Get real, she is supporting her friends and peers.

Then there was yesterday's selfie of Nicola wearing her black - 'I just wanted to say if you are trans and reading this, I love you and so do all my mates' T-shirt. There a few other details in that post that other bloggers such as @toriaaniin have covered beautifully, so I won't go into it here. My eyes sprung wide when I saw this post. I know she advocates for the charity Notaphase.org and I commend her for doing this, but two queer posts in a few days seems to be a lot for Nic, when lately she hasn't been posting at all.

There is also the male hairdresser Halley Brisker in her Opalex video on her Instagram, They make a big deal of letting us know he flirts with male makeup artists. Nicola is clearly good friends with Halley and it is an endearing watch. But to me this seems like a lot of overkill in the last few days for the general public to look at her Instagram and instantly know, yes Nicola does love the girls, the gays and Luke Newton. (FYI Halley Brisker is married to a woman and has children, but to the general public this conversation is implying Nic is comfortable with these conversations).

This, in my opinion, is setting the stage for the final act. I can see Nicola doing some sort of article or interview where she clears a certain narrative up. If you notice, Douglas has also been quite forceful again in implying certain things about Jake and Jake himself does not stop others from posting suggestive posts and videos of him. Nicola must remove herself from this mess in order to move forward with her own career and life. Hanging onto old connections are no longer serving her personally and professionally. Her engagement on Instagram is down by a lot, so I'm told and she is losing followers. She has done all she can career-wise for Jake now, he has to make his own way.

If this does not happen and we remain in this weird heteronormative bubble, I fear the press for What it feels like for a girl, will be a shit show. The truth will come out eventually and it will drag both Jake and Nicola down with it.

[nobodysnowhere]

Time sensitive cram session

A how-to guide to getting your friends to study with you.

Cast: First years, gn reader

Summary: Midterms are fast approaching and the Prefect quickly realize that they aren’t as well prepared as they thought they’d be.

Notes: This fic is most definitely written by someone who isn’t procrastinating about doing their studying. Yep. Totally. I promise.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

The first rays of sunlight hit your bleary room through a gap between the curtains. From the foot of the bed, you hear some light grumbling.

“Henchman close the curtains some more. The sun is hitting me in the face.” complains Grim as he covers his eyes with both of his paws, curling himself up further into a tight ball.

With an exasperated sigh, you reach over to your phone to check the time. You flail around for a bit, not wanting to fully commit to getting out of bed before your alarm goes off.

After finally getting ahold of your phone, and almost dropping it off the nightstand by doing so, you finally check the time.

After processing what’s on your screen you let out a disgruntled sigh. “Come on. Wake up, Grim. It’s only a couple more minutes until the alarm goes off anyway.”

You throw off the duvet and tap Grim a couple of times to get him to wake up properly. He in response only paws at your hand to make you stop bothering him.

You check the phone again, to see for how much longer you could let the monster kitty sleep.

That is when a notification pops up on your screen. You silently stare at the message, your hand hovering unmoving above Grim.

Something he takes notice of. He hesitantly uncovers one of his eyes to look up at you, only to find you sitting in bed staring blankly at your phone screen.

“Henchman? What are you looking at?” he tentatively asks.

“Grim. I think we’re cooked.” you simply reply, with a certain hopelessness in your voice.

Grim, now begrudgingly awake, simply tilts his head at you in confusion. In turn, you show him the message that seemingly worries you so much.

It reads: Last Friday before the midterms. Hope you didn’t procrastinate again.

“Oh no.” Grim says, now mirroring your expression of hopelessness.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

“Sooo… how has studying been treating you guys?” you ask Ace and Deuce as you walk towards the main building after they retrieved you and Grim from Ramshackle.

“Please don’t even start with that. I barely have any notes from Professor Treins' classes, because I always fall asleep within the first half hour, no matter how hard I try. I swear he must use some kind of spell that makes you fall asleep in his class.” Deuce complains.

“And ever since that thing with Azul, I don’t trust anyone offering to trade study guides. Regardless of how much I need them.” he continues, shuddering at the memory of what they had to go through.

It appears Ace and Grim share his opinion as they too take a moment to remember that horrible experience.

“Yeah, but you left out the worst thing. Riddle. You know the guy that’s been pestering us to study properly since even before we knew what topics would be on the midterms?” Ace complains while you all continue walking.

“I mean how am I supposed to study if someone is constantly breathing down my neck?” he continues, as he throws his arms in the air in frustration.

“Not to throw a pity party here or anything but if anyone’s in trouble it would have to be me. I don’t only have to catch up on an entire lifetime of schoolwork, but I’m also tied to a tuna-obsessed cat, that has no concept of studying.” you add your complaints to the pile.

Grim, who was still hung up on the memory of those sea anemones, shot up at the mention of tuna.

“What about tuna? And also I’m not a cat.” he exclaims as he hits your shoulder off of which he’s hanging off.

“Sure you’re not.” Ace answers without a hint of hesitation, rolling his eyes for good measure.

Grim retaliates, repositioning himself on your shoulder, making you stumble so that Deuce has to lend you a hand to not let you fall.

“How about you say that to my face you, uhh… you…” Grim points an accusatory finger at Ace. While fumbling to find the right words to annoy Ace back.

Before the situation could escalate any further you interrupt the two. “How about we form a study group? We could do the studying at Ramshackle, so we wouldn’t need to worry about curfew. In addition to that you won’t be pestered by Riddle anymore, you won’t need to worry about owing any favors in return for the study guides and I’ll get some more people to hold Grim accountable.”

You look at your friends. They don’t seem to reject the idea. Except for Grim, who is once again complaining about you insulting his intellect.

“Seems like a great idea to me, but how will we convince Housewarden Riddle to let us go?” Deuce asks.

“That shouldn’t be too hard. We just need to ask him nicely, reassure him that we’re serious about studying and he’ll let you go with no problem. Hell, he’ll probably give you guys some recommendations before sending you away.” you explain with a pep in your step. Excited to study with your friends and be able to share your despair of not understanding the curriculum.

“Yeah, sure it’ll be easy enough to get him to agree to let us leave, but if we fail these midterms he’s sure to collar us.” Ace argues, groaning at the mere thought of losing his magic for an undisclosed amount of time.

“I mean you’re right, but he’d collar you regardless if you failed. It doesn’t matter if you guys studied at Ramshackle or in Heartslabyul.” you counter.

Ace looks at you as if he wants to disagree with you out of reflex, but he can catch himself before he says anything. He thought about what you said and dropped his hand nodding in agreement.

“Then it’s settled. Us four, for a crisis cram session over the weekend.” Deuce nods, mentally preparing himself for the mountain of work he’ll need to work through.

“Who said it’ll be just us four? None of us are particularly good at potions or literature. We still need some more people to form a productive study group.” you interject.

Grim begins to stir on your shoulder. “You sound as if you already have some people in mind.”

“You’ll see.”

3/7 of the study group acquired

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

“Hey Jack?” you slide up next to him in class, propping your chin in your hand while sitting down next to him, not even a minute after the bell rung.

“No.” he simply replies. Not even glancing at you as he continues packing his notes into his bag.

“W-what? What do you mean by “no”? I haven’t even told you what I wanted yet.” you sputter while trying to find your footing again after letting your chin slip from your hand.

“You probably want to copy my notes before the midterms or worse start a study group with those guys over there.” he points in the direction of the door, without even looking up from his bag, where Ace, Deuce, and Grim are not so subtly spy into the room, to gauge how successful your attempts of convincing Jack to join the study group is.

You pointedly look at them, they seem to get the message and disappear behind the doorframe.

“Also how are you here already? The bell to signal the end of the class has barely gone off.”

“Don’t worry about that… Is there any way I could convince you to join us? We could really use someone who can keep us in check and keep us from going on tangents all the time.” you ask him hopefully.

“Sorry, but you know I prefer to keep to myself.“ he easily rejects you.

You let out an exhausted sigh. Dropping your head in disappointment. “Well. I should have expected that I wouldn’t be able to convince you right now. Don’t worry I’ll be back in a bit with a bit of peer pressure in a bit.”

“Wha- no don’t come-“ Before he could even finish his sentence you walk away towards the other end of the classroom.

You walk up to a boy who's still copying down notes from the blackboard into his notebook. You tap the boy on his shoulder to get his attention away from the notes.

“Hey, Epel. I was wondering if you wanted to join Ace, Deuce, Grim, and me for a study group over the weekend?” you ask with a tilt of the head.

He gives himself a second to think about it before he nods. “Sure sounds interesting enough. I’ll just need to let Vil or Rook know.” you two brace yourselves for the enigmatic hunter to appear out of nowhere as he tends to do.

After a second of him not spawning out of nowhere you two let go of the breath you were holding.

“I’ll text you when I let one of those two know about the study group.”

You happily nod at him and walk out of the classroom, back towards the trio waiting outside.

“So how did it go? Were you able to convince them?” They asked before they started walking towards the next class.

“As expected Jack declined. Not that it matters he’ll join in later. Epel just needs to let either Rook or Vil know and he’s good to go. Were you able to reach Riddle?”

“Sadly yes. We now have a literal mountain of books to review and even more, summaries to write.” complaints Ace.

“We just have to carry them over to Ramshackle later today and we’re good to go.” adds Deuce.

“Who else do we invite?” asks Grim as he hops back onto your shoulder.

You think about your friends’ schedule and wonder where they might be, but before you can remember properly the bell rang signaling the brake would soon be over.

