#it's not about noticing cracks in the writing

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[cameronsbabydoll]

I AM SO OBSESSED W SCC RAFE YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! could you write something about scc reader overheard someone saying that rafe is cheating? maybe they said rafe was checking someone else out. and scc just assumed it was right and swallowed it because she never questions rafe but he noticed she’s putting up distance between them and the kids also noticed then how would he react? I LOVE ME SOME GOOD ANGST

cw: mentions of cheating but it’s not true also use of the word “bitch” by rafe

you weren’t even supposed to hear it.

just passing by — holding your baby’s bottle in one hand, laundry basket tucked against your hip — when you heard it. rafe’s name. a hushed laugh. something like, “he was totally looking at her ass.”

you froze.

you didn’t ask. you didn’t say anything. you just swallowed it down. like everything else.

because you never ask rafe questions like that. you never pry. never accuse. and if he was? what would you even do?

so you just… started pulling back. gently. subtly.

you didn’t sit close on the couch that night. didn’t text him during the day like you usually do. didn’t even say anything when he came home late again. just smiled a little. nodded. said “okay.”

but he noticed. immediately.

“what’s with you?”

you shook your head. “nothing.”

“you’re actin’ different.”

you waved him off. “i’m fine, rafe. really.”

and the kids noticed too. especially your daughter — perched on the arm of the couch while you fed her baby brother, frowning as she whispered, “mommy, why didn’t you wait for daddy to come home tonight?”

rafe hears her. his jaw sets.

he doesn’t say anything right away. but his eyes don’t leave you.

and eventually—when you’re folding towels in the bedroom, trying to keep it together—he steps in, shuts the door behind him, and says, low and sharp,

“what the fuck did you hear?”

you blink. flinch. try to shake your head again, but he’s already walking toward you.

“you’ve been off all week. won’t even look at me. won’t touch me. won’t let me near you. so tell me what the fuck happened.”

“…someone said you were looking at another woman.”

you say it so quietly. like it hurts to admit. like you already convinced yourself it was true.

and that pisses him off.

“you think i’d cheat on you?”

“…i don’t know.”

“you think i’d throw away all of this for some random bitch at the bar?”

you look down. your throat feels tight.

and his voice drops—less angry now, more sharp and hurt.

“so that’s all it takes? some nobody says somethin’ and now you don’t trust me?”

you whisper, “i didn’t want it to be true.”

and that’s what stops him.

because your voice cracks on want, and your hands are shaking as you fold the last towel, and he can see it now—how scared you are to even ask him if it was true.

he exhales through his nose. jaw clenched.

and then he’s pulling the towel out of your hands, tossing it on the bed, dragging you into his arms. wrapping you up even when you go stiff.

“if i wanted someone else, i wouldn’t have married you.”

he grips your chin, makes you look up.

“don’t you ever let someone get in your head like that again. you hear me?”

you nod. still a little unsure. still holding back.

but when he kisses you — slow and firm and low against your lips — you feel your knees go soft again.

[lvl1l1]

Yes hello I will sell my soul to you if you give us a “who did this to you” type reaction with the love and deep space boys WAIT walk with me their lover calls them trying not to cry asking them to come get them they show up BAM they see them with bruises barley holding it together the ask what happened BAM AGAIN tears just crying as they explain that someone they kind of knew made a pass at them and when they were shut down they hit them yeah they are a hunter but they were so stunned who’s losing it and about to commit a crime and who’s silently about to actually ruin their whole life for hitting their princess that the boys would love and die for

All seriousness I know I made light of the reaction but I fully understand the serious implications of it if you don’t feel comfortable or that this is maybe to heavy to post feel free to ignore it I couldn’t find any rules about what you wouldn’t write for I hope this request doesn’t make you uncomfortable or is triggering in any way and if it is I sincerely and deeply apologize

“Who did this to you?”

Or: LaDS men when someone hurts you

pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader

WARNINGS: assault, harassment(please lmk if I missed smth)

content: hurt/comfort

a/n: someone tell me if the new format looks better

Xavier

The apartment was so quiet without you there.

Xavier was lying in bed, awake for a change.

He originally planned on taking a nap but as he noticed your side of the mattress being cold and untouched, he couldn’t fall asleep.

Sleep refused to come to him, while you were still out with your friends.

He couldn’t resist the unease in the back of his mind, gnawing at him.

He kept his phone close, just in case you needed him.

He finally felt his eyelids getting heavier, when the shrill buzz of his phone brought him back.

Your name lit up the screen and he instantly sat up.

His lips curled up into a small smile.

He picked up, anticipating your sweet voice.

But the moment he answered, all he was met with, were soft, broken sobs.

He felt the blood in his veins freeze.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

His voice missing its usually composure.

His was already moving before his mind had even caught up.

His posture was rigid as he got off the bed.

“Xavier, can you come get me, please?”

Your voice cracked, barely being above a whisper.

Before you could even hear his reply, Xavier already teleported across the city, he couldn’t be bothered to grab a jacket or change his clothes.

The moment he appeared before you, his heart broke.

You were standing under a flickering streetlight, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if to hold yourself together.

Tears were running down your cheeks and there was a slight tremble throughout your body.

But what made his hands curl into fists, were the bruises on your face, ugly, purple marks marking your perfect skin.

He didn’t move at first.

He couldn’t.

The fury raging inside of him was dangerous, violent.

He felt, that if he moved a muscle, he’d lose the weak grip he had on his restraint.

His jaw was locked, eyes raking over your form, taking in all your injuries.

His voice came out quietly, deathly calm but laced with barely contained anger.

“Who did this to you?”

You sniffled, forcing out the words,

“I thought he was a friend. The others left, we were standing here together and then-“

You interrupted yourself by choking on your words,

“He was-“

You inhaled deeply, trying to pull yourself together,

“When I rejected him, he got angry. He hurt me.”

The world around Xavier blurred momentarily, he felt consumed by the rage running through him, his ears were ringing.

But louder than that, was the sound of you, crying.

That’s what pulled him back.

You first

You were always first

He approached you, slow, careful steps, with his arms open but he wasn’t forcing you.

He was waiting, waiting for you to come to him.

You stumbled forward, collapsing into his chest.

The way he held you was oh so tender, one hand caressing the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles into your back.

He was shaking now, not out of anger but the overwhelming desire to protect, to heal, to be enough to make all your pain go away.

“I’m here.”

He whispered into your hair,

“You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you again. I swear to you.”

Your sobs only came out stronger and he simply held you tighter, encouraging you to let it all out.

Minutes passed like that. Hours, maybe. Time didn't matter.

Once your cries finally turned softer, becoming hiccuping breaths, he pulled back just enough to tilt your head up.

His usually bright eyes were burning with something darker, colder.

“His name. Tell me.”

His voice was low, dangerous

You hesitated but you knew Xavier.

You knew he wouldn’t let this go, not when it came to you.

You whispered the name and watched Xavier’s expression harden into something even more terrifying.

“Let’s get you home.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing away any left over tears.

“I’ll have to go for a bit after.”

There was a finality in his words, a promise.

You grabbed onto his sleeve weakly,

“Xavier, don’t. It’s not worth it.”

He looked down at you, pausing and his gaze softened again.

“For you,”

His voice a murmur,

“there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

In the blink of an eye, he brought you home, before turning.

The night swallowed him up, like a silent predator.

He was going to hunt down the man who dared to hurt the one who was most precious to him.

Zayne

Zayne stepped out of the hospital, watching as the last golden rays of the setting sun stretched across the city.

It had been another long day and he couldn’t wait to see you again.

Just as he reached his car, his phone buzzed up.

A smile immediately curled onto his lips, as your name flashed on his phone screen.

Maybe you had finished up shopping just in time for him to come pick you up.

He answered on the first ring,

“Hello, darling-“

But he stopped mid sentence, when he heard a soft sniffle.

His heart plummeted.

Your name softly left his lips,

“What happened?”

His voice was sharp with panic now, he felt his muscles tensing.

Fighting your sobs, you tried to explain, while tripping over your words.

You ran into this guy you barely even knew.

At first, it seemed harmless enough, just engaging in some casual small talk with him.

Your answers were short and clipped, trying to be polite.

Then, when you tried to leave, he wouldn’t let you.

He blocked your way, getting increasingly more aggressive when you made it clear you weren’t interested.

Zayne tighten his grip on his phone, something tightening in his chest as he heard how the situation had escalated.

How you had gotten hurt.

You sounded so small. So scared.

“I’m on my way.”

He said firmly, getting into his car.

“Stay on the phone with me, alright? Tell me where you are.”

You gave him the name of grocery store, telling him you were waiting in the parking lot.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, as he weaved through traffic, dreading every second he wasn’t by your side.

You kept talking.

Or rather, he kept you talking.

His voice was low and steady, even when you fell silent, he didn’t rush you, didn’t push.

Just making sure you knew he was there.

When he pulled into the parking lot, his breath caught in his throat.

You were sitting there, curled up on the curb.

Bruises visible on your skin, he noticed your wrist swelling from afar and the blood drying on the corner of your mouth.

But what really got him, was the hollow look in your eyes.

He wasted no time getting out of the car, he crossed the distance with long strides.

The moment you lifted your head and saw him, the tears started back up and you let out a broken sob.

You got to your feet, feeling almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Zayne. You’ve been working all day, I shouldn’t have dragged you here-“

He cut you off, his hands cupping your face gently, so carefully as to not hurt you further.

“Don’t. Don’t apologise for needing me.”

You could hear the emotion in his voice,

“I’m glad you called. You could never be a burden. Never.”

You finally let your body relax, falling into him and he caught you, arms wrapping around you, securely.

You two stayed still like that for a long moment, he was holding you safe against him and you clung to him.

He pulled back slightly, he brushed your hair out of your eyes, tenderly.

"Let’s get you taken care of."

He said softly.

He lead you to his car, opening the door for you and helping you in, a display of gentle care that made your eyes well back up.

The drive to the hospital was filled be a comfortable silence.

He kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other rested on your knee in a silent reminder, showing you that he was by your side.

As soon as you arrived, Zayne parked hastily.

He held your hand as he helped you inside.

His face was grim and his whole body was tense but every time he looked at you, his gaze softened.

Once inside, he immediately called over Dr. Greyson.

After a few short, urgent words, Greyson took you under his care, leading you to a hospital room.

Zayne squeezed your hand before letting go.

"I'll be right here."

He said, voice low but certain.

As the door shut behind you, your boyfriend stood still before it.

He could feel his usually steady hands clenching at his sides.

His mind was racing, needing to make sure the man who did this to you would never come near you, or anyone else for that matter, again.

He sighed, thinking of how to best comfort you later.

Zayne would take care of everything.

You were safe now.

Rafayel

Rafayel stood off to the side of the gallery’s floor.

He thought tonight’s exhibition to be especially insufferably boring, the pretentious crowd leaving him annoyed.

He would’ve flat out refused Thomas if it hadn’t been for your soft kisses earlier that evening and your promise that you’d be fine hanging out with your friends.

That, however, didn’t stop him from mourning the time he knew he could’ve spend together with you instead.

All night, his mind kept drifting to you, your smile, your hand that had lingered on his cheek as you said goodbye.

He kept checking his phone, hoping for a message from you.

Nothing yet.

Some keen socialite kept trying to converse with him, throwing buzzwords around that he couldn’t care less for.

His phone finally vibrated against his palm.

Rafayel didn’t excuse himself, he simply turned and left, not sparing them another glance.

He lifted the phone to his ear, a grin pulling at his lips.

Then, he heard you.

You were crying.

His playful demeanour vanished in an instant.

He felt his heart constricting in his chest and his body snapped to attention.

“Where are you?”

His voice was low and commanding, not leaving any room for arguments, sounding like he was ready to tear through anything that stood in his way.

You managed to choke out your location through your sobs, somewhere a few blocks away from the location you had initially met your friends at.

You softly asked if he could pick you, not wanting to cause him any trouble.

“Trouble?”

He echoed darkly,

“I’m on my way already. Find a store and stay inside. Don’t leave until you see me.”

Rafayel hung up without another word, heading straight for the exit, ignoring the confused calls from the people around him and Thomas’s protests.

Non of that mattered. Nothing aside from you mattered.

The drive to you was a blur of red lights and the sound of cars honking, nothing that made him slow down.

His hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly, the leather was creaking under his grip.

It was like the only thought on his mind was you.

You were standing by the door of a small convenience store, when he finally pulled up.

Your eyes were wide and red from crying.

Once you spotted his car, relief washed over your posture and Rafayel was out of the car and by your side in seconds.

He reached for you, one hand gently wrapping around your elbow and the other ghosting above your waist as he looked you up and down.

Bruises. Bloody fabric. The fear still lingering in your wide eyes.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched so hard the thought his teeth might end up cracking.

His body and mind were screaming for him to do something, to destroy someone but he forced himself to stay soft and gentle with you.

“What happened, cutie?”

He asked in a low tone,

He noticed the way you hesitated first but then you opened up.

You told him how your friends had all left one by one until you were alone with a man you barely knew.

You tried to leave before things got weird, but things ended up getting weird anyway.

He started making gross, inappropriate comments and when you tried to shake him off, he followed.

And lastly how when you turned him down for good, he decided to hurt you.

Rafayel didn’t interrupt you once as you were speaking.

He listened in silence, drinking in every word, every tremble of your voice and every tear that slid down your cheeks.

Once you finished, he pulled you into his arms, the way he touched you was so soft, so careful, almost reverent.

Like he was afraid any amount of pressure could hurt you.

As he held you close, he pressed his face into the top of your head, inhaling deeply.

“I got you.”

He murmured.

“I’m not letting go.”

He wasn’t pushing for the man’s name, not yet.

He wouldn’t ask for details he could find out later.

Right now, all you needed was him.

He carefully lead you to his car, helping you settle in.

You two spend the rest of the night relaxing.

Once you had gotten back home, he took all the time in the world to tend to you.

He gently cleaned the scrapes on your arms and knees.

He gave you one of his sweaters, having it frame you like a shield.

He made you drink water, brought you warm towels and curled around you on the couch.

Once exhaustion overtook you, you drifted off to sleep, leaning against him, your fingers curled loosely in his shirt.

And only when he was certain, that you were fast asleep, your breathing steady, did Rafayel slowly and carefully remove himself from under you.

He made sure to tuck you in properly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then his expression hardened into something sharp and dangerous as he picked up his phone again.

No one would hurt you and walk away.

He’d make sure of that.

By morning, that man would regret ever laying a hand on you.

Sylus

Sylus was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while the meeting was dragging on.

The men sitting across from him kept talking and talking about things he could easily fix in his sleep.

His mind was elsewhere, with you.

He couldn’t wait until this was done and he could get home, grab a bottle of something decent and have you curl up against him, just as you had planned.

Thinking about you, waiting for him, a sleepy smile grazing your lips, was the only thing keeping him from snapping at the idiots in the room.

Then his phone vibrated in his jacket’s pocket.

He knew it was you but that thought didn’t exactly excite him.

As he read your name on his phone, he straightened.

You never called him while you knew he was working, not unless something was wrong.

Sylus quickly lifted his hand, silencing the man who was mid sentence.

He stood up casually, answering the call with his usual teasing charm.

"What's up, kitten?"

The moment your broken sobs reached his ears, his expression shifted.

You were crying so hard you could barely breathe.

He didn’t care about anything else but you, didn’t care for the men hearing the desperation in his voice,

“Talk to me, love. Breathe. Tell me what’s wrong.”

It took you a few seconds, your voice shaking but you finally managed to gasp out,

“Can you please come pick me up?”

He stalked out of the room, offering no explanation.

“I’m coming.”

There was no need for Sylus to ask where you were, you had stayed late at the Hunter’s Association to finish some reports.

He was familiar with your routine.

He quickly send Mephisto to your location.

On his way, he broke more than enough traffic laws as he ripped from the N109 Zone to Linkon City.

Your broken sobs kept replaying in his head and it caused him to lose focus multiple times, you were the only thought running through his mind.

When he finally screeched into a street near the Association, his gaze locked onto you immediately.

You were sitting on the sidewalk, looking so small.

Mephisto was protectively perched near you.

Luke and Kieran look out from the car, feeling bad seeing you like this.

Sylus moved without thinking.

He dropped to his knees right in front of you, the expression he was wearing was heartbreakingly soft.

One of his hands landed on your leg.

You looked up at him with tired and red rimmed eyes, a weak smile tugging at your lips,

“Hi.”

You whispered hoarsely, voice weak.

His chest tightened as he looked at you.

The desire to tear the city apart burning inside of him.

He controlled himself,

“Ready to go home, kitten?”

You nodded, lips trembling.

Sylus helped you up, wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you as if you were made of glass.

Once you were standing again, you quickly covered your mouth with your hand and started sobbing again.

Sylus was hurting with you.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, whispering calming things, trying anything to ease your pain.

You clung onto him as he lead you to the car.

Once you were both settled in, Luke took off, driving back to the N109 Zone, while Kieran was glaring daggers out of the window.

You two were sitting in the back together and he was cradling you against his side.

His fingers brushed through your hair.

When you gained the strength to open up, you did.

While your voice was hitching here and there, you told him about the man, some guy you only knew through mutual friends, who ended up cornering you once you left the association’s building.

You told about how he kept pestering you, making disgusting comments, refusing to leave you alone.

How, when you finally turned him down firmly, he got violent.

Sylus listened to every word, not interrupting you once.

He didn’t ask for the guy’s name.

He didn’t need to.

He already had everything he needed.

For now, you were all that mattered.

Arriving at the base, Sylus carried you inside like you weighed nothing.

He set you down on his bed, covering you with the soft blanket.

He cleaned your wounds with a patience he wasn’t known for.

His touch never hurt.

Every single one of his movements was an unspoken promise,

“No one will ever hurt you again.”

He stayed close all night.

Held you until you felt better.

Ran his fingers through your hair until morning came and you fell asleep, curled up in his arms.

And once he was sure, absolutely sure, you were truly asleep, did he slowly pull away.

He softly kissed you on the lips.

Then, he straightened.

Rolling his shoulders, his eyes turned dark.

He wasn't going to leave this to his men.

No, Sylus was going to personally make sure that bastard understood exactly what it meant to touch what belonged to him.

By morning, the world would be free of one more pest.

And Sylus would be back before you had even woken up.

Caleb

Night was just starting to roll around when Caleb finally returned home.

His uniform felt suffocating after such a long day.

He was halfway through unbuttoning his coat, when his phone buzzed.

Your name lit up his screen.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He figured you and your friends must've wrapped up earlier than expected, and you needed him to come pick you up.

He picked up immediately.

But the moment he heard your voice, that smile crumbled.

You were crying, not the usual soft sniffles from watching a sad movie or dropping your snack.

This was gut wrenching, helpless sobbing.

Caleb stilled, his body tensed, something deep inside of him breaking at the sound of your pain.

“Hey, hey,”

He quickly said, voice gentle.

“What wrongs, pips? I’m here.”

