#its way longer than i thought it would be

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Priest x Reader x Yandere!"Angel" content: gender neutral reader, based on Midnight Mass

You didn't think you'd return to that crumbling shell of a church after so many years. Hell, you weren't even religious. What dragged your feet all the way to God's holy ground was nothing but sheer curiosity: who in their right mind would've willingly moved to a bumfuck town in the middle of nowhere?

The newly appointed priest was young and handsome, with a pious smile and a welcoming gaze. His voice was soft as he introduced himself and gave the good ol' speech of an open-door policy. Everyone was welcomed, believers and nonbelievers alike. God loved all equally. As the liturgy ended and people shuffled out of their seats, you felt his hand resting over your shoulder. He asked you to stay behind. Nothing outlandish by any means; he could tell you weren't all that interested in theological talk, yet he appreciated your honest nature. He asked if you'd mind passing by every now and then, and you unconsciously nodded in agreement.

Yet, there was something off about this Monsignor. For once, he spoke about others as if he'd known them for a lifetime. The way he greeted the elders and laughed with them almost made you forget you were no longer facing the previous man in charge, who'd left on a pilgrimage and never returned. Whatever happened to the poor bastard, you wondered?

With the recent arrival came other peculiar happenings. The town drunkard vanished abruptly one evening, only to be found completely pale and drained of blood a couple of days later. Night didn't feel as peaceful anymore, and you'd been plagued by the feeling of being watched. You once expressed your suspicions to the priest, who was quick to comfort you - perhaps too kindly for your own liking. He stroked your hair with foreign affection, urging you to gather your courage.

"Do you believe in Angels?"

You've been toying with his words quite often lately. Why would he suddenly bring it up? He knows you don't care for spiritual nonsense. His stare was sincere, almost anxious. Your heart clamps tightly in your chest, restless and eager. Monsignor certainly knows more than he lets on - there was no abstractness to his question.

At last, you have your answers. Shuffling through some old book you found in the clergy house, one photo catches your attention. It is a dated photograph of your town's previous priest, back in his youth. It is the very man currently holding a sermon across the road. What on Earth did he find during his pilgrimage? More importantly, what curse did he bring over to your small town?

Your throat constricts, suddenly aware of a looming presence behind you. The creature standing in front of your eyes is anything but human. Tattered, fleshy wings, grotesque fangs splitting its snout open, and long, sharp claws dragging across the floor. It approaches with predatory interest, huffing in amusement upon noticing your trembling knees.

"No! You cannot feed on this one," the Monsignor demands with authority. He's catching his breath, holding onto the doorframe for support. He must've sensed his beloved Angel awakened from its slumber and hurried back to his humble home. "We had an agreement, I recall," he scolds, becoming more unsure. "This one is mine."

The tall Beast considers your shivering form, lowering its head closer to your level.

"Is that so," it challenges in a hoarse voice. "I thought you're not supposed to lust after other humans, Father. I'm saving you from sin, you see, by keeping...(Y/N), is it?"

It extends a gargantuan hand towards you.

"Come, which will it be? A perverted priest, or an Angel to look after you?"

"You're no Angel," you want to shout, yet the words crumble out in a petrified whisper.

[jeonstellate]

the ghost of monza

there’s a phantom walking around the monza circuit — and oscar seems to be the only one who can see her.

๑彡 oscar piastri x fem!räikkönen!reader

๑彡 mentions of ghosts & ghostly behaviors

๑彡 paragraph format — 3K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

๑彡 all italian, spanish, & finnish words in this are from google! yn is kimi räikkönen’s daughter, but there are no physical descriptions mentioned.

๑彡 been into f1 recently && figured i should try writing something about it to help with my writer’s block. lowkey this might be my first & only f1 fic, but who knows. i appreciate any feedback as long as y’all word it nicely <3

It started on Oscar’s year as Alpine’s reserve driver.

It was a race weekend in Monza, Italy. The weather was great — the sun shone softly behind the clouds, the occasional wind blew like a hug, and there was a low threat of precipitation. It was really the ideal conditions for a Grand Prix for everyone involved.

There was no need for Oscar to fill in for any of the drivers and, thus, he was as relax as he could be.

He was just chilling inside the team’s motorhome, enjoying the relative silence of the hustle and bustle from the sidelines, when the glass door to his right opened from an effortless push of the figure outside. No one bothered to look — nor seemed to have noticed the door open — except for him.

To be fair, he wouldn’t’ve cared, either, had the figure not stood out like a sore thumb being the only red amidst the sea of blue. And if they didn’t look slightly passive — visibly judging, if he squinted hard enough — after sweeping the entire room with just their eyes. It was as if they found the entire Alpine motorhome lacking — or, worse, not worth their time.

Against his better judgment, and with every bit of an unknown force compelling him so, Oscar approached them. "Do you need help?"

He only had time to register the red cap on their head and the RKN boldly printed on the front of their equally red shirt before the person replied with a question of their own. "Is Alonso here?"

Oscar didn’t expect that inquiry at all. Purely based on the amount of red that covered their body, he assumed they were a tifoso who just lost their way to the Ferrari area. Yet, as it turned out, they came in there on purpose.

He weighed the ethicality of divulging a driver’s whereabouts. "He went back out. I’m not sure when he’ll be back."

The stranger nodded once, looking content with the answer he gave despite the vagueness. "Okay. Thank you."

With that, they turned back to the door and out to where they came from. They didn’t even look back to spare him — nor the motorhome — another glance.

It took Oscar two beats of silence to remember what Fernando had announced before the latter completely disappeared from the Alpine area. "If anyone comes looking for me, tell them I’m with Seb!"

It took him another beat to run after the stranger. Unfortunately, that three-second delay was enough for them to be out of sight in all the directions he looked.

He went back inside wondering if he merely hallucinated the entire interaction.

It continued onto Oscar’s rookie year in Formula One.

It was another race weekend in Monza, Italy. It was a more guaranteed dry bout than last year, though, with the sun shining a little brighter and no chance of precipitation.

That time around, he was no longer as relaxed, for he was now one of the twenty drivers who would try to take pole to increase their chances of winning the Grand Prix. Add the fact that he still had something to prove with his seat in McLaren— there was really no time for him to completely relax at all.

He did have time to disassociate, though, and let his thoughts wander — albeit they couldn’t stray too far from the race, no matter how many times he tried.

He saw the door to his right open in his peripheral vision. He thought nothing of it, as a lot of people kept coming in and out of the McLaren motorhome for one reason or another.

Except the latest newcomer wasn’t clad in papaya and black — or any other neutral and ‘safe’ colors. They were red. And not just any red, either, but a distinct variation of Ferrari red. They had to be tifoso, for sure.

"Excuse me?" Before he knew it, the tifoso in question was in front of him. They weren’t invading his personal bubble, though, much to his silent gratitude. "Hi."

Oscar reciprocated their greeting after his brain registered that the stranger looked vaguely familiar. "Can I help you?"

"Has Alonso dropped by here today?"

It clicked then where he had seen them previously. They were the same person that inquired the same thing to him last year, back when he was still in Alpine. They were even wearing the same RKN shirt, albeit the red cap had been swapped for a black one.

"No," he shook his head. He considered asking why they were looking for Fernando, but the stranger closed the conversation before he could even make up his mind.

"I see," they say with a nod, reminiscent of their first encounter. As before, they were content with his short and direct answer. "Thank you."

And, like the year previous, they turned back out to the street without sparing him another glance.

Oscar trailed his eyes on their retreating figure, but he didn’t see them go toward any direction after the door closed. Instead, the glass wall merely remained a barrier between the inside of the motorhome and the empty, lifeless street.

It had to be a trick of light.

In hindsight, Oscar was partly to blame for his latest dilemma.

He didn’t have to bring up the vanishing tifoso to Fernando during the drivers’ parade. He didn’t have to assume it’d be a simple, open-and-shut conversation, either. And, yet—

In his defense, it seemed to be the perfect chance to.

He just didn’t anticipate Fernando to look at him like he asked his question in a language he didn’t understand. "No tifoso came to me."

He decided to drop the topic after that. He wasn’t sure if he should clarify or ask for a confirmation. And, quite frankly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do either — especially considering how the tifoso in question vanished the way they did.

Perhaps it was better that he never got to ask again. That way, he had nothing that resembled a confirmation of a recurring hallucination.

He was fortunate enough to be gifted in compartmentalizing, so his performance wasn’t affected. He might’ve not performed as well as he hoped, but they were blameless on that. That was all him and the car.

Unfortunately, with the race done, he really had nothing else to occupy his mind.

Which meant, in the stillness and silence of his hotel room, the compartment he stored his biggest what-if opened with a bang!

What if he was being haunted by a ghost of Monza circuit?

(That didn’t even make sense. Monza was Ferrari’s territory. And the last time he checked, he didn’t drive for the prancing horse. If anything, a ghost of Monza circuit should be haunting either Charles or Carlos — not him.)

It was a blessing — and a curse — that Formula One kept Oscar occupied enough to effectively keep the ghost of Monza circuit out of his mind.

Because, by Oscar’s second year in Formula One, he had forgotten about his recurring supernatural encounter.

. . . Until the season calendar circled back to Monza, Italy, that was.

"You look like hell, mate." Lando greeted him when they met at the McLaren garage for free practice. "You alright?"

"Yeah," the lie slipped out easily. Coming to work with barely any sleep was normal for him, so he learned long ago how to function with it. It was just rather unfortunate that he was yet to master not looking like he crawled out of hell whenever he didn’t get enough hours. "Just tired."

Although ‘just tired’ wasn’t technically a lie, it still was to an extent. After all, his sleeplessness wasn’t simply caused by jet-lag or anything mundane. Rather, by something he couldn’t exactly explain.

Screw his brain for remembering about the ghost of Monza circuit just when he was about to pass out.

"Oh, yeah," his teammate agreed. None than wiser about his current dilemma. "Immigration ran long last night."

Oscar could only hum in agreement. He wouldn’t be lying anymore if he didn’t respond verbally.

Unfortunately, a part of him didn’t want to leave it at that. "Say, do you believe in ghosts?"

"Why?" Lando’s response might’ve lacked a direct answer, but his body language told him everything he needed to know. "Is there a ghost in your hotel room—"

"No, nothing like that," he interrupted before his teammate thought the worse. It was bad enough that his mind was plagued by such things. He didn’t need Lando to be distracted by it, too, for the sake of their team. "Hattie just got me thinking about it."

There was immense relief when his teammate didn’t question the lie that escaped him so nonchalantly.

He just hoped his sister never gets a wind of him using her as an excuse — or else he’d never hear the end of it.

It would’ve been so easy to ask other drivers, any team members, or pit crew if they’ve seen someone with a RKN shirt around the circuit.

It would’ve been so nice to hear at least person affirm in some way, none the wiser about the magnitude of relief they just bestowed him.

It would’ve been so liberating to be free of the torment of not knowing for certain.

It would’ve been so many things.

But, alas, going around and asking would take a lot of energy. He might have the energy to race and do his job, but he had nothing to spare for satisfying his curiosity. He could do either-or, not both. And he definitely wouldn’t pick the latter if he actually had to choose.

Thus, Oscar settled for the unknown to plague his subconscious. Not in the forefront of his mind whenever occupied with pressing matters, but definitely still triggerable with a word or two.

It should’ve been obvious by now that him sitting idle inside his team’s motorhome was a common factor in all his — quite plausibly — ghostly encounters.

But, alas, the realization merely came when he was, one again, living through an unfaithful replay.

"He’s not here," Oscar replied to another variation of the one question the tifoso always asked.

And like they always did, they accepted his answer as it was. No follow-up questions asked. "Okay."

Only that time, he wasn’t about to just let them leave and disappear again. "I might know where he is right now, though," he quickly added before they express their gratitude and turn away. "I can take you to him?"

The unnamed tifoso thinned their lips as they considered his offer. He took that time to take note of two things: One, they donned a red cap with a ‘7’ embroidered on it and their usually red RKN shirt had been swapped for a white one. Two, the sunlight from the glass wall wasn’t shining through them but on them.

They were not a ghost.

It really had been a mere trick of light.

"I suppose that’s fine."

Oscar’s relief almost manifested into a small smile. He’d be able to sleep comfortably later! "Great. If you’d follow me—"

He opened the door and gestured for them to exit first. They obliged with a subtle nod of acknowledgement, and their — theirs and his — arms touched accidentally. He paid no mind to the electricity that flowed through his skin where they made contact, too focused on counting the brief moment as another proof that the stranger wasn’t anything supernatural.

He led them to the Aston Martin garage, the tifoso following him soundlessly from behind. He made few attempts to walk next to them instead, but they countered with a move of their own every time — which successfully kept them directly behind him. He got the message after the third failed attempt.

He felt like Orpheus on his way out of the Underworld.

"Do you mind if I ask for your name?" He inquired a little louder than his usual talking voice. He wasn’t one for raising his voice unless necessary — and that moment definitely required it. For he had to keep his head facing forward, so he could safely navigate the both of them across the chaos of the paddock.

Amongst the scattered noise all around, he was able to pick out a sound of a reply, "My name’s [first name]."

[First name].

It might’ve taken three years but, finally, he had a name.

Oscar quietly tested their name on his tongue — making sure he was pronouncing it right, before saying it out loud. "Nice to officially meet you, [first name]. I’m Oscar."

He could almost swear he heard them something else in reply, but it was drowned by the noise around them. All he could attest to was a reminiscent of a hum and something that almost sounded like a "Likewise."

In all the overthinking he had done, Oscar had somehow never anticipated how the truth would actually come to be.

Fernando, the first person he hinted about the phantom tifoso, did know [first name]. "Princesa! It’s so good to see you!" Personally, based on the tight hug he engulfed her after that enthusiastic greeting.

"You, too, Nando setä," [first name] greeted back, albeit with less excitement visible in her body language.

Oscar stood there rather awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself. Was he supposed to go now?

"Wait—" The older man suddenly held [first name] at arms’ length. He looked at her up and down, seemingly taking in her outfit. "Are you the tifoso Oscar was talking about?"

"What?"

Fernando turned to him, as if he realized it was a question for him instead of hers. "Is [first name] the tifoso?"

"Yeah," he affirmed. He turned to her, puzzled, "Are you not a tifoso?"

"Only conditionally," she responded with a light shrug. "I don’t typically consider myself one."

"Your outfit says otherwise, princesa." the Aston Martin driver gestured toward the prancing horse on her cap. He nodded in agreement, as the other encapsulated precisely what he was thinking.

[First name] was unfazed. "I just see them as faija’s merch."

Oscar had no idea what ‘faija’ meant but, based on context clues, he’d assume it meant ‘dad.’ Also based on context clues, ‘setä’ probably meant ‘uncle.’ It could also be the other way around, really. Alas, he’d have to confirm later.

"Your papá doesn’t even race anymore—" Or not, since Fernando seemed to have given him the confirmation indirectly— "why do you still insist to wear his merch when you watch me race?"

"I just want to."

He felt an inclination to ask who her father is. Yet, at the same time, he also felt like it was already at the tip of his tongue.

[First name] and her Uncle Fernando watched Oscar leave to return to the McLaren motorhome.

When the Australian driver was nothing but a speck in the sea of paddock chaos, her uncle wasted no time to open the conversation he was most likely dying to have. He probably would’ve kicked Oscar out of the Aston Martin garage, too, if the latter didn’t excuse himself early enough. "Finally got the balls to exchange more than a sentence with him, huh?"

She didn’t move her attention from the direction Oscar disappeared to. "On the contrary, I just didn’t want to refuse his offer."

Her first encounter with Oscar in Alpine had been by chance. She really was looking for her Uncle Fernando then. Her Uncle Sebastian wasn’t in his team’s motorhome down the lane when she dropped by, so she strategically sought out her other uncle. She figured they were likely chitchatting in some corner, as they often did with her dad back when the latter was still in the grid. It was only a matter of narrowing down where they could possibly be.

She didn’t know what it was with the team member that assisted her in Alpine. He just stood out to her much more than the one in Aston Martin. Perhaps it was because he didn’t make her wait for nothing. Or because he was more direct in replying to her query. Maybe it was because he was obviously around her age.

Whatever the case might be, she wasted no time in asking her uncles about the cute boy in Alpine after she sprinted to the garages. It was obvious her uncles immediately caught on what was happening before she even realized it herself. After all, she was a Räikkönen and very much like her father. She wouldn’t use much of her energy if she could help it. At best, she would only willingly use her energy for things that she cared enough about.

The fact that she sprinted just to get a name . . .

(It only took them a wordless glance at each other to unanimously conclude that she got a crush. A firsthand experience in love at first sight, if they wanted to push it.)

"Ay, princesa." Her Uncle Fernando’s disappointment was already distinguishable in just two words. "You backed out again?"

She couldn’t blame him. She planned to be acquainted with Oscar last year but she lost courage at the last second, so she tried again when the calendar restarted. Unfortunately, the same thing occurred. "It’s hard."

"You’re only asking him to be your friend, not for his hand in marriage."

[First name] scoffed at his chosen phrasing of his words of encouragement. She knew he was right, of course, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her agreement. "Maybe I should’ve just listened to faija and stayed away from the paddock."

It was his turn to scoff. "Too late for that. Your papá already approves of Oscar."

Her head snapped toward him in a concerning speed. "What?"

Fernando met her wide eyes with his own sparkling in excitement, as if he had been waiting for that moment for years. "I’ve been sending updates to him and Seb."

[pyract0]

╰┈➤Thoughts/ head cannons with HSR men!

☁︎ No specified gendered descriptions, referred to as "you"- Don't tag it as "Gn reader" just in case I make a mistake/ can be considered otherwise. ☁︎Trying out different formatting to find one I like :) ☁︎Not really any warnings, just relationship stuff- Potential spoilers for Amphoreus ! ☁︎Anaxagoras(3), Mydeimos(2), AE!Sunday(3), Moze(1) ☁︎had more ideas but forgot them by the time I got to them

╰┈➤Anaxagoras

𝖎 Slow Dancing

Despite being a man dedicated to his research and strict in nature, Anaxagoras found himself enjoying simple things with you the longer your relationship progressed. Silence was golden, a message he engraved within the rules he recited to each new figure that entered his life, yet he found himself relaxing into the gentle atmosphere of your words as you stood hand in hand. The hours the both of you spend swaying in each others embrace builds up, listening to the classical music he chose out as you let your head rest against his shoulder. Simply being wrapped in his arms, his coat placed over your shoulders as you take turns discussing whatever came to mind until you become tired. He'll then take it upon himself to bring you to your shared bedroom, whether it be walking with his arms lazily resting on your hips with his hands clasped in front of you or carrying you flush against his chest before throwing placing you on the bed.

𝖎𝖎 Cuddling

Cuddling with Anaxagoras after getting yourself a pair of matching droma onesies. You got them initially as what you believed would be a joke, pyjamas of a creature you knew he held admiration about, thinking it would be simply brushed off. Yet he took it seriously, and instead it became your new nightly routine. The fluffy hood with droopy horns that covered your face rubbing against his cheek as you nuzzle against him, discarding your usual blanket due to the thick material already holding enough warmth. What would have to be seasonal for you due to the risk of overheating would become his usual attire due to his inability to feel the temperature. Just you laying on his chest and running your fingers through his hair as he rambles on about something you can barely comprehend. You make sure for his sake his favourite droma plush is within reach on the bed for if he absentmindedly seeks comfort from the plushie. Y'all that plushie has seen some stuff.

𝖎𝖎𝖎 Physical contact

Being someone who's been derived of touch due to personal preference, Anaxagoras takes any chance he's offered at holding some form of contact with you. Cooking? he's behind you, arms on either side of you caging you between his chest and the counter as his head rests against your shoulder. Sitting somewhere reading? His head finds its way to your lap, running his pointer finger in circles on your thigh as he presses himself closer to your body. One of you are working? You're sat side by side, fingers interlocked as he fidgets with your wedding band, bringing your connected hands to his cheek to lean against. Type of person to hold your wrist as his teeth press into the flesh of your fingers/ palm, never hard enough to hurt but enough to feel the pressure that brings an odd comfort to the both of you. Habit of chewing on things (your hand or sleeves).

Can't explain how much I love this man and offended I am at how little screen time he was given. 3.2 broke me.

╰┈➤Mydeimos

𝖎"Babysitting"

Whether it was embarking on a simple walk around the market, or heading to a meeting with another Chrysos Heir, Mydeimos always found away to attract the attention of the smaller citizens. Despite his brash appearance, he had found himself growing soft towards the children, often spend more time than what you had to spare entertaining them. One day it could be hide and seek, another simply helping a lost kid return to their parents, either way you always managed to get roped into his shenanigans. First time playing with the neighbourhood kids, he grabbed one by the collar and held them before you finally reprimanded him on how not to hold kids He's a bit confused but he's got the spirit. Ends with you eventually leaving him alone with them, only to return later to find his hair messily braided with flowers threaded through the blonde strands.

𝖎𝖎 cuteness aggression

With his lack of comprehension for his own feelings at times, Mydeimos finds himself trying to express said emotions in less than favourable ways. What started as the urge to always be near you, to be making contact with your skin at every given moment you would allow, turned to him biting you. Never hard enough to draw blood or hurt for extended periods, just leaving you to feel the pressure from his jaw as blunt marks are left behind. Gravitates towards your shoulders/collar bone due to being able to hold you close, pressing the metallic tips of his gauntlets into your hips as he nips at your skin. Instead of kissing the indentations he leaves behind, instead licks them with actions similar to that of a cat. Will sometimes randomly hold your hand, kissing up your arm before biting into the flesh of your forearm.

╰┈➤AE!Sunday

𝖎 Pampering

Being someone as renowned as AE!Sunday, lacking some aspects of social understanding due to his upbringing, he opts to spoil you instead. Still uses certain terms of affection, mostly darling or love, but finds conveying his appreciation easier through the use of acts of service. It becomes a regular part of your mornings together, helping each other with small things to make the rest easier for him. Whether it's something as simple as you placing his outfit in a neat pile to spending longer perfecting his eyeliner and eyeshadow, he enjoys any simple moment you spare to give him attention. Will sit by your kitchen counter, watching you alternate between making breakfast and fastening the buckles around his wrists to ensure it doesn't slip. He often finds himself organising your stuff, moving the stuff you need for the day to an easily accessible spot so you don't have to search for them yourself. Leaves the room with a kiss to your forehead, already planning a way to show his appreciation for you, often returning with small gifts to fill where he lacks words of affection.

𝖎𝖎 Maintaining his wings

After finally finding it in himself to open up to you, to offer himself in his most vulnerable form, AE!Sunday finds comfort in you caring for his delicate wings. Starts off with his head on your lap as you sit on the edge of the bathtub, him occupying a small stool to your side. Your nails finding their way over the feathers, removing loosened and damaged ones while lathering them carefully with shampoo, rinsing them off for him before patting them dry with a fluffy towel. Turns into the both of you laying on your shared bed, arms wrapped around your waist as his head rests against your chest. Gently scratching near the base of his wings as you work on preening the otherwise perfect feathers. Having them flutter against your hand as you work over them, occasionally moving to run your finger through his hair as you listen to him talk about his latest adventure with the crew.

