#no shade i just think about it all the time

[sixeyesonathiel]

even softer than expected

yandere senpai satoru x kouhai reader, dubcon, yandere themes, obsessive behavior, manipulation, power imbalance, fingering, making out, dirty talk, orgasm denial, praise kink, bodily fluids, semi-public setting. 2.5k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i let him weaponize tenderness and gave him full custody of her dazed little heart. i write this with no intention of touching grass.

it starts with you clinging.

satoru thinks it’s adorable, of course. no—he thinks it’s perfect.

senpai and kouhai. that’s what everyone sees. he likes that word on your lips when you say it, likes the way you trail after him with that polite, reluctant look like you aren’t entirely sure why he bothers with you. he bothers because you’re his. you just don’t know it yet.

it’s the soft little inhale you make when the first jump scare goes off near the props closet, followed by your fingers instinctively curling into the back of his uniform jacket like he’s some kind of shield. and in a way, he is. a self-appointed one. a role he’s studied, perfected.

"what, scared already?" he drawls, but he’s not teasing you like he does the others. there’s a smile in his voice, yes, but it’s quieter. smug. almost fond. a shade softer than usual.

he doesn’t miss the way you flinch when the speaker hisses static again, your shoulders tensing beneath his palm. your eyes flicker nervously toward every new shadow. you’re cute when you’re scared. cute in the kind of way that makes his jaw tense. makes his fingers twitch with the urge to pull you closer, tuck you under his arm, let the whole world know you’re off-limits.

not that he’d let you notice that.

not yet.

he made sure you were assigned together, of course. loitered around the haunted house committee like it was a casual whim. a flash of teeth, a tilt of his sunglasses, and the upperclassmen agreed before they knew what hit them. you, on the other hand, were blissfully unaware. just grateful he’d offered to go with you. just flustered enough to say thank you with your eyes slightly downcast.

he nudges you a little deeper into the dark hallway, hand warm and deliberate on the small of your back. another jump scare—a skeleton rig this time—clatters down, and you make a soft noise, half-gasp, half-laugh. you press yourself a little closer. he leans down, lips almost grazing your ear.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm. “i’m the scariest thing here anyway.”

you stiffen in his hold. he feels it. not from fear of the decorations. something deeper. something that starts low in your gut and coils tightly. and god, it makes his heart race. his fingers flex slightly at your hip.

his white hair looks almost silver under the dim lights, falling in soft disarray over his forehead. his eyes, uncovered for once, glint pale and bright behind the gloom—focused solely on you. there's something wolfish about the way he watches you. head tilted. gaze sharp. patient. a predator who already knows his prey will come willingly.

you don’t know it yet, but he memorizes every little twitch of your expression. the way your brows pinch when you’re unsure. the way your lips part slightly when you’re startled. how your grip tightens on his sleeve each time something rattles. he’s attuned to every breath you take like it’s a song written for him.

he drapes an arm around your shoulders casually, fingers brushing your neck. you let him. maybe you think it’s harmless. senpai being playful again. maybe you think it’s all part of the act. a little fun, a little flirting.

but it’s not an act. not to him. not even close.

another clang. a metal bucket this time. you jolt, and he pulls you into him by the waist. your body fits against his so neatly, too neatly. the scent of you—shampoo, warm cotton, something faintly sweet—rushes up and makes his chest tighten. he wonders, briefly, how soft your hair would feel tangled around his fingers.

“you okay?” he murmurs, close enough that his lips graze your temple. you nod shakily, and he smiles. not a soft smile. something sharper. something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

his hand trails slowly up your spine, fingers warm and certain. “you know,” he says lightly, “if you’re this jumpy, we should hide in one of the back rooms until the crowd clears. i’ll keep you safe. promise.”

your eyes meet his, hesitant. wary. something in your gaze flits—trust, maybe. or the early seeds of it. you nod once, barely. he gives you that familiar grin—the one he knows works. the one that masks everything else simmering underneath.

and he doesn’t wait for permission.

he tugs you through a side door, down a narrow hallway the others won’t check. it’s quieter here, colder. the flickering lights are weaker, their hum drowned by distant screams and the occasional thud of footsteps in the main hall. the walls are paper-thin, barely holding together with peeling black paint and old festival flyers. satoru’s steps echo soft and certain. yours trail behind—hesitant.

he picks the door at the very end. tiny, half-rotted, marked “staff only.” inside, the room is even darker. cobwebs stretch across the corners like veins. an old box television hisses static in the far corner, its glow barely illuminating the room. it smells like paint, dust, something older too—mildew maybe. the door creaks closed behind you, and the lock clicks before you can speak.

“see?” he murmurs, voice low and warm like syrup. “much better.”

he doesn’t wait for your reaction. your back hits the wall a moment later—not harsh, but sudden, enough to draw a startled breath. his arms come up, caging you in. close. too close. the static paints shadows on his face, making his smirk seem carved. strands of his hair catch the flickering light, messy and white like winter snow, and his blindfold is pushed up like a crown of silk, revealing eyes too bright, too knowing.

he watches you like he always does—like it’s easy. like you’re something soft, small, and entirely his. you’re flushed already, fingers twitching at your sides. your eyes dart between his face and the door.

“you’re still shaking,” he says, tilting his head. “i thought i said i’d protect you.”

he thinks it’s adorable. how shy you still are, even now. how you pretend to resist him, even though your breath hitches when he gets close. he loves the way your mouth opens like you might object—but nothing comes out.

“senpai, we shouldn’t—someone might come—”

“they won’t,” he says, voice soft but decisive. “it’s dark. it’s loud. no one’s gonna hear you. not unless you want them to.”

he leans in, his breath a warm, teasing gust, carrying the faint tang of cherry candy clinging to his lips. his fingers trail up your throat, slow, feeling the frantic pulse jumping under your skin, each beat a little gift just for him. they cradle your jaw, possessive, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, tugging it down until it quivers. “besides,” he murmurs, voice a low, velvet taunt, “don’t you trust me?”

you nod, just barely, a shaky little jerk that makes his eyes flash with something hungry.

he kisses you, slow but fucking feral, a claiming kind of kiss that screams you’re his, like he’s carving his name into your soul with his mouth. his lips crash against yours, slick and bruising, not gentle but deliberate, a sloppy, greedy mess that makes your head spin. it’s your first kiss, and he knows it—fuck, he loves it—your inexperience is like blood in the water to him.

his tongue shoves in, no hesitation, thick and hot, prying your lips apart until you’re gasping into his mouth. he tastes you—warm, soft, the faint salt of your nervous sweat, the cherry chapstick you didn’t know he’d noticed—and it’s better than any wet dream he’s jerked off to.

his teeth graze your bottom lip, a sharp nip that makes you whimper, and he sucks on the sting, drawing a bead of spit that smears across your chin. his breath is heavy, ragged, mixing with yours, the air between you thick with heat and the sour-sweet tang of his candy-laced saliva.

your tongue fumbles, clumsy, unsure, and he groans, low and filthy, loving how you’re floundering, drowning in him. spit drips, slick and warm, pooling at the corner of your mouth, and he licks it up, sloppy, his tongue dragging across your jaw like he’s marking you. your hands grab his shirt, knuckles white, clutching like you’re clinging to a lifeline, and he feels like a fucking god, your desperation pumping his ego until it’s bursting.

when he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips puffy and glistening. he tilts his head, smirking, eyes raking over your flushed face. “you’re not scared anymore, huh?” he drawls, voice thick with smug amusement. “or is this just a different kind of scared?”

his thigh wedges between yours, hard muscle forcing your legs apart, his hips grinding in slow, deliberate, the bulge in his pants pressing just right to make you squirm.

you let out a gasp that dies into a moan, raw and shaky, and he drinks it in, watching your face twist, eyes fluttering shut then snapping open like you’re fighting to stay grounded. he’s obsessed with it—every fucking second of your struggle is his.

“you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice soft but cutting, like a compliment laced with venom. “caught.”

his fingers tap your chin once, a playful little pat, before two of them—long, deft, warm—press against your lips. ���open up,” he says, a command wrapped in a smile.

you do, lips parting, trembling, and he slides them in, slow, letting you feel the weight. your tongue brushes his skin, slick and hesitant, and he groans softly, low in his throat, loving the wet heat of your mouth. his knuckles graze your lips, teasing, and he watches you struggle—watches the drool spill, slicking your chin, your eyes watering as you try not to choke.

it’s fucking gorgeous, the way you’re falling apart already.

“there you go,” he coos, voice dripping with condescension, sweet and patronizing. “good girl.”

he pulls them out, slow, spit clinging to his fingers, a glossy thread snapping against your lip. his cock twitches, aching, but he’s too caught up in this—your flushed cheeks, your shaky breaths, the way you’re already his without a fight. his hand dives under your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug. the fabric rips, a sharp sound that makes you flinch, and he smirks, loving that little jolt of fear.

his fingers press into you, two at first, thick and unyielding, sliding in slow, savoring the way your cunt clenches, so wet it’s almost obscene. the heat of you is unreal, slick and tight, and he bites his lip, eyes locked on your face.

“goddamn, look at you,” he purrs, voice low and syrupy, full of praise. “taking my fingers so nice, like you were born for this. my perfect pretty girl, huh?”

your gasp is high, broken, and he feels you shudder, your thighs trembling against his. he curls his fingers, slow, dragging them against your walls, feeling every pulse, every flutter. the wet squelch is loud, filthy, echoing in the cramped, mildewed room, and he loves it—loves how it’s proof of your body begging for him.

“listen to that,” he murmurs, almost reverent, his lips grazing your ear. “your pussy’s singing for me, baby. so fucking eager.”

he pushes deeper, knuckles brushing your entrance, and your hips jerk, instinctive, a whimper spilling from your lips. he adds a third finger, stretching you, the burn making you whine—a sharp, desperate sound that makes his chest tighten.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he praises, voice soft but edged with that condescending lilt. “look at you, opening up for me like a sweet little thing. bet you didn’t know you could take this much, did you?”

his thumb finds your clit, circling slow, deliberate, each swipe sparking shocks through your shaking body. your nails claw at his arms, leaving red scratches, and he fucking loves it—loves the proof you’re losing it for him.

his fingers pump, curling, twisting, hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. he slows, teasing, dragging them out, slick and shining, before slamming them back in, deep and hard. the rhythm’s relentless, the wet slap of his hand against your cunt filling the air, mixing with your gasps and moans.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, his eyes never leaving your face. “every little twitch, every sound—fuck, you’re my masterpiece.”

he’s not imagining anything else; this is it, the real deal, your body trembling under his hands, your cunt dripping for him, your face twisting in ways he wants burned into his brain.

he presses harder, fingers curling tighter, thumb grinding your clit faster, and you’re sobbing now, soft, broken sounds that make his cock throb and twitch in his pants.

“that’s it, cry for me,” he murmurs, voice dripping with praise, a touch of mockery. “such a pretty mess, all for your senpai. you’re making me so fucking proud, baby.”

your hips grind against his hand, chasing the friction, and he grins, holding you still with his free arm, pinning you to the wall like he owns you. “no running, sweetheart. you’re gonna take it all, just like you were meant to.”

he’s relentless, fingers plunging, curling, stretching, his thumb circling your clit with brutal precision. the squelch of your slick is deafening, dripping down his wrist, pooling on the floor, and he’s drunk on it—on the heat, the wetness, the way your body’s screaming his name without words.

“fuck, you’re soaking me,” he purrs, voice low and adoring. “making such a filthy little puddle. my good girl, giving me everything.”

he leans in, lips brushing your temple, tasting the salt of your sweat, and he groans, low and filthy, because you’re better than any fantasy he’s ever had.

you’re close, he feels it—your walls clenching, your breath hitching, your legs shaking like they’re about to give out. “gonna fall apart for me?” he whispers, voice soft but taunting, lips grazing your ear. “gonna cream all over my fingers like my perfect little angel? go on, show me how good you can be.”

he’s relentless, fingers pumping, thumb pressing, every motion pushing you higher, your moans turning into desperate, keening cries.

but then he stops, fingers buried deep, still as stone. you choke on a sob, hips bucking, chasing a release he’s ripped away. your cunt flutters, greedy, aching, and he smirks, loving how you’re practically fucking yourself on his hand.

“mm-mm,” he hums, sweet and cruel, like honey over a razor. “not yet, baby. you don’t get to cum until i say.”

he holds you there, suspended in agony, your body trembling, slick coating his hand, dripping down his arm. he leans in, breath hot against your ear, voice a soft, devastating whisper. “besides, we shouldn’t go any further,” he says, careful, calculated, a perfect trap. “not unless we’re, y’know, actually dating or something.”

you freeze, eyes wide, lips trembling, spit-slick and swollen. he’s still inside you, fingers heavy, a constant, torturous pressure.

he grins, lazy, smug, lips brushing your cheek. “so, what do you think, sweetheart?” he murmurs, fingers twitching just enough to make you whimper. “wanna be mine?”

[eightmakesonebraincell]

can i get a name for your drink? yeah, peter parker

genre: delinquent!ateez x bubble tea worker!reader, meet-cute, high school au, fluff, crack

length: 6.6k

c/w: cliche depictions of high school delinquents, mentions of smoking, drugs and clubs, boys trying to act tough, everybody has bad humour, swearing is their mother tongue

synopsis: a bubble tea shop is one of the last places you would expect for a high school delinquent to walk into during the dead of night. yet here you are, forming an unlikely friendship with not one but eight of them. they may be kind of stupid, but they also kind of grow on you.

a/n: a fic with no angst? a fic without a 40k wc?? new writer who dis. just a short and sweet fic @sorryimananti-romantic helped prod me to write

you know that you are probably shaving a couple months off your lifespan each time you work a night shift at the bubble tea shop and subsequently fuck up your entire sleep routine for the next couple of days, but it gives you a bit of extra money, there are hardly any customers, and it is quiet enough that you can squeeze in some studying at the same time.

the shop probably averages about two couples and a few odd individuals here and there per night. why a small business would even decide to stay open during ghost hours in the first place, likely making negative profit, you have no idea. but you digress–you are just here to bum around for money.

so when your average customer number suddenly spikes not just by one, two or three people, but by an entire group of eight, it is safe to say you are more than confused. they are obviously your age because you can recognise the school crest embroidered onto the front pocket of their uniform shirts; it is one of the nearby high schools in the area. except, that is where the similarity ends.

only half of them are wearing their uniform, and even then they layer it unbuttoned over bold statement t-shirts like it is a mere accessory. the others wear black tracksuits and there is not a single pair of proper school shoes to be seen. your eyes cannot help but scan their pierced ears and obviously-styled hairstyles–you are pretty sure the shortest boy has dyed his hair a lighter shade of brown too.

it is hard to take your attention off of him as he takes one last drag of the cigarette in his hand, lazily blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth before he flicks the butt onto the floor outside and steps in through the door along with the others. you idly wonder how he got his hands on a fake id to purchase cigarettes in the first place, but at least he is polite about not smoking inside your store.

the group saunters up and you startle slightly as the boy at the front slaps his hand against the counter with the matching confidence to his glorified 6 foot height to demand, “give me a double shot of espresso.” he pulls away his hand to reveal a mismatched assortment of sad coins and crumpled notes.

“we, uh–” you glance not so subtly at the wall-sized menu behind you and the LED lighting decor sprawled across the other three walls with the phrases, ‘you’re a cu-tea’, ‘you’re pearl-fect’, and ‘you’re my bo-bae’, and wonder what gave these boys the impression they could order coffee. “we don’t sell coffee,” you state.

he does not seem fazed by your words at all. “can’t you just, like, charge me for your most expensive drink and make me a coffee?” he asks his absurd question with practiced ease, which makes you think that this is not his first rodeo.

unfortunately for him though, you deadpan, “i physically can’t. we don’t have a coffee machine.”

the boy’s expression finally cracks a little and you can literally see the cogs slowing down to a stop inside his brain. “aw, fuck,” he swears, “this worked last time.”

one his friends shrugs callously and snickers, “what did i say, mingi. told you they wouldn’t have one.”

“shut up, jongho,” he gripes in response.

you gesture vaguely at the laminated menu on the counter beside the cash register. “would you like something else to drink?” you offer.

the tall boy–mingi–takes all but one look at the barrage of words before his eyes flicker back up towards you. “recommend something.”

“depends on what you’re feeling,” you hum your scripted question, pointing to the different sections of the menu. “do you want something fruity or milky?”

he looks constipated as he weighs the two options. “fruity?” he eventually settles, still sounding unsure. “what’s good?”

at the question, all of their eyes turn to look at you intently and you feel yourself wilting internally at the thought of explaining the drinks to a group of boys that look like outright delinquents, because if there is one downside to working here apart from the crippling health impacts, it is the loss of your dignity each time you have to say the stupid names of the drinks.

“well,” you clear your throat and steel yourself, “we’ve got the bubbly butterfly blues, a purple grape and blueberry fruit ade, or the mysterious mermaid magic, a mango and passionfruit green tea with rainbow pearls.” you forge on with your explanations despite the furrowed brows and open mouths of judgement on their faces, deciding to give them a recommendation for a milky drink too just in case. “the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles is also pretty popular. it’s a strawberry milk tea with whipped cream, sprinkles and marshm–”

“i’ll take that one,” mingi interrupts, unable to stand the onslaught of words that make the world around him explode into pink glitter. he drops an additional crinkled note onto the counter for good measure and then strides away to take a seat at the table in the furthest corner of the store to wait for his cutesy drink.

half a snort escapes the back of your throat at the sight. mingi may as well hold a megaphone to his mouth and shout “i am a manly man!” to make himself feel better. what an idiot.

you shift your attention to the rest of the group. “anything i can get for you guys?” you ask.

“fuck it, why not,” the one who had been smoking shrugs immediately. “get me the same thing he’s getting.”

most of the others pass and step away to join mingi at the table as you sort out the payment for delinquent number two’s cutesy drink. when you close the cash register–you are tempted to ask them why they have so many loose coins–the last two of the boys sidle up to the other side of the counter, peering down carefully at the menu.

you frown.

these two are actually wearing their uniform properly, only the first buttons of their shirt undone, no brightly-coloured tee peeking out from underneath, ties still around their neck and shirts tucked into their pants. they are even wearing their name tags; kang yeosang and park seonghwa. also, apart from the fact that the two appear prim and proper enough to be part of the student council, they are also very pretty.

said two look up at you, catch the frown across your face, fumble a little, then give you a small smile as a peace offering. “hi,” seonghwa greets softly, “can we get two regular pearl milk teas, please? thank you.”

you physically recoil.

“blink twice if you’re being threatened,” you blurt out, the words tumbling unwisely out of your mouth before you can stop them and definitely loud enough that all eight of the boys can hear you.

blink twice seonghwa and yeosang do, but not as a confirmation that the stark difference in their appearance and demeanour to the others is a sign they are being bullied into hanging out. they blink to ask–very respectfully–what the fuck you are on about.

they blink at you. you blink at them. the other boys blink at the three of you.

“sure thing!” you vocally sweep your own words under the rug. “two regular pearl milk teas coming right up!”

you swipe yeosang’s payment out of his hands–notes and coins carefully counted out to the exact amount–and punch the number into the cashier before swiftly turning your back to them to make their drinks. if you ignore something hard enough then it never happened. and it works, because they retreat to join the rest of their friends at the furthest table without further comment.

it does not take long to make all four of their drinks, but you do take a few extra minutes to carefully swirl the whipped cream on top of the strawberry milk tea orders and artistically shower them with sprinkles and marshmallows. you want to make them as cute as you fucking possibly can just for mingi.

“two rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles and two regular pearl milk teas,” you call out.

they all stand up, likely ready to leave once they grab their drinks. mingi leads the group with his long strides and he picks up his drink with one hand. he holds it up to eye level to study it like an unknown specimen and the moment he picks it up, one of his friends–you think you overheard the others call him wooyoung–cannot help but blurt out with distaste, “that shit looks sweet as fuck.”

mingi holds his drink closer to his body with a light glare because hey, it does look sweet as fuck but it also actually looks really good. and kind of cute, he will admit. he takes a tentative sip through the straw then a small lick of the whipped cream on top, the scattered toppings simultaneously crunching and melting in his mouth to spread sweet diabetes across his tongue.

it tastes like drugs in sugar form.

and it must show on his face because the tallest of his friends leans over to do the same, taking a sip from the same straw and a lick of the whipped cream from the other side, only far more generous and daring than the drink’s owner.

“bro,” comes the tall boy’s immediate reaction, “i’d get one of these every day.”

wooyoung suddenly looks less dubious and asks, curiosity now piqued, “give me a sip of that rainbow shit.”

“no,” mingi instantly responds, still keeping his drink close to his body and literally turning away to keep it protected and out of wooyoung’s reach. “you insulted my drink. get your own.”

the latter whines and you physically jerk backwards for the second time that night at their complete disregard for following stereotypical delinquent traits. you are starting to think that they are not delinquents so much as delinquent-wannabes and they seem increasingly harmless the more they simply exist.

“hongjoong,” wooyoung suddenly sings out, appearing to change targets to his other friend who had ordered the same drink. he is determined to try a sip tonight without having to spend his own money, but alas–

hongjoong flips him off and cradles his drink out of sight too. “you insulted my drink by extension.”

–determination can only get him so far.

this time, you cannot help the proper snort of amusement that leaves your mouth. you dare to hold your gaze with a lightly teasing lilt of your lips when wooyoung whips his head around with narrowed eyes. the boy cogs turn in his head as he deduces how far he can push the boundaries with you and he must come to some sort of conclusion that you are a newfound stranger-friend because he jokes with a straight face, “i’ll rob you.”

“sure,” you answer easily, tapping in a fake order onto the register’s screen to eject the cash drawer with a comedic ding! emphasising your words.

a few of them guffaw and wooyoung’s expression lights up to actually reach over the counter to help himself to a ten dollar bill. that is, until his hand is slapped away by somebody else with quite possibly the most perfect eyebrows you have ever seen. and no. you are most definitely not jealous.

“i’ll pay for your drink,” the friend chides, digging into his back pocket to fish out his wallet.

seonghwa shakes his head and advises, “don’t enable him, san,” at the same time that wooyoung brattily decides, “nah, don’t want one.”

“god, that’s it,” jongho mutters, starting to usher the group away from the counter towards the direction of the doors. “we’re leaving. mingi’s waiting outside already.”

they let themselves be herded and a few of them even turn to wave goodbye to you at the doors, cheerfully leaving behind the words ‘we’ll be back!’ in their wake as they exit the shop. your hand remains suspended in the air mid-wave even after they have disappeared and you blink blankly at the bizarreness of your entire encounter with the group of boys.

you do not know if they truly mean it when they say they will be back, but you do know one thing; you kind of hope that they do.

“can i get that thing i got last week.”

the tone of mingi’s voice ends his sentence more like it is a demand than it is a question, but the nuance of his words is still a request and already an improvement in comparison to your first encounter with him. if you are completely honest, you are also somewhat happy to see him and the others come back, so you will take the wins where you can. baby steps.

“which one?” you clarify. “i don’t remember.”

you do remember because their group of eight is pretty hard to forget, and they are some of the only customers you ever get. plus, you have made it somewhat of a personal challenge to hear mingi say something as stupid as ‘rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles’, which means that you are going to pretend for as long as you need to.

he scratches the side of his neck. “y’know, that drink you said is good.”

“we have a couple of those. was it the, uh, mysterious mermaid magic?” your head tilts with exaggerated thoughtfulness and from behind mingi, hongjoong and wooyoung cackle while the others look on with smirks, having caught on to exactly what you are doing.

“no, the rainbow unic…” he mumbles, voice growing increasingly softer with each syllable until his mouth is simply opening and closing.

you look at him with faux apologeticness and furrow your brows, “sorry? i didn’t quite catch that.”

“say it louder, dude,” his tall friend nudges him playfully. you are going to need to find out his name somehow because his is the only one you have yet to figure out, and you have a feeling you and him would get along real good.

“the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles,” mingi finally gets out. if he were a cartoon character, you would see the rising colour of bright red creep up from under his uniform to the tip of his ears and then to the very roots of his hair.

god forbid a manly man purchase a cutesy pick-me-up drink on a friday night.

you smile brightly and use your cheeriest customer service voice to announce, “one rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles for princess mingi coming right up.”

the boy in front of you is flattered to learn that you know and remember his name but is also twice as horrified by the nickname you have crowned him with. his brain short circuits and his eyes widen at you in panicked masculinity and he shoves his payment across the counter before retreating to the same table in the corner of the store where seonghwa is already seated. if you look closely enough, there is a little wisp of smoke coming out from the top of mingi’s head too as he malfunctions. heh.

the boy whose name you still do not know comes up to the counter next. he jerks his head backwards in the direction of mingi and orders, “could i get the same? that rainbow fairy sparkling unicorn or whatever.” the name is wrong but he gets an a+ for trying so you do not correct him, simply nodding and putting his order into the cash register instead.

then you ask for your own personal gain, “can i get a name for your drink?”

he does not appear to question your intentions nor realise he is the only one you have asked because he is too occupied grinning widely at you, unable to curb his cheeky excitement at the thought of what he is about to say. “yeah, peter parker,” comes his proud answer, quite literally naming his drink.

and that is how you find out that he has the best (read: worst) humour out of all of the boys.

it is frankly right up your alley but you refuse to let him one-up you. instead, you use it to your advantage. you nod, “p.p. for short,” dragging the abbreviated initials out for longer so that it sounds intentionally crude.

“peepee,” wooyoung repeats with unrestrained laughter, high-pitched shrieking that sets off the others as well.

and that is also how you find out that wooyoung has the easiest funny bone to tickle out of all the boys.

p.p.’s eyes glint with delight at the fact that you can both take and dish out your own freak. he leans against the countertop on his elbow, which is a sight to behold with how far he has to stoop down because of his height, and exposes you with no qualms, “it’s yunho, by the way, since you wanted to know my name so badly.” he adds a flirty wink for good measure as his friends ooh like the true teenage boys that they are.

you mirror his mannerisms and bat your eyelashes at him to say, “okay, whatever you say, peepee.”

hongjoong intervenes and shoves yunho aside before the latter can fall in love with you and your wack-ass humour or something. he shoos him away, “go sit at the table,” as if he is sending the taller into the naughty corner.

yunho concedes with his hands raised in mock surrender, walking backwards as he reassures his friend, “don’t worry. you won’t hear a peep-ee out of me.”

your facade cracks and you let out a laugh, which only grows louder when jongho takes the liberty to grab a wrapped straw from the container on your countertop to peg it at yunho’s face. it bounces perfectly off the middle of his forehead and lands on the floor, where seonghwa–bless him–bends down to pick it up. you think he might just be your favourite.

“didn’t know you were into that kind of humour,” hongjoong notes with a tone of amusement.

“oh, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” you respond, a hint of flirtatiousness in your words.

fuck being professional. these boys would probably be the last people on earth to ever report you for something like a coquettish comment, and god forbid you want to flirt with a couple of really hot guys. the image of hongjoong taking a lazy drag from his cigarette burns at the forefront of your mind as he stares intently into your eyes, and his seeming nonchalance to his own charm only makes him that much more attractive.

he raises an eyebrow, “is that a challenge?”

“only if you’re up for it,” you respond coyly.

san coughs and interrupts, “not to be a cockblock, but can you flirt after we order our drinks.”

the boy in front of you rolls his eyes, pairing it with a loving middle finger at his friend. however, he moves over anyway, half mumbling that he is not going to get a drink. his spot at the counter is immediately snagged by san who mimics yunho’s earlier pose leaning against the surface. “so,” he gives you an overly-smouldering gaze, “tell me something about yourself that i don’t know.”

a bubble of mirth rises from out of your chest and san drops the act utterly pleased with himself. you humour him, though only partially, by revealing, “the desserts here are actually really good. i love the cookies.”

“which one’s your favourite?”

you point to one of the cookies in the second row of the display counter. “the biscoff and peanut butter fudge.”

one of his beautiful brows raises upwards as if to ask why the cookie name is so normal. you give him a miniscule shrug. beats me. he shakes his head with a slight chuckle then requests, “i’ll have one of each cookie and one of each donut that you’ve got.” your eyes bug out of your head because that is a fuckton of cookies and donuts, but san reassures you they all have caves for stomachs.

you get started on their drinks then slide the glass doors open to pull their desserts out, only to realise that yeosang has lingered close by to watch you. he is not wearing his uniform today, instead in a tracksuit like the others but in white. he looks good in that colour and you tell him such, “your tracksuit looks good.”

“thanks,” he replies easily, “wooyoung shoplifted it for me.”

your jaw drops at his sudden confession, too taken aback to appropriately school your expression in time even if you should not really be too surprised by their shenanigans. at your obvious stupor, yeosang’s stoic face breaks immediately and he reveals, “just kidding, hehe.” despite his joke, he blushes to the very tip of his ears like rudolph but elf style and rushes away.

you are left dumbfounded in a good way. one day, you are going to teach yeosang a thing or two about confidence because his uncanny ability to keep a straight face whilst saying the most out-of-left-field thing when it is least expected then leaving the other person wondering whether he is being genuine or only joking is top-tier humour–he just needs to learn how to own it.

you are also left wondering whether there is a single sane soul in this friendship group. you still hold some hope for seonghwa and maybe san, but who knows.

when their drinks and spread of desserts are ready, you expect them all to leave like they did last week. except this time they drag two circular tables closer together in the far corner of the store that they seem hellbent on claiming as their spot, where they then lay out all of the desserts across the joint surface. you watch from behind the counter. there is both a sense of systematic order and chaotic mess to the way they take a bite out of a cookie or donut, nod enthusiastically at how good it tastes whilst shoving it into the face of somebody else, who will in turn take a bite and join in on the enthusiastic nodding and moan an affirmative that it is good.

“wait, this donut is fucking fire,” you hear, and, “this cookie is The Shit, bro.”

they are sort of really fucking cute; boys you would expect to see loitering in alleyways with cigs in their mouths and sneaking into clubs with fakes to pop pills, instead sitting hunched over on cute plastic stools around rickety circular tables sharing sweet desserts like they are at a tea party.

wooyoung catches your gaze over the top of jongho’s head and he gets up instantly to drag you out from behind your counter. all of your warbled protests go unheard as he pulls you by one of your loose apron ties–his strangely endearing way of being respectful not to actually touch you–towards their tables whilst refuting, “there’s nobody else in here but us.”

that is how you find yourself squashed between seonghwa and jongho, your shoulders and thighs touching from close proximity.

“try this blueberry lemon cookie,” seonghwa offers from beside you the moment you sit down, extending the treat for you to take a bite from.

mingi so helpfully reminds, “she literally works here.”

seonghwa shushes him, “yeah, but she probably hasn’t tried everything on the menu.”

he is not wrong. you may have the appetite, but you do not have the physical stomach to try an entire serving of each dessert available in the shop, even if you were to try one per shift. now that the opportunity has handed itself to you on a silver platter, you are not going to refuse. plus, you do not think that you could ever bring yourself to say no when seonghwa is holding the cookie out with both hands so eagerly.

he is definitely your favourite.

you take a tentative bite out of the cookie and eight pairs of shiny eyes do not leave yours until you give them an affirmative and enthusiastic nod at its taste. all flurry of activity starts up again as they continue to trade desserts with those sitting beside them and across the circle. it feels like you are suddenly back in primary school, sharing your snacks out of your lunch box and trading sandwiches with your friends. they include you easily in both taste-testing and conversation, filling your usually quiet shift with antics and laughter.

it has always been a perk that you do not get many customers, but now more so than ever, you hope that nobody comes in for the remainder of your shift–or at the very least, not until the boys leave. in just two meetings, they have all grown on you in their own ways and you kind of want this to become a regular thing. you could definitely get used to this.

despite their appearances and rough-around-the-edges personalities, they are really just a bunch of boys living their life to the fullest in the diabetic form of bubble tea, loaded cookies and glazed donut runs in the middle of a random night.

and honestly? if you had a group of friends like them, you would too.

yunho’s eyes narrow fiercely at the couple who are walking along the footpath outside the perimeter of your shop, daring them to step in through the doors. his glare is not needed though–the very sight of what is going down inside is more than enough for their eyes to widen and for the man to hastily pull his girlfriend away.

