#i feel like i’m bleeding out. i can’t do this

[papayainsectorone]

You wanna help me stretch?

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inspired by this post @f1kenny121

summary: summer break is nearly over and training is starting again

content: 18+ !! nsfw, smut, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial, praise, slight power play, soft dom!Lando, tears of pleasure, emotional intensity, explicit language, mutual desperation

word count: 4,1 k

pairing: lando norris x female!reader

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The late summer sun bleeds through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The house is too quiet. You’ve spent the whole day drifting from room to room, fingertips grazing along surfaces, pretending you weren’t just waiting for Lando to reappear.

Summer break is nearly over, and with the second half of the season looming, he's back to training—even if he hates every second of it. The workouts, the early mornings, the constant push to stay sharp—it’s not his favorite part. But he does it. Because he has to.

But now, standing in the doorway of the home gym, the silence pays off.

He doesn’t see you at first. He's seated on the workout bench, hunched slightly forward, three fingers gripped tightly in his other hand like he's stretching them out—or maybe nursing them. His brows are furrowed, mouth slack with focus. Sweat drips from his hairline down his neck, slicking his collarbones and tracing a line over the flex of his chest.

His thighs straddle the bench, solid and wide, every inch of him brimming with tension from disuse and the stubbornness to push through. You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s about to make a move, whether on track or in bed. This version of him, concentrated and messy, is your favorite.

You forget the words you meant to say. Something about a snack? Or that it’s too hot to be doing this? You can’t even clear your throat, let alone form a sentence. Your legs stay rooted to the floor. The air is thick. His skin glistens.

But it's not his skin that keeps you staring.

It’s his fingers.

The way they curl and flex as he stretches them, knuckles taut, tendons shifting beneath skin. He winces a little as he grips the middle three tighter, jaw ticking. You can’t tell if it’s pain or just pressure but it doesn’t matter. All you can think about is how those fingers would feel against your skin. Inside you. Around your throat. Holding you open.

Your mouth nearly waters.

You cross your legs, needing something—anything—to press against. It barely helps. You can feel your pulse between your thighs.

That’s when he notices you.

“I’m almost done, babe,” he says without much thought, voice low and casual. He glances down at his fingers, still working them slowly. The motion shouldn't feel intimate, but it does.

“Oh,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he’s suddenly aware of what exactly you're staring at. His thumb strokes along the length of his middle finger, absentminded but devastating.

Your brain stutters back to life, though your voice is breathy when it comes out.

“Ma-maybe I’ll join you.”

His eyes flick up, wide, and for a second it’s like he stops breathing altogether. You take a step forward. Then another. You don’t break his gaze, even as it darkens with something heavier.

He drops his hand to his thigh, still spread wide around the bench, and watches you approach.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rougher now. “You wanna help me stretch?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you say, voice light, almost innocent. “I think I would take a stretch.”

You hold his gaze, letting it drop ever so slowly—down his chest, to the gleam of sweat on his abdomen, and finally to where his fingers still rest against his thigh. His lips twitch at the corner, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

You step over the bench and straddle it, knees brushing against his. The closeness makes your breath hitch, the warmth of his skin radiating straight into yours.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs.

“I could be.”

You both glance down at the same time—at his hand. His long, slick fingers. He flexes them again, slower now, deliberately. The movement makes your mouth part on instinct.

“Can’t stop staring,” he says, voice soft and dangerous. “Bet you’ve been thinking about them all day, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The way you shift in place, grinding subtly into the bench for friction, says it for you.

“Tell me,” he leans forward just slightly, voice just for you now, “what exactly do you want them to do, hmm?”

Your breath shudders. He lifts his hand and brings it to your knee—doesn’t even grip, just rests it there—and your whole body tenses.

“I—” Your eyes flick to his hand. “I don’t know.”

He grins. “You do know. Don´t be shy about it now.”

Then, without warning, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open.”

You do. Obedient. Eager.

He slips two in, slowly, and you close your lips around them like you’ve been craving the taste. He groans low and under his breath but you catch it. You swirl your tongue around them, watching his eyes darken, his pupils blown wide as your mouth works him.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You moan around them soft, needy and the sound makes his jaw clench. His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your knee.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked already, aren’t you?”

You nod, still sucking, your thighs clenching around the bench. He slowly pulls his fingers out, the sound slick and sinful.

“I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he says. “And you’re already falling apart.”

You lean in closer, desperate for more, but he just smirks.

“Patience,” he murmurs. “We’re just getting started.”

The air between you crackles, thick and heavy. His fingers are still glistening from your mouth when he slowly drops them to the bench, dragging them along the edge just beside your thigh—close enough to make you flinch, but not touch.

“I could make you come,” he says, almost conversational, “without ever fucking you.”

Your thighs twitch.

“Just these fingers,” he continues, lifting them again, letting you watch every lazy curl and flex. “Two inside, more if you’re greedy. Curl them just right. Thumb on your clit. I wouldn’t even need to move much, you’d do all the work for me.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry again despite what just happened. You’re starting to breathe through your thighs, desperate for pressure. For anything.

“Poor baby,” he hums. “Already squirming. And I haven’t even touched you there yet.”

He reaches forward now, finally, hooking his hands under your thighs and tugging—slow, strong—until you're sliding forward, legs falling wider around his knees, straddling him open and shameless. The bench presses hard beneath you. The only thing grounding you.

You grip the sides of it to keep yourself upright, arching slightly back as he leans in, his face still maddeningly calm. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Such a good view like this,” he mutters, tugging at the hem of your shorts. “Look at you.”

You make a soft, breathless sound—half protest, half plea—but you lift your hips, let him peel the shorts down, and when he does, he curses.

“Fuck.”

His thumb brushes just barely over the soaked fabric of your underwear. He groans again, dragging the edge aside for a peek.

“Oh, baby… it’s so easy. I knew you were already this wet.”

The sound you make isn't even a moan—more like a gasp, a choke of arousal and embarrassment all in one.

He smiles, slow and sharp.

“You love it when I talk like this, don’t you?”

You nod, breath hitching again as he lifts one hand—that hand—and brings his thumb back to your mouth.

“Open.”

You part your lips again, greedier this time. He slides in with purpose now, pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth full while his other hand starts to move—slow, torturous circles against the inside of your thigh.

Not quite where you need him. Not yet.

You moan around his thumb, hips shifting involuntarily, trying to chase friction.

“Not yet,” he says, voice thick with control. “I’ll tell you when.”

And the worst part?

You want him to.

Your breath catches as his thumb presses down harder on your tongue. He watches the way your lips part, the way your jaw slackens around it, like he could read every desperate little thought spilling through your mind just by the way you take his touch.

“Bet you taste as good here,” he mutters, half to himself, then drags his thumb out, wet and glistening.

His other hand trails up—finally, finally—over the inside of your thigh. You feel the brush of his knuckles first, then the slight dip of his wrist as he moves in.

And then contact.

One slow stroke through your folds, slick and unbearably sensitive. You jolt at the first touch, head tipping back slightly, a broken sound slipping from your throat.

He groans softly. “Fuck, you’re dripping.”

You nod, barely breathing, back arching even further, hands gripping the bench behind you so tightly your knuckles go white.

He teases again just one finger, lazy and slow, tracing circles around your entrance without dipping in.

“You want it?” he asks, voice low and smug.

“Y-yes,” you pant. “Please.”

He hums like he’s considering it—like he hasn’t already decided what he’s going to do.

Then, slowly, he slides one finger in.

Your body clenches around it instantly, a shiver running through you at the stretch of it, even if it’s just one. His hand stills inside you, and your hips buck forward instinctively.

But he doesn’t move.

“Feel that?” he asks, leaning in close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Just one, and you’re already so tight.”

You whimper, trying to move your hips again, but his free hand comes down on your thigh—firm, steadying.

“No, baby,” he whispers. “You stay still. You let me have you like this.”

Then, torturously slow, he starts to move that finger—curling it up, dragging it out, then back in. Unhurried. Deep. Precise.

You’re already shaking.

He adds a second, and you cry out, hips rocking despite his grip. He doesn't stop you this time—he lets you ride his hand for a moment, lets you get just enough friction to start climbing toward that dizzying edge.

Then he stops.

Completely.

You gasp, body tense and twitching, your walls fluttering around nothing.

“Lando—please—”

“Not yet,” he says again, with a cruel smile. “You don’t get to come just because you want to.”

You groan, your head falling forward, forehead brushing against his shoulder. You're panting now, every muscle strung tight.

He leans in, kisses your cheek so softly it makes you ache.

“I’ll give you what you need,” he murmurs. “But not until you beg for it. Not until you’re so fucking desperate you can’t say anything else.”

Then—two fingers again—thrusting deep, curling hard into the spot that makes your vision blur.

But just as you start to unravel—

He pulls away.

“Please,” you whisper—voice cracking, small. “Lando, please, I need— I need to—”

He watches you fall apart on the edge of the sentence. Your chest rising and falling, thighs trembling around him, hips twitching as if your body’s trying to finish what he keeps denying.

“Need to what?” he asks, softly cruel. His fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, just there—reminding you who’s in control.

You shake your head, helpless. “Please. Let me come. I can’t— I need it.”

A long pause.

Then he shifts. His other arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you forward until you’re straddling his thighs completely, chest to chest. You clutch at his shoulders for balance, breath fanning across his neck.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ve been good.”

And then he moves.

His fingers curl up inside you again, that perfect rhythm returning like he never stopped. Deep and precise. Every stroke sends a sharp, blinding jolt through you. His palm presses against your clit now, every motion designed to undo you.

It doesn’t take long.

You’re already so close, your body trembling with the force of it, moaning shamelessly into his neck. Your hips grind down against his hand, chasing it, needing it.

And when you finally come, it rips through you like a wave—loud and messy, your body jerking, thighs clenching around his. He holds you through it, arm firm around your waist, keeping you grounded while you writhe and cry out against him.

But he doesn’t stop.

His fingers stay inside. His thumb keeps circling. You flinch from the sensitivity, but he just shushes you, his voice all dark velvet now.

“Shh… I know, I know. But you can take it.”

You barely have time to process it before he starts moving again—deeper now, slower but relentless.

You squirm in his lap, trying to lift your hips, but his arm around your back tightens.

“Oh no, baby. Not done yet.”

You’re breathing in gasps now, mind foggy with overstimulation. His fingers drag over that same spot again, and your whole body jerks.

“You think you can take one more?” he asks, voice low and thick.

You don’t know what he means—another orgasm? Another finger?

But it doesn’t matter. You nod, frantic, clinging to him.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Open up for me.”

And then—a third finger presses against your entrance, joining the others slowly, stretching you further than before. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, head tipping back.

You’re full. Too full.

And still—you want more.

The third finger slides in slow—but it still punches the air right out of your lungs.

The stretch is too much. Too good. You collapse against him without even thinking, your body folding forward as your arms scramble to hold on to something—his shoulders, his chest, his neck. Anything to stop you from tipping over completely.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal, the barest rasp curling around the word. “You feel that, baby?”

You nod barely, a choked sound falling from your lips that doesn’t resemble a word at all. Just a noise, raw and wrecked.

It goes straight through him.

Your head rests on his shoulder now, lips parted against his skin, and you're making sounds that have no place in the daylight. Unholy sounds—wet and breathy and trembling—moans that spill right into his ear, sending visible shudders down his spine.

He breathes out a curse and tightens his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him.

And then his thumb moves again.

A soft, slow drag over your clit, slick and maddening. Your whole body jerks, thighs twitching violently, but there’s nowhere to go—his hand between your legs, his body caging you in.

You try to close your thighs, instinctively trying to shield yourself from how much it is, but you can’t. Not with him there—his hips wide between yours, thighs bracketing you in place.

“Lando—fuck—Lando, I—” It’s barely a whisper, more like a sob.

You clutch at your own thighs now, hands fisting in your own skin, trying to ground yourself, to hold something through the crushing intensity—but nothing helps. Not when his fingers keep moving, deep and deliberate inside you, his thumb unrelenting.

You’re already there again. It crashes into you like your whole body is detonating from the inside out.

You go still—then trembling—hips stuttering, breath gone completely.

All you can do is whimper, face buried in his shoulder, thighs shaking around him, as your body clenches around his fingers and the high keeps going.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice right in your ear. “So fucking good. God, listen to you. Can’t even talk.”

You shake your head, still trying to breathe. Still feeling it. Still full.

And he hasn’t stopped.

You don’t even realize when he slips his fingers out—when that delicious, punishing stretch is suddenly gone. All you know is the cold shock of emptiness, and the warm, slow tease of him dragging his fingers through your folds instead. Light. Feather-soft. Too soft.

Your whole body twitches, hips trying to follow the sensation, to sink back onto him again—but there’s nothing to sink onto.

“Lando,” you gasp—voice barely there. Just air and heat.

You’re fully collapsed against him now, skin flushed and damp, face buried in his neck, breath stuttering against his pulse. Wrecked. Unraveled. His other hand strokes idly over your lower back, holding you there like you belong.

And those fingers—those fingers—are tormenting you.

They circle the rim of your entrance, slow and teasing, never pressing in. Just tracing, dragging through slick, rubbing softly through folds that are aching, twitching with the aftershocks of your last orgasm and the rising threat of the next.

You let out a broken, pleading noise that you can’t even name. Your whole body trembles against his.

He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, and it’s maddening gentle and cruel all at once.

Your only response is a shiver, a whimper that sounds like yes. He chuckles low in his throat, and you feel it vibrate against your skin.

“I think it is,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along the side of your neck. “Look at you. Completely gone. Just because of my fingers.”

And then he kisses you there lazy kisses, open-mouthed and slow, just under your jaw, the kind that make your head spin all over again.

“You love being like this, don’t you?” Another kiss, this time higher, nearer to your ear. “Pressed against me, soaking my lap, crying for it.”

He dips his fingers again—just once, shallow, before pulling back and brushing over your clit once and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted, whimpering into his neck.

“Mm, yeah,” he groans softly, biting your shoulder. “You’ll beg for it again in a minute, won’t you?”

You nod, desperate. Wordless.

And still—he waits.

“Lando, it’s too much, I— I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking at the edges, more breath than sound.

“I know,” he murmurs.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He shifts with you like it’s easy, like he’s carried you this way a hundred times. One arm stays locked around your waist, guiding you as he lays you back gently on the narrow bench, body following yours. You're still clutching him, thighs spread and shaking, hips twitching at every brush of air.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, hovering over you, face barely an inch away. “Say the word.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re too far gone, trembling under the weight of his body and the ache of his absence where you need him most.

He smiles—not smug, but soft. Like he knows every part of you now.

His lips press to yours. A gentle kiss, slow and unhurried, like you're not already soaking his lap and half-crying from how badly you need him. He kisses down your neck, tongue trailing, teeth grazing, then nibbles at the curve of your ear.

You gasp again, another moan escaping you, your body arching into his even without thinking.

Only then does he finally pull his hand up from between your legs, fingers soaked, dripping, glistening in the low light. He stares at them for a beat, breath catching.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Look what you did.”

You can only watch him wide-eyed, panting, almost pleading.

Then he brings those fingers to his mouth.

And sucks them clean.

Slowly. One at a time. Licking each digit like he’s tasting dessert, groaning low in his throat. His tongue flicks at the base of his knuckles, and your thighs twitch again.

You’re dizzy watching him.

And when he’s done, he looks at you again eyes smoldering now, like he's barely holding himself together.

He reaches down, trailing his wet fingers across your lips.

“Open,” he whispers.

You do.

And he slips them in.

You suck greedily, tongue swirling around them, and it’s him who moans now deep and ragged, his hips dropping hard against yours, finally chasing friction.

The contact shocks a gasp from you both.

You feel it—him—hard and heavy through his shorts, grinding slowly into your soaked heat. The thin barrier does nothing. You feel every movement, every flex of his hips as he lets himself finally take what he needs.

“God, you feel that?” he growls, pulling his fingers from your mouth, dragging them down your chest as he ruts against you. “I’ve been holding back all fucking day.”

His forehead drops to yours, breathing hard.

You’re already so open to him, thighs still twitching, lips parted around the breath you can't catch—so when he finally shifts, tugging his shorts down just enough to free himself, it feels like the world holds its breath.

You certainly do.

And then he presses in.

There’s no warning. No teasing. Just one slow, thick glide of his cock between your folds, catching at your entrance��already so soaked, so ready for him—and then he pushes, hips firm and steady.

You gasp, legs falling wider as he sinks into you inch by inch.

He fills you so deeply it makes your back arch right off the bench, your nails digging into his arms, eyes fluttering shut with a choked moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “So tight—always so tight for me.”

He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, not moving—just feeling. Letting the stretch and fullness overwhelm you both. You shudder beneath him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Then he pulls back. Slowly. Until just the tip is left inside.

And thrusts in again deep, deliberate, like he’s staking a claim.

You cry out, head rolling to the side, breath catching.

He finds his rhythm like it’s instinct—slow, firm strokes that rock your body against the bench, controlled but possessive. Every thrust feels like a promise. Like he wants to imprint himself inside you.

“This what you needed?” he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, one hand sliding up to cup your face as he drives into you again. “Needed me to fuck you like this slow and deep, where no one else can ever reach?”

You nod, whimpering, gripping at his back now, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

His forehead presses to yours, lips brushing yours between kisses and curses and panting breaths.

He groans again, slower now, hips dragging all the way out only to slam back in, grinding against your pelvis, his cock hitting every sensitive spot with devastating precision.

“Feel so good,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect like this, spread out for me, taking it all.”

You moan louder, hands tangled in his curls now, body arching into his, chasing every drag and press of his cock like it’s the only thing that matters.

His hand slides down to your thigh, pulling your leg higher around his waist so he can sink even deeper if that was possible. The change in angle rips a cry from your throat.

He groans again, deep and low, like it’s killing him to hold back. But he does. For you.

You don’t know when the tears start.

It’s not from pain—never from that. It’s the pressure, the fullness, the way his cock keeps hitting that spot so deep inside you it turns pleasure into something unbearable, almost too much to hold.

You blink, and they fall—slow trails down your temples as you lie back on the bench, your body trembling, shuddering beneath him. His thrusts haven’t sped up still slow, still deep but they’ve gotten heavier, more deliberate, like every single one is meant to stay with you.

He sees it the second your lip quivers.

“Baby,” he breathes, the word catching in his throat.

He leans in immediately, brushing kisses to your cheeks, catching the tears with his lips as his hand comes up to cradle your face.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re okay. I promise. You’re doing so good for me.”

His voice—low, warm, soothing—makes your chest tighten in a different way, something emotional blooming beneath the tension coiling in your gut.

You’re close again. You can feel it. Your body’s trying to run from it, hips twitching, legs shaking, but there’s nowhere to go not when he’s pressed so deep inside you, holding you so gently even while he fucks you open.

“I know it’s a lot,” he murmurs, kissing your lips now, slow and careful. “You’re so full, huh? So fucking wet, clenching around me like you can’t help it.”

You cry out at that, sobbing into his mouth, your nails digging into his back again as your body tries to contain it this aching pressure, this need to fall apart one more time.

“I’ve got you,” he says again. “Let it go. Let me feel you.”

He shifts just slightly just enough and suddenly that perfect, devastating drag of his cock has you gasping, clenching around him so hard it’s instinct, involuntary.

“Oh my—Lando—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice tight and trembling now, his own control slipping as your body contracts around him. “Fuck, baby—God, you’re milking me—”

It tips you over like a wave crashing into shore. Your orgasm rushes up through your spine, curling you forward into his chest as your thighs shake violently around his hips. Your whole body tenses, then breaks sobbing, gasping, your cries muffled against his neck.

