#more times than not they just... never share the thought
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Sheep hybrid!reader who gets so, so nervous outside of a herd vs hybrid!141 who would do anything to protect you.
Border collie!soap who crowds around you whenever you and him are in a big area. You dont feel safe out in the open without ur herd, feeling too exposed and easy to attack. Soap tries to alleviate this by pressing close to you and subtly herding u closer to walls or tight spaces. He gently nips at u when he notices you fidgeting anxiously, knowing it just gets u worked up.
Wolf!gaz who constantly has a hand on you, claws just barely digging into ur skin. No need to be worried about other threats when ur already in the jaws of a beast, right? Only grins when u inevitably find him in a crowd and practically glue urself to his side. Lets out a small chuff when you nuzzle into his neck, though. His scent like always makes others back off, protecting u even when hes not there.
Sheep!ghost who clings to u just as much as u cling to him. He shares all of the tricks for dealing with herd instincts hes learned over the years. More than happy to share his weighted blankets and heavy gear, the physical pressure tends to settle ur instincts in ways you never thought possible. Very much a big calming presence. He makes it easy to relax, bc if the big guy in ur herd is okay then surely ur safe, or at least thats what your instincts say.
Bear!price who tucks you into his side like its second nature. He loves to take care of his team, and that includes you. So without fail he makes sure to get everyone together for a big cuddle pile at least twice a month. Sure, ur with ur herd all the time anyways, but seeing all of them laying down in comfy clothes makes u so happy. Its like physical evidence that everything's alright, especially with all their warm bodies snuggled around you. Price always keep a warm paw on you in some way, a reminder that hes got you.
#btw this is NOT soft weak fem!reader propoganda. this is traumatized soldier propoganda.#cod#cod fluff#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#johnny soap mactavish#captain john price#kyle gaz garrick x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#johnny soap mactavish x reader#captain john price x reader#141 x reader#tf 141 x reader#platonic 141 x reader#hybrid 141#hybrid reader
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Being forced to share a bed with your friend, Megumi. nsfw
“There’s seriously only one bed?” Megumi curses, his jaw visibly clenching. “That damn idiot. Can’t even book a hotel with two beds?”
“It’s a double bed,” you sigh, dropping your bags.
“And?”
“It’s already late, I don’t care to make a fuss.”
“Yeah, well, I do.”
He returns an hour later with a defensive look on his face, an expression that melts into mortification when his eyes land on you, resting on the bed he was sentenced to share.
“They’re booked out,” he muttered.
“I thought they would be," you reply, attempting to seem busy with whatever was on your phone. "Hiroshima is pretty popular with tourists this time of year.”
His gaze sweeps over your open suitcase, and you catch a glimpse of the strain on his face. Harsh expressions never matched his soft face, you think.
“We’re both adults. It’s fine,” you offered, showing him a comforting smile.
“Right,” he says, unmoving.
To say Megumi was prudish isn't totally out of line; he never discussed anything under the umbrella of romance unless he was between a rock and a hard place. Though you were sure, if it was up to him, he would remain a mute man for the rest of his days.
He stayed at the edge of the bed, stiff as ever. You decide it's best to leave him with whatever thoughts he needed to grapple with and excuse yourself to the bathroom to take a shower.
Just as the door shut behind you, you let free an exasperated sigh and rubbed your face.
You were sure that if you were in this situation with anyone else, it would be far less uncomfortable.
Nobara would’ve been thrilled to have a relaxing girls' night before a high-stakes mission. Yuji might blush, awkwardly scratch his neck, but ultimately, he’d get over it. And it’s not like Toge would have the words to complain.
So why—out of everyone—did you have to get thrown on this mission with Megumi?
Special grade. That title means death to most, including you. But maybe not, not if Megumi is there.
It's because he's strong, and you should be grateful Ijichi paired you two up.
You let your hands fall from your face and began to peel off your clothes and step into the shower. You soak your head and hair in the running water, hoping maybe your thoughts would wash away with the day’s grime.
Whatever. You’d known Megumi for years and had saved one another from death countless times. Sharing a bed is nothing compared to the intimacy of owing someone your life. Right?
But an undeniable fact kept clawing its way up your spine and lodging itself deep inside you: this was going to be the first time you’d shared a bed with a man.
After a prolonged wash, you step out of the shower and towel yourself off, then change into the hotel-provided pyjamas. He may not have booked a room with two beds, but at least Ijichi scored you a pretty fancy hotel.
When you finally peek your head out of the bathroom, Megumi was already on the bed, on the furthest side from you, of course, his back to you. He had turned off all the lights save for the dim lamp on your bedside table.
You silently slip into your side of the bed, your weight betraying you as the wood creaks. He didn't move.
Before reaching to turn off your lamp, you glance at him. Take in his shiny black hair and selfishly wonder if this was what it felt like to slip into a bed occupied by your lover.
You're sure it wouldn't be as awkward.
With a quick click, you turn off your lamp and pull the covers over yourself.
You were okay with letting yourself pretend, just for a second, that the weight beside you was more than a friend. Tomorrow, your life could be cut short by a curse, so what was the harm in indulging your virgin fantasies for a brief second?
You shut your eyes, but sleep doesn't take you.
The sheets are heavy, and the bed is comfortable, but your thoughts yell loudly.
You could die tomorrow.
Not a passing thought, or a silly nightmare. A very real possibility.
But this was your job, and you've exorcised curses a million times over. Some were weak, but most were strong, and the majority of the time, you haven't had any backup.
So why tonight? Why do the thoughts have to be itching at your brain tonight?
You open your eyes to look at Megumi. He hadn't moved an inch.
His back was still turned to you, and his body stiff against the bed. You wonder, even after all this time, if he sometimes worried about dying on these missions, too.
You turn your gaze to the ceiling and sigh.
“What is it?”
You hesitate, expecting Megumi to be fast asleep. "W-What?"
"You keep tossing around. So, what is it?"
“Sorry. I just—”
Megumi is your friend. If you were faced with death tomorrow, why not let some things slip? Something about sharing a bed in a dark room with him already seems personal, so you might as well go the extra mile.
“You know how busy life as a sorcerer is," you start.
He doesn't reply, but you don't expect him to.
“It’s hard to, you know, find people to be with outside of the sorcerer community. I’ve been doing this for so long I can’t even recall my last boyfriend," you laugh, but it's breathy and nervous.
Still, nothing.
“Sorry... I guess that’s a bit personal.”
“If it’ll get you to sleep, confess all you want," he mutters.
“Right. Thank you," you blush, feeling the embarrassment of oversharing reach you, yet you continue. “It’s not like I’ve never had a boyfriend, I did in middle school. It’s just… I can’t remember if we even kissed.”
Silence.
“Tomorrow, I might die, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been kissed,” you almost laugh, “that’s our life, I guess.”
“You might’ve," he says.
“What?”
“You might’ve been kissed. But it must’ve been pretty subpar if you’ve lost the memory.”
“Hm," you consider his line of thinking for a moment, "I guess you’re right.”
You think your confession is over, that you'd said enough and would hopefully live to regret it after the morning's mission, although Megumi continued.
“You’re not alone.”
“No?” You ask, looking over to his back.
“We all started as kids, and those of us who can’t find love with other sorcerers tend to be left behind.”
“Who else?” You ask.
“Toge, Nobara, though her standards are incredibly high—”
You laugh lightly.
“—me.”
Then you took a pause. Feeling emboldened by his responses, you ask, “When’s the last time you were kissed?”
He hesitates, and you wonder if you pushed him too far. “I wasn’t— haven’t been.”
You sigh, “We save people every day, and can’t even get kissed for it.”
Another silence follows, but it’s full of thought and suggestion.
Megumi sits up, the sheets crunching with his slow rise.
“I’ll do it, then.”
You sit up too, trying to find the outline of his face in the darkness. “Do what?” You ask stupidly.
“I’ll kiss you for it.”
“Megumi, that’s—” thankfulness filled your chest, quickly followed by a red-hot embarrassment, “you don’t need to.”
“Don’t think of me as some saint,” his outline leans closer to you, “I’ll get something out of it as well.”
Your whole body reacts to his words, and you nod— even though he can’t see it— and gently say, “Okay.”
You can't even begin to question his motives, but you're so suddenly aware of your own desperation that you don't care to think of him.
With a shy uncertainty, the dark space between you lessens until you feel the unmistakable hotness of Megumi’s breath ghosting your lips.
The first kiss is barely even a peck, just a graze of your lips.
You feel the softness first. Of course, the prettiest man you’ve ever known would have lips that felt like plush—but he pulls away too soon, and you miss the feeling immensely, so you follow him and close the gap before any unsureness can seep in.
It’s still a light kiss. Heads only slightly tilted and lips meeting gently before separating.
But Megumi returns again, and again.
Kisses that only last seconds, so childlike in their innocence, but the perfect pace for two people who’d never done it before.
After heavy breaths, Megumi meets your lips again, and a sound falls from you, meek but satisfied. Utterly content. Megumi sucks in a sharp breath.
He retracts from you too quickly as a result, and a moment of clarity eases into the room. Instead of another round of simple kisses, Megumi’s hand covers your mouth.
“Sorry,” he mutters, an electric roughness to his voice. You can’t exactly place why he’s apologising, either for working you up, or for working himself up. Either way, it’s unwarranted.
You take his wrist and guide his hand away from your mouth. “Don’t apologise,” you plead, "I... want it—" want what? You're so flushed and feel so light in the gut that you're not even sure what to say, "Want to— uhm, keep..." You fall silent. Your pulse in your ears.
A beat passes before Megumi kisses you again.
However, it's not the same as before. You can tell when his lips meet your own, it holds a new intent. The connection lasts and has weight.
You're surprised when Megumi introduces a movement—rhythm to the kiss. It takes you completely, and you let out another satisfied exhale that holds your voice.
It drives Megumi into you further.
To steady yourself, you rest a palm on his chest, and as though your touch was permission, his hands land on your sides, like they were always hovering there in waiting for you to make the first move.
Amid your body being engulfed in a heat you've never experienced before, and the way Megumi slowly and surely moves against your lips, you come to understand what he meant when he said, "I’ll get something out of it as well."
With a soft greed, Megumi presses into you with a lasting pressure. He guides your body into the mattress, and you don’t entirely realise it until you’re stuck between him and the soft bed.
You seep in the comfort of it all, imagining a world where the man kissing you has been your love for a very long time. Imagining his warmth was yours alone, and you were his.
Despite Megumi being ever-composed and always withdrawn, you feel a slight tremor radiate from him. Maybe it was because another noise left you, or he finally felt the full pressure of topping you, but the established rhythm falters.
A bump of teeth, the angle slightly off. He retreats, your noses tapping as he breaks away.
His breath is uneven, rushing to catch up with the pace of his heart. You're panting more than he is, your body burning and becoming expectant for him to go further with you.
You're unsure where to put your hands; one is still resting on his chest, and the other grips the sheets weakly.
The lack of words and no use of your mouth hits you, and you become desperate to fill the silence, filled only with gasps.
"You're really warm," you say.
You're not sure if the exhale that comes from him is one of amusement, annoyance or some third emotion you can't place. "Don't say things like that," he groans.
"Sorry."
"I'm not good at this," he states.
"I know," you say. "I'm not the best either."
Who would've guessed that years of killing, injuring, and fighting would've emotionally stunted the two of you?
"You okay?" You ask.
"Fine," he grunts, rigid and solid. Like he's angry at himself, but isn't sure where to direct it.
"You're tense... sorry, I— we kissed, that was it. We don't have to keep going—"
"I want to," the words leave him quickly, and with a defensive edge.
"Okay," you sigh anxiously.
The hands sitting at your waist shift, and you feel the sensation of his fingers making contact with your bare skin.
Your breath becomes shaky as you attempt to control the rate of your heartbeat.
Both his hands now rest under your shirt, cool against your flushed skin. He palms you, feeling the curves of your tummy and pressing down to the bumps of your ribs until his finger reaches the underside of your bra.
He exhales hard, like he's overwhelmed. It embarrasses you too much, so you lean up to kiss Megumi, hoping to close the space. You kiss his jaw, the muscles of his neck, but it only seems to further overload him, because his breathing becomes ragged and husky.
He can't help but continue, and his hand curves over the plush of your boob. He catches your thighs squeezing together instinctively, and under his breath mutters, "Fuck,"
"Come closer," you barely even whisper it, but Megumi hears.
He shifts immediately, his weight hovering closer to you and slipping into the gap between your legs.
The air is thick with the sounds of your breathing, and you want to whine at how naturally your bodies seem to slot together.
His hand holds you, and you can feel his thumb smooth over the pattern of your bra. You shiver. His hand flexes, and he squeezes your boob, not enough to be forceful, but enough for him to have a good feel.
Tentatively, you roll your hips to feel the hard outline in his pants. He chokes on air.
Both his hands squeeze you, holding you to the mattress.
"Don't—don't do that unless you're sure," he says, strained.
"I'm sure," you nod.
He hesitates for a second, but eventually both his hands meet your hips, and he angles them up with a hidden strength. He's slow at first, uncertain, and the friction is dulled between the layers of clothes, but it's enough to pull a hiccup from you.
Megumi's breaths are raspy. His hold starts to ache, keeping a firmer grip as he ruts into the space between your legs with a growing need.
Your mind is fuzzy, and you can't quite wrap your head around what is happening, only chase the feeling of his dick print fitting snug against your cunt.
"Fuck—you're going to kill me," he mutters.
"You're strong," you say, dazed.
He shakes his head slowly, "Not like this."
You're surprised by his strength and how easily he forces your hips to grind on him. His own hips are hardly moving, his hands just guide you selfishly against him.
"Megumi—" you can barely get his name out, not even sure what you're going to say. Just that you need more, or maybe less.
His pace stutters, and he falls to your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder.
Then suddenly, he forces your hips down and away from him. He curses under his breath, frustrated with himself.
"Megumi?"
He doesn't answer, his forehead pressed to your skin. "Give me a second."
You nod, and the energy shift gives you time to try and catch your breath, though it always seems out of reach.
You rest your arms around him in a meek hug, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. It's warm, a little damp around the collar, and it clings to his back where your hands rest.
Without entirely considering your action, you tug at his shirt. Gentle, with no real thought behind it, but Megumi infers.
He rises off of you and sits up. With his eyes averted, he hikes up his shirt over his head. He tosses it to the side, and it makes your chest tight. He's pale, lean and tense all over.
You sit up too. Your fingers tremble a little as you reach for the hem of your shirt.
He doesn't stop you, just silently watches you discard it on the floor.
You feel his eyes drop, and you shudder.
Unable to stand the space, you fall back into the bed, and Megumi follows you. You resume the same position, Megumi between your legs and your bodies only centimetres apart.
You think you should touch him, feel him like he felt you, but as your hand rises, he watches you intensely. Not harsh— just focused, like a cat, staring at every twitch of your fingers.
It pins you in place, and your hand hesitates right over his chest.
Without speaking, Megumi takes your wrist and closes the space between your palm and his body. You're sure you can see an irritated look on his flushed face.
His skin is warm, and you can feel the accents of his heartbeat. He doesn't speak, nor urge you on, but his hand remains enclosed on your wrist. Like he's allowing you to explore him, but could take away that privilege at any moment.
Still, as your hand travels down, over the creases of his abs, he allows it. Until your finger catches on his waistband.
He squeezes your wrist tighter, but doesn't pull your hand away.
"You sure?" He asks, voice low and raspy.
"Yeah..." you nod, the answer too fragile.
He releases your hand and hooks his thumbs over his sweatpants; you can't watch him slip them off, even though it's dark, you're too afraid to see him. Despite being moments away from feeling him inside you.
You can hear the rustling of his pants, and for you, the air grows unbearably thick.
After, his fingers slide into the waistband of your pants, and you lift your hips to help ease them off.
You're still unable to look down, see your naked lower half so close to his. It was too vulnerable. Too lewd. You can feel the soft sheets against you, the air around your legs.
"You're not going to die if you look," he mutters.
You feel even worse, being caught in the limbo of being aware of what's to come and refusing to acknowledge it with your eyes.
Your gaze moves from the ceiling, down his chest and abs to his dick. Hard. For you—because of you.
Your stomach flips a hundred times, and you think you let out a noise akin to a choked mouse.
"Don't act like you've seen a ghost," he scolds, embarrassed.
"I'm not," you reply, staring at a safe spot near his collarbone.
"You made a noise."
"No, I didn't."
"Okay," he says, completely unconvinced, "You good?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't push further.
His hand takes your hip like a silent cue.
"Just— go slow," you say quickly.
He nods once. "Right."
You feel the flushed thickness of him slide against your folds, gathering the slick that had begun pooling ever since he kissed you. You shiver.
He repeats the motion once, twice, before dipping the tip into your entrance. He pushes forward into your resistance.
You grab his forearm, and your body tenses reflexively. You hiss. Megumi stops.
"What is it?" He asks, breathless.
"It, uhm, hurts," you say.
"Why?" He presses.
"I'm nervous—and... you're—you're a bit big, I think."
Megumi turns away, unable to look at you. You feel him shiver, then compose himself, though when he speaks, his voice sounds raspy and forced. "Yeah, okay... Just—just breathe, you can do that for me, right?"
You certainly loosen up at his words.
You take a deep breath in and let it slowly release. Megumi can tell by the stutter in your chest that you'll need more than deep breathing to get you to loosen up.
His head dips to your shoulder, lips meeting your skin. He kisses you, light and tingly. Just enough to have a shudder rip through your body.
He hesitates, just for a moment, before continuing. A little lower and a little firmer.
"Helping?" he mutters against your skin, the deepness of his voice tickling you.
You nod and shyly hum a response. He continues. Slow and careful. Kisses painting against your shoulder, collarbone. He plants one near the base of your neck, making you gasp sharply—and that gets his attention.
He grazes the same spot again, and you swallow.
"Megumi.." you trail.
"Still breathing?"
"Barely," you admit.
Again, Megumi lines himself up to your sex and slowly pushes himself inside. You feel the tension, but quickly become distracted by Megumi's mouth returning to the sweetspot he discovered on your neck.
He's not just peppering light kisses, but licking over your feverish skin and sucking.
You gasp, the feeling tugging at your cunt.
The tension releases, and Megumi whimpers, raw and desperate, because your insides pull him in instead of constricting.
It's so much all at once, you can't help but claw at him, nails digging into his arms. He groans again, in pain or pleasure, you aren't sure.
Slowly but surely, is hips connect to your own, and your walls flutter and twitch at the foreign intrusion.
You gasp for air, the wind utterly knocked out of you.
"Feel okay?" He managed to grit out, dealing with his own rush.
"Feels full," you mutter, struck a little dumb, "I mean—it doesn't hurt anymore." You add quickly.
He stills longer, chest heaving and mouthing quietly, gasping. He hangs over you for a moment too long.
"Megumi are—" You can feel him throb inside of you.
"I'm fine," he mutters, although you don't believe him.
A heavy breath leaves him. You feel it against your neck.
You try to shift slightly, and he stiffens. "Don't move."
"Why?"
"I'm trying to keep it together, and you're not helping."
"..Sorry."
"Stop apologising," he sighs.
"..Sorry?"
He huffs, amused, you think. "You don't need to say anything, just— stay like that for a minute."
"Okay."
And then, so quietly you almost miss it, Megumi says, "You're really warm."
You smile crookedly, "You told me not to say that before."
"Yeah, well. I get it now."
Megumi's breath begins to even out again, although you can still feel a slight tremor in his arms from how tightly you grip them.
"Going to start moving," he warns.
You nod, wrapping your arms around him and feeling his chest against yours.
His hips draw out slowly, but he's quicker to push himself back into your warmth. He groans first, and you follow when you feel him reach deeper inside you.
Each stroke finds a new pace of confidence, until Megumi creates a pace. Not fast, never fast, but constant and hard.
You nose his hair, smelling his shampoo, and melt into mush against him. No more anxious strain, just Megumi massaging your insides and making your body crumble beneath him.
Each time he buries himself inside you, it's as though he tries to reach further than the last. Pressing his hips so far into you that the mattress creaks.
Each time, a noise is pulled from you as though it's on a string, like Megumi is squeezing a toy. At first, the noises leave you breathless and small, then louder and needier, like he was winding you up—one thrust at a time.
His teeth graze your skin again, and you feel your neck is damp with his breath. "Keep making those sounds," he grunts.
Your fingers squeeze his bicep before they slide to his hair, you tug, pulling him away from your shoulder to kiss him. He groans into your mouth, but his lips lock to yours with an eager intent.
Every thrust juts both your bodies, making the kiss messy and uneven. Your teeth clash, and your tongues slip.
He halts and re-adjusts, gathering your body as his hips shift under you. You're hardly given time to think, because he begins again, rejoining his previous pace, but now something is very different.
His length is encompassed by you, and you feel it on a whole new level. His tip glides across the roof of your cunt with the perfect amount of pressure. Your fingers flex and claw at his neck.
"There!" You gape.
"—There?" He chokes out.
You nod, and he draws himself out and in slowly, testing the new position. You shudder and moan. He does it again, faster. It elicits a stronger reaction.
He ignores your nails digging into him and begins rutting right into the spongy spot inside you. You can feel it in the way his hips smack against you; there's a new determination in him.
You kiss him desperately, uncaring of the sloppy way your tongue licks his, or how your lips are wet with your spit and his, messy and warm.
He can feel the vibrations of your voice in his mouth, and it drives him further, faster into your cunt until the brewing feeling inside you snaps and cracks through your body. White hot.
You tremble with the intensity of it.
Your cunt quivers around him, and despite trying to pace himself to last, Megumi comes. You hear his ragged moan first, then feel spurts of cum seep into you.
You would've shivered at the feeling if your muscles weren't already melting.
Megumi falls into you, body weak and overused.
"Shit." He huffs.
There's a moment where the two of you remain, relaxed, skin to skin. You bask in it, let it fill your chest and mind lest any nasty thoughts try to sneak their way in. You'd never been so close to someone before, have them inside you. It was a whole new feeling.
Megumi breaks the embrace first, though.
He sits up, and you feel his hard length leave you. He's slumped, still damp with sweat.
"You should shower, clean yourself up," he murmurs.
Any positive feelings were sucked from you immediately, and embarrassment rushes in, sudden and choking. "Oh, uhm, right. Yeah."
He seemed to sense your immediate shift, because he quickly added, "I'll come with you."
You nod, sitting up yourself. "Megumi... what will happen tomorrow?"
"We defeat a cursed spirit. Or die trying."
"And if we don't die trying, what'll happen..." you mutter, knowing you're too close to basically asking 'what are we?'
"We'll see. It'll give us something to look forward to."
#adult!megumi#aged up megumi#megumi fushiguro x reader#jjk x reader#megumi x reader#fushiguro megumi x reader#fushiguro x reader#megumi fushiguro#fushiguro megumi#megumi x y/n#megumi x you#megumi x oc#megumi x reader smut#megumi fushiguro x you#fushiguro x you#fushiguro x y/n#megumi smut#jjk smut#jjk drabble#jjk x you#jjk imagine#jjk
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When I'm Above the Trees - Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Reader
Summary: Heather Collins sees a lot. She sees how Robby is with you. And how you are with him. And she watches you fall in love. A story of heartbreak, healing, and moving on. Inspired by happiness by Taylor Swift.
Warnings: Collins pov (she is NOT villianized in this, but it’s v angsty for her but with a hopeful ending), fem!reader/robby endgame (age gap mentioned, not specified), attending!reader, mention of attempted suicide patient, violence against healthcare workers, jealousy/self-worth issues/insecurity, medical inaccuracies, no use of y/n
Words: 4.2k
Notes: Hi, coming out of writing retirement with this little fic because I’m in love with this man. This is my first go at writing for the pitt, so please let me know what you think! The news from earlier this week about Tracy was very disappointing. Collins was amazing and deserves the world, and it makes me sad that we won't see her again.
In hindsight, she was blinded. It was obvious, right from the beginning.
When you were first hired on as the new attending at PTMC a few months ago, Heather actually liked you. You were young, had been an attending for just a year before joining the Pitt, but you were eager, kind, and wickedly smart. You were attentive, patient, and listened to everyone’s concerns. You naturally navigated towards Robby. You were both the day shift attendings, you bounced ideas off each other. That wasn’t surprising to Heather. He was an extraordinary doctor, fascinating and full of experience and advice.
You asked interesting questions, encouraged his ramblings. You challenged him in ways no one else dared to–questioning his judgements with patients. You never did it in a rude or condescending way, you were genuine in your curiosity and your input was valued by everyone. Including Robby. That was surprising to Heather at first–he never liked his medical opinions being questioned. But he let you do it. Maybe you were able to get away with it because you were an attending. Maybe because the patient satisfaction scores increased after you started working there and he valued your opinion.
But Robby’s patience was short. He was quick to get frustrated, throw a sarcastic comment, and run away from anything that wasn’t medicine. Heather knew that all too well. She had been close to him once. She shared love with him once. But, as it always happened with Robby, his lack of communication, brutal sarcasm, and steel-enforced emotional walls drove her away. It drove most people away.
But you were not like most people.
You were patient, stubborn, and unwilling to take no for an answer if you knew there was something you could do to help someone. You listened. Without judgement, without expectation. And it was exactly what Robby needed. A friend. Robby opening up was rare, something that he had outright refused to do in the past and something she had begged him to do for years. It made something ache in her chest that it wasn’t with her, but she was grateful that he had someone.