You were stumbling over your words, hiccuping,

“Do you think you could pick me up now?”

You sounded so small, so weak.

“Of course.”

He answered without hesitation,

“Stay where you are and keep your location on.”

Not that he needed it.

He already knew where you were.

Near the old library.

He always kept tabs, not because he didn’t trust you, but because he needed to make sure you were safe in a world that wasn’t always.

Caleb wasted not time, not even bothering to change out of his uniform.

The streets were relatively empty but even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

Caleb wanted to get to you as quickly as he possibly could, that meant ignoring speed limits and red lights.

When he spotted you, his heart broke.

You were sitting on a pair of steps, rubbing your eyes sore.

You looked up when you heard the screech of his tires and the slam of his car door.

Caleb was running towards you.

He stopped a few steps away.

His purple eyes roamed over you quickly, taking in the bruises that were forming and how disheveled you looked, the way you were shrinking in on yourself.

His eyes darkened, hands balled into fists at his sides and his muscles were flexing under his uniform.

“Who did this?”

Voice rough, barely a restrained growl.

His whole body was screaming for violence, to hurt someone back, inflict what they had done to you.

You shook your head, tears spilling again.

Caleb instantly softened.

The fury on his face was replaced by a loving look.

"Come here."

He murmured, stepping forward.

His arms pulled you into an embrace, so carefully that it made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

And to him, you were.

You leaned into him, your sobs were muffled and he was whispering sweet nothings against the crown of your head.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice trembling.

You started explaining,

how your two friends had to leave early and how the guy one of them had brought along, had stayed behind.

At first, it wasn’t too weird.

A few uncomfortable jokes, some flirting you politely brushed off.

But it didn’t stop, even when you mentioned Caleb, your boyfriend.

He just became more aggressive, more persistent.

Until you tried to leave, that’s when he became physical.

Caleb didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You knew what he felt through his arms tightening around you.

Showing his anger, how he was hurt for you, telling that no one would touch what’s his.

The kiss he pressed to your forehead was grounding.

He lead you into the car, buckling you in himself.

Once you two were back in his apartment, he ran you a warm bath.

He was staying close, helping you clean up if you as much as asked.

He fetched you some soft towels, your favourite hoodie of his, anything that he knew would comfort you.

He was sitting right outside of the bathroom door while you soaked, close for you to call his name so he could be there in an instant.

Later, as you were curled up in his bed, wearing his hoodie, lying under a mountain of blankets, Caleb sat beside you.

He was reassuring you, squeezing your hand that was holding onto his.

He kissed your knuckles, he lingered, murmured promises against your skin.

He whispered,

“I won't let anyone touch you ever again."

You eventually drifted off to sleep, coaxing you to.

And once he was sure, Caleb stood from the bed quietly, moving like a ghost.

He headed straight for his office.

He overlooked his screens, fingers flying over the controls, looking into camera footage, facial recognition, movement trackers.

It didn’t take long to find that bastard.

Caleb’s eyes were cold as he tapped a finger against his cheek, calculating.

Joining the fleet and ever had taught him how to fight in ways that left no witnesses, no survivors, no traces.

The man who hurt you would find his life dismantled piece by piece.

His reputation, his finances, his freedom, all gone in the blink of an eye.

No one could protect him from Caleb’s wrath now.

And when Caleb finally returned to bed, slipping under the covers and pulling you close to him, he softened once again.

He held you, trying to make you feel his silent promise.

The promise that no one would ever hurt you again.

Not while Caleb was still breathing.

[bimbowshmimbow]

𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢ ﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

dadsbestfriend!joel x freader!

Summary: She’s been in love with her dad’s best friend Joel Miller for as long as she can remember. When she comes home for the summer and sees him at a family cookout — older, rougher, and more gorgeous than ever — the tension between them finally snaps.

Warnings: [18+ only] explicit sexual content, age gap (legal), praise kink, dirty talk, slight roughness, mutual pining, Joel being a soft but filthy man, reader being absolutely wrecked (in the best way).

Word Count: — probably around 2.5-3k words

First time writing Joel and I’m absolutely unwell about him. Please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoy!

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, spilling a lazy orange glow across the backyard.

Laughter and the smell of grilled food filled the air, but she hardly noticed any of it.

Not when she spotted him.

Joel.

He was standing by the porch, a bottle of beer loose in his hand, wearing a worn denim jacket that clung to his broad shoulders.

The years had been good to him — roughening him up in all the ways that made her chest ache.

Her heart stumbled in her chest, pounding hard against her ribs as if trying to escape.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

She almost hoped he wouldn’t — hoped and dreaded it all at once.

Because seeing him again after all this time felt like being cracked open.

Raw. Exposed.

She tried to play it cool, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, pretending to be fascinated by the ice in her glass.

But it was impossible to ignore the way his gaze found her in the crowd like a magnet snapping into place.

Those dark, familiar eyes dragged over her — lingering in a way that made her skin spark.

Made her knees weaken, just a little.

Joel froze for half a second, the easy smile he’d been wearing faltering.

And then it softened — something warmer, something quieter — lighting up his whole face in a way that made her stomach twist.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, voice rough like gravel, but the kind that slid under her skin and stayed there.

She tried to smile, but it came out shaky, breathless.

“Hi, Joel,” she managed.

He moved toward her, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he was soaking her in.

Up close, he smelled like cedar and sun and something distinctly, maddeningly Joel.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, voice dropping a little lower.

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out something stupid.

Because up close, he looked even better than she remembered — a little older, a little rougher, with lines around his mouth that made her wonder how many times he’d smiled, and whether she could be the reason for it.

Joel’s fingers brushed her elbow lightly, just for a second — a touch so casual it shouldn’t have made her feel like the ground tilted under her feet.

“You grew up,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

And something about the way he looked at her then — not like a kid anymore, not at all — made her blood heat dangerously.

The noise of the cookout faded into a distant hum.

It was just the two of them now, trapped in a little bubble of memory and longing and too many things left unsaid.

She barely realized she was moving until they were standing even closer, barely a breath between them.

And Joel was looking at her like he wanted to say something — or do something — that he shouldn’t.

“Missed you, kid,” he said hoarsely.

Kid.

The word hit her like a slap and a caress all at once — a reminder of who she had been, and maybe who she wasn’t anymore.

“You don’t have to call me that,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to his.

Joel’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there for a beat too long.

His jaw tightened, like he was fighting something — fighting her — but there was no mistaking the way his hand hovered, trembling just slightly, like he wanted to touch her again.

Properly this time.

Joel’s mouth tugged into a half-smirk, the kind that always used to get her into trouble — the kind that still made her thighs press together under her sundress.

“You givin’ me orders now?” he teased, voice low and warm, setting her nerves on fire.

“Maybe,” she said, feeling braver than she should.

“Somebody’s gotta keep you in line.”

Joel chuckled — a deep, rough sound that made her chest flutter.

He tipped his beer bottle toward her slightly in a mock salute.

“Good luck with that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Her stomach flipped.

She could’ve sworn there was a glint in his eye — something sharper, something hotter — but maybe she was imagining it.

The music from the speakers shifted to something slower, smokier, and Joel’s gaze held hers, dark and heavy.

For a second, the world shrank again, just like it always did around him.

“You wanna get outta here?” he said suddenly, voice a little rougher.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Not teasing.

He meant it.

“Where would we even go?” she asked, half breathless.

Joel’s mouth quirked up again, but there was something darker behind it now — something dangerous and sweet.

“Don’t care,” he said.

“Long as it’s just you and me.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

Not really.

She slipped her hand into his — and the feel of his calloused fingers closing around hers almost made her knees give out — and let him lead her around the side of the house, away from the noise and the people and the eyes that might have seen too much.

They end up in an old tool shed tucked away behind the house, half forgotten, mostly empty now except for the smell of wood and oil from the summer heat.

The door thudded shut behind them and it was just the two of them again, the walls too close the air too thick.

Joel turned to face her, still holding her hand.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles absentmindedly, but his eyes were anything but casual.

They dragged over her face, her mouth, her body, slow and hungry.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me, darlin’,” he said thickly.

“I think I do,” she whispered back.

Joel’s hand lifted, brushing a stray curl from her cheek — so gentle it made her chest ache.

His thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, and she swore she could feel the way he was shaking.

“You sure about this?” he asked roughly.

She nodded, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

“I’ve been sure for a long time.”

Joel groaned low in his throat — the sound of a man losing a battle he’d been fighting too long — and then his mouth crashed into hers.

Joel’s mouth crashed into hers — rough and hungry — but even then, he held back, his hands cupping her jaw so carefully like he thought she might break.

She whimpered against him, and he cursed softly, pulling back just enough to rasp, “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she breathed instantly, no hesitation. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Joel’s mouth was back on hers in a second, more urgent now, his body pressing her back until she bumped into the workbench behind her.

His hands skimmed down — strong and a little shaking — gripping her waist, her hips, pulling her flush against him.

She could feel him — hard against her belly — and the desperate, low sound he made when she shifted closer had heat flooding through her.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“I think I have an idea,” she whispered, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, her fingers grazing the warm, solid skin of his stomach.

Joel groaned, dragging the shirt over his head in one motion and tossing it aside.

The sight of him — broad chest, a dusting of dark hair, thick arms — made her thighs press together, aching for him.

“Pretty little thing,” he muttered, palms sliding down her sides to her thighs.

“You wore this fuckin’ dress just to kill me, didn’t you?”

She grinned breathlessly. “Maybe.”

Joel growled — an honest, rough sound — before gripping the hem of her sundress and dragging it up slowly, like he was unwrapping a gift he’d been dying to open.

His knuckles brushed up her thighs, pushing the fabric higher, higher — until the dress bunched around her hips and he hissed softly, seeing the little scrap of panties she had on.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he rasped.

Before she could even reply, Joel lifted her — like it was nothing — setting her down onto the workbench, the wood cool against the backs of her thighs.

He stepped between her legs, pushing her knees apart with his hands, rough and tender all at once.

“Last chance,” he said, voice almost breaking.

“You want me to stop, you say it. Otherwise…” His thumb brushed over the waistband of her panties.

“I ain’t gonna be able to.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered fiercely.

Joel’s mouth crashed into hers again — almost desperate now — while his hands slid under her panties, tugging them down her legs and letting them fall to the floor.

He dragged his fingers along her slick heat, growling low at what he found.

“Christ, baby,” he muttered against her mouth. “You’re already so fuckin’ wet.”

She moaned when one thick finger slid through her folds — teasing, circling — not quite giving her what she needed.

“Joel,” she whined softly, hips rocking toward his hand.

He chuckled — low and filthy — pressing a kiss to her throat as he pushed one finger inside her, then another, stretching her carefully.

“You’re so tight,” he said hoarsely.

“Goddamn, sweetheart — you’re squeezin’ me already.”

She clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fucked her slow with his fingers, curling them just right until she was panting, her head tipping back.

Joel kissed up her throat, her jaw, her cheeks — almost worshipful — murmuring against her skin.

“Good girl… takin’ me so good…”

The coil in her belly tightened hard, her whole body trembling.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Need you.”

Joel groaned — pulling his fingers free, kissing her again to swallow her needy sounds — and reached for the button of his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free himself.

When she caught sight of him — thick, flushed, leaking at the tip — she whimpered, hips rolling unconsciously toward him.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped, the head of his cock nudging her entrance.

“Joel,” she gasped. “Please.”

He grunted, lining himself up and pushing in — slow, careful, watching her face the whole time.

Stretching her open, filling her up so good it hurt in the sweetest way.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, sinking deeper. “You feel so good, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

She whimpered, clinging to him, feeling like she was coming apart around him.

Joel pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust back in — a little harder — setting a rhythm that made her head spin.

The workbench creaked under them with every thrust, and she couldn’t even be embarrassed — too far gone, too full of him.

Joel kissed her — messy, hungry — his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, fucking into her like he couldn’t help himself.

“Been wantin’ you for so goddamn long,” he panted against her mouth. “Dreamed about you — fuck — every goddamn night.”

“Me too,” she gasped, her body clenching around him.

Joel groaned, the sound ripped out of him, and suddenly his hand slid between them, finding her clit and rubbing tight, perfect circles.

It was too much.

The stretch of him, the way he touched her like she was precious, the filthy things he growled against her skin.

Her orgasm rocked her frame, blinding white and shaking, her whole body locking up as she cried out his name.

Joel cursed, hips stuttering as he chased his own release, then spilled inside her with a broken, desperate groan — pressing his forehead to hers, trembling.

They stayed like that — tangled up, sweaty, breathing each other in — for long minutes, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant thump of music from the cookout.

Joel kissed her forehead, her cheek, her jaw — soft and reverent.

“You okay, darlin’?” he murmured, still buried inside her.

She smiled lazily, boneless and full of him.

“Never been better.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, nuzzling her nose with his.

“You’re mine now, you hear me?”

“Always was,” she whispered back.

AHHH okay.. so this was my first ever writing something properly! just seeing how this goes.. please feel free to give me any feedback!

I’ve been thinking about doing fluffy blurbs!! Going off of this! And one day I wanna do a proper fic!

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤADDICTIONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Roy Harper x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It doesn’t start pretty. It starts with you pissing him off.

You were a little too mouthy for his taste, too unimpressed by his sharp aim and cocky grin. He didn’t like the way you looked right through him, past the sarcasm, past the good-ol’-boy act. You saw something in him — the anger, the brokenness, the bleeding parts he covered with jokes. And you didn’t flinch.

That’s what did it.

You didn’t flinch.

Roy is used to flinching. People either pity him or write him off, tired of his rehab records and near-death decisions. But you? You looked him in the eye and told him to shut up when he was being annoying. You called him out when he was hiding behind jokes. You treated him like he mattered — not because he was Arsenal, not because he was a hero — just because he was Roy.

He’s not used to being seen.

At first, he tells himself he just likes being around you. That’s all. Normal stuff. You make him laugh. You keep him grounded. You don’t try to fix him, and that feels better than any rehab or therapy ever has.

But then he starts thinking about you too much.

Your voice gets stuck in his head like a song. He catches himself texting you dumb memes just to make you smile. Starts checking your social media at 3am when he can’t sleep. Starts memorizing the way you talk, the things you like, the stupid brands of candy you eat.

He’s already obsessed, but he doesn’t admit it yet.

Until someone flirts with you.

That’s when the mask cracks.

He’s not calm. He’s not cool. He’s not normal about it. He gets snappy, territorial. Not in front of you — he respects you too much for that — but the guy who flirted with you? Roy breaks three of his ribs during sparring and calls it an accident. No one believes him.

When he finally realizes he’s in deep, it scares him.

He’s been through hell. Lost people. Made mistakes. Done things he can’t take back. He doesn’t deserve something soft and kind like you. But that doesn’t stop the obsession from growing.

He starts doing things behind your back. Quiet things. Dangerous things.

He finds out where you live — not in a creepy way, he tells himself — just in case you ever need him. He follows you home a few times, watches from rooftops just to make sure you’re safe. No one sees him. He’s too good for that.

He tracks the people in your life. Your coworkers. Your friends. That ex you never talk about? Roy knows everything now. And if any of them ever hurt you — they won’t even know it was him.

He loves you quietly, violently.

He keeps little pieces of you. Things you leave behind. A pen you forgot. A coffee cup you tossed. You never notice they’re missing. He keeps them in a drawer, like trophies. He knows it’s not healthy. He doesn’t care.

He starts writing texts he never sends. “I miss you.” “I want you.” “I love you.” Then deletes them. You’re too good. Too normal. You’d run if you knew how deep it went.

But God, when you smile at him like you mean it? When you touch his arm, or lean your head on his shoulder after a long day?

It makes him feel real.

So he waits. Watches. Obsesses. Protects.

And the day you say, “Roy, I think I love you,” his whole world shifts.

Because now it’s not just obsession. It’s permission.

And he’s never letting you go.

It’s different now that you love him.

Now he doesn’t have to hide the way his eyes linger too long. Now he can trace your jaw with his fingers and call it affection, not fixation. Now he can sleep in your bed and press his face into your neck like he’s trying to inhale you. And he does. He does.

But obsession doesn’t get softer when it’s fed. It gets louder. Hungrier.

At first, he tries to be normal. Dates. Sleepovers. Stupid inside jokes. He gets you flowers — steals them from a villain’s estate, but hey, they’re still pretty. You make him laugh. He makes you feel safe.

But that voice in his head — the one that says you’re his, only his — never shuts up.

You don’t notice how he starts pulling you closer whenever other guys are around. How his hand finds your waist just a little too tightly when someone looks at you wrong. How his eyes go dead-cold when someone makes you laugh in a way he thinks only he should.

He tells himself he trusts you. And he does.

It’s everyone else he doesn’t trust.

You go out with friends? He hacks traffic cams to make sure you get home okay. You text someone at midnight? He finds out who it is in five minutes flat. You talk about an old friend a little too fondly? He looks up their location, just in case he needs to pay them a quiet, final visit.

Roy doesn’t threaten people. He doesn’t have to.

One look — that look — and people back the hell off. They know.

He’d bleed for you. Burn cities for you.

But here’s the twist: around you, he’s soft.

He’s the Roy you adore — grinning, rough-around-the-edges, all charm and chaos. He kisses you like he’s starving. Carries your stuff even when you say no. Keeps a stash of your favorite snacks in his bag during missions.

He gets nightmares sometimes — ugly ones. Stuff from his past. And when he wakes up shaking, you’re there. You hold his hand. He doesn’t tell you he dreams about losing you. About your body cold in his arms. About reaching you too late.

That’s his greatest fear. That he’ll fail you like he failed everyone else.

So he prepares.

He trains harder. Stockpiles weapons. Sets traps around your apartment you don’t even notice. Encrypts your phone so no one can track you. Puts a tracker in your necklace — the one he bought you for your birthday — just in case.

You’re his world. His second chance. His religion.

And the thing about Roy is this:

Once he loves you, he loves you with everything — the good, the broken, the violent.

So if anyone hurts you, even once?

They’re not disappearing.

They’re never being found.

You try to pull away.

It’s subtle at first. A hesitation before you kiss him goodnight. A pause before you answer his texts. You tell him you’re just tired, that work’s been rough, that you need space.

And Roy? He nods. Smiles. Says he understands.

He doesn’t.

Because love isn’t supposed to feel like this. Like slipping through fingers. Like drowning with your mouth still open. You’re his everything. His only anchor. And now you’re pulling away like you don’t know what you mean to him.

You have no idea what that does to a man like Roy.

He’s not someone who can let go. He never learned how. Everyone in his life either left or died. And if you leave—

No. He won’t survive it.

So he starts clinging harder. Calling more. Showing up unannounced. You say you're busy, and he just laughs it off. "Busy with what? Need help?" His tone is light, joking — but his eyes don’t blink. They watch.

You say you’re going out with friends, and ten minutes later, there’s a red motorcycle parked across the street from the bar. You never see him. He’s not here to ruin your night.

He’s here to protect what’s his.

You belong to him.

You just… forgot for a second.