You hurried to your next class before you’d be late, and before the class could even end you already made arrangements for who would be the next one of your friends invited, or rather unceremoniously dragged into your study group.

4/7 of the study group acquired

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

Lunch has barely even started and the cafeteria is already crammed with students.

Luckily you aren’t in their midst today. You have another mission.

You make your way through the empty hallways of NRC until you finally reach the club room you were searching for.

Polite as you are, you knock on the door of the Film Research Club. After a short pause, you hear Ortho come to the door and open it.

His expression lights up as he realizes that it’s you. “Hello Prefect. Are you here to take some more pictures?”

“Hey, Ortho. No not today. I’m just here to ask if you want to join my study group. We were planning on studying over the weekend at Ramshackle, and I was wondering if you wanted to join?” you explain giving him an abridged version of what else you were planning to do.

“That does sound great. I’d love to join you guys, but I’m unsure of how much of a help I will be with studying since I’m technically exempt from taking the test. With you know being able to always look up the answers on the internet.” he explains.

“I don’t think that’ll be much of an issue. See it like this, you can correct us whenever we’re wrong about something or laugh at our misery.”

“You make convincing arguments Prefect. I’m in.” the two of you nod excitedly at each other before you walk away.

5/7 of the study group acquired

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

You walk to the cafeteria where you sit down next to your friends and a certain traitorous someone.

“Ortho is also joining us.” you announce as you accept your tray of food from Epel. Your friends cheer in celebration.

“So who else besides Jack is missing?” Epel asks, while ignoring Jack who again denies joining your study group.

“Someone I need to catch before they fully leave the cafeteria. Otherwise, I probably won't be able to convince them.” you explain quickly in between bites.

Your friends nod in acknowledgment and continue talking or rather argue about anything and everything, but studying.

You continue holding out an eye for the second to last victim on your study buddy list, until you see a very particular table of students stand up to walk out of the cafeteria.

You quickly follow them, but not before thanking your friend for the food and for saving you a seat.

“Hold him hostage for as long as you can alright? I’ll be right back.” are your last words before rushing out of the cafeteria after the Diasomnia students.

You call out to the students when they’re not as far away anymore.

“Hornton, Lilia, Silver, Sebek.” you nod at each of them as a quick greeting, but you make sure to greet Sebek with that tone of voice that lets him know you’re planning something that will annoy him.

Sebek scowls at you trying to figure out what you’re planning, that is before immediately doing the Sebek thing and reprimanding you for how casually you’re talking to his young master.

Before he can go on an entire tangent about how disrespectful a Human like you is he gets interrupted by Lilia.

“What brings us the honor that you felt the need to rush after us in such a hurry?”

“Right. I wanted to ask Sebek if he wanted to join me and a bunch of other first years over the weekend for a study session.” you explain excitedly

Before Sebek even gets the chance to turn down your invitation, both Lilia and Malleus accept for him.

“Oh that sounds fun doesn’t it Sebek? If my memory serves me right you were just complaining about not having anyone to study with.” Lilia smiles, that smug little grin he has, at Sebek as Malleus nods in agreement.

Sebek stares at you, bewildered but not surprised at what has just happened. “You were planning this.” he observed.

You quickly hide the thumbs up you were giving Lilia before you innocently smile back at Sebek. “Who me? I wasn’t planning anything. I just wanted to hang out and study with my friends.”

Before Sebek could throw more of a fuss you push him back towards the cafeteria, where your friends and your last victim waited for you two.

You quickly wave at the three other Diasomnia members, some more awake than the other, before they walk away.

6/7 of the study group acquired

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

You successfully make your way back to the cafeteria with Sebek in tow, while you two walk he reiterates multiple times that he’ll only stay as long as he has to and that he won't hesitate to leave if you all slow him down with his studying.

Which is fair.

As you approach the cafeteria you notice that most of the students have finished their lunch already. The only table looking remotely filled is the one of your friends, now joined by Ortho.

“We got Sebek.” you announce as you walk up to the table. Raising his arm with you before he can do anything about it.

Sebek pulls his arm back to his side before sitting down at the table and greeting the other first years. You sit down next to him before joining the mindless chit charter.

After a not so short while everyone's gaze slowly panned over to Jack, with the exception of Sebek, who looked around at the table confused before looking at Jack as well.

“So… Jack.” you tentatively asked. “How about joining us now? You wouldn’t be the only reasonable person anymore.”

Jack looks around the table and sees everyone’s expectant gaze before he finally sighs in acceptance and nods. “Fine, I’ll join your study group.”

The table bursts into cheers. Ace and Grim start cackling, Deuce and Epel give each other a high five, and you and Ortho woop in celebration, all while Sebek and Jack wonder why they agreed to work with you all.

7/7 of the study group acquired

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

Omake:

“Did they just run after the Diasomnia table?” Deuce asks bewildered. “I think they did. Do y’all think they’ll ask Malleus to join us?” asks Epel concerned. “Sevens I hope not.” is all Ace has to add to that conversation.

[mrs-delaney]

Then Ask Me Sometime

📩 request: joe and reader are exes who keep hooking up. one night he’s like “i miss knowing how you’re doing” and she’s like “then ask me sometime.” heartbreak! tension! yearning! 🔥💔

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 2.5k words

🥲 this one got me good, not gonna lie. joe really said “i miss knowing how you're doing” and i haven’t known peace since. hope it hits you in the chest too 💌

🪷 read my masterlist here — full of feelings & joe burrow brainrot 💌

🎤 read hide here — music, mistakes, and a quarterback who falls hard 💌

📬 join my tag list — be the first to know when i post 💌

Joe sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, staring at the message he'd sent twenty minutes ago.

You up?

Three dots had appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. Then appeared again. He'd watched that dance play out for five minutes before her response finally came through.

On my way.

No questions. No small talk. Just acknowledgment of what they both knew this was.

He set the phone on the nightstand and ran his hands through his hair, the familiar weight of anticipation and guilt settling in his chest. It had been a long day—meetings with coaches, film review, the kind of grueling preparation that usually left him satisfied. But tonight, sitting alone in the house as evening turned to dark, the accomplishment had felt hollow. The silence had gotten to him first, then the empty kitchen where he'd eaten takeout standing at the counter instead of sitting at the table they'd picked out together.

That's when he'd reached for his phone.

This had become their routine over the past four months—late-night texts that led to her showing up at the house they used to share, the house that was supposed to be theirs but now felt too big and too quiet with just him in it. It started three weeks after the breakup, when she'd texted him about picking up some clothes she'd forgotten. One thing led to another, and suddenly they had this arrangement that neither of them had ever explicitly discussed the rules for.

The living room still had her touch everywhere. The throw pillows she'd insisted on were arranged just so on the couch. The coffee table books about art and photography that she'd collected were still fanned out the way she liked them. He'd told himself he kept them because moving them felt like too much effort, but the truth was simpler and more pathetic: they made the house feel less empty.

The kitchen was worse. She'd organized every cabinet, labeled the spice rack, and insisted on keeping fresh flowers on the counter even though he'd argued it was a waste of money. The flowers were long gone now, but her coffee mug still sat in the cabinet, untouched because he couldn't bring himself to use it. Sometimes he'd catch himself reaching for two plates instead of one before remembering.

They'd bought this place together eight months before everything fell apart. Spent weekends walking through furniture stores, arguing about thread counts and whether they needed a dining room table that seated eight people. She'd won most of those arguments, and now Joe was grateful for it. At least the house had personality, even if it wasn't entirely his.

The worst part was how right she'd been about everything. The couch was comfortable for watching film. The kitchen layout made sense when he was cooking for the team gatherings she'd insisted they host. Even the paint colors she'd chosen—warm grays and soft blues that he'd thought were too feminine—somehow made the house feel like a home instead of just a place to sleep.

Joe stood and walked to the window, looking out at the circular driveway where her car would appear soon. The security lights cast long shadows across the property, and he found himself wondering what she told herself on the drive over. Did she hesitate before texting back? Would she sit in her car for a few minutes before walking to the door, the way she used to near the end, when coming home felt more like walking into a minefield than a sanctuary?

He remembered the last few weeks before the breakup, how every conversation felt like walking through a minefield. His schedule was getting more demanding as the season approached. Her growing frustration with always coming second to football. The way they'd started sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, even when they were technically touching.

The fight that ended it had been about something stupid—him missing dinner with her parents because of a last-minute team meeting. But really, it had been about everything else. About how she felt like she was building a life around someone who wasn't fully present for it. About how he felt like he was failing at everything that mattered off the field.

"I can't do this anymore," she'd said, standing in this same bedroom, her voice quiet but certain. "I can't keep pretending that this is working when we both know it isn't."

He'd wanted to fight for her, to promise he'd do better, but the truth was he didn't know how. Football was everything he'd worked for his entire life, and the demands weren't going to get smaller. She deserved someone who could give her more than the leftover pieces of himself.

So they'd had the breakup conversation like adults. Divided up their things, figured out who would take the house. She'd moved out over a weekend while he was at training camp, leaving behind only the furniture they'd bought together and a note thanking him for everything.

For three weeks, Joe had convinced himself he was fine. The house was quieter, sure, but he could focus better. No more scheduling his life around someone else's needs. No more guilt about missing dinners or working late.

Then she'd texted about the clothes.