She didn’t realize when it became more than what she thought it was.
She didn’t realize it when he insisted you be at his side for the attempted suicide victim that came into the hospital one Wednesday evening. She had noticed previously that suicide cases were particularly hard for you. You never said anything, and she never asked. But Robby seemed to know and he stayed by your side the entire time. She saw how proud he was of you after the patient was stabilized.
Not when a car accident victim came in and she saw you both working on the patient like a well-oiled machine. You both knew what the other was going to say before you had even opened your mouths. She saw the way Mohan and Mel looked between the two of you in awe–two people completely in their element and tuned to the same frequency.
Not when a patient came in whose lungs weren’t able to provide enough oxygen after catching COVID. She saw Robby’s chest shake in restrained spain when the patient ended up coding. Heather knew he was thinking about Adamson. He walked away without saying a word, disappearing around the corner. She thought about going after him, but noticed you following close behind.
She assumed it was a friend comforting a friend.
But she didn’t witness that summer evening on the roof where Robby hugged you so tight you thought he might bruise you. She didn’t witness the moment the shine returned to his brown eyes and he finally let go of whatever was holding him back from you. She didn’t witness how he kissed you with so much passion and tenderness and devotion.
She didn’t witness the quiet moments late at night in his apartment in the following months–you and him, cuddled in bed naked, and Robby, so unlike himself, rambling on and on about every thought, fear, and insecurity in his head without any hesitation.
She didn’t know.
To Heather, you were just his friend.
To Heather, he was still her chance.
Her chance to have a family, to have a baby. To create the life she had always dreamed of. And in her dreams, Robby was still the man standing next to her.
Until that day in August.
The massive heatwave raging through Pittsburgh was bad enough, the large influx of patients with heat strokes and rashes and sunburns, on top of the usual flow in the ED made it a terrible day for every healthcare worker and patient alike. It seemed like everyone was wound tight like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment.
A patient had come in, screaming and panicked, a stab wound to the shoulder and you took him into a treatment room. Heather could hear him cursing from the nurses station.
“You fucking bitch, that fucking hurts!”
Heather glanced into the room, seeing the knife still embedded in the man’s shoulder. You were applying what she assumed was lidocaine on the stab site. From what she could tell, his vitals were good and you were stabilizing him for scans.
“You’ll feel it start to numb you shortly, Mr. Gale,” you said, patient as always. “It should only burn for a moment.”
He grabbed your arm, his strong grip pinching your skin. “Get this fucking knife out of me!”
Heather stood immediately, moving toward the room. Mateo was already there, trying to step in between the two of you.
“Let her go, man.”
“Mr. Gale, if I remove the knife, it can cause you to bleed out. We need to do scans to be able to best determine how to help you,” you explained.
“Mr. Gale,” Heather said, getting the man’s attention. “She’s right. We need to be able to assess the wound before pulling out the knife. Please, let her go.”
“NO! I’m in pain, I got fucking stabbed, and you’re not helping me!” The man was panicking and started pulling at your arm harder. Heather looked back at the nurses station and made eye contact with Dana, who was already looking their way in concern. ‘Security,’ she mouthed and Dana nodded.
“Sir–” Mateo started to speak, before the man, in his panicked state, grabbed the hilt of the knife and pulled it out. The three of you watched in shock as blood began spurting from the wound, landing on your scrubs, and he swung at you, slicing the skin on your arm. You screamed in pain, causing him to let go. He ran toward Heather, who he pushed against the doorframe, and ran out of the room.
She rubbed her arm where she hit it, and looked back as the man was tackled down by who she thought was security. Her eyes widened in shock, mouth agape.
It wasn’t Ahmad. It was Robby.
Robby, who was always restrained and stoic and showed his anger in sarcastic quips rather than physical violence, tackled a man with a knife in his hands. She felt rooted to the spot as she watched the patient struggle against Robby’s grip. The knife had slid out of the man’s hand and Robby was holding him down on the floor, pinning him down with his hands against his shoulders and a knee on his lower back. The man continued to try to fight him off, but Heather could tell he was weakening from the blood loss.
She looked around, noticing shocked faces of the residents who were all staring at Robby. Perlah and Princess were whispering to each other in a corner, looking between Robby and the room you were in.
Ahmad came sprinting from around the corner and Robby immediately got up, rushing towards her. Heather’s spine straightened and she was about to tell him that she was ok, until he moved past her and into the treatment room. She turned, her gaze following his back as he made his way straight to you.
She felt something physically crack beneath her ribs and she swallowed the lump that swelled at her throat. She felt…unimportant. Disregarded.
She looked at you, tears lining your eyes but still composed as always. Mateo was applying pressure to the wound on your arm. Heather backed away, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough that she could still watch. It was masochistic–the sight before her continued to make her chest feel tight and eyes feel warm, but she couldn’t look away.
“How’s your pain level?” Robby asked you, peeling away the gauze Mateo had been using and assessing the wound.
“Not high. It doesn’t seem that deep,” you answered, your voice unusually low and quiet. Your hands were shaking, in adrenaline or fear, and Heather did not miss your uninjured hand reaching for Robby’s and squeezing him. He stared at you for a moment too long and let go of a shuddering breath.
“Just some stitches,” he said, voice low. “I thought…I heard you scream and I lost it. I wanted to kill him.”
Heather was shocked. At the intimacy of the moment, how close you were sitting, how tender he was being with you.
“I know, but I’m ok,” you said as Robby started gathering everything he needed for your stitches.
“Get her an IV, we’ll start some antibiotics,” he said to Mateo and the two of them moved fast through the process. You winced when he injected the lidocaine and Robby whispered something low to you that Heather couldn’t hear, but it made you laugh.
“Gale is HIV negative,” Mateo said, reading the patient’s chart.
“Good. We’ll still start you on PEP right away, just in case,” Robby said and you nodded.
They continued treating your injury and Heather stood there. Unmoving. Watching.
Watching the familiar way his arms tightened around your waist and cradled your head to his chest once he was done with the stitches and Mateo had left. He leaned his head on yours and she could see his hands shaking where they rested on your back. Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, holding him close to you and you whispered something in his ear–maybe a thank you or a reassurance. And he chuckled, leaning down and kissing your forehead quickly before letting go of you.
She knew she was intruding, but her legs wouldn’t move. She had never seen Robby like that. He was always restrained, unwilling to be anything but controlled in front of anyone. But here he was. Grasping your hands as you separated and smiling at you before his eyes flickered back to your arm, making sure you were alright. He looked at you like you were the only thing that could make him smile, the only thing that mattered to him…like he loved you. She couldn’t remember if he ever looked at her like that.
You took a deep breath and stepped away from him, turning and walking away from the room.
“You know you’re going home, right?” he asked, walking behind you.
You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a scratch, Robby. I’m staying.”
You looked up and your eyes met Heather’s for a moment.
“Hey, Collins. Are you ok? I saw him push you.” Your concern was genuine and it made Heather feel almost nauseous.
“I’m fine. Not even a scratch. I’m glad you’re ok,” she said and managed to keep her tone even and calm.
“Thank God! Thank you for coming to help,” you said, smiling kindly at her. She glanced behind you to Robby, who was still hovering behind you. He was staring at you, like there was no one else in the room. It made her heart burn and she forced a smile on her face as she looked back at you.
“Of course,” she said and walked away, unable to look at you and him for another moment.
She couldn’t stop thinking about her dream. In her fantasies, it was still eight years ago. She was waking up with Robby’s strong arms around her, caressing her pregnant belly. It haunted her mind, constantly. At home, where she had too much time to daydream. At work, where she had to bite her tongue every time he saw you with him. The ugly, raging thing inside her chest grew larger every day, and she knew it was a matter of time before it exploded out of her.
It was barely 7 am, day shift was trickling in for their shift. She saw Robby and Abbot finishing their conversation, with the night shift attending clapping Robby on the shoulder and walking away. She gazed towards you as you walked in. You were heading into the lounge, your bag still strung over your shoulder and you smiled at Santos as she walked in behind you.
She slowly approached Robby, who was gazing down at the tablet in his hand.
“Hey.”
Robby quickly glanced at her over his glasses. “Morning.”
She hesitated for a moment, but managed to force the words out of her. “You have a moment to talk?”
He was looking at her now and she wanted to smile. His attention was on her. He almost looked concerned.
“Everything ok?”
“Yes, it’s just something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” She motioned towards the ambulance bay and began walking out, Robby following close behind her. She made it outside and rounded the corner for some privacy. He stood before her, glasses still perched on his nose and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. He felt so familiar to her, like no time had passed since the last time she felt like this for him.
She took a deep breath and spoke before her nerve died. “Robby… I still have feelings for you.”
The silence that followed was deafening and seemed to drag on for hours. She looked at him expectantly, her smile diminishing as the seconds dragged on and he didn’t react. He looked off to the side and took a few deep breaths before looking back at her, seemingly deciding what to say.
“Heather, why would you say that to me?”
She was taken aback.
“Because it’s how I feel.”
“I…it’s been years. Things have changed…What did you expect to happen?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed. His deep brown eyes looked almost sad as they bored into her.
“Robby…things can be like they used to. Better.” Especially since she had heard from Dana that Robby was finally in therapy. She didn’t think too hard about what or who convinced him to do that.
“Heather, it’s too late,” he said, voice low and careful. “If you had come to me a year ago with this I would have jumped at the chance, but I’m not in the same place in my life. A lot of my past…I’ve healed. I’ve learned to move on from the pain and,” he hesitated for a moment before continuing. “And I found someone to help me through that.”
Heather whispered your name. He nodded, eyebrows furrowed, face serious. She looked down, feeling tears burning in the corners of her eyes.
“I didn’t realize it was like that. That you’d move on so quickly.” Her voice quivered as she spoke and she cursed herself for feeling so foolish. So angry and sad and embarrassed.
“Quickly? Heather, I spent years regretting what happened between us. Years wishing I could have you back in my life, but thinking I wasn’t good enough for you. Or anyone.” His hands rubbed over his face and took a step away from her. He chuckled, humorless and sad. “You know I went to therapy? You always begged me to, and I feel like shit knowing that I never did because of my pride. But…”
But he did it for you. He didn’t have to say it.
“I wanted you for years. A life with you. But not anymore.”
She couldn’t stop the sob that bubbled out of her. “Why can’t you want that now?”
“You know why. I'm sorry, Heather, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his hand landing on her shoulder, trying to keep his distance but still comfort her at the same time. “I care about you. I always will. But she’s…she’s everything.”
She didn’t find it fair. You only knew him for a few months. She knew him for years. She had seen him at his lowest moments, yet you were the one to help him heal through it. You were the one he was willing to change for. She wanted to scream at him that he was being cruel, but she knew that he wasn’t.
“It feels like you’re choosing her over me. When we've been through so much together. When I’m the one who’s known you longer.”
“But you never understood me. Not the way I needed you to. And that’s partly my fault for not opening up to you,” he said.
She didn’t understand him the way you understood him. It was unspoken, but they both knew it.
“It's not fair.”
“No, it’s not. We missed our chance. But…Heather, you have to move on.”
She nodded, wiping the tears off her face and straightening her spine. “Alright.”
“Are you going to be ok?” He asked her and she forced another fake smile on her face. She didn’t know if he could still tell if it was real or not.
“You know I will.”
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and walked away, piercing a hole straight through her heart. She watched him walk away, towards the nurses station where you stood. You were smiling, talking with Dana quietly before your shift officially began. Robby approached you, his hand landing on your lower back and you looked up at him, your grin growing and eyes shining. And him…
The way he was holding you…looking at you. The certainty and devotion in his gaze. A look in his eye that had never existed before you. He was in love.
She could see it now.
Her heart split in two, knowing the future she had pictured in her mind—Robby at her side—would never be a reality. Not with her. The baby she imagined would never have his warm, brown eyes or his charming nose. Or his smile. Maybe in another lifetime, maybe if you had never shown up in Pittsburgh. Maybe if she had loved him better back when they were together.
She loved Robby and wanted him to be happy. That’s all she ever wanted for him. And he was happy with you. Despite her jealousy, she wondered what it was like for you. What he was like with you. Did he cuddle with you? He always used to grumble when Heather would ask him to cuddle saying that he got way too overheated. Did he complain about that to you? Or did he do it without complaint just to be able to hold you close to him? Did he cook his incredible latkes for you? Did you cook for him?
She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. She didn’t know him like that anymore. But she knew that he opened up to you in a way he didn’t open up to anyone. He let you comfort him after difficult cases, shared long conversations that she only knew existed through brief glances through the window in the break room door. She knew that he was more affectionate and open with you in public than he had been with her. That he was willing to put his medical license on the line and attack a patient because they hurt you. He was healing with you… for you.
She had no right to feel jealous. The ache in her heart changed as she realized that her and Robby were nothing but a pretty dream. And that it was her turn to heal.
With the vision of what could never be lingering in her mind, she knew Robby was right. It was time to move on.
It was difficult. At first.
You all worked together. It was like a nightmare she could never escape.
You were everywhere.
And Robby. He lingered around you and you around him. He did silly things to make you laugh and lent you his sweaters when it got too cold. He gave you secret smiles and held your hand when a case hit you too hard.
He remained professional with her, continuing to help Heather with her education. He wasn’t avoiding her, he was answering her questions, and he continued to value her medical opinion. But it was awkward now, a weird tension in every interaction. All she could feel was the burning ache of rejection and jealousy.
Anger. At him. At you.
It wasn’t warranted. She knew that. But she couldn’t help but feel that way. Every touch, every look, every soft whisper you shared was like a spear to her heart. She tried to look further into every interaction, trying to convince herself that she still knew Michael. Not Dr. Robinavitch. It made her frustrated, trying to move on but feeling stuck in time and lost at the same time.
Why? Why you? Why was she not enough for him when they were together? Why wasn’t she enough for him now?
Why couldn’t she be the one that made him smile more often, or the one making him laugh when she shared an inside joke? It was you. You made him…lighter.
Neither of you were particularly trying to hide it. While nothing outright happened, lingering touches and glances and smiles were noticed by more than just Heather. There was a betting pool about whether you and Robby were already together and if not, when it would happen. She noticed the others trying to avoid the subject around her, but it was inevitable. She had ended up joining the pool just to get everyone to stop looking at her with pity.
It was a shockingly slow morning. Heather was at the computer, catching up on her charting and making up to date notes for her patients when Dana approached her.
“Hey, Collins. Have you seen sad boy and sunshine?”
She didn’t have to ask Dana who she was talking about.
“Who knows?” She shrugged and continued charting.
She felt Dana’s stare on the side of her face and she tried as hard as she could to keep her features calm.
“You ok, kid?” Dana asked and Heather, composed as always, just looked at her.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’m not stupid or blind. Things have been…tense lately. With you and Robby.” She waited for Heather to say something, but what could she say? Dana was right.
“Look, I know that seeing them together might not be the best thing for you. And I don’t know what happened between you and Robby that made things this awkward. But whatever it is, you got to let it go. The past…it’s not always a good thing to get swept up in what-ifs.”
Heather smiled at Dana, trying her hardest to make it look real. “I’m fine, Dana. I’m happy for him. For them.”
“Is that why you always avoid taking on a case with her?”
Dana didn’t wait for an answer before walking away. It was true. She would avoid you as much as she realistically could. She suspected that you knew what she was doing, but your kind eyes and bright smile never gave away if it made you upset.
Robby stood in the peds room, his face shoved into his hand and Heather could tell that he wanted to cry. The twelve year old girl had passed away after you and him had been working on her for almost an hour and she knew that Robby was taking it hard. Blaming himself.
She saw you approach him slowly and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. It reminded Heather of what she used to do to comfort him after days like this. She remembered the way he would shrug her off and insist that he was fine and no, there was nothing he wanted to talk about.
But with you…His hand came up to his shoulder to cover yours. She could see the way his grip tightened around your smaller fingers and you placed your other hand on his back, rubbing it gently. You were speaking, but she couldn’t hear anything that you were saying to him. You were tucked away, near the back of the room, away from prying eyes, but she saw. She saw the way his shoulders relaxed, how he was able to take a shaky, deep breath in and come back to himself. He nodded at you and gave you a real–albeit exhausted and sad–smile.
It was easy, simple. It was like you knew exactly what he needed without him having to say anything. Like you were attuned to him.
He was a different man than the one she used to know, she realized. A man you knew intimately. A man you loved just as fiercely as he loved you.
She knew that now. Accepted it.
She watched him engulf you in his arms and she smiled.
The rage in her heart lightened, drifting further and further away and it felt like she could finally breathe after months of drowning. She finally understood that since the moment you came into PTMC, she had no chance. And she was happy for Robby. Happy that he had someone who understood him, listened to him, and loved him the way you did. It hurt to accept that, but she knew that Robby was right.
It was time to move on.
And she was finally ready.
#michael robinavitch x reader#dr robby x reader#dr robby imagine#dr robby fic#michael robinavitch#the pitt fic#the pitt#michael robby robinavitch x reader#Michael robinavitch imagine
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hi !!! i js read your fic and it's so good!!! if ever you want a fic idea, what about vampire hoon turning gf reader into one? 👀
I can't fucking lose you.

vampire!Sunghoon × fem!reader
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
content warnings: DUBCON, NONCON/DUBCON turning (reader does NOT want to be turned, but hoon manages to change her mind), unprotected sex (don’t do this!), cream pie, hoon keeps fucking her while she’s unalive, biting, blood, mentions of death, slight breeding kink, somnophilia
Don't like it? Don't read it. Seriously. Nobody is forcing you to read this.
MDNI
word count: 1,219, not proofread
likes, reblogs, and feedback would be appreciated!!
DISCLAIMER:
I am not responsible for the content you consume. Content warnings are listed above (I may have missed something), please read thoroughly so you know what to expect. This is very very dark and I do NOT condone these things to happen in real life. THIS IS A FANFICTION WHICH MEANS IT DOES NOT DEPICT HOW SUNGHOON IS IN REAL LIFE.
ฅᨐฅ note: i feel like this is kind of shit, but ill let u be the judge of that!
—⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
Sunghoon was going insane, and he rarely went insane. As a vampire, he never had to worry about life and death—not until you. You’ve brought light into his life when he thought he’d never get to experience such things ever again.
A relative of yours had recently died, someone Sunghoon’s never met but the news manage to shake him up a bit. He’s now realizing how fragile humans could be and how their life could be taken at any given moment. But that wasn’t going to happen to you, no. Your boyfriend would not allow it. He’s brought up the topic of immortality multiple times to you, you’ve always shared your distaste for it—talking about how life is an experience and you wanted to experience everything it had to offer. Even death.
Sunghoon obviously hated the thought. He didn’t want to stay himself while you grew old, what if you left him in the future since you can’t have babies with him? It was these thoughts that made Sunghoon wish he was a regular human, someone that could experience life with you the way you wanted to. But he isn’t a regular human, hell, he wasn’t human at all.
Your vampire was balls deep inside you when he decided, fuck it. He is not losing you—not now, not ever. So what’s he going to do? He’s going to turn you, whether you like it or not.
“Ngh, Hoonie.” You whined, Sunghoon’s pace becoming much more animalistic than normal. He thrusted with determination, fangs peeking out as his face got closer to your neck.
“Don’t move.” The warning was firm and commanding—growled—something your normally soft spoken lover would say in bed. Hoon’s always been different when you were having sex, so you didn’t question it. But this time? There was something different about him. His breath is labored, you could feel droplets of his saliva landing on your skin, the Sunghoon above you didn’t seem like your Sunghoon at all.
“What? Why? Are you okay, baby?” You frantically asked, placing your hands on his face as you tried desperately to look into his eyes—to reassure yourself that the man above you still loved you, still respected you.
Sunghoon ripped your dainty hands from his face, leaning into the crook of your neck, his mouth hovering over your pulse point. He breathed your scent in one last time, knowing you’d lose that fresh smell of life once you were turned.
He breathed in once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Then he bit, sharp fangs piercing your skin with no remorse, no mercy. Just straightforward and unforgiving. You screamed out in pain, grabbing onto Hoon’s shoulders and digging your nails into his pale skin, wanting him—needing him to stop—but the words never get to leave your mouth. Your vampire never ceased his thrusts, his pace only becoming much more erratic, like a mutt in a rut.
Sunghoon felt blissful, your blood flooding into his mouth straight from your veins like a fucking faucet. You were intoxicating, everything about you overwhelmed his senses. All he could feel, taste, smell, see, and hear was only you, you, you.
He let himself feed off of you, sipping your blood, draining you of it, just enough to leave only a little in your system so your body wouldn’t reject the venom.
Sunghoon pulled away a bit, pressing his forehead to yours as he feels your plushy walls tighten around his cock. He ceased his thrusts for a moment, wanting to give you a bit of time to collect yourself—though you’re on the brink of death. The lower half of his face was covered in blood, your blood, and though your eyesight was blurry, you could still see how beautiful the color looked on him.
“I’m so sorry, baby.” He apologised softly, kissing your lips, then your cheek, before returning to the wounds he pierced with his teeth. “I can’t fucking lose you, you hear me? I can’t. I fucking can’t.”
The venom pooled in Hoon’s mouth, he gargled with his venom, making sure to coat his fangs with the venom so he could feed it to your system. He thrusted and dug his fangs into you again simultaneously, weak whimpers leaving your lips. His venom made its way into your veins, making its way all over your body, reaching your heart in a matter of seconds and killing you instantly.
Sunghoon looked away, not wanting to see the light leave your eyes. He grabbed your hips instead and slammed his angry cock in and out of your limp body.
“Fuck!” He groaned, mouth falling open in a silent scream. The process would take a bit of time, Hoon knew he needed to last longer if he wanted to impregnate you. Maybe he’s doing the right thing, he could give you anything and everything if you’re both vampires. You could move to somewhere you’ve always wanted and have vampire babies together—the thought only spurred Sunghoon.
He chased his high, his hands tightly gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. Your eyes blinked open and that’s when he released, hot spurts of his seed flooding your insides. Oh, you’d be pregnant in no time.
Sunghoon didn’t pull out right away, he leaned back and looked into your eyes. The eyes that used to hold so much life and hope in them, the eyes that sparkled whenever they landed on him. But Hoon didn’t regret it, no, he meant it when he said he wouldn’t lose you.
“You turned me.” You spoke for the first time after being revived. “Sunghoon, I told you—“
“I know. I know!” He cut you off, eyes dancing around the room, refusing to meet your eyes. “But I can’t lose you.”
“Sunghoon—“
“We can— we can move to wherever you want us to go. We can have kids, baby!”
“Hoon, what have you done?” Your eyes shone with tears, feeling betrayed by the person you trusted the most.
“You’ll understand one day.” Sunghoon shook his head, almost feeling how you felt right now. He was in the wrong, he knew that. But he also knew you would have done the same if the roles were reversed.
“I don’t want to understand one day, I want to understand now.” You pleaded, still soft for your lover.
“You’d turn me into a vampire to keep me, wouldn’t you?” He asked, sounding wounded. “If the roles were reversed, you’d do the same. Because— because you love me.”
You didn’t answer, you didn’t dare deny it because you knew he was right. The love you shared for each other tethered to obsession, neither of you could function without the other and now, you’d never have to be apart.
“Do we have to leave?” You asked, knowing if you only stayed here, questions would arise and could endanger you both.
“Yes, my love. We have to.” Sunghoon nodded, also fearing for the future. “You can say goodbye, if you want to.” He offered, knowing how much some people in your life meant to you.
“I still don’t like that you did this.” You replied, gently pushing Sunghoon off of you.
“I know.” Sunghoon sighed, caressing the skin of your abdomen.
“I might not ever forgive you.”
“I wouldn’t deserve it.”
“Sunghoon.”
“Yes, my love?”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
—⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
taglist:
@chuuyaobsessed, @choeryyxyz, @engeneheree
—⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
#enhypen smut#enhypen x reader#ฅᨐฅ enhazy#enha smut#enhypen hard hours#enhypen hard thoughts#tw noncon#tw dubcon#park sunghoon smut#sunghoon x reader#sunghoon smut
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It's absolutely 100% true because i refuse to believe there is universe where the first thing they thought was "yeah of course Rumi's dead mother hooked up with a demon that's the most resonable answer" like not happening.
But I think it's also problem with movie that i have all along. Which is very little lore and rules the world have.
Like i have a lot of questions about how killing demons work but it's not important right now because for us viewers it was obvious. Rumi IS half-demon end of discusion that we forgot that it's not that obvious in their world.
Also about whole reveal thing the worst thing that make betayal even worse is that girls KNEW there was something wrong and they TRIED to help, multiple times with diffrent strategies i would even say all possible. And in right order too.
First being easy i know you are stresed we are here for you
Then we don't know what wrong but you can talk to us
And the most direct aroach "what's wrong please tell us"
Last two can be switched cause i'm not sure what was first in movie but you know what i mean
And they do EVERYTHING they knew what could help because to them the problem was voice not some existensial guilt that literaly was eating Rumi up.
And that's where we talk about their reaction. We saw the hurt AND doubt and it was beautifull (i just like a little hurt) but i think we all know that drawing their weapons was the only logical thing to do. Cause they don't know how much of Rumi there is. God we don't know if they know how big controll Gwi-ma have against demons (aparently big for example flying lady he literaly telekinesis to himself) they don't know if she would attack them or not. Mira and Zoey in my opinion never wanted to attack Rumi it was for defence.
