#daily life of him now apparently

[arkarti]

do you really wanna find out 😳might get stabbed in the process

THIS JUST IN:

local serial killer.. I mean normal business man is swarmed by fans. Some of them trying to eat him? more at 7

he was dealing with 5 ghost children before, but this.. is something else

[ebenelephant]

so i watched the play of a little life before i read the book - because a friend read the book, thought i'd like it, and either way we like going to the cinema together - but i just got it for christmas from my dad and i was looking through the user submitted content warnings on storygraph and it's just like... fucking hell, man. i don't know if i can read this. i saw it staged, with uncomfortably realistic special effects and phenomenal acting, but to read that? 700 pages of that?

[kavehater]

how to kys without krilling yourself ;-;

[dollopole]

Let’s take into consideration:

Arthur would rather waste precious time before an important council meeting to run around the entire castle and search for Merlin, who, in his very honest opinion is the worst servant of the entire kingdom or that he had ever known, than to call literally anyone else to help him dress (as if there wouldn’t be anyone ready to assist Arthur, their king, with clothes);

Arthur, and therefore Agravaine (which makes it all the more hilarious) knows every single place where Merlin could be, at that precise moment, or during that day in general; (EDIT: As someone pointed out in the comments, everyone and Agravaine included knows who is the “dollophead”)

The guards nod to Agravaine without asking anything, which only means that it is canon that everyone in Camelot knows Merlin by name; EDIT: It also means that the guards deal with this on a daily basis. They must be tired.

The aforementioned point implies that everyone knows how Merlin looks like, that also means Merlin is known to never leave Arthur’s side, even during council meetings;

Arthur is running around the castle in what today we would call a pyjama, just because Merlin didn’t wake him up with, “Rise and Shine”. And he’s barefoot. That’s right. The king of Camelot, everyone, has just walked barefoot in Merlin’s chambers, in the armoury, where other knights probably are, and in the bloody stables (yes, the ones where the horses and their dungs both are), without boots on, just to look for Merlin;

Arthur is more distressed in this scene than in the one where Morgana declares war in season five. He’s fretting like a mother hen. Not only he is without breath, which means he was just coming back from his checking around, but he is red in the face and almost yelling in desperation. “Does he expect me to dress myself?!” Because apparently, Arthur literally cannot do anything without Merlin by his side. The way he says, “No sign of him” to Agravaine is so endearing, and he shouldn’t be this adorable. Unfair, Arthur. Really unfair.

Arthur just yells, (and distressingly looks around) in hope that Merlin will come back to him, because he always does. *sounds of my heart breaking into millions of pieces*

And last but not least, Arthur shouts, “Last night!”, which means the actual reason he’s going around searching for Merlin, it’s because he’s worried his world will end without his quirky and clumsy servant by his side (and the love of his life). Merlin is currently out on a quest with Gwaine to look for Gaius, since he has been kidnapped, but the problem is that Arthur doesn’t know this. What he knows is that he has fought with Merlin the day before about Gaius in the council chambers, and believes Merlin is gone for good, this time, and solely for the fight they had. Arthur feels more than guilty that he can’t make it up to his best friend, the love of his life (Agravaine helped Morgana kidnap Gaius, and it explains the ending of the scene, where he understands where Merlin is.) Now Arthur is worried that his last words to Merlin were harsh. He had last seen him when he was done with his duties the night before, and then Merlin disappeared.

No wonder they deleted this scene.

[murmeloni]

I need more fanboy Clark Kent in my life.

Like, he's seen Bruce Wayne interact with a child once and immediately fell in love with the guy. Now his bedroom walls are plastered with posters and he follows several social media accounts focused on capturing pictures of Bruce with kids and/or animals etc. He defends Bruce to anyone, no matter the antics he gets up to and it has become a bit of a running gag around the office.

Then, one day, Cat is out sick and someone jokingly suggests Clark should cover the gala in her stead, seeing as Bruce Wayne will be there and maybe this'll be Clark's shot to finally get his man? To everyone's surprise, Perry really does assign the gala coverage to Clark, who spends the days leading up to the event in a state somewhere between absolute panic and ultimate bliss.

But when the day finally arrives, Bruce doesn't show.

Of course Clark does his job and interviews everyone there (yes, even Lex Luthor) but a part of him spends all night waiting for Bruce to crash the party late, like he so often does.

Eventually, Clark gives up hope and it's shortly after that, that he stumbles upon one of the children dragged along to the event by their parents. Because apparently someone thought a charity gala was a good environment for an eight year old. The parents are nowhere in sight and the child is close to tears, so Clark makes it his mission to cheer the little girl up, regaling her with stories from his upbringing on a Kansas farm while he searches the crowd for her family.

With Clark thus occupied, he doesn't notice Bruce Wayne finally making his appearance for the night. But Bruce definitely notices him. The gentle giant who's all kind smiles and corny jokes... Until he finds the girl's parents. Uncaring of the fact that he's here on a job and that these people are richer than any one person should be and could easily sue him into oblivion, he takes them aside, fire in his eyes, and tears them a new one for losing track of their kid like this. Anything could have happened to her and maybe the readers of the Daily Planet would like to know about that? After all, how reliable and trustworthy could a company whose CEOs won't even look after their own daughter really be?

Bruce is immediately smitten. The passive-aggressive lecture and subtle threats - not to mention the broad shoulders and handsome face - are incredibly attractive to him and he wastes no time cornering the man afterwards.

Clark, who is so starstruck by the mere sight of Bruce coming towards him that he loses the ability to speak, nearly faints when Bruce just straight up shoves his tongue into his mouth. They end up in one of the coat rooms and Clark thinks that's it, just a one night stand. It sucks that he won't see Bruce again, but the night was amazing and at least he has the memory to treasure, right?

He thinks that right up until he gets to work the next day and two dozen red roses are waiting for him on his desk. There's a handwritten card nestled inbetween the petals and on it is the name of a restaurant along with a date and time. It's signed by Bruce.

And that is how Clark gets together with his celebrity crush.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCXDP fanfic idea: You ARE the Father.

Clark Kent gets a call from his old high school situationship. Really, he liked her well enough, but both had agreed they did not want to stay stuck in Smallville forever.

Clark wanted to go to the big city for journalism, and Maddie wanted to go into the sciences - she was unsure if she wanted to do organic chemistry or engineering. His parents supported his dream, Maddie's....not so much.

While she did come from a family of intelligent women, the Paynes believed they should stay on the family farm to support the family. They could not understand why Maddie wanted to be strong and independent woman if all that would bring her was dying alone.

According to them, no man wanted a disobent wife. She argued too much with men and often wouldn't back down from her stance.

Apparently, that made her "unlady" like.

Clark never saw it. Personally, he thought women with backbone, who wouldn't take anyone shit, was insanely attractive. That's why he had approached her at the local science fair where she was steaming by her impressive solar energy powered homemade phone.

Her mother had just finished reminding her that her first place in a small high school fair was nothing to be proud of. It was, after all, only Smallville, and really, there wasn't much competition anyway.

Clark told her that she was likely the smartest person in their entire state and he was in awe by her. Maddie kissed him behind the gym the science fair was being held.

Her family forbade her from dating, which made the kiss somehow more exciting.

They met up regularly to sneak kisses or lend a sympathetic ear. Around their last year of high school, they went a little further then kisses, and really the Kent Barn is not the most comfortable place but it was hidden well enough her family wouldn't know what she was up to and Ma wouldn't question him spending the night there.

All the years of sleeping near the cows to keep them company, since he worried they were lonely, as a child paid off. Despite the numerous times they put Kent barn to work, both knew it was nothing serious.

Maddie needed a break from her family. Clark was more than happy to be her stress relief. He did worry a aweful lot about his powers and the fact he was an alien, so he needed some stress relieving of his own around those years too.

Maddie applied secretly to a big college on the Wayne Scholarship states away, and Clark planned on going to Metropolis as soon as possible for the open intership at the Daily Planet.

They were friends with benefits, but the day graduation came around, they never spoke to each other again. Neither were bitter. They had both known what would be the ending long before it arrived. It would have never worked between them.

Clark wasn't sure what Maddie had wanted after all these years, but being presented a teenage girl- the splitting image of Maddie at that age- who was flouting five feet off the ground was not one of them.

"Jazz, meet Clark Kent, you biological father" Maddie Fenton, for she was married now to the man who had raised Jazz like his own. "Clark, this is Jasmine Fenton...you're daughter"

The man of Steel felt like he's was going to faint.

Or.......

Maddie met Jack in her first semester of college. They get alone really well, and she finds herself with a pregnancy scare before she knows what happened. Sometime between the protrype portal and Jack treating her like an equal, she had found her walls coming down long enough to have a little fun.

The worst part is she is unsure of who the father is, the loveable goof she can see herself spending her life with or the kind gentle famer boy she left behind. It's only two months apart, but it was close enough it could go either way.

She tells Jack the truth, who declares that he doesn't care and gets down on one knee right there and then. Maddie agrees to marry him over the choked tears, blooming happiness and love so strong she feels dizzy from it.

A few months later, she gives birth to her Jazz, and two years later, she has Danny. The Fentons finish school, set up Fenton Works, and raise their family. She never considers telling Clark or getting Jazz tested.

She's Jack Fenton's daughter. That's all there is to it.

Until Jazz one day starts showing signs that Jack is not her father. How does Maddie know? Simple, she recognized the man flying around calling himself Superman, and after hearing of his home planet, and all the little things Clark had been too clumsy to properly cover up back in the day, it clicks.

Her daughter is half Kryptonian and her powers were awakening. Did all Kryptonians unlock thier abilities at the teenage age? Was it a puberty thing for thier kind?

Maddie didn't know, but she couldn't afford to let her daighter go in blind. Metas had tough lives. Who knows what being part alien could do. So she picked up the phone and dialed the man who may have the answers.

Meanwhile, Danny and Jazz are desperately trying to hide the fact that Jazz may have gotten some ghost abilities due to exposure from Phantom's Ghostly Wail and have no idea it's being confused for Kryptonian blood. They were careless in training, and now, similar to that whole fiasco with Spetra and her hospital, Jazz was unable to control her temporary abilities.

Jack is just happy to be there and is unaware of any of his family members' delimas.

[faggotry-enjoyer]

"i celebrated the one year anniversary of matt walsh's what is a woman by watching it again" - a friend of mine, 2023, following conversation about pride month

[lufyuu]

,,Discipline''

Older military instructor x younger brat male reader

Tw/s: brat taming, dubcon, face fucking, age gap (22&38), sadism, hair grabbing/pulling, punishing themes, light degration and praise.

The room is almost dead quiet if not for the lecture a tall man is giving. Air and people alike both tense. Nobody dares to make a wrong move nor play around. Though, that 'nobody' doesn't include a certain young man who has just barely graduated from college not long ago. Some describe him as a very shameless and lazy man, while others just say he's enjoying life. He'd always be either on his phone or napping all throughout his classes. It seems like it's all he can ever do, even at home. Instead of finding a decent job and finding love like his friends, he only stayed home being a bum living in his parents' basement. This 'routine' continued until he got the sudden news of being enlisted in the military all thanks to his mom, who by this point, had almost given up on her son if not for the neighbors giving advice. They had said their son used to be like hers until they forcefully pushed him into the military. Ever since then, he's been nothing but responsible.

The young man in question is [Name] [L.Name]. The moment you heard you'd go into the military, you got pissed at your mom and locked the door to your bedroom-like basement for a few days. Refusing to eat and talk. This didn't do much other than starve you. The military was unavoidable by this point so, you had no other choice but to depart from home in just a few weeks time.

Today's your second day in the military. Well, you're at the very back of a huge crowd of men in uniforms. They had given everyone a pair of uniform to wear today but honestly, you just threw it on randomly, not even caring if some buttons were left unbuttoned. Somehow, you'd sneaked your phone in. Providing some entertainment as an old man, whom you don't remember the name of, explains the rules and laying out the schedule for your daily life there. You couldn't give less of a fuck. None of this matters anyways, you're going to be out in like what? A few weeks after the training's over. Maybe you'd even get out faster if you show your signature pout to your mom like always.

Scrolling on Twitter, you watch some sex videos without clicking on the video itself. You're a whole creep, but why dwell on it? You've given up on yourself years ago. This doesn't matter all that much. You could even feel yourself getting hard at the sight. You wish you hear them enjoying a good fucking right now. Unfortunately for you and your almost hardened dick, that wouldn't be possible. Even though you sneaked in a phone, you hadn't managed to sneak in a pair of headsets. How unlucky. Your eyes focus on the video, never moving from it even when the man's loud voice pierce through your ears. At the very least, you do know that he's an ex soldier who has fought in one of the many wars that has happened in the past decade. Not that you'd be able to do much with that information. Apparently he came here just to be a substitute as the actual instructor had gotten a serious illness and has a high chance of staying in the hospital for at least a few months, causing him to not be able to come and teach. You'd rather he shut the fuck up though. His loud voice is ruining your mood watching porn. "Jesus can he just shut up", you mumble to yourself, maybe one or two near you heard but not like they'd snitch.

Even in a serious situation, you manage to get hard. Although you're shameless, you're not shameless enough to masturbate infront of all these people. That'd be ridiculous. So, you try to hold yourself back. '10 more minutes...you can hold it' you think to yourself.

You scroll to a particularly sexually arousing video. It shows a man being facefucked roughly. Drool rolling down his chin as he's forced to take it all in, not being able to catch his breath. You can even feel yourself getting harder and harder by the second. You imagine yourself as the one on the receiving end. God how'd amazing it would be to have another man's cock down your throat like that, fucking it and putting you in your place. Just the thought of it is enough to make you twitch.

You hover your finger over the video and just as you're about to scroll. Thump! "I'm so sorry—", the man next to you who had just bumped your dominant hand on accident is silenced by the very loud sound of moaning and slurping coming from your device. You instantly freeze. Not daring or even able to move to close the video. All eyes are now on you as you're the source of the very out of place noises. Heck, you somehow notice the instructor stopping dead in the middle of his lecture just to stare at you through the crowd. Your eyes are still wide as you try your best to salvage what's left or your ego by closing the app entirely. Almost dropping it in the process. "Fuck..", you let out after holding in your words for a few seconds. You're so done for. With that, people begin to whisper just beside you as you can do nothing about it. The room gets noisier and noisier by the second until eventually...

"Silence."a manly and fierce voice commands. It sets the whole mood of the room as everyone turns to face the man in front of them, tense. You could do nothing but follow their move. "Today's lesson is over. Everyone may leave in an orderly fashion.", his tone leaves no room for complaints as everyone leaves quietly, shoulders tense. With you being last in line, he stops you before you even get the chance to make it halfway to the exit. "Not you, young man.", even though your brain tells you to leave, every single part of your body stops, not being able to get out of the dangerous situation. You only stood still as he went over to close the door. When he turns back, you can see his badge and finally identify him as Han Minho. Almost everything comes back to you. He's the soldier who played a crucial part in stopping the war 20 years ago. Here he is now, in the flesh, looking at you with almost a glare.

"You do know why I'm holding you back, don't you?", it's a question yet his tone doesn't seem like one. It's more of getting you to admit your guilt. Though, there's no way you'd admit something like that. "No", you try to avoid his gaze by looking elsewhere and distracting yourself with the walls and floors. He can only sigh at your refusal to admit what you'd done. As he reaches over to his desk to grab something, you take the opportunity to sprint to the door—anndd you're pinned to it. So much for getting out the door, you're not trapped between the door and Minho. You shouldn't have underestimated his strength and agility even for a second as that caused this. "And where do you think you're going? I don't remember letting you off", he hovers over you, you practically have to tilt your head up a bit just to be face to face with the man.

The room remains dead silent for another 10 seconds until Minho finally breaks it. "Give me your phone", he demands, holding his hand out to take it away from you. "That's my property, why should I give it to you?", you try to push him off with your phone still in your hands. He snatches it away and even when you try to grab it back, he has enough ability to keep you away. Seeing as you have a password set, he decides to grab your dominant hand and use your finger to unlock the phone. You tried resisting but of course his strength is outmatched. He immediately goes to your twitter page, finally finding the source of the disturbance in his lecture.