She'd shown up on a Tuesday evening, professional and polite, gathering the handful of items she'd forgotten. But when she was done, instead of leaving, she lingered by the door. They'd started talking for the first time since the breakup. And when talking turned into touching, and touching turned into them tangled together on the couch they'd picked out, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"This doesn't change anything," she'd said afterward, already reaching for her clothes.

"I know," he'd replied, even though some part of him had hoped it might.

That was four months ago. Since then, they'd developed this careful dance of late-night texts, brief encounters, no talk of feelings or the future. She seemed to have this whole thing figured out in a way that he didn't. Clean boundaries. No complications. Just two people who were good together in bed and smart enough not to confuse that with anything else.

Except he was starting to confuse it with something else.

He started noticing little things. The way she still kicked her shoes off by the door in the exact same spot, muscle memory from when this was her home, too. How she'd absently reach for the lamp on the bedside table that she'd picked out and placed there. The way she still moved through his kitchen like she knew where everything was, because she did—she'd organized those cabinets herself.

These weren't the observations of someone who was just hooking up with his ex. These were the observations of someone who missed her in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

Joe heard the soft hum of an engine in the driveway and felt his pulse pick up. Fifteen minutes. She'd made good time from wherever she was. He stepped back from the window, not wanting to look too eager.

The front door opened with her key; he'd never asked for it back, and she'd never offered, and he heard her familiar footsteps on the hardwood. She still moved through this house as if she belonged there, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe that was why he kept texting her.

"Upstairs," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her footsteps paused for just a moment, and he wondered what had caught her attention. Maybe she was checking her phone, or maybe she'd noticed something different about the house. It was a brief pause, the kind that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, but he found himself cataloging it anyway.

Then her feet were on the stairs, and Joe felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with wanting something he'd already lost.

* * *

She appeared in the doorway, and Joe's breath caught. Still beautiful. Still looking at him like she was deciding something.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."

The silence stretched between them, not awkward exactly, but loaded with the weight of everything they weren't saying. She was wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, nothing special, but Joe found himself looking at her like he was trying to memorize something.

She pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward him, her eyes doing that thing they always did, taking inventory. When her gaze lingered on his shoulders, then dropped to his chest, he saw the moment she registered the difference.

"You've been spending more time in the gym," she said, not quite a question.

Joe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Offseason training's been more intense."

She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume, the same one she'd always worn. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the muscle there, and he felt his breath catch.

"I can tell," she murmured, and there was something in her voice that made his pulse spike.

He caught her hand in his, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You like it?"

Instead of answering, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Soft at first, testing, then deeper when he responded. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made that quiet sound in the back of her throat that he remembered too well.

They broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads touching.

They moved toward the bed without breaking the kiss, her fingers tracing the new muscle definition she'd noticed.

"Jesus, Joe," she breathed, her hands tracing the new definition in his shoulders, his arms.

He wanted to say something, but she was kissing him again, and then they were falling back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and familiar desire. Her jeans hit the floor, followed by his pants, and then there was just skin against skin and the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

Joe took his time, the way he always did with her. His mouth on her neck, her collarbone, mapping territory he knew by heart but somehow felt different now under his hands. She was responsive, arching into his touch, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back in a way that made him groan.

When she rolled him over and straddled him, her hair falling around her face, he found himself staring. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"What?" she asked, noticing him staring.

"Nothing," he said, his hands settling on her hips. "Just... you."

Something flickered across her face, too quick for him to catch, before she leaned down to kiss him again. And then they were moving together, finding that rhythm they'd never lost, the connection that had always been easy between them, even when everything else was complicated.

Afterward, they lay without touching, still breathing hard. The silence felt thick, full of things Joe didn't want to think about too hard.

She was the first to move, sitting up and reaching for her clothes, which were scattered across the floor. Joe watched her, noting the careful way she avoided his eyes, the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this dance before.

"You don't have to rush off," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

She paused, bra halfway on. "Don't I?"

There was a challenge in her voice, and Joe felt something shift in his chest. This was the part where one of them would usually make an excuse, pretending it was simple and meaningless. But tonight felt different. Tonight, the silence felt like it was asking questions he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.

* * *

She was already reaching for her sweater when Joe found himself speaking.

"I miss knowing how your day went."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her hands stilled on the fabric, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing still evening out.

She turned to look at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. "What?"

Joe sat up against the headboard, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked. "I said I miss knowing how your day went."

She pulled the sweater over her head, the motion sharp and deliberate. "Why do you care?"

The question stung. He watched her stand and reach for her jeans—the familiar routine of her getting dressed to leave—and felt something crack open in his chest.

"I'm serious." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by how hard this was to say. "I miss knowing if you had a good day at work, or if that thing with your sister worked out, or whether you're sleeping okay."

"You can't do this," she said, shaking her head as she buttoned her jeans. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't what this is." She gestured between them, her voice taking on an edge he recognized, the one she got when she was protecting herself. "This is physical. It's simple. It works because we don't do... this."

Joe felt something desperate rise in his chest. "But what if I want to know? What if I want this to be more than just—"

"Then ask me sometime," she cut him off, reaching for her shoes. "Out of this bedroom."

The words landed like a challenge, and Joe felt his mouth open to respond, but she was already moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. "Home, Joe. I'm going home."

"This used to be your home, too."

The silence that followed was deafening. When she finally turned to look at him, there was something in her expression that made his chest tighten.

"Used to be," she said softly. "See you around, Joe."

And then she was gone, and he was back to being alone in a bed that felt empty without her, the sound of her leaving echoing through the house.

Joe stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his head. The way she'd looked at him when he said he missed knowing about her day. The careful distance she'd put between them with her words. The challenge in her voice: Then ask me sometime out of this bedroom.

The next morning, Joe found himself staring at a blank text message for twenty minutes, typing and deleting words until his thumbs were tired. Finally, he settled on something simple:

How's your day going? Can we meet up soon, not to hook up, but to hang out? It can be in public

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Her response came an hour later, and despite everything, Joe found himself smiling as he read it:

Give me a week of consistent communication that's not you trying to hook up with me, and I'll consider it.

Joe read the message three times, something warm and terrifying unfurling in his chest. A week. She was giving him a week to prove he wanted more than just her body in his bed.

He could do a week.

[midgarangel]

ꗃ snowed in pt2 | arthur morgan ⭐️

summary: sequel to “snowed in.” the morning after. arthur might have to leave after all.

contents: nsfw! arthur morgan x fem reader. good honor arthur, pre tb, marking, penetration, table sex, spit, spanking (like once lol), arthurs sweet on you, “good girl.” kinda angsty if you squint..reader really doesn’t want him to leave.

words: 2.7k? i’m guessing.

—

The bed beneath you felt cold. Contrasting with your warm skin. The peak in the curtains allowed the sun to show itself, casting shadows on the walls of the cabin. It was early, very early. Your body aching in the best way possible as your mind reminisced on last night.

Arthur.

The kiss in the barn.

Just everything about the man.

You pinched yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. Taking in a deep breath, coffee was the first thing that hit your nose. With a smile on your face, you slowly got up, wrapping the sheet around you.

Rounding the corner, there he was. Mr.Morgan making a fresh pot of coffee in his union suit. The suspenders hugging his shoulders in the best possible way.

“Mornin’.” You say shly, leaning against the wall. Your voice barely above a whisper. It was quite raspy in the morning.

Arthur turned around, greeting you with a hot cup. Inhaling the aroma, you take it. It’s not your favorite drink in the world but you can’t complain.

“Mornin’. Careful it’s hot now.” He pulls out a chair for you to sit at the table. Both of you sipping on the hot cups.

“How did you find the stash? I don’t remember tellin’ you where it was.” You ask, raising a brow.

Arthur chuckles. “Snooped around, hope you don’t mind.”

“Why didn’t you wake me? Could’ve made it together.”

His hand covered yours resting on the table.

“Wanted to surprise ya.”

There it was, that smile he couldn’t get enough of.

Little did you know, an hour before you had awoken, he took a moment to enjoy the sweet, dreamy look on your face. Just seeing you bundled up in the blankets, knowing you were safe and secure here, sent a warm rush of delight spiralling through his chest. He couldn’t interrupt that.

“Consider me surprised then.” You laughed.

The birds outside sounded extra loud this morning now that the storm was over. With the fire crackling, birdsong’s being sang, and the man in front of you, you were in bliss.

“How’d ya sleep?” Arthur asks, taking a big sip.

“Like a baby. Muscles are sore though.”

“I bet.” He says. Taking both of your cups to the sink. When he returned he began again.

“I wasn’t too rough wit ya now, was I?”

“No. I loved every moment, I’m a big girl ya know.”

The mans face reddening, gave away the affect you had on him. He hadn’t been this intimate with anyone since Mary, and that was a long time ago.

“Ain’t gotta butter me up.”

“You need more compliments in your life, Arthur.”

What a sight you were. Over hear boosting his ego while hugging the sheet wrapped around you. It looked like it was about to slip. He chuckled standing tall over your small frame seated in the chair.

Raising the corners of your mouth into a soft smile, you looked up at him through your lashes, grabbing the bottom of his suspenders bringing him closer to you till you felt the chilly surface of his buckle against your cheek.

Feeling his coarse hand land softly on your head, he ran his fingers through your hair that was soft under his palms. Arthur wasn't good at feelings and often found himself tongue-tied in situations like this. His heart churned at your sudden display of emotions.

Looking back at you was a man with warm, soft-blue eyes and tousled honey-blond hair. Your chest tightened at the look he gave you, making you feel like the most precious thing he had ever seen.