And that’s all it takes.

He groans a sound so raw and desperate it vibrates against your heart and his hips slam forward one final time, grinding into you as he comes, thick and hot and deep, filling you completely.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—oh, shit,” he pants, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

His whole body shudders above you, and he collapses into your chest, still inside you, holding you like you might disappear.

You're both breathing hard now, tangled together, soaking and shaking and quiet.

He kisses you again. Your cheek, your temple, your lips. Each one soft, reverent.

“You okay?” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse.

“I love you like this,” he says, breath still uneven. “Fucking ruined and mine.”

You're both still trembling, bodies sticky and flushed, tangled together on the narrow bench like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

His breathing slows against your skin. One arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, anchoring you, the other hand tangled in your hair as he presses slow kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

You smile—barely, weakly—still catching your breath. Your legs feel like they’ve melted.

And then, voice low and wrecked but laced with a tease, you whisper against his neck:

“Thanks for the stretch.”

He freezes for a second—then laughs. That warm, wrecked kind of laugh, breathless and totally undone.

“Jesus,” he groans into your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

[snottyped]

Hi! Could you do a story about an incubus coming home after a fight, tired and hungry, and he turns to his roommate or friend for help?

You asked for longer story ideas so if you want that you could start it earlier, show both the sexual tension between characters and his growing stress, and also have some comfort with pov patching up his injuries from the fight.

I would prefer gender/sex neutral reader but whatever you want is fine! I also specifically like when it's just, a world with demons and humans casually, and it's not a whole Thing.

For the sex I think emphasizing the hunger would be really hot. Rough, possessive, pushing the bottom to come again and again...

I know this is a lot, ofc take your liberties, thank you very much!

- @zeal-kitten 🩷

console me

incubus x gn!reader nsfw

The door slams open with a heavy thud. The apartment is barely illuminated by the soft, amber glow of the streetlights outside. A gust of cool air carries the faint scent of fresh rain, but it’s soon replaced by the unmistakable scent of blood, sweat, and frustration.

Dren stumbles inside, breathing heavy, his leather jacket torn in places, his dark eyes wild and burning with unspent rage. His jaw is clenched tight, and his fists are bloody, knuckles swollen from the fight he’d barely managed to escape.

You’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you hear him.

You don’t even need to look up to know it’s him—his energy is electric, charged with the kind of raw intensity that always makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you can’t help the small jolt of concern that shoots through you when you finally glance up and see him.

“Shit,” you mutter, pushing yourself up from the couch. “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze sweeps over you, his eyes dark with something dangerous and primal. It takes a moment for his anger to shift into something else—a different kind of hunger, one that makes your pulse spike in response. His lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I lost,” he growls, his voice rough, like sandpaper. “But I’m not here for a lecture.”

Your stomach churns with unease. He’s clearly exhausted.

You approach him cautiously, eyes scanning over his injuries. His shirt is ripped in places, revealing deep, red scratches along his chest, bruises already forming on his neck and arms. Blood drips from his knuckles, and there’s a faint tremble in his posture that he tries to hide.

“Let me help you,” you say softly, your hands instinctively reaching for him.

His lips curl into something darker, predatory. “You want to help me?” His voice drops lower, becoming something almost coaxing. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Please,” you say, voice almost a whisper. “Just let me clean you up. You’re bleeding.”

The incubus lets out a soft chuckle, a low, almost bitter sound. “You’re too kind,”

he murmurs, letting you gently pull him toward the couch. His body feels cold under your touch, as if his wounds have drained more than just his physical strength. You sit him down, kneeling beside him as you carefully start to inspect the cuts and bruises on his chest.

You’re focused, trying to distract yourself from the way your heart races and the strange pull you feel in your veins. He doesn’t make it easy, though, his scent filling the air, a heady mix of dark spice and something darker. Something dangerous. You can feel his presence pressing down on you, almost like he’s consuming the space around you.

You keep your hands steady, though, carefully wiping away the blood with a cloth, tending to each injury. But there’s something unsettling in the way he watches you—his gaze is fixed on you, hungry and intense, his breath shallow. As you work, you feel a sharp tug of desire snake through your veins. You try to ignore it, focusing on his injuries, but it’s hard when he’s so close, his body radiating an unnatural heat.

“I’m fine,” he finally murmurs after a long, heavy silence. “I’ve had worse.”

You don’t respond, though. You can’t. There’s something in his voice that’s off. His confidence is slipping, his usual arrogance replaced with a desperate hunger. You glance up at him, your fingers still gently tending to his wounds, and you catch the way his eyes flicker between your face and your hands.

“Dren,” you breathe, reaching for him.

“Don’t.” His voice is low, ragged. “Don’t touch me unless you mean it.”

You freeze. That tone—it’s not a warning. It’s desperation in a thin disguise. His pupils are blown wide, almost swallowing the faint red ring of his irises. There’s a tremble in his fingers. Not fear. Need.

“I don’t need patching. I need to fuck.”

Your breath catches.

You’ve lived with Dren long enough to know his kind doesn’t “just” have sex. For an incubus, it’s survival. Sustenance. But he’s never come to you for that. Always respectful, always distant in that maddening way. The tension between you a slow-burning thing, drawn tight over shared meals and sleepless nights, banter edged with something hungrier beneath. You’ve seen him bring others home, watched with a jealousy you didn’t dare name.

But now he’s looking at you like he’ll starve if you say no.

You don’t.

“I’m not a snack,” you say, steady, stepping forward. “If you’re going to take from me, you do it right.”

That’s all he needs.

He’s on you in a blink—pinned against the wall, mouth crushing yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. The taste of blood, salt and heat, fills your mouth. His hands are everywhere—desperate, greedy, trembling with restraint and breaking past it all the same.

You gasp into him, and he swallows it whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls into your neck. “Say it now.”

Instead, you slide your hands under his ruined shirt, feel the ridges of muscle beneath torn flesh. “I said do it right,” you whisper. “Feed.”

He groans like it hurts.

When he lifts you, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. He carries you through the apartment like nothing weighs him down. Not your body, not the exhaustion, not the gnawing ache burning through him like wildfire. He needs. That’s all there is.

The bedroom door slams. You land on the bed with a bounce and a gasp—he's already on you, ripping away clothes like they offend him, like they keep him from what he craves.

"You don't know what you're offering," he pants, dragging his mouth down your throat. "It's not just sex, not for me. It's you. It's coming until you can't remember your name. It's needing more even when you're begging me to stop."

"Good," you whisper, already aching.

He freezes.

And then he growls—low, hungry, dark as thunder. “Fuck. You’ll break me.”

The first time he thrusts into you, it’s rough—desperate, unrelenting. You cry out, body arching into his, every nerve alight. He moves like he’s starved, like he’s been holding back forever and the dam has finally burst. You can feel him feeding—not just the way his cock pulses inside you, but how your pleasure floods into him, recharging every part of him. He groans against your skin like your moans are better than food, better than air.

“You’re so fucking good,” he snarls. “So full of light, and it’s all mine.”

He’s not gentle. Not tonight. He fucks you through the mattress, hands fisting in the sheets, mouth everywhere—biting, kissing, tasting. Every time you start to fall, he drags you back, forces you over again. Again. Again.

“Dren—” You’re not sure if it’s a plea or praise.

“Don’t stop. Give it to me. All of it.”

Your body burns, stretched too tight, nerves sparking until you don’t even know if you’re crying or laughing or begging. He takes everything, and still you offer more.

By the fourth climax, your voice is gone. By the fifth, you’re only sobbing into his chest, trembling in his arms. He holds you close now, rocking into you slower, gentler—but still deep, still needy.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice cracking with something close to awe.

You nod, unable to speak.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheeks, your mouth—soft now, reverent. “You’re unbelievable. You didn’t just feed me, you healed me.”

You glance down at his chest. The wounds are closing already. Your body still aches, but his power wraps around you now—soothing, warm, sated.

And finally, finally, he collapses beside you, pulling you into the crook of his arm, holding you like a treasure.

“…Don’t think this changes anything,” you murmur sleepily.

He chuckles, low and wrecked. “It changes everything.”

And for once, you let it.

You wake with his hand curled around your thigh.

The room is dim, the sheets tangled. Your body hums with soreness in the best way. He hasn’t moved far—still there, still wrapped around you like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real. His breath is warm against your neck. But beneath the calm, you can feel it again.

His hunger. Not the starving edge from before.

This is something else.

“You’re not done,” you murmur without opening your eyes.

“No,” he whispers, voice like gravel soaked in honey. “But I’m going to take my time this time.”

You open your eyes to find him watching you—his gaze softened but still blazing. Not the same frantic need. This is devotion. Worship. Obsession.

“I should let you rest,” he says, brushing your hair back. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you looked when you came for me. How you gave yourself so easily. I can’t—” He swallows hard. “I’ve never had anyone like you.”

You reach up, touch his jaw. “Then don’t be careful.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you like a man drowning—pressing you into the mattress with the weight of his body, his need. But there’s reverence now in the way he touches you. Still rough—his fingers dig into your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—but he slows down just enough to see you. Every arch of your back, every gasp, every plea.

When he pushes inside again, it’s deep. Slow. A grind that makes your toes curl, his forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling.

“I want to own this,” he groans. “Want to make you feel so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

“You already have,” you whisper, rocking up to meet him.

He growls low in his throat and starts to move faster. The pace builds again—rough, bruising, his mouth all over your skin, marking you with teeth and tongue and whispered filth.

“So perfect,” he pants. “So fucking mine.”

You cry out as he rolls you over, dragging your hips back. He takes you from behind this time, one hand gripping your throat, the other sneaking down between your thighs.

“Come for me again,” he commands, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I want to feel it. Want to drink you down.”

You’re already right there, everything too much and not enough.

When you come, it’s like fire—tight and sharp, clenching around him. He curses and pounds into you harder, chasing his own release, but never once letting you fall away from his grasp.

When he follows you over the edge, it’s with your name on his lips—gasped, broken, raw. Not just sex. Not just hunger.

Worship.

Later, he holds you in the aftermath, arms wrapped tight like he’s trying to anchor himself. You run your fingers over his skin, over faint scars and healing wounds.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

His eyes are closed, but there’s a faint smile on his lips. “I’ve never been fed like this. Not just flesh. You gave me... everything.”

You trace circles on his chest. “You can have it. Just don’t break me.”

He opens his eyes—glowing faintly in the dark.

“Never.”

And when he kisses you again—slow, deep, gentle—it’s not about hunger at all.

It’s about you.

[rhaeverie]

No Pain, No Gain — ljn

pairing. gym-rat!jeno x aider!reader genre. fluff, (kinda)friends-to-lovers, a dash of hurt/comfort, slice-of-life wc. 4.3k summary. Jeno’s well aware that he looks like an idiot in front of you, but what else could he do when just the sight of you makes him feel like a kid with a schoolboy crush?; or in which, Jeno’s been coming to your office with the tiniest of scratches just so he has an excuse to see you warnings. mentions of minor injuries (fake & real) and some bleeding (nothing super detailed but it’s still there), I sorta wrote this as if it were like a sitcom, cliche scenario an. clearing my wips! yet another fic set in the most random place u can possibly think of and it’s bc I (unhealthily) romanticize everything (×-×)—I started writing this during my gym rat (mouse?) era in 2023 but never finished it til now oops dk if its any good,,, enjoy!!

“I can’t move my thumb.”

You use your finger to smooth down the sports tape over its first layer, gently grabbing the younger boy’s wrist to inspect your work, “That’s the point, Chenle.” 

“How am I supposed to play basketball with this,” Chenle pouts, bringing his taped thumb and wrist to show you as if you weren’t the one who just did it. His posture grows worse at the realization of his small injury and now he’s slumped on the bed. 

You sigh and repeat yourself, “That’s the point. You need to rest it or else you can get an injury worse than this. I recommend maybe a week? But I’m not a doctor.” 

You start cleaning your station up, fully expecting Chenle to understand and leave. But instead, he remains seated on the medical table, pouting. You know he’s trying to get you to change your mind, but seeing that he reported his wrist feeling tight and stiff, you know that it’s sprained and playing with it could make things worse.

“Chenle, I’m being serious,” you groan, “You need to rest it or you can’t play basketball for the rest of your life.” You were obviously exaggerating, raising your brows for even more emphasis. If he won’t listen to you by simply telling him, you might as well scare him into listening to you.

“Rest of my life?” He frowns, looking down at wrist, “I… I guess a week doesn’t seem too long… Thanks Y/N.” 

You smile, relieved that he’s choosing to listen to your advice, “I’ll see you next week then?” 

He nods and gathers his duffel bag and his sweater, dragging himself out the door of the first aid room. 

You turn away from the door, ready to busy yourself with some housekeeping items when you hear a knock at the door. It’s quiet, and you almost think that you were imagining the sound, but when you turn to face the door, you’re met with the vibrant gaze of Lee Jeno, accompanied by a sheepish smile. 

Ah… Lee  Jeno—of course.

“Almost thought you weren’t going to show up today,” you joke, “What happened now?” 

To anyone unfamiliar with the two of you, it might come across as if you weren't exactly doing your job well, seemingly rushing through treatments even when faced with potentially serious injuries. However, the guy standing in the doorway right now has been delivering the most poorest excuses for injuries you've ever heard.

Sure, perhaps a couple of questionable 'injuries' wouldn't bother you much, because maybe the person was just overly cautious about their well-being. But when Jeno strolled into your office recently with the tiniest scratch on his left calf, you couldn't help but suspect that something was definitely up. 

“I need ice,” Jeno side-steps into your office and pulls the corners of his lips higher on his cheeks, “Please?” 

“Next time, just jog over to the nearby McDonald’s and get ice there,” you say jokingly. This was his nth time in the past month asking for ice. You wonder if he’s just been using it to put into his water or if this dude just has some kink involving ice. 

You only question Jeno’s recent tendency to visit your office because, ever since you started working at the gym, he's been a regular. Hell, his physique alone is proof to his long-standing commitment to the gym. It just doesn't add up that Jeno, with his apparent gym ‘seniority’, would be falling victim to injuries so frequently.

“Here you go,” you hand him a small, transparent bag that was partially filled with ice, “Anything else?” 

Jeno’s irises fall to the right corners of his eyes in brief thought, “More… ice?”

You groan to conceal your amusement and move closer to Jeno, “Goodbye, Jeno. See you again another day!” You gently place your hands to his elbows, spinning him around and out your door.  

“No, wait I—“

“See you!” You wave, leaving Jeno no choice but to actually take his leave. 

Your coworker Jaemin sees the interaction from the front counter, and seeing that there weren’t any gym goers coming into the facility, he waves you over. 

"Everything alright?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly from the computer screen to you.

You glance at his screen and notice a game of minesweeper unfolding. Suppressing a snicker, you retort, "Yeah, same reason as last week." Swiftly, you click on an empty tile on his minesweeper grid, revealing the mine locations.

“I’m trying to help you and you do this,” Jaemin clicks his tongue against his teeth and diverts back to the situation, “It’s not in a creepy way, is it?” 

You give yourself a moment to think everything through, “I’m not sensing anything weird or creepy with it, if I’m being honest. He’s going about it… in a cute way?” 

Jaemin lets out a hysteric laugh and it echoes throughout the gym, “A cute way?” 

"There's no other way to put it," you casually shrug. Leaning against the desk, you absentmindedly flip through the management binders laid out before you.

Jaemin's brows knit, his curiosity piqued. "Cute, how?"

“I don’t know.” You’re lying. You know damn well what you meant. 

Every time Jeno decides to pull one of his ‘stunts’, he’s at your door, eyes all glossy and resembling a hopeful puppy. And when you choose to pretend not to notice him, he doesn't hesitate to clear his throat (rather obnoxiously) or hum out a soft, "anyone home?" even though you're clearly rummaging in your cupboards for more supplies.

Jaemin reads right through your feigned innocence, eyes narrowing, “Sure you don’t.”

“Well, it’s not something I can explain,” you groan, “Just take my word for it.”

“Okay… cute… does that mean you’re enjoying all this?” Jaemin’s eyes wiggle your way and you’re glad that no one’s around to see or hear this. 

You scoff, “Enjoying what?” 

"Come on, Y/N. Let's not play naive," Jaemin smirks, "Jeno is practically inventing reasons to see you.” Jaemin pats your head like you would a child, which you dodge almost immediately, “Which is honestly disappointing. A guy like Jeno could probably think of something way better but he resorted to something so basic.” 

You glare at Jaemin, your annoyance evident, “I hate that you’re probably right.” Because what else could the reason be? Jeno couldn’t be that concerned for his well-being. And you distinctly recall questioning your other coworker, Xiaojun, about whether Jeno tends to show up frequently on your days off. His response? A shocking no.

“I always am,” Jaemin brushes non-existent dust off of his shoulder, “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” At times like these, you have the memory of a goldfish.

“If you were enjoying it,” Jaemin clarifies, "You did call it cute, and cute usually equals enjoyment."

There were a couple ways you could go about Jaemin’s question. Was he asking if you were reciprocating this attraction Jeno seemingly had for you? Or maybe he wanted to know if you found amusement in the ongoing situation?

Regardless, your cheeks betray you by warming at the question and the thought of your answer sliding off the tip of your tongue.

“I’d be lying if I said no.”

—

It’s no surprise when Jeno shows up to your office two days later with the same smile plastered on his face. 

He’s standing right outside of your office, waiting for you to welcome him in. When you do, he enters the room slowly, greeting you as he moves toward the medical bed situated at the far corner and away from the entrance. 

Jeno watches as you rake through a pile of disorganized supplies, “How are you?” You weren’t in search of anything specific, but you were trying to busy yourself now that Jeno was in the room with no clear purpose. 

“I'm all right," you reply casually, your voice calm. "You?” You quickly glance up at him and almost crumble to your knees. Today, Jeno is sporting a black muscle tee and grey sweatshorts, and though you've never really taken notice of his outfits before, you secretly (and shamefully) remind yourself to start doing so. 

“I’m okay,” Jeno hums, “I was wondering if I could get a heat pack?” 

You take a good look at him and narrow your eyes, “It doesn’t look like you need one.” But regardless, you make your way toward the heat packs sitting in a cupboard by the fridge. You simply wanted to hear what his reason was this time. 

“My quads are really stiff today,” Jeno replies, subtly gesturing to his legs, “I could barely get through leg day with them.” 

“Well, this should work,” you say. You pop the pack and wrap a towel around it, “There you go. See you!” 

“Can I stay here for a bit?” You don’t see the way Jeno pouts. You’re too busy making your way to your box full of miscellaneous things. He presses the pack against the upper side of his thigh, remaining seated on the bed, “I’ll leave when the heat pack is finished.” 

Jaemin’s voice echoes in your head, "Jeno is practically inventing reasons to see you.” And you can now see that it was painfully obvious. 

“Of course,” you say, “Take as long as you need.” 

You move on to organizing the supplies, trying your best not to mind the pair of eyes that were burning holes into the side of your head. 

“So…” Jeno starts, “How was your weekend?” 

“You don’t need to make small talk you know,” you say, pulling out three pairs of medical scissors, “You could take a nap or something.” With your back turned to him, you go to put the tools away, “I don’t mind.”

Jeno swings his legs in the air and slumps, “Yeah, but I—uh—do want to make small talk.” He’s half-assedly holding the heat pack to the side of his thigh, growing annoyed that it wasn’t staying in a specific place. He resorts to pinning it under his thigh. 

“Which I also don’t mind,” you say, biting back a smile, “My weekend was okay… stayed home and relaxed. Nothing super special. You?” 

