#i usually want to talk about how good they are

[mariasont]

Second Helpings - A.H

it started with second helpings and ended with him pinning you against a dressing room wall in navy slacks.

pairings: dad bod hotch x fem!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, public/semi public sex, unprotected sex (dont do it besties), dad bod hotch!!!!!!!, bad language, hand over mouth, partially clothed sex, AFAB reader, stomach kink lol idk what to call it wc: 2.8k

You’re getting kind of smug about it, honestly. Every morning, you watch as Aaron lets out this heavy, performative sigh while trying to coax his shirt buttons into place.

You don’t even attempt to hide your grin anymore.

Because you know what’s behind it — every late night where you fed him second helpings without asking, every caramelized bite he said was too sweet and then finished anyway.

He grumbles, always. About routine, about needing to run more.

But the truth is, he’s gotten soft in the best possible way, and you’re not just proud, you’re thrilled. You did that. You, and the cream sauce.

You feel it every time your arms slide around him from behind, the way your palms sink into the new plushness.

And it’s getting harder and harder not to whisper prayers of thanks into the space between his shoulder blades, not to smile against his back like he’s something you sculpted by hand and left out to rise — golden, perfect, yours.

Though you’re brash in almost every other way — loud with your praise, greedy with your hands, always quick to flirt or tease — this particular compliment you’ve kept carefully tucked away.

You’ll rave about his hair, his face, the way his hands look on a steering wheel, but openly mentioning your delight in his rounded stomach feels embarrassingly intimate. A bit too direct even for your bold tastes. So, your admiration remains quiet, disguised in playful affection and touches, all while hoping he secretly knows just how much you adore this version of him.

Insecurity has never really been his thing, and thank heavens for that. He’s still Aaron Hotchner, after all, entirely too practical and self-assured to obsess over vanity.

He only contains mild irritation about the way his expensive suits pinch in all the wrong places lately. Even with that irritation, convincing him to step foot in one of those swanky boutiques he usually sidesteps took days of sweet-talk, strategic eye-fluttering, and a frankly heroic amount of praise — even though you both know his wallet wouldn’t even notice the difference.

“What do you think of this one?” Aaron asks casually, stepping out of the dressing room with hands smoothing down the front of the jacket.

For a moment, language ceases to exist. Your brain misfires entirely, every thought in your skull vaporized by the sight of him, morphed into fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

It pulls around his thighs, showcasing their new, fuller shape, and cinches at his waist in a manner that borders on temptation incarnate. You, however, are particularly focused on the way his stomach swells over his belt. Your mouth feels dry.

Heat pulses between your hips, your clit throbbing in time with your heartbeat like it knows what it wants. You shift, subtly, like that’ll help. It doesn’t.

“I think,” you manage weakly, “we should definitely buy that one.”

The words sound steady, but inside, you’re a wildfire on stilts. Your smile stays soft and polite, while your hands drag slowly down the front of his chest and sturdy shoulders.

You pretend to inspect the suit’s fit, fingers trailing lower, thumbs dipping just above his waistband, grazing the edge of where belly becomes something even hungrier.

Stretching onto your toes, you press a kiss to Aaron’s cheek and murmur casually, “I knew navy was your color.”

He fidgets with the jacket, running his hands down the sides like maybe it’ll stretch if he asks nicely.

“Still feels a bit snug,” he says, casually, with that little crooked smile. 

It’s barely even a concern, just commentary. Your eyes drop automatically to his waist. You want to tell him snug is good. Snug is perfect. Snug is making you wet. 

But you just hum in response, noncommittal on the surface. Your hands say otherwise. You slip behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You’ve always been a little clingy, sure, but lately, you couldn’t even stop if you wanted to.

You peek your head out from behind his arm, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Well, I happen to think this is your very best look.”

“You do remember,” he says mildly, “that this shopping trip was your idea.” He pauses, his hand settling over yours with casual intimacy, his thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles. “You said I needed suits that fit better. Not… tighter.” His gaze drags over your reflection. “Though I have a good idea why you seem to enjoy them this way.”

Mortification floods through you and the only survival tactic your body can come up with is to disappear.

You duck forward and press your face into the broad expanse of his back, stifling your laughter into the ridge of his spine. 

“Ugh,” you grumble into the fabric of his jacket, voice muffled, “of course you know. You weren’t supposed to notice. That was private.”

He turns slowly in your embrace, smiling softly as he nudges your chin upward with one finger.

“Believe me, I figured it out the first time you cooked for me and looked ready to cry if I didn’t eat dessert. You didn’t exactly hide your intentions.”

You let out a breath that flutters embarrassingly against his throat, forehead still resting against his shoulder.

“...I didn’t think it was that obvious,” you whisper, half-laughing.

He raises a brow. You bury your face again.

“Okay, fine. Maybe I was trying to feed you into submission,” you tease. Then, more seriously, “But… you just look happier, you know? Healthier. Like you’re finally letting yourself enjoy things.” Your voice softens. “You take care of everyone else all the time. I like that you feel safe enough to relax around me. And —” You glance up at him with a grin. “Selfishly, it’s pretty hot.”

Aaron laughs, that rare kind that vibrates low in his chest and through yours. His fingers brush the side of your neck, then tug lightly on your ponytail, just enough to make you tilt your chin.

“You know exactly why I’m happier. You’re the one who’s been determined to spoil me every chance you get.”

You send a silent grateful prayer to whatever benevolent deity governs luxury boutiques, relieved beyond measure that the store is deserted, the salespeople tucked somewhere far out of sight.

Your hand brushes against Aaron’s belt. “You know, it’s taking a lot of self-control not to start spoiling you right here in this dressing room.”

Aaron catches your hand mid-drift and guides it back to the safety of his waist. Still, his eyes spark darker, his voice lowering a shade.

“While I admire your enthusiasm,” he says, “we might need to revisit the rules about public behavior.”

“If I remember correctly, you’re usually willing to negotiate.”

His nostrils flare — subtle, but there — and he leans in a fraction. “Negotiations require proper timing and place.”

You lean in return, close enough for your breath to ghost against his jaw. Your gaze is wide, guileless, the exact look you’ve perfected just for him. He knows it’s a trap. He always knows.

You whisper sweetly, almost pleading, “I’ll be quiet, Aaron. Really quiet.”

His thumb moves slowly over your pulse, and something in his expression stutters — not a full break, but the first, beautiful crack in the glass.

He swallows hard.

“You’re not playing fair.”

You take that as a green light, not a loud one, not even official, but enough.

You grab his hand, pull him into the dressing room, and lock the door. 

Your heart slams into overdrive — giddy and incredulous — because, truthfully, you’d braced yourself for another spectacular defeat.

Getting Aaron to relent in public, even tucked away, feels as hopeless as convincing winter to surrender to spring early. He’s built from impeccable propriety and poise.

Countless times, you’ve prodded at his limits — hotel balconies, late-night drives, even in your own backyard — but with each attempt, you were redirected with affectionate warnings and raised eyebrows.

You glanced upward, immediately snagging on that subtle, guilty amusement taking over his features. It dances at the corners of his lips, a small flame you’ve tirelessly tried to spark into something bigger. 

With the wickedest smile, you keep his gaze locked tight as your fingers tease the edge of your dress, drawing the fabric upward, baring just enough skin to erase any doubt that your intentions are anything of the innocent kind.

“I promise we’ll be quick,” you breathe against his lips, soothing his doubts as you kiss him with a gentle reassurance that still burns brightly in desire. You press into him, heart leaping when you feel the rigid outline pressing insistently against his slacks. “Please, Aaron. I need you now. So, so badly.”

Aaron’s resistance snaps with an almost audible click, his strong hands seizing your thighs as he guides you backward, caging you against the solidity of the wall.

His mouth descends upon your neck in slow kisses, each one melting into your skin like hot wax. His fingers slip underneath your hiked-up dress, grazing across your underwear, now shamefully damp with anticipation.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers in stunned approval, “look how soaked you already are.”

Warmth floods your cheeks, even as you laugh quietly against his shoulder. His surprise would be adorable if you weren’t already half-mad with need. 

“Well, whose fault is that?” you tease, fingers gripping his waist tighter, pulling him close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “Seriously, have you seen yourself lately? Now please, can you just —” you pause, shivering impatiently as you lift your hips, “— get inside me already?”

He laughs under his breath, hands deftly unfastening his pants just enough, leaving his suit otherwise impossibly pristine, as if even now he can’t bear to sacrifice his composure entirely.

“You always get what you want, don’t you?”

An involuntary, choked sound escapes your throat when Aaron pushes forward, plunging into you with one controlled thrust, filling you so completely that it leaves room for nothing else.

The intensity sends electricity through your body, scattering constellations behind your closed eyelids. You clench around him reflexively, relishing how he stretches you.

A distant thought flickers through your mind, laughing at your own foolishness for ever questioning whether convincing him was worth it when he feels so perfect right here, right now.

“Oh god, Aar —” His palm covers your mouth, silencing the needy cry before it can fully form, your voice reduced to a swathed whine beneath his hand.

His eyes glisten with teasing reproach, even as his hips persist their pitiless pace. “Shh,” he scolds, leaning close enough that his lips graze your ear, “I distinctly remember someone promising she’d behave.”

He underscores his sentence with a thrust that leaves you weak-kneed, clasping helplessly against his chest.

Quiet, right, what an outrageous promise that had been. Still, you fight valiantly, teeth gently sinking into his hand to keep your pleas from slipping out. You briefly congratulate yourself on your restraint, but the shaky pride crumbles wholly when his fingertips slide skillfully over your swollen clit, tearing your discipline into ribbons.

You arch into his touch. 

He leans in, chuckling against your temple then leaving a kiss there. 

“You’re adorable when you pretend at subtlety, but I think we both know it’s never been your talent.” Your hold tightens frantically on his lapels, breath fastening sharply. “Maybe next time,” he whispers huskily, “you could spare us both and just tell me outright how much you want this.”

Aaron uncovers your mouth, and the words rush out between panting breaths, completely beyond your management. Your legs cling tighter, wrinkling his suit jacket carelessly.

“Wasn’t supposed to be so — so obvious,” you stammer, mind spinning from the intensity of his thrusts. “But you’re — Aaron, you’re so good like this.”

He seems to anticipate your reaction before you even feel it yourself, his palm clamping firmly over your lips just as his cock slides forward, nudging the spot that makes your vision blur. Your cry hums against calloused skin, back bowing, pressing your chest flush to his as your hips move on their own, greedily seeking more of the blissful sensation only he can offer.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers into your hair, voice roughened by desire but still so delicate. “You’re so incredible, you know that? Always so determined to take care of me, always looking after me. It’s your turn now.”

He thrusts again, bottomless, more purposeful.

“Right now, this is for you.” His voice shakes, strained with sincerity. “My perfect girl. Just let go, this is all yours.”

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, premature and fierce, igniting every nerve in your body until you’re certain you’ll burn right through his touch.

Aaron’s hand absorbs the worst of your moan, but you’re sure the raw sound somehow echoes off the walls regardless. Your body trembles and grips around him, unwilling to let go as endless shocks of pleasure surge enormously through your core. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispers hoarsely, a comforting rasp in your ear, thrusts slowing as he guides you through the aftershocks.

You feel his shudder, his breathing turning uneven, labored, signaling his own approaching release. He presses his face into your hair again, stifling a deep, throaty groan as he surges forward once more, hips snapping sharply, spilling inside you.

Sticky warmth floods your core, leaving you shivering and satisfied. Your thoughts swirl lazily in the aftermath, a dazed smile forming.

You float pleasantly, blissfully aware that all thoughts of propriety, pressed suits, and public decency have completely dissolved — and it feels like perfect freedom.

His hand lifts slowly, freeing your mouth as your breath rushes out in a slightly dizzy laugh, head spinning as you sag back against the wall.

Your smile is dreamy, eyes barely able to focus as you tap lightly at his chest. “Mmm… If anyone asks, it was all your idea.”

“Convenient narrative,” he says dryly, pulling out of you.

The emptiness leaves you instantly unstable, thighs fluttering and a faint, overwhelmed moan tumbling from your lips as you feel his release gradually escaping, trickling down your thighs.

His fingers move, carefully gathering the slick excess dripping down your legs and forcing it back inside you, causing you to gasp sharply. Your thighs spasm uncontrollably.

“Easy,” Aaron says soothingly, pressing kisses against your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart, it’s a lot, but you’ll need to hold it until we’re somewhere more private. Think you can manage?”

You nod hazily, pressing your thighs more firmly around his fingers, stabilizing yourself.

“Yeah — yeah, I think,” you say, “but just keep your hand right there, okay?”

He grins, pulling his hand back. 

“Tempting offer,” he says, pressing his slick-coated fingers to your parted lips. “But let’s start by taking care of this little mess you made, hmm?”

With eyes never leaving him, you offer him a smile, taking his digits into your mouth, savoring the intimacy.

When you release him, you tilt your head, eyes still heavy with contentment, and say, “So… are you keeping the suit?”

“At this point, I think purchasing it is my only decent option,” he murmurs wryly, gesturing pointedly at the unmistakable evidence left behind — his own precum mingled with your wetness staining the crotch area of the slacks.

Your smile grows impish, eyes sparkling lazily as you rise to peck his mouth. “Exactly as planned.”

The sudden, polite knock makes you jump, panic briefly flashing across your features as a voice calls out, “Sir? How’s the fit on that suit? Need assistance?”

Aaron moves before you can even blink, stepping protectively in front of you, shoulders squared defensively toward the door. You bury your face into his chest, heart hammering as you struggle to remain perfectly silent.

“Everything’s fine, thank you. Just making some final adjustments.”

The quiet returns as footsteps fade, leaving you pressed safely into Aaron. Slowly, he lifts your chin, meeting your gaze with tender exasperation, mouth curving softly upward.

“We’re going to get banned from this place,” he says dryly, smoothing your hair back from your flushed face.

“Worth it.” You give him a cheeky smile, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist. “I really do love this look on you, Aaron.”

His gaze softens even further, thumb brushing tenderly along your jawline.

"I know," he whispers, voice deep with meaning, "and that's exactly why I'm buying it."

You stay there there for a second longer than you should, breathing him in. You’re sweaty, flushed, possibly glowing, and he’s just standing there like a man trying to pretend he didn’t just rearrange your insides next to a garment rack.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. He smooths down your dress like that’ll help. It won’t. But he tries anyway. And in the middle of it, you think, yeah, this is definitely the man I’m gonna make lasagna for tonight.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night��his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[invincibledc]

MORE JACKKKKKKKK

⋆˚࿔ 𝑯𝑬’𝑺 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑬 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐎!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

── .✦ Synopsis: At a gala, that Jack had snuck into, he sees a girl trying to throw herself all over what’s his. And that’s his man.

── .✦ Genre: oneshot

── .✦ Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin brother of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

── .✦ Word count: 1,356

Classical music rang through the air, and you stood there not impressed by the usual gala setting your father has made. The same goes for your brother as he just left you to do your own thing as he does his own. Damian and you are the same but in different ways.

You can handle most of the interactions with the people, he can't. Due to the people who had pinched his cheeks and crowded him and you.

He took the most pinching as he pushed you behind him, older brother things of course. Despite all that, it seems that as years went on, and you got older, you saw that most of the adults brought their offspring here. The waiters gave off drinks and even some appetizers.

Okay so maybe the only thing you like about the gala is the food, what? You’re a growing boy. You walked through the talking people, ignoring the slight comments of you being “rude” for interrupting such a nice conversation between adults. But you knew they were just here to gloat about their richness and show up to at least get a little amount of clout of being here.

Either way, you flagged down a waiter, smiling wide as the waiter smiled. The waiter strutted over, “Yes Mr. Wayne?” you pointed to the shrimp, the shrimp was nicely air-fried, just perfect for you.

“Could I have that please?” the waiter nodded, moving their arm towards you for you to grab it. You grabbed it off the plate, your eyes lighting up at the sure crisp texture of the shrimp. And you were so gonna devour this, and maybe get more as the time passes on.

You took the shrimp in your mouth whilst the waiter went off to another person who had flagged them down. While you chewed on the delicious shrimp, you felt a finger tap your shoulder.

Turning your body around, there you see some random girl. She was attractive, sure. But her aura just set you off, you couldn't help but scrunch your nose at the fact of her strong perfume. It wasn't even a good strong but the kind of strong that makes your head spin.

“Hey handsome, what's your name?” she says with a flirty tone, her hand grazing your arm. You reeled your arm back and even took a step back.

Yeah, this may not go well.

—JACK’S POV—

He hummed, strolling through the gala he had certainly snuck into. He isn't stupid to not take off his green hair-sprayed hair, showing off his blonde locks. His blue eyes scanned the room of the gala. He heard, no, he knew you were gonna be here. So why not meet his adorable obsession, his beloved boyfriend?

So here he is, moving slickly through the bodies of people. He saw a tray of delicious small biscuits and snagged a few, grinning like a child, he plopped one into his mouth.

But it seems that it wasn't that good to eat anyway. Coughing at the dry biscuits that tasted like cardboard. He forgot how bland rich people's food can get. He grabbed water off a tray and gulped it down. After that, he dumped the other biscuits into the trash. Yeah never again was he eating any more rich people's food. He moves through the people again.

If there was one person, or at least two he didn't want to see. It would be Jason and Damian. Mostly Jason, Jason just hates him and he hates him back.

Through the crowded people, he couldn't help but have a mischievous grin when he took off a ladies’ diamond watch. It was so quick that the elegant woman didn't notice her 20-grand watch.

“Hehe, suckers,” he says under his breath. He stuffed the watch into his black suit. He continues to stride through the ballroom, and there he finally sees you, his eyes widening with excitement. But that seemed to falter as his eyes darkened, his normal blue eyes seemed to look dark ocean blue.

There he sees a girl touching up on you, you look uncomfortable, trying to move back subtly. But it seems she wasn't taking the hint that she isn't as beautiful as she seems.

—NO ONE POV—

Trying to move back, the girl finally had enough. “Why don't you just touch me? Am I not that beautiful for you?!” she exclaimed.

“Not just that, but disgustingly over touchy.” a raspy voice said, you turned around to meet the boy joker out of his alter-ego. His neat blond hair, his dark expression and his eyes glaring at the girl.

“Ja-jacklyn?” you said shocked to see him here. Before you could further ask how he could even be here, he pulls you to his body. Your back making a complete puzzle to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes trained on the girl who looked more shocked than you.

“What the..” she says, seeing his jack’s hands pressed neatly on your hips, his arms making an X due to how he was holding you around your waist with both arms.

“As you can see, he’s mine, sweetheart. Not something your prissy little hands can try and touch.” Jack had a smile on him, but it didn't dare reach his face. A dark look stayed on his face as he squeezed your body tighter to him.

“So back off,” he says lowly, sending chills to the girl who seemed a little scared at how the boy seemed. Whilst you had chills due to his warmth his breath hit your ear.