“How am I pose’ to leave after these few hours with you, huh?”

A soft gasp left your lips.

“Don’t go. You could stay…”

Sighing, you stared at him through your lashes. Palm stroking his thigh. He could feel himself melt at your behavior. The tension in your kitchen was searing, the pot of coffee no longer the only thing hot.

“Let it fall Darlin’.”

In an instant the sheet fell to the floor with a heavy thud. He made a subtle stand up motion with his hands. As soon as you stood, you were lifted in the air causing you to squeal and close your eyes.

Opening them, you looked down at him, the sight more erotic than anything you had ever seen. He held your gaze through his hazy ones.

“Now, I know you’re delicate,” Arthur prefaced, a smirk on his face. He was riling you up, as he often did.

“But you oughta let me get one last taste before I go.”

Cradling his head in your hands, you kissed him like your life depended on it. Wanting to savor every last second you had with the man. He groaned into you, your tongues fighting for dominance. His big hands resting on your ass, kneading and squeezing while carrying you two to the wall near by.

He puts you up against it, immediately going for your neck. His hands squeeze your thighs, keeping your legs in place but you wrap them around his waist anyways.

It was a welcome surprise to learn that Arthur loved marking you. Time felt slow like you had hoped. He nipped and licked the skin underneath your ear making you yelp.

“Can’t get enuf of you.” He said kissing the bite, soothing it.

“Take me, Arthur.” Your breath was more of a pant as his hand traveled downwards to your plump lips.

“Sure ya ain’t too sore still?” His hand ghosted over your cunt.

You shook your head no. Still sore but not really, it’ll go away you thought. Both of you were incredibly desperate for each other that you didn’t want to wait anymore.

“Did I do this to ya? Make you all hot and bothered, beautiful?” He asked, his western accent super apparent.

He took the little whimper you released as a ‘yes’ and a plead for more.

Arthur took two fingers and hooked them inside of you, feeling the soft skin and wishing it was his cock instead. His thumb rubbed circles on your clit and you were already getting so close. You were able to tune out the noises outside, only hearing his praises in your ear as he looked at your face. So close. Almost there.

“God, please stay.” Pleading with him, your breath was more of a pant as he pumped two fingers into your pussy. Or was it three? It felt good. More than good. You couldn’t remember if he ever added more than one, but it felt fuller. And fuller. And fuller. Until you felt like you were going to burst.

“I wanna. I swear I wanna.” He responded.

“I have some business to take care of first. Then mm all yours.”

You were already dripping down his hand and if you could see below you, you’d probably notice small puddles of your arousal on the hardwood floor.

The moment you found your climax and finished around his fingers, his thrusting ceased. He removed his fingers thoroughly, hoping to replace it with something more satisfying.

“Tell me what you want. Need to hear you say it Sweet Girl.”

“Nothing but you..please,” you begged. “I want you. Wanna feel you inside of me.”

“Here? In ya cute lil kitchen?”

“Mhm. Anywhere.”

“Careful what you wish for Darlin’.”

It felt like your bodies were meshed together. Your fingers unbuttoned his union shirt with quickness. As soon as he was shirtless, Arthurs hands were back on you, rubbing his fingers up and down your sides. He held you close to him as his mouth pressed harsh kisses and bites down along your neck again, leaving marks that probably wouldn’t fade for a few days. That thought only made him want to mark you more, make you his.

Once he’d soothed the bite with his tongue enough to take the sting out he kissed his way back up your jaw and to your mouth. Kissing him just felt right, it felt like home, it felt like what your mouths were made for.

A clash of teeth and tongues and lips that lead to both of you making the noises that proved how much you wanted, no, needed each other.

When he finally pulled back, you were completely breathless but Arthur wasn’t even close to being done.

Your hands held his hair and ruffled through it as he turned around and backed you up towards the small kitchen table. You yelped his name quietly when your ass hit the corner. Hands falling to his chest to stabilize yourself as you pulled from the kiss to catch your breath a bit.

Arthur let out a low growl as he turned your back to his chest. His arms wrapped around you. One across your chest to grab your breast and the other around your hips. His stubble tickled the back of your ear as he nibbled at your skin.

“Bend over,” he commanded gruffly and you felt yourself clench around nothing.

He pulled back to admire the view in front of him. You decided to wriggle your hips to show him, making him sigh as his hand came down to swat at your bare cheek. The sound was sharp but the sting was sharper as you moaned and chewed your lower lip, looking over your shoulder at him.

“You alright?”

With a fervent nod from you, you felt him moving his way down your body with chaste, rough kisses along your arm.

“I liked that.”

“Good girl.”

He knelt down as he rounded your backside and bit at your right cheek which made you hiss in pleasure. His hands came to your hips as he pulled you closer to him so that he could lick a stripe along your folds.

“Gotta make sure she’s ready.”

The only thoughts you could form were of Arthur, of the way he loomed over you. The way he spit on your cunt to make it even easier for him to slide his cock into you.

You were mewling his name and moaning quietly which was music to his ears but he wanted you louder still.

Another moment passed and you felt him line himself up and press his weeping tip into you.

He groaned in your ear as he pressed into you slowly, feeling you stretch around him. He filled you and bottomed out. “Fuck,” he hissed when he pulled out just enough to thrust back into you.

You cried out softly against your arm which effectively muffled your noises. But Arthur could still hear you and it urged him to keep going. His hips snapped against your ass as he quickened his pace.

“Taking it well sweetheart, might just let them think the pinkertons got me.”

His words were intoxicating and you were sure that you were not going to be able to walk right after the way he was stretching you.

“Tell me what you need,” he grumbled as his hand gruffly slid down to your chest and grabbed at one of your tits.

You moaned in response, unable to find your voice to speak. It was as if you had forgotten how to be human as he thrusted into you over and over, your face pressing against the wooden table, sure to leave a mark. But the only thing you could feel was the way he was hitting that bright spot within you.

“Oh, Arthur.” You moaned out. He moved faster, One of his hands reached down between your legs to rub furious little circles on your clit, causing you to moan out his name again.

It took only a few more thrusts for you to come undone, chanting his name and cursing as he fucked you through your high. His hand kept moving, his groans kept coming. He worked you through your own high and your body nearly collapsed from the overstimulation but he kept going.

A dozen more thrusts followed by a loud grunt from him, he pressed into you. Feeling hims spill his warm seed into your pussy. Rope after rope of cum painted your inner walls and you clenched around him at the sensation.

Once he was spent, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the space between your shoulder blades. When he softened, he pulled out and watched as his cum started to dribble down your thigh. A satisfied smirk appeared on his lips as you continued to catch your breath and stood up slowly.

“You made a mess.” You teased as you turned towards him, leaning against the table. Your eyes watched him put himself back together. As he pulled up his suit, he shrugged and chuckled, giving you a knowing glance.

“Could always clean it up if ya want,” he teased back, his tongue pressing out of his lips to lick at them slowly. Your breath hitched watching the movement.

“Next time.” You managed to croak out and he cocked an eyebrow at that.

He took your chin in between his thumb, giving you a quick peck. You held his wrist.

“Let me draw ya a bath while i’m at it.” He says, trying to make up for the fact he wouldn’t be here much longer.

You sighed softly, shaking your head. “You’re good to me.”

“Wouldn’t be anything else to you.”

—

After your warm bath, you opened the bathroom door to find the area around you abandoned. Your heart sank. Did he leave without saying goodbye? Looking for any sign of him, maybe he left something behind?

Quickly putting on the first dress and jacket you could find, you made your way outside in search of the man who stole your heart in such a short amount of time.

The wind hit your face as you shielded the sun from your eyes. Snow up to your shins, you followed the fresh footprints that led to the barn.

There he was, inside, doting on Olive. This time he had on his clothes from yesterday, hat and all. It seemed like your emotions hit all at once. He could see your teary eyes as soon as you were face to face.

“I swear i’ll come back to you. I mean it.”

He embraced you. Like a dagger to the chest. It felt like you were sending him off to war. You wanted to remember every touch, every lingering glance, his eyes, his words, everything.

Holding you tightly, he soothed you. Rubbing your back and kissing your forehead as you sniffled. He wiped away your tears, holding your face in his hands.

“You have my word sweetheart, now stop your cryin.”

He usually kept his word. There was no doubt in your mind he wouldn’t unless something happened.

“Need ya to take care of Olive like you’ve been doin’ ok?”

“Of course.” You sniffled.

“I’ll try to be back in a week or two. If I can’t come as soon as that, then i’ll write you.”

You walked Arthur and Boadicea back to the front of the cabin. Double checking he didn’t leave anything behind.

“You’re sure you got everything?”

Arthur nodded as he packed his saddle.

Making sure it was sturdy, he tucked in his weapons so they’d be readily accessible during the ride back to camp.

“Yep. Left some medicine in the barn just in case.”

Hopping on his horse, Arthur reached out for your hand, kissing your knuckles before he rode off.

“Thank you. For everything.” He said after letting it go.

You smiled warmly at him. A simple nod of your head.

“Be safe.”

“I’ll try my best Darlin’.”

It didn’t take long before their silhouettes disappeared down the path then around the corner, into the afternoon snow.

—

started my 3rd playthrough of rdr2 last weekend, bad honor though..we’ll see how it goes lmao. ty for reading xx <3

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Hello! I am craving angst, so I was wondering if you'd be willing to write the Welcome Home cast with a human reader who's been fatality injured, or dying in some form?

