#not that i’m not still going to make sure i do well

[hy6erion]

I have just been having the worst (maybe best who knows) ideas about Viktor with a breeding kink.

Oh anon, you’ve just sent me into a spiral (≧◡≦)!! Viktor with a breeding kink?? Whispering in that sweet accent about keeping you full, making sure it takes… oh no, I’m doomed <33

Fic under the cut (´ ω `♡)

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫

It starts the way most things do with Viktor—an observation, a hypothesis, a slow descent into obsession.

You noticed the shift in him before he did. The way his hands lingered on your hips longer than usual, the way his sharp golden eyes trailed down your body, calculating. Viktor has always been touch-starved, but this was different.

It wasn’t until one late night in the lab, when he had you pressed against the desk, your legs hooked over his forearm, that you heard the first slip of it.

“Look at you…” he murmured, his breath hot against your throat, each word thick with reverence. His hips snapped forward, slow and deep, pushing himself as far inside as he could reach. His fingers dug into your waist, holding you still, trapping you. “Taking me so well. So eager, hm? Such a perfect thing… meant to be filled.”

Your breath hitched, nails digging into his back as heat coiled in your belly. His words alone sent a shiver through you, a molten need pooling between your thighs.

“Viktor—”

“I wonder…” His pace quickened, just slightly, enough to make you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls. “If I keep you like this, over and over… would you swell with my child?”

Your moan was immediate, head falling back against the desk.

Viktor groaned, his grip on you tightening like a vice. “You like that, don’t you?” His voice was unsteady, broken with desire. “The thought of it—of carrying something we created?” His hand splayed over your lower belly possessively, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin. “Mine.”

You clenched around him, and he felt it. The way you pulsed at his words, your body responding to the very idea.

His control snapped.

He gritted his teeth, a growl ripping from his throat as he buried himself as deep as he could go, his pace turning desperate. His breath came in short, needy pants against your ear, his forehead pressed to yours.

“I will make sure of it,” he whispered, voice raw with determination. “Again and again, until it takes.”

His thrusts became erratic, the sharp slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the lab. Every movement, every broken gasp was filled with intent—this wasn’t just pleasure, this was purpose.

His fingers tangled with yours, pinning your hands to the desk as he pushed, stretching you around him with every brutal roll of his hips.

“You will look beautiful like that,” he groaned, his voice dark, reverent. “Round, full of me… a true creation of science and love?”

Your body tensed, the coil inside you winding impossibly tight. The way he spoke—like he was designing the future with every thrust—sent you over the edge with a cry, your walls fluttering around him.

Viktor cursed, his body stiffening. His hips stuttered once, twice—then he was spilling inside you with a deep, shuddering groan, pressing himself flush against you like he could make it stay.

For a long moment, all you could hear was the ragged sound of your breaths mingling, the warmth of him settling deep inside you.

And then, Viktor let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“…We should do this again,” he mused, voice still heavy with exhaustion and something far more dangerous—satisfaction. His fingers traced lazy circles over your lower belly, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet possessiveness. “Just to be certain.”

And just like that, his obsession had a new purpose.

[wonderjanga]

Marvel “Dadding” Fully Grown Adults

Flash: *rushes to the kitchen so take make himself some lunch for work after he finished monitor duty*

Marvel: *already making some food, stirring something in a pot*

Flash: *literally gets clothes lined when Billy moves his arm to grab a pot lid*

Marvel: “OH MY GODS??? FLASH ARE YOU OKAY??” *looks absolutely horrified while kneeling down to see if he’s injured*

Flash: *pops back up, a little embarrassed* “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Just hungry.”

Marvel: “Oh.” *stands back up, still looking concerned* “Well, do you want some chili then?” *points to his pot*

Flash: “Yes, please!” *grabs a plate and starts loading it up* “Remind me later to make myself lunch?”

Marvel: “I already made you a lunch.”

Flash: *pauses loading up his plate* “Huh.”

Marvel: “I already made you a lunch. It’s in one of the fridges. It’s just a sandwich the way you like and also those chips you like.” *starts loading Flash’s plate himself before sending him away to sit down*

Any other hero that walked near the vicinity of the kitchen was also given a plate of chili on rice, as well as a lemonade caprisun.

or

Marvel: “Poison Ivy!”