"...so. This, is what you've been up to during my lecture.", he stares at the video, hardly impressed. He looks back at you, "you got turned on by this?", he clealy spots your arousal under those uniform pants. He's merely pointing it out. You shake your head no once more, can't he just let you go already..."Darling, even I have a bigger one", he seems to be pointing out the fact that his dick size is bigger compared to the guy getting sucked off in the video. You scoff, the dick in the video's at least 5-6 inches, what is he even on. "Alright old man, I'm just going to head out with my phone", you try to take the phone out of his hand as he holds it near you uet to no avail. His grip doesn't waver as you try to pry the phone out of his hand. "I don't recall asking you to head back?", his eyes are oh so intimidating as he stares into yours. In a split second, he manages to pull you infront of the desk. "Get on your knees", he lets a chilling smile spread on his face. A smile that sends shivers down your spine, your knees getting weaker by the second. You still refuse and try to put on a brave face which only frustrates Minho more. "Unless you want me to spread this? I can assure you, anything that comes out of my mouth will be spreading like wildfire.", he shakes your phone a bit. He isn't wrong nor exaggerating. Anything coming out of his mouth is bound to reach the ears of your parents and maybe even close friends. You can't let that happen!

Reluctantly, you get on your knees infront of him. You look up at his tall figure, wondering what he wants or even gain from this. His hands reach over to his zipper as he slowly and teasingly zip it down. "W-wait!", you try to stop his hands by overlapping them with yours. He waits for you to continue your sentence yet you cant find the words to express what you want. "Why are you hesitating? Isn't this what you want? You're already hard", he points out your hard-on, straining against your pants. You can't respond to it as it is true you're hard and needy. With a simple yank, your hands fall back on the ground as he finishes undoing his pants. He slips his hard and long dick out. It's very close to your face, hell, it even almost slapped you. After a few seconds, you could tell his dick is definitely bigger than the one you had just seen a couple minutes ago. "What? Cat got your tongue?", he has a smug expression on his face due to how quiet you became. "Why don't you take care of my cock if you have nothing else to do?", he raises his eyebrows as his eyes lower into an intimidating gaze. "And don't use any teeth", rather than a request, it felt more like a threat. You put your hands around his cock and start to slowly lick the head ever so slightly. Not having prior experience in sucking nor licking cock, you do such a bad job at it that it gets a yawn from the man whose hard cock you're tending to. "Is that the best you can do? At least try putting half of it in your mouth", you try your best to fit half of his cock in but of course it's a bit hard. When it is in, you begin to suck and lick his cock. Trying to ignore the fact you feel like you're about to choke if you keep it in any longer.

"That's better, good boy", he praises and calls you a pet name. He takes out your phone and begins to record you sucking his cock. For a few seconds, you don't notice ad you're too focused on sucking his dick. When you do notice, you try to back off and remove his cock from your mouth. This ends up with him grabbing your hair and pulling you back, taking his whole cock in your mouth, the tip of your nose touching his happy trail. Your face contort in a mixture of gagging and somewhat pain. You so desperately want to get his dick out of your mouth but he keeps your head firmly there. Not moving at all for maybe 5 seconds. Even when he does let you move, it's just him guiding you back and forth. Your hair is super messy now due to him gripping it so hard, thrusting his hips into you, making you take it in your throat. "You're doing such a great job...ah...", he grunts and moans. The hand holding your phone is very still, making sure to get the best view of his dick going in and out your mouth.

You can even taste some of his precum in your mouth. Both of you can tell he's close to his climax. The way he thrusts faster and faster gives it all away. All you can do is hope that he cums faster. As his grunts and moans get louder, his hand almost loses grip on the phone. "Agh..ah..'m cumming..don't swallow,,agh yet!", cum starts to pour into your mouth, a lot of it. It almost overflows and due to your mouth being wide open, some of it drips on the ground in-between the two of you. You close your eyes as you can feel the warm liquid enter. When Minho pulls away, there was a sticky string that connected his cock to your mouth. He pants while you try your best to close your mouth without swallowing any. "Look at me", you look up at him as his fingers part your lips without using any force. It reveals your mouth full of his cum. Finishing the recording, he takes a picture of your face with his cum dripping out your mouth before telling you to "swallow."

He eventually returns your phone back to you after tidying himself up. "Clean up this mess you've made. I expect you to be on your best behavior next time." He walks past you towards the door. "If not, there will be more where that came from", he doesn't even look at you as he says those words. Only letting a little chuckle and walking away, the door closing as he does, leaving you all alone with cum all over the floor and your phone.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

A couple of months later, you find yourself making more and more friends. They aren't your close friends in any way but it's nice having a handful of people to talk to as you go through the intensive training together. Ever since the incident, you find yourself avoiding the mistake you had made before. Fortunately, you manage to keep your phone on you rather than having it confiscated by Han Minho. Even though you never notice, Minho has always been paying more attention to you than others. Perhaps he's trying to catch you on your phone once more for another round. Regardless, whatever the reason is, you're oblivious to it.

Your routine stays the same. It's the same old routine for everyone there anyways. Get up at 5AM, get ready and have a bit of breakfast before the morning training. Have a few hours to yourself where everyone's free to do anything they would like. Then it's lunchtime before going back to training.

The cafeteria is busy due to everyone flocking to it in order to fill their empty stomachs. The sound of people chstting away, muttering and even whispering to one another, fills the whole room. You take a seat next to one of your buddies. "How'd you guys sleep?", you ask, trying to start a conversation before biting down on your sandwich. The whole incident behind you. "Eh, I've slept better nights", one answers that starts a chain reaction of people agreeing. You can see where they're coming from. The whole training's tiring not to mention boring. The table's silent for a moment until someone perks up. "Hey! I know what we should do!", he looks at everyone with anticipating eyes. Everyone, including you, look at him confusingly. "We should have a little fun before going to bed, that'll make us sleep better and not be bored", he recommends excitedly. You all looks at one another before nodding. "Sounds like an idea but...what should we do?", you tilt your head to which he replies with a smug expression.

The clock tick tocks as it points at 22:48. It's usually when people are already sleeping after a long day of training. But not you and your friends though. You're all wide awake sitting on the floor with a water bottle. It's just the beginning of the game your friend had suggested. It's a bit tense due to the fact everyone's sacred of being caught, especially if it's by the Han Minho. He's scarier than everyone in the training combined. Once he says something, everyone shuts up and listens or at the very least keep up the act of listening even is they aren't. "Let's whisper for now, what if he's out on patrol in the hallways..we'll be absolutely fucked", the man next to you, Tae, suggests. As he says this, he leans into the middle in order for everyone to hear and raising his right hand at the side of his mouth. Everyone nods in agreement as the game starts quietly and slowly.

"Joon, truth or dare?", Tae starts the game, pointing at the friend sitting across from the two of you. He pauses for a moment and proceeds to pick 'truth'. It's what anyone would pick, really. Tae doesn't hesitate to ask him a question. It seems as if he's been holding this in for a while. "Is it true that your dad's a close friend of Han Gyogwan-nim?", Joon shares the same energy as he immediately nods excitedly. "Yeah! And you guys wanna know something?", he gathers everyone while leaning into the circle. Everyone does the same as he gossips, "I heard he used to have a wife before she left him", some chuckle while others look in disbelief, "how come? He's honestly kinda...", another person in the group, Jaehyun, chimes in. Insinuating that their instructor's good-looking which isn't entirely false. "I'm not quite sure", Joon backs away from the gathering, "something about not being able to get it up", now everyone's snickering, someone as intimidating as him, not being able to get hard? What a joke. Well, it sounds like a joke to you anyway. If he isn't able to get it up, how the fuck was he stuffing your mouth with cock and cum just a few months back?

Moving on from the first question, everyone gets a bit more comfortable now that Joon's revealed a secret of their oh so intimidating 'boss.' Hell, they don't even try to be quiet anymore, some talking in their normal voice and some even outright laughing loudly. Thankfully for everyone in the room, Han Minho isn't around to hear their loud noises.

It's been a couple rounds since the first. Everyone knows to be as quiet as possible while still having fun. "Spin it!", you nudge a guy next to you. Tae bends to spin the bottle in the middle of the circle. It spins for a bit before stopping at you. "[Name]! Truth or dare", he turns to ask you to which you confidently reply with "dare of course", with a cheeky grin. They all begin to discuss on what to dare you to do. "Go commando until tomorrow", as Tae says that, they all begin to laugh. To you, it's nothing major. You've done that a couple times in the past anyways, it's quite comfortable.

1:20AM...

2:41AM...

3:00AM.

Remembering you all have to wake up at 5 and also the fact that everyone's tired as shit, you along with the others head to bed and close the very dim light source, leaving the room almost pitch dark. You're so comfortable that in just seconds of closing your eyes, you fall into a deep sleep.

Maybe too deep of a sleep due to the fact you don't wake up in time for training. Nobody came in to fetch any of you which is quite strange to say the least but none of you minded due to the fact you're all catching up on some good old sleep. Even when it's already 5:20, not a single soul in that room is awake. Some are snoring, some are quiet, some even have their blankets thrown onto the ground. You're alnost sprawled out on the mattress with drool escaping from your mouth.

The ever so dark room is then pierced by the door opening. A tall figure appears at the doorway. The sudden light wakes up a few, with them rubbing their eyes and yawning as if they aren't 20 minutes late. "Hm? What time is it", your friend asks, still yawning and adjusting his eyes to see who it is that has woken them up. "Get. Up.", his eyes meets the glaring ones belonging to Han Minho. Their instructor. This immediately wakes them up, checking the time and seeing it's way past when they're supposed to get up. Even when they're still sleepy, they fight the urge to go back to bed and instead pick themselves up, practically sprinting outside, past Minho. Most of them went out. All but one [Name] who is still sleeping soundly, probably dreaming of...dirty things. Turning the dim lights on, the man steps closer and closer to your still sleeping figure. Your peaceful face contrasts his dissapointed and frustrated one. He pulls off your blanket roughly. Due to the fact you're having a wet dream and how you're not wearing any underwear, your erection can be seen clearly by the older man.

Not long after, lustful noises coming from you can be heard. 'Even in your dreams, you're still a horny bastard.', is what Minho thinks of. Though, he can't deny that your beautiful noises have made him hard. He still thinks of that incident every single day. Hell, he even jerks off to the thought of it every night. Without someone to satisfy his needs, he resorts to you and the thought of you.

God all he wants to do right now is flip you over and fuck you senseless but he must keep his composure as best he can. You're asleep afterall. Using his index finger and thumb, he reaches over to pinch your cheek, hard. This wakes you up almost immediately, it really hurted! "Ow ow!", you push his hand away as you open your eyes. Sitting up, you rub your cheek as your eyes try to focus and see who it was that did this to you. "Han Gyogwan-nim!?", you yell outloud, shocked at the man's presence. He shuts his eyes in annoyance. "Be quiet, you're going to alert the others", you look at him in confusion, "do you want me to help with your little problem over there?", he vaguely points at your 'problem'. You look at the direction he's pointing at and realizes you're hard...but so is he.

He notices as you oogle at his clothed cock which is straining against his pants. "How about we help each other out?", he suggests, putting a knee on the soft mattress. Eventually, he's in between your legs, face just inches away from yours. Blush covers your whole face. You don't know what to do. What could you do..?

His body slightly brushing your already hardened cock makes you even more tense and aroused. He presses his lips onto yours.

You instinctively put your hands on his shoulders, wanting to push him away but at the same time, melting into the kiss. You stay there, conflicted as his hands trail closer and closer to your pants. The only piece of clothing protecting your bare ass from the rough man. Just as you're getting used to this..position, the door almost swings open. With all your strength, you catch Minho off guard and shove him into your blanket. Thankfully for the both of you, by the way the door is facing, the large lump in your blanket isn't too noticeable, you can brush it off as you just sitting up.

Joon stands in the doorway, making a loud noise as he calls out for you, "[Name]! Quick! Didn't Han Gyogwan-nim come here to wake you up too!? We're going to be dead by the time we get to the training grounds!", he is about to approach you when you stop him. "Please sta—! aGH."

From inside your blanket, you can feel a certain man's fingers reaching their way into your boxer-less pants. Reaching behind and fondling; gropping your ass as it searches for your hole. You gasp at the action. In just a few seconds, his finger is already plunging itself into your tight hole. "[Name]..? Are you okay? Sick?", Joon asks with a worried look but also confused. You put your hand up to your mouth, muffling out any unintentional sound that might come out of your mouth. "U-uh..ye-yes, I am..", you agree with him. He sighs, "I'll inform Han Gyogwan-nim, eat the medicine over by the cabinet, he might might not agree to let you off scot free the next time you miss training..", little does he know, that 'Gyogwan-nim' is currently 2 fingers deep in your hole, twisting and turning inside you to find your prostate. You can only sit there and take it as you should. You really wsnt to bury your face into the pillow right now in order to properly conceal your facial expressions from Joon but that's not possible at the moment. One wrong move and who knows what Minho might do.

"Do you have a fever?", he steps closer once more, this time, too close for comfort. Coincidentally, at this moment, Minho finds your prostate, making you jerk in pleasure, "aH..!", you shut your eyes, biting on the inner part of your lip while stopping Joon with your hand. Signaling a stop with it. "Are you sure you're okay...? You're really weird right now man", "p-please give me some time...", you can barely hold in the noises you so badly want and need to let out. Joon eventually walks away with a weirded out look. He'll get over it soon.

The door closes behind Joon and you can feel Minho's fingers getting faster and faster. In and out of your hole, trying to get you to cum. You throw your head back, closing your eyes and finally letting out those moans Minho's been wanting to hear for so long. Though, just as you're about to cum, Minho stops as if he knew you would. Your breath hitches and you look back to face the man who has just removed his fingers out of you. His expression displays sadism. It's clear that he loves seeing you like this more than anything. "We can't have you cumming that fast now can we? It'll be no fun", he starts to remove his belt and then pants until he reaches his boxer. You can only watch him impatiently, wanting his cock deep inside you already and so does he.

Once his dick is freed from the clothing covering it, he wastes no time and flips you over on your belly. "Ass up", he commands and by whatever readon, your body feels compelled to do what's told. With your ass facing him, he plunges his fat cock into you. If it weren't for you pushing him a bit with your hand reaching back, it would have already gone deep inside you. Fortunately, it's only halfway there. He chuckles knowing his cock is too big for you to even handle. Neither one of you knows whether it'll fit or not. "Fuck..", he curses as he feels your hole squeezing his cock. Oh how long has he been waiting for this feeling. To be inside of you. He can't wait anymore. Even with you putting your whole strength into trying to keep him in place, he can overpower you quite easily. With a simple push, his cock slides in all the way in, balls deep. You can feel your eyes roll back, trying to form a coherent word. You've never taken anything this big before, especially not in your ass. Minho looks absolutely satisfied. Words can't explain the amount of pleasure he feels and will be feeling in a few seconds. "T-too big...", finally being able to talk just a few words, you state the obvious. You can even see his cock bulging just a bit above your belly button. It's too much.

"I'm going to move now", he immediately gets to it. Thrusting in and out, moving his hips. Your poor hole is sure to be thoroughly stretched after this. Your warn insides welcoming his cock by squeezing so tight, almost not wanting to let go. You don't contain your loud moans, letting them all out. It's like music to Minho's ears, to know you're enjoying every bit of it just like he is. He groans due to how tight you are. You bury your face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound of moans due to it being the morning, not to mention the door being unlocked. If someone were to enter the door right now, they'd be face to face with you and your hole being stuffed full of cock.

The sound of skin slapping against skin is loud. Afterall, Minho is being extra rough with you. Maybe he's punishing you, or, he could be rewarding himself with you due to how long he's held back the urge to just pound you infront of everyone during training. His thrusts get faster and faster until you think it's inhumanly possible for him to be fucking you this hard. Your moans and yells are muffled by the soft pillow. One hand has a firm grip on your waist while the other gropes your ass, loving the feeling of your squishy and soft skin. "You love this don't you, [Name]", he chuckles in between breaths, a smirk on his face as he knows you can't reply. You can feel your mind go blank as he moves his hips. Your hands can only tightly hold the sheets and blanket next to you.

