#like even more quiet then night time here

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Neighbour - Noncon

With your electricity out and your devices dead, you have no choice but to turn to your neighbour for help. He's more than willing to welcome you into his home. Really, you're lucky he's such a nice guy.

Tags: male yandere x gender neutral reader, noncon, somno, just the tip anal, daddy kink but only if you squint, 3.3k words

Living in the middle of nowhere had its perks. Privacy. Untouched nature. Peace and quiet.

But after the third day with no electricity, those perks were starting to look pretty damn weak. Your fridge was sitting in an ever expanding puddle. Almost all your devices were dead. And if you had to take one more cold shower you were going to cry.

It was when you were digging through your drawer looking for desperately needed batteries that you found your neighbour's number. He'd offered it to you a little while after you moved in, and while you two were on friendly terms, you'd never actually spoken for longer than a few minutes. You sighed, looked at the 10% left on your phone and decided that desperate times called for desperate measures.

You: hey, it's me. I still haven't got any power. Do you mind if I come over to charge some stuff?

He replied almost instantly.

Unknown: aww that sucks

Unknown: come on over. I've got hot stew and a generator

Unknown: and you can take a hot shower too if you want

Score. And to think you found him intimidating at first. Just goes to show that you can't judge on appearances. You packed a change of clothes, your devices and the last tub of ice cream that wasn't totally melted. You'd find some way to properly pay him back but a tub of chocolate fudge double cream wasn't a bad way to start.

He was waiting on his porch when you pulled up. A bear of a man in a flannel and blue jeans, a five o' clock shadow darkening his jaw.

"Howdy neighbour," he drawled, opening your door for you while you grabbed your stuff. "Regretting leaving the city yet?"

You huffed a laugh. "You do NOT want to know the answer to that."

His cabin was much larger than yours, a two storey behemoth with wide windows and exposed beams. It had a rustic charm - like some natural park Air BnB where they charged a weeks pay for just one night. A little too big for just one man. Didn't he get lonely?

"I brought some ice cream and chocolate to say thank you. And also because it miiight have been melting."

He opened the door for you and ushered you through with a hand on your lower back.

"Hell, I'll never say no to something sweet."

There was a fire burning in the fireplace and a stack of logs in a crate next to it. He was so much better suited to this life than you were. He locked the door behind you and slipped the keys into his pocket.

"Old habit," he explained with an easy grin.

"Why don't you get settled? I'll plug your stuff in."

You handed over your tech with a relieved sigh.

"Thank you. Really. I'm so behind on work already and I haven't heard anything back from the power company."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," he said. "Once ended up going a week straight with not even a light bulb flickering."

You winced. "It gets that bad?"

"Yep. Especially in winter. Gets dangerous then too."

He tilted his head at you, concerned. "You need to get yourself better sorted before it starts snowing. I hate to think of you stuck out there when the blizzards start rolling in."

God, could you be any more of a city slicker? You rubbed your neck, embarrassed.

"Thanks. I've been here a few months now and I guess I just didn't realise how serious things can get."

"It's all good. But if I'm honest, I get worried thinking about you out there all alone. Plenty of drifters end up passing through. Not a good place to be alone, not for a little thing like yourself."

Little? You wanted to feel indignant, but looking at his bulk, you reckoned that most folk probably seemed little to him.

He lead you to the fireplace and poured you a mug of coffee from the pot that was waiting for you. He jerked his head at the hunting rifle on display above the mantle.

"I can teach you to shoot, if you've got some free time."

You took a sip of the coffee, internally debating with yourself. You could see the sense in your offer but you weren't a big fan of guns. Hell, just being around them was nerve wrecking enough. Maybe -

You looked down at your mug in surprise.

"This is some really good stuff."

The coffee was strong, bitter in the best sort of way. You could catch a hint of chocolate in it too. Just sweet enough to make your toes curl.

" 'Course. Only the best for my guest. Help yourself to another cup. I'll just put your stuff on charge and be right back."

You finished your drink in a few sips and happily poured a second serving. Hot coffee... man, you didn't think three days without it would be so tough. Usually, you were pretty sensitive to caffeine. But by the time your neighbour came back, your head was tilted back and you were half asleep.

You tried to shake yourself out of it but he just laughed and pushed you back down.

"You probably haven't had a good sleep since the power went out. Just rest. We can talk once you wake up."

"I'm sorry..."

"It's fine." His hand was still on your shoulder, thumb rubbing small circles into your neck. "It's just fine with me."

You drifted off after that. Into a deep sleep without any dreams. Waking up was like slogging through molasses.

"Finally up sleepy head?"

It was dark outside and your neighbour was on one knee in front of the fire place, coaxing fresh wood to catch.

You sat up slowly. Your muscles ached and there was a strange, salty taste on your tongue.

"My heads killing me..."

He stood, poker still in his hand. "You must be starving then. I've already got some food on the stove. You'll feel better after you eat."

You didn't feel hungry at all. If anything, you felt almost hangover.

"Thanks," you managed. "I'm sorry to be such a bother."

He waved you away. "I don't mind a bit."

He came back with a bowl of steaming hot chow and stood with his arms crossed on the back of your couch while you ate.

"It's real late. I reckon you should stay over. I don't want you driving on dirt when it's so dark."

"Oh, it's fine. I've already put you out so much."

"Don't be silly. I insist."

You shivered without meaning to. That almost growl, low and bordering on menacing. It was so familiar, so...

"Just like that. Look at you, half asleep and still desperate for my cock."

"You like the taste? Yeah, I bet you fucking do."

"Ain't just gonna use your mouth next time."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Where the hell was this coming from? Were you remembering some sick dream from this afternoon?

"You okay there neighbour?"

You nodded. "Just my head."

Maybe he was right. Driving when you were so disorientated was just asking for trouble.

"If you really don't mind... I'll be happy to sleep over."

He laughed, a deep, rumbling thing. "I'll make the guest room up special, just for you."

"Could I use your shower too?"

"I offered didn't I? Come on, I'll show you where it is."

He took you to the master bedroom and jerked his thumb at the en-suite.

"Hot water is the most reliable in there. Door doesn't close that well though, so don't mind it. I'll be downstairs when you're done."

You brushed your teeth carefully. You lips felt sore, bruised in a way you couldn't explain.

You waited until you heard his footsteps going down the stairs before you stripped off your clothes. You stood under the hot water for a good few minutes, luxuriating in the feeling. The bathroom was thick with steam when you finally got to scrubbing yourself. The door was open just a crack and the bedroom beyond was dark. You forgot all about it until you heard the creak of the hinges.

You whirled to face the door, your hands coming up to cover yourself. The steam was too thick to see through. You called his name.

Nothing.

You stepped out with suds still on your thighs and pushed the door open. The room beyond was empty.

You sighed. God, you were being paranoid. Your neighbour was a great guy. It was unfair of you to treat him like a peeping tom when he'd gone out of his way to make you comfortable. It must have been just an errant draught.

You stepped back into the shower and rinsed yourself off. But no matter what you told yourself, you still kept an eye on the door.

When you went to change into your fresh clothes, you spent at least five minutes hunting for your underwear. Did you drop it somewhere? Oh, please say your undies weren't just sitting in the middle of his hallway. That would be beyond embarrassing.

Eventually you gave up and just decided to go without them. Not comfortable at all but still better than walking around in a towel to look for them. And much better than calling your neighbour in to help. Wouldn't that be fun? 'Hey neighbour that I don't know that well, you haven't seen my intimates lying around, have you?' Yeah, you'd never again get invited over after something like that.

When you were dressed, you found him already on his way up the hall. He was carrying a glass of water and some pills.

"Thought you might still have a headache, so I brought you some painkillers."

You paused, nervous but not sure why.

"Thanks." His hands dwarfed yours when he handed them over. You didn't recognise the name of on the pills, but they looked harmless. You tossed them back and gagged at the bitter aftertaste.

"They pack a punch, so tell me when you start to get drowsy."

"Aye aye captain."

You followed him to the guest room. It was at the very back on the second story, quieter than the rest of the house. A huge glass wall gave you a view of the forest disappearing into the darkness. You could see the ghost of your reflection in the glass, your neighbour a hulking, shapeless mass at your shoulder.

He took a seat in an armchair across form the bed and stretched out his legs. You perched on the edge of the mattress, still feeling a bit like an intruder.

"How long have you been staying out here?” you asked.

He smiled at you, teeth glinting almost wolf-like. "Got you curious?"

"A little. Folk in town say they hardly see you. I don't know... I'm just wondering if you ever get lonely."

He was quiet and you cursed yourself for being so nosy. You hurried to fill the silence.

"It's just that I get a bit lonely out here too. 'Specially when it's so quiet. And I guess I was wondering if it's the same for you."

He smiled at you, rueful. "At times. Used to be worse, but I've got a new interest to keep me occupied nowadays."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Bird watching."

"Really? What do you look for?"

The way the room was lit up, you couldn't see his eyes. They fell into shadow and you only had his lips to read his emotions by. He smirked, slow and almost mocking.

"Just one bird I look out for. Flighty little thing. Tends to get caught by predators a lot. You’d probably recognise it."

The polite thing to do would be to ask what it was called. You didn't. Some part of whispered that you wouldn't like the answer.

You must have been quiet a little too long because he took it as his cue to leave. He stood, a mountain of muscle, his eyes not quite as nice as they seemed that afternoon. A trick of the light, surely. He wouldn't hurt a fly.

"You rest up. Got a busy day tomorrow."

"G'night."

He was gone before you thought to ask what he meant. And you were passed out on your pillows before you realised it. He was right. The pills sure did pack one hell of a punch.

You were aware of a shadow at the end of your bed. You weren't fully awake, and your limbs were slow and heavy with more than just sleep.

"Who..."

The shadow reached down and one warm paw circled your ankle.

"Just me little bird."

You knew that voice. It was the voice that brought you warm food and invited you in from the cold. You could trust it. Could go back to sleep and not worry about anything.

'No,' some part of you hissed, 'He's not as safe as you think.'

"Cold..."

The shadow laughed and it was the laugh of the fox finding the rabbit's den. Nasty. Hungry.

"Cold huh? Don't worry baby. I'll warm you right up."

He yanked your ankle towards him and your whole body slid down the bed. You were too drowsy to stop it.

"Knew you were gonna be mine the second I saw you," he cooed, hands running up your thighs.

His fingers slipped under your waistband, nails scraping your hip bones.

"Dumb little thing from the city. Doesn't even realise I've tripped all their breakers. That's why you don't have power baby. It's all me."

His fingers were as big as the rest of him. Thick, meaty. Skin rough from working outdoors. You whined when his fingertips scraped the edges of your hole.

"No underwear. You needy slut. That's practically a written and signed invitation to fuck you."

He pulled your pants down to your ankles and pushed your knees up to your stomach. And you were too out of it to stop him. Limp and pliable as a fuck doll.

Your tight ass was exposed to the cold air, entirely at the mercy of whatever he wanted to do.

"Cute." He circled his thumb around the rim, almost pushing in but not quite. "Wanted to be in this ass since you first showed up at my door all those months ago. Lookin' up at me all sweet. Fuck, it's enough to drive a man to desperation."

He lowered his head and you could feel his warm breath washing over your thighs.

He dragged his tongue across your hole. Some part of you must have been more awake than the rest, because your whole body jerked away from him.

"None of that," he cooed, hands digging into your thighs and dragging you back. "I haven't even gotten started yet."

He licked you again, deeper this time. The flexed tip of his tongue pushing at your entrance, and to your dull horror, actually slipping in. He moaned and you could feel the vibrations all through your crotch.

He pulled out and spat, rubbed it in with his fingers. One of them pushed in until the second joint, curling into your walls so rough that you gasped.

"Please..."

"Please what?" he mocked. "Please fuck my tight little ass? Please cum inside me? Use your words little bird."

"Please...stop..."

That made him laugh again, made him shove his finger in all the way to the knuckle. Twisting so cruelly as he pulled out and jerked back in.

"Stop? Stop? After all the work it took to get you here? No way baby. I'm not slowing down and I'm sure as fuck not stopping."

You heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, followed by a sharp intake of breath when he nudged his leaking head against your hole.

"You’re not going to remember this. And I'm not going to leave any evidence."

He pushed your legs tighter against your chest.

"So as much as I want to fuck you rotten, you're gonna have to be happy with just the tip."

He'd done a good job loosening and lubing you, but it still burned like a hot poker when he forced his way in. He groaned, almost in pain.

"You're fucking choking me. God, do you want my cum so bad?"

You could feel when the tip was in. That tiny difference in thickness between his head and shaft was oh so noticeable when your ass was clenching and fluttering around it. It was the smallest mercy, but mercy nonetheless.

He was panting from the effort of getting it in, the effort of holding back. The size difference between you almost perverse. Like a draft stallion trying to mount a pony. In every way, he was just too fucking big.

He spat in his hand and brought it to his cock, ran his palm up and down his shaft with sickly wet strokes. The combination of his palm and your squeezing ass was fucking delicious.

He had great stamina but fuck if it didn't feel like you were milking him.

He let go long enough to smack your ass. It almost finished him. You clenched around him so hard it felt like his tip was getting fucking crushed.

"Shiiiit, you're the best hole I've ever had. Can't wait 'til I can go all the way."

You whined, pitiful as snared prey. There were words there, though they were too slurred to make out. Something about Daddy and please and stop. He ignored you.

He pushed in a little deeper and watched your face scrunching up. So helpless, so fucking caught. That was what did it. The knowledge that he could do this to you at any point and you'd be helpless to stop it.

He came inside you, snarling through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into your thigh hard enough to bruise. You'd notice the marks in the morning and chalk it up to just being clumsy. But he'd know. He'd see the bruises peeking out from the hem of your shorts and his cock would twitch just a little at the memory of leaving them.

His cock pulsed. Shot strings of spunk deep inside you. You could feel it. Hot, too hot. Gross. Make it stop. Get it out.

He pulled out with a wet pop. His cum drooled down and he took a minute to work it back into you with his finger. Your hole was gaping just a little and it made his balls pulse. If he had the time...

"A real fucking mess. And on my good sheets too. You're a terrible guest."

He mopped up whatever cum remained with a balled up piece of martial that he pulled from his pocket. Even in you stupor, you recognised it as your missing underwear.

"Terrible guest, but the perks of having you around are pretty fucking sweet."

He dropped your knees back to the mattress, pulled your pants back into place and roughly yanked the duvet over you. He grabbed your jaw and smiled at the lost, drowsy look in your half open eyes.

"Got a big day tomorrow. Gonna wake up and find your whole house was flooded. Ruined. Gonna have nowhere to stay but with me."

He sounded smug. It made your guts twist.

Outside, the night grew quiet. A predator was hunting and most prey knew better than to catch its attention.

"I made sure of it. All your family and friends in the city are away from home. There's no one around to help you out..."

He tightened his grip just enough to watch the fear start dancing in your eyes.

"No one...except me."

He let you go and smiled that same warm, comforting smile from that afternoon.

"Dumb little thing. Got no clue how your water mains work, do you? Got no idea how easy they are to sabotage."

He tutted. "Got me so damn busy. I'm gonna have to run to your place, fuck shit up and be back here before you wake up for real."

He traced his index finger over your lips and left behind a sticky coating of spunk. You'd wake up tasting salt again, with no memory of why.

"But it's fine. I forgive you. After today we'll have plenty of time together. Rest of our lives in fact. So just sleep tight and forget what you think you've dreamed."

There are perks to living in the middle nowhere. Privacy. Untouched nature. Peace and quiet.

There are perks, but unfortunately for you, your neighbour isn't one of them.

[astars-things]

 “One more kiss?” “You said that 20 kisses ago” with luke hughes? 🧎‍♂️

I stood by the front door, arms loosely wrapped around Luke’s waist, my forehead resting against his chest. His duffle bag sat at his feet, ready to be slung over his shoulder at any second, but he wasn’t rushing. Neither of us was.

“Are you sure you packed everything?” I asked, even though I’d already watched him triple-check his bag an hour ago.

Luke hummed softly, his hands tracing lazy circles on my back. “Yeah. But if I forgot something, it just gives me an excuse to FaceTime you.”

I smiled into his sweatshirt, tugging the fabric gently between my fingers. “Like you need an excuse.”

His laugh was soft, warm, the kind that made me feel like the only person in the world. “True.”

We stood there for a minute, the silence wrapping around us like a blanket, both of us unwilling to be the first to let go. The roadie wasn’t even that long — a week, maybe a little more — but every time he left, it still felt like a piece of me was walking out the door with him.

Luke tipped my chin up with a finger, his hazel eyes flickering down to my lips. “One more kiss?”

I raised a brow. “You said that 20 kisses ago.”

“Okay, but this one’s the real last one,” he said, trying (and failing) to look serious. His smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and I couldn’t help but lean up and press my lips to his.

The kiss was slow, soft, the kind of kiss that made promises, promises that he’d miss me, that he’d text me every night, that no matter how many miles stretched between us, I was still his girl. When I pulled back, he chased my lips with his, stealing one more quick peck.

I laughed, my hands sliding up to cup his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned, leaning his forehead against mine. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you more,” I whispered. “It’s way too quiet around here when you’re gone.”

Luke’s hands moved to my waist, holding me like I might disappear if he let go. “I’ll call every night.”

“You better.”

“And I’ll send you all the terrible hotel breakfast reviews.”

“Perfect. My personal Yelp critic.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating against me. But as much as we tried to make light of it, the weight of the goodbye hung in the air. I hated this part, the letting go, the stepping back, the closing the door behind him.

He finally sighed, stepping back just enough to grab his bag. “Okay, I really have to go.”

I nodded, my throat tightening. “One more kiss?”

He smirked. “You said that 20 kisses ago.”

“Just one more,” I whispered.

He leaned down, brushing his lips over mine one last time. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Lukey.”

And with that, he was out the door.

[maximoffsgirl]

Felis

summary: Wanda Maximoff had a well-known reputation for barely tolerating humanity— well, except for you. That much was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious was the Wanda only you got, the Wanda who took you to secret late-night dates spent under the stars, where it was just You, her and the constellations. But now, meeting face to face with the misfortune of having to share you, will Wanda be able to survive nosy adults - known as the World's mighty heroes- that want to "take her girlfriend away"?

warnings: Established but new relationship, late night car drives, make outs, Slight alcohol consumption, Wanda being an emo black cat and cute, Jealousy and Possessiveness (W to R), otherwise I think there's none, but please let me know!

not proofread

author's note: to the anon who requested this, I hope this is what you were thinking about❤️ (I'm sorry it took sooooo long, i hope it was worth the wait)

words count: 7.905

The room buzzed with a relaxed, lively energy, the kind that paired perfectly with the faint chill creeping in from the late hour. Unfortunately for Wanda, your animated conversation with Yelena seemed destined to stretch into eternity—or at least until the yawning hours of the morning. And, according to Wanda’s resolve, it was already late enough for her to contemplate the sweet relief of her bed.  

You threw your head back in laughter, your carefree joy radiating through the room as you sipped your drink. Every now and then, your gaze flicked toward Wanda, scanning for her familiar figure. When you spotted her lingering at the edge of a small demilune table, you gestured for her to come closer. But she just pointed toward the couch where the rest of your friends were perched, and you nodded, giving her a quiet, reassuring smile.  

Your friends had practically staged an intervention to convince you to bring Wanda to your group’s monthly reunion. Sure, she’d bumped into some of them before—an impromptu chat here, an accidental coffee shop encounter there, maybe a party or two—but being submerged in the full, unfiltered chaos of your entire friend group was a whole different beast.

 It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t like them or that they didn’t like her. They got along quite well, and to Wanda’s surprise, they actually had some interesting things to talk about and fun stories to share. The problem was just… people.  

Even if your group was as friendly and easygoing as they came, they were still people. And that didn’t make them any less exhausting.  

Wanda handled it all as the night stretched on. Polite conversations, a few strategically timed smiles, more small talk than she could ever count. She kept her drink alcohol-free, making sure to stay in condition to drive both of you back. But a woman can only handle so much. She quickly found her brief moments of relief by sneaking off to the bathroom, where she’d check her phone—just long enough to catch her breath before re-entering the chaos. When that didn’t suffice, she’d quietly gravitate toward you, slipping her hand gently around your waist. It wasn’t to draw attention or interrupt; just a quiet connection, a grounding touch that offered her comfort without taking too much of your focus, letting her steal a few moments of peace before braving the crowd again.  

At some point, she even got roped into a game with two boys named Billy and Tommy, her competitive streak sparking a few rare grins. But soon enough, the buzz of social interaction began to drain her reserves. By the time you and Yelena’s gossiping marathon was winding down, Wanda had settled into her default role as the quiet observer, her emerald eyes trailing you across the room like a moth drawn to its flame.  

When you finally made your way back to her, you leaned in to press a kiss just behind her ear, instantly switching her attention to a more interesting subject: you.

Wanda’s focus shifted instantly, her gaze snapping to you as quickly as her hand placement now, a possessive grip on your thigh. She had long stopped pretending to listen to Kate Bishop’s rambling. The words coming from Kate’s mouth were nothing compared to the sight of you. Your skirt, the way it clung to your skin despite the cold, was far more interesting than… well, she really had no idea what that girl was saying.  

It didn’t take one with powers to be able to read your girlfriend. Wanda’s forest-green eyes, though soft and subtle, practically screamed, Please, let’s go home. Her social battery was drained down to fumes, and the longing for the quiet solitude of her own space was undeniable.  

When you leaned closer and murmured, “You’re ready to go. Aren’t you?” your words were laced with humor, teasing her indirectly for her lack of love for people. The spark in her eyes flared to life, a silent but emphatic yes. With a quiet chuckle, you nodded, rising from your seat and signaling the end of the night.  

Both of you offered your goodbyes to the group, earning a chorus of exaggerated complaints about how the night was still young—even though the clock had struck 2 AM half an hour ago. You smiled apologetically, tossing out an excuse about needing to get up early, even if everyone knew it was only half true. Wanda appeared beside you just in time, draping her leather jacket over your shoulders—because, naturally, you hadn’t thought to bring one yourself.  

A few quick waves later, you were stepping out into the crisp night air, Wanda’s hand finding its place on your lower back, gently steering you toward the car. You glanced up at her, smiling softly, and her lips curved into a smirk before she leaned in, stealing a quick kiss. Your surprised giggle encouraged her, and she peppered your lips with more playful pecks all the way to the car. Once there, she opened the door for you, her touch lingering as you settled into the passenger seat.  

The drive home was nothing unusual for Wanda, though her mind wandered. If it were up to her, you’d be spending the night at the tower, wrapped up in her until morning. But she knew better—your schedule was packed, and persuasion, no matter how charming, wouldn’t change your mind. Believe her, she’d tried before, and you were infuriatingly stubborn.  

“I’ll pick you up at 7 PM then,” she said as you unbuckle your seatbelt, her tone firm with a touch of affection.  

“Okay, but text me when you’re leaving the tower,” you replied, grabbing your purse.  

Wanda hummed her agreement, though her focus had already shifted. Her fingers trailed teasingly along your thigh, drawing your attention back to her. You tilted your head, leaning slightly against the seat as you flushed under her gaze. Without hesitation, Wanda’s hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was far more intense than you’d expected. A quiet moan escaped you, caught off guard by the heat of it.  

That sound was all it took for Wanda to tug you into her lap, her hands firm on your hips, drawing you closer with every second. One hand wandered upward, settling confidently on your neck as the kiss deepened. When you finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, you murmured, “I need to go hooome.”  

Wanda’s response was a low murmur against your neck, followed by a series of distracting kisses. “And?” her tone lazy and unbothered, her lips never straying far from your skin created goosebumps all over your body. The sheer audacity of it made you groan, tilting your head back. You knew what she was doing.  

You giggled softly, shaking your head at her antics, the warmth of the moment lingering between you. Placing your hands gently on her shoulders, you immediately drew Wanda’s attention. Before she could dive back toward your neck, you leaned in, pressing a light peck to her lips, halting her progress.  

“As much as I love this, and as much as I love you. I really, really need to go.”  

Well, that wasn’t what she was expecting at all. Her expression softened as she let her hand wander, her thumb tracing slow, deliberate strokes along your hip. Brushing her other thumb against your skin with an affectionate rhythm as her eyes met yours.  

“But you’ll stay tomorrow at the tower,” she said, and you knew better than to take that as anything other than an affirmation.  

Either way, you nodded, a faint smile curving your lips at her certainty. The two of you lingered in each other’s arms for a while longer, chatting about silly, inconsequential things, along with Wanda’s now-and-then complaints about people, in general.  

Maybe it was because Wanda grew up with only her brother by her side, her world small and quiet, that adjusting to life with far more people than she’d ever anticipated felt like stepping into chaos. It explained a lot about her demeanor—your girlfriend was, without a doubt, the definition of a black cat. From her emo wardrobe to her piercingly observant nature, right down to that deadly tilt of her head, she carried an air of mystery and quiet defiance that was entirely her own.  

A mystery that she was letting you slowly resolve.  

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Wanda walked you to your door, her hand resting snugly against your lower back, and stole one last kiss for the night. Alright, she stole three kisses… maybe four before she said goodbye.  

--- 07:13 PM, Saturday.

Wanda knew countless ways to show you love. She absolutely hated those five love language quizzes. But took every possible quiz known to mankind, because it made you happy. To her, there was no point in defining her love when her goal was simple: to love you in every imaginable way known to humanity.  

Take words of affirmation—Wanda had mastered them. Sometimes she’d leave you anonymous notes tucked in unexpected places, filled with songs, poems, or plain “I love yous” scribbled all over the paper. Of course, those notes often came paired with flowers, seamlessly tying into her “gift-giving” love language.

 Or she would whisper sweet things in your ear, maybe after fucking you into the mattress to a point that your legs simply decided against working; or during a cozy cuddle session, that she was so overwhelmed to the thought of loving you that expressing what her heart felt was the only way to breathe.

But Wanda had her personal ranking system, and in her imaginary list, the “best love language of all time” title went to a combination of three: acts of service, quality time, and physical touch. It might seem odd if you thought about it. Because as much as she loved her brother and cherished the company of the team, Wanda Maximoff was known as the ultimate lone wolf; who cherished her independence and had always preferred her space. But who now, lived for your presence.  

The once-solitary soul found herself missing you in your absence, casually touching you whenever you were close, and pouting—yes, pouting—when you weren’t. She’d found herself wanting to do anything and everything for you, from tying your shoelaces to painting your nails, actions that spoke volumes without a single word.  

And tonight, you realized she’d be using all three in full force the moment you shut your front door. Wanda leaned against her car casually, exuding an effortless confidence that made it look like she owned the world. Her combat boots gave her a slightly taller stance, her short black skirt was just enough to drive you insane, and her crimson lace corset hugged her waist with a perfection that could make statues weep.  

Topping it all off was her signature leather jacket, the one both of you knew would end up draped over your shoulders by the end of the night, as it always did.

She greeted you with a sweet pet name, her tone soft as she guided you to the passenger seat. Then, as soon as she got in, she kissed you—a teasing, gentle press of her lips that left your lipstick intact but made your heart flutter in the way only Wanda could.  

Too wonderstruck by Wanda’s presence to notice at first, it wasn’t until you glanced around the car that something seemed off. A frown slowly crept onto your face as you noticed the unfamiliar vehicle: a pickup truck you were certain Wanda didn’t own.  

“This is not your car,” you stated, turning to her with a puzzled look, silently asking for an explanation.  

“It’s Clint’s. And I’ll say no more because it’s part of your surprise,” she replied with a sly smirk, clearly enjoying your confusion.  

She tried to steer your attention elsewhere, initiating a conversation about anything but cars or dates. Soon enough, the two of you were caught up in the comfort of your usual rhythm. Wanda shared new stories about the team and Pietro that you hadn’t heard before, and you found yourself revealing snippets of your life before her, the kind of details you didn’t usually think to share but felt natural with her.  

Of course, curiosity got the best of you, as it always did. You tried again, your tone playfully insistent. “Where are we going?” But Wanda wasn’t budging.  

“I’m not saying. You’ll just have to sit there and look pretty,” her smile only making you more curious.  

Resigning to the mystery for now, you shifted your focus to the little comforts inside the car. You picked the music—your shared playlist, the one you’d made together late at night before you’d even started dating—and absentmindedly played with the rings on Wanda’s right hand, the same hand that rested comfortably on your thigh.  

The conversation, once again, changed to random facts, half-formed ideas, and musings stories that hadn’t come up before. But neither of you cared; every small discovery about each other felt like another thread tying you closer together.  

Then the car slowed. Wanda stopped near a gate, grabbing a set of keys and tapping your leg as she stepped out. It wasn’t until she walked toward the gate—a sophisticated, intricately designed one—that your curiosity turned into full-blown amusement.  

When she returned, you tilted your head at her with a half-smile, your curiosity now brimming. “Wanda… what is that?”  

She giggled, looking up dramatically as if in thought, before you poked her side, your need to know finally winning out.  