Poison Ivy: *pauses trying to take over a building with her plants*

Marvel: *disappointed dad face*

Poison Ivy: *sighs and makes the plants go away*

Marvel: “Now then. Come on. We’ll go to the factories themselves, not the buyers. You should know by now to cut problems off at the source.”

That’s how Ivy and Marvel went to Milwaukee, Wisconsin and “shut down” like five factories, that Marvel made sure were safely evacuated, that were producing chemicals that could harm plants. Now, the reason, Marvel was doing this was because some (aka many many many) fairies were getting fed up with all the pollution. He did this to appease both them and Ivy. Bonus points for this being Lexcorp factories.

or

Marvel teaching J’onn how to drive.

Marvel: “Alright! So, uh… I guess just drive forward.”

MM: *goes about school-zone speed*

Marvel: *immediately grabs the handle bar(?) in the car* “Slower please.”

MM: *looks between him and the road slightly concerned, but slows*

Marvel: *grip tightens on the handlebar* “I said slower please.”

It eventually got to a point of J’onn having to stop, and press the accelerator every now and then, moving the car like an inch at a time. Somehow, Marvel would still get spooked. Eventually he just got out of the car and just gave J’onn a thumbs up that he was a good driver.

[lexalith]

FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

summary: after late-night sexting with your best friend, everything changes. the bond you thought was purely platonic starts to feel deeper. were these feelings always there, hidden beneath the surface? or did something just… click? is this the start of something real, or the beginning of a mistake that could ruin everything?

warnings: aged up female reader (they’re both in their late twenties) (MDNI), smut (masturbation, fingering, public sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m), sexting, edging, praising, unprotected sex (don’t be silly)) semi and minsu are victims of the reader’s and subong’s freakiness, angst (name calling, miscommunication, pushing, throwing things, lying, deception, fear of commitment, reader refuses to help him at some point, slapping, slutshame remarks), overuse of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ (lmaoo), subong should be a warning himself, fwb dynamic, reader uses someone to forget subong, drug use and addiction.

a/n: i’ve never ever written anything here on tumblr before, so i don’t really know what i’m doing, help. also, english isn’t my first language, so mistakes should be present!! lowercase is intentional. this is an au with no games. text messages are in different colors (orange for the reader, purple for subong). the reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs that inspired me to write this: friends — chase atlantic || back to friends — sombr || heartbeat — childish gambino || casual — chappell roan

this fic was also inspired by @jedisupernova ‘s writing, check out her page and fics!!! (they’re soooo good)

you’re still thinking about what that guy said. it wasn’t even a big deal, not really. just some random jerk at the club who’d had a few too many drinks and decided to share his unfiltered thoughts about your body. “you’re not really my type,” he’d said, like you’d asked. then he’d laughed and added, “not many guys would go for that.”

it shouldn’t bother you. you know it shouldn’t. but now, a few nights later, it’s stuck in your head, looping like a song you can’t turn off. so, lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly, you do what you always do when something’s bugging you—you text him. your best friend.

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

i got a random question. but like, it’s not that deep

???

do you think i’m attractive?

you fire it off without overthinking, like it’s no big deal. it’s not weird to ask your best friend something like this. right?

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

omfg can you just say yes or no? please? but be honest, i promise i won’t get mad

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

okay you think i’m attractive but like… what kind of attractive? cute attractive? like awwww. or i’d-fuck-you-raw attractive?

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

you stare at the screen, mentally deciding whether you should tell him about what happened or not. you hadn’t told him before, not wanting to give it more attention. but this time, you decide to.

ugh, remember i went clubbing the other day? well this dude was being an asshole to me and he said some stuff and i can’t stop thinking about it so just be fucking honest and answer my question

some stuff? what stuff?

he said, and i quote ‘not many guys would go for that’. ‘that’ is me, btw💀

who tf is this dude?

bruh idk, some random guy, it doesn’t matter

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

good, good, you think to yourself. his reply makes you relax a little, the knot in your stomach loosening. he thinks you’re attractive. of course he does—he’s your best friend, and best friends are supposed to hype you up.

for a moment, you stare at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip. you know you should leave it there, let it go. but something keeps tugging at you.

so, hypothetically, would you… yk, with me?

the second you hit send, panic sets in. your pulse skyrockets, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room. why did you do that? why couldn’t you just shut up? but you don’t have time to spiral, because the dots appear almost immediately.

are u serious?

and you freeze. your fingers hover over the screen, but you can’t bring yourself to type anything back. what kind of answer is that?