"Agh..Take my seed like a good boy..!", his voice shaky, clearly about to reach his limit. As he thrusts back in, his cum fills your insides. He stays there with his dick inside you as it pumps all his cum deep inside of your hole. At the same time, you also manage to cum, splurting all over the mattress. Coating the off white sheets with your thick cum. You pant, catching your breath, not able to process anything in your cock filled head. Minho places a hand over your stomach, holding you up and to make sure his cock is still inside as he leans down on your back, also trying to catch his own breath. "Good boy, you took me so well", you turn to look at him. His satisfied expression and even more satisfied cock.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

"Everyone, listen up.", the manly voice commands the whole room. Everyone stands up straight, paying attention on the owner of said voice. "I will not tolerate anyone else being late. Once the clock hits 5AM, I expect all of you to already be here.", he walks around infront of the perfect lines. His gaze is sharp. He allows no room for jokes. You stand at the very front of one of the lines. Occasionally, his eyes meet yours. Everytime you do meet eyes, there's a slight smirk on his face. Unnoticeable by everyone but you. You can't just ignore it. The both of you know why he's in such a good mood.

"This is the last time I'll tolerate any of you being late. There will be severe consequences the next time someone is. Understood?", Minho glares at the crowd. "Understood!", they all say in unision. He nods in approval. "Very well then. Today, everyone will get more rest, and we will begin training tomorrow.", he dismisses the whole training, leaving everyone confused as he walks back into his office. Everyone looks around in astonishment. Tae and Joon immediately go up to you. "Are you feeling better? Thank the heavens Han Gyogwan-nim decided to be nice today. What's that about anyways???", Joon asks with a confused look, just like any other soldier in training.

"Why're you so tense?", Tae points out as you don't have time to answer Joon's questions. You avoid eye contact as it gets a bit awkward. How could you not be when you have so much cum inside of you right now? Cum which belongs to none other than Han Minho. This is your punishment, he wants to see how long you'll last before you come crawling to him again for more cock. "N-no reason!", "relax!", Tae pats you on the back. You accidentally unclench and feel his cum dripping down inside your long pants. Who knows, maybe someone will notice. Maybe that someone will be a certain instructor. You're in for a long day and night.

══════════════════════════════

I hope you all like him! I don't have a lot to say about this man since it's almost 4am for me and I need sleep...

Please dont mind typos/grammar mistakes, I didn't have enough time to check the whole thing cuz I wanted to release it before going to sleep🥲

[luveline]

i think it would be adorable seeing a conversation of spencer freaking out about pregnant!bombshell and hotch just calmly telling him all about different ways to help and them talking about new dad fears :((

pregnant!reader, 1k (sorry it was more about the pregnant part than the new dad fears!)

Hotch doesn’t know what Spencer’s going to say when he knocks, but he ushers him inside his office regardless. He has the appearance of someone with grief to share; Hotch immediately starts to think of the people he and Spencer have in common. 

“I need your advice,” Spencer says desperately. 

Hotch puts his pen in its holder. “Of course.” 

“She won’t sit down.” 

Hotch lets himself relax. “Ah.” 

“She’s acting like she isn’t pregnant at all. I want her to be happy, but she keeps running up the stairs. What if she falls?” 

“Y/N has very likely thought of that possibility already.” 

“Then why doesn’t she stop?” 

Hotch chews his cheek for a moment. “Spencer, sit down.” 

The chair squeaks as Spencer sits, scrubbing at his face roughly. 

Hotch has watched Spencer grow up, in a way, moving from twenty three to thirty quick as blinking, and he’s watched him fall in love with you, and now he gets to watch Spencer have daily conniptions over your apparent lack of self-preservation. He’s enjoyed it, genuinely, and he doesn’t mind offering some wisdom now as a partner who’s made enough mistakes to know better. 

“Spencer, you can’t make her sit down if she doesn’t want to. And she’s four months pregnant. Pretty soon, she’ll have no choice but to sit down. It’s best if you let her stay active as long as she can, so she stays as healthy as she can.” He leans back in his chair. The smirk is unbidden, but he can’t help it. “But you know this.” 

“Her ligaments are weakening, because of the baby. The pregnancy. It’s about to get much more painful for her,” Spencer says. 

“So?” Hotch prods gently. 

Spencer nods. Glances out the window down into the bullpen, before dragging his chair closer to the desk. “Hotch, it’s like she’s two different people. Or three. There’s the crying one, and the happy one, and the…” 

“The hates you one?” he offers. 

“Yes. Which is luckily quite rare, but terrifying.” 

“Just hormones, Spence.” 

Spencer breathes out. Hotch can’t help the immeasurable wave of fondness he’s feeling for his colleague. He genuinely wants to round the desk and pat Spencer on the back. This is all a learning curve, a way of life. Partners have been wrestling with their scary pregnant wives for long before he and Spencer came around. 

“The happy one is worth it, though,” Hotch guesses. He had some lovely days with Hayley. 

“You know what she’s like,” Spencer says.

Hotch can imagine. Before your pregnancy, you adored Spencer. You’ve doted on him since you met him, and if the glimpses Hotch has seen of you these last few months are any indication, you are immovably in love. Yesterday, you brushed the sesame seeds off of Spencer’s sandwich one by one because he doesn’t like them. The day before, you’d pushed your chair next to his and drawn circles into his arm the entire workday (while, impressively, still managing to finish your assigned consults). 

“There’s a common theme, I think, when she’s angry. She’s usually uncomfortable. I’ve started to go through a checklist,” Spencer says. He sounds guilty. 

“I think it’s a good idea. I noticed you’ve been keeping candy in your bag.” Hotch laughs. Spencer joins in. 

“Just the essentials.” 

Hotch doesn’t doubt that you’re on every prenatal vitamin you could ever need, that Spencer has researched pregnancy from the latest journals to the very rarest myths. He has no doubt that you’re well taken care of. You’re going to be fine. Spencer has no need to worry about you. Hotch might have cause to worry about Spencer, though. 

“Reid, I’ll tell you a secret. It might not work for you, but it worked for me.” 

Spencer holds his hands together. “What is it?” 

“The next time you want her to slow down,” —Hotch lays it out carefully, without judgement for you or any private teasing, just genuine care for the both of you— “you can distract her with the baby.” 

“I’ve tried that,” Spencer says. “She tells me I’m worrying.” 

“Not about the baby’s health. If she thinks everything is alright, it likely is. I mean about the future.” Spencer doesn’t seem to understand. Hotch searches for an example. “Baby shoes, clothes. I once calmed Hayley down from an hours-long meltdown by telling her I thought Jack would have her eyes.” 

“That works?” 

“It’s probably much nicer for her to have you encouraging positive thoughts than negative,” he says gently. 

“I guess I worry too much.” 

“Not too much, Reid. I’m just telling you what worked for me. When it’s over, you’ll miss it. A few years later.” 

They smile. Hotch watches with a distinct fatherly pride as Spencer retreats down into the bullpen where you stand talking animatedly to Anderson. You’ve been on your feet all day, in kitten heels no less, and you look tired but not unhappy. 

Spencer joins you for a while. You show no signs of moving. Hotch figures he’ll give Spencer time to act on his advice and goes back to his paperwork, losing track of time, ignoring the beep of his watch that signals lunch time. 

He finishes his paperwork a little while after. 

“I wonder what she'll have,” he hears Spencer saying. 

“She’ll have my hands,” you insist suddenly, your voice floating up the steps. You’ve always had one of those tones that attracts attention, even when you aren’t shouting. “Don’t girls often get their mom’s hands? And their dad’s noses?” 

He’s expecting Spencer to cite an article on genetic lottery, but he doesn’t. He sounds the polar opposite of how he’d panicked in Hotch’s office. “I think so. I got my mom’s hands, too. She had short nail beds.” A pause. Hotch glances out the window to find you sitting in Spencer’s chair, a sandwich laid out in two halves on a napkin, a tray of vegetable batons in your hands where they rest on your bump. “I hope she has your everything.” 

You lift your chin. Spencer taps your noses together. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks hopefully. 

“Yes, please. Anything you’re having.” 

Hotch isn’t smug, exactly, but he is admittedly very pleased at the outcome of his advice. 

[envy-of-the-apple]

Exception

Dark!Geto Suguru x reader

5.8k wc

Synopsis: You never bothered with Suguru's crush on you, knowing it would fade. After meeting him again years later, you make the horrible discovery that his feelings for you have only festered.

(Warnings: yandere, dark content, murder of a side character, slight gore, violence, rape/noncon, vaginal fingering, piv sex, unsafe sex)

When you were in your first year of college, you got a part-time job at a nearby cafe. 

It was easy work. Make coffee. Bake some pastries. Attend to the customers. Nothing too unmanageable. It was an insignificant part of your life. 

Then, Gojo and Geto came along.

 

Insufferably annoying. Especially, the loud one. They always caused a havoc in the cafe, often to the point where the manager had to physically kick them out. It was a turbulent two weeks, until one day you promised them if they kept it down, you'd let them try a few of your experimental pastries. 

Really, it was your own damn fault. They started coming every day after that, mostly to bother you. The only reason management hadn't outright banned them was probably because Gojo made 50% of their entire revenue. 

You warmed up to them eventually. Your fake smiles turned into more amused ones because of their antics. Once or twice, they'd get a good laugh out of you. You've heard rumors of a private, religious highschool nearby. You always assumed they were a byproduct of that. 

Eventually, Gojo becomes Satoru. Geto becomes Suguru. Nice kids, if not a bit overzealous. Despite refusing to hang out with them after work, you had to admit, you grew a bit attached to them. You found yourself asking about their day, hiding sweets for the two of them, sometimes you'd even let them steal a croissant or two. 

You bet the reason they hung around you was because, to them, you were some cool college student. Secretly, you found it a little flattering. Some days, their friendship was the highlight of your shift. It's clear Satoru is always the instigator, always looking like he's about to bounce off the walls (you have told him to lay off the sugar), it's not like Suguru was any better. He tried to act like he was the more refined part of the friendship. He often fails, at least in your eyes. 

It becomes pretty apparent that Suguru had a crush on you. You're not sure when exactly you started to notice the bashful looks, the slight flush on his cheeks whenever you accidentally brush his hand, the fact that he visits far more often (even though Satoru has the sweet-tooth) but you can't unsee it now. It doesn't help that Satoru looks downright giddy whenever his friend talks to you, barely controlling his giggles in the background. His reaction and Suguru's irritation often start a few skirmishes right outside the cafe doors. You've told them multiple times to take their fights in the alley at least. They never listened. 

For his sake, you don't acknowledge it, already knowing what it is. A schoolyard crush. Harmless, it'll pass. Eventually, when you're a distant memory to them, Satoru will tease him about it and Suguru will give a playful elbow nudge. Much to your relief, Suguru doesn't pull you to the side and confess. He's refined, in that way, never giving too much until you have the evidence and clues yourself. 

It continued like that for months. And then, something changed. 

They stopped coming around as much. Daily visits turned weekly. Weekly turned to every so often. Their energy felt off too. Satoru seemed the same as always, if not a bit more mellowed out. It was Suguru you mainly worried for. Each time he returned, he looked worse and worse. Darker circles. Eyes filled with exhaustion. 

You pull him aside eventually, asking if anything is going on, asking if he's okay, asking if he wants to talk. As sincerely as you can, you tell him that you're here for him. He at least attempts to smile at that. When you press, he shakes his head. 

"It's nothing," you both know he's lying, "it's just....it's nice to see that there is one exception." 

A little while after that, they stop coming entirely. You notice, but you aren't able to focus on it. School gets harder, you're cutting back your work to focus on it. You don't even recognize Satoru at first when he walks in nearly a year later. 

He's different. So much taller. Despite being a few years younger than you...he doesn't feel like a kid anymore. An easygoing smile is pulled on his face when he sees you, giving a lazy wave. You return it, though a bit hesitant. He talks to you as though no time has passed at all, asking what you made for him this time. He talks fast. His voice is too laid back. Too casual. Like he's avoiding something. You think you know what. 

"Where's Suguru?" you ask when you glance behind Satoru for the third time, "I haven't seen him around lately." 

He freezes, like he's been dreading that question ever since he came in. Finally, he shrugs, making a noncommital hum. His sunglasses obscure his eyes but it isn't enough to hide how cold he suddenly turned. Satoru seems to realize that too. His answer is pulled by reluctance. 

"We don't talk anymore." He doesn't say anything more. You don't need him to.

When he pulls out his wallet, you tell him it's on the house. He looks at you then. His mouth opens, searching for the right words. He waits too long. His mask slips back into place. 

Gojo grins at you, painfully fake. 

"Take care of yourself, will ya?" 

You never see him again after that. You know it's your fault. 

You think about them every so often when you can, Suguru especially. He rests in the back of your mind like an old piece of furniture you can't bring yourself to throw out. Suguru sometimes haunts your dreams with his darkened eyes and the pure brokenness on his face. For some reason, you think you failed him somehow. You felt like you could have done more. Maybe, if you'd tried harder to reach out, things would have been different. Two boys wouldn't be utterly heartbroken. 

Years pass by. You quit working at the cafe. You graduate college. You move cities. You get a job. Eventually, you settle into a nice apartment. You forget all about your days in that quaint little restaurant, your attention hogged by a couple of annoying high schoolers. You don't think about Satoru for years. You don't think about Suguru for years. 

Until one day, when he calls your name in the street. 

He was bigger now, towering over you with broad shoulders. His hair was longer, darker too, less of a green, more black. He's ditched his school uniform, trading it for a more casual outfit. It's his face that makes you hesitate before you use your voice, that same smile, physically at least. He looks the same, but then he doesn't. 

"...Suguru?" It's a question because you're still not sure. 

He smiles wider. 

"Long time, huh?" 

Somehow, your reunion culminates in a restaurant. You still feel out of it, somehow, like you're watching yourself in an out-of-body experience. Between the food and him, you're not sure if you can even believe it. 

He tells you he heads a temple now. A pious man. You shouldn't be surprised, considering his education, but you never knew he was so invested in religion. The two of you converse about other meaningless things. The conversation becomes less stilted. More sincere. You learned your lesson from last time. You don't bring up Satoru unless he does. 

Much to your disappointment, he doesn't. 

Compared to yours, his life is so crazy. Not just with the temple. Suguru tells you he's a father now too. Adopted two little girls. He's barely 22. You can barely hold your disbelief, shaking your head as you take another sip of your coffee. 

"In any case," you say when the conversation draws to a lull, "I'm just really glad you're happy, Suguru. You deserve it." 

When Suguru gives you a questioning look, you continue. 

"The last time we saw each other, you looked miserable." 

 His eyes widen in realization before a laugh bubbles out of his throat. Deep, rich like chocolate. 

"Back then, I was going through a lot." He sighs. "I was figuring out what I wanted. It...it was a tough time for me." 

You nod along, hoping you aren't forcing him to pry. However, the Suguru you're faced with now doesn't seem like that type of person anymore. He won't give if you press. He talks on his own terms. You never once thought of him as a pushover, but he's less open now. Perhaps it's because he's no longer a child. 

Suguru smiles then, a little more sincere than his first. 

"You know...I've always wanted to thank you." 

You tilt your head. "What for?" 

He plays with his empty cup like he's searching for the answer himself. "You gave me hope when no one else did. Everyone was so quick to tell me if I was wrong or right."

He leans back on his chair, eyes drifting towards the ceiling, "Other humans, they're always so enraptured by their own lives. You were the only person who reached out. At least, who cared enough to." 

The guilt from years ago slipped back into your throat. So he had been suffering. You should have done more. He was just a kid. They both had been. You could have done something. Maybe you could have saved a little more.

His hand finds yours on the table. They're rough, calloused. You can feel the scars. He squeezes your fingers. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, "For being an exception." 

You squeeze back. 

It's a tumultuous friendship, at first. It's much like a burn. Sensitive, it hurts at first. The wound is too fresh. Eventually, dead skin and memories fade away. You find yourself texting him. Once a week. Maybe a little more, if you get brave enough. 

Once, he sends you a picture of a white cat lounging in a sunbeam.

looks like Satoru, he types. 

(You stare at the caption for a long longer than necessary.)

It does, you send back.

You visit his temple once. He invited you, actually. A free tour, he had joked. It was beautiful. A large expansive garden filled with all types of flowers. The courtyard felt like it stretched for miles. That was just the outskirts of the temple. The building was something else entirely. A large ceiling. Expansive walls. White pillars that keep going higher and higher and higher. 