The girl scoffed, walking off, her heels clicking as she pushed a waiter out of the way. The girl gained weird looks, but that didn't matter as Jack let you go. Dragging you by your arm and pulling you to a quiet place from the ballroom.

“Jack! Slow down, you’re walking so fast.” Jack ignored your protests, he threw you into a room and closed the door from behind without looking.

Stumbling into the room, you glared at him as you turned to stare at him. However, that glare soon disappeared as you saw how Jack looked. His hair is now messy and his eyes hovered over you like a predator.

“Puddin`, as much as I hate rich people,” struts towards you, chuckling darkly, he reaches over and grabs you to him. Having his warm hand behind your neck as his breath fanned over your lips. “I hate the kind that think they can touch you as if they own you,” he says darkly, his already raspy voice making it seem more low.

You couldn't help but breathe slowly, your body warming up as Jack’s eyes scanned over your face. His dark eyes started to light up a bit, “damn you do look good in that suit.” Jack then kisses your lips gently.

His hands smoothly place themselves onto your hips, and you relax into the kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your bodies pressed together like an enigma. Jack licks the bottom of your lip, smirking as he feels you open your mouth a bit.

“Good boy,” he says before he fully picks you up effortlessly.

“HANDS OFF THE BOY!” yelled a booming voice. You yelped, moving from Jack as Jack himself groaned annoyed. Turning his head to see Jason with Dick by his side. And then there’s Damian with a fork.

“I may not have a knife, but a fork will do.”

“Well shucks,” Jack places you down, running his fingers through his hair before shrugging. “Guess fun’s over,” he smirks before throwing a king’s card down.

Smoke disgorges from the card, covering the room. The boys coughed whilst Jack grabbed your arm, “C'mon! Let's hit the road babe!” he exclaimed with a goofy expression.

After the smoke cleared up, Jason and Damian were after you whilst Dick was still coughing, leaving the room as Tim walked over to him.

“Yeah. I'm done.” Dick says as Tim gave him a glass of water.

“Good to know. I stopped months ago.”

And this was the most entertaining gala night of your life ever.

[l1tw1ck]

Symbiotic Bonding

Bottom!FTM Peter Parker x Top!Masc Reader

🕸️ Word Count: 1,477 🕸️

AFAB Language Used | [Series]

CW: Non-Con, Yandere Peter, Murder (Blood, Mentions of Corpses), Wombfucking, Creampie

Peter blinks a couple times, trying to wake up from what he thinks is a dream.

Blood is splattered all over the floor. Hundreds of glass shards reflect the bright moon outside. Did he kill someone?

Peter whips his head around. His heart drops. A corpse. With markings around their throat. He looks at his hands, it's not his usual suit color. Black and white. He can clearly see the victim’s blood on this suit.

There won't be any evidence he was here. His suit…or whatever he's wearing, won't leave footprints. His mask is intact, no stray hairs to analyze.

He gulps. He needs to figure out what happened. Maybe he passed out while trying to defend them. Peter lets out a shaky breath before leaving.

Peter still can't wrap his head around what happened. He knows that the symbiote you were studying escaped and chose him as its host. You’ve been looking for it but he's scared to tell you. He also knows that the person he killed was someone who worked in your lab. What he can't understand is why. If it happened in the lab or the building itself, he could blame it on the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. But it happened in their home. In a place Peter would never have a reason to enter. He didn't even know their name until a few days ago.

Then it clicks.

They touched you. He assumes the symbiote has some sort of connection to you. Is it capable of having complex thoughts and feelings? Or could it just see you as its caretaker?

Whatever it is, he needs to get rid of it.

“Peter, you’ve been zoning out lately. I know one of your friends went missing so if you need a break, I’ll make sure you get paid time off.”

“What?” He looks at you, bewildered.

“You didn't hear? Flash disappeared without a trace two days ago.”

What could Flash….

“Oh my God.” Peter covers his mouth. A while ago, Flash had a private interview with you. Long before the symbiote was even discovered. It knows his memories.

“You should go home.”

You're right. He needs to focus on getting rid of this thing.

“You're so soft, Peter.” You gently kiss him all over. “And you feel so good.”

Peter moans as you fill him up.

“I’m glad you killed my husband." Your cock pokes his cervix.

Peter wakes up gasping. Another corpse. The corpse of your husband. He didn't even know you were married. You must've kept your ring somewhere safe, that kind of jewelry isn't safe in a lab. But how did the symbiote find out?

His spider senses alert him of your presence. You're never going to forgive him. He tumbles to the ground. His body begins to move on its own, getting him out just before you open the door.

Peter doesn't stick around to watch.

In the morning, an email is sent to the team. Everyone's getting time off. The place can't really function without you and everyone knows it.

No matter how hard or what Peter tries, it won't leave his body. When he's out of the suit, it just…becomes part of his skin. It leaves…a tattoo. He doesn't like to look at it.

He has blood on his hands. He has to tell you. He knows he does.

“Peter…” You let him into your hotel room. There are bags under your eyes. It's his fault. He did this to you and he can't blame the symbiote. He should've told you. “How did you know I was staying here?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Peter frowns. “It’s my fault, Doctor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The symbiote—” He drops to his knees. Strong feelings of arousal overtake him like waves in a storm. He finds himself grabbing your pants, part of the symbiote transfers itself to you. You start to feel what Peter feels too. You know what he wants. What he needs.

You get down and pin him to the floor. Your aggression causes his head to hit the ground too but he can't feel the impact. Your hands move on their own to remove both of your clothes. “Peter-”

He moans your name and spreads his legs, his pussy dripping slick onto the ground. You're both fully aware of what your bodies are doing and you can't stop it.

“What�� what’s going on?” You sound exasperated as your body forces you to penetrate him. Peter can see your pain. He knows how much you hate this. There's nothing he could do to you that's worse than this. It hasn't even been a day since you found your husband's body.

“I’m sorry- I didn't—” He hisses in pain. You're just as big as you were in his dream. “I can't control it-”

As you reach deeper inside him, you start to lose your awareness. You groan with pleasure as your brain removes all memories of your husband and replaces them with ones of Peter. “God…Peter~”

Peter looks at you with confusion.

“You're so fucking sexy.” You slide your thumb around his womb tattoo.

“You- your- your husband-”

“You wanna be my husband, baby?” You smile.

If the symbiote can access memories, it's no surprise that it can alter them.

“I..”

“You're so cute.” You kiss his cheek. “I’ll buy you a ring tomorrow.”

Peter looks at you in fear. He can't get over his guilt. His mouth hangs open once you reach his cervix. He whimpers your name.

“Fuck….I could…” You bite down on your lip.

“Do it.” Peter's mouth moves on its own again.

You bury your face into his shoulder as you thrust inside him. You can hear his adorable voice even better now.

Peter's almost surprised it doesn't hurt. There's nothing normal or realistic about this, it seems reasonable…in this situation. He doesn't understand the symbiote’s obsession with you. Is it amplifying his desire for you or is it acting on its own? He can't tell.

You marvel at the feeling of penetrating his womb. Your horny sounds drown out the guilty and fearful thoughts in Peter’s brain.

It's not a sin to enjoy himself, it's not like he's the symbiote. Does he really have to resist the very thing he's been dreaming about for months? The thing that's drastically increased his masturbation frequency? Maybe the symbiote is just making him act on the desires he was too ashamed of. Maybe he is the bad guy, but…

You shakily moan Peter’s name as you start to fuck him. He can see your excitement painted all over you. If you're feeling good, then isn't that a greenlight? If you're acting like this just from your memory being altered, then technically, you are consenting. Technically.

Peter wraps his arms around you. “More– more~” He moans your name. “It feels so good!”

“I didn't think it'd be possible..” You sloppily thrust into him. “What if I….”

Peter already knows what you're thinking. “Yes~ inside– come inside~!” He already comes at just the thought.

“Peter~” You give his skin a gentle kiss before coming inside him. You pull your head back. “Can I…Can I keep going?”

Peter smirks. He can tell you're still hard. He wraps his legs around your body and sits on top of your lap. He's at the point where he can no longer tell whether it's him or the symbiote in charge. “I wonder how this’ll feel.” He holds onto your shoulders and starts to ride you. “Oh God..” His mouth hangs open. It's even more intense like this.

He picks up the pace, increasing the erotic sounds in the room. If it's not soundproof, you two are gonna have a few complaints. He leans in to kiss you, sealing your relationship with his tongue. He's fully embracing this even though he knows he shouldn't.

You deepen the kiss and grope his body. He moans into your mouth. The two of you come at the same time, cum dribbling out of his pussy.

Peter relaxes his body, his breaths in sync with yours. He soon falls asleep in your arms, finally catching up on all the hours he missed this month.

It's been a week and everything has been completely altered to benefit Peter. He has no idea how but the story of your dead husband was twisted into a false story. Now, reports say your friend who was staying over got caught in the crossfire between criminals. They got into your apartment and used your ‘friend’ as a hostage. Not a single person or website has any information about you ever being married. Although, that'll change once you two set the date.

He knows it's awful and completely contradictory to his beliefs, but he's glad it worked out. He loves you.

[pretentious-blonde]

discovery

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: both you and steve discover some information that really should have remained buried

warnings: therapy, canon stranger things lore, so violence and death, lowkey blackmail???

a/n: i got a distinction on my essay so gets go!! here we are into the story's real drama, where i wanted this to go from the start so sorry if it's a little shorter, but it's only the beginning.

series masterlist

Steve quickly slammed his car door behind him, his nikes hitting the tarmac floor. He was five minutes late and knew his therapist wouldn’t really chastise him—still, the knot in his stomach refused to unravel as he rushed toward the entrance.

He blamed you, in the best possible way, for those extra minutes he’d spent tangled in bed. Your pout had always been impossible to resist.

He’d claimed that he had to see Robin for breakfast the following morning, and he was grateful you never questioned the odd shiftiness in his tone. You had to work the next day, making it the perfect excuse. But the second you looked so disappointed that you couldn’t come along, wanting to pick up the conversations from the other night at the bar, he caved and stayed the night. 

Those big, pleading eyes of yours were gonna be the death of him.

That turned into sharing coffee over the covers, lingering kisses that inched from sweet to teasing, and hush-hush morning bliss under rumpled sheets. Next thing he knew, he was barreling across the car park, hair still mussed from where your fingers had combed through it not even an hour prior.

And now here he was—running past the receptionist without so much as a nod, abandoning their usual routine of morning pleasantries.

He pushed open the familiar door with more force than intended, breath hitching from the sudden stop. Dr Avery was already on his feet, adjusting the sleeves of that soft wool cardigan, the kind that looked completely at odds with the decor. Beneath the bright overhead lighting, the doctor’s polite smile glowed.

“Steve,” he greeted, pleasantly unruffled. “Good to see you.”

He bent forward, hands on his knees like he’d just run a sprint.

“Hey—Hi. Sorry I’m—uh—late. I got… tied up.”

He cringed internally the moment he said it, cheeks colouring at the memory of exactly how he’d been tied up—not literally, but definitely preoccupied. He cleared his throat, straightening up in a way that hopefully didn’t look too sheepish.

“No worries,” the doctor assured him, ushering him inside. “Come on in.”

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound sounding in the empty hallway. The room itself was the same as always: soft yellow lamp in the corner, plush chair facing Dr Avery’s own seat. A bookshelf lined one wall, books stacked neatly with spines that looked barely touched, and not a single family photo anywhere. 

He always found that strange—like it was a stage set rather than a personal space.

He collapsed into the chair, sinking deeper than expected, exhaling a bit too loudly. In the reprieve, he could hear the dull hum of the building’s ventilation.

“Feels like it’s been longer than a month,” he remarked to break the silence, raking a hand through his messy hair. He had made a mental note to smooth it down in the car ride over—though it was probably too late for that.

“That tends to happen when things are changing,” Dr Avery responded smoothly. 

They both knew the significance of the last few sessions. Steve had been talking about you—gushing, would be the more accurate term—and the doctor seemed more than happy to help him navigate this new chapter.

“Yeah, they are—changing, I mean,” his voice trailed off. He felt a small smile growing on his face at the idea of talking about you—like he hasn't done enough of that already. 

“Tell me,” the psychiatrist pressed gently.

He let out a short laugh, rubbing his palms on his thighs. He felt fidgety, like a teenager about to confess a crush. Maybe because that’s exactly what this was—he was still completely infatuated with you. The emotions he felt at the start were almost identical. 

In fact, he would bet now they were even stronger. 

“It’s official now,” he started. “Like, we’re together. We had that talk.”

He tried not to let his mind stray to how that conversation had truly started—hot breath on his neck, you on your knees, the laugh you’d made when he blushed deeper than you’d ever seen. Absolutely not something he needed to share right now. 

Some details were private, no matter how relevant the story may be. 

“That’s great to hear.” Dr Avery’s eyebrows rose fractionally, a small, pleased smile touching his face. “You’ve been hoping for that, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted, his grin turning almost bashful. “I mean—I didn’t expect it to actually work out, but… here we are.”

Here he was. 

His heart thumped harder, excitement and nerves all tangled into one bigger emotion. He laughed awkwardly, brushing at his hair again—a gesture Dr Avery probably recognised as his default anxious habit.

“She’s just… she’s so good,” he went on, losing himself in the new memories. “Like—I just like being around her, which is what it’s supposed to be, right? I dunno. Probably start making her sick of me soon.”

He was practically glued to your hip these days.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Dr Avery said, always encouraging.

“Yeah.” He ducked his head, trying and failing to hide the ghost of a smile. “Hope you’re right on that one.”

The two men paused, letting that optimism breathe. Then Dr Avery clicked his pen, the soft snick loud in the stillness.

“So… how’s the actual relationship going so far?” 

Steve felt his chest tighten as he recalled your shop—cinnamon and old books—and the sparks that flew every time you looked at him. How you still were looking at him. 

“Also good,” he said, automatically grinning. “It’s still early days, but… I introduced her to Rob, which was kind of a big deal.”

He also decided to leave out the rest of the details from that night—once again, that part was just for him. Besides, he didn’t even want to imagine the doctor’s reaction to the way he’d acted. Probably would’ve been thrilled. 

That was some real fucking progress.

“I’m also trying to get better at—y’know—explaining how I’m feeling. I still suck at that sometimes.”

“What makes you say that?” Dr Avery tilted his head, pen hovering over the notebook but not yet touching paper. 

“I mean—it’s not like I’m not trying, which I think she gets.” He takes a moment to figure out the correct way to phrase it. “She’s been really… patient. Wants me to open up more—and, like—I’m getting there? Well, at least I think I’m getting there.”

He felt a flicker of pride in himself. He really was making progress—less flighty, more honest about his struggles, more willing to trust someone with the darker parts. Hell, he was actually sleeping through the night now.

Still had nightmares—sure—but he hadn't felt one coming on in a while. Not one that had him half-cognisant, clutching at whatever was closest to him, not one that made him terrified to open his eyes.

That was when the pen finally met paper. The faint scratch of it felt louder than it should.

“That’s promising, Steve. Really promising.” The elderly man nodded, not looking up from his notes. “So tell me, what else have you two talked about?”

Steve blinked, rummaging mentally through the many conversations you’d shared—movie nights, your favorite authors, those silly debates over what to have for dinner.

“Uh… just stuff. Life stuff. Movies. Books—obviously. I try to keep up, but she’s pretty damn smart—feels like I learn something new every time she opens her mouth.”

The positives of dating a bookworm.

“Anything deeper?” Dr Avery pressed, that same mild tone in place.

Steve felt a sudden unease at the question. 

“I mean—not really.” Self-consciousness twisted in his stomach. “Not like… real real talk. She knows I don’t like to get into it. She’s cool about that.”

For the most part. 

He could practically see Dr Avery’s ears perk. The man never pounced, he just… waited. The pen still hovered. The blank page, waiting to be filled. His throat felt dry.

“Uh…” he continued, shifting in his seat, the silence drawing the words out of him. “I told her a little bit. About my old job, at the mall…”

“Starcourt,” the man clarified, writing something down.

“Yeah. Just that it, you know… burned down.”

“And what else did you share?”

A prickle of defensiveness rose along his spine. The memory of it all—Starcourt, Russians, the Mind Flayer—flashed through his head, but of course he’d never told you the real story.

“That’s it,” he said firmly, crossing his arms slowly. “Just that it happened. She doesn’t know the weird parts.”

He also neglected to mention you’d teased him about the sailor uniform he used to wear, but that was hardly the point. He definitely hadn’t told you about vent-crawling with Dustin and Erica, about the secret lab beneath the food court. 

Those secrets he’d rather bury if he had to.

“Alright.” The pen kept scratching. 

His gaze lingered on the ballpoint gliding across the paper. He felt a creep of discomfort—the same sensation as finding out you were being watched through a camera lens.

“What are you writing?” he asked, voice tighter than he’d intended.

“Just keeping track of progress,” Dr Avery answered lightly, not looking up. “It’s a good sign that you’re opening up.”

“…Yeah, but it feels like I’m being graded or something.”

The man paused, lifted his eyes. He kept that soft, almost paternal smile. 

“I assure you, Steve, there’s no grade. Just documentation.”

Documentation. 

The air felt heavier at the word, a thump of anxiety in Steve’s stomach. He shifted again, foot tapping on the waxy floor.

“You don’t usually write stuff down,” he insisted, voice nearly catching. 

Not like this. 

“This is a new development,” he explained, placid calm in every syllable. “A relationship is a significant emotional step.”

There was no warmth in his voice, no congratulatory tone—just an observation that felt clinical. His palms started to sweat and he curled his hands into fists, pressing them into his knees.

This was strange. 

“She doesn’t know anything,” he said, jaw clenching. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t put her in danger.”

Dr Avery blinked, pen tapping quietly against the pad. 

“Danger?” He repeated, mild as a summer breeze. “Who said anything about danger?”

Steve’s mouth went dry.

“You’re right, of course,” Dr Avery continued, setting the pad aside. “But you see why it’s something we have to monitor. These things, they could have consequences.”

“What do you mean?” he managed, voice rasping.

Dr Avery finally met his eyes, no trace of the earlier, kinder smile. 

“Relationships end. Sometimes amicably. Sometimes not.”

A sharp sensation punched through Steve’s chest. He thought of you, how you were the last person on earth to betray him. His therapist wasn’t entirely wrong about people—he had lost friends and lovers in messy, painful ways before. Though that was years ago, and surely something this big wouldn’t be twisted into a form of vengeance. 

That would be downright cruel.

“You think she’d talk?” he asked, though he already knew the answer in his heart. 

You wouldn’t. You weren’t like that. 

But fear is a nasty thing, and it bloomed in him anyway.

“I think people say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt,” Dr Avery said, leaning back. “And if someone were to repeat details about certain… incidents, we’d have to intervene.”

That word—intervene—landed in his chest like a weight. Vague, but heavy as lead. He clenched his hands tighter, nails biting into his palms.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he repeated, half to reassure himself. “Not really. Just that there was a fire.”