You stop and turn to look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the man who was now leaning back against the wall. The position looks uncomfortable, yet Jeno appears to be content. 

“Similar to yours,” he replies, “Except Hyuck forced me to play a few games online with him. It was fun, actually! But don’t tell him that.” 

You let out a snort. You’re familiar with Donghyuck, recalling how he and Jeno had made a deal that if Jeno managed to bring him to the gym for a few workouts, then he had to play some of his PC games in return. 

“How’s he doing anyways?” You question, “I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

Jeno’s brows furrow for a sliver of a second before they sit back to where they had originally been, “Last leg day killed him, so he’s given up until he recovers.” 

“Ah,” you giggle, “Can’t keep up with you, I’m guessing?” 

Jeno shakes his head, bangs creating a blanket over his eyes. He sweeps them aside, “Not really. I don’t really go hard on leg days. I’m more of a back and biceps type of person.” 

Your eyes defy you as they scan Jeno’s arms. You blame him. His statement was practically an invitation to look at his upper limbs as if you needed some kind of evidence, “I believe you.” It comes out a lot more flirty than you intended and you want to sprint out of the room before you make one more wrong move. 

“O-oh,” Jeno stammers. It was a sight seeing Jeno grow shy, using his hands to hide arms. And although he was hoping to conceal them, the man forgets that doing so only means he had to flex his arms, “Thanks?” 

You’re not sure how to reply, resorting to rummaging through the same box. You find some empty rolls of tape and you toss them in the trash. How do you even go about this conversation? Say ‘you’re welcome’? Weird. Ask him about his routine? No, it wasn’t like you were looking into building your arms. Ask if you could feel his arms? 

Shut up, brain, be fucking for real right now.

“Y/N?” 

“Hm?” You look up and Jeno’s looking back at you expectedly.

“Sorry, I zoned out a little there,” you sheepishly confess, playing with one of the box’s flaps, “Did you say something?” 

“I… uh, nevermind, it doesn’t matter,” Jeno clears his throat, “It was just about—um—something. But it can wait another day.” He smiles and it just about reaches his eyes. 

“Wait, no, tell me,” you frown. 

“It’s…” Jeno’s eyes flicker back and forth, contemplating if he really should go through with his question. He wants to—he really does—but his words fail him, teeth biting at his bottom lip. 

“It’s really nothing, ha-ha!” You watch as his gaze drops to the heat pack suffocating underneath his thigh. He uses the back of his hand to feel it. It’s still very warm, but regardless, he uses it as an excuse. “I’ll just take my leave… Um, I guess I’ll see you around?” Jeno slips off the bed, tossing the pack into the trash before he moves past you. 

“Wait, Jeno…” You make another attempt to stop him, guilt slowly creeping up on you, curiosity accompanying it because you should’ve been listening. 

For once, you wished he stayed just a bit longer. 

—

It’s been almost a week and a half since Jeno last visited your office. 

But who’s counting?

You check once, twice, thrice over your shoulder for Jaemin’s presence, nodding to yourself when you’re sure that your coworker wasn’t there to see the down-bad bullshit you were about to pull. 

Pulling up the gym’s database, you quickly type Jeno’s name into the search bar. While it loads, which feels so so painfully long, your fingers tap against the edge of the desk. You can’t believe you’re doing this.

“Hm.” 

Once Jeno’s profile finally appears on the screen, you follow his row to the Date Last Active column, seeing that he was at the gym this morning, two hours before your shift. 

A low whistle knocks you out of your trance and you jump, almost knocking the keyboard off the desktop. 

“Fucking hell, Jaemin!” You swing at his shoulder at a strength you knew damn well he wouldn’t even feel, “You think you’re funny sneaking up on me like that?” 

“Yes,” Jaemin shrugs, “Misusing the database I see…” His eyes narrow at you, brow raising. Then, he smirks and pokes at your rib, “Stalking your boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” you quickly exit the application and pull up Jaemin’s minesweeper game, “He’s not my boyfriend… Acting like you don’t do the same shit with other gym goers…” 

“I don’t see why you can’t just walk up to him and talk to him,” Jaemin sighs, “He’s still here, you know.” 

“He is?” 

“Awww your eyes lit up!” Jaemin teases, diabolically sticking a finger in your face. 

You threaten him again, which Jaemin completely disregards out of spite.

“But tell me why he’s been coming to the gym more often when you’re not here,” Jaemin, like you, was quite familiar with Jeno’s routines, “Did you do something that would force the poor guy to change his routine all of a sudden? Sometimes he wakes up at ass o’clock to get his workout done.”

Your mind reels back to your last interaction. Playing back each and every second and overanalyzing each and every word that left your mouth that afternoon. Yeah, you probably did but you don’t want to think that you’ve scared Jeno away. 

“I don’t think so?” 

“‘I don’t think so?’” Jaemin mocks, “Writing ‘liar’ on your forehead would be more subtle than whatever the hell that was.” He pauses his game and decides to fix all his attention onto you, “Now spill.”

“I really don’t know, okay?” you groan, “Last time I spoke to him, I zoned out and I missed what he was saying and then he left and he didn’t even choose to repeat it or anything.” 

Jaemin narrows his eyes at you, almost as if he’s lost all hope in his very good friend and coworker, “Y/N, did you not just graduate with a master’s?” 

Your brows meet, “Huh? What do you mean?”

He mutters a dumbass under his breath, which completely flies past your head. “Nothing.” Jaemin smirks subtly, turning away to leave in hopes that you don’t ask any further questions.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Jaemin gets flashbacks to his mom, “Uhhhhhhh, there?” The man points to nowhere in particular before taking off. 

“Na Jaemin!” You call out. Your voice echoes through the gym and you groan, slumping against the desk before accepting defeat—because what did Jaemin mean? Was he calling you stupid or something?

Not even five minutes pass when you hear Jaemin’s voice boom over the speakers, “Y/N, you’re needed in your office. Y/N, you’re needed in your office.” 

You look over to Jaemin’s office and shoot him a look that could kill. And again, Jaemin ignores your threat, grinning menacingly before he waves cause he knows he’s pissing you off. You’ve never grown used to this man’s attitude, but it doesn’t mean you don’t adore it. 

Logging off the computer, you let out a huff and pad your way past the exercise machines and into your office. And from all that you were expecting, you sure as hell weren’t expecting to find a very worn out Jeno, the hem of his tank sprinkled in faint drops of blood. 

“Jeno?” You don’t even try to mask your worry, fast-walking straight to him before you guide (practically tugging) him to the medical bed, “What happened? Are you okay?” 

An annoying and almost spiteful grin shyly appears on Jeno’s lips before he turns his palms up for you to see. His hands were covered in blisters, some popped and others brand new. They looked extremely painful to even look at.

“Fuck,” you mutter, “Didn’t I say not to overwork yourself that one time?” You turn your back to Jeno and begin gathering all the supplies you need to treat his blisters. You’re rambling under your breath, words unrecognizable from where you’ve sat Jeno down. 

Your heart’s beating out of your chest, mostly because this is the first time you’ve seen Jeno in a while. But to add his injuries on top of that? You’re certainly not sure how you’re keeping composure. 

Meanwhile, Jeno really can’t do much but watch you move from one corner of the room to the other. He wants to get up and help, but by the way an eleven forms in between your brows, he’s reluctant to even say anything. 

It’s funny because despite how aggressive you’re handling all the supplies, the second you make contact with his wrist, your demeanor changes, suddenly shifting to be more gentler. You hold his hands as if you were holding a newborn, delicately rotating them to understand what had to be treated.

“If it hurts, tell me,” you say quietly, “Actually don’t. I’m mad at you right now.” 

Jeno’s head tilts to the side like a confused puppy. Then he finally says, “Mad at me?” 

“Yes,” you grab a sheet of gauze and begin wiping away at Jeno’s palm, dabbing carefully when it comes to the blisters, “I’m mad at you.”

“Why?” 

“This is why you need a break.” You ignore his question, grab new gauze and continue wiping away the new and old blood that’s accumulated in his palms. “Jeno, I know you like it here, but your body needs rest, too.” 

A response sits at the tip of Jeno’s tongue and he’s not sure whether or not he should tell you. The last time he decided to take a step out of his comfort zone, you didn’t even hear him. 

Does he want to try that again? 

You spray his palms with disinfectant before applying some ointment to help them heal faster. At this point, you hadn’t done as much as looked up to make eye contact with the man. 

“But..” Big step. “But this is the only place that I get to see you.”

What the fuck? 

You hope Jeno doesn’t notice the way you freeze for a burning second before you try to play it off by grabbing long bandages. It’s a good thing he can’t see the way your heart is beating erratically—and you’re hoping he doesn’t hear it, too. 

“You can literally see me wherever you want if you just asked,” you say nonchalantly, voice quiet, “But instead you resort to…” You stop yourself from speaking any further, unsure if you would even want Jeno knowing that you had suspicions of him pulling fake injuries out of his ass to make excuses to see you. 

“I’m not even sure if you’d even agree to it,” Jeno confesses, “I like… I really like talking to you but—“ 

“But what?” You slowly begin wrapping the bandage around his wrist, making your way up to his palm. 

Jeno can’t help but whisper, “You don’t seem to like me as much as I wished.” 

You hold back a giggle. Jeno’s always so accidentally cute and he doesn’t even know it. It’s literally pissing you off that a man you’re fake-mad at is doing absolutely nothing to earn your affection, yet here he was, doing just that. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” Jeno counters. 

“No, you don’t,” you ping-pong back. The bandage crosses between his fingers and you manage to finish wrapping the bandage around his palm. 

“I do.”

“Did you ask me?” You gulp, because at this point you’re afraid where this conversation was going. 

“Well, do you like me?” 

You move onto his other hand, grabbing another roll of the long bandage. You could feel the atmosphere in the room begin to shift and now you’re beginning to sweat in your light sweater. 

“I do.” 

Jeno clears his throat, “In the way I like you?” You groan. Of course he’d say that. It was a valid follow up question, simply because your answer could very much cover that broad spectrum of like. 

You ask, “How do you like me?” 

Jeno takes a moment to think about his answer, watching as you start replicating your work from his other hand, “I honestly… think it’s obvious how I like you.” “Mmm,” you hum. At this point you’re teasing him on purpose, “How so?” 

“I make myself look like a fool when it comes to you,” Jeno huffs, “Ice? Heat packs? Who am I kidding…” Jeno scoots back in his seat and you follow, practically falling between his knees from the way he’s sitting. “Every time I come here looking for you, that’s when I gain the confidence to finally ask you out… well not always out but maybe for your number or just simply talk to you or something. I wanted to be friends and then more if it went well…” 

Your movements slow, attention failing to even do a decent job at bandaging. 

“But, when I finally reach this room and see you? It’s like I lose all that confidence and it’s stuffed in the bag with the ice you give me,” Jeno explains. “I’m even lucky enough that I can finish my sentences around you…”

You blink at his injured palm and the realization dawns on you. So this was what Jaemin was hinting at, “And that last time… you asked me out and—”

“And you didn’t hear me,” Jeno finishes, “And I couldn’t for the life of me repeat what I asked because my confidence plummeted and then the fear of rejection kicked in.” 

Your hands have since halted, cradling Jeno’s hand as you try to calculate your next move. It’s now clear as day that Jeno has feelings for you, and you’ve slowly been coming to terms with yourself that you care a little too much about Jeno than a normal person should. 

“Ask me now.”

“What?” Jeno practically jumps, startled and confused. 

You drop the bandage roll and lightly tighten your grip around his hand. Looking up, you find that Jeno’s gaze has already been sitting and waiting for your own to meet his. You clarify, “Ask me what you asked then, now. This time, I’m listening.”

The reassurance from you lifts some weight off of Jeno’s shoulders, ones he didn’t know even existed. Then, he fixes his composure, moistens his lips and finally says, “Would you–um–like to go out for dinner with me?”

“My answer then and now are the same,” you smile down at your feet, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze, “I would really love to.”

Eyebrows reaching for his hairline, Jeno’s eyes widened, “Wait, really?” 

“Really,” You nod. And although you try to look anywhere else in the room, Jeno’s eyes capture your eyes once again, holding them there for a few skips of your heartbeat. 

You clear your throat and let out a breathy laugh, “Haha so um… let me just—“ You hastily pick up the bandage roll and return to your work. 

It doesn’t take much longer before you finish, concealing and protecting his injuries under the bandages. “Now that you’ve got me, promise me you won’t overwork yourself like this?” 

“I’ve… got you?” Jeno’s cheeks heat up at your choice of words, the shift between the both of you being so evident now that he’s experiencing a weird case of whiplash. 

“Shut up,” you mumble, “Just promise me. I don’t wanna have to keep worrying about you getting hurt.” 

Jeno laughs, completely enamoured at your own flustered state. 

“Yeah, yeah… I promise.” 

[jkwrites-m]

Another Time (4)

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: soulmates, past life, thriller, smut, fluff, angst

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: When Y/N and Jungkook begin sharing vivid dreams of each other, their connection feels too real to ignore. When tragedy from a past life begins bleeding into the present, they’re forced to unravel the mystery of love, betrayal, and fate.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, slight cursing, sexual tension, smut, fluff, light alcohol consumption, kissing, jealousy, angst, emotional talks, angst, explicit: oral (m. receiving), manhandling, dom!jungkook, doggy, kissing, unprotected sex, slight degradation, but also praise

A/N: no red velvet slander 😠

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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My eyes burned the second I opened them. My lashes stuck together from dried tears, my face hot and swollen. The weight of yesterday still pressed against my chest like a brick. It wasn’t a dream. The fight. The fear. The look in Jungkook’s eyes when he told me about that call, about that article, about our past lives. And the worst part of it all? That he kept it from me.

I rolled onto my side, cradling the pillow I had clung to most of the night. It didn’t offer comfort. Nothing really did. The light coming in through my blinds was soft, gold-tinted morning sun, the kind that should’ve made me feel safe. But there was no safety in my skin this morning. Only confusion. Anger. And a deep-rooted ache that pulsed behind my ribcage.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, my fingers trembling slightly. The screen illuminated with even more unread texts, all from Jungkook.

Jungkook: Please call me.

Jungkook: I’m so sorry.

Jungkook: Just tell me you’re okay.

Jungkook: I didn’t want to scare you.

Jungkook: I didn’t know how.

Jungkook: Please.

I swallowed hard, feeling another wave of tears threaten to spill, but I forced them back. Not again. Not this early. I needed someone to ground me.

I opened my messages and quickly typed out a text to Riley.

Y/N: What do I do? I can’t stop shaking.

She replied in seconds.

Riley: Baby, I know. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.

Riley: I can’t imagine how terrifying that must’ve felt. But… I really think you should talk to him.

Riley: He made a mistake, but he clearly cares about you. And this? This is bigger than either of you alone.

I exhaled shakily. Of course she was right. Riley always had a way of guiding me back toward clarity when the fog rolled in. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still angry. Or hurt. Or completely unmoored.

Still, I typed.

Y/N: Can we talk?

His response was almost immediate.

Jungkook: Yes. Please. I’ll make us something to eat. My place?

I stared at the message. My thumbs hovered over the screen. My heart pounded in my ears. But I typed one last word.

Y/N: Okay.

═══════

I stood in the kitchen longer than I needed to, gripping my tea mug with both hands as if it might anchor me to the floor. The morning was unusually quiet. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed muted by the lingering thoughts. I ran a hand through my tangled hair, catching a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection. Puffy eyes. Red cheeks. A hollow sort of ache just beneath the surface.

Why did I let myself fall so hard again?

Riley’s text kept echoing in my head: “I think you should talk to him. You love him, don’t you?”

Of course I did. That wasn’t the issue. It was the fear, the constant worry that if I trusted too much, I’d lose everything. Again. My heart hadn’t known peace in a long time, and just as it began to settle, it had been shaken by Jungkook’s confession. I didn’t even know who I was mad at anymore: him, fate, or the universe.

I scrolled through old photos as my tea cooled. Looking at me grinning in that stupidly cute way, while I curled up in his hoodie. Love was never supposed to feel like this, like holding onto water. I exhaled sharply, feeling the tears press again but refusing to let them fall this time.

Then I closed my phone and rested my head against the cabinets, letting my body slide to the floor. The ache in my chest dulled just a little. Not because it was over, but because there was still a chance to fix it.

Even if I wasn’t sure how.

═══════

I stood on Jungkook’s front step, my fingers tightening around the strap of my small purse. My breath fogged in the cool air, even though my skin prickled with anticipation and nerves. It wasn’t just the chilly breeze, my whole body felt the weight of our last conversation, the magnitude of what had been revealed.

I had told myself I wouldn’t cry again, but my chest already ached from holding it all in. I started thinking again, trying to make sense of everything. My emotions were tangled like old cassette tapes, rewound and tangled over years of unwritten memories. I inhaled slowly, my breath shaky with the weight of all the unspoken fears, memories of our connection, and the dread of losing him.

When he opened the door, he looked freshly showered but not well-rested. His eyes were ringed with faint shadows, and his hair flopped slightly over his forehead in soft waves. His lips curved upward, tentatively. When he opened the door, he looked freshly showered but not well-rested, she thought again, trying to make sense of everything.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, tentative. His eyes dropped slightly. “You look beautiful.”

A small, bitter part of me wanted to scoff, but it melted too easily under his gaze. “Thanks,” I replied, stepping inside. The warmth of his apartment hit me, and I realized he had dimmed the lights and lit candles in the kitchen. Jazz hummed softly from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

“I, uh… I made jajangmyeon,” he said, scratching his neck. “And I got some wine too. I wasn’t sure if you’d want beer or something stronger but…”

“Wine’s perfect,” I said softly.

The table was already set. He pulled out my chair, a tiny, old-fashioned gesture that made me blink away a rush of emotion. We sat across from each other, our plates steaming between us. I twirled my noodles slowly, heart pounding with what was still left unsaid.

Jungkook cleared his throat, setting his fork down. “Can we talk first? Before we eat too much?”

I nodded.

He inhaled sharply, then let the breath go in a shudder. “I know I messed up. I know that not telling you about the call and the library, especially after everything with Madame Lillian, was... it was wrong. I wasn’t trying to be shady or hide something because I didn’t trust you. I was scared, Y/N.” He inhaled sharply, then let the breath go in a shudder.

My heart squeezed.

“I didn’t know what to do with what she said. At first, I thought maybe I misheard her or it was just weird and random. But when I went to the library and found that article…” His voice cracked a little. “It freaked me out. I didn’t want it to be real. I thought maybe if I found more information, something that made it all make sense, I could come to you with all the answers.”

I swallowed hard. “But you didn’t, Jungkook. You went through that alone, and you left me in the dark. You let me believe everything was fine, and you acted normal. Do you know how much that hurt?” I swallowed hard.

“I do now,” he whispered. “And I hate myself for it. I was selfish. I thought I was protecting you. But I was really just protecting myself from how scared I am of losing you. From how powerless I feel. I wasn’t being your partner. And that’s what hurts me most now.”

Tears burned behind my eyes again. “I wanted to believe that we were on the same team. That we could handle anything together.” Tears burned behind my eyes again.

“We are,” he said, voice trembling. “I want us to be. I want to share everything with you, even the things that scare me. Especially those.”

We sat there in silence, the weight of our emotions coiling in the space between us.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” I said softly. “But I can’t go forward if I feel like I’m being shut out.”

“You won’t be,” he promised. “From now on, you get everything. The good, the bad, the terrifying. I want to do this with you, Y/N. Every life, every chance we get. Even if there’s darkness ahead.”