And second after Rumi run away. This shared look "what we are going to do know?". I think even if they thought they could save Rumi (of course it's all if we could assume it's possible because it was never explained) they couldn't done it because they always sing in TRIO it was always Rumi, Mira and Zoey and if there is any idk exorcism ritual they would need Rumi too. But it's more theory/headcanon than anything.
Mira and Zoey's first thoughts when they see Rumi's patterns were pure horror and self-loathing. Because there's only two ways they know of that Rumi could have them. Either Rumi made a deal with Gwi-Ma before even attempting to open up about her needs to them, or she's a demon imposter who's infiltrated their group for who knows how long. If the first, Rumi has betrayed them in the worst possible way, and how had they failed so much as friends to let her get to that point? If the second, how had they not noticed? How long had the human Rumi been gone? Was she dead? Had she been gone since before they ever met her and their entire friendship a ruse? Had she been taken from them just weeks ago and they'd been so caught up in their own woes they had even noticed?
Celine had been clear; there were only two ways a demon was created. Birth, or choice. They were never victims. You don't just grow patterns one day. It doesn't happen by accident.
Yet the demon wearing Rumi's face came to them pleading. Came to them in the midst of a panic attack, acting for all the world as if she should still be considered friend by the two of them. She was crying. As if she were the victim here.
The way Rumi was talking about fixing things, the way she had never acted like Not-Rumi like, the secrets she'd obviously hiding for a while: it became clear which way Rumi had gained the patterns. She'd betrayed them for a deal with Gwi-Ma. Why? What had she possibly needed that they couldn't have helped her with? She really turned to their sworn enemy first? Before even telling them she was hurting?
Then she shouted and it was demonic and the honmoon rippled. So much work and effort instantly ruined as the honmoon weakened.
She had made her choice. She chose to betray them. Now they had to make theirs, and they had to choose humanity.
She left them first. She chose to become their enemy. Even if they were assuming wrong, and she was actually a demon imposter, she'd chosen to manipulate their emotions and lied over and over and wasn't their friend.
As much as Mira and Zoey wished otherwise, wished it was all a mistake, they didn't know of any possibilities that could make Rumi an innocent in this. So they guarded their broken hearts with their weapons and waited for the fight that never ended up coming.
---
When Rumi came back singing and saving their lives, they had no clue what on earth was happening. But one thing was clear, Rumi was choosing them and to do good, despite her demons. She was letting them in for the first time in their lives, and they were going to trust that for now. Emotional and in-depth explanations could come later.
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the grains in the hourglass grotesquely swollen. ── .✦ phainon. In Okhema, you never did learn how to track time beneath the eternal sunlight. cw: cisfem reader, descriptions of animal death/mild gore, arguably dubcon sexual content due to having sex with another version of someone unknowingly and they do not volunteer this information knowing you think they are someone else but also Themself, and heavyhanded metaphors. 3.4 spoilers. the beginning and end are written in screenplay format sorry and my bad. this is arguably only angst but i think it should be taken more as the intermission before suffering ends.
ao3 link | wc: 6k
In there, hard work has no reward.
—Drowning in Wheat, John Kinsella
EXT. VORTEX OF GENESIS — SPACE
PAN to reveal LYCURGUS. He stands beside the TIDAL BASIN and surveys the starry projection of the twelve COREFLAMES. Lying in the tidal basin is a STRING OF CODE, taking the form of a human and bleeding out. The tidal basin is stained with black, turning its water murky. Visual glitches, framed in red, appear to be spreading from this black stain.
LYCURGUS: Does this endless cycle not tire you so? The primum mobile HATE always chooses this path. It ever weaves an ever-growing net. The more variables struggle, the more entangled in the experiment they become.
STRING OF CODE: I want to go home. I just want to go home. Please, let me go home.
LYCURGUS: You are home. You are nothing more than redundant lines of code in the computation of δ-me13. Your code has not been cannibalized only because you have become too tangled in the twelve factors. Even you are searching for the answer, crude and primitive your methods may be. But it will tire of this farce eventually. Hate is unending, but soon the hate of the Electrical Signal Sequence will no longer be enough. It will ascend and devour the cosmos.
STRING OF CODE: You’re lying.
LYCURGUS: You will be subsumed in the enormity of its hate.
PAN to constellation drawing the shape of of WORLDBEARING among swirling nebula. The twelve points circling a four-pointed star were once beautiful. Now it is the horrible knot of twelve winding number series.
LYCURGUS: It should rejoice. You and all else of this experiment will be solidified into the Bane of Erudition.
STRING OF CODE: He won’t.
LYCURGUS: We had this conversation many times before. Your logical reasoning for such a conclusion has never been shared. This, I suppose, is inevitable of a faulty line of code.
Entry-hour: you woke to the rays of sunlight. Parting hour: you drew the curtains over your window, watching as the sun lit the fabric from the inside and illuminated its flaws. Sometimes, you slept with a pillow over your head, as if that could ward off the unending dawn.
You ached to see a sunset, just once more; to see the moon arc across the sky overhead. This was not how Aquila painted the sky; you’d wracked your memories for Aquila, the Sky Titan, and found only stories the rest of Okhema thought you mad for. The sun, fastened to the chariot pulled by lions, racing across the sky. The departure of the evening star, born from a seashore meeting where the Most High briefly fell in love with a mortal woman. There were no Titans, even as Aquila’s thousand mad eyes gazed down upon the insignificant creatures marring the landscape.
Once, you’d drawn a crude map in the dirt with a twig that’d fallen from a tree before it could grow into anything meaningful. Phainon dropped down beside you, curious and a steady weight just behind you, leaning forward enough you could almost see the glimpse of his white hair in the periphery. “What does Amphoreus look like?” you’d asked him, makeshift brush halted by sudden paralysis at the enormity of the task.
“Castrum Kremnos is to the southwest,” Phainon said, “but more west than south.” He reached past you to imprint his finger into the dirt. Aedes Elysiae, the elusive home of his you would never see, was so far south it bordered the edge of the world. The Grove of Epiphany was northeast.
You mapped as Phainon instructed. The world was too small. You set aside the twig and stared at the messy approximation of what might be Amphoreus. You had not come from this stretch of the world. This was the entirety of the world. “What’s beyond the sea?” you asked at last, while Phainon etched figures made of lines at random cities. Professor Anaxa at the Grove, his ruthless teacher; Lady Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon, three identical demigods holding hands around Okhema.
“More of the sea?”
“Yes, but—” You traced the edges of your map. “Surely it’s more than just that.”
Phainon looked at you, puzzled. “What else would it be?”
“A wall,” you said without thinking.
Phainon fixed you with a look of utmost confusion. “A wall.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” you said, shying away with your flimsy excuse. “Don’t you get tired of the sun never setting?”
“You get used to it,” he told you, reaching out sympathetically to trace an apologetic shape on your shoulder. “The children never learn to be scared of the dark.”
“But when the dark comes, it’ll be worse,” you said. “Scarier, I mean.”
The sun always set eventually. The darkness always came. The empire, limping towards its inevitable sunset. All the salt of the sea, originating from one awful misstep—don’t look back. Don’t look back. The wife who looked back. The wife who ate the apple. The wife who died repeating the lie of her husband’s ledger, named for sapphires and buried in sand so shallow the maggots ate the skin from her bones. The wife was made to give an excuse to punish the men they married; the wife as a death sentence, luring man to mortality. Death because of the wife, salt because of the wife, the wife, the wife—
Phainon took your hand, his hand curling around your fingers. His thumb pressed into the bones of your hand. Calling your name he asked, “Are you alright?”
You blinked away the darkness narrowing your field of view. It was sunny—it always was—and Phainon was giving you a look of concern, sky-blue eyes soft with barely-sprouted distress.
“Yes,” you said. “Sorry,” you said. “I just—” You shrugged, giving up. “I think I need a nap.”
If the furiae warrior had its way, you would be crushed into unrecognizable smears of gore, your bones rummaged from the mess and ground into a fine white powder. The furiae warrior did not have its way. Instead, you were nursing a horrible ache in your back. Hyacine insisted upon seeing to you herself, though you knew her insistence was not really hers but a product of Phainon’s worrying.
“I’ll need you to take this off,” Hyacine said gently, sweetly, voice like soft bells in the wind. She touched a soft, open palm to your lower back and a pitiful noise wrenched out of you. “Off you go,” Hyacine said to Phainon, allowing you the dignity of pretending she’d not heard your helpless prey-animal noise.
“But—”
“Lord Phainon,” Hyacine said with a surprising sternness, “you’re bothering my patient!”
You spoke up, “I don’t mind if he stays.”
The truth was you did mind. You were horrified at the idea—but worse was the risk of being left alone. Once, in your childhood, the memory now softened around the edges by time, you’d gotten a horrible piece of wood stuck in your foot. You’d not looked where you were running along the beach, and you had limped back to your father crying as if you’d been run through with a spear. He’d coaxed you inside and then held you still as your mother pried out the splinter. You’d kicked and screamed and sobbed, furious at your parents for bringing you into a world where you could experience such awful pain. When it was over, you felt as if you’d cried your body dry; your mother made you drink and your father brought you figs and insisted you eat. You’d wanted to starve and wither away into nothing, spiteful in the way only a child could be.
“Alright,” Hyacine said, gentle again. “Help her with that,” she instructed Phainon.
Phainon unfastened the golden clasps at your shoulders, keeping much of your chiton’s shape and structure. He was courteous not to point out that he was undressing you, or that you could not quite move your arms to do so without horrible pain. He helped you gather the linen into a clump so you could hold it tight against your chest. It did not wholly preserve your modesty—the cold air against your sides and now naked back made sure of that—but you did not want to be so exposed to your closest friend in all of Okhema. Even through your discomfort, you could not shake the terror of being displayed.
A hand, warm and enormous, came to rest against the faint protrusion of your spine. You whimpered, curling in on yourself in some animal need to flinch away from acknowledgement of your weak spot.
“Lord Phainon,” chided Hyacine.
“Sorry,” he said, skittering around to linger beside your knee hanging over the examination table. Watching your face, he dropped his hand onto your knee. You were glad you could not feel his hand through the fabric.
You schooled your expression. “Is it bad?”
“What?” Phainon blinked hard. “Oh, no, no, it’s not bad, it just—”
“Bruised soft tissue,” Hyacine filled in. She set up something behind you and you resisted the urge to turn around and look, certain it would only hurt your back. “The cartilage,” she went on, tracing one finger up your spine, “right here. But you’re lucky; this could’ve been a broken bone!”
The color drained from Phainon’s face. You nodded, looking elsewhere.
You were not to massage or apply heat to your back—neither of which you were capable of doing anyway—and Hyacine gently ordered you avoid any honey brew until she said otherwise. With rest and icing the bruise, you would be back to normal within a month. The invisible, tiny links in your tissue had to rebuild itself gradually, so Hyacine could do little for you beyond numb the worst of the inflammation of your nerves. While Hyacine refastened the clasps of your chiton, she merrily decided, “Lord Phainon will help you while you recover!”
“What?”
“Right,” Phainon said immediately, perking up like a called hound.
“No,” you said, turning to look over your shoulder at Hyacine. “No, I’ll be fine, really.”
Hyacine’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, a sly smile on her face. Your skin erupted into gooseflesh. “It’s for Lord Phainon,” she said in a theatrical whisper, “this way he won’t be such a nuisance to the other Heirs.”
“Hyacine!” said Phainon, sounding scandalized.
“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “Lady Aglaea said you needed a break. What did you think I said?”
So Phainon escorted you home, fussing the whole way as if you’d had both legs broken; he did not appreciate your snide comment about this. You let him ferry you over the threshold balanced upon his forearm, lest you fall and shatter your spine on the life-threatening two steps.
“You’re a worrywart,” you accused Phainon once he’d finally set you down; gingerly, as if you were a glass sculpture.
“I didn’t know you’d run out and face Titankin,” he said, frowning. He fixed the hair around your face, taking several tries to decide he wanted it tucked behind your ear. “I just don’t see why you’d…”
You sighed. “Are you a strong swimmer?”
“I suppose.” Phainon sat on the floor beside the klinai, resting his cheek against the cushion as he looked up at you. “Why?”
“How far can you swim?” you pressed, reaching out to card your fingers through his hair.
“How should I know?”
“Well,” you said, “I think I swam across the sea to get here. In Amphoreus, I mean.”
Phainon hummed thoughtfully. “From where?”
“I don’t know. Just—across the sea.” He closed his eyes as you changed the angle of your fingers, brushing against his scalp. “The easiest thing to do is drown,” you went on, “you can drown in the bath, in a puddle. So there’s never sure safety. Sometimes…” You cast about for the words. “When you stand at the edge of high places, that feeling you get? It’s like that. I don’t mean to, I just can’t help it.”
“Good thing you have me, then,” Phainon said without opening his eyes. He draped an elbow across your lap. “I’ll keep you from jumping off cliffs and diving into trenches. What’s the appeal?”
You never did say. Some part of you, still half-stupid from the memory of pain, could not stomach the idea that you might peel back yourself and show Phainon something he resonated with. He was not— Could not— What mattered was he was there, though you did not know why, and all you wanted was to somehow, someway lessen the abstract specter of suffering.
Once, you were a moth dreaming a dream.
Your dream was not very complex—dreaming as a moth was already a tall order as it was, as your tiny brain constantly had to reshape the shape of itself, stealing cells that had once made up your mouth until you had only wings, your fuzzy antennae, and your abdomen that was always hungry. It did not matter: you had no mouth and you only dreamed, and in the dream moths did not need to eat. You lived in vast golden sea and rested atop small stone walls when your wings tired, unnoticed by the birds overhead.
While you were a moth, and with your newly complex brain at the expense of your longevity, you were able to learn things you hadn’t before. Had the sky always been so blue? The breeze, what a blessing! To allow the wind beneath your wings to carry you, softly caressing the nerves within. Had anyone known moths could feel? You thought maybe even you would uncover the mysteries of love and the universe. Why had the scholars never once asked a moth their thoughts?
But you had no mouth, so you supposed you would never be able to tell them anyway.
In your moth-spun dreams, there was a rabbit that’d swam across the sea. She had not listened when her rabbit parents and rabbit aunts warned her swimming was a death sentence for rabbits, and maybe she had not cared. Now she was across the sea, and there were no other rabbits for her. Beneath the roots of an old tree, the rabbit made a burrow and decided she would spend her life cataloguing whatever was beautiful. This was no easy task: every blade of grass, every clump of dirt, each whisper of a grain—these were all achingly beautiful. Who had made the world so beautiful? The rabbit did not invent God to explain this. The rabbit thought God would not make a land across the sea without rabbits, would not make her heart so fragile and frantic it could kill her just from one bad scare.
The rabbit had one bad scare, again and again: a wolf in the hills. It watched indifferently as the rabbit crossed through her rabbit-less village, hopping along the dirt path and kicking up a cloud of dust. It watched as she found apples and took them home for baking. It watched, unimpressed, as the rabbit baked a loaf of bread and then apple pie despite a lack of kitchen supplies. The wolf did not care the rabbit could do the impossible, beyond what logic dictated for the rabbit.
She tried, once, to venture into the hills, curious of the only eyes she’d seen throughout the quiet, empty village. It was fine there were no rabbits across the sea—that kind of thing happened, the rabbit supposed, when none of your siblings and uncles and grandparents and ancient ancestors decided to swim—but she thought there would be someone. What if everyone had gone to some great party and only she wasn’t invited?
So, the wolf. The rabbit did not see that its eyes were molten gold. The rabbit did not even know gold existed. Colors, your ever-shifting moth brain said, were notoriously unreliable. The rabbit hopped up the hill.
It shuffled further into the high grass. The rabbit bounded closer; the wolf burst into a quick trot.
“Why are you afraid of me?” the rabbit did not say, because she had only learned to bake, not talk. The wolf did not reply to the rabbit’s unspoken question and disappeared from sight. Even from the logic of the dreamer, you could not see what became of the wolf.
This was always your dream. The rabbit opened her eyes. She wandered the roads. The rabbit closed her eyes. The rabbit drowned before she ever reached the shore. The rabbit, the rabbit, the rabbit. Once, the closest your dream ever came to a nightmare, a man caught the rabbit in both hands and ripped a leg right off.
“You can have it back,” he’d said, tossing the mess of torn sinew carelessly into the grass. “I only wanted a foot.” Then he was gone.
The rabbit had cried and cried, until the crying was so momentous her flighty rabbit heart stopped completely. The wolf slunk from between the high grass, fur matted. In your dream, the wolf circled the dead rabbit, sniffed her lifeless body, and curled up around the cooling corpse.
You, a voiceless moth, could neither weep nor wonder at the strange turn your dream inside a dream had taken.
Phainon’s moods fluctuated without rhyme or reason. When Professor Anaxa dissolved to golden dust, so said the Heirs that’d watched, he came home with a closed-off expression and then put his head in your lap, arms about your waist. It had been too firm of a grip, too crushing, but you’d said nothing. You’d stroked at his hair and told him sweet nonsense he could only half-understand, dredged up from your childhood memories. At first you’d started sleeping together only because the stress was eating him, driving him mad, and everyone insisted they’d see him in two places at once, but he wasn’t, he wasn’t, why didn’t anyone listen— So you locked your heart in a box and threw it into the sea. You spread your legs and promised you expected nothing, wanted nothing, and Lady Aglaea once told you there was no need to be so selfless.
“There is no future,” you’d told her, tired. “That’s what the prophecy says, isn’t it?”
Prince Mydei had come back from Castrum Kremnos, stomping up to Phainon and fighting him in the streets until Lady Aglaea’s golden threads intervened. You learned only later, when Hyacine cleaned the wounds smeared with blood as Phainon insisted he’d no idea what he’d done to provoke the Demigod of Strife. I’ll fucking kill you, Mydei had said, which was not so strange except with the terrible calm with which he’d said it. Phainon had been in Okhema, aiding Lady Aglaea and settling petty disputes among citizens. Mydei swore on the memory of his mother the Deliverer had been in Castrum Kremnos, making an awful mess, and then tried to murder him for no conceivable reason. Sneaky and underhanded, at that. Who the fuck do you think you are? Phainon laughed when he recounted the story to you. A deep, unspeakable dread had settled in your stomach.
Professor Anaxa’s death was worse than Mydei’s sudden hatred. Mydei was at least alive.
“I’m tired of saying goodbye,” he said into the pleats of your chiton.
“I know,” you said. You could say nothing else. “I’m sorry.”
Phainon left late in the night, though of course it was still light as ever. You waited and then decided you could not, bothering only to put on shoes and search through the streets of Okhema for him. You made the journey to the Marmoreal Palace to see the baths; you traversed every side street surrounding Marmoreal Market. You ventured to the furthest outskirts of the city, childhood fears welling up in you. You roamed Kephale Plaza, knowing you looked mad and not caring.
You found him towards the end of the Path of Parting, the snaking road of onyx marble that haunted your dreams so. Always a road, always leading somewhere new. Phainon was staring up at the sky, as if he could divine meaning from the false clouds.
“Please don’t go,” you said. The tremor of your voice shocked the pensive stillness of his stature; you felt inexplicably close to tears as his gaze ran over you. “Please, don’t, I know it’s horrible, but I—”
“Beloved,” he said softly, something he’d never called you before, and your defenses failed; tears slipped past your lower lashes. Phainon hoisted you up off your feet, one arm balanced beneath your rear while his free hand ran soothing patterns up your spine. “There you are,” he said, guiding your face into the crook of his neck, against the sun tattoo that fascinated you so. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”
His tenderness only encouraged your tears. Soon, you were making horrible gasping noises, clutching his shoulders. He held you through the crying. He hummed a tune you thought you recognized. He pressed a featherlight kiss to the shell of your ear.
Finally, you calmed. The mortification of it came at once. “I’m sorry,” you started.
“I hope you weren’t crying over me,” Phainon said.
“How can I not?” You nosed against the column of his throat. “It isn’t fair, and I know Professor Anaxa was important to you, and Mydei’s been so horrible to you ever since he became a demigod—”
“Coreflames are a heavy burden,” Phainon shushed you. “Don’t cry over that.”
Miserably, you said, “I don’t want you to have to be a demigod.”
Phainon brought a strand of your hair to his lips. “Sometimes,” he said, “it helps to think of it as a dream. It only seems like forever when you’re in it.”
He took you home—to your tiny house, where you rarely slept in your own bed. He gently touched your back and asked, “Does this hurt?” You’d no idea why it might, but you told him it did not. Phainon pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, your cheek, your chin.
“You won’t have to see me be a demigod,” he told you quietly.
“How do you know?”
“The Titans told me in a dream.” Phainon let his forehead rest against yours, gazing down at you with such intensity you reflexively closed your eyes. “Just once,” he said, “I’d take you to Aedes Elysiae.”
He would fuck you in the golden wheat fields, he said, speaking so frankly you were unsure if he was trying to seduce you or simply paint a more vivid picture. Your favorite place would be the dock and the tiny bay at the south of the village, and you would swim out so far the other villagers would always think you in danger of drowning. You’d push him onto his back in the wooden cart and then straddle his hips, letting the bumpy road do the work. After, he would feed you grapes and lick the sweetness from your mouth. At night, you slept with your hands intertwined, legs locked together: two puzzle pieces, once combined, impossible to separate again.
“You can fuck me in Okhema, too,” you’d finally said, wilting at the soft, sweet tone he’d spoken with.
“You’d have already blessed me with children in Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon said, and this, of all things, was what led his hands to roam beneath your chiton. You blinked, momentarily stupified, and he only leaned closer to press his next words against your lips. “You don’t want to raise children in Okhema, but you’d ask me for them if we were home.”
“Phainon,” you said when you’d finally found your voice again. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I miss you,” he said simply. Then, with a touch of wry humor: “I never have you for long enough.”
You whispered, “Why are you flirting with me?”
Phainon withdrew slightly. An unfamiliar expression settled on his features. “I can’t help it.”
Seduced you were; Phainon coaxed you out of your clothes and then crushed you flat with his weight atop you, murmuring sweet nothings you could not wholly comprehend. He had seen you naked before—you had let him, just the few times, when you were sure you had enough silphium and almond roots, finish inside you despite the terror such risks brought. You made a high-pitched noise when he lifted you long enough only to settle a pillow beneath your lower back, opening your hips at a new angle.
“Wait, wait, wait,” you said in a rush. Phainon paused in the midst of descending towards your chest, eyes flicking up to your face. “I don’t— I’m out of silphium,” you said, face warming.
He dropped a soft kiss to your mouth, chaste and without tongue or teeth. “That’s fine,” he said when he pulled away, “you don’t need any if I only make you cum.”
“Phainon—”
Your complaints, if you ever had them, never quite materialized; Phainon kissed you sweetly through his fingers in your cunt, grinding leisurely to ensure you felt the texture, his palm settled against your clit. Once, twice; by the third, you were senselessly bartering for a break, tears in your eyes for an entirely new reason. You begged him to stop, to give you a break, and then came to the conclusion he would if he fucked you, so you begged for that next. Phainon flipped you onto your stomach and softly mouthed at your spine, tongue tracing one vertebra in particular.
When you were sure he was going to fuck you through the mattress, his hand settled atop yours. He said your name in your ear and intertwined his fingers with yours, holding the soft shell of skin between his teeth.
The grain-filled hourglass, decorated with fool’s gold. An Amphorean King once asked Cerces what the essence of the state once. Cerces folded their hands, pretended to think, and said: “Gold.”
You learned this story in the early hours before Okhema fully woke, Phainon half-asleep as he turned the hourglass over again. The King turned to gold, the worthless kind the couldn’t be spent—he was already dead, after all, and Thanatos took no coin—and instead a wheat farmer was made God. “No, just god,” Phainon corrected you through a yawn. You could not hear the difference. The gold Cerces meant was grain: empires lived only if they could be fed, and it was always the sign of looming disaster when the empire began to cannibalize itself.
“I heard a different story,” you said when he’d finished, watching the grains whisk against each other into the bottom chamber. “The hourglass was invented because of love.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s what I was told growing up,” you said. You thought of telling the story to your children, abstractions of tomorrow, and found you could not picture it. “A man made it for his wife. ‘When the chamber is full, you know soon I will be home. If I run late, forgive me and give it another turn.’ That’s what he told her. The grains were a promise their time had become a circle; they could not help but return back to each other.”
When you were still a moth, you had only one visitor to your golden fields. You fluttered from the silphium leaves to the stalks of wheat and marveled at your unending hunger. You would die starving with nothing to be done about it; your ever-shifting brain found this novel rather than terrifying.
The stranger did not mind if you settled about their shoulder. You nestled into their warm skin, missing the skin you’d never had, and they let you do as you pleased. Your antennae, fuzzy and unwieldy, did not tickle as you thought they might. They looked to the sky, searching for something your compound eyes could not see for the great distance. You were far more interested in the millions of hairs at the nape of their neck. What joy! An infinitely repeating pattern, for the sake of— What? Your moth wisdom could not solve this.
You lost count, or your memory deliberately discarded unnecessary data. For a long time, the stranger did not come at all, and you could do nothing but dream you were dreaming, bringing the rabbit back to life though she would always die and sometimes she would be eaten in great detail. Flesh shorn by teeth. The smear of blood across a mouth. The rabbit did not remember. Lucky her! Lucky her.