“Good,” Dr Avery replied calmly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Silence stretched, thick and charged. Steve could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. The golden light in the corner lamp seemed too harsh all of a sudden.

“You’ve come a long way,” the doctor added, posture relaxing—almost like he was switching back to his normal, friendly mode of business. “You’re building something here. Stability. A job you care about. A life.”

Steve’s throat constricted. He thought about the second graders who always drew him stick-figure pictures with hearts around them. He thought about the paycheck he needed to keep up his home. He thought about how nice it felt to have you in that space now, in his bed, in his arms.

“I’d hate to see you lose that progress,” Dr Avery said lightly. Almost as if he were discussing the weather.

It took him a moment to register the subtext.

Lose that progress. 

Lose that job. 

Is this a threat?

A chill went up his spine, memories of government men in uniforms from years ago stirring in the back of his mind.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, forcing a tight nod. “No—of course.”

He didn’t stand up. He stayed planted in his seat, but it felt like the floor was tilting beneath him. He dropped his attention to his jeans and started picking at a loose thread, anything to occupy his trembling fingers. 

He knew the session wasn’t over. He couldn’t exactly bolt. He was too polite, and he had to keep going. 

This was supposed to help him. He’d made so much progress. He needed the psychiatrist to sign off on it.

“So,” the older man said with an air of near nonchalance, “is there anything you want to work on with this session?”

He blinked, staring at the pen still perched in the desk. He felt like a turtle retreating into its shell. Something in him just… closed off. Suddenly reluctant to let anybody into his head. 

Outwardly, he only gave a stiff shrug, forcing his knee to stop bouncing. The tension hung in the air, so heavy it nearly choked him, but he managed to keep his face carefully composed. Even if his insides were twisting in knots, he’d learned over time how to mask it—how to fight through the fear.

He cleared his throat, voice coming out quieter than before.

“I—uh… yeah, I guess we could… talk about my… coping strategies.”

As he said it, the spark in his eyes had dimmed, the floodgates of honesty closed a fraction. Right now, the only thing he could focus on was that single, ominous word echoing in his mind.

Intervene.

You push open the heavy wooden doors of the Hawkins Public Library, letting a small gust of morning wind in behind you.

Your scarf feels a little too warm in the heated interior, so you tug it loose as you take a few steps forward. You clutch the strap of your tote, you’d told yourself you’d come just for research, but it’s not exactly your standard brand of casual reading. 

No, you’re here for answers.

Tunnels, national labs, and the unsettling stack of government letters you found tucked away in Steve’s hallway table. Maybe you’re prying, but you can’t let it go. He’s been so cagey, and you care about him too much to ignore the little hints.

Archives first. Some old newspapers, maybe some town records from the 80s, see if there’s anything about that fire at Starcourt Mall. That would be the starting point. 

You mentally rehearse your polite request, even It still sounds weird in your head. You imagine the librarian’s puzzled expression and you debate claiming you’re writing a paper for a local history class. It would make your story more believable than the reality, the one in which you are purposefully going behind your boyfriend's back, digging up his traumatic past in order to settle your own mind…

The more you think about it, the worse it sounds. 

Your steps slow as you notice a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision. Someone stands between two towering shelves in the fiction section. At first, you can’t make out their face—just a short, choppy bob, flannel tied around the waist, black combat boots squeaking softly on the shiny floor. 

You squint. Then it clicks.

Robin?

You halt, your eyebrows arching in surprise. Robin, who was supposed to be at breakfast in the diner across town. Yet here she is, half-hidden behind the 800 Dewey Decimal section, looking anywhere but at you. She’s clutching a book to her chest like she’s trying not to be seen.

Suspicion runs through you, but you brush it aside. This might be nothing. Maybe they had breakfast before, and now she’s just here on her own. Either way, you’re intrigued enough to veer away from the front desk and head in her direction.

The silence of the library only amplifies your footsteps, and you try to be gentle. You don’t want to startle her—but it's too late. She’s already glancing up and sees you approaching. There’s a flash of panic in her eyes as if she’s been caught in the act of something scandalous.

“Hi, stranger,” you say softly, letting a little amused lilt into your voice.

“Oh—hey!” She fails to act surprised, leaning on the shelf feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. You scared me.”

You doubt it. 

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” you say, a friendly smile tugging at your lips. You feel a pang of sympathy for spooking her—she seems wound tight, as though she’s mid-espionage.

She exhales and recovers, offering a slightly awkward hug. You catch the faint scent of peppermint gum and laundry soap clinging to her form. It's oddly comforting.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, pulling away and brushing the hem of her shirt as though trying to smooth her nerves too.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Your tone remains playful. 

You don’t want her to suspect you know about the alleged breakfast meeting with Steve—not yet. Nor your true reasoning for your outing when you're supposed to be at work yourself. 

“Oh, just… browsing,” she says quickly, glancing at the row of books as though they might offer backup for her story. “For books. Y’know—in the library.”

Hmm.

“You do know I sell books for a living, right?”

She flushes, a wash of pink creeping up her neck. 

“Yeah—yeah, I do—sorry.” She clears her throat. “Traitorous impulse.”

“Unforgivable,” you tease, rolling your eyes in mock indignation. 

She laughs, the tension in her posture easing a fraction. But then, almost on reflex, she shifts the book in her hand to her side, like she’s trying to hide the title from view. You notice immediately—part of your job is noticing what titles people pick up or avoid.

“What you got there?” you ask, nodding at the paperback pressed against her thigh.

“What—this? Nothing, really.” Her voice is quick, a little defensive. “Just looking.”

You tilt your head, taking a small step to see the cover. It’s a stylised image with a bold title you recognise. 

“Is that Written on the Body?”

He eyes flick from you to the book. She hesitates, clearly torn between doubling down on her lie or coming clean. 

“...It is.”

Interesting. 

“Jeanette Winterson, right?” You smile, careful to keep your tone nonjudgmental. “That one’s… intense.”

She studies your face, as if checking for any sign of disapproval. 

“You’ve… read it?” She ventures.

“A couple years ago,” you say with a slight shrug. “Borrowed it from a girl I was trying to impress.”

You hope she is catching on to the insinuation. Her guarded posture softens marginally. Eyes sparking with interest, maybe a little relief. 

“Did it work?”

“Nope,” you reply, a wry grin curving your lips. “But I kept the book.”

Her laughter comes easier this time, a huff of amusement that leaves her shoulders looking looser. 

“Steve didn’t tell you?” she asks, the question surprisingly gentle.

“Tell me what?” You tilt your head, though you have a vague idea. 

Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, hugging the paperback closer to her chest. Her voice drops a notch, tinged with vulnerability. 

“That me and Vic… we… y’know.” She swallows, waiting for your reaction.

You’d had your suspicions—maybe even put two and two together when you noticed how often Robin’s name was tied to this mysterious Vicky in Steve’s stories. So you’re not exactly shocked. More like pleased you were right, and also that she trusts you enough to say it out loud.

“No.” You give her a warm smile. “Guess he figured you’d tell me yourself.”

Her relief is palpable, like someone unclenching a fist around her throat. 

“I do trust him. It’s just—” She glances away, exhaling. “He has this thing where he blurts stuff out and then immediately regrets it.” There’s a real fondness in her tone, but also exasperation. “He’s great for the most part—don’t get me wrong—but I’ve learned half of the town’s gossip from what he lets slip after parent-teacher night.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You picture Steve in a little second-grade classroom, animatedly chatting with parents. You can just hear him reciting what their kid had been up to in his company. All big gestures and wide smiles, maybe an occasional detail about other students because he’s that excited to share. 

There’s something endearing in that mental image—Steve with a heart so big it can’t contain all the stories.

You feel guilty for being here in the first place.

“I can so see that,” you say, shrugging off your apprehension. “Does he also keep you up to date on the politics of second grade?”

“Ugh, yes.” She groans good-naturedly. “Who knew eight-year-olds could be such a soap opera? It’s like a never-ending stream of who’s got a crush on who, who fell off the monkey bars and demanded a duel… It’s concerning.”

You chuckle at the idea. It’s a perfect fit for him, actually. Caring for a bunch of hyper little ones, returning home with comedic tales of playground drama. You can practically feel your chest tightening at how well he’s found his calling. 

Peace after a life of trauma. 

Peace that you’re threatening to disrupt.

“Thanks for telling me, though,” you say, gently drawing the conversation back to the reason she’s been acting so secretive in the first place. “Next time, if you want any more queer fiction, you know where to go. Friends and family discount applies.”

Robin brightens, her grip on the book relaxing a little. 

“I might take you up on that,” she says. “I’ve been trying to be… less cagey. It’s easier with people who don’t make it weird.”

You can only imagine what that’s like.

“I’m not going to make it weird,” you promise.

“No, I know.” She nods, glancing at the cover like it’s become a security blanket. “I just—sometimes I still brace for it. Old habits.”

A sympathetic understanding settles over you. You reach out and give her forearm a gentle squeeze. 

“Makes sense.”

She shrugs, but there’s no dismissiveness in it—just acceptance that this is part of her journey.

“For what it’s worth, I think you have great taste in books…” You glance up at her, gauging her reaction. “...And friends.”

Your eyes lock. She knows you’re referencing both Steve and maybe yourself. 

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You too.”

You let her words settle, you feel safe with the validation she’s offering. She’s someone you always sensed was a fiercely loyal friend. She’s been a rock for Steve—maybe she’ll be one for you, too. If the need arises. 

You could see yourself growing to care for her the way your boyfriend does, and with that comes a deeper respect for him too. For her to entrust him with something so personal, she must think extremely highly of him.

A thought nudges at you. The reason you first approached, the clearly false breakfast date. You decide to test the waters, keep it casual in your questioning.

“So… any other plans for the rest of the day?” Your tone is light, only the faintest undercurrent of curiosity so as to not give away your true motive for asking.

She pauses, then lifts the book slightly, as if that explains everything. 

“Nope. Just me and my… well, my lesbian trauma reading.” She flushes faintly, but there’s a playful glint in her eye as she says it.

You both burst into laughter, the sound of which draws a disapproving glance from someone behind the next aisle. You muffle your giggles, pressing your lips together, and she does the same. 

The moment is human—two people letting their guard down. Though this interaction has only left you with more questions. As you calm, you file that little discrepancy away. Robin isn’t meeting Steve. She’s definitely not at any diner right now.

So why would Steve say so?

And if he’s not with Robin…

Where is he actually? 

You watch her leave and force a casual smile as you step up to the librarian’s desk, heart pounding. The woman was in her fifties with neat grey hair and glasses on a chain, she glanced up. Her eyes flick over you, polite but probing.

“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I was wondering if you have any public records or newspaper archives from the eighties? I’m doing a little personal research on the Starcourt Mall fire. Just local history stuff.”

That sounded believable enough. 

She tilts her head, a hint of wariness in the lines around her mouth. 

“That’s not a very cheerful topic.”

“No, but kind of fascinating, right?” A half-laugh slips out, and you shrug. “My boyfriend mentioned it, and I realised I don’t actually know anything about it. Figured it was a pretty big deal.”

At the mention of the fire, the librarian’s gaze switches—like maybe she remembers that day, or at least remembers the number rumours that once engulfed the town. Her expression softens a fraction. 

“You’re looking for newspapers, or…?”

“Newspapers mostly,” you say, pushing your shoulders back in a show of confidence. “But if there’s anything about building permits or public works around the mall site, that’d be amazing. I’m… kind of a nerd for this stuff.”

She studies you, then gives a short nod. Opening a drawer beneath the counter, she removes a heavy iron key and places it in your outstretched hand. Cool metal presses into your palm, and you realise your fingers are a bit sweaty from the tension rising under your skin.

“Archives are down in the basement,” she says. “Back left corner. Bring the key up when you’re done.”

That was easy. 

Relief edges into your chest. 

“Thank you. Really.”

She just nods, returning her attention to something on her computer screen, as though she’s already dismissed you. You turn away and slip the key into your jacket pocket, hyperaware of its weight. A guilty thrill shoots in your stomach—like you’re about to dig up something you absolutely shouldn’t.

The stairs leading down are narrow and creaky, each step sounding with a groan. The air grows noticeably cooler the farther you descend, the scent of cardboard and dust wraps around you. It reminds you of the back corner of your own bookshop—where neglected boxes sometimes wait for sorting, usually with the help of your boyfriend nowadays…

A row of lights hang overhead with a low electric whine. In the gloomy space, time feels distorted, like the clock upstairs doesn’t quite apply here. The silence is thicker than the quiet you’re used to in libraries, completely devoid of another person's presence. You catch your reflection in a dulled metal panel—your eyes look sharp, and there’s a trace of apprehension there too.

You already feel like you don’t belong here. 

You pass rows of metal filing cabinets, their labels faded at the edges. Oversized newspaper folders line one wall, stacked so tall you’d need a stepladder to reach the top. There’s an ancient-looking microfilm reader in the corner, the plastic shell yellowed with age. 

You set your bag down on a rickety wooden table and carefully pull out one of the large bound volumes:

Hawkins Post — 1985.

Seems like a decent enough place to start. 

The cover is cloth, frayed slightly. It’s heavy, so you ease it open, scanning the dates on the top of each page until you land on July of that year.

A headline you have been searching for leaps out on the front page:

“Gas Leak Causes Deadly Explosion at Starcourt Mall — Four Confirmed Dead.”

Your eyes skim the blocky print. The paper is slightly brittle; you take care not to tear it as you turn the pages.

“A faulty gas line and electrical overload are believed to have triggered the explosion…”

“Authorities are urging citizens to remain calm. There is no long-term danger to public safety…”

“We are working closely with federal partners to determine the exact cause…”

You notice the name Police Chief Calvin Powell quoted beneath a photograph of the rubble. The corners of your mouth tighten. 

Federal partners? 

Since when would a run-of-the-mill mall fire require federal aid? Even as an outsider, that strikes you as odd, it’s too formal.

Orchestrated.

The article feels sanitised—curated words like “gas leak,” “electrical overload,” “containment.” No real emotion from the reporter, no heartfelt quotes from eyewitnesses—just a neat, glossy narrative. It sounds almost robotic. 

You lift the edges of the page and shift them gently, scanning for more details or follow-ups. Another small piece catches your eye. In the same volume, just a few pages later, tucked away in a smaller column of the community news section, you see a brief update. It’s dated five days after the initial report.

“Further Details on Mall Fire Unavailable”

Your pulse quickens as you read.

“At the request of federal authorities, the Hawkins Fire Department has declined to comment further on the incident at Starcourt Mall.”

“Residents are advised not to speculate or spread misinformation while the investigation is ongoing.”

The room around you seems to close in, pressing against your ears. The basement feels darker, though the lights haven’t changed.

Well, that just makes no sense. 

The complete lack of information about a fire that massive is absurd. Wouldn’t their first priority be putting the town at ease? There’s a clear warning not to spread details—a red flag if there ever was one. What could possibly be so out of the ordinary here?

No official story, no explanations. Just silence. 

The whole thing reeks of something being buried.

Fuck, Steve. What are you hiding?

Setting the newspaper volume aside, you hunt for anything labeled “Starcourt” among the older building permits and public records, there had to be something more at play here. Eventually, you come across a thick, dust-streaked folder.

“Starcourt Development / Expansion Plans.” 

You tug it free from the shelf, coughing as a small cloud of dust billows around you.

You find folded-up blueprints. The paper is stiff and smudged with dark grease marks at the corners. A quick scan of the top page shows the mall’s recognisable layout—wide corridors for shops, a large food court, loading docks. 

As you peel back the layers, you spot something more:

“STARCOURT COMPLEX — Site Development Plans, 1984”

Arrows and lines scrawl below the main building. Your mouth goes dry. There’s a sub-level beneath the mall. Narrow corridors designated as “ACCESS ROUTES” and “UTILITY” passages. 

Then, In red ink:

"RESTRICTED: NO DIG ZONE — PERMIT WITHHELD (INTL.)"

The corridor extends off the edge of the blueprint, vanishing into a blank expanse of white. Not just under the food court, either—farther, reaching what looks like the edge of the property line, maybe even toward the woods. There’s no note explaining the restriction, just that cryptic note. 

Permit Withheld (INTL.)

International?

Your stomach twists. The rest of the plans look standard—retail square footage, ventilation routes, plumbing grids—but this corridor is… different. 

No dimensions. No annotations. 

Just a thick red stroke and that vague, bureaucratic warning.

The idea that a foreign entity might’ve had pull in the construction of a Midwest shopping mall is equally absurd. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

Whatever this place was built over, someone didn’t want it disturbed. 

Not the city. Not the state. 

Someone else.

The realisation sends your stomach twisting.

Should you even be looking at this?

Your eyes return to that bold, red-ink “NO DIG ZONE.” You can’t help imagining men in suits telling construction crews to skip certain areas, never explaining why.

These pieces of information didn’t explain anything—not even close. If anything, they only raised more questions.

Steve had made it all sound so cryptic, but the papertrail matched his version of the story perfectly. He said he’d stuck his head where it didn’t belong, found something he was never meant to see. 

But how old had he been when it happened? He couldn’t have been more than twenty…

That was young. 

Too young. 

Barely out of high school, probably still figuring out how to do his own laundry—and already carrying something like this.

What had they done to him?

The uneasy feeling inside you still felt unsatisfied, it was clear there is more to this story. If it was this censored, it meant that something big had occurred. Something you were even more desperate to understand. 

You find yourself flipping through folder spines again, now looking for any mention of the next year—1986—scanning for local headlines. Maybe there would be some new information a little further down the line, perhaps a rogue reporter uncovering something new. 

Your fingers land on a battered red folder. Hawkins Post  — 1986. 

What else happened?

You open it up. The first few pages are mundane—ads for local car dealerships, a brief mention of a new pharmacy. You’re about to give up when you catch a bold black headline stamped across a newspaper clipping.

Earthquake Rocks Hawkins: Dozens Missing, Entire Town Evacuated. 

Earthquake? 

Nobody ever mentioned a natural disaster before, something the town was clearly not interested in bringing up if the title is anything to go by. You run your fingertips across the grainy newsprint, reading each line slowly.

“Officials confirmed a natural fault line ruptured beneath Sattler Quarry, leveling several blocks of East Hawkins.”

“Emergency services have reported over 50 injured and multiple fatalities. Residents are advised not to return to the fracture zone.”

A pang tightens in your chest. 

Why did Steve never mention how devastating this was? Or Robin for that matter, she would have been a resident here too. 

“One local student, Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson, identified as prime murder suspect...”

That name. Eddie Munson. Something about seeing it spelled out in official print makes your gut lurch. It’s a snippet, a half-buried footnote. You have no idea how murder tied to this event, but the language feels similar to the Starcourt articles, aimed at stifling real questions. Another big tragedy in Hawkins, another clipped explanation that doesn’t quite add up.

Why was Hawkins the site of so many horrors in such a short span of time?

Your eyes scan the rest of the article. There’s no mention of secret labs or mysterious tunnels—just damage, rescue teams. You see a pattern in the phrasing, residents advised not to speculate. 

Sound familiar? 