Maybe someone told you you deserve better. Someone said he’s intense, possessive, obsessive. Maybe you believed them. But he’s already rewriting the narrative in his head.

They’re manipulating you.

They’re trying to take you from him.

And he won’t let that happen.

You wake up one morning and your phone’s wiped clean. A “random glitch,” your carrier says. You lose contact with half the people you were just starting to reconnect with. Friends disappear. Exes block you.

Roy’s arms are warm when he holds you through it. “People are shitty sometimes,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

He means it.

Even if you scream. Even if you run. Even if you beg.

Because if you try to leave — really leave — he’s not above burning the bridges behind you. You can hate him. You can cry. You can throw things. But you will still be in his bed, still wearing the chain around your neck with the tiny GPS inside, still breathing because he keeps you safe.

He kisses your forehead one night, right after you told him, “I need space.”

His voice is soft, barely a whisper:

“You just need me.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[luvxkdrama]

— solace

pairing : yeon sieun x reader

warnings : angst

word count : 2.2k

summary : Sieun never thought he’d find solace in someone — until you quietly made your way into his life.

a/n : i’m so inspired to write a few more sieun fanfics but exam season is hitting hard right now

—

You had been dating Sieun for a while now, and even though you were naturally affectionate and bold about it, there were still invisible lines he didn’t easily let others cross — not out of coldness, but something more quiet and private about him.

One of those lines was sleepovers.

You had joked about it plenty of times, teasing him with your playful grins, but he always shook his head with that tiny, closed-off smile that said “Not yet.”You respected it. You never pushed.

Tonight, though, was different.

You both had spent the evening studying at his place, notes and books spread across the coffee table, lost in each other's quiet company. It was only when you blinked back at the clock, realizing how late it had gotten, that you started packing up. You reached for your bag when Sieun, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, looked up and said in a low voice,

“You can stay.”

You froze for a second, blinking at him.

He must've seen the surprise flash across your face because he immediately added,

“Just sleep here. It's late.”

His hand gestured lazily to the couch before he stood up, disappearing into his room without giving you time to overthink it.

When he came back, he handed you some of his clothes — a soft oversized hoodie and a pair of loose sweatpants. His fingers brushed yours briefly.

“These should be more comfortable” he said without meeting your eyes.

You smiled up at him, feeling your chest squeeze with warmth, but you didn’t tease him like you usually would.

“Thanks, Sieun.”

You didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed slightly.

After changing, he brought you a pile of pillows and a heavy blanket, neatly laying them out on the couch without a word. You flopped onto it dramatically, making him roll his eyes lightly but not without his lips curling slightly upwards.

“Good night.” you said, giving him a mock salute.

“Night.” he replied, voice soft, before retreating into his room and quietly closing the door behind him.

You stared at the ceiling in the dim light for a moment, your heart too full and light all at once.

It was around 3 a.m. when you shifted on the couch, the blanket slipping slightly off your shoulder. You blinked a few times, your mind still heavy with sleep, when you noticed a faint strip of light leaking from the crack of Sieun’s bedroom door.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes, confusion clouding your still-drowsy brain.

You frowned, pushing the blanket aside and getting to your feet. The hardwood floor was cool against your toes as you made your way across the living room.

You hesitated for a second in front of his door, thinking he was perhaps still studying.

Just as you were about to lightly knock, you paused.

There was a sound.

Quiet at first, almost hidden.

You leaned closer without thinking, your ear near the door.

And that’s when you heard it —

Soft, choked sounds.

Sobs.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

You immediately pulled back, unsure what to do. A lump formed in your throat at the thought of Sieun — always so composed, so unreadable — curled up behind that door with the weight of something too heavy for him to carry alone.

Without giving yourself more time to overthink it, you gently pushed the door open. It creaked softly, and Sieun, sitting on the floor leaned against his bed, stiffened and quickly wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to pretend like nothing happened.

He didn’t even look at you.

“Go back to sleep.” he muttered hoarsely, voice raw and shaky.

You stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. You wanted to help, but you weren’t sure what the right thing was. You didn’t want to invade his space, but you couldn’t bear to leave him alone in this state.

You glanced around the room, feeling like you should do something — anything — to comfort him.

Without thinking too much, you quietly slipped out of the room. You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and then opened the bathroom cabinet to find a washcloth. You dampened it with cold water, just enough to make it soothing but not too cold.

When you returned to his room, you didn’t say anything, just you sank down onto the floor next to him, setting the water and the cloth on the floor beside him. You hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on the back of his neck, the cool cloth against his warm skin.

His breath caught, but he didn’t pull away.

You carefully draped the cloth over his neck, smoothing it down gently.

“Here,” you whispered. “It’ll help.”

Sieun’s hands were still clasped tightly in his lap, but his body seemed to relax just a little, the tremors slowing. You felt him lean into the cold fabric just slightly, as if the smallest of comforts were enough to break through his defenses.

You sat beside him, not sure what else to say. You didn’t have the words to take away the pain, but you didn’t have to. Just your presence was enough, and slowly, Sieun began to steady his breathing.

You both sat in silence for a few more minutes, the only sound being the quiet rustling of the cloth. You noticed his shoulders were a little less tense, and his grip on the blanket had loosened.

“I’m sorry,” Sieun’s voice was barely above a whisper, still thick with emotion. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You shook your head, your heart aching for him.

“You don’t have to apologize for this. Everyone has moments when they break down,” you said softly, squeezing his hand gently, hoping he could hear the sincerity in your voice.

Sieun didn’t respond right away, but you could feel him exhale slowly, like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

You both remained seated on the floor for a little while longer. After a while, Sieun shifted slightly, and his voice, though still a bit hoarse, broke the silence.

“It’s like this every night.” he said, his gaze still cast downward, focusing on the way his hands were folded tightly in his lap. “I can’t sleep. Not really.”

You watched him closely, a sense of concern bubbling in your chest. His words hung heavy in the air, the vulnerability in his voice unmistakable.

“Even sleeping pills don’t help,” he continued, sounding more defeated than you’d ever heard him before. “I’ve tried. But... nothing works. It’s always like this.”

Your heart ached for him, and the way his shoulders sagged made it clear how exhausted he was, not just physically, but emotionally as well. You reached out instinctively, placing a hand on his arm in a soft gesture of support.

“This is why I didn’t want to do sleepovers. I don’t want you to see me like this and worry about me.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words, your heart breaking at the thought of him suffering in silence every night.

“You don’t have to go through this alone, Sieun. I’m here. I want to be here for you.” you said gently, your voice steady and reassuring.

Sieun looked at you for the first time since the conversation began, his eyes tired but searching. For a brief moment, you saw a vulnerability in them that you hadn't noticed before. He didn’t say anything right away, as if processing your words. Then, after a beat, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I’m not good at asking for help,” he admitted, his voice low, as if it took all the strength he had to say it. “But... I guess it’s nice to have someone who cares.”

You smiled softly, gently squeezing his hand. “You don’t need to ask. You already have me.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, Sieun finally let out a small, breathy laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And it made your heart lift, just a little.

“You really do know how to make things better, don’t you?” he asked, a small, but sincere smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You gave him a teasing grin. “I try.”

He chuckled again, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little. The sadness and worry that had weighed on him for so long were still there, but for a brief moment, you saw a glimpse of the Sieun you always knew—someone who could smile, even if just a little.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, his eyes soft as they met yours. “I don’t think I tell you that enough.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to thank me. Just let me be here for you, okay?”

He nodded slowly. Even though he still seemed exhausted, the tension in his body had begun to soften.

“You should get some rest.” you said softly, hoping he’d let himself relax.

You looked down at your watch and realized how much time had passed, feeling it was probably late enough for you to head back to the couch. You didn’t want to intrude on his space any longer. Slowly, you began to stand up, preparing to leave the room quietly.

But just as you were about to step away, you felt a gentle tug on your wrist.

You looked down, surprised, to find Sieun looking up at you. His hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist, and there was a softness in his gaze that you hadn’t expected.

“Stay,” he said quietly, his voice almost shy. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

You blinked in surprise, looking at him for a moment before a small smile tugged at your lips. The vulnerability he’d shown tonight, paired with the genuine request, made your heart swell.

“I thought you might want some space,” you murmured softly, still standing by his side. “I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

He shook his head, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist as if to reassure you.

“You’re not overstaying,” he replied, his voice quiet but sincere. “I want to be with you tonight.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in his words making it impossible to turn away. Without a word, you nodded and sat back down beside him on the floor, this time a little closer.

“I can stay as long as you need.” you said, your voice gentle, offering him comfort the way you knew best.

Sieun looked at you for a long moment, before a small, tired smile crept onto his face. “Thank you.”

You reached out and laced your fingers through his, your hand warm against his cold ones. He squeezed it back gently.

As the minutes passed, the heavy air in the room lifted, if only slightly.

And then, to your surprise, after a few minutes, you felt a soft weight on your shoulder. Sieun’s head had gently dropped there, his breathing steadying. His eyes fluttered closed as he slowly relaxed into your side.

You didn't move, letting him rest against you, unsure whether it was the comfort of your presence or his exhaustion that had finally led him to this moment.

You took a deep breath, your gaze softening as you reached behind you for the blanket that had been draped across his bed earlier.

With a quiet movement, you pulled the blanket over both of you, tucking it around Sieun first before pulling it higher over yourself. The warmth of the blanket wrapped around you both, and you stayed there, in the stillness, simply letting the silence be a comfort.

There, with his head gently resting on your shoulder, you felt the quiet security of the moment—the kind that didn't need words to make it special.

You smiled softly to yourself, your heart warm despite the heaviness of the night. Carefully, you tilted your head and gently rested it over his, closing your eyes.

The room fell into a quiet peace, the two of you huddled together under the blanket, finally allowing yourselves to rest—not alone, but together.

And for the first time in a long while, Sieun let go of the weight he carried in his heart — even if just for one night — and allowed himself to simply rest, feeling safe, feeling loved.

In your arms, he had finally found solace.

[ijustwannabecool]

Two Seats Apart

Harry Styles x Reader

Summary... You’ve never spoken. Not once. But for eight months, he’s sat two seats away on the 8:42 train, and somehow—he feels familiar. Then one day, he leaves behind his journal. And in it? You. Now, everything is about to change.

Trigger Warnings: None—just soft, warm feelings and lots of eye contact

A/N: For anyone who’s ever fallen in love with the possibility of a stranger. I hope you guys enjoy this ordinary!Harry fic. Let me know what you guys think. If you like it please comment and leave me feedback. As always, requests are open :) Have a beautiful day today.

If you like this fic please reblog, leave a comment, and leave a like.

Happy reading.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never heard his voice. But you know the shape of him in your periphery better than most things. The curve of his shoulder in a wool coat. The way his fingers hover just above the page before he writes, like he’s asking permission from the paper first.

You know he likes chamomile tea. That he reads fiction—literary, sometimes thrillers—and switches to poetry on Fridays. You once caught the title of a collection, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared: The Sun and Her Flowers. It surprised you.

So did the small flower doodles that lined the edge of one page you accidentally glimpsed when he turned it too far.

For eight months now, he’s been two seats apart on the 8:42 train into the city. Not beside you. Never that bold. But not across the aisle either. Close enough to hear the soft scratch of his pen. Far enough to remain a mystery.

You’ve never spoken. But in a strange, quiet way… he feels familiar.

There are days when your eyes meet by accident in the window’s reflection. Days when he offers his seat to someone else—always with a soft smile, a quiet nod, never words. Days when you wonder if he notices you too.

And days when you know for certain that he does. Like today.

——

You started taking the 8:42 because it was the only time your nerves settled.

After the move. After the breakup. After the kind of year that left you cracked in quiet places.

The earlier train was too hectic. The later one too full of people who’d already had too much coffee and not enough patience. But the 8:42? It felt still. A breath between worlds.

The job you commuted to—children’s publishing—was both a dream and a challenge. Quiet offices, messy manuscripts, and your favorite part: stories that reminded you to believe in magic again.

And somewhere between chapter submissions and deadline emails… you noticed him.

——

The rain had been half-hearted all morning. The kind that misted instead of poured. Still, it clung to your hair and coat as you stepped onto the platform, coffee in one hand, umbrella folded under your arm.

You saw him immediately.

He was already on the train, leaned against the window with his eyes closed, earphones in. The collar of his coat was turned up, curls damp against his forehead. His lips moved ever so slightly, like he was mouthing lyrics. Or words he hadn’t yet written.

You took your seat. Your usual one. Three rows down, two seats across.

And the routine began. Train lurches. Announcements drone. The rhythm of the tracks settles in.

You steal a glance. Just one. Maybe two.

He’s awake now, journal open on his lap. His pen glides across the page like it knows where it’s going. Like it’s been here before.

You wish you had that certainty.

Your stop nears faster than usual. Time, for all its consistency, seems to bend when he's around.

You stand, tucking your book into your tote, adjusting your coat. The train begins to slow, that familiar squeak of brakes signaling the end of another almost-meeting.

You glance toward him one last time before the doors hiss open.

He’s looking out the window.

He never looks at you.

——

It’s not until the train is pulling away behind you that you realize it.

He left something behind.

You see it through the glass—his journal, still nestled into the space between the seat and the window. Half-covered, half-forgotten. Your heart does something funny, like it’s tripping over itself.

You could leave it. You should. But curiosity wraps around your ankles like a tide.

You step back into the station. You wait until the next round of boarding is done. And then you slip back onto the train, now mostly empty, and walk quietly to where he always sits.

The journal is still there. Still open. Still warm from where he’d been.

You pause.

Then you slide it toward you.

The page is filled with handwriting—messy but beautiful, slanted slightly right, like it’s always leaning forward. There’s a sketch of something in the margin. A coffee cup. A scarf. Your scarf.

Your breath catches.

You read the words slowly, carefully, like they might disappear if you blink too fast.

She always chooses the same seat. Three rows down. Across from me. The green scarf. The way she hums sometimes, too softly for anyone but me to notice. The way she looks up when the train crosses the bridge, like the river might finally answer her questions. I want to say hello. But I don’t want to ruin the silence. The silence where she exists most beautifully.

You stare.

This can’t be about you. It couldn’t.

And yet…

Tucked into the spine, almost hidden, is a smaller piece of paper. A note, folded twice. You unfold it with shaking fingers.

If you’re reading this, then I forgot my journal. And that probably means this was meant to happen. I’ve been writing about you for months. I thought I’d keep it all to myself. But now… maybe tomorrow, I’ll say hello. – H.

Your hand clamps over your mouth. Your heart? A mess of thunder and flutter. Your brain? Useless. Spinning.

You fold the note and place it carefully back between the pages. You press the journal to your chest, unsure whether to scream or cry or laugh.

You know one thing, though—one absolutely certain thing:

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

——

He doesn’t mean to leave it.

The journal. The damn journal.

He realizes it too late—two stops too far, heart plummeting somewhere around the back of his throat. He’s halfway to the café, rain curling at the collar of his coat, when he freezes mid-step.

“Shit.”

People move around him, umbrellas clashing, shoes scuffing against wet pavement. But his world is suddenly still. Loud with panic.

He left it on the seat.

His mind replays it on loop. The way he’d tucked it under his arm, distracted by the last line he’d written. The way his fingers lingered too long on the note he tore from the back. The way he looked—really looked—at you for the first time that morning. Not through the glass. Not sideways.

You were laughing at something on your phone. Hair falling forward, scarf bunched under your chin, lips pressed together like you were trying not to smile too much.

He wonders if you were laughing at something someone sent you. He hopes, stupidly, that it wasn’t a boyfriend. (He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’s lying.)

The thought that you might find the journal makes him nauseous. And exhilarated.

Because he wrote about you.

God, he wrote about you.

And now you know.

——

The journal is still in your bag.

You haven’t opened it again. Haven’t dared to read more than that note. Haven’t let your mind spiral into the million different ways this could go wrong—or right.

You don’t know what to expect when you board the train the next morning. If he’ll be there. If he’ll look at you. If he’ll speak.

But when the 8:42 rolls in, and you step into your usual carriage, there he is.

Two seats away.

Except this time, he’s not writing.

He’s watching you.

The look in his eyes is gentle. Hesitant. A question wrapped in hope.

You meet his gaze.

And for the first time, you smile.

You slide into your seat, fingers curled around the edge of the tote where his journal sits. He looks down, then back up, lips parting as if to say something—but he doesn’t.

The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not empty.

Just full.

At the next stop, a folded piece of paper lands in your lap.

You glance up. He’s facing forward, pretending he didn’t just pass you a note like a boy in a school hallway.

You unfold it slowly.

I know this is insane. I didn’t mean to leave it behind. But then again… maybe I did. Maybe I just didn’t want to hold it all alone anymore. You don’t have to say anything. Just… if you don’t want me to write again, don’t reply. But if you do... if you’re even a little curious—leave a note on the seat tomorrow morning. I’ll wait for it. I’ll wait for you. – H.

You read it twice. Then again. Then tuck it gently into your pocket.

And you don’t hesitate.

——

That night, you stay up later than usual. The lamp on your bedside table glows soft and golden, and the words come quicker than you expected.

You don’t try to sound clever. Or poetic. Or perfect.

You just… write.

I don’t know why I noticed you first. Maybe it was the way you always offer your seat. Or how you tap your fingers to some rhythm I’ll never hear. I don’t know what this is. But I think I’d like to find out. I’ll leave this here. Same time. Same seat. – Y/N

——

The next morning, he boards the train earlier than usual.

Heart racing. Hands in his pockets. Hope coiled like a spring inside his chest.

And there it is.

A folded note. Sitting exactly where you promised.

He exhales.

Something loosens in his chest.

He reads your words three times before daring to smile.

You replied.

You replied.

He spends the entire ride writing back.

——

That week becomes a blur of letters.

Tiny pieces of folded paper, slipped under armrests. Descriptions of favorite songs, dreams too big to say out loud, little anecdotes that feel like secrets.

He tells you about his love for rainy mornings and black-and-white films.

You tell him how you once cried in public because a stranger sang your favorite song and it felt like magic.

He says he used to play music, but doesn’t anymore.

You ask why. He doesn’t answer—yet.

The words pile up. So do the feelings.

You start dressing with him in mind. He begins saving you a seat—closer now. One row apart.

And still, not a single word is spoken aloud.

Until Friday.

The train is late. People are restless. You’re standing by the door, heart thudding.

Then you feel it—his presence. His warmth behind you.

You turn.

He’s holding a note, but not offering it.

Instead, his voice breaks the quiet.

“Hi.”

You blink. He smiles. Soft, crooked, unsure.

“I figured it was time,” he says, voice low. “To actually say it.”

Your breath catches. “Hi,” you say back.

And for the first time, it’s not paper holding your words.

——

You’ve spent weeks reading his thoughts like stolen poetry. Now you’re sitting beside him for the first time, and you can’t think of a single thing to say.

He’s real. He’s right here. And he smells like cedarwood and morning rain.