Id love it for Specifically Wally and/or Eddie, whichever you are most comfortable with of course!

Feel free to ignore this, if you please. Either way, I hope you have a good day, afternoon or night. 💚

Angst time! Didn't outright kill the reader, but the neighbors think you might die. Ended up doing a fair bit of research about poisoning for this. Left my main source at the end!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Frank, Wally, Eddie, Barnaby and Julie & Reader who got poisoned

★ Its not impossible. Lots of things could go wrong. If you eat something spoiled or stored improperly you could get sick. Some plants growing around Home might be poisons, even if they look edible.

★ It was an accident, just a simple mistake. Frank was making a salad with fresh vegetables scorched from his very own garden. Rhubarb was added. While the stalks are safe for you to eat, the leaves can be toxic. He didn't know that.

★ Three hours latter and you find yourself vomiting into a trash can. Trembling as waves of nausea hit you. Several neighbors have crowded around you, concerned. The feeling of your stomach cramp is similar to being stabbed in the gut.

★ You hear the sound of Eddies voice. But cant to make out what he said. Someone, probably Julie, places a hand on your back. An attempt to comfort you. What followed only lasted two days. But nobody could forget the pain you went through.

Frank

★ Frank looks mortified, gripping his notebook a little too tight. flipping through it like he can somehow fix this. The paper in his hands crinkling slightly. “I didn’t know! I should’ve checked!” But he hadn't. And now he's convinced you might perish.

★ Eddie had to help him calm down. Placing a hand on his shoulder and telling him that you'll be fine. Even though Eddie was shaken up himself, he managed to stop Frank from spiraling. "They're gonna be okay. We got help. You cant go blaming yourself, now..."

★ Once the worst is over, he apologizes about ten times. Maybe more. No matter what you say he'll still feel a little responsible. Each day you don't feel well, he brings you a new bouquet. So you have something nice to look at while recovering.

Wally

★ He kneels beside you as the worst of it takes its course. The usual smile on his face is strained, and it almost slips. Almost. Wally doesn't speak, ask questions, or says anything to comfort you. What would he even say? Nothing like this has happened before!

★ You spend a few nights with him in Home, so the sentient building can keep an eye on you. In the night he sleeps next to you. Listening to your heartbeat. It's a reminder that you'll be okay. That you're still alive.

Eddie

★ He was the first to find you. Walking into a sight he hopes never to see again. Eddie keeps his voice steady, but his hands are not. "Hey, hey, you're gonna be alright." He says like a promise. "Hold on. Let me go get Frank!"

★ If he's not helping you with something, he's fiddling with his hands. Too nervous to sit still. How could he? You hates seeing you in pain. It makes him feel helpless. If you need anything, anything at all, he'll get it for you.

★ Eddie stays around. Just to be sure you have everything you need. Even if you just need company. Trying to keep you in good spirits "See? you'll be right as rain in no time!" Also, he makes you take it easy for awhile.

Barnaby

★ For the first time in forever, he refrains from making jokes. From teasing anyone or pushing franks buttons. The poor guy is dealing with enough right now. Barnaby is the calmest out of everyone, though it's just a brave face. Internally, he's freaking out

★ When everything calms down he finally cracks a joke. You're not doing great, but its an improvement to earlier. "You had me worried there, kid." Voice lighter than it was before. He's really glad you'll be okay.

Julie

★ While you empty your stomach into the trash can, she stands beside you. And pulls your hair away from your face. She's never seen you like this before. Until now, she didn't think you could cry. But here you are. Trembling and broken in a way she cant fix. And she hates it.

★ She yelled at the rhubarb growing in Franks garden. Upset that they made you so sick. "What's the big idea!?! Shame on you!" Julie shouts. Voice loud, sharp, and laced with betrayal. She'll never trust rhubarb again.

Score:

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ No Goggles!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: No Goggles!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Eh, mentions of series typical violence, nothing crazy

Tags: Hurt/comfort, but like, not in a fun way lmao

Word Count: 3,132

Synopsis: You couldn’t be minding your business harder as you tend to your garden, when suddenly he appears. It’s nothing but chaos and forced southern hospitality from there.

a/n: this literally ended up being the longest spin off so far but i swear no goggles really is the most fun version of mark to write for

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

The late afternoon sun settles over the treetops, casting that warm, amber haze across your porch and the half-wild garden patch just beyond it. The air’s thick with the hum of crickets and honeysuckle. You’ve got your gloved fingers deep in the dirt, coaxing a stubborn little basil sprig into place.

You sigh, brushing sweat off your brow with the back of your wrist.

“Now don’t y’all bloom all at once—Lord knows I only got two hands and a prayer…”

You barely get the words out before the air pressure drops—fast. Sudden. Not wind. Not thunder. Something else. You look up just as a figure slams into the yard like a meteor, sending up a spray of dirt and rock like it’s a confetti cannon.

He lands like a disaster. Tall. Blood-smeared. Wild-eyed—and grinning like he just won a prizefight.

No goggles. No pretense. Just trouble.

You stare at him, trowel still in hand. “The hell are you supposed to be?”

“’Don’t y’all bloom all at once’,” he repeats, twisting your words into a terrible impression of your accent. “That’s adorable. Are you seriously real?”

He says it like he’s seen ghosts before, but you’re the haunting.

“I said,” you snap, “who the hell are you?”

He straightens, chest puffed out in mock confidence. “Aw, shucks, reckon I’m just a tumbleweed blowin’ through… lookin’ for a sweet lil’ rose to pluck.”

Smack.

Your glove cracks across his cheek so fast you surprise even yourself. The hit echoes sharp in the still air.

He touches his face, stunned for all of two seconds. Then grins like you just handed him a gift.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, “do it again. That was incredible.”

Your lip curls. “You mockin’ me, boy?”

He tilts his head, stepping closer like a moth to a bug zapper. “I was—but now I think I’m in love. Seriously, what are you? You sound like you stepped out of a fairytale with a switchblade.”

You take a sharp step back, raising your trowel just in case. “You’re not right in the head.”

“Debatable.” He circles you now, hands behind his back, still grinning. “Say something else. Come on. ‘Hands and a prayer’—what else you got? Threaten me again, but like… with that sweet little drawl.”

You glare. “I could end you with this trowel.”

“There it is!” he nearly shouts, eyes wide. “Say it again. Slower.”

You exhale through your nose. “Bless your dumb little heart.”

He actually stumbles back, laughing like he’s been hit. “Oh my god. You’re killing me. This is the best day of my life.”

You stare, baffled, as he floats a few inches off the ground, just to lazily hover around you like a drunk balloon.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice low and curious.

“…[y/n].”

“Well, [y/n],” he says, saying it like he’s tasting it, “I think I’m gonna stick around a while. Hope you don’t mind. I need to hear you call me stupid at least six more times.”

You raise your brows, unimpressed. “Only six?”

His smile goes crooked. “Oh, you’re perfect.”

You don’t answer. Just look him over, still gripping your trowel like you might chuck it at his head if he makes another dumb joke.

He hovers lazily a few feet above the garden now, turning upside down midair with all the grace of a sleep-deprived bat.

“What even is this place?” he muses. “Everything’s slow, and hot, and you smell like peach jam and dirt. It’s kinda great. Definitely weird.”

You fold your arms. “You done floatin’ and talkin’ nonsense, or should I go grab a fly swatter?”

“God, you’re ruthless.” He flips back upright. “Can’t decide if I wanna fight you or marry you.”

“Try either and you’re gettin’ buried in the compost pile.”

He laughs again—loud and sharp, full of teeth. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, exactly. But it’s something. Something tilted. Like the world’s just a little sideways in his eyes.

He lands again, just outside swinging range.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go,” he says, holding up his hands. “Multiverse business and all that. Gotta go break something somewhere else.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” you mutter.

He starts to turn, then pauses. “Say goodbye to me.”

You blink. “No.”

“Say it with the accent.”

“No.”

“Say ‘see ya later, darlin’, don’t do nothin’ foolish’ or whatever y’all say before a good ol’ murder.”

You sigh, hard. “Go. Before I introduce this trowel to your spleen.”

He grins one last time and takes off—so fast he kicks up dust all over your garden.

You cough, waving a hand. “Jackass.”

—

You’re halfway through a slice of pie on the porch when the screen door creaks and you hear it again—that whoosh.

And there he is.

He doesn’t stick the landing this time, slamming into the dirt with a grunt then immediately going still for a beat.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, standing up quickly, pie forgotten. "You again?"

He groans, hand clutching his side. He’s bleeding more now—his suit dark with it. Face smeared with dirt. Hair a disaster. Still smirking, somehow.

You storm down the steps, apron flapping like a battle flag.

“You bleedin’ on my tomatoes now, is that it?” you snap, glaring down at the heap of superpowered insanity curled in your garden.

Mark props himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly, and shoots you a crooked smile. “Missed you too, darlin’.”

“You’re leakin’ like a busted faucet, darlin’,” you fire back, crouching beside him despite your better judgment. “And don’t think callin’ me sweet things is gonna keep me from usin’ this trowel again.”

He wheezes a laugh. “God, I knew you were dangerous.”

You eye the gash running down his side, brow pinching. “You need a doctor.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Got one right here.”

“I plant basil,” you deadpan. “I ain’t a trauma center.”

“You’ve got clean hands and good instincts,” he murmurs, quieter now. “That’s more than most.”