“oh look, there goes another two potential customers,” hongjoong notes with sarcastic dismay. “i wonder why people are always in such a hurry to leave.”

yunho blinks his murderous intent away and faces you with round, innocent eyes as you roll your own and cross your arms. your insides wilt at the loss of potential revenue but only by a tad, because whatever business they boys scare off, they make up for several times over. you state as a matter-of-factly, “maybe it has something to do with jongho.”

said boy currently stands about three feet away from you, his arms raised and fists clenched threateningly as the rest of the boys surround the both of you in a circle of sorts as if they are about to witness a bloody fistfight. you suppose it does not look too far from the truth–you are about to get punched in the face.

jongho shrugs dismissively, “it’s not my fault other people aren’t interested in learning how to get knocked out by a sucker punch safely.”

“i don’t think any of those words should go together in a single sentence,” you tell him honestly, unimpressed.

“they normally don’t,” jongho’s mouth ticks up, “which is exactly why you’re learning.”

you cannot win against him or any of them. last week it had been learning how to pop a dislocated shoulder back into place, the week before it had been how to dislocate a shoulder, and then the week before that it had been how to reverse-jump a person if they were chasing you into an alleyway.

it has become an ingrained part of your weekly routine for the boys to rock up during your friday night shift, order half the menu, hang around for hours where you usually join them, then leave until the next week rolls around again. but these random tutorials have only just recently become a new routine within your pre-existing routine.

it all started when wooyoung snuck behind your counter one night while your back was turned to make their drinks and decided it would be hilarious to scream in your face as you turned around. you had jerked backwards so hard that you knocked over the entire stack of blender jars, which toppled over into the dirty sink one after the other like noisy dominoes. seonghwa had made wooyoung personally clean and stack them all again as punishment, but the damage had been done and hongjoong had declared that you would not survive in the real world if a little fright like that could make your butthole pucker right back up into your own intestinal system.

and so had begun your weekly crash courses on survival instincts because according to them, you had none. you had refused to submit to their antics at first, but then yeosang had pointed out, “it’s true. wooyoung was standing behind you like a creep for a full five minutes and you didn’t even notice.” san had also threatened that they would not order anything until you complied each week.

“that’s not fair,” you had complained petulantly. “i just won’t serve you guys at all then.”

san had given you a cheshire grin. “you wouldn’t. we’re like, eighty percent of the total revenue you make during your shift.”

that shuts you up real quick and san knows, so you have no choice but to give in to whatever tomfoolery they choose to teach you for that week. if it is learning to ‘get knocked out by a sucker punch safely’, then so be it.

“okay, i’m all set to be punched in the future,” you declare dryly as jongho reigns in his fist after a pretend swing at your temple, “are you guys going to order now?”

hongjoong nods like he is the little leader of this delinquent gang, but jokes on him because they follow behind you to gather in front of the counter in a single file of sorts with practiced ease, an endearingly crooked line of ducklings. you know right off the bat that it means they already know what they want to order because other times they will come together as pairs or even triplets so that they can umm and ahh over the menu together.

you do not think you can ever take them seriously as proper delinquents–if they even count as such.

as if to prove your point even further, mingi throws up double gang signs and makes a poor attempt to rap, “i want an emineminem,” and when seonghwa not-so-subtly pinches his elbow, he adds on, “please.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing as your hands automatically move to input his order into the register, long past familiar with what his order truly means; mysterious mermaid magic, because the alliteration of the name ‘m and m and m’ sounds the same as the rapper’s name twice. go figure. you do not know if ‘emineminem’ is worse, or, as san calls it whilst flexing his biceps, ‘the merman’.

the boys have a shockingly terrible incapacity to remember the names on the menu correctly, but it is also partially due to the fact that they could give less than zero fucks about them. they will either say what they think the name is, or what they think the name should be.

they make the rules. you simply follow.

the first time it happened was during their third time at the store. “yo, give me a triple b,” jongho had confidently ordered.

“a fuckin’ what?” you were positive you were having a stroke.

“a triple b,” he had tried again, frowning at how you did not automatically understand him. “the big butterfly bus or somethin’.”

you could not take him seriously. “big butterfly bus? what are they gonna do after hopping on? go to fucking school?” you had jested. “also, you can’t just make up your own name and expect me to–you know what, sure.”

it sort of becomes a game. you will roll over in your grave before admitting it, but it is sort of fun to hear an absolutely rubbish string of words–or letters–come out of their mouths for you to then follow their ridiculous train of thought backwards to work out what the actual drink is. the silly boys with their silly names kind of grow on you.

and you may or may not indulge them a little too much. they are the first to try any new items on the menu, even when they are still technically not meant to be available to the general public. but when they pounce on whatever you present to them on the table like puppies and fresh kibble, it is very hard not to keep doing so. which is exactly why you bring out the batch of cupcakes you had made earlier specifically for them to taste.

they look like normal vanilla-frosted cupcakes, except when you bite into them, there is a dark chocolate cookie inside the base. it is the perfect mix of soft and chewy, and when the gooeyness is maximised by slightly warming the dessert up, it is–

“fucking fire, bro,” yunho says around a mouthful, blatantly ignoring the dirty look that seonghwa shoots him for talking with food in his mouth.

yeosang inspects the cookie at the core. “have you named it yet?”

you do not get a say in what the menu items are named and they always do in fact already have a name by the time the boys get to try them. regardless, you answer, “not yet,” because they love the power trip they get when they have creative liberty over your store’s products.

“i have an idea,” wooyoung pipes up immediately. “the frosted ultimate cookie cupcake.” then in a falsetto voice, he role-plays by himself, “hi, could i get a fucc please?”

mingi snorts himself silly and continues, “actually, could you give me two fucks?”

you oblige, “fuck you, and double fuck you,” flashing your middle finger at wooyoung first then mingi second to punctuate the fucks you are gifting them.

the boys snicker at your crudeness, absolutely delighted. not the type to let any opportunity to swear go by, the rest of them join in as san yanks you down to sit at the table with them before you can roll your eyes and walk away.

and out of all moments, it is this exact moment, when you are surrounded by the eight of them throwing out colourful words left and right with the giddy enthusiasm of toddlers, each holding a half-eaten vanilla-frosted cookie cupcake in their hands, that you realise you may actually give a few too many fucks about them…and not just in a friendly way.

well. fuck.

when you get a call on friday morning from your branch manager the following week, your immediate thought is that somebody finally chanced upon watching the store’s security footage and you have been caught making friends with delinquent customers and literally feeding them with business secrets. except when you pick up and tentatively greet him, he starts to say something that is arguably just as bad.

“i need you to swap shifts with gayoung. she can’t work this tuesday night so i need you to cover that day ‘cause there’s nobody else available,” he informs. “gayoung will cover your shift tonight instead.”

you are still trying to process his words as you repeat, “tonight?”

“yes, so you won’t need to go into work tonight.”

your heart skips a beat. for the first time in your life, you find yourself asking, “can’t i take both shifts?”

“no, you can’t. sorry,” your manager apologises but he does not sound sorry at all.

you have never voluntarily taken up extra night shifts, much less asked to take up additional shifts. yet, there is a heavy sense of disappointment that simultaneously settles itself deep inside your stomach and lodges itself in your throat, because it is friday today and friday night is for your boys. you do not even have a way of letting them know that you will not be in tonight.

you wonder if they will notice your absence and whether they will care. after all, you may just be somebody who happens to work at the bubble tea shop they frequent. but it turns out that they do and turns out you are not.

“where were you?”

those are the first words that are thrown at you the moment the boys walk through the door during your friday shift the week after you swapped nights with gayoung. they stomp up to your counter sporting furrowed brows and pressed lips, and if it were not for seonghwa’s soft smile and warm, “we missed seeing you,” you would have thought that they were angry at you.

you can only imagine how terrifying their demeanours would be if they were actually to be angry.

“my manager made me swap shifts with another coworker,” you explain and their expressions soften immediately.

jongho breaks out into a triumphant smirk as he turns to hongjoong with an upturned palm. “i told you. pay up.”

the latter sheepishly pulls out some crumpled notes as you gawk, “you bet on why i wasn’t at work?”

“don’t mind them,” wooyoung waves his hand dismissively. “hongjoong has trust issues–said that you were avoiding us.”

“i would never!” you refute at the same time that hongjoong exclaims, “i did not!”

“either way, fuck your manager. the fucking audacity to take you off our shift?” wooyoung complains.

you try to keep a straight face at the fact that wooyoung has just very casually claimed your shift–and by extension, you–as theirs. you babble the first thing that comes to mind, “the drinks are all made using the same recipe. it doesn’t matter who makes them.”

yunho’s eyes narrow with offense that you would even suggest a thing. “it’s nowhere near the same.” he is not the only one who wants to tell you that as long as it is not you it will never be the same.

their collective thoughts come out instead through mingi, “nobody understands when we order a triple b or an emineminem or a ‘horse drink’.”

“yeah, no shit sherlock,” you fire back, because apparently sarcasm is your automatic defense mechanism when you are flustered, “might help if you call them by their proper names.”

“or maybe the problem is that nobody knows us well enough like you do,” san insists with a wink and in response, yeosang reveals, “we don’t let just anybody get close to us.”

you joke before you can truly think your words through, “sounds like a you problem then.”

“you’re right,” hongjoong banters easily with smugness.

your nervous fidgeting as you tap useless buttons on the screen of your register gives you away despite your attempts to stay collected. they chuckle and it is difficult not to crumble under their unwavering gazes because it is obvious they can see right through your facade. but can anybody really blame you when you had not been expecting them to reciprocate your feelings of interest, much less admit to it so easily and straightforwardly?

in a last ditch attempt to regain some control over the conversation, you ask, “so, what do you guys want to order?”

from day one, the boys have surprised you in the most unpredictable ways–eight not-quite-delinquent delinquents with simultaneously calloused fists, pottied mouths and insatiable sweet tooth. today is no exception, and you have a feeling that you should start becoming accustomed to their antics because they are here to stay, especially after today.

“what we want to order?” they look at you with confident flirtatiousness. “your phone number and a date.”

taglist pt. one | apply for taglist

@thecarnivaloflies @ilovekimhongjoong @yuranimous @ppprimary @hwas-housewife 

@itza-meee @lavishloving @okshu @mizumigi @everythingboutkpop

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[therobbycuepitt]

Hi!!! Here's a cute thought. What about The Pitt boys calling you their wife without you guys being married (or engaged because that makes it kinda cuter imo)? What do you think? What would that look like?

Accidentally calling you his "Wife"

Okay. I only made these for the four main male doctors, so this doesn't include nurses or med students. Sorry! ((but let me know if you want me to add them and I can do a part 2!))

Robby

He's making casual conversation with an older man in one of the rooms. At a rare day in the ED, transitioning patients to their respective departments above the usual chaotic floor of the Emergency Room was going smoothly--patients waited at three hours minimun to get seen, and Gloria wasn't up his ass for anything she can think under the sun.

"My sweet Jenny was a nurse. She loved her job, used to patch me up real good better than any doctor--no offense, Doc," his patient says with a laugh. Robby chuckles but keeps his hands steady, continuing his sutures. "None taken."

"My wife's the only one I trust around here," boasting wasn't Robby's thing but thinking about you always puts a little puff in his chest.

"Oh don't listen to my husband, Mr. Danvers. He'd be a chimney the way he blows so much smoke up my ass," your voice claims the small room. Robby stills in his seat, blushing all shades of red. His patient lets out a huge belly laugh.

"She's a firecracker, Doc. Don't lose her."

Jack

A rowdy group of hockey fans got into a bar fight, resulting in multiple minor injuries--mostly cuts and bruises.

'The Pens suck!'

'The last time your team won the cup, Facebook wasnt even invented yet!' the two groups, which were Stars and Pens fans by the symbols on their jerseys, shouted back and forth between two rooms. Unfortunately for you, you were stuck with the Away team while Parker took care of the Home team.

"You sure you don't want to sub in there, Doc?" the officer--who brought the two groups in, stands beside Jack and John, watching the chaos like it was the most entertaining show on television.

"Nah, my wife's got it. She's tough," Jack smirks a bit when you send him a wink, silently telling him you've got it handled.

Shen chokes on his iced coffee. "Like, 'work wife' , right?"

Frank

"Hey, sweet cheeks. Wanna give me a sponge bath?" Frank leans on the center bay, head hanging low between his shoulders. He glances at Myrna over his shoulder--her usual self cuffed to her wheelchair, giving him a flirty smile.

Turning around to face her, he crosses his arms and chides, "I don't think my wife, would appreciate you flirting with me, Myrna."

"Never saw a ring on it, champ. I can be real flexible," she purrs with her gravely voice, one foot extending infront of her with hands seductively inching her hospital gown up her thigh. You catch the conversation from the curtain behind Myrna, pulling it back you catch Frank’s wide eyes.

"I'll only let you borrow him if you ask nicely, Myrna."

Shen

Shen has a problem, and its called caffeine. He wouldn't say he's addicted to it, no. But if he were, he would probably blame you for putting him on the iced coffee bender. You both have sort of schedule down for who gets coffee for who on alternate days of the week. It's kind of a way to test out new coffee shops around the area and try new blends.

'Super late. Dunkin good?' he texts you, speed walking down the street to the said establishment. His phone dings with a text from you with just a thumbs up emoji. He scans the doughnut display while he waits his turn in line, mentally telling himself to add your favorite round treat to the order.

Approaching the register, his phone goes off with your name flashing on the screen while he gives the worker his coffee order.

"John, could you get me a-"

"Yes. I know, I know. Hey, man. Can you add a Boston for my wife, please," his hand freezes mid reach to his jacket's pocket for his wallet. His phone, which was pressed between his left ear and shoulder, almost slips when he hears you giggling at the other end of the line. The cashier clears his throat, and John quickly recovers, finally getting his card out to pay.

"I... don't know why I said that."

[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆ COLD SWEAT, ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS

summary. Valentina decides to punish you and cuts the heating in the tower leading Bob to seek warmth in your arms.

⭑.ᐟwrote this like a week ago and forgot to post it so… surprise!? He’s so precious kill me now. Joaquin Torres fic next??👀 Interact and send requests if u have any:)

word count. 1,1k

my masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

Valentina is evil. That’s all you can tell yourself while your teeth collide, your body shivers and your heart feels like it’s about to give out.

The moment you woke up, you knew something was wrong. You’ve never been able to sleep without the heating on, so when you woke up cold, lips and fingers about to turn blue, the chatter of the others complaining, the floor as cold as ice, you knew it wasn’t an ordinary loss of heating, it had to be her.

You spend the day with the others, curled up in blankets, sweats covering your whole body, mountain of socks on your feet, and yet you’re still freezing.

It’s not even winter yet- but being high in the sky doesn’t help. the wind outside makes the tower almost shake, the sound of its screams gives you chills.

Bob’s telling stories to keep you occupied, to keep your mind away from remembering how cold you are. Alexei’s making dad jokes that are so bad you have a headache coming. John complains about how much Bob talks, or really complains about everything that’s wrong with today.

Ava and Yelena are nowhere to be found, maybe in their rooms, while Bucky paces around the living room, trying not to go psycho mode on Valentina because frankly, there’s not much he can do anyway.

You eat the hot dinner all together although no one speaks, probably because everyone’s pissed, and still fighting the cold atmosphere.

When bed time comes around and everyone retracts to their rooms the cold is still there. It’s still hanging in the air, teeth still collide with each other, your body almost sweats because of all the clothes hanging on your body.

It’s not a surprise that you can’t sleep.

You can’t even think.

You just pray that her little scheme will stop because you’re not sure you can go another day like this. No amount of hot showers or hot chocolates will help you not lose your mind.

You close your eyes- trying to think of the good. But your mind can only wander to the bad. The fighting, the battles, the fears.

It’s about to go to the one memory you’re trying to forget the most before there’s a light knock on the door making you almost jump out of bed.

You’re not sure why, but you can feel him. You know exactly who’s standing behind that door.

It’s Bob.

You swing the door open, only to find him standing in his black sweats, the hood covering his head, his hands warming each other in front of him.

His demeanor’s different. He doesn’t look so nervous, or shy. He looks so-normal. Which none of you really do more often than not.

‘Can’t sleep?’ You question, moving slightly to let him in.

You rub your eyes with fatigue as he sits on your bed like he belongs there.

‘It’s impossible. I can’t believe they haven’t fixed it yet.’ He takes off the hood, while you pace across the room.

‘She won’t. She won’t until the thinks we’ve suffered enough. I swear that woman is the devil.’ You complain running a hand through your hair, frustrated.

‘Hey, maybe by morning. You never know.’ He shakes his head.

‘Well you’re always the optimistic one.’ You let out a little laugh, and Bob follows.

You decide to lay down next to him. He’s still sitting, he’s turning a little so he can get a good look at you.

You know this isn’t the right moment. You’re basically dying, but you can’t help your eyes from wandering. He’s always looked good, but the black sweats and hoodie are enough to make your mind go wild, your stomach flutter. You wish you had someone to hold, to maybe make it go away. Or maybe make it better at least.

That’s when you see him shiver, his lips are a weird shade of purple, or blue you’re not sure. You think maybe tonight’s your chance to seize the opportunity. Maybe in the morning it’ll be awkward but surely this is the right time.

‘It’s a bit warmer here.’ He speaks up before you have the chance to, and you’re taken aback.

‘I’ve been dying the whole day, am I like, super dramatic?’ You realize out loud.

‘Maybe just a little.’ He jokes.

Your laugh echoes in his ears and he swears it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

He smiles while he stares.

Usually you might feel too small, awkward and suddenly shy, but the moment he stares, you stare back.

You stare back until eventually you get the courage to ask.

‘Do you want to stay here tonight? Since you think it’s warmer, I wouldn’t want you die from the cold out there.’

Before Bob can even think of forming an answer, you drag yourself to lay under the covers. When you’re safe under them, you pat the bed, the covers on his side in your hand as if to tell him to get under them. His heart beats out of his chest. His hands aren’t so cold anymore, they’re sweaty.

They’re sweaty but he tells himself there’s no use saying no. He’d be stupid to- because he needs the warmth, and so do you.

So he doesn’t answer, instead he just lays down next to you. He gets under the covers, and he’s not sure what to do. If he holds you, he’s afraid he might break, or you might hear how fast his heart is beating. He if doesn’t, he’s afraid he’ll just shake through the cold the entire night.

‘Can I?’ His thoughts are interrupted when you slide closer to him, asking for permission to rest your head on his chest.

Instinctively, his arms are around you in seconds, the covers, the blankets shielding you from the cold.

‘This is nice.’ He speaks up surprising himself. Maybe the cold is getting to his head, maybe he’s a completely different person tonight.

‘It is, yeah.’ You look up at him only to find him already looking down at you.

‘Do you think you can sleep like this?’ You ask because it’s warmer suddenly. You know if you try to close your eyes right now, you might just fall asleep in seconds because he’s there, and because he’s helping.

‘I think so. You?’

You nod your head but don’t answer because you already feel yourself slipping into a slumber.

Your body’s heating up, your hands don’t tremble anymore, your lips are returning to their normal pink-ish color, the only thing going backwards is your heartbeat. Because although you can hear Bob’s going through the roof, you’re pretty sure yours isn’t doing any better.

‘Thank you.’ Is the last thing you hear him say before your brain finally shuts off.

You hope the next step in your courage will be to tell him how you really feel.

Maybe you’ll wake up all sweaty in the morning, but for now, this was worth it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist: @tinas111 @bluemerakis @blossomingorchids @l0v33-rey @mostlymarvelgirl @that-stanford-girlie @sunnyteume @bohoooitsme @beelzebzb (comment to be added!)

[pieandflannel]

I'm in a Jensen Ackles community, and someone posted that they wanted a fic about the reader liking Jensen's hands. I love your writing and think you could do it justice. If this isn't something you'd want to do, you can ignore this. 😊

They also said they wanna be tagged, @/deanwinchestersgirl8734

౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ veins and vows 🤞

₊⊹ ʚ ₊⊹｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ��˚ ₊⊹｡ ₊⊹ ୨♡୧ ⊹₊ ｡⊹₊ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡⊹₊ ɞ ⊹₊

pairing: jensen ackles x fem!reader

summary: jensen catches you staring at his hands which gives him a cheeky little idea.

cw: 18+ smut/fluff, soft dom!jensen, sub!reader has a hand kink, teasing, praising, breast & pussy play, established relationship (married), jensen is a teasing menace.

word count: 987

julia yaps: thank you so much @multiversefanfics for thinking about me it’s so sweet and considerate of you. i didn’t get much details about what you wanted so I hope this is okay 🥺

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

“you’re staring sweetheart” said jensen with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his gaze focused on the script he was currently reading through.

you snapped out of your thoughts and went back to cutting the vegetables for dinner, your cheeks catching on a slight shade of pink, feeling flustered that he caught you staring at his hands. “sorry” you murmured.

but at least he couldn’t read your mind right? he couldn’t tell you were imagining his hands roaming all over your body in a meaningful and sensual manner, his big hand wrapped around your throat as with his other hand his fingers work you open, slowly, one finger then two, maybe three. his thumb circling your swollen clit.

he couldn’t tell you were thinking all that right?

but come on can you blame yourself? his hands are so pretty but at the same time so masculine, decorated with age, kissable freckles and veins, a watch on his wrist, tattoo on his thumb and a silver wedding band on his finger that represented his undying love and loyalty for you. you shamefully worshipped your husbands hands as if they were sculpted my michelangelo himself, and he secretly knew it despite you trying to hide it.

he glanced up from his notes and couldn’t help but smile softly as he noticed just how embarrassed you were at him catching you gawking.

an idea popped in his head, he cleared his throat, putting down all the papers onto the table and he stood up, taking his empty coffee mug and walking over to the kitchen counter. his walk was slow, almost like a predator creeping up on it’s prey.

you looked up and flashed him a smile before going back to focusing on not cutting your fingers off with the kitchen knife.

jensen put the coffee mug down by the drip machine, pressed the button to make more coffee and walked behind you, his broad physique towering over your smaller one. his front pressed up against your back.

he gently placed his hands on your hips and pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another one on your neck and lastly onto your shoulder.

“babe~” you let out a giggle as his beard tickled your delicate skin, your cute little giggle making him smile. he gently squeezed your waist before snaking one of his hands up your shirt, moving higher up, just below your bra.

your breath hitched slightly as you tried to focus on slicing the vegetables and not his hand placement, but jensen made it real hard when he sneaked his hand under your lace bra to cup your breast. his hand big and warm.

his other hand gradually shifting lower and lower, his fingers playing with the waistband of your shorts. “babe wha-what are you doing?” you managed to stutter out with a smile.

he hummed in your ear, a big smug smile on his face. “nothing” he replied with an innocent tone which you didn’t fall for. “mhm sure” you chuckled and playfully rolled your eyes.

his hand softly massaged your breast, his thumb brushing against your hardening nipple which made you let out a shaky breath. you had to put the knife down in order not to hurt yourself or him by accident. your lips parted as your breathing became heavier.

“you know what i’m thinking of right now?” jensen whispered into your ear, his breath tickling your neck which sent shivers down your spine.

“n-no?” you accidentally whimpered out. he couldn’t help but smirk at how worked up you seemed to already be.

his veiny hand suddenly leaving your breast and gripping you teasingly by the throat, his fingers wrapping round you deliciously.

“having my hand wrapped round your throat as my other hand plays with your pretty little pussy” his other hand sliding into your shorts and panties, his middle and ring fingers finding their way between your folds with practiced ease. “oh would you look at that, sooo wet, already?” he teased in a slightly mocking tone as he spread your arousal with his middle finger, using it as lube.

you gasped out as he suddenly brushed against your bundle of nerves, your hands weakly grabbing a hold onto his wrists which only made him chuckle. you tilted your head back, resting it on his muscular shoulder. his facial hair brushing against your temple.

his hand teasingly tightening around your throat as his thick digits circled your clit painfully slow, a soft moan slipping your lips. your eyes closing as your back arched leading to your ass brushing against his crotch. “j-jensen..” you breathed out his name like it was some secret.

“shhh shhh it’s okay sweetheart” jensen cooed into your ear, his fingers sliding up and down your slit. “just focus on my hands, in your panties and around your neck…you’re doing so good for me sweetheart” he praised, his words making you melt right there on the spot. he gave your cheek a soft kiss and continued to play with you.

as tension was building up in the pit of your stomach, your grip on his wrists became gradually weaker. jensen could tell that you were getting close by how your body tensed up underneath his touch.

then suddenly his phone started ringing, jensen couldn’t stop the small smirk forming on his face, he was waiting for this important call for a while now, knowing damn well he will leave you waiting, on edge and unsatisfied until later.

“i gotta get that, it’s important” he whispered with a smirk before giving you another soft kiss on the cheek and slowly pulling away, reaching into his pocket for his phone with one hand and licking off your arousal from his other.

“i’m not finished with you yet” he said, giving you a cheeky little wink before picking up the call and walking away into the living room.

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

tags: @jensino @emeraldcrs @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @missus-ackles @littlesoulshine @deanswifeyy @slut4jackles @h8aaz @bittersweetfig @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @rositaslabyrinth @deanspookiebear @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @miss-marmalade @pinksatinpanties @multiversefanfics @cupidzbunny @sunnyteume @lunaleah

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© pieandflannel – do not plagiarise or repost any of my work!

© reserved for photo/gif owners!

© diver by @cafekitsune <3

[emonaculate]

Emon babbles...

This idea has been plaguing my mind, but I couldn't figure out how to write it in the way I visualize it in my brain. So, why not give you all what I have in the meantime?

Bandmate!Gojo x Readerــــــــﮩ٨ـ

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who didn’t even want to be at this tacky-ass three-day audition. He had better things to do than wake up before the birds and the worms just to hear sob stories and half-baked songs from wannabe musicians hoping to ride the coattails of his fame.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s uncharacteristically… cruel? He claims it’s just because he’s not a morning person—that it has nothing to do with the reason they’re even holding auditions for a new bassist. But Gojo Satoru has always been a terrible liar. Everyone knows it. Especially Shoko.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo still manages to tower over his bandmates, Nanami and Shoko, even while slouched in his seat—absently clicking and unclicking a pen, expression unreadable behind nearly pitch-black shades. He rolls his eyes as another girl onstage gushes about how he saved her, how she loves him… blah blah blah.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who gets elbowed—hard—by Shoko. She doesn't need to see his eyes to know he's zoning out and back on his bullshit. She always knows.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo isn’t usually the bad guy. A menace? Sure. Annoying? Absolutely. Cocky? Always. But this version—this cold, detached, almost cruel version? That’s new. That’s not him.

But he doesn’t know how to go back. Back to when the band was whole. Back to when music actually meant something. Back to when Geto was still with him. with the band.

Nothing's been the same since.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo watches the girl slink offstage, dejected after failing to get her “main character moment.” He shouldn’t feel satisfied, but he does. Something is intoxicating about having that kind of power over someone.

“You’re a piece of shit, y’know that?” Nanami’s voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Cold.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who usually lets criticism roll off his back like water. After all, he knows who he is: a prodigy, a pioneer, a legend in the making. His influence will echo long after he's gone. But what unsettles him—what really gets under his skin—is when someone sees through the performance. Past the cocky smirk, the designer sunglasses, the tattoos and piercings, the curated persona. Nanami might be one of those people.

And that terrifies him.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who pretends Nanami’s stare doesn’t make his skin crawl—doesn’t make him feel seen in the worst possible way. He shrugs, casual and dismissive, but his fingers tighten around the pen in his hand until the plastic creaks.

“Nanami…” Shoko warns, her voice low. She can feel the tension thickening, like a storm about to break. This conversation? It’s been a long time coming.

“No,” Nanami cuts her off, voice gentle but firm. “He needs to hear this. The label won’t say anything, and I know you’re tired of getting dragged for his behavior too.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo feels his eye twitch. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his gaze up to meet Nanami’s. A smirk curls at his lips, and he lets out a low, mocking laugh.

“You got something you wanna say to me, Kenny?”

“I’m glad you think all this is funny,” Nanami replies, voice steady, hands tucked neatly in his lap like he’s discussing the weather. “Let me tell you what I find really fucking funny.”

He turns his chair to face Satoru directly and leans forward slightly, manspread, not to intimidate him—but to talk to him, man to man.

“You’re a twenty-three-year-old burnout lashing out at everyone around you. You're angry at the world, but the truth is, you're the reason everything's falling apart. You’re the reason Geto dumped you.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo shoots up from his chair, the metal legs screeching violently against the floor before the whole thing crashes backward with a loud clang. The sheer aggression in his movement makes the air crackle. That mocking smirk is gone.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who takes a single step forward, and before the second one even lands, Nanami is already moving—controlled, practiced, deliberate. In one fluid motion, he swaps places with Shoko, placing himself squarely between her and Gojo without a word.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who seethes as his chest rises and falls, fists clenched tight, turning his knuckles white at his sides. The pen, long forgotten, lies cracked on the floor near the upturned chair.

“You wanna say that again?” He growls, voice low and venomous like a snake ready to strike. His shades had been discarded during the commotion, and his gaze was nothing but a dark azure color as he glared.

Despite how scary Gojo looks at the moment, Nanami remains unshaken and firm. “I don’t repeat myself. You heard me the first time.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who suddenly feels like he’s vibrating out of his own skin. His vision flashes white-hot with rage and—something else. Guilt, maybe. Pain, definitely. But mostly, he just wants to hit something. Break something. Make someone else feel the way he’s been feeling for months.

Shoko forcefully wedges herself between the two men and lets out a low hum as if she hasn’t just been caught in the middle of a powder keg ready to blow. She gives Nanami a reassuring smile, relieved to see the blonde ease up immediately.

“Alright,” she breathes out lowly, “who wants to explain to the label that the bassist auditions ended in a fistfight? Let's just get through the last audition and call it a night.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t move. Who doesn’t breathe for a second too long? His eyes still locked on his target; Nanami.

Because for all his anger—for all the pressure in his chest and heat behind his eyes—he knows Nanami is right. And that’s what pisses him off the most.

“Please… Satoru?” Her voice is soft, tired in a way that hurts way more than yelling could ever compare. And for a flicker of a second, something in him stirs. Guilt. Once upon a time, he was the guy who would tell someone off for stressing Shoko out. Once upon a time, he was the guy who would protect her.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo tears his eyes away from Nanami wordlessly, jaw tight as he forces himself to back down. The rage in his chest doesn’t vanish, but it simmers just enough to allow him to move. For Shoko.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who bends to pick up his chair with slow, deliberate movements, as though controlling the pace of his own unraveling. He counts silently in his head as a means to calm down while he moves the chair. He sets it upright without a word, the echo of metal legs scraping across the floor barely audible over the hush of the room.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t acknowledge the crew’s concerned murmurs. If they were so concerned, they would have done more to help alleviate the situation besides just watching.

"Are you alright?" "Do you want some water?" "Should we take a break?"

He ignores all of it. Eyes forward. Shoulders squared. Like nothing happened.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo sinks into the chair again, but it’s different now. The slouch is gone. His hands rest on his thighs, clenched into fists. He picked up his sunglasses and placed them on the top of his head. They're slightly lopsided, but he makes no move to fix them.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo was sure he hated himself more than anyone else could.

Y/n, who had been waiting backstage for what felt like hours, hears her name finally called—flatly, almost like an afterthought. Damn. Maybe calling out of work to be here wasn't the brightest idea.

“Next up... Y/N L/N.”

Y/n, who walks in clutching a slightly-too-big journal to her chest, its edges worn and dog-eared from being dragged through years of lyrics and late-night thoughts. A seaweed colored bass, with various aged stickers on it as decor, is slung across her back.