“I was talking to Clint about taking you on a date, like that movie we watched. But I didn’t have a place, and the park just wasn’t it. So, welcome to Anthony Stark’s country house,” she said casually.  

Your eyes widened in disbelief, a startled laugh escaping you as you processed her words. “Stark?! How?”  

If it had been Clint offering, it would’ve made more sense. He was practically Wanda’s surrogate father figure, even if she refused to admit it. But Tony? That was a different story.  

“He offered,” she said with a shrug. “Said it’s a family property he barely uses. I wasn’t going to take him up on it, but Barton called me out. And, well… it’s for you.”  

Her voice softened on the last words, and she looked away, parking the car near a tree. Even in the dim light, you could see the faint blush dusting her cheeks, a blush too strong to go unnoticed.  

Your chest tightened with emotion, and you reached out to her, feeling overwhelmed by the gesture. Wanda Maximoff, the girl who claimed she didn’t need anyone, had gone through all this trouble just to give you something special.  

“You’re too good,” you murmured, the words spilling out unfiltered, your heart feeling fuller than ever.

Wanda’s smile was a perfect blend of shyness and confidence, like she knew exactly what she was doing but still couldn’t quite believe she was pulling it off. She parked the car under the shelter of a sprawling tree, its branches reaching out like they were trying to touch the stars. And oh, the stars—countless, glittering, and impossibly bright against the deep blue canvas of the night sky.

You stepped out of the car, immediately captivated by the celestial display, your head tilting back, trying to watch it closely. You turned, ready to gush to Wanda about how breathtaking it all was, but your words caught in your throat. She wasn’t there.

Your eyes darted around, and there she was—Wanda, already moving with purpose, shutting the backseat door and making her way to the truck bed. Curiosity piqued, you followed, your footsteps crunching softly on the gravel.

What was she up to now? Your mind raced, but nothing could have prepared you for what you saw next.

The truck bed looked like a scene straight from a rom-com, but this was real, and it was all yours. Blankets and pillows were spread out neatly, candles flickered softly, and a few containers sat nearby, hinting at snacks waiting to be discovered. There was also a wooden board, though you didn’t know what it was for yet. 

And then, of course, there was Wanda. She sat on the edge of the truck bed, her dark brown hair catching the soft candlelight, her eyes shining with a mix of mischief and warmth. She stood there, effortlessly magnetic and, but her smile? always sweet.

Suddenly, the constellations above you felt insignificant, obsolete.

Why gaze at distant stars when the most radiant being in the universe was standing right in front of you? And then, like a quiet ripple in your memory, you thought back to the first time you saw Wanda.

It was a Friday night, and you were out with your friends after a long week. The local club was packed, as it always was on weekends, but the drinks were good enough to make the crowd bearable. You weren’t there for anything in particular—just to unwind, sip on a drink, and enjoy the company of your closest friends. The music pulsed through the room, and you found yourself laughing, dancing, and letting the night carry you along. That’s when you noticed her, in the middle of it all. 

Her hair tied up in a ponytail, wearing a sleek black short skirt and tall boots that added an air of elegance to her presence. There was something about her—the way she carried herself, the way she seemed to glow even in the dim light of the club—that made it impossible to look away. Your first thought was that she reminded you of a constellation. Hard to find, but impossible not to search for it.

Astronomers might say that constellations are only hard to find if you don't know what you're searching for; you didn’t know much about stars—you could barely find the three stars of the Orion Belt—but spotting her in that crowded room felt as natural as finding the constellation Cassiopeia.

But as far as looking goes, you didn’t approach her. You wanted to, but the moment never felt right. By the time you gathered the courage, she was gone, disappearing into the night like the stars fading at dawn. And there goes your North Star…

Later, after you’d been talking for a couple of weeks, Wanda confessed something that surprised you. She had noticed you that night too. In fact, she had stared at you the whole night. To the point where Pietro - her twin brother, who practically forced her out of her room that night - teased her about the intense and long stares she was giving you, saying you would soo call the cops on her ass if she continued to look like a creep.

 But she didn’t care. She was drawn to you, too busy admiring you. 

That is, until she saw Kate - your overly affectionate, completely wasted friend - throw her arms around your shoulders and drag you onto the dance floor. Wanda spent the rest of the night pouting like a child, downing a few more shots, and probably plotting Kate’s demise. 

Now, standing here with her, the stars above seem dim in comparison. Wanda is luminous, magnetic, and real—not some distant, untouchable light in the sky. And in this moment, no constellation could ever come close to her.

There was once a constellation named Felis. Created by a French astronomer in 1799 who felt sorry that there wasn’t a cat among the constellations (though that was not entirely true, because the constellation Lynx was formed by another astronomer in 1687). The constellation could be found between the constellations of Antlia and Hydra, a small cluster of stars meant to honor the elegance and mystery of a feline.

You chuckled at the cat-loving astronomer, amused by their dedication to carving out a place for a cat in the vast night sky. But at the same time, you couldn’t blame him when you, yourself, would create a constellation for Wanda. A cat, as well, because she more than half of the time took pride in her black cat personality. 

When finding yourself sad on the news that the Felis constellation has become obsolete, you decided that Wanda Maximoff would be your new Felis. Something you never got the courage to mention to her, but a silly nickname that found its way into your diary every single time you wrote about her

So as you stared at the woman in front you, your brain short-circuited. Though it always did when “Wanda Maximoff” was involved. The first thought that popped into your head was, “I’ll never get over her if we ever break up.” Because how could you? Who else would go to such lengths to make you feel like the center of the universe?

You pouted at her, your face a mix of disbelief and awe. No words came out—just a soft, overwhelmed exhale. The kind of exhale that comes when you realize just how loved you are. 

“Wands…” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda’s smile widened, and she patted the space beside her, a silent invitation. “You’re just going to stand there like a dork or will you join your girlfriend?” she teased, her tone light but her eyes full of affection.

Girlfriend. That word never fails to make your heart skip a beat. You giggled, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside, and quickly climbed into the truck bed. You settled onto the blanket, draping another one over your legs as Wanda handed it to you. 

“This is… wow,” you said, still taking it all in—the stars, the candles, the tree, her. “I mean… you are wow.” Wanda chuckled, the sound warm and low, and leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek before pulling you closer.

The night unfolded in the most perfect way. You lay there together, staring up at the stars, trying to spot the Orion’s Belt as Wanda tried to explain to you how easy it was to find it - you called her crazy right after. The sound of a nearby river added a soothing soundtrack to the moment, its gentle babble mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves. At one point, you gasped, noticing the strings of light bulbs hanging from the tree above. They cast a soft, golden glow, and you realized that’s where the light had been coming from all along. 

After a while, Wanda’s gaze shifted from the stars to you. She had this habit of staring, and while it used to make you blush furiously, you’d grown to find it endearing. You stared back, holding her gaze as long as you could, until the intensity became too much and you had to look away, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

“Are you hungry?” Wanda asked, breaking the silence out of sudden, another habit she had.

“Right now? Hmm, not really,” you replied, though your stomach might have disagreed if it weren’t so busy being distracted by the romance of it all.

Wanda nodded, but then, she quickly slid off the truck bed and disappeared toward the backseat. You frowned, curious, and watched as she reappeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses; the wooden board now serving as a perfectly sized table for two. She balanced it between you two, one leg on your side and the other on hers, and then, like some kind of romantic magician, produced two drawing books and a set of crayons.

“What is happening right now?” you asked, half-laughing, as she handed you a half-glass of wine. She poured herself a glass of water, explaining that she’d be the designated driver tonight, as it usually happened. After all, someone had to sneak you both back into the tower and find the way to her room without raising suspicion.

You took a sip of the wine, the rich flavor warming you from the inside out, and glanced at the drawing book in your lap. “So… are we having an art night under the stars?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

And it was exactly that. Wanda had planned a cozy little coloring and drawing session just for the two of you. You leaned partially against her, finding the most comfortable position possible, and your cheeks warmed up when she casually draped her leather jacket over your shoulders. She made sure to tuck the blanket snugly around your waist, making sure that you stayed warm and cozy. You silently thanked her with a shower of soft kisses, making her giggle as she playfully tried to wiggle away—though you both knew she wasn’t actually trying to escape.

Just when you thought she couldn't possibly outdo herself, she hit you with the ultimate surprise: a container of your favorite cookies. Yes, your favorite cookies. Freshly baked. Homemade. You stared at her, eyes practically glistening, and the look you gave her in that moment was so full of love that Wanda was convinced she could die happy, right then and there.

And so, the two of you stayed like that for hours—though it felt like mere minutes. Coloring, talking, kissing, eating, just loving

At some point in the night, when your wine glass had been emptied, with not a single drop to be found and the cookies had long since disappeared, you noticed Wanda giving you a look. That look. You couldn’t pinpoint what was happening inside her head at that moment: after all, you haven't yet got the time to figure out the meaning behind Wanda Maximoff’s indecipherable gazes. And that woman had an entire collection of unreadable expressions.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, though. A lot of people thought Wanda was “cold” or “distant” because of the way she carried herself—her infamous resting bitch face and her preference for not engaging in unnecessary small talk. But you knew better.

You wished people could see Wanda through your eyes. See how thoughtful she was, how much effort she put into the things and people she loved. But at the same time, there was a selfish part of you that liked keeping this version of Wanda all to yourself. You liked having this Wanda just for you. For your eyes to see, your heart to hold, and yours to have..

Especially now, when she was looking at you like that - a “that” that you didn’t even know what it meant or how you could begin to describe it -, her fingers idly tracing up and down your neck, a habit she had picked up a few weeks ago.

“I have another thing for you,” she murmured, her voice so quiet it felt like speaking any louder would disturb the peaceful bubble you had built around yourselves.

“Wanda…” You groaned, though the smile stretching across your face completely betrayed your attempt at scolding her. “You’re spoiling me too much.”

She just shook her head, a smirk playing at the edge of her lips; the red lipstick now smeared on her glass.

You giggled as she helped you hop off the truck bed, steadying you with a firm but gentle grip. But when she led you to the car and opened the backseat door for you, you couldn’t help but frown in confusion.

Settling into the seat, you looked up at her, curiosity swimming in your eyes. Wanda simply closed the door behind her, a small smirk playing on her lips. You didn’t have much time to admire her, though, because in the next moment, you realized you were trapped. Wanda had you against the door, your back somehow comfortably resting against it as she crawled closer and closer to you, until she was hovering over you, her body caging you in.

You turned your head to the side, blushing under the weight of her full and undivided attention. But Wanda wasn’t having any of that. She reached out and gently grabbed your chin, supporting herself with her other arm as she leaned in closer. 

“What? You’re too shy to look at me?” she teased, her face carrying a curious expression, though her voice betrayed her with a mock tone. “You didn’t even drink that much wine.”

You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “I had enough,” you replied, your voice soft but playful, an intense blush quickly growing on your cheeks. Wanda’s smirk grew wider, and she raised her eyebrows at you, humming in acknowledgment. 

Her thumb traced a slow, deliberate path from your chin to your jaw, then down your neck, before returning to where it began. Finally, she moved her thumb to your lips, tracing your bottom lip gently. The touch was feather-light, sending a shiver down your spine.

As she leaned down, it became clear that Wanda just wanted to kiss you right there in the back seat - that’s what she had stored for you there. You smiled up at her, your cheeks burning with a scarlet red shade as you looped your arms around her shoulders, gently pulling her closer. Wanda smiled back, her lips brushing against yours in a way that was soft and teasing, her quiet laugh escaping as she playfully poked your sides.

You kissed her lightly, quick little pecks that made her grin, but Wanda wasn’t satisfied with just that. She cupped your cheek, her touch warm and steady, and paused for a moment, her eyes holding yours - you could lose yourself in her eyes, the soft green piercing into yours with a tenderness so profound it felt almost unbearable, an intensity that seemed to pull at the very core of your being, leaving you breathless and exposed.

She leaned in, and the kiss started slow—gentle, almost hesitant, like she was savoring the feel of your lips against hers. It was sweet, unhurried, and you felt yourself melting into her, your fingers lightly threading through her hair. But the pace changed, the kiss growing more urgent, more intense. Wanda’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer. Her other arm tightened around your waist, holding you firmly against her. The softness gave way to something hotter, hungrier, her lips parting as the kiss turned breathless, consuming. 

You stayed there, kissing, for what felt like an eternity—minutes, hours, it didn’t matter as long as Wanda was with you. You could only focus on the way her lips moved against yours, soft and sure at first, then growing deeper, more insistent. Her tongue brushed against yours, sending a shiver down your spine as she reached down to grab your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your fingers tangled in her hair, gripping lightly as if to anchor yourself, but it only seemed to spur her on.

Every now and then, the kiss would break, just for a moment, as one of you pressed a wandering kiss to the corner of the other’s mouth, or along their jaw, or to the soft spot just below their ear, or just a playful bite at their bottom lip. 

Her lips trailed down your neck, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp, and you could feel her smile against you before she returned to your lips, hungry and demanding, exploring and claiming, as if she couldn’t get enough of you. And you couldn’t get enough of her. 

You stayed like that, kissing, touching, completely lost in each other. The world outside the car seemed to fade into the background, and all that mattered was her—the way her hands held you like you were something precious, the way her lips moved against yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart race.

The night stretched on, neither of you noticing the passage of time, too wrapped up in each other’s embrace to give the rest of the world a second thought. But the moment was interrupted when Wanda’s phone slipped from the seat and hit the car floor with a loud thud. The sound startled you both, and you broke the kiss, laughing as you craned your necks to see where the phone had landed.

When Wanda picked it up, you gasped at the screen—3:45 AM glared back at you. “Oh my god… I had no idea it was that late,” you said, hiding your face in the crook of her neck. 

Wanda chuckled softly, the vibration of her laughter against your skin making you smile. Her free hand found its way to your hair, fingers casually twirling a strand or scratching gently at your scalp in a way that made you melt.

After a few minutes like that, you reluctantly pulled away, insisting that the two of you should pack up and head home. Wanda groaned, complaining about how she never wanted to leave, but she eventually caved, giving in to your logic. 

Soon enough, everything was packed and ready to go.

The drive back to the tower was peaceful in a way you hadn’t expected. You never knew a a relationship could be so intense and sweet at the same time. Wanda’s hand rested on your thigh most of the time, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns just for the comfort that the action offered. The shared playlist playing softly in the background once again, filling the occasional silences that didn’t really need to be filled.

Sleep was already tugging at both of you, soft yawns escaping more frequently as Wanda drove. But maybe it was the music—one of your favorite songs had come on—or the way her fingers were laced with yours, your index finger idly playing with the rings on her hand, that kept you from drifting off completely.

You sighed, the idea of finally getting the sleep you so desperately graved feeling just out of reach.

“What was that for, sweet girl?” Wanda asked gently, her hand already resting on your thigh giving it a light poke.

“I was so sleepy, but now I don’t think I can sleep at all,” you complained, pouting up at her. Wanda chuckled at your dramatics, reaching over to grab the garage remote from the car door.

“We’ll find your sleep, my love. Don’t worry,” she reassured you, her voice soft and teasing. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, nodding along to her words even though you weren’t entirely convinced.

Now, here’s where things started to get a little tricky. It was well past 4 AM, and the two of you were trying to sneak into the tower as quietly as possible. But there were two problems: 1) some of the Avengers, like Steve Rogers, were known to be up before the sun, and 2) others, like Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes, seemed to have a sixth sense for every single movement in the tower, even when they were supposedly asleep.

As much as Wanda loved her teammates—her ugh, she’d have to admit it—found family, she wasn’t exactly in the mood for a full interrogation about why she was coming back so late, why she looked like she’d been “attacked by a bear” (messy clothes, wild hair, and all), or why her girlfriend looked equally disheveled. So, she did her best to walk as lightly as possible, her footsteps barely making a sound.

But, for some reason, the absurdity of the situation had both of you stifling laughter. 

It all went downhill when her jacket, which was still lazily draped over your shoulders, slipped off. The zipper hit the floor with a loud clink, echoing through the quiet hallway like a gong. You promised yourself you wouldn’t laugh. You really did. But the sight of your usually cool, collected, and slightly emo girlfriend tiptoeing through the tower like a spy on a mission just to get away from nosy adults was too much. The contrast between her usual nonchalant demeanor and the sheer ridiculousness of the moment had you biting your lip to keep from bursting out laughing.

Wanda shot you a look, half exasperated, half amused, as she quickly scooped up the jacket. “You’re not helping,” she whispered, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“I’m trying!” you whispered back, your shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Wanda rolled her eyes, though the smile on her face gave her away. She held your hand tightly, quietly dragging you down the hallway as if you were on some top-secret mission. 

When a door near her room clicked open, Wanda quickened her pace, pulling you along with her. You couldn’t help but giggle at her exaggerated urgency, even though you knew it was completely unnecessary.

She practically yanked you into her room, instantly closing the door behind you. You immediately threw yourself onto her bed, burying your face in the pillows to muffle your laughter. Wanda stood there, arms crossed, looking completely unamused—though she was trying so hard not to laugh.

Once the laughter finally died down, you rummaged through her drawer and pulled out one of her oversized shirts to wear as pajamas. The familiar comfort of her clothes wrapped around you, and you felt the pull of sleep creeping back in. You and Wanda stood side by side in the bathroom, lazily brushing your teeth, the quiet hum of the tower settling around you.

Wanda finished first, and before you could even ask her to stay with you, she hugged you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. She let out a long, dramatic sigh, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted off her shoulders. You couldn’t help but smile, leaning back into her for a moment before finishing up. You kissed the side of her face as you set your toothbrush next to hers—a small but meaningful gesture that made your heart swell. 

It was your turn to sigh when you finally curled up in Wanda’s arms, her soft blankets draped over you both. Your arms wrapped around each other, and for a moment, you just lay there, breathing in the quiet comfort of being together.

You shared a conversation that might’ve lasted three minutes—less maybe. As one of you  finally dozed off, and the other followed soon after, finally giving in to the exhaustion of the night. You smiled in your sleep, somewhat feeling the steady rise and fall of Wanda’s chest and the warmth of her arms around you, pulling you into the deepest, most peaceful sleep you’d had in a while.

Before you started dating, Wanda had quickly noticed your insatiable curiosity. You were always asking her questions—about her life, her thoughts, her experiences—and she found it endearing. You’d dive into every little detail she shared, researching things she mentioned just so you could come back with more to talk about. It was cute, the way you were so eager to know every part of her.

So, it wasn’t a surprise to Wanda when she woke up to find you standing in the middle of her room, intently studying the little photo mural she had near her study table. She watched you for a moment, shifting on the bed to get more comfortable as you analyzed every corner of her space.

You’d been in her room a few times before, but most of those visits had been in the dark—escaping from a party she’d convinced you to attend, too caught up in  kissing and taking each other’s clothes to notice the little details. Now, in the soft morning light, you were finally taking it all in: the guitar leaning against the wall, the painting supplies tucked neatly next to her wardrobe, the little trinkets scattered across her shelves.

“You’re very nosy, you know,” Wanda said, her voice soft but teasing, breaking the silence.

“Hm?” You turned to face her, a smile spreading across your face despite the faint pink tinting your cheeks. You hadn’t expected her to be awake.

Wanda grinned at your slightly embarrassed expression, propping herself up on one elbow as she watched you. “You’re being nosy,” she repeated, her tone playful.

“That’s a love language, you know,” you shot back, walking over to the bed with a smirk.

“What? Stalking?” she quipped, raising an eyebrow to tease you further. You nodded, climbing onto the bed beside her. “Yes. It means I like you.”

She let out a fake, dramatic gasp, clutching her chest as if wounded. “Like me?! And here I was thinking you loved me.”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, then her nose—which made her scrunch it up in that adorable way you absolutely adored—before finally pressing a soft peck to her lips. Wanda smiled, her hands instinctively finding your waist as you settled into her lap.

“So, you’re nosy, a stalker, and a thief?” she teased, her eyes scanning you from head to toe. She made no effort to hide the fact that she was checking you out, her gaze lingering on the way her gray sweatpants and black tank top hung loosely on your frame. Even your damp hair smelled like her shampoo.

“You knew all of that before you started dating me,” you fired back, grinning sweetly at her

Wanda chuckled, her hands moving to your hips as she gently swayed you from side to side, her touch playful and affectionate.

“I can’t run away now, hm?” Wanda teased, arching her eyebrows at you with that playful smirk you loved so much.

You quickly shook your head, grinning from ear to ear. “Nooo, no! You can’t,” you replied, leaning in to kiss her again, as if to seal the deal.

Before Wanda could fire back with another quip, a slightly robotic voice interrupted the moment. It was Jarvis, the ever-helpful A.I. that seemed to know everything happening in the Avengers Tower.

“Miss Maximoff, you have been requested in the kitchen for breakfast. Miss Y/L/N as well,” 

You blinked, surprised. “They know I’m here?” you asked, turning to Wanda with wide eyes. Wanda shrugged, her expression a mix of amusement and nonchalance. 

It didn’t take long before the two of you were heading to the kitchen—after Wanda’s whole morning routine, of course, and a few (okay, maybe more than a few) kisses in between. 

You were kind of used to walking around the tower by now—not enough to feel completely at ease wandering alone in the massive building, but enough to find your way to Wanda’s room, the gym, and the garden without getting lost.

But here’s the thing: even though you were somewhat familiar with the place, you’d never been in a room with all of the Avengers at once. Sure, after Wanda dragged you to one of Stark’s infamous parties, you’d met a few of them. There was Clint, who somehow always gave off “cool dad” vibes. Natasha, who you still couldn’t figure out—did she hate you, or was she just like that with everyone? (Wanda assured you it was the latter.) And, of course, Tony Stark himself, the party host. You’d exchanged polite smiles with a few others, but that was about it.

Being in a room with all of them, casually having breakfast? That was an entirely different beast.

You expressed your nerves to Wanda as the two of you walked down the hallway, your fingers tightening around hers. “What if I say something stupid? Or, I don’t know, spill coffee on Captain America?” you whispered, only half-joking.

Wanda chuckled, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “You’ll be fine,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “They’re just people. And besides, you’ve already survived a Stark party. This is nothing.”

You weren’t entirely convinced, but the way Wanda laced her fingers with yours and gave you that soft, encouraging smile made it a little easier to breathe. Still, as you approached the kitchen, you couldn’t help but feel like you were walking into a lion’s den.

But right now, as you sat at the table with a cup of coffee poured by Tony Stark himself, a stack of pancakes offered by Bruce Banner, and an excessive amount of chocolate syrup drizzled over your plate by none other than the God of Thunder, Wanda found herself feeling increasingly uneasy. 

Everything was about you. They wanted to monopolize your time, your attention, your breakfast. They bombarded you with questions: about your life before Wanda, your life with Wanda, your thoughts on global warming, and even your theories on what lies beyond a rainbow. They wanted to know every single little thing about you, it was like they’d collectively decided you were the most fascinating person in the world, and Wanda couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

She tried, though. Oh, she tried. She crossed her arms, pouting like a child, and reached for you every chance she got—your thigh, your arm, your waist, your hands—but every time she managed to steal even the tiniest bit of your attention, someone else would jump in with a question or a story or a joke.

For heaven’s sake, you were her girlfriend. You were in the tower because of her, to have breakfast with her. And now it was all about them.

Even Natasha, who had always been hard to read, seemed to have taken a sudden liking to you. She poured you more coffee, for crying out loud! And Bucky—ugh, don’t even get Wanda started on Bucky—the man who had been silent all breakfasts until the present day, suddenly became way too curious about your life. Wanda made a mental note to hide his fake arm later.

When Sam teased Wanda about “losing her girlfriend to the team,” her eyes flickered red, jealousy flaring up like a wildfire. Sam laughed, clearly getting the reaction he wanted, but he quickly assured her he was just joking. It didn’t help. Wanda gave up on her nearly finished breakfast and decided to keep both hands firmly on your upper arm, as if claiming you back.

But even that wasn’t enough. After a few more minutes of watching you laugh and chat with everyone, Wanda had had it. She stood up abruptly, sighing heavily.

“The questionnaire time is over,” she announced, her voice loud and clear. “If you’ll excuse me, she’ll spend her time alone with me now. Because she’s my girlfriend.”

Her jealous tone made you chuckle, but you didn’t argue. You waved goodbye to the table as Wanda dragged you down the hallway, her grip firm but not unkind. Before you even made it to her room, Wanda had you pinned against the wall in a dimly lit hallway—somewhere you were pretty sure you’d never been before.

She kissed you like her life depended on it, her hands gripping your waist as if to remind you who you belonged to. You smiled into the kiss, knowing full well this was her way of reclaiming you.

“I can’t believe they took all of my breakfast time,” she complained between sweet, lingering pecks on your lips.

“You know I’m all yours,” you smirked, trying not to laugh at the adorable jealousy she couldn’t quite hide.

She nodded, burying her face in your neck, her arms tightening around you. “Mine,” she muttered, her voice muffled but firm.

But as possessive as she was, Wanda couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of happiness underneath it all. She hadn’t planned on introducing you to her found family like this—not so early in your relationship—but seeing how easily you fit in, how naturally you charmed everyone, made her heart swell. You had a way of making her feel comfortable, of making her feel like she belonged, even in her own chaotic world.

As she’d watched you at the table, your lips smudged with chocolate syrup and your hand lazily wrapped around your coffee cup, she realized something: she could never, ever let you go. 

How could she, when you made her feel like a perfect, solved puzzle—like everything in her life finally made sense?

Because when she was with you, she didn't care if things made sense, they always did if she had you by her side.

✄╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it💌

[beloveds-embrace]

Ok Duke au but only one of the boys fell for user! Maybe it was when she first came to the castle/ house, yk if Price ain't gonna give her love then let him!

Or maybe feelings showed up slowly, finally realizing that maybe he should go finally interact with her grace, seeing as she avoids any interactions with others.

Sorry if it makes no sense, I tried to make the decision of which boy falls only for user up to you, minus price >:)

i didn't want to make this too angsty fjddkcj </33 so it's more of the normal dukedom au

Kyle knows he shouldn’t; it isn’t part of the arrangement.

You were meant to be a formality, a necessity, a woman to fill a role, nothing more. And for a while, you had been just that. Sweet and competent, always carrying yourself with quiet dignity no matter the murmurs of high society. A wife in name, a duchess in duty, a friend of theirs, but never a true part of their world.

John had expected you to remain at a distance, and in return, you had been given a life of luxury and protection. That was the agreement. That was how it should have stayed.

But Kyle should’ve known better.

He should have known the moment you leaned over his shoulder one evening, peering at his bookkeeping notes with genuine interest instead of mere obligation. He should have known the moment you scolded Johnny for burning his hand, or when you’d pressed a cool cloth to Simon's temple after a headache instead of calling for a servant.

He should have known when you stopped seeing them as just your husband’s lovers.

But the real moment of downfall- the moment that shattered any fragile delusion he held- was when you smiled at him.

Not a polite smile, not a passing pleasantry.

A real smile.

It had been late. You had been working over estate documents at the desk, and he had lingered, pretending to tidy up, pretending to have something important to do. And then, you had looked at him, eyes warm, lips curving in a way that made something in his chest lurch.

"You work too hard, Kyle. Come sit down with me ?"

You had said his name. Not 'Mr. Garrick,' not 'the head butler.' Just Kyle. And it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time it made his heart ache something fierce and longing.

Because it was too soft. Too familiar. Too much like a wife speaking to a husband.

And now, he is here, standing beside John as you make your absurd little request, completely unaware of the way his hand clenches against his side.

You are oblivious, as you always are, so innocent in your own kindness. You do not see the way John’s gaze darkens, the way Kyle stiffens at your words.

"I am merely a bit… unsatisfied."

Your voice wavers slightly at the admission, and Kyle wonders- if he had been the one to claim you, if he had been the one to hold you at night, would you ever have been unsatisfied?

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks away, even as John’s fingers tighten around his glass.

Something tells him neither of them will let you remain unsatisfied for long.

But he knows the truth.

Even if you are claimed, even if you are made theirs, it will not be by some stable boy.

And that knowledge alone fills him with smug satisfaction.

He doesn’t miss the way John’s grip tightens around his glass, and he knows that if the other two were here as well, Simon's jaw would have tensed and Johnny would have lost all his amusing charm. You are oblivious, of course- always so sweetly naive, thinking you can simply ask for something like this and have it granted without consequence. But this? This will never happen.

John would never agree to this.

And Kyle is relieved. Relieved that your foolish little request will be swiftly discarded. Relieved that you will stay exactly where you belong- here, with them, under their watchful eyes.

You don’t even realize what you’ve done, do you? You think this arrangement is still just convenience, that they merely tolerate you. But Kyle sees it- the way even Simon looks at you during dances, the way Johnny slips you extra sweets as if bribing you into affection, the way John has begun watching you more intently, possessively.

You’ve wormed your way into their hearts, tangled yourself so deeply into their lives that they can’t ignore you anymore.

And Kyle?

Kyle is pleased.