That was when I leaned forward and took his hand, the warmth of his palm grounding me. There was still fear. But there was also love.

We didn’t finish the jajangmyeon. Not right away. We just sat there, holding each other’s gaze, trying to build a bridge back to us.

We ate in quieter tones after that. There was still a heaviness between us, like a dust cloud slowly settling after a long collapse, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore, it was breathable.

“So…” Jungkook poked at his remaining noodles, finally looking up with a soft grin. “I can’t believe you wore a skirt just to break my heart and fix it all in one night.”

I snorted, rolling my eyes. “Please. I wore the skirt for the jajangmyeon.”

He laughed, really laughed, and the sound wrapped around my shoulders like a warm blanket. For a moment, we were just us again.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling what was left of his wine. “So… tell me about that new book you said you were reading. The one about reincarnation?”

I blinked, caught off guard that he remembered. “Oh… yeah. It’s wild. It’s like… this couple keeps finding each other in different lifetimes, but there’s always some kind of tragedy chasing them.”

His smile faded slightly but stayed gentle. “Sounds familiar.”

I looked down at my plate, heart twisting. “Yeah,” I murmured. “I guess it does.”

We both sat with that, not needing to press the obvious.

As I pushed my chair back, I stood up with a little stretch. “Alright, you cooked- so I’m doing the dishes.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely not.”

I was already picking up the plates. “Absolutely yes.”

He sighed dramatically, but he smiled. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“Damn right,” I called from the sink, turning the water on. “Besides, I find it kind of therapeutic. You talk, I scrub. We multitask.”

He chuckled, standing beside me with a towel. “Fine. But I’m drying.”

And just like that, we moved through the quiet motions of cleaning up together.

═══════

The warm glow of the kitchen lights cast a soft ambiance over the room, a stark contrast to the tension that had lingered between Jungkook and I earlier that evening. The air still carried the faint aroma of the meal Jungkook had prepared, a peace offering after the argument that had left both of us drained.

Now, as I stood at the sink, deftly drying the last of the dishes, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken reconciliation. You hummed softly, that seemed to signal the end of the discord.

Jungkook leaned against the counter, his frame relaxed but alert. His jet-black mullet framed his sharp face, and his brown eyes watched you with a mix of admiration and desire. The tattoos on his arm, usually a source of pride, now seemed to pulse with a restless energy.

He had cooked to apologize, but the act of service had stirred something deeper within him, a hunger that had nothing to do with food. As I turned off the faucet, he pushed off the counter, his movements deliberate and fluid, like a predator closing in on its prey.

Without a word, he closed the distance between us, his presence looming behind you. I felt his heat before I heard his footsteps, my heart quickening as his hands settled on my hips. His touch was firm, possessive, and I shivered as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck. “You shouldn’t have done the dishes,” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin. “Now I’ll have to find another way to thank you.”

My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t pull away. Instead, I dried my hands on the towel and turned to face him, my eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh? And what way is that?” I teased, voice light but laced with invitation.

Jungkook smirked, his gaze dropping to your lips before sweeping down your body. “You’ll see,” he replied, his tone low and seductive. Before I could respond, he cupped the back of my head, pulling you into a kiss that was anything but gentle. His lips were demanding, his tongue insistent, and you melted against him, your hands clutching at his shirt. The kiss was sloppy, desperate, and it left you both breathless.

When he finally pulled away, my lips were swollen, your chest heaving. Jungkook’s eyes darkened with desire as he gripped my waist, his thumbs brushing the bare skin above my skirt. “On your knees,” he commanded, his voice rough and commanding. There was no room for argument, no space for hesitation.

My cheeks burned, but I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees, hands resting on his thighs as I looked up at him through my lashes. “Like this?” I asked, tone playful but submissive.

Jungkook’s smirk widened, and he ran a hand through your hair, his gaze intense. “You’re fucking perfect,” he growled, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. “Now open your mouth.”

I obeyed without question, my lips parting as I watched him undo his pants. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, and my breath hitched at the sight. Jungkook’s big dick was a sight to behold, and I wasted no time wrapping my hands around it, my touch reverent. I leaned forward, tongue flicking the tip before I took him into my mouth.

Jungkook hissed, his hands tangling in your hair as I began to move. My mouth was warm and wet, sloppy but enthusiastic, and he groaned as I deepthroated him, my throat constricting around him. “Fuck, Y/N,” he cursed, his voice hoarse. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

I hummed in agreement, the vibration sending shivers down his spine. My hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in as I bobbed your head, my lips sliding up and down his length. Jungkook’s control was slipping, his grip on my hair tightening as he thrust shallowly into my mouth. “Enough,” he growled, pulling you to your feet. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

My eyes were glazed with desire, lips wet from his cock. “Where?” I asked, voice breathless.

Jungkook didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed my wrist, pulling me towards the kitchen counter. He shoved me gently but firmly, my chest hitting the cool granite as he stepped between my legs. “Here,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Right fucking here.”

I spread my legs willingly, my hands gripping the edge of the counter as he pressed against me. Jungkook’s hands roamed my body, his touch rough and demanding. He palmed my ass, squeezing it as he kissed my neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he muttered, his lips brushing my ear. “So fucking perfect for me.”

I moaned, arching into his touch. “Jungkook, please,” I begged, your voice desperate. “I need you.”

He smirked, his hands sliding down my body to the top of your skirt. He pulled it down your legs along with your panties with ease. I kicked them off, my legs spreading wider as he stepped back to admire you. “Such a pretty pussy,” he said, his voice laced with admiration and hunger. “All wet for me, just like I like it.”

My cheeks flushed. “Shut up and fuck me,” I snapped, your tone playful but edged with need.

Jungkook laughed, a low, dark sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He didn’t bother with a condom- there was no need for such precautions between them. Instead, he gripped your hips, positioning himself at my entrance before thrusting forward, burying himself inside you in one smooth motion.

I gasped, my head falling back as he filled me completely. “Fuck,” I breathed, my hands clutching the counter. “You’re so big.”

“Not too big for you,” he replied, his voice smug as he pulled back before slamming into you again. He set a relentless pace, his hips snapping as he fucked me with abandon. The counter creaked beneath me, the sound drowned out by our moans and the wet slap of our bodies meeting.

“Harder,” I demanded, voice sharp. “Fuck me harder, Jungkook.”

He obliged, his hands gripping your hips so tightly I was sure he’d leave bruises. He pounded into me, his cock stretching you, filling you to the brink. “You like that, don’t you?” he taunted, his voice rough. “You like being fucked like a whore?”

My eyes fluttered closed, my breath coming in short gasps. “Yes,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Jungkook’s lips curved into a smirk, but he didn’t let up. Instead, he reached between us, his fingers finding my clit as he continued to thrust. “Cum for me,” he ordered, his voice commanding. “Cum on my cock, you filthy little slut.”

His words pushed you over the edge. I cried out, my body trembling as my orgasm ripped through me. My walls clenched around him, milking his cock, and Jungkook growled, his pace faltering as he followed me over the edge. “Fuck,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he came, his cum spilling deep inside you.

For a moment, we stayed like that, your bodies still joined, our breaths ragged. Then, Jungkook pulled out, his cock slipping from you with a wet sound. He helped me to my feet, his hands gentle now as he kissed my forehead. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

I leaned into him, my legs still shaky. “More than okay,” I replied, my voice laced with satisfaction. “But next time, I’m on top.”

Jungkook laughed, a genuine, warm sound that eased the last of the tension between them. “We’ll see,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “For now, let’s just enjoy the aftermath.”

And as we stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the kitchen felt warmer than ever, the air thick with the satisfaction of reconciliation and the promise of more to come.

═══════

After getting dressed, I leaned against the counter opposite him, matching his posture. The silence between us wasn’t awkward anymore but it was thoughtful, full of unspoken things that hung in the space like stars waiting to be named.

Jungkook cleared his throat first. “We need to talk about the future.”

I felt my body tense, just a little, but I nodded. “Yeah… we do.”

He stepped forward, resting his hands on the edge of the counter next to me. “I’ve been thinking about what Madame Lillian said. About the past... and that couple. Us, maybe. The murder. Everything.”

I looked up at him slowly, heart racing a little. It never got easier to hear it framed that way.

“If it’s real,” I whispered, “If we really are them… then we were murdered. Both of us.”

He nodded, his jaw flexing. The room suddenly felt colder.

We stood in that truth for a moment, the weight of it anchoring us to the ground. I didn’t realize I was fidgeting with my fingers until Jungkook gently took my hands in his.

“We have to pay attention to everything,” he said quietly. “Our dreams, the people around us, anyone acting strange or off. If there’s even a sliver of truth to this, then we have six months. That’s how long the couple had before they died.”

I swallowed. “Six months?”

He nodded. “That’s how long it’s been since we met. I’ve been counting. Obsessively. And if that’s the window we’re working with, then we’re already halfway through it.”

A pit formed in my stomach, hollow and tight. “So we have six months left to figure this out. To figure out who did it, why it happened, and how to stop it?”

He looked at me, his eyes serious, his voice steady. “Exactly.”

The quiet swelled again, but this time it wasn’t heavy, it was determined. My heartbeat steadied in my chest as I took a breath.

“Okay,” I said. “Then we do this together. All of it. We don’t keep secrets, not like before. We stay honest. We stay close.”

Jungkook nodded, his grip on my hands tightening. “Together.”

He stepped even closer, and now I could see the little things: the tired lines beneath his eyes, the soft flush on his cheeks from the wine, the small tremor in his fingers like he was still afraid I might leave.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered before he could say it. “Even if I was angry… I still love you.”

His eyes softened instantly, and he leaned in until our foreheads touched. “I love you too. God, I fucking love you.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of his presence soak into me. The air between us felt fragile, but it was healing. Thread by thread, we were stitching something back together.

Jungkook pulled back slightly, his voice low. “We need to be smart. Careful. Keep track of our dreams, write them down if we can. If anything feels off, no matter how small, we talk about it.”

“Agreed,” I nodded. “And we stay alert. No more pushing things aside or pretending it’s just in our heads.”

He exhaled, a shaky kind of relief in the sound. “And more than anything else, we spend time together. As much time as we can. Because I don’t know what’s waiting six months from now… and I don’t want to waste a second of it.”

My eyes burned again, but this time with something gentler or maybe gratitude. I touched his cheek, tracing his skin with the pad of my thumb.

“Then let’s make it count,” I said softly. “Every day.”

“Every second,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my hand. “I don’t want to live in fear, but if this is all the time we get… then I want it to be with you.”

That kind of love, the deep, aching kind that scared you and healed you at once- it hummed between us like electricity. And even though I still felt the fear lurking behind my ribs, I knew we’d face it together.

Whatever this lifetime had planned,we weren’t going to wait for it to happen. We’d fight for our ending this time.

═══════

The moment was dipped in soft pastels and sunlight, as though the world itself had been dusted in sugar. The quaint bakery was tucked in a charming corner of a quiet street, its interior glowing with the golden warmth of late morning light. The air was thick with the comforting scent of vanilla, buttercream, and fresh strawberries. A quiet hum of jazzy music floated in the background, adding to the idyllic feel.

Y/N stood near a lace-draped table, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of a cake display as her eyes sparkled with wonder. Her cheeks were tinged with the soft blush of happiness, her lips curled into a smile that hadn’t left her since they walked in.

Next to her stood Jungkook, his hair tousled in that effortless way, and his grin lazy but full of adoration. His hand was intertwined with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You ready to taste a million cakes?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her in that playful way that always made her laugh.

She scoffed lightly. “Only a million? I was hoping for at least a billion.”

“Guess we’ll just have to cancel the wedding then,” he said with mock seriousness. “Total dealbreaker.”

The baker, a kind-eyed older woman named Mrs. Kwon, approached them with the first tray of carefully plated samples. “Alright, lovebirds. Let’s start with the classics. Vanilla bean, strawberry shortcake, and chocolate ganache.”

Jungkook eagerly picked up a small fork and twirled it toward her with a bite of vanilla. “For the bride,” he declared dramatically.

Y/N chuckled, leaning forward to accept the offering. The flavor melted sweet and smooth on her tongue, drawing a small, pleased sigh.

“Oh no,” she said. “That one’s dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured back, eyes twinkling. He stole a kiss from the corner of her mouth, catching a speck of frosting in the process.

Mrs. Kwon set down a second tray with a fond smile before retreating, letting them have their moment. Jungkook took the opportunity to move behind Y/N, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.

He watched her talk to the baker about icing textures and filling types with genuine interest, even if he didn’t quite understand it all. “Look at you,” he whispered softly into her ear. “Being all grown-up and bride-like.”

She leaned back into him, a smile playing on her lips. “Well, I don’t want our cake falling apart in front of your grandparents.”

“Pfft. You could serve cardboard with frosting and I’d still say it was the best cake I ever had,” he replied, pressing a light kiss to her temple.

“You’re just saying that because you love me,” she teased.

“I do love you,” he said simply. “And because I’m completely, shamelessly whipped.”

Y/N let out a laugh that made his heart stutter. “You really are.”

More flavors followed: lavender lemon, espresso cream, a slice of matcha almond that made them both wrinkle their noses. But then came the red velvet. Both took a bite at the same time, and the moans that escaped them were embarrassingly synchronized.

Mrs. Kwon chuckled knowingly from the other side of the counter. “That one’s a winner, huh?”

Jungkook leaned close, eyes wide. “Marry me again just so we can have this cake at both weddings.”

“You didn’t even hear the vows yet,” she said, smirking.

He reached out, brushing frosting gently from the corner of her lip. “I plan on vowing eternal loyalty to this red velvet and you. In that order.”

They nearly dropped the last sample when their laughter became too hard to control.

Jungkook reached for her hand again, this time lacing their fingers slowly, deliberately. Then, without a word, he pressed her palm to his chest, over the steady beat of his heart.

In that tiny, magical moment, surrounded by cake and crumbs and soft laughter, time felt suspended.

Y/N’s smile wavered with the weight of emotion, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I love you,” she said quietly.

Jungkook’s expression softened into something almost reverent. He stepped forward, touching his forehead gently to hers. “I love you more.”

═══════

It's the middle of July now- two full months since Jungkook and I had that long talk over wine and jajangmyeon. Time had moved both fast and slow since then. Our nights still held shadows of mystery, but Jungkook and I had found pockets of peace in the little things: shared dinners, late-night walks, holding hands on the couch as old dramas played in the background. It felt like we were healing, slowly, maybe even beautifully.

Today was one of those perfect blue-sky days. The kind that made you forget that life could ever be heavy. Jungkook had picked me up just after 9 a.m. with a packed cooler, sun hats, and a beach playlist already loaded into his car. He kissed my cheek before I even opened the door.

I was hopeful... but part of me was still quietly afraid.

═══════

The sun kissed my skin the second we stepped out of the car. The summer heat blanketed the beach in golden light and laughter. Children ran past us with inflatable tubes, and the salty breeze curled into my hair. Jungkook held the beach bag in one hand and my fingers in the other. I looked over at him, shirtless, with a soft grin under his sunglasses, his black hair slightly tousled from the wind.

“You sure you brought sunscreen?” I teased, poking his bare shoulder.

“I always bring sunscreen now. You scolded me last time,” he replied, smirking. “Also, I need to protect this body you love so much.”

I laughed and shook my head as we picked our spot in the sand. Jungkook laid out the towels and umbrella, making a dramatic show of smoothing it out like he was preparing a red carpet.

The water glimmered under the sun, and after an hour or so of sunbathing and playful teasing, we ran hand-in-hand toward the waves, diving in like we were kids. The water was freezing, but Jungkook’s laughter made it easy to forget. He dunked me gently, kissed me just under the waterline, and we swam until our limbs ached.

We dried off and lay under the umbrella again. Jungkook pulled out the book we’d been reading together and read aloud, his voice a comforting rhythm over the rolling waves. I closed my eyes, letting the calm settle deep inside me.

“I’m gonna grab us water,” he said, standing. “Want anything else?”

“Just water. And maybe some fries?” I called after him.

I sat up, pulling my hair back into a bun as I watched him walk toward the boardwalk. I smiled to myself until I saw her. A tall woman in a bright bikini, long legs and perfect waves of hair. She touched his arm as she laughed, leaning in close. He smiled at her, probably saying something dumb and kind because that’s who he is. Kind and oblivious.

I felt it like a small, sharp pinch in my stomach. Not quite jealousy. Insecurity, maybe. The kind that sinks in deep, uninvited.

When he came back with the water and snacks, I kept my eyes on the ocean.

“You okay?” he asked as he handed me the bottle.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He gave me a small frown, then sat down beside me, brushing sand from my legs. I leaned into him anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. But it clung to me the rest of the day, making me quieter than usual.

On the drive back, the air was quiet too. I looked out the window, trying not to let my spiraling thoughts swallow me whole.

“Did I do something wrong?” he finally asked, his voice soft and unsure.

I hesitated. “No. Not really.”

“But something’s off. You haven’t laughed since we left the beach.”

I looked down at my lap, fingers picking at the hem of my shorts. “It’s stupid. I know it is.”

“Try me,” he said. “I wanna know what’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours.”

I sighed. “When you were getting water, there was this… girl. She was all over you, and you were smiling. I know you didn’t do anything wrong, but… sometimes I feel like I’m not enough. Like you could do so much better than me.”

He slammed on the brakes for a second too hard at a red light and turned to me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s just… sometimes I feel invisible next to you. And it’s not your fault. You’re sweet and beautiful and everyone notices you. I just- sometimes I feel like I don’t belong with you.”

He reached across and took my hand. “Baby. Look at me.”

I looked up, eyes glassy.

“You are the only person I see. Besides, have you seen yourself?”

I let out a soft laugh, wiping my face.

“I love you,” he said. “You’re not invisible. You’re the only thing that’s clear to me. And if you ever feel like you’re not enough, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that you are.”

I nodded, chest aching. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t spiral like that.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re allowed to have those feelings. Just don’t bottle them up. Talk to me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He kissed my knuckles, then started the car again. “Now. Takeout? I’m thinking dumplings and fried rice.”

I laughed, finally feeling lighter again. “God, yes. Extra chili oil.”

“Only the best for you,” he said.

As we pulled up to my apartment, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. Maybe the fear of the future would always linger, but in moments like this, love still held us together.

═══════

The warmth of the evening hung in the air as we entered my apartment, the faint scent of saltwater still lingering on our skin. Jungkook set the takeout on the counter while I kicked off my sandals by the door. My skirt swayed as I moved to grab plates, and I felt his eyes on me even before I turned around.

“Still think I’m pretty even after a long day at the beach?” I teased lightly, tossing him a wink.

“You look like summer itself,” Jungkook said, crossing the room and planting a soft kiss on my forehead. “Sunlight and sea.”

We set the table in silence, but it was a comfortable quiet, one that wrapped around us like a blanket, cozy and safe. We ate slowly, trying everything we ordered, sometimes feeding each other little bites. The laughter was gentle, not as loud or wild as before, but laced with affection that felt heavier with meaning.

After dinner, we nestled into the couch, the soft hum of a movie playing in the background. I rested my head on Jungkook’s shoulder, the rhythmic beat of his heart calming my nerves. His arm wrapped tightly around me, his fingers absentmindedly drawing patterns on my arm.

“I don’t want to waste a single second,” he whispered after a while, voice thick with emotion. “If we really only have four months left, I want them to count. I want to be with you for all of them.”

I looked up at him, his dark eyes reflecting the faint glow from the TV. “Then let’s make a promise.”

“What kind of promise?”

“That we live every moment. That we don’t let fear get in the way. We laugh, we cry, we travel, we rest, we figure this out together. But we live.”