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

your heart stops. you blink at the message, reading it again and again, like the words might change if you look long enough. you weren’t prepared for this.

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

you want to lie, to brush it off, but your fingers move before your brain can stop them.

maybe

the dots pop up again. then disappear. then pop up again.

maybe?? that means yes. cmon i’m hot as hell, baby, u know it. u’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me at least once

wtf bro you’re giving me the biggest ick rn 💀

but have u?

and you? i bet you jerk off to my insta photos, perv. don’t even start lmaoo

can’t help it when u look that good💯

you stare at his message, your mind scrambling to process it. you feel your breath catch in your throat. the shock should be overwhelming, but instead, you feel a strange warmth spread through you.

you didn’t expect this. the idea that he’s been thinking about you like that… it sends a shiver down your spine. you should probably tell him to stop, tell him it’s too much, but instead, you feel yourself leaning in, pulled toward this conversation in a way you didn’t think you would be.

i may or may not have done the same with your insta pics

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

no fucking way, just two????????

you think it’s not enough or what???? how many times have you done it?

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

so bad i’ve lost count. u really want me to get into details?

maybe i do

bro, let’s just say that everytime u post i’m over here fighting a battle

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

so aren’t there any girls to jerk off to instead of me???

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

you stare at the screen, your heart pounding, your legs squeezing together instinctively. what the hell is happening right now? and then another message comes through.

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

yeah bro, what's a guy supposed to do when his best friend asks if he would fuck her?

it was hypothetical

hypothetically speaking, if a guy was attracted to his best friend, he'd probably be rock fucking hard right now. so yeah, i'm fucking hard, girl

your stomach flips at the bluntness of his words. you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you stare at the message.

too much info, subong

nahhh, u asked. u wanted details, so here they are

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

help you out?????????????

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

no one asked for that, stupid. just a pic of u

just a pic of you. the request feels so simple. he’s your bestfriend—it’s not that big of a deal, right? especially after everything you’ve both just confessed to each other.

your eyes flick toward the mirror in your room. you’re in your pajamas. no bra. you know how it looks. it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about wearing around him in person, but now, with this conversation, it feels different. your legs carry you to the mirror almost on autopilot. you pick up your phone and angle it toward your reflection. you shouldn’t even be entertaining this. but instead, you snap the picture. you stare at it for a moment, biting your lip. it’s not explicit—it’s just you. but still… you know exactly how he’ll see it.

your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation gripping you. a hundred reasons not to do this race through your head, but one single thought drowns them all out: you want to know how he’ll react. before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send. the moment it delivers, your stomach drops, a mix of adrenaline and regret washing over you. you sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the screen, waiting for his response, your heart pounding louder with every passing second.

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

and i’m hornier now, if that’s even possible

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

well, glad i could help your horny ass🫡 enjoy or whatever

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

you watch the dots—flickering like they're mocking you. you can't help but wonder what he's typing—or if he's second-guessing whatever bold thing he's about to say. but then, they disappear. nothing. you frown, staring at the screen, waiting a few more seconds. still nothing. you realize exactly what he's probably doing. you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as the image forms in your mind: him, sitting there, hand wrapped around his dick, staring at the picture you sent.

you feel like you need to do something—anything—to distract yourself. you toss your phone onto the bed and reach for the remote, flipping on a random tv show. you let the noise fill the silence, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. it's a few minutes later when your phone dings. the sound cuts through the room like a knife, and you hesitate for a moment, staring at the screen, before finally reaching for it.

it's him. he sent a picture.

these are my pajamas. now we’re even, baby

him, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless and wearing only a pair of tight black briefs. the way he's posing is so over the top... he's trying way too hard. his expression is almost comical, like he's not really sure if he's pulling it off but is hoping you'll think he is. you can't help it—you stifle a laugh. but then your eyes drop, and that laughter dies in your throat. the bulge is so obvious, pushing against the fabric in a way that's impossible to ignore. it's not just visible, it's big. big enough that your pulse spikes, and you forget to breathe for a second. that laughter you were holding back? gone. you glance back at his goofy grin in the mirror, but it's no longer funny. shit. you’re wet.