𝖎𝖎𝖎 Sleep

Helping each other fall asleep, reading stories or simply recalling happy moments where AE!Sunday can finally relax. Whether you simply couldn't sleep or were less exhausted physically than mentally after a long day of mishap, he took it upon himself to read you something to ease your mind and help you rest. Even if you often chose to tell him personal experiences, sometimes you would take the role of reading as he remains shaken from a nightmare. Leaning against the wall of your shared room, gently running your hand through his hair as he lay against your chest, listening to you read the lines from the book you chose. Always ends with you waking up with a terribly sore back, but seeing your lover peacefully sleeping with his arms around your waist drowns out any amount of annoyance you held.

╰┈➤Moze

𝖎 Petting you (Foxian!reader)

Moze who would kill someone for looking at him wrong, simply folds at the sight of you. Would follow you from a distance when you go out, not wishing to appear as overbearing but doesn't want the possible risk of you getting injured to occur. Watches almost curiously at the way your tail would sway in the wind, or the subtle twitch of your ears at the clash of sounds on the busy streets. Will sometimes randomly pop out and announce his presence by patting you on the head gently, sometimes rubbing the base of your ears if you're deep in thought. Never fails to scare the shit out of you at his sudden appearance, but he ignores forgets your displeased rant by the next time he does it.

On your days off, you often find place in his lap as he occasionally scratches by your ears, while you lean against his chest and attempt to nap despite the wandering hand that keeps making contact with your head. (Literally means no harm by it, just imagine a kid seeing something for the first time while being able to physically touch it instead of just admiring it.)

The first time, which is probably also the last time, he decides to run his fingers through your tail is an utter disaster. At the appearance of a stubborn leaf that for entangled in your fur, his right hand reaches out to swipe it away. Instead of simply removing the leaf as intended, the metal claws snag at your otherwise perfect coat, drawing a pained yelp from you followed by a whine as you run your hand over the spot. Jiaoqiu and Feixiao (who doesn't have a tail) who just witnessed it clench at their chests in pain as if they were also "heavily injured". From that point on when he goes to touch your tail, his right hand is in a firm hold away from the appendage.

[leighsartworks216]

You're My Favorite

Sylus x gn!Reader

Very self indulgent fic for me. Started replaying Pokemon Shield and the au thoughts have been haunting me. But instead of that what if cuddle with big man while play game??

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, cuddling, kissing, Pokemon references, literal sleeping together, rain, the author's obvious love for ghost type Pokemon

Word Count: 964

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Rain patters softly against the windows. It pours down the glass, painting the outside world in a waterfall haze. The glowing lights of the cityscape shimmer and shine in a vibrant bokeh. All the way up here in the penthouse, none of the noise of traffic and disputes reach.

The living room is dim, lit only by the light of the TV. The sound is turned down low. Upbeat music and exciting battle themes, barely loud enough to hear over the rain. Your character runs around on the screen. The controllers sit comfortably in your hands, and Sylus rests comfortably in your arms.

It’s a lazy night in. You wanted to return to a game you haven’t played in a while, a Pokemon game. Sylus decided to join you, if only to cuddle. Which is how you ended up laid back against one of the couch armrests, and how Sylus ended up sprawled across the length of the couch, his arms wrapped under your back and his head on your chest. When you get into a battle and can play one-handed, your other hand finds its way into his hair. Those are his favorite moments. Your quiet confidence or underlying anxiety about the fight on screen, all the while your fingers thread through his silky hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. You always win. He hasn’t seen you lose a single battle yet, even though you make a habit of saving before the important ones just in case.

For now though, you’re exploring one of the wide open areas. Little creatures hop around the grass. Some occasionally chase you around. One manages to catch up, starting up the battle theme. In one hit, the fight is done.

A blue screen comes up with one of your Pokemon in the center. A blue and black bird with red eyes that you’d had since the very start of the game, affectionately named Mephisto. He’d teased you initially, saying it looked nothing like his beloved surveillance pet. You get giddy beneath him, sitting up slightly and playing with his hair as Mephisto is bathed in white. In its place, a large black raven appears.

You tap against his back to get his attention. “See? Doesn’t it look like Mephie now?”

He grins softly. “It does. You were right, sweetie.”

“Mhm.” You linger on the screen for a minute, just looking at your newly evolved partner. “D’you think you’d have one of these for a Pokemon?”

“I already have one mechanical bird, and he’s much more reasonably sized.”

You snicker, finally clicking off the screen. You pick a move to be replaced with Steel Wing. Then your hand leaves his hair, and you continue running around the digital world.

“What Pokemon would you have?” he asks. He scoots himself up further, pressing his face into your neck, nuzzling against your collarbones. He’s such a cat. You almost expect him to make biscuits against your stomach.

You rest your head against his. You can feel your eyes starting to get heavy. Lids starting to droop. You stubbornly play on. Just a little longer. You don’t want to get up yet, not when Sylus’s weight presses down on you so perfectly and his lips brush your neck like delicate flower petals. A yawn slips through, regardless. “I don’t know. I guess it depends.”

He hums. “On what?”

“Whether I’m a gym leader or a normal trainer or, like, a normal person.”

You can feel the curve of his smile on your skin. He loves when you’re passionate about your interests. When you put more thought into it than others would. “All of them. What’d be different?”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, mindlessly going into menus and healing your Pokemon team as you think. “Well, if I was a gym leader, I’d be a ghost one - easy. And I’d have a Mimikyu, and maybe a Chandelure. Hmm, an Aegislash. And my ace would be a Dragapult.”

“Mhm.”

“And if I was a trainer, I’d want a balanced team of my favs. I’d still have Dragapult, and a Vaporeon, and a Mephisto.” He huffs a laugh. “And three others… And I’d train them all and be friends with them all.”

You’ve lingered on your Bag’s menu screen for a while now. You hug him a little tighter, muffling a yawn as you rest your eyes for a moment.

“If I was just a normal person… I don’t know what I’d wanna do. For a job. ‘Cause there’d be no Wanderers for me to deal with… Maybe I’d have a cute little cottage. I think if I did, I wouldn’t wanna have a fight-y Pokemon. Just one that I can chill with…”

He kisses your pulse. Squeezes you around the waist. “What would it be?”

You hum sleepily. “If you were a Pokemon, what would you be, Sy-sy?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’d want my Pokemon to be you…”

“What if I lived in that cottage with you, as myself?”

“Then we could have a Mephie…” you murmur. The soothing sound of the rain has caught up with you. Your breathing becomes rhythmic, long and slow and even. The controller slips from your fingers. He catches it from hitting the floor with his Evol, depositing it safely on the coffee table. Your hands, now free, gravitate back to his hair. You play limly with the hair at the nape of his neck, petting the shorter hair at the back of his head. “An’ a Dragapult…”

He chuckles, low and content. He nods slightly. “Okay. We’ll have a Dragapult. That must be your favorite, hm, kitten?”

You rub your cheek against his head. “You’re my favorite…”

“You’re my favorite, too.” He hugs you tighter. “Sweet dreams, my beloved.”

“Mnmm… G’nigh’, Sy-sy…”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @moon-inthe-sea @perla-drg @leiakitty

[vunblr]

Tangled (#7)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 6.8k

Previous Chapter

A few days later, she ventured back to the rocky beach. No yarn this time. No hooks or half-finished projects to keep her hands busy. Just a hope and a little cloth bag swinging from her fingers.

She wasn’t sure if he’d be there. Maybe it was foolish to assume he would. Still, she went at the same hour she used to, settling on her usual perch with her coat pulled tight against the biting wind, scanning the dark water. Listening. Waiting.

But the cove remained silent.

Eventually, she stood and approached the cave’s entrance, calling his name. Her voice echoed in the air and came back empty.

Too cold to stay longer, she placed the red satchel just beyond the reach of the tide -some strawberries and an apple inside- and cast one last glance toward the waves before heading back. Her breath misted in the air as she walked, disappointed.

----

He surfaced just after dusk. The swim back had taken longer than he meant, he’d been cautious, doubling back, scanning the seafloor for any glint of metal or other trail left behind. Paranoia, maybe. But the wrong eyes had once found him too easily. He couldn’t afford that again.

He breached near the cave, glancing around. The water was quiet.

But then, something.

A flick of red caught his eye near the rocks.

Slipping closer, body low and cautious, his gaze narrowed at the small cloth bag tucked safely out of the tide’s reach. It looked soft. A human object.

He drew near and the wind shifted, and her scent hit him like a blow. He closed his hand around the bag and held it to his chest for a moment.

She had come.

And he hadn’t been here.

Inside, he found strawberries. An apple. Simple things, but they felt more personal than any grand gesture.

He looked out toward the cliff, where the shape of her cottage would be lost in the gray distance.

She had come.

And he had stayed away too long.

----

The next day, she made her way back to the rocky beach, with a cloth mat tucked under one arm, and a small thermos in her bag just in case she decided to stay a while. The weather had turned kinder, no harsh wind, and the sun timidly peeking through the clouds.

She settled into her usual spot, brushing sand and tiny pebbles off the rock before setting the mat and sitting cross-legged, scanning the shoreline with cautious hope.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Less than five minutes had passed when she saw movement in the water. Between two moss-darkened rocks, he appeared. Gliding, carefully, with his upper half rising above the water like the sea was reluctant to let him go.

She smiled, lifting her hand in greeting. She could’ve sworn -just for a second- he smiled back. A flicker, there and gone.

He didn’t come any closer than the waterline, where the shallows lapped gently against the lower half of his body. Only his human half remained exposed, gleaming wet under the muted sun.

“You’re not joining me today?” she asked, tilting her head.

Behind him, a tendril coiled upward, curling once before swaying side to side, almost like a cat’s tail twitching at the end of its patience.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, almost casually. Almost.

She opened her mouth, about to joke, but something in his expression stopped her. The way he looked at her wasn't teasing. It was... careful. As though he was bracing for the answer.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, softer now.

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped, shifting his shoulders slightly like the water was colder than it really was.

“What’s with you?” she pressed, “Why are you all shy now?”

A pause, then a quiet, vulnerable murmur: “Maybe after seeing me like you… you forgot what I am.”

She frowned, and her teasing vanished like mist. “Oh. Bucky.” She leaned forward slightly. “Trust me. I could never forget what you are. That’s the version of you I met. The one I got used to watching from the rocks. The real you. Why would it be different now?”

“Because I want to touch you.”

“You’ve touched me before,” she said, carefully.

His jaw flexed. “Not how I want to.”

She arched an eyebrow, hiding a flicker of thrill. “And… how do you want to touch me?”

His expression didn’t change much, but something simmered beneath it, something old and raw and sincere. “As my kin do,” he said. “I stayed at your house as a human. I did things with you, helped, sat, and shared food. But… some things felt incomplete. I want to be familiar with you but… in my way.”

He glanced away, as if ashamed. “When I left, we hugged. I liked it. But it felt incomplete. I felt like something was missing. I want to be familiar with you, like I would be with someone of my own kind. But I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she asked gently.

His tendrils stirred behind him again, slower now, uncertain.

“I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I recognize you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Recognize me?”

“My tendrils, when they sense you, your skin, your scent… the chemical taste of you in the air…” he paused. “It’s not just information. It’s a connection, and maybe I can get carried away trying to gasp all of it. I don’t know if that might scare you,”

“Would that familiarization entail something painful?” she asked gently.

His head jerked up. “No! never hurt.”

She didn’t move for a beat, her heart tripping in her chest. His uneasiness wasn’t from rejection or shame, it was fear of overwhelming instinct.

“It wouldn’t scare me,” she said, finally. “Not if it’s you.”

He stood still for a beat, with his chest rising and falling a little faster than usual, then seemed to gather himself, and finally began to come forward, slow and deliberate, like approaching a sacred place. His lower body emerged bit by bit from the water: slick black and blue limbs unfurled under him, glistening under the pale sun as he made his way up the damp sand toward her.

She waited, sitting cross-legged on the mat, looking at him calmly. When he was only a few feet away, she offered the gentlest greeting.

"Hi," she said, warmly.

He bit his lip, tensing his jaw for a split second before he lowered himself beside her. The movement was oddly elegant: tentacles settling around them both in wide, curling spirals. They stayed still at first, but the tips twitched, swaying ever so slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to bury.

She watched them with open curiosity, then her gaze met his. His posture was still hesitant like he was holding himself back from bolting into the sea again.

"How does this work?" she asked softly, and there was no fear in her voice, just fascination. “The sensing. I want to understand.”

He swallowed. “I just… touch your skin and… feel you,” he said. “What you’re made of, what you feel like. You leave traces… your temperature, taste, all of it. It… lingers.”

A pause.

“Want me to touch you first?” she offered.

His breath caught briefly. His eyes dropped to her hand, then back again to her face. Finally, he gave the smallest nod.

Maybe that was better. Safer.

She reached out with care. Her fingers hovered for a breath before they made contact with the thick curve of one of his limbs. It was smooth and cold, the texture almost like satin soaked in seawater. Her hand glided slowly across the surface.

“So soft,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He inhaled sharply. Not startled, but reactive. Like that small contact had sent something cascading through him he didn’t expect.

Encouraged, she let her hand trail lower, beneath the limb, until her palm met the underside, where two rows of suction cups twitched in anticipation.

“You said you sense with these?” she asked, meeting his gaze, searching for any sign she should stop.

He gave a short, curt nod. His whole body seemed tense with restraint now, like he was bracing against something internal.

She pressed her palm gently against the cups.

There was no immediate suction, just the delicate shifting of the muscle beneath, a subtle, almost shy pull against her skin. As if it were testing her shape.

And then two of the cups latched, gently, and released.

His breath caught audibly.

She didn’t move away.

"That tickled," she said with a soft laugh, watching the way the soft suckers twitched along the underside of his tentacle. Her voice broke the silence between them, but not the tension.

Encouraged by her reaction, he repeated the motion. The cluster of suction cups pulsed and flexed with deliberate care, touching her palm again, this time with full contact.

That brief, simple action was enough.

Her scent flooded him, clean skin, faint traces of citrus from her soap, or maybe the fruit she’d eaten that morning. Her warmth bled into his touch through the delicate skin of his limb. Her taste came next, something his kind would know as identity.

He shuddered.

The tentacle glided slowly, reverently, up her forearm under her sleeve, each cup engaging in turn, gripping lightly, then releasing. Some suctioned harder than others, tugging at her flesh in faint pulses like he could drag more information from each small patch of skin. Soft and strong, rhythmic and controlled… until it wasn’t.

He was too immersed, too hungry for input.

Her breath hitched and then came the sharp little yelp. “Hey!”

She startled, trying to pull her arm back, and the spell shattered.

He released her immediately, tucking the tentacle close to his body instinctively as it had bitten her. Which, in a way, it had.

She stared at her arm with wide eyes. A trail of faint marks dotted her forearm, already beginning to fade, but visible against the chill-raised skin.

“Well,” she said after a pause, half-laughing as she rubbed the marks with her free hand, “that felt like you were giving me a hickey.” She looked up at him with raised brows, clearly expecting a reaction. “There are better spots for those,” she added playfully.

The joke passed right through him. He didn’t respond.

Because he was horrified.

He stared at her arm with wide eyes. Her skin was marked. Marked. He knew human bodies didn’t change color as he did. If they did… it meant they were hurt. That they bruised, that they bled. His gut twisted.

“I-” he started, “I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, sensing the shift in him. Her smile dimmed, not out of fear, but because she could see how fast he’d retreated inward. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ve had worse from kitchen cabinets and sneaky coffee tables. See? There is nothing, it went away.”

But he barely seemed to hear. He was pulling away, not physically, but mentally, and emotionally, curling into guilt like a wave withdrawing from the shore.

He hadn’t meant to be rough. He’d wanted, wanted her scent, to feel her, wanted to understand her in his way, as his kind did. And he’d gotten carried away.

Her hand reached out, gently circling his wrist, trying to calm him.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did.

“I’m okay. I promise.” Her voice softened. “Want to try again?”

She offered it like a gift, unafraid. But he didn’t reach for it. Didn’t reach for her. If anything, his body tensed in subtle retreat. Like he was already halfway back into the sea.

Her shoulders fell with a sigh.

So she reached out instead.

Her hand found his, cool and damp, curling her fingers gently around his palm. She gave it a squeeze.

“Hey,” she said, searching his gaze. “What happened to the grumpy sea cat that didn’t give a damn?”

His brow furrowed. “I’m not- What is a cat?”

That startled a laugh from her. “Nevermind.”

She waited a moment before lifting their joined hands a little. “Do I feel nervous to you? Afraid?”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Then touch me again.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, parting his lips as if to argue, but the words never came.

“Another time,” he said at last.

“Bucky-”

“You don’t understand. I could get... lost in it.”

She tilted her head. “And what if I want to be found in it with you?”

That made his eyes snap to hers, startled.

You don’t have to be afraid for me. If anything happens, I’ll tell you to stop. But I trust you. And I know you want to do it again.”

“I do,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.

“Then do it,” she mumbled.

Still holding her hand, he shifted, and one tendril -thicker, darker near the base- slid across the sand and up beneath the hem of her sweater, gliding along the curve of her waist.

She gasped softly. “Oh. Okay. Someone feels adventurous.” A shiver trailed up her back. “And cold.”

His eyes fluttered closed, and his jaw slackened just slightly as the suckers latched onto her skin in a pattern that wasn’t random. There was intent behind each touch, drawn out, searching, collecting her. The tendril flexed and curled, dragging back and forth against her skin in a slow rhythm, and the motion made her breath stutter.

He tilted his head, parting his lips, brushing his tongue against the edge of a canine, like the sensation pulled something physical from him as it tasted like more than just her.

She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even think of pretending to be unaffected. Not when his face looked like that, concentrated, absorbed, straining for control even as his body acted with instinct.

Her thoughts weren’t where they should’ve been. Not for an innocent reunion. Not in the open. But the heat spreading in her cheeks -and lower- didn’t care much for propriety.

“S–so?” she managed to squeak, slightly higher than she intended.

He opened his eyes, slow and heavy-lidded, and there was something wild behind them now. Something ancient and hungry and confused by its own longing.

His voice came out husky. “You taste… beautiful.”

She blinked, and her heart fluttered hard in her chest. “That’s… not something I’ve ever been told before,” she said, trying for lightness, but her voice trembled a little.

The tendril still rested around her waist, unmoving now, its suckers gently released, one by one, leaving behind only the faintest impressions on her skin. His hand was still in hers, large and cool, his fingers twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go.

He seemed to catch himself then -like surfacing from a deep place- and slowly, with visible effort, pulled the limb back and curled it against his side.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, dropping his gaze again.

“You didn’t. It was... quite the experience"

His hand stayed in hers a moment longer, before slipping away slowly.

She adjusted her sweater with a small tug but didn’t move farther. Her eyes were still on him, curious and calm. Not flinching, or pulling away.

That didn’t help.

Or maybe it did, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was the low, aching thrum beneath his skin. A want that went beyond just touch. It crawled deeper, into instinct and memory, into everything he hadn’t let himself want for too long.

He swallowed hard, flickering his gaze down to her collar, her throat, the delicate rise and fall of her breath. His fingers twitched in his lap. The appendages at his back shifted and flexed in the sand as he tried to center himself, some curling, some spreading in frustration.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

He looked up at her. Her voice cut clean through the haze of want. He nodded, a little too quickly.

“I just…” He looked away, jaw tight. “I’m still feeling.”

She tilted her head, tucking her knees under her. “Do you always feel this much when you do that?”

He exhaled slowly. “No. With you...” His voice dropped even lower. “It’s like… everything I take in makes me want to take more.”

A breeze moved between them, cool and sharp against his damp skin.

She didn’t lean away.

“I guess I should take it as a compliment,” she said after a beat, smiling faintly. “But you don’t have to hold back so hard. I won’t break.”

“I don’t want to ruin what’s… gentle between us.”

She blinked, taken aback for a second. That sentence… something in the way he said it made her heart pinch.

“Well,” she murmured, “I don’t think you could.”

That made something inside him still.

One of his tentacles crept forward, slowly, cautious as a breath. It hovered just short of her knee, unsure. Testing. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But after a beat, he slowly lowered it again, laying the appendage on the sand beside her instead.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice a little rough.

“About?”

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting away again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I can do that.”

So she did. About nothing at first. About how the tide had reached higher than usual last week. About the gull she saw stealing someone’s sandwich and flying off victoriously toward the cliffs. And then, with a little smile curving her lips, she added, “I had fun when you visited.”

“Fun?” His brow furrowed.

She laughed under her breath. “It was gratificating.”

He looked a little sheepish. “I misbehaved. You got angry.”

Right. That.

“I know you didn’t do that on purpose. You told me,” She said gently. “It was kind of fun, showing you bits of my life. And, I got to cut someone’s hair for the first time. That’s not something I expected.”

He scrunched his nose and lifted a hand to tug lightly on one of his damp strands, inspecting the ends. “Your hair doesn’t grow?”

She stifled a laugh. “Pfft, no, it does. But some people cut and style hair for you, as a job.”

He blinked, clearly processing that. “We don’t… not like that. We just cut it with knives. Or sharp stones. Or shells.”

“I figured,” she said with a playful squint. “Now that you mention knives…”

His shoulders went stiff. A flicker of tension ran through his body, echoed in the subtle twitch of his closest tentacle.

“Do your kin use tools?” she asked gently, careful not to let her curiosity sound like an interrogation. “I mean, clearly you do weapons, since-”

She pointed, just lightly, to the faint scar that still cut across his side.

His eyes followed her hand, then dropped away, the memory darkening his face for a moment.

“But I mean… other things. Normal things.”

He curled his fingers in the sand beside him, considering.

“We make things when needed,” he said finally. “Blades, spears. We shape coral into bowls, carve driftwood, and sometimes string things with seaweed threads. But we don’t keep much. The ocean takes back anything not used.”

She nodded slowly, picturing it. “So, survival tools. Things with purpose.”

“Yes.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Not even something pretty? Just for the sake of it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Sometimes the shells are shaped… nicely. We pass those to small ones. Or wear them on cords. But if it has no use, it is lost eventually.”

“So… not jewelry,” she said, tilting her head.

“There are some who wear what’s found on sunken ships,” he admitted. “Shiny metal. Stones. They wrap them around their necks or arms.”

“I take it you don’t?”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “Things like that bring attention.”

Her eyes slid pointedly to his left arm. “You have a tattoo, though.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Every adult male has one.”

Her brows lifted. “Like a rite of passage?”

“Something like that.” He shifted slightly, tracing a small groove in the sand with one clawed finger. “The ones who have ink marks are the ones who can mate.”

Oh.

“And you got it with age?”

He shook his head. “You bring proof of your strength. Something you hunted. A jest. You offer it to the witch, who marks the skin in proportion to what you did.”

Her brows lifted slightly, drifting her gaze again to the intricate ink covering his entire arm and curling over the round of his shoulder. “So… the bigger the mark, the bigger the feat?”