Y/n, who had promised herself she wouldn’t freeze—wouldn’t fangirl or stumble or stare too hard. But when she steps under the lights and sees him in the flesh for the first time, her breath still hitches.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who barely even looks like the version of himself plastered across album covers and magazine spreads. There’s no spotlight glow here, no teasing grin or playful arrogance. He was just there.

Y/n, who felt that starstruck shimmer fade, like fog burning off in daylight. Because this close, Gojo Satoru doesn’t look untouchable. He looks hollow. Like someone who lost something or someone important and never figured out how to fill the space it left behind.

Y/n blinks, clears her throat, and adjusts her grip on her journal as she crosses the stage. Her scuffed red high-top Converse echoes with every step.

“Y/n, right? Thanks for waiting.” Shoko meekly smiles; it's clear she wants to give an explanation for the delay, but knows better.

Y/n nods absently and begins shifting her bass around to rest in front of her. “Yeah. Of course.”

She doesn’t say she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life. She doesn’t say that the only thing keeping her from throwing up backstage was the sketch she doodled of her setup in the margins of that same battered journal.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who still hasn’t said a word. Still hasn’t really looked at her. Y/n feels something twist in her chest—not disappointment, not exactly. Just the quiet understanding that legends are people, too. Flawed. Fractured. Geez, angsty much?

She plugs in. Fingers hover just above the strings.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t bother to look up as the girl starts playing. He’s already heard enough bad renditions of their hits today to fill a lifetime. The stage lights hum. Someone in the crew coughs in the corner. The low rumble of nervous fingers plucking strings reaches his ears. He pulls his shades back down over his eyes; he could already feel a migraine coming on.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo clenches his jaw as she stumbles through the first few measures. The rhythm is off. The timing slips. Her tone’s there, somewhere, but it’s drowning in nerves and a touch too much hesitance. He hears her miss a transition—rookie mistake.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. He finally lifts his head just slightly, not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to glare over the rim of his sunglasses.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s done. He can’t stand another second of it.

“Alright,” he snaps, voice slicing through the room like a whip. “Stop. Fuck. Just—seriously. Stop.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who stands up, raking a hand through his snowy hair with visible agitation. “This is insane. Every person that walks on this stage either wants to fuck me, cry on me, or butcher my songs like it’s some kind of sick talent show. I don’t need another hopeful fangirl with a decent smile and a hobby.”

His voice rises.

“Where are the real musicians? The ones who feel it in their goddamn DNA? Who play like they’d bleed for it, not like they’re worried about hitting the right note just to impress someone they saw on a magazine cover!”

“Jesus, Satoru…” Shoko winces and mutters under her breath.

“You could’ve just said she’s not ready.” Nanami, presses a hand to his forehead.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who meets her stare for the first time. Actually looks at her. And for a moment, something about the way she’s holding her bass again—this time not as a shield, but like a weapon—makes him pause.

“…I appreciate the opportunity…”

Y/n starts and leans into the mic, her voice soft and sweet. She trails off, but her gaze doesn’t break. Something’s changed. The stage lights don’t feel so big anymore. The nerves melt right off her shoulders as she tilts her head, considers him—really considers him. Her gaze flashes from what was once starstruck to almost condescending.

Her sweet, soft tone sharpens into something sharp-edged and raspy—the kind of voice that belongs in front of crowds, under spotlights, on vinyl.

“You say all this about real musicians and what true artists are… but you don’t even look like one yourself.”

The room stills.

“I know I’m a real musician. I know I could keep up with you on your so-called ‘level.’ OR even outplay you. Hell, I could play any song you throw at me blindfolded and I wouldn’t miss a single note.”

She steps closer to the mic, wrapping her manicured hand around it as she raises her voice. The bass hangs at her hip now like it’s fused to her. Her voice is filled with pure confidence and snark.

“So go ahead and throw your tantrum, bitch. But don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking belong here.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who lets out a sharp laugh—humorless, more reflex than joy. She really just said that. To him. He steps forward slowly, only the sound of the chains around his neck is heard with how quiet the room is.

“Oh, you’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that,” He mutters, tilting his head just slightly to the side. His voice lowers, smug and dangerous. “Big words for someone who can’t even hold tempo under pressure.”

Y/n, however, doesn't waver. Doesn’t shift. She just watches him, chest rising and falling steadily, like she wants him to try her. The look in her eyes screams nothing if not defiant.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who sees the challenge in her eyes and decides, Fine. You want to prove it? Let's see you burn.

“Alright, hotshot.” He lifts a hand and snaps his fingers toward a crew member. “Bring me a six-string. Get the monitors live.”

“You’re seriously doing this now?”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who ignores Nanami's protests, is already pulling off his black aviator jacket and letting it fall carelessly behind a speaker. Someone hands him his guitar—a weathered custom model, black body, silver hardware, nearly as iconic as he is. His toned arms flex underneath his grey wife-beater as he holds the guitar.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t even need to tune it. Just slings it on and strums a few warmup chords with effortless precision, muscle memory sharp from years of living in this world. He looks up at her, eyes glinting behind his crooked shades.

“Let’s make this simple,” he says, voice low. “You say you can hang with me? Prove it. ‘Charmolypi.’”

Y/n stills as she hears the title—not from fear, but sheer shock. That track was never released as sheet music. No tabs. No official breakdowns. Only the live version exists online—jagged, brutal, unforgiving. The song that reminds him of Geto. The song Gojo never plays anymore.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo watches Y/n closely now, waiting for her to fold. Daring her to.

“Blindfolded, right?” he adds with a singsong grin that’s almost cruel. “Unless that was just another line for the mic.”

Y/n slowly, silently, pulls her journal from the amp where she left it. She sets it down. Unzips a side pocket. Pulls out a black ribbon and ties it calmly around her head—right over her eyes. The room suddenly became even quieter.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose smirk falters for just a second. Y/n lifts the bass effortlessly and adjusts her grip, then rolls her shoulders back like she's about to dive head first off a cliff.

“I hope you’re ready to keep up with me,” Y/n says into the mic.

There's a pause in her words...

“Bitch.”

Ah there it is.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who can’t stop the sharp, stunned laugh that bursts out of him.

“…You’re insane.”

But this time, he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds alive.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t look at her right away. He watches her in fragments. Through the slant of his lowered head. Through his lashes. Through the spaces between his thoughts, where the ghosts tend to live.

Charmolypi. A song with a name that means joy mixed with grief. A kind of beauty that hurts to hold. It was never meant for public ears, just something born between long nights, cigarette smoke, and a friendship that cracked before it could heal.

He plays the opening chords like muscle memory—because it has to be. His fingers know the way better than his heart does. That part of him got buried under too many headlines and hangovers, under too many nights he couldn’t quite remember but always seemed to end with Geto’s name stuck in his throat.

The strings hum.

And then she begins to play. Y/n, blindfolded, hands steady, pulse louder than the amp she plugs into. And yet, she starts anyway.

She comes in slightly behind him at first, just a breath too cautious. He’s already rolling his eyes in the back of his mind when she catches the rhythm mid-step, and holds it. No stutter. No flinch. It’s like watching someone walk a tightrope barefoot, terrified and trembling, but still refusing to fall. He almost respects it. Then she improvises.

Not just to show off. It’s nothing flashy. No desperate finger-speed acrobatics like the other posers who tried to impress him with technique and no soul. This? This is something else. She adds four notes. Quiet. Intentional. Mournful in a way that feels too intimate to be accidental. A deviation so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed—except Gojo feels it; right in the center of his goddamn chest.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo suddenly looks at her. Really really looks. The blindfold. The curve of her mouth, not smirking, not posing. Just concentrating. Like she’s trying to wring something honest from a song that was never meant to see the light of day. Her hands move like she’s searching. Not for applause, but for meaning.

And something sharp pierces the haze behind his eyes. For a second, he sees Geto.

Geto, who used to press his forehead to Gojo’s back after long studio sessions and hum the bassline into his spine while Gojo pretended it didn’t make his breath hitch.

Geto, who co-wrote Charmolypi in a hotel bedroom while the rest of them slept. Who refused to write lyrics for it because he said the music should “ache in silence.”

Geto, who walked out of Gojo’s life without ever saying goodbye. No closure. No letters. Just an empty seat, and a song that no one else was ever supposed to touch.

Until now.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose jaw clenches. Because she shouldn’t be able to play this. She shouldn't understand the weight of it. And yet—here she is. Breathing life into something he left to rot. Y/n, who improvises again during the bridge. Adds a cascading fill that slips through his melody like water through fingers. It's like she’s not playing with him. She’s playing to him. Speaking in a language only musicians and broken people understand.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who suddenly can’t look away. There’s something infuriating about her. About the way she walks in here, green and trembling, but still braver than half the industry fakes he’s had to deal with in the last year. She’s raw. She’s rough around the edges. But she’s honest. And that’s the one thing he’s been starving for without even knowing it. The final note hangs in the air. It echoes like the end of a confession. Silence follows. But not the kind that asks for applause. It’s heavier than that. Reverent. Like something just shifted.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo exhales, and realizes he was holding his breath. He hates that she made him do that.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who speaks first, low and flat. “You improvised.”

“Was I not allowed to?” Y/n, still blindfolded, lifts her chin.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo almost says yes. Almost says she ruined it. But he remembers the ache in that bridge. The way her fingers knew where to fill the silence.

“You made it better,” he says instead, the words tasting like betrayal.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who looks at the girl still standing on that stage like it doesn’t take everything in him not to ask her to play it again. Not because he needs proof—but because he needs to feel that truth again. That ache. That joy. That grief. He’ll never tell her what Charmolypi really means. He’ll never tell her how he and Geto played the song for the first time together, as a confession for things unsaid, both of them bleeding in different ways, neither willing to say it out loud. He’ll never tell her that this was the first time the song didn’t feel like a grave.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who knows now: he’s going to keep her around.

Not for romance. Not for drama. But because something about her matters. And for the first time in a long time, Gojo Satoru wants to see what comes next.

[hanniebaeee]

Hold My Hand - Bonus

Han Jisung x fem!reader

Warnings: Nothing

Genre: Established relationship, fluff

Summary: You've been dating Jisung for three months now. And you finally take Jisung and Minho out to a movie, to help them get acquainted. But they're petty as hell.

Hold My Hand

So this may have been one of your weaker (weakest) ideas yet. Your intentions were good - you wanted your best friend to meet your boyfriend (officially). And here you were. 

Sandwiched between Jisung and Minho in the backmost row at the movie theater, a bucket of popcorn balanced on your lap, already regretting the whole thing. Minho has been on your back about you gatekeeping Jisung, your boyfriend of three months. And Jisung has been saying no to your efforts of arranging a dinner with Minho. 

Dinner would never happen, you understood that much. So you went on to booking tickets for something more…low stakes - something that'll help Minho and Jisung coexist without throwing barbs at each other.

But the second you sat down, the passive-aggressive vibes started flying, and now you were playing referee to their whispered warfare.

Jisung, on your left, was slouched in his seat, his hoodie pulled up, glasses reflecting the screen. He was clutching a little fidget toy in his hand (“cos your ex gives me anxiety!”).

Minho, on your right, was impeccably dressed even for a casual movie night, looking perfect as usual. He was leaning back, one arm draped over the empty seat beside him, smirking like he knew his existence was enough to rile Jisung up. 

It started innocently enough. Jisung reached for the popcorn, his hand brushing yours, and he gave you a shy, goofy grin.

Minho’s smirk twitched. He grabs a handful of popcorn too, deliberately crunching it louder than necessary, and leaned across you to stage-whisper, “Hope you’re not planning to whisper sweet nothings the whole movie, Han. Some of us actually want to watch.”

Jisung’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He straightened, turning to glare past you at Minho. 

“Oh, sorry, Lee, didn’t realize you were the movie police.” he bit out, and you sighed, sinking lower in your seat, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

“Guys,” you muttered, “it’s literally the trailers. Chill.”

They ignored you. Obviously. Minho leaned closer, his voice a fierce whisper, dripping with mock politeness.

“Just saying, if you’re gonna be all lovey-dovey, maybe don’t do it where I have to witness it. I’m trying to enjoy my popcorn, not gag on your PDA.” he said. 

Jisung scoffed and whisper-yelled, “PDA? You’re one to talk! You were practically glued to her for weeks, acting like you owned her. Maybe you should take a break from being a clingy ex!”

“Ex?” Minho hissed, leaning over you now, his elbow knocking the popcorn bucket. A few kernels spilled onto your lap, and you rolled your eyes, brushing them off. “We were never together, genius. Learn the difference between an arrangement and a relationship before you start throwing shade.”

“Oh, real mature,” Jisung shots back, pointing a finger across you. “You’re just mad because she picked me  over your fancy suits and trust fund!”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Can you both shut the fuck up? I’m trying to watch the stupid car commercial.” you snapped, shoving the popcorn bucket into Jisung’s chest. “Behave, or I’m sitting somewhere else.”

They both mumbled half-hearted apologies, sinking back into their seats, but the tension was still crackling. For a blissful five minutes, all eyes were on the movie. They were both quiet, and you relaxed, thinking maybe you’ve dodged the worst of it.

Then Jisung, ever the fidgeter, starts tapping the toy against his knee, the faint click-click barely audible. Minho’s head snapped toward him, his whisper sharp.

“Do you mind? My ears are bleeding here.”

Jisung froze, then deliberately clicked the toy one more time, smirking.

“Sorry, your highness. Didn’t realize your delicate ears couldn’t handle a little noise. Maybe you should’ve brought your noise-canceling headphones.” he said and Minho’s eyes flashed. 

He leaned across you again as he said, “Keep clicking that thing, Han, and I’ll shove it somewhere you won’t like.”

“Try it,” Jisung hissed, leaning in too, their faces inches apart over your lap. “I’d love to see you explain to Y/N why you’re starting a fight over a fidget toy she gave me. Bet you’re jealous, huh?”

You snorted, unable to help it, and both of them turned to you, looking betrayed.

“What?” you said, holding up your hands. “You’re both being ridiculous. It’s a fidget toy, not the Holy Grail. And Minho, you’re not helping with the death threats.”

Minho huffed, crossing his arms and slumping back. “He started it.”

“Did not!” Jisung whisper-yelled, and you clamped a hand over his mouth, glaring at him.

“Enough,” you said, your voice low but firm. “One more word, and I’m dumping this popcorn on both of you and leaving.”

They both shut up, shooting each other side-eyes but staying silent. You settled back, relieved, and for the rest of the movie, they manage to keep their bickering to exaggerated sighs and pointedly grabbing popcorn at the same time, their hands brushing in the bucket like it’s a duel.

You watched this dramatic showdown silently, munching popcorn and trying to focus on the screen, but you couldn’t deny the fact that it was kind of funny - your chaotic boyfriend and your smug best friend, fighting over nothing with no real bite.

When the credits rolled, Jisung stretched, his arm accidentally draping over your shoulders, and Minho rolled his eyes so hard you’re surprised they didn't fall out.

“Real subtle, Han,” Minho muttered, standing and brushing off his jeans.

“Eat your heart out, Lee,” Jisung shot back, pulling you closer with a grin.

You sighed, standing and grabbing the empty popcorn bucket. 

“You two are exhausting,” you said, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Next time, I’m bringing earplugs.”

As you left the theater, Jisung’s hand in yours and Minho walking beside you, still tossing barbs at each other, you knew this is your life now. Caught between these two idiots, refereeing their petty battles, and somehow loving every second of it.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

[orimuraa]

• The sun’s engaged to the sky - 이희승 ↳ ┊: falling behind - laufey

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆you were shy and introverted, but meeting a certain someone made you want to try and be more his type ⨾

۶ৎ heeseung x fem!reader┆fluff┆heeseung is the son of reader’s parent’s coworkers┆petnames, slight insecurities?┆wc 973

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this was supposed to be a short drabble but i got a bit carried away…thank you to the anon who requested! i hope you enjoy >.<

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

"y/n let's go!" you mom called out from downstairs.

your parents often had business meetings that they would take you on just so you wouldn't be alone all the time. however, you loved being alone. you were on the shy side and you found socializing immensely difficult, making the work meetings awkward for you.

"our client has a son who's around you age, sweetie!" your mom says in her bubbly tone when you arrive downstairs.

"great...friends..." you say sarcastically, letting your shoulders droop just at the dreadful thought. you weren't sure if you looked too dark but you wore your usual color—black. it wasn't anything too fancy, just a black collared shirt and some black dress pants.

the car ride was comfortable as you were able to drown out your anxiety with music while your parents talked. it wasn't that you were incapable of talking to people, it was just hard as you were a serious introvert.

when you arrived, you slowly got out of the car, attempting to delay your parents as much as possible. unfortunately, it didn't work as the other couple was already waiting for you at the entrance.

there stood a couple that you hardly looked at because right next to them was the most gorgeous man you have ever seen.

he was in a casual white dress shirt but damn he looked good. his hair was a shade of deep red while his bambi eyes sparkled brighter than the sun.

"hi, i'm heeseung! y/n, right?" you nod. "gorgeous name for a gorgeous girl" he winks. god damn his stupid flirting skills.

"h-hi..it's nice to meet you," you blush, unable to think properly anymore. he was so pretty it made you nervous and you resisted the urge to dig a hole and hide it it.

“nice to meet you to, i’m lee heeseung,” he smiled, sticking his hand out to shake yours. god- even his hand was pretty-

“well, you kids have fun while we do the adult talking,” you mom jokes, making you scowl.

your parents and his walked into a conference room, leaving you and heeseung to keep each other company.

“sooo…what do you like to do?..” you cringed at your poor attempt to make small talk.

“i like to write songs,” he smiles, everything getting more perfect each time you looked at him.

“oh? really? that’s cool,” you reply, mentally slapping yourself for being so awkward.

“how about yourself?” he asked, his voice so smooth and warm. no wonder he was a singer.

“i like to do art,” you say shyly, feeling your ears heat up.

“that’s so cool! i’ve always admired people with artistic talent..i..i can’t draw whatsoever,” he laughs, his eyes forming into little crescents.

“maybe i could draw while you make music..i think our parents will be meeting a lot more,” you offer, fiddling nervously with the hem of your sleeve.

“that sounds lovely y/n,” he smiles once again, his voice now softer.

when you got home, you realized that heeseung seemed like a very outgoing person. definitely the type of person you weren’t. then your mind started to drift. would he ever date someone like you? if you changed, would he then consider you?

you spent the test of your evening watching videos on how to be social and also fixing your all black wardrobe.

so the next time you went with your parents, you were basically a whole new person.

each time, you tried to slowly change. more laughs, more smiles, more personality. you hoped it caught heeseung’s eye.

you finally decided to go full out this meeting. maybe then heeseung would notice you for someone more his type. you were giddy and excited to go, skipping out of your room clad in a pink sweater and a black skirt.

“oh- sweetie are you okay?” your mom questioned, blown away by the change in her daughter.

“eh, leave her, she’s having fun,” your dad said, chuckling as he got in the car.

heeseung was just as perfect as he was the last time you saw him—if not more so.

“hi heeseung!” you smiled, a huge smile on your face.

“hi y/n, you seem different today?” he asked, an amused hanging on his lips.

“o-oh? really?” you stutter, caught off guard.

“y/n, you don’t need to change to please me,” heeseung says gently, moving one of his hands over to yours. “you were perfect as you were the first day i met you. in fact- i think i enjoy the shy ynnie better.”

“you really think so? but you’re so- you’re so…i don’t know! perfect!” you blurt, your confession coming from your lips.

“me? perfect? please, nobody’s perfect,” heeseung laughs, pushing back his hair. “plus, if i’m perfect, you must be beyond perfect, angel.”

“gosh- i don’t know how anyone could keep that up for their whole life! that was exhausting,” you sigh, letting your shoulders relax a bit. “but you really think i’m better all shy and unable to socialize?” you question, feeling the blush creep up your cheeks.

"i thought it was cute," heeseung shrugged, smirking when he saw how flustered you got. "besides, i want to be fall for the real you, not this made up one."

"what- you...you like me?" you freeze, unsure if you heard him correctly.

"yeah, i mean- you're so sweet and i find it so cute how you get so shy," heeseung chuckles lightly. "maybe i could take you on a date, angel?"

you didn't trust you voice enough to respond so you managed an enthusiastic nod towards heeseung. "i would really like that..." you said, your voice barely over a whisper.

"i'm glad our parents work together, and i'm glad i met you, cutie," heeseung says, booping your nose like you were a little kid.

he could get used to making you flustered.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa

[s4pphicghost]

— sleepover <3

au powder x fem reader; pure fluff! no cws, hope you enjoy ♡  (sorry for mistakes, feel free to correct me!)

it's common for you to hold hands, hug many times a day, have weekly sleepovers and spend most of the time together. even light kisses on the cheek have been slipping between you for a while now — neither of you thought about it for too long, giving friendly gestures an unfriendly coloring. at least, she didn't think about it, as you assured yourself.

Powder grabbed your hands tightly, her eyes burning with a mischievous blue flame. 

"you'll stay the night, right? I bought the eyeshadow, remember? that cherry shade! Vander gave me a couple of coins so I..."

this smile is more alive and dazzling than a newly born star. and a thousand of your entranced glances, opening other worlds in your head at every sight of these soft stretched lips and bared teeth, was not enough for you to get used to the warmth that was physically reflected in your body each time.

"of course… I promised, didn’t I?”

you faintly smiled back. the blue-haired girl was slightly shorter than you, and you didn't want to admit, but even such a small height difference seemed oddly adorable to you.

Powder (oh how she loved to do it), impulsively pressed you to herself, in usually unexpected — although, you should’ve gotten used to it by now — but such a comforting and sincere embrace.

“I’ll be waiting”

like a spring flower opening its delicate petals from the rays of the warm sun, her warming presence and such amazing calmness, trust in the whole world, made you cast aside all doubts and insecurities. it seemed even criminal — in her accepting gaze and soul-kissing smile to be embarrassed by your own sincere feelings. and still, you could not imagine actually confessing to her, overcoming your overwhelming fears. you only wanted one thing — to be a mirror of her soul, at least for a moment, to show her full beauty through your eyes — so innocent, naive, even though having gone through so much anger and injustice of the real world...

you always loved to see Powder like this — in large home t-shirts hanging from her small figure, with her blue hair gathered in a low disheveled bun, and tired, but incredibly beautiful deep blue eyes, and this tender look that she always generously bestowed on you in such intimate moments.

your knees were rubbing against each other — or rather, she deliberately initiated physical contact. you were lying on her messy bed, the new eyeshadow had long been lying open and forgotten on the table — she tried it on herself and made you give in to her requests to put some on you. she loved to share almost everything with you — delicious treats, clothes that had long seemed to belong to both of you (just divided into two different houses), sunny days filled with ringing laughter and even burdensome nights, when it was hard to just be, but being in your presence always gave her hope.

through her homely and thin from frequent wear t-shirt and the fabric of your nightgown, you could feel her steady heartbeat. you held her by the waist, not really pressing her to you, but just holding her in place without much effort, unlike her — one hand on your back, the other — a little closer to your waist, but she hugs you tightly, holds you close for 16, 17, 18 heartbeats seconds, and still doesn’t let go — your head is already boiling with thoughts, the almost dissipated sweet floral scent of her perfume fogs up your head, and you are on the verge of lowering your head to her shoulder, when she slowly pulls away, with a soft and slightly embarrassed smile — a sight rarely seen in other circumstances.

"I still can't believe they’re officially dating," she sighed, looking at the ceiling. if you were honest, you lost the thread of her thoughts quite a while ago, just watching the smooth rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips part and touch when she says the words. no, this feeling is not new at all. it feels like you've known her your whole life, even though you've only been friends for a couple of years. you started noticing intimate details about her a couple of months ago.

“sorry what were you talking about?" you whispered, lifting your head a bit so she could look at you. her eyes reflected the soft light from the window, causing the burgundy-purple glittery eyeshadow to shimmer unnaturally. a familiar and melting smirk graced her face.

"again? listen, are you sure you're friends with me... willingly?"

a soft chuckle fell from her pinkish-peach lips after her sarcastic reproach. she knew that you valued your friendship very much, she didn't doubt it for a moment and was forever grateful for your presence and efforts. and its not like she was actually annoyed by your lack of attention..

"this is the third time today."

the girl moved a bit, gently hugging you around the waist, pressing you even closer. you held back a sigh of unexpected sensitivity. you couldn't utter a word, not being able to come up with an easy excuse. Powder's gaze was directed out the window as you tried to get your thoughts in order. she felt like the soft warming sun breaking through the clouds after a cool, damp night. like the soothing sensation of loose, oily balm on dry, chapped lips.

"listen... can I ask you something rather... personal?"

your eyes seemed to widen for a millisecond, not even halfway through the last word. luckily she couldn't see it... not waiting for your answer (she was only asking out of politeness), Powder continued.

“do you like someone? romantically"

her eyes, now looking straight into yours, pierced your heart and soul. you knew that question would come soon, you really were bad at playing the role of a person who hides their true feelings perfectly.

although you may have known, you were definitely not ready, both mentally and physically. you still hadn't come up with an answer to that question...

it was hard to keep so many things under control at once — the rate of your breathing, the ‘confident’ relaxation of your body, the look in which she wouldn’t notice a drop of embarrassment. oh no, but you forgot one thing — you’ve been silent for a while now.

her smile widened sweetly.

the small, unnatural laugh cracked and died away. Powder averted her gaze.

"because I... thought it was just some platonic sympathy, but..."

her lips twitched in a forced smile before her teeth viciously sank into her lower lip. no, these lips exist only for the softest kisses! — your thoughts screamed. your brain did not even bother trying to process the information spoken by the blue-haired girl.

"when you laugh, look at me like this... no, it's something.."

Powder seemed so... different. complete opposite of the girl who talked incessantly with the enthusiasm of a child who had just learned to talk, confidently doing ridiculous and sometimes even risky things. oh no, the creature in front of you has the thinnest skin, the most tender heart and the most fragile soul of all that you’ve ever met.

"I want to wake up with you in my bed. I want to fall asleep with your warmth..."

your heart stopped for a eternity second. you had been looking at her face for at least half a minute, but it was as if you couldn’t really see anything. only an involuntary twitch of your hand brought you back to her disordered bed. her blue, ocean-deep eyes read every strain of your facial muscles. the girl's breathing was uneven and clearly audible to you.

"sorry.. I guess im kinda slow," you exhaled with a broken laugh, "do you mean..."

her voice sounded deeper and cut off the thread of your knots of thoughts

"sorry, this is probably a bit harsh. I'm not forcing you to answer this in any way now, I just wanted you to know, I guess..."

your heart was beating too loudly, the echo seemed to even drown out her voice. it was unnerving to meet her gaze, but what could you do when every cell of your body felt so alive, so real? it was difficult to pull out at least one of the millions of thoughts swiftly leading a round dance in your head.

“you.. I always felt like I was just imagining things when you... well, me too-“

her sweet, warm laugh dissolved the rest of the words on your tongue. her arms wrapped around your shoulders, foreheads connecting with a soft thump. your eyes could only recognize the smile that was so easily ingrained in your memory, always being the last thing you thought of before going to bed and the first thing in your head in the morning.

“god, I was so scared.. I thought I would never confess just out of fear”

unable to say a word, you pressed yourself against her, hugging her tightly. your fingers slid over the thin fabric of her shirt, feeling every vertebra. the girl’s body twitched with goosebumps running across her skin, but she did not pull away. burying her nose in your shoulder, inhaling your scent, she spoke, her voice lightly muffled.

“I’m so tired of thinking about this alone.”

“you never thought about this alone, trust me. but the silence was truly devouring.” you gently laid her down next to you. of course, you had hugged before — a thousand times. and in her bed, too. but at this moment, it felt like more than just your intertwined bodies; the embrace warmed more than just the top layer of skin — the warmth pierced right through.

“I’ll wake up in your bed tomorrow. and every morning after that."

im sorry this took so long for no reason ;-; hopefully it was worth it!

[revelboo]

Can you do a roleplay scenario with combaticon brawl? 💕

Sure! 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Roleplay

Brawl

• “Are you sure about this?” Nose wrinkling as you reach to sink your fingers into the thick, soft fake furs in pastel shades of pink, red, and white before frowning at the pile of pillows. And picking up the sheer pink coverup with plush trim and the scraps of lace that will absolutely cover nothing at all. Raising an eyebrow at Swindle, the mech just grins at you. ‘Babe, would I lie to you?’ He purrs, dangling a little lace choker from a servo. ‘You wanna surprise Brawl? Wanna make him beg? You need this. But if you don’t want it-’

• Reaching out, you snatch the collar. “If you’re lying, I’m going to smack you,” you mutter. “What’s in it for you?” Because Swindle never does anything unless he gets something out of it. “Did you hide cameras in here?” And he looks genuinely offended, pressing a palm over his spark like you’ve wounded him. ‘So suspicious. Maybe I just want to do something nice for my best friend Brawl,’ Swindle says and you just stare at him. ‘Okay. He’s been unbearable lately after that last mission went sideways, so I need you to frag him senseless so he’ll go back to being slightly less annoying.’ And that, you can at least believe.

• Optics narrowing, Brawl growls as he glances from Vortex to Swindle and Blast Off. Just hanging out in the hallway near the door to their shared habsuite. “Do I even want to know?” He growls and Swindle grins at him, pointing at the door. ‘Got a present for you big guy,’ Swindle says and Brawl vents as he shoves past, letting himself in and hearing the door shut behind him. Because the last time Vortex had ‘surprised’ him, he’d found the other Combaticons had been daring you to do shots of vodka until you were a miserable, sick mess. If these slagheads have done something to you, he’s going to make them suffer. And he freezes spotting you sprawled among thick furs and pillows wearing something very lacy and revealing.

• Face heating as he just stares, you decide you’re going to kill Swindle. “What are you wearing?” He rumbles, loud voice rough as he approaches your little nest on his berth. And he reaches, servos fisting the furs near your hip as he leans over you, still full size. With his visor and battle mask, there’s no telling what he’s thinking. A servo of his other hand sliding from the collar at your neck down your torso stopping just short of where you want him to touch as he vents. “This for me?”

• Staring at your soft skin decorated in delicate lace that doesn’t actually hide anything, he leans closer, battle mask retracting to brush his lips against your neck and shoulder. Your belly. Venting against your skin. Watching you spread your thighs slightly for him. “Your favorite toy is feeling neglected,” you whisper. Shuddering at that word with a mix of arousal and embarrassment, because he hadn’t admitted that little fantasy to anyone. Fragging Swindle had probably snooped in his mind while they’d been combined into Bruticus.

• “You’re not a toy,” he growls, sounding offended, before using a servo to nudge your thighs open. And you arch in surprise when his big glossa slides against you. Hear his rumbling snarl before he’s vaulting up with you and mass shifting. Reaching up you cup his face in your hands.

• “What if I wanted to be your toy tonight?” You ask, giving him permission to pretend you’re his little frag toy. “Though, if you’d wanted to play with me, all you had to do was ask.” Watching hungrily as you slide a hand down your body and his spike stirs. Aching to claim what you’re offering. “What do you want to do to me?”

• Hear him snarl before he’s hooking an arm around you to flip you onto your belly. “Everything,” he growls, freeing his spike and driving into you. Fingers fisting in the furs under you as your big mate moves against you, he’s being rougher than normal. Careful to not hurt you, but not treating you like you’re made of glass and you moan pushing back to meet the hard drives of his hips. “You’re mine to claim.” Hips snapping as he ruts urgently against you. Hear him snarling that you’re his to fill, to breed and need has you coiling tight listening to his growled words.

[pinkbowsaroundmysoul]

NERD!Armin. AOT College AU

: ̗̀➛ summary: You get invited to Eren's frat house party and bring Armin along. Little did you know that he'd take something to gain the courage to express his feelings for you...in a not so subtle way.