Because it means you are theirs, whether you realize it or not. And no matter how much you pout over John’s rejection, you’ll never be anyone else’s. Because even if he'd been the first to fall for you, he did not need to worry about the others not liking you as well. And now, he will not need worry about anyone else taking you from them.

Not now, and not ever.

[hottiesforhockey]

may the best brother win pt 3 ⏐ h.brothers

pairings: jack hughes x afab!reader ⎜ luke hughes x afab!reader ⎜quinn hughes x afab!reader ⎜ genre: romance ⎜angst ⎜friends-to-lovers ⎜smut? ⎜ warnings: starts off nice and sweet ⎜ luke is giving possessive ⎜ oral (f!recieving) ⎜ more of jack saying dumb things ⎜ prepare for tense brotherly relationships moving forwards ⎜ synopsis: you had spent every summer with the hughes brothers since you were ten years old ... why does this summer feel so different? word count:��10.7k authors note: this is luke's chapter - it's a little steamier then the original so I hope you all enjoy.

part 1 ⎜ part 2 ⎜ part 3 ⎜

(unedited)

“He’s been out there for twenty minutes now.” Luke grumbles as he pauses the movie on your laptop, the sudden silence making the air feel heavier, more suffocating. He shifts, placing the laptop off to the side before rolling onto his side, elbow digging into the mattress as he glares at the shadow pacing back and forth in front of your bedroom door.

The two of you had bundled up in your bedroom for movie night - Quinn down stairs with a few of his friends and neither of you wanting to interrupt the oldest Hughes ‘chill’ time. You had extended an invitation to Jack not wanting to cut him out of your weekly hangouts but honestly you didn’t even expect him to show up. 

You held your chin in your hands as you glance over at Luke, his position casual as he lounges on your mattress, the two of you had been lying on your stomach watching Happy Gilmore for what seems like the hundredth time this summer, but neither of you could ignore the slow shuffle outside your door any longer. 

You don’t move. You try not to look. You just stare blankly at the frozen screen, eyes unfocused, fingers curling against the blanket as your pulse thuds steadily beneath your ribs. Loud. Unrelenting.

Because you knew. You felt it.

The weight of Jack’s presence had been pressing against the door for the last twenty minutes, stretching the space between you into something unbearable. A quiet plea. An unspoken question.

And you hated that you could hear it.

Luke exhales sharply, flopping onto his back with a theatrical groan, arms folding behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. "He either needs to come in or leave, because this? This is pathetic."

Your throat tightens, words tangling behind your teeth. "Luke—"

"No, seriously." He shifts again, this time propping himself up on one elbow, his sharp gaze flicking toward yours with a knowing smirk. "This is the guy you’ve been stressing over? The guy who doesn’t even have the balls to knock?" The tension between the two brothers had become more obvious since your last proper conversation with Jack, aside from the average two word responses you’d get out of him when you asked him a question. 

Luke despite being over friendly and welcoming to all, was loyal to a fault, even if it meant being mad at his own brother. 

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge beneath it—a challenge. A test. A quiet prove me wrong. You inhale slowly, resisting the urge to pull your blanket higher, to shield yourself from the truth that Luke, as always, is so quick to dig up.

Jack wasn’t like Luke.

He wasn’t the type to barrel into a room, crack a joke, demand attention just to see you react. Jack hesitated. Jack overthought. Jack pulled away when he should have leaned in.

But he was still here.

Still pacing.

Still trying to figure out what to say.

And for some reason, that was almost worse.

Luke clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers against his stomach before sighing dramatically. "Alright, Princess." He turns his head just enough to look at you, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. "Your call. You gonna put him out of his misery, or should I go out there and give him a reason to leave?"

Your stomach twists.

Because deep down, you already know your answer, and you think Luke did too, which is why you weren’t surprised when he gave you a rough shove, your body hitting the floor with a thud as he flicks his head towards the door. 

“Get it over with.”  Your palms press flat against the carpet, breath caught in your throat as you shoot a glare up at Luke, who only grins in response, completely unrepentant.

"You're the worst," you mutter, though there’s no real heat behind it. Your pulse is pounding now, a steady drumbeat in your ears as you push yourself upright, shaking out the sting from your elbows. Luke just shrugs, tossing an arm behind his head once more, settling back into the pillows with an infuriating smirk. 

"Yeah, yeah. Just open the damn door." You hesitate for a second too long, nerves a tight knot in your stomach. Because once you open that door, once you let Jack in—what then? But he’s still out there. Still waiting.

With a sharp exhale, you shove yourself to your feet, swiping your hands against your pyjama pants before gripping the doorknob. It’s cold beneath your fingers.

One last breath. Then, you twist it open. Jack freezes mid-step, his sock-clad feet nearly colliding with yours. His head jerks up, wide eyes locking onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. The hallway light casts soft shadows against his face, the sharp angles of his jaw softened by hesitation, by uncertainty. His hair is a mess, ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it over and over again.

Your heart clenches.

"Hey," you say, barely above a whisper.

Jack exhales sharply, like he’d been holding his breath this entire time. "Hey."

Behind you, Luke snorts. "Oh my God. This is going to be painful."

Jack’s eyes dart over your shoulder, expression shifting instantly. "Luke, shut up."

"Make me." You shoot Luke a warning look, but he just grins, completely content with his role as the instigator. Jack sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face before dropping his arms to his sides. His fingers flex like he wants to do something—reach out, maybe—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders drawn.

You bite your lip. "You wanna come in?" 

Jack hesitates for only a second before nodding. You step back, making room as he crosses the threshold, shoulders tense as he slips past you. His presence fills the room instantly, the air shifting with something heavy, something unspoken. You shut the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a second longer than necessary before turning back to find Jack standing awkwardly near the foot of your bed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Wait, I told you to talk to him, not invite him to crash our movie night." Luke whines from the bed, your eyes rolling before you shoot him a glare. 

"Luke, shut up." You hiss, mimicking jacks earlier frustrations. Luke watches you with a lazy kind of amusement, still sprawled across your mattress, arms folded behind his head like he’s watching a sitcom unfold in real-time.

"Well," Luke drawls. "This is cozy."

Jack shoots him a glare. "You don’t have to be here."

Luke’s grin is all teeth. "Yeah, but I want to be." You sigh as you move back to perch on the end of the bed, Luke’s hand automatically smoothing across the mattress and tangling in the hem of your loose t-shirt, a show of silent support. 

A promise. 

“Someone has to make sure you don’t accost her again.” 

“I didn’t acco— how do you even know what that word means?” Jack faces his attention towards his little brother, not noticing the way Luke’s fingers slide under your shirt, the cold tips brushing against the burning heat of your skin, a lazy smile on his face as he just shrugs as his brothers question. 

“Some of us are just naturally smart, Jack.” Luke teases and you can see the irritation bubbling under Jack’s skin - Luke always had a way of frustrating his brothers, and while Quinn usually just found it amusing, Jack was known to get caught up in the antagonising chides. 

Jack exhales through his nose, clearly biting back a retort, his jaw tight. His fingers twitch at his sides again, like he’s still fighting the urge to reach out, to do something, anything other than just stand there and let Luke get under his skin. But he doesn’t take the bait—not this time. Instead, he looks at you, his expression shifting, something uncertain flickering across his face.

You swallow hard. "Jack, what did you—"

He shakes his head before you can finish, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "I don’t know," he mutters. "I just—I didn’t wanna leave things weird."

Luke snorts. "Buddy, you’ve been making it weird for weeks."

"Luke," you say sharply, shooting him another glare. He only shrugs, fingers still idly playing with the hem of your shirt like he has all the time in the world, like he doesn’t realise—or maybe he does—that every second Jack stands there, looking like that, makes your stomach twist tighter and tighter. Jack sighs again. His hands dangle between his knees, shoulders curled inward as he stares at the floor. 

"I didn’t mean to ignore you." Your breath catches in your throat. Jack’s voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. "I didn’t know what to say. And every time I tried, I just—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I dunno. I guess I thought if I gave it time, it’d get easier. But it didn’t." Something in your chest clenches painfully. Because you understand. Because you’ve felt the weight of that silence too, pressing in from every angle, thick with things left unsaid. And now that it’s finally breaking, the pieces falling between you like scattered glass, you’re not sure how to pick them up.

Luke hums from beside you, tilting his head. "So, just to clarify," he says, tone deceptively light, "your genius solution to dealing with your wrong doings was to avoid her completely?"

Jack groans, tipping his head back. "Luke—"

"No, no, I’m just making sure I’ve got this right." Luke’s smirk is sharp, eyes glinting with amusement. "Like, instead of actually talking to her, and explain why you kissed her and then ditched her not once but twice, you decided the best move was to pace outside her door like a stray dog and hope that she’d do the hard part for you?"

Luke, shut the fuck up," Jack snaps, frustration spilling over.

"Or what?" Luke challenges, lifting a brow. "You gonna throw a punch? C’mon, man, can you even reach that high?" Jack’s hands curl into fists, but he doesn’t move. You see the moment his anger flares, the moment he almost rises to it—but then his shoulders sag, exhale sharp as he forces himself to let it go. You shift, your hand shooting behind your back, taking hold of Luke's pausing his fiddling as you give his fingers a squeeze before moving them away from you.

"Enough." you say softly.

He glances at you, then back at Jack, before finally relenting with a dramatic sigh, flopping back against your pillows again. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good."

Jack mutters something under his breath, something suspiciously close to "doubt that," but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his expression guarded, hesitant. "Can we talk..." he hesitates, "privately?"

Luke groans. "Oh my God, just say what you need to say and go so we can go back to enjoying our night." You swat at him blindly before nodding at Jack, trying to steady your pulse. Luke makes a big show of sitting up, stretching his arms overhead before throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Well fine, if you two are gonna get all serious, I’m out."

You blink. "Wait, really?"

Luke grins, already halfway to the door. "What? You want me to stay?"

"No!" you and Jack say at the same time, and Luke barks out a laugh, hands up in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try not to kill each other. Or make out...for the third time" He winks at you, then at Jack, before ducking out the door, closing it behind him with an exaggerated click. Silence settles over the room.

Jack exhales, rubbing at his jaw. "He’s such a dick."

"Yeah," you murmur, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite everything. "But he’s not wrong."

Jack looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like there’s a wall between you. Just hesitation. Just uncertainty. Just Jack, finally willing to stop running. "I fucked up," he says quietly. "I know that. And I know I probably don’t deserve to fix it, but—"

"Jack." You swallow hard, heart hammering.

“I just want to be friends again.” Jack says quickly, “Go back to how things were before I fucked everything up by kissing you.” Your stomach twists, frustration bubbling hot in your chest. Your fingers clench into the fabric of your pyjama pants as you take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. "It wasn’t the kiss, Jack," you say, voice tight, controlled. "It was how you reacted."

Jack blinks, caught off guard. "What—"

“ I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again.” You whisper under your breath, “You kissed me, and then you acted like- " The words are sharper than you intend, and you pause for a minute, taking a deep breath before continuing "You pulled away like I was something you regretted. You avoided me for days. You made me feel like I was the only one who cared about what happened and wanted to fix things. And now, you just want to hit rewind like none of it mattered?"

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders stiff. "That’s not—"

"That’s exactly what you’re doing," you interrupt, shaking your head. "You want things to go back to the way they were, but they can’t. Not when you keep pretending like nothing happened. Like there is nothing going on.” Jack’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He looks away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The silence stretches between you, thick, heavy. You don’t know what you’re expecting him to say.

Maybe an apology. Maybe an admission. Maybe just something real for once. But instead, Jack just stands there, like he’s waiting for you to tell him how to fix this. And you realise, maybe for the first time, that you can’t be the one to do that for him.

"Jack, I appreciate you trying to come and apologise, and maybe that means that a little bit of what I said last week sunk in, but you're still missing the point." The reminder of your argument with Jack last week was still fresh in your mind, the same way the feeling of his lips searing against yours still keep you awake in your bed some nights. 

"We can still be friends - we will always be friends, but we can't go back to how things were before, because you can't change what happened." Jack nods slowly, his body deflating as he takes in your words. 

"I really am sorry." He sighs and you nod, your own shoulder slouching forwards as you try to shoot him a reassuring smile. 

"I know." 

+

+

Luke had noticed Jack’s arrival to movie night in your bedroom, well before you did — the currently annoying shuffle of his older brother outside the door distracting him from paying attention to the way your face lights up when Adam Sandler does something funny. 

Luke notices when you notice Jack - your shoulders tense, your head flicking towards the door with a frown, Luke’s eyes rolling as he watches the shadow pause for a moment, almost as if his brother has finally worked up the courage to come inside before the pacing restarts. 

“He’s been out there for twenty minutes now.” Luke notes, pausing the movie as sliding the laptop across your bed so it’s out of the way, your body still frozen as he rolls on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. You silence in the room was suffocating, the image of you tensed on the bed, your chin in your hands as you refuse to tear your eyes away from the still shot no the screen of his laptop, his head tilting as he takes you in.

Luke wishes that you’d go back to ignoring his brother, and refuse to play into Jack’s mind games, restarting the movie and going back to laughing with him over the hilarity that is ‘Happy Gilmore’ but Luke’s knows you better than anyone and he knows you can’t let things go. 

He knows he’s being a little harsh as he spits soft insults to you about his brother, your tone chastising as you frown at him, but he can’t help it. As much as Luke loves his brothers, he’s never been afraid to tell them when they’re in the wrong, and Jack is so in the wrong right now. Luke shoots you a quick look before he’s putting a light expression on his face, your body automatically relaxing a little as he does. 

He watches as your eyebrows raise, your mouth letting a small squeak of surprise slip as he shoves your off the mattress and onto the floor, shooting you an amused look as you glare up at him. “Get it over with.” He grumbles with a shrug, pretending to not notice the way you dream of his gruesome murder as you push yourself off the floor and over to the door. 

Luke knows he’s antagonising his brother as you both step back into the room, your body quickly shuffling back over to the bed as you perch on the edge, Luke’s body shifting a little bit closer. 

"Well," Luke drawls. "This is cozy."

Jack shoots him a glare. "You don’t have to be here."

Luke’s grin is all teeth. "Yeah, but I want to be." Luke watches as you let out a small shiver as his cold fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt, the cold skin on his finger tips just grazing the hot skin of your back. Luke’s not sure why he’s touching you, grazing his fingers up and down the bare skin against your spine, still spitting harsh words at his brother as he watches the way you subconsciously relax into his hand, your skin pressing more and more into his own as he hurls another insult at his brother, your hand twisting around your back to get hold of his fingers. 

He stops his movements waiting for you to shove him away — which you do — but not before giving his fingers a tight squeeze, releasing them slowly, hesitantly as you softly hiss at him over your shoulder, “enough.” The word has him nodding, pulling his hand ever so slightly away from you. 

He glances at you, then back at Jack, before finally relenting with a dramatic sigh, flopping back against your pillows again. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good."

Jack mutters something under his breath, something suspiciously close to "doubt that," but Luke doesn’t push anymore — he doesn’t want to upset you.  Instead, he watches as Jack turns his focus back to you, a soft simmer of rage bubbling under Luke’s skin “Can we talk..." Jack hesitates, glancing briefly over at his brother, "privately?"

Luke groans. "Oh my God, just say what you need to say and go so we can go back to enjoying our night." His lips tilt upwards as you swat at him blindly before nodding at Jack. Luke makes a big show of sitting up, stretching his arms overhead before throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Well fine, if you two are gonna get all serious, I’m out."

Luke watches as you turn to blink at him. "Wait, really?"

Luke grins, already halfway to the door. "What? You want me to stay?"

"No!" you and Jack say at the same time, and Luke barks out a laugh, hands up in mock surrender — but he can see the small way your expression falters, your confidence shrinking as he walks to the door way, his eyes shooting Jack a silent warning. 

"Alright, alright. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try not to kill each other. Or make out...for the third time" He winks at you, then at Jack, before ducking out the door, closing it behind him with an exaggerated click. He lets out a long breath, heading down the hallway to his bedroom, keeping the door open as he waits for any signs that he needs to return to your side, to protect you from his idiot brother. 

Luke had barely settled into his chair when he heard your door creak open again. His eyes shot to the hallway, his hand hovering over the remote control, fingers itching to turn the volume up on the TV and drown out whatever was happening. The sound of footsteps, light but steady, signalled that Jack had already made his exit.

He didn't expect the weight of the quiet in the room to hit him like a truck. He stood and took a few quick steps down the hallway, his heart quickening when he reached your door. The soft click of the door as it pushed open was followed by a sigh that told him exactly what he needed to know. "Luke," your voice broke through the stillness, so quiet, but there was a palpable tension there. "I—I'm fine." 

You weren’t, and Luke knew that. He could hear it in the way your words trembled, in the way your breathing had gotten just a little more shallow. His brother had left you upset again, and though Luke had done everything to push his presence between you both, Jack still managed to worm his way into your thoughts.

Luke stood there for a moment, staring at the door that still hung slightly ajar but not fully opened, his sight of you still sitting on the edge of your bed slightly blocked. He knew you didn’t want him to witness the aftermath, but he also knew you weren’t going to shut him out.

Not now.

Not after everything.

Without knocking, he pushed the door open. You didn’t look up at first.

"You didn’t have to come back,” you said, the words coming out a little flat. Luke didn't respond immediately. He just took a step inside, his eyes scanning the room for any hint of what you might need. When he found none, he sighed and crossed the room toward the bed, sitting down beside you without waiting for permission.

"Of course I did,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice, just a quiet understanding. "You think I’m going to let you sit here alone.” His eyes softened as he turned to you, and he let his gaze linger, watching the small frown tug at your lips.

"I didn’t want to make it worse," you whispered, your voice strained. "I didn’t want to cause more trouble." Luke’s lips twisted into a small, knowing smile as he reached forward, brushing a lock of hair away from your face, his thumb briefly grazing the skin along your cheek. 

"You’re not the one causing trouble. He is." His voice was steady now, more protective, almost possessive, as he leaned back, his arms folding behind him on the bed to settle in. “Look, you’ve been through enough. Jack doesn’t get to leave you in pieces like that. Not when I’m around.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “What are you going to do?”

Luke’s smirk widened as he shifted to a more comfortable position on the bed. "What do you think? I’m staying." He grinned, stretching out lazily, and without hesitation, threw an arm behind you on the mattress, just a little too close, but close enough to make sure you felt the weight of his presence. “You need to calm down, right? I’m not going anywhere movie night is becoming an all night event.” For a moment, the tension in the room seemed to settle. His proximity, the quiet assurance in his voice, started to have the desired effect. Your shoulders loosened, just a little, and the frown on your lips softened as you leaned back against the pillows.

Luke didn’t move, still keeping a watchful eye on you, ready to fight anyone who dared to upset you again. “Jack’s been an idiot for a while and he’s my brother,” he added, his voice growing more serious. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you deal with his crap alone.” You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you let out a small sigh, your body inching just a little closer to him, instinctively seeking his comfort, you hands sitting besides each other on the bed between you both, Luke using his other hand to pull his computer back onto his lap. 

Luke smiled as he stretched his hand, his fingers brushing against yours in an almost absent touch, not expecting a reaction from you. 

He didn’t need one anyway. 

He wasn’t going anywhere.

+

+

The sound of “Eye of the Tiger” blaring in your dark bedroom and the heavy arm draped over your waist makes you groan softly, stirring against the warmth pressed into your back. Your eyes crack open just enough to confirm that you are, in fact, still in your own bedroom. But something feels... off. Your brows furrow as your gaze drifts downward, landing on the unfamiliar sight of a larger hand entwined with yours, resting against the comforter. Your fingers shift slightly, testing the grasp, and the movement earns you a sleepy squeeze in return.

You blink, momentarily confused, until the deep, steady breathing behind you registers.

Luke.

His arm is still heavy around you, his long fingers loosely tangled with yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “No wonder my hand is so sweaty,” you mumble, attempting to shift without disturbing him.

“Mm, what?” Luke’s voice is thick with sleep, his grip on your hand slackening as he turns onto his back with a deep exhale. His other hand fumbles blindly across the mattress, smacking at his phone until the blaring music cuts off. He groans and stretches before turning his head to look at you, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips.

“Nine AM, sugar cookie. Rise and shine.” His voice is low and rough, the last remnants of sleep clinging to his words.

“Sugar cookie?” You arch an eyebrow, shifting onto your side to face him.

“I know, it’s just not right, is it?” He hums, rubbing at his face before sitting up, his curls an absolute mess from sleep. His T-shirt is rumpled, the fabric sticking to one side of his shoulder in a way that makes him look impossibly endearing. He turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“We gotta get up, though. Can’t let date day go to waste.”

Date day. The words settle between you, and your stomach twists with something uncertain. Excitement? Nervousness? You’re not sure. What you do know is that Luke is grinning at you like he’s been waiting for this all week.

“Time for us to get our game faces on,” he teases, reaching out to flick your forehead gently. “The bet’s not gonna win itself.”

You roll your eyes, finally pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know why you’re this invested.”

Luke scoffs, rolling off the bed in one fluid motion. “You’re just mad ‘cause Jacky made a boo boo.” He shoots you a knowing look before sauntering toward the window, grabbing onto the curtains.

“Luke, don’t you dare—” He dares. He rips them open, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. You groan dramatically, flopping backward onto the mattress as he chuckles, arms crossing over his broad chest.

“You don’t think I’m gonna let jack just coast to forgiveness, do you?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it. A spark of something deeper. “He thinks he can just kiss you out of nowhere and act like it’s nothing?”

You swallow hard, caught off guard by the shift in his voice. There’s something unreadable in his expression, his gaze sharp and unwavering. But before you can even think of a response, he’s grinning again, the weight of the moment vanishing as quickly as it came. “Pfft, not on my watch,” he declares, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m gonna make this the most fun you’ll ever have on a date.” You snort, shaking your head.

“Actually, scratch that,” he continues, leaning in slightly. “You’re never going to go on another date ever again because you’ll be so enamoured by me.” You laugh despite yourself, shoving at his chest. He barely moves, his grin widening as he winks.

“Very funny. Now get out so I can get ready for whatever you’re going to enamour me with.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” he says with an exaggerated bow, turning toward the door. The second he pulls it open, Jack is standing there, his expression unreadable as his eyes flick between you and Luke.

Luke doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, and wear something comfy,” he adds, nodding in greeting to his older brother before ruffling his already messy curls and strolling down the hall. Jack steps inside, leaning against your doorframe, his gaze steady.

“He has a lot of energy,” Jack notes, his voice quieter than usual.

“He’s excited,” you reply, smoothing down your pyjamas as you stand.

Jack hesitates, then exhales. “Listen, I think about last night...” Something in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. You chance a glance at his face, expecting a smirk, but his expression is blank.

“Can we do it later?” you ask, forcing a light tone. “I have a feeling if I’m not ready in fifteen minutes, Luke is gonna drag me out in my pyjamas.” Jack lingers for a second before clearing his throat. 

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, whenever suits you.” He shoots you a small smile before clapping his hand against the doorframe and walking away. You watch him disappear down the hall, the soft click of his door sending a ripple of unease through you. Maybe Luke was right.

“Fifteen minutes, princess!” Luke’s voice rings out, and you huff, rolling your eyes. Right now, you had a date to focus on.

You dress quickly, tugging a soft, thin white sweater over your head before slipping into your muted green overalls. The fabric is comfortably worn, the straps adjusted to the perfect fit after countless wears. Your favorite pair of white Converse—scuffed, broken in, and softened with time—find their place on your feet as you sling a small crossbody bag over your shoulder, making sure it holds only the essentials: phone, wallet, chapstick, and a few stray hair ties.

A sharp knock echoes against your door. “I’m coming,” you hiss, hurriedly pulling your hair into a ponytail. A few loose strands stubbornly slip free, framing your face no matter how much you try to tuck them away.

Luke stands just outside your room, his arms crossed as he pointedly glances down at his watch, exaggerating his impatience. He’s dressed in black athletic shorts and a faded blue concert tee, the fabric worn thin from years of washes. His dark hair is freshly showered, air-dried and—shockingly—brushed, a rare effort on his part. He wears his own white Converse, just as battered as yours, and as soon as his eyes land on your feet, a smirk creeps across his face.

“Look at us, twinning,” he announces, stretching his arms out dramatically. “We’d make the cutest couple, wouldn’t we?” He sing-songs, casting a playful glance at Quinn.

Quinn, unfazed, simply slides a plate of freshly cut fruit toward you as you settle onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You spear a slice of crisp red apple with your fork, savouring the juicy crunch as Luke plops into the seat beside you, reaching for a piece of fruit with his bare hands.

Quinn watches as his younger brother rummages through a small black backpack, stuffing it with Gatorade bottles and assorted snack packs. “He’s got a lot of energy,” he comments dryly.

You hum in agreement, déjà vu washing over you as the moment mirrors your earlier encounter with Jack. “He’s excited.”

“So what’s your plan for today?” Quinn asks, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he observes Luke with mild curiosity. Luke zips up his bag with a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Why? Trying to keep your enemies close?” He slings the bag over one shoulder, though it looks almost comically small against his broad back.

Quinn barely reacts. “I just like knowing what disaster I’ll have to deal with later.”

Luke ignores the jab, turning toward you with an impish grin. “We may or may not be going to one of your favourite places.”

Your brows knit together as you tilt your head. “There’s a fair nearby?”

Luke nods, swiping an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a large, unceremonious bite.

“Since when? How did I not know about this?” You exclaim, more excited than offended.

Quinn smirks knowingly. “Didn’t your friends from Umich invite you to hang out with them there?”

Your excitement falters, a frown creeping onto your lips. “Wait... so you’re using this date as an excuse to see your friends?” Luke immediately shakes his head, bending down slightly so his breath tickles the shell of your ear.

 “No, I’m using it as an excuse to show you off to my friends.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in his tone and the shameless grin on his face make it impossible not to smile.

He nudges your shoulder. “Now, come on, we’ve got an hour drive ahead of us.” He’s already ushering you toward the front door, offering Quinn a casual wave over his shoulder. “See you later tonight!” Before Quinn can respond, the door slams shut behind you.

The one-hour drive melts away into laughter and lazy conversation. The windows are rolled down just enough to let in the warm breeze, ruffling the ends of your hair as you absentmindedly flip through Luke’s playlist. The car smells faintly of pine air freshener and the remnants of fast food fries, and every few minutes, Luke sneaks a glance at you from the driver’s seat, his hand resting comfortably between the two of you on the centre console.

Before you know it, you’re pulling into a grassy lot beside the fairgrounds, the vibrant atmosphere already seeping into your senses. The scent of fried dough, caramel popcorn, and freshly cut grass lingers in the warm evening air, interwoven with the distant hum of carnival music. Strings of golden lights illuminate the fairgrounds, flickering like fireflies as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

Luke parks the car and is out the door in an instant, jogging around the hood before you even unbuckle your seatbelt. He swings the door open with a flourish, grinning down at you.

“What a gentleman,” you tease, stepping out and adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Only the best for my date,” he shoots back, punctuating his words with a wink as his fingers wrap around yours, lacing them together like it’s second nature. The fair is already alive with movement—kids dashing past, their sticky fingers gripping oversized stuffed animals, couples strolling hand-in-hand, the glow of neon lights reflecting off their smiling faces. The sounds of carnival games, the distant rumble of roller coasters, and the occasional shriek from the drop tower all blend into the air, a symphony of excitement and nostalgia.

Luke doesn’t hesitate as he pulls you into the crowd, his grip firm but gentle, ensuring you never stray too far. “Alright,” he says, turning to you with a smirk, “where to first?”

You nudge Luke with your shoulder, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know... you’re the one who planned this, remember?” He grins, hands stuffed in his pockets as he scans the fairgrounds. 

“Right, but it’s all about what you want.” He gestures dramatically to the sea of colourful booths and flashing rides. “Games? Rides? Food? Name it.”

Your gaze drifts over the chaos until it lands on the Ferris wheel towering above it all, its lights twinkling even in the bright midday sun. There’s something about it—the way it stands apart from the noise, offering a brief escape into the sky.

“That,” you say, pointing.

“The Ferris wheel? Starting strong, I like it.” Luke’s grin widens as he starts leading you toward it, but he suddenly halts, tugging gently on your hand.

“Hold up,” he says, eyes locking onto a ring-toss booth lined with giant stuffed animals. His expression turns mischievous. “I’ve got to win you something first. It’s tradition.”

You arch a brow. “Tradition?”

“Obviously.” He gestures toward the rows of oversized plush toys. “No fair date is complete without a ridiculously large stuffed animal you have no idea where to put later.”

Before you can protest, he hands a few bills to the booth operator, rolling his shoulders like an athlete about to perform. You bite your lip to keep from laughing as he lines up his first shot, brows furrowed in concentration.

The first two tosses miss. Barely.

“Oh, laugh it up,” he says, cutting you a sideways glare as you try to stifle your giggles behind your hand. “I’m just warming up.” The third ring lands perfectly around the bottle, and Luke lets out a triumphant shout, throwing his arms up. The booth operator sighs in defeat and hands over an enormous stuffed bear, almost as big as you are. Luke turns to you with a proud smirk, holding it out like an offering.