You notice his followers are everywhere. Most carry the same smile on their face. Bright, happy, cheery, but too strained. Like it's a job for them. It feels weird to say, but he fits nicely here. You think that because this wasn't the place you thought Suguru would end up. He dons the traditional clothing perfectly. Like they were made for him. They probably were, considering how high his reputation was. 

If he hadn't had the same face, the same hair color. You wouldn't have recognized him at all. He's managed to replace every single thing in his life with something new. It doesn't go unnoticed by you that you're the only thing he keeps from the past. A momento of sorts. You're a keepsake, for him. You don't mind the symbolism. You've always been easily flattered. 

You just failed to realize that not all of his feelings had changed. 

It was in front of your house. After, yet another visit to the temple (much at Suguru's insistence), he'd offered to walk you home. You would have declined if it wasn't so dark out. In the end, you accept his offer. 

"The girls have come to like you," Suguru says after a lull of pleasant silence. When you glance at him, you find his eyes on you. 

"Have they?" you prod. 

In all honestly, you didn't think they liked you at all at first. You don't have that much experience with young children, but you found it odd how unnerved Nanako and Mimiko seemed to get around you, practically hiding behind their father's figure, peeking out with untrusting eyes. Suguru had to gently coax them out with soft words, insisting that you were a close friend of his, you were 'different'. 

"Yes, they talk about you all the time," he continues, rolling his eyes in affection, "Mimiko especially gets very animated." 

Your heart skips a beat at his answer. You never felt one way or the other about children, but it felt nice when two little girls felt so highly about you. Those two especially. 

"It must be from all the sweets I bribed them with," you say, jokingly, "Please tell me I didn't cause them any stomach aches." 

He laughs, light and pretty. 

"It's not that," he responds, "it's because of you, mostly. You're different from the others."

You smile, but it's half-hearted, an attempt more than anything. It takes you a while for you to work up for the question. For some reason, you feel a bit nervous, like you're stepping on something you shouldn't be. 

"Different," you start, "you keep saying that. What does that mean? What am I different from?" 

He stops, just at the entrance of your flat. Suguru's fingers drum on his pants. You stare at him. He stares right back. 

"You are different, in so many different ways," he says, though it feels as though he's speaking to himself, rather than you. 

He takes a step forward. Tiny, he barely even moved. And yet, the distance between the two of you has vanished completely. 

"You've always been. Different from everyone else. The only one." You can't tell if he cut himself off, or if there was truly nothing else to say. 

It was barely a kiss. His lips brushed against yours, barely touching. Soft, like he cherished you the most out of all his possessions. The gentleness of it all is enough for you to freeze. 

Then his hand curls around your waist, and you jolt back into your body. 

You splay your hands on his chest, pushing him away until you have enough momentum to step back. His loose hold on you falls away. You can't look at him, even when you can feel his stare burn into you. 

"Suguru," you say, because you're mind is still running to catch up to your heart, "I-we-" 

Your name being called stops your babbling. You don't think he saw, god you hoped he hadn't. When you look over, he's smiling, so you don't think he did. He was never one to hide his feelings. Still, you step away from Suguru, ignoring how stiff the man had become. 

"Hey," you say, mostly out of relief because you couldn't deal with this anymore. When he wraps you into a hug and a chaste kiss, you wordlessly accept. Suguru's gaze on your back only gets stronger. 

"Who's this?" he asks, gesturing at Suguru. Your smile falters as you glance at Suguru. His face was blank. He wasn't even smiling anymore as he continued to stare at your man. 

"A friend," you say before Suguru can make this already worse, "and he was just leaving." 

"Oh," he says, before smiling down at you. Delightfully oblivious. 

"We'll talk later, okay Suguru?" You send Suguru a hurried smile before dragging him into your shared flat. 

You lock the door behind you. He says something just then, you laugh, trying so hard not to sense Suguru's presence through the door. You don't think he leaves. Not for a good long while. 

You don't speak to Suguru, after that. 

You wince whenever you see his name through your contact list now, as though even seeing a remnant of him is painful. You don't go to the temple anymore. Your communication with the girls turns nonexistent. 

Suguru hasn't said anything to you either. The line has grown dead both ways. 

You feel guilty, even though you know it wasn't your fault, you still can't help but wonder if you could have done something different. Did you do something that made him think you were interested? You probably had, knowing how unaware you could be, sometimes. You couldn't help but feel ecstatic when the two of you reconnected again. You'd been so excited for Suguru, happy for him because he'd finally found his way. You didn't know he still liked you after all these years. It was a schoolyard crush, at least, it was supposed to be.

Looking back, you didn't think you'd even told Suguru that you were already seeing someone. One blunder after a blunder. 

It must have been embarrassing for him, you can't help but think. Even when he was younger, Suguru had always held onto his pride dearly. You don't know if your friendship could ever be the same after this, but you'd like to extend the olive branch. If he'd take it. 

You tell your boyfriend about the incident eventually. You know it's not your fault, but you still feel like it is. He takes it well, once you explain, looking at you sweetly. 

"I could tell something was going on between you and him," he says, "but thanks for telling me." 

"You aren't mad?" you ask, half-afraid of the answer. 

"At you? Course not. Him, however"- he made a swing motion with his fist "-he does something like that again and I'll punch his lights out." 

You laugh, knowing it's a joke, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek. He beams. 

It takes a week of radio silence to forget about the mishap. You're humming a song you've forgotten the lyrics to when you arrive at your apartment. Your boyfriend said that he was coming home early tonight. You'd planned something quiet for the evening. A movie, cheap drinks. 

"Welcome home." Suguru grins. You freeze. 

He sits on the couch, splayed out like he belonged there. He's not wearing his priest garment, now garbed with a simple shirt and jeans. It takes a minute for you to figure out what you're looking at. Slowly, you close the door behind you. 

"Hey," you say, hoping your tone doesn't indicate just off-put by this encounter you are.

Suguru doesn't seem to mind your reluctance. 

"He let me in." Suguru points to somewhere behind you. Oh, your boyfriend is probably in the bathroom. "He was such a nice man. You were very lucky." 

"Thank you," you find yourself saying, "I am." 

His smile grows bigger, and you wonder if there's a joke you aren't let in on. Like he's saying something that's going right above your head. 

When you take a glance behind you, your partner is nowhere to be seen. It makes you wonder if you should say something to Suguru right now. Mend the bridge that's shattered between you. Currently, he seemed to be in a good mood. 

"Suguru," you start, taking a tiny step forward. You twiddle with your fingers. 

"Listen, I'm really sorry for how things went the last time we met. I just-" He hushes you, putting a finger to his lips. 

"You shouldn't air out your affairs in front of him like that," he tells you, "you might hurt his feelings." 

What? You look behind you again. Nothing. 

Suguru laughs. It sounds off. Wordlessly, he points behind you again but angles his finger a tiny bit higher. You follow his direction. 

Immediately, you wish you hadn't. 

He's in pieces, scattered all over the ceiling. A hand is above the door, a leg is above the kitchen. It's like his appendages were chopped before being glued onto the ceiling. There's no blood, just body parts. 

The worst part was that he was still alive. His head was still attached to his torso, the only part of him that was still intact. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, and it took you a second that he was trying to tell you something. Repeating a word over and over. 

Run. 

Your hand covers your mouth as you continue to stare up at him. What was left of him. You think your knees are threatening to give before Suguru's holding you up. You can feel him lead you towards the couch, sitting you down in the plush mattress. He curls an arm around you, letting out a sigh.

"I meant what I said." Suguru adjusts your hair. "He was such a nice man, for a monkey anyway."

It doesn't occur to you that Suguru had done this until he speaks. You'd known Suguru said he performed exorcisms in his temple. You didn't-you couldn't-

"You?" you can barely push the wavering words out, "you-how-Suguru-" 

He hushes you, drawing you closer to his body. You're completely dwarfed by him as he rests his head on your neck, breathing in your scent. You are barely coherent, sucking in air as your voice dissolves into sobs. 

"I would have liked it if things hadn't turned out this way," he sighs, "but I don't believe it would have turned out any differently." 

His tone is almost pitying. 

"You may be the exception, but you are still one of them. Unaware of the true hierarchy." Suguru hums. 

"That's alright. It wasn't your fault. You were simply born this way," he continues, "I don't mind teaching you." 

You wiggle, trying your hardest to get out of his grip. Suguru only clicks his tongue. A harsh grip on your waist is enough to still you. You can't understand what's going on, maybe you never will, but you know one thing. You let a monster back into your life. Geto Suguru was not the same person you knew when you were younger. 

Or perhaps, he was always this way. He was just better at hiding it, back then. 

"I'm sorry," you finally let out, "Suguru, I'm-I'm so so sorry. I'll do whatever-whatever you want. Anything just please please please-" 

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for him," Suguru doesn't sound too apologetic, "though, I could put him out of his pain. Would you like that?" 

You didn't need him to elaborate. Suguru would kill him. Or perhaps he was already dead. His moving eyes, his twitching lips, were all just muscle memory. The last of his brain synapses. There was no science, no magic, that could bring him back from this. 

And maybe, that tiny selfish part of you wanted to stop seeing his mangled body. 

You nod and you can feel Suguru's grin. He snaps his fingers. The thing disappears, vanishes into mist. 

"All gone!" Suguru declares. "There. Isn't that better?" 

You wince when he touches your face, brushing away the tears. You're too scared to do anything more. You don't fight when he kisses your neck. You don't fight when he kisses your jaw. You don't fight when he kisses your lips. 

It's with the same gentleness as the last time he'd kissed you, right outside of your apartment. Soft, warm, loving. 

You start sobbing then. Ugly, heaving, heartbroken. He takes it in stride, humming as he pushes your body down until your back is pressed on the couch. His lips brush your damp cheek. 

"There's no need to be afraid." Through your tears, you can see him smiling down at you. "The worst has passed. I'll take care of you from now on." 

The worst part about all of this is how honest he sounds. Like he truly believes he's doing this for your good. It makes you wonder who the delusional one is. Him or you. 

He's tuts in sympathy as you lay there, shivering underneath him.

"You must be so confused, poor thing." He tilts his head, the back of his fingers stroking your cheeks. "I should explain, shouldn't I? Unfortunately, I'm more interested in other things right now."

You must look horrible, but Suguru doesn't seem to mind, bending down, melding your lips with his. He sighs, like he'd waited eons for this. You stiffen when you feel his hands play with the band of your skirt. As if he can feel your beginnings of struggle, he pulls back, staring you down. Brown, almost black, eyes peer down at you. There's a hint of a warning curling on his lip. 

You still immediately. If he could do that, what could he do to you?

"None of that," he chides, and yet he's so painfully gentle about it, "be good." 

What was he? How did he do this? How could he? You want to ask them all but you can only get one out when you lift your head, getting your voice to work. 

"Why?" 

You don't know what you're asking. He clearly does. Another soft smile. You wish you could tear it off his face. 

"You were always the exception, even back then," He says quietly into the stale air of the apartment. His eyes drift and you wonder if he's remembering the you all those years ago, secretly passing pastries to him and Satoru, giggling at jokes only a highschooler could make. "The only one of the humans who didn't utterly disgust me." 

Fingers reach for the hem of your skirt, pushing it up your bare legs. 

"And it's natural, isn't it? To protect the exceptions, the rarities of the world," he says, "To keep them away from the impure." 

You start crying again. He patiently hushes you, kissing away your tears. This time, you don't bother putting up a fight. You just squeeze your eyes closed, flinching when he reaches to your inner thighs, feeling the cotton of your panties. His breath hitches. So does yours. 

He bypasses the cloth with two dexterous fingers. When he touches the skin, you flinch, trying to squeeze your thighs closed. It doesn't help. Suguru leans forward, you can feel his breath on your cheek as you shiver underneath him. He finds your clit, teasing it with a calloused thumb. You think you're mouthing it, even when you can't bring yourself to say it. Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me. 

He doesn't listen. You don't know if he heard it or not. It didn't matter, either way. It wasn’t like he was planning to stop.

Despite how much you don’t want this, your body doesn’t listen. His touch is gentle, soothing on your pussy despite the horrors you’ve seen him do. It doesn’t take long for your cunt to adjust, dripping.

There’s a satisfied sigh above you and you know Suguru had felt it too.

One finger pushes into you. You gasp, curling your back, unprepared but Suguru’s giving a pleasant hum, easing you into it. Despite how humiliating this entire situation is, your one reprieve is being able to bury your head into his neck, keeping yourself there as he continues to have his way with your body. You can feel him kiss the crown of your head, an action that completely juxtapositions another finger entering your wet hole.

He’s gentle, but not slow. He fingerfucks you with earnestness, curling his fingers when your walls tighten around him. Your crying is interrupted by the reluctant moans and gasps every time he presses deeper into you, finding a spot that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. You bit your lip, keeping the noises inward. He tuts at that.

“Don’t be shy,” he coos in your ear, “it’s okay to enjoy it. I want you to.”

As if to highlight his words, he gives another particularly intense push, you wince when you can hear the wet squelch of his fingers.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Suguru asks, “I could always be this nice with you.” You let out a squeak when his thumb presses against your clit, unable to keep it in. Suguru gives a breathy laugh.

His other hand starts to explore, reaching up to your button-up, flicking them off with a single-experienced hand. The bra you wore is barely seductive, but Suguru’s tracing the ends of it anyway, touching the fabric just by your skin before pushing the undergarment down.

Whether it’s from the air or his fingers fucking your pussy, your tits are already sensitive. You let out a breathy whine when Suguru grips on of them too hard, squeezing the fat in his large hands.

“So sweet for me.” You can hear the smile on his lips.

Everything becomes too much, and before you can think, your hand is shooting down, grabbing onto his wrist, squeezing as hard as you can, your nails digging into his skin. Your other is pushing against his shoulder. He barely seemed to even notice, holding you down with his weight, thrusting in his fingers all the way to the knuckle.

“Suguru I-” It’s supposed to be another plea for him to stop, but your weak voice calling out his name only seems to excite him further. His thumb dances on your swollen clit, his fingers never relenting until he’s pushing you higher and higher until you fall.

White hot electric pleasure snaps within you, forcing your body to jolt, as you curl up from the sofa. You think he’s saying something, words of comfort as though he could be any crueler, but you’re not listening. You came so hard you almost forget where you are, who you’re with. You can feel Suguru watching until you fall against the cushion again, utterly spent. Your grip slackens against his wrist, before falling away completely.

“See? Didn’t I say I’ll take care of you?” You don't even have the energy to glare at him.

He’s giving another laugh, kissing your cheek before he’s leaning back. His fingers slip out of you, and then there’s a sucking sound. You can’t help it, blinking open your eyes. Suguru stares back at you, eyes half-mast, a pink tongue flicking out to lick at his fingers before he puts them in his mouth completely, swallowing down the evidence of your orgasm. A lewd moan escapes him, muffled. You once again wished you hadn’t looked.

You’re already expecting it, but you still flinch when you hear the zipper loud and clear. He moves his jeans low enough to pull out his cock. He’s already hard, a bead of precum right at the tip as he gives a few cursory pumps. He’s big, you blearily realize. Despite the mind-numbing orgasm he’d just given you, you doubt it’d be enough to even take him.

“It won’t fit,” you find yourself whispering.

Suguru just hums in acknowledgement, giving you a knowing look as he finishes tugging off your panties. The fabric slides off your shaking leg before dropping onto the carpeted floor.

It’s too late for a fight, but you’re rising anyway, pressing your hands against the cushions, trying to create some space. Suguru is quick to shut it down again, leaning back into you as he palms himself some more.

“You’ll be alright,” he assures but it doesn’t help the panic the fear in your soul, “I cherish you too much to break you.”

With little effort, he spreads your thighs. His cock rubs against you once, twice, before entering your throbbing pussy.

Already it’s too much. He’s thick, stretching out your walls, threatening to rip you in half. You close your eyes again, squeezing them shut as the pain starts to edge a little too close to bloody. Helpless, your hand finds his shoulder, not pushing but digging your nails into his shirt. He purrs when you grip him tighter, moving until he’s seated fully into you.

He stays like that, keeping himself there as your walls squeeze him tighter. It’s almost a relief that it ended, but now, he’s taken everything.

“Look at me.”

His voice is rough, almost a rasp, an order. You find yourself obeying. Through your tears, you blink up at him, finding his gaze.