He inclined his head in a slow nod.

“So, is yours… the expected size?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

There was the briefest pause, then he tilted his head, and something unmistakably smug passed through his expression.

“They usually don’t pass the elbow,” he said, with a low voice edged with pride.

Her mouth parted slightly, then curved into a wry smile. “Well… I guess that makes you quite the catch.”

He blinked, then frowned faintly. “I’m not a-“

“It’s an expression,” she laughed softly. “A compliment.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Then… thank you.”

Her gaze traced the ink over the dark whorls etched into the skin, part tribal, part something older, curling like tide patterns. Without thinking, she reached out and let her fingers hover just above it.

“Can I…?” she asked, already brushing the tips of her fingers lightly across the design.

His breath caught -just a fraction- but he didn’t move away.

Her touch was gentle, and slow, tracing the raised edges of the tattoo. The texture surprised her. Not just a visual pattern, but something tactile, layered.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

His eyes had gone half-lidded, but they never left her hand. His muscles clenched slightly under her fingers, not from discomfort, no. From restraint.

She followed a looping curve toward his shoulder, not knowing the path of her touch mimicked an old gesture, a courting touch, one that in his world meant intention. Interest. Trust. Desire, too.

“You’re… breathing differently,” she noticed aloud.

“You’re touching a mating mark,” he said quietly.

Her hand froze, mid-stroke.

“Oh.”

But he didn’t pull away. And she didn’t either.

“I didn’t mean- I just thought it just was-” she faltered.

“I know,” he said. “You didn’t know. Again.”

The moment stretched.

“Again?” she asked, already starting to withdraw.

“You… already gave your neck. And now your hand.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry, that sounds like I’m proposing to you and I don’t even know what it means.”

He looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. “It means something. But it’s not binding. Not unless… you keep doing it.”

She lowered her hand, resting it against her knee, with her heart thudding.

“I’ll try not to accidentally seduce you again, then.”

That earned her a real smile, small, but there.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She was still watching him out of the corner of her eye, unsure whether to laugh off his comment or run with it under her arm. But before she could say anything, he shifted, and his tentacle’s tips curled slowly against the sand like he was working something out in his head.

Then, softly “What do your kind do, when they want to bond?”

She turned fully toward him, blinking. “Bond? You mean like… relationships?”

He nodded. “Yes. That.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “It depends. Some people date, which is like… trying to figure out if you want to be with someone you met. Some stay friends and slowly become something more. Some just… fall in love and decide they want to stay together.”

“Fall,” he echoed. “You fall into it?”

She smiled at his puzzled frown. “It’s just a saying. It means you don’t always see it coming. One day, you look at someone and you know, oh. It’s them.”

He was quiet for a moment, still furrowing his brows.

“Is there… a mark? A ritual?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Sometimes. For us, it depends on the culture. A lot of people marry, which is kind of like a formal bond. There’s usually a ceremony, vows, rings, witnesses. You stand up in front of people and promise to stay together.”

He frowned slightly. “So others must see it happen?”

“Usually, yeah. Not always. Some do it alone or just sign a paper. But the idea’s the same, it’s a public choice. A promise.”

“A performance,” he murmured, half to himself.

She smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But it means something. At least, when it’s done for love.”

He nodded slowly. “So no mark on the body. No blood drawn. Just… rings?”

She lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Sometimes. On this one.”

His tentacles shifted in the sand again, subtle, like ripples beneath still water.

“And if someone touches you where the ring should go?” he asked.

She gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Then they might be flirting.”

That pulled a look from him, eyes slightly narrowed, confused, and intrigued. “Still, it’s not the place of the ring, per se. It’s the way someone touches you that’s considered flirting.”

He huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “So many rules,” he murmured, flicking his gaze back to her hand as it moved.

She shrugged, with a little smile tugging at her mouth. “We’re more complicated than your people.”

He watched her for a long second, and the corner of his brow twitched, but he said nothing.

The silence stretched between them, loaded.

“Did you eat the fruit?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the quiet.

He gave a short nod. “Yes.”

“Slowly, or you just-”

“It didn’t make me feel bad after,” he cut in quickly, defensively, as if bracing for disapproval.

She suppressed a grin. “I wasn’t judging.”

He blinked, then looked away, as if embarrassed by the outburst.

A moment passed.

Then he looked back at her. Something was searching in his gaze, something almost... resolved. He straightened a little. “Have your bag. I’ll go get it.”

She waved a hand, casually. “It’s not necessary. You can give it to me another time.”

But he was already turning purposefully, without another word, and sliding back toward the water.

She watched him go, shaking her head. Alone again, she let out a slow breath, glanced around, and then lifted her sweater, peeking at the spot where his tendril had touched her. Her skin was unmarked.

When he returned, his hair was damp, clinging to the sides of his face, and water dripped in lazy trails down his naked chest. He held her bag twisted in both hands, wringing it out with care before offering it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching out. But the moment her fingers curled around the strap, she felt it, the weight inside.

Curious, she began to open it, but his hand darted out. He caught her wrist, gently, closing his cool fingers around her flesh with enough pressure to pause her.

“Later,” he said, his voice a little lower now.

Her brows rose. “Uh…”

His gaze skittered away, as if unsure how to explain. “Open it at your house.”

She watched him for a beat, her smile slowly spreading. “Oh? Like a surprise?”

He nodded once, stiff, like admitting that made him vulnerable.

“Well, thank you,” she said, shifting the bag into her lap. “You didn’t have to give me anything.”

“You bought me clothes,” he said, flicking his eyes to hers and then down again. “And crunchy fish.”

She laughed softly. “It wasn’t necessary to reciprocate, Bucky. But… thank you again.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’ll look at it at home.”

He saw her shiver, her shoulders giving a subtle twitch beneath her coat. A small frown formed on his brow.

“Go home,” he said quietly.

She quirked a brow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He shook his head once, firm. “You’re cold.”

“I can stay a little longer,” she said, brushing off his concern with a wave of her hand.

He shifted, and the ends of his tentacles curled slightly against the rocks as if unsettled. “You’ll get sick again,” he muttered. “You’re… weak.”

“Hey!” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “That was harsh. I’m not going to get sick from a little chill. I get sick like any human, just my symptoms are just a little worse, that’s all.”

He looked away, clearly regretting his choice of words. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Her tone softened. “Just… work on phrasing.”

He gave a slow nod. Then, quieter: “Tomorrow. You can come earlier when the sun’s higher.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes with mock suspicion. “Tomorrow, huh? Is that an invitation?”

A flush crept over his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, brushing the rock beside him with the tip of his fingers. “You were going to come anyway,” he murmured, trying to deflect.

----

She stayed by the rocks longer than she should have, with her hands tucked into her sleeves and her breath visible in the cooling air. But eventually, the wind picked up. The light dimmed. And she still had things to take care of.

So she said goodbye with a soft smile and slung the cloth bag over her shoulder as she headed back up the path.

By the time she reached home, she shrugged out of her coat and carried the satchel straight to the table. Then, she untied the knot and opened it, expecting… she didn’t know what.

But not this.

Four large pearls, luminous and warm-toned, sat nestled together in the folds of the fabric. Their soft peach hue glowed even under the dim kitchen light, catching hints of pink and gold as they shifted.

They looked like they belonged to a museum. Or an auction house. But there they were, sitting in the bag she’d used for groceries and fruit as if he’d gathered them like wildflowers and thought she might like them.

She reached out, running the tip of her finger along one pearl. It was cool and impossibly smooth. Each one was unique in shape, imperfect in a way that made them more beautiful.

But that wasn’t all.

Beside them, nestled with just as much care, were two conch shells. They were smaller, polished by time and sea, their curved surfaces were silky smooth and speckled with tiny brown dots. She ran a thumb along the edge of one, marveling at its texture, and the delicate spiral.

The pearls were priceless, true treasures from the ocean’s depth, the kind collectors paid fortunes to acquire. And yet… he’d placed the conches right alongside them like equals, no less important, no less offered. And somehow, that made the whole gesture feel even more intimate.

She let out a slow breath, touched in a way she couldn’t quite explain. To him, these weren’t just beautiful objects. They were tokens. Offerings. Chosen and given with care.

And she’d felt the weight of them in her hands.

With a small smile, she closed the bag again and held it to her chest, and then, tucked the pearls and one of the conch shells beneath a loose wooden plank in the kitchen floor, the one Arthur had once called his “secret savings place,” back when the house was his.

She left the other shell on a table next to the window. She already had plans for it.

Still moved by his gift, she poured herself a generous mug of milk coffee, the kind she made when she needed comfort and focus, and sat down with her half-finished projects. There was a lot to do, but her hands refused to cooperate.

Her gaze kept drifting to the conch on the table.

And from there, it was a short trip back to the beach.

To the way his tendril had wrapped around her waist, snugly and deliberately. To the way his suckers had pulsed against her skin, curious, careful, sensing her like no one ever had. To the look on his face, with his parted lips and eyes fluttered shut like he’d been drinking in something sacred.

It should’ve unsettled her. Maybe it had, at first. But the longer she sat thinking about it, the more her skin remembered the touch, and the more honest she had to be with herself.

It had been... enticing.

And she found herself wondering. Wondering how it would feel to have more of him touching her like that. Exploring. Suckling. Moving across her body with the same gentle hunger he’d shown at her waist.

Before she even noticed, her breath had gone shallow, and her panties were damp with heat.

She buried her face in her hands.

Was that normal? -no- Was it even possible to…

She shook her head, trying to will the thoughts away.

Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe it was his way of bonding, the way his people expressed trust. Maybe the gift was just gratitude, for the clothes and the fried fish, as he said.

But still… the way he’d looked at her in the general store. The way his body had blocked hers, how he'd moved between her and everyone else. That hadn’t felt friendly. That had felt-

Something else.

Possessive. Protective.

And that gift itself. Not just pretty tokens. They were rare. Beautiful. And she didn’t think he would’ve given them to just anyone. Her cheeks burned as she leaned back in her chair, pressing her palms against them.

Great. Now she was a weirdo fantasizing about a tentacled man.

Then again... from his side, she was the strange one. The one with “too much missing,” as he’d once put it. Fragile. Loud. And yet he looked at her like she was something worth seeing.

----

He floated low in the deepest pool of his cave, with his arms slack at his sides, and the tentacles splayed and heavy beneath him, curling faintly with each rise and fall of the water. His stomach was full, he’d hunted well earlier, a large fish, but the satisfaction hadn’t lasted.

Because his hunger wasn’t the kind that food could satiate.

Touching her had been a mistake. He’d known it would be. Knew it from the first second her hand brushed his skin, from the moment her voice dipped soft and coaxing with trust. And yet he had reached for her anyway.

Now he was paying for it.

He gritted his teeth and let his head loll against the cave wall, fluttering his eyes shut as he worked himself with rough, efficient strokes below the surface. Just enough pressure to drag the ache out of his body. Just enough friction to keep her scent alive in his mind.

She was still on him.

Her texture, her warmth. Her sweet skin that made his suckers twitch with craving. The ghost of her waist under his limb, the pulse he’d felt just beneath her surface. That delicate sound she made -half laugh, half gasp- when he grazed her with his cups. The noise hadn’t left his ears since.

It shouldn’t be like this. Not with a human.

Never in all his years -before the captivity or after- had he even thought to crave one. He used to mock Steve for it. Mocked the others who dared to chase that kind of soft, forbidden bond with land-walkers. Foolish, he’d thought. Dangerous. Weak.

Now look at him. Hiding in a pool like a feral pup, panting into the dark and rutting into his own palm over a human woman.

His hand moved faster, almost angry.

He hissed low through his teeth as the heat pooled in his gut. She’d be so small under him. So warm. And her softness -stars, her softness- he could maneuver her like nothing, press her down or hold her still while he tasted every inch of her body.

She’d feel everything.

So tight around him, trying to take it.

Body clenching-

The groan that escaped him was low and guttural, muffled by the water as his body seized with release. Muscles clenched, tentacles recoiled, and for a moment he felt as though the world narrowed to that one blinding pulse of pleasure.

Then-

Shame followed, sharp and immediate. He curled tighter, with one arm thrown across his eyes, and his chest rising and falling unevenly.

What the hell was he doing? He looked at the evidence of his actions swirling in the water and scowled, dragging himself to another pool. The tide will take care of it later.

----

Days came and went, carried by tides and wind. He stayed away from the cave mouth longer and sank deeper into the depths after each visit with her. And yet, no matter how far he retreated, she remained. In his thoughts. In his skin. In the taste that memory alone couldn’t erase from his mind.

She still came to the shore. Not every day, but often enough. As the weather cooled, she stopped bringing her yarn and projects, no longer setting up camp near the rocks with her bag and her tools. She simply came to sit, to chat, to exist beside him. She never asked why he didn’t touch her with his limbs again. Spoke gently. Stayed within reach, but never crossed that invisible line he’d drawn.

He kept his distance. Not in presence -he still came to her when he could, especially when the sea turned rough and rains swept over the coast- but in touch. No more curling tentacles. No more suckers on her skin. Only his hands now, brief and careful and human. Safer.

It should have dulled his hunger. But somehow, it made it worse.

In her little home, he learned things he never knew he wanted to know. She showed him movies, flickering light and color and drama on a screen that made his eyes narrow and his questions pile up. She told him stories, short ones, with simple morals or whimsical endings. And then asked about his.

So he told her. The old ones. The dark ones. The ones with blood and hunger and truths too heavy for children.

When he took his human form, he let himself get closer. Sat beside her on the couch, sometimes so close their knees bumped and neither moved. He helped her with little tasks and always, always ended up brushing against her. A shoulder. A back. Fingers grazing as they reached for the same thing.

She never pulled away.

One afternoon, sleepier than he meant to be after eating a questionable amount of food, he let himself sink down beside her on the couch. She was warm and soft and calm in that way that made him forget he didn’t belong in places like this. When she gently offered her lap, patting it, he hesitated only a moment before curling in, resting his head just above her knees.

He breathed her familiar scent deeply and exhaled slowly against her thighs.

Her fingers found his hair, warm and soothing. She threaded them slowly through his locks like she had all the time in the world just to touch him. And he let her. Closed his eyes. Let the tension bleed from his limbs. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for that kind of contact, not just closeness, but care.

It was his undoing.

Because after that day, every time he visited, he found himself looking for reasons to be near her. To help with something, to lean in, to shift close enough that the offer might come again. And it did. Again and again, until there was no need for excuses. No more tentative asks. He would simply wait for her to sit, and then fit himself into the space she made for him, laying his head in her lap, letting the warmth of her body cradle him, and her fingers work through the strands of his hair until everything else faded.

But then spring came.

And his visits thinned.

They met on the beach again, like they had before, with the wide sky above them and the sound of waves between them. But something had shifted. With the change in season came back the distance, the restraint. He didn’t rest his head on her anymore. He didn’t reach for her unless it was necessary. As though winter had never happened.

She wasn’t foolish, she noticed the change immediately. The absence of contact, and the silences that stretched just a little too long. And it hurt. She debated bringing it up, asking outright what had changed. But the fear of making him retreat further kept the words sealed behind her lips.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[h8aaz]

❝ taboo .ᐟ ❞

⭒ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — a demon and an angel being together is wrong; so why does it feel right when its just you and ruby alone and she makes you feel so good?

⭒ 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 — angel!reader . kissing . fingering . oral fem! receiving . rubbing/scissoring? . slight dacryphilia . first time . use of (name) . NOT PROOFREAD SO BE NICE!! .

“hey, angel,” ruby mocked as she closed the door to the winchesters’ motel room, being empty of the brothers as they were on a hunt, leaving you in their wake.

“ruby.” you snarled as you turned to face her from your residence on sam’s bed. “what do you want? sam and dean are not here.” you spoke sternly. your structured way of speaking made the demon across from you smirk. she loved hearing you talk; how you didn’t know any slang or casual way of speaking, it made her admire you in a way she shouldn’t—you were an angel, and she hates angels.

ruby sighed, “formal as always, (name),” she rolled her eyes as she made her way towards you. “the guys should really teach you how to talk normally, because this?” she paused to circle her index finger at you, “this is too ‘business meeting’ rather than two friends catching up.”

you squinted your eyes into a strong glare as she shrugged off her jacket, tossing it onto the nearby chair. “we are not friends. and we do not catch up.” your gaze followed her form as she sauntered over to sit next to you on the edge of the bed.

“right. but we could be,” the side of her mouth upturned into a sly smirk, “i mean, a pretty angel being friends with her sworn enemy? quite the story, huh?” the glint in her eyes changed, you couldn’t exactly tell what it was—but it felt dangerous. she skimmed over your figure in a slow glide of her eyes, and it made you shiver.

“what? what are you doing?” you whispered, your shy voice egging her on unintentionally. “just looking,” she responded casually, very blatantly eyeing you up. you cowered slightly as she devoured you in her gaze. what was this feeling? why did you feel scared? you’re an angel, you’re better than this. better than her.

so why were you feeling the most conflicted you’ve ever been since you first arrived in your vessel? there was a hint of something else bubbling inside you. you didn’t know what that was either. but the way ruby was staring and the tone she had when she spoke, it was causing you to feel things you didn’t understand, and you were too afraid to find out.

“whatcha thinkin’ about, (name)?” her voice broke through your thoughts, bringing you back into the moment.

“nothing,” your voice wavered as you hesitantly met her eyes. what was wrong with you? why are you acting this way? did she do something? she smells the same, looks the same, irritates you the same. but what is this feeling in your lower stomach? and why is it somehow reaching further down your body the longer she stares at you?

“really? nothing?” she questioned, dragging out the last word as she got closer to you. you felt a familiar heat rise to your cheeks—something you always felt around the winchesters for some odd reason. you knew dean made certain jokes, and your body reacted accordingly, you assumed. sam would give you longing stares and often tried to protect you from said jokes, awkwardly yet intelligently explaining what was happening to you whenever you asked.

you were flustered. ruby had made you flustered.

and you liked it.

“what’s on your mind, angel?” the brunette asked. you could practically feel the desire dripping from her voice—almost like honey. “you can tell me. i’m here to listen.” her breath fanned over your lips as she got closer. and you didn’t back away. she tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and held back most of her smirk. “tell me what you want, baby, tell me what you want me to do, and i’ll do it.” she nudged your nose with her own.

and you whimpered.

“words, baby,” she cooed. she snuck a hand up to cradle your face, pulling you until your lips brushed. this was wrong. this was blasphemous. but you couldn’t stop the two words that came from you. “kiss me.” you whispered against her mouth, your words being swallowed by her open grin. ruby connected her lips with your own, the sensation filling you with immense warmth. the kiss itself was fairly soft, but lust lingered in every movement.

you didn’t know how to kiss—as this was obviously your first. but you assumed your vessel had kissed before as it seemed to act on muscle memory. but you mostly just followed ruby’s lead, and she was good.

your hands hovered over her waist before landing and finding sanctuary there. her shirt had ridden up slightly, and thanks to her low rise jeans, you felt her skin on your fingertips. she became more eager now that you were touching her. and she showed it. she licked your bottom lip before slipping her tongue past and into your mouth. you gasped at the action but soon melted as your tongues tangled together. moans fell from both of you, crashing as your mouths collided faster.

her hands glided down to your breasts, cupping and groping while her lips found residence on your neck. she nipped, sucked, marked you as hers while pleasured sounds flew freely from you, letting her know her effect on you. your own hands wandered her body in a mix of hesitance and curiosity. you wanted to feel her everywhere. her skin was smooth, perfect. you had yearned for her touch for so long, denying yourself of the thought of merely brushing your pinky against her fingers as you stood next to her. but now she was claiming you, flicking her tongue against the freshly red bites she left—that would soon turn purple and raise multiple questions from the winchesters.

“i wanna taste you,” she whispered into your ear. you shuddered at the thought. “please,” she begged. ruby would never beg. but now she’s begging you to let her taste you? kissing and touching—being in the same damn room as a demon was frowned upon, forbidden on all sides. but to let one ‘go down’ on you? as dean supposedly liked to call the action. that was a new level of rebellion and sin that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. but to lie and say you didn’t want to find out was another point against what you stood for.

“yes,” you breathed. and she was off. she pushed you back against the bed, in too gentle of a manner for a demon. she took her time undressing you. she planted soft kisses along your body, her lips touching every centimeter of your skin. she had saved your underwear for last, slowly taking off the cotton. her pupils dilated, her mouth salivating, all from the sight of your most sacred body part. drenched and sensitive. just for her. because of her.

her tongue slipped up your folds in a long stripe, making you whine and twitch as she circled your clit. she wrapped her arms under and around your thighs, prying you open as she worked you with her tongue, pornagraphic noises spewing from your slacked mouth. your body jolted at the feel of her devouring you—your hands gripping the sheets before moving to her hair. your fingers threaded through her brown strands, getting tangled the more you moved. she grumbled and groaned; the noises she let out vibrating against you, sending you into overdrive. you had never felt this way before. and you weren’t sure if you’d ever want to stop.

she pulled away, your arousal and her saliva mixed on her face. “tell me you want it, angel,” she purred. she brought one of her arms from under you, trailing a finger close to your entrance. “tell me you want me to fill you up.” she placed a kiss on your inner thigh. you propped yourself up on your elbows, meeting her gaze. she looked beautiful in-between your legs. the sight of her would be etched into your mind forever.

“i want it.” you mumbled, chest heaving from the pleasure. “you want it?” she hummed with a smirk. “i want it, ruby.” you whined. you were getting desperate as she waited, the tip of her finger just barely touching you. “you sure, angel?” she asked in mock uncertainty. “i fucking want it!” you cursed, bucking your hips up eagerly.

you let out a sharp gasp that dissolved into a long moan as she practically jammed two fingers into you, setting a brutal pace right off the bat. your moans grew louder and more intense as she pumped her fingers into you, curling them just right while she sucked at your clit. your head fell back against the pillows, your elbows giving out.

she was unruly. she aimed to pleasure you, chasing your high quickly. and when you eventually came, it washed over you like a tidal wave. she held down your legs as you thrashed around, your moans filling the room. she continued to eat you out and finger you through your orgasm—licking up your essence as it leaked. your eyes were shut tight, a film of sweat coating your skin. you opened your eyes at the sound of rustling, seeing ruby was now fully undressed like you. she gave you a sweet smile before getting into a position you had seen on dean’s laptop before. she did a test rub of her slick folds against yours, both of you moaning in response.

you rutted your hips up against hers. and your legs shook as your cunt dragged against her own, the beginning of overstimulation pulsing through you. ruby took it as a sign to move as well. the two of you moaned and mewled. the thought of a dual orgasm filling both of your minds, your movements getting sloppier.

your eyes glossed over, tears prickling and throat tightening. you couldn’t handle it anymore. “ruby, please, stop, ple-ase!” you cried. but the sight of your teary begging only fueled her more. “just a bit longer, angel, you’re okay, you can take it,” she grinded harder against you, purposefully making it worse for you.

she smiled as you squirmed. her name fell from you in whiny sobs, your limbs thrashing around as she used you. you couldn’t help the involuntary buck of your hips. it felt so good, but the pain from your overworked nerves was still present.

ruby leaned down to kiss your tears away before smashing her lips onto yours, making you taste the remnants of yourself. she shoved her tongue into your mouth, muffling your sounds as the mutual coils snapped, the two of you cumming together.

you both pulled back, mouths agape. ruby’s eyes flashed black as yours began to glow a vibrant blue, your grace shining and illuminating her.

when the two of you calmed down, eyes back to normal and breathing both heavy, she smiled and pecked your lips. “i hope sam doesn’t mind the mess we made.”

that’s when you heard it. the familiar yet slightly distant rumble of the impala as it was pulling into the parking lot. “shit.” you mumbled. how were you going to explain this?