“For you,” he declares dramatically.

You can’t help but laugh as you take it, hugging the soft toy close. “This is completely impractical, but thank you.”

“Impractical?” Luke scoffs. “No way. It’s the ultimate prize.” He leans in slightly, voice dipping lower. “Besides, it’s my excuse to get people going 'wow he must be a great date'.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin betrays you. “Smooth.” As you near the Ferris wheel, your hand brushes against his. It’s accidental at first—a fleeting touch in the shifting crowd—but then Luke makes the choice for you, slipping his fingers through yours again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your heart stutters slightly, but you don’t pull away.

When you step into the carriage, the world below begins to shrink, stretching out in bright, sunlit hues as the fairgrounds sprawl beneath you. Luke settles beside you, his knee grazing yours as the seat rocks gently. You can feel the warmth of him, even with the summer breeze drifting through the bars on the carriage. 

He exhales slowly, taking in the view. “Okay, you were right,” he murmurs. “This was the perfect first stop.” You glance at him, catching the way the sunlight softens his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the flecks of gold in his eyes. He’s not looking at you, too distracted by the endless stretch of blue sky, and it gives you a moment to simply... admire him.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, catching you staring. A slow, teasing grin tugs at his lips. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Your heart jumps, and you quickly look away. “No,” you mumble, a little too fast. “I just—yeah, it’s a good view.” 

Luke chuckles, shaking his head. “Busted.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Just enjoy the view, Hughes.”

"Oh trust me, I am." The ride slows as you reach the very top, pausing briefly to let the passengers below unload. The world feels quiet up here, separate from the lively fairgrounds below. Your knees brushing against his as you sit on opposite sides, both looking over the growing crowds in awe, and this time, neither of you moves away. When you finally step off the Ferris wheel, the fair is in full swing, and Luke’s hand finds yours again, grounding you.

“Alright, most important part of the fair: food,” he announces.

“Corn dogs and lemonade?” you guess.

“Obviously.” He feigns offence. “But also, giant pretzels. And deep-fried everything.” Luke insists on ordering for both of you, and soon, your hands are full of hot, sugary funnel cake and an absurdly large lemonade. You find a spot near the carousel, sharing bites of the warm, sticky dessert. At one point, Luke gestures vaguely toward your chin.

“You’ve got some—”

“Where?” You swipe at your face with a napkin.

“Nope, missed it.” He reaches out, brushing the powdered sugar away with his thumb. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers, sending a warm flutter through your chest. His fingers stay just a second too long before he pulls back, clearing his throat. You open your mouth to say something, but before you can, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it, then tucks it away with a sigh.

“Your friends?” you ask.

Luke nods. “Yeah. They’re somewhere around here.”

You tilt your head. “I thought you wanted to meet up with them?”

His fingers drum against the table. “I did,” he says, but there’s something hesitant in his voice. Then, under his breath, he mutters something too quiet to catch.

“What was that?” you tease, leaning closer.

He exhales, finally looking at you. “I said, I’d rather spend today with you.” Your breath catches. There’s a flicker of vulnerability in his expression, like he’s not quite sure what you’ll say.

“Okay,” you reply softly.

“Okay?” His lips twitch like he’s trying to suppress a grin.

“I like spending time with you too, Luke.”

His grin breaks free, warm and unguarded. “That’s good.” He pauses. 

“Yeah, you’re like my best guy friend.” You tease, watching Luke’s face drop a little, the infamous Hughes pout spreading across his lips.

“Great, this is great.” He groans, running a hand down his face in despair before dramatically slumping against the table. His head drops forward, forehead nearly hitting the surface, as a muffled groan of defeat escapes him. You let out a snort of laughter, unable to help yourself at his exaggerated misery. Shaking your head, you slide out from your seat, grabbing the oversized bear that’s become your new companion and making your way over to his side. He stays put, unmoving, still wallowing in self-pity. You bite your lip, fighting the grin threatening to take over your face as you set the bear down, perching one knee on the bench beside him.

“I’m kidding, Luke.” Your voice is soft, laced with amusement, as you lean forward and press a featherlight kiss against his cheek. The warmth of his skin lingers against your lips for a fraction of a second before you pull back, barely dodging as he jerks upright, eyes wide.

“Oh, now you’re just messing with me,” he accuses, squinting at you, though his mouth twitches at the corners. You can tell he’s fighting a smile.

“Are we gonna continue this date or not?” You challenge, tilting your head. 

Luke stares at you for a beat before exhaling through his nose, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” Still, he stands, sliding out of the booth with ease, and reaches a hand behind him without hesitation. His fingers curl, expectant, waiting. You don’t make him wait long. As soon as your palm slides against his, he squeezes, firm and warm, grounding. The rest of the day seems to blur together, the heat of the sun beating down as the hours slip by. The fair is still alive with colour and noise, but the crowds begin to thin, the air cooling as the afternoon fades into early evening. Your arms are now filled with both your giant bear and a more reasonably sized unicorn—Luke’s hard-earned prize after six frustrating attempts at the basketball game.

“I still say that hoop was rigged,” Luke mutters, eyeing the unicorn with an air of resentment.

You laugh. “You just don’t want to admit you’re bad at basketball.”

Luke gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I’ve seen better.” You shrug, struggling not to laugh at the utter betrayal on his face.

“You take that back right now.”

“I take nothing back.” Luke groans dramatically but doesn’t press it further. Instead, he glances over at you, his expression shifting slightly. 

“You’re looking a little tired.”

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. “A little. I just need to use the bathroom before we head out.”

He nods, immediately reaching for the stuffed animals in your arms, pulling them into his own with ease. “I’ll wait right here.”

You shoot him a grateful smile before making your way toward the restroom sign. It takes longer than expected—the line stretching farther than you’d hoped—but eventually, you finish up, carefully manoeuvring your way out without touching the questionably grimy walls.

When you step back into the fairground, Luke is exactly where you left him, but now he’s not alone. A small group has gathered around him, and it only takes a second for you to recognise them—his friends. The ones he’d pointedly avoided meeting up with all day, the ones he had chosen you over. You hesitate, slowing your steps, not wanting to intrude. Instead, you pull out your phone, finally checking the notifications you’d ignored throughout the day.

least favourite hughes : Let me know when you guys are heading home.

least favourite hughes 😈: I hope you had a lot of fun on your date.

least favourite hughes 😈: I’m sorry if I made things weird between us.

favourite hughes 😇: I think you broke my brother.

You blink at the last message, the edges of your lips twitching as you glance up. Luke is still deep in conversation, laughing at something one of his friends said, but as if sensing your gaze, he suddenly turns.

His eyes find yours immediately, and his face lights up. “Hey, what are you doing over there?” Your head pops up at his voice, catching the attention of the whole group. Your eyes widen slightly at the sudden spotlight.

“Just catching up on my messages,” you reply quickly, awkwardly holding up your phone as if to prove your point. The gesture earns a few polite nods from his friends before they turn back to their hushed conversation, though whatever they’re whispering about clearly pleases Luke, if the smug, boyish grin on his face is anything to go by.

Then, without hesitation, he lifts his hand and motions for you to come closer. When you don’t immediately move, he starts making exaggerated grabby motions, fingers curling impatiently, like a toddler. You roll your eyes but step forward, slipping your hand into his. Luke exhales softly, his grip tightening around yours as he pulls you close to his side. Then, with a slowness that makes your breath hitch, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, lingering, like he’s savouring the moment. Your heart stumbles, beating an erratic rhythm against your ribs as you glance up at him in surprise.

He only grins. “It was good seeing you guys,” he says, effortlessly redirecting the conversation. “We need to do a lake trip soon.”

His friends nod, offering their own goodbyes and promises to catch up soon, and then, just like that, Luke is steering you away, his strides slow and unhurried as if he has no desire to rush the moment. By the time you settle into the car, the day’s warmth still clinging to your skin, Luke glances over at you, his expression softer now, a little hesitant.

“So...” he begins, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Was this a good first date?”

You smile, leaning your head against the window. “It was perfect.” Luke’s grin is instant, wide and unguarded. He reaches over, placing a hand against your thigh, his touch featherlight. He doesn’t move it, doesn’t let go. Instead, his thumb begins tracing soft, absentminded circles against your skin, a quiet, unconscious motion that makes warmth bloom in your chest.

His hand stays there the entire ride home.

+

+

Luke parks the car and turns off the engine, but neither of you moves. The air between you hums with an unspoken energy, a quiet intensity settling in the small space of the vehicle. His hand remains on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. The simple touch is grounding, yet it sends a shiver up your spine, making you acutely aware of every nerve in your body. He finally looks over at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re not going to make me walk you to the door like a proper gentleman, are you?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You chuckle, un-clicking your seatbelt with a soft click. “Well, you did earn some serious points tonight. But sure, let’s see just how gentlemanly you can be.” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head as if put upon, but he’s out of the car in an instant. You barely have time to gather yourself before he jogs around to your side, opening the door with an exaggerated flourish.

“M’lady,” he quips, offering his hand. Laughing, you take it, his fingers curling around yours as he helps you from the car. The night air is crisp against your flushed skin, and without thinking, you step in closer to his warmth. His arm finds your waist with an ease that feels effortless, pulling you in as you make your way to the door. His presence is intoxicating, the scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness of cotton candy from earlier at the fair.

But when you reach your doorstep, Luke doesn’t stop. He presses forward, hand still entwined with yours, his pace unhurried but deliberate.

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, watching as he steps inside, only to glance back at you with a devilish smirk.

“This is the door, but not your door.” His meaning is crystal clear, your pulse quickening as he keeps walking, guiding you upstairs until you stop outside your bedroom. The air shifts, the teasing edge fading into something heavier, something charged. His boyish grin softens, a flicker of nervousness dancing in his eyes as he rubs the back of his neck.

“So… I had a really good time today,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, more vulnerable.

“Me too,” you say, matching his tone, your breath catching as he lifts a hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch is featherlight, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he admits, fingers grazing along your jawline, his eyes locked on yours.

“It was.” Luke exhales, something shifting in his gaze as his fingers slide to cup your cheek. There’s a brief hesitation, like he’s waiting for you to pull away, to stop this before it goes too far. But you don’t. Instead, you tilt your chin up, wordlessly giving him permission.

That’s all he needs. His lips find yours, firm yet reverent, like he’s memorising the way you taste. Your fingers tighten around his shirt, gripping onto him as you rise onto your tiptoes, pulling him closer, deeper. He grunts softly against your lips, the sound sending a delicious shiver through your body.

With a deft movement, his hand finds your door handle, twisting it open as he carefully guides you inside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the air feels thicker, heavier. His hands remain gentle as they cradle your face, but there’s an urgency in the way his lips move against yours, a hunger that neither of you can ignore.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Is this too much?” The question barely makes it past your lips before he shakes his head, thumbs stroking along your cheeks.

“Not unless you think it is.” His voice is rough with restraint, his breathing uneven. Your lips part, hesitation flickering in your eyes as a thought crosses your mind. 

“Is this not kinda crossing the line? I mean, this didn't work out well for me last time.” You let out a nervous laugh. 

"You're comparing me to Jack?" He asks softly, your head quickly shaking, your eyes widening in surprise as he looks down at you with one brow raised. Instead, he leans in, his breath warm against your lips.

“Do you want to kiss me?” he asks, his voice husky, deliberate. You swallow, nodding slowly. A smirk tugs at his lips. “Then fuck the line.” And with that, he claims your mouth again, his grip firm as he walks you backward toward the bed. He sinks down onto the edge, pulling you into his lap with ease. The moment your legs straddle him, he exhales sharply, his hands gripping your waist like he never wants to let go.

Luke only pulls away long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his toned chest rising and falling with deep breaths. His fingers grip your hips, encouraging you to press closer, his lips latching onto your neck, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch before threading into his hair, tugging slightly. He lets out a quiet groan, his grip tightening in response.

“Why did you have to wear fucking overalls?” he grumbles, voice rough with frustration, his hands fumbling at the buttons. You laugh breathlessly, reaching up to undo them yourself, letting the top fall from your shoulders.

He watches you with darkened eyes, his fingers twitching as they trace the bare skin of your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your sports bra. He hesitates, waiting for your nod before pulling the fabric up and over your head.

“I wasn’t really going for aesthetic this morning,” you murmur, glancing down at yourself.

Luke shakes his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I’ve never been one for aesthetics,” he murmurs, his hands slipping around your back, trailing warmth wherever he touches. He pauses just as his fingers find the clasp of your bra—

Knock, knock.

“Are you in there?” Jack’s voice cuts through the thick haze in the room, your head snapping toward the door. Shadows shift beneath the crack, and your stomach drops.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke growls, his grip on your hips tightening briefly before he lets out a sigh. His forehead presses against yours, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Just ignore him, maybe he'll go away,” he murmurs. You huff, burying your face in his shoulder as he places another kiss to your jaw, then another, before reluctantly shifting to help you back onto your feet - knowing his brother wasn't going to just go away if his pacing last night was anything to go by. He hands you your sweater, pressing one final kiss to your nose before pulling his own shirt over his head.

When Luke finally yanks the door open, his curls are a mess, his lips are red and swollen, and his chest rises and falls like he’s barely caught his breath. Jack’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing, suspicion flaring in his gaze as he glances between you both. “I have a feeling I interrupted something,” Jack mutters, his voice edged with amusement, but there’s something sharper underneath.

Luke rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did.” His voice is clipped, edged with irritation, but he doesn’t back down.

Jack’s smirk is slow, mean. “Going after my sloppy seconds, huh?” The words land like a slap, the air in the room turning suffocatingly thick. Your mouth parts in a sharp inhale, a soft gasp slipping out before you can stop it. Luke’s whole body tenses, his shoulders snapping back, muscles coiling tight with barely restrained fury. His jaw locks, nostrils flaring, and when he takes a single step forward, Jack barely has time to react before Luke’s palm slams against his chest, pushing him back a step.

“The fuck did you just say?” Luke’s voice is low, lethal.

Jack scoffs, recovering quickly. “Come on, man. You don’t think this is a little pathetic?” Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your neck—not from desire this time, but from humiliation, anger.

Luke shakes his head, letting out a humourless laugh. “You think she’s some kind of leftovers?” He takes another step forward, voice dropping to something razor-sharp and dangerous. “That just proves you never deserved her in the first place.” Jack’s lips press into a thin line, jaw ticking. 

“I’m just saying, she’s kissed two of us now, you don’t think she’s going to go for the whole colle—” Luke doesn’t let him finish. The door slams in Jack’s face with enough force to shake the walls. The echo of it rings in the silence that follows, the tension between you a live wire, snapping and crackling with raw emotion.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Your breath comes fast, heart hammering against your ribs. Luke stands still, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still itching to throw a punch. Then, finally, he turns to you, his expression shifting, something unreadable flickering in his darkened gaze.

Luke exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his chest still rising and falling in controlled, shallow breaths. His jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice lower, rougher, edged with something dangerous. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

You swallow hard, a lump forming in your throat as you nod. “Yeah. He is.” Luke studies you for a long moment, his gaze intent, searching. He’s looking for the damage Jack might have caused, for any sign that his words have seeped under your skin, leaving wounds that can’t be seen. And then, as if making the decision for both of you, he exhales slowly and shakes his head.

“Forget him. Forget all of it.”

And then he’s on you.

The kiss is different this time. It isn’t just heat or need—it’s desperation, possession, an unspoken plea to erase every single doubt Jack tried to plant in your mind. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing in like he’s terrified you might slip away. His lips move against yours with a slow, intoxicating hunger, coaxing, taking, reclaiming. When his tongue brushes against yours, a soft, needy whimper escapes you, and he groans into your mouth like he’s been starving for this, for you.

He walks you back, step by step, his grip unyielding, until your knees hit the bed. For a moment, he hesitates, like he’s giving you one last chance to stop him, to tell him this is too much, too fast. But you don’t. You don’t want to.

His grip tightens, and he lowers you down, his body following without hesitation. His weight presses into you, solid muscle and warmth, grounding you, reminding you that you’re here, that you’re his. The world outside ceases to exist; there is only this, only him.

“Tell me he’s wrong,” Luke murmurs, his lips ghosting over your jaw, down the column of your throat. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice rough with something raw, something unshakable. "Tell me you won't believe a single thing he said."  His teeth scrape over your pulse point, and you shudder, your fingers threading into his curls, tugging him back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, stormy, filled with hunger that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

“He’s wrong,” you whisper.

A low sound rumbles from his chest, pleased, satisfied. “Good.”

His lips crash against yours again, deeper this time, a slow, consuming burn that steals every thought from your head. His hands roam your body, tracing, exploring, memorising. He touches you like he’s trying to rewrite every terrible thing Jack ever made you feel, like he’s replacing them with something sacred, something unshakable.

“You need to tell me to slow down, ” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Because I can't do it myself." His lips skim over your collarbone, his hands sliding down your sides, his fingers making slow, reverent work of every layer of clothing on you, till you lay bare beneath him, goosebumps prickling along your skin at the cool summer air. “You deserve to be worshiped.”

The words steal the breath from your lungs. Your body burns under his touch, anticipation curling tight in your stomach as he maps a path lower, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

When his hands part your thighs, his gaze flicks up, holding yours as he murmurs, “Will you let me?” Your answer is a breathless, desperate nod. And then he’s there, his mouth on you, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate strokes that send a sharp jolt of heat through you. A gasp breaks from your lips, fingers twisting into the sheets as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Luke hums against you, the vibration sending another spark of pleasure through your core. He’s relentless, thorough, savouring every shudder, every tremor, like he has all the time in the world.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, his voice ragged, needy. His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you tighter against him, like he never wants to let go. “I could die a happy man down here.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he dives back in, his tongue moving with slow, devastating precision. His name spills from your lips in breathless, desperate whispers, your body arching against him, losing yourself in the pleasure he gives so willingly.

When you finally break apart beneath him, your body trembling, his hands smooth over your thighs in soothing strokes. His lips press soft, lingering kisses against your skin, his touch reverent, grounding.

He moves back up, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and satisfied. He grins against your stomach, then higher, trailing heat all the way back to your lips.

“Told you,” he murmurs, voice rough, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your parted lips. “The bare fucking minimum.” His gaze never leaves yours as he shifts above you, a silent promise lingering in the air, heavy and unspoken. His hands gently push your hair back from your face, fingertips tracing the outline of your jaw, his expression softening as if you're the only thing that matters in the world. The moment stretches, drawing you both into a space where nothing else exists.

You meet his gaze, a flood of emotions rushing through you, some familiar and some new. There’s comfort in the way he looks at you, in the way he holds you like he’s willing to erase every shred of hurt and doubt.

And in that quiet intimacy, you find a peace that Jack’s words had threatened to steal. You breathe in deeply, pressing your lips to his again, slower this time, savouring the quiet, the warmth between you. Luke’s hand slips over your side, the touch gentle now, a stark contrast to the fire that burned between you moments ago. His lips curl in a half-smile, and he presses a final kiss to your forehead, his body still pressed against yours, as if grounding you both in this moment, in this time where the world is nothing but the two of you.

Well for a little while. 

“You two better not be fucking while I’m in the house.” Quinn’s voice cuts through the silence as Luke reaches over his head pulling his shirt off before handing it over to you, a mischievous smile on his face, as you glance towards the door in panic. 

“Not fucking.” Luke confirms, “Just eating a snack.” He adds, a laugh bubbling out of his throat as he hears his older brother grunt before his heavy footsteps trail down the hallway, your hand smacking over his shoulder as he throws his hands up in defence. 

“What it’s not like I’m lying.” 

“You really are insufferable.” 

[multific]

Close Quarters

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: An injury leads you to a safe house with Simon. In there, you are forced to face your feelings for the Lieutenant. 

The cabin wasn’t much.

A single room, a battered couch, a fireplace. It was a temporary refuge, a hiding place in the middle of nowhere, and it was just the two of you.

Simon Riley wasn’t much for company.

He had been silent for most of the night, except for the occasional grunt of acknowledgement.

His mask was still on, his broad frame looming in the dim light as he paced near the window, keeping watch like the soldier he was.

You were injured, nothing too severe, but enough that travelling through the storm outside wasn’t an option.

“I don’t bite,” you said, breaking the silence, and shifting on the couch. “You can sit down.”

His shoulders tensed. He was always like this, always cautious, even when it was just you. You had fought side by side before and had saved each other more times than you could count, but being this close and alone felt different.

After a long moment, he finally sighed and sat in the chair across from you, the wood creaking under his weight.

“How’s the leg?” His voice was rough and low, the concern buried beneath layers of detachment.

You flexed your ankle slightly, wincing at the dull pain. “Better. You did a good job patching me up.”

He grunted again, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something softer, unreadable.

Silence settled between you, the only sound of the wind howling outside.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, suppressing a shiver.

Simon noticed. He always noticed. With a sigh, he stood, grabbed another blanket from the small cot in the corner, and walked over. Instead of handing it to you, he draped it over you himself, his hands brushing against you briefly.

“Can’t have you freezing to death on my watch,” he muttered, stepping back.

You looked up at him, heart skipping. “And here I thought you didn’t care.”

Something flickered in his eyes again, something hesitant. He didn’t answer immediately, just stood there, watching you. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Course I care.”

Your breath caught.

He never said things like that, never admitted to anything, and yet, here he was, standing close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You’re always looking after me,” you murmured.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

Your fingers twitched against the blanket, resisting the urge to reach for him.

But then, as if sensing your hesitation, he surprised you. He sat down beside you, shifting awkwardly like he wasn’t sure how to be this close. The couch dipped under his weight, his thigh brushing yours.

“Get some rest,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll keep watch.”

For once, you didn’t argue.

Instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder, testing the boundary between you. He stiffened but didn’t pull away.

After a moment, you felt him shift slightly, adjusting so you were more comfortable.

It was a small thing, barely anything at all.

But to you, it was everything.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[kathaelipwse]

If Only You Could See Yourself | Bang chan

Synopsis: You’ve never seen yourself the way Chan does—where he sees beauty, you see flaws. Every time he calls you beautiful, you dismiss it, unable to believe. But one night, as your doubts consume you, Chan refuses to let you fade into them. With gentle words and unwavering patience, he holds you together, determined to make you see what he’s always seen. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll start to believe him.

Warnings: self-hate, honestly just angst, comfort

Word Count: 1.1k

Author's Note: This might trigger a few readers. I am going through a turmoil and honestly chan is my comfort person so yeah..

It was a day off, you and chan have been dating since 4 years now, though he was busy he never really failed to make time for you and compliment you every now and then.

The first time Chan called you beautiful, you laughed. Not out of joy, but because the word felt foreign—misplaced, even. You thought he was joking. Maybe being playful, the way he always was. But when you turned to see the sincerity in his eyes, something inside you twisted. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. You brushed it off.

The second time, you just shook your head. A soft, almost involuntary reaction, like swatting away a fly. You didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to make it a thing. But Chan noticed. He always did. He let it go that time, but the way his brows furrowed told you he was thinking about it.

The third time, you flinched.

That was when Chan really started paying attention.

Tonight, the weight in your chest is heavier than usual. You don’t know why—maybe you do, but it’s easier to pretend you don’t. It’s just another night, another round of existing in a body that doesn’t feel like yours, in a mind that never stops whispering cruel things.

Chan sits on the couch beside you, his arm draped lazily over the backrest. The room is warm, cozy, filled with the soft hum of background noise from the TV. You should feel safe here. But that voice in your head is louder than the comfort of his presence.

“You okay?” Chan’s voice is soft, careful.

You nod automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. You don’t look at him when you say it. Instead, you focus on the way your fingers pick at the hem of your sleeves.

Chan shifts, turning to face you more fully. “You sure? You’ve been quiet all night.”

You shrug. “Just one of those days.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching. You know he wants to press, but he doesn’t. Instead, he offers you a small smile and says, “You’re still beautiful, you know.”

You freeze. The air in the room changes. The words hang between you, heavy and unbearable.

Your stomach twists violently. Your throat tightens. Something inside you snaps, raw and unfiltered. Before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“I don’t get it,” you whisper.

Chan blinks. “What?”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”

He tilts his head, brows knitting together. “Because they’re true.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow. “No, they’re not. You just—” You take a shaky breath. “You see me through rose-colored glasses, Chan. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

Chan stares at you, something unreadable flashing in his expression. “You think I’m lying?”

You swallow hard, unable to meet his gaze. “I think… I think you’re wrong.”

His voice is quieter now, more careful. “Wrong about what?”

“About me,” you say, finally looking at him. “About everything you think I am.”

Chan’s jaw tightens. He shifts forward, closing the distance between you. His hands reach out, hesitating for only a moment before cupping your face, thumbs grazing your cheekbones. His touch is warm, grounding.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do. And it’s a mistake, because the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the most precious thing in the world—makes your chest ache.

“I don’t see you through rose-colored glasses,” he says, voice steady but thick with emotion. “I see you exactly as you are.”

Your lip trembles. “Then you must be looking at the wrong person.”

Chan exhales sharply, shaking his head. “No,” he says firmly. “No, I see you. The real you. I see the way you care about people more than yourself. I see the way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. I see the way you light up when you talk about the things you love. I see every little thing that makes you you—and you have no idea how fucking beautiful that is.”

Tears blur your vision. “Stop.”

“I won’t,” he says, voice cracking. “Because I wish—God, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.”

Your breath catches. The words hit something deep, something you didn’t know was still soft inside you. A sob escapes before you can swallow it down, and then the dam breaks.

Chan pulls you into his arms before you can collapse. His embrace is strong, unshakable, as if he’s trying to hold together all the pieces of you that are falling apart. He strokes your hair, whispering soothing things you can’t make out over the sound of your own broken cries.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. I’ve always been right here.”

You clutch onto him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he’s the only thing tethering you to this world.

For the first time, you let yourself believe him.

Later, when your breathing evens out and the tears have dried, you’re still curled against him. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t loosened his grip even once.

Chan presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to believe me yet,” he says quietly. “But let me prove it to you. Let me remind you every day until you do.”

You close your eyes, exhaling shakily. “Okay.”

And for now, that’s enough.

That night, Chan doesn’t let you sleep alone. When you hesitate, standing by your bedroom door as he prepares to leave, he simply tilts his head. “Do you want me to stay?”

You don’t answer right away, but the way you tug at your sleeves gives you away.

Chan sighs softly, stepping forward. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”

So he does.

You lie in bed, facing away from him at first, trying to keep space between you. But the storm in your head doesn’t quiet, even with him near. After a while, your body moves on its own, shifting closer, until your back is pressed lightly against his chest.

Chan doesn’t say anything. He just wraps an arm around you, securing you in place like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re safe,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re enough. Always.”

You don’t know if you believe him yet, but you let his warmth chase away the cold. Just for tonight.

The next morning, you wake up to soft sunlight filtering through your curtains. Chan is still there, one arm draped protectively over your waist. His slow, even breaths brush against the back of your neck.

You shift slightly, and he stirs. “Morning,” he murmurs sleepily.

You swallow thickly. “Morning.”

Chan tightens his hold just a little. “How are you feeling?”

You don’t have an answer. Not yet. But for the first time in a long time, the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.

So you settle for the truth.

“I think… I think I’m okay.”

Chan smiles against your skin, kissing your forehead and says. “Good.”