He stares down at you, a look of satisfaction in his eyes and you don’t think you are yours anymore.

He pulls back, your cunt tries to suck him back in, but he drags his cock out anyway until only his head is barely inside.

“Perfect,” Suguru murmurs as though it’s a secret not even you should hear, “absolutely perfect.”

You cry out when he pushes back in. It’s a gentle pace, slow and steady like he’s easing you into it. He’s being kind, you finally realize, a thought that makes your skin crawl. It’s so much worse than if he had been nasty. Harsh and biting with thrusts that would make your body sore and weak afterwards. If he was abusive, not caring about you, just his own pleasure. You wish Suguru was being mean, being cruel. At least then, you wouldn’t like it.

Despite the unexpected size, your body is adjusting. Pain ripples into reluctant pleasure, numbing your mind as his hips meet yours. It gets even worse when Suguru leans down, biting and sucking at your tits, enough for there to leave a mark. Something that will bruise and remind you of what he did.

“You don’t know how long I wanted this,” he’s saying somewhere above you but your head is swimming and you can’t focus where you want to, “how long I’ve wanted you like this.”

Suguru sits up again, grabbing one of your legs, hiking your hips up so his cock can go that much deeper inside of you. You babble something that you yourself can’t decipher. Suguru’s lips curl into another painfully soft smile.

“Ever since highschool,” he’s confessing like he’s a sinner and you’re his God but you know that isn’t true because what sort of god would be humiliated like this? “Remember that apron you wore?”

His hand reaches over, spreading over your pussy, stretching the fatty part of your cunt so he can have a better view of him disappearing inside of you.

“I always wondered what you’d look like wearing nothing but that on, spread out on the counter for me.”

He flicks your clit, and for the second time that day, you can feel yourself crashing. As though he can sense it, his thrusts shorten, grinding against your pussy and there’s a hand catching your chin, forcing you to look.

Suguru’s smile is gone, replaced by a snarl that promises to eat you alive. His eyes are blown wide, and he’s gritting his teeth, barely holding control by a hair.

“Come for me.”

You’re too far gone to do anything but listen.

You stutter in his grasp, arching your back, cumming with a breathy whine. It’s like a tide, pushing you out into sea, refusing to take you in. Unconsciously, the leg he holds tightens around his waist as you pulse around his cock.

He follows after, barely holding himself together, not when your cunt is milking him for all its’ worth. There’s a few particularly harsh thrusts before something warm and sticky fills your battered pussy before he's falling into you, pressing your body against the soft cushions.

You lay there, panting with him on top of you. Slowly, you come back to yourself, feeling your arms your legs. Your brain resets, and you’re suddenly remembering that you have a murderer’s cock inside of you.

Suguru’s face is buried in your neck. He gives a shaky kiss to your jaw; another on the corner of your lips. You can only stare at the ceiling, where the remnants of a body used to be.

"You know, the girls have always wanted a mother," Suguru's saying into your skin.

"I'm sure they will be very pleased with my choice."

[not-neverland06]

Hey! Love your writing and love Flux!! I was hoping to request a kind of angsty/fluffy fic with the worst!wolverine where the meet her in the void and maybe Logan knew her just not very well and he’s finally letting himself open up and be close with her (likewise with reader/flux towards logan) and they get into an argument or maybe logan has a nightmare and he ends up stabbing her with his claws and maybe the aftermath of him beating himself up and sabotaging the new relationship until reader finally snaps him out of it and says it was an accident and she still loves him?? Thanks!!

mistake

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

a/n: I want to thank you for this request because I've been having the worst writer's block in the world. I was worried about having to go into another unofficial hiatus, but this made something in my brain click together and I knocked it out in two hours. my life is yours 🙏🙏 Summary: You know him. Or, you knew him. And you never blamed him for what happened in your world. It wasn't his fault that everyone you loved died and you barely escaped with your life. But you never actually thought you'd have to see him again. You don't know what to do when all these feelings resurface with his appearance.

No one truly knew who you were back in your universe. After the horrific incident at the mansion, you had run. You’d run as fast and as far as you could from the slaughter of your friends. You’d barely escaped with your life, and from the amount of blood and gore they’d left behind, most people just assumed you were dead. 

It’s not like anyone cared about you. Scott, Ororo, and Jean had been the real heroes. But it didn’t matter because they were still mutants at the end of the day. It didn’t matter how many people they saved. How many lives they positively changed, no one would ever see past the fact that they were mutants. 

Being one of the newer members of the recently disbanded X-Men gave you enough anonymity to get through daily life without being recognized. It did not, however, protect you from being sucked into the shit fest that is the multiverse. 

You’re not sure what it is about you that just attracts bad luck. You don’t know if it’s some hidden power that’s a part of your evolution. You’re just apparently perpetually fucked. The TVA had determined that you were interfering with the proper flow of your timeline or some bullshit. 

Now you’re here. Stuck in the void with nothing but decay and drunk former superheroes. If you have to watch one more Captain America ‘rally the troops’ you’re gonna kill him yourself. You’ve considered switching teams and joining Cassandra Nova at times. If only so you don’t have to deal with Johnny Storm and the rest of the dipshits. 

You get along with Laura, at least. She likes to tell you about her Logan and you like to dodge her questions about yours. She doesn’t need to know that not every version of Wolverine has a golden heart and story worthy of tears. Yours was a fuck up, plain and simple, but you never thought the incident was his fault. 

As much as others tried to push the blame on him. The people who raided the mansion were determined. There was no other way that day was going to end up. You’d just have one less X-Man. But people always love a martyr more than a victim. 

After a couple of years, you get used to the monotony. Your days are only occasionally broken up by dodging Cassandra’s henchmen and trying not to get sucked up into the soul destroyer. Other than that, you spend your nights getting drunk with Gambit and pretending you know whatever the fuck he’s talking about. 

“Laura! I managed to find some chocolate!” You run into the hideout looking for the girl. It’s rare to find good food that isn’t already a month past its expiration date. You weren’t planning on sharing the candy with her but you figured she’d smell it on you and it’s not worth the fight. 

Instead, you stop short as the familiar blue and yellow uniform you’d always try to force on him comes into view. He’s stealing Gambit’s liquor and you know that’s not going to go over well. What you don’t know is why you are so sure that this is your Wolverine. 

You’ve never had a Wolverine in the void. Not once. This could be any one of the hundreds of thousands of variants. But you see that look in his eye. That familiar watery gaze shows just how much he hurts, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“Logan?” You breathe his name out in disbelief. Bypassing the Deadpool standing nearby. You’ve dealt with enough of those in your time down here. He takes a step back, fixing you with a distrusting look. 

He keeps the bottle of alcohol clutched close to his chest like he thinks you’re going to take it. You track the movement and you scoff. “Right,” you shake your head and stop short. “Of course, the only thing you care about is still getting fucking drunk.”

He glares at you, taking a step forward like he thinks it might actually intimidate you. “Do I know you, bub?” He reaches forward, probably to jab his finger in your chest. You drop your gaze to his outstretched hand and narrow your eyes. 

The material of his suit fluctuates, pulling back and rippling over his arms like liquid and not spandex. He doesn’t notice the manipulation of matter until it's his skin you target. It melts off his adamantium bones and he stares down in horror. 

You know he's scared because he’s watching his body dissolve but he’s not feeling any pain. You could make it hurt, but that’s not what you want. You just want to see if he’ll remember you now. If there’s anything half-decent left in that alcohol-rotted brain of his.

“Flux,” he grits your X-Man name out through his teeth like it hurts him to say it. 

You nod and his skin and suit go back to normal, like you’d never tampered with it in the first place. “You do remember me, then?”

“Thought you fucking died with the rest of them.” Your face drops before you feel an astonished smile on your face. 

“You know, it’s a comfort to know nothing about my world has changed. You’re still the same spineless dick that left us all to die.” You shake your head and storm out of the hideout. You don’t know how long they’re planning on staying but you pray they leave soon. If you have to deal with him longer than a week, you’ll just kill him. 

You step outside just as Laura’s coming back from the bonfire. She greets you with a stiff smile and you wonder what’s got in her in a mood. It only takes a glance over her shoulder to find the reason.

Logan is sulking by the fire, nursing yet another bottle of whiskey. He’s drinking it like water and even with his healing, his liver should have turned to mush by now. “I can see why you didn’t tell me about him,” she mutters as she passes by you. 

You know she tried to be quiet but you can see the way Logan’s head tilts slightly towards you. He’s heard her and you know it has to sting just a little.

You glance down at the leaves under your feet, eyes glazing over as you feel the guilt sink into your stomach. You shouldn’t feel bad, you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t hurt him, technically, just reminded him who you were. But you still feel bad for what you said. 

You’ve never blamed Logan for what happened. And if you did, you would be a hypocrite. Because you survived too, and you left them all behind. You ran like a coward. You could never blame him when you failed to save them just the same. 

You take in a deep breath and steel yourself. You’ll just apologize, walk over there, and explain to him you didn’t mean what you said. You know he’ll be a dick about it. Claiming he doesn’t want your apology. You’ll just leave him alone after. 

You’re about to step forward when he barks out a gruff command, “Don’t fucking stare at me like that. I don’t want your company.” He turns back to the fire and takes another swig from his bottle. 

You roll your eyes and walk towards him. “You can be as miserable and self-pitying as you want, just let me say one thing.”

His head whips towards you so quickly you’re surprised you don’t hear it snap. “I’m not fucking pitying myself,” he grits out. You quirk your brows in amusement, glancing towards the bottle in his hand and the clear way he’s sulking. He turns his attention back towards the fire, intent on ignoring you again. 

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” you tell him. You ignore the warning look he shoots you, taking a seat beside him even if he doesn’t want you to. “I-” you choke on the words, struggling to admit to yourself what you’ve never wanted to. 

“Don’t.” You know it’s meant to be a warning. But when you look at him and see how completely broken he is, it sounds more like a pathetic plead. 

But you need to say this. As selfish as it is, you need to say this to someone., Need to unload this guilt you’ve carried for so long. “I was there, Logan. I could have saved them and I didn’t. I fucking ran.”

“Kid, don’t do this-”

“Jean was still moving,” you blurt out. You feel the way your heart speeds up at the admission. Your fingers shake and the air around you stills. 

His face drops and he slowly turns towards you. You’re afraid to look at him. You feel like a bunny staring down the snout of a wolf, there’s no escaping this. You’ve created this trap for yourself. 

“What?” He demands. His voice has lost that tremor of vulnerability. Instead, he sounds like he did when he first found out what had happened to you all. That same deadly level of calm that makes you want to bolt again. 

“She,” you stare into the fire until your eyes burn. You don’t know if it’s from the light or the smoke but the pain focuses you. “She was shaking on the floor. There was blood everywhere and she could barely breathe. They had gassed us with something. None of us could use our powers, it’s the only reason they got a one-up on us.”

You can feel yourself slipping back into that moment. You feel the warmth of the blood on your skin. It seeps into your suit and makes the material cling to you. Your gut is split open and the only thing holding your intestines in is your hands. 

Jean is in front of you. Her hands are twitching by her sides. There’s blood pouring out of her lips, dribbling down her tongue and cheeks. Every breath is a rattle so deep you feel it in your bones. 

Each inhale sounds like someone dragging glass through the membrane of her lungs. Her chest rises and sinks shallowly as she gasps for air. She’s practically convulsing, eyes twitching every which way.

The gas has faded from the halls. The people have left, satisfied with the carnage. You’re alone, surrounded only by the blood and bodies of your friends. None of the others are moving. Some of them are so mangled you can’t even tell who they are anymore. 

Jean’s eyes lock onto yours. The only anchor she has. And you can see it, the frantic, wounded animal gaze on her face. She knows she’s dying. She knows there’s nothing she can do about it. 

You can only stand by and watch as your friend dies. You could be her comfort. You could be the last face she sees before she dies, distracting her from the sight of her dead fiancee behind her. 

But what do you do?

You hold your guts in your stomach and you run. You can’t look at her. You can’t look at any of them. You can hear her croaking behind you. And even when you’re out of the mansion, when you’re in a hospital somewhere getting repaired and Logan’s on a rampage, you still hear her. 

You feel something heavy on your arm and it’s like you're being forcibly dragged out of a trance. Logan’s looking at you with something you’ve never seen before. But it’s something you’ve always desperately craved. 

It’s like he’s seeing you, really seeing you. For the first time in a long time, you feel that ache of guilt ease away ever so slightly. It doesn’t disappear, but you’re sharing the burden with someone else and it’s a relief you’ve desperately craved. 

“You’re not a bad person for leaving, kid.” He swallows roughly and you place your hand over his. He doesn’t look completely comfortable with the touch, slightly flinching away from it, but he doesn’t move. “If you hadn’t, you would be dead.”

You squeeze his hand, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I never blamed you for what happened.” emotion is so thick on your tongue and in your throat that the words come out a whisper. “Their deaths weren’t your fault, and what happened after wasn’t.”

He clenches his eyes shut and jerks his hand out of your grip. You sigh, knowing you’ve lost him. “I slaughtered them.”

You scoff, “They slaughtered us!” You nearly shout, anger bubbling hot in your gut. When you heard about him killing those who had hunted down your friends, you’d celebrated. And when you heard the way the public was crucifying him, you realized that no matter what you did they would never love you. 

You would always be nothing more than a mutant to them. 

“And the people who didn’t hurt them? The innocents I killed?” 

You don’t have anything to say to that. You just stand up, placing a hand on his shoulder as you pass by him. “I never blamed you, Logan.”

You don’t see Logan again after that. At least, not while you’re in the void. What was left of your little resistance was sucked up into the purple cloud of death. Only you and Laura are left with the carnage. 

Logan and Wade have disappeared to who knows where. It stings, to be on your own again. Sure, you have Laura, but she’ll never understand the pain of what happened to your universe. 

As much as it hurt, at least with Logan, you had someone to share the pain with. You could share your burden with him. You feel lonely and cold. Like there’s a part of you missing. You finally figure out what that ache is when the TVA comes to collect you and you see him again. 

He’s standing behind Wade as he enthusiastically tells you and Larua all about his world. But you can’t take your eyes off Logan, or the tentative smile on his face. Whatever had happened during that fight with Cassandra Nova had changed him, for the better. 

You smile back at him and it feels like taking a breath of fresh air after years. 

Apparently, whoever this world’s Flux had been, she was fucking insanely rich. And dead, which sucked for her but was great for you and Logan. 

It’s not hard for you to fake some government identities and explain that you’d been mistakenly marked as dead. It’s apparently pretty common in this universe. Superheroes are blipped out of existence all the time. You couldn’t get all of her assets as some had been liquidated, but you did get her giant ass house. 

You let Logan and Laura stay with you until they decide where they want to go. It’s better than living with Wade and his coke-fiend roommate. Laura finds her groove pretty quickly, it is her world after all. But you and Logan struggle to figure out what to do with yourselves. 

Neither of you has an interest in being X-Men again, and it seems like they’re not incredibly present in this world either. You also hadn’t been the best of friends, even before everything went wrong, back home. 

You’re not strangers, you’re not friends, you’re that awkward place in between. Each day is another opportunity to get to know each other. The progress might be slow, but you know that you’re getting closer to something real. 

It’s why you don’t feel any qualms about running into his room when you hear him shouting. You burst into his room and the door slamming against the wall isn’t even enough to wake him up. 

He’s writhing around in the bed, sheets twisted around his waist while sweat beads down his forehead. The noises he’s making remind you of a wounded animal. There’s something heartbreaking about this. 

He doesn’t get peace even when he’s sleeping. It makes you hurt for him. You want to smooth over the aches and pains he carries and burden yourself with them. 

The thought snaps you out of your reverie and you’re shocked by the revelation. You’d been growing closer to him, but you hadn’t thought you were growing this close. You feel so strongly for him, but you’re not ready to put a name on what it is that you feel for him. You just know that right now you want to make him feel better. 

You approach the bed cautiously, taking a seat beside him. The bed ripples and jolts underneath you as he tosses and turns. You place a gentle hand on his arm and shake, “Logan,” you whisper. You don’t want to startle him too bad. 

But he’s not responding to anything. It doesn’t matter how much you shake him or call out his name. Finally, you can’t handle it anymore. You get on your knees, sitting over him and bringing your palm down across his face as hard as you can. 