⭒ 𝘨𝘢𝘣𝘴 𝘺𝘢𝘱𝘴 — i love genpad sm and i truly believe there should be more ruby fics on here. i've never written for two women before so i hope this is good, pls be nice 🙏🙏

⭒ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — @starzify @sunsbaby @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @daylighted @bittersweetfig @littlesoulshine @bluemerakis @ultravi0lence14 @legalmente-loca @sacr1ficialang3l @j2archives @mahi-wayy @emeraldcrs @liiiilsss @jdmsslvt

dm me or send an ask to be added to/taken off my taglist !!

[bambisnc]

(   ➴ ) 𝒮𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖮𝖥 𝖡𝖤𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖲𝖮𝖡𝖤𝖱 ♡ pretending it’s not a song about you

౨ৎ ˚ if getting drunk is what it takes to have the courage to confess, then that's exactly what myungjae will do <3

### . STARRING ⌢ m.jh ⋆ drabble + 0.8k // drinking ! + swearing + kissing + unedited ˖ ✧

𝓍𝗈𝗑𝗈 ─── gewd morning chat (it's 3.37 am) + [FILE.ZIP]

myung jaehyun had never been a fan of lychee soju. 

something about its saccharine stickiness just seemed a little too overpowering for his taste. the way its cloying sweetness seemed to linger much longer than necessary was simply … off putting to him.

so why was it that he was currently downing shot after shot of said drink like a man on a mission?

well if you asked him - his easy, candid answer would be that it was, in fact, all because of you.

it wasn’t like jaehyun had a problem with how unfairly gorgeous you looked that day, sitting right across from him in the now rather crowded bar. 

neither did he have a problem with the way you threw your head back and laughed at something riwoo said. he’d always found it rather charming really, your laugh.

however, he would've preferred it a tad bit more if it was him who was the one making you laugh instead.

jaehyun didn’t particularly mind the fact that you had yet to look at him, properly look at him since the beginning of the evening, either. 

you’d walked in together then, the cozy ambiance around you lit up by soft, warm lights — and he’d still had hope for the next 5 or 6 hours. but of course, things never really went how he wanted them to.

with the first onset of fresh faces, some recognizable some not, a sinking feeling made itself known. and before he knew it, he’d lost you to a conversation with some seniors. 

… so okay, maybe he did have some problems.

but it wasn’t as if he was about to blame any of them on you. he wouldn’t even dare to. 

hence, he now found himself lost in the haze of alcohol and thoughts of how he’d ended up in such a state, deprived of your company 

so lost in his reveries was he, that jaehyun almost didn’t hear you when you spoke up. 

almost.

“people are really getting drunk now, huh? i think we all need something to cool us down, haha.” you’d always been so considerate. it was only natural one would end up falling for you, he pondered.

“should i go pick up some ice-cream from the convenience store for everyone?”

an angel. you had to be an angel.

and before he even knew it, he’d all but lept out of his seat — hand raised in a sign of volunteering.

receiving a few weirded out glances and side eye’s really didn’t matter to him. jaehyun was more focused on the way you smiled and tilted your head, beckoning him encouragingly to come along.

-

drunk determination goes a long way.

that was the only possible explanation behind myung jaehyun managing to somehow walk in a straight line despite being absolutely shitfaced. 

as the two of you mapped your way to the store, you rambled on about how fun the evening had been so far, then about how the song playing at the bar was actually one of your favorites and lastly about how you were honestly glad to be out and getting some fresh air.

and jaehyun listens with all the patience in the world. his uncharacteristic quiet unbroken all the while you talk. until, at some point, the conversation lulls.

“you’re so pretty,” he mumbles, gaze suddenly turned away from you. “and you’re nice. and smart. and your voice is so … pretty. 

everything about you. so, so pretty..”

you blink, a little startled by the sudden compliments. “thank you (?) you’re way too sweet sometimes, y’know?”

“and … and i think i wanna confess to you.” he continues, stumbling a little — on the sidewalk, on his words, on the weight of everything left unspoken; yet his tone lets on zero hesitation.

you catch his elbow to steady him, brows furrowed but lips twitching upward. “you’re sort of already doing that, i’m afraid...”

“i am?” he looks confused, slightly glassy-eyed and flushed.

you can only huff out a barely audible laugh in response, mumbling a quick “yeah.”

his monologue continues as you reach out and lightly trace your thumb along his lower lip. just to make sure he knows what’s coming, to ensure he’s okay with it.

and then, you kiss him. 

the movement is gentle. soft. careful in a way that has him slightly weak in the knees.

“you’re such an idiot,” you can’t help but affectionately whisper as you pull away just a little. 

jaehyun immediately leans forward to reduce the newly created distance, “yeah,” he adds breathlessly. “but i’m your idiot now.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. 

tugging him a little closer, you kiss him again, right there on the sidewalk, with your ice cream mission temporarily forgotten. 

you’d always been a fan of lychee soju.

but now?

… now, it tasted a little sweeter.

𐙚 . regulars : @cuntyhoesstuff @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @flipitkickit @soonahuh @chrrific ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[foreingersgod]

Softcore . CH

paring: caroline harvey x reader

synopsis: is this love really worth saving? or has it already run its course?

wc: 3.8k

A/N: this came out a lot like "champagne coast" that i wrote for caitlin clark, so if you like fics like this, you should go check that one out as well :)

this one is dedicated to @wnba123! sorry it took so long for me to get to your request queen; hope you like it!

WARNING!!! this fic is angst to comfort/smut!!! this piece will be completely SFW up UNTIL THE DIVIDER. if you do not wish to engage with the smut portion or are a man or a minor. please heed this warning and do not read past the warning line. thank you!

it's exhausting. exhausting to mourn someone who's still alive. who sleeps next to you nearly every night, shares your home, your heart, your soul.

but it feels like she's already left you, at least, in all the ways that matter. her laugh no longer lights the room, her eyes drifting away from yours-off to some reality you can't reach. you talk, but it's nothing more than an empty echo down a hallway. you kiss her, but her lips are cold and rough, like pressing your lips to a memory. you hold her, but you almost feel fuller when you're alone.

you never thought that this is where you'd stand, in a love that's fighting to stay alive. at least not with caroline. but you can feel it, the ember that's begging to be fed, it's there.

you probably should've seen it coming, and you battled yourself every day for it. that you were a fool, and you've been playing that role for much longer than you had realized. letting this sense of unfamiliarity unravel until it pushed both of you to your limits. because how are you supposed to bury a love that's still breathing?

but maybe it wouldn't be hurting this much if it hadn't once been so beautiful.

you met when you were both sixteen-awkward and loud and painfully alive with so much to give. she'd write you love letters, shove them into the crack of your locker. you'd wear her favorite hockey sweatshirt for 2 years straight, well-loved with the scent of her lingering on it even after washing it. you'd sit with each other under the bleachers, the world around you ready to prepare you for it all to end. but you never grew out of it, rather you grew up into it.

college, jobs, your first apartments. then eventually your first apartment together. promise rings that didn't feel rushed-it felt inevitable.

but somewhere between the 9 a.m. meetings and the late-night grocery runs. between the laundry piles and forgotten kisses, something slipped. she'd come home tired, sweaty and frustrated with dreams so big they'd weigh her down. and you'd stay quiet, elbow deep in dirty dishes with a shoulder ready to cry on.

you'd shamefully scroll on your phone during dinner-if you even bothered to sit together anymore-because it was far easier than trying to make mindless small talk. with every 'how was your day', there was a 'fine' and it hurt. you'd sleep facing away. not in anger, just habit. and she'd do the same. every so often a hand would brush against your thigh, a faint apology whispered in your ear when she came home exasperated once again.

but you still love her. always have and always will. you loved her so much that your devotion was merely intensified by her absence. though it's so quiet now-how this love has turned out to be.

she'd used to hold your hand in the car, caress her thumb over yours at painfully long red lights. now her hands stay glued to the steering wheel. she used to trace the letters of your initials on your bare back before bed because she knew the feeling soothed you, now you run your own fingers up and down the length of your arm instead.

you catch yourself staring at her sometimes. just searching. trying to find the young girl you fell in love with all those years ago. the girl you kissed on the football field after sneaking out of junior prom, the girl who ditched class just so she could have lunch with you every day. the girl who once said "i want every version of you, even the ones you don't like".

and maybe she was in there still, rather you knew she was. but is she too far gone to save at this point? because it's easier to pretend nothing's wrong than to admit that it's broken, even if you both know it.

you weren't even trying to start something that night. it was late, a long a grueling thursday. one of those nights where the silence is louder than the TV, the traffic outside your apartment blaring louder than usual. you were folding laundry on the couch, a hamper between your legs as you tossed t-shirt after t-shirt into a stack next to you.

you had been particularly sad that day, waking up without your girlfriend next to you. early practices again, it had seemed. she didn't even bother to tell you. suddenly in that moment, it all came crashing down on you. the weight of the uncertainty ahead of you gripping at your heart. it must've been hours that you cried that morning, uncontrollable and inconsolable. you couldn't stand it anymore.

she had walked into the apartment quietly at around 10 p.m., barely acknowledging your presence on the couch as she locked the door behind her. you could already tell from the way her shoulders slumped and the way her eyes glistened in the lamp light, that she was starting to feel the weight of all this too. or maybe it was just the way she never looked at you anymore-not really.

few words were exchanged as she slipped off her shoes, letting her bag fall to the ground. you offered her a sweet smile as you reminded her that dinner was in the fridge for her. surprisingly, she smiled back and retreated to the kitchen to eat for probably the first time that day. you could see her, from the opening between the living room and the kitchen, that she was picking at her meal, head down and phone in her hands.

you weren't sure what summoned the courage in that moment. could've been fear, could've been exhaustion. but you remember opening your mouth just so slightly, muttering out the vaguest of words.

"we don't talk anymore"

there was a pause, the clanking of silverware on porcelain, the impact of her phone on the countertop. every noise just a little too crisp for your liking.

then, finally looking at you in the eyes for the first time all night, she spoke. "we're talking now"

that did it. flipped the switch in you for good, all the feelings from that morning bubbling up past your throat.

you let out a dry laugh as you dropped the hoodie you had just folded on the coffee table in front of you. back extending from the irritation curling in your spine, you leaned back on the couch with a furrowed look on your face.

"you think this counts? this isn't talking" you huffed, trying not to escalate a situation that hadn't fully begun "this is coexisting, this is pretending"

she stood, with the same composure she held when she arrived home, as she propped herself against the edge of the kitchen island. her arms were crossed, face unreadable, shoulders rolled back.

"what do you want me to say?"

"i want you to say something," you snapped "anything real, truthfully. i want you. i want you to stop looking through me like i'm a ghost"

her voice was tight, and you could see her jaw clench as she bit down harshly on the inside of her cheek "i'm doing my best okay? i-i go to practice, i'm going to classes, and then i'm here. i'm home with you, i'm showing up-"

"no you're not!" you cut in with a raise in your voice, throwing up your arms in disbelief. did she really think that? that she was here, like she had always been and nothing had changed? "you're physically here, yeah, but everything else? your heart, your head? you left months ago and you didn't even tell me"

silence. your voice cracked, a sob pushing at the back of your ribs, spilling past your chapped lips. you breathed deeply as you fought back the tears.

"maybe," she said, softly, arms uncrossing as she ran her hands down her face in defeat "i didn't want to admit it. that something was off, that i was off"

you blinked, tears welling at your lash line, frozen in place "what does that mean?"

you studied her expression, her body language. she looked beat, bags like tattoos underneath her eyes, hair unkempt and disheveled. it wasn't just an end-of-day look of weariness. it was like her soul was slowly shattering.

"i think we're too young" she choked up, regret laced in her tone "i-i think we got caught up in forever you know? before we even figured out who we were. we went from prom to rent, from curfews to car payments. and i don't know-i'm tired"

"tired of what?" you trembled "of me?"

"no. don't twist this. i'm tired of whatever this has been, we both know that. we jumped into life like we had it all figured out at sixteen"

that was it. too young. too soon.

you had danced around that significant detail forever. both of you too afraid to say it out loud, to risk losing what had become your normal, not wanting to lose everything you had built.

"so what, you-" you cleared your throat, finally letting a single tear spill "you think this was a mistake?"

"i think we didn't know what we were giving up," she shook her head, coming over to sit on the couch next to you, the cushion dipping under her weight "i never got to find out who i was without you-and that's not fair to you either"

you felt like your world just came crumbling down, her words like a plague. years of love and passion, absolutely destroyed. how could this be true, how could she possibly believe all this? this may have been what you feared all along; you were the fool who only held her back.

"then go" you said through gritted teeth, shutting your eyes like this would all go away if you wished hard enough "if you want the space-to find yourself or whatever, then go. i'm not going to hold you here"

"that's not what i'm saying" she said desperately. then you felt the pressure, her hand on your upper thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. igniting that sense of comfort you knew you once had.

"then what are you saying exactly?"

she didn't answer right away. she just looked at you, like she was seeing you for the first time in a long time. caroline watched as you unraveled in front of her, bursting into dreadful tears and worried hiccups. she saw the way you brought a hand up to support your forehead, like the pressure of it all had knocked the wind out of you.

"babe," she said through the tension "i miss you, i miss us. i miss the way we used to look at each other like this was all worth something in the end. now i just feel like this weight dragging you down. i'm so busy with this idea of success, to be the best girlfriend, the best teammate and player...i don't know. i miss not being like this"

you felt your breath catch on what felt like nothing. but you noticed it, the slight shift in the room. nothing was fixed, nothing was healed, but maybe there was a lick of hope that teetered between you. with glossy eyes, you looked over at her and sighed.

"i still see her, you know?" you briefly smiled "that dorky teenage girl who would throw rocks at my bedroom window just so she could say goodnight. that treated me like her entire world even if it may have been too soon, the one who promised she'd never stop loving me. i still see her"

it was her turn to return your smile, her genuine laugh cascading through the room "i think i may have lost her through all the bills and late nights. probably when we stopped kissing each other goodnight"

you swallowed with an ache of motivation in your chest, biting at your lips. her expression mirrored yours, just two lost hearts searching for the right answer. though part of you wished you could pause the moment, scared for what was about to come next. you'd hoped you could soak this in for just another minute, truly memorize the remorse written all over your girlfriend's face.

"i think," you said gently "if we try-really try-we can find her again. same for me, i'm not innocent in any of this. but babe, i-i don't want to lose you. i want to be us again"

she leaned in close to you, hand still resting on your leg, barely an inch between you two. you could feel her breath against your cheek as you leaned back, lips ghosting over hers.

"even if they've changed?" she whispered.

"especially if they have" you said "we're a little lost but...i think we've found the map"

she reached for your hand first-tentative, like it was fragile. then, without a second thought, you placed your hand against her freckled cheek and brought her in closer to you.

finally, after all the silence, she closed the gap between you with a kiss. it wasn't rushed, nor was it cinematic. but it was slow and sweet, careful and desperate. it felt like you had been underwater after all this time, and you were finally getting the chance to breathe again.

it was the kind of kiss that didn't erase the pain but promised to stay through it.

"i don't want to go," she said as she pulled away, resting her forehead on yours "what you said before. i don't want to go be someone else, i wanna stay right here"

it was like she was surrendering. putting her heart on her sleeve to show you this was worth it to her. sure, you may have been young, but you certainly didn't fall out of love. this was your girl, your everything, your absolute soulmate. neither one of you intended to let go anytime soon, even if all you had were promises.

"then don't" you panted, passion taking over your body. you trailed your hands down to her chest, fingers clenching onto the fabric like you might lose her as you pulled her against your lips once more. this time, this kiss had been hungry and pure.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

she groaned quietly into mouth at your sudden sense of boldness. her fingers reached for your hair, tangling in your soft locks. she was grasping onto you with the same urgency. there was no letting go. not after this.

your hands were firm against her torso, fingertips roaming the cotton of her top like you'd never touched such a material. you were drawing her in like gravity had finally kicked in, like your bodies were catching up to what your minds already knew-you weren't done with her yet. you were far from it, in fact. the heat between you was electric, but it wasn't just lust. it was years. it was history and heartache, a collection of the love you and caroline had reveled in since you were in high school.

"are you sure?" she asked, forcing you to look at her. she didn't need to say anything else, the fire building between you made it clear what she was talking about. you nodded, your fingers tracing her cupids bow delicately. even after all this distance, she still wanted to make sure you were comfortable.

her lips moved with purpose, with need, like she was pouring all her apologies and promises into every second. It was a kiss that said don’t ever doubt me again, a kiss that said I’m still here. You responded with the same vulnerability, parting her lips with yours, your hand rising to cradle the back of her neck, keeping her close, grounded.

her hands snaked below the hem of your shirt and spread across your chest, palming your breasts just enough to make you gasp. you hadn't felt her touch you like this in so long-like she actually wanted you, still after all these years. nothing forced, just an incessant need to have you.

and god, you needed to have her too.

"i can't tell you how much i missed this" she muttered against your jaw as you kissed down her neck, tasting the saltiness of her post-practice skin. but oddly it was sweet, something far more intimate than just sex "let me take you to bed?"

with a satisfied hum, you let her assist you off the couch. her hands were still on your waist, lips still grazing that one spot that made you weak. it was a chaotic walk to the bedroom, a mess of exasperated giggles and discarded clothes until the back of your knees met with the edge of your bed.

"please," caroline spoke again threw the heated kisses. you could feel her shudder against you, her skin forming small bumps underneath your fingertips. she reluctantly forced her lips off of yours as she laid you down against the linen sheets, climbing ever so carefully to hover over you "please"

you chuckled, feeling her maneuver down your body, resting her head against your chest. but your laughter soon stopped when you felt wetness fall onto your abdomen.

was she crying?

"baby," you cooed, taking a hold of her chin to motion her to look up at you "please what? what's wrong?"

she glanced up at you with panic in her eyes. tears fell down her flushed cheeks gingerly as she sniffled. you waited patiently for her to answer as you ran your hand along her shoulder to settle her. you couldn't quite explain the look on her face-the way her body felt completely bare against you-but it was the most painful yet calming thing you had ever seen. she looked so unguarded in front of you, ready to lay everything out for you to take. but she had seemed firm, ready to tackle the growth that this relationship desperately needed.

"let me stay," her voice quivered as more tears fell "i'm so sorry. for everything. i don't want to find myself if it means losing you-so please just...let me stay"

"caroline" your heart broke just hearing that sentence, twinging at the thought of her thinking you actually wanted her gone "you're home, you're my home. i don't think i'd survive if you left"

a hard puff billowed from her throat in relief "i'm gonna be better i swear"

"i know," you smiled "we both will"

and then the world around you melted, it was just the two of you in the confinements of your bedroom. caroline didn't waste another second to get her hands on you again, and you weren't complaining. you'd waited forever to feel like this again.

her lips moved towards your navel as she traveled lower and lower down your figure, cherishing every inch of you. you let out a content sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you let your bodies do all the talking. you feared you'd both be crying if you said much else.

the chill air made you shiver, but caroline was quick to warm you as she breathed against your core. you felt needy and hot, almost impatient as she took her time admiring you. reminiscing on these moments where you were splayed out just for her. but you were growing weary the more dottled.

"don't tease" you whined into vacancy.

"m'not" she grinned "i'll give you want you need baby, don't worry. let me take care of you"

always one to give, always one to please. and you loved it. her palms planted against the plushness of your thighs, spreading you even more open than you already were. kisses trailed from the inside of your legs then finally to where you needed her most-whining when she placed a delicate kiss to your needy pussy.

"fuck," you said, one hand instinctively coming up to grasp at your tits, the other flying to the back of her head to keep her in place.

she moaned into you, loving the pressure as she quickened her pace. her tongue glided across your pussy, flattening out to lick a long and slow stripe. you bit at your lip to try and submerse your whimpers, hearing her hum slightly as she flicked her tongue over your clit relentlessly, only making you grasp at her hair tighter.

that did nothing but motivate her, giving her the reassurance she'd been craving since she got you naked. her tongue continued its assault against you despite your quiet pleas and restless movements, her eyes looking up at you like you were sent from the gods themselves.

"fuck, i love you so much" she said, temporarily releasing your clit from between her lips "you have no idea"

your brows raised in anticipation as you felt the pressure build up in your lower stomach, watching her in awe when she buried her face back in between your thighs. your legs began to tremble and your knuckles grew white the closer you got to release.

"i love you too," you blabbered "i love you i love i love you, shit, i'm so close"

"taste so good," she responded, the strokes of her tongue getting sloppier by the second, enticing a short cry out of you.

you jerked forward, back arching off the mattress when you felt her speed up. the wetness that accumulated from your cunt, mixed with that of her mouth was just enough to send you over the edge. she could sense that you were close, letting her tongue prod at your entrance to move in and out of you-exactly what she knew you liked. she remained steady with you, watching you closely as you fucked yourself on her mouth.

"that's it, that's it" you cried, letting your hips buck against her face. your body spasmed as your orgasm began to take over, eyes rolling back from the sensation "fuck i'm gonna come, oh my god"

"there you go, baby" she mumbled into your pussy, absolutely lost in the feeling of you coming undone on her mouth "come for me, i got you"

you let out one last long moan as you relished your high, chest rising and falling to catch your breath. caroline was quick to remove herself from her position, only to hover over you once more for a kiss. your heart was pounding, brain fuzzy and body still twitching.

"you okay?" her voice muffled through the kiss. you nodded, smirking as you felt your taste still on her tongue.

"more than okay," you said. she smiled back before laying down beside you, brushing your messy hair from your face in the process. you allowed yourself to completely envelop yourself around her, limbs tangling with hers loosely.

after a few minutes of silence-your skin on hers, hearts beating in unison, touches wandering-she found the will the speak.

"we're gonna be okay, right?" she said. you breathed, silencing her worry as you rubbed circles with your thumb against her cheekbone.

"yeah, baby" you beamed "we always are"

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

— 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝟐

(A/N: It's a bit long [sorry not sorry] but this is dedicated to the wonderful, @laddelulu30)

"I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you I want your violence, your silent sedation [...] " —Flower Face, Spiracle

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆.

That alone should have meant nothing.

Farspace did not bend for names—it swallowed them. One by one, bodies moved through its corridors like white blood cells in a system too vast to care. They came with files, with ranks, with designations stamped in cold ink. And he? He signed off on them like numbers. Watched them arrive, watched them leave, and never once remembered a face.