You dreamed so long you forgot part of you was still in the waking world, oblivious to the unending march of time. Your wings no longer worked. Your abdomen was furiously melting you from the inside out, acids building up without any other ambition now that you’d taken their one purpose. For a moth, you’d lived a good, long life, so you laid to die upon the stone wall, expecting to be blown away by a gust of breeze and lost in the gold forever.
“Don’t do this,” the stranger said to you, gently cupping you in their hands. The blood of millions, burned into the palms. You thought the blood was warm, so you snuggled closer, delighted by the new texture from the lines in their hands against your frail, dying body. Again, with greater urgency: “Don’t do this.”
Sorry, you thought, though only because it was what was polite. Feeling generous, you shared a secret: Moths can’t really sleep. It wasn’t my dream. But it was nice to be there. I’m glad you were there.
You died in the stranger’s hands, who grieved horribly for you, one simple moth that’d forever lost its kin. To your relief, someone else dreamed of the rabbit instead.
She let the man rip off her leg, no longer forgetting. She dragged herself with her front paws across the bloodied field, smearing red across her fur, and returned to the mess of her leg. The rabbit sighed, though really she wanted to cry. No more crying. Rabbits couldn’t cry anyway, and she no longer had you to bend the rules of the dream for her. The leg, then: flat teeth sank into the fur and flesh. The toughness of uncooked meat. She could not chew it but eventually, holding it in her mouth for so long blood seeped from both corners, it was finally possible for her to swallow.
Far in the hills, the wolf howled and wailed. The rabbit ignored this. How joyless, to do the same thing again and again. She knew eventually she could eat herself away until nothing was left.
No more ripped legs. No more crying wolves.
“I think I was meant to be born a nymph,” you said one day without preamble.
You were leaning against the lip of the bath, knees drawn up to your chest in the Starlight Pool. Phainon often refused to step foot in the chilled waters, but insisted he accompany you. “So I can be there when you turn into a block of ice, and be the first to say I told you so once you’ve melted,” he’d said. Phainon almost always spent his time lounging on a nearby klinai, dragged closer to whatever edge of the pool you’d settled in. He regularly helped himself to your tray of snacks while you were unable to stop him from pilfering your figs and grapes, though he at least had the manners to save some fruit for you.
“A nymph?” Phainon repeated, hand stilling midway to deposit a grape in his open mouth. His hand lowered. Beneath his messy fringe, you saw the furrow of his brows, creasing his forehead. “The golden butterflies, you mean?”
“No,” you said, then turned your head so you could make your own face of confusion at your knees. What else could you mean? As soon as you’d said it, you’d no idea why. Perhaps part of the process of the cold water purifying your mind was dredging up every stupid thought you had. “I don’t think I’d be gold,” you recovered, muscles tensing as the water rippled from another patron’s shifting.
More and more, you’d get awful headaches. The chittering of the black tide, trapped in your ears and always muttering. On the worst days, you thought you could make out the words: sky, sea, sword. Moon, corpse, cleaver. Your only hope was frequent soaks within the Starlight Pool. Phainon had suggested the Dawn Pool, so you might sleep better, but you did not want to sleep. You dropped your chin atop a knee and then turned your head, letting your cheek rest on the bone instead.
“What color, then?” Phainon asked, finally recovering and popping three grapes into his mouth.
You graciously ignored the complete depletion of your grapes. You liked figs better anyway. “I don’t know.” Closing your eyes, you asked, “What do you think?”
“Hmm. I think white,” Phainon said.
You hummed. Plain and colorless, he meant, but you supposed you had asked.
Later, when you could stand the frigid water no longer, you reluctantly split your last fig with Phainon, though he had the sense to feign guilt when you reminded him of your lost grapes. “Well,” you said, “I hope my fruits were payment enough for wasting your lucid hour.” Phainon had never ending appointments through action hour and sometimes you’d hear how he was running errands on opposite sides of Okhema simultaneously. You cast about for your leather sandals and stood up to find Phainon looking at you with a pronounced pout. “What?”
“Can’t I enjoy my time with you?” he said. “I thought we were friends.”
The persistent murmur of black tide, crowding against the back of your skull and reaching towards your ears from the inside. “I know you’re busy,” you said, bringing a hand to your temple as if that would chase away the looming headache. You would curl up at home and try to pretend the unending light could not reach you. “You must have better things to do than hear about how I was robbed of my life as a nymph.”
So earnestly you were sure he was making fun of you, Phainon said, “I’m glad you’re human instead.”
RABBIT: I still love you.
REVERSE SHOT to reveal RABBIT is staring up at Khaslana, the lone observer sat amongst the prohedria. This is not a stageplay but someone’s dream. The MOTH is no longer dreaming. No one, not even Khaslana, can remember the number of dreamers.
KHASLANA: You’re still dreaming.
RABBIT: You’re dreaming, too. Aren’t you?
The lights dim. The rabbit leaves the stage, hopping delicately, the tuft of her tail white as snow. From the stage to the prohedria, the rabbit finds a vantage point and puts one soft paw against Khaslana’s chest.
KHASLANA: You’ll burn yourself.
He gently moves the rabbit’s paw. The rabbit makes a face, one very nuanced among rabbits, but no one can parse its meaning. She stomps a foot in frustration. This is the foot once ripped from her body in a dreamer’s dream. Somewhere, there is blood staining the grass. The rabbit bleeds red. If one with golden blood were gutted in those memory-softened fields, no one would notice the blood until it touched something else.
RABBIT: Find me when I’m human.
KHASLANA: I’ve found you through millions of Coreflames.
RABBIT: Find me again. I miss you. I still love you.
KHASLANA: I killed you, you know.
RABBIT: I know.
The unseen orchestra begins to play a slow song on the strings.
RABBIT: You’re stuck in the worst dream of any of us. But you never hurt me.
KHASLANA: I killed you. I watched you die.
RABBIT: I was always going to die. Right?
The rabbit’s ears twitch towards the orchestra. Khaslana closes his eyes. The rabbit lifts one paw and turns towards the darkness beyond the half-circle of seats.
RABBIT: I think I remember my dream now.
KHASLANA: You’re still dreaming.
RABBIT: Then I’ll find you in the morning.
The sky splits and the lights go out, as if they were never there at all. The painting calling itself the sky peels back its outer face. No more music. No more orchestra. The divine hand of GOD carves a message in the stars: HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
KHASLANA: Goodnight. Goodnight. I wish you a softer dream.
RABBIT: Find me in the wheat. I love you. I love you.
end notes.
thanks for reading if anyone did! i wrote this for myself but told myself maybe someone out there might want to read it, too. there is a whole separate document keeping track of the repetition of words and phrases, symbols, and so forth. so it was a pretty normal exercise and very much not a sign of insanity. from the bottom of my heart: my bad.
#phainon x reader#hsr x reader#lyra.scribbes#phainon phainon phainon... you move me so.#i may queue this an annoying number of times. bc i myself am quite annoying#also it was really fun doesnt anyone want to play touys with me. and talk about symbolism
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your fics are poetry, soooo romantic and dreamy!!! hoping for jannik angst 👉👈 maybe exes who were in a secret relationship but im trusting your vision hehe thank you🙏🙏🙏
My most beautiful tragedy...



sum up : When secrets and expectations are too heavy, decisions are taken. But can you ever take it back ?
Ahhhh I loved that idea. Still French!reader au, I really like that one. She’s in med school because I just finished my first year (hardest one in France) so small tribute. Have fun !
You met in the heat of a Spanish summer — the kind of warmth that clung to your skin and made everything feel half-dream, half-dare. You weren't supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to notice.
Your father had been invited to a training camp in Valencia — one of the top sports physicians, always traveling, always surrounded by athletes with aching joints and rising dreams. You'd tagged along only because Lille had begun to feel suffocating, and Spain at least promised a little sun, a little freedom. Your weren't allowed to wander the grounds. The tennis camp had rules. Schedules. Boundaries. But you liked breaking them. And one night, barefoot and bored, you slipped away from the guest quarters and into the shadows of the clay courts.
That’s when you saw him.
A tall figure in the dark, hoodie low over his brow, bouncing a tennis ball against the court wall in steady, hypnotic thumps. You recognized him — of course you did. Jannik Sinner. La volpe. Even back then, people whispered about him like he was more comet than boy. Rising star. Future number one.
He turned, a flicker of surprise on his face.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice soft, in accented English.
You smiled. “Neither are you.”
It started like that — shared glances over protein bars and taped ankles, secret midnight walks under the orange trees behind the courts. He taught you how to serve; youtaught him how to curse in French. There was something thrilling about the quiet, about existing in each other’s lives like a secret nobody else was allowed to touch.
Nobody knew. Not you father, not his coaches. Not your friends. You kept it sacred, hidden. At first, it was for fun — that adolescent thrill of something forbidden. But months bled into years, and the secret only grew deeper, heavier. Like something precious you'd buried in the chest of your ribs.
By 2022, you were both adults, and your love had outgrown the shadows — but you never brought it into the light.
You moved through airports alone, never beside him. Watched his matches in silence, heart clenched every time his name was shouted into stadiums full of strangers. Ypur fingers itched to reach for him when he won, but you stayed in the dark, just as you'd agreed.
And he — he always called when he could. Whispered things in Italian and English, his voice hushed through hotel walls, apologizing when he couldn’t come home for weeks. "You’re my world, even if no one knows it," he used to say. And you believed him.
Until 2023.
He didn’t call that week. Not even a text. You knew something was wrong, but you waited. You always waited.
When he finally came, it wasn’t to see you. It was to end it.
You met in a quiet hotel room in Monte Carlo, just before one of his big matches. He didn’t look like yours anymore — his hair shorter, his smile dimmer. He spoke in short, clean sentences. Clinical. Controlled.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
You laughed, not because it was funny, but because it felt impossible. “Do what?”
“This,” he said. “Us.” You world cracked like thin ice. “Why?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just looked down at his hands — those hands you used to kiss after every match. “Because it’s too complicated,” he said finally. “Because people wouldn’t understand. My family wouldn’t. The public wouldn’t.”
Your voice was hollow. “I thought that’s why we kept it secret. To protect it.” He didn’t meet your eyes. “I need to focus on my career. I have a shot now. A real one. And I can’t… I can’t afford distractions.”
“Is that what I was to you?” you asked, heart breaking open. “A distraction?”
He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no. You left before you started crying. Not that he tried to stop you.
No one ever knew you'd loved each other. Not even your father. To the world, Jannik Sinner rose like fire — steady, quiet, brilliant. A golden boy with nothing holding him back.
And you— you became a ghost in his past. A shadow he never had to name.
But you remembered.
You remembered the way he kissed your fingers when he thought you were asleep. The way he once whispered, "Vorrei l'eternità, ma non so se me lo merito." (“I want forever, but I don’t know if I deserve it.”)
You remembered being his secret, and how beautiful and lonely that made you feel.
You didn’t break in the way he expected.
Yes, there were nights where the silence screamed. Where you sat on your bedroom floor in Lyon, clutching a hoodie that still smelled faintly of clay and mint and heartbreak. But you didn’t fall apart.
You rebuilt.
You never told anyone.
Not even your roommate in Lyon, the one who knew how you liked you favourite drink and when you needed space. Not the girls in your study group, or the boy who tried to flirt with you in anatomy class.
Not your father — especially not him.
You carried Jannik like a fading scar beneath your ribcage. A quiet place no one could touch.
Piece by slow, stubborn piece, you found yourself again. Med school in Lyon was grueling, but you threw yourself into it with a kind of fury. Your hands no longer trembled. Your gaze no longer searched the crowd for someone who had made you invisible.
You didn’t watch tennis. Not anymore. So when people talked about Jannik Sinner, the new golden boy — all you did was nod vaguely. As if you barely knew who they meant.
Maybe if you forgot the curve of his jaw in candlelight, or the way he whispered your name in between two languages, the memories would finally dissolve.
And maybe if no one else knew… then none of it had ever existed.
But life — in all its chaos and absurd timing — had other plans. Six months passed like that. You didn’t speak his name, even in your head. Until Carlos.
Carlos Alcaraz was a thunderstorm in human form. Everyone knew it — the energy, the chaos, the kind of joy that seemed to radiate even through a TV screen. You had known him from the sidelines of Jannik’s world. The loud one. The rival. The one who made crowds chant and girls scream. The one your ex always eyed with a kind of quiet, respectful wariness.
You hadn’t expected him. It always starts like that afterall. Not in a sun-soaked café in Nice. Not with that kind of smile — the kind that came with heat and history.
But now, Carlos looked at you like you were the sun and he was done orbiting anyone else. He recognized you instantly. You weren’t sure whether that surprised you or not.
“Eres la hija del médico, ¿verdad?” ("You're the doctor's daughter, right?") he said, with a crooked grin and far too much mischief for one afternoon. "You’re the girl who disappeared."
You rolled your eyes. “And you’re the boy who never learned to stop flirting.”
He laughed — loud, warm, unashamed. The kind of laugh Jannik never allowed himself to have much in public.
He didn’t flirt that day. He talked. About nothing and everything. About back home. About how hard it was to find friends who didn’t want something. About how he hated suits and ties and events where people spoke only to be heard.
You were wary. You had every right to be. But Carlos kept showing up —never pushed.
And he was persistent.
Not in a way that overwhelmed, but in a way that made you laugh when you hadn’t meant to. He texted you memes at 2 a.m., sent you pastries after your night shifts, even memorized your class schedule just to call while you walked home.
He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer. Didn’t touch the wound while he never knew the reason it existed.
Carlos was loud — in his affections, in his joy. Where Jannik had whispered, Carlos shouted. Where Jannik hid you like a secret, Carlos made you his anthem. He gave you the world just for you to look at him.
And slowly, painfully, you let him in.
He was everything Jannik wasn’t. Not better. Just… different.
Carlos was loud in every way. Laughed with his whole chest. Took pictures of you at the worst moments and made them his phone background. He posted you after a few months. Because he communicated, because he trusted you and this relationship. And when the press caught on, expecting some tabloid-style scandal from tennis’s golden playboy, they got something else instead.
They got a man whose smile softened when he looked at you.
A man who took you to Ibiza, yes — but who never once left you behind. A man who kissed your forehead on live streams and carried your shoes when you got tired. A man who even started to learn your language when he still had trouble with English sometimes. Who never made you feel like a secret.
He held your hand in airports.
He called you mi cielo in interviews.
And maybe — just maybe — you were beginning to believe that love didn’t have to be hidden to be real.
The day you passed your sixth-year med exams, Lyon was bursting with early summer heat. You stood on your balcony, tired and proud, champagne glass in hand, the city pulsing softly around you.
And that was the day Jannik became number one.
You saw the headline by accident — "Jannik Sinner, the New World No. 1" — and for a moment, your breath caught.
You stared at the screen, at his name. His photo. His triumph. You imagined the weight of the trophy in his hands, the roar of the crowd, the shine of everything he ever wanted coming true.
He did it.
Without you.
You raised your glass to the sky, as if to toast the past — to that quiet, hidden boy who once kissed you behind tennis courts and told you you were everything, even when he was too afraid to say it out loud.
“Félicitations,” (“Congratulations,”) you whispered, to no one.
And then you turned your phone face-down, walked back inside, and into Carlos's arms — where you belonged now.
He had everything.
The number one ranking. The trophies. The endorsement deals. The legacy.
Everything he’d ever told himself he wanted.
And yet.
Sometimes, in hotel rooms that were too quiet, too clean, he would lie awake and feel like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
The cameras followed him now like shadows, constant and glaring. He was the headline. The golden boy. The pride of Italy. And still, some days, he woke up and felt... hollow.
The dream was real. He had climbed the mountain, conquered the court, made history — but he had lost the only thing that made it all feel worth it.
He had lost you.
At first, he told himself it had been necessary. Strategic. Necessary sacrifices, right? That’s what everyone said. Focus, discipline, control. And you— you had been everything but that. You were laughter at midnight, warmth in a hotel bed, a voice that made him forget the match he lost. You made him feel, and for so long he’d convinced himself that feelings were distractions. That needing someone made him weak.
But you had never been his weakness. You had been his home.
And when he let you go, he told himself you'd wait. Or maybe you'd fade. Either way, he’d be fine.
But then came Carlos.
He saw the pictures first — the ones from Madrid, Ibiza, Roland-Garros. The internet couldn’t get enough of it: Carlos Alcaraz and the mystery girl who tamed him. The one who made the golden boy of Spain settle down.
Jannik clicked through them, quietly. He tried to feel nothing. But the look in your eyes — that soft, glowing warmth you once gave to him — it was there again.
Only now, it wasn’t his.
You looked happy. Radiant. You didn’t need to hide anymore. You weren't in the shadows, waiting for phone calls at midnight. You were front-row now, your smile splashed across timelines and headlines. Carlos held your hand like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like he never would.
It made Jannik sick — not out of bitterness, but out of guilt. Out of grief.
Because he remembered your silence after he ended it. How you didn’t fight, didn’t beg. You just... left. And he had convinced himself that meant you didn’t care as much. But maybe it had always meant the opposite — that you loved him enough to let him go.
Anna came after. Blonde. Elegant. Photogenic.
A “match,” people called them. Publicly perfect.
But Jannik always felt like he was wearing someone else’s suit. Something too tight, too glossy. He smiled on red carpets, posed for campaigns, stood beside someone who looked like a partner but never felt like one. Anna loved the spotlight. She thrived in it.
And him? He just wanted to escape it some days.
He tried to drown in work. The gym. Practice. Tournament after tournament. Until tennis was the only voice in his life.
But the quiet always came back.
And in that quiet, he missed you.
The engagement news came in early January, 2025.
He almost missed it — buried in travel, training, fake smiles. But it started as whispers in locker rooms, then headlines on social media: a diamond ring on your hand, shining under Spanish sky.
At first, he brushed it off. Another rumor. People liked to make things up.
But then came the official post. A photo of your hand — the same hand he once kissed at dawn — now wrapped in Carlos’s, ring glittering like a promise. And soon it came into his mail.
Engagement party of Y/N M/N L/N and Carlos Alcaraz Garfia
Set for June 2025, between Grand Slam commitments
The words blurred for a moment. He set the card down. Picked it up again. Read it twice more, just to be sure.
And there you were — not a blurry photo this time, not a passing rumor. No, you were smiling. Laughing. On the official post, avideo showed you twirling in a garden in Valencia, your ring flashing as Carlos kissed your cheek.
And then it hit him.
He thought it would pass. That you and Carlos were a phase. A fling. He thought the fire between them would die out — the way so many short-lived romances do.
But it didn’t.
It bloomed.
And now, you were marrying him.
You were going to marry Carlos — the boy Jannik used to beat on the court, and now the man who had everything Jannik had thrown away. And he had to watch it happen.
Late May, Paris
Six months passed like a blur — joyful, exhausting, sun-drenched and stormy in the ways only a life on the move can be.
You followed Carlos through a whirlwind season, hopping from one city to the next, his hand always finding yours in airports, press rooms, hotel elevators. He held you like a compass — like he needed your calm to steady his storm. And you gave it freely, because he never asked you to be less, or more, or someone you weren’t.
And together, you planned a wedding.
Simple, small. Spanish countryside during december. Olive trees. White linen. A family meal under the stars. You didn’t want extravagance — just honesty. And Carlos, bless his heart, gave it to you in spades. His mother helped with the venue. His father insisted on the music. His cousins would all be there, loud and dancing before the sun even set.
It was going to be perfect.
And then, he mentioned inviting a few tennis friends. "Not too many," he promised, scrolling through names on his phone. "Just the ones who matter."
You hadn’t thought about it.
Hadn’t realized the possibility until it was too late.
Because of course Jannik would be on that list. Carlos liked him — respected him. Called him “mi rival favorito.” Jannik had congratulated him publicly when you got engaged. Of course Carlos wouldn’t see any reason not to invite him.
Because he didn’t know.
No one did.
Not about the summer nights in Spain. The years hidden behind closed doors. The way you once stitched your life around Jannik’s without anyone ever knowing. You never told Carlos, not because you were hiding — but because it didn’t belong in your now. It was part of another life. One you buried gently, and hoped would stay quiet.
But the ghost of it still breathed sometimes.
That night in Paris, a chill ran through the open window, soft with spring. Roland-Garros roared in the background of the city. Carlos had just come back from another win. He was shirtless, warm against your side in bed, his hand resting loosely over your stomach.
He looked at you like he always did — full of unshakable belief. And then he asked, voice low in the quiet dark:
“Estás segura?” (“Are you sure?”)
You turned toward him, blinking slowly. “About what?”
He hesitated, then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “About us. About the wedding. About everything. You’ve been quiet lately.”
It wasn’t suspicion. It was love, laced with concern. Carlos never needed reassurances for himself — he needed to know you felt safe. You inhaled deeply, then nodded, forehead pressing to his. “Yes. I’m sure.”
And you were.
Because Jannik had once loved you in secret. Carlos loved you out loud. Because Jannik left to chase gold. Carlos stayed and built a home. And because even now, with the past rising like fog in the corners of your thoughts, you knew one thing clearly:
This was where you were supposed to be.
“I don’t doubt you,” you whispered. “I just… want to do this right. It matters to me. You matter.”
Carlos smiled, slow and certain. “Then we’ll do it right. Together.” And you kissed him, long and deep, anchoring yourself to the truth you’d chosen. Even if ghosts walked the aisle too.
Even if one pair of green eyes watched from the crowd, wondering what might have been.
Roland-Garros Final, June 2025
It was the kind of day that smelled like history.
Roland-Garros was buzzing — the sun high, the crowd tense, Paris holding its breath. The men's final was everything the world had hoped for: Jannik Sinner versus Carlos Alcaraz. Titans. Rivals. Fire and ice. One chasing his crown, the other determined to keep it.
And you — you were in the stands, trying not to crumble.
Your sunglasses shielded more than your eyes. They were your armor, a barrier between you and a world that didn’t know. Didn’t know you had kissed both men. Had loved one and lost him. Had built a life with the other.
Carlos’s family surrounded you, already giddy with nerves. His mother clasped your hand, whispering in rapid Spanish when the rallies got too intense. His father clenched his fists beside you like he was trying to will the ball across the net.
You clapped. You cheered. You smiled.
But behind your glasses, your gaze kept drifting — to the figure on the other side of the court, lean and composed, red hair tousled with sweat, blue eyes sharp with focus.
Jannik looked… empty.
At first, he had the upper hand. The first two sets had been his. He played like a man possessed — efficient, distant, almost cruel in his precision. Carlos fought, of course. He always did. But Jannik had been on another level.
Until he wasn’t.
You felt it before it happened. A shift in the atmosphere. Like something inside Jannik cracked.
And Carlos rose.
Set three. Set four. The crowd screamed. Carlos grinned through the chaos, wild and radiant. You were on your feet half the time, heart pounding so loud it blocked out the commentary. Jannik's serve wavered. His shoulders stiffened. His eyes darkened.
Set five was war.
You forgot to breathe. And still they played. Until finally, after 5 hours and 29 minutes, it was over.
And Carlos… Carlos won. He collapsed to his back, hands to his face. And then he was up — running, breathless, laughing. Straight to you.
He jumped through the steps guiding him to the stands. Found you like a beacon. Wrapped you in his arms and lifted you off your feet, spinning you in front of the cameras, the world, and the future.
You laughed and sobbed into his shoulder, holding him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. And in that moment — in the haze of the Paris sun and roaring applause — it was all true.
He had won. Not just the title. But everything. Even you.
While he sat still on the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders, clay sticking to his calves, blood rushing in his ears.
He had lost. Not just the match. It wasn’t even about the trophy anymore.
Carlos had beaten him before — it wasn’t new. But this? This was different. Because somewhere between the fourth set and the end of his world, Jannik had realized he wasn’t playing for points.
He had been playing for you. You were the last piece. The last thing he had ever loved without strategy, without calculation. The one thing that made the world slow down instead of spin faster.
And you were in the arms of the man who just shattered him.
He glanced over — once — and saw you wrapped in Carlos’s embrace, laughing through tears, your hand brushing his hair as he kissed your forehead. You looked like home. But not his. Not anymore.
He turned away quickly, gripping the towel like it might ground him. His heart thudded painfully — not with adrenaline, but with loss. The kind that lingers long after the press conferences are over and the cameras stop flashing.
He had given up everything for this sport. Sacrificed privacy. Joy. Love. And now?
Carlos had the girl and the title.
Jannik had clay on his shoes and ghosts in his throat.
For a long time, he didn’t move. Just stared into the void, feeling something final settle in his chest. Not bitterness. Not even anger. Just… regret.
That night, after the stadium cleared, you found a quiet corner backstage. Carlos was still celebrating with his team, his smile electric, infectious.
You stepped out into the corridor and saw Jannik, walking toward the exit alone. He paused when he saw you. Neither of you spoke. The silence was thick. Familiar. Heavy with all the words left unsaid over the years. His eyes searched yours — not pleading, not apologizing. Just… remembering.
You gave him a small smile. Soft. Kind. And then you whispered, “You played beautifully.” He nodded once. Voice rough: “So did he.”
That's all you had to say. And you walked away.
June 11th, 2025 — Paris
Engagement Party
The room was everything Paris promised at night — timeless, warm, and touched with gold.