: ̗̀➛ mentions!: No use of (y/n), sorry y'all I can't do it. NERD! Armin who's freakier than he lets on. Soft Armin mentions because I see him as a soft lover. COLLEGE AU (yes this means everyone here is an adult). Underage drinking. Mentions of being high. Armin's tongue piercing.

: ̗̀➛ author's note: All credit towards @ маша мышка! on Tiktok/ @ musapylsa on Tumblr for that art piece that inspired this fanfic. Depending on how this turns out I'll write out an nsfw version of what happens after the party. Leave a comment and a like! Enjoy!

୨⎯ "𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝔀" ⎯୧

Armin Arlert was your typical nerd. Well- almost.

He was type to be academically gifted in all manners of subjects without really even trying. But beyond that he managed to insert himself into nearly every pop culture fandom he could think of and immersed himself almost obsessively in digital analysis pages with other intellectuals that could itch his genius brain in the way he needed it.

So in his spare time when he wasn’t consuming books at an alarming rate, he was nose deep into whatever far corner space of the internet he’s nestled himself deeply in. And when pulled out he had a penchant for deep articulated thoughts and ideas that usually would get glossed over by his filthy mouth and mind.

This was such a constant occurrence it was generally normalized in your small friend group consisting of Eren, Mikasa and Armin himself. Evidentially so, you were almost glad that he didn’t seem to stray away from this. It was predictable amongst the inevitably of change as you continued to grow up.

How wrong you were.

Of course when you all tirelessly worked to get into Trost University things began to change in quick, sudden bursts. Eren, for one, vied to go into a Fraternity and was able to get accepted. It was a combination of Greek words and letters you weren’t familiar with nor cared enough to memorize, but the word on campus was that they were nicknamed The Scouts.

And so in real time you began to witness the sprightly, young, ambitious boy who didn’t give a damn what others thought about him- care about his appearance, work out and lose himself in the parties that The Scouts would endlessly throw. But you knew that despite his sudden sex appeal that he only had eyes for Mikasa, who also found her style in her early adult years at the University in darker shades and gothic styles.

But the parties never suited you. You were studious like Armin and often studied with him in the on-campus library. He was a Marine Biology major. It was fitting for him, whom in his adolescence never seemed to shut up about ocean and exploration. Now he could pursue his dreams and the sea which was as blue as his eyes.

And yet despite your shy nature, Eren had managed to convince you to attend a massive party that he was throwing with The Scouts to mark the end of the grueling semester. So naturally you convinced Armin to come along too, who promptly made an off handed comment about how you could never trust a bathroom at a frat house- someone would probably take up the space for other more “important” things.

The music was playing at a blaring volume with the bass turned up high, thumping just as loudly, practically synching up with your heart’s rhythm. The frat house was dark with the exception of multiple colored strobe lights and the kitchen lights that were dimmed to see the snacks and various alcoholic beverages that lined the counter with stacks upon stacks of red solo cups.

The air felt hot and thick with the crowd of bodies that surrounded you. It was almost suffocating amongst the strangers who you didnt know and who giggled and swayed to the beat of the music. Not to mention, Armin had temporarily disappeared in his signature baggy layered clothes.

You turn towards the punch bowl, which was no doubt filled with mystery drinks and lots and lots of juice to mask the sting and filled it up in a cup. It made you feel less of a sore thumb in an environment you knew nothing about. Mikasa was off with Eren somewhere, probably playing pool so it felt even more isolating.

The music switched to another track you weren’t familiar with. All electronic with no vocals. You leaned against the counter of the kitchen taking a sip of the questionable punch making a slight wince at the burn that went down your throat.

You could see Armin’s straw colored hair emerge from the crowd towards you. He was…different. His walk went from pulling into himself and meek towards a confident saunter towards you. His cheeks flushed with a twinge of pink.

“Where were you?” you asked, barely being able to hear your own voice through the loud music, setting aside your drink to some random surface.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest. You’ve always had feelings for him since childhood, but his confident change in demeanor made your heart race and skin prickle with anticipation.

You took the moment to really look at him. Here he was, a vision of the past- an outwardly immovable piece towards the future with his favorite baggy green t-shirt that he refused to throw out and his bob hair cut he would routinely get. A creature of habit that you found comfort in amongst the whirlwind of change. Yet, he was standing there with an almost predatory look in his eyes.

"With Connie," he finally responds "You know what? I feel great. Just spectacular right now. "

"Great?" you repeat furrowing your brows. "Wait did he give you something? What the fuck Armin? Are you high?"

As Armin closes the distance, there's a loud whoop and all the lights in the kitchen turn off to descend the last lighted part of the house into darkness with the neon glow of party favor glow sticks lighting up silhouettes of other party goers in the near by radius.

"I've never been better," he says in a low voice. Far too low to properly hear him over the raging music. He steps closer, pressing you against the counter, effectively caging you in with his arms on either side.

There's a beat, a pause that must have taken no more than a few seconds that felt like it a lifetime. His hungry gaze lingering on your lips, the smell of his cologne that filled your lungs, and the world that seemed to melt away all but engulfed the ticking seconds.

"I'll prove it to you," he murmured, now so close that you could finally hear him. He leans over to brush his lips against yours in a tentative kiss. It was soft, just like him, but held an underlying strained desire for more.

You couldn't help but kiss back, his lips far more intoxicating than any alcoholic drink. He pressed himself closer, cupping your face as he kissed deeper, eliciting a soft groan from his lips.

It was a passionate flurry of deep messy kisses that made you forget where you were. He was too good at this, painfully good that it made your heart race. His leg slot between your own as the space between you both became nonexistent, bringing a haze of need that struck the deepest corners of your being.

The pressure of his leg led to a gasp that Armin saw as an opening, slipping in his tongue inside your mouth to explore. There was a small foreign sensation of cool metal that brushed against your own tongue that made you pull back.

Armin panted softly, his glasses slightly foggy. It was barely visible, but you were able to see a small piercing in the middle of his tongue that you never knew was there that peaked through his pants.

"Was that alright?" he asked softly, almost too innocently as if his kisses didn't scream out a "seasoned pro."

That's when it hit you. Armin wasn't as stuck in time as you had thought he was. Even if he wore the same dinky shirt that you'd tease him mercilessly over or kept the same bobbed cut from your high school days. It was you that wanted to stand against the power of time and stop the cascading change that wanted to wash over you.

Armin had changed slowly in his own way. You just didn't want to see it. You didn't know this version of him. The one that you caught glimpses of through his dirty jokes that he'd sprinkle into conversation. You weren't familiar with the man that stood in front of you with pent up sexual desires. Who just wasn't some innocent little nerd that fretted over analysis posts and the ocean.

"Yeah," you breathe out. Your gaze lingering on his kiss bruised lips.

His eyes shifted between your eyes and your own lips. Then as if it took some great will power, he pulled his leg that slotted between your legs back to give you space.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he whispered into your ear.

It was a dangerous question. Not that Armin was inherently dangerous, but rather that you knew that as soon as you left the frat party, you'd lose yourself to abandoned inhibitions. Anything to have his lips on you for a little longer.

You didn't know this version of him, but perhaps this was the night that you might get well acquainted.

[etherealeowyn]

Bikini Weather - Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader

Fluff

Word Count: 558

Y/n wants to show off her new bikini to Bucky, but she needs some help putting it on.

After what felt like an eternity of cloudy days, Y/n couldn’t help but smile when she noticed sunbeams cutting through her sheer white curtains. About ten minutes before, she had slipped out of Bucky’s embrace in bed, wanting to surprise him with the new bikini she had just bought in anticipation of the pool day they would have.

Standing before the bathroom mirror, she adjusted the navy-blue swimsuit, struggling to tie the straps together behind her neck. The commotion in the bathroom, though slight, had woken Bucky from his sleep, and it wasn’t long before he was leaning against the door frame, watching his girlfriend attempt to fix her top.

“Hey, doll, want me to help you?” he asked, walking behind her and kissing her cheek.

“Yes, please, I didn’t think it would be this hard to put on, I wanted to surprise you, but I guess I kind of messed that up,” Y/n responded, lifting her hair up and out of the way.

“You didn’t mess anything up, I’ll just tie this for you and go sit on the bed, and you could act like I wasn’t even here,” Bucky replied with a sweet smile, making eye contact with her in the mirror.

His hands delicately held onto the straps and tied them in a bow, pulling them extra tight to make sure there wasn’t a chance that they would become undone. Before leaving the bathroom, he trailed a couple of kisses down the side of her neck, stopping when he reached the woman’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Bucky,” Y/n replied, her hand gently cupping the side of his face before quickly kissing his lips and playfully shooing him out of the bathroom so she could model the bathing suit.

“You’re welcome,” he laughed as he walked back into the bedroom, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

His knee bounced in anticipation, and even though he had seen what the bathing suit looked like, he didn’t get a full look at her whole body in it, which he knew would be gorgeous. I mean, there wasn’t a single outfit she wore that he didn’t adore on her, and in a way, he convinced himself that she must have some sort of magic because he had never been so completely and consistently captivated by a woman before.

“Okay, are you ready?” Y/n called out, her voice full of excitement, and Bucky could already picture in his mind the big smile that was spread across her features.

“Absolutely,” he said, and immediately felt the corners of his mouth pull up into a smile as she walked out of the bathroom, spinning around on her heel to give him a complete view of the entire bikini and her body.

“Oh baby,” he started, his cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink. “You look so beautiful, how did I get so lucky to find a woman like you?”

Y/n walked over to him, and stood between his legs, Bucky’s hands wasting no time finding her waist and closing the space between them. His metal hand was cold against her bare skin, but she didn’t mind the feeling of it at all. Quite frankly, as the weather got warmer, she loved it.

“You know, I could be asking you the same thing,” she giggled, draping her arms around his neck.

[rosachae]

deja vu | manon x reader

⁍ song: myth - beach house ⁍ requested: yes-- thank you anon! ⁍ genre: AU! angsty, bittersweet ending. grief and acceptance in different fonts. ⁍ a/n: i hope this is what you were looking for, anon. sorry for delay in getting this out! ⁍ wc: 9.9k ⁍ warnings: heavy depictions of grief and death. mentions of mental illness, sickness, surgery, medication, etc. please read with discretion. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n, for as long as she can remember, has always dreaded falling asleep. her dreams are plagued by memories of a girl. each and every time, she lives a life with her. each and every time, it ends in heartbreak.

the idea of soulmates isn't wrapped in myth or fantasy. there's no magic thread tying fates together, no divine hand deciding who belongs to whom. but still, it feels real in its own quiet, mysterious way. people speak of it in hushed tones, describing sudden connections that strike like lightning. strangers lock eyes and feel as if they've known each other for centuries. some are shaken by deja vu so intense it leaves them breathless. others dream the same dreams on the same nights, caught in a strange, shared familiarity. science has no name for it. the world just accepts that sometimes, two souls find each other and remember.

for y/n, remembering isn't tender. it's not some miracle to chase or cherish. it's a cycle of sorrow that follows her into sleep, again and again. she dreams in sharp, vivid color, trapped in lives she can’t recall by day but can’t escape by night. and always, at the center of it all, there’s the same woman. a fierce, beautiful stranger who feels more like a missing limb than a memory. y/n meets her over and over, in different centuries, different bodies, different lives. they find each other and lose each other, always torn apart by something cruel and unseen. like their story was carved in stone long before they ever lived it.

the dreams aren't fragments or fading whispers. they're entire worlds. she lives them fully, loves fiercely, and dies a little each time she wakes. in one life, the woman bleeds out in her arms on a battlefield turned to ash. in another, she disappears into a storm that swallows the sea. always, it's loss. always, it's heartbreak.

the weight of it bleeds into her waking life. she carries grief in her bones, hollow in places she can't explain. she's learned to build her life around absence. to keep her distance. to avoid anything that might stir that old, aching recognition. people think she's cold, guarded, maybe afraid of love. they don't understand that she's loved a hundred times and lost a hundred more, all in the span of sleep.

she doesn’t walk alone. she walks with the echoes of a hundred endings. haunted not by a ghost, but by a soul she keeps finding and losing. and deep down, more than anything, she's terrified it’ll happen again.

the psychiatrists office sits on the top floor of an old building downtown, the kind with creaking stairs and an elevator that groans like it’s doing you a favor. it’s not the kind of place that promises peace or healing. the walls are painted in muted shades that aimed for calming but landed closer to worn out. a soft, sagging armchair waits under a crooked floor lamp that hums faintly when it’s on. there are no framed quotes about growth or resilience, no carefully placed succulents in trendy pots. just shelves crowded with books that have been read too many times and the faint, lingering smell of mint tea mixed with dust.

y/n sits cross legged on the couch, her shoulders tight, fingers tangled in her lap. her posture is practiced stillness, but tension hums beneath it. outside the window, the city murmurs. traffic lights blink in steady rhythm, a car horn groans in the distance, tires hiss over wet pavement. the world moves on, indifferent.

inside, the room is quiet. the air conditioner hums softly, and every now and then, there’s the sound of a pen scratching across paper. taeyeon sits across from her, steady and composed, taking notes with a kind of quiet precision that makes y/n feel exposed.

taeyeon is a psychiatrist. her presence is gentle, but clinical. her voice is low and even, each word measured, careful not to press too hard. she never rushes, never interrupts. she has the kind of calm that makes y/n ache with something sharp and shapeless, part envy, part resentment. taeyeon was calm in a way that y/n could only dream of.

“how many nights this week?” taeyeon asked, clicking her pen once before jotting something down.

“five,” y/n said, her voice barely more than a breath. “same woman. different place.”

taeyeon nodded slowly. “can you tell me about the most recent one?”

y/n exhaled through her nose, like the memory hurt to touch. “a desert. sand everywhere. in the air, in my mouth, in my lungs. we were running. hiding. i don’t know from what. she had a scar along her jaw and a cloth wrapped around her wrist, like she was bleeding. but she smiled at me like everything was fine.”

“and did you recognize her again?” taeyeon’s voice was calm, careful. not dismissive, not probing too hard. she had learned how to ask without denying. not with y/n.

“always,” y/n whispered. “it’s always her. different bodies, different voices, but the same eyes. i just know.”

taeyeon tapped the tip of her pen against the paper, thoughtful. “how did it end?”

“same as always,” y/n said. “i lost her. the world started falling apart or she just vanished. sometimes she dies. sometimes i do. and then i wake up crying, and i can’t breathe, and it takes a while before i remember where i am. before i feel real again.”

there was a pause. taeyeon leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees.

“we’ve talked about dissociation,” she said gently. “how powerful dreams like this can sometimes be the mind’s way of processing trauma. especially when they’re this vivid, this consistent. it can feel like you’re living two lives. like your brain is carrying something too heavy to face all at once, so it breaks it into pieces you only see when you’re sleeping.”

y/n couldn’t help the quiet scoff that slipped out. dissociation. of course.

they always said the same things. dissociative episodes. unresolved trauma. recurrent nightmares. some leaned toward ptsd, others floated terms like delusional attachment or maladaptive daydreaming. one suggested a rare sleep disorder. they circled her like they were mapping a storm they couldn’t predict, naming symptoms like they were anchors, like labels could keep her from drifting too far.

but none of it touched the truth of it. none of it explained how it felt like her soul kept getting dragged through time, tethered to a stranger who never stayed.

y/n nodded regardless, but her expression was distant. “but what if it’s not just trauma? what if it is real? what if i’m not broken? what if my soul just… remembers?”

taeyeon didn’t answer right away. instead, she let the question hover between them like smoke.

“i believe your pain is real,” she said carefully. “your grief, your connection, your fear of losing her. all of it. i’m not here to tell you what’s real and what isn’t. i’m here to help you stay anchored, no matter what the answer turns out to be.”

y/n laughed, but there was no humor in it. “anchored. i feel like i’m drowning in someone else’s life. like i’ve already lived and died a thousand times, and i don’t have any of the good parts to show for it. just the endings.”

taeyeon softened. “that sounds exhausting.”

“it is.” y/n’s voice cracked. “and the worst part? i feel like i’m grieving someone i’ve never even met. and no one gets it. no one sees it as real grief. not even me, most of the time. it just… hurts.”

taeyeon nodded slowly. “grief doesn’t need permission. it doesn’t need logic. your mind, your body, your heart—they’re all carrying something. whether it’s memory or metaphor, it deserves to be processed.”

“but what if i never stop dreaming of her?” y/n whispered. “what if i’m meant to keep losing her forever?”

“then we figure out how to live in between the dreams,” taeyeon said. “how to find meaning in the spaces where you’re awake. how to hold on to yourself. you’re not here to solve every life you’ve lived. you’re here to live this one.”

the silence that followed wasn’t heavy. it was necessary. y/n stared out the window, watching the sky shift from steel to amber. somewhere below, a siren wailed. the city moved on, uncaring. but in this room, in this breath, she felt just the smallest flicker of stillness.

taeyeon didn’t speak again right away, and y/n was grateful for it. sometimes silence was the most honest part of these sessions. not everything needed a tidy response, a plan, a labeled diagnosis. sometimes it was just about making it to the next breath without sinking.

“do you think i’m delusional?” y/n asked at last, her eyes fixed on the window. her voice was flat, but her fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.

“no,” taeyeon said, calm and certain. “i think your mind is telling a story your body hasn’t finished understanding. maybe it’s rooted in trauma. maybe it’s memory. maybe it’s something we don’t have language for yet. but that doesn’t make it delusion.”

y/n turned her head slowly. “but no one else dreams like this. no one else wakes up with bruises shaped like hands they’ve never touched. or with songs on their lips they’ve never heard before. i speak languages i’ve never learned. i wake up missing her like she just walked out of the room.”

taeyeon wrote something down, but her eyes never left y/n. “have you ever told anyone that part?”

“no.” she paused, her voice low. “i stopped trying. people look at me like i’m breakable. or lying. or worse... like i’m something to be afraid of.”

there was a long pause.

“can i ask you something?” taeyeon said.

y/n gave a small nod.

“if it’s real—your dreams, the woman, the loss—what do you think you’re meant to do with it in this life?”

the question landed between them like a stone dropped into water. not heavy, but deep. it sank fast, and y/n felt the ripple of it in her chest, behind her ribs where the grief always settled.

“i don’t know,” she said quietly. “i think… i’m afraid i’ll never find her here. or worse, that i will, and i won’t recognize her until it’s too late.”

taeyeon’s voice stayed soft, steady. “what if it’s not about finding her at all? what if it’s about becoming the version of you who can survive losing her? or maybe… the one who doesn’t lose her at all?”

the thought felt like an open wound and a balm all at once. y/n looked down at her hands, her thumbs rubbing together in slow circles, a nervous ritual she barely noticed anymore.

“that version of me would have to be a lot stronger than this,” she said quietly.

“maybe,” taeyeon replied. “or maybe she’s already here, underneath the grief.”

the clock ticked softly in the corner, marking the end of the session, but neither of them moved. the city outside had shifted again. a wind stirred through the alley below, carrying the distant sound of footsteps and voices and life.

“same time next week?” taeyeon asked eventually, her voice light, as if the conversation hadn’t just opened a door that couldn’t be closed again.

y/n stood slowly, wrapping her coat around her like armor. “yeah,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what next week would bring. maybe another dream. maybe another ending.

the hallway outside taeyeon’s office was dim and narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed just enough to feel wrong. the carpet was a tired gray, worn thin in spots, and the air smelled faintly of old coffee and overused cleaning spray. y/n took the stairs instead of the elevator, her steps slow and careful. she didn’t like the sound of her own breath in tight spaces, not after sessions like this. everything inside her felt too exposed, like her skin didn’t fit quite right.

by the time she stepped outside, the sky had settled into dusk. cars moved past in quiet waves, headlights blinking on one by one. the breeze carried the damp scent of distant rain and exhaust. she pulled her collar up and slipped the folded prescription into her coat pocket like it was something she didn’t want anyone to see.

quetiapine.

low dose. for sleep, taeyeon had said. for the emotions. for the edges. something to soften the line between the dreams and waking life.

“just something to ground you,” she’d added, voice gentle.

y/n hadn’t argued. but she hadn’t said yes either. 

at the corner, she paused beneath a flickering streetlamp. the script crinkled in her pocket like a secret. the words felt heavy. antipsychotic. sedative. off-label.

none of them felt like they belonged to her.

she didn’t feel sick. not in the way they meant. she didn’t feel like her mind was broken. if anything, the dreams were the only things that felt consistent, real, even if they tore her apart. it was the waking world that felt fragmented. like a life half-lived. like her body was here but her soul had its bags half-packed, always waiting for a call back to somewhere else.

she crossed the street without looking, cars slowing around her like she wasn’t really there. the pharmacy on 9th street glowed too brightly, its glass doors sliding open with a sterile hiss. she stood just inside, the cold air conditioning raising goosebumps on her arms, and stared down at the slip of paper in her hand.

her name. her date of birth. the drug. the dosage. instructions in bold print. take one at bedtime. do not operate heavy machinery. may cause drowsiness.

none of it said what she really wanted.

may stop you from dying over and over again in your sleep.may dull the face of the woman who keeps saying “found you.”may silence the only part of your life that feels like truth.

“can i help you?” the pharmacist asked, polite, rehearsed, unaware of the war playing out behind her eyes.

y/n hesitated. then handed the paper over.

when she left twenty minutes later, a small white bag folded shut in her hand, she felt no relief. no sense of control. only a deeper kind of uncertainty.

because she knew what was waiting for her when she closed her eyes.

and she didn’t know what scared her more. seeing the woman again or the possibility that this time, she wouldn’t at all.

she moved on instinct, letting her feet carry her forward while her mind drifted somewhere else entirely. head bowed low, shoulders curled inward like she could shrink out of existence if she tried hard enough. around her, the city pulsed with people who had places to be and lives to live, all of them tethered to their own distractions. she kept walking, each step a blur, vision unfocused as thoughts piled on top of each other in a fog she couldn’t cut through. then, as she turned a corner sharply without thinking, her body moving faster than her awareness could catch up, she slammed shoulder first into someone heading the opposite direction. the sudden jolt snapped her out of her spiral like a slap to the face. she almost dropped her bag.

the impact wasn’t hard, but it knocked her a step back. the other girl stumbled too, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. y/n opened her mouth to apologize, her reflex already halfway formed. sorry, i didn’t see you— the words were on the tip of her tongue. but the moment their eyes met, everything stopped. her words fell to a muted breath. time didn’t slow. it fractured.

she hadn’t meant to look up. it was just a reflex, a flicker of attention at the sudden jolt of impact. 

the girl was tall. braids framed her face, a few loose strands curling at her cheekbone like they belonged there. she was pretty in a way that made you look twice without meaning to. golden skin, soft curls pulled back just enough to show the shape of her face, and eyes that held something quiet but certain. everything about her was put together without trying too hard, like beauty had always just come naturally to her.

but her eyes. her eyes were the thing that undid y/n.

they were wide and deep, dark enough to drown in, and so achingly familiar that y/n’s breath caught in her throat. it wasn’t recognition in the normal sense. it was older than that, buried in the marrow. it was the kind of knowing you don’t earn in one lifetime.

those eyes had looked at her through fire. through battlefield smoke. across oceans. in dreams. in death.

she knew them. and for a second, the girl looked like she knew her too.

“are you—” the girl started, voice quiet, edged with a question she hadn’t figured out how to ask.

y/n’s heart slammed against her ribs. and then, she turned. her footsteps had never before in her life felt so heavy as she walked away. it was the only thing she could do. if she didn’t, she’d say her name without ever having heard it. if she stayed, she’d never be able to leave again.

behind her, the girl stood still, watching. not following. not calling out. but something had shifted.

deja vu had never felt more tangible. 

__

manon wouldn’t call herself a hopeless romantic. not exactly. she liked the idea of love, sure, the kind that made your chest ache and your world tilt on its axis. but more than that, she liked the promise of it. the cinematic kind, drenched in golden light and dramatic pauses, the kind where someone looks at you like they already know the ending and still want to live every second of the story anyway.

she wasn’t naive, not really. she knew love wasn’t always soft or beautiful. she just liked to believe it could be.

she watched movies like twilight not because she believed in vampires, but because she believed in the way edward looked at bella like the sun finally had a rival. she cried at the end of 10 things i hate about you. she read books like scripture. she fell in love at least twice a week, usually with strangers on the train or characters in a playlist.

her friends orbited her like moons around some untamable sun. they filled her life with noise and comfort, and manon loved them for it. loved the way they let her be loud and messy. 

she danced with her headphones in, full volume, hips swaying as she folded laundry or cooked or waited for her nail polish to dry. sometimes she danced in public, in line at the bodega or waiting for the light. 

she was so, unashamedly herself. 

so when she turned the corner that evening and bumped into someone—really bumped, hard enough that her shoulder throbbed for a second—she barely blinked. she started to apologize, hand halfway raised in that instinctive, easy way she’d always had. but then the girl looked at her, and manon forgot the rest of the sentence. 

there was something in that stare. something raw and terrified, like manon had reached out and touched a memory that didn’t belong to her. her smile faltered. her heart stuttered in a way it never had before, not even during all the silly crushes or movie moments.

the girl’s eyes were wide and wild, and she looked at manon like she might fall apart just from being seen.

“are you—” manon started, unsure what the hell she was even asking.

but the girl was already backing away. already turning. already gone. just like that.

manon stood there for a long time after. cars passed, the light changed, people moved around her. the city didn’t pause. but she did. her chest felt hollow in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar. like she’d missed something important. 

she didn’t know who that girl was, but the skin on her shoulder was still buzzing where they touched. deep in her gut, something whispered to her.

you’ve met before.

somehow, she knew that wasn’t the last time she’d see her.

when manon stepped back into the apartment ten minutes later, the scent of leftover incense and vanilla candles wrapped around her like a hug that didn’t quite reach. megan was the first thing she saw, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, fully absorbed in her nintendo switch. she didn’t even look up. not until sophia passed behind her and plucked the console clean from her hands.

“hey!” megan gasped, reaching for it, but stopped when sophia gave her a sharp look.

“you’ve been on this all damn day. come eat something before you fuse with the couch.”

megan blinked, then lit up like a light switch. “is it the thai place with the crab rangoon?” she was already halfway to the kitchen before anyone answered.

manon followed slowly, takeout bag rustling against her leg. she’d been starving when she left to pick it up, had practically been fantasizing about curry puffs and sticky rice all day since she finished moving furniture into her new room. but now, her appetite sat buried beneath the weight of a face she couldn’t shake. that stare. those eyes.

she dropped the bag on the counter and started unpacking containers, only half listening as megan pulled open drawers for chopsticks and plates.

“you okay?” sophia asked, not looking up as she peeled the lid off the tom yum soup. “you’re quiet. which is creepy.”

manon hesitated. then, after a moment, she sighed. “i ran into someone.”

sophia’s face morphed into something equal parts teasing and inquisitive. “do we mean ran into, or ran into?”

“shut up,” manon said, but her voice was distant, almost dazed. she leaned her hip against the counter. “no, i mean… literally. this girl just came out of nowhere. we bumped into each other, and i looked at her and…”

“and?” megan asked around a mouthful of noodles.

manon exhaled, rubbing her fingers along the edge of the countertop. “and i don’t know. it was weird. like… my whole body stopped. like i knew her. or maybe… used to know her?”

megan raised a brow, but sophia only rolled her eyes.

“great. you’ve been here a week and you’re already writing yourself into a romance novel” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “listen. you just moved. you’re tired. your brain is bored and lonely and doing that thing where it makes random people feel cosmic.”

“i’m not lonely,” manon said quickly.

sophia gave her a look. “you just left your whole life behind. you miss your favorite boba spot. it’s fine. just don’t start chasing strangers in the street.”

“i’m not gonna chase her,” manon muttered, tugging open a container of rice halfheartedly.

“good,” sophia said, dipping a spring roll in sauce. “focus on getting your bearings. we still haven’t shown you the lake. and the bookstore downtown. or that cursed karaoke bar megan keeps trying to get us kicked out of.”

“hey,” megan said, mouth full. “i stand by my avril lavigne medley.”

sophia ignored her. “new town, new start. the last thing you need is a mysterious stranger who makes your stomach do weird things.”

manon didn’t respond right away. her fingers drummed quietly against the countertop. she was trying to believe sophia. it would’ve been easier to just agree, to let the moment fade into one of those random, unexplainable blips you forget after a few days.

but the girl’s eyes were still there when she closed her own, and something in her gut whispered that forgetting wasn’t going to be an option. still, she nodded.

“yeah,” she said. “you’re right. it was nothing.”

she didn’t believe it for one second.

the next day, manon wandered through town with no real destination, letting the late morning sun soak into her skin and ease the tightness in her chest. the streets were still unfamiliar enough to feel like a story she hadn’t read yet, every corner turning into something new. sophia and megan had spent the morning walking her through the local spots and pointing out cafes with the kind of casual pride that only came from living somewhere long enough to love it. even so, they could tell she needed space, and she hadn’t argued when they gently peeled away after brunch. between their constant presence and the easy chatter of their friends—daniela, lara, and yoonchae— the thing manon needed most now was to decompress.

she still took her time, pausing now and then to glance through coffee shop windows or let the scent of warm bread drifting from nearby bakeries pull a faint smile to her lips. her steps were slow, unhurried, more about the wandering than the destination. when she turned the next corner, she found herself standing in front of a narrow storefront tucked between a flower shop overflowing with soft blooms and a stationery store lined with pastel journals in its window. the sign above the door read second story books, the words hand painted in faded cursive that looked like it had weathered more than one season. sophia had scribbled directions onto a torn sheet of notebook paper before brunch, a little map paired with a single warning written beneath it in blocky letters. don’t let the book clerk scare you too much. she’s always in a bad mood.

despite the warning, nothing could’ve prepared manon for the surprise waiting inside.  the bell above the door chimed softly as she pushed in.

it smelled like old pages and lavender, the air heavy and still like the inside of a dream. narrow shelves wound through the space in lazy, looping rows, creating little pockets of quiet. sunlight filtered in through high windows, cutting gold lines across the hardwood floor.

and then there she was.

manon froze.

behind the counter, half-shadowed beneath a hanging fern, stood the girl from yesterday. the one who’d looked at her like she was a ghost. the one who had vanished without a word.

it was enough to make manon’s stomach swoop. her heart picked up, irrational and bright.

she grabbed a book off the closest table without looking at the title. anything. she didn’t care. she just needed a reason to speak.

the girl didn’t look up until manon was right in front of the counter.

“hey,” manon said, almost too soft. she cleared her throat and held out the book like a peace offering. “i, um, figured i’d stop by. didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

y/n’s hands stilled on the register. she looked up slowly, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

her blood turned to ice the moment manon stepped through the door. it was immediate, visceral, like the air itself had shifted around her. the bookstore, her sanctuary, the one place that had always felt untouched by the chaos of the world, now felt exposed. like someone had cracked it open and let something in that wasn’t meant to be there.

 no. no, not again. 

she could feel it in her chest, in her fingertips, that creeping sense of inevitability pressing against her like a warning. the weight of something old and painful, something she had buried and begged not to unearth again. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. not here. not now. not in this life.

“you’re following me?” y/n asked flatly, her voice low and smooth.

manon blinked, caught off guard. “what? no, i just—i didn’t know you worked here. i came in for a book.”

“what book?”

manon glanced down. the cover was upside down. something about sea mythology. she tried not to laugh. “uh… i’ve always liked mermaids?”

y/n didn’t smile. her eyes, so striking yesterday, were unreadable now. cool and distant.

manon tried again. “i’m manon, by the way.”

y/n’s fingers tapped the edge of the counter once, then slid the book across the scanner. the beep sounded far too loud in the quiet.

“okay.”

manon hesitated. “you don’t want to tell me your name?”

“not particularly.” y/n bagged the book and handed it over without looking her in the eye. “it’s twelve seventy-six.”

manon dug out her card, suddenly cold despite the warmth in the room. she looked at y/n, really looked. she tried to find something in her expression that might explain the coldness, the distance. she came up empty.