you don't even know how it happens. one moment, you're staring at his picture, then a teasing comment here, a bold reply there—and before you know it, you're lying on your bed, your phone clutched in one hand and your other slipping between your thighs, pressed against the growing ache he's stoked with every message. you've never gone this far with him before—always ignoring his obvious flirting. but you can’t stop now. and he isn’t shy about it either, telling you with detail everything he would do to you.

u'd look soooo fucking good begging under me, baby

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

fuck, i’d bury my face between those thighs and eat u out until u can’t take it anymore

a soft gasp escapes your lips as you read, your body reacting to the vivid images his words paint in your mind. you know you shouldn't be doing this—not with him—but the way he's describing everything makes you forget about all the reasons why. you’re far past the point of feeling shy too. you bite your lip, barely believing yourself as you hit send.

i wish you could feel how wet i am just thinking about you fucking me from behind

god damn girl, i’d stretch that pussy so good my dick is the only thing u’d think about for weeks

and then, it's not just texting anymore—you're sending pictures, even though you swore you wouldn't. the first one is a close-up of your fingers, glistening with your juices. his reply comes almost instantly, not as a text but as a voice message. “shit, baby, you're f-fucking killing me... mhmm... look at that. you're so fucking wet f’me, I can almost taste it through the screen... fuck...” his voice is low and rough, broken by soft, shaky breaths. you can hear him stroking himself, moans slipping out between words. you're losing your damn mind over it, replaying the voice message again and again—fingers curling inside of you as you push them in and out, wishing it were his fingers instead of yours.

he sends a pic too. this time, he leaves nothing to the imagination. it’s a selfie, his face barely visible at the corner. the center of attention is his hard dick, hand wrapped around it, tip leaking precum. and the only thing that comes to your mind right there and then is just how badly you want to take him in your mouth.

one picture leads to another, the messages growing dirtier with every exchange. his words are filthy, his photos even filthier, and the way he talks about your body—what he'd do to it, what he's imagining—fucking hell. your breathing quickens, your body burning with need, and before you know it, that familiar tension starts to coil low in your stomach.

shit, subong… i’m close

u’re gonna cum for me? cmon pretty girl, let me hear you

you hit record just as your orgasm crashes over you, moaning his name loudly as you cum on your fingers. after a few minutes, he sends a voice message back “you sound so fucking good… shit, look what you’ve done t-to me… mmm… fuck, fuck, fuck… i’m gonna cum thinking about fucking you, baby. i’m gonna cum thinking about you making those… s-sounds while i fucking pound into you.”

the next few days are a blur. he hasn’t texted, and you haven’t either. but no matter what you do, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it’s there. his voice, the way he sounded saying your name, the damn nudes, the way your heart raced as you typed those things to him.

you don’t know how to feel about it. on one hand, you can’t deny how much you wanted it in the moment. but now? now you’re not sure. did you cross a line? did he? part of you regrets it, wishes you could just rewind and stop yourself before things spiraled. but another part—one you’re trying to ignore—remembers how good it felt, how right it seemed in the moment.

and then there’s the friendship. years of it. he’s been your best friend for a few years now. he knows things about you no one else does and he’s seen you at your absolute worst. like that night you showed up at his door after a horrible breakup. mascara streaked down your cheeks, and he didn’t say a word—just handed you a blanket, put on your favorite movie, and sat there with you until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

but it wasn’t always serious. like the time he tried rapping one of his freestyles for you, all cocky, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. or like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing at the mall, and he laughed so hard he cried, then spent weeks reenacting it whenever you were around. or when he clogged your toilet and tried to fix it himself instead of just telling you. or when he picked a fight with some guy at a club because the guy bumped into you and didn’t apologize. he got all puffed up and said, “you got a problem, man?” like he was some kind of action movie hero. but the guy was huge, like, rugby player huge, and before you could drag subong away, he swung and missed, and the dude took him down in one hit. he spent the rest of the night with a bloody nose and ice pressed to his face, grumbling, “he got lucky.” you still remind him of how he ‘lost a fight in one punch,’ and it always makes him groan.