Your knees are almost touching. His hand rests on the journal in his lap, thumb tracing over the edge of the leather cover. Yours are clutched tightly around a paper cup of tea you barely remember buying. Everything is too loud inside your head and too quiet between you.

“So,” he says, a little nervous, “we’re talking now.”

You smile. “We are.”

He chuckles softly. “Not as romantic as ink and paper, is it?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s nice. Different nice.”

The pause that follows is soft. Not awkward. Just full. Familiar.

You glance at him. “Harry,” you say gently, tasting the name for the first time in your mouth. “That is your name, right? H?”

He smiles—warm, bashful, with that little dimple like a comma at the end of his grin.

“It is. Harry Styles. And yours is…?”

You tilt your head. “You mean you’ve been writing about me for months and didn’t know my name?”

He bites back a laugh. “I didn’t want to assume. Figured if you ever wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

You offer your hand. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

He takes it. Holds it gently, like it’s fragile or sacred. “Hi, Y/N.”

Your heart does something stupid and syrupy.

“Hi, Harry.”

——

He’s never been more terrified than in the moment your fingers touched his.

Because now it’s real.

This girl—the one he watched from two seats away for almost a year, the one who unknowingly filled his journal and his mornings and his mind—is holding his hand. Saying his name. Smiling like maybe she’s felt it too.

He doesn’t want to scare you. Doesn’t want to rush this. But he also doesn’t want to go back to silence.

So he says the thing he’s been thinking for days now.

“Would it be too forward if I asked to walk you to wherever you're going after this?”

Y/N looks down at their still-joined hands and shrugs, playful. “That depends.”

“On?”

She glances up. “If you’ll keep writing me letters.”

Harry grins. “Even if we talk?”

“Especially if we talk.”

He nods. “Deal.”

——

The rest of the ride feels like a blur. A blur wrapped in slow smiles, shy glances, and questions like tiny paper cranes unfolding between you.

He asks about your favorite breakfast. You tell him about your obsession with bookstore cafés. He lights up when you mention poetry. You light up when he says he used to sing.

He tells you he stopped because life got loud and messy and he didn’t know how to make room for it anymore.

You tell him maybe he didn’t have to make room—maybe the music was always still in him.

He goes quiet then. But not because he’s uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. As if something you said tugged on an invisible thread deep inside him.

When the train slows into the city, neither of you stands right away.

People move around you. Rush. Push. The world spins.

But you two? You sit in the stillness. And you stay there until the carriage empties.

——

You walk together to the end of the platform. He’s close enough that your scarf brushes his wrist, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to take your hand again. You kind of hope he does.

When you reach the stairs, you stop.

“This is me,” you say, nodding toward the east exit.

He points in the opposite direction. “And I’m that way.”

A beat passes. Then another.

You rock gently on your heels. “Well…”

“Wait,” he says, a little breathless. “I—can I see you again?”

Your eyebrows lift, teasing. “We see each other every morning.”

“You know what I mean.”

Your smile softens. “Yeah. I do.”

And then you lean in—just enough to kiss his cheek. It’s featherlight, a brush of a promise.

“I’ll be two seats apart tomorrow,” you whisper. “Unless you want to sit next to me.”

You walk away before he can answer, scarf trailing behind you like punctuation at the end of a beautiful sentence.

And behind you, you know—without looking—that he’s smiling.

Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like the story is just beginning.

——

Epilogue: One Month Later

The train feels different now.

There’s laughter where silence used to be. Shared playlists through split earbuds. Hands brushing, then holding. Notes still passed, still folded, still filled with little thoughts—because some habits are worth keeping.

Y/N reads today’s one while sipping tea:

I used to think my favorite part of the commute was the quiet. But then you looked at me, and now it’s the part where you smile. – H.

She tucks the note into the back of her journal—the one he bought her last week, soft-bound and navy, with her initials stamped in the corner.

And then she looks over at him.

He’s already watching her. Of course he is.

She leans her head on his shoulder.

And this time, there are no seats between them.

The End.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this story. Let me know your feedback.

[bingbongsupremacy]

Post-It Notes

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Warning: None that I can think of

Summary: Steve starts leaving Post-It notes around the compound to encourage the Avengers. You’re the only one who writes back. Neither of you ever mentions it out loud -but deep down, you know the notes mean more than they should. Are you finding love in the middle of your chaotic life... or are you just misreading Steve’s kindness? +Bonus Stuff at The End (Notes, Steve's Reaction, After you're together)

No details of the reader's appearance, race, weight, etc.

*Not Proof Read*

It starts because Steve is trying.

Trying to be better. Trying to be enough.

The compound has been heavy lately. Too many missions, too many close calls, too many days where people come back with haunted eyes and blood on their boots. The usual buzz of laughter and noise has calmed into a tense silence.

Steve sees it, the weight pressing down on all of you. So he starts leaving Post-It notes.

Little things. Encouragements. Reminders that somebody sees you.

"You're stronger than yesterday."

"Thanks for having my six today."

"You matter more than you know."

You find one stuck to your laptop after a long mission, and your chest aches so badly you have to pretend you’re just tired.

Because it’s been a long time since anyone said something like that to you-without expecting something in return.

At first, everyone thinks it’s cute.

There’s teasing. Eye-rolls. Laughter.

Clint wears one on his forehead for half a day. Nat rips one in half and deadpans, “Look, now it's a 'half-assed compliment.'” Sam pins one to a dartboard and throws knives at it for practice.

And slowly, quietly, the notes stop appearing for everyone else.

Not because Steve stops writing them. Because no one answers back.

Except you.

You’re the only one who writes him back. You don't even really mean to, at first. It's instinct- this ache in your chest spilling over in ink.

One morning, when he's busy training with Bucky, you tuck a note under the handle of his shield.

"You’re doing a good job too, you know."

The next day, there's a note waiting on your coffee mug:

"I’m trying. Thank you."

After that, it's just you and him.

A secret conversation nobody else knows about, carried out in scribbled handwriting and curling edges of sticky paper. A secret conversation that's built up to mean a lot for the both of you.

Some mornings you wake up to find one on your door.

"Hope today is kinder to you."

You leave one tucked into the crack of the training room door:

"It never is. But you make it bearable."

The notes shift- slow and tender, almost too tender. You two begin to dive into a different area of your relationship, one deeper and softer. Unexplored territory neither of you have dared to enter before. One that shines light on vulnerability from the both of you.

They start to say the things you’re too afraid to say out loud.

The things that weigh on your mind when the halls are too empty and the world feels too big to survive in. Personal things you've never shared before.

The notes feel like a conversation between different versions of yourselves -the braver, softer ones who aren't so afraid to be seen.

In person, you and Steve never talk about them. You don't acknowledge them. You don't elaborate. You just keep moving through life like the conversation never happened.

But you know.

You both know.

Maybe it’s because the notes make it easier. Easier to open up. Easier to say the things you’re too scared to say out loud.

There’s none of the pressure that comes with looking someone in the eye and trying to be brave. None of the fear that they’ll see right through you -see how fragile you really are underneath it all.

Maybe it's because, deep down, you're still terrified of being vulnerable with another person.

And maybe he is too.

Neither of you really knows how to start the conversation. So you don't try.

You just keep writing.

And somehow, that becomes enough.

Weeks pass.

You almost don't notice when you start carrying the notes in your jacket pocket. It's become something so natural and comforting -a way to cope with the harsh world.

You read them over and over when missions go bad, when your hands are shaking too hard to hold a gun steady, when you feel like you don't deserve to be here. You find comfort in them in the middle of the night when the world is silent, but your mind is not.

The words are always simple.

Never elaborate. Never heavy-handed.

Just real.

And they always find you when you need them the most.

You don't realize how much it means until one day, one awful day, there isn't a note.

Not on your laptop. Not on your door. Not anywhere.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that eats at the hollow spaces inside you.

You try not to let it get to you. You fail.

Maybe it was stupid to think this meant anything.

Maybe you were just a charity case to him.

Maybe you’ve been reading too much into scraps of paper and wishful thinking.

But then, just as you're about to crumble under the weight of it all, you find one.

Not neatly placed, not obvious.

Crumpled. Half-shoved under your door. Like it was left in a hurry. Like he almost couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Your hands tremble as you unfold it. Your heart pounds, nervous to see what's inside.

It's just four words.

Scrawled in handwriting you know better than your own name by now:

"Please don't give up."

You sit down hard on the floor, clutching the note like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Because he saw you. Even when you thought no one did.

Because somehow, Steve Rogers, the man who carries the whole damn world on his shoulders, still had room to carry you, too.

That night, you leave him a note.

You don't sign it.

You don't have to. You know he'll know it's you.

You stick it to the outside of his door and pray he finds it before anyone else does.

"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."

You don’t sleep that night, too busy tossing and turning as you anxiously wait to see what happens.

You tell yourself you’re not waiting for a reply.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t answer. You're lying.

Morning comes, gray and sluggish, and there's no note waiting for you.

Just a yawning, hollow ache in your chest you can’t quite fill.

You feel disappointed. Maybe you had read the situation wrong. Maybe you shouldn't have exposed your heart so much to the man. It felt right in the moment-natural. But maybe it was too much for the soldier to handle.

You go through the motions anyway. You have to.

Training. Weapon checks. A mission briefing you barely hear.

Oh, the mission debriefing.

You’re sitting across from Steve in the debriefing room, trying to act like nothing’s changed, trying to ignore the way your heart still stutters when you think about the note you left for him. It’s harder than you thought it would be.

He’s sitting there, too -still Steve Rogers, still wearing that perfectly calm, unreadable expression like he’s the last person in the world who could possibly be nervous. You’re probably projecting. He’s probably fine.

You’re not fine.

Your fingers drum softly against the table, your gaze shifting between the notes scattered in front of you, the faces of the other Avengers, the screen showing the mission brief. Anything but him.

It’s been hours since you left the note.

Hours since you put yourself out there, so far out, you almost can’t see the shore.

But here you are, sitting across from him, trying to act like nothing’s changed.

Like, there was no unspoken admission of everything between you in that tiny yellow square of paper.

And he hasn’t said anything.

Neither of you has mentioned it.

You almost wish he would. You almost wish he’d do something, a single glance, a soft laugh, some acknowledgment that the elephant in the room isn’t just suffocating you.

But he doesn’t.

And you’re not sure if that’s worse.

Instead, he’s talking about the mission -mission details, coordinates, all the tactical stuff that’s so second nature to him.

You’re nodding along, your mind only half in the room.

How could it be?

How could you pretend you’re not tangled up in the mess of whatever happened between you two?

You look at Steve -really look at him this time.

He’s focused and determined. Serious.

And yet...

It’s like there’s something in the air between you.

Something that’s heavy, like it’s waiting to fall.

He has to feel it. Right?

But neither of you is going to say anything. Not here. Not now. You don’t know if you’re scared of what it would mean if you did.

Or if he is.

You take a small breath and force your focus back to the mission details. You have to focus. This mission is important, and this is what you do, right? You’re an Avenger. You can compartmentalize, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse. Lives depend on you. You can't fuck up.

That's so much pressure. It's suffocating, stacking on top of the stress with Steve. But there's nothing you can do about it. This is your job.

But it’s harder when the person across from you is Steve Rogers -someone who somehow changed everything with a few quiet notes. Someone who isn’t supposed to make your heart race just by walking into the room. Someone who isn’t supposed to make it feel like the world has stopped just because he didn’t say anything at all.

This is all too much.

A small part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have left that note. Maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself be so vulnerable. It was too soon. He's probably weirded out. He probably doesn't feel the same. The friendship is ruined over one little note -a note with big words.

But then the tiniest thing happens.

His hand moves slightly toward the pile of notes in front of him -the ones you left out for the mission brief -and just before he grabs one to make a point, his finger brushes against the corner of your note. You know it’s yours. You can tell by the way the edge is slightly crinkled from being tucked into the pocket of his jacket. The one with your handwriting.

He doesn’t look at it.

He doesn’t acknowledge it.

He just… moves on. Like it's nothing. Like your words were forgettable.

But that small moment? It shatters you.

Because you know, deep down, that he saw it. That he felt it. That the note meant something to him, too. But you’ll never know if it’s the same thing it meant to you.

You bite your lip, trying to keep the flush from creeping up your neck. You can’t look at him. You can’t do this.

But somehow, you do.

Just for a second, your eyes flick to his face. And there it is -just barely visible, a shadow. A flicker. Something in the way his jaw tenses. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re imagining it.

Maybe it's everything.

The words you almost say -the words that almost leave your mouth, they die in your throat, buried by the tightness in your chest. So you keep your gaze low, nodding along with the others, trying to act like the weight of the world isn’t in your heart. Trying to act like everything’s normal, even though it’s not. You know it. He knows it.

And neither of you is brave enough to speak.

Later that afternoon, you're still thinking about it.

And you tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself that maybe it meant more to you than it ever did to him. Maybe you made the whole thing up in your head. Maybe—

When you get back to your room, there's a Post-It stuck crookedly to your door.

You stop breathing.

You peel it off with shaking fingers, heart rattling so loud in your ears you almost miss the words.

"Roof. Midnight. — S"

Just that. No smiley face. No little joke.

Just a place and a time, like an order you could disobey but never would.

You almost don't go. You almost convince yourself it’s safer to stay inside, stay in your room, stay tucked away behind all the walls you built around yourself. In here, you can predict what happens next. You'll binge-watch a show and try to drown the pain in your chest with distractions. Out there -on that roof...there's no telling what's next. In here, things are safe.

But the thing is -you don’t want to be safe anymore.

You want him.

You climb the stairs to the roof just before midnight, the compound quiet around you. The sky is clear and sharp above, stars scattered like someone spilled salt across black paint.

He’s already there. Leaning against the railing, looking up at the sky like it’s speaking a language only he understands.

You stop a few feet away. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

The silence is deafening. And for a second, you think maybe you’ve made a mistake. Maybe he’s here to tell you it was nothing. That you misread everything. Maybe he's here to let you down softly before building up another wall.

You turn the Post-It over and over in your pocket with clammy fingers, wishing you were braver and knew where to start.

But then...he looks at you.

And in that moment, you realize: He’s just as scared as you are. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something almost broken. His face isn't the way it was earlier in the debriefing. His usually calm expression is more tense and nervous.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled stack of yellow notes.

Yours.

Every single one. He kept them. He kept all of them.

Your throat burns.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Steve says finally, voice rough. He looks down at the notes in his hands. His thumb gently caresses the Post-it note on top of the stack, so careful like they're made of glass. “Any of it.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He huffs a laugh -bitter and soft. “I can fight armies. I can stand in front of bullets. But when it comes to you... I just-I didn’t know how to start.” His eyes meet your gaze.

You take a shaky step closer.

The air between you feels electric, thrumming with everything unsaid.

“I didn’t either,” you whisper. “I still don’t.”

His hand tightens around the notes.

"You made it easy," he says. "You made it feel like... maybe it was okay to be scared. As long as I wasn’t alone in it."

You feel something inside you crack, something old and brittle and terrified -and you step forward again until you're close enough to touch.

You’re shaking.

So is he.

Very carefully, like he’s afraid you might shatter, Steve lifts one hand and brushes a knuckle along your cheek.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time -this time, you believe him.

You surge forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his broad chest. His body radiates warmth and comfort. Immediately, you feel safe.

Steve lets out a soft, broken sound and pulls you in tighter, like he's been waiting forever for this.

Neither of you says anything else.

You don't need to.

Because you both know. You always have.

----

Extra's

The Notes

In The Beginning (Before You Respond)

"You’re doing great. Don’t forget to take care of yourself today. — S"

"Coffee's on me. Kitchen, top shelf. — S"

"That report you turned in? Impressive. Don’t sell yourself short. — S"

"Training room at 4? I’ll save you a punching bag. — S"

When You Begin Replying

"Bad day? You’re stronger than you think. — S"

"Maybe. Sometimes it feels like I'm barely holding it together. But it helps, knowing someone thinks I can. — You"

"Sometimes even heroes need a break. Hope you’re giving yourself one. — S"

"Working on it. (Still figuring out how to not feel guilty when I take one and how to remember.) Thanks for the reminder. — You"

"The way you handled yourself yesterday… you remind me why I believe in people. — S"

"I don't always believe in myself. It means more than I can say that you do. Thank you. Really. — You"

When Feelings Develop and Vulnerabilities are Shared

"Some nights I wake up gasping. Still stuck in old battles that aren't mine anymore. Hard to remember I’m safe. — S"

"You’re not alone. I still get nightmares too -about mistakes, about people I couldn’t save. It doesn’t mean we’re weak. It means we remember. — You"

"I worry sometimes that remembering makes me dangerous. Like I’m just waiting to crack apart. — S"

"I think the fact you worry about it means you won’t. You care too much. You feel too much. That’s what saves you. — You"

"I never learned how to ask for help. Old habits die hard, I guess. But lately... I think I'd like to try. — S"

"You don't have to do it alone anymore. You never did. (I'm still learning too. Maybe we can figure it out together.) — You"

"I saw the way you looked out for everyone today. You don’t even realize it -how steady you are. You’re the strongest person I know. — S"

"I'm scared most days that I’ll never be enough. That one day, someone will see through me and realize I’m not who they thought. (Thank you for seeing me anyway.) — You"

"You are more than enough. You’re extraordinary. — S"

The Notes That Made Both of You Wonder if There Could Be More

"You light up a room without even trying. Not sure if you know that. — S"

"You’re more than just your shield, you know. I hope you see that the way the rest of us do. (The way I do.) — You"

"I feel a little less lost when I’m around you. Strange, huh? — S"

"Don’t tell anyone, but... You’re kind of my favorite Avenger. — You"

"I’m starting to think books are better when you’re the one who recommends them. (Or maybe it’s just because they remind me of you.) — S"

"Strength isn’t just muscles and grit. Sometimes it’s quiet and steady and shows up when no one’s watching. That’s the kind of strong you are. — You"

"You make the hard days softer. Just thought you should know. — S"

Steve's Reaction To Your Note:

The hall is quiet when Steve gets back to his floor.

It’s late enough that most of the lights are off, the compound humming softly around him like a sleeping giant. He rubs the back of his neck, exhausted -physically, emotionally. He’s not even sure why he checks his door.

Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s hope.

And there it is -a small square of yellow, stuck crookedly against the wood.

He peels it off carefully, thumb brushing over the crumpled corners and familiar handwriting.

"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."

Steve stares at it for a long time. Long enough that the words blur together.

He sinks down against the door, the note clutched tight between his fingers like it might disappear if he lets go. His heart pounds quickly.

He can't believe what he's reading.

His chest feels too small, too tight, like there’s not enough room for everything suddenly crowding inside it.

Because he knows what she’s saying. God -he knows.

It’s not just about the notes. Not just about the inside jokes or the good mornings or the careful, clumsy affection that’s been blooming between them like a secret garden no one else can see.

It’s about her. Her heart. Her hurt. Her hope.

It’s about the way she trusted him enough to say it -even if she couldn't say it out loud.

And Steve...