You swallow, a metallic taste on your tongue. 

This reads like another cover-up. 

You decide to make a snap decision, folding the clipping into your notebook. This is technically theft—yes—but what choice did you have? 

You didn’t have a camera, nor the time it would take to write out every sentence piece by piece. You also didn’t know if you could access these archives with as much ease next time. This felt like a justified crime considering the circumstances. 

It’s not like anyone’s going to notice.

The next pages in the folder are mostly more coverage—pictures of shattered streets, interviews with sobbing residents. But something near the back catches your eye. 

You find a single, highly redacted document. The black bars are fresh and bold, blocking out entire paragraphs and lines of text. A small logo near the top—smudged and half torn—looks like it might belong to the Department of Energy, or perhaps some other federal agency. 

You gently flatten the page beneath your palm, trying to read what remains.

At first glance, you see only scattered fragments:

“…seismic event registering 7.4… multiple fractures… pattern incongruent with standard tectonic profiles…”

Your breath catches. You skim deeper, eyes darting across the page.

 “…unconfirmed sightings of anomalous flora, potential contamination risk…”

A knot forms in your stomach. 

Anomalous flora? 

What the hell did that even mean?

The silence around you felt suffocating but you couldn’t look away. Your eyes raced across the barely legible text, the dim lighting doing nothing to ease the mental strain as you tried to make sense of it all.

Every fragmented detail added another twist to an already labyrinthine mystery. You pushed on, desperation motivating you as every new discovery felt like another obstacle. 

You see a name repeated in the tiny corner of a clipped paragraph:

“…missing individual: Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson (status: presumed fatality). Further details withheld at request of…”

That name appears again—Munson. 

You glimpse it, a jolt firing through your nerves. He was plastered over that old newspaper article you found not ten minutes ago—the local student turned murderer. The next lines are almost completely blacked out, except for a single snippet:

“…survivors displayed acute stress responses, some presenting with inexplicable wounds or testimony.”

Your temples throb with an uneasy question. 

What happened to these survivors? 

Another black bar covers the rest. Carefully, you tilt the paper toward the meager light, hoping to glean even a faint silhouette of text beneath. 

Nothing.

You flip to the back, where you find a small note pinned with a rusted staple. It’s typed, minimal, and partially redacted, but at least you can make out a few more lines:

“…secondary injuries observed among multiple local residents… site infiltration suspected…”

You feel sweat bead on your temple. 

Site infiltration? 

By who? 

Your gaze drifts down to the final paragraph. Half of it is still blacked out, whole lines swallowed by darkness. You’d just been trying to make sense of it—events, scattered names, pieces of something bigger, something twisted you thought you could piece together into a puzzle with edges.

But then you see it.

Three fragments, set apart by a bullet point, still visible in the wreckage of the page. A name.

And not just any name.

A name you’ve whispered in half-sleep, murmured with laughter through the phone, gasped in the dark like a prayer. A name that’s fallen from your lips with care, with tenderness, with certainty.

And now it’s here. Cold. Formal. 

Clinical.

Filed and formatted between voids of black ink—the same blackness that clouds his mind, the same blank spaces he’s tried so desperately to protect you from.

SUBJECT: HARRINGTON, S.

Status: [REDACTED]

Observed: [REDACTED]

A tremor tears through you. Your eyes snap back to the text. 

Harrington, S.

Steve Harrington.

Steve.

You blink, but it doesn’t change. No matter how much you stare at the page.  

His name. 

Your Steve. 

Buried in more secrets than when you first entered the basement.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen

[rafesweetie]

currently my favorite writer U ARE SO TALENTED 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ goshhh js thinking about rafe locking reader inside the room cause she’s having a tantrum ! :( (lwk that one scene with him and sarah)

aww i adore u!

⋆˙⟡ in which rafe locks you in a room during a tantrum.

rafe wasn’t a difficult man to piss off, per say, but usually he’d just yell at you and maybe punch a wall. arguments would always end in sex from him as an apology, and adding on that, you would apologize easily too. unfortunately, tonight was a bit different.

he’d been following your stomps around the house for a while now. you were crying and he was yelling. all you wanted was a moment to gather your thoughts, but rafe wasn’t having it tonight. he was proactive, he wanted to talk to you right then, force some sense into your mind and get you to apologize for him. it never once crossed his mind that maybe he should calm down and apologize himself.

“rafe, leave me alone, i wanna be alone!” you cry as you rush down the stairs to go back to the living room from the bedroom.

he scoffs, and you can hear his shoes stomping behind you. “stop throwing a fuckin’ tantrum and actually speak to me like a human, then!”

“you never listen!”

that’s his trigger. without a second thought, he grabbed you by the back of your neck as if you were some puppy, making you yelp and cry harder, as he drags you downstairs to the wine cellar. “oh, you want me to fuckin’ listen, huh? yeaah, be a good boyfriend and cave to your every demand? you got it, babe,” he says angrily, obviously sarcastic as he stands in front of the wine cellar with you. “now, you wanna talk, or you want your alone time?”

your eyes are fuzzy with tears, unaware of what his plan is, even though he’s trying to insinuate it. “want alone time,” you cry.

he scoffs and shoves you in the wine cellar, closing the heavy door, locking it, and resting his back against it.

you blink, looking around. there’s a beat of silence where you’re confused and registering what happened, and he’s taking a breath of relief, thinking his plan worked. then it hits, and suddenly you’re worse than before, sobbing and screaming and wiggling the doorknob desperately.

“rafe!” you cry, distressed and nervous. “rafe, let me out!! this isn’t funny!”

he sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “shuuut up, not letting you out until you get a fuckin’ grip, baby,”

“not fair!” you yell, trying to yank on the door. “rafe, let me out! being such a jerk!”

he wants to argue that stupidly innocent insult badly, but he chooses to be quiet so you give up and calm down as well.

the crying goes on for longer than he thought, until you’re coughing and sitting down because you’re so tired from the screams. you’re reduced to nothing but sniffles, and your knees are hugging your chest for some support.

eventually, thank goodness, light floods the room as the door opens. it must’ve been at least half an hour, but it was still too long.

“hey, baby,” rafe sighs, ears admittedly ringing from how loud you were earlier. “how are you?”

you’re quiet, mad at him now. he sits down beside you.

“jesus,” he sighs under his breath. he puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. “had to do it. see how calm you are now, baby?” he waits for a nod from you before continuing. “yeeah, exactly. you wanted alone time so i gave you that, it’s fine, hm?”

“…it was scary,” you admit gently, voice still trembly.

“didn’t know i’d scare you, had to act on impulse to get you nice and quiet,” is his explanation as he starts rubbing your shoulder. he always knows what to say, it seems.

you nod gently, and he stands up. “c’mon, up,” he nods his head, taking your hand. “you ready to talk now?”

“mhm,” you hum softly, shaky legs standing up as rafe steadies you.

he walks you back through the basement, and for the first time, you hear an, “i’m sorry for scaring you,” come out of his mouth.

those five words make you much more at ease to talk and cuddle for the rest of the night, even if he might not of meant them.

taglist🪽— @dearapril @popou61 @suncove @hittmeandtellmeyouremine @dollyfiles @wtfdudesblog @yktayy9669 @nixcyrr @st6ined @girlwhorizzed

[siolixz]

'*•.¸♡ FATHER FIGURE ♡¸.•*'

You finally meet up with Mr Castillo for a date- rain disrupts your plans and he shows you around his apartment. All of a sudden you end up on top of him, I wonder how that happened?

pairing: harry castillo x reader (Lucy's sister)

part1

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

context: just fluff and kissing (dry humping a man old enough to be your father),romcom scenarios, older man x younger woman, everyone is over 18 and fully consenting; words: 4.6k Lemme know if you like it or you don't-I will write a part three with the smut, but I wanted to leave it out of this one for the people that don't want to read that. ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡ couldn't be me tho

The ride back home in his Mercedes was a quiet one, filled with the occasional small talk in the short ride back to Lucy’s apartment, a promise of contact tomorrow left you feeling all warm inside as the streetlights above you painted streaks of gold across the polished dashboard as he drove, an occasional glance from him warming your cheeks.

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you arrived, sad you had to go but excited for what tomorrow might bring. You wanted to kiss his cheek and say ‘thank you’- like in the movies, but any close contact with this man might’ve made you lose your grip on reality, almost like you couldn’t function properly. Harry took a deep breath, ‘Please say something’, you thought.

“I really enjoyed that.” he leaned back on the driver's seat, trying to take all of you in.

“Me too, you really saved me tonight.”

-

Lucy was sitting on the couch, talking on the phone with an all-too-familiar voice as you entered the apartment and closed the door behind you.

“Your daughter’s back.”

“Hi baby!” your mom enthusiastically called out for you, and after you took your shoes off you joined them. “How are you? Lucy told me you went on a date tonight. How did it go, honey?”

“Good, he stood me up.” You sat on the couch.

Lucy gasped next to you “What?”

“He did. But I bumped- well, he bumped more into me- on another man from the wedding we went to.” 

“What an asshole,” your mom sighed.

Lucy mouthed the name ‘Harry’ towards you and you nodded your head at her while smiling. 

“But don’t worry mom, I had a lot of fun tonight, I’m glad the other guy didn’t show up.” you got up to have a shower and change into your pjs. “I’ll text you tomorrow, ok?” 

“Sure. Good night baby.” 

Your sister shook her head at you as you made your way towards the bedroom. You knew she was very curious to hear what happened, but that will have to wait. 

You smiled to yourself as you closed the bedroom door.

-

The next morning she basically assaulted you with questions as you drank your coffee on the couch next to her. The soft morning light from outside casting an embrace over the living room table.

 As you continued the story you could feel her get more and more excited, as Lucy usually got whenever you would tell her about a crush or an encounter with the opposite sex. She sat on the edge of the couch and listened to every little detail as she could share in your sentiments towards the older man as only a woman could. 

She took a sip of coffee after you finished the story and told you:

“I am happy for you. Really, I am.” 

You placed your feet on the couch.

“But..” 

“But what?” you stopped yourself from taking a sip of coffee.

“But as an older sister- I have to tell you to be careful, ok?” 

You stared at her, urging her to continue.

“Harry. How old is he?”

Alright, you left that part out, so what? She wouldn’t understand you couldn’t care less how old he was, on the contrary, you liked him even more because of his age.

She called out your name, “How old is he?” her eyes widened a bit, bracing for the impact of what you were going to say.

“He’s 40.” you said, reluctantly.

“Don’t make me look him up.” 

She always knew when you were lying. 

“He’s 49.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them. “Oh my God.”

“Lucy, don’t make a big deal of this. He was incredibly nice to me and totally ok with me never seeing him again If i didn’t take the news well. I don’t care, really.” You took a sip of coffee after you told her. Showing her how easily you took the news will alleviate her worries, surely.

“It’s not about caring or not caring. I’m the last person to judge you, and I want you to have fun and be happy. I just want you to be careful.” 

“Careful about what? He likes me and he made that pretty clear.” 

“Of course he did, he made it pretty clear at the wedding too.” Don’t blush now. “I don’t want you to get love bombed by this man and then get hurt. A man his age, single? I know people, I work with these sorts of people all the time-”

“Trust me, I’m careful.” you took a look at your phone.

“Very careful. Please.” 

You nodded.

“He is very handsome, I will give you that. Even if he is half a century old.”She muttered.

Your phone started to ring. Unknown number. Your heart raced. You looked at Lucy, your stomach dropping, and answered.

Harry.

“Hello Harry” you said, recognizing his voice immediately.

 It was a date then, a real one. Suddenly he stopped being so foreign and so scary after last night, you felt as if you regained your confidence after you spoke to him on the phone.

After a quick shower and knowing smiles from Lucy, you stared at the ‘I’m outside’ text, your heart beating miles per hour. 

Ok, no biggie, you’ve hung out with boys before, you knew how this went. So why are you so shy and nervous?

He’s just a guy. 

You braced for the impact of seeing him as you exited the apartment, your sister's words of ‘text me’ or whatever else she was saying as you left completely blurred in your mind as you stepped into the warm spring air outside. 

People were walking down the street and chatting but your eyes fixated immediately on the handsome man waiting next to his car. 

Ok, maybe he’s more than just a guy.

 He smiled at you as he saw you and immediately you felt as if walking was a skill you recently gained. 

Greeting each other, he turned his body around towards the back seats of the car “I have something for you.” 

He got you roses, of course he did. A gorgeous bouquet of red roses. Your knees felt like gelatin as you picked them from his hands. 

“Thank you, they are so beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”You hoped he didn't notice your shaking hands as you took in the velvet petals sprinkled with small droplets of water.

“Nonsense, of course I had to.” 

You couldn’t help but stare at him, at the wheel, so expertly moving around chaotic New York, two people almost rammed into you, much to your amusement as he cursed. He wouldn’t say where you would be going, and you hoped your floral knee-high dress was appropriate..He'd said it was pretty, so that was enough for you. 

He smiled at you in his perfectly ironed cashmere buttoned up shirt. His beard suited his bronzed face perfectly and his hair looked so soft- soft like your bed after a long day. 

“Can we go walking today?” 

“Of course, we can do anything you want.” He gave you a quick glance and smile as he turned the steering wheel to the right.

-

“I’ve been waiting to come here, it opened a few days ago.”

The café buzzed with the low hum of conversations and the soft sounds of a song being played on the speakers. It smelled of coffee and pastries inside making you feel like you were back home. The plush blue seats of the booth you sat at were very comfortable and the soft almost unnoticeable glow from the round lights above, shaped like many suns inspired an impossibly cozy atmosphere.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” He leaned down a bit towards your eye level, searching your eyes with his brown ones. 

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine.” 

This place didn't even have prices on the menu! 

Last night all you did was talk, now it was his turn. 

“You’ve never told me, what do you do?”

He chuckled as you asked that. What the hell was so funny? 

“I do a little bit of here and there.” He looked away for a second and then back at you, putting his fist under his head as he did the first time you met him. 

You couldn’t help but raise your eyebrows at that statement. “What do you mean? Are you a freelancer or something?”

“Something like that.” He shrugged. Ok, so he wanted to play games.

“You look like a freelancer.” 

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Here you go sir.” The waitress brought you two the drinks and then left shortly after you thanked her.

You shrugged under his gaze and grabbed the pink lemonade in front of you. “Sometimes, I think drinking from the straw makes it taste so much better, sometimes not” you took a sip. 

“I wish I had the same problems as you.” You two laughed as he opened the sugar packet next to his coffee. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You don’t have to ask me if you can ask me something, just do.” He didn't look at you as he stirred the sugar and you had a moment to look at his big hands next to the small espresso cup, wondering if you would actually ask him this.

“Why me?” You leaned back on the plush blue seat of the booth connecting you both.

“Why you?” He squinted his eyes at you, you had no idea if he can’t see that well or if he’s just trying to decipher your question. 

“Yes, why me. There were so many pretty women that night and you came up to me.” You turned the big glass of lemonade in your hand a bit as you asked that.

He looked at his drink then back at you, smiling: “I saw no other pretty women that night.” You never thought your name would sound so good as when he said it and you placed aside the bad illusions you had that he might’ve left with someone else.

“Still, why me?” You liked hearing things twice, maybe in greater detail if he could.

“I’ve always thought that there are no such things like coincidences and-” he smirked at you, “green’s my favourite color.” 

You stared at each other as words completely evaded you in that moment. 

His brown eyes softened when he looked at you and you wondered what his beard would feel like under your fingers. 

“Can I try that?” he gestured towards your lemonade.

You asked him about his life, about his passions and his past as well. He didn’t go into great detail but it was a beginning as he probably found it hard to open up, but you will change that, you were sure.

“My sister warned me about you,”

“Did she now?” he looked at you after he took a sip of coffee. 

“Yeah, she said that I should be careful.”

“That's good, she’s looking out for you.” He smiled at you with his eyes, completely confident in his own intentions regarding you. 

He took a deep breath and said: “When I was your age I wanted to study Psychology too, but my parents wanted me to go to law school. I admire you for being able to follow your passion.”

He was admiring you, he was admiring you!

“Oh, thank you.” 

By the time the lemonade was done, rain started pouring down and you saw people rush to cover outside. There would be no walk outside today it seems. Harry told you that you could go back to his place, as he had a collection of books he wanted to show you-

-

That’s all you had to hear before you were staring at the apartment complex reaching towards heaven itself from down below. 

Was going to a stranger's house that good of an idea? 

Would your sister be mad at you for doing this? 

Yes, kinda, kinda really mad. But you were a grown woman and you knew he wasn’t going to try anything. Well, maybe he could try some things.

“Hello, Mr Castillo.” the concierge greeted him as you walked towards a separate pair of elevators. 

How much was the rent here? You knew your sister was paying a lot of money for her apartment. Rent here must be astronomical.

“How much is the rent here?” You stared at him as he pressed his key against the door and the elevator button.

“I don’t know, I own.”  He came next to you again and pressed his back towards the elevator, adopting your position.

-

The walls of his house must’ve been 8 feet tall with a sprawling panorama of the city from down below- you don’t think you’ve ever been this high before. 

The furniture was a light wood color and while the walls were littered with art pieces which you couldn’t understand, the house had a cosy feel to it, regardless of the almost titanic size of the penthouse. You must’ve been in a trance as you found yourself staring at the city right next to the window. 

“How beautiful.” you took a deep breath as you looked in front of you. 

“I had the same reaction when I looked at this apartment the first time.” Harry was focused on pulling books out of the almost library he had next to the huge couches in the living room. 

You tore your eyes away from New York as you looked at him, with his back turned towards you. He picked a red book from one of the upper shelves, then a smaller one from the one below. 

“I want you to look at these, you can take them if you want, I’ve already read them.” He shuffled the books on the coffee table as you came closer to him. He smelled of amber and the casual woody fragrance men’s cologne usually has, the silver streaks in his hair and occasionally his beard left you feeling like you couldn’t get enough of looking at him. 

Last thing on your mind right now were the books. 

“Let me get my glasses.” He left you for a short while as you sat down on the couch and examined the books he chose for you.

A weight settled on your right as he joined you again, black rimmed glasses placed on his nose, which somehow made him look even more handsome. He explained each book to you, how he felt about each of them and how he thought you might like them. 

Did he think about these sorts of things before he invited you here?

You eventually settled that you were going to take one of the books, but he basically forced you to take all 5. He said that they were only going to collect dust in his apartment, that he didn’t have time to re-read them and that you should take them. 

A low grumble from your stomach broke through your conversation as a reminder that you haven’t eaten anything today. 

Harry told you that you should decide what you two should eat as he placed the books one over the other and leaned back on the couch next to you, hand on the armrest behind your head.

-

Takeout it was as some warm noodles cooked to perfection and some spring rolls would fit right in with the rainy weather outside. He ordered the food and while you spoke about movies on the couch, the food arrived and you followed him to the kitchen. 

You truly tried not to feel as if you were in a museum as you sat down on one of the chairs next to the island he had in there. He sat right next to you, opening the big bag of warm goodness. 