In a second he’s shooting up. You don’t even notice his hand until you see the way his vision clears. The visceral panic fades and something is aching in your gut. “Oh god, no no no,” he says the word so many times it stops sounding real. 

You look down and see the blood dribbling down his palm, the claws buried in your stomach. It’s almost funny, how perfectly aligned they are with the scar that already lived there. The reminder of your friend’s death being erased and reformed by Logan’s hand. 

He pulls his wrist back and you quickly snatch it up. “Don’t!” You shout, jaw clenching against the pain. “Don’t pull them out, I’ll just bleed out.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” You know he’s worried, that’s why he snaps at you. But it doesn’t help the way you feel yourself fighting back tears.

He sees them drip down your cheeks and his face drops. His other hand, the one not in you, comes up and cradles your cheek. “What do I do?” He whispers, and he sounds more desperate than you do. 

You know he doesn’t want another death on his hands. But there’s something beyond that. He doesn’t want to be the reason you stop breathing. There’s a startling clarity when you’re slowly dying. 

He cares about you. Just as deeply as you do for him. You can’t make him go through this pain again. Can’t let him suffer alone, not when he’s made so much progress. “Slowly,” you tell him, guiding his claws out inch by inch. 

It’s hard not to black out. You’d barely felt it when he’d gotten you the first time. You think it’s because of how fast and sudden it was. But this, having them oh so slowly slicing through your insides is the worst form of torture. 

But you don’t heal like him. You have to close your eyes, focus on the pain, and forcibly reknit your skin back together. It’s a clever manipulation of your powers, but it’s a slow one. You could never take serious damage on the field because you wouldn’t be fast enough to repair yourself. 

This is easy to repair. But that doesn’t make it hurt less. It feels like an hour before he can safely draw them the rest of the way out. The second he does, you’re sinking into his arms with a pained sob. 

He clutches you so tightly to his chest you worry your back might snap. He keeps muttering apologies into your hair, hands desperately grasping at every inch of you he can hold. You’re too tired to say anything. 

You realized you should have. You should have told him you don’t blame him. You were the one who snuck into his room. You should have been smarter. But it doesn’t matter how many times you tell Logan not to blame himself, he always will. And you were too tired to try anyway. 

You only realize what’s happening two days after the incident. You figured he might need some space to process what happened. And honestly, you did too. It was awful and incredibly draining. You’ve felt fatigued ever since. 

But when you try and approach him and he just brushes past you like you weren’t even there, you know something is wrong. You watch his retreating back with a disturbed glare. You connect the dots quickly, already knowing what he’s doing. 

He doesn’t want to be responsible for hurting another person he loves. He can’t handle a loss like that again, even if it’s not by his hands. He wants to make sure you don’t want him, that you don’t care for him. Like that might ease the pain and guilt. 

But it wouldn’t. It would just make him feel worse. It would make you feel worse. 

You don’t waste a second, following him up the stairs and barging into his room before he can slam the door shut. It bounces off the wall and he lets out a deeply irritated sigh. He doesn’t turn to look at you, just walks over to his nightstand and rummages around through the doors.

You know he’s not looking for anything. He’s just trying to ignore you long enough for you to give up. It’s not going to happen, he should know better. 

You take a step further into the room and the smell of chemicals slams into you. Your nose wrinkles in disgust. It smells like he pumped Lysol into the vents. Your eyes dart to the bed and you sigh. 

Your blood, you’d completely forgotten. He must have been cleaning it up the morning after. You can’t blame him for wanting to get rid of the remainder. But this seems excessive. 

“Strong nose,” he mutters. You hadn’t realized you’d spoken aloud and you glanced over at him. “I can still smell it, even after cleaning.” He takes a seat on the bed and you hate the way his shoulders are slumped. 

He’d seemed so much more comfortable with himself lately. It’s like one accident has undone all his progress. “Logan,” you start, taking a step towards him. He holds his hand up, still not looking at you. 

It’s driving you insane. You wish he would just meet your eyes. You feel like you could change his mind if he would just see you. Maybe that’s why he won’t. He won’t let himself be happy. 

“Look, that night just made me realize what a huge fucking mistake this was.” He gets up and slides something out from under the bed. It takes a moment for you to register what it is. A duffel bag, packed with all his essentials and what little clothes he owns. 

He’s going to leave.

You act without thinking. Pure panic making your powers surge out. Logan grunts and the bag falls out of his hand. “Quit it,” he snipes, bending over to pick it up. But he can’t because it’s so heavy it’s making the wooden floor splinter and crack under its weight. 

“You don’t get to just leave when things get hard, Logan.”

He stands up, hands propped on his sides. There’s a challenge in his eyes that makes you nervous. “Fuck this,” he scoffs and brushes past you. 

It’s beyond manipulative to use your powers against him. But sometimes, someone is such a fucking idiot, they need a little outside help. You slam the door closed and the handle disappears, locking you both in his room. 

He turns towards you with a fierce glare on his face. “Open the goddamn door before I break it down.”

“You can try,” you taunt, a nasty tone to your voice. You’re sick of this. You’re sick of running from what you want. You’ve been miserable and alone for years. You want to be happy. For the first time in forever, you want something. 

And you want Logan to be happy with you. You can’t force him to feel the way you do. But you can stop him from actively preventing this. “Stop acting like a goddamn child and just talk to me!” You shout at him. 

There’s a disbelieving look on your face. You don’t understand why he won’t let this happen. Why does he have to fight so hard against any semblance of happiness in his life?

“I’m going to hurt you. That is all I do. I hurt the people I love and I cannot hurt you too.” Your eyes widen in shock at his outburst. Beyond anger, there was so much fear in his voice it was almost enough to make you miss what he’d said. 

“You love me?” You can see the realization dawn on him. The fact that he let slip why he’s so hesitant to be around you. You know he wants to leave, his eyes are darting around the room for an escape route, but you’ve blocked them all. You can’t let this go, not now. 

“Logan,” you snap, demanding an answer from him. 

“Fuck you,” he mutters, something vicious on his face. 

He’s going to hurt you. He’s going to lash out and say something cruel so that this doesn’t happen. You know him because you’ve been him. He will take every possible route to get out of this if it means he doesn’t have to face his feelings. 

You roll your eyes and take a step forward. You jerk him towards you and throw yourself on him before he can say something stupid. The kiss is brief, just enough to snap him out of this ridiculous headspace he’s in. 

When you pull back he looks dazed, but he’s relaxed in your hold, sinking towards you. You grin up at him, “I love you too, dumbass.” You lean up to kiss him again but you dart back at the last second, a mean glare on your face. “Pull some shit like this again and I’m going to melt your dick off.” 

You kiss him before he can respond, but you feel the smile against your lips. You can taste the defeat on his tongue as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you into his chest. He’s not going to push you away and you’re not going to let him. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral  @wolviesgirl @allllium  ♡ 

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: smut, not explicit. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ white mustang ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x single!mother!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ you were a single mother raising a four-year-old daughter in the bustling, unforgiving city of seoul. life had not unfolded as you once fantasized it might, instead, it had cornered you into a relentless cycle of poverty and struggle. you had married young, filled with hope and naivety, but those dreams were shattered when your husband abandoned you shortly after you announced your pregnancy. unable to bear the duties of fatherhood, he not only left but also cast you out of the home you once shared, leaving you to fend for yourself and your unborn child.

˚ ༘♡ your own family, steeped in tradition and pride, turned their backs on you as well. they viewed your divorce as a mark of shame, a stain on their honor. the fact that you would raise a child without a father was, in their eyes, an unforgivable disgrace. they refused to take you in, forcing you to seek refuge in whatever options you could find. eventually, you found work as a sales assistant at a small boutique, where the pay was barely enough to scrape by. minimum wage stretched thin over endless expense, formula, rent, utilities, and it quickly became apparent that even the bare necessities were a luxury. in a moment of sheer desperation, you began taking out loans amounting in tens of thousands of won, well aware you could never repay them. the interest piled up as fast as the bills, but the loans kept your daughter fed and clothed, albeit barely. you hated yourself for it, but there were no other choices that didn’t feel impossible.

˚ ༘♡ your home, if it could be called that, was on the less fortunate side of a narrow street lined with aging apartments and cracked sidewalks. the peeling paint and broken railings were a daily reminder of your circumstances. yet, even amidst your despair, you couldn’t help but notice the contrast a few blocks over, a wealthier stretch of the same neighborhood, where sleek cars parked outside magnificent homes and prosperity seemed to flourish. it was during one of your daily walks to the bus stop, your daughter’s tiny hand clutching yours, that you first noticed him.

˚ ༘♡ cho sang-woo. a man who seemed completely out of place in your reality but belonged so effortlessly to the better half of the neighborhood. his polished suits, sharp gaze, and air of quiet confidence spoke of success and power. you didn’t know much about him, only the whispered details you overheard at the local convenience store. he was a former student of seoul university, where he graduated at the top of his class, and he now worked at joy investments, one of the most prestigious firms in the city. he lived in the nicer part of the street, a place that might as well have been a world apart from yours.

˚ ༘♡ for weeks, your paths crossed without words. you would see him on the way to work, his brisk stride purposeful and somehow detached. you’d clutch your daughter’s hand tightly as she skipped beside you, her laughter a rare mirthful mark in your otherwise gray days. sometimes, you wondered if he noticed you at all, or if to him, you were just another melancholic face in the crowd. but there was something in the way his eyes briefly wandered to yours, a swift, barely noticeable moment of acknowledgment, almost imperceptible but not absent.

˚ ༘♡ a month passed without much change. you worked long hours at the boutique, came home to your daughter’s laughter echoing in the small apartment, and fell asleep each night with exhaustion pressing against your chest. spring had arrived, softening the chill in the air and filling the streets with blossoms and a sense of renewal you couldn’t quite feel for yourself. still, you tried to give your daughter a taste of joy, taking her for walks when time allowed, letting her skip along the sidewalks as if the world weren’t so cynical.

˚ ༘♡ one bright afternoon, the kind that made the city’s grime seem almost picturesque, you saw him again. cho sang-woo stood ahead, unmistakable in his dark business suit. the clean lines of his attire and the polished leather of his shoes seemed to set him apart from the bustling, chaotic world around him. his square-rimmed glasses caught the sunlight, and his expression, though composed, held a trace of warmth when he noticed you approaching. he lifted a hand in a brief wave and nodded. “good morning,” he greeted, his tone polite but personable.

˚ ༘♡ you returned his nod with a soft smile, your daughter tugging lightly at your hand. “good morning to you as well, sir,” you replied, your voice calm, though you felt a twinge of surprise that he’d acknowledged you.

˚ ༘♡ your daughter, far less reserved, beamed up at him, her youthful cheer impossible to contain. “hello, sir!” she exclaimed with a giggle, her small voice cutting through the hum of the city.

˚ ༘♡ he stopped in his tracks, the corners of his mouth lifting in a genuine grin. “how old is she?” he asked, his gaze shifting to your daughter, who looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “four years old as of last month,” you replied, brushing a hand over her dark hair with a hint of pride you didn’t bother hiding.

˚ ༘♡ he adjusted his glasses, the gesture quick and practiced, before replying, “she’s a clever child. you’re blessed to have her.”

˚ ༘♡ his words, spoken so simply yet with unmistakable sincerity, stirred something in you. “i tell myself that every day,” you said quietly, your fingers tightening gently around your daughter’s small hand.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t seem rushed to leave, lingering as though the conversation mattered more than wherever he was headed. his questions were unintrusive, small talk about the weather, the flowers blooming along the street, and whether you’d been in the neighborhood long. you answered politely, aware of the contrast between his world and yours yet struck by how easily he spoke to you.

˚ ༘♡ after a few minutes, he glanced at his watch, a subtle flare of responsibility returning to his expression. “i’d better get going,” he said, though there was no impatience in his tone. “it was nice talking to you.”

˚ ༘♡ “and to you,” you replied, dipping your head slightly.

˚ ༘♡ he offered your daughter one last smile before walking away, his pace measured, his presence lingering even as he disappeared down the street. you watched him for a moment, then turned back to your daughter, who was already pulling you toward the park.

˚ ༘♡ from that day on, whenever your paths crossed, he made a point to stop and speak with you. at first, the exchanges were brief, a polite inquiry about your day or a comment on how quickly your daughter was growing. but as the weeks passed, the conversations stretched longer, even when his crisp attire and leather briefcase suggested a packed schedule. he would pause, leaning slightly toward you as he spoke, his words carrying a kind of attentiveness you hadn’t encountered in a long time. those encounters, swift as they were, began to carve a small space of solace into the otherwise monotonous routine of your days.

˚ ༘♡ one quiet afternoon, as you were tidying up after a long day, the phone rang. you glanced at the screen and saw sang-woo’s name flashing. you hesitated for a moment, unsure why he was calling, but you picked up. his voice on the other end was casual yet warm. “would you like to grab dinner tonight? nothing fancy, something simple,” he said, his tone friendly enough to put you at ease.

˚ ༘♡ you smiled softly, though he couldn’t see it. “i’d like to, but i can’t leave my daughter home alone,” you replied, your words tinged with regret. her well-being was always your priority, and you weren’t in a position to make exceptions.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t hesitate to reply. “then bring her along,” he insisted without hesitation. “it’ll be fun for all of us, and i couldn’t think of leaving her out.”

˚ ༘♡ his sincerity made it hard to say no. after a brief pause, you agreed, telling him you’d meet him shortly. your daughter, wide-eyed and excited, picked the dinner, a feast of fried chicken and tteokbokki. it wasn’t what you considered a balanced meal, but sang-woo laughed softly when you voiced your concerns. “an occasional indulgence won’t hurt,” he reassured you, his tone effortlessly convincing. “besides, it’s my treat tonight.”

˚ ༘♡ when you arrived at the small, bustling eatery, your daughter clung to your hand while her gaze darted around, taking in the brightly colored menus and the sizzling platters on nearby tables. sang-woo was already seated, waving you over with a welcoming smile that made you feel momentarily lighter. he pulled out a chair for you before settling back into his own seat, engaging your daughter with playful questions about her favorite foods and games. her laughter filled the air as he entertained her, his natural charm putting her completely at ease.

˚ ༘♡ as the meal went on, you found yourself relaxing, enjoying the rare treat of good food and pleasant company. when your daughter noticed the arcade machines near the back of the restaurant, her face lit up with excitement. before you could say a word, sang-woo reached into his pocket and handed her a coin, encouraging her to go play while the two of you stayed behind. it was then, as you sat alone with him, that the evening took a turn you hadn’t anticipated.

˚ ༘♡ leaning in slightly, his expression grew more thoughtful. “can i ask you something personal?” he began, his voice measured and quiet. you nodded, unsure where he was going with this. “are you seeing anyone right now?”

˚ ༘♡ the question caught you off guard. you hesitated, but there was no point in pretending. with a quiet sigh, you opened up about your past, your brief, ill-fated marriage, your ex-husband’s abandonment, and the struggles that had followed. sang-woo listened intently, his gaze steady, never betraying judgment or discomfort. when you finished, he offered a small, empathetic smile and reached across the table, his hand brushing yours lightly. “you’ve been through so much, but you’re doing a wonderful job as a mother,” he said, his words sincere. before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, quick and discreet, ensuring your daughter didn’t see.

˚ ༘♡ the gesture left you momentarily speechless, your heart racing in a way it hadn’t in years. cho sang-woo was everything society valued, handsome, intelligent, and successful. yet, you couldn’t ignore the gap between your worlds. a single mother scraping by on meager wages didn’t belong in the same orbit as a man like him, no matter how kind he was. you told yourself he was simply a good friend, someone who offered comfort in a lonely existence. but the truth was harder to dismiss, and the growing fondness you felt for him remained long after that night.

˚ ༘♡ weeks later, the strain of your financial troubles bore down on you more heavily than ever. the debt had spiraled out of control, and every day felt like a losing battle to stay afloat. you were walking home one evening when a sharply dressed man approached you, his presence almost unsettling in its precision. he introduced himself with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and held out two small folded squares of paper. “care for a game of ddakji?” he asked, his tone cheerful but with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. “if you win, you’ll get one hundred thousand won. if you lose, i get to slap you.”