You blink. There’s something under his voice now. A crack in the static. Just for a second.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

Mark shrugs—or tries to. “Ran into someone who didn’t like my sense of humor.”

“Well, sugar, neither do I,” you grumble, already pressing a clean corner of your apron to the wound. “Hold still.”

He hisses at the contact, but stays quiet. Watching you.

You try not to notice how close his face is now. How he’s still got that half-smile, but it’s lazier. Sleepy. Tired in a way that doesn’t match his usual cackling energy.

“You got a name?” you ask, voice lower now.

He watches you for a moment, eyes unreadable. “Mark.”

You blink. Somehow you expected something fake. Something stupid, like “Omega Cowboy.”

“…Mark,” you repeat, testing it out. “Well. That’s almost normal.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he warns. “I’m still very much a problem.”

You press the cloth harder, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I’ve wrangled worse.”

He grins at that—slow and feral. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” You narrow your eyes. “Now quit smilin’ like a possum in the trash and hold that tight. I’m gettin’ the kit.”

As you turn, he watches you go, head tipping back against the dirt, eyes slipping shut for just a second.

“…peach jam and dirt,” he murmurs again, like a prayer or a punchline.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh after.

You’re only inside a minute—maybe two. Long enough to grab the dusty first aid kit from under the kitchen sink and curse yourself for getting involved.

But the moment you step back onto the porch, you freeze.

Mark's slumped sideways now, face pale beneath the grime, body too still.

"Mark?"

No answer.

You drop the kit, heart jolting. “Oh, no you don’t, you lunatic—hey!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees in the dirt. “Don’t you go dyin’ in my garden, I just fixed the soil!”

You shake him once—twice. His head lolls. You slap his cheek gently, then a little harder.

“Mark, dammit, wake up!”

He groans, eyes fluttering open, unfocused.

“There you are,” you exhale, relief punching through your chest. “Come on now, get up.”

“Mm… m’up,” he slurs, trying to roll but only managing a half-hearted twitch. “This the part where you kiss me back to life?”

You glare at him. “This the part where I drag your dumb, heavy ass into my house so you don’t bleed out in the beans.”

He grins—dopey and dazed. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

With way more effort than you’d like to admit, you haul one of his arms over your shoulders and heave him up, grunting as he leans heavily on you.

“God, you’re built like a fridge,” you huff. “What are you even made of?”

“Sex appeal,” he mutters into your hair.

You elbow him in the ribs and he groans in a way that might be exaggerated. Might not.

You stumble inside together, kicking the screen door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him through the hallway until you reach the only place remotely suitable—the bedroom. You don’t have a couch big enough for all of him, and you sure as hell aren’t laying him down on your kitchen table.

You guide him down onto the mattress as gently as you can. He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arms spread like he’s just been martyred.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes closed, “this is moving way faster than I expected.”

You toss a pillow at his face. “You’re bleedin’ out, not gettin’ lucky.”

“Shame,” he says, muffled by cotton. “I’m very charming in a near-death state. Some women are into that.”

You shoot him a look as you open the kit. “I’m into clean sheets and peace of mind, which you’re actively ruinin’ both.”

He laughs—wheezing, ragged, but real.

You try not to think about the way that sound lands in your chest like a spark in dry brush.

You reach for the alcohol and cotton pads, muttering under your breath. “Can’t believe I’m patchin’ up some interdimensional jackass in my Sunday sheets…”

He just grins, head tipping to the side as he watches you work.

You move in silence for a moment, hands steady as you clean the blood from his side. It's worse than you thought—jagged, bruised, and deeper than any normal person would’ve survived.

But he’s not normal.

You catch sight of something under the blood—a line of faded scarring, old and angry, spiderwebbing across his ribs. You frown, hand pausing for just a second too long.

His voice is quieter now. “Yeah. That one’s from a different me.”

You glance up.

He’s watching you again. Not leering. Not grinning. Just watching.

You say nothing. Just keep cleaning, dabbing gently with the cloth.

“…and that one,” he adds, pointing lazily to a jagged scar near his shoulder, “was from some cape who thought he could moral-speech me into giving up. Didn’t go well for him.”

You shake your head. “You act like this is all normal.”

He shrugs—or tries to. “It is. For me.”

You don’t answer. Just reach for the bandages. The weight of it sits between you—his body littered with stories he tells like punchlines. But none of them are funny.

He shifts, drawing a long, dramatic breath. “Y’know… if you cared about me even a little, you’d be feeding me right now.”

You pause mid-wrap.

Lord help you—you feel it. That tug. That deep-rooted, bone-deep southern instinct that kicks in when someone so much as breathes the word “hungry” near you.

You purse your lips, trying to fight it off like a sneeze in church.

“…You just bled all over my garden,” you mutter. “That don’t make you helpless.”

He makes a noise—somewhere between a groan and a pitiful sigh—and slumps dramatically against the headboard like a man meeting his untimely end.

“Can’t lift my arms,” he says faintly, flexing one just enough to contradict himself. “Might faint. Again. It’s tragic.”

You roll your eyes. “You dramatic little—”

“Please,” he adds, and it’s way too sweet to be real. “Just a biscuit. Maybe two. A spoonful of somethin’. You’d be so good at it. I can tell. Bet you feed people like it’s a holy mission.”

Your jaw tics.

Because he’s not wrong.

You hate that he’s not wrong.

You huff and stand, muttering all the way down the hall like you’re not about to do exactly what he asked. There’s a plate of leftover fried chicken in the icebox, half a tin of biscuits, and some peach preserves you jarred yourself just last month. You warm it all up without thinking—like muscle memory, like praying over your food.

It’s not about him, you tell yourself. It’s about basic decency. Hospitality. He’s a guest. A half-dead, annoying-as-sin guest. Doesn’t mean you weren’t raised right.

When you come back, plate in hand, he perks up like a possum sniffing pie. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Is that jam?”

“Peach preserves,” you correct, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Made it myself.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Of course you did. I knew you were perfect.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He lifts a hand weakly—barely. Then lets it flop back down. “Mmm. Can’t. Too weak.”

You stare at him.

He stares right back. All wounded pride and fluttering lashes like some Disney prince mid-meltdown.

You suck in a slow breath. “I swear, if you’re fakin’—”

“You’re really gonna let me die in here... biscuitless?”

You squint at him. “If I feed you one bite, you better not say a word.”

His grin returns, slow and gleaming. “Mouth shut. Hand to God.”

You take a piece of biscuit, slather a little peach on it, and raise it to his lips with more irritation than care.

He opens his mouth way too eagerly and takes the bite, eyes closing like he’s seeing visions of heaven.

“Oh my God,” he moans around it. “Marry me.”

You smack his shoulder—not hard enough to reopen anything, but firm enough to make your point.

“You said no talkin’.”

He holds up a finger, chewing. Swallows. Then leans in just a little. “But if I did die, this would’ve been the best last meal.”

You glare. “One more word and you’re gettin’ the rest of this on a paper towel.”

He zips his lips, but that smug look stays carved into his face. You feed him another bite—chicken this time—and he groans again, dramatic as ever.

You’re trying to be mad. You really are.

But the thing is… there’s a part of you that likes this. Not the flirting, not the chaos—but the feeding. The doing. The tiny flicker of comfort you can give someone, even someone as infuriating as him. Maybe especially him.

When you reach for a spoonful of jam, he murmurs low, voice all gravel and velvet. “Tell me I’m pitiful again. Right after the next bite.”

You stare at him.

Then you say it soft, real slow, like you’re talking to a toddler with a fever, “You poor, pitiful man.”

And it’s like you flipped a switch in him.

Mark’s head rolls back against the headboard, mouth slack, eyes fluttering half-closed like you just whispered something filthy in his ear instead of blessing him with pity.

He lets out this low, broken groan—obscene for what was supposed to be a wholesome peach-preserve moment.

“Jesus, say it again—do it while feeding me the jam, I swear I’ll ascend—”

You snatch the spoon back, scandalized. “Absolutely not.”

He blinks his eyes open, wide and betrayed. “No—wait, come back—I blacked out for a second, that was the best thing I’ve ever felt—”

“You need help,” you snap, standing up and backing away like he’s contagious.

He makes grabby hands toward the plate like he’s being abandoned in a war zone. “Don’t go—please, I’m dying again—”

“I’m not hand-feedin’ you through your fake orgasm!”

He flops dramatically sideways across your quilt. “Just one more bite, I swear. I’ll behave. I’ll be good. You can even cuss at me while you do it—I won’t even moan!”

You squint. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

“…It might be.”

You sigh, hard, pinching the bridge of your nose.

This man is gonna be the death of you. And he’s smiling like he knows it, too.

You step back toward the bed, torn between pity and pure exasperation, and offer him one last bite of biscuit—mostly just to shut him up. He takes it slow, all soft eyes and syrupy theatrics, like he’s staring down the barrel of romance itself.

Then, faster than you can blink, he grabs your wrist.

Not hard—just firm enough to pull you closer.

“Don’t,” you warn, already knowing what’s coming.

But he’s got that look again—like chaos in human form—grinning just enough to be dangerous.

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies.

And then he kisses you.

Warm. Surprising. Way too pleased with himself.

You go rigid, eyes wide, taste of peach jam still fresh on both your mouths.

And then your hand flies before you even think about it.

SMACK.

The sound echoes sharp off the walls.

He flinches—but only just. Mostly, he laughs. Full-body, pleased-as-hell laughter like he just got everything he wanted and dessert, too.