You two made small talk regarding the food, how good it was and how you recently re-learned how to eat with chopsticks. 

You stared at the big window next to the kitchen at the droplets of rain splattered again and again on it and told him:

“You’re not a freelancer.”

With a mouth full and a smile, he shook his head ‘no’, and placed his glasses on the table next to him. He had a curl on his forehead. 

“Somedays I wish I was.”

Your phone beeped, no doubt a notification from your sister.

-

You had the chance to look at the house in more detail as he gave you a tour of it, he showed you his collection of expensive art pieces and you laughed as he told you you look like one of the women in his paintings. As the rain stopped, you and Harry stepped on to the balcony for some fresh air and for you to see the beautiful view he was so accustomed to.

The weather definitely got colder outside but Harry brought you one of the wool blankets on a chair as you sat down on the couch overlooking the city. Who knows when’s the next time you’re going to see something like this? He grabbed a lighter and started the small fireplace surrounded by glass on the coffee table in front of you.  The sun was still gleaming on the horizon, painting pink, yellow and orange streaks of hue between the skyscrapers of New York and pushing its light on Harry’s brown hair from his place next to you.

You knew that it was a good time as any to ask him some important questions, the real important questions. 

“Please don’t get angry at me for asking this-” you hugged the blanket closer to your chest as the wind blew and moved the handsome man’s curled hair in an almost cinematic way. The smell of fresh rain in the air filled your nostrils which combined with the smell of his cologne almost made you sigh in olfactive pleasure. “- but why are you single?”

There were no people to disturb you two this time, no journey to end the conversation early.

He looked at you : “I was afraid, I think. Afraid and I have a tendency to believe the worst, I suppose it comes with age. ” He turned his body towards you and put the side of his left leg on the couch to sit more comfortably.

“You believe the worst?” 

“I do, I’ve been hurt before, and I was afraid.”

“What happened?” you looked up at him, curiosity filled you up and you wanted to hear more.

“I loved someone, a long time ago, when I was about your age. If not a bit older” he paused, “and she must’ve thought i wasn’t good enough, so she started seeing someone else- whilst being with me.”

“Oh,”

“It went on for a very long time, and I was devastated when I found out, I mean I felt like I was living a lie.” He gestured with his hands as if to convey to you his feelings back then “Me and her are friends today but I promise you, the way it made me feel, I still can’t shake off that feeling. I think it haunted me my whole life,” his brown eyes looked at your lips then back into your own eyes.

“I wanted to be number one and I was actually number two in her eyes, if even that. My only escape was work so I focused entirely on that until I felt like passing out by the end of each day. This went on for years. I got addicted to working and completely ignoring the aspects of my life that included any sort of relationships.”

Wanting to bring more light to the situation, you asked him: “Do you like being number one?” 

“Yes,” he gave you a smile, “that’s why I live in this apartment. But it means nothing If I don’t have anybody to share it with. After work I want to talk to someone, laugh with someone and there’s no one here for me. I woke up one day and I turned 30, then 40 and now I am almost 50 years old.” he whispered to you.

“You know, when you get to be my age, you realize the world has moved on- to some degree, away from you. At least that’s how I felt. All the time people congratulate me and say I accomplished so much in life but I look behind and all I can see is a sad man.”

“So what changed now?” You tried to meet his gaze, overjoyed at hearing this intelligent man’s wise words and life story.

“I went to this therapist- she told me that I should stop self-sabotaging myself and I realised I might be more sensitive than I thought” The sound of an ambulance from down below broke his eye contact with the armrest behind you as he now looked across the balcony, towards the horizon.

“When I’ll know, I’ll know. You can only be so sure as your mind makes you about someone.” 

“What makes you so sure about me?” You laughed as he met your eyes again. You almost felt small as he stared at you, thinking. 

“My instincts are usually right.” He smiled at you as the curve of his cheek pressed against the knuckles holding his head upright.  “Even if you’re very young.”

“I’m old enough.” you finally spoke up, wanting to defend yourself and your affections towards him.

“Old enough for what?”

He smiled as he asked you that, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. Harry liked joking around and playful banter between you two seemed to bring you so much more closer to one another. But this was downright torture.

You couldn’t help the smile from spreading across your face at hearing this question, how could he ask something like this? Old enough for you!

As you slightly touched the older man’s knee with yours did you realise how close you were to one another, did you move closer or did he? Well, it was getting colder outside and the small fire in front of you did almost nothing to shelter you.

Something else could bring warmth too. A gentle silence overtook you both as you looked at him. Both embarrassed at yourself and excited. The butterflies in your stomach were almost ignored for the way your heart was beating out of your chest, but regardless of that you never felt more sure of the moment you were living right now.

You felt him look at your lips quickly, debating if he was going to do this and saw him close the distance, a tiny bit at first. His eyes asking you questions words couldn’t pronounce, for now.

Your mind must’ve reminded you to close your eyes as you felt his lips press against yours. The warm feeling of his big hand on the side of your neck holding you in place provided a momentary comfort from the wind blowing outside.

His lips let yours go for a short while as he came even closer to you and brought his arm across your body, almost pushing you closer to him but not daring too much. He was almost like a wall next to you and you felt like all your joints forgot how to move as you tried to press your lips against his.

Your cheeks were on fire and all the cold outside seemed to be the least of your worries as he grabbed your arms and placed them across his body. Harry’s kisses seemed to be of a long lost lover’s in their desperation for yours, like he’s been waiting for this for a long time.

The city lights winked at you in the background, a silent audience to your intimate moment and the loud sounds of the city below faded into nothingness as you were so focused on him and him on you.

The most rational part of your mind told you to take it easy, ‘be more careful’ as your sister would say, but he was intelligent, wise and so, so handsome, ‘being careful’ was the least of your worries right now as he grabbed your upper lip with his own warm lips.

He broke the kiss off to press his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. You wanted to kiss him again, have him push you against him as he did before. 

“I shouldn’t have done that.” he whispered in your face.

You laughed at him, more like giggled with excitement at the fact you were kissing him. 

You were kissing him! 

This handsome man, with his beard and his beautiful curls was kissing you. You wanted him to grab you again like he did before, ‘please do that again’. Here, way above the people down below you- you felt comfortable and safe in this stranger's arms. What would Lucy say? Thinking about that too much would only make you laugh.

You sighed as you pressed your lips against his again and you noticed how your kiss was more intense than his unsure one- coupled with your juvenile desperation for him and the almost intoxicating aspect of your difference in age and experience left you feeling like you couldn’t get enough of this man.

You didn’t even notice your leg was interlocked with his or that night was already upon you. Harry grabbed your leg as he grazed his tongue against your upper lip and you let yourself be manhandled on top of him, blanket uncomfortably pushed between your bodies.

He adjusted himself below you and tossed the blanket beside you two before you were back to kissing him again, this time you felt him allow you to kiss him however you wished, completely under your control from below you. You took this chance to push your fingers in his salted hair, brushing against his curls at the base of the head and almost massaging his scalp as you continued your pursuit.

The rough feeling of his moustache on your upper lip and the occasional brush of his tongue against yours in your shared wet kiss made you ache for something else.

Every time he gave you a moan your belly hurt and it wasn’t because of hunger, in search of calming that pain you pressed yourself even lower down his body towards the object of your desire waiting for your attention.

Harry gave you a groan as you finally settled down on him again, then up and then down once more. He removed his big hands off your back and moved them lower towards your hips, you felt him smile as you kissed him and you smiled back. You truly wished you had been more careful in choosing your dress as it had moved between your legs and didn’t allow you to feel him closer. 

Long dress or short dress didn’t seem to matter to him at this moment as he had become adamant on grinding you down against him to hear you moan whenever you kissed him again. This mountain of a man, reduced so sweetly to desperation and need of you.

You broke off the kiss and looked at him- with a soft hue of pink on his cheeks and with untamed hair, his lips were slightly parted and his breathing was coming out in short puffs. You let the older man breathe for a second as you stared back inside towards the warm interior of the penthouse illuminated by yellow lights all around. You didn’t want this to end, and apparently by the attention you received from him down below, he didn’t want this either. 

Harry kissed your chin and then pressed two kisses on your neck as you contemplated, “Let’s go inside.” he said.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Authors note: Imma edit everything and re read it a bit later bcs its sooo late but im so happy i was able to finish writing part 2 so i can deliver to the freaks what the actually want. its me im the freaks. Have a happy day and thank you for reading :))))))).

[stxary]

「 ✦ 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ✦ 」

❤︎ pairing : ex-bf!jungkook x fem!reader

❤︎ genre : non idol au, porn w a lil bit of plot, smut, angst

❤︎ word count : 2k

❤︎ warnings : yandere jk, jealous jk, possesive jk, obsessed jk, hes terrible but reader is still practically in love w him. extremely toxic relationship (dont be like them) degradation, car sex, rough sex, hate sex, love bombing, manipulation, obsession, creampie

❤︎ a/n: hellooo im finally back with another fic after a very long month.. my motivation has been in the dirt but its slowwwly coming back, im debating writing a multichapter fic but ik i would not stay consistent with it 😭😭 im not sure if this really counts as yandere but im js gonna tag it as that js in case.. let me stop yapping i hope u guys enjoy!! ^_^

you could barely hear your own thoughts in the crowded club. the music pounding in your ears along with your the light buzzing in your bones was making you feel sick, and you wanted nothing more than to leave.

“you should come.” your friends told you when they mentioned coming to the club earlier that day. they said itd be good for you, that you needed to loosen up and have a little fun.

at first you wanted to refuse, but after thinking on it (and your two friends begging) you decided it wouldnt hurt to come. they were right, you did need to have a little fun.

so here you were now, sitting at the club bar alone, on your fourth drink of the evening, regretting even coming at all. you rubbed your temple as you checked your phone, sighing at seeing that you had only been there for an hour. fuck, why was time going by so slow?

you were just about to order another drink when you saw someone sit down next to you in the corner of your eye. “negroni, please.” he met your gaze, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “and for the lady..” he dragged the last word out as he gave you an expectant glance.

you were a little stunned at first, surprised that he was offering to buy you a drink, and a little flustered by himself. you blink your attention away from the man, looking at the bartender. “oh, um.. ill just do whiskey.” the bartender nodded before moving away to help the people on the other side of the bar.

the man sitting next to you gave you another smile, breaking the silence between you two. “i hope you dont mind. you seem a little startled.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

you blinked, realizing he meant you were staring. partly because you were a bit startled, and partly because the guy was hot. really hot. maybe your friends were right, maybe this is what you needed.

“o-oh.” you say, shaking your head and laughing nervously. “im sorry. i just didnt expect anyone to come up to me, let alone buy me a drink. so thank you..?” you tilted your head as you dragged your last word out, urging him to say his name.

“hoseok.” he said, taking his glass that the bartender handed to him, and handing you yours.

hoseok. thats a nice name. and he seemed like a nice guy. thats usually hard to find in places like this.

“im y/n.” you say, taking a sip of your whiskey. you felt a little shy all of a sudden. you didnt want to mess this up.

“y/n.” he repeated, as if he was testing it on his tongue. “thats a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

youd be lying if you said that didnt make you want to smile. yes, that phrase might be overused, but somehow when he said it it didnt sound corny. or like he was trying too hard. it just seemed natural.

you smiled at him, hoping he wouldnt notice how flustered that simple sentence got you. “thank you.”

as you guys continued to talk, the time finally began to start moving, and your earlier nervousness faded away. so it wasnt really a surprise when you ended up dancing with hoseok.

you had only known hoseok for about an hour but it felt like you knew him for a year, maybe more. the way he talked to you, looked at you. like you were so important. it made it easy to get lost in him.

and he was a great dancer. a really fucking good one, it was like the music flowed through him when you were together. you never thought someone could sexy dance so well, but here he was.

you wouldve almost thought you were in a dream, the way your night instantly turned around as soon as he made an appearance. maybe hes like a guardian angel, you thought. protecting me from all these drunk assholes who would have bothered me.

hoseok leaned down and whispered something in your ear, the pounding of the music mixed with the alcohol making you unable to hear him. he repeated himself.

“do you want to get out of here?”

hell yes, you did. you nodded eagerly, his hands moving from your waist before one of them grabbed your hand and started to guide you off the dance floor.

then another hand wraps around your free wrist, yanking you out of hoseoks grip. you turn around to see who the fuck did that, ready to slap them.

but then your eyes land on his face and your stomach drops.

no.

why is he here? how did he know you were here?

why were you surprised? it was like he was always where you went. no matter how much you tried to avoid him, he was always there. you tried to remove him from your life, but the grip he had on it was too strong.

two months. you broke up with jungkook two months ago. but he wouldnt let you go. and deep down, a part of you knew it was your fault. because you kept letting him slither his way back into your life. because every time you saw him, it always ended the same. and of course, that night was no different.

“do you really think i’d let another guy fuck you?” jungkook rasped, his hips ramming into you from behind.

you whined in response, fingers clutching at the leather of his car seat. you wanted to say something, anything.

he had yanked you away from hoseok, all the way out of the club, ignoring your protests and weak attempts to pull away. he didnt stop until he shoved you into the backseat of the car, not even speaking a single word before his lips were on yours, already working at your clothes before you got a chance to say anything.

“dumb fucking slut.” he mused, fingers digging into your hips harshly as he watched the way you fell apart under him. he wanted to engrave the image in his brain forever.

he honestly couldnt believe you were about to let another guy fuck you. see you in the way only he could. touch you the way only he could. the thought of it made him push his cock deeper into you, your eyes rolling back from the feeling.

“youre mine. and mine only. you know that. dont know how many times i need to fuck you to get that in your dumb head.” he punctuated his last words with harsher thrusts, as if he was trying to prove something to you.

you whined again, nails digging further into his car seat. “f-fuck you..” you whimpered out, turning your head so that your cheek was pressed against the seat, looking at him behind you.

fuck, you were a mess. and you were all his. nobody elses. definitely not hoseoks.

jungkook smirked at your weak insult, slowing down his thrusts. “baby, you need to stop acting like you hate me.” he murmurs, his smirk growing as he sees you struggle to form words.

“i-im not pretending- shit, i do hate you.” you gasp out, trying to ignore the way his cock was sliding in and out of you perfectly.

he tilted his head, raising his eyebrows a bit. “really? if you really did hate me, you wouldnt be letting me fuck you right now. unless you dont care who gets to use you, which is what it seems like. you were about to let that guy in the club get in your pants.”

“t-that.. thats not true.” you whine out weakly. you hated how he was right. you didnt truly hate him, otherwise you wouldnt be in this position right now. you hated the fact that you couldnt hate him.

and he knew that he had that effect on you, and used it to his advantage. so every time he found his way back to you, it always ended like this. it was a neverending cycle, and as much as you wanted to remove him from your life for good, a part of you still loved him.

jungkook pulled out of you abruptly, flipping you onto you back. you yelped, not having time to react before he slammed back into you. it was then when you realize how close you were to cumming.

he leaned down, his breathing hot against your face as he panted. “you dont hate me. you love me.” he said, his voice rough. then, it changed to almost desperate, pleading tone.

“fuck, i-i love this pussy, i love you. nobody can even compare to you. youre the best thing thats happened to me, baby. i dont understand how you could just leave me like that. d-didnt you feel the same?”

jungkook was just rambling at this point, like he always did when he got close. his whole demeanor would change and his earlier anger would wash away, getting replaced with neediness.

if you didnt know better you would believe his words. but luckily you did. he didnt love you. he was obsessed, and it led to him not letting you breathe. its the reason you broke up with him in the first place, thinking if you cut it off, it would stop.

but it didnt.

after you broke up, the amount of text, calls, and voicemails he left you was insane. you tried blocking him, but he kept trying. then eventually he stopped, just to find you in person. you had to change your daily routine to avoid him, and he would still find ways to get to you.

“y/n, stop running from me, please. baby, i love you. im sorry, please talk to me. youre all i want. i cant live without you.”

no matter how much you tried to avoid him, or asked him to leave you alone, he wouldnt. then when you tried talking to other guys, is when whatever you would call this started.

“i love you- fuck baby, dont you see that? i cant let you go.” his talking was getting frantic, along with his thrusts, and you knew he was close too.

“jungkook, i-“ he cut off your words by bringing his hand down between you to rub at your clit, causing you to moan out.

“i know, babygirl, i know.” he cooed, his breathing labored against your face. “youre so fucking lucky i need to cum right now, otherwise i wouldve edged you for hours for being a dirty slut.”

you clenched around him at his words, nails scratching at his arms. his hips stuttered, and he let out a loud groan before filling you up, his cum shooting straight inside your fluttering cunt.

you followed right after, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let out a moan to match his. he leaned down and cut off your moan with a sloppy kiss, swallowing the small whimpers that followed when you came down from your high.

jungkook pulled out of you with a raspy moan, leaning his back against the car door. he lifted your leg up to stare at your cunt, biting his lip ring when he sees his cum dripping out of you.

it was then when you finally gained your consciousness, and at least a little bit of common sense. you pulled your leg away from him and began to search for your clothes, trying to ignore the way he watched you as you put them back on.

you got out of his car, only saying a simple 'bye' before doing so. and as you walked back to your own, a wave of shame washed over you. because once again, you let jungkook have his way with you. all because you were still in love with him.

you always felt guilty after the fact, but a part of you still felt like it was right, even though it was wrong. so wrong. you should tell him to stop, but you already tried that, and he won't listen. and honestly, you didn't want him to stop. you would let him in your life over and over again, because he could. it was the effect he had on you.

© stxary 2025, all rights reserved .