---

[blxxmingrose]

the pout never left sunny’s face as she waited for june’s reply, and hans felt like copying the look just to show june that he was seriously going to pull all the stops just to make him stay for another game night. but he knew sunny could pull off the look with her innocence, something he couldn’t muster up as he felt june’s hand on his back, a warm touch that sent him reeling. 

it reminded him of how close they were last night, of how they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, and that kiss. that kiss that was both surprising and expected—like it was only a matter of time before their lips found each other. he opened his mouth to speak, but with sunny around, he couldn’t exactly convince him that there’d be more of that if he stayed, could he? 

instead, he gave him a knowing look, a secretive smile that held back what he wanted to say but gave so much away. “i think i’ve been persuasive enough,” he spoke with a quiet confidence as he poured oil onto a pan.

he looked busy with cooking, but half of his attention was on june, on how he shrugged his shoulders, how he glanced back at the living room as if he still had to make up his mind. “and i think you’ve already made up your mind,” hans added, grinning. “i mean, how could you not, when this food smells so good and sunny hasn’t even completely become the queen of uno yet?” 

there was something so magical about how things seemed to have fallen into their rightful place to lead them here, one fateful afternoon leading to another and the conversations just flowing naturally. when hans looked at his daughter, who was making a mess of the vegetable peels, he couldn’t help but wonder if some angel had guided her to bring their paths together, to bring june here in their home to make it feel warmer, brighter. to make hans feel like there was no weight on his shoulders, and that he could have fun too.

he didn’t need to just work and send sunny to school and let the days pass. he had a life too, and now, he had someone he wanted to spend it with. with a shrug of his own, he spoke in a teasing tone, “if all else fails, i could still resort to sending you loads of pictures of sunny and me playing without you and being all so brokenhearted about it until you can't take it anymore.” 

june let out a contented sigh as he leaned against the counter, watching hans work. the warmth of the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of chopping, and sunny’s playful grumbles about vegetables she refused to acknowledge made it easy to feel like this was just any other night. like this was something they had done a hundred times before, something they would do a hundred times more. and june— june let himself believe it.

he smirked at hans’ question, rolling his shoulders as if considering it. “convince me?” he echoed, pretending to mull it over. he glanced down at sunny, who was already perfecting a dramatic pout, her big eyes practically glistening with determination. he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “i don’t know. you’re both pretty persuasive, but i’m not that easy to sway.” a lie.

because the truth was, june already knew he’d be sitting in the living room again, dealing another hand of cards, pretending to take losses just to watch sunny’s victorious grin spread across her face. he knew that no matter how much he claimed he wasn’t the type for game nights, he’d still end up right here, laughing at hans’ half-hearted attempts to keep up, listening to the teasing banter that made the whole evening feel alive. but it was fun to make hans work for it.

he pushed off the counter, stepping closer until he could rest a hand lightly against hans’ back, fingers pressing just enough to let him feel it through his shirt. “what else have you got?” he challenged, voice dipping just slightly, just enough to make it obvious he was enjoying this. “because i’ve got to say, the food is a strong argument, but i’m going to need a little more.”

he stepped back before he let the thought settle too deep, before it became something he couldn’t shake off. his hands found his way into his pockets, shoulders rolling in a lazy shrug. ”i’m kidding. you two are entertaining enough. i guess i wouldn’t mind another round sometime.” he conceded, glancing back toward the living room as if he were truly debating it.

though he already knew he’d be back. he already knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters with a S/O who is shy and has social anxiety

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

This headcanons is for all my friends who suffer from social anxiety like me!

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter understands your struggles in a way few others can. He was the kid who sat alone at lunch, the one who stammered through conversations, the boy who felt too much and spoke too little. So when you shrink into yourself at a crowded event or hesitate before speaking, he doesn’t push. He waits.

- He is patient with you, always. If your hands shake when ordering at a café, his fingers brush against yours—not grabbing, not forcing, just reminding you he’s there. If you struggle to meet a stranger’s eyes, he fills the silence effortlessly, making bad jokes until you breathe out a quiet laugh. He knows how much effort it takes, and he never belittles it.

- When you’re overwhelmed, he finds ways to help without making a big deal out of it. “Hey, let’s get out of here,” he’ll say casually, like he wasn’t watching you from the corner of his eye, counting the seconds between your anxious glances. He makes excuses to leave early, to find a rooftop where it’s just the two of you, the city stretching wide beneath your feet.

- He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable, but he believes in you, too. He knows you’re stronger than you think. “You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you after a stressful interaction, “but you did great. And I’m proud of you.”

- One day, when you stand your ground, when you speak up even though your voice shakes—Peter looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Like you’re the bravest person he’s ever met. And to him? You are.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony is used to fast talkers and smooth charmers. He’s not used to you. The quiet, hesitant way you speak, the way your gaze flickers away when too many eyes are on you. At first, he doesn’t know what to do with it. But then, he realizes—he doesn’t need to do anything. He just needs to be there.

- Social situations? He handles them for you. If someone puts you on the spot, Tony is already redirecting the conversation before you can panic. If a gala feels too loud, too bright, too suffocating, he whisks you away with a perfectly crafted excuse. No one ever questions him—he’s Tony Stark, after all.

- But he also refuses to let you believe your anxiety makes you less. When you apologize for stumbling over your words, he raises a brow. “What, you think that matters to me? Have you met me? I stumble over my words all the time. It’s called being devastatingly charming.”

- He builds little comforts into your daily life without making a fuss. Noise-canceling headphones that match your style. A secret signal for when you need an escape. He makes sure you know—“I got you, sweetheart. Always.”

- One night, when you tell him you feel like a burden, he physically stops in his tracks. Turns to you, eyes serious in a way they rarely are. “You think being loved is a burden?” And when you don’t answer, when you shrink under his gaze, he exhales. Steps closer. “I don’t throw around the ‘L’ word lightly. But I love you. You get that, right?”

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve is a protector by nature, but he learns quickly that you don’t need protecting—you just need understanding. So he listens. He doesn’t try to fix you, doesn’t tell you to “just be more confident.” Instead, he sits with you in the quiet moments, in the spaces where words aren’t needed.

- When your anxiety flares up, his presence is a steady, grounding thing. His hand finds the small of your back in crowded rooms, a silent reminder that he’s there. If your breathing gets uneven, he murmurs, “With me, sweetheart. Deep breaths. In… out.” And when the world is too much, he shields you—not with his vibranium, but with his warmth.

- He notices the things you don’t say. The way your shoulders tense before you speak, the way you fidget when too many eyes are on you. He never rushes you, never forces you to talk before you’re ready. But when you do—when you finally find the courage to tell him what’s on your mind—he listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

- He makes you feel safe. Not just physically, but emotionally. You never have to pretend with him. When you’re exhausted from socializing, he doesn’t take it personally. Instead, he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “Want to stay in tonight? Just us?”

- And one day, when someone comments on how quiet you are, how shy—you shrink back, but Steve? Steve straightens. Levels them with that unshakable, unwavering gaze. “Not everyone needs to be loud to be strong.” And the way he says it—the quiet pride in his voice—it makes you believe it, too.

Thor (God of Thunder)

- Thor does not understand at first. He is a god, a warrior, a king—he has never hesitated to speak his mind, never faltered in the presence of others. So when he notices your reluctance, your anxious glances, he frowns.

- But he learns. He watches the way you grip the hem of your sleeve when you’re overwhelmed, the way your voice gets softer when too many people are listening. He learns, and he adapts. Because that’s what love is.

- If you are uncomfortable in a gathering, he makes it known. “My beloved tires of this company,” he declares in the middle of a conversation, and before you can protest, he is leading you away, unbothered by the stares. To Thor, your comfort is more important than social niceties.

- He does not see your anxiety as a weakness. When you apologize for needing space, he shakes his head. “There is no shame in feeling.” And then, softer, “I would battle a thousand foes, but I cannot battle your thoughts. So tell me, my love—how can I ease them?”

- And when you finally speak—when you let yourself be vulnerable, let yourself be seen—Thor looks at you like you are more powerful than any storm he has ever summoned.

Loki (God of Mischief)

- Loki is used to masks. Used to hiding, used to maneuvering through conversations like they are battles to be won. But you? You don’t wear masks. You don’t need to. You are soft-spoken, hesitant, but there is a sincerity in you that unnerves him.

- He sees the way people overlook you, the way they dismiss quietness as weakness. It infuriates him. But more than that—it intrigues him. Because he sees what they do not. He sees the way your mind works, the depths beneath the surface.

- When you struggle with your words, he fills the silence with his own. When you are anxious, he redirects the attention elsewhere. He will never let the world swallow you whole.

- But when you grow comfortable, when you begin to speak more freely with him—Loki listens. No tricks, no arrogance. Just listens. And if anyone dares to mock your hesitance, they will learn why he is called the God of Mischief.

- One day, you tell him you feel small. Insignificant. He tilts your chin up, his green eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You are not small,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You are the only thing in this realm that makes me feel real.”

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint notices things. He notices the way your hands tremble when too many people are watching, the way your eyes flick toward the door in crowded rooms. He notices the way your breath catches before you speak, the way you fidget when someone puts you on the spot. He notices because he’s been there too—the kid no one thought twice about, the one who had to learn to take up space in a world that wanted to ignore him.

- He helps in his own way. Casual, unspoken, never forcing. When he sees your shoulders tense in a loud bar, he makes a joke so ridiculous, so absurd, that you forget why you were panicking in the first place. If you start to shut down at a gathering, he suddenly remembers an “important thing” he has to show you outside—just the two of you, away from the noise.

- He doesn’t push you to talk when you don’t want to, but when you do? He listens like every single word matters. Because to him, it does. He knows what it’s like to feel unheard, and he refuses to let you believe your voice is anything less than important.

- He’s protective, but not in an overbearing way. If someone tries to rush you into speaking, he’s already cutting in, redirecting the attention, making himself the distraction. If someone mocks your quietness, his usual easy grin goes sharp. He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his words are just as sharp as his arrows.

- But what really gets him? The way you trust him. The way you let him see the parts of you the world doesn’t always understand. One night, after a long day, you let yourself lean into him, burying your face against his shoulder. And Clint? He just holds you closer, arms firm around you, like he’s never letting go.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha understands. She understands in a way no one else does. She was trained to be invisible, to fade into the background when necessary. She knows what it’s like to measure every word before speaking, to feel like too many eyes are on you.

- With her, there’s no pressure. No expectation. She never pushes you to be something you’re not. If you don’t want to talk, she doesn’t fill the silence with meaningless chatter. She lets the quiet exist, natural and unforced, because she knows sometimes words aren’t necessary.

- She is your shield in public. If she sees you struggling in a conversation, she subtly shifts the focus onto herself. If someone tries to pressure you, she gives them a look—a cold, unreadable thing that makes them shrink back immediately. No one messes with you when Natasha is around.

- But in private, she’s different. Softer. When you tell her your fears—your worries about being a burden, about not being enough—she listens, then gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your forehead. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

- And one day, when you stand up for yourself—when you find your voice even though your hands shake—she watches you with something like pride. Because she knows exactly how strong you are.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knows what it’s like to feel out of place. To feel like the world moves too fast, too loud, too much. So when you get overwhelmed, when the anxiety becomes too sharp, he doesn’t tell you to “calm down.” He just takes your hand. Grounds you. Stays with you.

- He’s not much for words, but he doesn’t need them. He knows when you need space and when you need him close. If you’re panicking in public, he subtly moves in front of you, blocking the world from view. If you need an out, he makes an excuse without hesitation.

- He’s fiercely protective, but he never treats you like you’re fragile. He knows you’re strong, even if you don’t always believe it. “You don’t have to be loud to matter,” he tells you one night, his voice quiet but sure. “I see you. That’s enough.”

- When you have bad days, the kind where speaking feels impossible, he never makes you feel guilty. Instead, he just sits with you, silent but present. Sometimes, he’ll read aloud, his voice low and steady, filling the empty spaces with something comforting.

- And when you finally whisper, “Thank you,” he just shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me, doll.” And the way he says it—like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love you—makes your heart ache.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears everything—the shift in your breath when you’re nervous, the way your heartbeat speeds up in crowds. He hears the words you don’t say, the ones caught behind your teeth, and he never pushes them out. He lets you speak at your own pace, in your own way.

- He’s a lawyer, a talker, a charmer—but with you? He is patient. Gentle. He knows the weight of words, the way they can soothe or break, and he chooses them carefully when speaking to you.

- If a social event becomes too much, he senses it before you even say a word. “Wanna get out of here?” he murmurs, already reaching for your hand, already leading you somewhere quieter, somewhere safer.

- He never lets anyone make you feel small. If someone talks over you, dismisses your words—his easy charm vanishes. His voice turns sharp, his lawyer’s precision cutting through their ignorance like a blade.

- But when it’s just the two of you—when the city quiets, when the weight of the world is gone—he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself with me.” And for the first time, you believe it.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank is not a man of many words, but he doesn’t need them. He sees you—the way your hands curl into fists when you’re anxious, the way you shrink back when too many eyes are on you. And without a word, he adjusts. He puts himself between you and the world, silent and steady, your shield against everything too loud, too much.

- He never tells you to “just relax” or “get over it.” He knows what it’s like to have demons clawing at your throat, to feel like your own mind is working against you. So instead, he stays close. A hand at your back. A steadying presence beside you. A quiet, unspoken promise—I’ve got you.

- If someone mocks your quietness, Frank’s entire demeanor changes. His voice drops, his posture shifts. “You got a problem?” And suddenly, the room is very, very quiet.

- But when it’s just you and him—when the world is far away and you don’t have to be anything but yourself—he’s softer. He pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You don’t gotta be anything but you.”

- And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you finally believe him.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc is a man of chaos, of violence, of war. But with you, he learns the art of stillness. He sees the way you hesitate before speaking, the way your hands tremble when too many eyes are on you, and he knows that kind of fear. He’s lived with it—not the fear of people, but the fear of never truly belonging.

- When crowds press in too close, when anxiety wraps around you like barbed wire, he moves instinctively—positioning himself at your side, shielding you from the world. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry—he simply becomes a wall between you and whatever is making your breath hitch.

- He’s rough around the edges, all sharp angles and battle scars, but when it comes to you? His hands are gentle, his voice low and steady. If you can’t meet his gaze, he tilts his head just slightly, lowering himself to where you are—never forcing, always waiting.

- If someone dares to mock your quietness, Marc is not a man of restraint. He looms over them, voice eerily calm but laced with danger. “Say that again.” He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his presence alone is enough to send them running.

- But when you’re alone, when the night is still and the world is quiet, he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. “I get it,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” And you know, without a doubt, that he means it.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny is fire, and you are the quiet ember he never knew he needed. He is loud, bold, reckless—the center of every room he walks into. And yet, when he’s with you, he finds himself softening, lowering his volume, learning to exist in the quiet without burning it away.

- He doesn’t always understand your anxiety, but he tries. He notices the way your fingers twitch before speaking, the way you flinch at unexpected attention, and he makes it his personal mission to be your buffer.

- If you ever feel overwhelmed at an event, he pulls you aside with the easiest excuse in the world—“Sorry, gotta steal my girl for a sec.” And just like that, you’re swept away, safe in the warmth of his presence, away from prying eyes.

- When someone comments on how “shy” you are, he grins wide, throws an arm around your shoulders, and says, “Yeah? Well, she’s also the smartest, kindest, most beautiful person in the room, so I’d shut up if I were you.” And somehow, you know he means every single word.

- At the end of the day, when the world feels too big and your voice feels too small, Johnny pulls you into his arms, presses his forehead to yours, and whispers, “You don’t have to be loud to be heard. I hear you.” And for the first time, you believe it.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed’s mind moves faster than most, always ten steps ahead, lost in equations and theories. But with you? He slows down. He listens, truly listens, because he knows how hard it is for you to speak sometimes—and if there’s one thing he values, it’s the power of a voice that chooses its words carefully.

- He’s observant, even if he doesn’t always show it. He notices the subtle shifts in your posture, the way your breathing changes when anxiety creeps in. And without a word, he adjusts—offering his hand, shifting attention away from you, giving you space when you need it.

- When someone talks over you, dismisses your words, Reed is not an aggressive man—but he is precise. He calmly redirects the conversation, effortlessly reinforcing your point until the offender realizes their mistake. It’s a quiet kind of defense, but it leaves no room for doubt: your words matter.

- He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable, but he encourages you in the gentlest ways. When you whisper your thoughts to him, he repeats them out loud, ensuring your ideas are heard. He never takes credit for your brilliance—he amplifies it.

- And when you’re alone, when the weight of the world is too much, he pulls you close, resting his chin atop your head. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” he murmurs. “You are enough, exactly as you are.”

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia is a storm wrapped in silk—a whirlwind of charm, confidence, and mischief. And yet, with you, she is something softer, something gentler, something she never thought she could be.

- She adores the way you shy away from attention, how you linger in the background—not because she wants you to hide, but because she loves the way your beauty is something only those who look closely can see.

- When you get anxious in public, she drapes herself over you like a shield, whispering teasing remarks into your ear until you laugh and forget why you were nervous in the first place. She makes the world feel smaller, safer—like it’s just the two of you, even in a crowded room.

- If someone insults your quietness, her entire demeanor shifts. The playful smirk sharpens, her eyes go cold, and she takes a single step forward. “Wanna say that again, sweetheart?” No one ever does.

- But when it’s just the two of you, when the night is quiet and you’re curled up in her arms, she presses a kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “You don’t need to change for anyone, least of all me. I love you exactly as you are.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen is a man who has faced horrors beyond comprehension, who has seen the vastness of the cosmos and returned unchanged. And yet, you—soft-spoken, hesitant, shy—unravel him in ways he never anticipated.

- He is a man of logic, of knowledge, and yet he finds himself studying you as though you are the most intricate spell he has ever encountered. He learns your tells, your fears, the quiet ways you ask for help.

- When your anxiety becomes too much, he doesn’t try to “fix” it—he simply exists beside you, grounding you with his presence. If words fail you, he conjures illusions of calming landscapes, filling the space with something serene, something safe.

- If someone belittles you, his voice turns cold, clipped. “Do you always judge people based on volume, or is it just when you lack the intellect to comprehend quiet strength?” His words cut deeper than any blade, and the offender is left stammering, humiliated.

- But when you’re alone, when the world has faded away and it’s just the two of you, he takes your hands in his, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and whispers, “You don’t need grand gestures to be extraordinary. You already are.” And for the first time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a force of nature that bends to no one. He is fire and water, fury and grace, and yet when he looks at you—quiet, hesitant, soft in ways he has never been—his arrogance falters. He has ruled the depths for centuries, but he would kneel for you.

- He does not understand your reluctance to speak, the way your hands shake in crowded halls, but he does not mock you for it. Instead, he watches, learns, and makes sure his court knows that your words carry the weight of a queen’s decree.

- When you feel small, when your voice wavers, Namor’s is strong enough for the both of you. If anyone dares to belittle your quietness, his voice booms across the room, regal and unyielding. “You would do well to remember that power is not measured in volume, but in presence.”

- He encourages you to stand tall, not because he wishes to change you, but because he knows the depths of your strength, even when you don’t. He will remind you as many times as necessary—until you believe it, until the ocean itself whispers your name with reverence.

- And in the moments when the world is too much, when the pressure of existence weighs heavy on your chest, he takes you to the water. He carries you effortlessly through the waves, where silence is sacred and your anxiety cannot reach. Here, with him, you are weightless.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has stared into the abyss and walked away burning. He has made deals with devils, has felt Hell’s fire in his veins, but nothing terrifies him more than the thought of you feeling like you are alone.

- He knows what it’s like to be trapped in your own mind, to battle demons no one else can see. So when he sees your hands tremble, your voice falter, he doesn’t push—he just stays. A quiet, unwavering presence, reminding you that you don’t have to fight alone.

- When your anxiety is a storm raging inside you, he lets you borrow his fire. Not in words, not in force, but in touch—a steady hand at the small of your back, a whispered joke to pull you from the darkness. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just makes sure you know you’re not broken.

- If someone mocks your quietness, Johnny doesn’t bother with threats. He just looks at them, eyes burning gold, voice like gravel and embers. “Wanna run that by me again?” One glance at the fire flickering beneath his skin, and they never do.

- But when the night is still, when his demons are quiet and yours are loud, he holds you close, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “You don’t need to be louder to matter, sweetheart. You’re already everything.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie has never been good with words, and Venom has never needed them. But when it comes to you—shy, hesitant, unsure of your place in the world—they both learn a new kind of patience.

- Venom is fascinated by you. “WHY IS SHE SO QUIET?” the symbiote demands. “SHE IS STRONG. THEY SHOULD FEAR HER.” And Eddie just sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, buddy, but not everyone wants to be feared.”

- When your anxiety flares, Eddie keeps you close, shielding you from the world with the ease of a man who has spent a lifetime on the outskirts. And if that isn’t enough? Venom coils around you, a silent, watchful protector, daring anyone to make you uncomfortable.

- If someone ever makes fun of your quiet nature, Eddie lets out a slow, measured breath—then smirks. “You really wanna keep talking?” And before they can respond, Venom grins wide, teeth gleaming. “WE COULD EAT THEM,” the symbiote suggests, only half-joking. (Probably.)

- But in the quiet moments, when it’s just the three of you, Eddie rests his forehead against yours and sighs. “You don’t have to change for anyone, least of all me.” And Venom, surprisingly gentle, echoes, “WE LIKE YOU AS YOU ARE.”

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa has ruled nations, fought wars, stood against gods. But when you look up at him, eyes hesitant, voice barely above a whisper, he feels like a man first and a king second.

- He is deliberate with his affection, precise in his understanding. He does not rush you. He does not try to fix what is not broken. Instead, he offers his hand—steady, unwavering, waiting for you to take it when you’re ready.

- When your anxiety makes you withdraw, he does not let the world swallow you. Instead, he ensures that you are given the space to exist on your terms. You are not just "his" in the public eye—you are your own, and he will defend your right to be exactly as you are.

- Should anyone dare mock your shyness, his response is quiet but lethal. “Do not mistake her silence for weakness,” he says, voice like the edge of a blade. “There is power in stillness. And wisdom in restraint.” And just like that, the room remembers why he is king.

- But when the throne room is empty, when the world is quiet, he cups your face with hands that have known both war and tenderness. “You do not need to raise your voice to be heard, my love,” he whispers. “I will always listen.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, speaks like a blade. She has spent a lifetime in the dark, but with you, she learns that love does not need to be loud to be real.

- She understands your silence in a way few others can. She does not push, does not pry—she simply exists beside you, unwavering, patient. If you need space, she gives it. If you need grounding, her hand finds yours, steady and sure.

- When your anxiety takes hold, she does not fill the silence with empty words. Instead, she teaches you how to fight—not because she expects you to, but because she wants you to know that you are strong. Even in stillness. Even in silence.

- If someone ever dares to mock your quietness, Elektra doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. One sharp glance, one tilt of her head, and suddenly, the offender remembers they have somewhere else to be.

- And when the night is quiet, when it’s just the two of you tangled in silk and moonlight, she runs a slow hand down your spine and whispers, “The world does not deserve you.” And you believe her—because in her eyes, you are more dangerous, more beautiful, more powerful than anyone could ever understand.

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl Dixon x Reader Don't Scream

Part 1 | Part 2 (coming soon) | masterlist

Summary: You didn’t mean to be here. You didn’t mean to see this. The motel door had already been cracked open, a splintered frame, a hint of something wrong curling in the air. You should have turned around, left, pretended you never saw the blood on his knuckles, the way it was painted across his throat. But then he looked at you. Slow, unfazed. Like you walking in on his carnage was nothing at all. You didn’t know why your breath shuddered. You didn’t know why your fingers itched to touch. And you sure as hell didn’t know why you didn’t run.

tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT 🕊️ horror, Dark!Daryl Dixon, blood and implied violence, no outbreak, motel room encounters, morally gray reader, predator/prey vibes, dubious situations and dubious consent (the reader whole heartedly consents they're just trying to reason with themselves that this is a terrible idea), serialkiller!Daryl, reader walks in on something she shouldn’t, fear-turned-arousal, misattribution of arousal, thanatos / death drive theory. a/n: thank you so so so so much to my friend @dixonsdarkelf for beta reading & giving me the boost I needed to post this! also thank you to @rheedus for this fabulous gifset that inspired me

The drive home always dragged.

You let out a long, exhausted sigh, fingers tightening on the wheel as the road stretched endlessly ahead. This wasn’t how the weekend was supposed to go. You were supposed to stay with your family for two more days—grit your teeth through the small talk, sit through the passive-aggressive questions about your job, your life, your choices. Smile. Nod. Pretend. But instead, you were barely a few hours in before it all fell apart.

Dinner had started fine. It always did. But then one question turned into a pointed remark, then into something sharper, something meaner. The same fight, just recycled into different words, but this time, you weren’t in the mood to swallow it down. This time, you pushed back. Voices rose, tempers flared, and before you knew it, you were grabbing your keys, shoving out the door, leaving behind the half-eaten meal and whatever thin thread was still holding the conversation together.

Now you were here—alone on the highway, miles of darkness stretching in every direction, headlights carving a path forward. 

Traffic jams bled into one another, each red taillight blurring into the next, the clock on your dash creeping past midnight. Eventually, the further you went, the emptier the roads became, until it was just you and the long-haul truckers, their rigs groaning under the weight of whatever cargo they hauled through the night.

Your eyelids grew heavier, dipping lower with every mile. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, but exhaustion clung to you, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t just the late hour—it was the crash after the adrenaline of the fight, the weight of too many words you couldn’t take back pressing down on you.

You told yourself you’d be fine. Just another two hours to go.

Then a deafening horn shattered the quiet, and before you even realized what was happening, your tires veered across the lane. You gasped, jerking the wheel hard, the car lurching as you barely corrected in time. The highway was nearly empty, but that didn't matter—your heart was pounding, hands clammy where they gripped the steering wheel, the sudden shock of how easily that could’ve ended differently locking your breath in your throat. That was it, you knew you needed to stop, needed to pull off and find a place to get some rest before hitting the road again in the morning. 

You took the next exit, into a town that was barely a town at all, just a forgotten smear of civilization on the side of the highway. The streets were empty, the buildings slumped and decayed, as if the place had given up on itself long ago. A gas station, a diner with its ‘Open 24 Hours’ sign flickering in and out of life, and a squat little motel, its vacancy sign buzzing weakly in the dark.

Pulling into the parking lot, your headlights washed over cracked pavement and weeds pushing up through the concrete. Only a few cars were parked outside, most of them old and rusted, as if they’d been sitting there for far longer than a single night’s stay. The only light came from the neon sign overhead and the sickly yellow glow spilling from the front office window, casting shadows that felt too long, too stretched.

You swallowed, gripping the steering wheel. Something about this place felt…off. Not in an obvious way—no shattered windows, no ominous figures lurking in doorways—but in a way that made your skin crawl. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting. These were the kind of motels in movies where you’d scream at the protagonist: Keep driving, idiot! Find someplace else!

But there was nowhere else, and you couldn’t risk driving another hour to find the next rest stop.

It wasn’t ideal. Hell, it was probably a breeding ground for bed bugs, or worse–the kind of place where people checked in but didn’t always check out. But the thought of curling up in your car for the night, stiff and vulnerable in an empty parking lot, wasn’t much better.

All you had to do was get the key, lock the door, and make it through till morning. You’d toss your clothes the second you got home, scrub this place off your skin like it never touched you.

It was fine. It would be fine.

The fluorescent lights in the front office buzzed overhead, their hum just a little too loud in the unnatural silence. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of something overly sweet—like someone had tried to cover up years of cigarettes and mildew with cheap air freshener.

A small bell sat on the counter. You hesitated, then tapped it once, the chime ringing out sharp and hollow.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, the feeling of being watched crawling up the back of your neck despite the room being empty. Just as you were about to hit the bell again, a figure shuffled out from the back.

It was a woman, older, her expression carved from stone. Stringy hair pulled back into a loose bun, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers, her nails yellowed from years of nicotine.

“What can I do for ya?” she drawled, exhaling a long stream of smoke. It curled thick in the air, stale and cloying. You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, ignoring the burn in your throat.

“One room, please. Just for the night.”

She tapped at the ashtray on the counter, knocking the embers loose without looking. Her gaze stayed on you, too steady, too knowing, as if she was peeling you apart one layer at a time.

“You travelin’ alone, honey?”

Your spine straightened.

“No,” you said a little too quickly. “My dad’s waiting in the truck.”

She hummed, dragging another long inhale from her cigarette as her beady eyes stayed on you. Like she could tell it was a lie, no matter how sure you tried to sound.

“So, two beds?”

“Just the one is fine,” you said, tightening your fingers around your bag strap “We’ll manage.”

"Cash or card?" she asked, watching, peeling away whatever confidence you tried to have.

"Card," you murmured, fishing it out with stiff fingers.

She slid it through an ancient-looking reader, her other hand tapping the desk with the long, deliberate patience of someone who had nowhere to be. Her name tag was smeared, almost unreadable, and the glass of the front desk window was covered in a film of grime. 

She handed the card back, then a single brass key, its tag worn soft with age.

“Room one eighty,” she said, sliding it forward. “End of the lot.”

You took it quickly, fingers brushing against the cold metal.

The woman leaned back, taking another drag, her lips curling around the cigarette. “You let me know if y’all need anything, alright?”

You forced a nod, but something about her stare made your skin prickle. You turned toward the door, gripping the key so tight it pressed sharply into your palm.

Outside, the air felt too thick, like the humidity had climbed in the last few minutes, settling heavily on your skin. 

Then, you felt it again.

That thick, crawling awareness pricking at the back of your neck. That quiet, animal instinct that told you someone was watching. You turned your head before you could stop yourself.

Across the parking lot, just beyond the neon glow of the motel sign, a man stood under a broken street light. At first, he was nothing more than a dark shape, half-obscured by the flickering light, his face hidden in the deep hollows of shadow. 

He was just… standing there. Watching. 

You didn’t recognize him, and he was too far away to make out anything but his built form, the broadness of his shoulders. But there was something in the way he stood, still as stone, his body angled just slightly toward you, his gaze locked and unblinking.

The look in his eyes, dark and unreadable even from a distance, sent a shiver licking down your spine.

You turned quickly, your nerves on fire. But as you made your way down the long stretches of rooms on the outer perimeter, the railing overlooking the parking lot, you began to hear signs of life. The sounds seeped through the walls, slipping under doors and filling the narrow stretch of concrete. A bass line thrummed from somewhere nearby, muffled by thin walls as it seemed to pound with the rhythm of your heartbeat. Somewhere farther down, men shouted, their voices rising and falling, drunken or angry or both. Laughter burst out, sharp and sudden, followed by the distant clatter of something knocking against a table or a wall.