“You kiss like you slap,” he says, dazed and delighted. “God, you’re a dream—where’re you goin’? No, no, don’t walk away—come back!”

But you are done.

You storm out of the room with a muttered, “Pervert,” and the sound of your bare feet on hardwood.

He calls after you, pitiful as a stray dog in the rain.

“Sugar! C’mon! Don’t go cold on me now—we were havin’ a moment! I’m injured! I’m biscuitless!”

Silence.

Then—

Click.

That distinct, unmistakable sound.

He stiffens.

You step back into the doorway holding Meemaw’s double-barrel shotgun like it’s part of your Sunday best. Hair mussed. Cheeks flushed. Voice calm as a lullaby soaked in arsenic.

“You put your mouth on me again without askin’, I’ll be scrapin’ you off the porch with a shovel.”

Mark goes perfectly still.

Then his smile spreads again, wide and wicked. “Oh my god. You are my dream girl.”

You raise the barrel a fraction. “Test me.”

He lifts both hands, still grinning like this is a honeymoon, not a warning. “Alright, alright—I’m behavin’. I swear. Just—leave the shotgun. For ambiance.”

You slam the door on your way out.

His grin doesn’t falter. Not even a little.

“... God I love this place.”

[littlelamy]

backstage fun

rafe x 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚's𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭!𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

a/n: please remember that victoria’ssecret!angel!reader is tailored to how you look. these photos are just for reference. 😊i hope you all like it!🐇💗

the bright lights of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show beamed through the hallways, casting a soft glow over the bustling backstage area. makeup artists were adding final touches, hair stylists perfecting every curl, and models slipping into the iconic lingerie sets. in the center of all the action was you, one of the show's headlining outer banks angels, which was a small feature to the vsfs pre runway. wearing your wings proudly, you adjusted the strap of your lacey white bra, ensuring everything was perfect. you still needed your make up done but so far everything looked amazing.

but your mind wasn’t entirely on the show. it kept drifting back to one person—rafe cameron. his reputation preceded him—intense, sexy, dangerously charming, and every bit as addictive as you imagined him to be. he wasn’t part of your world, but through some twist of fate, he was here tonight, lurking in the shadows with that signature smirk of his.

you’d met him a few months prior at a cameron charity event. he was magnetic, the kind of man who made you feel like the only person in the room, even when surrounded by hundreds. the way his eyes lingered a little too long, the way his hand would casually brush against your waist—it was clear that he was interested, and you had felt that unmistakable spark, too.

a knock at your personal dressing room door pulled you from your thoughts. you glanced at your reflection, wings in place, lingerie hugging every curve, and then opened the door to find none other than rafe, leaning against the frame with a devilish grin.

“well, if it isn’t the angel herself,” rafe purred, his eyes darkening as they traveled from your face to your outfit. “you ready to so that sexy body off on the runway?”

your heart skipped a beat at his bold presence, but you played it cool, leaning back on your heels and giving him a teasing smile and a slight nod. “and what brings you backstage, Rafe? looking to join the show?”

he chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into your dressing room without an invitation. his eyes never left yours, but you could feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch.

“i just came to see the most beautiful woman in the world do her thing,” he said smoothly, his voice low and rich. “and, of course, to make sure she hasn’t forgotten about me.”

you crossed your arms, amused by his confidence. “forgotten about you? now why would I do that?”

rafe moved closer, the space between you disappearing as he leaned in, his hand gently brushing against the strap of your bra close to your chest. “i don’t know,” he murmured, his fingers lingering on the thin strap. “but i’ve been thinking about you.” still toying with the strap, he slowly bites his lower lip.

the air between you thickened with tension, the kind that had been brewing ever since your first encounter. you weren’t immune to rafe’s charm, and he knew it. there was something dangerous about him, something that made your pulse race, even though you knew better.

“rafey,” you warned softly, trying to maintain your composure. “i’m about to go on stage.”

his hand trailed down your shimmery waist, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver through you. “i know,” he replied, his voice huskier now. “but you’ve got a few minutes. and i’ve got a proposition.”

you raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. “oh?”

rafe’s eyes locked onto yours, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “how about a little fun before you hit the stage? a reminder of what’s waiting for you when the show’s over.”

your breath hitched at his words, the temptation pulling at you. there was something thrilling about the idea—rafe, here, backstage, where anyone could walk in. but it wasn’t just the risk that excited you—it was him. the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered. the way he made you feel like you were walking a dangerous line, one that could tip over into something wild and uncontrollable at any moment.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “what do you say, angel?”

you swallowed hard, your pulse racing as his scent—something dark and intoxicating—washed over you. this wasn’t part of the plan, but with rafe, nothing ever was.

you could feel his breath on your neck, the warmth of his body as he hovered so close to you. his fingers grazed the fabric of your bra strap again, this time with more intent, and you felt the heat rising between you.

“rafe, this is…” you began, but your words trailed off as he pressed a soft kiss just beneath your ear, the sensation sending a shockwave through your body.

“this is what?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin. “crazy? dangerous? exciting?”

you exhaled shakily, your resolve wavering as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer. the room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the energy between you and rafe crackled like electricity.

“exciting,” you whispered, unable to resist the pull any longer.

in an instant, rafe’s lips were on yours, claiming you with a hunger that made your knees weak. the kiss was fiery, intense, and everything you had been craving since the moment you met him. his hands roamed over your body, carefully around the lingerie, leaving a trail of heat as he pulled you flush against him.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss as your body melted into his.

but as the kiss grew more heated, you heard the faint sound of footsteps outside your door. a reminder that you were still in the middle of one of the biggest fashion shows of the year. you pulled back, breathless, your lips swollen from the intensity of the kiss.

“i have to go,” you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with desire.

rafe smirked, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “i know. but don’t forget, angel, i’ll be waiting for you when it’s over.”

you nodded, your heart still racing as you straightened your wings and adjusted your lingerie. rafe stepped back, his eyes filled with promise and mischief.

“good luck out there,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “not that you’ll need it.”

with one last smirk, rafe slipped out of the room, leaving you standing there, breathless and buzzing with adrenaline. you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before heading to the runway.

[hayleythesugarbowl]

I was really inspired by smoshs most recent video where they go back and rewatch their first video appearances so here is a request!!

this does not have to be based on a specific video but just more of an idea.

I would love an ian x reader who is on the crew but makes appearances here and there like spencer. where they react to a compilation of them basically being in love because they are a really huge ship in the fandom, and it makes them realize feelings, and you know how it goes from there!!

Shipped || Ian Hecox x reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • smosh masterlist  ⋆˚｡⋆୨୧⋆

summary: when you and ian watch fan compilations of yourselves for a video, you realize how much you actually like each other

word count: 2.4k

warnings: swearing

a/n: ahh this is such a cute idea! i’m so sorry it took me so long to get to love, hope you enjoy 💌

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Hey guys, today (Y/n) and I are going to be getting married!”

     There was a chorus of laughter from the crew as Ian went off-script. 

     “That is not what’s happening,” you said, in your best news anchor voice. 

     “She said no, cut the video,” Ian joked, spiking the camera.

     You laughed, rolling your eyes at him as he continued the intro.

     “But seriously, it is Valentine’s Day and to show you all how much we love and appreciate you, we’re going to be reacting to some fan compilations. Specifically compilations of us, because apparently, and Erin would be so proud of me for using this phrase, you ship it.”

     Ian gestured between the two of you. It was true. You’d started out at Smosh as an editor but after appearing in a TNTL Crew episode, the audience loved you and you kept making more and more appearances on camera.

     You were almost a regular cast member at this point. The new Tommy, people called you. And ever since you had begun appearing more regularly, fans had started shipping you with Ian immediately.

     It helped that you two were good friends and that most of the videos you were in, he was in as well. You and Ian had been close for a while now, ever since you’d started at Smosh a few years back.  

     You’d never thought of you guys as anything more than that though. Friends. But it was fun imagining the fans analyzing your interactions and making more of them. You couldn’t wait to watch the compilations.

     “We have compiled some edits and videos that you guys have made that are apparently about me and Ian,” you said. “I guess now that Shayne and Courtney are married and there aren’t enough clips of Angela and Mater, we’re ‘the ship’.”

     Ian nodded, laughing. “We haven’t watched these yet but I can’t wait to get started so let’s jump right in, shall we?”

     “We shall. This first one is called ‘ian and (y/n) being endgame for 17 minutes straight’ by rogertheredditor. Do we need to give a definition of endgame for Daddy Ian?”

     “Hey!” Ian protested. “I watched avengers.”

     That got a laugh from the crew and you put a hand on Ian’s shoulder.

     “Ok,” you said. “Let’s dive in.”

     You pressed play on the video and watched as clips of you and Ian came on the screen. Most of them were from videos you were in together, Reddit stories and TNTLs and challenge pit. You leaned your elbow on the table, giving the laptop all of your attention. 

 ───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Oh my gosh, Ian you can’t say that on camera!” You exclaimed as Shayne laughed, the iPad almost falling out of his hands. 

     “Well if James Charles didn’t want me talking about it, then he shouldn’t have done it,” Ian defended. 

     You smacked Ian on the shoulder as you laughed and he shoved your hand away yelling ‘cooties!’

     This only made you giggle more and you threw a pillow at him. He caught it, pretending to repeatedly hit you with it.