[luvvcharxo]

so in love with you - mark grayson headcanons

warnings: fluff, smut, NSFW CONTENT!! MINORS DNI. word count: 541 summary: boyfriend!mark x fem!reader headcanons. notes: hi so this is just some tired rambling from me because i have writers block so i cant write an actual fic. sorry, hope this feeds the mark lovers. yall, the suit stays on!!

boyfriend!mark who always makes sure to bring something for his girlfriend when he's late (as usual) to a date.

boyfriend!mark who tries his best to plan the dates, but secretly likes it when you take charge.

boyfriend!mark who has you saved as his wallpaper, a picture of you in his phonecase, and has a picture of the two of you as his pfp for EVERYTHING. no one can argue with the fact that that man loves you.

boyfriend!mark who always makes time to send you a 'good morning' and 'good night' text. it doesn't matter whether he's just been beaten up, or is about to be beaten up, he will always do his best to make time for you.

boyfriend!mark who likes to show his affection subtly, like when he does the sidewalk rule or when he holds your hand when he notices you feeling anxious. he's not opposed to PDA, too.

boyfriend!mark who feels happy when you show PDA, a big smile on his face if you give him a small kiss before going to work or school, or when you hold his hand when walking together.

boyfriend!mark who likes to remember little stuff about you, whether it be that one makeup product you wanted ages ago, or the name of your first pet. he'll even remember that one person you hated years ago and talked shit about to him.

boyfriend!mark who's too scared to initiate anything physical, worried you'll reject him (even though the two of you are literally dating).

boyfriend!mark who gets flustered during the first time you have sex, but eventually gets the hang of it.

boyfriend!mark who could live between your thighs and would be the happiest man alive, eating you out for the rest of yours (and his) life.

boyfriend!mark who worries whether he'll hurt you with his viltrumite strength, but you reassure him that you'll be fine. besides, you wouldn't mind getting crushed by those muscles anyway. it would be a nice way to die.

boyfriend!mark who stares at you for a moment when you stop him from removing his suit when you two are on your bed.

boyfriend!mark who's face turns bright red when you sheepishly ask him to keep the suit on, doing your best to prevent yourself from grinding against his hard length that you can already feel poking against your thigh.

boyfriend!mark who actually enjoys it (maybe a bit too much) when you sit in his supersuit-cladded lap, the friction between your lower halves making you let out a small whimper.

boyfriend!mark who's grateful for the fact that the suit is so tight, meaning he can still feel everything you do and how you feel.

boyfriend!mark who can feel your wetness seep through the fabric when you remove your pants.

boyfriend!mark who can't help but cum in his suit when you let out the most pornographic moan he's ever heard after rubbing against his hard-on.

boyfriend!mark who doesn't cares about the clean-up (that's a problem for future him to think about) and instead flips the two of you over, a smug smile on his face, ready for round two. maybe with the suit off, this time.

extra notes: hiii im so sorry if this isnt written well. im not used to writing sexual content, but i hope this is okay. love u guys, and reblogs are very welcome!! :3

⋆ MASTERLIST

[writesvani]

Dear Me | 03

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): emotional distress, unresolved feelings, unspoken grief, jealousy, insecurity, avoidance, mentions of lost friendships, nostalgia, mild self-deprecation, strained relationships, anxiety, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter | next chapter (pending...)

wc: 3,4k // date: 25th of March

CHAPTER THREE — Saturdays are for Yoongi; happy reading my gummies...

AN (DON'T SKIP): this chapter was so much fun to write, and i genuinely hope you all love it as much as i do! starting now, my new update schedule is officially in motion, and with that comes my note goal: 200. yup, you heard me right, two hundred. am i being ambitious? maybe. am i manifesting? absolutely. but hey, dear me usually hits that, so let’s keep the streak alive!

and here’s the deal—once we hit that goal, chapter 4 will drop faster than y/n dodging her feelings. so, leave your comments, send me asks, scream in the tags—I’m dying to hear your thoughts!

also, yes, i know these first few chapters are on the shorter side, but they're just here to introduce you to the story and its dynamics! i promise, longer chapters are coming soon

— love, vani ♡

The best part of your week is Saturday. There’s something about it—a sense of idle calmness, as though the world has momentarily slowed down. It’s the one day where you can embrace doing absolutely nothing, soaking up your unproductivity like a ray of sunlight. Saturday is the calm before the storm of the week, and that’s why, despite your constant need for structure and routine, you let it unfold naturally.

It’s funny, really. The simplicity of having one messy, unplanned day brings an unexpected thrill. You find joy in the uncertainty of how the day will pass, how it’ll surprise you. It’s a break from the usual schedule, a breath of fresh air in the middle of your carefully organized life.

Yoongi sits across from you, his usual aura of coolness interrupted by his bizarrely slouched posture. His hair is a mess—tousled and looking as though he’s been trying to tame it all morning, but it stubbornly refuses to cooperate. In front of him sits a caramel latte, the steam curling lazily as he takes occasional sips, his eyes flicking between you and your phone.

“Damn, that looks good,” he says, his voice a low murmur, but his gaze is anything but casual. He’s practically staring at the picture on your phone like it’s holding the secrets of universe.

You smirk, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “Mhm, that’s what I’m talking about,” you reply, practically grinning from ear to ear. The pride you feel is almost tangible as you show him the picture—a shot of the crème brûlée you recently made at work. It’s perfect, golden, and just begging to be devoured.

Yoongi’s eyes are wide, his expression a mix of admiration and hunger. “I’m not even gonna lie, I’d eat that straight off the screen if I could,” he admits, a little too eagerly.

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “Well, you can’t. But if you want, I’ll make you one next time.”

His face softens into a grin, and he leans forward, his hands wrapped around his latte like it’s his only lifeline. “Deal. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I think I do,” you say, the ease of afternoon gently swallowing you.

You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers lightly on your cup, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. “But seriously, Yoon, I could teach you how to cook. You might actually impress someone with your skills for once.”

He raises an eyebrow, the amusement in his eyes barely hiding his disbelief. “Me? Cook? Please, I can barely make instant ramen without setting off the smoke alarm.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head in mock disbelief. "I remember the last time you tried cooking. The whole apartment smelled like burnt toast for days."

He slouches slightly in his chair, shoulders tensing as he glances away, a sheepish expression crossing his face. “Okay, that was one time. I may or may not have gotten distracted by my playlist. But I’m definitely not cut out for the kitchen.”

“You say that like you’ve given up entirely,” you tease, leaning forward with a playful glint in your eye. “Come on, hun. Everyone can cook if they try. Even you could pull off something other than cereal or microwaveable noodles.”

His hands wrap tighter around his latte, and he shrugs slightly, eyes flicking to the side as though he’s mentally weighing his options. “What’s the point? You’re the one with the magic touch. Every meal you make is basically a Michelin-starred dish.”

You raise an eyebrow, feeling the pride swelling in your chest despite your modest shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, his head tilting just slightly as he observes you. His lips curl into a small smirk, though there’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Yeah, right. Last time I tried, I couldn’t even boil an egg without making it look like a science experiment gone wrong.”

Your eyes widen, and you nearly choke on your drink. “That’s because you didn’t even know the difference between boiling and frying! You can’t just throw an egg in a pan and hope for the best, dude.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning slightly forward as he feigns annoyance, but the playful gleam in his eyes betrays his true feelings. “Hey, I was improvising!” His lips curl into a mischievous grin. “It’s not my fault the egg didn’t cooperate with my vision.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the amused smile tugging at your lips. “I’m sure the egg was just terrified by your lack of culinary expertise.”

Yoongi’s posture stiffens as he glares at you, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, giving him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m a cooking disaster. I’ll just leave the meals to you, Chef Extraordinaire.”

You sit up straighter, tilting your head slightly, the teasing glint never leaving your eyes. “Smart choice,” you reply, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “But, just so you know, next time I’m cooking, you’re the official taste tester. And trust me, you don’t want to disappoint me.”

He leans back again, hands resting on his lap as he stares at you with mock seriousness, though his lips are still twitching into a grin. “Challenge accepted,” he says, his tone a bit more dramatic than necessary. But you know he’s secretly terrified of the idea of cooking for himself.

A soft shift moves through the air, a gentle shift of calm that settles between you and Yoongi. Quietness. His fingers dance over the screen of his phone, tapping at the surface with practiced ease. You can guess he’s texting someone—maybe Nina, maybe a friend, maybe… Jungkook. The thought makes a knot tighten in your chest, but you push it away. It’s not something you want to think about right now. Instead, you pull out your own phone, your fingers flicking through the screen aimlessly.

Nothing exciting. Nothing new.

You let out a soft breath, your eyes drifting up to meet Yoongi’s. There’s a quiet comfort in the air now, the type that doesn’t feel awkward or forced. It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket. The kind that settles into your bones, making your muscles relax and your fingers stretch out in a lazy ease. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes from familiarity, from knowing someone well enough that you can just be—no words needed.

The thought makes something soft bloom in your chest.

Yoongi’s presence brings a sense of grounding, like you’ve known him forever and there’s nothing that could change that. The fact that, despite everything, there’s still someone you can rely on, someone you can lean on when the world feels too heavy. It’s a rare comfort.

You haven’t seen him much lately. The demands of his job as a publisher, your own strict schedule—it’s hard to make time. Too hard for regular drinks or coffee, even calls. But somehow, there’s always that one day of the week that pulls you two back together, a day when the chaos of your lives fades just enough for you to enjoy each other’s company.

And that day is usually Sunday.

Maybe that’s why you love Sundays so much. The way everything slows down, the world becomes a little softer. The way Yoongi's presence feels like a breath of fresh air. It’s those moments, those quiet moments, that you cherish more than anything else.

You glance at him again. His eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief moment before he looks away, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel it, the shared understanding between you two. And in that second, you realize that, even though you can’t always be together, these Sundays are enough to keep you close. To remind you that, no matter what, you have this.

You have him.

But alas, the silence, unfortunately, can’t last forever. A small motion, a sound disrupts the calm, and you find yourself briefly flinching at the sharp ring of Yoongi’s phone. You blink, your attention drawn to the screen before you can stop yourself. It’s ringing, and without thinking, your eyes are already glued to the name flashing across it.

“Nin 🫶🏻,” it says.

Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t swallow down. Of course, there’s nothing strange about Nina calling him—she’s his sister, after all. It has happened countless times in the years you’ve known the twins.

Nina has visited him more times than you can count, and you’ve met up with her, too, shared easy conversations and laughter like before. But this… this is different. This time, seeing her name on his screen feels like a punch to the gut.

It’s the first time you’ve seen it since that day—since the day you saw it written in beautiful, flowing cursive on that damn envelope sitting in your desk drawer (well, except the day you saw it tangled in your emails from the past you, but you're choosing to ignore that).

The one you’ve kept hidden, locked away.

The one that still reminds you of a friendship that’s lost.

A friendship with Jungkook that once meant everything but now feels like it belongs to another lifetime.

A friendship that has been broken, shattered beyond recognition.

That envelope, that name, that moment—it's a reminder of the bond between you and Jungkook, the one you once cherished, now reduced to something unrecognizable. And it stings. It always stings. The ache doesn’t go away, even though you try to heal it.

Desperately.

Eagerly.

You force yourself to move on, to pretend like you’ve moved past it, but the wound is still there. Still fresh, deep beneath the surface.

You inhale sharply, trying to mask the uneasiness threatening to bubble up inside you. You flash your teeth at Yoongi, offering him a soothing smile—one that feels more like a mask than anything genuine. You can feel the tightness in your chest, but you push it down.

"I gotta take this. I’ll be back," Yoongi says, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His movements are quick, almost hurried, as he stands and brings the phone to his ear.

You nod, though it feels like a distant gesture, your eyes still locked on his phone screen even as he turns to leave. The words “Heey” drift back to you just before he’s out of sight, and suddenly, the space between you and him feels much larger. Much emptier.

You’re left in the quiet once more, but this time, the stillness feels heavier. The silence is louder now, pressing down on you as the ache grows, gnawing at your chest.

You’re reminded again, in the simplest of ways, that you’re not the number one in Yoongi’s life. That place is always reserved for his sister, Nina. And though you know it’s natural, normal even, a small part of you can’t help but envy her—for being the priority in the lives of everyone you ever cared about the way you always wished you could be. It’s irrational, you know it is, but it still stings in the way that only silent truths can. The hurt lingers, no matter how much you try to reason with it. You push it down, bury it beneath the smile you’ve perfected over the years.

Yoongi’s footsteps return before you can fully process the pain, the familiar sound of his shoes brushing against the floor, and he moves past you with an energy that immediately pulls your attention. There’s an excited gleam in his eyes—bright, almost too bright for his usual self. It’s contagious, but you can’t quite bring yourself to smile the way he does.

He’s joyful. Too joyful for Yoongi. And it’s a little too much, but you lean forward instinctively, elbows planted on the table, your hands cradling your face.

“You won’t believe this,” he says, his voice light with excitement as he takes a sip of his latte, the warmth of the cup seeming to match his newfound energy.

You stare at him, curiosity piquing despite the heaviness in your chest. “What happened?”

“Nin and Kook are coming to town next week, to check the venues,” he continues, his words rushing out of him like a wave breaking against the shore.

And just like that, the names—Nin and Kook—splash over you like ice water. They burn, sharp and familiar. The names of people you loved, people who are no longer yours to love. The uneasiness quakes through you, a familiar sting at the back of your throat. You try not to let it show, though. You won’t let it show.

Yoongi keeps talking, trying to act oblivious to the weight his words carry. “And they want us to grab a coffee together when we’re free,” he adds, a casual air to his voice, as if the idea of sitting in a café with them—laughing, reminiscing about high school, pretending like everything is fine—doesn’t rip at the edges of your heart. It feels wrong, the thought of being in the same room as Jungkook again, when so much has changed, when so much has been lost.

You swallow, forcing yourself to sit up a little straighter, letting the fake calmness wash over you. “Really? How did that plan come to life?” you ask, your brow quirking in an exaggerated show of curiosity, anything to mask the storm bubbling inside you.

Yoongi shifts, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, his gaze flitting between you and his empty cup. “Nina asked where I was… I told her I was grabbing coffee with you,” he rambles, his voice quieting slightly. “Then she mentioned that she and Kook were coming to town next week to check the venues. And, well, yeah, the rest is history.”

You nod slowly, trying to pretend that the mention of Jungkook doesn’t twist something deep inside you. The urge to respond, to say something that doesn’t betray the knot tightening in your gut, claws at you. But you just nod again, this time with a tight smile.

“Sounds… fun,” you manage, though the words feel foreign in your mouth.

“Could at least try sounding a bit more excited,” Yoongi says, giving you that look—the one that knows you too well. It’s the look that cuts straight through the act, the one that makes you feel like you’re not hiding anything at all. It’s funny, in a way, how he can pick up on your discomfort so quickly, but still, for all his sharpness, he never seemed to notice that you used to be in love with his sister’s fiancé. Or maybe, a small part of you wonders, he did know. And chose not to bring it up. Because acknowledging it would make it real, and if it was real, things would get messy. Yoongi would have to choose a side, and both of you knew exactly where his loyalty would lie.

You shift uncomfortably, forcing a smile, but it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world. “I am, I swear,” you say, but your fingers twitch against your cheeks, a small gesture as they trace the scar you’ve long since tried to forget.

Yoongi watches you closely, his gaze softening as he picks up on the subtle shift. “You don’t have to pretend for me,” he says quietly, almost too quietly. But the weight of it lands in your chest, sending a quick flutter through your heart. "I know this is gonna be a lil weird for you."

You blink, trying to clear the lump in your throat, but the words feel too heavy, too loaded. The silence lingers for a beat, thick and raw. Then Yoongi’s voice breaks through again, a little more careful this time.

“I mean, the four of us haven’t been in the same room together in years. I get it. I know you haven’t seen Kook in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” you say, but your voice catches just slightly. “But it doesn’t make it weird...”

Yoongi tilts his head, the tiniest smirk curling on his lips. “You know, Nin says he mentions you a lot.” He leans back in his chair, watching you with those eyes that know too much, the ones that see past all the masks you wear.

Yoongi's words linger in the air, sinking in slowly, creeping up on wounds that you thought had healed. The fact that Jungkook still mentions you, still thinks about you—it shouldn’t sting this much, but it does. It really does.

Two years have passed since you last saw him, and the memory of that moment is sharper than you’d like to admit. The last time you sat down with Jungkook was after an awkward run-in outside his parents' house, where he invited you in for a drink. And it was… weird.

You both were strangers by then, with too much history between you to ignore, and yet not enough common ground to feel like you truly knew each other anymore. It was like trying to force something familiar into an unfamiliar shape. The conversation, stilted and uncomfortable, quickly drifted to small talk—safe topics about childhood and high school memories, things that kept the ground beneath your feet solid, even if it felt like you were both standing on shaky ground.

You blink, breaking out of the fog of that memory. Yoongi’s eyes are still on you, waiting for you to say something. Anything. You open your mouth, but the words falter, unsure of where they’re going. “Look, Yoon, okay, maybe…” You pause, trying to form the thoughts swirling in your head. “Maybe it’s a little weird because I haven’t talked to both of them in a while. But so what?” You shrug, trying to play it off, but the unease bubbling inside you is hard to ignore.

Yoongi tilts his head, studying you with that familiar, knowing gaze. “So what?” he echoes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re telling me you’re not worried about it?”

You don’t answer immediately, your fingers tapping lightly on the table as you try to steady yourself. The truth is, you’re not sure what you’re worried about. The past? The present? The strange space in between?

Yoongi's buzz slowly fades, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it. The joy that had been on his face when he finished that call, the spark in his eyes—it all starts to slip away, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow extinguished it. He was so eager, so excited for the four of you to hang out again, and now, with all your overthinking and awkward thoughts about Jungkook and the thing that happened between you, you’ve managed to ruin it.

You glance at Yoongi now, watching him carefully, as if he’s trying to decode something that’s impossible to read. His eyes are focused on you, sharp and observant, like he’s piecing together a puzzle with every little shift in your expression.

Your eyelashes flutter, and instinctively, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, but they feel dry, a little too dry. You take a sip of your coffee—cold, bitter, the taste of it almost mirroring the ache in your chest.

"I have nothing to worry about," you say, your voice a little softer than you intend. You scratch the back of your head. "I know that once we get past those first five minutes of awkward hell, it'll be like back in the days."

Yoongi shrugs, and a small, almost nostalgic smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah... like when we were young," he agrees, his voice carrying a bittersweet edge.

Your eyebrow quirks up, and you let out a short laugh, though it’s not entirely a pleasant one. "Dude, are you seriously quoting Adele right now?"

He looks at you, unbothered. "What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"With a depression anthem?" you joke, the corners of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Don’t kill my creative vibe, okay?"

You shake your head, but the tension loosens just a little. Maybe it’s stupid, but his attempt at humor, however ridiculous, makes things feel a little less heavy. The fact that Yoongi can still make you laugh, even in the middle of all this weirdness, is oddly comforting.

The conversation shifts, both of you silently agreeing to steer clear of Jungkook, Nina, and the storm their arrival will inevitably bring. No mention of wedding venues, no talk of Nina with a ring on her finger—the ring you haven’t even seen, don’t even know what it looks like.

And maybe that’s for the best.

So instead, you devote yourself to Yoongi again, clinging to the safe space he provides. You let him pull you into a discussion about a new book he’s reviewing, something he’s beta reading for a supposedly famous writer. Supposedly being the key word, because despite his insistence that they’re a big deal, you’ve never heard of them. Then again, maybe that just says more about you than it does about them—about the fact that you haven’t picked up modern fiction in a while, about how your shelves are still filled with books from a past version of yourself.

You laugh at his dramatic retelling of the plot, roll your eyes when he insists the main character is "literally the most annoying protagonist ever written," and for a while, it works. You manage to push the conversation from earlier to the back of your mind.

But not far enough.

Because the weight of it still lingers—heavy, unfiltered, sitting right there in your heart. And no matter how hard you try to ignore it, no matter how fast you try to outrun it, the truth remains.

It’s still there.

Just like Jungkook.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7

[loveergirll]

Hey Cherry,

So, a lot of people talk about how Price shares his wife. But I need to open up everyone's mind to the idea of Price no longer wanting to share his wife because he's trying to breed her start a family, so he introduces his team to his very much single sister in law and says "The Missus wants you all to sort her out."