But not her.

God, not her.

Her name wasn't just a data point. It was a wound—quiet, clean, and still bleeding.

Caleb sat behind his desk like a man awaiting judgement—not from a court, but from a god he no longer believed in. One leg crossed neatly over the other, spine a rod of iron, boots polished to a mirror-dark sheen. Everything about him was immaculate. Precise. Dead. His face might have been carved from stone—beautiful, yes, but empty, like something abandoned by its sculptor mid-devotion. Even his breath obeyed.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body rioted.

She was on the ship.

The knowledge of her arrival did not come with a message. It came like a pressure beneath the skin—like static before a storm. She was here. He felt it. Not through sensors or alerts, but in his bones, in that hollow place where the chip curled cold against his spine and pulsed like an unspoken name.

She'd signed a requisition form. A transfer slip buried three layers deep in cross-department logs. No greeting. No request. Just quiet movement.

She hadn't asked for permission.

Of course she hadn't.

She still believed she didn't need to.

The thought struck him like a blow. Not that she was here—he already knew that. It was the how of it. The defiance. The silent arrival. She hadn't come to be seen. She'd come to exist in his orbit again without asking.

His gaze slid—without thought, without command—to the bottle on the corner of the desk.

Apple Syrup. Still sealed. Amber and glinting in the dim light like a relic left on an altar. He hadn't touched it in years. Not since—

His fingers twitched. He stilled them.

That was rule number one: never indulge the memory.

Memory was a drug. It softened the steel.

And softness, in this place, was a slow death.

Still, the bottle remained. Unopened. A strange, pathetic offering to a ghost who had not yet arrived.

He told himself it meant nothing. Coincidence. A lapse in discipline. But the truth had sharper teeth.

His entire body was a collection of such lapses.

The arm that no longer registered pain. The mind, split down the center like a cauterized wound. The ship—God, the chip—nestled at the base of his skull like a parasite mimicking sleep.

And now—

Now it was waking.

Not in revolt.

In hunger.

He felt her.

Not in the way officers registered footsteps, or lovers caught scent—but in the marrow-deep way a sailor feels the tide turn before the waves break. No sensor had alerted him. No voice had called. But something ancient inside him stirred.

She was on his floor.

The knowledge slithered beneath his skin, static and electric, older than thought.

Not memory. Not reason.

Something darker.

It wasn't lust—though that, too, would come.

It was proximity.

A knowing so primal it predated language.

The kind that made gods beg for morality, just to suffer it properly.

Caleb did not move.

Not yet.

He let the sensation bloom inside him—slow, excruciating—a wound reopening itself by choice. Let it tear through the walls he'd so carefully built over the years. Let it remind him what it meant to want.

Not because he couldn't have her.

But because he shouldn't.

She was not a woman. Not to him.

She was his forbidden inheritance.

And desire, when starved long enough, becomes indistinguishable from punishment.

He closed his eyes.

And something old stirred in the hollow of his gut—not a memory, no, but the echo of one. Warped by time. Distorted by pain. Flickering through the static left behind by the chip they'd scorched into his spine.

She was sixteen.

Barefoot in the garden. Apple between her teeth. Juice dripping down her wrist. That grin—God, that grin—so radiant it made something writhe in his stomach.

She'd waved at him with sticky fingers. And he—older, bitter, already folding beneath weight no boy should carry—had pretended not to care.

But he remembered how the apple tasted when she pressed it to his mouth.

It tasted like belonging.

The memory was dangerous.

That was rule two.

Dangerous because it hadn't faded. Because it was still real.

He hadn't remembered much since the tunnel—not in any linear sense. There were gaps so wide he sometimes wondered if the real Caleb had been left up there, scattered among the stars.

What remained was a ghost. A weapon wearing a name,

But she—

She made him remember.

Even now.

She made him real.

The door didn't open. Not yet.

But he felt her. Paused just beyond it.

No movement. No breath. Nothing measurable.

And still—he knew.

She stood with her hand hovering above the control pad, uncertain whether to knock, to enter, or to turn and disappear down the corridor like a ghost he'd conjured too carelessly.

She didn't understand what waited for her on the other side.

Not anymore.

This wasn't Gran's kitchen or a sun-warmed garden or the makeshift family they'd once borrowed shelter from.

This was Farspace.

This was where monsters wore medals.

And men like Caleb passed for gods.

And she—

She was the last piece of proof he'd ever been human.

Part of him—small, buried, still barely human—hoped she would walk away.

That she'd feel the weight pressing through the metal, the hunger clawing just beneath his breath, and run.

Because if she stepped inside, he would not protect her.

He would keep her.

But the other part—older, deeper, honed by silence and sharpened by loss—

wanted her to walk in.

And never walk out again.

There were days Caleb believed he had been created for the sole purpose of suffering. Not in the dramatic sense. Not poetic. He had long since grown to despise both.

No—this was quieter. Older.

A truth that circled beneath his skin like a second bloodstream.

Some men learn pain. Others are woven from it.

He had not chosen the weight he carried.

Only the silence that followed.

He used to think that endurance meant strength. That if he held fast—if he broke without noise—it would carve him into something righteous.

But now he knew:

The carving was the point.

They hadn't made him stronger.

They'd made him hollow.

They gave him a new arm.

But they took something no metal could replace.

They tampered with his thoughts—gently, surgically—then told him to trust what was left.

They folded orders into his instincts like poisoned thread, then asked him to love as if nothing had been rewritten.

And worst—

worst—

they left her untouched.

Untouched by the chip. Untouched by the darkness that clung to him now like a second skin.

Untouched by the cold metal table, the vacuum of the tunnel, the until corridors where he'd been strapped down and told, yes—say yes—and we'll let you live.

She didn't know what it meant to choose survival over goodness.

And if he could help it—

she never would.

He had killed for less.

Entire squadrons, erased like bad code when the data suggested even a whisper of disloyalty. He'd signed off on transports that would never reach their destinations. Scrubbed names from rosters that once belonged to friends. Watched the Docking Bay doors seal shut behind people who still trusted him.

And he had done it all—

without hesitation.

Without sleep.

Without guilt.

But he would sooner flay himself alive than let her see him do it.

Because that was the final irony of what he'd become—

a colonel without a soul,

still measuring his ruin against the only eyes that had ever looked at him and seen a boy instead of a weapon.

He turned from the door. Abruptly.

Crossed the room with mechanical grace, boots soundless against the steel floor. At the wall, he opened the third drawer.

Inside—

a single datachip.

Unmarked. Illegal. Breathing silence.

A spare neural index. Seven months to strip the beacon. Five more to rewrite the failsafes.

It was treason.

It was contingency.

It was his.

He hadn't used it.

Not yet.

Not unless the day came when he had to run. Or erase himself. Or disappear into the tunnel again like smoke through a vent.

But still—he kept it close.

Like a rosary.

A quiet prayer to the version of himself that might still deserve to be saved.

His mind drifted.

Back to Gran's house.

Back to the days when fear was simple—missing a test, disappointing Gran, forgetting her birthday because of training.

How small those fears were. How blessed.

He had been different then.

No—not different. Just less revealed.

The darkness had always lived in him.

It simply hadn't learned its name.

He remembered waking one night, sixteen years old, heart racing like it had sensed something before he did.

She'd crept into his room—barefoot, shivering. Said nothing he could understand.

Just wide, damp eyes and a name he would die to un-hear now.

Without thinking, he'd let her crawl beneath the blanket.

She was freezing.

He'd wrapped his arms around her—the real one. The one he'd been born with.

And whispered,

"You're safe."

He had meant it.

God help him, that was what haunted him most.

Back then, it had been true.

Because if she ever knew—

what he had become,

what lived beneath the polished uniform, the bionic calm, the gleaming insignia on his collar—

she would run.

And he would let her.

He would watch her go with hands clenched at his sides, breath burning in his throat.

And then—

he would follow.

And bring her back.

Because love, when bent by time and silence and the ache of being half-alive, begins to resembled something else.

Not tenderness.

Not even obsession.

But possession, dressed in reverence.

And he—

he had never loved anyone else.

Not once.

Not in twenty-five years.

A sound—sharp, measured—broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Unhurried.

He knew the rhythm. Of course he did.

It was hers. But not the way she used to walk.

Gone was the careless bounce, the warm weightlessness of girlhood.

This was different.

This was the tread of someone who had learned—that being noticed could be dangerous.

She had changed.

So had he.

Caleb returned to his seat behind the desk.

Straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his collar.

The motions were familiar. Mechanical.

But beneath them—the storm was already gathering.

The door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with hydraulics and authority.

Just a hiss. Soft.

A line of light.

And then—

her silhouette.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

She stood in the threshold like a question without a mark.

Framed by the corridor's artificial glow, her coat caught the light and cast faint halos along the edges.

The figure was familiar—achingly so—but time had carved her sharper.

Her posture was tense, not from fear, but from having learned to carry it

A soldier's stillness.

And yet—

when her gaze landed on him, something flickered.

Something old.

Something his.

He wondered what she saw.

Not the boy from the garden—that was long dead.

Not the one who used to kneel beside her at the windowsill, sketching stars like prayers.

The man behind the desk wore black like a verdict.

His posture was carved from marble.

His face—expressionless.

This was not a face made for reunion.

It was a mask designed to survive it.

Did she see it?

Did she know what had been taken?

Or worse—what he had willingly given?

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Only looked.

As if she were a manuscript recovered from fire—edges blackened, but the center miraculously intact.

His gaze moved slowly, reverently.

The faint scar near her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

The crease between her brows—small, but deep enough to speak of sleepless nights.

The way her eyes, just once, flicked toward the bottle on his desk.

The same apple syrup Gran always used.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And for a moment, something in him cracked—because he didn't know what a single glance from her could still undo.

A small, traitorous thought bloomed in his mind:

Would she still remember how it tasted?

The syrup.

The past.

Him.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

The movement was deliberate—unhurried, but final.

His boots met the floor like punctuation.

Sharp. Inevitable.

The room seemed to shrink around him. Or maybe he had grown—

not in height,

but in hunger.

She turned, followed his movement with her eyes—

but didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

Another change.

Years ago, she would've smiled. Rolled her eyes. Closed the space between them without thinking.

Now she measured it.

Not it mattered.

"You're taller," he said at last.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

Not a compliment.

Just an observation.

She tilted her head, just barely.

"You're colder."

Not an accusation.

Just truth.

So.

It would be like this

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Not enough to crowd her—just enough to shift the air.

To see if she would move.

She didn't.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Another change.

"You regret coming?" he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Like asking about the weather.

Or the harvest.

A question whose answer would change nothing.

She tilted her head.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't answer.

Because if he told her the truth—

that he had counted down to this moment like a condemned man savoring his final breath—it would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.

She wasn't just a person.

Not to him.

She was a tether.

A thread back to something unbroken, unbought.

The living proof that he had once belonged to something other than violence.

But she didn't know that.

Couldn't.

She'd never understand what it meant to breathe in a room that held her body and still not believe he deserved to be near it.

She had walked through hells of her own—he could see it in the lines of her stance.

But he had been rewritten.

And she—

She still spoke in a language his hands had forgotten how to hold.

He turned from her.

Walked toward the far wall.

The window stretched wide across the room, a pane of reinforced glass holding back the void.

Beyond it—stars. Cold. Indifferent. Eternal.

He stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, the way soldiers did when the needed to look composed.

It gave him time.

Not to think—

But to remember how to breathe without breaking.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, eyes on the stars.

"I didn't come for you."

He smiled.

A small, bitter thing.

She lied like she always had—

clearly,

and with conviction.

"I didn't authorize your transfer," he said.

His voice was flat.

Bureaucratic.

A man returning to the rules because everything else was slipping.

She didn't flinch.

"You didn't need to."

Her tone didn't challenge.

Didn't mock.

It simply was.

A fact placed on the table between them like a blade.

The silence that followed was longer this time.

Not empty.

Charged.

Like two live wires humming just before they touch.

He didn't speak again.

Not yet.

Because anything he said now might cost him the last shard of control he still believed he had.

Finally—finally—he turned.

Not a glance.

A full turn.

A reckoning.

He let himself look at her.

Really look.

And her eyes—

God, they hadn't changed.

Still clear. Still steady. Still impossible.

There was no condemnation in them.

No flinch. No fear.

Just presence.

Like she saw through every layer of ruin and still chose to stand in its shadow.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

The question came out raw. Almost hoarse.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft.

But it landed like judgment.

"To see what's left of you."

And there it was.

The thing he feared most.

Not her pity.

Not her silence.

But her belief—

that something could be left.

She shouldn't have said that.

Not to him.

To see what's left of you.

The words echoed through him like a bell across an empty field—low, mournful, final.

He had heard many things.

Screams. Orders. The wet snap of breaking bone.

He had even heard his own voice, breaking into something he didn't recognize.

But nothing had ever struck him like that.

What's left.

As if he were debris.

As if he were a collapsed monument scavenged for sentiment.

He met her gaze.

And said it.

Low. Hollow. Certain.

"I am no longer a man in mourning."

A pause.

"I am the grave."

He took a step toward her.

Not threatening.

Not hesitant.

Just... inevitable.

She didn't move. Not forward. Not backward.

She simply held his gaze—

with that impossible steadiness she'd had as a girl.

The one that used to get her into fights she shouldn't have won.

The one that had always, always undone him.

But now—

there was something else in it.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

Not even hope.

Understanding.

And that—

that was what broke him.

Because if she saw him—

truly saw him—

and still looked...

He wouldn't stop her.

He wouldn't protect her.

He would fall to his knees and give her everything.

"I'm not who I was," he whispered.

The words felt foreign in his mouth—too soft for a throat carved by orders and blood.

But they were true.

He wasn't asking for pity.

He was offering a warning.

A final mercy.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Didn't shift.

She saw him—

And she stayed.

"You're still Caleb," she said.

Soft as prayer.

Sharp as a blade.

And he—

He snapped.

Not outwardly.

Not with motion or sound.

But inside—

where his name had lived like a forgotten relic.

And she—

She had spoken it back into flame.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough to feel her breath ghost against his lips.

He didn't touch her.

But every inch of him—every wire, every scar, every command stitched into his spine—was screaming to.

His hands hung at his sides like weapons he no longer trusted himself to wield.

And his voice—

when it came—

was low, cracked, reverent.

"Say it again."

Her lips parted.

She didn't ask what he meant.

She knew.

"Caleb."

Just that.

No rank. No title.

Just his name,

wrapped in her voice like it had never belonged to anyone else.

He shut his eyes.

And that was it.

That was the whole damn war.

"I think of you constantly," he said, eyes still closed. "It's not memory. Not even thought."

He drew in a shaky breath.

"It's... breath. Reflex. A condition."

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

"I could kill a man with a flick of my hand."

But then his voice dropped lower.

"But if you were within the blast radius—

I'd tear the world inside out to keep your skin whole."

He opened his eyes.

And there it was—

the truth.

Raw. Final. Unhideable.

The kind of truth that—once spoken—undoes everything that came before it.

She whispered,

"That isn't love."

He didn't argue.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look away.

"No," he said. "It's not."

A breath passed between them—

hot, shared, sacrificial.

"It's devotion."

And then, softer—

"Asphyxiating. Involuntary. Sanctified."

His mouth hovered over hers.

Not touching. Not yet.

But every inch of his restraint screamed.

"Devotion—when it lives too long without being answered—doesn't die."

Another breath.

"It starves."

He didn't move.

Didn't have to.

The air between them had already collapsed.

Caleb's hand rose.

Slow.

Like a man approaching fire he's begged for in his sleep.

His fingers curled midair—

hovering just at the edge of her waist.

Not touching.

But trembling.

He could feel her hear through the air itself—

through his gloves,

through the cold logic that had governed him since they cut into his spine and gave him orders instead of thoughts.

And still—

he didn't touch her.

Because if he did—

it wouldn't stop at touching.

And if it didn't stop—

he wouldn't let it.

His hand faltered.

Hung there, breathless.

Then dropped.

Like a condemned thing retreating from its own hunger.

She didn't speak.

But he saw it—

in the way her lips parted,

in the breath caught just behind her teeth,

like a question had risen before she knew its shape.

She wanted to ask.

He could see it.

Feel it.

The heat of it pulsing between them like a second gravity.

He prayed she wouldn't.

Because if she did—

he would give her everything.

Not just his hands.

Not just his mouth.

But the knife of his devotion.

The part of him no one had ever touched,

because it had always, always belonged to her.

He took a breath.

It didn't help.

His restraint was slipping at the seams.

And still—

she didn't speak.

Which only made him want her more.

"You think you're safe with me," he said.

Flat.

Cold.

A scalpel of a voice.

She didn't blink.

"I never said that."

He huffed once—

something too brittle to be a laugh.

"You don't have to."

He looked at her now—really looked.

"You've always been like this.

Brave.

Blinding.

Idiotic."

She stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of defiance.

And it cut deeper than retreat.

because he loved her for it.

He always had.

He loved that she wouldn't cower.

That she would burn beside him, eyes wide open,

until there was nothing left but ash—

and her name buried in the wreckage of his voice.

"Do you want to know what I think about when I wake up?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Because her silence was already yes.

He stepped closer.

Not urgently—

but like a man reaching into fire because it's the only thing that ever made him feel real.

"You."

Not a confession.

A sentence.

A sentence he'd been serving for years.

"Always you.

Not the memory.

Not the child.

You."

Pause.

"Now. Here."

He let the words bleed.

"The way you smell when you walk past my quarters.

The way you move like you've been taught not to look over your shoulder.

The way you—"

He stopped.

Too much.

Too raw.

And she was just standing there, drinking it in.

Not mocking. Not turning away.

Just existing.

And that—

that unmade him more than any scream ever could.

He stepped back.

Not out of indifference.

Out of mercy.

Out of the last remaining shred of control still clinging to the wreckage of his soul.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

The words tasted like blood.

They wounded like a punishment.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

"Why not?"

And for a moment—

he almost laughed.

Not from amusement.

From despair.

"Because I don't know how to stop."

The silence that followed was thick as sin.

And in it, his pulse thundered like a threat—

not to her.

To himself.

He turned his face slightly, dragging a gloved hand across his mouth. As if he could wipe the truth away. As if silence could undo confession.

It couldn't.

Not with her.

Not here.

Not now.

He had exposed too much.

And she—

God help him—

had received it.

"I'm going to give you a choice," he said after a long silence.

"I don't want one."

"You'll take it anyway."

She didn't move.

"If you walk out of this room right now, I won't stop you," he said. "I won't follow. I won't pull you back."

The lie tasted like ash.

"And if I stay?" she asked quiet.

"If you stay," he said, "then I need you to understand something."

Her eyes met his. Patient. Steady. Eternal.

"I'm not going to ask for your consent every time I think about you. I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel you in my veins. I'm not going to lie and say I can love you gently. I've already failed that test."

Another pause. His voice dropped.

"If you stay, you're mine."

She didn't answer.

The moment hung between them like a guillotine—suspended, waiting, silent.

And Caleb...

waited beneath it.

At first, he stood still out of control. Then it became ritual. Then necessity. He didn't turn to look at her. He just...

listened.

To her breath.

To her body.

To the storm of her silence.

There was no footfall. No rustle of cloth. No indrawn gasps or shift of stance.

Only stillness.

And it mocked him.

Because stillness could mean anything.

Stillness could mean no.

Or worse—it could mean yes.

And that was what terrified him most.

Because yes would mean the collapse of restraint. The death of control. The failure of every promise he'd made to himself in the months since he'd returned with blood in his mouth and nothing but her name left in his mind.

He had not imagined the moment would feel like this.

He had envisioned her angry. Cold. He had envisioned shouting, accusations, distance. The ability to keep her at arm's length by force or fury.

But this—

This was worse.

This was quiet.

She didn't move. And so neither did he. But internally, he was already bleeding.

Had he gone too far?

He replayed his words in his mind, dissecting them, slicing through their tone, their implications. Not going to ask for consent. Mine. failed that test.

God.

What if she thought he meant to take her like one of those stories whispered in the darker wings of the Fleet? What if she thought the chip had broken something fundamental in him, that he'd lost the part that knew how to love instead of claim?

But had he ever known?

Had he ever loved her in a way that wasn't possessive, selfish, desperate?

Even as a boy, he'd hated when others looked at her too long. Hated when she vanished into the winding streets without telling him. He remembered once punching a boy in the stomach when he wound out he'd held her hand during a school trip. She never found out.

He never told her.

He had been a monster long before they made it official.

Maybe the chip hadn't changed him. Maybe it only had revealed him.

And maybe... she'd known all along.

He glanced at her—just a flick of the eyes, no more—and what he saw made his heart stutter.

She was watching him.

Not coldly. Not cruelly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He turned fully now, facing her.

The hunger was back. Fiercer than before. Not just for her body, but for her choice.

For her to speak.

To claim.

To give him the thing he could not ask for directly—the only thing that he had every truly wanted.

Not her forgivness.

Not her affection.

Her permission to need her.

Her silence stretched.

And in it, he saw futures unraveling like thread from a blade.

Did she want him to speak again? To explain? To apologize?

He could do none of those things. There was no logic that would cleanse what he was now. No apology that could reverse the memory of that cold metal table, the way they'd opened his flesh and whispered about capacity and compliance. No language that could undo what it meant to wake up different—more dangerous, more precise, more useful.

He was not the boy she had known.

But if she reached for him now—

If she said his name again—

He would be hers.

Entierly.

Without armor. Without orders. Without escape.

He could already feel his control breaking at the edges—his shoulders locked too tight, his mouth dry, fingers twitching against the seam of his coat like he needed to hold something.

Her wrist, perhaps.

Her jaw.

Her throat.

Not to hurt.

To anchor.

He had not touched her in years. Not truly. Not without consequence. He wasn't sure he remembered how. Every instinct in his body now was sharpened for impact—designed to break, to pin, to dominate.

What would it mean to touch her softly?

Could he even do that anymore?

The thought hollowed him.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence was like a mirror he couldn't look away from—showing him the outlines of what he'd become.

He had power. So much power. He could lift her off the ground with a thought. He could seal the doors, command the lights, override the gravity controls in this room and leave her suspended, breathless, weightless, his

But what he wanted—

What he truly wanted—

was for her to close the distance herself.

Just one step.

One step, and he would fall to his knees before her.

Please, he thought, but didn't say.

And then—God, please don't.

Because if she chose him now, he would never let her go.

He would shatter the chain of command. Burn down the mission. Tear the whole of Farspace apart and offer her the bones.

Because if she stayed, there would be no leaving. Not ever again.

He would make sure of that.

She moved.

Only a breath's worth of motion, but enough. Her arms dropped to her sides fully. Her chin lifted. Her weight shifted forward—half a step.

Just one.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

And then, she spoke.

Not loudly. Not with theatrics or declarations. Her voice came like something secret, something sacred, something meant only for him.

"Lock the doors."

Three words.

That was all.

And Caleb felt the entire axis of his world tilt.

He didn't move immediately.

Couldn't.