He feels like he’s been standing at the edge of a cliff for months now, too afraid to jump. Too afraid to fall.

But she jumped first. She jumped for him.

He swallows hard, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe that'll stop the burn behind his eyes. It doesn’t.

Carefully, reverently, he folds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.

Then he pulls out a fresh Post-It, his hands only shaking a little, and scribbles three words:

"Roof. Midnight. — S"

Simple. Plain.

But it’s the start of something he’s been too afraid to reach for. Until now.

Steve's heart pounds louder as he walks closer to her door. When he's finally in front of it, he's so close to pressing the note on it, when fears fill his mind.

What if he's misreading the situation? What if she doesn't like him the way he's thinking she might? What if he ruins everything they've built between them?

Steve's thoughts get the best of him. With the note in his hand, he turns back around to his room. As the distance grows between her room, his heart sinks lower. He's unsure. He's...scared.

Steve makes it to his room, setting the Post-it note on his desk. He sits on his bed, staring down at the small piece of paper with his writing. He'll decide tomorrow if he should leave it for her or not.

Tonight, he'll go through her notes again and make sure he's not reading this wrong.

After They're Together

The Post-Its don't stop after you and Steve finally find your way to each other. If anything, they multiply.

Now they're not hidden anymore. They're not careful or scared. Now they’re everywhere -like tiny, living proof of your love for each other.

You leave some for him. Next to his shield, waiting for him before training.

"The world is lucky to have Captain America. I'm luckier to have you. — You"

On his favorite hair gel, you bought when you noticed he was running low.

"Thinking of you. I hope your day is wonderful, just like you. -You"

Next to the breakfast you make for him.

"I love you more than the moon and the stars. Never forget that. -You"

Inside his pocket before a mission:

"Come back to me. (I believe in you.) — You"

He leaves them for you. On the cup of coffee he sets out for you every morning.

"Love you more than caffeine. (And that's saying something.) — S"

On your dresser, near your mirror.

"You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Especially then. — S"

Tucked under your pillow on a rough day:

"You don't have to be strong tonight. Let me hold you. — S"

In your sketchbook, slipped between the pages:

"You make the world better just by existing. I hope you know that. — S"

Sometimes you find them in your shoes, or taped to the door, or tucked between the pages of a book he knows you’re reading. Sometimes he finds yours in his wallet, his glove, or the inside of his gym bag. You two leave them everywhere.

They're sloppier now, the handwriting messier, rushed -because there’s no more fear weighing down your hands. You don't have to be perfect for each other. You just have to be.

And when he kisses you goodnight, you swear you can still feel every unsaid word from all those early notes written against your skin.

Still there. Still unfolding. Still yours

[wingedhallows]

band au!nat!!!!

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 band! nat scatorccio x reader / 0.9k words ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 OKAY!! this was fun to write, tbh. thank u for the request !!

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

You're not exactly sure what makes you say yes. Maybe it’s the way Natalie Scatorccio stumbles over her words, twisting the sleeve of her hoodie in her fingers, chewing at the corner of her lip like she's terrified you might laugh at her.

Maybe it’s the way her eyes, usually so sharp and electric, go soft and flickering when she asks if you want to come watch them practice.

Either way, here you are — standing outside Shauna's house, clutching your jacket a little tighter around yourself, your breath fogging in the cool evening air.

Music leaks through the walls — a messy, pulsing thud of a bassline and the distant crack of drums. You take a breath and knock

The door swings open almost immediately, and there she is.

Natalie.

Her blonde hair is half tucked under a beanie, a guitar strap slung over one shoulder, her Doc Martens untied and scuffed at the toes. She looks like every garage-band daydream you’ve ever had, and somehow, she still looks nervous.

"Hey," she says, voice a little breathless, like she’s sprinted to answer. "You came."

You smile, warmth blooming under your skin. "You invited me."

"Yeah," she says, blinking like she can't quite believe it worked. Then, rubbing the back of her neck, "Uh, c'mon in. We're just getting started."

Shauna waves at you from the living room — her bass resting against her hip — and Van gives a two-finger salute from behind the drum kit. Misty’s fiddling with some wires near the amps, her glasses slipping down her nose. It’s chaotic, a little out of tune, and somehow... perfect.

Natalie leads you over to the ratty couch shoved against the far wall. "You can, uh, sit here. It's not like, super clean, but..."

You plop down with a grin, not caring at all. "Looks great to me."

The practice kicks off messy, a little loud and a lot passionate. Covers, half-songs, Shauna and Van arguing over the tempo while Misty insists she can "totally make a fog machine work if someone lets her try."

But then — after about an hour, once the chaos settles into a loose kind of rhythm — Nat catches your eye across the room. She gives a little nod, almost like she’s working up the courage to jump off a cliff.

"This one’s... new," she says, voice a little scratchy, turning the mic stand toward her, knuckles whitening around the neck of her guitar. "I kinda... wrote it." Her gaze flickers to you for a heartbeat and away again. "Uh, it’s for someone."

Your heart trips over itself, warmth blooms in your chest.

She strums once, adjusting the tuning with a twist of her fingers. Then again, a softer, sweeter sound filling the room.

The song unfolds like something secret — slow and a little rough at the edges, her voice threading through the chords with a raw, unpolished kind of beauty. The lyrics aren't complicated. They're simple, honest, like she’s peeled them straight out of her chest. Little lines about stolen glances and wanting to say something but never quite finding the right moment. About how sometimes the best thing you can do is hope that person notices you back.

And even though Natalie never once looks directly at you while she sings — keeps her gaze stubbornly fixed on the fraying rug beneath her boots — you know.

It’s for you.

The world outside the living room slips away, melting into the background until there’s only her voice, her guitar, and the weight of something new and trembling between you.

When the last chord fades, there’s a beat of silence. Even Van doesn’t immediately crack a joke.

Nat mumbles something about "working on the bridge still" and ducks her head, cheeks visibly pink even from across the room.

Practice wraps not long after. Shauna bails to drive her sister somewhere, Misty declares she’s "engineering the fog machine for next time," and Van winks at you before sauntering out with her drumsticks tucked in her back pocket.

Which leaves you and Natalie.

She hovers by the door, picking at the hem of her hoodie, her hair falling into her eyes. "Thanks for... uh... coming. I know we’re kinda — messy."

You stand up, heart still doing somersaults from the song. You step closer, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "It was perfect."

Natalie swallows hard, her throat bobbing. "I, uh — that song — it was... for you."

Her voice is so quiet you barely catch it. She finally looks at you, really looks at you, and for once there isn’t any armor there. No smartass grin or cocky shrug. Just her, wide open and waiting.

You smile, so full you think you might burst, and before you can overthink it — before you can let yourself chicken out — you lean in and press a kiss to her cheek.

Warm and quick and a little shy.

Nat goes stock-still. You can feel the way she holds her breath, like even breathing might shatter the moment.

When you pull back, her face is bright red and she looks absolutely, beautifully wrecked.

"I’ll see you at your next show," you say softly, smiling.

Natalie blinks at you, dazed, and then grins — the kind of grin that makes you feel like you could float all the way home.

"Yeah," she says, voice cracking a little. "Definitely."

You step out into the night, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart beating to the rhythm of a song that’s written just for you.

[rizdoodles]

This bird is cooked 🦅🥏:

Here's how it goes in broad terms (I hope it's understandable, sorry if it isn't):

I'm sure that at some point, Jade noticed the subtly anxious look on Pépito’s face, as she didn’t dare tell him she was planning to leave the club.

He asked her if something was wrong. Lost in thought, Pépito looked uneasy. She said she wanted to tell him something but just couldn’t find the words.

To reassure her, Jade gently placed a hand on her shoulder and told her that no matter what, he wouldn’t blame her and would be there to listen.

Encouraged by his words, Pépito gathered her courage and admitted that she was planning to leave the Mountain Lovers Club to join the Magift Club. She immediately tried to defend herself, saying it was a stupid idea, that she didn’t want to leave him alone, and that it felt selfish of her.

Hearing this, something cracked inside Jade. He was genuinely saddened by the idea of her leaving the club, but he kept his composure and wore a calm, understanding expression, hiding his feelings behind it. Naive as she was, Pépito believed he was only moved by her honesty.

Jade told her that he didn’t want her to force herself to stay in a club where she wasn’t truly happy and that he’d rather see her have fun in the Magift Club, especially since she was pretty talented at it.

Those words instantly eased Pépito’s anxiety.

She beamed with joy, happy that he understood her, completely unaware of the pain it caused him deep down. To her, he was simply happy for her, her naivety keeping her from seeing the sadness stirring inside him.

As a thank-you, she gave him a hug, catching him off guard.

...

Later, Jade was in a bad mood, a little down, but he still had to attend his club's activities.

So, he left his room to go on the scheduled hike.

To his surprise, he found Pépito already waiting, dressed for the hike, carrying a backpack twice her size and holding a plant guidebook.

She pointed to a picture and said, "Look! That’s what you taught me!" [insert a random plant fact Jade had once told her, just to show she remembered everything, even if she had only half-listened at the time].

Jade let out a quiet laugh, realizing that about 40% of what she said was wrong, but he was genuinely touched that Pépito had tried so hard to impress him, even if deep down, it reflected a bit of misunderstanding.

Dude! That took so long! WOOOO sorry, I didn’t have time to draw it so I decided to write it instead😭

[sh4nksslvt]

Confined Hearts

A routine supply run turns chaotic when you and Law get trapped below deck — but maybe being stuck alone isn't such a bad thing after all.

Law X gn! reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, secret relationship, trapped a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The steady hum of the Polar Tang was strangely comforting. Somewhere above, the Heart Pirates went about their usual routines: cleaning, charting, fixing whatever needed fixing after their last chaotic encounter with a Sea King. You lounged lazily against a stack of crates in the storage bay, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you watched Trafalgar Law pick through supplies, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance.

He looked… good. Way too good for your heart to handle.

Denim jeans that hung low on his hips, simple white t-shirt slightly damp from the humidity, his tattoos curling like secret messages down his arms and up his throat. You tried not to stare, but it was hard when you knew just how warm and soft that skin was under your fingers.

Not that anyone else could know. Not that the crew — bless their oblivious souls — had the faintest idea.

Being in a secret relationship with your stoic, sharp-tongued Captain was its own kind of dangerous thrill. One wrong move, one wrong look, and Shachi or Penguin would never let you live it down.

Law glanced over his shoulder at you, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

"You planning to help, or just stand there like a useless lump?"

You snorted. "Bold talk from a guy who's been glaring at the same box for five minutes."

"Planning," he drawled, straightening up and cracking his neck. "Unlike you, who specializes in doing absolutely nothing."

You tossed a rag at his head. He dodged it with irritating ease, a faint smirk flashing across his mouth before it disappeared into his usual deadpan stare.

You fought a grin. God, you loved being able to push his buttons.

"Fine, Captain," you said dramatically, hopping off the crate. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do everything in my power to serve you."

There was the tiniest flicker in his expression — a shift only you would notice. The kind that made your stomach flutter and your mind race with all the things you could do if you weren't surrounded by supplies and crates and the whole damn crew upstairs.

Law turned back to the stack, voice low enough that you almost missed it. "Later," he murmured. "If you're good."

A shiver ran down your spine. You swallowed hard and tried to act normal.

You really, really hoped no one was coming down here anytime soon.

.

.

The moment it happened, it was pure chaos.

One second you were moving a particularly heavy crate like Law asked — the next, the ship rocked violently. Somewhere far above, there was a muffled shout and the shriek of metal. The crate slipped from your grip, slamming into the wall with a loud THUD.

Before you could react, the heavy storage door — that was supposed to stay propped open — swung shut with a bone-shaking bang.

You froze.

Law cursed under his breath, lunging for the handle. You rushed to help him, heart hammering in your chest.

He yanked on it. You yanked on it. Nothing.

"Locked," he growled, rattling it harder. "Dammit."

"No way." You shoved at the door uselessly. "We're stuck?!"

Law's face was grim. He jiggled the handle again, then pulled a Den Den Mushi out of his pocket. Static crackled. No signal.

"Great," you muttered. "Metal walls. Thick metal walls. We're basically in a fridge."

"It's temporary," Law said, though even he sounded annoyed. "Someone will notice we're missing."

"Yeah, after they realize we’re not up there helping fix whatever the hell broke!"

You leaned against the door, groaning. Being stuck alone with your secret boyfriend was not the worst thing in the world. But being stuck with Law, who was a menace when he got bored? Dangerous.

You felt his eyes on you and cracked one open.

"What?"

He was studying you in that way he did sometimes — silent, sharp, as if he was dissecting your entire existence.

"You panicking already?"

You huffed. "No. Just… strategizing."

"Mm."

You shifted awkwardly. "And you? Cool as a cucumber, huh?"

He shrugged. "Trapped with you? Could be worse."

You blinked, thrown off by the softness in his voice.

You opened your mouth to reply — but then he moved, striding toward you with that slow, deliberate gait that meant trouble. The kind that usually ended with you pressed against a wall, dizzy and breathless and wondering how a man so outwardly composed could make you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

Law stopped inches away, tilting his head slightly.

"No crew," he said lowly. "No interruptions."

Your pulse spiked. "Y-Yeah?"

He smirked — slow, devilish, rare.

"An advantage."

.

. Before you could react, Law's hand was sliding up your arm, slow and deliberate, sending sparks shooting across your skin. His other hand braced next to your head, caging you in.

"Cold?" he murmured.

"A little," you managed, your voice breathy.

He leaned in closer, nose brushing your temple, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

"Good," he whispered.

You shivered, and not just from the temperature.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, and you closed your eyes, savoring the rare moment. Law wasn't usually this openly affectionate — not where anyone could see. But here, with only the dim overhead lights and the smell of metal and salt around you, he was different. Softer. Greedier.

"You smell like engine grease," you teased, voice shaking.

He chuckled — a low, rare sound — and nipped lightly at your earlobe.

"Not complaining when you're the one who started this."

You laughed — and Law grinned, wide and boyish, before capturing your mouth in a kiss that stole every coherent thought from your head.

God, he kissed like he owned you. Deep, slow, unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the solid weight of him against you. His hands skimmed down your sides, lingering at your waist, before sliding under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. You gasped softly against his mouth.

"Law…" you murmured.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tender.

"You okay?" he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. "More than okay."

He kissed you again, softer this time. Almost reverent.

Minutes slipped by — slow, honey-thick minutes where all you could feel was the heat of his mouth, the calluses of his fingers, the way his heart thudded against yours.

Eventually, you broke apart, resting your forehead against his.

"I can't believe we're stuck," you whispered, laughing a little.

He smirked. "Best damn accident this ship's ever had."

You laughed again, biting your lip.

Law tilted his head, studying you. "You think the crew suspects?"

You thought about it. "Honestly? They're either oblivious or think we're mortal enemies."

Law hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe we should give them a real show after this."

You gawked at him. "You? Public affection?"

He shrugged. "Shock value."

You grinned wide. "You're evil."

"And you love it."

"Yeah," you said, softer now. "I do."

Something shifted between you — something heavier, more real. Law's expression softened. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, gentle in a way he never was with anyone else.

"I love you too," he said simply.

Your breath caught.

Law rarely said it. He didn’t have to — you saw it in every careful look, every small touch, every stolen moment. But hearing it out loud still sent warmth flooding through you.

You cupped his face, smiling.

"Guess being trapped isn't so bad," you said.

He kissed your palm.

"No," he agreed. "Not bad at all."

.

. Hours later, when Shachi and Penguin finally managed to force the door open — sweaty, out of breath, and triumphant — they found you and Law sitting side-by-side on the floor, looking suspiciously flushed and suspiciously content.

"Uh, Captain..." Shachi said, blinking. "Everything good?"

Law stood up smoothly, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. "Fine," he said blandly. "Just trapped."

You fought the urge to giggle.

Penguin narrowed his eyes. "You two sure you didn’t kill each other?"

Law smirked — a private, dangerous thing — and tossed an arm around your shoulders with casual ease.

"Not yet," he said.

You caught the startled looks the two crewmates exchanged — and laughed all the way back to your shared cabin, tucked securely against Law’s side.

Maybe being trapped wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

[flamingpudding]

Oh yes new crack au the Nightingales I think that's spelled right.

Are a big family with a lot of people in it we're all related by chance they all have a family reunion though in the infinite realms imagine Batman Surprise when you get the invitation in the mail to invite him in the Justice League to the Nightingale family reunion

Turns out that Klarion and Martha Night (what her name used to be before she married Thomas Wayne) share the same deadbeat mother the same one he slept with Klarion's Mom and the same one who had Martha Night with Martha's dad

Just a dumb crack idea of Morpher and Clarion being half siblings and Bruce having to deal with that and many other cookies are like half cousins removed are like aunties and uncles that don't visit a lot because of family drama

Just imagine a big old family reunion hosted by Danny but family games everyone bringing something to eat weirdly planning plans to murder their enemies sometimes but help from younger relatives that understand things more

Teaching your family how to use is technology that they had no idea existed cuz they were born no technology zone

Goofy thing Martha and Klarion Bleak literally being comparative half siblings who win every minigame during the family reunion over here styling out children and jump rope just because they can

Love this idea. I modified the Half siblings origin in for my bit a little to something that felt would make it a little funnier. Also Thanks so much. Your ask came at the right time with my vacation and rekindled my passion for writing. I got a lot of stuff to catch up this vacation!

I was playing with the thought of adding this to my ghost king is my uncle AU but decided against it. This family constellation created for this Family Reunion AU feels better suited for it and funnier in a way.

Either way, i think I drifted of a bit into the crackish space and maybe also went a little ooc at some points... but please enjoy.

[Also an edited and probably a bit more flashed out version might get uploaded to AO3 at some point...]

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

A Nightingale Family Reunion

Bruce blinked and stared at the glowing floating eyeball before him. That thing had appeared in the middle of a meeting with the Justice League, directly in front of him. A waspy green tail curled around a envelop, decorated with a small ghost and addressed to his a name. His actual name. Not "Batman" but "Bruce Wayne".

Now it was lucky that identity reveals had already happened with all the core members that were in this meeting. Yet it was still unnerving that someone sent him this creature, directly to him while he was with the Justice League as Batman.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't the only one that had a floating eyeball before him. It took only one glance to the side to see that Wonder Woman, aka Diana also had one floating before her. Though compared to him she appeared to have expected it. Thanking that creature for the delivery of an 'Invitation'.

Bruce's eyes flitted back to the eyeball before him. It stared back at him, unblinking, of course not something it could do without eyelids. Unlike Diana he had not yet reached out to grasp that envelope from the creatio. Rather contemplating what could happen if he took it and what all could result from that action.

Deep in his thoughts he did not notice how Diana approached head shaking with a smile. "I didn't realize you were part of the Family. You shouldn't keep it waiting, The messengers have jobs to do."

She didn't hesitate taking the envelope from the eyeball for him, thanking the creation before pressing the envelope into his hand. He reluctantly accepted it, determined to question her later more about this as she appeared to know more than he did about this… phenomenon.