“did i… do something wrong?” she asked, quieter now.

y/n didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, but her jaw tightened, her eyes fixed somewhere just past manon’s shoulder like looking directly at her might make something break loose. when she finally spoke, her voice was low and measured, almost gentle if not for the edge she forced into it.

“you should go,” she said. “whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. i don’t have time to entertain strangers who think they belong in places they don’t.”

she didn’t mean it. not really. she just wanted to make her go away. to save herself from the inevitable pain of loss. because what’s there to lose, when you didn’t have it to begin with?

manon stared at her, the silence thick. her face twisted up in confusion. nonetheless, she shakes her head.

“right,” she said finally, voice clipped. “thanks for the book.”

she didn’t look back as she left, the door chime sounding harsher this time.

y/n stood still for a long while, the weight of the moment pressing on her ribs. her hands shook. she didn’t like hurting people—but she had to.

she couldn’t let her in.

not again.

__

the office was quiet again, that familiar kind of stillness taeyeon always kept like a blanket draped over every session. but today it settled over y/n like a weight instead of a comfort. the air felt too clean, too measured, and it only made the anger in her chest simmer hotter. not loud, not explosive, but persistent, like a slow burn that wouldn’t ease up. for as long as she could remember—since she was fourteen and her parents could no longer ignore the way she woke up gasping and sobbing into her pillow—she had been told that something was wrong with her. maybe not always in words, not in the one word that would ruin her completely, but in every glance, every hushed conversation, every carefully scripted therapy session where people tried to convince her she was just confused. they put her on medications, changed the doses, swapped one diagnosis for another as if her mind was a puzzle they could never quite solve. therapist after psychiatrist after specialist all trying to convince her that what she saw every night wasn’t real. that the girl in her dreams, the lives they lived, the endings that shattered her, were just symptoms of something broken. and now here she was, after all those years, sitting in this overly warm office with the sun pouring through the blinds like nothing had changed. 

she was real. 

she had walked into y/n’s world like the universe had run out of ways to keep them apart. and all y/n could think was how fucking cruel it was that no one had believed her. how all this time she had been drowning in something no one else could see, only to have it show up in the middle of a bookstore like it hadn’t ruined her already.

y/n sat in the same place she always did, one leg tucked under the other, shoulders curled slightly in like she’d been bracing for a storm that hadn’t passed yet. taeyeon was across from her, notebook open but untouched. her eyes, lined with quiet concern, never strayed.

“you saw her again,” taeyeon said, not asking. just… knowing.

y/n stared at the floor between them. “at the bookstore.”

“how did it feel?”

“like waking up and remembering she died,” she said softly. “again.”

taeyeon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “and what did you do?”

“i made her go away.”

taeyeon tilted her head. “did you want her to go away?”

y/n’s silence answered for her.

“have you been taking your medication?” taeyeon asked gently.

“yes.” a beat. “sometimes.”

taeyeon didn’t scold. she just nodded, thumb tapping lightly against the cover of her notebook. “you told me the dreams stopped being dreams a long time ago. that they feel like memories. full lives. love. loss. over and over. and now—”

“now she’s here,” y/n finished. “not in a dream. not in a memory. she’s here. in this city, walking into the places i go, smiling like i haven’t watched her die a hundred times.”

“and what makes you so certain she’s the same person?”

y/n laughed, but it cracked in the middle. “it’s in her eyes. i could barely breathe when she looked at me. like my body remembered before my mind could catch up.”

taeyeon leaned forward slightly. “let’s say you’re right. let’s say this is fate. a thread between lives, tangled and pulled tight. then maybe the question isn’t whether it was supposed to happen. maybe the question is—who are you to keep it from happening?”

“i’m someone who’s tired of losing her,” y/n said. “every time. every time i get her, the world takes her back. sometimes it’s war. sometimes it’s illness. sometimes it’s something as stupid as a car crash. and every time, i break. i don’t want to do it again.”

taeyeon nodded slowly, her expression unreadable but not unkind, like she was choosing each word with care. “i believe you,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “i believe the grief is real. i believe the loss feels real too. and whether or not these dreams are memories or symbols or something in between, the pain they leave behind isn’t something we can ignore.”

y/n looked down at her hands, fingers loosely clasped in her lap. her throat felt tight, like the wrong word might split her open.

“but what you’re describing,” taeyeon continued, “it doesn’t sound like fear anymore. it sounds like a kind of punishment. you’re bracing for something you think you can’t change. and in doing that, you’re trying to protect yourself, maybe even her, from something that hasn’t happened yet.”

y/n didn’t answer, didn’t move. the silence stretched, but taeyeon didn’t fill it with pity or false comfort. instead, she leaned back slightly, letting her words settle.

“so let’s talk about free will,” she said. “maybe the endings in your dreams were never up to you. maybe they always happened no matter what. but how you meet them… that part is yours. you get to choose how you exist in this moment, in this life. do you want to keep running from something you haven’t fully understood? or are you willing to let yourself stay still long enough to figure out what this really is?”

y/n turned her face toward the tall window, watching a single leaf trace a slow arc down the glass before catching at the bottom. it stayed there, still and weightless, like it hadn’t made the long fall at all.

“what if the pain outweighs the good?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

taeyeon didn’t respond right away. when she finally spoke, it was quiet, like she was offering something fragile.

“what if it doesn’t?”

the question lingered in the air between them, thin and delicate like a thread stretched just short of breaking. after a long moment, taeyeon leaned forward, her tone still soft but edged with something firmer.

“this girl you met. whether she truly is the girl from your dreams or not, maybe it’s time to confront what her presence brings up in you. maybe it’s not about proving anything. maybe it’s about facing the fear that has kept you running in circles.”

y/n didn’t speak. she stared down at her hands where they sat curled in her lap, her nails pressing small crescents into her skin.

“the grief you feel is valid,” taeyeon said. “but so is the joy. so is whatever connection has followed you across years and versions of yourself. maybe it’s love. maybe it’s something quieter. maybe it’s just the feeling of being seen. but if all you do is brace for the ending, you’ll miss everything in between. the mornings you wake up and forget the fear for a moment. the small ways she makes you laugh when you least expect it. the sound of your name in her mouth when she says it like she already knows you and is just waiting for you to know her back.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she blinked hard against the sting rising behind her eyes and clenched her hands a little tighter, like that alone could keep her grounded.

“start small,” taeyeon said. “don’t fall. don’t run. don’t promise anything to the stars. just… say hello.”

it sounded impossibly simple.

and impossibly hard.

__

y/n hadn’t expected to see her again. after the way she had dismissed her, voice sharp and cold, words chosen with the precision of someone who had spent years learning how to keep others out, she had thought that would be the end of it. clean. final. she had intended it that way. it was safer to draw the line before anything familiar could bloom into something harder to let go of.

but two days later, just after noon, the bell above the door gave its soft chime, and when y/n looked up, manon was standing there again.

outside, rain was falling in that quiet, steady way that softened the edges of everything. her curls were damp at the ends, looser from the moisture, and her jacket clung slightly to her arms, darkened with water. she looked hesitant, but not unsure. in her arms was a paper bag, folded carefully with a receipt tucked under the twine, pressed close to her chest like she needed both hands to hold whatever it was.

y/n’s heart tightened in her chest, an involuntary pull she hated herself for.

she didn’t speak. her fingers stayed frozen above the keyboard as she watched manon approach the counter, slow but steady. without a word, manon set the book between them, her fingers brushing once against the wood before she let go.

“i think this belongs back here,” she said.

there was no smile, no attempt to smooth things over. only the return of something that hadn’t been opened. the book’s spine was still unbroken. untouched. it wasn’t just a return. it was a question. maybe even a challenge. and y/n wasn’t sure yet if she was ready to answer.

y/n’s fingers hovered hesitantly over the register just as she reached for the book, then she froze. despite the weight of her worries, the relentless nightmares, and every shadow of doubt whispering what could go wrong, her mind kept returning to taeyeon’s words, steady and calm. after a moment that stretched quietly between them, she finally lifted her gaze and met the girls’ eyes. 

“hello,” y/n said softly.

the word was small. sincere. it tasted unfamiliar in her mouth. but she meant it. she didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or not that she took taeyeon’s advice so literally.

manon blinked like she hadn’t expected it. her expression cracked open, just slightly. not quite a smile, but something warmer. less guarded.

“hi,” she said. then, after a pause, “you remembered me.”

a silence passed, but it was lighter than before. manon’s hands stayed at her sides. she didn’t move to leave.

“can i ask your name now?” she tried again.

y/n hesitated. she thought of taeyeon. of choices. of pain. of joy. of letting herself be a little braver.

“y/n.”

manon said it back like she was trying it on her tongue for the first time. like she was memorizing it.

that was the beginning.

what followed after didn’t unravel in a neat, cinematic montage. but it came close. they started seeing each other in fragments. a shared coffee break on y/n’s lunch. manon dropping by just to “browse” but staying until close. conversations that began at the register and ended on the curb outside as the sky turned lavender.

they learned each other in quiet ways.

manon talked with her hands, her whole body involved when she was excited. she had a habit of singing along under her breath when music played over the bookstore speakers, sometimes even when she didn’t know the words.

y/n was quieter, but not closed. she listened with the kind of attention that made you feel like the only person in the room. she underlined books she read and sometimes shared passages out loud, voice barely above a whisper.

they traded stories. half-truths, memories, confessions. manon talked about her old apartment, her sister, the playlist she made for every mood. y/n talked about dreams, sometimes. the ones that lingered. the ones she couldn’t quite name yet. still, she never told manon about those ones. the ones that ended in death, in pain, and suffering. 

there were days they walked the long way through town, hands brushing but never quite holding. they shared desserts at cafés, drank tea on manon’s balcony under cheap string lights, and sat side by side without needing to fill the quiet.

and somewhere in the middle of all of that, y/n felt something dangerous creeping in. something gentle. something like hope.

a year passed. 

it started as nothing. a headache here. a little fatigue. manon brushed it off, the way anyone her age would. blamed it on late nights, caffeine, maybe stress. she was always in motion, always vibrating at a higher frequency than anyone else in the room. too many playlists to make, too many open tabs in her brain. so when the tiredness lingered, she didn’t say anything.

but y/n noticed.

she noticed when manon started showing up to the bookstore a little later each time. when she leaned heavier against the counter, smiled a little less brightly. when she stopped finishing her coffee, when she sat instead of danced.

the cough came next. dry, quiet at first. but persistent.

“allergies,” manon had said with a shrug, waving it off. “probably dust or whatever.”

y/n wanted to believe her. she tried. but the weight loss didn’t stop. manon’s skin dulled. her eyes dimmed. and there were days—quiet, terrifying days—when she seemed like she was just barely holding herself upright.

they weren’t dating. not exactly. not yet. but they shared pieces of each other now. manon lingered at the bookstore until close just to walk y/n to the bus. y/n had started bringing her herbal teas and cough drops, slipping them into her bag without comment. they exchanged playlists. secrets. names of books that made them cry.

so when y/n got a text saying can you come over? she didn’t ask why. she just went.

the apartment was dim. manon’s room smelled faintly of lavender and laundry detergent. she was sitting on the edge of her bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone face down beside her. she looked up when y/n entered, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

y/n sat beside her without touching her.

“what’s wrong?”

manon stared at the floor. swallowed.

“i went to get bloodwork done,” she said finally. “more tests. the clinic called today.”

y/n felt her stomach turn.

“they… it’s cancer.”

y/n didn’t move. couldn’t.

“lymphoma,” manon added, too calm. “they caught it early, they think. but it’s real. it’s happening.”

the air felt suddenly too thick to breathe.

“i don’t know how to do this,” manon said softly, voice cracking. “i just moved here. i was starting to feel like i was finding my footing. i met you. and now… now everything feels like it’s slipping.”

neither of them cried right away. it wasn’t that kind of moment. it was colder. quieter. like something ancient in the body remembering grief before it arrives.

and for y/n, it did arrive.

“say something.” manon practically begged, quiet. 

it bloomed in her chest like a warning. not again, it screamed. her blood went cold. this was why she hadn’t wanted to open herself. why she’d kept people at arms’ length for so long. because something always came to take them.

“i need to go,” y/n said, and the words tasted like rust.

she stood too quickly. the chair scraped against the wood, sharp and sudden, and manon flinched like it had cut through her. y/n didn’t look back. couldn’t. her legs moved on instinct, carrying her out of manon’s room, past the soft light of the kitchen, past the coat rack with manon’s jacket still hanging from it. the apartment felt too full, too quiet, too warm for what had just been said.

behind her, manon didn’t follow.

the hallway outside was dim. some overhead light flickered, buzzing faintly like it was shorting out. y/n didn’t stop walking until she was out of the building. she didn’t stop even then. just kept moving, down cracked sidewalks and across wet intersections, her chest burning. she didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay.

not there. not near her.

her hands were shaking. she shoved them in her coat pockets. her throat ached from trying not to scream.

why now?

why did the universe keep handing her beauty just to rip it away?

manon had smiled like sunlight. she had filled y/n’s once empty days with noise and color and chaos. and now—now that brightness had an expiration date.

no, y/n thought. no no no no.

but her feet kept walking.

when she got home, she didn’t turn the lights on. she sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, still wearing her coat, arms wrapped tight around herself. she didn’t cry. not yet. something in her had already started to shut down. like a door closing. a lock turning. like a heart bracing for the next goodbye. she wanted so badly to reach for her phone, to google all the symptoms, treatments, life expectancy, anything. yet, she didn’t.

no amount of statistics were stronger than the gut wrenching pull in her chest that told her what she already knew.

this was it.

__

the room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the radiator kicking on. taeyeon didn’t speak right away. she’d grown used to the way y/n sat when she didn’t know how to begin. hands clenched together, gaze locked on some faraway point on the carpet, like if she focused hard enough, she could will herself invisible.

“i assume you’re not here just to sit in silence,” taeyeon said eventually.

y/n didn’t look up. “she’s dying,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

taeyeon’s tone didn’t shift. no shock, no gasp, just a steady presence. “you mean manon?”

a nod.

“when did you find out?”

“three nights ago.”

“and what did you do?”

y/n blinked. “i left. she told me and i didn’t say anything. i just walked out.”

taeyeon let the admission hang in the air, like a confession cracked wide open. “why?”

y/n’s throat felt tight. she hated this part. the dissection. the honesty. “i was afraid. it was happening again. i felt it in my chest like deja vu. like loss was already blooming there. like something ancient.”

“so you ran before it could happen.”

“yes.” her voice cracked. “and now it’s already happened.”

taeyeon wrote something down, briefly. “tell me what ‘it’ is.”

“the goodbye. even if she doesn’t die for months or years. i’ve already lost her.”

taeyeon leaned back in her chair. “you’ve spent so long fearing the endings, you’ve convinced yourself they’re inevitable. but that’s not fate. that’s avoidance.”

“what if the ending is inevitable?” y/n asked, desperate now. “what if she’s supposed to die, and i’m supposed to watch it happen again? what if this is just another life i have to lose her in?”

“then what?” taeyeon asked. “you let her die alone?”

y/n looked up, stung.

“you believe in past lives. in soulmates. in stories repeating themselves,” taeyeon continued, gently now. “so tell me—if you really believe this was written, then who are you to think you can stop it by not showing up?”

“because it hurts less if i’m not there.”

“does it?” taeyeon asked. “because from where i’m sitting, it doesn’t look like it hurts any less. it just hurts differently.”

y/n swallowed, hard. “i don’t know what to do.”

“you don’t need to do anything heroic,” taeyeon said. “you just need to show up. she’s still here. she’s still alive. she still needs someone who doesn’t disappear when things get hard.”

silence stretched again, but this time it didn’t feel empty.

“so go to her,” taeyeon said. “not because you can fix her. not because you can save her. but because she’s someone you love. and that matters. it always has.”

y/n nodded, eyes burning. this time, she didn’t argue.

one moment y/n was leaving taeyeon’s office, the next she was sitting behind the counter at the bookstore. she’d closed early. her afternoon was spent between books and various medical webpages. and then, she was leaving. 

she had to make things right.

within ten minutes, y/n stood in the hallway outside manon’s apartment, heart pounding in a way that felt like it might tear her apart from the inside. the door cracked open a little, and sophia’s sharp eyes met hers immediately. no welcome in the gaze, just that familiar protective glare, the kind that said don’t mess this up or don’t come back at all. yet, without a word, sophia stepped aside and let y/n in.

the apartment smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale air, a quiet heaviness pressing down on everything. manon was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, her face pale but defiant. the kind of defiance that felt like it could crumble at any moment. her eyes, sharp and wet with hurt, locked onto y/n’s the second she stepped inside. there was so much pain in those eyes, the kind of pain y/n had never wanted to be the cause of again.

“you shouldn’t be here,” manon said, voice brittle but steady, like she was trying to protect herself before she even spoke.

y/n swallowed the lump in her throat, stepping closer, holding out a small box wrapped in soft paper. “i did research,” she said quietly, voice shaking just a little. “there are treatments, options i found. i know it’s not perfect. but i want to try. i want to be here for you.”

manon’s eyes flickered, a storm of emotions crashing behind them. anger, pain, desperation, and then something softer, almost like hope. it was fleeting, but it was there.

“you really think you can fix this?” manon whispered, but the edge had softened.

“maybe not fix,” y/n answered, kneeling down so she was at eye level. “but fight. with you. if you want.”

manon’s breath hitched, and then she nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. the weight between them shifted just a bit.

the months that followed unfolded in waves. sharp, brutal, unrelenting. they began with cautious hope, with treatment plans mapped out across sterile tables and doctors who spoke in a language y/n had to learn one desperate phrase at a time. words like metastasis and prognosis became part of her daily vocabulary. she kept a notebook with scribbled margins and highlighted passages, trying to make sense of the labyrinth they’d been thrown into.

chemotherapy came first. the poison meant to heal. manon took it like a warrior, but even warriors break. she tried to joke at first, brushing off the nausea, the sudden exhaustion that followed each round like a shadow. but the hair came out in clumps by week three, and the day she sat in the bathroom with y/n, silently handing over the scissors, something in the air cracked.

they cried together. not loudly, not dramatically—just quietly, as y/n guided the clippers over her scalp, kissing her bare shoulder every time manon’s breath hitched.

radiation followed, and with it came a different kind of hollowing. manon grew smaller. not just physically, though the weight dropped quickly, but in presence. her fire dimmed, her voice thinner. there were days she didn’t speak at all, days when she lay curled on the couch, trembling from pain, eyes unfocused, distant. but y/n never left. not once. she was there to hold the bucket when manon vomited until there was nothing left to give, there to rub lotion into paper-thin skin, to whisper comfort into the silence.

she learned the landscape of manon’s pain. the patterns in her breathing, the quiet signals of a day turned worse. she memorized med schedules, drove her to every appointment, and sat through every long hour in waiting rooms that smelled like antiseptic and fear.

and somewhere along the way, she grew closer to sophia and megan. what started as an uneasy truce slowly deepened into something like kinship. they saw her there, always there, even when manon lashed out in frustration, even when she was too tired to speak. they saw y/n carry her through the darkest nights without complaint. sophia started leaving coffee out in the mornings when y/n stayed over. megan offered to pick up groceries when she noticed y/n hadn’t eaten properly in days.

they became a unit. scarred, sleep-deprived, fiercely protective of the girl they all loved.

and manon… manon began to soften again. even in the midst of the storm, even as her body grew weaker, there were moments of clarity, of fierce affection. her hand would find y/n’s in the quiet, her thumb brushing over her knuckles. she would press a kiss to y/n’s temple on the rare nights when she had enough strength to pull her close. she stopped asking why are you still here? and started whispering thank you instead.

everything changed. everything hurt. but y/n stayed. through the sickness, the fragility, the fear, the slow unraveling of the woman she had loved in every life before this one.

because this was the promise she had made.

and she would keep it.

on the eve of another surgery—the riskiest yet—manon asked for a moment alone with y/n. the hospital room was dim, painted in the soft gold light of early evening, machines humming low around them like a lullaby with no melody. y/n sat beside her, heart heavy, hands trembling. manon reached out, her fingers lacing through y/n’s like they belonged there.

her touch was weaker now, but her eyes burned with the same fire y/n had always known. fierce. raw. unrelenting even in the face of fear.

“there’s something i need to tell you,” manon said, voice barely above a whisper. “i had this dream. or maybe it wasn’t a dream—it felt too real. like memories layered over each other. a montage of us. every lifetime. every version of us. and every time, i lost you first.”

y/n’s breath stilled in her chest.

“but this time,” manon continued, her grip tightening, “this time it’s me. and even though that breaks my heart, i’m still glad. because we met again. and that has to mean something. that has to count for more than just another ending.”

her eyes glistened, her voice catching. “at least one of our meetings has to end happy. and if it’s not this one, then maybe the next. or the one after that.”

she paused. then, quieter, almost pleading, “promise me you’ll find me again. no matter how long it takes.”

y/n blinked, tears spilling freely now. she brought manon’s hand to her lips, pressed a kiss against her knuckles like a vow.

“i promise,” she whispered, voice cracking around the words. “always.”

the surgery came too soon, a cruel thief dressed in white scrubs and quiet reassurances. things unraveled fast. complications, fevers, numbers dropping on machines that had once felt hopeful. no miracle came. no sudden turn. just the slow, irreversible fading of someone who had fought too hard for too long.

manon slipped away quietly. not in violence or chaos, but like a candle guttering out at the end of its wick. soft. final.

at the wake, y/n sat between sophia and megan, their hands linked in silent grief. the room was thick with sorrow, the kind that settled into bones and stayed there. photographs surrounded them, snapshots of a life that had been hard-won, deeply lived. none of it felt like enough.

y/n felt hollow. like the best parts of her had been buried, too. and yet… something still burned inside her. not anger. not hope. something older. fiercer.

a promise.

no sickness, no death, no cruel twist of fate could sever what they were. what they had always been.

she would find manon again. in another time, another skin, another life. maybe it would take years. centuries. maybe it already had. but she would keep looking.

because this was just one version of their story.

and one day—whether next time or the one after that—they would get it right. they would find their forever.

and y/n would keep her promise.

__

and she did.

in the next life, perhaps the best one they got, y/n found her again.

there was no certainty, no divine answer to whether this life would be the last of them, the one that finally broke the loop or merely paused it. but maybe it didn’t matter anymore. maybe it was enough that they’d had this—this quiet, sun-drenched life carved out of stubborn hope and years that had taught them how to hold on.

they were older now. softer in the way people get when they’ve fought too long and finally let themselves rest. manon’s hair had gone silver at the temples. y/n still kissed the corners of her eyes every morning, where time had left its delicate marks.

outside, the countryside stretched in golden stillness, summer wind weaving through the tall grass. the old dog dozed nearby, belly rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. the porch creaked beneath y/n’s weight as she sat beside manon, her arm tucked gently around her wife’s frail shoulders. their children were inside, making tea, trying not to cry too loud.

manon’s breathing was thin now. shallow, labored. she’d chosen this. chosen to leave the hospital behind, chosen to be surrounded by the life they’d built together. the one they’d clawed out of fate’s grip with both hands.

y/n held her hand, memorizing the shape of it all over again. she didn’t need to speak. manon’s eyes met hers, and in them, there was peace. not because death didn’t hurt. not because it didn’t still feel unfair. but because they had found each other. again.

and this time, they’d been allowed to stay.

manon’s last breath slipped out like a sigh, the softest goodbye. the breeze carried it, warm and gentle.

y/n didn’t cry right away. she just leaned her head against manon’s and whispered something only the wind would hear.

because she knew.

in any timeline, in any world, in every version of forever— she would find her.

always.

[colouredbyd]

Web Of Secrets

🕸️ spiderman au: remus lupin x fem!potter!reader

part 2 of caught in the web

synopsis : when secrets unravel and danger finds you again, your fascination with Spider-Man only deepens. trouble has always had a way of finding you, but with Remus by your side, steady and unflinching, you begin to realize that heroes come in many forms—and sometimes, they are closer than you think.

warnings: violence ,explosions, injuries, free falling, and mentions of blood. (contains best friend regulus x reader, and potter reader. takes place in modern au)

w/c: 13k

a/n: i absolutly love this <3 also had to put my physics skills to write this

part 1 masterlist

The past week had been painted in shades of crimson and shadow, spider-silk threads connecting moments you could barely believe belonged to you.

It started with rooftops—peeling brick and rusted water towers, the whisper of wind brushing against your cheeks as you waited. He found you there more often now, like it was planned, though neither of you ever admitted it.

Remus would find you there with the kind of ease that felt almost instinctual, a soft smile always lingering on his face. You would talk sometimes. Quietly. He would ask if you were still running around in places you shouldn’t be, and you would laugh and deflect, watching the corners of his mouth twitch upward. Other times, there was silence—comfortable, almost familiar—as you watched the city stretch out like a heartbeat beneath you.

And it was ridiculous, really, the way your heart fluttered like wings caught in a web when he turned his head toward you, when he lingered just a little too long before heading back down the fire escape. 

Ridiculous because you had been here before—years ago, back when Remus Lupin was just your brother’s best friend and you were just a girl with stars in your eyes and scraped knees. You remembered the way you’d watch him from the corner of your eye, the quiet boy with kind eyes who always told you to stay out of trouble.

It was even more ridiculous now, considering the lecture Remus had given you just days ago, all furrowed brows and frustrated sighs, about staying out of Spider-Man's way. 

He had been so stern, so achingly familiar that it had stung more than you wanted to admit. But that was just Remus—always careful, always looking out for you in his own quiet, stubborn way.

James had been livid after your last rooftop rendezvous, pacing back and forth with all the fire of a hurricane. 

Even Regulus had been done with your obsession–fascination after you’d barely escaped last time, his hand still shaking slightly when he’d taken yours and told you to drop it, to let it go.

Yet here you were, knee-deep in dust and shadows, the empty warehouse stretching out around you like the ribcage of some long-dead beast. 

It was reckless, absolutely mental to be here just a night after Spider-Man had torn through the place like a storm. The police tape still fluttered at the entrance, yellow and bold, a warning you had ignored without a second thought. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and concrete dust, and shards of glass glittered like tiny stars scattered across the floor.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, weaving between splintered crates and broken beams. 

It was dangerous, maybe even unforgivable, especially after what had happened. But you couldn’t help yourself. You were drawn to it—the mystery of it all, the rush of knowing you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, somewhere Spider-Man had been just hours before.

Your hands skimmed over metal scaffolding, brushing away cobwebs and collecting fragments of webbing left behind. They glimmered faintly in the pale light, stretching between your fingers with the tensile strength of something unbreakable. You twisted one carefully around your finger, feeling its strange elasticity, its softness. 

Proof that he had been here. Proof that you were just one step behind him.

But before you could examine further, the distant wail of sirens cut through the silence, sharp and sudden. Panic shot through you like ice water, and you scrambled to your feet, heart thundering in your chest. 

You shouldn’t be here. Not now, not ever. You spun around, eyes darting across the shadows, searching for somewhere to hide. The police were getting closer, the sound of their radios crackling just beyond the walls.

Without thinking, you bolted toward the far end of the warehouse, weaving through the scattered debris, lungs burning as you ducked behind a stack of forgotten crates. You pressed your back against the splintered wood, breathing hard, ears straining for footsteps. But instead, there was silence—a thick, waiting silence that stretched out like a thread pulled too tight.

Your hands brushed against something hard, and you looked down, eyes widening. 

Tucked between the crates, half-hidden by thick strands of Spider-Man's webbing, was a metal device—small and unassuming, barely the size of your palm, except for the faint glow of purple light blinking from its core. 

It was heavy in your hands when you peeled the webbing off, its surface warm and humming faintly with energy.

The device itself was sleek and metallic, etched with unfamiliar symbols that curved and twisted in patterns that made your eyes ache if you looked too long. 

Right in the center, a snake was engraved in emerald green, coiled and glimmering as if alive. It felt...otherworldly, humming with a power that had your fingertips buzzing. 

This wasn’t ordinary tech. This was something more.

And what was even stranger—it looked like it had been hidden deliberately, tucked away where no one would find it. Not unless they were searching. Not unless they knew where to look.

You swallowed, adrenaline still flooding your veins as you slipped it into your bag, fingers shaking slightly as you zipped it closed. There was no time to think, no time to question. The sirens were getting louder now, and you forced yourself to move, slipping through the shadows and back out into the night before they could catch you.

You slipped back into your room with the kind of silence only practice could perfect. The adrenaline still thrummed under your skin, your breath catching slightly as you locked the door behind you.

 The warehouse, the sirens, the device—they were a flurry of images that blurred together, half-formed and frantic. But before you could even catch your breath, a voice cut through the silence.

"Where the hell have you been?"

You jumped, spinning on your heel to find Regulus sitting at the edge of your bed, arms crossed and eyes sharp with irritation. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but the flicker of tension around his jawline told you enough. 

He had been waiting for you.

"I was out," you replied, shrugging off your jacket and throwing it over your desk chair. "Had to get some things."

His gaze was unyielding, icy and calculated as it roamed over you. "Getting some things," he repeated, voice flat. 

"You were out getting some things at one in the morning? Dressed like that?" He gestured to your dust-streaked jeans and scuffed boots, and you fought the urge to flinch.

You forced a smile, dropping your bag onto the floor with a muffled thud. "You know me, always up to something."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "That’s precisely the problem."

You ignored him, moving to your desk and shuffling papers around for the sake of distraction. Your heart was still hammering, and you tried desperately to will it into submission. 

The last thing you needed was for Regulus to dig deeper. But before you could even think of diverting the conversation, a metallic clink echoed from the floor, sharp and damning.

Regulus's eyes narrowed instantly. "What was that?"

"Nothing," you said too quickly, bending down to grab your bag. "Just some stuff from class. Projects and...and things."

He was faster. Before you could pull it away, his hand snapped forward, catching the strap and yanking it open. 

The zipper gave way with a harsh rasp, and the device tumbled out onto the wooden floor, glimmering under the low light. The purple light pulsed once, twice, casting eerie shadows across the room.

Regulus stared at it, his expression unreadable. "What the hell is that?" His voice was low, sharper than usual, and laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

You snatched it up, cradling the cold metal to your chest. "It’s for a project," you lied smoothly, the words slipping out before you could think better of it. 

"Something for class. Advanced tech. We’re studying...uh...hybrid mechanics."

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, taut and fragile. Then Regulus released the bag strap, leaning back with a sigh. "You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days," he murmured, the edge in his voice softening just enough to make your stomach twist.

You forced a laugh, tucking the device back into your bag. "Not today," you replied, and he just shook his head, pushing himself off your bed with a fluid motion.

"Just...be careful," he said finally, pausing at your door. His eyes flickered to the bag once more, suspicion simmering just below the surface. But then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

The room felt colder without him there, the silence heavy and looming. You exhaled slowly, sinking into your desk chair and pulling the device out once more. It sat in your hands like something alive, humming gently, its purple light flickering with a hypnotic rhythm.

You turned it over, fingertips grazing the emerald-green snake carved into its surface. The symbols etched along its sides pulsed faintly, shifting in patterns that made your eyes blur if you looked too closely. 

It was heavy, impossibly so for its size, like it was carrying the weight of something far larger than itself.

Experimentally, you pressed your fingers along its sides, searching for seams or buttons. Nothing. 

You tilted it, shook it gently, but it gave no hint of its purpose. It was maddening, this enigma of metal and light, and you found your curiosity only sharpening with each failed attempt.

Finally, you leaned back, fingers tracing absent patterns across its surface. It blinked steadily in your hands, as if taunting you, its purple light casting shadows across your walls. There were secrets here, tucked into the crevices of its design, and you intended to uncover every single one of them.

You just needed time.

Sleep came reluctantly, pulling you under only after hours of restless turning and the purple glow of the device still blinking faintly from where it sat on your desk. When you finally surrendered to the weight of it, dreams flickered like shadows behind your eyes, indistinct and lingering.

Morning came harsh and unyielding, sunlight spilling through your curtains and casting patterns across your face. 