you’ve got a thousand stupid inside jokes that no one else would understand, like how you always text each other ‘don’t die’ instead of ‘goodnight’ because of some dumb horror movie you watched together. or the fact that he nicknamed you ‘señorita’ when you said you wanted to visit spain one day.

he’s a walking disaster, an endless source of secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, that’s what makes subong… subong. being around him has always felt easy, like slipping into your favorite hoodie—comfortable, familiar, safe.

but friends don’t do… that. what if it’s never the same again? you’ve always been comfortable with him, never overthinking what you said or did around him. now, you can’t imagine looking him in the eye without thinking about what you two did together. you keep telling yourself that things will go back to normal, but deep down, you’re scared they won’t. because you’re not sure you can go back—not after knowing what it felt like to be wanted by him in that way. not after letting yourself want him back.

one day, out of the blue, he texts you like nothing happened. just casually, like you didn't have your hand between your thighs while listening to him moan your name a few nights ago.

yoooo, wanna hop on call and play videogames? i’m bored

at first, you stare at the text, because... what does this mean? is this his way of brushing it under the rug? of pretending nothing ever happened? still, you say yes. because what else can you do? you hop into the call, and there he is—joking, laughing, completely normal. like the two of you didn't cross every possible line. he's so good at acting like nothing's changed, it almost convinces you. you match his energy, responding with the same casual ease. maybe this is fine. maybe you're fine.

then the group chat lights up a few days later: a cinema meet-up. everyone's throwing out ideas for what movie to watch, talking about snacks, debating over showtimes. he's there, throwing in jokes about popcorn sizes and his infamous sweet tooth, and you're sitting there trying to decide if you can handle seeing him face to face. you hesitate, debating if you should just make up an excuse not to go. but then he replies to the chat, tagging you specifically.

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

the day arrives faster than you’d like, and before you know it, you’re standing outside the cinema, stomach flipping as you spot namgyu, minsu, gyeongsu, and semi waving at you. you force a smile and walk over, doing your best to focus on their chatter and ignore the nerves crawling up your spine. but then you see him—subong, leaning against the wall, vape in hand. and when his eyes land on you, he smirks. he knows damn well. he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s not going to make this easy for you. “finally,” he says when you’re close enough. “i was starting to doubt you’d come.” “why wouldn’t i?” you reply. he shrugs, taking a puff from his vape “thought you might’ve had better things to do.” the way he says it feels loaded, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, turning his attention to namgyu instead.

when it’s time to head into the cinema, you try to position yourself far from him, making a beeline for a seat between minsu and semi. you settle in, thinking you’re safe, but of course, subong has other plans. “yo, minsu, my boy,” he says as he walks down the aisle, stopping directly in front of you. “mind scooting over? i’ll sit here.” “uh, sure,” minsu says, shifting down without hesitation. you open your mouth to object, but before you can say anything, subong is sliding into the seat next to you, drink in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer than necessary. you grit your teeth, keeping your gaze locked on the screen as the previews start. “not at all,” you mutter under your breath.

you think that’s it. but, of course, it doesn’t end there. he shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against yours every now and then, like he’s waiting for you to react. you swear you catch him smirking out of the corner of your eye multiple times. you try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible when his presence is so loud. every little movement, every tiny glance, has your nerves on edge. and he knows it.

then, you feel it. his hand—light at first— rests on your bare thigh, the heat of his palm sending a jolt through you. you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. what the hell is he doing? his fingers trace a soft line along your skin, caressing just above your knee. you stay still, unsure of what to do, but your body betrays you, not pulling away.

his touch grows bolder, creeping higher up your leg, slipping under your skirt. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. he's still watching the movie, acting like nothing is happening, like his hand isn't inches away from your clothed pussy. “what are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns his head toward you, looking innocent, like he's just minding his own business. “nothing.” “subong—” “i'll stop if you want me to.” you don't answer, torn between wanting to push him away and not wanting him to stop at all. “do you want me to stop? be honest,” he says, still waiting for your response. “no,” you reply, looking away with embarrassment. he chuckles softly—hand rubbing the inside of your thigh.

you drape the thin jacket you brought over your legs, a flimsy attempt to shield his hand from semi’s view. every nerve in your body screams that you shouldn’t be letting this happen, but you don’t stop him. he spreads your legs with his hand for better access, and soon you feel two of his fingers pressing against your clit over the fabric of your panties. your breath hitches, and you try not to move—not even a sound escapes you—but your lips part at the feeling of his touch. he moves them slow—too slow—in a way that has you shifting against him, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. and he gives it to you. his hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and a low chuckle leaves him when he feels just how wet you are.