It sat high in a Haussmannian building, its balconies open to let in the breeze. Inside, lights glowed soft and honey-colored. Laughter bubbled through the air, mixed with clinking glasses and the low hum of music that felt more like background to something much bigger: love, celebrated loudly and without hesitation.
You stood by Carlos, hand resting lightly on his arm as people drifted past — family, old friends, a few faces from the tour. Everyone had something to say, a compliment to offer, a toast to give. You passed around canapés with a smile so effortless it seemed carved from light, your cream dress dancing gently around your legs as you moved.
Carlos couldn’t stop looking at you — everyone could see that. He reached for your hand between conversations, pressed soft kisses to your hair, whispered something in your ear that made you throw your head back in laughter
You didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching you from across the room.
But Jannik did.
He stood near the wall, just out of the crowd’s rhythm, a shadow of a man caught between past and present.
You didn’t see him when he entered. You were mid-conversation with your grandmother, glowing from the inside out. He saw the way you curled slightly toward Carlos when he leaned in to greet your cousin. He saw how your fingers brushed his back when you passed him a flute of champagne. Every gesture subtle, intimate, natural — like you’d been doing it your whole life.
And for a moment, Jannik hated himself.
Because he had known that version of you first.
The quiet intimacy.
The soft glances.
The language of fingertips and silence.
He had known every crevice of your soul — your fears, your dreams, the way you used to close your eyes when the Spanish sun set too fast. He had held you in secret like a treasure he wasn’t brave enough to claim.
And now here you were. Shining. Loved. Belonging.
To someone else.
To him.
Jannik's hand clenched around the stem of the champagne coupe he hadn’t touched. He only snapped out of it when Anna appeared beside him in a flash of red, the shimmer of her gown catching the light like a mirror. She offered the glass with a flirtatious tilt of her head.
“You’re brooding again,” she teased lightly, her voice dripping with effortless glamour. “Smile. People are watching.”
He took the glass without meeting her gaze, pasting on a half-smile that felt like glass in his mouth. “Ovviamente.” ("Of course")
She was already turning away, laughing at something someone said about her dress, soaking in the attention like it was a drug. She didn’t notice he wasn’t drinking. She never asked if he was okay.
He didn’t care. Not really.
Because across the room, you laughed again. Threw your head back again. Let Carlos pull you closer with his hand at your waist, again.
And Jannik stared.
At you.
The future Mrs. Alcaraz.
After all the smiles, the kisses on cheeks, the congratulations that blurred into one, you slipped away quietly.
Your fingers pushed past the linen curtain, revealing a stone balcony bathed in moonlight. The summer air kissed your skin, and for the first time that evening, your chest exhaled fully. You stepped out, heels clicking softly against the aged stone, and leaned onto the railing, gazing out over the city. The balcony was narrow and elegant, stone railing carved with age and care. The night stretched beyond you — the rooftops of Paris lit in a haze of golden windows and blue twilight. From here, the city hummed like a living thing.
Paris looked like it was holding its breath. Cars passed slowly beneath, lights flickered from distant windows, and the air buzzed with quiet life.
You glanced down at your hand.
The diamond shimmered, catching the light. A promise, a future, a life you chose and that chose you back. You smiled. And then—
“Congratulazioni.” ("Congratulations.")
His voice sliced through the silence. Low. Cautious. Familiar. You froze. Your spine straightened as if against a cold wind. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to see him standing there, only steps away — him. Jannik.
Jannik stepped up beside you, but kept his distance — almost two meters away, like the space between you had been measured in guilt. His hands were in the pockets of his suit pants, his tie slightly loose like he’d been tugging at it all night.
Your heart didn’t flutter. It clenched. “Thanks,” you said curtly, your voice steady despite the pounding in your ears.
He shifted awkwardly, hands in the pockets of his slacks, gaze flicking between the skyline and the back of your head. “It’s… really nice out here.”
You didn’t answer. He tried again.
"You look…" he began, but the words fumbled. "Happy. You look happy."
You stayed silent, eyes locked on the skyline.
"I didn’t expect… I mean, I didn’t know you'd—"
"Get engaged?" you cut in flatly. "That tends to happen when people fall in love."
The silence between you was taut. Painful. The noise from inside became muffled behind the glass. Out here, there were no photographers. No spectators. Just ghosts.
“Have you been back to Spain lately?”
Still silence. He exhaled a short, bitter laugh. “God, I sound stupid.” You closed your eyes. “Then stop talking.” That quieted him. For a moment. Then something inside him cracked.
“I can’t believe it.” Your jaw tightened.
“I mean—this... all of this. You. Him. The ring. I—it can’t be real. I didn’t think—I didn’t know.” You turned to face him now, your back no longer a shield. “What didn’t you know, Jannik?”
His eyes were frantic, chest rising fast. “That you were it, the one. That leaving you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I thought it was for the best. That you’d hold me back. That we’d outgrow each other. That it wouldn’t last. But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong—”
“Jannik—”
“Please.” His voice cracked. “Please don’t marry him. Don’t do this. Not yet. Not to me.”
Your hands gripped the stone railing until your knuckles paled. He took a step closer, voice breaking with every syllable. “I’ll end things with Anna. I’ll go public. I’ll tell the world everything. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of our lives—just let me be in it. You can hold what I did against me for the rest of our lives, I don't care, just be mine. Just… let it be me.”
You stared at him. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. And then— You laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was unbelievable.
“Let you be in it?” Your voice sharpened. “Where were you when I cried myself to sleep for months, Jannik?” He blinked, stunned. “You disappeared without a fight. Without a word. Just walked away like we had been nothing. Like I was a mistake you couldn’t afford.” He tried to speak, but you stepped forward. “I gave you everything. And you left me alone to pretend it never happened. You made me erase you.” Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, but they didn’t fall.
“I rebuilt my life from ashes. I swallowed every sob, every memory, every ‘what if,’ and turned it into silence. Because you made sure no one would ever know what we had. And now? Now you think you can beg for it back like it’s yours to take?”
“I—” he rasped. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know I’d—”
“That’s the thing,” you snapped. “You never knew. You just left.”
His voice cracked, you had never seen the Fox crack. At least not in such a messy way. He looked at the city of love for a moment, then deep into your eyes, the lights reflecting into his welled up tears. "Why him ?" You could only shalke your head. "I could never fall so low and make a guy fall for me to spite you... It happened, that's it. I fell in love, hard. Because he was there to catch me. And I see everyday that it was never a choice, he wasn't the option, he is the one. In the way he loves me, in the way he shows it, in the way he respects me and my family, in the way I hear him butcher up some French but get it right when he thinks I'm not watching. Because he fought for it, where you left."
He looked at you then. Really looked. And for the first time in years, you let it show. Everything. And he saw it. The lack of love in your eyes. The emptiness where his reflection used to live. “Per favore, non sposarlo…” ("Please don’t marry him…") Your eyes burned. But your heart didn’t move.
It didn’t ache. It didn’t crack. It just… stood still.
“I’m not walking away from anything, Jannik,” you said gently. “You did. And now I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
He looked at you like the sky had fallen. “I don’t hate you,” you added. “But I also don’t love you anymore.” He looked at you then. Really looked. And for the first time in years, you let it show. Everything. And he saw it. The lack of love in your eyes. The emptiness where his reflection used to live. It hit him like a gut punch.
And before he could speak again, you whispered, low and cutting: “If you have even an ounce of respect for what we once shared… don’t come to the wedding.”
The silence between you stretched, cold and final.
Then, just like that—
“Ah, voilà!”
Carlos’s voice rang out as he stepped onto the balcony, beaming. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, the other slipping naturally around your waist.
“There you are, mi amor. I thought you had vanished.”
His eyes found Jannik and lit up. “Hey! Good to see you, man. Do you guys know each other ? ” Jannik forced a tight smile. “Yeah… you too. Um...” Jannik glanced at you and you took it where he ended. "We met long ago, in Spain, my father was the responsible physio of the camps." Your fiancé nodded, surprised but satisfied with the answer. "Oh, ok. Well I appologize for interupting the reunion but I have to steal her."
Carlos turned to you, dropping to French as he kissed your temple. “Viens, chérie, je viens te chercher pour les toasts. Tout le monde t'attend, mon amour.” (“Come on, darling, I'll get you for toast. Everyone's waiting for you, my love.”), he said slowly with that spanish accent that made it all warmer.
You nodded, lips twitching into something that resembled a smile — tight, composed. You looked back at Jannik one last time. Your eyes softened, not with pity, not with love — but with goodbye.
“Have a good night,” you said simply.
And with that, you slipped back into the warmth of the party, Carlos guiding you gently, the future pulling you forward.
And Jannik? He stood alone on that balcony. The city lights didn’t feel romantic anymore. Just distant.
Game. Set. Match.
And this time, he knew it was truly over. You would always be the one that slipped through his fingers like the sand of a sandcastle that didn't resist the sun. Beautiful and tragic. His most beautiful tragedy.
#jannik sinner x reader#angst#jannik sinner imagine#jannik sinner x yn#jannik sinner x you#tennis imagine#carlos alcaraz x reader
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BLÜDHAVEN. EIGHT PM.
“I am going to murder him. Stick one of his own arrows up his ass so he gets a taste of what betrayal truly feels like.”
“Your vulgarity is off the charts today, sweetheart.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, neatly places it on top of the singular bed in your shared hotel room.
You were meant to finish this job with Roy. After all, the two of you had started working on it together months ago, and everything had led up to this very moment in time. The next two days or so were meant to be simple, really: find the precise location of the drug lord you had been tracking and were finally able to identify, get familiar with his habits, and strike.
Except, never the reliable one, your red-haired friend had a “thing to deal with”, one that was supposedly “much more urgent” and thus, forced you to play through the perfectly planned grand finale with Jason fucking Todd, of all people.
Admittedly, you always worked well together, even when he was purely the Red Hood to you, a man clad in maroon and several layers of deflection. And yes, maybe your dislike for him has dwindled into a rather small flame compared to the bonfire it was at the beginning. Maybe he was sweet sometimes, even. But that didn't mean you were comfortable with your current predicament.
“You're taking the couch.”
He scoffs, eyes widening in disbelief. “And what makes you think I'm gonna agree to that?”
Wordlessly, you meet his gaze, then plop down on the bed, nuzzling into the covers. You know it's unfair of you. Jason is big. Ridiculously so. And the couch is tiny. He'd have to curl up into a ball to even fit on it, and you bite back a grin at the mental image. Let him suffer a little. You don't want to give in to a man this easily.
He squints at you, shakes his head. Similarly to you, he lets the moment pass by in silence. His stare alone is enough for you to pull the comforters completely over your head, and because he doesn't retort, you allow yourself to relax in the safety of your hiding place, your body limp.
That's when you feel it. One hand, large and calloused, slides under your knees, the other finds your upper back. He had touched you before, of course. It came with the job. You knew he ran warm. Except, right now, it was not the vigilante pulling you into an alley, hiding away from bad guys - it's Jason's gloveless skin on yours, and he's a damn furnace. He pulls you out from under the covers in a torturously slow, careful motion, mumbles “you leave me no choice”, and places you atop the dull-looking two-seater.
You wait for the goosebumps to disappear, for your vocal chords to realign themselves before you reply. And even then, it's a weak sound, half the air in your lungs absent, stolen by him. “...Asshole.”
He grins down at you, walks over to mimic your previous position on the bed. “At least I'm a comfortable asshole.”
You know he's right, and you know you can't do anything about it, not when your fatigued state robs you of your usual strength. So you merely shoot him the finger, turn the nightlamp on, and face the backrest of your less than lovely frame of cushions.
TEN PM.
“So, what are you reading, anyways?”
“Not talking to you right now.”
“And here I thought our relationship was getting better.”
“Fuck you, Todd.”
He laughs at that. His voice is deep, gravelly. It's a harsh sound that slices through the air, and you frown at the way it makes you feel.
You turn the page, purposefully dragging the movement into an unnecessary length before shooting him the briefest of looks, your tone seeped in annoyance. “The Haunting of Hill House.”
There's a scoff of disbelief as you hear him shift on the bed, a pair of eyes digging into your back. “You brought a horror novel to a creepy motel?”
“Yes. Problem?”
“Do you ever read any other genre?”
Placing your book on the nightstand, you turn around to face him, the street lamps allowing in just enough light for you to make out the contours of his face. With his eyebrows set into a frown, glossy, wide eyes and the rest of his body hidden under pink covers, he almost looks cute. Almost.
“I do. Do you ever read anything other than Austen?”
“I do.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like Frankenstein. Dracula, too.”
“But those are-”
His eyebrows raise, “Your favorites, yeah.”
“...sap.”
You turn around to hide your blush. So he had taken your recommendations, at the end of the day. There's something fuzzy blossoming right where your heart is at the realization. You wait for it to somewhat sizzle out, and then, quietly, speak.
“I read Emma, too. And Pride and Prejudice.”
Jason Todd catches himself smiling at your words, and he's glad you can't see his face.
ONE AM.
No rest for the wicked, and for those forced to lay on rock-hard couches in inexplicably cold motel rooms.
You've spent the last few hours in a statuesque state, unmoving, because you don't want to wake him, desperately trying to get your body to give in and fall asleep. One look at the time, however, is enough for you to finally take action.
With a frustrated sigh, you stumble into a somewhat upright position, nearly crawling over to the radiator. Your fingers find the knob, and when you realize it's rusted right into a non-functional mess, you have the urge to cry out loud, head in your hands, but he breaks the silence before you do.
“What the hell are you doing?”
You nearly tear your hair out at the question. “What does it look like I'm doing, Red? This room is worse than Antarctica.”
“'s not that bad.”
“Yeah, because your body temperature runs way above average. Plus, your ass is on the bed. I'm pretty sure that sofa was made of actual ice.”
He sighs. Speaks, quietly. “So get in.”
You turn towards him fully, head tilted in confusion. “What?”
“The bed.”
“But–”
“Get. in. the. damn. bed.”
Not wanting to risk a repeat of his earlier actions (his big, strong arms, hauling you up, leaving you a blushing mess), you comply, hesitantly get into the bed. You make sure to leave enough space between you, your bodies separated by at least a foot. Even at a distance, you feel his warmth, but it is not enough to eradicate your shivering completely.
It's only around two minutes later when you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pull you into the safety of his own form, and your chattering teeth finally come to a rest. His nose meets your neck, nuzzles into your shoulder, your hands run across his. This is the most physical contact you've ever had with him, and yet, it's not awkward - it feels almost as natural as breathing. You relax into it. So does he.
“Too stubborn for your own good.” He says, and you drift off to sleep with a grin plastered to your face.
EIGHT AM.
Your eyes flutter open, adjust to the light, yet when you try to move, you're pulled right back.
Seven hours have passed, and you don't know if it is due to the early morning sleepiness still lingering in the air, or for reasons you don't let your mind wonder about, but he refuses to let you go.
He shifts slightly, forehead against you, a groggy mumble hitting your skin. “Missions at nine. We've time.”
So you let him hold you for a little while longer, leave your actually awake self to deal with the consequences of your actions some other time.
-
can be read as pt. two to this
#jason todd x reader#jason todd#jason todd headcanon#jason todd fluff#dcu fluff#dcu x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd x fem!reader#jason todd x gn!reader#jason todd one shot#jason todd fic
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cw: smut
an: everything but the ending came quickly, so it's abrupt 🤷🏻♀️
You who, in your spare time, reads romance novels. Not just any romance novels, but extra spicy reverse harem why choose romance novels: omegaverse, fated mates, mafia, enemies to lovers, hockey, dark, shifter. You read it all. They know you're a voracious reader but have never looked too closely at the covers of your books.
You don't talk about what you read, and they don't ask. It never occurred to you to hide them. One day you leave a spicy dragon shifter open on the table when you step out of the room for a few minutes.
Johnny wanders into the kitchen for a snack and sees your book. He doesn't think anything of it; you always have a book around. But this one is open, and as he snags it to close it, he happens to glance down and sees " "Breed this sweet pussy," he rasped." Johnny pulls up short, sure he misread it.
He looks over the whole page and sees more than he bargained for:
"What do you plan to do about it?" I asked teasingly. He hadn't shifted back, and his golden form towered over me.
"Breed this sweet pussy," he rasped. He stalked forward while Kha's shadow enveloped me.
"Whatever you plan to do," Kha said, addressing Xio, "do it before the others return."
I stood my ground, even as it shook with the force of Xio's steps. "You're ours, and I intend to remind you of that," he said. He raised a single claw and sliced down. Though I knew he wouldn't hurt me, my mind scrambled momentarily, waiting for the bloom of pain. Instead of a streak of red across my dress, I looked down and saw how it hung in two pieces off my shoulders. A quick shrug and the ruined fabric pooled at my feet. Another targeted swipe turned my panties to ribbon and left me bare before my mates.
Kha's amethyst wings caught the light as they snapped open over me. "No one else in the horde is allowed to see you like this, my treasure," he rumbled.
I was caught between them but didn't fear it. In fact, being naked with them still dragons was exciting. The thought of Xio using both his cocks on me at once had heat pooling between my thighs.
Johnny practically races from the room to find the others, taking your book with him. You glance at the empty table when you return, confusion niggling at the back of your mind. Something is off, but you can't put your finger on what.
A few days go by, but the incident slips your mind, likely because the book had been facedown on the tea table later. You continued reading about Faith and her dragon shifter lovers, finishing The Horde's Greatest Treasure and moving on to Guarding the Don's Daughter.
Kyle has been waiting for you to leave your book unattended. He believed Johnny about what you were reading. He has sisters and knows it's more than likely true. But there is that bit of doubt. You're so sweet with them. The idea of you reading what Johnny shared...a shiver trails down his spine as sweat beads along his neck. He isn't sure if he's turned on or turned off by the idea of what's in those pages.
Fortune favors him two hours after you get home. You're reading in the large leather recliner when John shouts, the smoke alarm wailing like a banshee. Startled from your book-induced revery, the book falls to the floor with a whump as you scamper into the kitchen to check on John. Keeping an eye on the entryway, Kyle snatches the book from the floor and randomly flips to a page in the middle.
Rex's eyes stare, watching the black lace hem of my nightgown as I slide it up and over my head. His jaw is clenched so hard I'm surprised I don't hear the molars from here.
"What are you doing, Princess?" he bites out.
I smile coyly, dropping my gaze to the bed. "Getting myself ready," I reply, laying back on the soft down. I lazily stroke a hand from the waistband of my skimpy underwear through the valley between my breasts to my neck and back. The heat in Rex's eyes sets me aflame, and on my next pass, I whisper his name and slide my hand beneath the lace panties. They leave nothing to the imagination, and I know he can see when I slip two fingers into my pussy.
"My job is to protect you," Rex growls.
"If you're in bed with me, it's easy to 'cover me' in case of danger," I tease.
Kyle tosses the book onto the chair you were in as if burned. You really do read that. How can you like that? Are you secretly hoping for it?
He won't be able to answer the questions swirling through his head unless he talks to you, but that seems like too much to ask today. He's trying to reconcile what's on the page with who he knows you are when you come back in and say, "Kitchen's fine, but John's roast isn't, so it looks like take away for dinner. That okay?"
All Kyle can do is nod numbly.
Several more days pass, and you know something is wrong, but you have no idea what. Earlier you'd leaned over the back of the sofa, wrapping your arms around Johnny as watched the telly, and he jumped a mile high. Two days ago, you asked Kyle his opinion on your dress and instead of the suave answer you were used to, he blankly stared at you.
Over dinner, John and Simon make stilted small talk about their day while Kyle stares at you and Johnny looks anywhere but you. "Okay, that's enough," you gripe. "What in the world is going on with you lot?"
Simon grunts, "Readin' anythin' good?"
Surprise flits across your features. Though books are your ever present accessory, they've never asked about them before. "Um, yeah, actually."
You would laugh at Simon's face if the sharp intake from Johnny and Kyle make you think there is something wrong with your answer. John's voice cuts across your confusion. "What are you readin', dove?" It's a question, but his tone conveys an order instead.
"Well, it's about a woman who falls in love with three different guys on the same hockey team. They all met her in different ways, so she had no idea they knew each other, but once they found out they were all dating the same person, they had a massive fight about it. She told them she wasn't anyone's possession and stormed off. That's where I am."
"And that's all? Just a few mates sharin' a girl?" Johnny snipes.
You level him with a glare. "No, they all caught feelings. Sounds familiar, yeah?"
Your terse response only eggs him on. Johnny snaps back at you with, "An' I'm damn sure they're all having sex wi' her."
"Well of course they are!" you reply hotly. And Johnny crumples, shoulders hunching and deep sadness replacing the previous anger.
"Is...is tha' it?" Johnny asks, subdued. "You'd rather read about man-dragon things-"
"Or mafia bodyguards," Kyle put in, to which Simon quietly added, "or alphas and omegas."
The devastation in Simon's voice, the heartbreak in Kyle's, shows you how serious this is for them. "What?! No, my books are just that, a little escape." You lock eyes with each of your lovers. "There is no ulterior motive, no hidden kink, no unfulfilled longing. They're just quick stories with a guaranteed happily ever after. And sometimes really raunchy sex."
"Are ya sure," Johnny asks, some of his usual playfulness coming through, "'cause tha' dragon one had some interesting options for dealin' wi' multiple cocks."
"And I wouldn't say no to some of what Princess and her bodyguard got up to," Kyle adds.
You scoff and roll your eyes. "They aren't meant to be a playbook," you say. Then you look around at your men once more, these men you love with all your heart who would do anything to make you happy, and say, "But if you happen to have found a new kink to try, I guess I could get behind some experimentation."
main masterlist
#cod#poly!141#poly!141 x reader#tf 141#tf 141 x reader#johnny mactavish#kyle garrick#john price#simon riley#nerdygirl says
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be sweet to me
SUMMARY Bob notices that you're painfully shy to initiate physical touch and takes matters into his own hands. Literally.
PAIRING bob reynolds x gender neutral!reader
GENRE fluff, slight humor, established relationship
WORD COUNT 1.7k
WARNINGS a lot of oh's, reader is a working civilian, bob & reader's relationship is fairly fresh, no Y/N mention
AUTHOR’S NOTE requested! i listened to japanese breakfast's be sweet on loop while writing this, enjoy!
The city’s usual hustle and bustle has died down a little considering it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky was bluer and brighter and clearer than usual, soft music murmuring from the cafe’s hidden speakers. Or maybe it was because you were with Bob that everything happened to feel a little lighter.
You’re in disbelief that a man has made you think and feel this way.
You were in the middle of a discussion with Bob about the new book he picked up when your phone vibrates on the table. You shut your eyelids just to roll your eyes under them and redirected your focus back on Bob.
However, he also got distracted and pointed out, “aren’t you going to check that?”
You are, but you knew once you confirmed it was a message from your job, you’d have to burst the comfortable bubble you were sharing with your boyfriend. The title still felt incredibly new, in the awkward, squeaky clean way. In the way that makes you tiptoe around it to make sure the dirt from your shoes don’t soil the shiny ground.
“I— yeah, I probably should.” You sigh, getting the inevitable over and done with.
You see that the notification was, in fact, from your co-worker. Something about needing you to come in at the last minute, revoking your day-off privilege with a promise of giving it back some other time instead. Yeah right.
You grumble to yourself— or so you thought, not used to having a partner with heightened hearing— before putting your phone face down with a little more force than necessary, “I can’t believe I thought I could ever get a day away from work.”
(Bob doesn’t know if it’s acceptable to admit that he finds your annoyance attractive.)
It’s not that you found it difficult or that your co-workers gave you a hard time, but rather it gets tedious and boring at times. Sitting in front of a screen waiting for clients to get back to you regarding revisions and cramming them because it was their fault they didn’t email back right away didn’t sound so appealing right now. You didn’t really have the liberty of choice, though. So much for living in New York.
“Bob, I’m so sorry to end our date here, but I’m being summoned to work.” You sadly tell him. The hand you rest on top of your phone itches to reach over and hold his own that cradles his drink, but you manage to will it otherwise; it takes your whole being not to touch him. Too soon, you think to yourself, don’t scare him away.
He noticed the way your fingers shifted slightly towards his direction, eager to finally feel your hands intertwine. Keeping his eyes on your regretful expression instead, he waits for you.
Your hand never found his.
Bob slumps in his seat out of disappointment due to two things now. But living with a bunch of retired assassins forced into public duty has desensitized him from taking conversations cut short too personally.
He shakes his head to recover, a reassuring smile now resting on his lips. “Don’t apologize, I get it. The others also have times when they need to leave abruptly in the middle of conversations.”
You’re sure he didn’t mean to, but now you just feel like more of an asshole. As you sluggishly start doublechecking your things, you ask him something out of curiosity. “Do you ever join them?”
He thinks about it a little, trying to see if there have been instances that he tags along because he was also summoned with them. “Hmm. No, not often. Too many risks involved.”
Half of your attention was towards fixing your bag but you manage to nod thoughtfully, listening as he vaguely recalls a time he actually joined The New Avengers to an important meeting, not wanting him to expound further if he wasn’t comfortable.
Before you had gotten together officially, when he knew he could trust you more than the level of friends, Bob had forced himself to open up a conversation with you about everything: his fucked up past, how he landed in Malaysia, and the time he had lost control of his strength and engulfed almost the entirety of the city in darkness.
You heard it all. And you decided to stay.
(If you put it that bluntly, it doesn’t exactly sound… romantic. There were obviously more nuances you considered before dating him.)