He nodded slowly. “And if we solve this mystery, if we fix what happened last time, I’ll ask you to marry me again. For real this time.”

Tears welled in my eyes, but I smiled through them, cupping his face and kissing him slowly. “I’d say yes all over again.”

We stayed like that, tangled up in each other, until the movie faded into credits. Eventually, our quiet whispers drifted into silence, and I fell asleep curled up against him, his arms around me and our promise echoing in the soft rhythm of his breath.

We had no idea what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid. Because even with the shadows of our past lives looming around us, this moment was ours. And I intended to hold onto it as long as I could.

═══════

Y/N stepped out of the cab, holding the neatly packed lunch she spent all morning preparing for Jungkook. The sun cast soft golden shadows over the city sidewalks, and the tall glass building that housed Jungkook’s company glimmered in the afternoon light. Her heart beat a little faster with every step toward the lobby, her fingers gripping the bag like it held more than just food but effort, care, and a tiny olive branch of affection wrapped in foil.

She hadn’t told him she was coming. It was supposed to be a surprise, something sweet to brighten his stressful day. The receptionist looked up and smiled as Y/N entered.

“I’m here to drop lunch off for Jeon Jungkook,” she said with a polite smile.

“Of course,” the receptionist nodded. “He’s in the design studio on the fifth floor. You can head on up.”

The elevator doors closed behind her, her reflection flickering in the mirrored walls. She smoothed down the front of her dress, tugged lightly at her hair, and tried to calm the nervous flutter in her chest. It’s just lunch. It’s just Jungkook.

When the doors slid open, Y/N stepped into the floor filled with soft chatter, clicking keyboards, and the faint hum of music from a nearby speaker. Then, she saw him.

He was standing across the room in front of a whiteboard, scribbling something down. Right beside him stood a tall woman with long black hair, laughing at something he said. She leaned a little too close, her hand brushing his arm as she pointed at the board. Jungkook smiled, his real smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle, and nodded, not moving away.

Y/N stopped short. Her grip on the lunch bag tightened.

She took a deep breath and made her way across the room, careful not to let her shoulders stiffen. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but watching the woman laugh so easily in his space, so comfortably close, it made something twist painfully in her stomach.

Jungkook spotted her a moment later. His entire face lit up, like a switch flipped inside him. “Baby?” he called, joy lacing his voice.

He practically jogged across the room to her, eyes wide and boyish as he reached her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the floor in a quick hug.

“I brought you lunch,” she smiled, trying to keep her tone steady. “Figured you could use some real food.”

“You’re the best,” he murmured against her temple, kissing her gently. “Seriously, you have no idea how much I needed this today.”

She smiled, but her eyes drifted over his shoulder to the woman still watching them from the whiteboard, her arms now crossed and her smile gone.

Jungkook noticed and turned slightly. “Oh, that’s Jennie. She’s new on the team. We were just going over some pitch ideas.”

Y/N nodded politely at Jennie, who gave a tight smile in return and turned back to her desk.

“Come on,” Jungkook said, pulling her by the hand to a quieter break room. They sat together on a small couch, eating and laughing as he praised every bite she made.

But the whole time, Y/N couldn’t shake the tightness in her chest.

Later that day, after Y/N had kissed Jungkook goodbye and left the building, Jimin walked into the break room and spotted Jennie muttering to herself while aggressively typing at her keyboard.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, then softened a moment later. “It’s just… never mind.”

Jimin’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but if it’s about Jungkook? Don’t waste your time.”

She blinked at him.

“He’s happy. Really happy,” Jimin said. “With Y/N. They’ve been through a lot together. So maybe… don’t try to mess with that.”

Jennie didn’t respond, but the look in her eyes faltered.

Jimin shrugged and walked off, tossing his soda can in the trash. “Just saying. Mind your business.”

Back in her apartment, Y/N replayed the afternoon in her head again and again. She knew Jungkook loved her, but something about Jennie’s gaze lingered. She didn’t know what it meant yet.

But she knew she wasn’t going to let anyone take him away.

═══════

The morning light trickled through the curtains, casting golden stripes across Jungkook’s bare back as he lay beside me, his face nestled into the crook of his arm. His breathing was slow and steady, his hair tousled and lips parted just slightly. I lay still, watching him, my fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket as the remnants of my dream pulsed freshly in my chest.

It had been so vivid- me walking into his office, holding a warm lunch in my hands, only to see her there again. Jennie. Smiling too hard. Standing too close. That unsettling familiarity twisted in my gut. She wasn’t just a coworker. Why was she in the dream? Why did it feel so real? So connected?

Jungkook stirred, blinking against the light. He turned slowly, eyes squinting until they met mine. “Morning,” he mumbled, voice still husky from sleep.

“Good morning,” I replied, brushing hair away from his forehead. I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to bring it up. But it clawed at the back of my mind. “I had a dream.”

He sat up slightly, stretching his arms before turning his attention to me. “The one where you bring me lunch?”

“Yeah. And Jennie’s there again.”

He blinked, his smile fading a little. “Jennie?”

I nodded. “Same face. Same tone. Same weird vibe. Only this time it felt even more real. Like... I recognized her somehow. From more than just that dream.”

Jungkook sat up fully now, the blanket pooling around his waist. “Y/N... Jennie’s my neighbor’s daughter. She’s not even my coworker. That’s the weirdest part.”

I frowned, my brows knitting together. “Exactly. Why is she in our dreams like that?”

He rubbed his jaw, silent for a beat. “Do you think this is part of it? The reincarnation stuff?”

I wrapped my arms around my knees. “I don’t know. But I feel like she has something to do with it. Maybe she was there... back then.”

The air felt heavier in the room. Jungkook leaned over, pressing his lips to my temple. “Then we need to pay attention. Write it all down. Every detail.”

“I already did,” I whispered. “First thing when I woke up.”

He smiled softly. “Good. I don’t want to miss anything that could help us.”

My stomach twisted with unease. Something about Jennie’s eyes in that dream, they didn’t belong in an office. They belonged somewhere darker. Somewhere familiar.

And I didn’t know why.

═══════

The morning had passed slowly. After our conversation in bed, neither of us could shake the uncanny feeling. Jennie, his next-door neighbor’s daughter, appears in our shared dream, this time in a role too close to real life to ignore. It was no longer a vague metaphor or symbolic dreamscape; this was someone real, tangible, and in our orbit.

I couldn’t sit still.

“I think we should look into her,” I said, tapping the rim of my coffee mug with my thumbnail. We were seated across from each other at the little dining table in his apartment. The sun was pouring in through the windows, heating the hardwood floor beneath our feet.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Like... stalk her?”

“No!” I shot back, nearly choking on my coffee. “Just... pay attention. Like, I don’t know, try to understand if there’s something she’s hiding. Maybe talk to her?”

He frowned and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s always been friendly, kind of flirty, but I never thought anything of it. She’s just... young, I guess.”

“Jungkook, she was in the dream.” I leaned forward, more serious than I meant to sound. “That’s not nothing.”

“I know.” He looked away, pressing his lips into a line. “It just freaks me out. All of this. That our dreams feel more like memories. That our nightmares feel like warnings.”

I got up, grabbing my phone and pacing the room slowly. “You said her parents moved in only like two years ago, right?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I helped them carry their couch in.”

“So you don’t know much about them.”

“Not really.”

“What if she’s connected somehow? I mean... maybe she’s related to someone from our past. Or maybe-” I stopped myself, my breath catching in my throat. “What if she’s involved? What if we’re seeing her because she has something to do with what happened to us?”

Jungkook got up and walked toward me, taking the coffee from my hand and setting it down before wrapping his arms around my waist. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ll be smart about this.”

I nodded against his chest, but my skin was crawling with dread. “I don’t want to lose you,” I whispered.

“You won’t.”

But we both knew he couldn’t promise that.

We decided we’d go about it subtly. Jungkook would strike up a few conversations with her, see if anything felt... off. I’d do some light digging on social media- just names, locations, connections. We weren’t going to accuse anyone, just gather dots and see if they connected.

═══════

Later that afternoon, we sat side by side on his couch, laptops open, silence thick between us except for the occasional clack of keys and the hum of a fan in the corner. I found Jennie’s Instagram and scrolled through it, noting familiar faces, locations tagged around Seoul, the occasional picture of her at work or with her cat.

“Anything weird?” Jungkook asked, glancing over at my screen.

“Not... really. But she does have a lot of photos at your building. Even on her days off.”

He tilted his head. “Maybe she’s friends with someone else here?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she just likes being around you.” I raised an eyebrow.

He gave a crooked smile. “You jealous?”

“Yes,” I admitted without shame. “Should I not be?”

“No. I like it.” He kissed my shoulder. “But I’m yours, remember?”

The moment gave me some peace. But I couldn’t let go of the feeling something darker lurked beneath Jennie’s pretty smile. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was just the residue of everything we’d learned about our past lives. Or maybe, just maybe, we were finally brushing the edges of a truth that had waited decades to be discovered.

I would not let us die again.

═══════

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MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

[belit0]

Thinking about Hs Yan Obito and his gf 👀. I think the other people at the school would be shocked that an Uchiha has stuck to one girl so long with the way the other Uchiha’s run through girls lol. While Obito isn’t like the most popular/wanted Uchiha (like I bet everyone had crushes on Madara and also Izuna bc he’s a flirt) it would still cause people to be jealous but like not specifically of wanting Obi like y/n being with and Uchiha and everyone telling her she’s so lucky to catch one. Poor reader like “yeah I’m lucky” when she has no choice in leaving the relationship lol

Obito, for me, is the worst of the 5

It started with a kiss. Sweet. Hesitant.

The kind of kiss that makes you think maybe, just maybe, he’s different.

But now she can’t remember what that first kiss tasted like.

Not under the weight of what came after—Obito’s arm constantly draped over her shoulder like a chain disguised as affection, his hand sliding into her back pocket in the halls like she was his property. His voice, warm as honey, whispering things that should have sounded romantic, but never did.

She tried to end it a second time, after he showed up in her bedroom.

(Y/N) waited until the final bell, when he was finishing a cigarette with Shisui and Izuna. Madara was slouched against the wall, quiet, mean-eyed. Indra stood a little off to the side, unbothered, lighting a match just to watch it burn.

She pulled Obito aside, her heart pounding.

-I can’t do this anymore,- she’d said. -I don’t feel the same. I need space, real space.-

Obito blinked. Just once. And smiled.

And that’s when she realized what she’d just triggered.

Shisui tilted his head, grin stretching slow, venomous.

-She’s cute when she’s confused.

Izuna laughed. -She still thinks she gets to walk away... Thought we made it clear—he’s not just your boyfriend. He’s family. And we don’t let family get abandoned.-

She looked around.

Madara wasn’t laughing. He was watching her like a wolf watches something fragile.

Indra didn’t speak, just crushed the match between his fingers and dropped it on the concrete.

And Obito, still smiling, leaned in and whispered, -You don’t really mean that, do you? You’re just tired, again. Stressed. Maybe someone’s been putting shit in your head? Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll fix it.-

He kissed her temple. His fingers brushed her neck.

She felt like she was falling into a hole no one would ever dig her out of.

Now, weeks later, the whole school thinks she’s the luckiest girl alive.

The girl who got an Uchiha to stay.

She hears it in the whispers in the bathrooms, in the jealous stares when she passes hand-in-hand with Obito down the hallway.

Other girls look at her like she won a lottery they’d all been bleeding to enter.

They don’t understand.

It’s not Obito they envy.

It’s the status. The badge.

No one in school has ever made any of them commit—not Indra, not Madara, not Shisui, definitely not Izuna.

They fuck and disappear. They destroy girls for sport. They walk through relationships like they’re made of tissue paper, never once slowing down.

But Obito? He’s obsessed.

And somehow that obsession makes her a legend.

No one sees the way her smile twitches when he pulls her into his lap in the cafeteria. No one notices how tight his grip gets on her wrist when she’s too slow to answer him. No one hears what he says when she doesn’t text back fast enough.

-He loves you so much,- her friends say, eyes wide with envy.

She smiles. Nods. Plays the part.

Because no one would believe her if she told the truth.

No one would believe that he checks her location twenty times a day. That he reads her DMs before she does. That he warned her once, in a voice low and kind, that if she ever lied to him again, he’d make sure no one else could ever have her.

No one would believe that she wakes up some mornings and doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror anymore. That every day feels like another performance. Another test. Another slow suffocation in a golden cage.

But still—she smiles.

She sits beside him in class, fingers laced with his, heartbeat steady through practiced control. She lets him tuck her hair behind her ear, kiss her cheek, hold her like she’s something to protect.

Even though she knows the truth.

She’s not his girlfriend.

She’s his hostage.

And the scariest part?

She’s starting to forget what freedom felt like.

[multiheadcanons]

ECHOMOCHA CALLED THIS ONE. HOW THE MERCS WOULD MURDER ME, PERSONALLY. DONT WORRY, I RESPAWN TOO!

scout: scout is more likely to kill me on accident than he is to purposefully kill me. granted, i probably pissed him off to get him to a point where he’s willing to put his hands on me, which is not something scout would normally do. scout will hit most people, but he’s not gonna hit someone he thinks is a girl. and once he got one hit in, depending on if i got up or not, may stress him out enough that he feels the need to finish the job. then he’ll apologize.

soldier: soldier could kill me on purpose or on accident and i doubt he’d care either way. really what i’m more likely to be with soldier is collateral damage. it’s more likely that i am minding my own business and soldier comes in on a rampage. i would get forcibly shoved into the corner of a wall, hit the axis of my skull and disconnect it from my body. soldier wouldn’t think anything about it until he comes by again in a state of calm and sees the body.

pyro: pyro wouldn’t realize what they were doing until it was too late. in pyro’s defense, they thought we were playing! it’s very easy to mistake a scream of terror for screams of joy. it’s a little more difficult to figure out whether or not me pushing is goading them further or if i’m trying to actually get them off of me. and they don’t realize how often they have that axe of theirs in their hands. they’d only get confused when the body stops moving. they’d wonder what happened.

demo: from here, the chances of actually surviving the ordeal is slim to none. i would be one of many of demo’s victims of his crimes of passion. we’d go on a date, i’d tell him i just am not interested (frankly i would ghost him. im terrible about that) and frankly, there is no being “done” with demo unless he’s done with you. so eventually he would just come find me. and if im not particularly interested in him being there and make an attempt to call the cops it’s a wrap. he wouldn’t try to kill me first. he’s just trying to get the phone from my hands. but the harder i fight, the more irritated he gets, and the harder he has to fight me back. he’d end up drowning me in the tub. and then he’d start removing my teeth and hands. i have no real records that are from me as an adult, so if he takes enough parts and gets his hands on my cards i will become unrecognizable and unidentifiable.

heavy: the only thing that makes heavy an easier foe on the defense is the fact that he’d have to catch me. demo can catch me much faster than heavy could. and i would see the man coming. granted, if/when he catches me it’s officially over. he’s not letting go and i can’t fight him off. he’s the immortal snail and i took the deal. heavy wouldn’t feel a need to put me through anything egregious. i am too small, and not worth the waste of supplies to stretch my death out any longer than he can do himself. but he is a man of honor. he would probably just break my neck. fast, easy for him, painful for me if he doesn’t totally sever the brain stem. he might let me bleed out internally if i try to act too tough. though, frankly, if heavy camped around a corner and clotheslined me when i built up the speed my head is going to be cleanly disconnected from my body. chances are he’d get me while im asleep. he would wake me up first, and i wouldn’t see anything past his big fuckin ham hands blocking my field of view.

engineer: the only thing that makes engineer an easier foe than heavy is the fact that the red engineer genuinely doesn’t have the time to dedicate to getting me eradicated from the planet. if dell doesn’t have a plan come our first meeting, i am generally in the clear. between the team and the job, all of his time is spoken for. that means dell has to either have it out for me before we’ve ever met or i made such an egregious social blunder upon first meeting that he decides i don’t deserve the oxygen i breathe. the latter is a very viable option. it would be clean, but it wouldn’t be an easy kill. if i piss him off he’ll shoot me, so it’s better to keep my trap shut. i’m going to die under his watch either way. because i won’t be able to make a run for it either. the sentries are trained on me, the teleporters are inactive. i’d have to make it on foot. and i have no way past dell, nor his machines to have a fair shot. i’m more likely to die in an escape attempt before he’s even able to do what he wants to me. then he’s gotta dump the body. i would become another missing cold case that would never be solved.

medic: i wouldn’t survive a single day with the support boys actively on my ass because i’m stupid and they’re hot. all medic would have to say is “free breast reduction? you want a free breast reduction? put the boob fat in jars of formaldehyde? shake them up a little? little diy boob fat lava lamp? throw in a leg lengthening surgery? i’m feeling nice today :) Get On The Table.” and jingle some keys in my face and i would say “haha, totally my german king i love you so much” and then he’d start scooping my shit out like a pumpkin. he’d keep me awake under the medigun for it because it’s funnier to empty the cavity while i talk. then he’ll say he’s done and shut the medigun off and i would die, immediately, because my body has been emptied of all vital systems needed to keep me alive. he might still put my boobs in a jar. but frankly, the doctor would have to care enough to get me on the table. i don’t have any medical records, so he would have to want to know what’s going on under the skin to even want this to occur. and at this point, he’s got more interesting things happening on that table. i’m a waste of time. i’d end up being a victim because he didn’t want to do paperwork. the doctor’s version of making the bed. a small task completed for a dopamine hit.

sniper: sniper would take me out within five minutes of deciding i have to die. sniper is the only one who would be acutely aware of the fact that i am an idiot, because sniper wouldn’t frighten me in a way that makes me think i need to be on guard. he and scout would be the only mercs that would not trigger a sense of paranoia in me. he would recognize that and it would be my downfall. i also don’t really make attempts to keep tabs on sniper. he’s a grown ass man, i don’t need to know where he is all the time. he’s a busy guy, he’s got things to do! and i would walk outside and get a clean bullet between the eyes. i wouldn’t see the laser. i rarely see the laser when im actually playing the game. do you know how many times a sniper will dominate me on the servers because i don’t learn the sightlines? if he missed, its a lucky break and not any form of knowledge on my end. i don’t consider myself prey in most cases. leaves me open for more aggressive predators who do. and if i’m the indoor/outdoor house cat, sniper is the panther. i’m a snack. light eats. killing me is volunteer work. target practice before battle, even.

spy: the second spy decides he’s sick of seeing my face i’m done for. it’s just about when he would want to do it. because i would genuinely have no clue about spy’s existence in mann co, his schedule nor his workload, it’s more likely i piss spy off by vibes alone. it’s even more likely he saw i was a furry or something in my internet browsing history and decides that’s enough reason for him. frankly i wouldn’t know that spy even knew i existed until he decides he’s ready for me to disappear. i could probably fight spy off once. and it wouldn’t even be because im a formidable opponent, he just assumed i wouldn’t fight it. which would piss him off. so unless i take the split second opportunity while he’s not giving it his all to completely disarm him, and kill him right then and there within the next split second of reaction time, of which is sisyphean in nature, he’s circling the block and emptying the clip before i’ve recovered from the first attempt on my life. and i’ll tell you right now, my reaction time is like half a second. which is still too slow when spy can pull a trigger or knock me off my guard faster than that.

[autocrats-in-love]

I love your writing so much! Ok I need a prompt of wounded Hero holding dying Villain in their arms after they sacrificed themselves to protect Hero. How they got into that situation is up to you.

Keep up the good work!!! 💜

This user clarified that they wanted a snippet.