˚ ༘♡ desperation clouded your judgment, and against your better instincts, you agreed. the first few rounds ended in failure, each slap stinging more than the last. but you persisted, driven by the thought of what that money could mean for your daughter. finally, with trembling hands and a burst of determination, you flipped the paper correctly. the man handed you the cash with an unsettling smile and then extended a business card. “call this number if you want to win more,” he said, his words lingering in your mind as you walked away clutching the money.

˚ ༘♡ that night, after tucking your daughter into bed, you stared at the card for what felt like hours. the temptation was overwhelming, and in the end, it won. you called the number, your voice shaking as you gave your name and address. within minutes, a sleek black limousine pulled up in front of your building, its windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see inside. stepping in, you barely had time to settle before a strange chemical filled the air, and the world went dark.

˚ ༘♡ when you awoke, the surroundings were unfamiliar and unnerving. rows of bunk beds stretched endlessly across a vast room, the walls painted a distasteful shade of green. you looked down and saw the plain jumpsuit you now wore, the number 017 stitched onto the fabric. confusion and fear gripped you, but one thought rose above the chaos, your daughter was at home, and you had to survive this for her, to give the life she deserved.

˚ ༘♡ the goal of winning was your aspiration when the first game began. at first glance, it seemed absurd, red light, green light, a relic from childhood memories long buried beneath the weight of adulthood. the vibrant, oversized doll at the far end of the field seemed almost laughable in its stillness, its painted smile eerie but harmless. but that illusion shattered when the first player was eliminated. the sound of the gunshot echoed through the air, followed by the horrifying sight of their lifeless body collapsing onto the dirt. the cheerful voice announcing the rules continued without pause, as though nothing had happened.

˚ ༘♡ panic erupted among the players. shouts of disbelief and terror filled the air as dozens bolted toward the exits, frantic and desperate to escape. one by one, they were struck down, their bodies littering the field as if caught in an invisible storm. the realization hit you like a physical blow, this was no game. this was life and death, and you were standing in its grasp. your knees trembled under the weight of fear, and your breaths came shallow and quick. every instinct screamed at you to run, to flee the nightmare unfolding around you.

˚ ༘♡ “the doll’s eyes are motion sensors. don’t move.”

˚ ༘♡ the voice came from behind, quiet but firm, cutting through the chaos. you turned your head slightly, careful to avoid triggering the sensors. it was cho sang-woo, his expression as composed as ever, though his voice carried an edge you had never heard before. his presence shocked you, why was he here? he had a prestigious job, a beautiful home, a life far removed from the misery that had led you to this place. what could have driven him to join this horrifying spectacle? but there was no time for answers. survival demanded your complete attention.

˚ ༘♡ you fixed your gaze on the doll, its head swiveling unnervingly to scan the players. the melody began again, and with it, the rules of survival. move forward, stop immediately, stay frozen. you forced yourself to take small, deliberate steps, resisting the overwhelming urge to sprint. each time the doll’s head turned, you froze, your body taut with fear, your heart pounding so loudly it seemed deafening. every second stretched into eternity, every step forward a test of willpower.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo crossed the finish line seconds before you, his figure stoic as he turned his back to the field. you pushed onward, your focus unyielding, until you finally crossed the line with seconds to spare. the tension in your body snapped, leaving your legs weak beneath you, but you remained upright, clinging to the knowledge that you had survived, for now. you glanced toward sang-woo, hoping for some acknowledgment, but he avoided your gaze entirely, turning away as if you were a stranger.

˚ ༘♡ once the last player stumbled through, the harsh blare of a horn signaled the end of the game, and the survivors were ushered back into the dormitory. the atmosphere was suffocating, the air thick with tension and fear as the reality of what they had just endured began to sink in. the sight of so many bodies lying lifeless on the field haunted you, but there was no time to grieve, no space to process. the masked guards stood silent and menacing, a constant reminder that you were trapped under their watchful gaze.

˚ ༘♡ as the players murmured among themselves, questions and disbelief rippling through the crowd, one of the masked guards stepped forward. his voice was distorted through the microphone, chilling in its detachment. “to remind you why you are here, we will reveal the amount of debt each of you owes.”

˚ ༘♡ the room fell silent, a collective tension building as a screen lit up on one of the walls. one by one, the players’ faces appeared, alongside staggering amounts of debt. gasps and whispers spread as the numbers grew larger and larger, each amount more crippling than the last. when your face appeared, the sum displayed made your stomach churn, a figure so vast it felt insurmountable, nearly half a billion won, a reflection of every foolish decision you had made to keep your daughter fed and housed.

˚ ༘♡ but the room truly stilled when cho sang-woo’s face appeared on the screen. his debt was six billion won. the air seemed to grow heavier as the number glowed on the screen, an incomprehensible weight tied to the man who had always seemed so polished, so composed, so untouchable. a few players exchanged shocked glances, but sang-woo’s expression didn’t waver. his face remained unreadable, a mask of calm that betrayed none of the turmoil he might have felt.

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t stop staring at him. six billion won? how could someone with his education, his prestigious career, have ended up in such a dire position? questions swirled in your mind, but the icy tone of the guard’s voice broke through your thoughts. “this is what brought you here. this is what you must fight to overcome.”

˚ ༘♡ as the screen darkened, the room buzzed with subdued murmurs. the revelation had shifted the atmosphere, exposing the cracks in the carefully guarded facades of those around you. it was a stark reminder that no one here was truly secure, no matter how confident or composed they appeared.

˚ ༘♡ murmurs of confusion and disbelief filled the air. then, to your astonishment, sang-woo stepped forward and initiated a vote to end the game. the announcement caused a ripple of hope, and soon the vote began. by the narrowest margin, the majority chose to leave. the thought of returning to your daughter filled you with relief, even as unease lingered in your mind.

˚ ༘♡ back in the outside world, you clung to the brief sense of normalcy that returning home provided. your daughter’s laughter was a salve to your frayed nerves, but the relief was fleeting. the reality of your situation hit like a tidal wave when you opened the door to find loan sharks waiting, their demands sharper and more insistent than before. a stack of bills sat ominously on your table, a chilling reminder that leaving the game hadn’t erased your debts. it had only delayed the inevitable.

˚ ༘♡ when the sleek black limousine returned, you didn’t hesitate. you kissed your daughter’s forehead, returned her to the care of your elderly neighbor, and climbed into the car, your resolve hardening. the gas filled the air once again, and the world faded into unconsciousness. when you awoke, you were back in the same vast dormitory, the green jumpsuit hanging from your frame like a prison uniform.

˚ ༘♡ to your surprise, and perhaps dismay, sang-woo had returned as well. he stood apart from the crowd, his expression carefully neutral, as though he had already resigned himself to whatever horrors lay ahead. you couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity and frustration. what could have brought him back to this nightmare? but his presence, as unsettling as it was, also brought a sliver of comfort. at least one person here wasn’t a complete stranger. whether he acknowledged you or not, the fact that he was there, breathing the same air, enduring the same fate, made the unbearable feel slightly less isolating.

˚ ༘♡ as you climbed through the maze of brightly colored block structures on your way to the second game, the oppressive silence among the players was broken only by the occasional scrape of shoes against the smooth surfaces. the atmosphere was suffocating, each person wrapped in their own thoughts of survival. as you reached the next passageway, you caught sight of sang-woo walking a few steps ahead, his broad shoulders unmistakable even in the dull green jumpsuit. you quickened your pace, weaving around other players until you came up beside him.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo?” you called out hesitantly, unsure if he even wanted to be acknowledged. “it’s good to see you.”

˚ ༘♡ he turned to face you, his expression weary, his sharp features softened by exhaustion. his glasses were gone, leaving his face bare in a way that felt unfamiliar. the hollowness in his eyes made your heart ache, a stark contrast to the composed man you once knew. “it’s good to see you as well,” he said quietly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of shame. his gaze drifted downward, as though he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes for long.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, unsure whether to press him further, but the words poured out before you could stop them. “sang-woo, i had no idea you were in so much debt. i thought…” you faltered, the unfinished sentence hanging heavily in the air. you couldn’t bring yourself to say it aloud, the claims you’d heard about client embezzlement and loans swirling in your mind. surely, he wouldn’t have stolen money from his workplace? the man you thought you knew wouldn’t sink to such levels, or so you hoped.

˚ ༘♡ his lips pressed into a thin line, his expression tightening. “we can talk later, alright?” his voice was calm, but the subtle edge warned you not to push further. he looked away, focusing on the corridor ahead, his discomfort palpable.

˚ ༘♡ before you could respond, the masked guards appeared, their presence commanding immediate attention. one of them stepped forward, his voice cold and distorted as he barked instructions. “players, form a line in front of the four doors, triangle, circle, star, and umbrella.” the straightforward simplicity of the directive only heightened your unease. no explanation was given, and the purpose of the shapes remained a mystery.

˚ ༘♡ you watched as sang-woo leaned toward the group of players he had been speaking with, his voice low but audible. “we should split up,” he suggested. “i’ll take the triangle.” his tone was measured, but there was something deliberate in the way he spoke, as though he knew more than he was letting on.

˚ ༘♡ you stepped closer, offering him a faint smile. “i’ll take the star,” you said, trying to inject a bit of optimism into the tension-filled space.

˚ ༘♡ his jaw tightened visibly, and he shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “no,” he said, his voice firm. his friends had already dispersed, blending into the lines forming at the other doors, but he didn’t move. his gaze locked onto yours, unflinching.

˚ ༘♡ “why not?” you asked, confused by his sudden insistence.

˚ ༘♡ he hesitated, the pause stretching long enough to feel significant. “i think you should stick with me,” he said finally. “for a woman, the next game could be dangerous, and you might need protection. choose triangle with me.”

˚ ༘♡ there was something in his tone, persuasive as it could be, that made it impossible to refuse. though his reasoning unsettled you, you nodded, falling into line behind him as the players shuffled forward. your eyes scanned the room anxiously, searching for any clue as to what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ when the game was finally revealed, your stomach sank. the guards handed each player a thin tin containing a piece of dalgona candy. the shape on the door you had chosen corresponded to the delicate imprint in the sugar, triangle for you and sang-woo. the instructions were chillingly simple, extract the shape from the brittle candy without breaking it. failure meant elimination.

˚ ༘♡ as you stared down at the candy in your hands, your breath hitched. the triangle, though angular and sharp, was mercifully the easiest of the shapes. your fingers trembled as you picked up the needle provided, its point glinting under the harsh overhead lights. you glanced at sang-woo, who was already at work on his candy, his face an unreadable mask. you offered him a small, grateful smile, relieved that his advice had spared you a more complicated shape. he acknowledged it with a weak nod but didn’t look up from his task.

˚ ༘♡ the room was filled with the sound of quiet scraping, interspersed with the occasional crack of breaking candy and the deafening gunshots that followed. each failure sent a ripple of fear through the players, the stakes of the game becoming all too real. your hands shook uncontrollably as you traced the edges of the triangle, the needle’s tip scraping against the delicate surface. beads of sweat formed on your forehead, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

˚ ༘♡ finally, with painstaking caution, you lifted the triangle free from the candy, the edges intact. relief flooded through you, though your hands continued to tremble as you approached one of the masked guards. holding up the completed shape, you waited for his acknowledgment. “player 218, player 017, pass,” the voice from the speaker announced, devoid of emotion.

˚ ༘♡ as you and sang-woo stepped into the expansive player quarters, the dim lighting and echo of murmured conversations created an atmosphere that felt dreadful yet oddly subdued. the space was filled with rows of bunks stacked high, each one occupied by players whose expressions ranged from numb exhaustion to quiet fear. you glanced around briefly before turning your attention to him, your gratitude bubbling to the surface.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo, you saved my life,” you said, your voice soft but sincere. the words carried a weight you couldn’t ignore. “i wouldn’t have had the precision or patience to cut out the star. thank you for convincing me to choose triangle.”

˚ ༘♡ he paused mid-step, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly as he turned to look at you. his expression was calm, but there was something unreadable in his gaze, a flicker of thought he didn’t voice. you tilted your head, your curiosity piqued as a question formed in your mind. “did you know it was going to be dalgona?” your voice held both curiosity and suspicion. he was intelligent, brilliant, in fact. it wouldn’t have surprised you if he had pieced together clues that no one else had noticed. but then again, if he had known, wouldn’t he have told his friends?

˚ ༘♡ his lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he looked almost reluctant to answer. “i didn’t,” he said finally, his tone measured and deliberate. “it was a lucky guess, i suppose.” but there was something about the way he said it that left you unconvinced. his words felt too crafted, too careful, as if he were guarding a truth he wasn’t ready to share.

˚ ༘♡ before you could probe further, he shifted the conversation, his gaze tender as he looked at you. “come on,” he said, his voice quieter now. “you look like you’re about to collapse, and i can hardly stay upright myself after how draining that game was. let’s try and relax our nerves.”

˚ ༘♡ you nodded, the tension in your body loosening slightly as his words pulled you away from your thoughts. together, you made your way to an unoccupied bunk in one of the quieter corners of the dormitory. as you sat down, the fatigue of the day hit you like a wave, the adrenaline that had kept you going during the game now fully drained from your system.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo leaned against the metal frame of the bunk, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. his face was pale under the fluorescent lights, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed how much the game had taken out of him. for a moment, the silence between you felt almost comfortable, a reprieve from the chaos that had defined the day.

˚ ༘♡ “you know,” you said after a while, your voice barely above a whisper, “i don’t know how you stayed so calm out there. i felt like i was going to fall apart the entire time.”

˚ ༘♡ he let out a low breath, not quite a sigh, as his eyes shifted to the floor. “i wasn’t calm,” he admitted. “i was terrified, but fear doesn’t help you survive. you have to focus, no matter what.” his words were matter-of-fact, but there was an edge to them, a glimpse of the pressure he carried that he rarely allowed others to see.

˚ ༘♡ you studied him for a moment, your gratitude mingling with a growing sense of unease. there was so much about him that remained a mystery, layers of calculation and restraint that made it impossible to fully understand what he was thinking. but for now, you were too tired to dwell on it.

˚ ༘♡ “thank you, sang-woo,” you said again, your voice softer this time. you meant it, not simply for his advice during the game, but for the quiet sense of stability he brought in a world that felt increasingly unmoored.

˚ ༘♡ he gave a faint nod, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. “get some rest,” he said, his tone gentle but steadfast. “tomorrow will probably be worse.”

a/n: can you all tell my favorite character is cho sang-woo? don’t worry, part two of the hwang in-house x wife series will be out soon! let me know your thoughts! 🤍

[bakubonez]

Hot N Cold

Jing Yuan x GN! Reader || fluff

summary: you love him, but Jing Yuan is awful when it comes to cuddling during heatwaves.

A/N: not proofread as per usual because I can’t read apparently, also we r currently experiencing a heatwave here so I decided to curse the Luofu with it too. no I don’t care if it’s accurate to the lore. also reminder that my requests are open,,, send them to my ask box,,

It had been unusually hot on the Xianzhou Luofu. Everyone had been complaining about the heat—it had seemingly come out of nowhere, and the locals were not happy about it. That included you and Jing Yuan. Though, Jing Yuan seemed to be dealing with it a bit better than you were.

While you usually came home drenched in sweat and whining about having to go about your daily life when it was blazing hot, Jing Yuan just laughed it off and agreed, though he wasn’t nearly as soaked in sweat or as vocal about his complaints.

The main issue arose when you were trying to sleep. You loved Jing Yuan, and you loved cuddling with him throughout the night, but he was hot. Like, physically hot. He was boiling hot. He wasn’t too bothered by it, and he went about holding you as he usually did, while you tried to wriggle free from his grasp to try to cool down.

Unfortunately, it very rarely worked. Sure, you’d tell him before bed not to hold onto you like a koala, and he’d agree—but about an hour later when you were both asleep, he’d grab you in his sleep.

Then you’d have to start trying to escape. His grip on you never hurt, but it was hard to break free from.

“Jing Yuannn,” you whined, trying to pry his arms away from where they were firmly caging you against his chest. Much to your dismay, he remained asleep, snoring a little bit.

You squirmed miserably, mostly in vain. You were tempted to hit your pillow over his head to try to wake him, or at least get him to roll over, but you hesitated. Knowing how deeply he slept, that might not even have helped you in this case.