And he wasn't disappointed.

'Later' as he found out Diana explained to him how 'the family' had a get-together every 100 years. A family Reunion of sorts of the entire family in a place called the 'Infinite Realms'. Bruce had wanted to question her more on this but she only patted his shoulder, explaining that not all 'mortal' family members got to take part of this event during their 'live-time'. That some would even either be too young to even remember ever taking part in one until they died.

An unsettling statement. Especially when she implied that one could still take part even after death. It was very unsettling but for now Bruce accepted that explanation. He would still try to press on more questions. His children, who all apparently also got invitations delivered by that eyeball creature (including, even Alfred), weren't much better. While some took it in stride, others went into full on investigation mode. (He stopped counting how many days Tim forwent sleep to deep dive into information about the Infinite Realms.)

And then the day of the 'Family Reunion' came.

Diana had decided to accompany them into the Infinite Realms. Helping by being their guide, his stomach sunk as a green vortex opened before them, an eyeball with a bow tie floating before it, moving like it bowed to them. He worriedly had glanced at his second oldest son, hoping this was not going to be some kind of PTSD trigger, but Jason had appeared surprisingly fine.

So despite not feeling alright with it but encouraged by Diana, that this was harmless, they stepped through the portal.

On the other side they came face to face with a giant foyer, even bigger than the one his children knew from Wayne Manor. Bruce blinked as he stared, schooling his expression into his usual stoic one as he surveyed his surroundings. Several blue skinned or greenish…. people mingled with each other. Some having two legs, others something Bruce could help but describe as a ghost tail.

Then his usual stoic expression dropped as his eyes visible widened and he saw the Ghost of his mother arguing with the Witch Boy Klarion in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by others cheering them on as they apparently were holding some sort of competition and not arguing as he first thought. His children weren't fairing much better considering they knew what Martha Wayne looked like from Portrays.

Alfred appeared to be the least one faced as the older man shock his head fondly as if that wasn't an unfamiliar sight to him.

"DIANA!" A cheery voice shouted that ripped Bruce, as well as his children out of their shock as they saw a blur of black and white approach. Bruce hand instantly went to the hidden batarang in his pockets. But they could only blink as they watched the Amazonian Woman get engulfed in a bear hug that would put Dick's octopus-like hugs to shame.

"My Little Niece! So happy you made it! Oh and I see you decided to help Martha's little one to get here safely!" The white haired man grinned brightly. "I hope you're ready Dan really wants a rematch with you, you know?"

"Uncle Danny. Of course I would come, I would never miss this." Diana smiled, and Bruce decided then that this man likely wasn't hostile and let go of the batarang. Though he only relaxed slightly. "Besides I definitely didn't want to miss this one considering this is their first time."

Danny, as Bruce had noted the name, nodded sagely as he let go of Diana. "I know but it is so hard to organise a get-together with everyone. Every 100 years is the easiest to do this."

Bruce took note of that information also. His eyes darting back to his children that were now curiously watching the crowd, more interested as they judged the situation as not dangerous for the moment. But before Bruce could decided what to do, the white haired man Danny hugged him.

"So glad you could join! I was so eager to finally get to meet my grandbaby! I remember when Martha first showed you off to me! You were such a sweet little thing!" To say Bruce was shocked was an understatement. Dick and the rest of his kids started snickering when they saw how Bruce's face morphed from stoic to something akin to shell shocked for the bat.

As if on que a voice he hadn't heard in years called out "BRUCIE!" And a moment later the man was in a group hug, sandwiched between the man with white hair, claiming to be his maternal grandfather and the ghost of his mother.

"MARTHA! I WASN'T DONE WITH YOU YET!" Another familiar voice shouted. Less considered family but still shocking as Klarion marched over arms crossed as he the witch boy glared at Martha. "We are not done yet sister!"

"SISTER?!" The batkids shouted in chorus. Bruce was pretty sure this was the moment his brain blue screened.

Alfred on the other hand seemed rather amused. Though before Bruce could even give a semblance of a reaction to… just everything another very familiar but also strict voice shouted across the entire foyer.

"BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE!" The reaction was instant, as if it hadn't been years Bruce stood straighter, eyes darting to who shouted his full name. Wide eyed he saw the ghost of his father Thomas Wayne approaching…. with a Sandale in hand.

And while his brain was currently too overwhelmed to recognise the shock of first seeing his parents (even as ghosts), and also the chaos of whatever kind of family reunion this was. A in -trained reaction was the first thing that got his body in motion, as memories of his childhood flashed across his mind. Not even his own training could have prevented this kind of reaction.

The Bat-kids on the other hand watched stunned as there was only a second of Bruce seeing the Ghost of Thomas Wayne with a stern expression and a sandal in hand before the man they knew as Batman. Stoic, unmoving and unphased, emotionally constipated Batman. Hightailed it and ran, the expression of a child getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar plastered across the running man's face.

Klarion bursted out laughing, Martha chuckled amused, the smile of a caring mother hidden behind her hand and Alfred he looked even fonder, openly chuckling. All the while the ghost of Thomas Wayne chased after his son shouting of "WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE ANCIENTS WERE YOU THINKING DROPPING OUT OF MEDICAL SCHOOL! WHAT KIND OF EXAMPLE ARE YOU FOR YOUR OWN CHILDREN! ONE OF THEM IS EVEN A HIGHSCHOOL DROPOUT! EVEN HARVEY AND HARLEY HAVE A DEGREE!"

The other guests of this reunion didn't seemed bothered at all and even Diana shook her head as she excused herself in search for her Uncle Dan that apparently wanted a rematch. It took a moment for the Batkids but once the shock settled their attention instantly got drawn to their grandmother starting arguing with Klarion about some game they had to finish.

"Uh…. how are you two siblings?" Jason, the brave soul asked, while his sibling seemed to still try to catch up with things. Maybe Jason was just better in these pack that thought for later moments, to recover the fastest.

"Oh this is your Great Uncle Klarion my dears. My halfbrother." Martha smiled at them as she warped her arms around Klarions shoulder, pinching the Witch Boys cheek. Which looked comical in a way as Martha appeared as a full grown adult while Klarion… was well Klarion.

"Stop that." Klarion hissed swatting at Martha and Danny laughed at his two children.

"Yea but… how?" Tim finally stammered out finding his voice once he logged a lot of his thoughts away for later. There was just too much to unpack at once.

"So well…" Martha starts before pausing. "This here is my mom. Danny. Yes Mom, the entire family calls him mom because of his tendency to mother hen over us all."

Danny had the gall to look offended and was about to interrupt his daughter before a hand clapped over his mouth a woman that looked a lot like him leaning over his shoulder grinning mischievously. "Oh, are we explaining family relations? I am Danielle by the way, your great grand aunt. You kids can call me Ellie."

Dick's mind was starting to spin but he nodded, sharing a look with his siblings.

"So Marha is the daughter of Danny's wife. The one he fell in love with and married when he chose to give a mortal life another chance. And Klarion? Is also Danny's son but well..." Ellie smiles mischievous like she knew a conspiracy they didn't. "...some things appear to be very much in the family."

"What does that imply…?" Damian ask eyes sharp as he noticed the glance towards him.

"Well Klarions birthmom is a deadbeat, somehow got Danny to sleep with her and then dropped Klarion off with him years later when he had just married again and had Martha." Ellie grind and suddenly the entire Batkids started with a strange feel of Deja vu, while Danielle grinned widely. Martha chuckled amused too and Klarion just shook his head.

Damian coughed awkwardly. The parallels to his own mother and Bruce were not lost on him. Then Jason suddenly broke out laughing, "You telling me Demon Brat isn't the only kid in the family that has a background like that!"

To their shock Martha broke out laughing now while Klarion glared at her. "Oh my! My grandchild and brother are even sharing a nickname!"

"Wait what?!" Tim spluttered, as he stared openly at Klarion. The witch boy. Someone he had fought several times by now. Who apparently was in his family also known as Demon Brat.

"Excuse me! My birth mother was at least an actual demoness! My grand nephew's mother doesn't compare to that at all!" Klarion protested, apparently offended for some reasons as Martha only laughed harder.

The bat kids could only watch in shock as Klarion and Martha started to argue like siblings while Danny ended up wrestling with Danielle to get the hand of his mouth. Meanwhile Bruce was still getting chased around by Thomas Wayne for dropping out of medical school and Alfred watched Klarion and Martha with a nostalgic fondness none of them could explain as of right now.

But one thing was clear, this family reunion, that apparently happens every 100 years would hold a whole lot more shocking reveals for them….

[fadedpiink]

after everyone's asleep

txt x gn!reader

somewhat specific nights with txt

genre: fluff / comfort / slice of life / soft boyfriends / established relationship. warnings: none. just soft and warm. just the kind of night where the world slows down and you remember what it feels like to be safe.

author's note: this has been in the drafts for 2 weeks cus i wasn't sure if i liked it fr BUT this is my first time writing for txt/kpop in general! :3 so lmk what u guys think

soobin — windows cracked open, the sound of crickets and a soft breeze sneaking into the room. you’re both tangled in a mess of limbs, too lazy to fix the blanket even though it’s half falling off the bed. soobin’s voice is sleepy, low and mumbly.

“why’re you still awake... come here.”

his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. his cheek rests against the top of your head, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. the moonlight slices through the blinds, but neither of you move to shut it out. it’s quiet. peaceful. the kind of night where the world could end and you wouldn’t even care, not as long as you’re in his arms.

yeonjun — the air conditioner is humming but his body is always warm against yours, especially when he lets you steal his oversized t-shirt to sleep in. his hand finds yours under the covers and absentmindedly squeezes it, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like muscle memory.

“you’re comfy,” he mutters, half-asleep, “think i’m gonna keep you forever.”

you’re both stretched out on the couch, feet tangled under the throw blanket, some random drama playing on mute because the real entertainment is whispering nonsense back and forth until one of you drifts off. the room smells like popcorn and laundry detergent. safe. soft. home.

beomgyu — your window is open and the fan’s blowing but the summer heat still sticks to your skin, so he’s sprawled on the floor, you curled up next to him, both too lazy to move. every so often his hand reaches out to brush against yours, like he just needs to remind himself you’re there.

“wanna go get ice cream,” he mumbles, staring at the ceiling. “it’s 1am.” “...so?”

the night feels endless, like you’re both the only two people alive. your laughter fades into soft humming, and eventually into silence, both of you just existing together in the glow of streetlights sneaking through the curtains.

taehyun — soft lo-fi playing from the speaker, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, and his hoodie hanging off your frame because he noticed you shiver once. your legs are tangled under the blanket, arms free, and he’s holding your hand under the pillow like it’s second nature.

“are you warm enough?” he asks, brushing your cheek. you nod. “are you?” his lips twitch into a tiny smile. “i am now.”

the night passes slow, calm, full of quiet conversations about nothing and everything. the kind of night you wish you could bottle up and save for when the world feels too loud.

huening kai — the windows are fogged up from the rain, the room dim except for the string lights he insisted on hanging. he’s laying on the floor with you, both staring at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“do you think the stars miss us when it rains?” “what?” “just wondering.”

he turns his head and smiles at you, soft and sleepy. your hands find each other in the space between. the rain taps against the glass, steady and slow, and you both drift off right there on the floor, warm skin against warm skin, hearts beating slow and safe.

masterlist hope you enjoyed! please like + reblog to show support, and feel free to leave feedback and comments through rb tags or anon messages!

© fadedpiink 2025

[moonlitsmile]

saw u were looking for requests !

if ur free could u write some chishiya smut. something like academic rivals, idm if it's in the borderlands or not. maybe something like where the reader and chishiya are always competing to be smarter and it ends with smut?

Mind games

chishiya x f!reader

꣑୧ — 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and Chishiya have always been rivals, constantly trying to outsmart each other. But when a heated argument turns into something more, you find a new way to settle the competition. This takes place during the chaos during the witch game at the end of season one. (Let’s pretend that chishiya knew momoka stabbed her self even tho he didn’t)

❦- female reader, mentions of guns, blood, tasing, p in v sex, unprotected sex, afab reader, making out, hair pulling, teasing, enemies to loverish, slowburn, tension?, risk of getting caught, very unrealistic I’m sorry, lmk if I missed anything

The Beach was in chaos. Screams echoed through the halls, gunfire cracked the night open, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Outside, bodies littered the sand, thrown into the fire, and some burned, others still twitching where they had fallen.

But you barely noticed. Not when Chishiya was standing in front of you, lips curled into that insufferable smirk, eyes glinting with amusement despite the massacre happening around you.

“Figured it out yet?” he asked, leaning against the wall with that irritatingly calm posture, as if this were just another puzzle to solve.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I was ahead of you five minutes ago.”

He chuckled. “Oh? Then why are you still here arguing with me instead of winning?”

Because you couldn’t stand the thought of him being the one to claim victory. It had always been this way, one outsmarting the other, competing for the upper hand. Whether it was test scores back home or survival tactics in this twisted game, you refused to let him be the smarter one.

“We both know you’ve been trailing behind me all night,” you shot back, stepping closer. “Or maybe you just enjoy watching me work?”

He tilted his head, gaze flicking over you with something unreadable. “Maybe I do.”

The tension was different this time, no longer just the sharp edge of rivalry, but something else, something just as dangerous as the game happening outside. The way he looked at you made your pulse spike, heat curling low in your stomach.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you backed down. But then his smirk deepened, his voice dropping lower.

“Go on, then,” he murmured. “Outsmart me.”

The distant crack of gunfire sent a jolt through your body, but Chishiya didn’t even flinch. He just watched you, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, hands tucked lazily into his jacket pockets.

You, on the other hand, weren’t nearly as relaxed. You pressed yourself against the wall, peering around the corner of the dimly lit hallway. The militant corps were moving fast, dragging people out of rooms, shooting anyone who resisted. The Beach had turned into a hunting ground.

“We need to move,” you muttered.

Chishiya exhaled, slow and deliberate. “And where exactly do you plan on going?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t get me shot?” you shot back, voice low. “Unless you’ve already got this all figured out.”

Something about the way he just looked at you made your stomach twist. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was already ten steps ahead.

You narrowed your eyes. “You do, don’t you?”

Chishiya’s smirk widened, but he didn’t confirm or deny it. Typical.

“You really want to know?” he asked, tilting his head. “Or do you just want to keep playing catch-up?”

You clenched your jaw. He was baiting you. He always did this, dangling the answer just out of reach, waiting to see how long it took for you to snap. And you hated how much you wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

Another round of gunfire made your decision for you. You grabbed Chishiya’s wrist and pulled him into the nearest room, shoving the door closed just as hurried footsteps passed outside.

His expression barely changed. If anything, he looked a little amused.

“Bold move,” he murmured.

You exhaled sharply, keeping your voice low. “Just tell me what you know.”

Chishiya leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “And ruin the fun?”

You glared at him. “People are dying out there, Chishiya. You really want to waste time messing with me?”

He tilted his head, considering. Then, finally, he sighed. “Fine. If it makes you feel better, the witch isn’t running.”

You frowned. “What?”

“She’s already dead.”

Your mind raced. That didn’t make sense. The whole point of the game was to find the witch and burn their body, but—

Chishiya must’ve seen the realization dawn on your face because his smirk deepened. “Took you long enough.”

Momoka.

It clicked all at once. The body in the main room, the stab wound in her heart. She hadn’t been killed, she had killed herself.

You looked at Chishiya, breathless. “You knew.”

He shrugged. “Of course.”

Your hands curled into fists. “And you didn’t say anything?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you have believed me?”

You hated that he was right. You hated that he had known the truth all along, just waiting for you to catch up. And most of all, you hated the way he was looking at you now, like this was just another one of your little games.

Footsteps pounded past the door. You pressed your back against it, heart racing, and Chishiya was suddenly right in front of you, too close in the dim light.

“You’re smarter than most,” he murmured, gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “But you’re predictable.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with adrenaline. “If you knew Momoka killed herself, why didn’t you just end the game already?”

Chishiya gave you a lazy shrug. “Because I was curious to see how long it would take for everyone else to figure it out.”

A gunshot cracked through the air, loud enough to make you flinch. Your fingers twitched toward the door handle, but Chishiya remained perfectly still, watching you like he was studying a specimen under a microscope.

“They’re not checking rooms,” he said, voice calm. “They’re too busy hunting anyone still moving.”

You swallowed, pressing your back harder against the door. He was right. The militant corps weren’t searching, they were killing. You could hear them shouting, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor. The smell of blood was creeping into the air.

Your hands curled into fists. “You’re really just sitting back and watching all of this happen?”

Chishiya’s lips quirked. “You say that like I had any intention of stopping it.”

Another round of gunfire. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, forcing yourself to steady your breathing. When you opened them again, Chishiya was still watching you, that unreadable expression lingering in his gaze.

“People are dying,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

“Yes,” he said simply. “That’s how Hearts games work.”

You turned your head away, jaw tightening. It was so easy for him, so effortless. You’d always known Chishiya was calculating, but there was something unnerving about how detached he was from everything happening outside these four walls.

“How did you even figure it out?” you asked after a beat.

He exhaled, as if mildly bored by the question. “The stab wound.”

Your brows furrowed.

“The angle was wrong,” he continued. “Too clean, too controlled. Someone else would’ve gone for the stomach or the throat. But her heart? That’s deliberate. Slower. A choice.”

You stared at him. “You saw all that in a few seconds?”

Chishiya gave you a pointed look. “And you didn’t?”

You clenched your jaw. He was doing it again, pushing, testing, waiting to see how long it would take for you to rise to the challenge.

Outside, the gunfire was slowing. The bodies had stopped running. The game was coming to its conclusion. Everybody seeming to run to the lobby, you hesitated for a moment. Slightly standing up, before he stopped you. You huffed, annoyed, you were about to speak. Before his hand quickly cupped over your mouth, putting his finger up to his lip as he shushed you.

Your brows furrowed together in confusion as you looked up at him. Pressed against the door, you tensed as the handle rattled violently beside you. Someone on the other side was trying to force their way in, but the lock held.

Your breath hitched. Fear crept up your spine, tightening its grip as the seconds stretched unbearably long. You felt Chishiya’s hand slowly withdraw from your mouth, the warmth of his touch lingering as your breathing grew unsteady.

He took your wrist as he gently tugged you up. “Cmon” he whispered. Quickly leading you into the bathroom of the hotel room.

You quickly listened, closing the door you sat in there. The door rattling and the man banging on the door. You were scared to death, but you also knew you’d be somewhat okay with chishiya. He wouldn’t let you die.. would he?

Then suddenly the loud crashing sound coming out from the entrance of the hotel room brought you back to reality. “I thought you said they weren’t checking rooms!?” You whisper/yelled. Eyes frantically wide as they looked at him in the dark bathroom that was only illuminated by the light under the door and a small night light plugged up into the outlet.

“I guess I thought wrong” he said, his voice was low and quiet. Calm, and collected. How could he be so calm in a moment like this? His Eyes fixated on the door. The light footsteps of the guy trailing around the hotel room that you guys were hiding in.