A Deadly Revelation

Be warned: stab wounds, heavy bleeding

The hero was no stranger to death. It followed them around. The hero knew they smelled of it from the way animals reacted to their presence. Sometimes, the hero was sure they could see it in the air. So, yes, the hero had watched people die. By their own hands and by others. But it had been a long time since it had affected them. All that changed when the villain pushed the hero out of the attacker’s way. And now the villain’s head was in the hero’s lap. They were bleeding out from a generous stab wound in their abdomen. The hero had taken off their jacket. They were trying to quell the bleeding.

Where had the attacker come from? Where had they run off to? Normally, the hero would have chased them. But tears were blurring their vision as they held the dying villain. When was the last time they cried?

“We have to go to a hospital,” the hero said.

“No,” the villain said. “I can’t. They won’t treat me.”

“Well, I keep sedatives. We have to-”

“No,” the villain said. 

They reached up and touched the hero’s cheek. The hero hadn’t realized they were hyperventilating. Something caught in the hero’s throat at the touch. They kept their hands on the villain’s wound. What was happening? Since when did the villain care about them?

“Why did you save me?” The hero said. 

The villain smiled through the pain. It made the hero sick. “People need you. And you don’t deserve to die.”

“And you do?” 

“We both know I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

The villain rubbed their thumb across the hero’s cheekbone. It took the hero back. They used to be young. They had been antagonizing each other for decades. The villain had always loved to be a nuisance to the hero. Well, ‘nuisance’ was putting it lightly. One could more accurately say that the villain was actively trying to free the hero of their sanity. Yes, the villain always touched the hero like this. But it had always been in mockery. Now, it was painfully sincere. It was for comfort. The hero hated it. They wanted the villain to make fun of them, at least. Anything to make this feel normal. Anything to distract them from this moment.

“Hey,” the villain said.

“Shut up, I’m trying to stop the bleeding,” the hero said.

“It’s okay,” the villain said.

“It’s not okay. You. . you did this for me. For no reason.”

The villain laughed. It looked painful. The blood was starting to soak through the jacket. “Do you really think that?”

The hero didn’t know what the villain was getting at. “Yeah. You don’t owe me anything.”

The villain shook their head. “Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

The hero was shaking now. The villain took their free hand and clamped it over the hero’s. They grunted in pain as it pressed against their wound. The hero knew this wasn’t to help stop the bleeding. This was more comfort. The hero might throw up.

“Yes, you could. Let something happen. It doesn’t matter if I live or die. If I die, it actually makes life easier for you.”

“I would never forgive myself,” the villain said.

The villain’s stare was piercing. Something stirred deep in the hero. Something they had spent a lot of time silencing. The hero looked away. “Just, please, let me take you somewhere.”

“It’s fine. I’ve done what I needed to do.”

The tears dripped down onto the villain’s hand. “No, you haven’t.”

The villain’s grip on the hero’s face tightened. “You know, maybe you're right.”

The hero wiped their eyes with their free hand. They looked back at the villain’s face. There was a shine in their eyes. The hero knew what it meant. They couldn’t find any strength in them to resist. They let the villain guide their face down. The kiss was hot. It tasted heavily of salt. The stirring in the hero exploded across every vein in their body. It stilled their shaking. It warmed them. If only for a moment. 

When the villain gasped and went slack, the hero was ready. They lifted their head. One hand was still on the villain’s bleeding wound. The other was on the villain’s thigh. Pressing a tranquilizer dart into their skin. The hero lifted the villain’s limp body. They tied the jacket under the villain’s waist to keep it in place. Then they gathered the villain up in their arms. They blinked away more tears. Then they steadied themselves and took off as fast as their legs would take them. Maybe the villain was fine with dying. But the hero wasn’t letting them get away that easily. Not when the hero had a debt to them.

[yayamrata]

BLEEDING HEART

Itoshi Rin

summary: rin meets a ghost-like girl mid crash out session

warnings and contents: angst, sibling angst, rin is really sad, rin can’t stand sae, fluff to come?, sae is not a monster.

notes: this is my first time posting my writing on tumblr, the title colour thing took me so long to do but I’m kinda proud of it, I tried to be aesthetic but I should rlly be revising for my exams instead. I had this in my notes app for a while and was writing this to my friend bc she loves rin sm but anyway I wanted to make this a long one shot but I’ll just post this first part anyway, it’s A WRITING DEBUT, this part is like an introduction idk anyways hope u enjoy! I want to write more on tumblr after my exams after the 20th June (originally used to write on wattpad but I’m moving on…)

word count: 3660

“One kind word can warm three winter months.”

The Japanese proverb was well liked amongst its folks, carrying a meaning so self-explanatory, it required only but minimal effort to understand.

What a bunch of lukewarm bullshit.

Rin himself didn’t particularly hate proverbs. They were a good literacy device, and being the ‘old soul’ he was, (a trait acquired from being the kin of his big brother) there were days where these adages were a means of catharsis for the young Itoshi; something that helped him revisit his past feelings of sorrow and rage.

However, this fact did not by any means indicate that he was overly fond of them either.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

It was an English dictum he became familiar with, one he’d come to know from all the restless evenings of studying the universal language. Rin knew better than anyone how the ability to communicate with foreign athletes was a necessary skill when playing on an international level. It was something that had briefly crossed him mind when his big brother had left for Spain.

How must it have been? How did it feel?

A young teen— a child, suddenly thrown in an unknown country, surrounded by unknown strangers who spoke an unknown tongue.

Rin wondered how Sae had managed it, but the boy didn’t dwell on the thought for long. Rin trusted Sae, his big brother. They didn’t need to communicate to empathise with the other. They were brothers who shared the same blood and as a result, were innately gifted with unspoken understanding of one another.

But Rin trusted his big brother.

What the hell had happened in Spain?

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

When Rin had first come across the phrase, his heart soared with delight, swelling so deeply with pride, he thought it may burst at the seams. Sae wasn’t his father, nor his mother.

Sae was his big brother— his nii-chan. And in some peculiar way, his parent.

Sae who always nursed and treated Rin’s cuts and bruises, never berating him for his otherwise troublesome actions, rather, cradling tenderly the hurting heart of his little brother.

Sae who never failed to buy Rin ice cream post games, whether it was a win or a loss, they enjoyed the other’s presence over a cool treat or in silence.

Sae was never absent in Rin’s life. Sae was a constant that promised to always be by the side of his little brother— his baby brother— for as long he lived.

There was a time when Rin had curiously inquired why it was always ice cream and not something else. And Sae, with his blunt, unfriendly, aloof demeanour had mentioned something about how the hormone that led to stress often decreased when people ate something sweet. Rin would absentmindedly nod along to the words of his big brother, whatever Sae said was his gospel, there was no point doubting it. Simply no merit in doing something so unnecessary.

Because Rin knew deeply within his soul, eating ice cream with his big brother was a form of consolation. Sae’s constipated way of consoling him.

So, the plain notion of him having similar characteristics to his big brother, his nii-chan who was the number one nicest in the whole world, and though the thought may much as well be considered a blasphemous act, Rin couldn’t help but drown in the surge of elation that pervaded his psyche.

From then on, Rin had mistakenly, like a fool blissfully nescient of his dooming end, claimed so impetuously that he loved proverbs — this one in particular, the one about apples and trees being the highest in his list of favourites.

But that was before Sae had returned from Spain. Before Rin’s life turned upside down. Before his world flipped over and came crashing down on him. Robustly, heavily, and remorselessly.

And now, eternally cursed with the uncanny resemblance of that wretched man, the mere reflection of himself had him reeling back, a grimace adorned with something in between disgust and fury painting the porcelain of his idyllic visage a hideous hue. Even in his rare expressions, Rin came to the spurning realisation that Sae, his big brother, will forever haunt him.

For as long as Rin lives, Sae, just like he promised, will forever be by his side.

The bygone days when the both were once ‘brothers’, when they both had so much in common will remain forever. Even now, despite that night of snow— the fateful day where nothing would be the same again, despite it all, they will forever share their similarities.

They, however, will never share the same dream again.

The young boy who wanted to be warmly enveloped by his big brother upon the latter’s return will ceaselessly remember the cruel, loathing and disavowing words of his nii-chan — the number one nicest in the whole world.

That night of snow, Rin let himself pitifully accept winter’s sympathy. Nature’s frigid air embosomed him, its hiemal embrace meticulously freezing the warmth that inspirited his heart, not his soul. For that innate kindness would always remain somewhere, unaware of when to resurface.

Rin didn’t avoid its biting presence like he usually would’ve. Usually, there would’ve been no need for the world’s futile affection, not when he solely had his big brother’s.

But— but now, he didn’t even have that anymore. He no longer had his brother’s affection. Not anymore.

“….”

Itoshi Rin hated proverbs.

He hated the English proverb about ‘the apple falling from the tree’. The young teen could no longer remember it correctly, forcing himself to forget something that used to be such a pivotal belief at some point in his life.

But even more so, he particularly hated this one Japanese proverb.

“One kind word can warm three winter months.”

Jaw taut, he blankly peered at the words before him. The aphorism largely painted with black ink on some discolouring banner. Each complex characters in the phrase standing proudly against the other. Every brushstroke meticulous and precise, finely drawn with a degree of sublimity that couldn’t help but draw in Rin’s elusive attention.

Rin hated calligraphy, finding the activity to be arguably the most pointless thing to ever come to existence (totally not because he was shit at it himself). But even an avid, faultfinding, captious critic like himself couldn’t triumph against the human instinct to stop and to admire the oeuvre.

No, he shook his head discontentedly. It wasn’t the penmanship that had him rapt, rather, it was the amalgam of words themselves that had gutted him hard in the stomach.

Chewing the bottom of his lip, he stared- no, glared at the symbols decorating the pennant. Internally nitpicking all the noticeable blemishes of the art piece that hung arrogantly on the railing, no mercy shown against the teen’s strict scrutiny.

And in spite of his pathetic attempts of asserting his dominance against an inanimate piece of decor, the epigram remained unaffected. Rather, it relentlessly glowered back at him. Standing high and smarmy, mocking him and his lukewarm situation.

And Rin, a mortal being, weak and feeble against perennial words, fell victim to its means of catharsis. And possibly at the worst time ever. Why now?! Damn it!

Eyes burning and throat congesting with an unidentified lump of melancholy, he swallowed with struggle and frantically searched for an escape in this foreign building. Desperately yet furtively, his head turned left, right, then left again, then behind him and back to his front, all in search for a glowing green light with a man in a running stance.

An exit. Brows furrowing at the route he need to take to get away from here, go somewhere far away, against the leering eyes of his peers, his legs moved with intent. Hasty and hurried, Rin, an athlete trained to be fast on his feet, stumbled occasionally on air, tripping over memories of the past that clawed at his heart persistently.

Narrowly avoiding all the other students leisurely passing by, he tried to stabilise his ragged breathing. An action he’d come to realise was for naught when it didn’t do much to improve his lousy predicament.

And with no proper haven in mind to rest his haywire heart, Rin was entirely consumed with his frenzied thoughts.

If Sae— if his big brother— if nii-chan had said one, just one kind word to me on that night of snow, would they have kept me warm for three months of winter?

It was something that Rin had frequently ruminated about. But no, instead, Sae, that damn bastard of a shitty brother, had to just go and spout not one, but a myriad of hateful words to him.

Would it have killed him to say something nice? Argh—! No… No! Dammit.. Damn it all! Forget him! Forget everything!

Now, with not one but a plethora of virulent remarks to remember his beloved nii-chan by, how many months will those callous words keep him cold for?

If one kind word can warm up three winter months, how many months will be cold from one unkind word? Definitely more than three since unpleasant information was often always recalled with a greater sense of vividness than pleasant information. And thus, how many more months of cold will Rin have to further endure to be able to finally move on?

I’ve lost count…

The gelidity nipped at the pallor of his skin, dyeing his milky complexion a feverish tint of coral, and if he felt the abrupt drop in temperature now that he was out of the school building, he didn’t let it show in his countenance. (Nonchalant king 🙏)

Perhaps, Rin couldn’t feel the bleak pang from the weather because he’d already been numb long ago from Sae’s unkind words.

“….”

It was however, when a speck of white invaded his peripheral vision that made him conscious of how chilly his surroundings had gotten.

Rin’s bottom lip wobbled, he was shivering from the cold, he told himself, definitely not from inhibiting his tears. And then his eyes swelled with an all too familiar fluid. They were just a reflex response to the incoming debris — the windy snow — he told himself.

Rin hated the snow, he hated how the intricate crystals fell delicately from above. He hated snow more than he hated calligraphy, more than he hated proverbs, but— but definitely not more than he hated his nii-chan.

The celestial precipitation meandered their way down from the blotchy, clusters of deep fluff, an obscure contrast against an even deeper, inky, black abyss. Rin thought momentarily they looked like stars in a night sky, and for an instant they didn’t look like the snow he hated so much.

Albeit the relief was brief.

The pelting of each snowflake was felt with a reverberant pang. And somehow, they had travelled skin deep, pervading their frigid hostility through each fibre of his being. They tugged and teared at his heartstrings, and Rin knew immediately, something— something was not right.

The snow, a physical reminder of his lack of value, will incessantly be there, looming a shadow of fear over his presence.

Rin has become, unnecessary… he knows, more than anyone, he knows best. He’s well aware of his uselessness.

And each year, the snow will return with its firmly fragile appearance, perhaps more vigorously so than the previous year, to cruelly remind him of his depreciating value.

How many years will your unkind words keep me cold for, nii-chan? It’s so cold... Please… stop haunting me nii-chan…

Itoshi Rin, reduced to a human being with no aims, no ambitions, no goals or any purpose, stood still. Unmoving and stiff. Finally, his pathetically pointless trek had come to a stop.

Rin didn’t know. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. He never knew how to live on in solitary.

When he was with Sae, with his big brother, his nii-chan, his evermore, the naive Rin didn’t have to think about anything. He could very well be an airhead with his head hung high up in the clouds and Sae would always there to guide him. Gentle and nurturing. But now, with him gone, no longer by his side like he sworn he’d be, what the hell was Rin supposed to fucking do? He knew nothing besides playing the blissfully ignorant fool.

Subconsciously, the troubled teen surfed through his memories, and like an epiphany an adherent would receive as tribute for their vehement loyalties, a boyish part of his psyche guided his frantic shadow into the solace of solitude.

Just like the phenomenon where a human’s life flashes before their eyes when faced with the threat of death to recall a memory that may help them avoid their demise, Rin, on the verge of tears, remembered a strange rumour he’d heard earlier today when he’d wistfully lingered around the occult club’s stand during today’s high school orientation day.

Something about a haunted field of undying flowers guarded by a restless soul.

Amongst the things he hated, Rin was not against playing horror games or immersing himself in horror movies. It was… a safe way to experience fear, a safe way to relieve nervous tension. Something he had to thank Sae for. Had it not been for him, Rin wondered what he would’ve done in a situation like this.

With possessed steps, Rin had arrived to the place of his sanctuary. A field, abandoned and deserted by its inhabitants lay before his blurry gaze. And there they stood in their full glory.

The infamous blooms rumoured to be standing sempiternal against obstruction of all sort.

With a shaky breath, Rin attempted to compose his lamenting emotions. Trudging closer to the strange flowers, his movements partly calculative with caution and the other impulsive from desperation, he was lead through the dark by the auburn flowers’ ambrosial, fragrant allure. That of which mellowly enveloped him in a serene caress, graciously inviting the angsty teen in to seek refuge in its forsaken glebe.

Rin’s fatigued eyes dilated at the sight that warmly welcomed him with opened arms. Was it aware? He pondered quietly with pursed lips. Was this accursed place conscious of his wish to retreat from mankind’s judgemental gaze?

“….”

Although one would’ve been left in perturbation at this strange event, Rin silently expressed his gratitude. Knees buckling under the pressure of sorrow and appreciation, he crouched down beside the blossoms that would soon become the sole witness of his lament.

With strangled sobs and ceaseless tears, Rin’s back trembled violently. Chest heaving, his heart clamoured against his ribs, snagging painfully at his overburdened lungs.

Why was he shaking so violently? Was it from the fall in temperature? Or was it was from his pathetic weeping? Then again, he was crying because of his nii-chan’s unkind words that have kept him cold for a while. So maybe it was a bit of both.

With a phlegmy sniff, a buried fragment of himself — his childish wonder — urged him to reach for the peculiar flowers. Brows raising slightly in awe, Rin blearily eyed their unusual form and marvelled at their pleasant softness.

The petals, cordate and rufescent, pendulously hung from their slender, arching stems; a whimsical display that resembled the playful parade of nature’s love notes. Swaying daintily in the evening winter breeze, they grew in eerie clusters, beckoning Rin closer into their somber hypnosis.

The boy wilfully listened to their hushed whispers of lost love and longing. He fleetingly contemplated whether he should put them out of their misery. These seldom flowers, continually spoken about with fear and discomfort for their unusual longevity and their inability to wilt, they were technically— they were technically a nuisance much like himself, right?

Rin, having been here today for only a few hours knew that much. Overhearing from others how these flowers were always persistently resistance against seasons they were normally supposed to wither in. If anything, they were closer to being weeds than blossoms of spring…

They were a familiar colour too. The rufous pigments disturbingly familiar to the hue of his hair.

Yeah, these flowers— no, these weeds, should be promptly taken care off. And Rin, he who harboured despairing sentiments of fury like no other, will destroy them. I’ll break them, no…! I’ll tear them to pieces! I’ll pluck them from their roots…! That way, they’ll have no chance of survival!

And in an attempt of self-preservation, to ease the drilling ache that threatened to ingurgitate his sanity, Rin, with a chillingly apathetic expression, grabbed a fistful of them by their lush, dark, fern-like leaves. His other hand, ready to spill blood, reached the guileless petals with malicious intent.

Hoo— hoo.

The velvety corollas, delicate and fragile, naive and innocent, were ruthlessly squeezed to a pulp at the murderous hands of Rin. Knuckles turning white from his unsympathetic clenching, the boy lost his rationality to his turbulent blood-thirst.

Hoo— hooo.

Twisting the lissom stems around his stiff hand, he plucked them slovenly from the moist soil, their roots only partially intact much to his chagrin. He clicked his tongue at the incompetent job, if Sae was here, what would he have to say about this?

Would he call him a lukewarm, tepid— gardener?! A useless, eyesore of a younger brother? A worthless, valueless, unnecessary—!

Determinedly, he dug through the dirt, nails clawing aggressively to search for the remaining roots and once he found it and pulled it out, Rin abruptly flinched when a noise of discomfort — falling in between a gargled groan and a scratchy sigh — reached his ears.

Suddenly, so suddenly, the flower resembling a bleeding heart instantly withered into a smooth pile of dust. The soot-like powder sieved through the gaps between his fingers and disappeared in the early evening gust. Wha… What the hell?!

“Eugh... It hurts..”

Like a culpable fool caught in the act of committing a heinous crime, the hair on Rin’s nape stood upright and unnerved. How the hell did a flower that was rumoured to be undying, wilt so instantaneously?

Flowers didn’t wilt like that right after they were plucked. But, but these were unusual flowers with an even more unusual being as its guardian.

Or was it the other way around..?

With dry eyes and a peeved expression, Rin slowly turned his head towards the source of the earlier sound, breath hitching at the figure that lay serenely on the ground, above the field of eccentric flowers exuding an aroma of ambrosia.

Gawking at the presence with incredulity, Rin’s mouth opened to give this nosey person a piece of his damn mind for having the audacity to sneak up on him during his moments of vulnerability, but his lips awkwardly thinned into a straight line when the words he wished to articulate were lodged in the back of his throat.