Your eyes blinked open slowly, heavy with sleep, before snapping wide in realization. "Shit." The word tumbled from your lips as you shot upright, heart pounding. The clock on your bedside table flashed the time in unforgiving red digits. 

You were late.

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over your own feet as you threw on the first clothes you could find. The device lay untouched on your desk, still humming faintly, but you barely spared it a glance as you grabbed your bag and tore out of your room, feet pounding down the hallway. 

The rush of air did little to wake you up, but adrenaline coursed through your veins, sharpening your senses as you navigated through the bustling corridors of Hogwarts University.

Students milled about, unconcerned and unhurried, and you weaved through them with practiced ease, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a group of first-years before turning a sharp corner. 

That was when you nearly barreled straight into him.

Remus was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a lazy sort of grin playing on his lips. "In a bit of a rush, aren’t we?" he mused, raising an eyebrow as you skidded to a stop just short of him.

You huffed out a breath, brushing stray hair from your face. "You try being late to McGonagall's class and see how fast you run," you shot back, and he laughed—soft, warm, the kind of laugh that curled around your heart and squeezed just a little too tightly.

"I’m fairly certain she’d just take my head off," he replied, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. 

"And what’s little Potter been up to lately?" he asked, voice dropping into that familiar, teasing lilt. "I hope nothing dangerous, or you know James will die at the fine age of twenty-one purely from stress."

You snorted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. "Me? Dangerous? I’m an absolute delight."

"Is that what you call it?" he shot back, amusement lighting his eyes. "I’m pretty sure James calls it a heart attack waiting to happen."

You bumped your shoulder against his, the contact brief but grounding. "Well, he’s still alive, isn’t he?"

Remus just shook his head, but his smile softened, eyes flickering over your face in that way that made your stomach twist and settle all at once. "Barely," he replied, voice gentler now. "Just...be careful, alright?"

There was something unspoken in his gaze, something careful and deliberate that made your heart stutter. 

You forced a grin, shrugging off the heaviness of it. "You know me. Always careful."

"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of," he murmured, and it was almost too soft to hear, almost lost beneath the noise of students rushing past. But you caught it. 

You looked away before he could see the blush creeping up your cheeks, focusing instead on the hallway stretching out before you, wondering—not for the first time—if maybe you weren’t the only one who felt the pull of something just beneath the surface.

Class felt like a slow, dragging stretch of monotony. Words blurred on the board, lectures drifting through one ear and out the other as your mind wandered—to the web samples stuffed carefully in your bag. 

You took notes out of habit, the tip of your quill scratching mindlessly across parchment, but nothing stuck. Spiderman lingered at the edges of your thoughts, his webs glimmering silver in the moonlight, the way he seemed to belong to the city itself, like its shadows and its secrets were his to command.

When the final bell rang, you slipped out of the room with the rest of the crowd, your head still clouded with half-formed thoughts. You made your way down the main corridor, and that was when you saw them.

Regulus and Sirius were leaning against a pillar, heads bent close, talking and—laughing? You stopped in your tracks, blinking in surprise. 

The two of them were always a wildfire, crackling and unpredictable. Lately, they had been nothing but sharp edges and bitten-off words, yet there they were, Sirius throwing his head back with a bark of laughter while Regulus shook his head with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It was a fragile thing, their relationship—built on the remnants of something broken and hastily stitched back together. 

They had been raised in a house of silence and shadows, where affection was a language spoken in hushed tones, if spoken at all. Years of biting words and icy stares had carved deep lines of distrust between them, but now...now there were moments like this, rare and glimmering, like shards of glass catching the light.

You almost approached them, the instinct to nudge your way in and tease them both flaring up, but you stopped yourself. Whatever this was—this brief flicker of peace—you didn’t want to ruin it. 

So, you turned away, slipping through the crowd and heading down the hall. That was when you saw James.

He strode forward with purpose, eyes locked on Sirius and Regulus, mouth set in a grim line. He grabbed Sirius by the arm, pulling him away from Regulus. 

Sirius' confusion melted into something sharper, more focused, as they turned the corner. You caught a glimpse of Remus waiting for them, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes wary and flickering with something you couldn’t quite place.

You slowed as you passed, catching just the edge of Sirius’ raised voice, sharp and unyielding: "What do you mean when you went there you didn’t find it!"

And James, loud and incredulous: "Gone? You're kidding, right?"

The door creaked open, the familiar groan echoing off the walls of your room as you stepped inside, shutting it behind you with a quiet click. 

The weight of the day settled over your shoulders, and you dropped your bag onto the floor, not caring as it slumped against the leg of your desk.

Your room was chaos—organized, in your eyes, but chaos nonetheless. Stacks of notebooks, scribbled with half-formed ideas and rough sketches of spiderweb patterns, were piled haphazardly across your desk. The walls were papered with articles, photographs, strings of red yarn linking pieces together like some kind of conspiracy theorist's fever dream.

 In the corner, half-taken-apart gadgets lay scattered on your dresser, gears and wires spilling out like entrails. It was a mess, but it was yours.

You kicked off your shoes and crossed to the desk, fishing out the sample of Spider-Man’s web you had collected the night before. You held it up to the light, watching the way it shimmered, silvery and impossibly strong. It stretched and flexed in your hands, thin as thread but sturdy as steel. 

You’d been studying it for hours the night before, picking apart its structure, analyzing its durability, its tensile strength. 

It was unlike anything you’d ever seen—more synthetic than organic, yet somehow...alive. The way it glimmered when light hit it made you think of silk spun by moonlight, delicate but unyielding.

You frowned, fingers brushing over the delicate strands. They weren’t natural, you were certain of that. 

Someone had made this, engineered it. Which meant Spider-Man wasn’t just swinging off buildings and fighting crime solo—someone was behind the curtain, pulling strings, creating tech that defied logic. 

And that someone...they were good. Very good.

Your gaze drifted to your desk, and that’s when you saw it—the device, still where you left it, except now, it wasn’t glowing anymore. 

The soft purple light had dimmed, flickered out like a candle snuffed by the wind. But something else had taken its place. The snake symbol etched onto its surface was glowing now, a vivid, almost hypnotic green, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own.

You swallowed hard, nerves and excitement pooling in your stomach as you stepped closer, fingers hovering just above its surface. It was warm to the touch, almost like it was alive, thrumming with energy beneath your fingertips. 

You turned it over, inspecting the smooth metal casing, the strange symbols engraved along its edges, symbols you didn’t recognize—sharp and twisting, like some ancient language long forgotten.

The device was heavier than it looked, the size of your palm but dense, like it was packed with secrets. Light bled from its seams, streaks of neon-purple that pulsed rhythmically, like it had a heartbeat of its own. At its center, the snake emblem gleamed in emerald light, flickering softly as if it were breathing. 

You traced its edges, fingers brushing over the cool metal. It was smooth, almost unnaturally so, with no visible seams or screws. Whoever made it, made it to last.

A thought flickered to life at the back of your mind, reckless and dangerous, the kind of thought that should’ve been smothered the moment it sparked. 

But it wasn’t. Instead, it grew, catching like wildfire, spreading through your veins with a thrill that had you clutching the device tighter. 

If this was Spider-Man’s...if he’d left it there, hidden away behind webs and shadows, then it was important. 

And if it was important, then maybe...just maybe...it could lead you straight to him.

You felt your heart begin to pound, adrenaline sparking through your veins as the idea solidified, reckless and daring and entirely too tempting. A grin tugged at the corners of your lips, and you turned the device over in your hands once more, determination settling like iron in your bones.

If Spider-Man wanted it back, he’d have to find you first.

The sun had barely kissed the horizon when you burst out of your room, heart pounding with the thrill of what you were about to do. 

You grabbed a matchbook, a lighter, and a half-empty canister of fuel from under your bed—leftovers from a very ill-advised experiment last semester that had nearly cost you your eyebrows. Not your finest moment, but at least it left you with supplies.

Your hands moved quickly, scrawling out a note on a bright yellow sticky note before slapping it onto your door. In your messy handwriting, it read:

Gone to make a deal with Spider-Man. 

P.S. James, try not to throw Regulus out the window while I’m gone xoxo

You stepped back, admiring your handiwork with a grin before turning and bolting down the stairs, sneakers slapping against the pavement as you made your way into the heart of the city.

The streets were quiet this early, the sun still stretching its fingers over rooftops and alleyways, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out and grab at your ankles as you sprinted past. 

You ducked under scaffolding, slipped through narrow alleyways slick with last night’s rain, and finally found yourself standing before the rusted gates of an abandoned building. Its windows were shattered, jagged shards of glass clinging to their frames like teeth. The walls were scrawled with graffiti, layers upon layers of paint peeling back to reveal years of rebellion and lost causes.

Perfect.

You squeezed through a gap in the fence, heart thrumming in your chest as you made your way inside. Dust kicked up around your feet, swirling in the soft light that spilled through broken windows. 

The air was heavy, stale with the scent of rust and decay, but you barely noticed as you ascended the stairs, two at a time, until you burst onto the rooftop, breathless and alive with adrenaline.

The city sprawled out before you, stretching towards the horizon in jagged lines of steel and glass. You stood at the edge, toes curling over the lip of the rooftop, staring down at the dizzying height beneath you. 

Cars crawled like ants, oblivious to your presence far above them. You took a breath, the air sharp and cold in your lungs, and pulled the device from your pocket.

It gleamed in the sunlight, the snake emblem glimmering with that same eerie green light. You tossed it between your hands, weighing it carefully before raising it above your head and striking it against the metal railing of the roof.

Nothing.

You frowned, glancing around before trying again, harder this time, sending sparks flying into the air. 

The device vibrated, thrumming beneath your fingers, and you Held it up with a grin. “Come on, Spider-Man,” you whispered under your breath, voice carrying off into the wind. “Let’s see if you want this back.”

A flash of movement caught your eye, and your heart leapt into your throat as a streak of red and blue zipped through the skyline, landing on the rooftop opposite you with a grace that should’ve been impossible. 

He straightened, hands resting on his hips as he regarded you with what you imagined was disbelief behind that mask.

“Well, well,” you called out, tossing the device between your hands again. “There you are, Spider-Boy.”

He tilted his head, arms crossing over his chest. “Didn’t I save you a week ago?” His voice was distorted through the mask, but you could hear the incredulity in it.

You shrugged, holding up the device. “I think this belongs to you, bug boy.”

He stiffened, gaze snapping to the object in your hand. You could almost feel the tension ripple through the air, crackling with electricity. He took a step forward, hands dropping to his sides. “That’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around.”

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I’m not carrying it around. I’m giving it back.” 

You tossed it up in the air and caught it again, his shoulders tightening as he watched it flip. “Or, I was. Haven’t decided yet.”

He stepped closer, voice edged with something sharper now. “Look, just hand it over. You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

Your smile turned sharp, taunting. “Maybe I want to find out.”

His head tilted slightly, and you could feel his eyes on you, even through the mask. “You’re reckless,” he murmured, almost like an accusation.

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Please,” he said, voice dropping to something softer. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity bleeding through his tone. But you covered it with a laugh, shaking your head.

 “That’s cute, but I’m not the one swinging off buildings in spandex.”

He took another step forward. “If you don’t give it to me, I’m gonna have to take it.”

You raised the device high, eyes glimmering with mischief. “If you want it,” you called, voice carrying over the wind, “you’re gonna have to catch me.”

Before he could reply, the air shifted. A crack of metal, harsh and jarring, split the rooftop silence, and something massive landed with a thunderous slam. 

You stumbled back, hands instinctively gripping the edge of the building as the ground shook beneath your feet.

Spider-Man moved in an instant, body coiling like a live wire as he stepped in front of you, stance low and defensive. 

The thing—no, the machine—stood ten feet tall, a monstrosity of green and black steel that glinted under the pale morning light. Its eyes, if they could be called that, glowed an acidic green, and coiling tendrils of smoke leaked from its joints. 

The symbol of a serpent, coiled and poised to strike, gleamed from its chest.

It tilted its head, a screech of metal against metal, and the voice that came out was smooth, dripping with venom.

 "Hand over the device," it commanded, green lights flickering as it spoke. "And maybe the girl comes out of this alive."

You stiffened, heart pounding, but Spider-Man’s arm shot out, stopping you before you could step forward. "Don’t," he whispered, voice tight with something raw and desperate.

The machine’s head cocked to the side, almost as if amused. "It’s simple," it drawled, each word stretched out like it was savoring them. "Give her up, and I might let her live. Refuse... and I promise she’ll wish you did."

Spider-Man’s hands balled into fists, and before you could say a word, he turned to you, fingers cradling your face with surprising gentleness. His eyes—hidden behind those white lenses—burned with urgency. 

"You run," he whispered, voice cracking just a bit. "And you don’t look back. Not for me, not for anything. You hide that device. You throw it in the ocean, bury it under a mountain, I don’t care. Just don’t keep it with you. Please." 

His thumbs brushed your cheeks, steadying you, grounding you. "Promise me."

Your breath caught, words failing you for a moment before you finally nodded. He let out a shaky breath, eyes lingering just a heartbeat too long before he released you.

Then he turned, muscles coiling as he launched himself toward the machine with the kind of reckless bravery that took your breath away. You stumbled back, the device heavy in your hands, its pulsing glow seeming to thrum in time with your heartbeat.

And then you ran.

The rooftop shook beneath the weight of colliding metal, the world vibrating with each hit that Spider-Man took. You watched from the narrow edge of the stairwell, heart thrumming painfully in your chest, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. This was different. 

More brutal, more desperate. The villain, all jagged edges and searing green light, moved with the kind of precision that spoke of ruthless experience.

Spider-Man swung wide, webs slinging him to the far edge of the roof, but the villain was relentless, smashing through concrete like it was paper, claws raking through stone with shrieks of splintering rock. 

You wanted to scream, to yell at him to run, but your voice was stuck somewhere between your ribs, tangled with fear and something deeper—something sharper.

You forced yourself to move, stumbling back down the stairs, feet slamming against each step as you tried to make sense of the pulsing device in your hands. 

It throbbed, slow and steady, the light blinking in time with your heartbeat. You stared at it, the snake symbol flickering with every step you took. 

The further you moved away, the more violently it pulsed; when you edged back up, it softened, almost like it was... responding.

Your mind spun, puzzle pieces clicking together in a rush of realization. 

The villain’s chest—there had been a symbol, the same snake coiled and glimmering, and when Spider-Man had struck him, the light had flickered, just for a second. 

You turned the device over, fingertips grazing the surface, searching for... there. A seam, barely noticeable, like it was waiting to be slotted into something.

The thought was insane. Reckless. Borderline suicidal. And yet…

You were already moving. The rooftop exploded back into view, chaos stretching out in jagged lines of smoke and fury. 

Spider-Man swung left, barely dodging a strike that cratered the concrete, but he caught sight of you instantly. 

"What the hell are you doing? I told you to run!" His voice cracked with something raw—panic, maybe. Fear.

You ignored him, eyes locked onto the villain’s glowing chest. 

"Hey!" you shouted, voice cutting through the violence. Both heads snapped towards you, one masked in crimson, the other gleaming with emerald fire. 

You held up the device, feeling its weight heavy and dangerous in your grip. "You want this?" you called out, voice steady. "Come and get it."

Spider-Man’s curse was swallowed by the metallic roar of the villain charging. You spun on your heel, heart lurching as you sprinted to the edge of the rooftop. 

It was instinct, it was madness, it was pure adrenaline. And it was too late to stop.

Wind screamed past your ears as you flung yourself off the edge, gravity seizing you with ruthless hands. The city stretched out beneath you, endless and uncaring, but you barely saw it. 

You heard the crash of metal as the villain followed, felt the rush of air as he plummeted after you, close enough that you could feel the crackle of energy in your bones. One breath. One heartbeat. 

You grabbed the device, hands steady, and slammed it into the symbol on his chest. 

Light exploded, brilliant and searing, cutting through the sky with blinding intensity. You heard metal shriek, felt the impact of something colossal and unforgiving, and then you were weightless again, falling.

But in that brief flash of light, you saw it: the metal plates groaning and shifting, peeling back like the petals of some iron flower. 

Beneath the fractured shell, his real face almost came into view. You caught the faintest glimpse of a scar on his wrist, thin and silvered with age, before the world splintered around you.

An explosion tore through the air, deafening and absolute, flinging you back with the force of a tidal wave. Smoke and fire curled into the sky, swallowing the fragments of metal and light. There was no time to think, no time to breathe—just the sensation of weightlessness, of falling once more into the abyss.

And then arms—strong, steady—wrapped around you, yanking you from the air. Spider-Man’s grip was unyielding, his body curling around yours as the explosion above bloomed with violet light. 

You buried your face in his chest, his heartbeat thrumming through the thin fabric of his suit, and he held on, even as the world shattered around you.

The world was a smoldering ruin of jagged metal and drifting ash.

 You woke with your cheek pressed against rough concrete, the taste of smoke heavy on your tongue. Blinking against the haze, you sat up slowly, head swimming, and the first thing you noticed was the blood—thick and dark, smeared across your hands and arms. 

It took a sharp, panicked breath to realize it wasn’t yours.

Spider-Man lay sprawled a few feet away, his suit torn open at the ribs, blood pooling beneath him. His mask was still on, but the fabric clung to his face like it was barely holding together, ragged edges soaked through. 

You scrambled forward, knees scraping against the grit and rubble, hands shaking as you pressed them against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. 

“Hey, come on, you gotta wake up.” He didn’t move. Fear clawed its way up your throat, sharp and unrelenting. 

Then a crackle of static caught your attention—a tiny device, nearly hidden behind his ear. An earpiece. It was barely clinging to life, sparking with flickers of green light.

Through the static, you heard a voice—muffled, frantic. "Moony? Moony, are you there? We’re coming to you, just hold on, alright? Hold on." 

You frowned, the name tickling at something familiar in your memory, but it slipped away too quickly to grasp.

Your gaze drifted back to Spider-Man, his breathing shallow, his blood warm and slick beneath your palms. You hesitated only a second before your hand moved to his mask, fingers curling at the seam. You could help him. Maybe if you just—

But your hand stopped. Something about the way he’d always kept his distance, always shielded his face, it felt sacred. A choice. 

One you couldn’t bring yourself to break. Swallowing back frustration, you ripped at your own shirt, tearing a strip free and pressing it against the gash in his side, tying it off as best as you could manage. 

Blood soaked through instantly, but at least it was something.

You barely had time to register the footsteps before a cloth was pressed to your mouth, a sharp, sickly-sweet scent flooding your senses. 

You tried to fight it, hands clawing at the grip that held you, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

“Shhh, little Potter,” a voice murmured, low and familiar, dripping with an accent that sent ice trickling down your spine. “You’re alright.”

You caught the glimmer of long black hair before the world faded to black.

You woke to sunlight filtering through blinds, soft and golden against the walls. It was the smell that hit you first—clean linen, a hint of cologne you knew too well. James’s room. 

His old hockey jersey was slung over the back of his desk chair, a heap of his sneakers scattered by the door. You touched your face instinctively, fingertips brushing over the tender stitches at your temple, and everything came crashing back.

Spider-Man. The fight. The explosion.

You were out of the bed in an instant, the covers flying back as your feet hit the hardwood. "Spider-Man," you whispered, the name barely more than breath. 

The door creaked open before you could make it, and Peter slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he soothed, hands up like he was trying not to spook you. Your eyes flicked over him, and something odd snagged your attention.

A faded scar, thin and pale, curled over his wrist, just visible beneath the edge of his sweater. Something about it felt familiar, nagging at the edges of your memory, but you couldn’t quite place it.

Before you could question it, footsteps sounded from the hallway, and the door burst open—James, Sirius, Remus, and Regulus all crowding in, faces tight with worry. 

Remus was leaning heavily on a crutch, his head wrapped in thick layers of bandages. He gave you a small smile, strained but real.

“Finally awake, huh?” Sirius asked, attempting nonchalance, but his eyes were sharp, watchful. 

Regulus stood a step behind him, arms crossed, gaze flicking over you like he was checking for injuries. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something you couldn’t quite name—worry, maybe, or something heavier.

"What happened?" you asked, but your mind was somewhere else. "Spider-Man. Is he—"

James’s face darkened, eyes flashing as he stepped forward, voice rising in a way that made everyone else stiffen. 

"Would you stop worrying about some masked hero that means nothing to you?" he shouted, and the room went silent. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. 

"You keep putting yourself in danger for some vigilante who you don’t even know. I almost lost you before, Y/N. I can’t—" His voice cracked, raw and unsteady, and for a moment, he looked impossibly young. 

"I can’t lose you. You’re my sister. The only family I have left."

His voice wavered, trembling under the weight of unspoken fears. "Do you know what it was like seeing you like that? Seeing you not move? I thought..." He stopped, voice breaking, and his hands flew to his face, palms pressing hard against his eyes. 

"I thought you were gone," he whispered, so quiet it was barely a breath. "I thought you left me too."

He was crying now, shoulders shaking with the force of it. Sirius and Peter exchanged glances, both helpless. Regulus looked away, jaw clenched tight, fists curled so hard his knuckles were white. Remus watched you, eyes full of shadows you didn’t understand.

Without thinking, you reached for James, arms going around him tightly. He clutched you back fiercely, hands grasping at your shirt like if he let go, you’d disappear. His breaths came out ragged, harsh against your shoulder.

 "I was so scared," he choked out, voice muffled. "I can't do this without you. I can't."

"I'm here," you whispered, voice cracking. "I’m right here. I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m so sorry."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "Promise me," he demanded, voice rough. "Promise me you won’t do this again."

Your throat tightened, the words caught somewhere in the ache of your chest. "I… I promise," you murmured, the lie slipping through your teeth like smoke. 

His gaze searched yours for a long moment, something breaking in his eyes before he nodded, pulling you back into his arms, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

For a while, there was only silence. His heartbeat thudding against your ear, his hands gripping you like you were the last solid thing in his world. And you clung back, because maybe you needed it just as much.

The room was hushed, fragile, like a single breath might shatter it all. And then, quietly, your mind snagged on something sharp and sudden. 

You stiffened in his hold, pulling back just enough to look up at him.

"Wait," you whispered, voice barely above a breath. "Wait… how did I get here?"

James stiffened, expression going taut. "Spider-Man's fucking fine," he bit out, sharp and edged with something you couldn’t place. "He got you here when you went unconscious."

He looked away, and you swore you saw Sirius and Peter exchange glances, just for a second. It felt wrong, stilted.

 Your gaze flickered to Remus, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes, just stared resolutely at the floor, fingers flexing around the handle of his crutch.

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest tightening. Spider-Man brought you back. But then… why didn’t you remember it?

James pulled back, running a hand through his hair with a sigh that carried both exhaustion and relief. “I’m gonna head out. Got a date with Lily.” He glanced at you, softer now. “Regulus will stay with you. Just—please, rest. Take care of yourself.” His voice cracked slightly on the last words, honest and pleading.

You nodded, still shaken, as he slipped out, Sirius following without a word. The silence that settled was heavy but less suffocating.

You turned toward Remus, who leaned awkwardly against the wall, still gripping his crutch. “Hey,” you said quietly. “Where did those injuries come from?”

He shrugged, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Failed prank. Went wrong yesterday. I ended up with a concussion and a mess of bruises.” His eyes twinkled as if daring you not to believe him, but you didn’t press. Something about the way he said it felt like a shield.

You eased down onto the bed, muscles still tense but willing to soften just a little.

Remus nodded at you, gave a tired but genuine smile, and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, the room felt too empty.

Then the door creaked open again. Regulus stepped in silently, eyes searching yours. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled you into a careful, guarded hug. Your breath caught. Regulus never hugged anyone. 

It was like breaking a secret code.

“I won’t lecture you,” he said softly, voice low. “I know what you did. It was reckless. Dangerous. But…” He hesitated, then added, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You blinked up at him, the weight of his rare kindness sinking deep.

Regulus spoke up from the beanbag, patting the spot next to him. "Come on, you’re wasting valuable movie time."

You glanced over, surprised to find him watching you with something close to amusement. "Since when do you want to watch movies with me?"

He rolled his eyes. "You almost died. I’m feeling charitable." He gestured again, a touch more insistent.

You huffed, but joined him, settling into the beanbag with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But I’m picking the movie."

He groaned. "Just don’t pick one of those horrible rom-coms. I’m begging you."

The night slipped by in laughter and groans, Regulus arguing with you over the plausibility of action scenes and you smacking his arm every time he tried to fast-forward through a "boring bit." 

At some point, he fell asleep, head tipped back against the edge of the beanbag, arms crossed over his chest, mouth slightly open. 

You bit back a laugh at the sight—Regulus Black, passed out during The Princess Diaries. You’d never let him live it down.

But then the stillness settled, and boredom crept in. You nudged him with your foot. "Reg," you whispered. 

Nothing. He was out cold.

Regulus’s breathing evened out beside you, eyelids drooping, until finally, his head lolled to the side, and he was asleep.

You tried to focus on the screen, but the quiet gnawed at you. Restlessness crept up your spine. 

You shifted, sat up, and glanced around the room. James’s desk caught your eye—promising a treasure trove of distractions.

Curiosity overpowered fatigue. You pushed yourself up and padded over, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath your bare feet.

Drawers, papers, tangled cords—nothing exciting. Until your fingers brushed something cold, smooth, and unfamiliar. You pulled it out carefully, heart skipping.

It was sleek and mechanical, shaped like a wrist device but unlike anything you'd seen before. 

Thin webs of synthetic fibers stretched taut from tiny nozzles along its edge—webbing that gleamed faintly under the light.

Your breath hitched. The webbing was exactly like the synthetic strands Spider-Man used.

Hands trembling, you rummaged deeper in the drawer and found a tiny black earpiece, shaped perfectly like the communication devices Spider-Man’s allies wore.

Everything clicked inside you like a lock snapping open. James wasn’t just some reckless friend—he was Spider-Man’s ally.

You dropped the earpiece back in the drawer, slamming it shut harder than you intended. Your hands shook, breath coming fast and shallow. This changed everything.

You swallowed hard, the room suddenly closing in around you. Questions flooded your mind, but one burned brighter than the rest 

If James is Spider-Man’s ally… then who is Spider-Man?

You backed away from the desk, thoughts clashing into one another with dizzying speed. You had to tell someone, ask someone—no, not James. 

Not Sirius. Not yet. You needed to think. 

You slipped back out into the hallway, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. But as you crept back towards Regulus, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground had just shifted beneath your feet.

Your feet moved of their own accord, faster and faster, until you were practically running down the corridor, heart slamming in your chest. There was only one place you needed to check.

Remus’s room.

You reached his door, breathless and shaking. It was unlocked, which was strange—Remus never left it unlocked. 

You pushed it open, the hinges groaning. The room was empty, untouched, but the window was open, curtains flapping gently in the night breeze. 

Your mind spun, piecing together fragments of moments you’d never questioned before. 

The bandages. 

The injuries. 

The late nights and the cryptic glances between him and James. 

A thousand little things that seemed trivial until now.

You took a step forward, then another. The room felt colder somehow, empty of the warmth that Remus always carried with him. 

And then—a shadow moved outside the window. A flash of red and blue, streaking across the night sky before landing silently on the window’s edge.

Spider-Man.

You sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling back a step as the masked figure climbed inside, graceful and measured. 

He didn’t see you at first, his back turned as he ripped off his mask and tossed it onto Remus’s desk. Brown hair spilled free, mussed and tangled, and a hand reached up to wipe blood from his temple.

Remus.

It was Remus.

The room spun. You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, eyes wide and unblinking. He turned then, and the moment he saw you, every ounce of color drained from his face. 

His hands stilled, still streaked with crimson, his gaze locked with yours.

“Y/N…” his voice cracked, barely a whisper. He took a step forward, hand half-extended. “I… it’s not… I can explain.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Remus was Spider-Man. The one who saved you. The one who bled for the city. The one who had cradled you from free-falling off a rooftop just days ago.

Everything shifted. Nothing made sense. 

Remus opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came.

You’re frozen, chest tightening, every breath shallow and ragged as the words land like a hammer: You’re Spider-Man. 

You stare at him—Remus—who’s sitting there, the faint moonlight catching the edge of his face, the same face you’ve known for years. But it’s different now. Everything is different.

“How…” Your voice cracks, barely more than a strangled whisper, “How is this even possible? What the fuck?” The shock is raw, a fire racing through your veins. 

Your heart pounds so loud you’re afraid it might tear right out of your chest. Your hands tremble, and you feel like the ground beneath you has crumbled away entirely.

Remus shifts, panic flaring in his eyes, a flicker of desperation that makes your stomach twist. “I never wanted you to find out like this,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite place—guilt, fear, regret. 

His hands twitch at his sides, as if holding back something that’s clawing to escape.

But your voice is sharper now, breaking through the silence, tearing into the space between you. 

“You all lied to me. You knew. James knew. Sirius knew. You all knew and never told me. How could you? How could you keep this from me? From me?” The words spill out in a torrent of betrayal, pain, disbelief. 

Your vision blurs with tears you refuse to let fall, because if you do, you might drown in them.

You feel small, raw, exposed—like the trust you built was a fragile castle, and they’ve shattered it with secrets.

Before you can pull away, his hands are on your face—warm, steady, insistent. His fingers cradle your jaw gently, but there’s an urgency in the way he holds you, as if afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low, thick with emotion, so fierce it vibrates through your bones.

Your eyes lock with his, and suddenly, everything falls away—the anger, the confusion, the heartbreak. There’s just this moment, fragile and trembling between you.

“I am not Spider-Man right now,” he says, and the words drip like honey but taste of something far heavier. 

“I am Remus. The same Remus who sits with you on rooftops when the city is silent, the same Remus who watches the stars with you, who talks with you about everything and nothing.”

His voice falters for a second, a crack that makes your chest ache.

“I am Remus who cares about you. Not as a hero. Not as a mask. Just as me.” His thumb strokes lightly over your cheek, tracing a path that sends shivers down your spine.

You blink back the storm behind your eyes, the knot in your throat tightening.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m here,” he breathes. 

“I’m not some untouchable symbol or a secret you can’t reach. I’m the boy who knows your scars, your fears, the way you smile when you think no one’s looking.”

The intensity of his gaze pulls you in, raw and vulnerable. It’s like he’s tearing down the walls between you piece by piece, laying everything bare. 

His honesty is almost too much, a fierce, aching kind of love that makes your breath hitch.

Your throat tightens as your own voice trembles. “But why... why didn’t you tell me? Why keep me in the dark? Was I not enough to trust?” The hurt is suffocating, but beneath it, something deeper pulses—longing, a desperate hope for connection.

He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper, “Because I was scared. Scared that if you knew, if anyone knew, you’d see me differently. Scared I’d lose you—not just as Spider-Man, but as Remus. And I wasn’t strong enough to carry both.”

You stand frozen, caught in the raw vulnerability radiating from his trembling hands cradling your face. His voice, soft yet weighted with fear, breaks the silence between you.

“I am not Spider-Man without the mask,” he confesses, his breath shaky. 

“That mask… it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m something — like I’m not just broken pieces drifting without purpose. Without it, I’m nothing. Just Remus, scared and lost.”

His eyes search yours, wide and desperate, as if begging for understanding. “I never wanted you dragged into my world. I thought if you saw me — the real me — you’d run away. You’d see all my cracks and be gone.”

The tension coils tight in the air, thick and electric. Your heart pounds loud enough to drown out the world, every word tearing through you, yet igniting something fierce beneath the surface.

Then, without warning, his hands tighten around your face, pulling you closer. The fear, the desperation, the raw need in his eyes crash into you like a tidal wave. 

His lips slam against yours—rough, urgent, aching.

The kiss is everything he’s been holding back: fierce and trembling, wild and vulnerable, desperate and demanding. Your breath catches, your body aches for him, and all the unsaid words burn away in the heat of that fierce connection.