subong knows what he is doing. he rubs your clit in circles, gently but with enough pressure to have you biting your bottom lip. and god, his fingers feel so much better than you ever imagined. when he quickens the pace, a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, pretending to be focused on the screen. but the rapid rise and fall of your chest betrays your so-called calm. before you can collect yourself, semi leans in. “are you okay?” “mhm,” you nod quickly, forcing a smile. “yeah, don't worry, i—” your words falter when his fingers move faster. you bite your lip, trying to hold it together, but he's clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i-i'm fine,” you manage to stutter. semi raises an eyebrow. “you sure?” “yeah,” you nod. “alright,” semi says before shrugging and turning her attention back to the screen.

you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. your head snaps toward subong, eyes narrowing in a glare that’s meant to convey exactly how ridiculous he’s being right now. you dig your nails into his wrist, “are you crazy?” but he only pauses for a second, leaning in close enough to whisper, “relax, girl. no one noticed.” the audacity of him sends heat rushing to your face. but he doesn’t back down, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous movements. and just as you’re about to reach your orgasm… he stops. your body jerks in frustration, and you whip your head toward him, confused. his smirk only deepens as he pulls his hand from under your skirt, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking them clean. “what the fuck?” you whisper, a soft groan escaping at the loss of his touch. “what?” he whispers back, feigning innocence. “you know what.” “i don't. you'll have to spell it out for me.” “subong—” “tell me what you want.” the frustration wells up in your chest. to him, this is probably hilarious—you being so desperate. but for you? it's humiliating. pathetic. begging your best friend for something like this. still, the need outweighs your pride. you lean in, your lips almost brushing his ear, “i wanna... i wanna cum. please, make me cum.” “yeah? be fucking quiet, then.”

his fingers slip back under your skirt. your breath catches, and you press your lips together, your body already trembling from how close you were before—gripping the armrest, barely able to keep still. every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire, and when his fingers circle just right, you're done. the release hits hard, and you muffle your moans by biting down on your lip so hard it stings.

the days after are... strange. again. no texting, no acknowledgment, no teasing, nothing. it's like it never happened. and when he does text again, it's so casual it throws you off. he sends a random picture, a meme he has found on instagram.

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

you reply like everything's fine because, well, isn't it? you don’t even know at this point.

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

the replies come fast. namgyu’s working that night. semi has plans with her girlfriend. gyeongsu says he’s too exhausted for it. minsu doesn’t even reply. everyone has an excuse, and eventually, the chat goes dead. then, a private message from subong popps up.

wbu? still down to go?

you and subong had gone clubbing together hundreds of times. hell, most nights it was just the two of you, dancing until your legs gave out, taking blurry selfies, and laughing over cheap drinks. it was normal. so, you type:

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

when the night comes, your phone buzzes as you’re double-checking your look in the mirror.

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

you grab your jacket and head out, the bass from his car already thudding through the air when you step outside. you see him leaning against the passenger door, dressed in his usual baggy style—a loose graphic tee, cargo pants, and sneakers that probably cost more than your entire outfit (the only damn thing he saves up for…)—vape dangling lazily from his fingers. when he sees you, his eyes trail over you for a second too long. “you’re overdressed,” he teases with a smile. “you’re underdressed,” you shoot back.

the drive to club pentagon is easy, filled with a mix of rap tracks and subong’s singing. when you finally pull up, the line’s already stretching down the block, but subong doesn’t even blink. “namgyu’s working, right?” he asks, sliding out of the car. you nod. “yeah, he’ll let us in.” inside, the music is already pulsing, bass heavy enough to shake the floors. subong grabs your wrist. “drinks first?” “obviously,” you answer. you follow subong to the bar, the pounding music buzzing in your ears. “what are we starting with?” he asks, leaning against the bar. “shots,” you say, already reaching into your bag. he raises an eyebrow. “you’re paying?” “you’re broke,” you remind him, rolling your eyes before ordering four shots of tequila. when the glasses arrive, he grabs two and hands you one. “guess i’ll owe you,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “you already do,” you reply, downing the first shot without hesitation. the familiar burn of tequila trails down your throat, and you chase it with a quick breath.