“…..”

The unidentified presence, a girl, seemingly close in age to him from her both her youthful appearance and the recognisable school uniform she sported, reposed there almost helplessly. Hair disorderly sprawled over her head in a magisterial halo, Rin observed with a hawk-like stare as her misty hand weakly clenched what he could only assume was her chest in pain.

Straining his ears to follow through with her expected tachypnea, Rin’s blood ran frigid when he was met with flatlining silence. A chill ran up his perturbed spine, cold sweat collecting by his temple as he audibly gulped. Did… did she just die on me?!

Furtively peeking from his vision-obstructing, ebony strands of hair, Rin marvelled at the quaintness of her skin. Stardust freckles illuminated her exposed limbs with a translucent glow under the moonlight rays, his ogling gaze roamed on them for an embarrassingly long time and his face flushed feverish when he caught himself in the indecent act.

Eyes bloodshot, brows furrowed and lips scowling, Rin forced his sight onto her slumbering visage. Her facial features, just like her hands and the freckles on her bare skin, were an eerie cluster of haze, reflecting the moon’s luminescence in an iridescent radiance.

Rin’s ears perked up when he heard her stir awake from her state of dormancy, and hoping to sate his curiosity, he watched with rapt attention as her eyes leisurely fluttered open. The sight of her waking up was strangely absorbing, and Rin’s heartbeat hastened when she turned to look his way. She— she’s alive!

Her squinting gaze remained unfocused as she used her elbows to leverage herself up.

“…..”

The careful walls Rin constructed with upmost forethought, crumbed pathetically when his eyes fell on the blemishes on her face. Discolouration born from her eyes meandered down to her cheeks in teary streaks and died on her pouty lips. That same discolouration was haphazardly smeared all over her palms and fingertips. And like the freckles on her body, these patches gleamed with whimsical opalescence.

When she had finally gotten accustomed to her surroundings, her sight, now firmly planted on Rin, stared blankly. Her mouth gaped in an attempt to speak, but rather than coherent words being sounded, a chocked scream echoed in the deathly silent field.

“Ah- AARGH!!”

“Huh..! Oi, you—“

“I-It’s—! It’s, monster! A monster—! Th-there’s a monster in front of me!!!”

Brow twitching in disbelief, irk markings materialising by his temple, Rin watched with clenched teeth and a deadpan expression as the girl hastily stumbled to her feet, tripping over imaginary obstructions in the midst of her escape to find seclusion in the darkness of the snowy evening.

“….Fucking dumbass,” he insulted under his breath, face scrunching in mild confusion when staring at the flowers that stood undisturbed despite having been carelessly treaded on earlier by the girl. But they were really fragile when I…

He abruptly shook his head to rid his absurd thoughts, the ephemeral snow and the mysterious flowers lone witnesses of his breakdown.

Hoo— hooooooo.

And the owl too, I guess…

@yayamrata please don’t plagiarise, steal, translate, or alter my work in any way, you may like it, reblog it and request for other characters. Uploads will be late bc of my exams.

[kittenisstarstruck]

PART ONE + PART TWO

HOW THEY WOULD REACT IF YOU FELL OFF YOUR SKATEBOARD

Toru Oikawa:

Oikawa was mid-sip of his iced coffee, strolling back from the convenience store with the early evening sun dipping low behind the rooftops, when he saw you.

You were sitting on the curb with your skateboard discarded nearby and your knees… bleeding. Badly. There were scrapes on your palms, dust in your hair, and a furrow in your brows as you winced and stared down at your legs like if you glared hard enough, the pain would retreat.

“___?!”

The sound of your name in his voice—panicked, sharp, laced with more emotion than he usually let show—made your head snap up.

You blinked. “Oikawa—? Oh. Hey.”

He was already crouching in front of you before you could finish that casual greeting. His coffee hit the ground, forgotten. His warm hands hovered over your legs like he was afraid to touch you, eyes wide and full of frantic energy.

“What the hell happened?”

“I, uh… I hit a crack on the sidewalk and went flying,” you muttered, trying to laugh. “I’m fine. Just—”

“You are not fine.” His voice cracked, breath uneven. “Your knees are bleeding, you’re shaking, and you’re sitting here alone like—like this is normal?”

You frowned. “I didn’t want to bother you…”

Oikawa exhaled like you’d punched him in the stomach. “Bother me? Baby, you could call me from the moon and I’d start building a rocket. You think I wouldn’t drop everything for you?”

His voice was softer now, but no less intense. He took your hand—carefully avoiding your scraped palm—and brought it to his chest. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart under his shirt.

“You scared me,” he whispered, brushing his fingers against your temple where a faint bruise was already forming. “God, you scared the hell out of me.”

“…Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” He finally leaned in, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But you do have to let me take care of you.”

And he did.

He walked you home with your arm around his waist, skateboard tucked under one arm like a useless little villain he planned to scold later. He sat you on the bathroom counter, cleaned your wounds with hands that were trembling more than he’d admit, and kissed your cheeks between every bandage like it was the only medicine that mattered.

By the time he was done, your knees were patched, your heart was full, and Oikawa was wrapped around you on the couch, whispering something like:

“You’ve got to be more careful, angel. I already lose my mind when you’re five minutes late. I can’t take seeing you hurt.”

And for once, the drama wasn’t exaggerated. It was just love.

[loveinthevein]

”Sure Ain’t Sweet”

chapter four

A few hours later, John was skating around down by the docks on his skateboard. He needed something to distract him from the thoughts that plagued his mind like a locust swarm. Some of his acquaintances he made over there tried to wave him down and invite him to come hang, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even know he was there. But he did notice Paul. He came to a rough halt, kicking up his skateboard into his hand. He narrowed his eyes at Paul, who was staring at him through the haze of cigarette smoke he blew out.

He then slowly walked over to John, who’s hand unconsciously clenched on the skateboard to try and ground himself. He took a deep breath, Paul stopping mere feet away from him. “John.”

“... Paul.”

The two nodded awkwardly at each other, both of them on bated breath. “How’s it goin’? Ain’t heard from you in a while.”

“Well, I-”

“Eh, come off it. I know why.” Paul shifted his position and cocked his head, letting out a scoff. “I really can’t believe you’re letting our friendship go all jarg over a girl. You barely speak to me now. You haven’t even reached out or tried to- tried to explain yourself after we fought last time. You just don’t care.”

“Piss off. Stop gegging in my business, Paul. Besides, you’re the only one feeling this way. The other lads in our band … they don’t give a rat’s ass!”

“Oh! Oh, sorry John! Sorry I miss my fuckin’ friend! Sorry that I’m upset you’re fuckin’ me over like a whopper and choosing Y/N over me! I- I mean- Am I not your best mate?”

“You are, it’s just-”

“Oh, belt up! Ever since you met Y/N, it just feels like you’ve been driftin’ away from your mates every single day. All you did was blabber about that … that damned judy and-”

“Watch your mouth!”

“Belt up! See? You’re all fuckin’ defensive over her! Even now, all you do is talk about her and half our songs you’re writing are about her– Don’t think I didn’t notice, John! I’m not a knobhead like you! You don’t do anything else but mope about her hating you, and she has good reason to! You’re abandoning me for a fuckin’ girl!

“You? You! I’m abandoning YOU ?! Paul, are you fuckin’ bat?! Why the hell are you actin’ like a jealous meff?! Can I not speak to her? Am I suddenly not allowed to want to be her friend?! You said yourself that you wanted us made up together, and here you are actin’ bloody scally! You’re acting like a fuckin’ meff, Paul!

“You know what, yeah? Fuck you.”

“Pardon?”

“Fuck you, John. You’re a bloody bastard so lovesick for a fuckin’ heffer that you forget you have mates that care about you more than she ever will.” 

John suddenly snapped and socked Paul right in the jaw, which was the starting point to a rough and bloody brawl. The other skaters gathered, some trying to break the two entangled men up as they elbowed and swung at each other and hit some of the other people in the process. Paul was the one who was ripped off of John by a bystander, cursing and shouting with blood seeping out his nose and mouth. John was on the ground, panting and beaten up in the face. His nose and lip were bleeding, his cheek starting to get swollen and his whole face was red. He had cuts on his brow, nose, and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth.

“You’re a fuckin’ meff, John! Fuck you! You bloody no-good fuckin’ bastard!” Paul kicked and shouted, the bystander trying to calm him down even though it was clear it’d be in vain. He broke free of the bystander’s grasp, but stormed off in a pissy fit.

John stumbled to his feet, wiping the blood off his nose as he watched Paul storm down the sidewalk. “Fuckin’ hell.” He picked up his skateboard that was discarded on the floor upside down, stumbling to the pub down the street. After all that, he needed a drink.

He walked inside, and Y/N was sat there at the window table with her friend Marge. Marge was boisterous, waving her hands and laughing as she spoke. Y/N contrasted her energy, silently nodding her head as she listened to Marge’s ramblings about … honestly whatever. Y/N’s eyes immediately snapped to John, and she let out a sharp gasp. “John!”

She bolted up from her seat, tripping on the legs and almost fell down. She hurried over to him, her eyes raking over his battered face and the blood on his shirt. “What the hell happened to you?! You- You look- Who-”

“Relax, Y/N. Come off it. It’s nothing.” John said dismissively, pushing Y/N back a bit. “I just got into a tussle. I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding from your mouth, John!”

“Yeah, that happens when you get bloody socked, Y/N.” John wiped the blood on his lips, and let out a heavy sigh. “... I’m sorry. I- … I just need a moment to myself.” 

Y/N’s breath hitched, a little frown on her face. “John …”

“I’ll explain it to you later.” He turned away and ran his fingers through his hair and went up to the bar, completely dismissing Y/N which, in all truth, kinda stung. Y/N let out a sullen sigh, her hands clenching as she fought back the urge to march up and demand he let her in … but she knew she shouldn’t. She turned away and went back to Marge who was watching with a shocked expression that was frozen on her face.

“What in the bloody hell is going on with you two? Who’s that?” 

“... John.”

“John?! That bastard who plays that racket above your apartment?”

“... Uh, yeah. Yeah, him.” Marge’s expression turned skeptical, raising a brow.

“Yeah … Him …” She repeated, her eyes flicking up and down at Y/N. “What’s changed about ‘im? Clearly he ain’t a nuisance to you no more.”

“What? Sure he is! He’s just as insufferable as he always has been-”

“Sure.” She let out a dry chuckle. “You ain’ barkin’ like a mad dog about him anymore like ya usually do. Usually you’d be bloody heated talkin’ bout that man. Clearly something’s went jarg with that.”

“Please! God forbid I care about a man when he waltzes in beaten to a bloody pulp.” Y/N waved her hand dismissively at the thought, but it was clear Marge was still suspicious about the obvious. The two continued their conversations, but Y/N’s eyes were glued on John who was slumped over the counter with a bezzy in his hand. 

How she wished she could go over there and comfort the poor man. Even though another part of her was burning with a rage at the thought of her doing such. 

John turned over his shoulder, his eyes blank but still had a spark in them that flickered as soon as he met Y/N’s gaze. The two held their gazes for a minute, before Johns lowly turned away. 

Overcome with a strange urge that ate at her like a rabid dog, she surged up from her seat mid-conversation and went over to John. 

“Hey,” she crooned softly, placing her hand on his back. “You okay? Well, obviously not, but I-”

“Yeah. Yeah …” He looked up at her, turning to face her fully. His eyes glanced around the room for a moment, and then he took Y/N’s hands in his. 

“Can you please come over one last time tonight?” He suddenly blurted out. “I … I need you. I need to talk to you. It’s not urgent or anything, I just- I just gotta-”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Of course. Um. When, exactly?”

“Whenever you want. I’ll wait for you as long as I have to.” 

“... O- Okay. That’s sound.”

“Great.” John’s lips curled into a little smile, his eyes flicked down to Y/N’s lips for a brief moment, and his eyes suddenly turned desperate. “Wait. No. As a matter o’ fact,” He suddenly surged to his feet, his eyes suddenly burning with a strange kind of desperation. “Come with me now.”

“But I-”

“Please, Y/N. I really, really want you- Need you.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean! I- i mean I want to talk- Fuckin’ hell, my mind is all fucked right now, I- I just really want to spend some time with you again. I- I want to talk to you. I have things I need to say, like …”

“Like?”

“... I’ll- I’ll only tell you if you come with me.”

“But John, I’m here with my friend.”

“Tell her you’ll see her later. Or would you like me to tell her myself?”

“No, I- I’ll tell her.”

“Sound.” John suddenly began to drag Y/N out of the pub after he tossed his pocket change on the bar, Y/N barely being able to tell her friend goodby as she was dragged out the door. John didn’t turn back, he walked with a raging determination and his grip remained strong as he thundered to the complex. Once they got there, John swung the door open and ushered Y/N in.

“John, what-”

John immediately cut her off, and grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. “Y/N,” He rasped, “Please. Please, tell me you feel it too.”

“What are you talking about-”

“YOU … You know what I’m talking about. How clear do I have to make it to tell you that I need you? That I love you?” John’s eyes widened a bit, and he leaned a bit closer. “Please … Please just tell me. This is eatin’ at me like a fuckin’ dog, Y/N.”

John’s hands snaked up to cup Y/N’s face, forcing her to keep his gaze. “Please. Don’t push me away like you did last time.” 

Y/N took a shoddy breath, the two silent and just staring at each other. John’s breathing suddenly began to spike, and he abruptly ducked down and roughly pressed his lips against Y/N’s in a desperate, pent-up kiss. Y/N let out a soft squeak in the kiss, her hands coming up to grasp at his shoulders … but she didn’t push back. 

She found herself easing into the kiss that increasingly grew more and more passionate after each affarming second went by. John only broke the kiss briefly just to murmur. “So do you love me, Y/N?”

“… Mhm …” 

“Hm?” 

“Yes! …”

John chuckled and pressed his lips back against Y/N’s, his body starting to get too hot to wear the leather jacket he had on. He awkwardly jerked it off of him, letting it fall onto the floor without a single care. All he could focus on was Y/N right now.

God; how he prayed for this moment to come. 

But then a soft knock came at the door. John’s head snapped at the door with both annoyance and confusion. “… Wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”

He backed up from Y/N doing a “stay” motion with his hands, then walked up to the door and looked through the peephole. 

…

“Paul?”

———————————————————————

[hypocritic-trash-baby]

If somehow you haven’t seen by now, while the Super Bowl is being aired, Israel is striking Rafah.

The people of Palestine had been told to go there, they were promised it was safe.

And while this is happening, even though earlier several tags on Palestine were trending, only one or two are now.

I haven’t written any posts personally on Palestine myself. I didn’t feel I had anything to add here aside from reblogging and boosting whatever I can but please. We can’t forget Palestine or its people especially now.

This has gone on too long and gone much much too far MANY times and now is when we need to push harder.

Many of the heads of Western countries are either beating around the bush and wasting time, or outright denying the things the Palestinian people don’t have the privilege to ignore. They don’t have the choice to look away from their pain, or the pain of friends, family, neighbors, their country. And even through all of this they’re still trying their damn hardest just to live. And we all need to listen.

So now, especially if you live in a western country like I do, now we step it up a notch. Now is the time if you haven’t already to read up on Palestinian history. Listen to what the people of Palestine are saying. Hold firm on the boycott like never before. Any and every way you can donate, do it. eSIMs, aid, anything that will reach. Save as much evidence as you can. Videos, articles. Don’t let Zionists pretend all of this never happened.

Even if you think there’s nothing you can do, I’m telling you, keep going. Even if you feel you can only give a little, if we all give a little together it becomes much more.

Hit imperialism where it hurts. In the wallet. Follow the BDS instructions, find protests in your area if you can, boost as much information about Palestine as you can find, call your reps, and do not lose hope. The people of Palestine are not dead. They are holding on even through all this and we all owe it to them to do the same.

A Free Palestine will happen in our lifetimes. But it will be hard fought. So go out there and fight hard! The governments can’t hide from their own people forever. The companies can’t bleed cash forever. The people will win. So push until we do. Do not look away. Free Palestine

[ilovolderman]

Almost Caught

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You sneak out with Bucky for a secret date and almost get caught.

Word Count: 723

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, lying to friends (for romance reasons!)

A/N: this is kind of a sequel to "you said what?" — it’s the same vibe, same chaotic energy, but it can totally be read on its own! just think of it as part of the same soft universe 💕 hope you enjoy this <3

You never thought your most romantic date would start with crawling out of a window and jumping two stories down into Bucky’s arms—right behind the dumpsters.

“I can’t believe this is how we have to go out,” you whisper, pulling your hoodie tighter.

Bucky grins at you, eyes sparkling. “Come on. You love the danger. Sneaking out like spies.”

You roll your eyes— but he’s right. You do kind of love it. Especially when he leans in and kisses you, right there in the alley, his hand cupping your jaw like you’re the best thing he’s ever held.

The two of you walk a few blocks, laughing quietly, until you reach the rooftop of an old bakery. It’s not fancy, but it’s cozy. Your spot. The stars are out tonight, the sky clear and dark, and it feels like something out of a dream.

Bucky opens a bag he brought with him. “Ta-da.”

You peek inside. Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes. From that place you both secretly love, Cheesy Billy’s Burgers, but refuse to tell the team about, because Tony called it culinary war crime once.

You sit side by side, your legs swinging over the edge of the roof. You eat, you talk, and you laugh so hard you almost choke on your soda. Bucky watches you with that soft look of his, like you’re the most important thing in the universe. Like the stars are nice, sure—but not better than you.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “if we didn’t have to sneak around like teenagers—”

“We’d still come here,” you say, nudging his foot with yours. “This is our spot.”

He smiles and leans closer. “Yeah. Our spot.”

And he kisses you. Soft, slow, perfect. The kind that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Then—

You hear voices below. Familiar ones.

“Wait—this is where they get the good fries?” Sam says. “Why have we never been here?”

You both freeze.

You slowly peek over the edge of the roof. Sam and Peter are standing below, staring at the bakery’s glowing sign.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “We’re gonna get caught. On our date night. While eating greasy fries.”

Bucky’s already stuffing fries in his mouth. “I’m not giving these up.”

You stare at him. “Are you serious right now?!”

“I have priorities,” he mumbles around a fry.

You both scramble to hide. Bucky throws his hoodie over your head like a blanket and pulls you into the shadows. You’re both giggling, trying to be quiet. Bucky looks like he’s having the time of his life.

Below, Sam looks up for a second, squinting. “…Did you hear something?”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe a raccoon?”

You whisper, “We are the raccoons.”

Somehow, you manage to escape without being seen.

Back at the compound, breathless and laughing in the hallway, Bucky presses you against the wall and kisses you again.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “I’m buying us disguises.”

“…Like wigs?”

He grins. “I was thinking matching mustaches.”

You snort-laugh so hard, someone passing by stares at you suspiciously.

In the next morning , you’re minding your business in the common room, nursing a coffee, when you hear “Yo, Bucky… since when do you eat at Cheesy Billy’s Burgers?”

Your stomach drops.

You turn just in time to see Sam waving a greasy, crumpled receipt like it’s evidence in a murder case.

“Found this in your jacket pocket, man. Thought you hated that place.”

Bucky blinks. Looks at you. Then back at Sam.

“I… don’t remember going there.”

Classic.

Natasha, from the couch “Wasn’t that the night you said you were doing recon?”

Tony walks in with a mug. “Wait, wait—Bucky Barnes ordered a Double Cheesezilla with extra onion rings and a milkshake. Who are you?”

You’re biting your lip so hard trying not to laugh, you might bleed. Bucky looks at you, then back at them, completely straight-faced.