He clings to you like you’re the only anchor in his shattered world, and you melt into the storm, fierce and unyielding, knowing this—this chaotic, broken passion—is the closest thing to truth you’ll ever find.

You pull back from the kiss, your breath mingling as your eyes lock with his—intense, searching, vulnerable. 

For a long moment, the world outside this quiet room disappears, leaving only the weight of this shared silence between you.

Then his voice slips out, barely more than a breath, trembling with a mix of fear and humor, “James is gonna kill me.”

A soft laugh bubbles from your chest, surprising even yourself, breaking the tension in the air. 

But then you catch the glint of red, the dark smear on his temple. Your laughter halts instantly. “Bug boy, you’re bleeding.”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Bug boy? Is that what I am now?”

Before he can respond, you push him gently but firmly back onto the bed. “Stay put,” you say with a grin that doesn’t quite reach your worried eyes. 

You grab the med kit nearby and kneel beside him, careful as you open it. Your fingers work deftly, cleaning the blood from his skin, the warmth of your touch making him quiet, watching you with something soft and unfamiliar in his gaze.

He speaks again, breaking the comfortable silence. “You know, I have powers. I can heal quickly.”

You look up, surprised and genuinely impressed. “Really? That’s so cool.”

His smile falters just a little, touched with something sad. “Though the only way for me to heal this,” he gestures to the fresh wound, “is with some secret remedy I don’t have right now. So… I’m just gonna keep bleeding.”

The sadness in his voice makes your chest tighten, and panic flickers across your face. “What is it? What do you need?”

Without a word, he pulls you gently into his chest. The weight of him settles around you like a shield. “Kisses,” he whispers into your hair, voice soft and almost playful.

You grin, teasing him, “Well, I guess I’m just the remedy then.”

And with that, you tilt your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his lips. It’s light and warm at first, then deepens into a tender promise—sweet—the kind of moment where everything feels just right, fragile and infinite all at once.

The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his steady heartbeat beside you. 

Remus’s arm rested lightly over your waist, the warmth of his skin seeping into you, grounding you in a way nothing else could. The night stretched on, gentle and slow, as if the world had paused just to give you this moment.

You shifted slightly, your eyes catching the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting a pale glow over everything. 

The comfort of being here, so close to him, made your chest ache with a sweet kind of ache you hadn’t expected. You wanted to say the words—the ones that floated on the edges of your thoughts—but you didn’t need to. He was here. That was enough.

Then suddenly, a wave of unease washed over you, an unexpected chill creeping down your spine. 

Your breath hitched and your skin went pale, the warmth draining from your face. Remus stirred beside you, his eyes fluttering open to find yours clouded with something unspoken.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was thick with concern, gentle as a whisper meant only for you.

You swallowed hard, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I just realized you saw my room. You saw everything... all my notes, the pictures, the way I was stalking you.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you looked away, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

There was a pause before he laughed, low and full, not mocking but filled with a tenderness that made your heart flutter wildly. “I found it very adorable.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, disbelief etched deep in your expression. “Adorable? You found me stalking you adorable?”

He smiled, that crooked, slow smile that made you forget every worry you’d had just moments before. “Anything you do is adorable.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks again, a flush that wasn’t just embarrassment but something softer, more intimate. 

It was as if the space between you was charged with quiet electricity, a pulse you both could feel without needing words.

Remus shifted closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You could kill me for all I want,” he murmured, voice low and filled with something fierce, “and I wouldn’t mind. I’d be honored to die at the hands of Y/N Potter.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a blanket, thick and comforting and impossible to ignore. 

Your heart hammered wildly, and for a moment the world stopped turning, held captive by the intensity in his eyes.

You laughed softly, a breathless sound that slipped out unbidden. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned, eyes shining with an unspoken promise. “Maybe. But I’m your ridiculous.”

Just as you opened your mouth to retort, the door burst open so hard it crashed against the wall.

 Sirius stood in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes wide. "Remus—the villain isn’t dead—"

His words died in his throat as he took in the scene before him. 

Remus, still in his Spider-Man suit, mask tossed on the floor. You, tangled in the sheets beside him, cheeks flushed and hair wild. 

Sirius blinked once. Twice. Then, with the most dramatic flourish you’d ever seen, he slapped a hand over his eyes.

“What the fuck?” he finally managed, voice tinged with both horror and something akin to amusement.

Remus groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Sirius—"

Sirius peeks between his fingers. "You—wait. She knows?"

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the flush on your cheeks only deepens.

Sirius drops his hand and points at the two of you accusingly. "James is going to absolutely murder you, Moony. What the hell were you thinking?"

Remus tries to sit up, wincing as his sore muscles protest. "It’s—complicated."

"Oh, I bet it is," Sirius mutters. Then he shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts. 

"Wait. Why are you in bed, in the Spider-Man suit, with James’s sister? Are you out of your mind?"

You press your hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle, and Remus shoots you a look that’s half pleading, half exasperated.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. "So, what? You decided to just have sex?"

You and Remus speak at the exact same time, voices loud and full of mortification. "We didn’t have sex!"

"Oh my god, no!" you add, shaking your head rapidly. "Definitely not!"

Sirius blinks, then smirks. "Alright, alright. Just checking."

Remus rubs his hands over his face, muttering something under his breath, and you can’t help but laugh at the shade of red creeping up his neck.

Sirius just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Well, this is officially my favorite morning of the year."

Remus groans, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes when he glances back at you. 

Remus rubbed his hands over his face, still flustered from Sirius’s endless teasing, but the grin on your face made it all worth it. 

He finally straightened, running a hand through his messy hair. “Where are James and Peter?” he asked, voice steadying as he shifted back to business.

You adjusted the sheets around you, still fighting the blush on your cheeks. “James went on a date with Lily,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, though the idea of your brother actually on a date was a little surreal.

Sirius rolled his eyes dramatically. “And Pettigrew is…out,” he said with a shrug, like that was explanation enough.

Remus paused, gaze sharpening. “Out?”

“Yeah, out,” Sirius replied. “Probably running errands or something. He’s been a bit more…secretive lately. I just assumed it was some…Peter thing.”

Remus’s eyes narrowed for just a moment, but then he shook it off. “Right. Well, I’m going to go get rid of that villain. I’ve let him play around long enough.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

A sly smile curved his lips as he bent down, reaching under his bed. From beneath the frame, he pulled out something sleek and silver, wrapped carefully in cloth. He peeled it back, revealing a high-tech version of his Spider-Man suit—polished, reinforced, and far more advanced than the one he currently wore. 

Tiny lines of blue circuitry glowed faintly along its surface. “He can’t beat that,” Remus said confidently, brushing his fingers over the smooth material. 

“And the best part? The villain doesn’t know about this new tech I’ve got in here.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

Remus grinned, that familiar spark of mischief back in his eyes. “You coming?”

Sirius scoffed. “You think I’m letting you have all the fun? I gotta be in your earpiece, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet.” 

He gave you a wink and a salute. “Try not to miss us too much.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get yourselves killed.”

Remus moved toward the door, steps heavy with purpose, but before he left, he turned back to you. 

His eyes were molten with something unspoken, the kind of thing that lingered in rooms long after someone left. His hand found the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone with a tenderness that nearly broke you. 

"Come back to me, okay?" you whispered, voice cracking just enough to reveal the fear clawing at your heart.

He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that was all Remus and none of Spider-Man. "If I don’t," he said, voice soft, "then who’s gonna save you from all that trouble you always find?"

You laughed shakily, and before you could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed you. It was quick but fierce, his hands tangled in your hair like he was afraid you might vanish the moment he let go. 

He pulled back, breathless, and then with one last look, he was gone.

Sirius clapped you on the back, though a bit more gently than usual. "I’m off. Gotta make sure our boy doesn’t do anything stupid out there," he said with a wink. You nodded numbly, still tasting Remus on your lips.

When they left, the room felt impossibly silent. Too big. Too empty. Your thoughts roared back in, louder than ever. 

You let out a shaky breath, still reeling from the kiss, from the way his hands had cradled your face like you were something fragile. 

But then something nagged at the back of your mind. A whisper of a memory you hadn’t quite pieced together.

You leaned back against the pillows, mind replaying the events from the rooftop, the chaos of the fight. You remembered the villain’s hand, reaching out to grab you. You remembered the scar on his wrist—thin, jagged, unmistakable.

You froze.

That scar. You had seen it before. A million times, in fact. 

At parties, during missions, lazy days lounging around headquarters. 

Peter had that exact same scar. You had always wondered where he’d gotten it, but he’d brushed you off every time you asked.

The room suddenly felt too small, too suffocating. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as the realization sank in, icy and sharp. 

Peter. 

Peter was the villain. 

Peter had been betraying all of you this whole time. He knew Remus’s plan. He knew the new tech. He knew everything.

And Remus was already gone.

Your hands shook as you stumbled out of bed, heart in your throat. How long had Peter known? How much had he seen? Your mind was racing with questions, each one darker than the last.

A flicker of movement caught your eye from the window, something darting between shadows too fast to be human. You rushed to it, throwing it open, and for a moment, the city sprawled out before you seemed quiet. 

But then you saw it—far in the distance, flashes of blue light sparking against the skyline, too sharp and erratic to be anything but a fight.

Your breath caught. Remus was out there with no idea he was walking into a trap. Peter knew. Peter always knew.

And now, you were out of time.

The realization crashed into you like a tidal wave, too strong and too consuming to push away. 

That scar on his wrist was the missing piece, the mark you’d seen a thousand times without a second thought. And now Remus—Remus was walking right into a trap, armed with his confidence and a suit that Peter already knew everything about.

You couldn’t breathe. The walls seemed to close in on you, suffocating and sharp-edged. 

He knew Remus’s plan, the new tech, the strategies. He had been playing all of you like puppets on strings, pulling tighter with each lie and every fake smile. 

Panic clawed its way up your throat as you stumbled out of the room, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet.

Your hands shook as you grabbed your phone, heart hammering in your chest. 

You dialed James’s number, praying he would pick up. It rang and rang, each passing second stretching thin like wire. “Come on, come on…” you whispered, voice cracking.

Finally, there was a click. “Y/N?” James’s voice was breathless, wind rushing past him as if he were running. “What’s going on?”

“Peter,” you gasped, shoving your feet into your shoes as you spoke. “It’s Peter. He’s the villain. I saw the scar. It matches. He knows everything, James. Remus—he’s walking right into a trap.”

There was silence, heavy and stretching, before James cursed so violently you flinched. “What do you mean Remus? What the hell are you talking about?”

You paused, breath hitching. “Gosh, Spider-Man. I know everything, James.”

Another pause, sharper this time. “How do you even know all this?” he demanded, but there was no accusation, only shock and urgency.

“It doesn’t matter,” you snapped, running down the stairs two at a time. “Where are you?”

“City center,” James said, voice clipped. “I’m heading back now—”

“No!” you shouted, hailing a cab as you stumbled onto the sidewalk. “I’m coming to you. Remus is already out there. He—he’s fighting him, I saw it.”

James cursed again. “Get here fast.”

The line went dead, and you threw yourself into the back of the cab, voice breathless as you gave the driver directions. 

The city blurred past, buildings stretching into smears of light and shadow. Your fingers tapped anxiously on your knees, thoughts racing faster than the car could move.

When you finally arrived at the city center, chaos had already erupted. Crowds of people were screaming, scattering like ants as bursts of blue light ricocheted off metal and concrete. 

Above the skyline, two figures clashed—one clad in crimson and silver, the other in jagged steel, metal gleaming under the flicker of broken streetlights.

Your heart stopped. Remus. He was out there, alone, fighting against the very person who had been one of your closest friends. Betrayal and fear tangled in your gut, sharp and twisting. 

The metallic villain’s fist crashed into Spider-Man with a force that shook the ground, sending him sprawling across the pavement. 

People screamed, scattering like leaves in a storm. The air was thick with panic, the chaos of it nearly blinding as you pushed your way through the frantic crowd, heart pounding like a drum.

Your eyes locked on the scene unfolding before you. Remus—Spider-Man—was struggling to get up, shaking his head as if to clear it. His new suit shimmered under the flickering streetlights, cracked slightly at the shoulder where the impact had hit hardest. 

The villain loomed above him, mechanical limbs whirring with each predatory step forward.

You sucked in a breath. The last time they had defeated him, it had been with that device—an energy amplifier. 

Your mind spun with the memory, grasping at every detail. If you could replicate it, if you could make something similar…

There wasn’t time to second-guess it. You turned sharply, pushing your way through the throng of terrified bystanders until you found what you were looking for: a tech vendor's stall, abandoned in the chaos. Pieces of scrap metal, circuit boards, wires—it was a mess of technology, but it was something.

Your hands moved on instinct, gathering what you needed: a copper coil, lithium batteries, a panel of solar conductors, anything that could channel raw energy. 

The amplifier worked by redirecting kinetic force into a concentrated pulse—if you could just build something close to it…

Your fingers flew, twisting wires and connecting circuit boards. 

The copper coil would act as the conduit, the lithium as the charge, and the solar conductors to boost its power intake. You pulled open a panel, exposing the wiry guts of it, and started connecting everything together. Sparks flew, the hum of energy rising beneath your palms. Sweat dripped down your forehead as you worked, heart hammering as you glanced back at the fight.

Spider-Man had gained some ground, landing a kick to the villain’s chest that sent him stumbling back, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. 

You jammed the final piece into place, tightening the last wire and securing it with a twist. The device pulsed once, then lit up, a soft blue glow emanating from its center.

 The air was thick with tension, shattered glass crunching beneath frantic footsteps, and the sharp crackle of energy bouncing off cold metal. 

Shitty news reporters had swarmed in, their cameras casting the entire fight live for the world to see, their voices a distant drone beneath the roar of the crowd scattering in panic.

Remus lay on the ground, winded and battered from a brutal blow the villain had just landed. His crimson and silver suit was scuffed and torn, but he pushed himself up, grimacing through the pain.

You knew you had to act fast. The device—the energy amplifier—was the only thing that had worked before. But this time, the stakes were even higher. 

The amplifier was powerful enough to disrupt the villain’s defenses, but it had one cruel catch: whoever wielded it had to maintain direct contact with the target. The energy surge would course through you as well, and you wouldn’t come out unharmed.

With no time to waste, you darted behind a broken stall and gathered whatever materials you could find: frayed wires, twisted metal strips, bits of a shattered electronic billboard. 

Your hands moved quickly, weaving and twisting, soldering circuits in a makeshift bow—an amplifier bow wired to release a focused burst of energy. It was crude but brilliant, a weapon born of desperation and ingenuity.

You stepped into the clearing, heart hammering in your chest, and called out loudly, voice steady despite the chaos. “Or should I call you Pettigrew, you fucking traitor?”

The villain—metallic and menacing—slowly turned to face you. His snake symbol glinted on his chestplate, a dark promise of betrayal.

From the distance, a shout pierced the noise. “No!”

James had arrived, breathless and frantic, but too far to intervene just yet.

Remus, lying on the ground, looked up at you, eyes filled with pain and warning. He shook his head weakly. “Please… don’t.”

But you had no choice.

Raising the amplifier bow, you steadied your aim. The wires hummed with electric energy, circuits pulsing like a heartbeat in your hands. 

You released the shot—a brilliant surge of raw power blasting toward the snake emblem on the villain’s chest.

The moment the energy connected, it was like a thunderclap. The force surged through the air, wrapping around you in a shocking embrace. 

Pain flared up your arms, your vision blurred, and the world spun wildly before everything went black.

-

-

-

You woke slowly, the world coming back into focus in fragments. The ceiling above you was painfully white, sterile, the kind of brightness that belonged to hospital lights. 

Your body felt heavy, limbs weighted down and wrapped in tight bandages. There were wires connected to you, snaking out from beneath the covers, their ends disappearing into beeping machines by your bedside. 

A wave of panic surged up your throat, and your fingers twitched, searching for movement.

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice murmured, gentle and reassuring. You blinked hard, vision clearing enough to make out Remus sitting beside you, bruised and bandaged himself, but very much alive. 

His hand found yours, squeezing it softly. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Regulus was there too, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze sharp and watchful. He offered a small nod when your eyes met his. “You scared the hell out of us.”

The door swung open, and James all but burst inside, eyes wide and frantic. “Thank god you’re awake,” he breathed out, stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to your bedside. 

He looked you over with a mixture of relief and exasperation, ruffling his hair as if trying to shake off the adrenaline. “You’re insane, you know that? Completely reckless.”

A weak laugh bubbled up from your throat, more relief than amusement. “Nice to see you too, Potter.”

James snorted, dropping into the chair opposite Remus. “You’re lucky you’ve got these two looking out for you. That was…insane. I mean, brilliant, but insane.”

Remus’s thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, filled with something unspoken and fragile. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he murmured, voice low. 

“You could have died.”

“Yeah, well,” you managed, voice cracking just slightly. “I couldn’t just stand by.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, finally pushing off the wall and coming closer. “You might want to consider standing by next time. You nearly got yourself killed.” But there was no bite to his words, only a thin veil of concern he didn’t bother to hide.

You tried to sit up, but a sharp pain flared in your side, forcing you back down with a wince. Remus’s hand pressed gently to your shoulder. “Easy,” he said, his voice a soothing balm. “You’re still healing. Just…take it slow.”

For a moment, there was only the soft hum of machines and the steady rise and fall of your breaths. 

Then James leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “So,” he drawled, a grin creeping onto his face. “When you’re back on your feet…we’re going to have a long talk about your definition of ‘safety.’”

Regulus scoffed. “Safety? She ran into the middle of a full-on fight with a homemade amplifier. I’d say her definition of safety is a bit skewed.”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed, the sound cracking the tension that had built in your chest. 

Despite everything, despite the pain and the panic and the aftermath, you were here. 

James stretched his arms above his head, glancing at Regulus with a grin. “Okay, well, me and Reg are gonna go catch up with Sirius, who’s currently losing a battle with a vending machine.” He rolled his eyes affectionately. 

Then, as if remembering something, he turned back to you and Remus, eyes narrowing playfully. “And don’t get too cozy with my sister, Lupin.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and James ruffled your hair on his way out, Regulus following with a parting nod. 

The door shut softly behind them, leaving the room draped in quiet warmth.

Your eyes immediately met Remus. “I know you don’t like what I did, but—”

Before you could finish, his hands cupped your face, pulling you in with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. 

His mouth met yours, soft and searching, like you were something delicate he was terrified of breaking. 

You melted into him, hands slipping around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His breath stuttered against your lips, and when you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. 

“You’re everything I tried not to want. And now…I can’t imagine wanting anything else.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, words trapped in your throat.

A crooked grin played at his lips as he pulled back, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Come on. I’m going to show you something.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I thought I was supposed to rest.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “Good thing I’m Spider-Man, right?”

Remus moved toward the backpack stashed behind the door, unzipping it and pulling out his Spider-Man suit piece by piece. 

He slid it on with the kind of practiced ease that came with repetition, the mask hanging loosely from his fingertips as he turned back to you. There was a flicker of hesitation before he stepped closer, his gaze softening. "Ready?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Ready for what?"

He grinned, a flash of mischief lighting up his features. "To get out of here." Without another word, he slipped the mask over his face, the familiar lenses locking into place, and in one smooth motion, he scooped you into his arms.

A startled laugh escaped your lips, your hands instinctively wrapping around his neck. "Remus! What are you—"

But he was already moving, pushing the window open with a flick of his hand. The city sprawled out below, lights blinking like distant stars. 

Before you could protest, he stepped onto the ledge, his grip on you firm and steady. "Hold on," he murmured through the mask, and then you were airborne.

Wind whipped past your face, the rush of it stealing the breath from your lungs. The hospital fell away beneath you, replaced by the glittering sprawl of the city as Remus swung from one skyscraper to the next with effortless grace.

 Your heart pounded wildly, caught somewhere between exhilaration and disbelief. You tightened your hold around him, the city blurring past in streaks of light and shadow.

It was nothing like you’d ever experienced—weightless and wild, the world stretching out beneath you like a living, breathing thing. 

You laughed, the sound lost in the wind, and Remus’s grip on you tightened just a fraction, almost like he was savoring the way you clung to him.

When he finally landed again, it was on the pavement just before the city’s grand bridge. Its arching structure loomed above, glittering with strings of lights like stars hung low enough to touch. 

But what stole your breath wasn’t the view—it was the webbing stretched across its iron frame, glistening silver in the moonlight, spelling out three simple words: 

I Love You.

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide and heart thundering. You turned to him, and he was already looking at you, mask off, eyes raw and unguarded. 

"I wanted you to see it from here," he murmured, voice trembling just enough for you to hear it. "Before I said it."

The world felt impossibly still. "You… you did this?"

He nodded, taking a step closer. "I’ve loved you for a long time," he confessed, voice thick with emotion. 

"Way before I walked into your room and saw that mess of clues and pins and theories. Hell, I think I loved you the second James introduced you as his 'forbidden-to-date' sister."

You laughed, the sound cracking with disbelief and joy. "You’re serious?"

"I’m completely serious." He took your hands in his, the warmth of him grounding you, anchoring you. 

"I’ve tried not to. I swear I’ve tried. But you’re everything I can’t shake. You’re everything I want. You could kill me for all I care, I’d be honored to die at the hands of Y/N Potter."

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words sinking in like the softest kind of devastation. 

He was so close now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Remus," you whispered, voice cracking. "I... I love you too."

His eyes flashed with something wild and desperate, and before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. 

It was slow and aching at first, like he was savoring every second, but then it grew deeper, more consuming, his hands coming up to cup your face as if he was afraid you might slip away. 

You kissed him back with everything you had, fingers tangling in his hair, breath mingling with his until the world around you blurred away into nothing.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, eyes still closed, lips parted. "You made this for me," you whispered, voice trembling with awe as you looked back at the bridge, the words shimmering like spun silver.

He opened his eyes, gaze softening as he looked at you. "I’d make you anything if it meant I got to see you look at me like that."

“Wait, I’m not done,” Remus whispered suddenly, reaching behind the doorframe where his backpack lay hidden. 

He fished through its contents with a sort of hurried excitement before pulling out a small, glimmering necklace. It hung from a delicate chain, a tiny spider charm nestled at its center, its eyes gleaming with a crimson shimmer.

He stepped forward, lifting it so it dangled between you, catching the streetlights. "This," he murmured, voice soft and sincere, "is linked to my suit. If you press it, I’ll find you. Wherever you are."

Your fingers reached out to brush against it, eyes wide with wonder. "You… you made this for me?"

"I did," he nodded, fastening it around your neck with a gentleness that made your heart lurch. "And there’s more." 

He reached back into the bag and pulled out a matching bracelet, sleek and shimmering, threaded with the same crimson accents. "You can’t seem to stay out of trouble," he teased, his eyes sparkling. "Consider this my way of keeping an eye on you."

You laughed, light and breathless, fingers touching the necklace that now rested against your collarbone. "Gosh," you whispered, looking up at him with a grin so wide it hurt. "I love you."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss so soft and slow that it stole the breath right out of you. 

i highly suggest playing Honest by The Neighborhood here for the perfect outro <3

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—minutes or hours, time blurring into something infinite. But at some point, the silence grew heavy, and you turned to look at him, his profile bathed in moonlight. 

His mask lay beside him, the eyes still fixed in that eternal wideness, but his real gaze was softer, warmer.

“Remus?” you murmured, voice barely a whisper.

He turned to you, brow lifting in question. “Yeah?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “When I found out you were Spider-Man...it just...it made so much sense.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Sense? I’m pretty sure it’s the most nonsensical thing that’s ever happened to me.”

But you shook your head, voice steady now, charged with quiet certainty. “No, really. It made perfect sense. Spider-Man isn’t just a hero to me—he’s everything you are. Brave beyond reason, endlessly kind, carrying the world on his shoulders but never losing that spark of selflessness. Always giving more than anyone could ask for, even when he thinks it’s not enough. That’s you. Has always been you.”

Your voice grew softer, almost confessional, as your fingers entwined with his. “When I found that earpiece in James’s room, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I didn’t run to Sirius’s or Peter’s room. I ran straight to your room. Because you’re the one I believed in. The one who’s been there even when the world wasn’t. I could have assumed it was James—maybe that would’ve made sense, especially after seeing the webs in his room—but I didn’t. Because no one wears Spider-Man like you do. No one.”

He gave you a small, almost embarrassed smile. “I don’t know if I deserve it.”

You squeezed his hand, your voice a soothing balm against his fears. “You do. More than anyone else. The suit is just cloth and webbing. But you... you breathe life into it. You give it heart and soul. The mask isn’t a shield—it’s a window and I always knew it was you beneath it. The way you move, the way you fight, how fiercely you love even the people you’ve never met.”

He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded. “The way I love?”

You leaned closer, your breath mingling with his. “You don’t do anything halfway—not even love. It’s reckless, it’s fierce, it’s everything. I knew it was you because Spider-Man loves the way you do—with every inch of his heart.”

“I’ve spent so long hiding, pretending no one could see me,” he murmured. “But you… you see all of me. The hero and the man. The fear and the strength. The light and the shadows.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest as you leaned into his touch. “I’ve always seen you. And I always will, spider-boy.”

His breath came out shaky, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Honest?”

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb against his cheekbone. “Honest.”

He watched you with those gentle brown eyes, a question unspoken on his lips. 

But before he could say anything, you moved, the cool night air brushing your skin as you stood up, brushing off the dust from your jeans. Remus blinked up at you from where he sat, brow furrowing in confusion.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice laced with surprise.

You did not answer—not right away. Instead, you moved, steps soft and measured as you wandered toward the edge of the rooftop. 

Your heels scuffed against the concrete, a whisper of sound against the city's distant hum. Below, the world stretched vast and shimmering, lights flickering like scattered stars, restless and alive. 

You turned back to him, the wind catching in your hair, loose strands dancing around your face. For a moment, you were still, arms at your sides, eyes holding his like a promise.

“Hey, Bug Boy?” Your voice was soft but sure, lacing through the space between you like a silver thread.

And before he could shape the words on his lips, you leaned back, tipping off the edge with your arms spread wide, surrendering to the night. 

There was no scream, no flinch of fear—just weightlessness, the air rushing past you in ribbons of wind and light. The city blurred beneath you, gold and white streaks smearing across your vision. Your eyes slipped shut, heart hammering wild and free.

Because you knew he would jump immediately after you.

There was no question, not even the whisper of doubt. Because Remus Lupin had always caught you, always been the net beneath your fall. In all the ways that mattered. In every small, unspoken gesture. In every steady gaze and every soft-spoken promise. This was no different.

The wind howled louder, rushing past your ears like the roar of the ocean, and you just let it take you. Down and down, the city lights smearing into wild streaks of gold, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears like the rush of wings. 

And still, you did not open your eyes.

You thought of his hands, steady and warm, always reaching, always finding you. 

You thought of rooftop nights and whispered promises, of moonlight slipping through cracked windows and the way he always called you reckless with that crooked smile.

Maybe this was what flying felt like.

The wind howled one last time, and you smiled into the rush of it, arms still wide, eyes still closed.

And then, just as the city lights began to fade into shadow, you felt it: a tug, gentle as breath, soft as the brush of a fingertip.

He caught you.

He laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound vibrating through you. He held you tighter, like he was terrified to let go, and you realized then that maybe you didn’t need wings to fly. Maybe you just needed him.

Because some part of you always knew: you would fall, and he would catch you.

Every. Single. Time.

a/n: sooo? i honetsly loved writing this and id love to make more blurbs of this au with spiderman remus <33

[dishia]

henna

pairing: dehya/reader

content: sub!dehya, dom!reader, testing out new lipstick with dehya <3, biting/marking, finger sucking, lots of kisses, praise, pet names, nipple sucking, fingering (dehya rec)

word count: 5.3k

Treasures Street lived up to its name. White stone paths lined with stalls and shops that presented only the finest array of food, spices, ceramics, jewelry, and hand-sewn clothing—a dream for anyone looking to empty their coin purses on regional delicacies. But amidst all the precious gemstones and golden silk threads on display for you to marvel at, your attention was focused solely on Dehya.

Her eyes were full of wonder, gleaming like crystals in the fading sunlight as she chatted with a cosmetics merchant about the vast collection of makeup spread out before you. Her toned arms had countless shopping bags hanging off of them, but you’d think they were light as air with how effortlessly she carried them around, even after an entire day of perusing the market. You weren’t sure how many hours it had been since you’d first ventured out into the city together, but the setting sun and nagging ache in your legs told you that you were nearing your limit.

Still, it was easy to remain patient when Dehya’s enthusiasm was so infectious. You loved seeing her like this—akin to a kid in a candy store as she tugged you along from Puspa Cafe to the Grand Bazaar to Lambard’s Tavern, as if it was her first time ever exploring the streets of Sumeru City. It wasn’t very often that she had the chance to shop to her heart’s content, and the Blazing Beasts had just completed a particularly demanding job for a certain wealthy aristocrat the day prior; so it was no surprise to you that she would jump at the opportunity to spend a bit of the hefty sum she’d been paid.

“Oh, this one is really nice!” Dehya’s curious voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this shade before.”

The vendor—whom Dehya seemed to be a regular customer for, if the way they were chatting like old friends was any indication—chimed in at that. “Good eye, as always!” she commended. “That’s Desert Rose, the highlight of our coming Summer collection!”

Dehya exchanged a look with you, letting out an impressed whistle. You peered over at the display to see what it was that had captured her attention: a flashy-looking tube of lipstick, vibrant red with a glossy, pinkish tint to it. Depending on the angle you observed it from, the shade seemed to shift between fuchsia and crimson hues, like an optical illusion. When you looked closely enough, it almost reminded you of—

“Henna berries are the primary ingredient,” the vendor continued proudly, confirming your suspicions. “It took an exhausting amount of tests and trials, but I think you’ll be very pleased with the results.”

It was easy to see why the lipstick had Dehya so entranced, admittedly, your interest was piqued as well. Not necessarily because you wanted it for yourself, but because the thought of her in such a stunning shade was too tempting to pass up. Everything about the product, right down to its name, embodied her very essence. A desert rose; beautiful and tenacious, blooming in even the harshest of conditions.

“You should try it.” You gave her an encouraging nudge. “That color is perfect for you.”

She reached for the tube with care, her clawed armor clinking lightly against the golden casing as she took a closer look at it. “You think so?” She perked up at your suggestion, adorably earnest.

“You use henna berries to make dye for the Blazing Beasts’ banners, right? It’s practically made for you.”

“Precisely what I was thinking!” The merchant nodded, clearly delighted by your aid in making her sale a reality. “What better lipstick for the Flame Mane herself? It’s certain to make any potential suitor fall to their knees at the mere sight of you!”

Your lip twitched in amusement. “Oh? Now that, I’d like to see.”

“Alright, Sulafa, no need to overdo it.” Dehya coughed into her fist, suddenly not quite so sure of herself. “I’ll take it.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t you want to try it first?” 

She didn’t make eye contact with you, and when you caught her cheeks tinging the faintest hint of red, you knew that she was envisioning the exact same thing as you. “You said the color suits me, right?” she mumbled, handing the tube back to Sulafa for her to package. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The merchant seemed far too happy with her purchase to notice the change in atmosphere between you two. She wrapped up the lipstick cheerfully, placing it into a bag that emitted a fragrant, rosy scent. “Excellent! I’ll even add in a few face powder samples for such a loyal customer like you.”

Dehya brightened at that, unable to mask her giddiness. “Seriously? You’re the best, Sulafa, thanks…” she trailed off as she fished through her coin purse, lips dropping into a frown. “Ah…sorry. On second thought, this one might have to wait. Looks like I don’t have enough mora left from the batch I brought today.”

She gave a sheepish chuckle as Sulafa eyed the numerous bags adorning her arms, visibly deflating. You couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed, too—albeit, for entirely different reasons. Still, the merchant put on a smile and clapped her hands together. 

“A shame,” she said wistfully. “But I’ll keep this one wrapped up just for you, so don’t forget to come pick it up next time! I absolutely need to know what my biggest makeup connoisseur thinks of it, after all!”