you can feel his eyes on you as you throw back the second shot. you don’t meet his gaze, but you can feel it—the weight of it, the way it makes your stomach flutter. shaking it off, you slam your glass on the counter and signal for one more round. “last one,” you say, mostly to yourself, pulling out more cash. he doesn’t argue, just picks up his shot, watching you as you pick up yours. you both toss back the final shot, and the alcohol is just enough to loosen the knot in your chest. but the way his gaze lingers as he sets his glass down makes it tighten again. “dancing?” you ask. he nods. you push through the crowd till you find a spot on the dance floor. the techno track thuds through your chest as you sway to the rhythm. subong moves with you, not particularly in sync with the beat, but in his own way that somehow works. every now and then, his eyes catch yours, and you have to force yourself to look away.

the music builds, and you let yourself get lost in it, the alcohol buzzing through your veins and the tension from earlier slowly dissolving into the haze of the moment. after a while, he stops moving and pulls his phone from his pocket. you glance at him, curious, as he squints at the screen. whatever he sees makes him smile faintly before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. “i need to hit the bathroom!” he says, leaning close so you can hear. you blink at him, confused. “right now?” he nods, gesturing for you to follow. you don’t argue—it’s not exactly safe to hang around the dance floor by yourself. reluctantly, you let him lead you off the floor.

he disappears into the men’s room, leaving you standing against the wall, arms crossed. you tap your foot, watching drunk strangers stumble past. a few minutes later, the door swings open, and subong walks out, a small smirk playing on his lips. “what took you so long?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. instead of answering, he holds up a small plastic bag between his fingers. your stomach flips when you see the little colorful pills inside. “what the hell is that?” you ask, but you already know. he grins, tilting his head. “new stuff.” your brows furrow. “what?” “my plug got these,” he says, holding up the bag slightly. “said they hit different. figured i’d try.” he slides one pill between his fingers, studying it like it’s no big deal. then he brings it to his mouth, about to toss it back. “wait,” you say, grabbing his wrist. he scoffs. “what? you want it instead?” you glare at him. “no, subong. what are you even doing? you don’t need that!” he rolls his eyes, freeing his wrist from your grip. “come on, it’s nothing. we’ve had worse.” “worse?” you scoff. “you’re really gonna compare getting blackout drunk and smoking pot to this?” “you’re fucking overthinking it. it’s just one pill. just tonight. trust me.” he says.

you glance at the bag again, at the little pills that seem so harmless yet scream bad idea. “subong…” you start, but your voice trails off. “look,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “we’re having a good fucking time, yeah? it’ll be just this once, okay? i promise.” “okay,” you say suddenly, lifting your chin. “but if you do one, i’ll do one.” his smirk falters for half a second. “no.” you frown. “what do you mean, no?” “i mean no. you’re not taking one.” “but you can?” you challenge, crossing your arms.“yeah.” you scoff. “that’s bullshit.” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “this isn’t your thing, señorita.” “since when it’s yours?” you snap. “if you’re gonna do it, then so am i.”

he looks at you, really looks at you. then, with an exasperated groan, he reaches into the bag. “fucking stubborn,” he mutters, pulling out another pill. “just this once.” he holds it delicately between his fingers before stepping closer. “open up,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. you hesitate for a second but eventually part your lips, sticking out your tongue. he places the pill gently on it. “there you go,” he says, stepping back and popping his own pill. you swallow it quickly, trying not to think about what you’ve just decided to do.

you move back onto the dance floor, the pill's effects creeping in like a warm wave washing over you. the flashing lights seem brighter now and everything blurs together—colors, sounds, the heat of the crowd—but it feels good. better than it should. your limbs feel lighter, like you're floating, and the energy buzzing inside you pushes you to move. subong is right there beside you, dancing with his hand raised, and you can't stop staring at him. his messy hair sticks to his forehead, sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

before you know it, your arms are around his neck, pulling him in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. his eyes burn into yours for half a second, like he’s daring you to close the distance. then his hands are on your waist, rough fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he drags you closer until you’re pressed against him. the music is pounding, but it feels distant—like the only rhythm you can hear now is the way your bodies move together, hips rolling in time, every brush of his skin against yours making you burn.