Not because he hadn't hear her, but because every part of him suddenly needed to confirm—had she meant it? Had she said it because she was leaving and wanted privacy? Or had she—

No. No.

He saw it now.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking.

She was staying.

And she had just given him permission.

His throat tightened. His breath stalled. Something old and vile and unbearably beautiful cracked open inside him like a cavern wall splitting to reveal a pit of fire.

His body was still,

but his mind was a scream.

She said it.

Lock the doors.

It echoed like scripture. Like the final sentence in a prayer no one else had ever heard before.

She had chosen this.

Chosen him.

He turned toward the panel beside his desk and pressed one gloved fingertip to the override.

The door slid shut with a hiss.

Sealed.

Soundproofed.

Final.

And still—he did not go to her.

Not yet.

He stood there, gaze locked on her form, burning her shape into memory as if it might be taken from him again.

He needed to see her.

Just see her.

Like this.

Here.

Now.

Now longer part of the past.

No longer behind glass.

Real.

"I told you not to stay," he murmured, voice low, raw.

"And I told you I didn't want a choice,"

She met his eyes when she said it. Unblinking. Steady.

And that—that—was the final break.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the defiance.

It was the truth in her voice.

"You understand what that means," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I do."

"You can't un-choose this."

"I wouldn't."

And that was it.

That was when the yoke of restraint splintered—not shattered, not exploded.

Splintered.

Like wood beneath pressure too great for its age, groaning at last under the weight it had borne too long.

His body moved without command.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.

He crossed the space between the, slow and deliberate. Like a man walking through the last breath of his old life. Each step another piece of himself falling away.

And she stood still.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

Not with fear.

But with knowledge.

With consent.

And God help him, he had never seen anything more beautiful than her silence.

He stopped just before her. Inches apart. Her breath mingled with his. Their shadows became one, cast in the dim light of the room like two figures drawn into the same orbit.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And what he saw there—what she let him see—was not innocence.

It wasn't trust.

It was want.

Want, edged in something darker. Something that mirrored his own.

He reached out.

His gloved hand didn't touch her. It hovered—just at her cheek, trembling, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered. And then—

She leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And everything in him broke.

Her skin met the edge of his glove.

Barely. Light as air. A brush. The gentles pressure imaginable.

And yet the world shifted.

It wasn't even a real touch—just a ghost of one, an allowance—but her warmth seeped through the cold synthetic leather and struck him like a low-grade detonation.

His throat went dry. His hand stilled mid-hover, and for a breathless second he simply stood there, fingers trembling by her cheekbone, caught between need and discipline.

She was so close.

And somehow, still untouchable.

His mind rebelled against it. Screamed against it. The part of him still drenched in military training, in consequence, in control—it fought to hold him back. He wasn't supposed to take. Not like this. Not when he'd already failed so many tests of restraint. Not when his very body was a weapon.

She was soft. She was mortal. She was herself.

And he... was not.

He was a thing patched together in labs and lies. Built for command. Forged in silence and sleepless nights and the desperate promise that someday, somehow, he could come home.

But home was not a place anymore.

Home was standing before him.

And home tilted her face into his hand like she belonged there.

His heart stuttered once, then thundered.

"Why... why are you doing this?" he breathed, more to himself than her. "Why would you...?"

He couldn't finish it.

Because he didn't know which ending hurt more.

Why would you let me?

or—

Why would you still want me?

"Caleb."

Her voice. A whisper.

He stopped breathing.

Not because she'd said his name, but because of how she'd said it.

Not soft.

Not comforting.

Inviting.

That one syllable unspooled him.

Because it wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a dare.

It was a welcome.

He stared at her. Saw her watching him—mouth slightly parted, chest rising just a little faster than before, eyes wide but unafraid.

And it hit him.

There would be no undoing this.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the world burned. Whatever they crossed now—they wouldn't come back from it.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

He didn't care.

"Fuck it," he said.

And he moved.

Not with violence. Not with hesitation. But with certainty.

His gloves palms framed her jaw, his thumbs trembling where they pressed beneath her ears, tilting her face up like something fragile, something holy.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not like someone reuniting with a long-lost love.

Like a man collapsing into the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

He mouth slanted over hers with raw, consuming hunger. No preamble. No breath. Just contact—hot and immediate and final.

Her gasp caught between them. He swallowed it. Drank from it. And when her hands fisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, anchoring him there, he groaned—deep and low, like something primal had finally found a voice.

Everything else—the chip, the blood, the orders—disappeared.

There was only this.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her body pressed to his like a prayer answered too late.

And him. Unmaking.

She tasted like defiance. Like every breath she had ever stolen back from fate and held in her own name.

And Caleb was drowning in it.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that had waited years for permission. Not tentative. Not teasing. Certain. Like his lips had been shaped for this moment and nothing else. Like he was returning to something he'd never truly touched.

She pulled at his coat again, dragging him closer, and his control snapped like a cable under pressure. He pressed forward, crowding her backward until her hips hit the edge of his desk.

A growl rumbled low in his throat.

Finally.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing against hers as he rasped.

"I should chain you here."

Her breath hitched.

"I should cut the comms. Keep you in this room for days."

His voice was rough, unsteady.

"You have no idea what it took to keep my hands off you all this time."

His gloved fingers rose to her chest—slow, reverent, obsessive. He didn't tear at her uniform. Didn't rip anything. He undid her, methodically, like dismantling a weapon.

One clasp.

Then the next.

Each undone with surgical precision.

He didn't speak again. Didn't need to.

The silence between each movement spoke for him.

I've thought about this.

I've dreamed of this.

You are mine now.

He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her inch by inch, his eyes devouring every detail like a starving man memorizing a meal he didn't believe he deserved. His gloved hands didn't rush. They traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her arms, the dip of her waist.

And when her top slid down, when she stood before him half-bared, he didn't groan. Didn't exclaim.

He exhaled.

Like he'd just laid eyes on God.

His fingers, still sheathed in leather, drifted down to the waistband of her pants, and for a moment, he didn't move. Just rested them there, heavy and possessive.

"You don't know," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, "how long I've waited to ruin this."

Her breath trembled.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear.

"Not fuck. Ruin.

There's a difference."

Then—he stripped her pants from her body in a single, fluid motion.

Precise.

Hungry.

Claiming.

And she stood there in her underwear, breath unsteady, skin flushed, gaze locked on his—and he saw no fear.

Just heat.

It shattered him.

He reached up to tug the gloves from his hands—slowly.

Each finger unwrapped with quiet ceremony, until at last he touched her with bare skin.

The first contact was electricity.

His palms, callused and warm, slid up her thighs. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the desk—back flat against polished metal, legs bent at the edge.

She didn't resist. She leaned back for him, gave him access.

Gave him everything.

His hands dragged up her inner thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to heat, but never quite landing.

"You don't know," he murmured, eyes locked on her parted lips. "how hard it's been—pretending you weren't mine."

One hand slipped beneath her knee, pressing it outward, opening her to him.

"I used to dream about this desk," he whispered. "Dream about bending you over it. Fucking you into it until you forgot your own name."

Her hear tipped back, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

His mouth followed.

He kissed up her inner thigh, slow and reverent, like a priest at a shrine. The heat between her legs pulsed against his breath, and for one suspended moment, he didn't move.

He just breathed her in.

Her scent.

Warm. Clean. Unmistakably hers.

It hit him like a drug.

Like gravity.

"Mine," he whispered against her skin. "You've always been mine."

Then—finally—his mouth met the damp heat of her underwear. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive.

He mouthed at her through the fabric, tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes, teeth just grazing.

She gasped—sharp, desperate—and his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her to place.

He didn't let her buck.

He didn't let her run.

He wanted her to feel it.

He peeled the fabric aside with aching care, caring her fully, and groaned when he saw how wet she was already.

"You were made for me," he murmured, almost broken. "Every inch."

His hands gripped her thighs tighter, possessive, grounding himself in the feel of her. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her legs. If anything, she leaned further back, spreading herself wider—offering.

And that simple gesture?

It undid whatever scraps of restraint still lived inside him.

"I should keep you like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Here. Open. Every night."

She whimpered—just faintly. It made his cock twitch behind his uniform.

"Let me look at you," he growled, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me see what's mine."

And then—he dragged his tongue through her folds.

One long, deep, deliberate stroke from the base of her heat to the tight little bundle of nerves at the top, where he paused and sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk.

But he didn't let her move.

His hands still locked her thighs in place.

"Stay still," he said, voice dark. "You don't get to run from this."

And then he went back in—tongue working slow, relentless circles, savoring every part of her. Every flick, every suck, every pause designed to build, build, build.

But he never let her fall.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Suck.

Flick.

Moan.

Repeat.

He licked her with unhurried greed— mine, mine, mind—and never once took his eyes off her. Not even when she arched. Not even when her fingers fisted in his hair. He wanted to watch every tremor, every gasp, every little flicker of her unraveling.

And when her thighs began to tremble?

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Lips wet. Breathing hard. Eyes dark with possessive hunger.

"You close?" he asked, dragging two fingers up her inner thigh, letting them hover just beneath her entrance.

She nodded, dazed. Voice caught in her throat.

And Caleb smiled.

Dark. Gentle. Dangerous.

"Not yet Pips."

Then he licked her again—slower this time. Crueler.

Keeping her right there.

Her breath was faltering.

He felt it in the way her legs tightened around his shoulders, in the way her hips strained against his grip. She was teetering—right on the edge—and still, he wouldn't let her fall.

Not fucking yet.

Caleb pulled back, slow as a tide receding from shore, lips glistening, chin slick with her arousal.

She whimpered in protest—a broken sound, half-gasp, half-plea—and he nearly gave in.

Nearly.

But then... he turned his head.

And there it was. Sitting on the corner of his desk. Still unopened.

The bottle

The apple syrup.

Untouched for years.

His fingers reached for it before his mind could form the thought. It was instinct. Memory. Ritual. He pulled it toward him, cradled it in his hand for a beat, and then—with deliberate care—uncorked it.

The scent hit him instantly.

Sweet. Viscous. Almost innocent.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not in this room.

Not on her.

He looked up at her—panting, wrecked, flushed and trembling on his desk, legs still parted, skin bare and shining with sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, still lost in the slow torture of his mouth.

He held the bottle up between them. Said nothing.

Her gaze flicked to it—then to him.

And she nodded.

Once.

Just once.

And that was all he needed.

He moved again—lowering to his knees, positioning himself between her legs with the syrup in hand.

“I used to make this for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking her thigh. “Poured it over pancakes. Bread. Once on eggs, and you laughed so hard you cried.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. “You said it was too sweet. But you still ate it.”

He unscrewed the top.

“I never touched it after Gran died.”

Then—he tipped the bottle.

A slow, golden stream of syrup spilled from the lip, warm from his hands, and he poured it over her inner thigh—just a ribbon at first.

She gasped.

He watched it trail across her skin like it belonged there.

Down her thigh.

Over the curve of her hip.

Trickling close—so close—to where he’d tasted her moments before.

And then—he poured more.

Lower.

Directly onto her folds.

The syrup hit her heat with a wet, sticky sound, coating her in gold.

She moaned.

He dropped the bottle—gently, carefully, like it was an offering placed at the foot of a shrine.

And then—

He licked her. Again.

Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His tongue dragged over the syrup-coated skin of her inner thigh, lapping it up with a sound that was all breath and heat and need. He groaned deep in his throat, the taste of her and the syrup mixing on his tongue—sweet and salt and sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You make it taste better than I remember.”

He pushed his face deeper between her thighs, licking the syrup from her—long, deep strokes that made her tremble. Her hands clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her think.

His mouth moved from thigh to folds, from syrup to slickness, from sweetness to heat.

And when his tongue pressed flat against her clit again, syrup still coating her, he moaned into her flesh like it was a blessing.

His hands gripped her thighs tight, holding her in place, keeping her right there.

And all the while, his eyes stayed open—locked on her.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Watching her fall apart.

Watching her belong to him.

Every lick, every breath, every groan—

Was his.

“Mine,” he whispered against her soaked cunt. “All mine.”

Her hips lifted again, just slightly—subconsciously chasing friction. Caleb felt it in the tremor of her thighs, the faint stutter of her breath as her body tried to reach for what he kept just out of reach.

He didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t let her get there, either.

Because this—this—was where he wanted her.

Suspended.

Open.

Begging with her silence.

Sticky ribbons of syrup clung to the folds of her pussy, mingling with her slick until the sweetness was inseparable from the heat of her arousal. He dipped his tongue again—slow, deliberate, obscene—starting low and dragging upward in one unbroken stroke.

She gasped. Her legs clenched around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment.

Just stared up at her, mouth still pressed to her core, watching her body react to him like it had been made for no one else.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hunger. “Fucking soaked.”

He kissed her clit.

Once.

Gentle.

Mocking.

“You get this wet for anyone else?”

She whimpered—choked and wordless.

Caleb growled low in his throat. His tongue dipped again, swirling through the syrup-slick mess he’d made of her, letting it coat his mouth, his lips, his chin.

Every taste pushed him deeper into something unhinged.

“I know what you sound like when you lie,” he murmured against her. “So if you even think about saying you’ve had better—”

He pressed his tongue flat to her entrance. Flicked upward.

“—I’ll fuck it out of you.

Again. And again.

Until you forget every name but mine."

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏).

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔’𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

[antonsbf]

Unspoken

chapter 1 - before goodbye

⤷ summary: a slow-burn, emotional story about childhood friends torn apart by time and dreams—only to meet again years later as rising stars in the spotlight. Between secrets, past feelings, and second chances, they learn that some things never really fade.

⤷ pairing: ni-ki x male reader

⤷ wc: 1.7k

⤷ warnings: heavy angst! slow-burn! secret feelings!

the sound of the creek was soft, like a whisper just for the two of you. it had always been that way, a hidden little world tucked away behind the trees, a place where words flowed easily, or sometimes not at all. where silence felt like a conversation of its own. today, though, the silence felt different. it stretched too long, heavy with things left unspoken.

the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced across the water. you sat on the same log you’d sat on countless times before, your feet brushing the surface of the creek, the cool water gently lapping at your sneakers. you leaned back, resting your elbows on the log, letting your fingers dip into the stream as you watched the light catch in the ripples. everything felt slower, like time itself had decided to pause, just for a little while.

ni-ki was beside you, his knee occasionally bumping into yours as he tossed stones into the creek, the soft plop of each pebble sinking into the water echoed in the silence. he was staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the water, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

it wasn’t hard to read him. not anymore. you had spent years learning the little things, how his lips twitched when he was trying not to smile, how he always cracked his knuckles when he was nervous, how he hummed softly to himself when he was thinking. today, though, he was quieter than usual.

you could feel it, the heaviness between you both, the unspoken hanging in the air. he was leaving tomorrow. not just for a few weeks or months. he was going away for good. korea. idol training. it was everything he had ever talked about, ever dreamed about. it was what he deserved. he deserved more than anyone actually.

but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was slipping through your fingers, something you hadn’t been able to hold on to, no matter how hard you tried

"are you sure you’re okay with this?" you asked, your voice softer than usual, like you were afraid of disturbing the silence between you.

ni-ki glanced at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. “of course. it’s what i’ve always wanted…” he paused, just for a second, before adding, “right?”

you simply nodded, he was correct he indeed wanted this. but something about his respond stung you, not his tone, nor the words being spoken. maybe the reality, the unspoken, that made the aching in your chest unease to bear. “i just… i don’t know,” you said, trailing off.

he tilted his head slightly, looking at you with those eyes that always seemed to see through to the heart of things. “what? you’re being weird today.”

you sighed, looking away. “i guess i just never thought it would actually happen.”

ni-ki looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah… me neither, sometimes.”

the silence stretched on again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was the kind of silence that made everything feel like it was frozen in time. you felt like you could stay here forever, just listening to the creek and pretending that nothing was ever changing.

ni-ki throw another stone into the water, his gaze still focus on the ripples created "it's not like i'm going to disappear, we'll still talk. i'll be back soon enough, i promise."

you clenched your hands, your finger digging into the log beneath you. you knew he meant well, but it didn't make it any easier. it wasn’t the same as having him here. not when he was thousands of miles away, chasing something bigger than both of you.

you weren’t sure when it started, the way you felt about him. you hadn't noticed it at first, not when you were kids running around playing games, or when you were adolescents staying up at night talking about everything but nothing at all at the same time. but somewhere along the way , it had changed somewhere between sneaking out at midnight and laughing at bad movies, you’d started to look at him differently.

you remembered one night, just a few months ago, when the two of you had stayed out too late at the creek. the air was warm, the sky heavy with stars. ni-ki had laid down on the grass, head tilted toward you, eyes half-closed. you’d sat beside him in silence, and at some point, his hand had brushed yours. he didn’t move it away, but he didn’t grab it either. you’d both just… let it be. not quite touching. not quite letting go.

you’d told yourself it didn’t mean anything. but you remembered the way your heart wouldn’t calm down for hours afterward.

and now, with him leaving, you couldn't ignore it anymore. the feeling growing stronger in your chest, the one you hadn’t been brave enough to name, was finally undeniable.

“do you ever think we’re just—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “never mind.”

ni-ki shifted next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “what?”

you bit your lip, trying to ignore the way your heart sped up just from the touch. “just… never mind,” you repeated, forcing a laugh. "it’s nothing."

“you’re acting weird.” his voice was light, but his eyes searched yours. “were you gonna say something important?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but the words got caught in your throat. what could you say? that you’d been in love with him for longer than you cared to admit? that the thought of him leaving made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to fix? that you were terrified that you’d lose him, not just to the distance, but to something else, something you hadn’t even allowed yourself to name.

instead, you muttered, "i don’t want things to change."

ni-ki’s voice somehow softened. “they don’t have to change.”

but changed had already taken its course.

the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the creek. fireflies started to blink in the air, their tiny lights flickering in the dusk. you could feel the day slipping away, could feel that this moment, this last summer, this last day with him, was slowly slipping away with the light of the sunset.

ni-ki nudged you again, his smile smaller this time, but still warm. “promise you won’t forget me?” he said it with a smile, but his voice caught slightly at the end, like maybe he was afraid you actually might.

you didn’t answer immediately. the lump in your throat felt too big to swallow. instead, you just nodded, even though you weren’t sure how true it was. you didn’t want to forget him, but you didn’t know what would happen when everything changed. when distance started to stretch between you both.

ni-ki stood up, brushing his hands off. "we should go. it’s getting late."

but you didn’t move right away. you stayed sitting on the log, your legs numb from the cold water, your hands still clutching the edge of the log. you didn’t want to go. didn’t want this day to end. didn’t want the summer to end. didn’t want him to leave.

"you’ll text right?" you asked, finally lifting your gaze to meet his.

"of course." his smile was soft, but you could see the hesitation behind it.

you tried to smile back, but it didn’t reach your eyes, as they had began to feel heavy.

ni-ki smiled one last time before turning to walk away, his footsteps soft on the dirt path. you watched him go, knowing it was the last time you’d see him here, at this creek, in this moment.

and when the sound of his footsteps faded, you finally let the tears fall.

the sun had finally set, the fireflies glowing lights had taken over completely of the darkness like small little blurry green stars, summer was over, this cruel and aching day with him was over. 

the next morning, the airport was already alive, rolling suitcases clattering over tile, quiet announcements echoing overhead, the smell of burnt coffee and something fried hanging in the air. you stood near the windows, hoodie pulled up, trying to stay invisible. your eyes burned a bit, still puffy from the night before, but you kept your head down. no one needed to see that.

ni-ki moved through the goodbyes like he’d practiced them. hugged his parents, your mom, gave your little brother a fist bump. smiled like everything was okay.

then he turned to you.

he hugged you last.

and when he did, it felt like the noise around you faded, like the world had paused just long enough for this one moment to stretch out. his arms around you were warm and steady, and you clung back like you were trying to memorize him, his warmth, the way his hoodie smelled like detergent and something uniquely him, the quiet strength of his grip.

you didn’t speak. you didn’t trust your voice.

it was tight, longer than usual, like neither of you were ready to let go. your heart thudded loud against your ribs as you buried your face in his shoulder for a final second. you wanted to say something, please stay, don’t go, i’m gonna miss you, but the words became stuck somewhere in your throat and never made it out.

when you finally pulled back, his hand lingered on your arm. his fingers twitched like he wanted to say something too, but all he did was look at you, really look at you, like he was trying to remember every part of your face.

“take care of yourself,” you mumbled, barely more than a breath.

“you too, y/n," he whispered.

and then he turned, slipping past the security gates. you watched him go until he disappeared behind the crowd.

you didn’t leave right away. you stood by the windows, watching the planes taxi and lift into the sky. your reflection looked small and tired in the huge glass, and your chest felt empty, like something had been carved out. the flight didn’t just carry ni-ki away, it carried all the unspoken with it too.

you didn’t cry.

not right away.

but later, when the sky turned black and the stars blinked again, you found yourself back at the creek.

you sat where you always had, but it felt different now, emptier. like even the trees were mourning.

you whispered the words, hoping maybe the night air would carry them across the ocean.

'i love you, ni-ki"

the wind stirred the leaves, like it had heard you.

but the only answer was the sound of the water and the fireflies blinking slowly, like they too knew summer was over.

[lyvhie]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “just wait”.

| summary | he knows how to deal with you. | cw | fluff, best friend!chenle, super short!! | a/n | i was actually thinking about @spacejip while writing this 😫 that's your man, bby.

“So, that’s it?” The look on your face was pure devastation as you stared at him. “You’re just going to leave me like this? Like I’m nothing?”

Chenle stood with his arms crossed, gaze unimpressed. He rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out, calling your name with that signature mix of disbelief and barely-contained laughter.

“I’ll be out for one hour or two,” he said, eyebrows raised at your dramatic, sulky posture. “I already canceled on Mark once. If I do it again, he’ll literally murder me.”

“I don’t care,” you groaned, muffling your voice against the pillow as you let out a dramatic whine, only to pull it away a second later for maximum volume. “I thought I was your best friend! The coolest! The prettiest! The funniest! The everything-est!”

“Uuh, I’m not sure who told you the other things,” he teased, poking your cheek with a smirk, “but yes, you are my best friend.”

You glared at him, clearly not satisfied, but he only chuckled and leaned in a bit.

“And we’re roommates, remember? I’ll be back for our night together one way or another. Then the next day. And the next. And the next…” He poked your lips gently with his finger, the way someone might boop a sulking child. “So stop pouting.”

You clicked your tongue, clearly not satisfied. The day was already boring, and he was your only hope of salvaging it—your trustworthy friend, one of the people you cherished the most. But here you were… being exchanged for Mark Lee, a basketball, and a court.

“It’ll be quick, I promise,” he said, trying to reassure you.

“What am I supposed to do while you’re out?” you asked, eyebrows raised with the full weight of your melodrama.

He blinked, raising his own brows at the question. “What do you usually do when I’m away?”

You looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Wait for you to come back.”

Oh.

He wasn’t prepared for that.

Your genuine answer hit him like a sudden ambush, making his heart stumble in its rhythm and do a series of dangerous flips. God, sometimes you were just so adorable, more than usual, it wrecked him.