When you turned around and looked back across the parking lot, the man was suddenly gone.

TVs droned from multiple rooms, the glow of static flickering through slatted blinds. Someone had left theirs too loud, a newscaster rehashing old stories like it wasn’t the middle of the night. A couple was arguing behind one of the doors you passed, their voices biting and loud, words slamming into each other with no space to breathe. Something crashed—glass, maybe, or a chair knocking over—and you picked up your pace without realizing it.

Anywhere else, maybe it would have felt normal. Just people awake too late, passing the time, waiting for morning. Here, it only set your teeth on edge. Something about it felt wrong.

The fact that so many people were still awake at this hour made the muscles in your back pull tight. You weren’t alone here. But that didn’t mean you weren’t isolated.

Then, a heavy thump.

It came from the room to your right, sudden and jarring, loud enough to shake the thin wall between you. Your breath caught as you flinched back, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was movement, the slow creak of weight shifting, but nothing else followed. No voices, no explanation. Just silence settling too quickly, like whatever had happened had stopped the second you reacted to it.

Your feet moved faster, a reflex more than anything, carrying you down the walkway before you could think too hard about it. The numbers on the doors passed in a blur—178, 179, and finally, 180—your fingers tightening around the key as your room finally came into view. 

You fumbled once, just once, hands suddenly damp, but the second the lock turned, you pushed inside, slamming the door behind you.

The second it shut, you turned the lock.

The noises outside dulled, voices and music muffled the moment you closed the door and slumped your back against it, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a half-marathon instead of walking across a motel lot. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, gripping at nothing, your pulse a frantic beat against your ribs.

You dragged in a breath, trying to slow the restless thrum in your veins. Just get through the next few hours, get some rest, and then you’d get the hell out of Dodge.

It was fine. It would be fine.

Except, sleep didn’t exactly come easy. You tossed and turned on top of the stiff bedspread, every shift of fabric loud in the silence, ears straining for any sudden sound beyond the walls. A door shutting, footsteps outside, voices carrying just enough to make you wonder if someone was too close to your room.

After what felt like forever, you gave up, flipping on the TV just to drown out the rest. The low murmur of late-night programming filled the room, casting weak blue light over the cracked ceiling, but it didn’t do much to settle you. You weren’t sure anything would.

The one thing you couldn’t ignore in favor of sleep, though, was the slow, gnawing ache of your stomach.

You should’ve stayed for the rest of dinner. Sat through the tense conversation, swallowed the words you wanted to throw back at them, and picked at your plate even if you had no appetite. At least then you wouldn’t be thinking about stepping outside again, not in the dead of night, not in the seediest motel you could’ve possibly stumbled across.

But the longer you lay there, the worse the hunger got.

Every motel had a vending machine, didn’t they?

You sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face, already hating where this was going.

You just had to be quick. In and out. Then you’d lock yourself in and actually try to sleep.

You knew it was wishful thinking to assume the vending machine would be easy to find. It was never that simple. You circled the building twice, passing the same cracked pavement, the same rusted-out cars, the same rooms with their curtains drawn too tight.

By the time you finally stumbled across the middle hallway, the glow of a single overhead light barely illuminating the space, you were already regretting this. The vending machine sat in the corner, humming under the flickering fluorescents, the metal frame dented, the glass fogged with fingerprints.

Your fingers hovered over the rows of snacks, barely able to focus on the choices, your body still on edge from the walk over. The motel felt alive, like every sound behind every door was something you weren’t supposed to hear.

The machine hummed under flickering light, the buttons worn down to the plastic. You fed it a couple of crumpled bills and tapped at one, then another, and waited. A loud mechanical churn. Then—nothing.

Great.

You smacked the side of it. Nothing again. Your stomach twisted painfully, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since you’d last eaten. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face, and turned to leave.

And that’s when you noticed it.

A door, cracked open at the very end of the hall.

The frame was splintered, like it had been forced open.

Something in your gut tensed.

You should walk away. Right now. Get back to your room, lock the door, and pretend you never saw anything. But something about it—about the stillness of it, the way the dim glow of a bedside lamp barely reached the threshold—made your feet stall.

Someone could be hurt. Or worse.

You swallowed hard, pulse in your throat as you crept closer, every instinct screaming at you that this was a bad idea. The air shifted the closer you got, thick with something you couldn’t name, something wrong.

And now that you were standing at the threshold, staring at the cracks in the doorframe, splintered from some kind of forced entry, your eyes drifted lower. Something dark and sticky was splattered on the ledge of the door, thick streaks leading onto the carpet inside.

Your heart stopped altogether. It was no longer rattling in your chest from fear, but fully frozen, skipping and halting as if trying to jumpstart itself while you stared into the dimly lit room.

At first, it was just shapes—shadows swallowing each other, the motel’s tiny lamp and the flickering TV casting everything into uneven light—warm and dark one second, sharp and cold the next. As your mind caught up to your eyes, it sharpened, the darkness peeling away, and you finally realized what you were looking at.

On the queen-sized bed in the center of the room, the bedspread was untouched, barely rumpled, except for the body laying perfectly still atop it.

Like someone had laid them there on purpose.

A mess of red had soaked deep into the fabric, fresh enough that the air was thick with it. The copper scent was overwhelming, clinging to the back of your throat, so metallic and sharp you could almost taste it. There was so much blood. More than you had ever seen in one place. Too much for it to be okay, too much for it to mean anything other than the obvious. You should have turned around. You should have stopped looking. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything except stand there, heart frozen in your chest, as your brain worked double time, locking onto every detail like it needed to catalog the carnage in order to make sense of it. The body was positioned too neatly, arms at its sides, legs straight, head turned away just enough that it felt unnatural—like whoever had done this hadn’t just been brutal, but deliberate.

Your stomach clenched. The smell invaded your nose again, worse now, thick and nauseating, making something cold claw its way up your spine. You stumbled back a step, your hand flying to clamp around your mouth before you could decide whether you were about to scream or be sick. You needed to move. You needed to leave. You needed to call someone, do something, but your limbs refused to cooperate, locking up as if freezing in place would somehow make this all disappear. Your body was waiting for direction, for instinct to kick in, but it never did.

Then, the bathroom door on the other side of the room swung open, spilling yellow light into the dim space as a man stepped out.

At first, it was the fluffy pink robe that threw you off, a ridiculous contrast against the raw violence laid out before you. Your brain latched onto it, desperate for anything that made sense, anything that didn’t belong to the nightmare in front of you. But then your eyes dragged upward, and you saw it—the blood.

It was everywhere. Splattered across his throat, smeared up his neck, drying in dark, uneven streaks along his collarbone. His hand was coated in it, the thick, dried red cracked over his knuckles, like he hadn’t bothered to wash it off. Like he hadn’t cared enough to try.

Panic reared its head, shoving its way into your chest, squeezing your lungs tighter than before. It was one thing to stumble across a body, to witness a crime. It was another to look into the eyes of the man who had done it. Your body understood before your mind did—the liquid fire of adrenaline flooding through your veins, your muscles locking up in place, every nerve screaming caught, caught, caught.

His gaze locked onto you, heavy and assessing, and even from where you stood, you could tell his eyes were the deepest ocean blue you had ever seen. There was no rage in them, no madness—nothing that fit the sheer bloodshed he had left behind. He was unnervingly handsome, despite it all. Maybe because of it.

He inhaled, dragging another slow pull from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips before shifting his weight, completely unconcerned.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Well,” he muttered, voice rough and edged with disinterest as he let out a puff of smoke, “shit.”

You should have run.

You should have turned and bolted down the hallway, thrown yourself outside, screamed for help—something. But you didn’t. Your body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t let you turn and run from the scene in front of you. Your limbs were locked in place, rooted to the motel floor like they had forgotten how to move, how to respond, how to do anything but tremble.

He seemed to notice, and flicking his cigarette, he made his way slowly toward you. He was so slow and careful it was almost predatory, like he was trying to camouflage into whatever normalcy was left in the room. Like he was trying to convince you that this was completely normal and he wasn’t some axe murderer in a pink fluffy robe.

“C’mon now,” he muttered, stepping toward you with zero hesitation, like your presence here was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Least shut the damn door.”

He moved with easy, unbothered confidence, reaching past you, pressing his palm against the motel door and nudging it inward. It swung heavy on its hinges, closing behind you with a soft, final click.

Your breath shuddered. You were really stuck here now, with him, and for some reason, the panic in your chest wasn’t flaring like before. You remained stock-still, frozen, waiting for him to make his move, to put you out of your misery for being a witness to his crime. What was his weapon of choice? Did he have a knife? A gun? Did he kill with his bare hands?

The man stepped in close, standing just in front of you now, close enough that you could see the uneven streaks of blood drying against his throat, close enough that you could smell the mix of cigarettes and sweat and something deeper layered with the metallic tang of blood. 

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, head tilting ever so slightly, like he was turning over a thought in his head, working something out.

Then he exhaled, lifting a hand—slow, deliberate, like he was giving you a second to react—and twisted a lock of your hair between his fingers.

His touch was light, but it sent a bolt of something electric straight through your spine, and yet, still, you didn’t move. You should have pulled away. You should have slapped his hand down. But your body wasn’t yours right now. It belonged to fear.

He hummed low in his throat, almost to himself, turning the strands between his fingers, studying them with an unreadable expression.

“You’re real pretty,” he muttered, almost absentmindedly, like it was a passing observation, not something meant to soothe you. His voice was low, rough, dragging over the syllables like he didn’t use them often. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Your throat locked up, lungs seizing against the flood of adrenaline. You weren’t even sure if your heart was still in your chest based on the way blood was roaring in your ears, drowning out every rational thought. He was teasing. Curious. And—God—flirty?

If you didn’t know better, if you hadn’t just stepped into this room, hadn’t seen the blood, hadn’t noticed the body stretched out too perfectly on the bed—you might’ve… you might’ve…

You swallowed hard, but your throat was too dry to get any sound out. Your pulse slammed in your ears, your heartbeat betraying everything you wanted to hide. He watched you for a moment longer, then let your hair slip from his grip, rubbing his bloodstained fingers together as if testing the softness.

“You’re shakin’,” he observed, mouth pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but leaned in that direction, like your fear was interesting to him… like it was cute.

His fingers twitched then, and after a pause, he reached up again after sticking his cigarette in his mouth—this time, just barely brushing his knuckles along your jaw. The touch was fleeting, but enough to make you tense even more.

He made another small sound in the back of his throat, mock sympathy edging into it.

“Like a scared little bunny.”

You should have been running. Screaming for your life. You should have turned and bolted the second you saw the blood. Why weren’t you fucking running?

The part of you that should have been shutting down, the part of you that should have been clawing for survival, digging its heels into your fogged, terrified brain to pay fucking attention—that part of you…

It was curious about him too.

You watched as his face changed then, watching your reactions like a predator tracking in his prey, eyes narrowing as they darted around your face, reading you, piecing something together. His lips twitched like he was amused, like he had figured out something you didn’t even understand about yourself yet.

“No…” he said, pulling his hand away, head tilting slightly before his face split into a grin, pulling the cigarette out between his fingers, “you’re not scared, are you, little bunny? You like this.”

“No!” The word ripped out of you, barely a whisper at first, but then louder, cracking in the dim room around you., “No.” Your breath stuttered as you tried to sound more confident, your whole body wired too tight, but the denial felt weak even to your own ears.

“Oh, there she is,” he said, watching you closely, pleased that he had finally drawn something out of you. “You gotta name, sweetheart?”

Your lips pressed together, your jaw tight, but your eyes sharpened, taking him in, really seeing him now. His blue eyes were dangerous and beautiful and terrifying all at once, cutting through the haze of your fear like a blade. There was blood splattered up his face, drying along the sharp structure of his cheekbone, disappearing into the strands of dark hair that hung loose in his eyes. It should have made him look monstrous. It should have made him unrecognizable as anything human.

But it didn’t.

It made you want to lean forward. Your mind flashed with the idea, and you did everything you could to keep your body from following, the idea that you wanted to trace the sharp cut of his jaw, to drag your tongue over the remnants of metallic blood he had missed along his lip and—

No.

No no no no no.

The thought seared through you like an open flame. Your breath caught, your skin igniting in humiliation, a flush so deep you wanted to disappear. You couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe your own body, couldn’t believe the way your stomach clenched, the way something hot and ugly was overlapping the sheer horror of what this man had done. There was fear, yes—a lot of it. But there was something else crawling underneath, something just as intense, something that made your pulse skyrocket as his hand moved.

His hand pushed the cigarette into the wooden frame, the hiss of the burning end snuffing out by your head. His fingers then found the strap of your shirt, curling around the fabric, dragging it down over your shoulder with his bloodstained grip.

“No name, huh?” he murmured, watching your face, watching every shift in your expression, like he was memorizing what you looked like when you trembled. His voice was lower now, quieter, dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud or obvious, but steady and unshaken. He leaned in closer, close enough that the heat of his breath ghosted over your throat.

“That’s okay, bunny,” he muttered. “I don’t got a name either.”

Your stomach dropped.

And then, to your utter horror, he kissed your shoulder.

Not deep. Not forceful. Just the slow, deliberate press of his mouth against your skin, his lips barely parted, dragging warm and rough over the place he had just exposed.

It sent a violent shudder down your spine. The sensation—the heat of him, the quiet intimacy of it, the way he didn’t move away after, just lingered there—lit something in your chest, something sharp and unbearable. Your nipples, the traitors, hardened underneath your shirt, poking through the thin fabric that stretched across your chest. A gasp left you before you could stop it, your eyes widening in shock.

The man huffed softly against your skin, something amused in the sound.

“You like this, bunny?” His voice was slow, edged with something almost thoughtful, like he was figuring it out as he spoke. His nose brushed the side of your throat, his breath warm as he tilted his head, inhaling the scent of your perfume.

“You like a man like me takin’ advantage of just how scared you are?” His hand tightened just slightly at your shoulder, his mouth ghosting along your jaw before he murmured, “That it, bunny? You like the fear?”

His lips brushed your pulse.

“The shame?”

His fingers traced along your collarbone, the metallic tang of copper filling your nose as his hand got closer and closer to your face again.

“You turned on by a little bit of blood?”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers curling at your sides, and you knew whatever you said next would change everything. You should have lied. You should have denied it, should have shaken your head, should have shoved him away and run before it was too late.

Your mouth parted, your chest heaving like you had just surfaced from drowning, but before you could answer, his hand snapped up, grabbing the nape of your neck, fingers lacing in your hair. His other hand suddenly gripped your jaw, forcing your face to tilt toward him.

It was fast, sudden, a flash of violence that slammed through you like a bolt of electricity, it made you gasp sharply, eyes going wide.

His grip wasn’t bruising, but it was firm, unyielding. His fingers dug into your jaw just enough that it bordered on pain, enough that you felt the quiet threat humming underneath him.

His eyes narrowed, sharp, dark, and hungry, locking onto yours like a predator seeing prey for exactly what it was. His grip tightened for a split second, his thumb dragging rough over your cheek, the dried blood flaking slightly against your skin, crumbling like dust beneath his touch.

“Say it,” he rasped, voice still calm, still steady as stone, but something inside it had changed—harder now, more dangerous.

Your body locked up, trapped between the heat of him and the cold reality of what was happening, of what had been happening for longer than just that moment.

Because it hadn’t started when you stepped into this room.

It didn’t start when you saw the blood. It didn’t even start when you heard the body hit the floor.

It started long before that.

You’d always known something was wrong with you. The way fear didn’t keep you away—it called to you, wrapped around your ribs and had you in its grip. The way you’d always looked for danger, for the spike of adrenaline that made your heart hammer against your ribs, made you feel more alive than anything else.

You could’ve stayed at your parents’ house. You could’ve forced yourself to sit through another dinner filled with questions about your future, their expectations suffocating you like a cage you were never meant to fit inside. But you didn’t.

You left in the middle of the night, peeling away from their house like something inside you was clawing to be free, chasing an impulse you hadn’t fully understood at the time.

You hadn’t stopped driving until exhaustion forced your hand. And when you pulled into this motel, when you stepped onto that cracked pavement, when you heard the distant sounds of raised voices, of something heavy hitting the ground—your pulse hadn’t stuttered in fear.

It had spiked.

And while you tried to ignore it, ignore that pull, to force yourself to sleep, you couldn’t say no to that part of you that needed to see. You’d left your room, weaving through the shadows of the motel, passing this exact door. The vending machine hadn’t been the excuse you told yourself it was. It wasn’t hunger for food that had your stomach twisting, your body restless against the scratchy motel sheets.

It was hunger to know.

To see.

To find the blood, the body, and the man who did it.

And now he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he already knew all of it. Like he’d read the answer in your dilated eyes, in the way your breath had hitched when you first saw him, in the way you were still here, still trembling under his grip but not running.

Your mouth was dry, your body refusing to move, refusing to break free of his hold. Because the worst part wasn’t that you were afraid.

The worst part was that you liked it.

You made a small, broken noise, your fingers twitching, your whole body tight as a wire as you reached up, your hands sliding around his  forearm.

“Yes,” you whispered. It was barely a sound, barely more than breath, but his eyes flickered, something shifting beneath them.

The pressure released all at once.

His grip loosened from your jaw, tracing down the side of your throat with something slower now, something more deliberate. You let your hands fall, reaching for him instead. His thumb dragged along your cheek, wiping away the remnants of old blood he had left there. His lips lingered, the warmth of them stark against your skin, a slow drag over your jaw as he exhaled. The scent of him—smoke, sweat, the faint metallic ghost of dried blood—was thick in your lungs, wrapping around you, leaving no space for anything else.

His lips barely moved as they traced your jaw again when he spoke, the words slipping against your skin, low and quiet, like they weren’t meant for the space between you but meant to sink into you, settle deep, curl around something inside you that you didn’t even have a name for.

“I know, bunny.”

It was soft, almost affectionate, but threaded with something deeper. Something knowing.

Like he had been waiting for you to admit it to yourself first.

His fingers, the ones still tangled in your hair, tightened slightly—not rough, but firm, keeping you in place, keeping you still for him. He turned your head just enough to guide you, slow, like testing a skittish animal, like making sure you wouldn’t bolt the second he took what you were already offering.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name.

And none of that mattered.

Your hands, trembling but restless, lifted before you could stop them, pressing against the warm plane of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. He was solid. Real. Your fingertips brushed against the edge of the pink robe he still hadn’t bothered to shed, the soft, ridiculous fabric clashing with the rough scrape of stubble along your throat as his mouth continued its path downward.

You felt the shift in him before you even saw it, the slight pause of his breath, the way his grip in your hair flexed before tightening further. His tongue peeked out from his mouth, tracing the vein of your artery along the column of your neck. You shuddered against him, eyes fluttering closed, and he chuckled, low and breathless against your skin, the sound of it vibrating against your pulse.

“That feel nice, sweetheart?”

You opened your eyes to look at him, and his were darker now, heavy-lidded, focused entirely on you, taking in every shuddering breath, every small twitch of your lips, the way your pupils had swallowed nearly all of your color.

Then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was ravenous. Not just hungry but starved. The slow, intoxicating drag of lips and teeth and heat blurred every thought, every warning screaming in your head turning into static. You felt one of his hands skim lower, tracing the dip of your waist, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your shirt like he was debating whether to rip it from your body or take his time peeling you open.

His mouth moved over yours like he already knew you’d open for him, like he had been waiting for it, waiting for this.

And God, you let him.

[gawkgokgok]

Silence of the lambs

Aemond Targaryen x Daemons daughter!reader

summary: You and Aemond married for the peace of the realm even though you disliked each other. Peace is the last thing you would find in your chambers...

warnings: MDNI, subtle violence, reluctant kissing, choking, attempted rape, a bit of a praise, tiddies!, all this but its suppose to be hurt/comfort😭😭 almost 2.3k

a/n: this is the first and probably the last thing I'll ever write. just had some fun and decided to share it here.🩵 English ain't my shit, sorry for the mistakes. hope this won't be a waste of your time divider credit @cafekitsune (hope that's okay) :P

Cold.

Cold and distant.

Two moons passed since your wedding day. Even though you shared chambers you limped to get used to each other. Stiff. Not present. If you talked it would be the smallest, briefest conversations only about necessary. Usually it was silence. That’s all you knew. And perhaps it was for the best...

Silence in the morns. Silence in the day. Silence in the nights. Most familiar whisper of your rooms was crunchy fire. The only thing that kept this place from turning into a dungeon.

Dungeon with chains lost on the eyes.

You returned tired to your shared coffins. Spending your evening with pregnant Helaena and her twins. Playing until little offsprings got tired and ready for their cribs. You seeked change. Anything, just to get the obese hours pass quicker.

Hands of wind grabbed your ankles and planted shivers across your skin. Balcony door was wide open. He stood there. Face in his palms. Or so you thought. His back was covering any chance of view. You pursed your lips. Should you worry? Should you talk to him? Would it make things worse?

The slouching of his shoulders made you sigh and slowly approach. You ideated running your palm across his broad form to soothe him. But you feared of overstepping.

"Did something happen?" It was quiet. Not particularly soft, but quiet.

Your eye caught his arms tensing up. You hated that your presence and voice made him like this. You didn’t care at first, but it was becoming frustrating.

He didn't look at you. He was quiet for a long moment before he put you back in your place. "...nothing happened."

You stared at his nape, covered by waves of moonshine. He was being difficult, and you just wanted to go to sleep and close the damn doors. Curling your tongue in your mouth, you gathered strength to stay calm.

"Are you alright?"

You felt his anger grow. The last thing he wanted was your concern and your worry. "I’m fine." He cut the air with his teeth.

Your heart stilled at his harsh tone. Overstepping. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it and warily stepped back into your chambers. You didn’t wish to argue. Deep down you preferred silence over arguments. If he doesn’t wish to speak what’s troubling him, who are you to press matters?

You left him to his thoughts. Retreating with tail between your legs as you started getting yourself ready for the bed.

You were used to him hiding his feelings away but whenever you would show concern (as rare as it was) or try to ask about anything, the storm would just take over his mind. He had no interest to trust you and you respected that. Not like you shared many of your thoughts to him either. To anyone, really. Being the daughter of the man he hated, you understood... to certain extents.

You heard the balcony door close just as you moved the covers under which you planned to hide and let your body and mind rest. He strode over to you, his hand grasping around your upper arm as he turned you around to face him. You gasped in shock and before you could wince from his iron grip, your mouth was muffled by his. Pushing your lips apart with his restless tongue, forcing cold shivers down your spine as he tried to drown you in his control.

You didn’t know what scared you more, his assault or his sudden behavior. You couldn’t tear your arm away. You couldn’t arch your head away. You couldn’t even welcome air in your system. Liquid in your veins was gaining adrenalin. You were almost trembling from fear. You started expecting the worst...

He scoffed at your whines of protest and pushed you on your back, slamming you on the soft mattress. You winced slightly when you hit the bed. Short-term pain quickly overshadowed by terror. His body savaged over yours in an instant.

"Ae- Aemond, what are you- what’s gotten into you!?"

He was deaf as he started pulling your night shift up. And you looked up at him with wide and terrified eyes, unable to fight back his strength. Whatever was dancing in his sharp violet one... it smelled rotten.

"What's gotten into me?" His voice was strained as he fought to keep your limbs in place. A low, mocking laugh rang as he focused his gaze on your heaving chest. "Lets find out."

Your eyelids strained even more. Throat drying up. Breath hitching out of control along with your shaking body.

The only time you consummated was on your wedding night. It wasn’t pleasant. It didn’t hurt, but you weren’t enjoying it. And you knew he didn’t either. This was completely out of the blue and his rage was blood-freezing.

You were scared, yes, but you were more scared of the idea what would happen if you started actually resisting... He never hit you, but the tales of his temper rolled around the corridors like plague.

Dark pleasure filled his stare. He could see the hesitation in you, the tremble and fear. But he didn't care. He knew he had you right where he wanted. His bruising touch on your skin felt ten times heightened now that you fell completely out of control. Getting hunted down...

"Good. That's good..."

Aemond praised with a twisted smile. His hand moved from your wrists to your neck, his large hand wrapping around you and holding you down. You shivered when his palm had more control over your breathing than you. His other hand passed along your body, feeling every curve and angle of your frame. Your breath couldn’t even hitch every time his fingers grazed over your plush stomach and waist. Your fists bagged the sheets firmly and you shut your eyes as you let him do what he wanted.

He was lost in his own desire, in his own lust. Ignoring your discomfort. He just needed to satisfy his needs. He needed to let out his frustration somehow. Or on someone... He continued roaming his hands across your body, touching you like you were a toy.

"You're so beautiful..."

Your eyes shot opened as you heard his mumbles. Seeing how he was fixated on your body, you took the chance before the damage could be done. Marital rape was not on your list tonight. You bit your tongue and dared to touch him, cupping his cheek. "...Can-... can you at least tell me what's wrong?...Please."

His jaw clenched. Your touch was so soft, so gentle and so different from the grip he had on you. It took him by surprise. His eyes locked with yours. He was quiet for a moment, the darkness in his gaze fading for a quickly-lost moment.

"It's nothing. There's nothing wrong." He muttered through gritted teeth, moving his head to the side to avoid your warm hand. His brows twitched into a frown and his hands hooked in your smallclothes.

Your fingers curled into a fist before you let your hand drop. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know how to calm him. How to reason him. How to talk to him.... You were his wife and you had no clue how to handle him. Bitterness stashed your mouth. You sighed heavily. He already had your mound bare.

"..this won’t solve whatever’s bothering you." You tried to sound calm. Tried to appear like you weren’t fighting for the right over your body right now.

He huffed, becoming more and more irritated with you. Pushing your nightgown over your chest. His voice was low and ragged as he saw how cool air affected your nipples.

"It would. It can. At least for a moment.."

"Please, let me help you.." ..somehow, you hoped. Carding your hand through his silver locks, pulling the strands back so they weren’t falling over your faces as he loomed over you.

"....I’ll listen. I promise." And you meant it. You’d do anything to avoid this situation. If it meant behaving like a proper loving wife who listens and cares, you would do it. Despite the resentment you hold for each other.

Your gazes locked as he listened to your pointless rambles. There was a flicker of hesitation, but he flashed it away with a mutter as he cupped your breasts. "It's nothing. I just had a bad day."

"Then let me hear about your day."

You covered his big hands with yours and you felt him twitch. Surprise washed over his face as he looked back up your eyes once again. You noticed his observing eye roam over your features and you softened your whole demeanor. You meant it. You were fucking tired of this. The silence. The distance. The feeling of constant unwelcomeness. You just wanted to enter your chambers ONCE and be relaxed in his presence...

Looking at you, seeking sincerity and curiosity in your eyes, he closed his own and sighed. "It was tiresome, lots of meeting, training, planning for the future... everything that’s expected of me."

You nodded slowly, listening to every word that rolled off his tongue. And you noticed it. A silver of honesty, perhaps even trust. Your nails skied up his arm, gently scratching his nape. You wanted to make him as calm as possible. "...you’re tired..?"

Aemond let out a low purr, his eye fluttering shut. "Hm."

You pulled his shoulders so he would lay down on you, wrapping arms around his neck. You felt tension all over his body, but you didn’t care. If he thinks he can do whatever he wanted with you, so could you with him. You tucked his head under your chin.

You were trying to value his emotions. As hard as it was... you understood what he meant. You didn’t know every detail of his training nor his council meetings, but you knew what it meant to be drained. Exhausted. And that was enough to make you empathic.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy. You held him tighter, your arms getting a rush of protectiveness. Letting him find shelter in your embrace. Solace in your arms. Peace in your scent and warmth. You wanted to make him feel heard and seen. He held onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as if he was holding onto for dear life. You felt it. You sensed the shift. He was allowing you to see him. To see his vulnerability. To dive below the surface of his thick skin.

"It's just too much sometimes. I don't know if I can do it anymore." You felt his lips brush along your skin as he mumbled quietly.

"I know. I know it is, but draining yourself to the last drop isn’t doing you any good. And satisfying everyone’s expectations is impossible."

You tried to comfort him. And seeing this softer side of him. This... lost, broken boy. It made you desire gentleness towards him.

"...I know you don’t like being told what to do, but I’m advising you... let that dumb old cunt go. Otto is not worth your time or energy. He never was. Ungrateful people don’t deserve the effort you’re putting up, Aemond."

From your FAR point of view you knew enough. You knew why Aemond was the way he was. Even though you struggled to understand his dark motives most of the time, you understood where he was coming from. And being a child loved only under conditions does that to a person. You secretly admired that he’s still standing and isn’t reaching for cups like Aegon.

"I know. It’s hard to see it and let go, especially when that someone is your family..."

You sighed, plucking the right words...

"...but I’m your family now."

Even though your marriage has been distant and cold, you still had time to change that... right?

His silence made you chew your lips nervously. You really had no idea what you were doing nor saying... He shifted slightly to look at you, his eye overflowing with emotions. He didn't say anything, just looked at you, searching your face for something.