“Maybe it was Steve’s jacket?” Bucky offers. “Old jacket. Probably Steve.”

Steve, walking by “What?”

“Nothing.” Bucky blurts.

Later, in the hallway, you tackle him into a storage closet and whisper, “You kept the receipt?!”

“You said it was the best burger you’d ever had. I panicked and wanted to remember the order.”

Your heart melts. “You’re unbelievable.”

He shrugs, grinning. “You love me.”

You kiss him, just once. “Unfortunately, yes.”

A/N: i wrote a part 3 about them. if you want to check it out here it is <3

[sceletaflores]

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

[humanjarvis]

forever boy

synopsis: you used to tell caleb everything. so why doesn’t he know about your new tattoos?

tags: fluff to angst to fluff, you get tattoos without telling caleb and he freaks out and you argue, he guilts you into showing him, surprise reveal (guess what the tattoos are), references to the fleet stuff and his bionic arm, caleb has nightmares, pathetic puppy caleb is back, he’s in the doghouse (ha get it) for less than a day, groveling, happy ending word count: 2.3k

a/n: i am proud of this i think. i made up some dates bc idk the timeline in this game. i also have no tattoos if you were wondering. there are allusions to a beloved recent drabble of mine in here can you guess which one

“Get off of me!” you squeal, gasping through chortles as Caleb's fiendish fingers dance over your belly.

“No can do, pips. Tickle monster doesn’t let his victims off that easy.”

He’s had you pinned down on the couch for almost 10 minutes now, poking and prodding at your sides until you’d grown nauseous from laughter. 

But still, Caleb won’t relent. Each time you swat his chest, try to bring your knee up between his legs—cute—he only moves his hands faster. For all the months he’d spent starved for your smile, he’s making up for lost time, he thinks. 

“I’m not…laughing because I’m having fun,” you wheeze, wriggling under him unsuccessfully. “This is basically torture. When I get free…I’m making sure you get a dishonorable discharge.” 

“What?” he smirks down at you. “If this is so torturous, why don’t you just push me off? Waitttt,” he gasps, leaning in conspiratorially. “It can’t be because I’m stronger than you, can it?” 

As his infuriatingly smug, annoyingly handsome face looms over you, Caleb doesn’t realize he’s flown too close to the sun. Before he can react, you capitalize on the opening. Squirming out from beneath him, you take advantage of his surprise and use the momentum to flip him over, your hips now on his waist in a straddle. 

“What were you saying?” you ask sweetly, the triumph in your voice slightly dampened by the way you’re still gulping down oxygen.

“Huh,” he shrugs, voice entirely too cheery for someone who’d just been bested. “I guess I stand corrected. Looks like someone’s been getting their reps in.” 

“Won’t you admit defeat, then, Mr. Monster?” you smirk. And as you lean over him to assert your victory, Caleb can’t help but gawk at the way your lips part, your shirt rides up, your tattoo shines in the warm light of the—Wait. Your tattoo?!?

No matter how many times he blinked, there was no mistaking it. There, right on the side of your once-bare ribcage, lies the prominent, pitch-black ink.

You’re still hovering over him, your light, playful chuckles fanning his face, but they slowly fade out when his muscles go rigid. Perplexed, you follow his gaze down your body until you finally spot your exposed skin, and with the way you go rigid, Caleb can tell an argument is brewing between you. 

The tense silence permeates the air, as if erasing the precious laughter he’d so giddily won from you just moments before. 

Like usual, you break first. You couldn’t stand his silence, you’d said the last time. The way it makes you feel small, like you’ve done something wrong, like you’re in trouble. “So help me God, Caleb, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. Whatever you’re about to say, drop it. You can tickle me until my sides bleed, just—don’t.” 

But Caleb, as much as he loved hearing your voice, wasn’t listening. While you were begging him to drop it, to leave it alone, he was too busy simmering over you doing something so drastic, so permanent to your body without his knowledge—like you didn’t trust him with the information. Didn’t trust him to hold your hand through the pain, to drive you home from the parlor, to wash and treat your tender flesh.

That awful feeling he thought you’d both moved past—had worked so hard to move you past—made him suffocate in his skin. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks lowly, gravel filling his voice. “Were you…hiding it from me?” 

As he rises to lift your shirt and get a clearer view, you intercept his hand in uncompromising resistance. He’d reached for you with his right arm. But somehow, your touch still manages to sting. 

It’s Caleb’s turn to laugh, now, but the sound is hollow. “You won’t even show me,” he chuckles humorlessly. “Not even when I already know.” Firmly, but gently as ever, he lifts you off of him and onto the opposite side of the sofa. 

You scoff at him, and the look of incredulity on your face would cause a less devoted man to back down. “Don’t lecture me about keeping secrets. I have a tattoo, Caleb. You have a double life.” 

“It’s for your own safety that I—”

“Is it for my own safety that you treat me like a child?” 

He pauses, and before he can stop it, he feels his face shift into the mask molded for him against his will. The face—his own, but somehow not—that plagues his nightmares. Cold, unfeeling, uncaring, indomitable.

“You don’t have to trust me anymore. But I’d appreciate it if you said it to my face instead of making me believe you did.” 

He hears the soft gasp that escapes you, but he refuses to look—too consumed by his emotions, too ashamed to face yours. It’s when he turns to leave that he hears your quick footsteps, and almost immediately, you’re whipping him around to look at you.

Your shirt is raised to the base of your sternum. 

And in the warm light of the living room, the soft glow of the summer evening illuminating the streaks on your skin, Caleb sucks in a breath. 

VIII IX MMXLVIII

August 9, 2048. 

The date your lives had changed. The date he’d broken his promise to always be by your side. The date part of him—physical, or something more—had died. 

With a bold, decisive line striking through it.

His eyes dart to the space below. You had another one, he realized. This was the one he’d glimpsed earlier, then—the one that’d made him question your faith in him.

IV XVIII MMXLIX

April 18, 2049. 

The date his life had been revealed to you. The date you’d fought your way back into it. The date your shattered souls had met again and vowed to mend each other. 

This one is different from the last. The numerals are pure. Pristine, clear, unmarred. Unapologetic.

An insidious, deserved pang spreads through his chest. You’d wanted to remember both dates, to etch them into your skin. You’d needed to move past the first. You’d needed to savor the second. 

A space on your sacred body, dedicated to him—to you both. To your tragic end, to your new beginning. Forever. 

“Are you happy now, you jerk?” You seethe, yanking your shirt down and snapping him out of his reverie. 

And as your voice wobbles, Caleb is anything but. 

“Pip-squeak,” he starts hoarsely, feeling anxious bile scald the back of his throat. “I didn’t think…If I’d known….”

“But you didn’t know, Caleb. You didn’t need to know,” you stress. The pained inflections in your voice seem to sync with your steps as you walk to him, your head level with his shuddering chest. “I will bare my soul to you. Happily. When I am good and ready. But forcing me to do it before then? Just so you can convince yourself that I trust you? That gives me all the more reason not to.” 

The bite in your tone numbs him to the way you push past him, shoving his shoulder hard enough to bruise. When you retreat to your bedroom, he hears the sharp click of the door lock and allows a wry grin to cross his face at the irony. And he thought you’d been shutting him out before. 

You wake up with swollen eyes. An uncomfortable reminder of last night’s humiliation. 

With a sigh, you roll your way out of bed, your limbs sore from being hunched in the fetal position for so long. You usually slept with a human-shaped back pillow, but you supposed that arrangement was on pause for the time being. 

You wonder how he’s doing. How he’d spend the night, if he’d left in the middle of it. As much as you hate to think it, you wouldn’t blame him. 

As you exit—or try to exit—your bedroom, though, it seems your worries are unfounded. 

There, slumped against the wooden door, is a sleeping, miserable-looking Caleb. Eyebrows drawn, nose scrunched, hands twitching—he must be having a nightmare.

With a resolute swallow, you push down the pain from the night before and, against your better judgment, prop the door open just enough to slip out. 

Kneeling beside him, you stroke his hair gently and hold his left hand in yours. “Caleb,” you call softly. “Wake up, please.”

At the sound of your voice, his eyes flutter open—slowly, at first, until they focus on you. In an instant, surprise, regret, and a flicker of hope flash across his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tightening his grip on your hand. “I shouldn’t have—even if you hadn’t gotten them for us,” he breathes shakily, “I shouldn’t have pried.”

He’s sitting up now, having pushed himself off the door to get as close to you as you’d allow. The next time he speaks, the rasp in his voice suggests he’d slept about as well as you had. 

“You should…” he begins, swallowing thickly. “You should only tell me your secrets when you’re ready. I’ll wait. I’m lucky to know anything about you at all.”

Your chest constricts, and the ghosts of mortification and unwarranted guilt are the only things stopping you from forgiving him. With a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, you remove your palm from his grasp, pretending not to notice when he chases your touch. “You should stretch your legs.”

The day is slow and awkward.

Your top-floor apartment is sweltering in the summer heat, so you don a loose crop top—it’s not like you have anything to lose anymore—and Caleb tries not to stare at your ribs.

It’s Sunday, the day you usually reserve for chores, and you try to ignore the way he follows you through every room: dusting your bedroom fan, mopping the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathtub while you wipe the counter. It’s a wordless process, but a seamless one—evidently, even a stalemate can’t jeopardize your synchrony. 

He disappears when you’re finishing up, and as you wonder if he’d gotten sick of your anger, the scent of your favorite food wafts through the air. In curiosity, hunger, and abashed dependence—you couldn’t boil an egg without starting a fire—you warily make your way to the kitchen you’d both left spotless. 

It still is, for the most part; the only hint of disturbance is the freshly cooked meal sitting on the island. One plate, one glass, one set of silverware. And Caleb sits in the living room, pretending to busy himself with a diagram, forlornly glancing over to you every few seconds. There if you need him, but not daring to intrude.

It’s nighttime when he tries again. 

You’re reading on the couch, instinctively avoiding the cursed spot from the night before, when Caleb shuffles into the room. In utter dejection, he makes room for himself on the floor between your legs and hugs his knees to his chest. The action tugs at your dwindling resolve, weakened by the care he’d shown you today, and before you know it, you’re running your fingers through his hair. 

He stiffens and relaxes at your touch before leaning back into you, enveloping himself in your embrace. As he presses innocent, lingering kisses to the inside of your knee, you feel the quiet tension in the room begin to build. 

This time, he breaks the silence.

“I never would have imagined those days meant so much to you,” he begins softly. “Wasn’t sure if you thought the first was a blessing in disguise. If you thought the second was some kind of curse.” Your hand falters in his tousled locks, and he exhales shakily. “I was just…surprised, pips. And hurt, I guess. You doin’ something so serious without tellin’ me—it never would’ve happened before,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to guilt trip you into showing me, I just…” 

“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” you whisper, saving him from the struggle of finding the right words. “Not because I don’t trust you. I do, if you can believe it. More than anyone.”

Caleb stills against you, and you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing with a sigh. “I basically saw those numbers in my sleep, at one point,” you chuckle in self-deprecation. “They flashed in my head over, and over, and over—the day I lost you, the day I found you. So I figured the only way to stop it was to carry them with me, always. And when the clarity hit…I thought I was silly. Immature. Like, I had something etched onto my body for you, Caleb. I felt like I was too attached. Too dependent on you.” 

“Is it bad if I say I’d like that?” he quips with a tired smile. “Pip-squeak,” he sighs. “You could never be too attached to me. When I saw those dates—when I realized what they meant,” he swallows, “I wanted to hold you to me ‘til I couldn’t breathe. Wanted to tattoo your tattoos inside my eyelids so I could see them every time I blink,” he jokes, kissing your palm. “That’s too attached, by the way.” 

As you giggle at him—your first in almost 24 hours—he brightens slightly. “I really am sorry for forcing your hand. Makin’ you feel like your only choice was to tell me. But, for the record, those are the least embarrassing tattoos I’ve ever seen. Gideon has one of a monkey, you know.” 

And after you duck your head into his shoulder to stifle your laughter, you haul him up and into your bedroom—no door for a mattress, this time. You’re both due for some much-needed sleep. 

The next day, you stand in front of your bathroom mirror while Caleb hugs you from behind, admiring the inky black lines on your exposed waist. Leaning in to kiss your cheek, he whispers into your ear: “You know, they say rib tattoos hurt a lot. You shouldn’t have had to go through all that alone. Why don’t I get matching ones so we can share the pain?” 

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Thank god someone else sees the potential of remmick’s sub side bc 👀 that man has been looking for connection for centuries - if you were kind to him I think he’d be putty in your hands and it would be glorious. I’d love for you to explore this in your writing - I know you’d kill it and leave me screaming into a pillow haha

Let me be soft with you||Remmick x reader

Summary — remmick has never known an act of kindness in his life until he met you.

Warning smut dom!reader sub!remmick p in v reader rides remmick

Word count—1017

A/n— I LOVE SUB REMMICK AND I NEED MORE

Tagging @abriefnirvana @fuckoffbard

The wind outside howls, brushing dead leaves across the rotting windowsill. The cabin creaks around you—old wood, brittle bones, shadows so thick they feel alive. This place is half-forgotten, sunken into the ribs of the forest like a wound no one wants to reopen. No one comes here. Not anymore.

Not since he made it his own.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet, Remmick can’t look away from you.

You’re warm. Real. Grounded in a way that mocks the rotting walls and the ghost-thick air. You stand there like you belong, unshaken by the stink of old blood or the teeth of the cold. All soft curves, steady breath, and those kind, quiet eyes that haven’t flinched once—not even when you stepped over the threshold and saw him bare-chested, blood-drenched, wild-eyed.

“You should’ve run,” he rasps, back pressed to the wall like he thinks you might burn him. “Should’ve screamed.”

You tilt your head, like you’re studying a puzzle rather than a predator. “Why would I scream? You haven’t hurt me.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers twitch. There’s blood dried like rust across his collarbone, a streak of it trailing down toward the edge of his sternum. The chain around his neck catches the firelight—dull gold, heavy. Worn not for style, but like penance. Like ownership.

“You don’t know what I am,” he growls. There’s something raw under it. Not menace—shame.

“I do.” You step closer, slow and sure. “And I think you’re tired.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

It’s the kind of answer he doesn’t know how to fight. Not judgment. Not fear. Just truth, laid bare between you. And you, offering it so gently he could scream.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he mutters, voice fraying.

“I know.”

You’re right in front of him now. He could reach you. He could snap your neck. Drain you. Feed on you until the blood runs down his chin. But he doesn’t move. His hands stay clenched at his sides, trembling with effort, nails biting into his palms.

You press your palm to his chest.

His dead heart stutters. Not a beat, not life—but something. Recognition. Longing. Ache.

“You don’t scare me, Remmick.”

And something inside him—something old and ruined—breaks.

He doesn’t remember his knees hitting the floor. Doesn’t feel the pain of it. Just the cotton-soft thump of surrender as he folds, head bowed, hands gripping the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His forehead presses into the warmth of your stomach, desperate, reverent.

“Please,” he breathes, voice so quiet it trembles. “Don’t be cruel.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. Your fingers find his hair, slow and soothing, and his whole body shudders like the simple touch is too much. “Let me be soft with you.”

He makes a sound—low, ragged, almost animal. A wounded thing trying not to bleed out in front of you. It tears out of him like a confession. Like a prayer.

You don’t stop. You hold him through it. You let him kneel. You let him need.

“I’m not good,” he says, mouth still pressed to your belly like he’s trying to hide in you. “Not clean. Not… worthy of this.”

“You don’t have to be good,” you say, gentler still. You tug on his hair, tilting his head up until his eyes meet yours—stormy, wide, afraid. “You just have to be mine.”

His breath catches.

God. He wants that.

He wants to belong. To be claimed, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Wants to forget every name he’s ever taken, every throat he’s ever torn open, every night he’s spent drowning in the dark and trying not to feel.

He surges forward, hands sliding up your waist like he’s starving for you—and you let him. You don’t flinch, don’t falter. You hold his face in your hands, and he leans into the touch like it’s holy.

Like you’re holy.

Like if he lets go, he might never find this again.

You guide him to the bed.

He goes willingly, crawling back on the creaking mattress while watching you with wide, desperate eyes. You undress without shame, your full body bathed in the flicker of firelight—and he stares like he’s witnessing a miracle. Not hunger. Worship.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes.

You smile. “You always look at me like that.”

“Because it never stops killing me.”

You climb over him slowly, pressing him down. His breath catches when your thigh settles between his legs, when your weight blankets him. He doesn’t feel crushed. He feels safe.

“Is this okay?” you ask, fingertips brushing his cheek.

He nods, too fast. “Please. I—I don’t want to think. Just tell me what to do.”

You kiss him. He sighs against your lips like he’s never been kissed soft before. Like the world always demanded he take, and you’re the first to give.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, grinding your hips just slightly. His head thumps back. “Just feel.”

He’s already hard beneath you, hips jerking helplessly, chain cold against your chest as you lean in. You drag your lips down his throat, over the metal links, to the spot above his unbeating heart.

When you rock your hips again, he moans.

“You’re so good for me, Remmick,” you whisper. “So sweet like this.”

His eyes flutter shut. “No one’s ever called me sweet.”

“Then they weren’t paying attention.”

You ride him slow, holding his wrists above his head, letting him tremble under you while his thighs shake and his whimpers fall like prayers. The praise is steady, like rain—washing him clean, softening him where he thought he was stone.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re doing so good.”

“You’re mine, baby.”

“Yours,” he gasps, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as his orgasm builds. “Yours, yours, please don’t stop—”

You don’t. You stay with him through the high, through the cries and shudders and pleading. When he comes, he falls apart completely—back arching, mouth falling open in silent reverence, body shaking as you ride him through it, gently coaxing him to give more.

And afterward, when you lower yourself to lay on top of him, he wraps his arms around you like a lifeline.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“You deserve everything,” you whisper back. “Especially this.”

You stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

For once in his long, dark life, Remmick dreams of peace.

[luna-azzurra]

Making a Character Whine in Monologue

I’m a big believer in letting characters bleed quietly. You know, the kind of emotional tension that simmers just under the surface—not the dramatic “I am torn!” speeches. Here’s how I like to sneak internal conflict into my writing without making my characters feel like they belong in a bad soap opera... Have Fun! (｡♥‿♥｡)

╰ Saying the opposite of what they feel. Like insisting they’re fine while gripping a coffee mug like it personally insulted their ancestors.

╰ Pausing before responding to something simple. Because sometimes the silence says “I’m thinking too hard about this” louder than a whole paragraph ever could.

╰ Changing the subject when things get too close to their emotional soft spot. Classic evasion. Bonus points if they pretend it's for someone else’s sake.

╰ Making choices that contradict their stated goals. "I swear I’m over them"—cut to them rerouting an entire road trip to pass by their ex’s hometown.

╰ Being too nice. Yep. People-pleasing? Avoidance in a trench coat.

╰ Fixating on a tiny, irrelevant detail while avoiding the bigger thing. They can’t deal with their grief, but they can definitely spend 12 minutes lining up pens perfectly.

╰ Snapping at someone they trust—then immediately regretting it. Because pain has to leak out somewhere, and it’s usually not in a convenient monologue.

╰ Doing something “just in case,” but obviously hoping for the opposite. Packing a goodbye gift they never plan to give. Writing a message they never send.

╰ Rewriting memories in their head. “It wasn’t that bad. They didn’t mean it. I probably deserved it.” A spiral in slow motion.

╰ Being hyper-aware of how others are reacting to them. Internal conflict often turns into external paranoia: “Did she flinch? Was I too cold? Did he see that?”