-🪼

Babies and Bird Traps

A/N: 🪼 ANON MY BELOVED I PROMISE IVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS ASK I LOVE YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE!!!! I hope you’re doing well and I hope I did this justice 😭

Pairings: Poly!141 x reader, price has a missus it’s me 🤭

Warnings: suggestive comments, nothing explicit though

———

You should have known something was up the second your sister insisted on hosting dinner.

Not that it was unusual, she just announced that her and price were expecting and wanted to celebrate. you were happy to catch up, too. But something about tonight felt, different. There was an energy in the air, subtle but persistent, like a joke you weren’t in on.

At first, you chalked it up to Price’s smug little smirk. The man was usually reserved, but tonight? He looked like he knew something the rest of you didn’t. Your sister, sitting comfortably at his side, had that soft, knowing smile she got when she was up to something. Though she tried played it off as pregnancy hormones.

Then there was your seating arrangement.

You were sandwiched between Soap and Gaz, with Ghost directly across from you. It could have been coincidence (probably was) but the way they so easily looped you into their conversation, drawing you in with casual remarks and hearty chuckles, made you feel like maybe it wasn’t.

"Didn’t think we’d see you tonight," Gaz said, sipping his drink. His tone was light, but there was something almost expectant in it.

You blinked. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Soap hummed. “Dunno. Figured you’d have plans.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yeah, wild night of staying home and reading. Really hard to clear my schedule.”

“Tragic,” Soap mused. “All cooped up in that flat of yours.”

Ghost, who had been silent for most of the evening, finally spoke, his voice low but unassuming. “Don’t like goin’ out much, then?”

You shrugged. “Not really.”

Gaz tilted his head, considering you. “Don’t you get lonely?”

The question was simple enough, but something about the way he asked it made your stomach dip. Not in a bad way, just strange. Like the air shifted, just slightly.

You scoffed. “I’m fine. I like my space.”

"Space is good," Soap agreed. "Too much of it, though..." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "You’ll start forgetting how to live."

Your sister suddenly perked up. “That’s what I keep telling her.”

You shot her a look. “I’m fine.”

Price chuckled into his drink. “Sure you are.”

Something about the way he said it made you frown, but before you could question it, Ghost shifted in his seat, his sharp gaze settling on you for a moment too long.

Then, Johnny casually cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze as he exchanged a look with Gaz. He, in turn, gave a barely perceptible nod.

It was subtle. Barely noticeable. But somehow, it left a tight knot in your stomach, like they were communicating in a language you didn’t understand.

The conversation moved on, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted in the air. It felt like the kind of moment that was almost too casual to be anything, but something about it made you feel like you were being pulled into something you weren’t ready for.

You laughed, trying to ease the tension. “I’m really not that boring.”

Gaz’s smile was slow and easy, his eyes a little too warm. “Nah, not boring. Just…old lady-ish.” Hearty chuckles could be heard around the table, and you surprisingly didn’t take offense, knowing they’re only teasing.

And that was that. The night carried on, the conversation continuing with ease, but there was an undercurrent of something. Something unspoken that lingered just beneath the surface.

If you’d looked a little closer, just paid more attention, you might have noticed the look Price exchanged with his boys team. The almost imperceptible nod, the quiet, shared understanding between them.

Because before you even sat down, they’d already made a promise.

"The Missus wants you all to sort her out."

And they would.

———

A/N: what do we think? Pt 2? Maybe with smut? Eeeek so happy to finally have this finished and released to you guys :))

[rotapathetic]

˒ 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 .ᐟ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 ┆ getting caught ☒

subtle gaslighting ՙ⠀good at this lying thing ՙ⠀ pathetic introduction ՙ

rafe was glad you couldn’t see his smile through the screen. he didn’t expect for you to want to see him so soon, but here he is, staring at your ‘can we meet?’ text with a crooked grin on his face. he tried to hide it by biting on his thumb, but the smile was too intense he just ended up biting down hard. he looked to his thumb, noticing the marks. you can’t see that.

he quickly scattered to his bathroom cabinet, pulling out a bandaid and wrapping it around the bruised digit. he responded that you could come to his place. he wondered what you wanted to talk about. that movie you two watched together? well, rafe was the one watching, you just happened to be joining him without knowing.

you were quick to arrive while rafe contemplated what you could want to meet for. all worries immediately ceased when he saw you. you get prettier each time. he didn’t realize how much he needed to see you in the flesh after staring at you through a screen. the real thing is so much better.

you smiled hesitantly at him, rafe attempting to return it. when he felt how lopsided it felt on his lips, he turned his lips back down. you don’t need to see that either. “hi, rafe. .” you started, eyes wandering over to his hand that was shoved in his pocket, his thumb poking out. your eyes widened a fraction, forgetting the important thing you were here for. “what happened?” you reached for his hand, rafe letting you take it, not knowing what to do with himself at you touching him. should he hurt more often so you can touch him? he quickly got rid of the thought, deeming it not normal.

remembering to speak and not stare while thinking, he explained the bandage. “um. . nicked myself on something. do you want to come in, maybe? or i can come out, it’s fine,” he rambled out.

you peered up at him, letting go of his hand. right. . “i think i’m fine out here. .” you didn’t feel comfortable being too close just yet. “i just wanted to ask you about something,” you pulled out your phone, the tab already open.

rafe’s already naturally stock still body stilled even further at the sight of the instagram profile. it was the boy he saw earlier. the boy you were friends with. the boy he was jealous of for a moment before finding out he had a girlfriend. what about him? were you going to tell rafe this was the guy you wanted to be with? were you going to tell rafe that this guy would beat him if he talked to you? did this guy know rafe could do way worse?

but instead of speaking any of those thoughts, rafe merely squinted his eyes at the screen. “who’s that?” he scrunched a brow.

you mirrored his confused face. you were confident what your friend told you was true. “this is my friend. he told me some guy liked a post of his from years ago with me in it. he went to the profile and showed me, thinking i would laugh about it. but then i saw it was you.”

rafe took a second to process. the post with you in it. . that he thought he didn’t double tap. but he did and didn’t realize. and. . from years ago? did rafe really scroll back that far? how long was he staring at his screen? did it show in his usually droopy eyes? were they more bloodshot than usual?

but instead of showing these concerns, rafe slowly shrugged, head coming in closer to get a better view of the screen. “ah. . maybe,” he chuckled. “sometimes when i’m up late at night, i just scroll on that app, it’s not good,” he rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, coming across as embarrassed for something else other than what he’s been caught for.

you hesitated. “um, yeah. we all do that. it’s just. . this is a pretty old picture. how’d you even come across his profile? i. . was so confused i decided to check my own profile views and saw you again.”

rafe smirked, constructing something made up in his head while you spoke. you were so adorable when you were slightly scared. were you worried rafe was going though your profile and everyone close to you late at night so he could get a sense of who you like and who to keep an eye on? because that’s what he was doing.

but instead he said, “what, do you think i was stalking you or something?” he let his smile expand, not caring how odd it may look on his face. “who does that anymore?”

you put your phone away, quickly becoming shy at your accusation. that’s true. . maybe your thoughts jumped too far.

“i mean. . i would call it lame, but the only thing lame was me thinking you were joking. .” rafe said, abashed.

you frowned. “what?” rafe shrugged, head dipping down. “i just thought. . because you’re way too pretty to approach me, a friend put you up to it or something. i just. .” rafe sighed. you inwardly cooed at how embarrassed he seemed. but the sigh wasn’t out of embarrassment, he was running out of made up lines and quickly had to think of something.

“. .i just wanted to make sure you were being serious, i guess. i found your social through the people you may know thing,” not true, he hunted for it.

“and i guess i ended up on your friends profile without even realizing,” not true, he found it while stalking your account.

rafe’s brow scrunched and he squinted, a thing he did to hold back tears. he wasn’t about to cry though. but you didn’t know that. you quickly came forward, pulling him into a hug. “i’m sorry. this was so mean, i shouldn’t have judged so quickly. it was just kind of weird, and i immediately thought the worst,” you pulled back from the hug in enough time to miss the smirk rafe had on his face.

“but i knew you weren’t that kind of guy, gosh. that’s so embarrassing of me, not you,” you nervously giggled.

rafe shrugged, “it happens, i guess. we were both just hesitant about the person we just met. ’s normal,” at least rafe knew how to decipher if that was normal or not.

you smiled timidly at him, taking a second to really look. this cute guy who got stood up and was worried that a girl was playing with his emotions. you were busy admiring while rafe stared back for a different reason.

if he simply didn’t let you move from the hug, would you stay put? how do you smell so good and how would rafe go about finding out what fragrances you use so he could spray it on his things? finding that out will be way harder than finding your social media. and coming up with a pretty solid story. did you want to come in now? you weren’t nervous anymore, that meant you could stay and hang out with him, right? but if he couldn’t let you go from the hug, rafe doesn’t know how he would react to you being in his room. . then leaving.

you pulled yourself from your thoughts, “um. . i actually have something to do. i just wanted to stop by really quickly and get this off of my mind. .”

rafe blinked to. “oh, okay,” he felt your arms slip from him, his hand coming up to his arm to try to keep your touch there. he pulled a frown when it didn’t work, dropping his hand.

“see you. . later. and sorry about this again,” you giggled, walking away from his front door.

rafe was sorry too. he would feel even worse about what he did if it meant you were leaving him. but you weren’t. so he didn’t feel bad at all, really.

[treefish815]

I've talked about this a lot on other sites, but as a queer man and OG fan of Kingdom Come Deliverance, I really want to talk about the canonisation of Hansry in KCD2 and just how healing it was for me as someone who escaped through this game and the ship hard as a young teenager.

Look, I just need to put out into the world how much it meant/means to me, and I think of all places, Tumblr will probably appreciate it the most. I also just kinda want to write it for myself because I've never written ALL of this out and it's something I've been thinking about for nearly 2 months now, so it's a little long, which is why it's under the cut.

So, I've been playing KCD pretty much since it released, which was when I was about 12. Living in a conservative area as an effeminate, sensitive, very obviously and loudly queer little boy, at around the age of 11 or 12 I reached a point in growing up when I think the people around me realised it wasn't just a weird little kid phase, and that I really was a faggot, and, as I'm sure you could guess, I suffered a significant amount of bullying over the next 3 years.

But, as silly as I feel saying this, KCD was an escape from that for me. I was miserable in my own life, so, between the ages of 12-15, I threw hundreds of hours into KCD1 dedicating myself to Henry's life instead. And I think there 2 big reasons why I latched onto that game in particular over others- the world was so immersive and beautiful that it was easy to get lost in it, and Henry and Hans's relationship. (It's also just a great game- but there are dozens of great games that I played in that time that never quite captivated me in the same way).

Putting aside the fact I had a fat crush on Hans, his and Henry's relationship was something I always looked forward to watching the development of every playthrough, and I would often spend a good chunk of my playthrough not actually advancing the main quest to instead make up (usually very angsty) little scenarios where their relationship evolved into something more. I'd follow Hans around Rattay and pretend he and Henry were secretly in love but could never show it, lest they be beaten and ostracised, or have conversations to myself while sitting with Theresa where I would imply that Henry had to be with her for his own safety or to distract himself from Hans, that type of thing. Considering I never thought to write KCD fanfiction until this year, I would've had a LOT of material if I'd started then, but I digress.

My point is that Hansry was something that, in a way, I think I used to cope with the homophobia I was facing. They were characters who lived in a time where they could never openly love each other, Henry was a character who could stand up for a queer monk who was being ostracised in the monastery when no one else would, Hans was a character who put on an act of arrogance and "I don't give a fuck" that we can see in more serious end-game moments isn't 100% true to his personality much as I did at a younger age to pretend what was happening to me didn't bother me, and I just... connected so strongly with them.

I've been waiting for KCD2 for 7 years. In those 7 years, I always wistfully hoped for there to be a possible Hansry path to go down, but never in a million years did I think it would ever actually happen. I'd been to KCD Twitter. I'd been to KCD YouTube. I knew the anti-woke and by extension mildly homophobic section of the fandom was far larger than I'd have liked it to be, so as much as I yearned, I knew in the bottom of my heart that Hansry would forever just be a silly little daydream of mine.

But, that brings me to 2025. I'm nearly 19, I've been living in arguably the most progressive and queer-friendly city in my entire country for 3 years, I'm openly queer and haven't heard a negative thing about it since I left my hometown, I'm happier than I've ever been and have almost no anxiety in my day to day life, and I cried for a good few hours when I watched the Hansry romance scene for the first time.

I'd seen a spoiler that Hans was the main male love interest a few days earlier, and that had WORRIED me. I thought either 1. it would be a drunk fuck that was played entirely for laughs and that ultimately meant nothing or 2. it would be a tragic story that no matter what you did, could only end badly as an attempt to uphold historical accuracy (which... could be done well, but I thought it would probably be hard for me to play through and could spark its own form of homophobia in the fandom wherein people specifically had that outcome happen to stick it to the gays, or whatever. I'd seen someone on Steam complaining that Hans was the male LI because it meant he couldn't kill him and "protect Henry from the potential of sinning" and it really stuck with me.)

Holy hell was I wrong. Daniel Vavra, you may be kind of a cunt on Twitter, but I will sit back and let you cook from now on before I make a judgement.

I cannot tell you what an incredible feeling it was to see those two characters, who I escaped through and who I adored with my whole heart not only both canonically be bisexual, just like me, but also actually have a loving, and intimate romance scene (seeing the intimate naked making out when I'd been so afraid of a drunk, no strings attached fuck was such a strange feeling of relief) after 7 years of desperately wanting that even while knowing there was no way Warhorse would ever go through with it considering their target audience. That alone would have made my year, even if they did have an unavoidable tragic ending no matter how hard Henry tried to salvage it.

But there was another thing about their romance that really really stood out to me, and that was so unbelievably healing. Their romance is generally... quite happy. They never experience homophobia first hand. They never go through the whole "it's a sin... we should stop seeing each other..." rigmarole. They're never found out and outed to the wrong people who try to tear them apart.

Sure, Hans is engaged to a woman against his will, but as a noble, that was always a strong possibility regardless of whether the person who truly has his heart is a blacksmith's son or a butcher's daughter. And it's never even a suggestion that his marriage would end his and Henry's relationship- Hans's angsting over the marriage comes more from the fact it's out of his control and will give him less freedoms than he currently has. And yes, their story is filled to the brim with angsty moments, and so much death or near death, but that's completely separate to their love story- they suffer just as much if they're best friends as they do if they're lovers. The queerness is not the angst, the war they happen to be living through the beginnings of is the angst.

Henry and Hans are two men, in love in a time when they could never openly be together, in a time when most people around them would object to them being happy together and living true to themselves, and yet they have a happy love story anyway. And, as silly as it sounds, I don't care, I'm going to say it anyway- that positive portrayal of their love felt like telling my 12 year old self that everything would be okay, and he wasn't doomed to be miserable for the rest of his life. Because if those characters he identified so strongly with could be happy in their queerness when living in arguably worse circumstances to be queer, why couldn't he? As much as I processed the trauma of the bullying I was going through through angsty plotlines involving Henry and Hans, and as much as I'm an angst lover period, that... that healed me. It was like hugging my younger self.

As much as KCD is just a game and Hansry is just a gay ship, it's always been something that means so much to me, and this silly little video game romance made me realise just how far I've come and how different things are for me, while simultaneously comforting that past version of myself who still lives deep inside me somewhere. I feel him less now than I did in January 2025, and that's insane.

"No one asked for this!" the snowflake conservatives cried on the steam discussion boards in their 1 star reviews of a game they boycotted and never bought. The 12 year old boy who processed and coped with traumatic homophobic experiences through those characters did.

Representation does matter, and always will.

[cameronsbabydoll]

Does sugar coated rafe ever do anything nice & sweet for the oc that’s for her happiness & not necessarily for his “control” ? Just anything in general really.

I also was thinking while reading the 2nd epilogue, the oc was pretty deep into post partum depression etc, & if that were to go any further (like her having suicidal thoughts for example) or even just her being genuinely so broken down that everyone (even random kids lmao) can tell that she is NOT okay , would rafe do something (that’s not for solely his gain but for her) ? Like we know he cares for her in his twisted own way but would something like that scare him? Her being so broken down, would he ever have thoughts like “ i cant lose her/ i need to help her etc” ?

Small But Genuine Acts of Kindness:

Taking Care of Her Without Making a Show of It: Rafe isn’t the type to say “I love you” outright or do big romantic gestures, but he shows his affection in quiet ways. Like making sure her car is always filled with gas, keeping her jewelry clean, or replacing things she loses before she even realizes they’re missing.

Paying Attention to Her Small Comforts: If she casually mentions that she likes a certain kind of tea or perfume, it’ll just appear in their home without her asking.

Letting Her Have Some Freedom (On Her Terms): Maybe she wants to go on a small trip with friends or have a night out—something that usually makes him tense. But sometimes, when he can tell she really needs it, he’ll let her go without an argument (while still having her watched, of course).

Moments of Softness at Night: When they’re in bed and she’s curled up beside him, sometimes he’ll play with her hair, rub slow circles into her back, or just hold her a little tighter.

If She Got Really Bad (Deep Postpartum Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Etc.)

Yes, that would scare him. Rafe is obsessed with her—he needs her. The idea of her slipping so far that she’s completely broken down? That would shake him in a way that almost nothing else could.

Denial at First: He might try to brush it off at first, refusing to believe she’s that bad.

“You’re tired, that’s all. The baby keeps you up, you just need sleep.”

But then he starts seeing it—how lifeless she looks, how even strangers can tell she’s not okay, how she barely reacts to anything anymore.

Realization & Fear: The moment it clicks for him that she’s not just tired, that she’s actually drowning in this, it would send him into panic mode. He wouldn’t show it outwardly, but inside? He’d be spiraling.

“I can’t lose her.”

“She’s mine. She’s always been mine.”

“I have to fix this.”

What He Would Do About It:

He’d actually listen (for once). If she says she needs something—therapy, medication, more time to herself—he’ll give it to her, no arguments.

He’d take over completely. She wouldn’t have to lift a finger. He’d hire extra help, make sure she’s never alone, and force her to rest.

He’d be more present. No more late nights out, no more business trips. He’d physically be there, watching her closely.

He’d take care of her in a way that’s not about control, but about making sure she doesn’t slip away from him. If she can’t even get out of bed, he’ll bring her food. If she won’t talk, he’ll just sit with her, quietly, waiting.

At his core, Rafe isn’t a good man. But he needs her, and he wouldn’t let her drown in her own mind. If things got bad enough, his possessiveness would turn into something almost desperate—because losing her is the one thing he cannot handle.