After a few more minutes of struggling, you give in. You lay limply in his grasp, trying to ignore the heat. You would have been very comfy, if you weren’t getting so hot. Jing Yuan’s cuddles were a blessing during winter and the colder days, allowing you two to get cosy, but right now it was a nightmare.

Maybe your prayers have been answered, considering Jing Yuan stirs a bit. He rolls over, finally freeing you from his grasp. His snoring intensifies a little bit, but it’s a small price to pay in exchange for your freedom.

You sigh in relief, migrating to the other side of the bed to try to eliminate the risk of him capturing you again. You can sleep in peace—or at least, until he rolls over again in an hour or so to hold you once more.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Big Guy Big Belly

König is a big man, and with a big man comes a big appetite. We’re talking about a 6’10 man constantly maintaining his peak physique. He needs to be consuming as many calories and as much protein, carbs, fats, fiber and more to keep himself in fit and fighting shape.

At the canteen, he’s a nightmare. I bet that people rush to the cafeteria just to make sure they get something to eat before the big man on base rolls up. He’ll clear out the bins if he gets a chance. There’s a rumour on base that the reason König fought so hard to climb the ranks so quickly was just to be able to eat more and get away with it. Little do they know that they’re absolutely right, but König will never say that out loud. Ever. There’s some secrets you take to your grave. 

Either way, König is a menace in the canteen. He’ll pile his plate as high as he can when he gets a chance. He’s packing away all he can get in the shortest amount of time he can, and everyone has to suffer for it. The worst part is that everyone has to rush to get to the caf before König, and König knows exactly what others are doing, so he’s in a daily race against the entire base to eat his fill. It’s always a photo-finish to see who gets to the cafeteria first.  König currently has been slacking, so he’s not been eating like he normally has. Is he mad? Not really. He’ll clean out the snack cart later. 

He’s a monster late at night. Everyone knows that you need to leave the big man to his snacks, lest you face the wrath of the colossus on base. Well, wrath in a peculiar way. He just gets quiet and angry, but it’s still not a fun experience to try and fight him for a sandwich. If you take the last egg salad sandwich you’ll be at the top of his shit list for the next week. Don’t even think he won’t track you down. He’ll throw around his rank just to get his hands on the poor bastard. Nobody is safe, either.

Stiletto only once took the last pudding cup. Once. She never made that mistake again. For a week he was giving her dirty looks over a cold shoulder as he bumbled down the hall. She eventually had to give in and sacrifice a desert to be able to get back in his good graces. She still thinks he’s a massive bitch because of it. And you know what? She’s right. Everybody knows she’s right, König included, but he’ll keep going after whoever ‘steals’ ‘his’ snacks. They get along a bit better now that they’ve both advanced in rank and worked together, but there was a good period of time where Stiletto had to sleep with one eye open.

It gets a bit better for everyone when König finally finds a partner and doesn’t stay on base so often. Everyone takes a moment to pray for the poor soul who has to cook for König whenever he gets home from deployment.

See, during deployment, König can’t be such a massive bitch about food. He gets his rations, and that’s that. He can’t steal from anybody else, so he gets stuck with these pitiful MREs that barely fill him up. It’s miserable, and he’s losing weight like crazy when on the field. He’s running on fumes and burning calories like crazy as he’s risking his life out there. It’s gotten to a point where König has taken to eating with hostages post-rescue to ‘help them feel safer’ (read: get more food into his gullet). Thankfully, he puts his best foot forward when dealing with victims of trauma and ensures that he has somebody else do all the socializing while he plays with the kids after dinner. Apparently, after the inevitable shower of tears whenever kids have to face König, he becomes pretty popular. They love to use him as a jungle gym (and make fun of him) and he’s just happy to get more to eat. He’ll take being called ‘bigger than even my dad!’, being told ‘you’re weird’ or being asked ‘why are you so big and scary all the time?’ any day for a little extra to eat. He can tolerate a few kids. He won’t ever admit that hanging around them makes him want some kids of his own, or at least not to Horangi, who’s already teasing König about being a surrogate father to the kids. König tells him to keep it to himself, but Horangi is already buying things for the baby shower.

Once König finally comes home, that’s when all Hell breaks loose. This man has been starving and he needs food NOW. He won’t take no for an answer. If you don’t have something prepared, he’ll be ordering a massive order of takeout the likes of which you’ve never seen before in your life. He’ll hit multiple places on his way back to your place if he doesn’t think you’ve been able to get something together for him. If you can’t cook, he won’t even bother telling you to cook for him and just focus on getting a whole banquet of junk food ready for when he arrives home. He brings the pizzas in the door before he even brings in his own bags. You’ll have to go out and grab his bag as he sets up his personal buffet table. The worst part is despite how much he can shove down, he always buys more than he can eat, so you’ve got a couple of days worth of food to shove in the fridge at the end of the night.

If you can cook, this is a multi-day experience. Is it rewarding? Absolutely. Is it painful? Abso-fucking-lutely. He’s got you slaving for hours a day just to get him a nice home cooked meal. You’ll be going all out to get him a big enough meal. We’re thinking a tray of mac and cheese, a whole roast chicken, easily a handful of loaded baked potatoes. If you have something from your traditional cuisine, he’s not picky, he’ll gobble it up in a heartbeat. Knowing you made it for him is more than enough for him. Food is the way to a man’s heart, some say, and König will never let you go if you treat him like the king he is.

The good thing about cooking König such a big meal is that he gives back. He’s not a fan of cooking, but for the next few days he’ll take over cooking and cleaning in the kitchen. It’s just an easy way for him to give back, you know? He can’t thank you enough with words, so why not with actions?

But the best part of König giving back is that he’s an excellent cook. He cooks mostly traditional food from his culture, but he’s down for some french or italian cooking if you’re into it. He can make a mean lasagne. He does not skimp on the cheese, this man. No he’s a cheese fiend. If you’re lactose intolerant, you’ve got another thing coming for you. He will hand feed you lactaid just for the meal. If you have a dietary restriction, he’ll learn how to cook your types of meals in abundance. He’s perfect that way. Vegetarian, vegan, keto, no matter what, he’s got your back. He’s learned how to make an excellent spread for a dinner party, and part of learning to cater to others is to work around other people’s diets; his mother drilled that rule into his little head as a kid. He does it without complaint, too. For at least a week after coming home, he’s just so happy to be around food in abundance again. He’s absolutely thriving in the kitchen before the thrill wears off and he’s back to avoiding cooking like the plague again.

He loves to eat, but usually hates to cook. He’ll mostly eat takeout until he actually has to eat a nutritious meal again for a change. It’s not that cooking is awful, it’s just that he hates doing the dishes. He’d be far more inclined if he didn’t have to do the dishes afterwards. If you take over dishes, he’ll definitely step up his game for the both of you.

All in all, König loves to eat. He’s a big man with a bigger appetite, as hard as that is to believe. Once he retires he has to learn to cut back a fair bit, but he never loses his taste for sweets and snacks. It’s just something you’ll have to learn to live with.

[cheeseceli]

They listen to your break up song

Pairing: enhypen!ot7 × Gn!reader (individually)

Genre: angst, idol!au, short scenarios/headcanons

Description: after your separation, you release a break up song. Your fandom is thrilled, but the boys are broken hearted as they know the lyrics are about them

Warnings: implied situationship at heeseung's, "girl" at niki's some broke up in bad terms, hopeful ending at some

A/n: because my girl rosé released an album and y'all should listen to it | daily click

Heeseung - call it the end

“Do I call you every night you’re gone or never call you again. Do we have a future or should I call it the end?”

Is there a limit to the amount of regrets one can have in a lifetime? Because Heeseung is pretty sure he already reached it.

After all, he made mistake after mistake with you. He had all the opportunities and still messed up. He was low-key hoping you would find the true love of your life and would scrub it in his face, just to show him what he lost.

Because damn, he lost way too much when he just let you go.

And he likes to believe what you two had was real. Where is the confusion, though? You had literally written an entire album for him. Every song was just you singing your heart out because of his mistakes. Obviously you had felt something during the time you were with him.

So the only way it wouldn't be real was if he didn't feel anything. But he did. Maybe even a little bit too much, he would say. He just didn't know what to call it, but he knew he had feelings for you and that they were huge.

In the present. All of this was happening in the present. He still had feelings. Even with your break up (can it be a break up if there's no true relationship to begin with?) and the songs, even if it supposedly came to an end, his feelings were still there, hanging stubbornly. He still loves you.

Oh. There was it.

Maybe the name of the feeling was love. Heeseung pauses at the realisation. All that you ever wanted to know was what was going on between the two of you. "Do I call you my ex or do I call you my boyfriend? Do I call you a lover or do I call you a friend?" The one question he disliked the most. "What are we?"

He hated it with all his guts before, but now he was dying to answer it. Because he knew it now. He really wanted to answer you now.

It was ironic, to say the least. The moment he finally called it love, you were already calling it the end.

Jay - 3am

“I just saw a red flag. Gonna pretend I didn’t see that Cuz is it really really that bad? I need you really really that bad”

Was it really that bad?

Jay knew you both weren't perfect. Gosh, it couldn't be further from that. Still, he would've never imagined it was that bad.

I mean, even with all the arguments and incompatibilities, you still laughed around him. You still called him whenever something went wrong. You still confided in him when you felt like crying. It was always him. He was the one who was always with you.

He is still a bit in shock. He was aware that you deserved more than him, or at least more than he could offer you at the moment. But it's 3 am and Jay is wondering if he was able to do more. He would never be an angel, but he could've at least tried.

Apparently you were put through hell because of him. And maybe your friends had warned you a bit too much about your relationship. Your mother not liking him wasn't because she was hard to please. The entire world rolled their eyes to your relationship but he thought it was okay.

It wasn't. It most definitely wasn't. You both just dated for that long because you desperately wanted it to be him. You wanted him to be the one. The things love makes you do are never simply explained. And they are never easily seen. Maybe that's why he took so long to understand it.

He wished he had been a little more attentive back then. You both ignored the problems for the sake of the relationship. Had it been slightly different and maybe your mother would've liked him in the end.

Jake - not the same

“We had light on our side, but you messed up and you know that I’m right. I don't know who you're kidding babe, you’re not the same”

Well, Jake can't say he hasn't been warned. He made Heeseung listen to your album first in case it wasn't a good idea for him to listen to the break up songs.

"Did they say anything bad about me?"

"Not bad, no" the older boy replied "but I don't think you'd want to listen to it."

But of course Jake had to just ignore it and play the album anyways. In his defence, he missed your voice. Even if you were going to criticise his entire existence, at least he would hear you.

But Heeseung was right, he shouldn't have listened to the album. And you were right as well, it was all Jake's fault in the end.

He had absolutely everything. He had time, still didn't call you. He had sunny days but didn't take you on dates. He had you. God, he had you out of everything and he still managed to waste it.

Maybe it was work. Perhaps his mindset for the job wasn't as good as he thought it was. He had told you that nothing had changed but you replied quite a few times that it wasn't the same. And it wasn't indeed. He messed up. You warned him. And of course, you were right.

You were always right.

It didn't feel fair though. He's the one who screwed things up, he should feel lucky you didn't mention his name in the song and dragged him down. He would've deserved it. You were too nice even in your break up song. But he was still feeling a bit wronged.

"Did letting me down get too tiring?" Is what you asked. That wasn't right. He hates himself for making you feel like you were anything like a burden, that he got exhausted into the relationship. He loved you for every bit of what lasted. He didn't want it to end. He wasn't tired in the slightest.

He didn't deserve you and he didn't know who he was trying to convince, but he didn't want you to doubt that he loved you.

Oh he wished he could go back in time. He would go back to a place where things were still great, still the same.

Sunghoon - too bad for us

“I guess that love does what it wants and that’s just too bad for us”

Sunghoon liked to think your break up was friendly. It just didn't work out. Things like that happen in the industry a lot; love wasn't simply enough.

But that was play pretend. He knew it wasn't true. Your break up was civil, yes, but it wasn't friendly. Not at all,because if it was, it wouldn't hurt that much. The way his heart aches for you even now is not very friendly.

But what happened between the two was just out of reach. You both were mature enough to admit that the beautiful castle you both created for your love just cracked down. Now it's just an ugly, devastated place. And that's too bad.

He really, truly wanted to believe it. It is what it is. He is not that big, he cannot control destiny or feelings. He was just a human who was living by, so were you. He had to just accept it and move on. Pretend it was friendly. Put a smile on his face and support you as a coworker.

But here he was falling for you all over again. This time was different though, considering he knew the feeling. He knew how good it was to be cherished by you. What he doesn't know is how he is supposed to just live without it.

"The music is not as good when you're alone." You were right. When he was just by himself, accompanied by the memories, the songs were just a painful reminder that life with you was a melody. Now it's just empty.

Maybe he should keep it friendly. Love died, or at least it was supposed to. Keep it that way.

He couldn't.

"Congratulations on the album, it sounds amazing" is what he said in the message he sent you "I hadn't realised how bad I missed your voice."

Sunoo - stay a little longer

“Please won’t you stay, stay a little longer babe. Don’t walk away, when I’m here calling your name”

Sunoo made the mistake of walking away from your life, and now he was one step away from making the mistake of calling you at midnight.

Your solo album had just been released and he had promised he wouldn't see it. He knew you were a songwriter, he knew he was gonna be the subject of at least one song. But he thought he was gonna be cussed at. He never expected one of the songs to be named "stay a little longer". Now he just had to know what it was about.

Honestly, he kinda would've preferred if you had badmouthed him. If you said he was a horrible person, an idiot, a waste of your time, he would've just accepted it. But you said you missed him. You asked him to stay. You asked him to not walk away.

He thought you were going to be okay, but he doesn't think he ever saw you this vulnerable. This fragile.

"Make a mistake so there's someone to blame." That's what you were singing about. With your song on repeat, he was truly pondering if he should make one last mistake.

Just one call when he shouldn't. Just one more mistake and maybe you would come back.

Jungwon - two years

“It's been two years and you're still not gone. Doesn't make sense that I can't move on. I try but this love never dies”

He never thought he would feel hope when listening to you singing about the break up, but here he is.

He shouldn't feel like this. It's been two years since you last loved each other. By now, the feelings were supposed to be dead. But he couldn't let go of the thought of you. Every time he saw your group in some headline, or when you had to share a stage, or when he allegedly stalked your insta account. Two years weren't enough for him to heal.

He was glad, in lack of better wording, that you felt the same.

You were singing about him. Two years later and you were singing about him, your story with him. That brought him a hope that wasn't supposed to be there. The pain in your voice was enough to crack his heart entirely. However, you said it yourself. "I can't move on." He was clinging to that line like it was his lifeline.

"This love never dies." Your words, not his. He wasn't making it up on his head. You felt the same.

The more he listened to the song the more he had to hide his smile. He felt terrible for smiling through such a sad song, but he couldn't stop thinking about all the possibilities of you still loving him.

You said you couldn't let go of him. Well, maybe you didn't have to. He was willing to make you see this.

Niki - number one girl

"so what's gonna take for you to want me? I'd give it all up if you told me that I'd be the number one girl in your eyes"

Niki couldn't help but feel like the most stupid guy on earth right now.

Looking back on your entire relationship, he couldn't understand how he was so clueless all the time. It was crystal clear. Listening to your song, he sees it now: he only lost you because he wasn't even there to look at you to begin with.

You were feeling lonely. And you tried so hard to make him see you even though he never did. You just wanted him to be with you, take care of you, compliment you. It wasn't much. You were only asking for love.

And Niki wasn't able to give it to you.

"Tell me that you need me" he needed you. He needed you before and he needs you now. He should've said it.

"Tell me that I'm loved" you are so damn loved that he didn't even comprehend the proportions of his feelings for you. He should've said it.

"Tell me that I'm worth it and I'm enough" you were. You were so much more than just enough. He saw every good and great thing that this world could offer and still you were the closest one to perfection. He should've said it.

In the end, he should've said thousands of things but dared to say none. You thought he didn't want you and he couldn't even blame you. The pain in your voice while you sang was enough to show how you were dying to hear any good thing that came out of his mouth, still he didn't notice back then. He was too late.

He wished you knew you were always and still are the number one in his eyes. But for you to know that, he should've said it first.

Masterlist I you'll probably like: songs they've written for you

Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!

Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @greentulip @firstclassjaylee

Dividers by @cafekitsune | images 1, 2 and 3