Dehya nodded, looking apologetic and a tad embarrassed. Knowing her, it was probably more over the possibility of someone nearby catching on to her love of cosmetics than her running low on mora “It’s a promise! Thanks again, Sulafa.”

As the two of you said your goodbyes and headed over to the next stall, you noticed her casting one last, longing look over her shoulder, no doubt regretting how freely she’d spent her money earlier. You would’ve gladly offered to pay for the lipstick instead, but you knew she would never accept. Her shy refusal to let you spoil her may have made things difficult from time to time, but you found it too cute to consider a real problem. All it meant was that you simply had to find ways to work around it. 

Which was exactly what you planned to do. While Dehya was preoccupied with an intricately-designed butterfly hairpin, you leaned over and whispered to her that you’d forgotten your bag at the previous shop. She hummed in reply, seemingly absentminded, but you knew that you only had a minute or two before her protective instincts kicked in and she started searching the market to make sure you were okay.

Without a second to lose, you scurried back over to the cosmetics shop. You pressed a finger over your lips, signaling to the vendor to stay quiet before she could blow your cover, then swiftly purchased the lipstick with your own money. Just as you slipped the gift into your own shopping bag, Dehya lifted her head as if on cue, scanning the streets for you like a lost puppy.

She smiled when her sharp eyes locked with yours. In a wordless question, she raised a brow and gestured behind her in the direction of your house, trying to gauge if you were ready to hit the road. You gave her a quick nod and rushed back to her side, relieved that she seemed completely oblivious to what had just transpired. As you matched pace to begin the walk home, you felt breathless for more reasons than one.

“Man, I missed it here.” Dehya stretched luxuriously as she stepped into your house, taking in the familiar sights with a fond expression on her face. By the time you’d made it back, the sun had nearly set, its last rays filtering through your windows to cast a brilliant golden light on her tan skin.

“You wouldn’t have to miss it if you stayed in one place for more than a few days,” you teased, slipping off your shoes and flopping dramatically onto your couch. She looked like she wanted to protest at that, but before she could, you continued on, “I’m surprised you had so much energy today after how tough that last job was.”

“The heat did have me feeling a little tired near the end,” she admitted. As if to prove her point, her mouth fell open into a yawn, which she quickly made sure to cover with her hand. It was a tendency of hers you’d always found cute—the highly feared and revered warrior, unafraid to break a few bones, but still polite enough to remember her manners.

“C’mere, then. Let’s relax a bit,” you beckoned her over, patting the space next to you on the couch. “Oh, and could you grab my purse for me on your way? I think I left it in my shopping bag.”

Just as expected, Dehya obeyed without question, and you had to fight back a smile when you heard her rustling around between the bags, unaware of what awaited her. “By the way, what were you thinking for dinner? If you have lamb meat I could whip something up with the vegetables we—”

Her sentence came to a sudden halt. Even without peering over at her, you knew she’d found exactly what you’d intended.

“What’s this?”

“Hm?” you replied innocently.

The hurried clacking of her heels on the floor made you sit up in anticipation, just in time to meet her shocked expression with a triumphant grin.

“When did you…?” It was hard not to giggle as Dehya’s eyes darted between you and the lipstick in her hand, realization dawning  on her face all at once. “W-why did you…?”

“Oh, that? It’s just a little gift for you to celebrate a job well done.” 

As if she hadn’t already been flustered enough, the word “gift” seemed to send her into a frenzy of abashment. “I-I could’ve just gone back for it tomorrow! You really didn’t have to buy it for me, especially not with your own money!”

“I wanted to,” you said simply. 

“But it really isn’t cheap, this brand costs top mora! Let me pay you back—”

“Baby,” you interrupted, taking her hands in yours to silence her rambling. The petname did exactly what you’d hoped, as Dehya melted instantly, not even trying to resist as you tugged her down to sit next to you on the couch. Once you were at level with her, you rested your palm on her cheek with a reassuring smile. “How many times have you surprised me with presents like this from all over the world? You deserve something nice without having to get it yourself.”

Her skin felt wonderfully warm under your hand, and it only heated up more with what you said next. “Besides,” you began playfully, thumb dragging over her lips. “It’s just as much a gift for me as it is for you, right?”

“Y-you’re so…” Dehya clicked her tongue, but it lost its desired effect when she pressed her cheek harder against you, like a cat begrudgingly headbutting you for affection. “Thank you,” she sighed at last.

You snuck a quick kiss to the tip of her nose. “You’re welcome, pretty girl. Are you gonna try it on for me?” 

Regaining some of her composure, she flashed you a half-grin. “Starting to think you’re even more into this than I am.”

“I’m pursuing knowledge,” you proclaimed in mock offense. “I just wanna do some research to test if what that merchant said is true.”

“A scholar, huh?” she mused, unwrapping the lipstick at last and popping off its decorative cap. The glossy sheen coating the product immediately sparkled in the light, so pristine and perfect that you almost didn’t want her to ruin it. “Might just be the first one I’ve liked.”

You let go of Dehya’s face to slide your hand down to her thigh. She nearly squeaked, jumping a bit in place before she realized that you were only dipping your fingers into the pocket of her shorts to pull out her makeup mirror. She huffed as you handed it to her with a cheeky glint in your eyes, but flipped open the mirror without any complaints.

Her lips parted to allow herself to dab the product tentatively against them, trying to get a feel for its texture. Then, eyeing herself in the mirror, she applied the lipstick with a practiced ease, not missing a single corner or crevice until every inch was painted that vibrant red. She puckered her lips at her reflection once she was fully satisfied, letting out a tiny, pleased hum at the result.

“It’s great quality! Definitely worth the price,” she beamed.

Your heart jumped in your chest as she turned to look at you, her expression toeing the line of eager and nervous as she awaited your approval. The shade adorning her lips was almost identical to the fierce red of her clothing and painted nails, creating a gorgeous contrast to her icy blue eyes. If that weren’t enough to have you hooked, the glossy tint made them gleam in a way that was positively mesmerizing to watch. It took all your self-control not to lunge forward right there and sink your teeth into her like one of the sweet henna berries her lips were coated with.

“You’re staring a lot,” she tried to chuckle, but her gaze betrayed her, flickering shyly away from yours as a flush crept up her neck. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Something like that,” you said at last. “Think she’ll give it back to me?”

Dehya’s breath caught in her throat as you leaned in closer. You hovered mere centimeters away from her face, close enough to catch the gentle, flowery fragrance emanating from the lipstick. Her catlike pupils dilated as they searched yours for what felt like an eternity, waiting for you to make a move with bated breath. Then, her eyes fluttered shut, a silent invitation for you to get a taste of the lipstick yourself.

That was all it took for you to close the space between you, a warm, silky sensation enveloping your lips as soon as they pressed into hers. They were already so full and plush on their own, but the added texture of the makeup made them unbelievably soft on your senses. It was a feeling you instantly decided you could get addicted to.

She let out a content sigh into your mouth as you parted it wider, hungry for a better taste of her. You ran your tongue along her bottom lip, relishing in the sweet flavors that flooded your tastebuds. The fruity blend of the lipstick mixed with traces of the candied ajilenakh nuts you’d eaten together on the walk home—her favorite. But their sweetness paled in comparison to the moan that met your ears when your tongue slipped into her mouth, gliding against hers and sending a jolt of electricity through both of your bodies. Dehya’s hands flew up to your hips, nails digging softly into your clothes in an attempt to pull you closer, and to keep herself grounded.

You took things a step further, inching forward as you deepened the kiss until your movements guided her to fall back against the sofa cushions. She followed your lead without hesitation, not breaking the kiss or her grip on your waist for even a second. Wet smacking sounds began to fill the room as you devoured each other with more and more vigor. Coupled with the rising heat rolling off of your bodies, every kiss started to feel intoxicating, a pleasant haze nipping at the edges of your brain.

Now that you were fully on top of Dehya, you took the opportunity to slide your leg in between her thighs, spreading them to add the slightest bit of pressure to her core with your knee. She gasped softly, squeezing around you like a reflex and setting your skin ablaze at every point of contact with her flesh. 

Even as your lungs began to ache for air, it was difficult to find enough willpower to stop when her velvety lips lulled you deeper and deeper into a dream that you never wanted to wake from. But you could tell that she was quickly reaching her limit, too, from the way her whimpers grew breathless and her hands stopped roaming your body, instead clinging to you like she’d forgotten how to do anything else. 

Reluctantly, you broke free at last, dragging your teeth along her lower lip as you pulled away to draw out one more needy whine from her throat. The kiss left you both panting heavily, breaths fanning out over each other’s skin in a warm, ticklish dance. It took Dehya a moment to recover, but when she did, she blinked her eyes open slowly, dizzy and lovestruck as she gazed up at you. 

She giggled softly once her vision focused enough to get a look at you, no doubt because most, if not all, of her lipstick had been transferred to your mouth in messy, red splotches.

“Guess…hah…it’s safe to say you like it?”

“It was made for you,” you murmured. You reached down to trace the shape of her mouth, marveling at the fact that it’d been melded seamlessly with yours just moments ago. Her eyes went half-lidded again, cheeks darkening in shade as she flicked her tongue out to give the pad of your finger a kittenish lick. It was subtle, but you picked up on what she wanted in an instant.

“And you were made for me,” you purred, prodding at her eager lips. As if to prove your words true, she opened her mouth obediently, allowing you to slip your middle and index fingers inside. You savored the sight of her as she gazed up at you, her already stunning eye shape accentuated by the black powder meticulously applied around them. Sultry and sweet, all at once. Her dark hair splayed out on the cushions around her, silky streaks of brown and gold draping over the fabric and framing her striking face. 

“Good girl,” you cooed, pressing your fingers down against her tongue. “My pretty baby. I love seeing you like this.”

A low noise rose in Dehya’s throat, something between a moan and a mewl of protest. 

“What? Don’t believe me?” you faked a pout, leaning in closer until you brushed playfully against her jaw. “Guess I’d better show you how much I mean it.”

She sucked harder as you licked a stripe down her neck, wrapping your fingers with a warm slickness that made you shudder. You peppered open-mouthed kisses along her skin, leaving a trail of bright lipstick marks wherever you roamed. She tilted her head back with a blissful sigh, baring her throat to you in a plea for more. You gladly indulged her by biting down on her flesh, rolling it between your teeth and making her mouth fall open with pleasure.

“A—ah, s’good,” she choked out, nearly incoherent between your fingers and the drool gradually pooling on her tongue.

You could feel her pulse racing under your mouth as you sucked a deep mark into her skin. “Yeah?” you mumbled, giving the sensitive spot a few languid licks before pulling away. “Gonna make you feel even better. Gonna make the prettiest mess out of you.”

Dehya whimpered over the sudden loss of your body heat, cool air taking its place and chilling every spot where your hot mouth had devoured her. You took a moment to admire your work, gaze roaming from her cheeks—now nearly the same shade of red as her puffy, gleaming lips—to her marked up neck. Along with your blooming love bites, the residual lipstick on your lips had left countless stains on her throat. They stood out so beautifully on her tan skin that it gave you an idea.

With some resistance from her, you wiggled your fingers out from her mouth, spine tingling over the smudged, glossy rings her lipstick had left around them and the crystalline threads of saliva connecting you to her lips. She blinked up at you, looking half-disappointed until she saw you reaching for the forgotten tube of lipstick.

“Well, it definitely made me fall to my knees.” You popped off the cap with a thoughtful hum. “If you’re good for me, we can test how much lower it can make me go.”

Her eyes were wide as moons, so entranced by the view of you coating your lips crimson that she nearly forgot to reply.  Swallowing hard, all she could muster up a nod.

“That’s my girl,” you crooned, rubbing your lips together one last time before closing the cap again. Dehya lifted her hips to meet your touch as you slid your hands up her body, appreciating every curve and muscle. The softness of her hips, the perfect dip in her waist, the taut strength of her abdomen. It rose and fell with each breath of anticipation, expanding and flexing under your palms in a way that betrayed her nervousness. More like a cute prey animal than a lioness.

Unable to wait any longer, you hooked your fingers under the seams of her top and pulled it down to reveal her breasts. They spilled out of the fabric, full and smooth and irresistible; you wasted no time before attaching your mouth to them. Dehya sucked in a sharp breath as you pressed feverish kisses all over her chest, overwhelming her with the wet heat of your mouth and the stickiness of the gloss. Your hands pawed gently at her breasts as you worked your mouth, so ample that some of the soft flesh spilled out from between your fingers.

Without warning, you paused your kisses to wrap your lips around her nipple, earning a cute squeak of your name and desperate arch of her back. As you swirled your tongue around the bud, Dehya slowly but surely began to rock her hips upwards, grinding against your knee for some friction without even realizing it. The needy mewls building in her throat combined with the unbearable warmth you felt every time she bucked up into you made it difficult for you to remain focused. Still, you continued sucking on her nipple until it was puffy and swollen, leaving a bright red ring when you pulled away that marked where your lips had been. 

A shaky, grateful moan filled the room as you wandered over to her other breast to give it the same treatment. “P-please.” She reached down aimlessly until she managed to find one of your hands, tugging it away from her chest to trail down her stomach instead. “Please, baby. Can’t—mmph—take it anymore.”

She jolted as you hummed around her nipple in response. Dehya had many virtues, but patience had never exactly been one of them. You knew the only thing stopping her from pulling her shorts down herself and begging for you to just take her already was the desire to be good for you. Well, that, and, the remaining bits of her pride that hadn’t yet been drowned out by lust.

You took your sweet time before unlatching yourself from her swollen nipple, teasing the other between your fingers and drawing out a low, impatient whine from her. “What’s wrong? Big strong merc like you can’t handle a few kisses?”

Dehya pouted down at you, utterly harmless. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Just wanna appreciate every bit of my baby’s perfect body.”

Even under normal circumstances, she had trouble dealing with your praises. Now, the honeyed words reduced her to a puddle, unable to string a proper response together. Instead, she took a different approach, fingers trembling as she guided your hand to rest over her clothed pussy. “Please,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Please, ‘m so wet.”

Heat pooled in your stomach, putting a crack in your resolve laughably fast. She wasn’t lying—the fabric of her shorts was damp against your palm, and when she pushed her hips up to grind into your touch, you could feel her muscles twitching wildly for some kind of relief.

“So needy,” you murmured. “Alright, angel. A pretty girl like you gets whatever she wants.”

Dehya melted into the cushions as you finally brought both hands down to her heavy belt, undoing it as quickly as possible before moving on to the button of her shorts. With how worked up she was, the air hitting her exposed heat as you tugged the garment down was enough to make a raspy groan rise in her throat. You felt a pang of sympathy for toying with her for so long, but in your defense, it was far too easy to get lost in her body. 

“Shh, don’t worry. I’m gonna make you feel so good,” you promised, gently kneading at the flesh of her thick thighs. Without you having to order her, she spread them as wide as she could for you, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment over her own desperation. Her breath hitched as you traced a finger delicately around her mound, admiring the gleam of her dripping wet folds before moving down to her slit to scoop up some of the juices that had leaked out of her. Using the added slickness, you circled over her clit, spreading her essence over the sensitive bud and taking pride in the visible shudder that ran through her body.

You leaned down to press a kiss to her pelvic bone, leaving a near perfect lipstick mark right above her pussy, as if to claim it as yours. Her clit throbbed under the pad of your finger, and you gave the aching bud one last teasing flick before dipping your index into her entrance at last. She tightened around you instantly with a moan of pure relief, warm, velvety walls wrapping around you so perfectly that you couldn’t help but let out a hum yourself. Little by little, you eased out of her, pressing kisses to her lower stomach and admiring the way it contracted receptively under your lips. As sensitive as the tummy of a true cat.

Soft squelching noises began to form as you pumped your index finger in and out of her at a slow but steady pace. A fresh surge of wetness coated your skin each time she squeezed around you, making the push and pull of your movements almost effortless. 

“You really are soaked,” you teased between kisses. “Is it that good, baby?”

“Mmm, mhm,” she mewled. On top of you finally filling her up, the sensation of your lips suckling and nibbling all over her tummy made it difficult for her to string a sentence together. “M-more…more, please. Want another—ngh.”

The rest of her words fizzled out before she could beg you for it properly. All she could do was squirm helplessly under your mouth, hips rocking and stomach muscles clenching in hopes you would get the message.

“Not enough? I’ve got you, baby.”

You pressed your free hand against her abdomen to hold her still, just long enough for you to slip your middle finger into the pocket of wet heat awaiting you. Dehya’s hands flew to your head with a gasp of your name, tangling her fingers in your hair. The claws of her armor added a faint sting to her grip, but that only spurred you on. Her insides were like silken pillows around your fingers, enveloping you with their warmth so tightly as if she were afraid to let you go for even a second.

It didn’t take her long to adjust to your second finger, walls sucking you greedily back in each time you dragged them out. Her juices were dripping down into your palm at this point, creating sounds so filthy that you felt your own underwear beginning to soak with arousal.

“That’s it, good girl,” you praised her, taking on a faster pace. “You sound so pretty for me.”

She practically keened in response, arching her back off the cushions to take as much of you inside of her as she could. The pads of your fingers rubbed against her sweet spot as she did, spongy and slick. It caused a burst of pleasure so intense that her thighs jolted, a breathless plea for you to repeat the action falling from her lips. You obliged instantly, sinking your teeth into her stomach at the very same moment your fingers plunged knuckles-deep into her drenched heat.

With a near-sob, she dug her nails into your scalp, far fiercer than she’d ever let herself when she was in her right mind. But now, it was clouded with bliss, unable to process anything outside of your fingers and mouth mercilessly working her to her climax. You curled your fingers against the gummy roof of her walls, matching her rhythm as she rolled her hips in sync with every thrust of your fingers. She was fully panting now, stomach rising and falling frantically under your lips as you continued peppering it with fiery hot kisses.

“C-close,” she whined, a pitiful sound that she’d surely blush over later. “F-fuck, baby, ‘m so close.”

You cooed in acknowledgement, reangling your hand so that your palm was flattened against her pussy, pounding against her clit each time you sank your fingers into her. It added electrifying sparks of stimulation that sent her over the edge in mere moments. Just a few more expert pumps of your fingers, and suddenly Dehya’s moans went quiet as she sucked in a sharp breath, jaw falling open in a silent cry before her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave.

Her walls fluttered wildly around your fingers, thighs trembling around your waist as ripple after ripple of pleasure wracked her body. You guided her gently through her climax, whispering encouragement into her skin and slowing your fingers to a slow rock inside of her. The juices that spilled out of her were thick, almost creamy, drenching your palm and dripping down your arm. 

Dehya collapsed back against the cushions, heavy breaths gradually fading into sweet, content sighs. You took the time to admire her wrecked form as she came down from her high, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, carefully styled hair now hair adorably tousled, and her entire body decorated with smudged lipstick stains. Your own personal work of art. 

Her eyes blinked open slowly as she recovered from her climax, giving you a dazed, blissed out look. Though you tried to be mindful as you pulled your fingers out of her pulsing heat, she still whined softly, both from overstimulation, and the sudden emptiness. You parted your fingers in a scissor-like motion, watching in fascination as the gossamer strings of her release spread out like silk. Then, without warning, you stuck them in your mouth.

Dehya squeaked in surprise, her entire face going red all over again as she clumsily tried to sit up on her elbows. “H-hey!”

You simply hummed around your fingers, savoring in every drop of her essence on your tongue until it was licked completely clean. She sputtered something incoherent as you made a show of pulling the digits out of your mouth with a dramatic pop and swiping your tongue over your lips.

“Henna berries are nice,” you sang. “But I like the taste of you a lot more.”

Too spent to give you a piece of her mind, Dehya did the only thing she could think of in that moment, grabbing the nearest pillow and flinging it at you in a desperate attempt to ease the burn of embarrassment gripping her body. She gave an exasperated huff when you only giggled as it hit you square in the face, but you didn’t miss the way her features softened. 

“Never taking you shopping with me again.”

[yuujispunches]

Seriously unserious ~ S.G.

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Reader

Summary: Gojo’s constantly flirting with you, but that’s just who he is, it’s not as if he actually liked you, is it?

CW (content warning): nothing really, this is purely teeth rotting fluff.

AN (author’s note): Hey guys! I just wanted to thank you for the support on all my other works, it really means a lot 🤍 I’m already working on the last part of my Megumi college AU, so keep an eye out for it. As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there’re any typos/mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

The morning air was crisp as it passed through the half-open windows of Jujutsu Tech, carrying the scent of rain and fresh earth. Students ambled around the campus, the more mischievous among them darting between buildings, hoping to avoid early training.

You sipped your tea slowly, glancing over a stack of lesson plans at your desk. Another long day ahead including exorcism simulations, cursed technique theory, and the ever-complicated emotional management of teenagers raised to fight monsters. Still, you found meaning in it. You always had.

Your door creaked open without a knock.

“Morning, sunshine.” Came a familiar, overly cheery voice.

You didn’t look up, you didn’t need to. “Gojo, it’s 7:03. Too early for your nonsense.”

Satoru Gojo leaned dramatically against the frame of your door, shades perched lazily on his nose instead of his usual blindfold. His snowy hair stuck up in disheveled tufts, as if he hadn’t even bothered trying to tame it.

“You wound me.” He pouted, hand in his chest, looking as if he was a Victorian lady who was about to pass out because her corset was too tight. “Is this how you treat the strongest sorcerer in the world?”

“Only when he barges into my classroom uninvited.” You muttered, tapping your pen pointedly against your clipboard.

Gojo sauntered in anyway, dropping himself onto the edge of your desk, crinkling a few of your worksheets. You narrowed your eyes, but he only smirked in return.

He plucked a sticky note off the top paper and held it up between two fingers.

“What’s this? ‘Yuuji needs extra training—still underestimating curses at Grade 2 level.’ Sounds harsh.”

You swiped the note from him and set it back where it belonged. “It’s called teaching. You should try it sometime.”

“I do teach!” He defended. “Just... unconventionally.”

“Gojo.”

“Yes?”

You gave him a look that managed to both scold and plead.

“I’m working.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No more distractions. Just came to say good morning. And, you know...” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping half an octave. “To admire your radiant beauty.”

You rolled your eyes. “Subtle.”

“I thought so.” He grinned.

You didn’t bother replying. He always flirted like that grand declarations, poetic exaggerations, and endless teasing. You’d learned early on not to take it seriously. Gojo was like this with everyone: loud, charming, untouchable. He was Satoru Gojo, the most powerful sorcerer in the world. What would he ever want with someone like you?

Still, you couldn't deny that his visits were becoming... habitual. He never missed a morning to drop by your classroom. Sometimes it was under the guise of needing something from the faculty. Other times, he just "happened" to bring you coffee.

It was always playful. Always safe. Always Gojo.

So you treated it like you would a student’s tantrum with patience, detachment, and a firm boundary.

But Gojo wasn’t just another jujutsu hormonal teenager, even when he sometimes acted like one. And deep down, you knew it.

——————————————————————————

Your days blurred into a rhythm: early mornings, student evaluations, cursed object containment drills. Every so often, an active mission took you off campus, but you always returned to your little classroom and your stack of reports. It was safe. Predictable.

And then there was Gojo.

Relentless as the sun, he flared into your orbit with his teasing quips, spontaneous gifts that varied from sakura-flavored gum to an entire picnic lunch on a rainy day, and offhanded compliments that left you oddly breathless.

“You’re tense.” He noted one afternoon as you rubbed your shoulder after a particularly brutal sparring session with your second-years.

“I’m fine.” You muttered.

Then, without warning, he moved behind you and gently pressed two fingers into your upper back, right between your shoulder blades.

You froze. “Gojo—”

“Relax.” He cut you off, voice low and not teasing for once. “You’re always carrying too much weight.”

You opened your mouth, but the words died there. His fingers worked slow circles into your back, gentle but firm. You hadn’t realized how sore you were. How tired. How long it had been since anyone touched you with care.

You hated how easy it was to melt under his touch.

He leaned closer. “You know, I give great full-body massages too.”

And there it was.

You snorted. “You were doing so well.”

“What, you thought I wasn’t gonna flirt? That’s half the fun.”

You elbowed him lightly and stood, brushing his hands off your shoulders with faux irritation. “You’re incorrigible.”

He smiled, but there was something quieter behind it. Something that flickered too fast for you to place.

——————————————————————————It wasn’t until a mission went sideways that things changed.

You’d taken a team of third-years into the outskirts of Kyoto. A Grade 1 curse, allegedly, in a crumbling hospital. You’d handled worse.

Except the information was wrong. The curse had evolved. It tore through the building like a banshee, separating you from the students. You needed to protect them. You fought it, injured it, banished it. But not without cost.

You limped back to the students with blood on your uniform and two broken ribs. They were safe. That was what mattered.

But the moment Gojo stepped off the helicopter that arrived to retrieve you, you saw his face go pale.

“Don’t.” you warned as he reached you. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared. His sunglasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, allowing you to get a glimpse of his blue eyes, his expression tight. You realized you’d never seen him this serious outside of battle.

“I said I’m fine.” You repeated, firmer now.

“You’re not.” He said, serious, so unlike him that it almost made you feel bad for even letting yourself get injured like this.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He looked at you like he was trying to burn the answer into your skin. “You almost didn’t come back.”

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the noise of medics preparing to fly you out. His voice, when he spoke again, was barely audible.

“I can’t lose you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He exhaled harshly and turned away. “Forget it.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

——————————————————————————

The hospital stay was short. A day and a half later, you were back on your feet, albeit with a wrapped chest and strict orders not to overdo it.

When you returned to your classroom, there was a note on your desk.

"Take one more step into that classroom and I swear I’ll seal you in a box." –Gojo. > P.S. Come to the staff lounge. I have muffins.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

When you arrived, he was there, lounging like a cat across one of the couches, reading a comic book.

“You’re not my doctor.” You said.

“I could be.” He offered with a wink.

You sat across from him, avoiding his eyes.

“What happened in Kyoto…” You started. “You said—”

“I know what I said.” He interrupted, sitting up.

You studied him. “Did you mean it?”

He met your gaze, his usual grin replaced by something far more fragile.

“I always mean it when it comes to you.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Look.” He said, “I joke a lot. I flirt, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I’m not serious when I say I care about you.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, your brain was going high wire trying to process the words that were coming out of his mouth.

“I get it.” He continued. “You don’t think I’m capable of real feelings. That I’m all jokes and power and blindfolds.”

“That’s not what I think.” You whispered.

“Then what?” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Why do you never take me seriously?”

You stared at your hands. “Because it’s easier.”

“Easier than what?”

“Easier than letting myself hope.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

Gojo reached across the table and took your hand, carefully, like it might vanish.

“Well,” he said, “what if I told you I’ve been hoping for a long time?”

You looked up, heart pounding.

He smiled, softer this time. “Don’t you think it’s time we stopped dancing around this?”

You didn’t know what startled you more, Satoru Gojo holding your hand like it meant something, or the fact that you were letting him.

His palm was warm. Slightly calloused from years of battle. It was the hand of someone who carried too much, who made the world laugh while quietly shouldering the weight of it.

And now, he was offering that same hand to you.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now.” He said gently. “I just... I needed to be honest, for once.”

You stared at your intertwined fingers.

For months, years even,,you had tucked away the tension that lived between you. Labeled it as “Gojo being Gojo.” Flirting for the sake of amusement. A man who could have anything, playing games because nothing ever stuck.

But this, this wasn’t a game. At least it didn’t feel like it.

“You really meant it.” You whispered, unsure, as if tasting the words on your lips.

He let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it for far too long.

“Yeah.” He said. “I really did.”

You looked up at him, and for once, didn’t find the ever-present smirk or playful glint. His expression was open. Raw. Nervous.

It struck you all at once, how long he must have been waiting for you to see him.

“How long have you...?”

His gaze flickered to your lips before returning to your eyes. “A while.” A sheepish smile on his lips, almost as if he was shy about that.

You squeezed his hand without thinking. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

He chuckled, low and almost self-deprecating. “Because you always laughed it off. I thought maybe... if I kept it light, I could stay close to you without scaring you off.”

“And if I had known?”

“I didn’t want to risk losing the version of us I already had.” He admitted. “At least that way, I still got to be near you.”

God.

You’d misunderstood everything. He hadn’t been trying to get under your skin. He’d been trying to get to your heart and you’d locked the door because you thought he was just knocking to be funny.

“I’m sorry.” You said.

He shook his head. “You don’t have to be. I get it. I’m not exactly the most... convincing romantic candidate.”

“Because you’re a manchild?” You teased gently.

“That too.” He grinned.

You were quiet for a long moment. The hum of the staff lounge’s refrigerator was the only sound in the background.

“I never thought you could be serious about me.” You confessed. “Not with... everything else. You’re Gojo. The strongest sorcerer. The one who never shuts up. I just assumed it was all a game.”

“I know.”

“And I guess I didn’t want to hope.”

“Why not?”

“Because hoping can hurt.” You said softly.

His thumb brushed along your knuckles.

“Yeah.” He murmured. “But sometimes... it heals too.” You could see a shadow of his past passing through his eyes as he said that, you knew exactly what he meant.

——————————————————————————

The days that followed were strange. You and Gojo hadn’t defined anything, not exactly at least. There were no grand declarations, no sudden shift in routine.

He still dropped by your classroom too early in the morning, still teased you about your coffee addiction, still stole your chalk. But now... now there was a new softness to his presence. A quiet tension. A thread you could tug on if you were brave enough.

And you were starting to want to tug.

One afternoon, after a long day of training the first-years, you found yourself wandering toward the faculty rooftop, a place Gojo often escaped to when he wanted to avoid paperwork.

Sure enough, he was there. Lounging against the railing, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head, arms folded loosely as he stared out at the horizon.

He heard you approach, of course.

“You’re getting predictable.” He said without turning.

“So are you.” You replied, stepping beside him. “Always hiding out here after combat days.”

“I prefer to call it strategic retreat.”

You snorted. “Is that what you tell the elders?”

“Only when I’m feeling generous.”

You leaned against the railing beside him, the cool breeze lifting the strands of hair at your temples. It smelled like distant rain and pine.

He glanced at you, and for a second, there was nothing flippant in his gaze. Only quiet curiosity.

“You’ve been distant.” He pointed out, breaking the delicate silence that had fell between the two of you.

“I’ve been thinking.” You replied.

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the tension ripple off him in waves.

“I think I’ve spent so long telling myself you were a flirt... that I forgot to ask what I actually felt.”

“And?” His question is almost breathless, expecting.

You turned to him. “I feel... stupid.”

He blinked.

“Because I didn’t see it sooner.” You explained. “Because I kept pushing you away. Because part of me wanted to believe it was real, but I was too afraid to risk it.”

He studied you in silence. His hands twitches lightly at his side, itching to touch you.

“I’m not afraid anymore.” You said.

Something softened in his eyes.

“Is that your way of saying you like me?” He asked, voice carefully light.

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm. “Yes, Gojo. I like you.”

He looked at you for a long beat, then reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Why me?” You asked quietly. “Of all people?”

“Because you’re the only one who treats me like a person.” He said. “Not a weapon. Not a god. Not a joke. Just... Satoru.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You see me.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And even when I tried to be annoying, you never pushed me out completely.”

“I should’ve.” You joked weakly.

“Probably.” He grinned. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You hesitated.

Then, slowly, carefully you reached up and brushed your fingers along his jaw. He tilted into the touch, like it was instinct.

No blindfold. No mask. Just Gojo. Just Satoru.

“I want to try.” You whispered.

His eyes burned into yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “But you have to promise to stop stealing my coffee.”

“Absolutely not.”

You laughed, and that was when he leaned in.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life for it soft at first, almost reverent, as if afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You tilted your chin and kissed him back, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was better. It was steady. Familiar. Real.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“So, what now?” He murmured.

You smiled. “Now we get to be insufferable together.”

“I can live with that.”

Taglists are open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)