You lift your head up to see Bob already looking at you patiently and attentively, both his hands still on the paper to-go cup. You give him a little nod to indicate that you’re good to go if he is. He acknowledges it, standing first to be by your side before you get up. Cute.
Bob throws the empty cups in the garbage bin beside the receiving area; you hadn’t even noticed that he also grabbed your trash.
The barista by the counter says ‘come back soon!’ as the two of you exit, the little chimes above the glass door clinking to announce your departure from the cafe. The two of you walk a minor distance to stand outside by the glass display, not wanting to cover the doorway.
Your thumb slides under the handle of your bag, pretending to readjust it on your shoulder because you don’t know what to do with your hands yet, still painfully hesitant to reach for Bob’s. You peer up at him shyly. “Um, this is where we part ways, I suppose.”
He blinks at you owlishly, your concern only grows when he says a single syllable defeatedly.
“Oh…”
You blink back at him. Anyone intently watching your interaction from a distance might think you were communicating through morse code. “‘Oh’? What, ‘oh’?”
Bob fiddles with the sleeve of his soft sweater, eyes looking away from yours every few seconds. He can feel his face getting warmer and he’s sure you can physically see it.
“I, uh, wanted to walk you to work to… make sure you get there safely. I–If that’s alright with you, of course.”
Oh.
You’re stunned. You know it’s the bare minimum, but you can’t help but be surprised that anyone ever thinks to be a decent person nowadays. The rise of assholes, you suppose. “No, yeah. That’d be perfect, Bob. Thank you.”
He waves you off then stops his hand out right in front of you. Again, what is it with this man just being an annoyingly perfect gentleman? You felt the blood in your veins freeze, thinking he was going to ask for your hand, before he offered, “I can hold your bag.”
Your mistake for thinking he wanted to hold your hand, too! Whatever. You put your harmless bitterness aside to thank him again and give him your handbag, keychains rattling at the motion. Bob looks for the source of the noise, eyes lighting up once he sees the charms hanging on the side of your bag’s buckle.
You start walking towards the direction of your work building as he follows, cradling your purse cautiously in his arms to inspect your decorations and points one out. His finger taps on a sun-shaped charm inspired by the opacity of suncatchers.
“I like this one.”
Your eyes move from the street in front of you to what he was looking at.
…Oh.
“Me too, it’s my favorite,” you share, yet you’re reluctant to verbalize what you want to admit to him. Fuck it.
“I actually bought it ‘cause it reminded me of you.”
Your pace picks up nervously as your eyes immediately fleet anywhere except for the presence to your right; at a rat making its way down the subway stairs, strangers haphazardly crossing the road, a distant digital billboard blinking colorful images out.
Too frantic at the idea of Bob being weirded out at your confession, you don’t realize that he had finally shouldered your bag to reach out for your hand. The moment his palm slides into yours, your whole body is electrified. You love it.
You jolt to look over at him, a shy grin on his face, clearly pleased with your reaction. You realize that he had noticed your reservations and took matters into his own hands. Literally. You mirror his expression in double the glee.
From that moment to when you finally arrive in front your office, your hands never once detached from the other.
“This is where we part ways, I suppose.” You smile at him cheekily, parroting what you had told him earlier.
Bob gives you your handbag; you almost forgot about it. His face hurts from smiling. Your moods are contagious. “For real this time, then.”
“Yeah…”
You really don’t want to go and Bob really doesn’t want to leave. But duty calls and bills and dates and gifts won’t pay for themselves. This time, you’re the one to take the step forward first, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
The way you bring him into the embrace is rigid at first but once you feel his body reciprocate, you melt together perfectly. You can’t believe you were nervous to hug Bob.
Pulling away seems like a foreign concept to you, so he does it for you, knowing your work desk awaits your arrival. He didn’t know he was capable of grinning this widely, laughing at your playful pouting.
He thinks you’re about to bid him a verbal farewell when you take another step closer, placing a delicate lip gloss-coated kiss on his cheek. He feels the same exact electricity you had felt minutes ago. You whisper when you pull away, gazing meekly into his affectionful eyes. “Thank you for today, Bob. I really enjoyed it, even if it was cut short.”
“Thank you too, I also had fun.”
You just look at each other, rocking your feet. After a moment of sweet silence, you finally point at your building with your thumb along with an exaggerated look of disgust playing on your features, sighing dramatically to get a laugh out of him. You think his laugh is cute.
Unwillingly, you turn your back on him to move forward, only to turn around a millisecond after. Bob’s still there, looking at you so lovestuck, hand awkwardly raising to wave. You giggle, finally taking your eyes off him and walking into reality.
Damn, you’re in deep.
#🎱 ⚡️ *️⃣#bob reynolds x reader#bob reynolds x you#bob reynolds x y/n#bob reynolds imagine#robert reynolds x reader#robert reynolds x you#robert reynolds x y/n#bob x reader#bob x you#bob x y/n#bob reynolds#robert reynolds#bob thunderbolts
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HOUSE RULES.
PAIRING: bartender!anakin skywalker x fem!reader
SUMMARY: you get friendly with the bartender at your tennis club’s annual summer social.
WARNINGS: SMUT, fingering, intercourse, some choking, multiple orgasms, squirting, praise, overstimulation, cream-pie, hook-up/non-established relationship, NSFW, MDNI
COUNT: 3.0k
The courts had been cleared, the nets rolled back, and the clay swept clean. But it wasn’t for play this time, it was for dancing. Fairy lights shimmered like stars where they were strung between the fences, and chatter buzzed through the warm summer-evening air like champagne bubbles. ’50s jazz spilled from a speaker hidden somewhere in the rocks, playing soft and lazy in the background as penny loafers and wedges clicked across the court, drinks in hand.
Anakin was working the outdoor bar beneath the club’s pale blue awning, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and pouring rosé like it came cheap. It didn’t, but no one is paying for it anyway; everything is free tonight for the club’s annual mid-summer “Sunset Social”. It wasn’t anything extravagant, really; just a casual excuse for the rich to unwind while the club staff stepped softly, nearly part of the ambiance as they put all of their efforts into perfecting their nights.
Except Anakin had a habit of noticing things he knew he wasn’t supposed to.
Like you.
Right now, you’re sharing excited whispers of club gossip with your friends, people-watching with a spark in your eye as you discuss secret rumors about the fellow guests. Anakin couldn’t help the way his wandering eyes chased after you all night, you look so gorgeous in your floral maxi dress, A-line cut halfway down your chest to show off the right amount of cleavage so that it’s not trashy, but classy. You raise your champagne flute to your lips, sipping gingerly on your drink as your tan knee pokes out of the thigh-slit of your dress. You’re not here to play tonight, you’re here to be seen.
And Anakin sees you.
More than he should.
He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t hurt that you hadn’t once come to the bar, hadn’t even looked in its direction. But Anakin is stubborn, and somehow, every fifteen minutes, he finds himself striding toward you and your little group with a new pitcher of some fancy drink that you had never even requested.
“Another lavender gin fizz?” he offered—or really announced—before refilling your glass.
The wine bubbled warm in your stomach, giving you the extra confidence boost you needed to finally break the ice with this boy who’s been after you.
“That’s my second.”
“Third, technically.” A cocky grin appears on his face, “but who’s counting?”
With a brief wave of giggles from the club girls, you tilt your head with a newfound curiosity, pursing your lips. “And how do you know I like gin?”
Anakin leans in slightly, still gripping the mauve pitcher in his hand. “You made a face at the tequila punch, and you didn’t touch the Aperol spritz I brought you earlier. So, either you hate sugar, or you’re finally starting to trust my taste.”
Your fingers smudge the condensation on your glass as you take a silent second to study his character. “You’ve been watching me?”
“I’m a bartender,” he shrugs playfully, “it’s my job to keep the guests happy.”
You sip slowly on your ice-cold drink, slipping your tongue gently over your bottom lip, collecting the lingering taste.
“You’ve refilled me more than anyone else here,” you call him out, it’s not like you haven’t noticed.
Even your friends have noticed, Bri was the first to say anything about it after she was anticipating Anakin coming over to refill her empty glass, only to refill your half-empty glass. You try not to show too much joy when the apples of his cheeks flush a dusty rose-pink, but you quickly find out that teasing him is so fun.
“Well… you’re the only one who starts to look pretty miserable whenever your drink gets low,” he bounces back, leaning in closer when he lowers his voice. “So, I thought I’d give you a little extra attention.”
His words are laced with a kind of intoxicating tone that makes you falter for a second, and your heart skips a beat when his icy blue eyes suddenly begin staring straight through you… his confidence sends heat right through your core. A spark.
“What’s your name, bartender?”
His gaze darkens at your title, “Anakin.”
“Well, Anakin,” you start, lips curling, “you might want to slow down before you drown me in gin.”
“Just tell me when to stop, and I will.” He says before shifting on his heels and walking back to his place where he’s needed behind the bar, throwing you a subtle wink over his shoulder when your friends finally turn away from him.
But you never tell him when, and Anakin doesn’t stop.
Hours pass, and as the dusk precipitates the deep night sky, the low music becomes overpowered by the cicadas chittering in the woods offside the tennis club.
You’re certainly tipsy now, humid summer hair having dismantled the delicate hairstyle you spent hours on for tonight’s function, yet you’re still stuck with a happy smile between your cherry cheeks. This type of natural look on you was ten times as gorgeous to Anakin as when you arrived at this party.
You’ve done your mingling amongst the other club members, but between every conversation, you found yourself searching out Anakin for more of his witty banter. You couldn’t help it, the chatter with him just flowed so effortlessly, an easy push and pull that couldn’t keep either of you away for long. He makes you feel light on your feet, confident, and above all, he’s attractive… you might have a crush.
Nearly half of the guests were gone by 11 PM, but Anakin was still working hard behind the bar for those who remained. You’re sitting on the corner of a wooden barstool; your warm chin rested on your palm while Anakin mixes drinks mindlessly.
“Hey, bartender!” You call, awaiting your cheeky smile as he makes his way back down to your end of the bar. “Another mint lemonade prosecco?”
But to your disappointment, he licks his teeth while shaking his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. Last call was five minutes ago.”
You pout playfully. Last call? Where did the time go?
“You’re busy,” you comment, watching as the sweat glistens over his forehead.
Anakin nods, “my shift ends in 10 minutes, I’m trying to make as many tips as I can before I clock out.”
You joke, “were the other tips not enough?”
“Well, I might’ve been a little distracted tonight,” he smirks.
You had never stayed this late at the Sunset Social; it was almost midnight, for God’s sake, but time just passes differently with him.
“You look bored,” he notes your dissatisfied expression.
“I am bored,” you emphasize, “all my friends left already!”
Truth be told, you’re not really bored, just missing that extra attention he promised you earlier.
“Well, if you’re still bored in 10 minutes…” he shrugs suggestively, and your lost smile suddenly reclaims its place.
Twenty minutes later, you’re being pushed back through Anakin’s bedroom doorway, lips locked like you need each other to breathe. Anakin’s fingers dig into the plush of your ass through your chiffon dress, and when he roughly pulls your hips into his own, hard-on pressing into your thigh, you card your hands through honey curls. His jaw moves with skillful motion as he licks into your mouth, letting your tongues dance against each other as he walks you to his bed. When you feel the mattress hit your calves, you manage to spin Anakin around and push him to the bed instead.
You hike the long skirt of your dress up as you crawl onto his lap, and he attacks the silver buttons on his work shirt, desperately trying to free his hot chest as quickly as possible. Once you’re settled, straddling his lap, your arms cross in front of you and lift your dress over your head, tits bouncing free in front of his face. His fingers reach right for your pointed nipples after finally freeing himself of his button-up. You gasp at the new sensation; Anakin somehow knows every way to twitch and tweak his hands to drive you crazy. His lips collide with yours again, desperately swallowing every sigh and whimper that he pulls from you.
You stabilize yourself on the hard muscle of his chest, fingers roaming to learn every dip and groove of his torso. He bites your lip, and it swells to a pout where he gently suckles on it to soothe the nip. Your wet hole clenches on nothing when he carefully parts his knees, spreading your thighs wider by the way they’re hooked over his. Anakin’s fingers slip beneath you to study the wet spot soaking through your panties, pressing into you to feel how hot your needy pussy feels, yearning for his contact through the lace. You whine, and Anakin can’t help but let the amusement tug at the corners of his lips.
He pushes the material aside and introduces his hand to your cunt, calloused fingers slipping through dripping folds before pushing his two middle digits inside. You reach for his shoulders, moaning lowly into his mouth; he hums in response.
He gently thrusts in and out of you, feeling the way your tight walls throb around him. He has a steady rhythm that allows you to subtly rock back and forth on his fingers. He’s not slow, just not moving fast enough to actually get you off. But he’s doing that on purpose, he doesn’t want this to be over before it’s even started, he just wants to prepare you for his cock.
However, he does have an interest in your pleasure when he plunges deep inside you, up to his knuckles, and curls them forward, rubbing right against your soft spot in such a perfect way that it makes you gasp for air, eyes flutter shut when your head falls back with a silent moan. Anakin trails kisses down your jaw and throat.
“You’re so wet,” he rasps against your skin, “is all that for me?”
He curls his fingers again, making you whimper in his lap as you nod. Your composure helplessly melts in his lap, and his agonizingly perfect touches don’t stop until you start to palm at his khakis. It’s bigger than you thought. Anakin pulls away from your neck, looking down at where you’re rubbing the growing bulge in his pants, then he looks at you with fire in his eyes.
His hands move for the zipper on his khakis, shuffling them off from underneath you and pushing his boxers down along with them. You kick your own underwear off before crawling over him and positioning yourself above him, where he’s lying calm and collected on the bed, hands tucked behind his head.
He bites his lip, giving you a nod. “You gonna ride me?”
You chuckle, “gonna try,”
You reach behind yourself to deliver a few pumps to his cock before aiming it forward and letting the tip catch on your eager hole when you sit back on him. His grasp on your hips is hard enough to leave wine-red impressions, and you can’t help but clench down on him when he slides in. Your eyes screw shut with a gasp, thin nails scratching crescents into his abs. He groans into the hot air of his bedroom, sounds echoing off the walls.
“That’s it, yeah… that’s it…” he coos as you slowly sink down.
The stretch burns deep inside you, and you only make it halfway before a shiver shakes your body.
“F-Fuck…” you hiss, “oh, God—“
You soon forfeit and have to lift yourself back up, then sink down again to only halfway down his shaft. Anakin stares up at you with awe, eyes glossed over and pupils blown out with lust as small gasps come and go through his ajar mouth.
His eyes flick down to watch you take his length, pussy sucking him in with every withdrawal, reluctant to let go, and leaving behind a trail of glossy wetness that drools down to his balls. You’re mesmerizing.
And sure, he’s enjoying the show, but he knows you can take more.
Without warning, Anakin plants his feet on the bed and thrusts up into you until your hips meet flush. Such an unforgivable action rips a yelp from your throat when you feel his cockhead kiss your cervix, and Anakin swears he can see your eyes cross for a brief moment before you drop your head down, body almost going limp on his cock as you quiver from the shock of his thrust. You whimper, and he rubs his thumb in comforting circles on the plush of your hip; he almost feels a little guilty.
He pouts. “Come on, angel… just roll over and let me fuck you right,”
It only takes one more failed bounce for Anakin to successfully get you onto your back, and he wastes no time once he’s on top.
His thrusts are aggressive and punishing as he slides in and out of your swollen hole, the room fills with the clap of his hips against your ass that harmonize with your helpless cries. Your jaw has fallen slack; vision blurred with tears as he fucks you into oblivion.
“Ohh God— Anakin, oh Anakin-!” You chant his name like a prayer you knew in a past life.
He’s got both hands planted underneath each of your thighs, pushing your soft legs apart to give himself more access to your greedy cunt. Your back is arched, dainty fingers gripping at the sheets as you tighten around him. Every pound into you can be felt in your lungs, ripping the oxygen from you. You quickly disassemble into a drooling mess beneath him, abused pussy swelling around him more and more with every stroke he delivers inside you.
When you pulsate around him with the perfect grip, his rhythm falters, and he readjusts his positioning before doubling down and fucking you mean and dirty, somehow with more fervor than before. When Anakin frees a wandering hand that quickly finds your slick pink folds, you can’t breathe. His calloused fingertips dance over your sensitive pearl with such elegance it forces your walls to clamp shut around his hard dick… Anakin’s eyes squeeze shut momentarily, getting lost in the feeling before he continues circling around your clit, forcing the coil in your core to get tighter and tighter before you’re even able to process it.
His free hand comes up to your throat to stabilize himself, using his grip to move you up and down on his length to meet his pelvis. You gasp, a shaky hand reaching for his wrist, begging for mercy. It’s too much.
“Come on, pretty girl,” his fingers tighten ever so slightly, “you can take it.”
But you’ve completely fallen apart now, rapidly unraveling as you moan out for him. “Wait— Oh-! Please, A-Anakin, slow down-! Ah, Ah, I-I’m gonna—!”
The warm coil quivers inside of you, shooting sparks out to your fingertips as you teeter on the edge of release. Every circle of his digits on your core, every sharp push into your bruised cervix, every squeeze to your raw throat…
“I know, baby, come on, I’ve got you—“ he grunts.
You flutter around him with a sharp gasp, “Ani-Anakin—! I-I’m… I-I can’t—“
Your whole body tenses right before your climax crashes over you. He watches carefully as your entire figure crests over, starting with your head when your eyes roll back, and rumbling down through your torso, leaving your legs shaking around his waist… and his thrusts don’t stop for a second. You just lay there, body completely spent, but still welcoming everything he’s willing to give you. You twitch beneath him, breathless moans straining from your chest as he watches your tits bounce with every push and pull. Anakin’s eyes squeeze shut, freeing your throat and cunt to plant both of his hands on the mattress beside you and turn all of his focus to chasing his release. Quiet moans are slipping from between his lips, so soft you can barely hear them…
But then, with a sudden jolt, the coil is twisting again. But it’s different this time, it’s hot. Red-hot, and you’re falling into it so fast you don’t even have time to process the unusual feeling before something instantly tears through you with an audible splash, and you open your eyes wide to see Anakin’s stomach glistening with your rush of wetness squirting all over him.
“F-Fuck, oh, shit—!”
He empties inside of you with a final thrust and a deep growl as he claws his nails into your love handles, holding on for dear life as he paints your pussy white.
But then, he softens, delivering a couple more gentle ruts into your throbbing hole as he finishes riding out his high. The grip on your hips loosens, and he rubs his thumb back and forth over the new scratches he left imprinted into your sides. The two of you work hard to catch your breath after coming down, and your pussy flutters when he finally pulls out of it, already missing the full feeling.
Anakin drapes his body over yours, wrapping big arms around your waist to hold you tight to him as he buries his face into your neck. Your fingers come up around his hot body and trace gentle shapes over his back. You stare up at his spinning ceiling with dreamy eyes, just taking your time enjoying the afterglow. His big hand comes up to stroke your hair gently, soothing you as he pants. Your eyes fall shut while you hug him, both of you slowly drifting off to sleep after your eventful night.
“Good girl… you did so good for me…”

#anakin skywalker smut#anakin skywalker x reader#darth vader smut#anakin skywalker#hayden christensen#star wars smut#star wars fanfiction#anakin x you#anakin x reader#cherry’s anakin blurbs
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i loved mingi x plus size girl 🥺💕 can you do a yunho version too please 🥺🥺
hiii sorry this took so long! i hope you enjoy it (:
Yunho x Plus Size Reader
Warning: this story is 18+ and obviously a work of fiction. please practice safe sex. please pee after. and always make sure you’re both consenting adults. 🙏
my inbox is open to requests mostly for Yunho/Mingi or Yunho AND Mingi together… but drop an idea and i can see what i can whip up! p.s. i’m seeing ateez tomorrow!
anyway here you go
You couldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that Yunho’s hand had been resting against your thigh for the entire movie. How close to him you were in his little twin bed hadn’t left your mind, especially when he turned to talk to you, just inches away. It makes your brain go fuzzy, any thought you could have melting into nothing. Your heart racing in your chest as he giggled and leaned toward you.
You’d been close with him for a while now, just friends, friends that hung out in all their spare time. Friends that shared pretty much everything. Friends that cuddled and watched movies. It was hard not to fall for him. He was a huge nerd, funny, sweet, handsome as hell. He felt so out of reach. When you’d go out with him you could feel the eyes, the silent unasked questions. Why would someone like him be with her? You could feel it, the one thing helping put your mind at ease, it was like Yunho didn’t notice, and if he did, he didn’t care. The truth was, he enjoyed being with you too. You were funny without trying to be, interesting and thoughtful, and damn beautiful. He likes you, for you. Every part.
Your friends would tell you all the time, he likes you. the way he looks at you. you guys talk 24/7… he likes you. And you wished you could believe that, but it didn’t feel like a possibility. Living in a bigger body made you doubt it. It made you doubt a lot of things.
“You okay?” He asks, softly. It’s like he can read your mind and you feel your cheeks flushing red as you nod unable to lie to him. He smirks, “We don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to.” He shrugs, pausing the movie on the laptop sitting at his and your thighs. It comes at the perfect time, as the two main characters started heavily making out, and you giggled.
“It’s fine.” You Lie, and you feel him shift to look at you. He tried to read your features, his pretty brown eyes scanning over you, he bites his bottom lip, a common habit of his, and you bury your face in your hands. “
“Wait, does this scene make you uncomfortable?” His eyebrows furrow and he quickly closes the laptop.
“No.” You laugh, “Oh please this is nothing. Do you think I’m a prude!?” He chuckles, shaking his head.
“I didn’t say that.” He smirks, “If you were there’s nothing wrong with it.”
You scoff and laugh, he is right, but you still have to giggle at him. So sweet, almost innocent. “We cannot be talking about this.”
“We talk about everything.” He shrugs, “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Very sweet. You make it hard to be uncomfortable though.” You admit, and he beams with pride at that, and you roll your eyes right into a giggle. “You can play the movie now.”
He laughs, pulling the laptop back open and pressing play. You’ve seen this movie a million times, you knew that the next sequence was just them having sex and you tried your best not to fidget, your brain trailing to other places, imagining things with Yunho, who sat right next to you. Your eyes slowly moving to him, you find his eyes fixed on the screen, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Your heart starts to race, then his eyes flash to yours.
“What?” He smirks.
“N-Nothing.” You fail to come up with literally anything else, your brain turning to mush. “It just feels so… unrealistic.” You say quickly.
He pauses the movie, turning to face you more than before. “Why do you think that?”
“I’ve never met a man that cared that much about making me orgasm.” You sigh. He cringes at the statement and shakes his head.
“Who have you been with!?” He scoffs.
“Not that many… but the few have been… mediocre.” You find yourself spilling and he raises his brows. You wait for some kind of joke or for him to playfully tease you.
“You’ve been with the wrong guys.” He shrugs, “You deserve better than that.”
You laugh, rolling your eyes again. “Oh please, are you the orgasm expert?”
He shrugs, “I’m just saying the people I’ve been with have seemed satisfied.” He raises his hands in defense and it makes you laugh.
“Okay.” Your one word answer is doused in sarcasm and he pouts.
“You won’t believe me?” He asks.
Your cheeks heat up again, “I mean, I don’t know... And you seem so sweet and innocent.” Something shifts, it’s palpable. Suddenly there is tension, thick, heavy, you can feel it. His lips press into a smile but his eyes darken.
“Far from it.” He says, “I can prove it.” He shrugs. Your own eyebrows raise, your heartbeat raises with it. You’re left speechless.
“You… can?” You ask, throat dry but mouth practically watering. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He smirks, “Are you going to prove to me you’re not prude?” You scrunch your nose, and playfully smack him.
“I’ll prove that too.” You scoff. He smirks, and you watch his eyes drop to your lips, in response you rake your teeth across your bottom lip.
“Okay.” He says, his eyes flashing back to yours. The tension is cut by Yunho reaching his hand toward you. You don’t flinch or back away. You don’t even freeze, you warm into the feeling of his big soft palm caressing your cheek, his thumb gently sweeping its way down your skin to your bottom lip. Your heart feels like it’s going to burst through your chest and land in his lap as he tilts his head to the side and locks his eyes into yours.
It’s probably only a few seconds between that and his lips moving toward yours, his nose gently nudging at yours as your eyes flutter shut. His lips are soft as you’d imagine they would be, he always kept them hydrated and they move against yours almost too perfectly. You can feel him pressing closer, his own breathing hitching audibly as his hand moves down your cheek, onto your neck. His thumb moving over your throat as he deepens the kiss, his tongue dipping into your mouth a whine escaping your throat disappears into his mouth. Your skin burns at the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and you take it a step further sucking on his tongue as he pulls away, but not far, his lips still on yours as he smirks.
“You tell me at any time if you want to stop.” He murmured, “Or if I do something you don’t like or…” You cut him off with a quick kiss to his lips.
“I will.” You assure him, before pulling him back to kiss you again.
You could do this forever, kissing him was exhilarating and fun. He was good at it, and he pushed you onto your back, the laptop being placed onto the floor before he makes his way back to you. Your thighs part to make room for him, and he quickly pulls off his shirt, before reaching for yours. You help him, tossing your shirt to the side and he smirks probably at the fact you’re not wearing a bra. You go to cover your chest in a moment of embarrassment, but he shakes his head.