"I know you didn’t choose me. I know I didn’t choose you. I know we agreed only for the greater good, but... I’m tired sometimes as well. I wish we didn’t resent each other."

You whispered honestly while taking in his pained expression. It broke your heart knowing even you, his wife, struggled to give him the care and affection.

He took a deep breath and gently touched your cheek, his fingertips lightly caressing your skin. "I'm sorry for the way I've been... towards you." He whispered and pulled the nightgown down, covering your body.

You leaned into his touch. Wanting him to know that he’s welcome to you from now on. Your smiled even though you were terrified when he jumped you. "...it’s our first time being married, right?"

Aemonds eye wrinkled, a small, barely-there smile tugged the corners of his lips.

It was nice to see him smile, even if the situation was far from funny, but he was calm. And that’s all that mattered to you.

Warm.

Warm and close.

Silence. That’s all you knew. And yet... it felt good. It felt right.

You helped him with the buttons of his leather doublet. Changing him in his night clothes as you both exchanged soft looks and amused smiles. You hid under the sheets and cuddled until you let lambs bounce your minds away. You let him sleep in your chest.. cling to you.. seek your comfort. And you didn’t even wish to think about denying him. For the first time, you felt truly at peace in his presence. You will be the wife he needs.

[batboysanonymous]

Watching, Waiting, Wanting (Extended Version)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel was never a good man, not when it came to her—his darkness, his obsession, his carefully crafted devotion was something no one, not even the Mother herself, could sever.

Continue reading below ⬇

───────────────────────────────

Y/n didn’t know he was there.

She never did.

Not really.

She moved through Velaris with a softness Azriel could never replicate. A kind of weightlessness that made him feel like he could breathe when he hadn’t even realized he’d been drowning.

She sat by her window now, curled up in an armchair with a book in her lap, one hand absentmindedly twirling a loose strand of hair. The golden glow of candlelight flickered against the glass, painting her in hues of warmth, softness—everything that was hers and hers alone.

And yet, she wasn’t alone.

She had left her window cracked. Just slightly.

An invitation. A mistake.

Azriel stood across the street, concealed by the darkness, his oldest companion. He shouldn’t be here. He told himself that every time, and yet, every night, he returned.

His little dove.

So delicate. So blissfully unaware of the wolf watching from the shadows.

He told himself it was for her safety. That he needed to ensure nothing happened to her, that Velaris was not as safe as she believed. That if he left her alone for too long, something might come along and take her from him before she even knew she belonged to him.

He was simply looking out for what was his.

She should be more careful. Should know better than to let anything in.

But he liked that she didn’t.

That she was soft in a way that let his darkness wrap around her, unseen, unheard.

That she hadn’t yet learned to fear the thing lurking just beyond her reach.

Because once she did, he would have to remind her—

Fear wasn’t necessary.

Not when it came to him.

─────

Azriel had known her for years, long before the bond snapped.

At first, she had been nothing more than a curiosity, a shift in his peripheral vision that made him look twice. He had encountered countless beautiful females in his lifetime, had trained himself not to be swayed by a pretty face or a soft smile. But her…

She was different.

It started with glances.

Fleeting moments where she felt like an anomaly, an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t quite scratch.

Then, it became more.

He memorized her routine before he even let himself admit how deeply she consumed him.

She had a habit of visiting the same café every morning, ordering tea with three sugars and just a touch of honey. She always brought a book, always tucked her hair behind her ear as she read, always tilted her head slightly when she was deep in thought.

She walked through Velaris without a care, trailing her fingers along shop windows, the rough stone walls of old buildings, the velvet-lined chairs in bookstores.

As if she needed to ground herself to the world.

She never saw his shadows.

Never flinched from them the way others did.

If anything, they curled toward her, drawn to her warmth, her light.

Like him.

And that was the moment he knew.

He wanted to be the one to keep her that way—untouched, unbothered by the horrors of reality.

But he also wanted her to see him.

Not just as the quiet male in the shadows.

But as something inevitable.

─────

It had escalated quickly.

At first, he told himself it was only coincidence.

That every time he found himself in her favorite café, in the bookstore she visited every Sunday, in the marketplace she passed through on her way home—it was chance.

But it wasn’t.

It was control.

His control.

She just didn’t know it yet.

His presence lingered in every corner of her life, woven into the spaces between her laughter and solitude. He made sure she was safe. Made sure no one got too close, no one posed a threat.

She would never have to know about the drunk male who had followed her down an alley one night, only to disappear before he ever reached her. She would never have to know about the shopkeeper who let his gaze linger too long and found his storefront mysteriously wrecked the next morning.

She would never have to know about the nightmares Azriel erased before they could ever touch her reality.

Because he would handle them all.

And he did.

─────

The bond was a mercy.

The bond was a curse.

A relief, because now he knew.

A curse, because it made his hunger insatiable.

She didn’t know yet. He hadn’t told her.

Not because he didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t ready.

She had spent years living a life without him in it, and he would not rip that away from her in one fell swoop.

No.

He would ease her into it.

Let her come to him, let her feel the pull of fate in her own time.

Because once she did, there would be no going back.

And he wanted her to accept it willingly.

To crave him the way he already craved her.

To need him.

The way he needed her.

─────

Tonight was different.

Tonight, she had made a mistake.

She had gone to dinner. With him.

Azriel knew the male wasn’t worthy.

He had watched them together, seen the way his hand had brushed over her wrist, how he had leaned too close, spoken too softly.

As if he had any right.

Azriel waited outside her townhome as the male walked her to the door, his fingers clenching as he lingered.

She was smiling.

And Azriel saw red.

His shadows writhed around him, screaming for violence, for blood, for retribution.

He let the male walk away.

For now.

It didn’t take long to find him.

The scent of her lingered on his skin. The scent of her laughter, of her soft smiles, of the warmth she had freely given.

Azriel stalked him through the empty streets, silent, patient.

When the male finally noticed him, it was already too late.

Azriel was on him in a breath, shadows wrapping around his throat, a blade pressing just below his chin.

“You will not see her again,” Azriel murmured, voice a deadly whisper.

The male stilled, his pulse hammering against the cold steel.

“I—I don’t understand—”

Azriel pressed harder, just enough to make the male’s breath hitch.

“She’s mine.”

The words sank into the silence between them, unshakable.

And then, he was gone.

But the warning was given.

If the male touched her again—looked at her again—

He wouldn’t live to regret it.

─────

Her voice was soft when she answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Azriel didn’t speak.

He just listened.

She hesitated, the silence stretching between them.

She should have hung up.

She didn’t.

She knew.

Not fully, not yet. But some small, secret part of her understood she wasn’t alone.

That something was watching.

That he was watching.

The realization made his lips curl.

He let the silence stretch, let the tension coil between them through the receiver.

Then, softly, possessively—

“I’ll see you soon, little dove.”

And he hung up.

─────

Y/n felt it before she saw it.

That unsettling prickle down her spine.

The feeling of something—someone—watching.

It wasn’t new. No, it had been there for weeks now, an ever-present ghost in the edges of her awareness. She’d tried to ignore it at first, chalking it up to paranoia, to her own mind playing tricks on her in the dead of night.

But then the signs started piling up.

The way the candle by her window flickered unnaturally some nights, as if a breeze had disturbed it—but the window was never open. The way her door, locked before she went to bed, sometimes felt…wrong when she woke. As if someone had touched the handle, pressed against the wood, lingered on the threshold.

And the phone calls.

Always silent. Always stretching long enough to make her heart pound.

She could hear it now—her heartbeat in her ears, the weight of her own breath, the pulse of something unseen tightening its grip around her world.

Still, she told herself it was nothing. That she was being ridiculous.

That she was safe.

She wanted to believe it.

And maybe she would have.

If not for the note.

──────

She found it the next morning.

A single slip of parchment, placed delicately atop the book she had left on her nightstand.

She stared at it for a long moment, her fingers hesitating before picking it up.

One sentence.

“Don’t be afraid of me. I’m what you need.”

Her breath hitched.

The ink was bold, deliberate. A declaration, not a plea.

Her first instinct was to run.

To leave, to get out of her house, to flee into the streets where she wouldn’t be alone.

But something in her made her pause.

A different kind of fear creeping up her spine.

Not of whoever had written the note.

But of what would happen if she disobeyed.

Azriel watched from the rooftop across the street, his shadows curling around him.

She had found his gift.

Her reaction was predictable—wide eyes, sharp breath, that moment of hesitation where she debated running.

But she didn’t.

His little dove was clever.

She was learning.

Good.

He had no desire to chase her.

Yet.

He had been patient. Had watched, waited, ensured she felt his presence before she ever truly saw him.

And now, the game was beginning.

Y/n carried the note with her the rest of the day.

She didn’t know why.

Perhaps some part of her wanted proof. Evidence that she wasn’t imagining things, that the slow-burning paranoia clawing its way into her bones was real.

That someone had been in her room.

And that whoever it was—

They wanted her to know it.

She almost told someone. Almost mentioned it when she ran into Feyre at the market, when Cassian joked about how exhausted she looked.

But the words stuck in her throat.

Because there was something else.

Something deeper than fear.

Something darker.

A part of her that wanted to know who it was.

Not to expose them.

But to understand why she wasn’t afraid the way she should be.

Why, when she read the note again, her skin didn’t crawl—

It burned.

──────

Azriel moved through the shadows, trailing her like a silent storm.

She was thinking about him.

He could tell by the way she bit her lip, the crease in her brow, the way she kept reaching into her pocket—fingering the note he had left.

Good girl.

She was holding onto him already.

It was only a matter of time.

Tonight, she would see him.

Not fully, not yet.

But enough.

Enough to know that running was useless.

Enough to know that she belonged to him.

──────

She felt him before she saw him.

Like always.

She had just gotten home, the door locking behind her with a quiet click. But it didn’t ease the tension in her chest, the feeling that the walls weren’t enough to keep something out.

Something had changed tonight.

The air felt heavier. Thicker.

She hesitated before pulling the curtains shut, her fingers trembling against the fabric.

And then—

A shadow moved outside her window.

Slow. Deliberate.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Not a flicker of darkness.

Not a trick of the night.

A shape.

A figure.

Standing just beyond the glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

She knew she should scream. Should run. Should do anything but what she did—

Which was step closer.

The candlelight illuminated just enough.

Just enough to catch the glint of a scarred hand pressed lightly against the windowpane.

A warning.

A promise.

She barely had time to suck in a breath before the shadows swallowed him whole, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there at all.

But he had been.

And he would be again.

Her fingers curled around the note in her pocket, heart hammering.

Not in fear.

But in anticipation.

Azriel sat in the darkness, the memory of her face burned into his mind.

She had seen him.

Not enough to run.

But enough to understand.

He was not leaving.

He was not letting go.

She would come to him soon.

Whether she meant to or not.

He smirked, whispering softly to the night.

“Don’t run, little dove. You won’t get far.”

──────

Y/n woke with a gasp.

The room was silent, but the weight pressing against her chest was suffocating, as if the air itself had thickened, filled with something unseen, something oppressive.

Her skin burned.

Not a fever. Not exhaustion.

Something deeper.

Something wrong.

She sat up, shoving the blankets away, her breath uneven, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

It was happening again.

That feeling—like she wasn’t alone, like something lurked just beyond her senses, waiting.

Her fingers clenched into the sheets, nails digging into the fabric.

This was worse than before.

Worse than the silent phone calls. Worse than the shadows shifting outside her window.

Because this time—

It was inside her.

Something inside her was fracturing, splitting open, unraveling at the seams.

And she knew.

Knew what it was.

Knew what it meant.

The bond.

It was snapping.

And she had no way to stop it.

──────

Azriel felt it the moment it happened.

The bond, taut for so long, frayed and frayed until it could stretch no more—

Finally gave.

Finally snapped.

He had been waiting for this moment.

Had anticipated it. Had prepared for it.

And yet, as it hit him like a violent storm, like a brand searing into his very soul—he almost drowned in it.

The air in his lungs vanished.

His vision blurred at the edges.

And all he could feel—

All he could taste, breathe, consume—

Was her.

Panic. Confusion. Fear.

But beneath it—beneath the terror lacing her scent—

Was the undeniable pulse of recognition.

Of need.

She was calling for him.

Whether she realized it or not.

And he was coming.

──────

Y/n stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink with trembling hands.

She could barely recognize herself in the mirror.

Her pupils were blown wide, her skin flushed, her lips parted as if she couldn’t get enough air.

She was shaking.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Mates.

Azriel.

Azriel.

His name slipped into her mind like a whisper, a call, a demand.

Her chest ached at the thought of him.

Not the normal kind of ache—the kind she had pushed down for weeks, months.

No, this was worse.

It was splitting her apart, tearing into the deepest part of her, pulling her toward something she had no hope of resisting.

Her legs nearly buckled, her grip tightening on the sink.

She needed air.

She needed out.

──────

Azriel had barely given himself time to process before he was moving.

His body acted before his mind could catch up, his shadows twisting through the night, pulling him forward, faster, to her.

She wouldn’t be able to handle it alone.

Not the bond. Not him.

She had fought it, denied it, ignored the inevitable—

But she would not ignore it now.

She couldn’t.

And neither could he.

He had played the game long enough. Had given her space, let her adjust, let her dance along the edges of something she didn’t yet understand.

That time was over.

She was his.

She had always been his.

And now—

Now, she would finally know it.

──────

Y/n barely made it to the door before it blew open.

The shadows came first—pouring into the entryway like living ink, swallowing the light, wrapping around her ankles, her wrists, her throat.

And then—

Him.

Azriel.

He stepped through the threshold like a nightmare incarnate, like he had walked straight from her fears into reality.

Tall. Dark. Eyes burning with something lethal.

Something hungry.

She stumbled back.

The bond roared.

She choked on a breath, her body betraying her, heat curling deep in her stomach, her instincts screaming at her to move toward him even as her mind screamed the opposite.

“No—” Her voice wavered, hands braced behind her against the wall, nowhere to go, no escape.

His head tilted, slow.

Predatory.

“You feel it.”

Not a question. A statement.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He took a step forward.

She pressed harder against the wall, as if it could swallow her whole, as if it could save her from what was coming.

“I—” She shook her head, her breath shallow, her body betraying her with every second that passed. “You—”

She couldn’t get the words out.

Because he was right.

She felt it.

The tether between them, pulling, strangling, refusing to be ignored.

His eyes darkened, his scars flexing as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You ran from it,” he murmured, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “You ran from me.”

She flinched.

His shadows curled tighter around her wrists, not touching—not yet.

“But you can’t anymore, can you?” he breathed.

Her throat closed.

The bond was suffocating.

Too much.

Too strong.

Her body was on fire, her vision blurring, her skin screaming for contact.

And he knew it.

His lips curled, his head tilting as he drank her in.

“You feel what I feel now, don’t you?”

His voice was low, deep, meant only for her.

She tried to deny it.

Tried to shake her head, tried to push down the sharp, desperate pull in her chest—

But she couldn’t.

And he saw it.

Saw the exact moment she broke.

Azriel moved—too fast, too sudden, too much.

His hands slammed into the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, his body pressed close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the strength, the ownership.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against her lips.

Lies.

She should be.

She was.

But beneath that fear—

Was something else.

Something worse.

Because her body—traitorous, weak, his—was leaning into him.

Was giving in.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking.

He let her.

Let her pretend she had a choice.

But then—

Then his lips brushed against her temple, just once, just enough to send a violent shudder through her body.

“I am what you need.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Met his.

And she knew.

There was no running.

There never had been.

Not from him.

Not from this.

The bond had snapped.

And Azriel—

Azriel was never letting her go.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Taglist: @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains, masbt1218, @antonia002, bookishcait, fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, quiettuba

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[currentloser]

playing pretend

pairing: choi seung-hyun x reader word count: 2557 summary: When you just try to enjoy your day at a bar you're bothered by your ex, so you ask Choi Seung-hyun to help avoid them. content: fake dating trope, alcohol, strangers to (fake) lovers

( ao3 link )

The bar you'd chosen for the night thrummed with low music and quiet conversation. The slow pulse of a bass-heavy song lingered in your ribs, buzzing against your skin. Overhead, dim golden lights hung low and cast hazy reflections against the polished counter. The faint scent of whiskey and something musky clung to the air, mixing in with the occasional clatter of glasses from the bartender’s study hands.

The crowd was sparse, just enough to make the place feel more intimate than you prepared. You sat by the bar, sipping through your drink before a figure poked out from the crowd. You were enjoying your drink, letting the warmth settle in your chest, when a shadow flickered at the edge of your vision. The moment your gaze landed on them, a heavy weight settled in your stomach.

Suddenly, the sickly sweet aftertaste of the alcohol you'd sipped on was sticking to the roof of your mouth, burning the back of your throat. Your grip went stiff around the glass, your knuckles paling. You tore your gaze away before they could catch you looking, but the damage was done. None other than your ex had decided to sour the night in an instant. You pressed your palms onto the table, close to making a break for it.

No. You wouldn't let them ruin a good time, especially when you'd gotten here first. You avoided glancing back at them, instead focusing on the man who had just slid into the seat beside yours.

Choi Seung-hyun.

Of course, you knew who he was. Anyone with half a sense of pop culture would recognize him, it was no wonder he would pick a less popular venue. To avoid the prying eyes of the media and crazed fans. His presence had a quiet gravity as if he could change the mood of the room without even trying.  Still, he managed to lighten up the heavy atmosphere that took hold over the room.

Your eyes bugged out for a moment. Instead of gawking you gave him a polite nod, not wanting to make the idol uncomfortable as much as you felt close to fumbling over yourself. He was a person, just like you were. 

“You don't look like you’re having fun,” He mused, tilting his head as his eyes flickered toward your barely touched drink.

You exhaled sharply and glanced toward the table where your ex still sat, “Just bad company.”

His gaze followed yours, lingering for a moment before turning back to you. He leaned in slightly, his elbows propped up on the counter. The corners of his lips quirked up into a small smirk.

“Ah, that kind of night?” He quickly became comfortable beside you, breaking his concentration to tap at the counter.

The bartender attended to him, taking his order quickly. You weren't sure what made you admit why you'd come, if only for how reassuring his presence managed to be. Silence passed as his drink slid across the counter to him and he took a sip of it, peering back to you. The way he looked at you had you speaking before you could second-guess yourself.

“Be my date.”

Seunghyun blinked, caught off guard, “You want me to be your date?” His expression melted into a small smile, his eyes crinkling, “To make them jealous?”

“Maybe I want to remind them what they lost,” You shrug, playing nonchalant.

You were certain this wouldn't work. Seung-hyun would laugh you out of the bar or politely turn your offer down. It was a ridiculous thing to ask if someone who had the media breathing down his neck, had all eyes on him. You grab your drink and quickly take a sip to steady yourself. You could practically hear the cogs in the other man’s head turning. Beside you, Seung-hyun broke it with a low, rich laugh. The sound made you want to lean in just a little closer.

“So, you want to give them something to watch?” He asked, tipping his glass toward you.

Surprised at his seeming eagerness, you nod slowly, not quite sure what he meant by it. His grin spread out wider and his hand slipped around your waist, scooting himself closer beside you. The edges of your chairs met and he was warm. Dangerously, his hand closed around the side of your waist and held onto you there.

Outside of this moment, Seung-hyun was an idol, a name, and a presence larger than life. Here in the dim glow of the bar, he was just a man warmed up easily to your side. It was easy to forget under the heat of his gaze this was all just an act.

A flush rose to your cheeks and you pressed into his side. Playing into the show he was putting on, as flustered as you felt at the moment. He raised his glass between the two of you for a cheer before throwing back his drink, exhaling hard as he set the glass back down. Through the reflection, you spot the mischief in his eyes.

“You're selling this, you know,” He leaned in to purr into your ear, teasing you.

You couldn't help how you fought between shying away and melting into him, “You're the one putting on a whole show.”

Seung-hyun pulled away just enough for you to see a playful part. His eyes sparkled even in the low light of the bar, with a mask of a false allure towards you. Somehow, even if you knew it was an act, his gaze was hungered. He kept staring at your lips before pressing close enough that his warm breath teased the shell of your ear.

Shuttering from the sensitivity, he chuckled, “That was the point, wasn't it?”

It was a show, after all, you reminded your traitorous mind wandering too far with the attention he gave you. The way he treated you was all too natural, the comfortable weight of his arm and how his gaze never left you. How quickly hid demeanor shifted from a kind stranger to a man you could've imagined as a partner instead. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of your ex beginning to shy away from the crowd.

You were grateful no one had seemed to recognize him. Your luck was beyond you. Even as your ex began to shrink away, Seung-hyun wasn't quite done playing along with you.

“We should kiss,” He proposed first, his eyes wide and managed to be much more desperate than you expected.

Your eyes widened as you whispered, “I know what we planned, but– really?! Are you crazy?”

Your demands were met with a low chuckle from him. He let go of his glass and pressed his thumb over your chin, his other fingers hooking underneath to guide your face to his own. You didn't back away, and instead melted underneath his warm gaze. He gave a little nod before pulling you in, tilting your head to the side at the last moment. He helped to create the illusion of a fake kiss, but you were still so close.

The warmth of his cheek pressed against yours, his hand pressed against your back slowly stroked over your back. The faintest trade or cologne lingered on his skin, an earthy subtle sweetness that made your head swim. The hand on your back moved in slow, deliberate strokes. His fingertips dipped down along the edge of the fabric of the shirt and pressed forming, as if testing your reaction.

Then, with a practiced ease, his fingers ghosted beneath the hem of your shirt. His skin was surprisingly cold against your back, jumping slightly. It was a touch so fleeting you could've written it off as an accident, yet still enough to make your stomach tighten. Again he teased his palm against the small of your back, lingering right at your waist. A touch that painted the image of a touchy, even possessive partner. 

Dizzies by the attention, your breath catches as he pulled away and gestured toward the crowd with a lazy tilt of his chin.

You had just enough time to witness your ex push their way through the crows, their stiff shoulders and quickened place made it all too obvious they'd seen enough. They disappeared through the exit without so much as a glance back your way. Your plan, surprisingly, had worked. That should've been the end of it.

Seung-hyun still made no move to retreat. Instead, he stayed close as his lips curled into a slow, teasing grin. His face only made his amusement more obvious to you. Toeing the line between genuine enjoyment and playing it up to keep your ex far, far away.

Instead of pulling away though, Seung-hyun gave you a teasing grin, his voice was rich with satisfaction, “That was a job well done.”

“Thanks for playing along,” You exhaled a quiet laugh and shake your head at the sheer absurdity of it all, “I owe you one.”

He clicked his tongue, in mock disapproval, waving a dismissive hand, “Don’t be silly.”

His glass sat forgotten on the counter, barely half-finished. The amber liquid inside caught the low light and casted a golden glow in the countertop. You had assumed he might have needed the buzz of alcohol to humor your plan, but he couldn't even be tipsy. His gaze flickered across the table before looking back to you.

“You know,” He hummed, his fingers tapping idly against the counter, “I didn't expect it, but we do make a good team.”

“What are you getting at?” You raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in his direction.

“Why stop now?” Seung-hyun turned slightly, propping his elbow against the bar with a playful gleam in his eye, “If we keep this up, you get to keep them on their toes. Maybe even a little bit jealous.”

You hesitated, unsure of whether to laugh at the suggestion or to consider it. The idea was ridiculous. For someone of fame such as himself you knew it was reckless, too. The thrill of it, and the giddy unpredictability made something spark inside you. Still, you couldn't help but be skeptical.

“You're serious?” You asked, narrowing your eyes slightly,  “What's in it for you?”

“Well, I could use a good distraction,” He chuckled, slow and rich, “What's life without a little fun?”

You studied him for a long moment, searching his face for a sign of insincerity. Curiosity fueled you- this game seemed to be going a bit too far, yet you couldn't bring yourself to mind it. The same easy confidence he displayed had an undeniable pull to it. The warm lighting, and his magnetism made anyone steal a second glance. You weren't immune to his charms, especially not his looks.

“Alright,” You finally leave your drink behind, “Let’s pretend I agree. How far do you plan to let this go?”

Seung-hyun as a second nature, reached across the bar and let his fingertips brush against your own. He pushed his hand far enough to enter twine your fingers together, clasping your hands together. He was savoring the anticipation, of this fake date the two of you created.

“Until you're out the door? As far as it needs to go,” He murmured.

There was something about the way he carried himself that felt more real than you could've expected. Before you could unpack it, he straightened himself up and unlaced your hands that were ones kept together. Besides the two of you, your glasses are whisked away. You're too busy meeting his gaze to fully register it.

“We should make it believable,” He considers, “For the sake of our relationship.”

You scoff softly, “Oh, now you care about commitment?”

“You wound me,” Seung-hyun held up a hand to his chest in mock-hurt.

Seung-hyun was effortlessly bold, leaning into your space yet again. As if he belonged there. Instead of curling around your waist he lets your hand find its way to your knee under the bar, curling at the fabric of your pants. His touch was warm, steady. It felt like a silent invitation rather than a demand.

“I don't do things halfway,” His voice dropped low as if he was warning you, “If we’re going to pretend, we might as well do it right.”

Your heart kicked up against your ribs. The absurdity of the situation must've been getting to him, suggesting such a thing to you.

“This was only supposed to be until they were gone,” You reminded him, though your words lacked any real conviction, “What if someone sees?”

His thumb brushed absently against your knee, considering your words for a moment. He glanced out to the crowd and tilted his head. He made a point of looking over it another time, pointing out no one could've cared about the two of you, as unlikely as it felt. Then, he pushed his way out of his chair without another warning. 

Suddenly his warm presence was gone, his gaze expectant on you, “Then let’s make sure they left.”

The challenge in his voice escalated a thrill in your stomach. Adrenaline soared through you, the way his hand was so warm and so inviting, you found yourself wondering. What if you didn't just stop at tonight, and you let yourself see where it went? The thrill those thoughts gave you was unfamiliar, but entirely welcomed.

You nod and follow him through the crowd. He leads you through the quiet bar and makes a show out of stopping by each table, exaggerating his movements as he makes sure that shadowy figure is gone. You're breathless with a giggling laughter by the time he’s made it to the exit, slipping out into a silent alley.

Ducking between the low lighted sidewalk, and the soft glow of passing headlights you walk by his side. The crisp night air brushed against your skin along with the soft fabric of his shirt. At he distant hum of the city surrounded you. Despite the coolness of the evening casted by the setting sun, a warmth lingered in your chest.

“Wow,” You sigh, fidgeting with your shirt, “This was really fun. Someone could've seen you, made rumors, but you helped me. It means a lot. Thank you.���

Beside you, Seung-hyun reaches out and grabs your hands to stop you, stopping you at the intersection, “I'm glad I was able to help you out of there.”

Before the opportunity is gone, you break your hands held together to sheepishly pull out your phone and shove it into your hands before you can think better of it, “We should go out again sometime.”

Somehow, Seung-hyun only managed to look more eager. He took your phone, typing on the screen for a few moments before sliding it back into your hands. His promise was kept, his contact jokingly titled Oppa. You couldn't help but chuckle at it, hiding your flush behind your hand as you meet his gaze yet again. 

“Oppa?” You read out loud, unable to help the grin that spreads across your face at his terrible humor. 

Seung-hyun shrugged, “You want them to believe we’re together. I should get going,” He gestured back to the alleys, “I'll see you later, ttoki.”

Soon enough you were left to the empty alley, your heart restless. The rush left in your chest was palpable. He called you cute.

taglist: @petersasteria @sherrayyyyy

[deadrobinthoughts]

†  a place to belong. : damian.

♦ request: drafted request ♦ beta’d: nope ♦ a/n: sighs

The Batcave is cold and cavernous, a place built for war rather than comfort. It hums with the low drone of machinery, screens flickering with endless streams of data, casting Damian’s sharp profile in shifting shades of blue and white. The light carves him into something more severe than he already is - shadowed eyes, jaw tight, expression carefully controlled. Always controlled. There is a tension in his shoulders, the kind that does not fade even in stillness, the kind that does not know how to let go.

He is standing near the Batcomputer, half-turned away from you, his arms folded against his chest like a barrier. His posture is practiced, carefully placed, but the stiffness in his fingers betrays him - the slight curl, the restless twitch, the way his grip tightens just a fraction more than necessary.

A tell, barely noticeable, except to you.

The silence stretches long between you, a vast, waiting thing. He is not speaking, but he isn't ignoring you either. Not this time. You have learned that there is a difference. When Damian wishes to be left alone, he will vanish before you can reach him, slipping into the shadows as easily as breathing. But he hasn't left. He hasn't turned his back to you. He is here.

He is waiting.

You take a slow breath, stepping forward, crossing the space between you with deliberate ease. No sudden movements, nothing that would give him an excuse to pull away. “Are you going to stand there all night?” your voice is quiet, steady, nothing teasing, nothing playful - just there. A tether.