Before he even realized it, he was already cupping your face gently between his hands, leaning down toward your seated form. The touch, as familiar as it was, did nothing to ease your dramatic disappointment.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you, hm?” he whispered, his voice soft with affection.

And then, with the kind of careful tenderness he reserved only for you, he pressed a kiss to your cheek, right beneath your eye. And then another on the opposite side of your face. He lingered just a moment longer this time, letting his lips brush against your skin before pulling back slightly, just enough to see you.

Your expression had softened, just like he knew it would. The pout still clung faintly to your lips, but your eyes had lost their spark of indignation, replaced by something quieter. Fonder.

“You better…” you muttered, trying to maintain your sulk, though the little smile spreading across your face betrayed you.

He grinned, triumphant, and gently tapped the tip of your nose. “Knew that would work.”

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea

[rekino2114]

I was curious, can you do a one-shot with the Phantom Thieves entering the Palace of an S/O (Futaba's Boyfriend or an S/O with Crush in Futaba), but who is so isolated and self-sabotaging, that his Palece is a tower, a tower that is completely infinite in size, with each floor of the tower being an infinite multiverse of its own, and every floor sees the floor below it as fiction, and the S/O itself is at the top of the tower that has infinite floors (Yes, I've been playing a lot of tabletop RPGs)

Futaba discovering your palace

Pairing:futaba sakura x male reader

A/n:I actually really love the idea of the boyfriend of one of the phantom thieves girls having a palace so that is why this is long. Also sorry if I didn't put all of the stuff you said in the request

Futaba groaned as the game over screen appeared on her switch, she turned around on her bed and sighed

"Ugh! I'm getting bored, when is he gonna come?"

Her complaining was answered when she heard a notification sound coming from her phone, the specific one she had for your texts, so she quickly grabbed it and unlocked it only to be very disappointed when she read your text

"Sorry futaba, I can't really come play with you today"

Futaba wanted to say she was surprised but she hated the fact that she could see this coming

"Really? Why?"

"I'm just not feeling in the mood"

"That's what you said last time too....and the time before that"

"I know and I'm really sorry, It's just not the best period"

"You know you can tell me if anything's happening right? You've been acting weird lately"

"Don't worry I'm fine, I'm sure it will pass"

"If you say so, remember that I'm here if you need anything ok? And that I love you"

"Yeah"

That last message made futaba pout and sigh for the third time, she couldn't hide her disappointed at the fact that you didn't say you loved her back

After standing still for a few moments she opened the chat app again, this time typing in the phantom thieves group chat

"Hey do any of you guys know what's up with y/n lately? He's been acting so weird and distant"

"Who?"

"Her boyfriend, don't you remember him?"

"Oh yeah, sorry, my bad"

"What do you mean by acting weird?"

"He refused to come to any of our dates for the past 3 weeks"

"Seriously? That's messed up"

"Hey don't say stuff like that about him"

"What? I thought you were angry at him"

"A little bit, but I think there's something more going on. He's not a bad boyfriend. He's never been, sure he's always kept to himself, but this is different. He'd never say no to a date, especially one with videogames snacks and board games"

"I see, isn't he in Ren and Ann's class? Do you know anything about this?"

"To be honest he hasn't been coming to class for the past couple of weeks, we actually intended to ask you about that"

"Really? A couple of months? Then it's been going on even longer than I thought"

"You knew about that?"

"Yeah, when he first started ditching our dates I went to his house to check on him but his parents told me he hadn't come out of his room in days"

"Sounds like someone I know"

"Hey!"

"Anyways, I'm starting to get worried about him too, that can't be normal"

"Exactly"

"Do you guys......think he has a palace?"

"What? No way, he's not a bad guy!"

"You don't need to be a bad guy to have a palace, remember yourself futaba?"

"Oh......yeah"

"Now that you mention it, this instance does have a lot of similarity with futaba's"

"But futaba's was caused by....her mother, wouldn't something traumatic like that have to happen to y/n for a palace to form, it would have to be pretty recent too"

"Yeah, if something like that happened he would have defined told me"

"Well there is one way to make sure"

"What is it?"

"Let's just put his name in the metanav and see if something comes up"

"Oh yeah nice idea makoto"

"You really wanna do this?"

"Why not? If nothing is wrong then that will put your heart at ease, and if something comes up then we know we'll need to act"

".....alright"

"Great, then should Ren do it?"

"No, can I? Please, I want to see with my own eyes"

"Of course, let us know how it goes"

It took a while for futaba to gather the courage to go to the metanav app and say the vocal imput it asked

".......y-y/n l/n"

She gasped once she saw she did indeed get a hit

".......dammit, y/n......what happened?...why wouldn't you tell me that?"

She wasted no time in texting the other thieves about the result

"I got a hit"

"For real?"

"Looks like we'll have to act then, do you have any ideas what his distortion might be?"

"Hang on, right now? I'm not mentally prepared"

"I agree with futaba, it is her boyfriend, we should wait until she's ready"

"Very well, tell us when you're prepared to start"

"This must be so tough for you so take all the time you need, we'll be here for you whenever"

"Thanks guys you're the best"

With that, futaba went to bed shortly after. It was one of the first times in which she couldn't fall asleep easily as her mind continued to think about your palace, she should have helped you, she should have been there for you.......then maybe this wouldn't be happening

"Futaba you already sent the calling card right?"

"Y-yeah, even if it was kinda hard"

"Alright, so any of you got any ideas what his keywords are?"

The next day the phantom thieves assembled at Leblanc to discuss about your situation

"We know the name and the location has to be his room since he's not coming out of there"

"It's just like futaba"

"........yeah"

"So all we're missing is the distortion, what does y/n see his room as?"

"Oh, maybe it's the same as futaba, what was it again?"

"Tomb?"

"No luck"

"That's good though, at least that means he doesn't feel like he has to die in there"

"Yeah I guess"

"Then maybe it's somewhere where he feels trapped, like.....try prison"

"Nope"

"Ugh! For real? This his hard, you got anything futaba?"

"Why me?"

"You're his gf ain't you? You gotta know something"

"I already said he didn't tell me anything"

"Then try to guess, you know him best after all"

"......a guess......."

Futaba stayed deep in thought for a while before gasping and coming up with an idea

"Oh! What about tower?"

"Tower?"

"Yeah, try that"

"O-oh it actually worked"

"For real? How did you know that?"

"It was just a guess....w-well actually it's something from our campaign but that doesn't matter"

"Well looks like we're ready to go, should we start now Ren?"

The leader nodded and so makoto said all of the keywords required to enter your palace

"......so this is how y/n sees his room"

Futaba looked around and saw a giant tower who she couldn't even make out the top of if it even had one

"Alright we should start going in, are you ready oracle?"

The navigator continued to look around seemingly ignoring queen

"Oracle?"

"O-oh yeah, navigating right? I got it"

"Are you sure? We can do this another day if-"

"No I have to do this, I wasn't there for him when he needed it, the fact that this palace exists is also my fault, the least I can do is change his heart now"

".....futaba..."

"So let's start, if you need any help I'm here"

And so with that, the phantom thieves started making their way through your palace, defeating every shadow that blocked their way

They went up about 15 floors before they started getting tired and finally found a safe room

"Finally! Geez how many floors before that guy shows up!?"

"You're one to talk, aren't you supposed to be a fast runner?"

"There's a difference between track and walking like 20 flights of stairs y'know?"

"Anyway oracle do you have any Intel on the layout of the tower for now?"

Makoto turned to see futaba slumped over one of the couches breathing heavily and wiping sweat off her forehead

"*pants* that's.......the most *pants* amount of exercise *pants* I've ever done"

".......ok...."

"Don't look at me like this! There are like 10 shadows every floor and so many stairs! You have any idea how much you start sweating wearing a tight costume like this!?"

".....so any Intel?"

"Oh yeah, didn't joker find a map of the place?"

The leader pulled out said map and looked at it with everyone else

"Looks like we still got tons of floors to go through"

"And still no treasure in sight"

"NOOOOOO! MORE STAIRS!? Was this palace made to torture me y/n? Is this because I didn't let you touch my action figures?"

The thieves continued their walk through the palace, clearing every floor nonstop, until around floor 44 they encountered a figure in a knight armor, it was weirdly petite to look the part of a knight but the group still raised their guard

"A knight! It's different from the other shadow. It has to be a strong one"

"No wait, the reading I'm getting from it....... it's not a shadow!"

"What? For real?"

Suddenly the knight spoke, a feminine and strangely familiar voice coming out of the mask

"......You're.....not his guards"

The knight figure took off its helmet to reveal......futaba, orange hair, glasses and everything, the only noticeable difference in the face was her yellow eyes

"Huh? It's me!?"

"This must be futaba's cognitive variant"

"So this is how y/n sees me.....I look so cool!"

"It's been so long since I've run into other people......w-wait those outfits! Are you the phantom thieves!?"

"Y/n doesn't know futaba's a thief so his cognition of her doesn't know either huh?"

"Yes, and we're here to steal y/n's heart"

"Steal his heart? You're not gonna hurt him are you?"

"Of course not, we actually want to help him"

"Speaking of, would you be willing to explain what's going on over here?"

"You mean this tower?.......It's y/n's prison"

"Prison? What do you mean? Then who imprisoned him?"

".......himself"

"W-what?"

"One day without any warning he came to me and said he didn't deserve me and that I should leave him, when i tried to reason with him he just locked himself in the tower"

"Really? He locked himself away? Why?"

"I dunno, it literally came out of nowhere, and I'm here to talk to him and figure it out"

"So you're here to save him too"

"Of course, what kind of wife would not want to help her husband"

"....w-wife!?"

As soon as her cognitive counterpart said that futaba started blushing intensely even if it was partially covered by her visor

"S-so in his image......w-we're already married?!"

"But that means he actually loves you, enough to want to marry you, so he doesn't want to break up"

"Yeah I guess.....but that also means he thinks he doesn't deserve me.....how stupid can he be? Of course he does!"

"We're trying to get to y/n too"

"Well you're not going to get far if you continue this way"

"What? Why?"

"This tower is infinite, you're never going to reach the top"

"W-what! That's impossible, we found a map that sai y/n's room is close, we can reach it if we keep going"

"Well there is one, but you won't be able to reach it, even if you go through the door of his room, you'll just be teleported to the first floor, that's what happened to me many times"

"S-seriously? That's just unfair!"

"So we can't even get to him no matter how much we try.......that must mean he really thinks no one can help him"

"T-that can't be possible, we have to save him! There's gotta be some other way!"

"How about trying to not go through the door?"

"Huh?"

"If we can go in his room another way, then we won't be teleported, is there a window or anything there?"

"There is one but you can't go in from the inside"

"But it is open yes? So we could go from the outside"

"I.....guess....but you can't climb the tower, it's way too big"

"Who said anything about climbing? We're going to fly there"

Exclamation points appeared on each of the phantom thieves' heads when they heard that

"Uh....queen you sure you alright? A shadow didn't bonk you on the head too hard didn't it?"

"Of course not"

"You do remember Mona can only turn in a car correct?"

"Maybe I phrased it wrong, only one of us is gonna fly there"

Makoto turned to look at futaba who was still lost in thought thinking about what her cognitive counterpart had told her

"Oracle, we're going to need your help"

"H-huh? Me?"

"More specifically, your persona"

"Oh yeah, she's got that ufo thing, she could totally fly over there!"

"Y-you mean using necronomicon to just go over there, but the only one who can go inside it is...me"

"And that's why we need you, you want to save y/n right?"

"Of course, but I can’t fight his shadow alone"

"Then don't, fighting isn't necessary, we just need to make him have a change of heart"

".......y-you this he'll listen to me?"

"If he's going to listen to anyone it has to be you, he loves you after all"

Futaba stayed silent for a while. She felt guilty for not being there for you and was ready to do anything to make you realize there was someone who could help you and that was going to be there for you no matter what, but could she really do it alone? She always had the other thieves by her side and never really confronted another shadow by herself........was she truly ready for this?

"Alright, when am I going?"

"H-huh? You really wanna do it?"

"Obviously. You guys helped me when I was at my worst and made me see the truth, you and y/n helped me so much and made my life so much better, I'd be a terrible girlfriend if I just left him like this and not do anything"

".........."

"I'm going to save him, no matter what I have to do!"

"You're really brave"

"Thanks, soooo am I going or what?"

"Of course, remember to contact us if anything goes wrong"

"And if the worst situation happens then just escape and return here, there's no shame in that"

"No way I'm gonna run, I need to change y/n's heart no matter what"

Joker gave her a thumbs up and smiled along with the other thieves as they saw futaba summon her persona and get inside it exiting the window and going up the tower

Once necronomicon reached the top floor futaba got out of her persona and landed inside, the floor looked miserable, like a prison, there were cracks in the walls and drops of water coming out of the ones in the ceiling

"Is this how y/n sees his room?....it's terrible"

"Who's......there?"

Futaba yelped and looked towards the voice, she saw.....you or your shadow at least, it looked like you, with the hair that she liked to sniff while cuddling and the skin she liked to kiss and caress. The only real difference in your face was the yellow eyes but your body was another story, your shadow had a prisoner outfit on, and only now she could see that your hands were chained to the wall with handcuffs. You looked so miserable malnourished and pale, even your voice was weak, even if it wasn't the real you, futaba's heart still sunk knowing this was how you viewed yourself

"......y/n..."

"How do you know my name.....wait that outfit....are you a phantom thief?"

"H-huh? O-oh yeah and I'm here to steal your heart!"

".......what?"

"N-no wait, can we redo this? That was way too cringy"

"......why would you want to steal my heart? Is it like what happened to futaba?"

"....y-you believe m- I mean her?"

"Of course, she got her heart changed by them and healed from her wounds......I don't need or deserve that kind of treatment"

"What are you saying?"

"I deserve to be here, just leave me alone, I'll stay here alone......that's what I deserve"

"Of course you don't you-"

"Spare me your hollow words, you know I don't deserve to be saved too don't you? I don't know how you found out about this or entered here but leave, please I don't deserve to be freed"

"......stop it"

"Huh?"

"Stop talking like that. You don't deserve to be saved? Are you kidding me? You're amazing and kind and loving, and need to continue being like that"

".....who are you to talk? You don't even know me, all the people who told me that I didn't deserve to be here....that I didn't deserve futaba....that I didn't deserve to live....they knew me at least.....don't think the half baked pity of a stranger who's probably only doing this to get more famous is gonna magically make me change my mind, leave me here.....it's what I deserve"

".....so people were bullying you......it sounds so harsh no wonder a palace was born from it.......if only I noticed before"

"Harsh?....it was just the truth and I'm thankful to them, now I can rot here and stay away from the lives of people who I don't deserve....especially futaba....I feel so sorry for her.....having to put with me for all this time"

".....you think she'll be happy if she sees you like this?"

"......maybe....at least I know she'll be glad to not have to pretend to love me anymore"

"......You're even more of an idiot than I thought"

".....what?"

"I-futaba loves you, I'm sure of it, she loves you more than anything in the world, and if she saw you like that then she'd want nothing more than to save you"

"....Eh.....You're talking as if you know her"

".....because I do"

".....what?"

Right before your shadow's eyes the phantom thief took off her vision to reveal the purple eyed glasses wearing nerdy girl that you loved

".....fu....taba?! What are you-....you were a-"

"Do you believe me now? Y/n I love you, and you need to stop talking like that, you seriously think I've been faking my love all this time? Why the heck would I do that?"

"................"

"See? Even you can't come up with an explanation, you're just using it as an excuse to justify your self hatred.....you love me too and you've created this lie to refuse my help"

".....I......i-"

"I'll admit I'm not fully blameless, I should have seen the problem and helped you before this palace was born......but I didn't so I'm sorry for that.....but you also need to apologize"

"For what?"

"For refusing this help. Your distorted heart created a place where no one could reach you because you thought you didn't deserve to be helped by anyone.....You're wrong so open the door to your heart.....and accept this help"

".....but-"

"I know it will be hard...but I'm here....I'll help you every step of the way so please....I need you to accept this help"

".........futaba......t-thank you"

The hacker saw that you were starting to cry now so she approached you and gave you a hug, not caring about any soot or dust getting on her suit

"......there's no need for thanks, so.....will you start opening up?"

"......I think I'm ready"

"Great so-"

Before she could say anything else futaba saw that you started to glow and the tower was crumbling

"S-shoot the palace is getting destroyed already? I-i guess it's good"

She started to run towards the windows and summoned necronomicon again before turning to you one last time, happy to see a smile on your tear soaked face

"Hey....You're gonna be OK.....I love you"

"......I....love you too"

Futaba smiled and waved at you before jumping into her ufo and regrouping with the other thieves who quickly ran away from the palace and returned to the real world

"So....you managed to change his mind"

"Yep, I convinced him that I could helped him and that he deserved to be helped and so he had a change of heart"

"That's good, it's nice to clear a palace without fighting the shadow once in a while"

"Speaking of, did he tell you why the palace was created?"

"It seems like some guys were bullying him and saying he didn't deserve me...they also sent him death threats and other horrible stuff"

"....that's terrible"

"Yeah....don't worry I'll find out who they are, he said they knew him so they're probably classmates.....how could they do something like that? I'll hack their phones and reveal all their embarrassing search history mwehehe"

"...wow!...remind me to not mess with y/n"

"...you were thinking of doing that?"

"N-no of course not!"

"How did you convince his shadow?"

"Oh yeah....about that....I....might have revealed my identity to him"

"What? Are you nuts!?"

"I-it was the heat of the moment and he wouldn't have believed me otherwise"

"Don't worry it was just his shadow so the real him shouldn't remember"

"....oh.....yeah....still sorry"

"It's fine"

"When's the change of heart happening?"

"I don't know we just have to wait"

"......are you sure he's going to have one?"

"Well everyone did so far so there should be no problems"

"I..... see"

"Hey futaba, you were really brave....I'm sure he'll turn back to normal in no time"

".....thanks, I'll check on him"

"Good luck and tell us how that goes"

"For sure, see you guys and thanks I couldn't have done it without you"

[Timeskip]

Futaba stood in front of the door to your room, two large bags in her hands, she took a deep breath and knocked

"Hey y/n it's me futaba, I thought we could hang out"

She waited for a bit but no answer came and the door remained closed

"Sojiro made your favorite curry and I brought it here. I also have all your favorite games"

She sighed when the door still didn't open and was ready to walk away and wait more but was stopped by your figure opening the door and standing in front of her

"Hey-"

"Y/n!"

She tackled you in a hug and after a while you wrapped your arms around her too

"I was so worried about you"

"R-really?"

"Of course...you didn't come out of your room for so long"

".....thank you"

"No I didn't do anything"

"You just being here is a great help"

"I'm glad and don't worry I'll help with everything, first thing first teaching those losers who said all those horrible things to you a lesson"

".....how....how did you know about that?"

"O-oh hehe....g-girlfriend intuition you know? I could just tell"

"Oh...yeah I guess that makes sense, you are really perceptive"

"Yeah exactly but stop thinking about that for now, tonight I just wanna play videogames and binge anime with the best boyfriend in the world who deserves this and much more"

".....thank you so much.....really i love you"

"It's nothing, I love you too, so let's start!"

[lavandulawrites]

Astralis Desires

Chapter 2: The Astral Express

Various HSR men x reader

This chapter is rather short, but I still hope you will enjoy. The next chapter will most likely be longer<3

Chapter 1:

Synopsis: You finally board the famed Astral Express.

Masterlist

Warnings: yandere, violence, eerie behaviour, female reader

Word count: 1849

It had all happened so fast. One second you were talking with Dan Heng and the other you were packing up your life for the last two years. March had kindly offered her assistance and she had called herself a “master-packer”. Whatever that meant… Though you had to give her some credit as she had managed to empty your room in under 20 minutes.

“Where are you going to have this? All your bags are completely stuffed…” March waved the stuffed kitten in front of your face. “It’s so cute! You can’t throw it away! It’s gonna get sad” the kittens hand held its face as it were crying. “Look it’s crying” March snickered.

“I can just carry it on top one of the bags” you scratched the head. The amount of stuff had overwhelmed you and March had found things you weren’t even aware you had.

“Thanks again for the help. I don’t know what I would have done with it” you smiled. You and March had already gotten quite close and you really enjoyed her company.

“No need to thank me! This is what friends do!” she beamed as she pulled you into a tight hug. March smelled of sweet flowers and fresh strawberries, you would have to ask her later what perfume she was wearing.

The rest of the crew was waiting by the Express. Himeko were talking with Dan Heng about something that made the man slightly flustered. Welt was busy reading something on his phone that and made his brows furrow. You had to choke down a giggle at the way he held the phone. He reminded you of an old man with his weird grip.

“Oh there you are! You were quite fast!” Himeko beamed. She rushed over to you and took one of the many bags from your hand. The brown big bag had you been dragging across the station and now Himeko was carrying it with ease. Her strength must be immense you thought to yourself.

“It was all thanks to March. She really is a master at packing things fast and efficiently”.

“It was teamwork! But I did tell you I was amazing at packing, so I’m glad I get some acknowledgment” March smirked.

“It’s too bad you don’t use your skills when it comes to the Express. That way we could leave the train a bit after than usual” Dan Heng shook his head like a disappointed mother.

March rolled her eyes so far back that, you were afraid they would pop out. “It’s something else packing for another person! It’s way more interesting!”

You giggle which earned you an amused look from Dan Heng.

The Express was much bigger inside than what you imagined. The interior was old fashioned and tasteful. The Parlour Car were had a high ceiling with a huge light structure in the form of a blue whale hanging from it. Red leather couches stretched from both the sides accompanied with coffee tables. They were by far the longest sofas you had ever encountered and they seemed rather comfortable. The floor was polished to perfection and you could see your reflection staring back at you. A radio was playing from atop the low table it sat. The news anchors were talking about a galactic war that had broken out in a far away solar system. You hadn’t heard about it.

The space station was but a small prick in the distance as the Express flew away. You were going to miss Anna, but you were glad you didn’t have to handle your other colleagues. Anna had been crying when you had told her and she had your promise to keep in touch or she would find you and drag you to her.

A small rabbit in a uniform waved their hand at you which snapped you out of your thoughts. “You two must be the new members of the express. Himeko told me about you. You better not cause any trouble” their voice was screeching, but their cuteness made up for it.

“We will be on our best behaviour” Caelus said with a wide smile.

“Good” the bunny nodded.

“Wait, where are they going to sleep?” March asked as she looked at Himeko. The red head only smiled in return.

“We have two extra rooms, save from the guest rooms. You two should choose yourself who gets which room.”

“I’m not too picky” you shrug. The least you would be was picky when they had let you stay for free.

“Me neither.”

“We have a room between March’s room and Dan Heng’s. There is also a room on the second floor of the Party Car, though it’s currently used as a storage room” Himeko seemed lost in thoughts. “We would have to clear it out first. It shouldn’t be too full.”

“Which one is the biggest?” the grey haired man asked.

“The one in the Party Car.”