“You’re beautiful.” He says, you blush as he moves back to you. He kisses you harder now, more hungry than before and you moan into his mouth. One of his hands is back on your throat, no pressure just holding you there. Your nails firmly run down his bare broad shoulders, a low moan escaping his throat. He grinds himself against your center and you can feel his erection. You’re pleased with yourself, a smile spreading across your lips. “You feel what you do to me?” He asks in a low deep voice, and it makes your skin burn for him. You nod, and he grins, the hand on your throat moves down your chest and over the curves of your breasts, his thumb rolling over a nipple as his eyes burn into you. Your breath hitches at the feeling, your chest rising toward his touch. Its electric. He doesn’t stop there. His fingertips graze over your stomach every curve, everything you are usually self conscious about. Like he’s witnessing art. He leaves a trail of goosebumps as his hand moves further down, and he moves back to kiss your lips again. You whimper as his hand moves between your thighs. He presses down and you whimper into his mouth, your hips bucking toward the feeling of his strong hand.
“Are you even wearing anything under these?” He hums, against your mouth. “I can already feel how wet you are for me.” You blush, because you weren’t wearing anything under the pants you had on, and he was making you wet. “Silent all of a sudden.” He teases, and he presses against the fabric again making you moan this time, the pressure feels good, and your eyes flash to his as he smirks. “Tell me what you want, princess.” The words make your breathing hitch again, he presses against you more, up toward your clit and your head tilts away from him as you let a moan slip past your lips, your hips raising toward him again.
He stops and you shudder, “Yunho.” You groan, “Fuck.” His hand comes up back ro your face and he moves your head to face him.
“What’s wrong?” He smirks, “What do you want?”
“Please touch me more.” You say quickly, as his thumb traces over your bottom lip. “I need you.” He smirks.
“Good girl.” His hand slowly travels back down to your waistband, his fingers hooking in to bring them down and you move to help him get them off you. You settle back on his bed, and he moves back in to kiss you again. This time his lips move down your chin and to your neck, and his fingers gently move over your wet pussy lips, at the same time his teeth sink into your skin and you moan louder than before at the feeling.
“Yunho.” You whimper his name because you don’t know what else to do, your head already dizzy as he slips a long finger into you slowly pumping his finger as he continues to work on your neck with his mouth. You know he’s going to leave a mark and you like it. You let out another whimper when he slips a second finger into you, curling them up to find your spot. It's agonizing and slow as he moves them in and out of you, you feel yourself melting into his bed. Your hands are grasping at him, one hand holding onto his hair the other running your nails over his creamy soft skin.
“You’re taking my fingers so well.” His voice is laced with pride again, as he growls his lips against your ear. It makes you moan again, and he presses his thumb into your clit adding an extra feeling of pleasure. Your mouth falling open as you shudder against him, his head nuzzling into your neck. His lips are back on your skin, and you buck your hips against him. “Impatient, I’ll let you cum, just not yet.” He pulls his fingers from you dreadfully slowly making you gasp at the feeling. You watch as he sticks his fingers in his mouth, and moans around them pulling them out long and slow, you’re aching for more of him.
“Yunho…” You whine, and he smirks.
“What, baby? Do you want a taste?” He teases and slips his fingers back into you, your head falling back as he pumps them in and out again, gathering your arousal making your body quiver. When he pulls out you whine, missing that feeling of him inside you. “Open that pretty mouth.” You don’t protest, your mouth falling open, your eyes locked into his, and he bites at his bottom lip as he slides them into your mouth. You suck on his fingers with a moan, and he presses his forehead to yours. You don’t let him away, sucking on his fingers like it’s his cock. Your hand moving down his bare chest and to his erection through his pants. Your palm finds him easily and he moans as you strike him through his pants. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand cupping your chin roughly as he kisses you sloppily, eagerly. “I love your pretty mouth.” He groans.
“Let me show you what else my pretty mouth can do.” You find yourself saying, and he raises his eyebrows at you. You move to push his pants down and he helps you get them off, his erection sprinting free as you take in the size of him your mouth watering. He’s big, a suspicion you had from seeing him in gray sweatpants not being able to miss it.
You plant kisses on his stomach, as he lays back, eyes on you as swirl your tongue and move closer toward his cock. You use your tongue to swipe a long warm and wet lick up to the tip of him, and you watch as he chokes back a moan. You swirl your tongue, sucking just on his tip, and he shifts beneath you. “Stop teasing me.” He whines, and you smirk up at him before wrapping your lips around him. You go nice and slow, taking him back into your throat, your tongue guiding the way and the guttural moan that escapes his throat is like music to your ears. You bob your head there, your hands coming up to stroke him where you didn’t get too. Your mouth stretches around him as your eyes find him. “God.” He whimpers, and you slowly slide off him, sucking in your cheeks before letting your saliva drool from your lips. You use both hands around his wet cock to take a breather, precum already spilling out.
“You can do better than that.” He says, and he reaches a hand out to find your hair, gripping it tightly. You nod, as he pulls you back toward his length and you wrap your lips around him again. You know what to do, but you like the way he’s guiding your head down onto him. Not forceful, just stern. You moan around him and it makes him shiver. “Come on baby, take it.” He growls, “You can. Look at me.” Your eyes snap to his as he slowly raises his hips up into your throat, it makes your pussy throb. His words, his guidance, you gag around him but don’t move back your eyes welling with tears. “So fucking perfect for me, princess.” He compliments through gritted teeth, you let him use your throat like his own toy, your eyes staying on him as you choke him back. He gives you relief as he pulls your head off him, and you gasp for air, but it feels so damn good. Your hands work to stroke him as you catch your breath. You know you must look a little crazy, with drool spilling from your lips, your eyes watery and makeup runny but the way he’s looking at you makes it all better.
“Do you want more of my cock?” He asks and you nod, biting on your bottom lip.
Your lips wrap around him again, and you take him back a little easier this time and again he holds you there, moaning as he uses your mouth again, a little more needy this time. “You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth… Like it was made for you.” His words only ignite something in you and you sink further into him until you physically can’t anymore, letting him fuck your throat as his growls turn into more whimpering. “Come here.” He pulls you off him and up to him. His lips crashing into yours as he pushes you back into his pillows grabbing two to put under your back. “Look at you, so ready for me.” He smirks, “Tell me how much you want it.”
“Please.” you cry, and he runs the tip over your entrance up to your clit just to play with you, “Yunho please…”
“Please what?” He taunts. A mischievous grin spreads across his cheeks as you pout.
“Yunho please fuck me.” You find yourself begging, whiny, aching for him to fill you. He lines himself up with you as he beams with pride once again. Proud to make you a begging whiny mess. He groans as he slowly sinks into you, letting you adjust to him, making sure you can feel every inch, and you do. He presses closer to you, his entire body pressing against yours. You arch at the feeling of him stretching you, filling you to the brim as you moan a weary cry. You already feel so full but he finishes the job with his hips slamming into yours, it makes you yelp reaching for him. He smirks down at you and takes a moment just letting you feel him deep inside of you. When he finally moves again he slams his hips into you. It takes your breath away, somehow deeper than before your head reeling as you stifle another moan with your teeth biting down hard on your lower lip.
“You take me so fucking well.” He rasps, his own head falling back, his hips starting to roll against yours in a steady pace. Your breathing started to get heavy as his own moans rolled out of him. His hands are running over your body, every soft curve and dip being caressed and then held onto as he fucks into you hard and deep, picking up speed as he gets more needy for his own orgasm. He knows you’re close, and your moaning has just turned to whimpering and whining. He was hitting the right spot at the angle he got you into and pressed himself as far into you as he could.
You knew your orgasm was coming, and you couldn’t even pretend like it wasn’t. He knew it too, as he growled and sloppily pounded you into his mattress. He slipped a hand between the two of you to find your clit and pressed against it while thrusting into you and it had your body tingling and your eyes clenching shut trying to hold any ounce of composure you had left. You could feel him twitch inside of you, and you feel him starting to lose his own composure.
“Cum in me Yunho.” You find yourself whimpering, “Fuck…” You lose your own voice as he groans deeply at your words, his own release flowing out of him as he sputters through his orgasm. His hand never stopped on your clit as he continued to thrust himself into you, and your own orgasm sends your brain to mush. Your vision blurry as you feel tears rolling down your cheeks, your head spinning, your body going limp as your legs shake beneath him. You don’t even realize he presses his forehead to yours as you both slowly unravel together. Your lips tremble when his lips press into yours, and you still whimper into his mouth because he’s still inside of you.
“You okay?” He smiles down at you moving back and slowly pulling himself from you. Still sensitive you gasp, feeling empty as he moves to lay next you, a big hand finding your face as you nod, a little speechless mostly your brain was in reset mode. He cuddles into you kissing your temple and as you curl into him.
“I didn’t know you could do that.” You tease when you finally find your way back down to earth, and he giggles too.
“I can do it again.” He smirks.
“Prove it.”’ You tease.
#ateez smut#ateez x reader#ateez x female reader#yunho x plus size reader#ateez yunho#yunho smut#yunho x you#yunho x reader#yunho hard thoughts#jeong yunho#yunho#yunho fanfic
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SIXTEEN YEARS OF ✮ WILL THEY, WON'T THEY
𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 。 he tells me he's gentle when he wants to be , so i think he wants to be gentle with me
series 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ── riki x fem!reader 2.3k fluff best friends! au ─ riki and yn are messy and loud lowk cringe(?) ── play𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ᢉ𐭩 track 21 to track 25
[the camera pans in to catch yn already mid-laugh, curled sideways on the couch as she shoves a piece of candy into riki’s mouth. he accepts it without question, like this is completely normal.]
yn (grinning, barely holding it together) “hi!! i’m yn and this terror is my best friend.”
riki (mouth full, grinning like an idiot) “i’m riki. i’ve survived 16 years of friendship with this one. pray for me.”
yn (deadpan) “he once tried to dye my hair blue in eighth grade.”
riki (shrugs) “your instructions were vague.”
yn (to the camera, serious) “they were ‘please don’t dye my hair blue.’”
riki (smiling like he knows he’s her favorite anyway) “and yet… here we are. still best friends. still chaotic. still allegedly not in love.”
yn (mocking) “right. because sharing a netflix account, knowing each other’s phone passwords, and fake-dating every time someone flirts with one of us is totally platonic.”
riki (deadpan) “it’s called emergency prevention, thank you.”
yn (smirking) “you’re just scared someone else will like me more.”
riki (without missing a beat) “i am. what then.”
[they both pause, smiling at each other for a second too long before quickly looking away like nothing happened.]
yn (clears throat, playful again) “anyway. we’re here to answer some questions and definitely bully each other.”
riki (grinning) “let’s go. but if she cries, it’s not my fault. she gets sentimental.”
yn (glaring) “you cried when i gave you a friendship bracelet in 2011.”
riki (quietly) “you broke your hand making that bracelet.”
[they both burst out laughing, leaning into each other instinctively.]
question 1: have you ever been mistaken for a couple — and did you correct them?
[both riki and yn immediately burst out laughing before the question’s even fully read aloud. riki tilts his head back like he’s been waiting for this since they walked in.]
riki (already grinning at her) “yup. there it is.”
yn (mocking the camera sweetly) “wow. what a completely unexpected question. we’re just shocked.”
riki (pretending to be offended) “we never get this. ever. not at all. definitely not last week at brunch.”
yn (pointing at him) “you’re literally the one who fed me a strawberry mid-conversation—”
riki (interrupting, smug) “—because your hands were full!”
yn (to the camera) “we were at a restaurant. my hands were full of air. they were not full.”
riki (shrugs) “okay, okay. in our defense—yeah. it’s happened. a lot.”
yn (nods dramatically) “like. strangers. friends. teachers.”
riki (muttering) “your mom.”
yn (gasping) “don’t bring my mom into this.”
riki (grinning) “she literally pulled me aside in high school and asked if we were dating and not telling you.”
yn (wheezing) “she thought you would tell her before i would???”
riki “i think she knew you’d panic and stop talking to me.”
yn (after a pause, still giggling) “anyway. to answer the actual question — yes. we’ve been mistaken for a couple more times than we can count. did we correct them?”
riki (looking over at her, smirking) “depends on the day.”
yn (laughs, leans into him slightly) “sometimes we do! sometimes we’re like, ‘no no, just best friends.’ other times…”
riki (smiling softly) “we just… don’t. i don’t think either of us really mind it.”
yn (a little quieter now) “yeah. like… it’s not that we’re pretending. but it’s also not wrong?”
[they both glance at each other, almost like they didn’t mean to get that honest. there’s a pause, but not an awkward one — the kind where silence is comfortable because they’re comfortable.]
riki (softly, then joking to lighten it up) “besides, if i corrected every person who thought she was in love with me, i’d never get anything done.”
yn (glares, throwing a cushion at him) “you wish.”
riki (rolls his eyes) “so, final answer? we’re just best friends.”
yn (grinning) “with excellent couple cosplay skills.”
[the camera zooms in briefly on their pinkies brushing — not quite holding, not quite letting go.]
question 2: what’s the most ‘couple-ish’ thing you’ve done together—without realising it?
yn (groaning the second she reads it) “oh god. there are so many. this question is actually an attack.”
riki (leaning back dramatically) “i feel like 90% of our friendship could be submitted as evidence in a fake dating au.”
yn (to the camera) “he literally had a matching contact photo of us as cartoon frogs for two years and told people we were married for a bit. a bit that went on for two years.”
riki (mocking innocence) “we were committed to the bit.”
yn (pointing) “you brought me soup when i was sick and cut my toast into hearts.”
riki (shrugs) “i was bored and the knife was right there.”
yn (looking at him like she’s about to explode) “who cuts toast into hearts ‘just because’?!”
riki (grinning, then rubbing the back of his neck) “okay, but the most couple-ish thing… was probably the anniversary thing.”
yn (already hiding her face in her hands) “stop. don’t tell them.”
riki (to the camera, beaming) “so. every year, on the day we became best friends, we do this whole day where we take each other out. like a real-deal date. dinner, gifts, corny cards. the whole thing.”
yn (muffled into her sleeve) “we wore nice outfits last year. i wore a dress. he held my hand all day.”
riki (teasing) “you said it was romantic!”
yn (glaring) “because you called it our bestieversary.”
riki (laughing) “hey, i bought you a necklace. that was thoughtful.”
yn “it had a tiny letter ‘r’ on it.”
riki (innocent face) “for resilient. obviously.”
[there’s a pause. neither of them are laughing anymore, but their smiles linger — warm, private, unspoken.]
yn (quietly, not looking at him) “we really do act like a couple sometimes, huh?”
riki (softly, but sure) “yeah. but it never felt weird.”
yn (nodding, eyes flicking to his) “just feels like… us.”
riki (winking at the camera) “still just best friends, though. don’t worry.”
yn (laughing) “yup. totally platonic. just aggressively affectionate, emotionally codependent, and maybe lowkey soulmates.”
riki “what could possibly be confusing about that?”
question 3: what’s one thing you love about them that you refuse to say out loud?
[there’s a pause. both riki and yn look at each other knowingly — they’ve been chaotic and teasing this whole time, but even they know this one’s different.]
camera crew “for this one, we’ll have one of you wear headphones while the other answers.”
yn (grinning nervously) “oooo secret confessions time.”
riki (smirking) “scary. i’m going first.”
[he slides the headphones over his ears, mouthing “can’t hear you!” and throwing up a peace sign while nodding to the beat of whatever’s playing.]
yn (quietly, a little more thoughtful now) “there’s this… thing he does. when he thinks i’m upset.”
(she glances at him, watching the way he bobs to the music, totally unaware.)
yn “he’ll ask me if i’m okay — once. just once. and if i say yes, he’ll drop it like he believes me. but then he’ll stay. he won’t leave. he’ll sit next to me or text me something dumb or send me videos of dogs wearing sunglasses.”
(she smiles, small and soft.)
“i love that he never pushes. but he never walks away either.”
(a pause. she shrugs like she’s trying to play it off, but her voice is quieter now.)
yn “i’ve never had someone who doesn’t need me to say i’m hurting to know i am. i don’t think i’ve ever told him how much that means to me.”
[she taps his cheek lightly, signaling she’s done. riki pulls off the headphones with a grin.]
riki (teasing) “bet you just said my skincare routine.”
yn (deadpan) “yup. your pores are so emotionally intelligent.”
[she slips the headphones on, mouthing along to the song as she points a finger at him like don’t roast me when this is over.]
riki (glancing at her, then turning to the camera — his voice shifts slightly, a little steadier, a little quieter) “she always finds the light in things.”
(he fiddles with the fabric on his jeans while he speaks.)
riki “even when she’s the one going through it. she doesn’t know i see it — how she’ll be in the middle of a bad day but still compliment someone’s outfit, or make someone laugh, or tell me ‘you need to eat, you skipped lunch again’ even if she hasn’t eaten either.”
(he breathes out, steadying himself.)
riki “i love how deeply she cares. like, truly cares. even when it hurts her. even when she doesn’t say it out loud.”
(there’s a pause, and then he chuckles to himself.)
riki “and maybe i don’t say it out loud either… ‘cause if i did, i’d probably say more than i should.”
[he stares at her waiting for her to look back. when she does, he sticks his tongue out, signaling that he’s done. she pulls off the headphones with her usual bounce.]
yn (grinning) “i said something cute, didn’t i?”
riki (smiling back) “painfully cute.”
[their eyes linger a little too long again. no teasing this time. just something understood and unspoken.]
question 4: have you ever wondered what it would be like to date each other? even once?
[the moment the card is revealed, yn lets out the loudest gasp, instantly grabbing the nearest pillow and smacking it against riki’s arm.]
yn (already laughing, blushing) “why would they do this to us?!”
riki (trying so hard not to laugh) “they’ve been waiting for this moment like it’s the season finale.”
camera crew (chiming in, teasing) “you two give serious ‘if we’re both single by 40’ energy.”
yn and riki (deadpan and in unison) “we do have a single at 40 pact.”
[it’s so quiet for a beat before someone from the crew goes ‘oh my god’ in a very high squeal. they burst out laughing after that.]
yn (trying to get serious, failing) “okay okay. real talk? yeah. of course we’ve thought about it. you don’t stay best friends with someone for sixteen years and not have at least one ‘wait… what if?’ moment.”
riki (nods, leaning forward, more thoughtful now) “i mean… we’ve been through everything together. breakups. job stuff. family drama. first crushes. college applications. car breakdowns. emotional breakdowns. that one time with the bird—”
yn (snorting) “it attacked me.”
riki (dead serious, ignoring her) “anything and everything. yeah. i’ve thought about it. a couple times. like… when we’re out late grabbing milkshakes and she’s telling me about her day and laughing with her whole face… sometimes i’ll just wonder.”
(he looks over at her, and this time it’s not teasing. it’s soft. like he doesn’t need to joke to hide it anymore.)
riki “not in a forced, dramatic way. just like… ‘if this is what it feels like now, what would it be like if we were… more?’”
yn (quietly, nodding) “i’ve wondered too. usually when you do something really stupid and i’m like ‘ugh, no one’s ever gonna deal with that.’ and then i think—‘wait, i do.’”
(she smiles, but her voice is gentle now.)
yn “it’s weird, because it’s always been so easy to love you. even if it’s not the dating kind. even if i don’t know what kind it is half the time.”
riki (after a beat) “maybe it’s just our kind.”
[they’re quiet for a moment. not awkward. just thoughtful. it’s the kind of silence where both of them feel everything—and neither needs to say it out loud to know it’s there.]
camera crew (gently) “so… are you still planning to wait until 40?”
[they both start laughing again, this time more relaxed, more knowing.]
yn (smirking at riki) “i mean, we do already have the pact.”
riki (grinning) “and we do have the matching keychains.”
yn “and the couples pinterest board.”
camera crew (quietly and in disbelief) “oh my god…”
riki (laughing) “it says ‘just in case’ in all caps.”
yn (shrugging, playful again) “look. we might not be dating…”
riki (smiling) “…but we’ve been each other’s forever for a long time now.”
yn “whatever name that goes by? we’re good with it.”
[he looks at her for just a second longer — that soft, quiet look again. the one that says i already chose you, a long time ago.]
riki (tapping her pinky with his) “…still best friends, though.”
yn (puffs her cheeks, smiling)
“always, yes.”
[the credits start to roll — behind-the-scenes photos fading across the screen (her laughing, him feeding her chips, them dramatically reenacting the “we’re not dating” moment).]
riki (to the camera crew, hands flailing) “okay, can we talk about how we nearly didn’t make it here because someone—” (gestures dramatically at yn) “—has the directional sense of a turnip.”
yn (offended) “excuse me?! google maps was wrong!”
riki (mocking) “‘take a left,’ she said. ‘it’s the cute street with the red wall,’ she said. i circled that block five times, i could see my own tire tracks.”
yn (defensive but flustered) “i was giving vibes-based navigation! red wall! flower shop! that means something!”
riki (staring at the camera like he’s in the office) “she once gave me directions that included ‘turn where the sky feels wider.’ i rest my case.”
yn (laughing but still trying to argue) “and didn’t it work that one time?!”
riki (leans closer, smirking as she gets all fired up) “sure. if by ‘work’ you mean we ended up in a parking lot behind a bakery in the wrong city.”
yn (gasps) “i got you pastries, be grateful!”
riki (grinning now, reaching over) “yeah yeah. you’re still cute, though.”
[he pinches her cheek lightly, sweet and teasing. she immediately stops mid-rant, blinking like her brain short-circuited.]
yn (sputtering, suddenly shy) “wh—okay—no—don’t do that! that’s not fair!”
riki (laughing, leaning back with his smug little grin) “it’s very fair.”
[she hides her face in her sleeves, mumbling something about “sabotage” while he just chuckles and ruffles her hair.]
—thank you for reading <3 yn and riki, 16 years of will they, won’t they.
nessie 🗯️ posting this so late (because i just got up hahaha…) but i hope yall like it!! ive always imagined riki in a “best friends to lovers” trope because idk it feels so natural with him but yea maybe it’s just me 🤷♀️ this one’s was a bit cringe but 🙏🙏🙏 we ball ig
tag𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 @jaysguitarstring @wenomakiluvr @luvchaew @xoseraphinaa @loverbyfate @seungsoftly @in-somnias-world @i-peachesandstrawberries @zoe1love
#HUEB…#— nessie writes#enhypen#enhypen x reader#enhypen fic#k films#enhypen fluff#enhypen niki#enhypen riki#riki#niki#nishimura riki#riki fluff#niki fluff#niki x reader#riki x reader#enhypen soft hours
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Dying at the results! 😭 I LOVE THIS!! (picked 3 for 3 s/os and a majority of it resonates sm??) cutie 2 for Obito, 3 for Kakashi (because they both kinda look like them ngl) and 4th one for Itachi! Obito - "Your s/o might have gone through really harsh times, times where they really ended up losing something that had a high value to them." - *cough rin* "It crushed them" (why did I think of him getting crushed by that rock) 😅😭 "Their possessive side might immediately show when- maybe as soon as a third party is present or involved." - OH.. YIKES, THAT'S THE OTHER 2... "they are the type to spoil you rotten" - IN MY CHANNELED READING from years ago he literally said he likes to spoil me with gifts. "they try to play it cool in front of you but in their head there is CHAOS" - 😭 he's always the type to try to act as calm/cool as Kakashi in front of the girl he likes lmaooo. "I'd die for you" - they're dramatic AF" - ACCURATE LMAO
Kakashi - "They like having control" OH.. accurate considering he's a virgo.. my dad's a virgo and they love control yet have anything but control. "you are something they would like to have all to themself. However, they have manners and they try to keep themself in check" 😭 I know he's not exactly thrilled with sharing, and he only admitted it when I asked a channeler what his thoughts were. "they might be the type to like to be informed about what you do, when and with who, plan things for you, solve all your problems or/and provide financially for you, so you don't have to lift a finger." - again, he's so observant, always puts others first, and all of this resonates with me a lot! "I feel like most of you might enjoy this 'someone taking control in the relationship" - I def view our relationship this way. each s/o brings out a different side of me, and I feel like he'd be the more mature one in the relationship. 🥺 "it feels like they are not so experienced with 'love' and dating in general." - accurate because none of them have ever had a proper relationship. "please, let me take care of you" - THIS IS SO HIM (in my dr I don't really depend on anyone because of how op I am and because I've always lived on my own. Still do) "they'd even frame your doodles" - I love to do art in my DR!!
Itachi - "I don't think your DR s/o is the possessive type. He seems to be quite independent and having his own space and type is quite important to them" - TFW HE ACTUALLY GHOSTED LEFT ME in my DR. 😭TBF he's involved with the Akatsuki and is genuinely afraid of involving me, so it makes sense. "They are also not fooled easily" - The genjutsu master never lets his guard down. "they might sometimes not understand what they're feeling. If there is something bothering them which they logically can't understand" - He has a bit of resentment and can't decide whether he's ok with me being in a relationship with more than just him. 😓ahhhhhhhhh "If there is something bothering them.. (ex. immature jealousy without a reason) they might end up just feeling depressed, anxious, lonely or even grumpy/angry." - Literally him in my DR. (except grumpy/angry) AHHH WHY DID ITACHI'S PICK MAKE ME FEEL SAD.