Thinking you’d be safe, he didn’t check the bathroom yet. But that was quickly shut down as the light twist of the bathroom handle caught your attention. You froze, quickly backing up next to chishiya.

He didn’t stop you from pressing closer, if anything, he seemed almost amused by it. His stance remained relaxed, one hand casually tucked into his pocket as the door handle slowly turned.

Then, it creaked open.

A man who was with the other millitant corps people killing everyone, stepped inside, gun in hand, eyes cold and unreadable.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fear rooted you in place as the barrel of the gun lifted, aimed directly at you.

Panic surged through you. “Do something!” you screamed.

And that was when Chishiya moved.

Gunfire erupted, bullets ricocheting wildly as the man fired in a frenzy. Instinct took over, you dropped to the floor, crouching, squeezing your eyes shut as the deafening chaos filled the small space.

Then, a sharp click, the unmistakable sound of a taser discharging.

A heavy thud followed.

Heart pounding, you hesitated before slowly opening your eyes.

Chishiya stood there, completely unshaken, staring down at the man now collapsed on the floor. His taser was still in hand, its prongs sparking faintly before going still.

Relief crashed over you in waves, and you let out a shaky breath, rubbing your face. “Holy shit…”

Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling with the remnants of fear. The bathroom was silent now, save for the faint crackling of flames and distant screams filtering in from the outside. The game was ending. The Beach was nothing more than a battlefield of corpses.

And yet, the only thing grounding you in this moment was the presence of the man standing beside you.

Chishiya sighed, slipping the taser back into his pocket like this was all just a minor inconvenience. You, on the other hand, were still trying to steady yourself.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, running a shaky hand down your face.

Chishiya smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You shot him a glare, but he just leaned against the sink, watching you with that unreadable expression. There was something in his eyes, something quiet and knowing, as if he could see right through you.

“You were scared,” he said simply.

“No shit,” you snapped. “There was a gun in my face.”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Interesting.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s so interesting about that?”

His smirk deepened. “You don’t usually show it.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn’t wrong, you had spent so long trying to act like none of this fazed you, trying to keep up with him, trying to prove you were just as smart, just as strong. But in that moment, when the gun was pointed at you, all of that had crumbled away.

And he had seen it.

You turned away, pressing your palms against the cool counter, trying to collect yourself. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

Chishiya stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the weight of his presence, enough that the air between you seemed thinner. “I know you.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You don’t know me, Chishiya.”

His lips quirked slightly, as if amused by your resistance. “Then why are you still here?”

You hesitated.

Because you knew if he wasn’t here, you would die. Because for all your rivalry, all your stubbornness, some part of you trusted him.

Because you didn’t want to leave.

His eyes flicked down to your lips, brief, barely noticeable, but you caught it. And suddenly, everything else seemed to fade, the chaos outside, the bodies, the game. All that was left was this moment, this charged silence between you.

You didn’t know who moved first.

One second, you were standing there, breath uneven, pulse hammering. The next, his mouth was on yours, slow and deliberate, like he had been waiting for this. Like he had known, long before you did, that this was inevitable.

You gripped the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer as his hands found your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. He kissed you like he wasn’t in a rush, like he had all the time in the world. even when, realistically, you had none.

Because the game wasn’t over yet.

Because any second now, someone could find you.

Because after this, after everything, you didn’t know what came next.

But for now, you didn’t care.

His lips moved against yours with a calm, deliberate rhythm, like he wasn’t worried about what was happening outside, like none of it mattered except this. Except you.

The quiet hum of chaos seeped through the walls, muffled gunshots and distant screams blending with the soft crackle of fire somewhere nearby. But inside the hotel room, it was still. Quiet. The tension between you two the only thing left burning.

You didn’t expect it to feel like this. like surrender and challenge all at once. His kiss wasn’t rushed or panicked. It was precise, like he’d been calculating the right moment to make his move and decided now was it.

Your fingers curled around the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and Chishiya let you. His hands found your hips, steady and grounding, and the feel of him so close made your heart race harder than the violence outside ever had.

You pulled back for a breath, lips tingling, eyes locked with his.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you with that unreadable expression, as if trying to figure out what you’d do next.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you whispered.

Chishiya’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “I never said that.”

Your brows furrowed. “So what is this, then?”

He tilted his head slightly, thumb brushing over your hip in a way that made your breath catch. “Call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You always act like you’re above it all. Like none of this gets to you.”

“And you act like you’re untouchable,” you shot back quietly.

“Maybe we’re both wrong,” he murmured.

The silence between you thickened again, heavier now, as if the air itself recognized what was shifting. The rivalry that once defined you both had blurred, still sharp, still real, but now tangled up in something unspoken and urgent.

You leaned in again before either of you could talk yourselves out of it. This time, the kiss was slower. Deeper.

Chishiya’s hand slid up your back, steady and unhurried, while your fingers tangled in the hem of his hoodie, your body leaning fully into his.

There was no more pretending this didn’t mean anything. Not when the world outside was burning, and he was still here, still choosing to kiss you like time hadn’t run out.

And for now, in this room, with death just beyond the door, you let yourself forget everything else.

Chishiya’s lips never left yours as his hands found your waist, guiding you with surprising care. You barely registered the gentle nudge until the backs of your knees hit the bed. He eased you down onto the edge, lips brushing yours in a slow, steady rhythm that made your breath catch.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight as he stood in front of you, his hands lingering at your sides like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Then, without a word, he leaned in again, one knee pressing onto the bed between your legs. His hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, until they reached your shoulders.

He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, before gently laying you back.

The cool sheets met your skin as he settled over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other still cradling your waist. The soft press of his weight above you made your heart stutter, but not from fear. From this. From him.

Your fingers threaded into his hair as he hovered above you, the strands soft between your fingers. You gave a gentle tug, and the low sound he made in response reverberated against your lips, pulling a quiet gasp from your throat.

His words were barely audible over the chaos outside, the distant crack of gunfire, the roar of flames, but none of it touched you here. Not with him above you, kissing you like the world hadn’t already ended. Like this wasn’t a war zone.

Chishiya’s lips trailed along your jaw, down the side of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt again, this time slower, bolder. And still, he took his time, like he was trying to savor you before the moment was stolen.

The bed creaked beneath the shifting weight, but neither of you moved to stop. Not yet. Not when every breath, every kiss, every touch felt like a defiance of the death waiting just outside the door.

Your back sank deeper into the mattress, the worn sheets cool against your skin while the heat between your bodies only grew heavier. Chishiya hovered just above you, eyes fixed on yours, his expression unreadable, but his hands said what he didn’t. They traced over your sides, thumbs brushing the exposed skin between your bikini top and the waistband of your shorts.

You reached for him, fingers finding the zipper of his hoodie, the one he always wore, like armor. Slowly, you pulled it down, the soft sound of the zipper cutting through the silence like something intimate.

His eyes flicked down, watching you with a faint spark of curiosity as the jacket parted. You pushed it open, your palms gliding over the fabric until they found warm skin underneath. The way your fingers skimmed his chest made his breath hitch just slightly, and it gave you a flicker of pride, he was always so collected, so calm. But not now.

Not with you.

He shrugged the hoodie off without a word, letting it fall somewhere to the floor behind him. You could feel the tension under his skin, every muscle coiled, like he was holding back.

Your bikini top shifted slightly with each breath, your chest rising and falling under his steady gaze. His hand slid up your stomach, fingers dragging slowly along your skin until they ghosted just under the thin string of your top. You shivered beneath him, biting your lip.

His eyes glanced down at you for a look of assurance.

You quickly nodded

He then dipped his head again, mouth pressing hot kisses to the base of your neck, trailing lower, slower, until you were arching just slightly into his touch. The weight of him above you, the way his hand gripped your hip, it was all consuming.

His lips brushed your collarbone as his fingers moved to the button of your shorts, teasing there without rushing. You gasped softly, your nails lightly raking through his hair again as your thighs shifted beneath him.

The room still flickered faintly with light from the hallway, shadows dancing across the walls. But all you could feel was the heat of his body on yours, the steady rhythm of his breath mixing with your own, and the unspoken truth hanging between you

That even in a world falling apart, you’d found something worth holding onto.

His fingers made quick work of the button on your shorts, the soft click almost drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. You kept your eyes on him, half-lidded and breath uneven as he slid the zipper down, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, he never did.

He pushed the denim down over your hips, his hands lingering on your thighs, warm and steady. You lifted your hips to help, the shorts falling somewhere to the floor. Now, with just your bikini top and the thin fabric beneath him, you felt completely exposed, and yet, you didn’t shy away. Not with the way he was looking at you.

There was no smirk now. No smug expression. Just quiet intensity, like he was mapping out every part of you, storing the image somewhere he wouldn’t forget.

You reached up again, your palms skimming along his bare torso, lean, warm, smooth under your touch. His breath hitched when your nails lightly scratched down his sides, and you felt the smallest shift in the way he hovered above you.

Your hands slid to the waistband of his pants, tugging at the drawstring with quiet confidence. His lips were back on yours in an instant, hotter, hungrier this time. His body pressed into yours more firmly, his hips settling between your legs with the kind of tension that made your pulse spike.

Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, drawing him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth at the contact. His hands slid beneath you, cupping your lower back as he deepened the kiss, tongue brushing yours in a slow, teasing rhythm that made your head spin.

Your bikini top shifted slightly under his palm as his hand slid upward, thumb grazing just beneath the edge of the fabric. He paused there, waiting, his breath warm against your lips.

You nodded, whispering, “It’s okay.”

And that was all it took. Even with all this bickering overtime, he was still so gentle to make sure it was alright. And it made your heart ache.

His lips moved to your neck again, then lower, leaving a trail of heat down your skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your back arched beneath him, hips shifting up into his. The soft creak of the bed beneath you was the only sound in the room aside from your breathing.

Your breath hitched as his lips ghosted over your collarbone, hands smoothing up your sides to slide the straps of your bikini top down your shoulders. You shivered, both from the cool air against your skin and the way his gaze flicked up to meet yours, checking, still careful, still watching you.

You nodded softly, eyes locked with his, and that was enough.

He pressed another kiss to your chest, warm and open, just above where your heart was thudding wildly. Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, guiding him, grounding yourself. His hand slipped behind you, untying the string at your back with ease.

The top slipped away, your skin now fully exposed to the quiet hush of the dimly lit room and the heat of his body hovering above yours. You let out a soft, shaky breath, your chest rising with anticipation as his mouth returned to your skin, exploring, tasting, taking his time.

Your hips shifted beneath him, thighs tightening around his waist as he pressed closer, the fabric of his pants brushing against the heat building between your legs.

His name slipped past your lips, quiet, breathless. “Chishiya…”

He looked up again, hair slightly mussed, eyes darker than before. “Hmm?”

You swallowed, fingers running slowly down his chest, stopping just above his waistband. “I don’t want to wait.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. want, restraint, maybe even a hint of something softer. But it didn’t stop him. He leaned in, kissing you again, slower this time, deeper, while his hands moved down your body, skimming over your hips.

With every shift, every touch, the space between you melted until there was nothing left. Just skin on skin, heat and tension building like the pressure of a storm just before it breaks.

The creak of the bed, the quiet hitch in your breathing, his hand slipping between your thighs

The world outside could burn.

Right now, in this moment, it was only you and him. lost in the fire you’d started together.

His fingers ghosted along the inside of your thigh, dragging a slow line up that made your breath catch in your throat. You tightened your grip on his hips, urging him closer, needing more, needing him.

Chishiya dipped his head, lips trailing back up your stomach, your ribs, until he reached your mouth again. His kiss was different this time, hungrier, more urgent. Like the control he always clung to so tightly was finally starting to unravel.

You arched up into him, your bare chest pressed to his, and the friction sent a quiet moan spilling from your lips. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting and adjusting you further back onto the bed, until your head rested against the pillows and he was fully over you, fitting perfectly between your legs.

You reached again, this time tugging at the waistband of his pants. “Take them off,” you whispered, breathless.

He didn’t hesitate. He leaned back just enough to strip them off, tossing them aside with that same careful efficiency he always had, but there was tension in his movements now. Anticipation.

And then his mouth was on yours again, hot, deep, stealing every thought from your mind as his hips pressed down into yours. Only a thin layer of fabric separated you now, and the way he moved made it feel unbearable.

You gasped into his mouth as he rolled his hips, the pressure delicious and maddening all at once. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breath warm and uneven. “You sure?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

The last thin barrier between you was gone with a swift motion, and suddenly, nothing was keeping you apart. His body was pressed to yours completely, bare, warm, solid, and it sent a shiver up your spine.

He looked at you again, his face close, his breath brushing your lips. There was a rare flicker in his eyes, something raw and real that he never let anyone see. You weren’t sure if it was want or need… or something in between. But you felt it.

You reached up, fingers brushing back the hair from his face, letting your touch linger at his cheek.

That was all he needed.

He pushed into you slowly, carefully, and your breath caught in your throat. He paused, letting you adjust, his hand brushing along your hip in a silent check-in. You nodded again, your fingers gripping his back.

He began to move. steady, smooth, drawing out every slow thrust with a kind of control that made you tremble. Your legs tightened around his waist, your body rising to meet his, hips rolling in sync with each pass of his skin against yours.

The quiet creak of the bed filled the air, a slow rhythm matching the growing tension between your bodies. Every touch, every movement built higher, hotter, your nails raking down his back, his mouth pressing open kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your jaw.

“God…” you whispered, not even sure who you were talking to, maybe no one. Maybe just him.

He smirked faintly against your throat. “You’re loud,” he murmured, though there was no teasing in it, just low satisfaction.

You gasped as he shifted his hips deeper, more deliberate, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. “Then do something about it,” you challenged breathlessly.

And he did.

His pace quickened, hips snapping into yours just a little harder, just enough to make you arch up against him with a whimper. He caught your mouth again, swallowing your sounds, kissing you so deeply it felt like he was trying to memorize how you tasted.

Each thrust pushed you further into the mattress, your hands fisting the sheets one moment and clutching at his back the next.

You could barely think,, every nerve in your body lit up, skin flushed, heat building with every grind of his hips into yours. His name kept slipping from your mouth in broken gasps, and every time, he answered with a low sound in his throat, barely audible, but undeniably satisfied.

His hand slid beneath your thigh, lifting it slightly to angle you just right, and when he thrust again, it made you cry out, your back arching off the bed in response.

“Right there—” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

“I know,” he murmured, voice dark and breathy against your jaw. He did know. Every move was intentional. Every stroke precise. Like he’d memorized how to pull you apart before he even touched you.

You tugged at his hair again, dragging his mouth back to yours. The kiss was messy now, heated and desperate, all tongue and teeth and quiet moans shared between shallow breaths. He rolled his hips again, harder this time, and you couldn’t stop the broken sound that slipped from your lips.

Your bodies rocked together, sweat slicking your skin, his hips never faltering. The edge was close, achingly close, but he didn’t let you fall over it yet. He slowed just slightly, enough to make you whine in frustration, your nails scraping down his spine.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, quiet and rhythmic beneath the distant, dying chaos outside the door. The bed creaked beneath you both, and the heat between your bodies only climbed, hot, sticky, perfect.

His hand moved to your chest, thumb brushing lazily over your sensitive skin, and you gasped again, legs tightening around his waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and erratic, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body trembled ever so slightly against yours.

And still, he didn’t stop. Not yet.

He held on just a little longer, his hips driving into yours with a rhythm that was both relentless and intoxicating. You felt yourself unraveling again, your body trembling beneath his as the pleasure built too fast to hold back.

His lips found yours in a heated kiss, swallowing the breathless whimpers escaping you as your fingers gripped his back, nails pressing crescent shapes into his skin. His name slipped from your lips again and again, soft and pleading between gasps.

“Chishiya—please—”

That was all it took. His pace faltered, his breath hitching against your mouth as he pressed deeper, harder, until the world blurred at the edges. He groaned into your shoulder, low and rough, as both your bodies tensed, peaking together in a slow, consuming rush that left your limbs trembling and your chest heaving.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky and warm across your lips. The chaos outside the hotel still lingered, but it felt far away, muted by the stillness between your bodies, the aftershocks of something that had been building long before this moment.

Chishiya’s hand smoothed down your thigh, slow and grounding, and you exhaled softly, eyes fluttering open to meet his. There was no smugness in his expression now. No grin. Just that unreadable, careful gaze.

You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his face. He caught your hand in his, lacing your fingers together for just a second longer before he gently pulled out, easing off you and settling beside you on the bed.

The sheets were tangled, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you, kissed you, held you.

For a while, you both just lay there, listening to the muffled sounds outside, distant footsteps, the occasional yell, but quieter now.

You turned your head to look at him. “So… what now?”

He glanced at you, then at the ceiling. “We figure out how to survive the next one.”

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Right.”

But as he shifted slightly, his fingers brushed yours again, just once, barely there. And for a brief second, it felt like something else had shifted, too.

Like maybe, in all this chaos, you hadn’t lost.

Maybe you’d found something worth keeping.

[lynbels]

i NEEEED stepbro! jake so bad like

could you pretty please write a stepbro! jake au with the prompt 21!! <333

(i’m so addicted to your writing rn keep it up!!)

bad girl’s reward - sjy (m)

#21: Your stepbrother accidentally walks in on you changing, but doesn’t leave—just stares and says, ‘You knew I was home, didn’t you?’ · prompt request list

‼️ tw: stepbrother au, dubcon vibes, oral (f receiving), oral (m receiving), dacryphilia, rough handling, manhandling, dirty talk, possession themes, slight overstimulation, breeding kink hints - ✉️ wc2210

You and Jake had never really gotten along the way real siblings did. Maybe it was because you weren’t, not really. Your parents had gotten married a few years ago, blending two completely different worlds together — your polished, structured life and Jake’s laid-back, sunny existence. He was loud, messy, endlessly teasing; you were stubborn, sarcastic, quick to snap back. Somehow, that push and pull had become the background noise of your house.

But lately… things had felt different.

It started small. Jake would look at you too long when you passed him in the hallway. His teasing would edge into something that felt heavier, rougher. And you — embarrassingly — noticed things about him you shouldn’t have. How broad his shoulders had gotten after all those soccer practices. How his hair fell into his eyes when he laughed. How he smelled like cologne and clean laundry whenever he brushed past you.

It was wrong. It was stupid. You tried to shake it off.

Until one afternoon, when it all came crashing down.

You were changing in your room, stripping off your jeans and shirt to pull on something comfier. The door was cracked open just a little — you thought you were alone. You swore you were alone.

But then the door creaked, and you froze, half-dressed, staring wide-eyed as Jake leaned casually against the doorframe.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Jake’s gaze dropped — slow, deliberate — and dragged over every bare inch of you. His mouth twitched into the faintest smirk.

“You knew I was home, didn’t you?” he said, voice low and accusing, almost like a growl.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Heat rushed to your face, your chest. You fumbled for your shirt, panic flaring, but Jake didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just kept staring, eating you alive with his eyes.