[loveesiren]

𝖢𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖬𝗒 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 (𝖯𝗍. 6)

Choi Seunghyun x fem!reader x Kwon Jiyong | Masterlist

a/n: sorry it took me a century. I have a pretty good idea of where we're going next so make sure you bully me into writing it thx <3

synopsis: what happens on Jeju island...

warnings: angst, brief mention of abortion, alcohol, cheating, panic attack/anxiety, Seungri is in a few parts

wc: 3.2k+

Seunghyun was out on the boat with Youngbae and Daesung, their laughter echoing over the water as they fumbled with the ropes and splashed into the waves. You plopped down in the chair beside Seungri, who was sprawled out, one arm draped over his face to block the sun.

"You didn’t want to go?" you asked, watching as Seunghyun attempted to regain his balance on the skis, only to plunge back into the water with a loud curse.

“My head’s still spinning,” Seungri muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.

You chuckled. “Drank too much at dinner?”

“Jiyong dragged me to the club.”

That made you pause, amusement dimming as you studied him. “Where’s Jiyong?”

Seungri let out a slow exhale, arm still covering his face as if shielding himself from the weight of the answer. “Dunno. Probably still laid up in bed with that girl he brought back.”

Your stomach clenched. The reaction was instant, unwelcome. You had no claim over him, never had. But you had never really pictured him with anyone else either.

You hummed softly, shifting your focus back to the boys on the water, forcing yourself to laugh as Seunghyun tumbled into the waves again. The moment passed, or at least, you convinced yourself it had. You needed to get away, to shake off the thoughts stirring in your head.

Rising from your chair, you dusted the sand off your legs. “I’m heading back to get ready.”

Seungri mumbled something in response, but you weren’t really listening anymore. The walk across the beach felt longer than usual, the sun heavy against your skin. As you reached your villa, you dug through your bag for your key card, the mundane task distracting enough—until a voice made you jump.

“Hi, Y/n.”

Your breath hitched. You turned sharply, heart slamming against your ribs.

Jiyong.

He sat on the bottom step of your villa entrance, his elbows resting on his knees, his head tilted up slightly as he looked at you. His board shorts hung low on his hips, an old t-shirt clinging to him. His shoes were nowhere in sight, his dark hair a disheveled mess, and his eyes—heavy, unreadable, full of something that made your throat go dry.

“Jiyong, what the fuck!” you yelped, pressing a hand to your chest.

A lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Long night?” you asked, folding your arms, trying to play it cool.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Something like that…” His voice was low, rough, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. He pushed himself up to stand, swaying slightly, and that’s when you caught it—the faint scent of tequila still lingering on his breath.

“You look like shit,” you muttered, unable to stop yourself.

He let out a soft chuckle, but it wasn’t amused. More like tired. Worn down. And yet, the way he was looking at you sent a shiver through your spine.

"Where's Seunghyun?" he asked suddenly.

You hesitated. "Out on the boat. Why?"

"Just need to talk to him," he said, voice thick and slurred.

“About what, Jiyong?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—mischief, darkness. The way he looked at you now, slow and calculated, sent your nerves into overdrive.

His lips curved slightly. “Guy stuff.” His tone was teasing, baiting.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath hitched.

“You know…” He took a slow step forward. “You left the door open last night.” His voice was quiet, but it wrapped around you like a noose. “Did you forget how loud you get, Y/n?”

Your stomach twisted.

He was toying with you. Poking at the raw edges of something you had tried to bury.

“I almost forgot about all those pretty little noises you make.” His voice dipped lower, thick with something dangerous. “It’s been so long…”

He was close now—too close. You could smell the alcohol, the remnants of cigarettes on his skin. And worse, you could feel the pull of him, that same magnetic force that had always been your undoing.

His fingers brushed against yours, light, barely there, but enough to send your pulse skyrocketing.

“Tell me something…” His breath ghosted over your skin as his dark eyes flicked down to your lips. “Who fucks you better?”

The air between you snapped. Without thinking, your palm met his cheek with a sharp crack.

Jiyong barely flinched, only exhaling as he reached up to rub his jaw. If anything, he looked more awake now, more present. He met your gaze, his smirk gone, something raw lingering in his expression.

You swallowed, your chest rising and falling with the weight of the moment. “Go sober up,” you said, voice firm, despite the way your fingers trembled.

Then you turned, marched up the steps, and slammed the door behind you, shutting him out—shutting out the past you thought you had left behind.

Only, your heart was still pounding. And Jiyong was still out there, watching.

Waiting.

Like he always did.

You locked the door with trembling fingers, the soft click echoing through the quiet villa like a gunshot. Your back hit the wood and you slid down, legs giving out beneath you as your body crumpled to the floor. The tears came fast, hot and uncontrollable, burning a trail down your cheeks as you pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sobs.

You hated this.

Hated what Jiyong had done to you. Hated the version of yourself who let it happen. Hated that even now, a part of you still felt tangled up in him—still aching in a way that wasn’t fair to Seunghyun. You were spiraling, suffocating in the truth you buried so deep, it throbbed like a phantom pain every time you looked into your boyfriend’s kind eyes.

Who did you think you were? Dating someone like Seunghyun—sweet, steady, loving—after spending months wrapped up in his best friend’s arms, panting his name like it meant something. After falling pregnant with Jiyong’s child… and letting Seunghyun hold you through every excruciating second of the aftermath. The abortion. The nights you cried yourself sick while he rubbed your back and whispered that everything was going to be okay.

He never knew. Not really. Not whose it had been.

And you… you let him believe the lie. Let him carry the weight of a decision that hadn’t even been his to make.

Did you really think you could pull this off? That you could love Seunghyun the way he deserved and somehow never let the past claw its way back into the present?

The thought alone made your lungs constrict.

Your chest grew tight, breath catching as the familiar ache of anxiety ripped through you. Shallow, uneven gasps escaped your throat as your head spun, and you stumbled toward the bathroom. You barely got the door locked before collapsing to your knees again and reaching for the faucet. Cold. You needed cold.

The shower hissed to life as you stepped under the icy spray, clothes still clinging to your body. The shock of the water stole your breath at first, but then slowly—finally—it grounded you. It numbed the shame, the fear, the weight of everything pressing down on your soul.

“Baby?”

You flinched, heart stuttering in your chest at the knock on the door. You hadn’t heard the front door open. Had it been minutes? An hour?

“Are you okay?” Seunghyun’s voice was soft, laced with concern.

You froze. The last person you wanted to face right now was him.

“Uhm… y-yeah! Just a sec!” you shouted, killing the water and fumbling for a towel.

“I saw Jiyong outside,” he continued. “He said you looked upset.”

Of course he did. Jiyong loved his little games. Loved pulling at your strings and watching you unravel. He knew exactly how to get under your skin—when to push, and when to act like he hadn’t done anything at all.

You opened the door slowly, towel wrapped tightly around you, and looked up at Seunghyun. His brows were furrowed, his gaze scanning your face with worried eyes.

Your eyes were red, swollen. Your lips trembled. But at the sight of him—only him—your breathing steadied. Not because the pain vanished. But because somehow, just being in his presence made you feel like you were allowed to survive it.

“Jagi, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, stepping forward and pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you like you might disappear. “What happened?”

“I-I just had a panic attack,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

It wasn’t a lie. You’d had several since the abortion. But this one… this one had been ignited by guilt. Guilt laced with fear that maybe—just maybe—Jiyong would eventually tell him everything. That your world would shatter in an instant.

“Awh, baby… I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” His fingers found your wet hair, gently combing through the tangles with such care that it only made the ache worse. “How can I help?”

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to scream at him for being so goddamn good to you. For loving you without question. For making you feel safe when you knew deep down you didn’t deserve him. Not after everything.

You wanted to confess right then and there—that you weren’t worth it. That you were a traitor. A liar. A coward.

But instead, you leaned into him. Because despite it all, you needed him. Desperately.

“I just want to spend the day with you,” you muttered. “I don’t want everyone seeing me like this. I can’t…”

That was all it took.

Seunghyun didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his phone, sent a quick message to the group chat canceling the day’s plans, then turned it off without waiting for replies. You watched him do it, your heart aching as he tucked it away and wrapped his arms back around you.

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he said simply. “My girl comes first. Always.”

Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry… I don’t want to ruin your vacation.”

“Ruin my vacation?” he repeated with a snort, nudging your nose with his. “I’m in a private villa on the beach with my beautiful girlfriend. It couldn’t possibly be ruined.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Because you could think of exactly one way it could all fall apart.

And he was outside, probably still smirking to himself like he hadn’t just shattered you with a few well-placed words.

You just had to make sure Seunghyun never found out.

Because if he did… you weren’t sure you’d survive losing him.

-

You spent the rest of the day tangled up in the sheets with Seunghyun, the two of you wrapped in a cocoon of lazy indulgence. Between stolen kisses over trays of room service, mindless movies playing in the background, and the kind of slow, unhurried sex that made your chest ache with tenderness, it was almost easy to forget the chaos that lived just outside the villa. By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, exhaustion crept into your bones like a lullaby.

You were on the edge of sleep, eyelids fluttering shut, your face buried against Seunghyun’s warm chest, when a sharp knock tore through the quiet atmosphere. You jolted, breath hitching as your heart kicked into gear.

“Who the fuck…” Seunghyun groaned, voice rough with sleep as he rubbed at his eyes. He tossed the blanket off and padded toward the door, hair tousled and jaw set in annoyance.

You leaned up slightly, peeking over the comforter, a mixture of curiosity and irritation blooming in your chest. When the door creaked open, the soft glow from outside revealed Jiyong and Seungri — clearly drunk, leaning into one another like they couldn’t hold themselves upright.

“Hyung! Come to the club with us!” Seungri slurred, his voice high-pitched and whiny as he threw an arm lazily over Jiyong’s shoulder. They were swaying slightly, eyes glassy with whatever cocktail they’d downed.

Seunghyun scoffed, a smirk curling at his lips. “The club? You two look like you need a babysitter and a damn nap.”

“Ahhh, come on! Just for a bit!” Jiyong said, his tone trying too hard to be lighthearted, like he wasn’t already unraveling at the seams.

“Me and Y/n were just about to go to bed,” Seunghyun replied, glancing back toward you with a sleepy grin. And just like that — you saw it. Jiyong’s face faltered. The second your name left Seunghyun’s lips, Jiyong’s smirk died, his expression flickering with something heavy, something sharp.

“Maybe another night,” Seunghyun added, trying to nudge the door closed.

“Ohhh, Hyung’s trying to get it in!” Seungri cackled, grabbing Jiyong by the arm and dragging him away. “Come on, there’s tons of girls at the club! Pussy for days, bro!”

“Have fun,” Seunghyun muttered, slamming the door shut with a finality that shook the frame. “Idiots.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What did they want?” you asked, your voice light, masking the twist in your stomach.

“Club,” he said, already crawling back into bed.

You hummed like it meant nothing. “Hope I’m not keeping you.”

“Don’t be silly. Why would I want to be surrounded by drunk assholes and loud music when I could fall asleep with my beautiful girlfriend beside me, listening to the sound of the ocean?”

That made you smile, despite yourself. You kissed him softly, a brief press of lips before curling against him. But the warmth in your chest didn’t chase away the cold sinking in your gut.

-

The next few days passed with forced normalcy. You went on hikes, spent long afternoons out on the boat, laughed over shared meals at fancy restaurants — but it was all undercut by a steady unraveling. Jiyong was drifting. You could see it in the way he staggered into breakfast smelling like regret and liquor, in the way Seungri followed him everywhere like a shadow with no mind of its own.

Even the others noticed. Daesung, Youngbae, Seunghyun — they all tried, cornering the two of them with quiet concern, but they got waved off like bothersome flies. Their managers gave it a shot too, stern words and sharp glances, but Jiyong was having none of it. The rockstar was in full self-destruct mode. Party or die.

One night, you sat beside Seunghyun at the bonfire, his arm draped over your shoulder, the fire warming your skin while Youngbae animatedly told some story. But your eyes weren’t on him — they were drawn to the other end of the beach where Jiyong was stumbling, dragging some girl you didn’t recognize back to his villa. Again.

You rolled your eyes, heart clenching. That same bitter, aching feeling crawled up your throat. Jealousy? No. Disgust? Maybe. But deeper than that — hurt. And guilt. And something you didn’t want to name.

“Hey,” you whispered to Seunghyun. “I’m getting tired. Think I’ll head back to the villa. You finish your beer.”

He blinked, looked at you like he was trying to read your face. “You sure, baby?”

You nodded, forcing a teasing smile. “Yeah. Have some guy time.”

He kissed you gently, his lips tasting of beer and affection. “See you soon.”

-

The villa felt colder without him. You tore through your skincare routine in silence, movements sharp, angry. You slipped into your pajamas, climbed into bed, scrolled mindlessly through Netflix — but you couldn’t focus. Because from the window, you could see the light still on in Jiyong’s villa. You didn’t want to care. You shouldn’t care.

Your foot tapped restlessly under the covers. You stared out at that damn villa.

“Goddammit,” you hissed, flinging the covers off and storming to the door.

You slipped on your sandals, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you took the long way around, skirting the beach to stay out of sight from the others. The humid night air clung to your skin, your black tank top and plaid pajama shorts doing little to hide the tremble in your body.

You didn’t knock. You threw the door open like you belonged there and stormed inside. One door was open — Seungri’s. Empty. But from behind the closed bedroom door, you heard it: the unmistakable whimpers and moans.

Your jaw clenched. You shoved the door open and barged in.

“What the fuck!” the girl shrieked, bent over on Jiyong’s bed.

Jiyong froze, positioned behind her, eyes going wide as he saw you standing there.

“Y/n—what the—”

“What’s your issue, Jiyong?!” you snapped, storming forward like the half-naked girl between you didn’t even exist.

He scrambled to pull out, tripping over himself to find his sweats.

“Ji—” the girl started, reaching for him.

“Piss off!” he barked, not even sparing her a glance as he locked eyes with you.

“You bitch!” she spat, grabbing her clothes. You just stared at the door until it slammed shut behind her.

Jiyong lit a cigarette with shaking hands, exhaling slowly. “You gonna tell me why you just cockblocked me, princess?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

“Why are you acting like this?” you demanded.

“Like what?”

“Like a complete asshole. Drinking yourself stupid, fucking everything with a pulse, pushing everyone away—”

He scoffed, bitter. “Right. So you get to shack up with my best friend, but I’m not allowed to let loose?”

“It’s not about that!” Your voice cracked. “It’s about the fact that you’re spiraling and everyone sees it! Seunghyun is worried about you!”

He laughed. Cold. Empty. “Worried, huh? Or is he just trying to clean up my mess again?” He stepped closer. “So why are you here, Y/n? Jealous? Mad that I was fucking some other girl?”

You backed up, your throat tightening as he stepped toward you.

“Like when I heard Seunghyun making you beg the other night?” Another step. “Do you think this is easy for me? Watching you be his? Pretending I don’t care?”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Ji… I thought you hated me.”

“Hated you?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Y/n, I fucking love you.”

The words shattered you.

“I—” you started, breath catching.

“Yeah, maybe if I was a nice guy like him, you would’ve noticed. But I don’t know how to be soft, Y/n. I don’t know how to not ruin everything I touch.” He slammed his palm against his temple. “I’m fucked in the head.”

Tears burned your eyes before you could stop them. You surged forward, grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss that stole the air from your lungs.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto him as his lips devoured yours. The bed was a blur. His hands, his mouth — all of it was fire. Familiar, hungry, wrong. But it felt so fucking good.

“I missed you,” he breathed, nipping at that sweet spot on your neck.

Then it hit you. 

“Shit.” You pushed him off. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He stumbled back, eyes wide, guilt already blooming in his chest. What the fuck was he doing? You were his best friends girl. 

“You should go,” he said quietly, eyes glued to the floor.

You didn’t respond. You just ran.

-

You made it back before Seunghyun. Barely. You curled under the covers, heart in your throat, forcing yourself to breathe evenly as you heard his footsteps approaching.

The door opened. He stumbled in, smelling like the bonfire and too many beers. He stripped lazily and climbed in beside you, arms snaking around your waist.

“Mmm… love you so much, baby,” he mumbled, already half asleep.

You bit down on your lip, choking on a sob as hot tears slid down your cheeks.

He didn’t fucking deserve this.

© loveesiren 2025 - do not copy, translate, transfer, or repost my work without my permission. if you find my work on sites other than through links i've provided, please notify me.

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[paulmescalsbiceps]

can’t stop thinking about jealous!jamespotter roommates!jamespotter x fem!reader. wc:636

James would never consider himself a jealous person, especially when you constantly prove to him just how devoted of a partner you can be. In lines at grocery stores you let him hold your hand, caressing your thumb with his own and he presses his whole body against yours completely immune to the idea of other people seeing his near inappropriate display of affection.

But he just can’t help it! Especially when you smell so good and he just has to come up behind you when you’re cooking dinner for the two of you and sniff the space between your neck and collarbone. James would never go to the point of trying to make you feel uncomfortable, he’s understanding that his need for physical touch should never breach your comfort.

But he’s watching you make conversation with the dude behind the counter of the grocery store so effortlessly as you bond over the band on your t-shirt. No words make it through James head, instead it’s a vicious cycle of insecure thoughts that range from the fear that you may just like this asshole to the overwhelming desire to bend you over right there and prove to him who it is you really want.

“I think they’re touring soon, for the new album release. Any interest in going?” The worker asks as if James hasn’t been practically glued to your back mere minutes ago.

“I’m honestly not sure if I can afford it right now especially if they’re going to be playing bigger venues.” You admit, James admires your attempt to shrug off his intentions but if the asshole tries again one more time, he’s not sure if he can hold back.

“I mean, I could totally shout you a ticket.” He pushes, casually placing what’s left of the shopping into the bag. “It’d be like a date.”

James isn’t someone who gets angry. He’s calm and he’s rational. But not when it comes to you. He didn’t spend months pining after you just to deal with grocery store boys like him trying to pick you up.

“I think her boyfriend will be more than willing to pay for a ticket.” James moved his hand over the counter, taking the receipt from machine and makes quick work of collecting the bags into his hand, eager to leave and possibly never return. “I’m also sure she’s not interested in going with you.

The sternness in his voice shocks you, not quite sure whether to be concerned with his tone, or turned on. Before you can ever utter a reply, James has you by the waist guiding you back to the car.

“What was that about?” You question as you click your seatbelt into place. This wasn’t a side of James you usually saw.

“He was flirting with you! As if I wasn’t even there or something.” James tone shows his true emotions. He’s not angry. He’s jealous.

Fighting back a giggle you ask “James, be serious. he was like sixteen!”

“I am seriously lovey, he was looking at you like he wanted to take you right then and there.”

“And you don’t?” You tease back. That shut James up enough to turn on the car and silently pull out of the spot.

Several minutes later, James breaks the silence. “I’m sorry lovey, I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just don’t want to lose what’s mine.”

You feel your face heat at his honesty, he was never shy of talking out his emotions.

“Don’t apologise, it was honestly kind of hot.” Voice timid at the confession.

“Oh yeah?” God if James was one thing it was a total fucking tease. “Want me to show you just how much I wanted to prove to that asshole you’re mine?”

oh yeah, you were in for a real treat

do i make a part 2???🫣