His exhale is sharp, but there's no irritation in it. No exasperation. Just something unreadable, something unsteady. “I do not know what you expect from me,” he says, and there is no venom in it, no defensiveness - only honesty, bare and thin, something he has never learned how to carry without turning it into a weapon. “I have never been-” He stops. His fingers twitch again, then curl into a fist, but only for a second before he forces them to relax.

“I do not know how to be what you need.”

The confession lands between you like an unsheathed blade. He expects rejection, expects a lecture, expects to be told that he is difficult, closed-off, too much or not enough - but he doesn't expect your quiet acceptance.

"You don’t have to be anything other than what you are," you say simply; not a question, like it's already decided, like there was never a moment where you didn't believe it.

His breathing is measured, too measured, like he is holding himself together by the sheer force of will alone. You do not move any closer, don't push, don't reach for him first. He must choose this on his own.

And for the first time in his life - he does.

It's hesitant, not rushed, but deliberate, the way he steps forward, closing the last of the distance between you. The tension in his posture doesn't disappear entirely, but it shifts, melts at the edges, loosens enough to let him move, enough to let him finally, finally allow himself this.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing against your cheek, barely a touch, just enough for you to feel the warmth of him, the quiet hesitance in the way he lingers. His knuckles skim against your jaw, slow, reverent, like he is testing the weight of it, like he's still waiting for something to tell him this is a mistake. But you don't pull away. You don't move.

His thumb brushes lightly over your skin, the motion nearly imperceptible, and then - he exhales.

Not sharply, not through gritted teeth, not with the restraint of someone fighting against himself. Just a breath. A real one.

And then he leans in.

It's not forceful, not hungry, not something desperate - it's slow, careful, something that unfurls rather than collides. Like the moment was always there, waiting for him to catch up. His lips press against yours, not tentative, not unsure, but certain. Because when Damian Wayne makes a choice, it is absolute.

The kiss lingers, a moment stretched thin between two lives built on sharp edges, on things that are fleeting, on things that are not meant to be held onto. But this - this is not fleeting.

When he pulls away, he does not step back. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing steady, and for once, there is no battle left to fight. No war in his chest. No reason to run.

"You are certain of this?" His voice is quieter now, stripped of everything but the bare truth of him.

You let your fingers brush against his wrist, a gentle, grounding thing, anchoring him to this moment. "Are you?"

A pause. A breath.

Then, at last - "Yes."

[moon-ttokki-x]

hiiii! i know you’re probably rlly busy with requests but i had an ideaaa

9th member reader who is in a secret relationship with jeongin and the other members are slowly like catching them doing couple-y things or something along the lines of that??

sorry if i didn’t word it right 😭

hihi~ i liked this idea but i wasn't sure how to set it all out... i wanted it to be short and sweet, don't know if i succeeded >< glad i got an innie request, he needed more fics . i just did the members catching on after a short while to make it simpler . here you goooo~~

that's true - (secret bf!yang jeongin x reader)

pairing: secret bf!yang jeongin x reader

summary: when the rest of skz finds out you and jeongin are dating, how will they react?

genre: fluffy to the max, idol! au, skz little shit strong agenda, slightly suggestive, this has no plotline whatsoever i'm sorry

a/n: div by @mikeykuns

skz masterlist

Jeongin groans as he stretches himself out on the bed, almost vibrating with the force of his extension. He bangs his fist on the headboard and you laugh as he whines, burrowing into the sheets.

"Don't laugh," he mutters, though a fond smile graces his fox-like features. "It's been so long since I had a night off."

You nod sympathetically and flop down on the sheets next to him. "Feels strange to not be rushing you off anywhere. You know, since you're always late-"

"No, I'm not!" He interrupts indignantly, sending you into a fit of giggles. "I just forget how quickly time passes sometimes. And at least I have you to tell me when I have stuff to do."

Jeongin's room is dark, the only source of light coming from the pinkish-gold glow of the triangular LEDs above his bed. They're exactly the same as the ones in Chan's bedroom, and not for the first time do you fight the urge to coddle Jeongin for his love of matching items.

You're both sprawled out silently on his bed, the spread ruffled and messy, and Jeongin's eyes are fixed on the closed and locked door. You know it's because he's afraid Chan will try to come in; none of the boys know you're dating each other yet, and you try and shake off the feeling that you're doing something wrong.

After all, you were their ninth member; some would call it a workplace romance, others a scandal. The youngest member of a kpop boy group and a newly added ninth member falling for each other was definitely something that the press would have loved to sink their teeth into. But you've managed to keep it a secret from seven of the nosiest people on earth, so you render the relationship secret and safe for the time being.

And, no matter how anyone else saw it, you thought it fate. Ending up with Jeongin was the best outcome in your view, with you always feeling so loved and warm around him, a bit like a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter's day. You never went unappreciated, and in turn, he'd dedicated himself with even more fervor to his responsibilities, flushed with energy that came directly from your love. You couldn't have been any prouder.

Keeping it a secret, though, had come with its challenges; you often felt like a spy, having to run rings around the boys and duck out of sight whenever one of them appeared. You felt bad for a little while before realising that it was probably for the best; they would have a field day teasing their maknae if they found out you were dating.

You brush those thoughts aside momentarily as you look across to where your lover is silently staring up at the ceiling, no doubt relishing the quiet comfort of a night in, with no duties or events to rush off to.

"Innie," you say softly.

He responds with a quiet hum, eyes closed.

He must be exhausted, you think. The group had such a busy day; Chan had stayed late at the studio to finish yet another song track, so you'd taken the opportunity to be with Jeongin while you could.

You lean up on one elbow and survey his face; bare, the tiny marks and scars on his skin making him look more beautiful than any cosmetic ever could. You lightly touch the little scar on his jawbone, feeling the slightly raised scar tissue, the dry smoothness of the skin around it, so delicate where the hair starts to grow in tiny, soft waves.

His hair is messy, splayed out against the sheets, a bit like when he wakes up and looks a bit like a lion, his hair sticking out in all directions. You hope against hope that none of the boys will try to burst in and interrupt this precious, silent moment between you.

He's almost fast asleep already, so you lean down and press a chaste kiss to his slightly chapped lips, stroking the soft hair out of his face. Laying down next to him, you peek up to check the door is locked before falling into a heavy, inviting sleep.

.

The second you wake up, you throw off Jeongin's arm, which is laying heavily across your middle. Checking the time, you smooth back your hair and shake the fox-like boy awake.

"Innie," you hiss. "Chan will be back by now. Wake up."

"Oof," he responds.

You sigh and quickly straighten out your appearance in the mirror, slipping on your jacket and then tiptoeing to the door to check for noises. This isn't the first time you've had to sneak out of his room. Hearing nothing, you sigh and soak in the welcoming sunlight streaming from the window, before moving to shake Jeongin awake once more.

"Innie, come on."

"I'm up, I'm up," he groans. "Chan-hyung will probably still be at the studio... he always works til the morning..."

"I gotta go, then," you say, checking your watch. Ten minutes til you have to head down to the studio for a Tiktok video filming. "See you later."

You can barely hear his sad, murmured goodbye as you head out the door.

.

"Sleep well, Y/n?" Felix asks as he runs through the dance steps again.

You nod, side-eyeing him in suspicion. Does he know about you and Jeongin? "Yeah, thanks. I fell asleep in Jeongin's room."

"Not the first time you've done that," Hyunjin laughs. It's no secret that you would often head to the Jeongchan dorm for some better shut-eye; somehow, being in Jeongin's room always helped. And it was the perfect excuse to be with him too, away from prying eyes and unwanted interruptions.

You've all been at the studio for around two hours now; the boys are beginning to get tired of rehearsing the comeback routines, but after an insistent Seungmin begging for a break, Chan finally gives in and allows the boys and you a moment of respite.

You sigh and flop down against the wall, eyes tracking Jeongin across the room. He's taking swigs of water and fanning himself; no doubt sweaty from the dance exertion.

"Y/n," Chan says from above you.

"Hey," you say, not bothering to look at him. "Need something?"

"Actually, yes," he moves to sit down next to you, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

You turn to look at him them, expression betraying nothing. "No," you say cautiously. "Why?"

He holds up your phone between two fingers, an eyebrow raised in a pointed expression. Hyunjin and Jisung snicker from behind one of the couches lining the back wall.

"Where'd you find that?" You glower at him, knowing you've been caught.

He chuckles. "Wasn't a secret, Y/n. You slept in Jeongin's room last night, didn't you?"

You shrug, holding onto a shred of hope that he somehow still doesn't know. "So? I fall asleep there all the time."

"Seems a little strange considering the fact you have a perfectly good dorm of your own," he replies without missing a beat. "Minho and Jisung hardly see you anymore. Your shelves in your room are dusty as hell at this point. Why Jeongin's room?"

You shrug, looking at your faraway reflection in the mirrors. "He's my friend, and it's easier to sleep when he's near me."

"Right," Chan drawls, tossing your phone onto your lap. "Because it's perfectly normal for you and Jeongin, friends, to be sleeping in the same room, on the same bed."

"So? You and Felix do the same thing."

Chan makes an exasperated noise. "Just admit you're dating each other. I already got Jeongin to spill."

You choke on your tongue then, spluttering in disbelief. Hyunjin dissolves into cackles. "What?"

"Yep," he replies, remorseless. "Made him admit it without trying. It wasn't hard when he's always looking at you so lovestruck."

You scoff and look away. "It's none of your business anyhow."

Chan puts a hand on your shoulder as Jisung makes a dirty comment in the background. "It's okay if you're dating him, Y/n. Just- there are some things that shouldn't get too public, you know? For safety reasons."

You sit up, indignant. "But we're keeping it quiet, I swear. None of you even knew til a week ago."

He nods just as you shoot an accusatory glare at Jeongin across the room, silently betrayed. "That's true, Y/n, but just be careful. Congratulations, anyway."

You sigh just as Jeongin sheepishly comes over, bowing half-heartedly to you as he settles against your legs. "Sorry, Y/nnie."

"It's okay," you whisper. "They were gonna find out anyway."

"Chan-hyung is a detective," he says honestly. You laugh and stroke his slightly damp hair.

"Oh, and just a note," Chan coughs awkwardly. "Jisung overheard me telling Felix about it and now the whole group knows..."

"Took you two lovebirds long enough," Minho calls snidely from the other side of the room, Seungmin snickering beside him.

Hyunjin interrupts. "How long have you two been dating in secret anyway?"

You look up at the ceiling, thinking. "Maybe two months?"

"Two months!" He screeches, flailing and almost hitting Changbin in the face.

"Get them married already," Jisung rolls his eyes, giggling.

You groan and bury your face in your hands, fighting a smile.

"We kinda asked for the teasing, to be honest," Jeongin whispers.

"Yeah," you say, resigned and affectionate. "That's true."

a/n: my sweet sweet innie

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, mentions of blood, self injury, drugging, ooc writing,

Part 19: a rose by any other name…

🔹🔹🔹

The lights of the city are absolutely dazzling tonight from your vantage point, thousands of twinkling little dots all connected to another human in some way or another like a blinking map of souls. Gothams quiet tonight, or as quiet as Gotham can ever be anyways.

He actually decorated a little bit before dragging you up here, a blanket and cooler pack sat just under the ledge and he somehow shoved a small bouquet of black roses in the mouth of the gargoyle statue, you're so picking on him later for that one.

But right now you're just both sitting together on the blanket, shoulders bumping and thighs pressed together as you share a bottle of wine. Some vintage brand that probably costs more than two months of your rent, not that you care to think about it as the bitter liquid warms your throat.

He's already staring when you turn to pass it back to him, blown out pupils and an uncharacteristic smile on his clean shaven face, he says nothing but when he grabs a napkin to wipe at your face you feel his affection warming your cheeks more than the wine could hope to.

“You're gonna embarrass me if you keep looking like that.” You murmur softly as you turn away to hide a small smile into the plush fluff of your chunky sweater, even after so many nights spent like this it catches you off guard when he devotes his full attention to you. He's so…. Intense, his loves a heavy thing.

“How am I looking at you? I'm just enjoying the view.”

You huff softly at the softly spoken flirt and take the wine bottle back from him before he can even take his turn, not that he protests of course, you wouldn't have been able to wrestle it out of his grasp if he didn't truly want you to have it. “You look at me like you have a crush on me.”

It's Bruce's turn to huff softly and roll his eyes, his shoulder bumping into yours before he moves to sling an arm over your shoulder and pull you firmly into his side. “oh wow, how embarrassing for me.”

You can feel the grating dry sarcasm in his voice.

It makes you snicker softly as your head drops against his shoulder with a soft little thump, his arm tightens around you as he grabs the bottle back and takes a long drink, you lazily watch the way his Adams apple bobs before you speak.

“it's very embarrassing, yeah. You're lucky I love you enough to ignore how mortifying it is.”

“TT, do you ever get tired of this?” his voice takes on a much softer edge than you were expecting after the childish taunting, the arm draped around you tightens and you feel his thumb start to slowly rub circles into your shoulder.

You could say a lot, continue to poke fun at him, tell him being his bully is your favorite hobby, But instead you just answer plainly.

“No, I don't think I ever will.”

His arm tightens around you and he leans his head against yours for a moment, inhaling your scent before he straightens again and takes a long swig of the wine, you don't miss the way he shakily exhales before passing the bottle back to you. You've only seen Bruce show signs of nerves a few times throughout the time you've been dating. You like to think you know when he needs to be pushed to open up and when he needs to be left to his own devices by now so you don't question him.

“excuse me a second….” he murmurs gruffly as he suddenly extracts himself from you, you glance at him in confusion for a second as he twists and clambers back onto the rooftop and silently disappears around an air-conditioning vent.

He doesn't return immediately so you return to city-watching by your lonesome, the near perpetual clouds obscure the moonlight but the cities bright in it's own way regardless. You'd once teased Bruce relentlessly for how he spoke of the city, you likened him to a sailor reminiscing his sea-beast. Told him you weren't sure if he was a man devoted or enthralled, loved it divinely or unable to escape it's twisted hold on him. Yet you teased him for it no more, because to love Bruce was to eventually love the wretched city in all her glory.

After a few moments you're pulled from your quiet kinda drunk musings by Bruce's warm baritone behind you.

“I have….a question for you….” he sounds unusually…. Off, behind you. Though when you turn you see why.

You feel like all the airs been sucked out of your lungs when you see Bruce down on one knee with a little black box in his hand, his his entire demeanor is almost boyishly nervous as you lock eyes.

You're very quick to react. “Is-is this- are you?…” The words Tumble out so quick you're surprised you didn't slur them out, your hands start to shake when he nods a little too quickly. “This is happening?”

He again nods quickly. “Yeah this is happening…do you…?”

This time you're the one nodding as you turn fully and look down at him, you nearly drop the wine bottle right off the edge of the building in your nerves. “Oh God…. Oh God I love you…”

You never pictured yourself being proposed to, and you certainly didn't picture yourself starting to cry like a baby if you ever were.

Bruce is trying to be the calm one here so he let's you have your moment, don't get it wrong this is the most afraid he's ever been of fucking something up in his life, but he's trying for your sake.

“That's a yes…. Yeah?” He can barely finish his words before you're cutting him off. “Yes! Yes it's a yes!”

Bruce feels like he can breathe properly again as you nod and try to stumble up off the ledge, but he quickly stops you and, with badly shaking hands, he tries to put the ring he'd painstakingly picked out on your left hand. And by trying he nearly drops it twice before he gets it in there and then he finally lets you stand, he does too so he can quickly wrap his arms around you.

“…. You're really agreeing to marry me….” He murmurs disbelievingly even as you weep happily into his shoulder, like he can't quite grasp that you said yes. You never quite realized how little you've seen him shaken up until this moment, but it just makes it all the more human to you. Bruce Wayne is trying not to cry on you all because you said yes.

“Obviously…like it's a hard choice to make…” you bury your face in his shoulder but he quickly lifts your head back up, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek to keep you in place.

“Yeah…. But it is…. I've spent a long time thinking about this, calculated the risks, and I'd like you to do the same thing before we jump the gu-” you cut him off with a kiss before he can start rambling about why you shouldn't agree or why you should wait this out.

You don't care about the risks his life brings, you don't care if you're gonna be in harms way, in the moment all you care about is the fact that this man wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

🔹🔹🔹

You're a jumbled mess of confused emotions by the time you wake up and process that dream, the other you was…a fucking sap. And even worse? So was Bruce.

You thought you couldn't feel anymore lost and confused in this world, yet clearly you were wrong.

Stumbling to the bathroom on unsteady feet to flick the light on and stare at the mirror, the face staring back isn't yours as much as it is, even if you've added sunken bloodshot eyes and uneasy scowls. The difference is this was a face that was loved, not just needed but wanted. The thought sets off some fight or flight instinct in you and you quickly turn the lights off before you break the damn mirror.

The streets are cold at this hour, chills creeping up your fingers and numbing them painfully even after all the movement. All you can do is tuck your gloved hands tighter into your hoodie pockets as you keep going, the large mansion somehow felt too small, too stifling with too much emotion in the air. Or maybe it was just you running away from your problems that got you here.

The hum of an old neon open sign calls to you like a siren and the chills creeping up your legs compels you to crack open the old heavy door and peek inside carefully.

A twenty-four hour gym greets you, peeling paint reveals old crumbling concrete walls and bright lights give the place an odd air of uncanny, like the backrooms thing Peter once showed you, it'll do.

A slightly wary receptionist buzzes you in after you flashed a bill at them, a fake name rolling off your tongue easily. “Alex Stark, can I squeeze in for a few?”

It's a courtesy question more than anything since the place is quiet and obviously empty, the young receptionist nods boredly and pulls a sign-in sheet out, you change up your signature just to be safe and practically drop the pen to walk further into the gym.

The place smells a bit, like musk and a hint of bleach, At least there's alcohol wipe packs scattered around between the different pieces of equipment. Maybe you won't catch something here if you're careful.

You don't bother with any leg machines since you got more than enough cardio on the way here, so you go straight to the pull-up bar to do some warming up, hanging off the bar until your shoulders start to burn and your fingerprints feel like they're scraping off. Then you do some stretches on a mat, you can't resist it anymore and stroll over to the very thing that pulled you in here in the first place, the punching bags.

You don't have hand wraps but at the moment you don't care, you're pent up, trying to process emotions that are yours and yet aren't, your minds still a loud mess so you silence it, the first punch feels good as much as it stings and shocks your limbs.

This is…. You can't say better, but it's familiar. The sharp bite and dull reverberations up your wrists all the way to your shoulders makes you feel more alive than you've felt in months. There's only so much training you can do in a bedroom and you need to be at your peak. You hit and hit until your knuckles are dark, and then you kick and knee the bag until your already tired calves throb and your knees threaten to buckle, then you go back to punching. Not caring about the skin splitting and smearing tiny droplets of blood along the bag. Nothing a few wipes won't fix before you leave.

The doors open and you watch out of the corner of your eye as a hooded figure enters the gym, though they seem more interested in the treadmill than you so you continue doing your own thing.

“need a spotter?” at the soft call from behind you quickly turn and catch a green eyed woman staring at you, and for just a second your breath catches, picturing a different woman in her place. She looks earnest though and approaches you before you can rebuff her, she sets her hands on the bag and steadies it while leaning around it just enough to keep her eyes on you.

“you've got impressive form you know, like a boxer or something.” she sounds impressed as she follows your movements carefully, the small smile on her face growing more interested by the minute.

She's too immediately chatty for your liking, it just seems off for a stranger. “…thanks.”

“Don't mention it, I'm just glad I'm not the only one here. The place gets creepy sometimes.” she looks around at the slightly shitty conditions of the building pointedly, though her eyes don't leave your form for too long.

“the price we pay to come and punch things at any hour.” your tone is definitely snarky and you know it, not that you're in the mood to reel it in right now.

She only seems to grow more amused at your sarcastic response, she grunts under her breath and adjusts her stance to hold the bag better when it gently knocks into her, you're really going to town on it.

“price indeed, someone making you mad or something? You're treating this thing like it slept with your wife.”

She's clearly looking for conversation, persistent too. You decide to indulge her a bit since she's helping you out and giving you something to focus on. “No one in particular no, just having a week.”

“Mm, I know that feeling well.” You doubt she knows what you're feeling but oh well, she continues on while you keep abusing the punching bag. “Sometimes you just gotta get it out somehow y'know?”

She sounds far too cheery at this hour, you'd thought people in Gotham wouldn't know what friendliness feels like.

Your response is still dry as flour. “Mhmm, better a bag of sand than your spouse.”

She seems to brighten up at that, giggling deviously like you're her bestie giving her the gossip.

“Ooh sounds interesting, are they in the doghouse?” you can't help but roll your eyes a bit at the question, though it's more about you situation than at her. “More like we're in each other's doghouse honestly.”

She winces and whistles through her teeth. “oof, that's never a good thing…. You wanna talk about it or just beat this thing? Sometimes it's good to get this stuff off your chest.”

You shake your head at her offer and just keep wailing on the punching bag, this isn't something to tell a stranger. Hell you wouldn't talk to Rogers or Thor about this if they were here. No this is a you thing.

And that's how things continue on for a while, the gym is quiet other than the sound of your fists connecting with leather and the occasional grunt escaping your mystery named gym partner as she braces for your aggression. It's nice to not have to explain yourself or play stupid with someone, it puts you at ease almost strangely quickly even as your wounded hands smear flecks of blood about.

After a few moments the woman leans over again to catch your eye, her brows furrow as she stares down at your bruised and split hands and she grimaces slightly before she moves.

A manicured hand curls and drags across the surface of the punching bag as she shifts, suddenly flying out to grab a hold of your arm and pull your hand up to her face, near close enough for her blood red lips to touch your cracked and bleeding knuckles. her gaze drags up your arm and body like something heavy, thick lashes nearly cover grass green eyes when she catches your stare and for a moment you blank out.

“you should take a breather, hun.”she murmurs softly while stepping around the punching bag, your hand still in hers. “you look like you need to relax.”

for a moment your head feels cloudy, you don’t notice the cold or the exhaustion in your limbs anymore, you don’t feel the sharp sting in your knuckles and wrists or the bruise blooming on your knee, you can just focus on the warm weight of her hand wrapped around your wrist and the unbreaking stare of her hypnotic eyes.

It's when her thumb delicately swipes over your knuckles, smearing a drop of blood across the bruised skin do you react, it doesn't hurt like it should. This isn't right. Your skin erupts in goosebumps when you realize to your growing horror, you've somehow been drugged.

You roughly jerk your hand out of hers and move back, shit she got to you when you're already tired, why didn't you notice? It's like she dosed you with some kind of aphrodisiac, this woman's a threat.

To your suspicious surprise the redhead just giggles and backs away from you after you moved, amusedly crossing her arms across her chest like this was all just some silly prank she pulled. “Ooh, you're much more observant now.”

Your eyes narrow at that, so she knew you before huh. You were stupid to let her get close to you. “Just who are you.”

“you don't remember me? I'm a little hurt. After all the time we spent together…” she sighs wistfully while flicking a long curl over her shoulder, the smirk she doesn't even try to hide really kills her ‘morose’ tone.

“Who. Are. You.” You practically snarl while taking a wider stance, you're already exhausted, but you'll be damned if you won't fight like a hellcat if she makes a move.

Her arms drop to rest her hands on her hips and she giggles again, that fuzzy feeling in your head starts to return and you realize it must be coming directly from her, like she's breathing out the drug. “You're so abrasive now, you used to be so…soft, like a flower petal ready to be bruised. And here I thought marriage would break you...I think I like the little thornbush you've become, though. It suits you.”

You can practically hear your teeth grinding together as the woman keeps ignoring your question and taunting you with it, maybe you could make a dive for a dumbbell on the rack as she keeps talking…

“am I supposed to be intimidated by your little speech?” You huff out while straightening up, forcing yourself into a relaxed, yet annoyed stance, hands shoved in your hoodie and everything.

“You don't find me impressive baby?” She laughs and moves when you do, matching your movements when you edge closer to the weights rack.

“I find you creepy, wanna tell me what you drugged me with?” She pauses at that, one eyebrow raised as she looks you up and down from head to toe. “You noticed? And here I thought you were just playing hard to get before you'd start begging for a little affection.”

Her words make your gut twist at the sinister implications, you're just about ready to make a dive for a weapon when she continues her lament.

“…then again I was always the one chasing after you, wasn't i.”

She's staring right at you with an unreadable expression on her face, the blank expression just makes her look even more eerie, almost inhuman…

“…I still don't know what you mean, have we met before?” Your frustration builds at the lack of…well anything you're getting, that seems to be the norm in Gotham though.

Her head tilts and she almost looks frustrated with you before another emotion suddenly flickers across her face, she suddenly looks understanding as she straightens up and drops her hands from her hips. “You really did lose everything huh.”

“Yeah no shit Sherlock, wasn't that plastered all over the news enough?” just how does this woman know you? The thought of apparently being acquaintances with someone who apparently drugs people is…. Worrying to say the least.

“I had thought that was exaggerated to give your family some privacy, they seem to love every little chance for shields from the public after all. I wouldn't put it past them to use you like that.” she says nonchalantly while suddenly turning away from you and strolling over to one of the vending machines in the corner, you can only stare at her incredulously, she really just said something like that and then went to get a snack?

Your feet are near silent as you follow after her to continue your questioning. “Just what do you mean by that, is there something I'm missing here?”

She pulls a vitamin water out of the machine and turns to lean against it while cracking it open. “Why don't you ask them that.”

You want to choke her just a little bit.

“I'm asking you, since we're apparently old friends or something.”

She pauses, bottle halfway up to her mouth as she stares you down with a debating expression, lips twisting contemplatively before she speaks again. “….I don't know anything for sure, but I just know that when you got tangled up with them you suddenly weren't…. It's like you were suddenly afraid of Gotham in a whole new way, afraid of me. That hurt, especially after you taught me so much.”

She's still leaning casually but you don't miss the accusatory squint in her eyes as she takes a long drink, the hard clench of her perfect nails into the cheap plastic, she's either genuinely mad or good at faking.

You're even more confused now, what are you dealing with here? “…who are you?”

This time when you ask that she just sighs and starts to approach you, you tense but she just walks past you, only pausing to pat your shoulder and mutter in your ear. “I go by a few names these days, but you used to call me Pam.”

Then she strolls away with an innocent whistle, only saying one more thing before walking out of the gym room altogether.

“If you've ever got questions you should check out the park after dark, the forested part not that disgusting poisoned Earth part.”

And then just like that she's gone, the gym falls completely silent other than the faint hum of the heating unit in the ceiling.

🔹🔹🔹

You bought some basic medical supplies in a twenty-four hour convenience store and wrapped yourself up in the bathroom before getting back out on the street, the gauze and medical tape are clearly cheap quality but the astringent burned enough to know it's doing it's job on your fists.

Gothams even quieter now despite edging towards the break of dawn, without the shooting shouting and honking of horns you can almost appreciate the cities eccentric appearance as you walk back down the cracked sidewalks towards the edge of town. Or you would if your mind wasn't all jumbled up with confusion and paranoia anyways.

No one's mentioned an old friend named Pam but part of you is certain she was telling the truth about knowing you somehow. Those weren't the expressions of someone who's seen you on tv and wanted to have a go at a stranger. No those emotions were personal.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and pulls you out of your theorizing enough to answer the call, already knowing who it was gonna be. “Hello.”

“(Name) Thank God! Where are you?” Bruce sounds terrified on the other end of the call, judging by the slight shuffling you hear he's pacing the floor.

Your voice is dead tired as you answer him, the mental and physical toll is this whole thing weighing heavily on you. “I'm….. In the city.”

“What? Where!? Are you alright?”

And just like that the guilt you've been carrying the entire time you've been here comes crashing back down on you when you hear the utter panic in his voice, he's scared for you.

“I'm okay…. Just needed to take a walk.”

He must hear something in your voice because he's quiet for a few seconds, you hear the slightest tremor in his voice as he exhales before he speaks. “…. Okay, i-I'm coming to get you. What street are you on?”

“Bruce I'll make it home on my own, you're going back to work today aren't you?”

He's quick to shut that down though, his voice much firmer than before. “Do you think I want you walking all the way from the city? Please, just tell me where you are before I go out blindly driving. Come on (name)….”

You know he knows he's won when you sigh tiredly into the phone, you don't want to talk about all of this right now but you just know he might actually look for you, he's clearly already checked through the manor if he knows you walked.

“…. I'm next to a 7/11 that's across the street from a bank in-”

“I know where that's at the kids go there all the time, I'll be there in ten. Please don't wander off…”

You're weirdly tired by the time you get off the phone, maybe the restless sleep is finally catching up to you, or maybe it's a lingering effect of whatever you are dosed with, but right now you just want to curl up in your bed and sleep for the rest of the week. You're so tired of the lying and games…

🔹🔹🔹

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A/n: lol I spent the longest time on the dream scene, 👁️👄👁️ it's been days because IDK how to write romance yet 😭 but anyways I hope y'all enjoy and have a lovely day/night and pls remember to take care of yourselves! 💞💞💞

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