“You’re not even sorry,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he couldn’t believe it.

And deep down, in the pit of your stomach, you knew he was right.

You yanked your shirt over your head and screamed, “Jake, get out!” so loudly it probably shook the windows.

He finally moved — but not before flashing you a look you couldn’t quite name. Something dark. Hungry. Like he wasn’t even sorry.

You slammed the door behind him, heart hammering, face on fire. For a minute, you just stood there, breathing hard, willing the embarrassment to go away.

It only got worse.

Later that night, as you were lying in bed, trying to scroll mindlessly through your phone to forget everything, you heard it — the low, unmistakable sounds coming from down the hall.

At first, you thought maybe you were imagining it. But then you heard it again. Soft, breathy moans. Skin hitting skin.

Your whole body locked up when you caught it — your name, groaned low and broken.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, heart pounding so hard it hurt. You shouldn’t be hearing this. You shouldn’t want to hear this. And yet you lay there frozen, every nerve on fire, cheeks burning so hot you thought they might melt.

The next morning, you couldn’t even look at him.

You avoided Jake like the plague — skipping breakfast, locking yourself in your room, slipping past him in the hallway without meeting his eyes. Every time you thought about it, that humiliating sound replayed in your head, sparking something sinful low in your stomach.

Your parents noticed immediately.

“Are you two fighting again?” your mom asked at dinner, frowning between you.

Jake just smirked, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth like he didn’t have a care in the world. His knee brushed yours under the table — maybe an accident, maybe not — and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sometimes you caught him staring, too. When you wore one of your shorter skirts or bent over the counter a little too far, you could feel his gaze burning into you. It made your skin prickle, made you shift under the intensity of it, and made the tension between you coil tighter and tighter until it was a miracle either of you were still pretending nothing was wrong.

But you both knew.

You both knew.

And eventually… something was going to break.

It finally snapped one night when your parents went out to dinner, leaving just the two of you alone in the house.

You tried to pretend everything was normal — flipping through the TV channels, pretending to be interested in some dumb movie — but you could feel Jake behind you. Sitting on the other end of the couch. Not talking. Barely breathing. Watching.

Every hair on your body stood on end.

You tried not to look, but when you shifted slightly to grab the remote, your tank top rode up, exposing just a sliver of your stomach — and you felt the way his gaze dropped, lingering. Heavy.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

You tightened your grip on the remote and cleared your throat. “Can you not stare?”

Silence.

When you finally risked a glance at him, Jake was leaned back, arms thrown casually over the back of the couch — but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost hungry, and when he spoke, his voice was low and slow, like he was barely holding something back.

“You wore that on purpose,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“You knew I’d be home,” he murmured, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, eyes dragging down your body again, and it made your thighs press together instinctively. “You knew I’d see you.”

“No, I didn’t—” you started, voice high and defensive, but he cut you off.

“Didn’t you?” Jake’s voice dropped even lower. “Walking around half-dressed… looking at me like that…”

“I wasn’t—!” you protested, heat flooding your face, but he just chuckled under his breath — dark and disbelieving.

He stood slowly, towering over you now, and you shrank back into the couch, pulse thundering in your ears.

Jake leaned down, one hand braced on either side of your head, boxing you in completely. His breath was hot against your cheek.

“Keep lying to me,” he whispered, voice rough. “See what happens.”

Your whole body lit up like a struck match.

You should have pushed him away. Should have said something. But instead you just sat there frozen, your fingers curling tight around the hem of your shirt, your body screaming for him even as your brain short-circuited.

He was so close you could smell his cologne — fresh and warm — and see the way his pupils had blown wide with want.

Jake was the one who moved first.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him, and for a long, heavy moment, neither of you said anything. Just breathing each other in, hearts racing, tension snapping and sparking between you like a live wire.

And then — God help you — you leaned up first.

Just the smallest tilt of your head.

It was all he needed.

Jake crashed his mouth to yours, swallowing your gasp, his hands already sliding under your thighs to haul you into his lap like he couldn’t stand one more second of not touching you.

Jake kissed you like he was starving. Like he’d been holding back for months and finally, finally cracked. His hands roamed everywhere — up your sides, squeezing your hips, sliding under your shirt to grab handfuls of bare skin. You moaned into his mouth, thighs tightening around his waist, and that was all it took for him to groan low in his throat and tip you back against the couch cushions.

“You have no idea,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged. “No fucking idea what you do to me.”

You whimpered, arching into him without even thinking. Every part of you was lit up, buzzing, desperate to get closer. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, and he helped you rip it off — tossing it somewhere behind the couch — before returning to your mouth, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough.

Somewhere in the haze, you slid your hand down, palming him through his jeans — and Jake shuddered, hips bucking instinctively into your touch.

“Fuck,” he growled, forehead dropping to yours. “Baby, don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You grinned, breathless, and slid down to your knees without a second thought.

Jake watched you the whole way down — chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt — and when you palmed him again, teasing, he let out a broken noise that made you ache.

“Please,” you whispered, fingers fumbling with his zipper. “Want to taste you.”

His hand tangled roughly in your hair as you freed him, eyes flashing dark as you wrapped your lips around the tip. He was already half-hard, heavy and hot against your tongue, and when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked gently, he cursed, the sound ripped straight from his chest.

“God—fuck, just like that,” Jake hissed, tightening his grip on your hair and forcing you down a little more. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You moaned around him, which made his hips jerk — pushing deeper into your mouth — and suddenly he was the one losing control, fucking into your throat in shallow, desperate thrusts.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you loved it, loved how wrecked he sounded, how much he clearly needed you. You reached down between your own legs, too needy to care anymore, but before you could even slip a hand under your shorts, Jake yanked you back by your hair.

“Nuh-uh,” he panted, voice rough and wrecked. “Don’t you dare.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and dripping.

“But—”

“I said no,” Jake growled, thumb swiping over your wet bottom lip. “You don’t get to touch yourself. You want to cum, you do it on me.”

Your stomach flipped so violently you swayed a little.

“Get up here,” Jake ordered, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You scrambled into his lap, your heart hammering, legs shaking — and Jake just grinned, dark and feral, guiding you to straddle him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a filthy kiss to your throat. “Now let me ruin you properly.”

Jake grabbed your hips, grinding you down against the thick, hot line of his cock still straining inside his jeans. The friction made you gasp, made you chase it helplessly, rubbing yourself over him with little broken noises you couldn’t hold back.

“Feel that?” he rasped against your ear. “You did that. Getting me this fucking hard just from looking at you.”

You whimpered, rocking your hips harder, chasing some kind of relief, but Jake’s grip tightened — holding you still, making you whine in frustration.

“Not yet,” he said roughly. “You don’t get it that easy, baby. You want it? Beg.”

You were already trembling, drunk on him, on the way he talked to you like you were something precious he still wanted to ruin.

“Jake,” you whined, trying to move again, but he just smirked, smug and dark, keeping you pinned against him. “Please.”

“Please what?” he teased, one hand sliding up your body to tug at the neckline of your shirt, exposing the top of your breasts. “Gotta tell me exactly what you want.”

“I—I want you,” you gasped, blushing so hard it hurt. “Want your cock, please, Jake, need you so bad—”

That broke something in him.

In one quick movement, he unzipped his jeans, shoved them just low enough, and freed himself — hot, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He grabbed himself, dragging the thick head along the soaked crotch of your shorts, teasing you, making you cry out in frustration.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. “Bet I could slide right in.”

“Please,” you begged again, desperate tears welling up in your eyes.

Jake finally — finally — gave in.

He yanked your shorts to the side, lined himself up, and pushed the blunt head of his cock just barely inside you, hissing through his teeth at the feel of your heat clenching around him.

“Only the tip,” he growled, voice shaking with restraint. “You wanna cum, you’re doing all the work.”

You whined, digging your nails into his shoulders, and started to rock your hips — sliding down just a little more with each desperate roll. Jake’s head fell back against the couch, groaning low and filthy, letting you fuck yourself down onto him inch by inch.

“God, look at you,” he panted, dark eyes locked on the way you moved on him. “So fucking needy. So desperate to be filled.”

You could barely take it, your body burning, every nerve ending stretched tight — and before you knew it, you were bouncing properly, gasping every time you dropped down and took more of him inside you.

Jake let you.

Jake watched you.

Until finally he grabbed your hips and slammed you all the way down, making you cry out as he bottomed out inside you.

“There you go,” he rasped, eyes blazing. “Take it all, babe.”

You clung to him, overwhelmed, as he started thrusting up into you — hard, relentless, fucking you so deep you saw stars.

prompt request list

[4m0r1m]

Closed Doors was delicious, write more for House one day and my life is yours, you absolute angel 🙏🙏

Til Death Do Us Part

SUMMARY: When House notices the subtle cracks in his wife's bright facade, he can't ignore them.

WORD COUNT: 2,439 words

PAIRING: greg house x wife!reader

WARNINGS: angsty angsty (sorry😭)

The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as House leaned against the wall of his office, tossing a worn tennis ball into the air and catching it in one deft hand. Through the glass walls, he watched her—his wife—laughing with one of the interns. Her head thrown back, her entire frame animated with that familiar, infuriating energy that first made him fall for her.

But something wasn’t right.

He caught the ball mid-air, frowning. She was laughing too hard. Too brightly. A beat too long before she steadied herself, hand fluttering briefly to the side of her head. Not the first time he noticed it. Not the first time he chalked it up to exhaustion, or the hospital wearing her down. Yet, House had a nose for lies. Even unspoken ones.

Later, when she sat at their shared desk in the flat, a stack of children’s charts spread before her, he caught her blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision. Her hand trembled when she reached for her tea.

House said nothing. Not yet.

He started running tests behind her back the very next day.

Nothing major at first—blood work, basic scans, subtle prodding during casual conversations masked as teasing. She laughed him off, told him he was getting soft in his old age, caring too much. He retorted with some snide comment about how British women probably enjoyed seeing their husbands panic. She threw a pillow at his head.

But deep down, House was gnawing on a bone he couldn’t put down.

Something was wrong.

Something he couldn’t diagnose by sarcasm alone.

It took him a week. A brutal, sleepless, Vicodin-laced week of cross-referencing every symptom she didn't even realise she was showing. When the preliminary results landed on his desk, he didn't even read them at first—just stared at the thick envelope like it was ticking.

Finally, he ripped it open.

Cancer.

The word punched the air from his lungs, even as his brain kicked into clinical overdrive. He scanned every line, every marker, but nowhere did it say where exactly the cancer was lodged. Just that it was there. Hiding. Growing.

He needed Wilson.

No—he needed answers.

He found her on the paediatrics floor, perched on the edge of a hospital bed, coaxing a giggle out of a pale, freckled boy with a toy stethoscope. She looked radiant. She looked fine.

House's stomach twisted.

He waited until she finished, then intercepted her outside the ward.

“Got a sec, Doc McCheery?”

She grinned, mock saluting. “Only if you’re here to hand-deliver my 'World’s Best Doctor' mug.”

“Something better.” His voice was light but his eyes were steel. “A mystery.”

She cocked her head, blonde hair catching the light. “Oh, go on then. Solve it, Sherlock.”

House stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re sick.”

Her smile faltered, barely, but it was enough for him to see it.

He pressed on. “I’ve run your blood work. You’re throwing off tumour markers. Something’s growing inside you.”

She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the flicker of panic. “Honestly, Greg, you’re worse than my mum.”

“We’ll have Wilson run some more scans,” he continued, relentless. “Get a full body PET. Find out where it’s hiding.”

“No.”

The word was sharp. Final.

House blinked. “No?”

She crossed her arms, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re overreacting. It’s probably a false positive. Stress, maybe. God knows I’m married to enough of it.”

House’s jaw clenched. “You’re lying.”

She stepped back, defensive, playful tone gone. “Drop it, House.”

“Like hell I will.” His voice rose, drawing a few glances from passing nurses. He didn’t care. “You think I’m just going to stand there while you—while you—”

“What? Die?” she snapped, suddenly furious. “Grow up.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

House stared at her, breathing hard. “You know.”

It wasn’t a question.

She looked away, blinking rapidly again. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “I know.”

House closed his eyes for a second, as if that could erase the moment. “Since when?”

“Few weeks.”

“WEEKS?” His cane thudded against the wall as he turned in frustration. “And you didn’t think to tell your husband?”

“What for?” she shot back. “So you could dissect me like one of your bloody puzzles? You think I wanted to become your latest case study?”

“You ARE my case study, dammit!” he barked. “You’re my wife!”

She swiped angrily at a tear threatening to spill. “I’m your wife, Greg, not your patient. I get to choose.”

House advanced on her, voice low and dangerous. “You’re choosing to die.”

She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, well, not much of a choice, is it?”

House gritted his teeth. “Wilson can start treatment. There’s still time.”

“No.”

Her voice cracked.

“No chemo. No endless scans. No months of vomiting and losing my hair and becoming a ghost before your eyes. I’m not doing that.”

House stared at her, aghast. “You stubborn, infuriating—”

“It’s brain cancer, Greg.” She said it too fast, like tearing off a plaster. “It’s already spread. There’s nothing to treat.”

The words hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Brain cancer.

Terminal.

House swallowed hard, throat dry. For the first time in years, he felt utterly, completely helpless.

She stepped closer, softer now. “I don’t want to spend what’s left being prodded and poked and sick. I want to live.” Her fingers brushed his. “With you. As me.”

House stared at her hand on his, his mind reeling.

Live.

As her.

Not as some hollowed-out version.

He squeezed her fingers, just once.

And for once, House had no smart-ass reply. No sarcastic retort.

Just grief, raw and gnawing, wrapping its claws around his ribs.

They barely spoke on the drive home.

House gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles whitening with every mile. She sat curled against the window, cheek pressed to the cool glass, silent. Normally she filled car rides with chatter, teasing him about his music taste or criticising his driving.

Now, just silence.

He hated it.

When they reached their building, she moved ahead, keys jangling weakly in her hand. House limped after her, cane tapping the stairwell floor, every step heavier than the last.

Their flat smelled like old books and the faint citrus of her shampoo.

Home.

It was supposed to feel like safety. Tonight, it felt like a countdown.

She dropped her bag at the door and peeled off her jacket, moving sluggishly. House watched her, searching for something to anchor himself. Some way to fix this.

“Do you want tea?” she asked, voice too bright, brittle.

He barked a humourless laugh. “Yeah. That’ll cure the cancer.”

She flinched, barely, but recovered quickly. “Well, if not, at least it’ll shut you up for five minutes.”

House’s chest ached.

This—this—was how they coped. Sarcasm layered over fear like armour. They had built their marriage on it.

He let her make the tea.

Let her pretend.

She set his mug in front of him, hands trembling slightly, and sat opposite at the small kitchen table. Her sleeves were pushed up, revealing the delicate twist of her wrists, the veins he knew too well.

House stared at her.

So alive. So herself.

And yet.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

She traced the rim of her mug with one finger. “They gave me six months. Maybe a year, if I’m stubborn enough.”

He snorted, despite himself. “You? Stubborn? Shocking.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “Said I could beat the record if I pissed off enough people.”

His throat closed up.

He set the mug down too hard, spilling tea across the table. Neither of them moved to wipe it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, softer now, almost pleading.

She shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t want you to look at me like—” she waved vaguely at the air between them, “—like that.”

“Like what?” he rasped.

“Like I’m already dead.”

House rubbed his face with one hand, feeling years older. “I’m a bastard, not a corpse sniffer.”

She laughed, a broken, beautiful sound. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The silence stretched, heavy, but not empty.

Finally, she spoke.

“I’ve made peace with it, Greg. I need you to.”

House shook his head, sharp and stubborn. “I don’t make peace. I make enemies. Death’s on the list.”

She reached across the table, curling her hand around his. “You can’t fix this.”

House’s fingers twitched.

Fixing things was what he did. Diagnosing, cutting, poisoning, healing—forcing the body to obey him through sheer willpower and spite.

But not this.

Not her.

Her hand was warm. Solid. Real.

He clung to it like a man clinging to a ledge.

“What do you want, then?” he asked hoarsely. “A world tour? Skydiving? Trip to Disneyland?”

She snorted. “You on a rollercoaster would definitely kill me quicker.”

House squeezed her hand, hard enough to make her wince.

“Just you,” she whispered. “Just time. Just... us.”

He bowed his head, forehead pressing against the back of her hand.

“Okay,” he said, voice breaking. “Okay.”

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

She dozed beside him, soft breaths against his shoulder, hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. He watched her for hours, memorising the slope of her nose, the way her lashes fluttered when she dreamed.

Every detail was a lifeline and a knife.

At some point, she stirred, finding him awake.

“Greg,” she murmured sleepily, “if you don’t stop brooding, I’ll die of boredom before the cancer gets me.”

He huffed a laugh, rough with unshed tears.

“Come here,” she ordered, tugging at his arm.

He shifted, wincing at the stiffness in his leg, and let her curl against him, head tucked under his chin. Her hand splayed across his chest, fingers idly tapping a rhythm only she knew.

“Love you, you miserable sod,” she mumbled into his shirt.

House closed his eyes.

He’d never been good at saying it back. Not easily. But tonight, he needed her to know.

“Love you too, you bossy Brit,” he said thickly.

She smiled against him, and for a moment, it was almost easy to believe that morning would come like any other. That time wasn’t slipping through their fingers like sand.

Weeks passed.

They didn’t talk about treatments again. Didn’t whisper about hope or miracles. She refused hospitals, refused sympathy. She worked as long as she could, still lighting up the children’s ward with her reckless, infectious energy.

But House saw the changes.

The headaches that left her pale and trembling. The slurred words. The moments where she stared at nothing, lost in the fog.

He fought every instinct to rush her to a hospital.

Because she asked him to let her live.

Because he loved her too much not to.

Some nights she was strong enough to mock him, to tease him about his cooking, his Vicodin stash, his permanent scowl. Other nights, she cried in his arms, scared and furious and small in a way she never let anyone else see.

He held her through it all.

And every day, House hated the universe a little more.

Hated how something so brilliant, so bright, could be snuffed out by something as stupid as rogue cells multiplying in her brain.

One evening, she sat on the battered old sofa, a woollen blanket draped over her lap, sipping hot chocolate. Her hair was thinner now, her skin papery, but her smile—God, her smile—still stopped his heart.

“Greg,” she said suddenly, serious.

He looked up from his medical journal.

“When I go,” she said, “I want you to do something.”

He closed the journal slowly. “If this involves taxidermy, I’m out.”

She laughed weakly. “No. I want you to be happy.”

House stared at her.

“You’re allowed,” she whispered. “After. You’re allowed to love again. To be alive.”

House’s mouth twisted. “There’s no after.”

She leaned forward, touching his knee. “Promise me.”

“I don’t make promises.”

She just smiled.

And somehow, House knew he would spend the rest of his life trying to keep that one.

A/N: I don't know if I'm an angel anymore😭😭I'm sorry guys I just had this idea but I'll do some fluff maybe tomorrow....

Hope you guys like it!💗