Anyway, these are the things that resonated with me. 💗
PAC: Is your DR S/O possessive? How does it show? ♡ ๑
general tarot reading disclaimers apply here. dividers were made by me, the boy drawings are from pinterest but edited by me. this is a reality shifting themed tarot reading and requested anonimously. for more tarot readings, check out my masterlist. now, think about your DR s/o, choose a cutie from above and read your pile below :)
[from pile one yuuji to pile five bakugo]
cutie one ♧
No. I think your connections is based on a strong friendship, some of you might even be childhood friends. There are already lots of memories made together, a strong bond, deep trust and a certain sense of innocence. I think being possessive over your partner (for your s/o) is a sign of mistrust, of fear of betrayal or of deep wounds that haven't been healed yet. I think only when they would reach rock bottom, in moments where they start fearing you leaving them, certain possessive traits would start showing but they wouldn't be proud of themself for it. If they start feeling possessive, you wouldn't even know, they'd be lowkey and subtle, doing or arranging things without you knowing or when you're not present to avoid situations that trigger them.
-> if you liked this reading and want to request another topic pls click here !! xoxo daisy ♡
cutie two ◇
Yes. Mhm... lots of insecurities and worries here... I think they fear losing what is precious to them and this is not an unfounded worry. Your s/o might have gone through really harsh times, times where they really ended up losing something that had a high value to them. It crushed them and they struggle with feeling really at peace and with acknowledging that you'll stay by their side... their possessive side might immediately show when you're out in a get-together/a gathering or a party - or maybe as soon as a third party is present or involved - no matter who or what it is. the intensity might differ a little for some of you guys' s/os though. They might even be quick to offer you commitment (ex. rush into moving in together, marrying etc - but they are serious about it!) just to get this feeling of security. They are not shy to show who you belong to in front of others and they are the type to spoil you rotten, give you all of their attention and to overindulge in you (they don't wanna leave you even for a second- and this might even surprise you because I feel like they try to play it cool in front of you but in their head there is CHAOS lol). I can also see them putting you on a pedestal, and writing cute little messages or letters and being really tender with you. "I'd die for you" - they're dramatic AF 😂
-> if you liked this reading and want to request another topic pls click here !! xoxo daisy ♡
cutie three ♤
Yes. First of all, you're DR s/o is very very passionate (18+) about you, they desire you so badly AND they can sometimes be quite a bit dominant. They like having control and you are something they would like to have all to themself. However, they have manners and they try to keep themself in check. they might be the type to like to be informed about what you do, when and with who, plan things for you, solve all your problems or/and provide financially for you, so you don't have to lift a finger. I feel like most of you might enjoy this "someone taking control in the relationship" but for others it might be something you're not really used to (yet) …maybe because of trust issues on your end? To them, you're such a temptation, they are emotionally really attached to you - like they've never been before and it makes them unusually sensitive. They might have some emotional immature moments with you just because they can't get enough of you and it feels like they are not so experienced with "love" and dating in general. their desire and their possessiveness sometimes get to their head, clouding their mind. but they're always working hard to get your approval "please, let me take care of you" and treasure everything about you (they'd even frame your doodles lol). while dealing with others, they might come off very arrogant - trying to scare any unwanted third party away. they are only nice to you ♡
-> if you liked this reading and want to request another topic pls click here !! xoxo daisy ♡
cutie four ♧
No. I don't think your DR s/o is the possessive type. He seems to be quite independent and having his own space and type is quite important to them, so they also respect their partner's space and time that they need for themself. "You don't need my approval, you know?" Also, they don't hide their feelings and are very honest and open. They are also not fooled easily and hate childish mind games. They'd appreciate it, if you were honest about your feelings too and just tell them if something bothers you. Even though they don't hide their feelings, they're not the most emotionally intropective person - they might sometimes not understand what they're feeling. If there is something bothering them which they logically can't understand why their feeling this way (ex. immature jealousy without a reason) they might end up just feeling depressed, anxious, lonely or even grumpy/angry. if you see them for example overworking themselves, forcibly distracting themself, struggling to fall asleep or constantly being tense/restless or mindlessly following you around like a puppy, then you'll know they're overthinking things and struggle with uncomfortable feelings they can't comprehend themselves - just confront them and talk things through! They love talking with you and sharing with you whatever you guys have on your mind with each other. one-on-one time with you is their favorite time :)
-> if you liked this reading and want to request another topic pls click here !! xoxo daisy ♡
cutie five ◇
No. I think your DR s/o is the "aloof and distant guy" type of person - someone who introspective to the point of emotional withdrawal, often preoccupied with their own thoughts and feelings, a lone wolf. relationships are not really easy for them. they generally have trust issues with the world. their actions sometimes contradict with their thoughts/feelings. In relationships of any kind they often fear making the wrong choices, struggling with understanding other people and their intentions. They really try to trust you and your loyalty towards them but if they feel insecure or triggered by a third party, they might actually seek your comfort and closeness (cuddling?), wanting you to assure them to take of the emotional stress that their feeling. They lowkey might have an obsessive tendency but not really in the possessive way. Honestly, their feelings towards you feel really pure - they just want the best for you, prioritizing your happiness over their own. They want to become a better person for you - they feel a bit bad that they're not so good with expressive themself and that they're hard to understand sometimes but they feel deeply grateful that you still choose them regardless.
-> if you liked this reading and want to request another topic pls click here !! xoxo daisy ♡
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BTS Reaction || He Steals Your Underwear

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - July 2025
⤜MASTERLIST
SEOKJIN:
When you’d woken up in Jin’s bed you were alone, it wasn’t a big deal. You’d been friends for years there’d been many times in the past when you would share a bed together only this time…you were naked. Jin was downstairs, you could hear him moving around the kitchen so you decided to get up and join him wondering if he remembered anything from the niht before.
You perched on the edge of Jin’s pristine sofa, trying not to scream. You weren’t sure what had happened, who had kissed who first and what Jin remembered. Did he want you to leave? Did he regret any of it happening? More importantly where the FUCK was your underwear? You’d searched the bedroom high and low but it was like they’d upped and vanished.
You were lost in thought as you felt around under the sofa for the thin piece of material.
“Hey,” Jin said way too casually, poking his head into the living room from the kitchen door, “you like eggs, right? Let me cook for you. Take your time.” You noticed the way his eyes watched you and you instantly knew how your underwear had gone.
You narrowed your eyes before following him into the kitchen, his back to you as he focussed on the food in the pan.
“Jin…” You trailed his name out and watched him, “Where are my panties?” He froze while flipping the omelette, his shoulders turned tense and you knew instantly it was him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He mumbled and you watched him, looking at the apron he was wearing before gasping. Sitting in the pocket, just poking out with the black thong you’d worn the night before,
“Seriously?!” You gasped, grabbing it and pulling it from him,
“I panicked!” he whined out. “You were gonna run, and I couldn’t let you go before I told you that last night wasn’t a mistake for me!”
You rolled your eyes… and stayed for eggs.
YOONGI:
The quiet tension in the room made your skin crawl. Yoongi sat at the table sipping coffee like he hadn’t just slept with his best friend of ten years. Like you hadn’t just woken up naked in his bed, curled up with one another and covered in love bites. God, you could still feel him inside of you, the way you were sore made your heart race.
You glanced around at the mess. Your clothes were all over the apartment, your jeans were in the porch, your shirt in the kitchen, it was clear you hadn’t just had sex once but all over his apartment. But there was one thought in your mind, your underwear was still missing.
You were sitting at the table with yoongi in nothing but one of his shirts since you hadn’t been able to find your panties.
“Have you seen my—”
“Nope,” he said fast…a little too fast. You looked up from the floor to him and narrowed your eyes. Yoongi never answered anything that quickly.
“Hmm, funny.” You whisper, watching him closer than before.
Five minutes later, you spotted a flash of lace sticking out of his hoodie pocket as he reached bent down to pick something up from the floor.
“Yoongi!” You hiss out as soon as you saw them.
“L-Listen! I didn’t want you to leave before I could talk. I didn’t know what to say, so I stalled.” He groans looking at the panties as he pulls them from his pocket and you snatched them back, whining as you hide them under your ass on the seat,
“With my panties?!” You squeal a little and he met your gaze, a serious expression on his face now,.
“I think I’ve been in love with you for years. I just didn’t want to lose you over one stupid night...I wanted us to talk properly before you ran..”
“So talk to me, don’t steal my panties like some perv,” You laugh a little and inch your chair closer to his, sipping on your drink as he nods and smiles, his cheeks turning bright pink.
HOSEOK:
“I was thinking of ordering breakfast, what do you think?” Hoseok asked as he walked toward the bedroom door, you hummed softly. Your head was buzzing from the hangover not to mention you weren’t sure if Hoseok was pretending last night never happened or if he was going along like it was normal.
“Or I can cook, I have food in.” He suggest, you nod and look around for your clothes. Sliding into one of Hoseok’s shirts like you usually did before you got up and stretched,
“Cook, ordering will take too long.” You hummed, and he nodded sliding out of the room and you continued to look around for your phone.
“Where the fuck, is it?” You grumble running your hands under the pillows on the bed when you found your panties.
“…What the actual hell, Hobi?!” Your voice carried all the way through to the kitchen where Hoseok winced, his shoulders practically up to his ears as you came running into the kitchen holding the panties he’d tried to hide.
“Okay, wait, before you judge me—”
“Why were they under your pillow?! Were you gonna sniff them?!” You yell between laughter, you couldn’t help but find it funny at the thought of Hoseok hiding your underwear from you,
“W-What?! No! No! I’m not- T-That’s not-” He stutters and sighs, taking in a deep breath as he shook his head, taking the pan off the heat and turning to look at you.
“I thought if you couldn’t find them, you’d stay long enough for us to talk…For me to tell you how in love with you I am.”
You stared at him, your heart was two seconds away from leaping from your chest and into his waiting hands.
“I’m an idiot,” he said, walking over to you with that devastatingly soft smile. His hand cupped your cheek and he ran his thumb along your bottom lip
“But I’m a sincere idiot who’s been head over heels for you since last summer.” You bit back a smirk before tossing your panties in his direction,
“You could’ve just told me that instead of kidnapping my panties.”
“I panicked!” he yelled out as you kissed him softly.
NAMJOON:
The night before came rushing back to you as you laid in the bed staring at the ceiling. Namjoon was snoring beside you but the night came back to you in glimpses - almost like a movie - the way Namjoon had hungrily pinned you to the wall after you’d flirted with him for most of the night. Heart pounding you raced to get out of the bed, grabbing your things and heading out of the room.
You were almost at the bedroom door when you realized something was missing. Dress? Check. Phone? Check. Dignity? Questionable. Underwear? …Not check. Where the fuck was your underwear?!
Namjoon cleared his throat awkwardly behind you and you slowly turned to face him. Your heart was practically coming out of your chest as you felt your stomach roll,
“Looking for something?” he chuckles, nodding his head in the direction of his book case.
You turned, catching the edge of a pale pink waistband peeking from between a worn copy of The Art of War and a Nietzsche collection on his bookshelf and your jaw dropped. He’d stashed your underwear!?
“…Are my panties in your library, Namjoon?” You scoffed walking over to the shelf and sliding them out from the books, shaking your head at the creativity of hiding them.
He winced. “Okay, yes, but hear me out—I panicked. You were gonna leave and I—I didn’t know how to say don’t go.” You blinked at him as you made your way toward the bed, sitting beside him and arching a brow.
“So you hid my underwear… with philosophy?”
“I thought it was poetic,” he mumbled, reaching out to hold your hands as he gently ran his fingers over your knuckles as he peeked up at you. “Also, I think I might be in love with you.”
“I think I might be in love with you too,” you whisper back to him, smiling shyly before squealing as he pulls you into the bed, peppering you with kisses all over your face.
JIMIN:
The two of you had woken up almost two hours ago and you’d been hunting for your underwear high and low. It was starting to feel as though your best friend had stashed the panties away on purpose.
“Okay, seriously. Where are they?” You quizzed, standing in front of him with your hands on your hips and raising your eyebrow at him. Jimin blinked innocently, giving you that soft smile he always gave someone when he was trying to get out of something.
“Where’s what?” He asked, playing dumb but you gave him a flat look and folded your arms across your chest. It was that simple look from you that could make any of the boys fold. It was the one they told you was your “mum look”.
“D-Don’t give me that look…I have no idea-” He sighed as he stopped himself short, he knew he had no way out of this without admitting the truth. He’d woken up before you and stole your panties so he would have the chance to speak with you alone. Slowly reached into his hoodie pocket… and pulled out your panties.
“…Are you KIDDING me?” You laughed, stealing them from his hands and sliding them on under your shirt.
“I panicked!” he said, face going red, stammering over his words as he tried to justify what he’d done. “I thought you’d leave before we could talk and I just—It was dumb, I know, I’m sorry!”
You stared at him, trying not to laugh right in his face as you shook your head.
“I didn’t want last night to be just a one time thing...Okay?” He shook his head, he knew how stupid it must have seemed but it had been a long time since he’d had his crush on you.
“I’ve liked you forever, and I was worried that if I didn’t say it today then I never would.” You dropped yourself down beside him on the sofa and laid your head on his shoulder,
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You tell him, cuddling up to him as he smiles in relief, wrapping one arm around your shoulder and tugging you closer.
“I know,”
TAEHYUNG:
“We should watch a film.” Was all Taehyung had said to you when the two of you woke up naked together. He didn’t say anything about it, he put the movie on and that should have been your first clue something was going on in his mind. He’d picked love rosie…a film about two friends eventually coming together in a relationship.
Was this his way of hinting at you?
Shaking your head you decided to ask him about it later and you tried to get closer to him. You were curled up in a blanket,trying not to make things weirder than him ignoring the blatant obvious of you two sleeping together but when you shifted and felt something lumpy in Taehyung’s pocket.
“Don’t.” He whispers but it was too late you’d already reached into his pocket sliding out the black lace panty and smirking to yourself as you saw them.
“…Taehyung.” You said slowly, his cheeks were already the colour of strawberries as he swallowed thickly.
“Y-Yes?” He asked, glancing at you and you waved the panties in front of his face,
“Why are my panties in your pocket?” He looked at you, opening his mouth like he was goin to speak but he quickly closed it before looking at them. He knew he had to tell you the truth but he was also going to look like a weirdo about it.
“I love you?” he offered, smiling way too confidently for someone caught red-handed. You gawked at him, throwing them at his chest making him laugh as he caught them and smirked at you.
“Okay, it was also because I panicked. But mostly the love thing.” He grins bringing you into his chest as he squeezes you softly.
“You’re a fucking menace.” You hiss at him,
“You still love me though,” he winked.
JUNGKOOK:
Jungkook woke up long before you, remembering every single second he had you in his arms and he instantly knew what he was going to do. It was the only way he was going to be able to get you to stay long enough to talk to him about the night before. He practically shot out of the bed, planning on hiding just your jeans but he couldn’t find them.
“Shit, shit shit.” He hisses before he spots the underwear at the bottom of the bed, he ripped them away and dropped beside the bed, not noticing as you began to stir.
“Hmm, Jungkook?” You whined, turning over and freezing when you caught him mid-squat by the bed, trying to sneak your underwear underneath it. Jungkook could have sworn he could hear every single sound in the house, the faint ticking of a clock, the water dripping from the tap as he waited for you to say something.
“Jungkook. What are you doing?” You grumbled, sitting up and clutching the bedsheets around your naked chest. He jumped, smacked his head on the underside of the bedframe, and stood with a guilty look and your panties balled in his fist.
“I—I didn’t want you to leave without talking to me first!” he rushed out so quickly you could barely get a word of what he said.
“Last night meant a lot and I was scared you’d just… go. So I—uh—detained you.”
“With underwear theft?!” You quizzed, staring at the underwear still in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck with his other free hand and he gave you a sheepish grin.
“...Yes?” The nervous chuckle fell from his lips but that was all it took for you to burst out laughing, holding your stomach as you shook your head.
“So you’re not mad?” He whispers as he sits on the edge of the bed, you smirk and look over at him,
“Well…That depends,” you said, crawling toward him and stealing your panties back from him. “You gonna talk or hide my bra next?”

#bts#bts x reader#bts reaction#bts reactions#seokjin x reader#yoongi x reader#hoseok x reader#namjoon x reader#jimin x reader#taehyung x reader#jungkook x reader#jungkook#jeon jungkook#kim taheyung#taehyung#park jimin#jimin#kim namjoon#namjoon#jhope#jung hoseok#hoseok#min yoongi#yoongi#suga#kim seokjin#seokjin#jin#dreamescapeswriting
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hiii I was wondering if I could request headcanons for pomefiore with an orphaned fem reader, but since she was little she was like an older sister/mother to the little ones in her orphanage ^^ that would be all tenkiuuu and have a good day <3

✦ Grace in Gentle Hands
Orphaned Fem!Reader

VIL SCHOENHEIT
It wasn’t a really secret you kept, not exactly. You just didn’t go out of your way to explain where you came from,most people didn’t ask and you never thought there was much to say.
You’d mentioned it once in passing to Vil. Something small. Something like, “Back at the orphanage, the little ones used to sneak sugar cubes out of the kitchen just like that.”
He paused. Just a beat. Barely a flicker of his eyes as he turned toward you. But you were already moving on, collecting the cups from the table after a dorm event, humming quietly under your breath.
Vil didn’t press. He didn’t need to.
Because over time, he noticed. How you always took the initiative when no one else did. How you carried an invisible checklist in your head,who needed what, who hadn’t eaten yet, who was one bad day away from falling apart. You never acted like it was a burden. Just something you did, like breathing.
It was in the way you kept the dorm running when others didn’t notice what was breaking. You always knew. You always stepped in. Quietly. Intuitively.
One afternoon, in the soft golden light of the Pomefiore lounge, Vil finally asked.
"You said you were the oldest back at your orphanage. What was that like?" His voice was calm, but the question was not casual.
You paused, arms folded, gaze lingering on the window. “Busy, mostly. Loud. There were too many of us for the staff to keep track of. The little ones clung to the older kids. And I guess... I just knew someone had to step up.”
“Was that someone you?” Vil asked, even though he already knew.
A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. I got good at braiding hair, stitching buttons, patching knees. Breaking up fights before they got too loud. Making up stories at bedtime. They used to call me ‘Big Sis’ even when I wasn’t the oldest anymore.”
It wasn’t a boast. It wasn’t even nostalgia. Just a quiet kind of truth. You’d grown up fast because there was no other option. You didn’t know what it meant to be a child who was taken care of. So you became the one who took care of others.
Vil was quiet after that. But not distant. If anything, something in his expression had shifted,like he’d added a new piece to the puzzle of you.
He didn’t pity you. That wasn’t his style. What he did instead was more subtle, more practical.
He stopped letting other dorm members pass their responsibilities onto you under the guise of “she’s used to it.” He began asking you if you wanted help, not just assuming you’d manage alone.
And perhaps more notably, he didn’t compliment you for being “so mature” or “so selfless.” He never praised your sacrifices like they were pretty ornaments.
Instead, he treated you like someone who had carried too much for too long and didn’t need more weight,just a place to set it down.
One evening,e you were helping organize the wardrobe racks, as usual,Vil adjusted the collar of your outfit with practiced hands. The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the rustle of fabric. Then, without preamble, he spoke.
"You deserve to be taken care of, you know."
You blinked, startled. "Huh?"
"You’re always looking out for everyone else," he said simply, gently brushing a loose thread from your shoulder.
You tried to laugh it off, but he held your gaze.
“You’ve done more than your share. Let someone look after you, too.”
You looked down, unsure what to say. But his hand found yours, squeezing lightly, and for once, you allowed yourself to lean into the quiet comfort of someone who saw you,not the caretaker, not the stand-in mother, but you.
And maybe, for once, it felt okay not to be the strong one.

ROOK HUNT
Rook had known many kinds of performers in the grand theater of the world. Loud, brash ones who made declarations with their voices, and quiet ones who spoke volumes in the spaces between words.
You were one of the latter.
From the moment he met you, he was intrigued. Not because you sought attention but because you never did. You flowed through life with a quiet competence,patching uniforms, comforting younger students after a bad potion class, stepping into arguments like a gentle current calming waves.
Rook, naturally, began to observe.
And one day, just as casually as a sigh in the wind, you mentioned it.
“Back at the orphanage, I used to do this all the time. The little ones would cry after nightmares. I got good at singing them back to sleep.”
He stilled. Just for a second. A pause as soft as a feather falling. Then his eyes softened not with pity but with something deeper. Recognition.
“Ah... la grande sœur. I see,” he murmured.
You didn’t explain more. You didn’t need to. Rook didn’t ask for stories you didn’t offer.
Instead, he watched more carefully.
He saw how your hands moved like you’d spent years brushing crumbs off faces and tying laces. How you automatically guided younger students away from dangerous spells. How you noticed when someone hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, hadn’t smiled.
You had the instincts of someone who’d grown up knowing what it meant to be the only adult in the room before your age reached double digits.
To Rook, it was not just admirable. It was beautiful in a tragic, powerful way.
And so, he decided to honor it not with a grand gesture, but with something only you would truly understand.
During a quiet weekend, he invited you on what he called a “charmant petit voyage.” You rolled your eyes at his flair, but you went anyway. He led you past the edge of campus, through the hills behind the school, to a small grove of trees in bloom.
Blankets were laid out. A thermos of warm spiced tea. Hand-cut fruit and a surprisingly well-packed meal. No flowers. No speeches. Just peace.
You stared at it all in disbelief. “You… did this?”
Rook nodded, watching you with gentle amusement. “Oui, mademoiselle. A simple tribute, for a queen without a crown.”
You sat down slowly, unsure what to say. He didn’t push. He poured you tea, let you take it in at your own pace.
After a moment, you mumbled, “You didn’t have to.”
He smiled, warm and quiet. “Non, but I wanted to. You have spent so long giving. Allow me to return a little of what the world owes you.”
Your throat tightened. You weren’t used to being thanked. Not like this.
Rook didn’t demand gratitude. He didn’t smother you in flowery language. He simply saw you. Not as a tragic figure or a saint, but as a person. A strong, tender, resilient person who had spent so much time being the support beam that no one stopped to ask what you needed.
“Next time,” he said softly as you shared the fruit between you, “bring one of your stories. The ones you used to tell them. I’d like to hear them.”
You looked at him, surprised. “Even if they’re silly?”
His smile widened, golden in the dappled light. “Especially then.”

EPEL FELMIER
Epel had always felt like he had something to prove.
Back home, it was his strength,his ability to chop wood, ride, fight, endure. At NRC, it was his identity trying to be seen as more than “cute,” more than Pomefiore’s little apple-cheeked darling. He wanted to be recognized for who he really was.
So when he met you, it was like finding someone who understood that quiet frustration,not through words, but through presence.
You never tried to prove yourself, but Epel could tell you’d been through a lot. The way you carried yourself, calm and collected in chaos. The way your eyes scanned a room like you were always making sure everyone was okay. You were reliable,not in a flashy, showy way but in the way a foundation is strong. Unshakable.
When he found out you grew up in an orphanage, raising younger kids like a big sister,cleaning scraped knees, settling fights, tucking them in with stories you made up on the spot,something in him clicked.
You were like him, in a way. Someone who learned responsibility way too young. Someone who had to grow up before life gave them the chance to figure things out slowly.
Epel didn’t pity you. Not even for a second.
He admired you.
He started hanging around you more,not that he’d ever admit it was on purpose. At first, he tried to impress you. Offering to carry your bags, challenging you to race him through the woods behind the school. He’d say things like, “Betcha can’t keep up,” even though you always could.
But the more he was around you, the more he just wanted to listen.
You told stories in this unassuming way, as if they weren’t anything special. “Back home, we didn’t have fireplaces, so I’d light candles and pretend we were telling ghost stories like in movies,” you’d say, like it was just a funny memory. But Epel heard the parts between the words: how you made magic out of scraps, warmth out of nothing. See
So one day, when the two of you were sitting out on the dorm balcony, watching the stars in silence, he offered you a slice of his favorite apple pie. Not the store-bought kind. The real thing. Crust hand-pressed, just like his grandma made it.
You blinked, caught off guard. “You made this?”
“‘Course I did,” he said, cheeks just a little red. “Wanted you to try somethin’ from my home. Figured... maybe you could tell me one of your stories or somethin’. I dunno.”
You smiled, small but genuine. “You want a story, Epel?”
He shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. “Maybe. Just one. The kind you’d tell your little siblings.”
So you did.
And as you spoke, his shoulders slowly dropped, his smile softened. He didn’t say anything right away, just leaned against you while you spoke. When you finished, he murmured:
“I think you've been a real good sister.”
You froze a little.
He looked embarrassed the second it left his mouth. “I mean—not that ya haved to be! Just—y’know, you take care of people. You’re real gentle, even when you’re tough. It’s nice. I like that about you.”
You chuckled, the warmth settling in your chest. “Thanks, Epel.”
“Yeah. Just thought someone should say it.”
He never said it again. But after that night, he started bringing you more little pieces of his world,an apple from the greenhouse, a letter from his grandma, even a flannel shirt you could wear when you were cold. And whenever you told stories, he always listened. Always close. Always quiet.
Because to Epel, you weren’t just someone strong.
You were someone good.
English is not my first language !

#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderlands headcanon#twst headcanons#pomifiore#pomifiore x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#vil schoenheit x reader#rook hunt x reader#epel felmier x reader#vil schoenheit#rook hunt#epel felmier
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