 ───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     You pressed pause. “I don’t even remember what you said. I just know we had to bleep it out.”

     “Oh I do,” Ian said, laughing. “It was—”

     “Next clip!” You interrupted him, pressing play.

 ───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Watch this” you told the camera, glancing at Ian in the stool. “This is about to be the fastest bit in TNTL history.”

     Ian looked at you with confusion in his eyes as you walked towards him, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

     He immediately spit his water and you clapped, feeling triumphant. Ian choked on water as he lost it. 

     “Wait, now we have to know what you said!” Courtney exclaimed, coming out from behind the divider.

     “Inside joke,” you informed her. 

     “Wait, (Y/n),” Ian said, gesturing to you to come closer, a mischievous smile on his face. “Remember…”

     He leaned in and whispered something in your ear and you both started laughing again.

    “Get a room!” Angela called from off camera. 

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Dude, I remember that,” Ian said, stopping the video. 

     “And we did get a room after that,” you joked. You remembered that moment too, you and Ian laughing over something no one else would’ve understood. You didn’t realize there were so many of these kinds of clips of you and Ian. 

     “(Y/n) stop! They’re gonna believe you and then this clip is going to be put in edits.”

     “You’re welcome Ian and (Y/n) shippers,” you winked at the camera.

     “Wait, we need a ship name,” Ian announced.

     “Put our ship name on the comments,” you said, starting the video again.

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Oh my gosh, I’m gonna puke.”

     You waved your hand in front of your face as you tried to swallow—whatever was in your mouth.

     “What you are eating—or, drinking—is called ‘The Birthday Smoothie’,” Courtney read from the card. “Anchovies, birthday sprinkles, spice drops, and cream of wheat.”

     You gagged and Ian put a hand on your back, laughing. 

     “Can we fly in the puke bucket for (Y/n)?” He asked, looking at you in amusement as you grabbed on to the table, covering your mouth. 

     Courtney handed it to you and you turned, emptying the contents of your mouth into the bucket. Ian rubbed your back as everyone reacted. 

     “You’re ok,” he chuckled.

     You came up a moment later, wiping under your eyes and fixing your hair.

     “That was disgusting.”

     “You’re so dramatic,” Ian rolled his eyes. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

     “Oh yeah, tough guy? Care to try it then.” You gestured to the smoothie still sitting on the table.

     “I would but—I’m on a diet so…”

     You giggled, rolling your eyes. 

    “Oh, you have a—” Ian trailed off, reaching to carefully pull a strand of hair off of your mic, tucking it behind your ear. “There.”

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     And that was the end of the video. You sat there for a moment. You of course remembered that Eat it or Yeet it—in fact it was only filmed a couple weeks ago.

But you hadn’t realized how sweet Ian had been.

     You couldn’t get the image of him rubbing your back out of your head. Of him tucking your hair behind your ears.

     You turned to Ian now, only to find he was already looking at you. 

     “Um—well that was the first compilation. What did you think Ian?”

     “I think I looked good in all those clips so I’m not complaining.” Ian shrugged.

     “Ok Buddy,” you teased. “On to the next one. This one’s called ‘more ian and (y/n) clips that make anthony jealous’ by amangelalover9. Let’s jump in.”

     This video had some of the same clips from the first one but others were ones you hadn’t seen yet. A lot were times you and Ian shared the screen but others were simply moments where one of you mentioned or talked about the other one. 

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

    “I was with Ian the other day…”

     “You know who would think this was so funny? (Y/n).”

     “Wait let me text Ian and settle this.”

     “Bro, (Y/n) said the most wild shit last night…”

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     You watched with Ian, laughing and remembering each part that came on.

     A clip appeared that was older than many of the others—one of your earlier videos, judging by your hairstyle.

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Hey guys, welcome back to challenge pit!” Keith announced. “Today we’re going to be competing to see who can win at doing household chores—but with a twist. I’m talking swords and shit.”

     “Swords and shit? Title of your sex tape.” Ian leaned over and mumbled to you.

     You busted up laughing and everyone else turned to see what was so funny.

     “Sorry Keith,” you wheezed. “Keep going with the intro. Please finish.”

     “Also the title of your sex tape.”

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     Ian reached forward pausing the video on the laptop. “I remember that day.”

     “It was at the end of a shoot week, right?” You asked.

     Ian nodded, looking wistful. “Yeah. I remember it was the first time I made you laugh.”

     “Must have been the very end of a shoot week and I was delirious,” you teased, but your mind was on his words.

     Ian clutched his chest in mock offense. You giggled, nudging his shoulder as you pressed play again.

     As you watched more of the video and laughed with Ian, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. 

     I remember it was the first time I made you laugh

     He kept track of that?

     Eventually, the video ended and you moved on to the final one. 

     “That was so good,” Ian chuckled. “We are so Shourtney coded. Like I feel like if we announced that we were secretly married, no one would be shocked.”

     “Again with the marriage? Is this whole video a secret proposal or something?”

     “Only if you’d say yes,” Ian countered. 

     You knew he was joking, but something about his eyes—about the way he was looking at you—made your heart beat faster. It was probably just the effects of being in a video about you and Ian being in a ‘relationship’, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like if it was real.

     You had a sudden image of leaning across the table and bringing your lips to his. 

     You shook it off. “The jury’s out on that one. Meanwhile, our final video is titled ‘ian and (y/n) putting kelce and taylor to shame and giving us more feels than that one scene from marley and me’ and this one was posted by pandalover717.”

     The crew laughed at the long title and you kept talking. 

     “This is a shorter one—”

     “Shayne,” Ian coughed. A loud ‘hey!’ came from off-camera. You ignored them.

     “—so we’ll see what it entails. Let’s go.”

     You started the video and a Taylor Swift song started playing, dramatizing shots of you and Ian talking or hugging or falling on each other as you laughed.

     I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings

    Darling, you’re the one I want 

     Was this how everyone saw you and Ian? You had always been close but—had you been missing something.

    I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this 

    Darling you’re the one I want 

     How did you see you and Ian? How did he? You tried to think of your relationship from the perspective of these edits and fan videos.

     I want to drive away with you 

     I want your complications too.

     You tried to stop your heart from racing. You were starting to see Ian in a whole new light. 

     I want to drive away with you. 

     I want your complications too.

     Seeing all of these moments that you’d had with Ian—you were beginning to form a clearer picture that you hadn’t been able to see before. 

     I want your dreary Mondays 

     Wrap your arms around me, baby boy 

     Maybe one you hadn’t let yourself see before.

     Because you and Ian were friends. Best friends. 

     But what if you could be more than that. 

     You were lost in your thoughts as the video ended and Ian tapped a button on the laptop.

     “That song slaps every time,” Ian announced, turning to you. “What’d you think of that one?”

     You shook yourself out of it, answering Ian. “I love a good edit. These were all so good and it’s so much fun to see how you guys interpret interactions and find little hidden meanings in things.”

     “Or not-so-hidden meanings,” Ian said. He sounded so sincere that it threw you off.

     “What?”

     “Nothing. What—what was your favorite moment from all of those clips? Personally mine is when you lost your lunch after that smoothie.”

     You smacked his arm and he ducked away from you, holding up his arms in surrender. 

     “Not funny Ian, my stomach wasn’t right for a week. And I don’t know if I have a favorite, there were a lot of good ones. By some crazy coincidence basically all of the videos I’ve been in have been with this guy.”

      Ian was silent a moment.

     “And—and what if it wasn’t?” He finally said. “A coincidence, I mean.”

     “What?”

     “It was at the beginning but then I, um, might’ve asked to be put in every video you were going to be in,” Ian admitted, running a hand along the back of his neck nervously. 

     “Why?” Your voice came out breathless. “Why would you—”

      “Well,” Ian started, crossing his arms over his chest. “For starters, how else would people have enough content to make edits about us?”

     “Ian.”

     “Fine. At first it was just to hang out with you more,” Ian said, “We were such good friends and—and then it was more than that. Y’know, once I, kind of, fell in love with you.”

     You could’ve sworn your heart stopped. The room was silent. As far as you were concerned it was just you and Ian.  

     “Is this some bit for the video or—”

     “It’s not a bit,” Ian confessed, smiling ruefully. “I wish it was, because that I’d be good at. I’m not good at this. At emotions and feelings and—”

     But he never got to finish that sentence because you leaned over and kissed him. He kissed you back, his lips crashing into yours with an intensity you’d never seen from him. 

     When you broke apart, the entire room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘oh my god’ and ‘guys!’ and ‘pay up shayne, where’s my 30 bucks?’. That last one was Chanse.

     But you hardly heard any of it. You could only smile at Ian as he smiled back at you. 

     “Wow,” you said. “That was not how I imagined this video ending.”

     “Me neither,” Ian said. “But a guy can dream.”

     You smiled, thinking about how Ian had felt about you all this time. How you felt about him now. It would be a miracle if you could stop smiling.

      You looked away from Ian and towards the camera as Spencer spoke from behind it. “I think I speak for all the fans when I say we are going to have a field day with this video in our next edits. This is straight out of a Lynn Painter book”

     “We?” You asked, intertwining your fingers with Ian’s at the same time as Ian said,

“You read Lynn Painter books? 

     “Yeah,” Spencer shrugged “They’re dope as hell.”

     You giggled as he continued, a small smirk on his face. “And as for the edits…

Who do you think pandalover717 is?”

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ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed babes, lots more smosh fics coming soon!! also if you caught my b99 reference ilysm 💋