“Then [Name] will take that one. If it’s okay with her of course. I don’t mind a smaller room” his yellow eyes found yours and he smiled softly. His charm was rather cute.

Your eyes widened. “Wait- are you sure? Isn’t that unfair?”

He shook his head “No, no at all. I promise you I don’t mind”.

“Then it’s decided! I will show Caelus his room and March and Pompom can you show [Name’s]?”

Your new room had you gasping from surprise when Pompom opened the door. It was spacious with a beautiful light coloured parquet. It had a big bathroom with a bathtub so huge you could probably swim a small lap in it. It had a large shower with a waterfall. The sink had more than enough room for makeup, skincare and whatever else you might need space for. Even the toilet was impress with its fancy buttons. The pale blue tiles on the wall was cool and smooth to the touch. The grey and black checkered tiled floor was a nice contrast.

“It’s a lot of space, but it’s going to get so nice when you decorate!” March beamed from your side.

“Mhm! I can help out” Pompom said. “We have a spare bed in the Supply Car. It’s fairly new and it comes with a mattress. There’s also a duvet and some pillows. It should do the trick.”

With the help of Dan Heng and Welt, you and March sat up the bed. The mattress was soft and the duvet fluffy. The many boxes that had filled the space had been moved and what was left was a empty room. It echoed when you talked and you had to admit it made you feel uneasy when the room was dark. Dinner had just been some bread with various spread and toppings as it was rather late when you boarded the Express. You pulled the duvet over your shoulders as you snuggled against the pillows. March had lent you some pink duvet and pillow covers. The motif was adorable with the small white bunnies.

Your eyes grew heavy and you were ready for a good nights sleep. You were truly exhausted and your body was aching from all the running. This was by far the most exhausting and stressful day you had ever experienced. You yawned as you closed your eyes, ready to drift off to dreamland.

Red filled your vision. The air was damp and cold and you could only see a few meters in front of you. Low growling could be heard from all different directions, causing shivers to run down your spine. Your feet moved on their own accord and each step felt as if you were walking through thick mud. You inhaled sharply through your nose and your lungs set aflame inside your rib cage. You hissed out in pain as you clutched your chest, but your feet didn’t stop. Warm rain dripped down from the black sky. To your horror the ‘rain’ wasn’t rain, but thick crimson blood.

You screamed and the drops filled your open mouth causing you to choke. You fell to your knees as you coughed. The irony taste was overwhelming and nauseating. Something came in contact with your hand as you tried to pull yourself off ground. You quickly pulled your hand from the ground and sat up. Your eyes raked over the ground in search of that had touched you. The hollow eyes you had met earlier that day stared back at you. Their dark depths threatening to pull you down and drown you in their darkness. It was the same man you had watched die before your very eyes without being able to do anything. His throw as torn open and blood leaked out in a stream.

His eyes moved and your heart skipped a beat. You wanted to back away, but you were frozen to the ground by an invisible force. His mouth cracked open like a ventriloquist doll.

“Why…Why didn’t you help me?” his voice was hoarse and sounded more like a creature from the pits of hell than a human being. His words made cold sweat coat at your temples and you tried to voice your excuse, but you had no voice.

“You monster… You should have died along side me. You will pay. Don’t think you will get away” he was gurgling on his own blood as his pale wax-like hand reached out for you. Sharp talons dug into your skin and to your bone. The pain was like a frostbite and you finally regained your ability to love as you backed away as fast as you could. The dead man aimed for your head as he fell on top of you. The smell of death was overwhelming as his bones hands snarled around your neck like a boa. He squeezed and your vision went dark.

Your eyes snapped open and your lungs heaved hungrily for all the air they were lacking. As your eyes got used to the dark you could swear your bedroom door was slightly open. You stopped your movements and held your breath. In the dark doorway, a pair of eyes stared back at you. They were unblinking and peeled wide open as if they were afraid they would miss something should they blink. Your heart hammered against your chest so fast you were afraid it would explode. The sound of your rushing blood filled your ears. Your mouth was completely dry and you were awfully thirsty.

Minutes passed and the eyes still was locked onto you. They had only blinked a few times. You had your duvet up to your chin and you tried to make yourself as small as possible. You had first wanted to get up and chase the person away, but something told you you were better of in bed. A sudden low sound reached your ears. You blinked before you realised it was the sound of heavy breathing.

“Who’s there?” you asked with a sudden burst of courage.

The breathing stopped before the eyes disappeared completely. The door closed softly and soft footsteps could be heard going down the stairs.

[luigilore]

having a crush on gymrat!luigi. u guys both go to the same gym and you've always paid attention to the way his biceps flex when hes weight lifting or when hes on the pull up bar and u see a hint of his v-line and happy trail and it has u blushing and looking away immediately. you always thought it was a silly crush and wouldn't go anywhere but on one of ur upper body days u decide to try the pull up bar since clearly its been working wonders on mr curly head. the bar is pretty high up so you look around for an unoccupied box or something to use as leverage when suddenly theres a tap on your shoulder. "need help getting up?" he says. "yeah.. i think--" you begin and are quickly cut off when you feel two big hands on either side of your waist. suddenly you're off the ground and the bar is right in front of you. you learn to quickly snap out of whatever just happened and grab the bar before you make a fool of yourself. "got it?" he asks from below, hands still firmly in place. "yes, thank you!" you stammer. good thing he was behind you and couldn't see how red you were. you start doing your reps when you hear "chin up... use your back instead of your arms..." from below you. you apply his feedback and correct your form like he says. "there you go... atta girl." he says. you almost fall right then and there from the way his words caused an unexpected heat to pool in your lower region but manage to stay in the set for a bit longer. eventually you stop and lower yourself. "that was great!" he says as he gives you a high-five. "thank you...." "luigi." he finishes ur sentence. "thank you luigi, i appreciate it." you smile at him. soon enough, you're seeing luigi everyday. he helps you learn so many new techniques, and you start seeing your results come in much faster. luigi becomes your almost sort of gym buddy and you guys end up coordinating your workouts a few times. after a few months, he finally asks, "hey y/n, this new restaurant opened up down the street. i'd love to go visit." he stares at you after you two finish a cardio set. "yeah i heard about that one, let me know how the food tastes so i can know what to order when i visit." you say, taking a sip out of your water bottle. "well why don't you just find out yourself.... i'm asking you to go with me dummy. like a date." he laughs. "oh wow. really? me?" you say, genuinely shocked. no way did you think luigi reciprocated the same feelings you had towards him. "you're not the only one whos had a little crush this whole time... i just hid it better than you." he teases.

OMG hello this was so so good i think abt gym rat lu a lot

ugh you guys always end up coming around the same time in the evenings but you never talk to him; but sneak little glances in the mirror at the way he wipes his face with the edge of his shirt sometimes and you see a glimpse of his v line and happy trail oh my fuck but you just accept he's ur silly little gym crush and nothing else

until the day that he helps you up on the pull up bar, you silently note how big his hands are... and how you need to lock in and not embarrass urself in front of him .... but its really hard when his low voice is giving u advice, gripping ur hips, saying ATTA GIRL? anon ur killing me in the best possible way bc he SO would say that and be genuinely impressed/excited w his little high five lolol

now whenever you see him you, you always talk for a few minutes and catch up... and you now u realize you walk through the door and the first thing u do is scan the gym for luigi :') like all ur friends know about luigi from the gym... u give him song recs other than his shitty edm, he talks about research he's done on hiit workouts or new recipes and he tells you offhandedly after finishing a set all sweaty, adrenaline flowing, "you're like, my motivation." and that sends u spiraling!

omfg when he finally asks you out and you genuinely don't pick up on it... stop i love that... also you'd be so embarrassed that he knew u had a crush on him like you thought you were being stealth this whole time.. ugh and like the insaneee chemistry you guys would have after you finally get together .... the post gym shower sex would be so good omfg

[starsoverbrooklyn]

just the headline, doll: fleeting augustine. (bakery au) starring... post-war!Bucky Barnes x f!baker!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: a flip-switch of fluff to angsty. mention of Steve's canon ‘death’. topics of loss, grief, silent comfort. inked just for you: 2,284 a word from yours truly: a bit of a longer piece to sandwich in between the daily drabbles. inspiration pulled from @elixirfromthestars's cafe writing challenge! i started this on my main blog back when the challenge first opened, ambitious in wanting to make it a longer piece that delve into more of a 'August' by Taylor Swift vibe between the characters, eventually... (hence the title that i got too attached to, to change), but i heavily siked myself out. better late than ever & just in time for my heal-write journey. hope you enjoy! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

“How much for fresh strawberries?”

Mrs. Cardinal’s voice lilts across the counter, soft and honeyed like sun-warmed tea. Her eyes peer at you from over the rim of her glasses, the corners crinkled with a smile that carries decades of warmth. She looks down at the paper catalog, her fingers brushing over the glossy image of a frosted cake as if it were something sacred.

You return her smile, one corner of your mouth hitching higher than the other. “Eighteen cents for the full top, six for decorative placement… but for you? I’ll cut it in half. Sound fair?”

Her breath catches with delight. “Bless your soul,” she coos. “My husband loves the darn things. I’ll take the full top.”

You nod, scribbling her request on the order form, the scratch of your pencil soft against the hum of the ovens. “He’s a lucky man,” you remark, eyes still on the paper. “Can’t remember the last time someone came in just because. I’d wager it’s never happened.”

Her chuckle is low and tender, like a secret between friends. She pats the counter with a weathered hand. “When you’ve been with someone as long as I have, you don’t wait for birthdays to say you’re thinking of ‘em. Time’s a fragile thing, sweets—especially these days.”

You offer a quiet nod, your smile faltering just slightly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Oh, it’s true,” she insists, her voice turning fond but firm. “You’re young. This place keeps you busy, I can see that. But if you’ve got someone—someone who makes all of this make sense—you hold onto them.”

You lift your gaze to her, polite, appreciative… but the smile you give her is hollow at the edges. That topic always finds its way to you, carried on the backs of women who see too much.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why her next question lands so heavy.

“How’s that friend of yours? The sergeant.”

Your jaw tightens. One eye twitches, a betrayal of calm. “He’s fine,” you answer, too quickly. “We’ve been writing.” Half-truth. Whole ache. She beams at the news, unaware—or choosing not to be.

You reach for her arm, fingers warm against her sleeve. “When would you like to pick this up?”

She hums, tilting her head in thought. “Tomorrow at noon, dear?”

“Perfect.”

You tear the carbon copy from the pad and hand it to her. She cups your hands in hers, gratitude spilling from her like petals from an overripe bloom. Then she’s gone, out the door with a flutter of her shawl, and the bell above the entrance chimes one last, gentle note.

You sigh, swiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, the kitchen’s heat pressing against your skin like a second body. The scent of baking croissants coils through the air, a thin consolation. You slip behind the swinging door, half-ready to disappear into flour-dusted solitude.

You reach for a tin of sugar balanced precariously atop a bag of almond flour—just a quick tidy, just to feel in control of something—but the moment your fingers graze the edge, the whole tower of ingredients gives out beneath your touch.

Flour erupts like smoke in the air. A bag bursts open on impact, powder dusting your shirt, your arms, your lashes. Sugar scatters in a crystalline spray across the floor. A metal canister rolls under the counter, clattering in protest.

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move.

Then—

The bell rings again.

A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

“Shit,” you mutter, voice low with guilt as the word slips. “Coming! Just a minute!”

You push up from your crouch, white dust blooming from your apron like snowfall. The floor groans beneath your step, flour slick and treacherous beneath your boots.

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.”

That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

You spin, startled, your foot catching the edge of a flour pile. Gravity pulls, sharp and cruel—

But it never lands.

A strong hand snatches yours, jerking you forward and into the solid wall of his chest. His hands find your shoulders, steadying. Anchoring. The heat of him seeps through your apron, and your breath stutters from the proximity.

You don’t dare look up. Not yet.

The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

“When a girl says ‘one minute,’ she usually means from outside the swinging door,” you mutter, your voice tight with residual panic.

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again.

You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune.

You are not.

“Lucky I didn’t wait,” he says, stepping back just far enough to take in the disaster of flour and sugar. He whistles, low and unimpressed. “Jesus, Dot. You sure this isn’t a cry for help? I know some gals who swear nursing’s their true calling.”

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

He follows you to the broom, walking backward like a devil in uniform. When you reach for it, he beats you there, grabbing it with a smug little flourish.

“Just looking out for you. Should’ve said something after you put Dots on a cake,” he teases, his distaste for the gumdrops evident by the scrunch of his nose. He rests his chin atop his stacked hands on the broom’s tip.

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.”

“Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

You hold out your hand. He feigns compliance, then snatches the broom away, sauntering toward the radio perched on the shelf.

“Bucky—don’t you dare.”

He shushes you with a finger to his lips, twisting the dial. Static crackles, and then—guitar, soft and lazy like a summer afternoon.

He turns. Broom raised to his lips like a mic.

“I’m gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own…”

You groan, backing away, but he follows. Swaying. Singing. Off-key and utterly relentless.

He catches you by the waist the moment you’re within reach, pulling you in with an easy strength. You press against his chest in mock protest, but the smile curling your lips betrays you.

“A doll that other fellows cannot steal,” he croons, the melody curling from his mouth like campfire smoke, warm and familiar.

“Let me sweep,” you protest, half-hearted and breathless—before a sudden squeal escapes you as he lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you like a record.

“And then the flirty, flirty guys,” he sings, voice dripping with exaggerated charm, “with their flirty, flirty eyes will have to flirt with dollies that are real—”

“Sing with me!” he laughs, cutting off his faux vibrato with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“When I come home at night, she will be waiting,” you deadpan, rushing the line like you’re trying to outrun the song itself. You toss your head back in mock defeat, groaning as he twirls you right through the minefield of flour and sugar. “Bucky, you idiot!”

“She’ll be the truest doll in all this world!” he bellows, now fully off-key and entirely unapologetic, relishing your exasperation.

“I’d rather have a paper doll to call my own…” 

He dips you low, grinning like a fool, pointing the makeshift microphone to your lips. His eyes are sparked with mischief as he juts his chin toward you, brows raised in expectant encouragement.

“Than have a fickle-minded, real live girl,” you sing in surrender, shaking your head even as your lips twitch with laughter.

“Beautiful!” he declares, lifting you upright and twirling you with flourish as the music swells. He spins you out with a theatrical flare, launching into a sloppy, exaggerated swing routine. You burst into laughter, and the sound only spurs him on—he kicks through a puff of flour like it’s part of the choreography, his every move more ridiculous than the last.

“Your boots and trousers!” you gasp, pressing both hands to his chest in a futile attempt to stop him. He only grins wider, undeterred, spinning you faster than the music can keep up.

Flour kicks up with every misstep, but his joy is uncontainable—reckless and radiant, impossible to resist. His laughter rings out, infectious enough to melt any scolding you had planned. Just as you’re caught in the pull of it, his arms sweep beneath you again, and you’re lifted in a dizzying whirl.

Then the floor decided it’d endured enough abuse.

You feel the moment his balance falters—see the flicker of panic in his eyes just before his shoe skids across the floor and the broom clatters down beside you.

And then you’re both falling.

Your body collapses into his with a startled yelp, and his back hits the floor hard enough to shake the cabinets. A sharp thud, a choked grunt—and suddenly, you’re tangled together in the wreckage of sugar and song.

He groans, half winded, half laughing, breath hitching through coughs and fractured chuckles. You scramble upright, flustered and flinging flour from your clothes, but he stays down, one knee bent as he props himself up with an elbow.

With his free hand, he rips the visor cap from his head and tosses it into the mess around him, the gesture as dramatic as the rest of his performance. The last bars of the song warble through the static of the radio, comically triumphant.

You lurch for the dial and spin it down before the next tune can start, your heart still racing as silence spills into the room.

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.”

“You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills.

“I’ve missed you.”

It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

But something shifts.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker, a change in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes drift past your shoulder like he’s watching something no one else can see. The air pulls taut between you, as if it senses what’s coming.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

Your brows knit, confusion tugging at your features—but he doesn’t give you time to ask.

“A Valkyrie,” he adds, hollow. “One of theirs. He intercepted every bomb meant for American soil. Saved everyone.”

Your mouth parts. No sound comes.

And still, he keeps going. Not for you—for himself—like he’s trying to force the words out before they strangle him. “He called from the cockpit before it happened. Didn’t say goodbye. Just… made a promise to his girl.” His voice falters. “You could hear it—how scared he was. He knew he wouldn’t make it.”

The world narrows, the kitchen shrinking around you, suddenly too small to hold the weight of what he’s saying.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a ghost of a protest, thin and useless. You know better. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t need to be believed—he needs to survive saying it out loud.

“He thought it was over. Thought he’d make it back. But the Valkyrie was still locked on course for New York. No backup. No way out. He just… accepted it. Like a man who’s known his whole life he was on borrowed time.”

His lips twitch—not a smile—something else. A wound reopening.

“He got what he always wanted. Fulfilled his duty right to the end. Like a soldier. Like a hero.”

Your hand finds his arm, fingers pressing in like you could anchor him here. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.”

You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.”

He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.”

His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

“Don’t,” you say, the word trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s not fair.”

“He was Captain America,” Bucky says. His tone isn’t reverent—it’s bitter. Blistering. “And I’m what’s left.”

You step forward, unable to bear the space between you any longer. His face is hot under your palms, flushed with grief and guilt, tears already brimming and unshed.

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.”

He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

His fingers fist in your apron like a drowning man clinging to shore. His body trembles against yours—not with weakness, but with too much feeling crammed into a frame never meant to bear it all.

And when he finally breaks, when the sobs come rough and ragged against your collarbone, you don’t shush him. Don’t try to make it okay.

You let him cry. You need him to cry.

Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind.

And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone.

Because he’s here.

He came back in pieces, but he came back.

And you will love every shattered one.

[trickst3rs]

the dress — carlos alcaraz x f!reader

"cause the dress looks nice on you still, and it always will."

summary: carlos runs into his ex and reminisces about a certain dress!! based on the dress by dijon (absolute banger)

wc: 1.1k words

this took me a while to write but i hope its okay!! writing is hard man i restarted this five different times!

Carlos’ eyes had been on you from the moment you had walked into the room. He was surprised to see you, and in London of all places after all this time. 

It had been a year since he had last seen you. Too long, in his opinion. However, Carlos respected your distance. He understood that you needed to prioritise yourself however he couldn’t keep his selfish thoughts at bay. He wanted you to be with him– always.

He watched as you mingled across the room as if you were ensuring you would never be caught alone, as if you knew that he was here too. That’s what Carlos told himself anyway. 

You had changed a lot since he had last seen you. You looked older, more mature. Your hair was longer— darker too. You were more tan. He knew you liked to spend time in Capri at this time of the year and it showed. You were sun kissed as if you had spent all summer on the beach, reminding him of the small bikinis you would tease him with. 

And that dress. 

Your dress was enough to send him into cardiac arrest, with its red lace hugging your body in a way that made his mouth go dry. Its floral pattern was familiar and Carlos remembered it too well.

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ 

You had first brought it out in Rome. 

You used to take forever to get ready. Carlos always used to tease you about it but he never minded. Not really. 

Carlos was lying on the hotel room bed, scrolling on his phone when your voice echoed from the bathroom. 

“Carlos, can you zip my dress up, please?”.

Carlos looked up from his phone, his eyes landing where you stood in the doorway, back turned, holding your hair up with one hand. 

His phone dropped beside him, instantly forgotten. “Of course.” 

His fingers brushed the cool metal of the zipper, savouring the moment as he slowly drew the fabric together inch by inch. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Thank you.”

“Perfecta,” he murmured lowly.

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ

Carlos watched as you made your way out to the balcony, glass of champagne in hand. He was unsure if he should talk to you. 

You hadn’t ended on the best terms. Too many missed calls. Too much time following him around the globe rather than discovering what you wanted for yourself. 

Yet, his feet moved towards you before he could realise.

The air was thick with your familiar perfume, leaving Carlos feeling nostalgic as he stood beside you.

“Wasn’t sure when you’d come and say hi.” you said without looking over at him, your gaze remaining on the London skyline.

Carlos was silent for a beat, choosing to listen to the sound of the breeze. “I didn’t think you would speak to me.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, well here I am.”

He smiled. “Here you are.”

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ

The next time you had brought out that dress was at his Roland Garros final. 

He was sure you had worn it purposefully, the small smirk you wore when you congratulated him after the match giving you away. 

“Look at you, my little champion!” you teased. “Let me see your prize.”

He laughed, still breathless from the match with the adrenaline just beginning to wear off. He held up the trophy for you to inspect. “Look. Carlos Alcaraz, 2024,” he pointed out proudly, like a little boy showing off a drawing.

You leaned over his shoulder to read the engraving and sighed. “I’m so proud of you.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and kissed your temple. “Muchas gracias, mi amor.”

“How are we celebrating tonight?” you asked as you joined his team and family. 

Carlos grinned, leaning in close. “I have some ideas.” he muttered, prompting you to roll your eyes and playfully slap his arm.

Later, Carlos admired you as you wandered through the cobblestone streets of Paris, following Alvaro’s terrible navigational skills. It was something about that dress and the way it elegantly wrapped around your body, the sheer mesh leaving little to the imagination, that impaired his ability to concentrate on anything else. It was a wonder he was able to win today’s match. 

You paused as you spotted a lone trumpeter playing near a quiet alley, leaving Carlos in quiet confusion as you allowed the rest of the group to walk ahead of you.

“Carlos,” you said, turning to face him. “Dance with me.” You held out your hand.

“What?” he laughed, eyes wide.

“Come on.” you whispered, taking his hand and dipping into the alley. “It’s just us here.”

He hesitated for half a second before slipping his hand around your waist and pulling you close. You rested your head against his shoulder as you slowly moved together, his fingers brushing the small of your back as your dress fluttered in the wind.

He attempted to spin you, causing you to almost lose your footing on the unstable cobblestones. Both of you burst into quiet laughter, eyes lighting up in love. 

He fell in love with you again that night. Harder than before. 

He didn’t mind that he had left his family to celebrate his win. He was perfectly content to spend the rest of his days with you.

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ

“That dress looks nice on you still.” Carlos said as his eyes roamed your body again.

“You always liked this dress. Didn’t you?” You laughed. “Thought it would’ve lost its effect on you after so long.”

“Never.” he said, stepping closer.

“You’ve been busy. Winning titles left and right.” You turned away from him, looking out across the balcony.

He didn’t respond right away. “I missed you.” 

“Carlos.” you said softly.

“I mean it. I missed you.” he pressed his lips together.

“Carlos.” you shook your head. “It’s too soon.”

“Porfa, mi amor. I want to try again.” he swallowed hard, jaw clenched.

“Talk to me again in a year.” you met his eyes. “I might just change my mind.”

He sighed, nodding. “I’ll wait. As long as you do too, mi amor.”

You smiled sadly. “Good luck, baby.” you pulled him into a tight embrace and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be watching.”

Carlos’ body folded into yours, holding onto you for a second too long. He didn’t say a word as you pulled away and walked back inside. 

You didn’t look back and he didn’t chase after you. 

What was one more year?