his breath fans across your lips, hot and tasting of tequila and something bitter—maybe the pill he took earlier—and it makes your head spin. then your mouth crashes into his. there’s nothing soft about it. it’s messy and sloppy, urgent—like you’re both too far gone to think about anything but this. his lips part against yours immediately, and your tongues meet in a dizzying clash of heat and need. his hands slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

you tilt your head, chasing the kiss even deeper. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth against your bottom lip, a bite that makes you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. the sound you make pushes him further—he groans into your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face exactly how he wants it.

you’re not sure where the desperation is coming from, but it feels like if he stops touching you, you’ll shatter. your fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting the fabric as you grind just a little closer, a little harder. he’s breathing just as heavy as you are, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he never wants to stop.

you’ve kissed people before but nothing’s ever felt like this. nothing’s ever felt this fucking good. the two of you stumble out of the club. your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto subong, and his arm wraps around your waist to steady you. his car is parked a few streets over, tucked away in a dark, hidden corner under some trees. “thank god for this spot,” he mutters as he unlocks the doors.

you barely make it into the backseat before he’s on you again—his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for this forever. his hands are all over you, rough and desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. but you’re not going anywhere. his fingers dig into your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—hard and thick, pressing right against the heat between your legs. a soft gasp slips out of you, but he swallows it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. fuck, he’s good.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling as your hips start to move, grinding down on him. his grip tightens immediately, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he guides your movements, rocking you against him harder. the friction creates a delicious, aching pressure that makes you whimper against his lips. “fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to let his head fall back against the seat. his fingers squeeze your ass, dragging you down against him rougher. “keep doing that.” so you do. you roll your hips, slow at first, letting yourself feel everything. you’re already soaked, already throbbing for more, and from the way his hands are gripping you, the way his breathing is getting heavier, you know he feels it too. “i need to eat you out,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck. “want you to cum on my tongue.” you do exactly what he wants—legs spread wide, thighs trembling as his head dips between them. his breath is hot against your soaked pussy, teasing, before his tongue finally makes contact—slow at first, a long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that makes your whole body jolt.

you gasp at the feeling, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard, but it only makes him groan against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure straight through you. he doesn’t hold back. he devours you, eating you out like a man starved, his tongue flicking against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. and when two of his fingers slip inside you, curling deep, pressing against that perfect spot, you swear you see stars. “you taste so fucking good,” he groans against you, his lips slick with your arousal before he flattens his tongue and laps up every drop. the way he’s working you—his mouth, his fingers, the filthy sounds coming from between your legs—it’s too much, too good, and your whole body is trembling, hips rolling against his face, chasing more. “shit—subong!” your voice breaks as the pleasure crashes over you all at once. your thighs clamp around his head, your body arching off the seat as you cum hard against his mouth. but he doesn’t stop—his tongue keeps moving, drinking you in, dragging out your release until you’re shaking.

when he comes back up to kiss you—chin shining with the evidence of your release— your hand instinctively moves to rub him through his pants, the hard outline of his dick impossible to miss. he hisses at the contact, his hips bucking eagerly against your touch. “you got a condom?” you ask. he pauses. “yeah, hold on.” reluctantly, he pulls away and starts patting his pockets. his brows furrow in concentration as he checks one side, then the other. finally, with a relieved grin, he pulls a condom out and holds it up. “got it,” he says before kissing the wrapper, making you chuckle.

he looks so fucking hot as he rolls the condom onto his cock, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. but nothing gets him off more than watching you climb back onto his lap, your soaked folds teasing the head of his dick as you line yourself up. his breath stutters, his hands gripping your thighs, barely holding himself back. “fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint. then, slowly you sink down onto him. inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you up until there’s no space left between your bodies. “shit,” he hisses, watching as your slick coats him, making every movement easy, effortless—like your body was made to take him. and when you start moving, lifting your hips before sliding back down, a broken moan escapes his lips. “fuck, baby,” he breathes, hands roaming up your back, gripping your ass, anything to ground himself as you ride him. “you feel so f-fucking good—look at you, taking me so… mmm… so fucking well.” his voice is needy, and when you slam down harder, his hips jerk up to meet yours, pushing even deeper. “oh my—fuck, subong!” you cry out, your walls clenching around him so tight it makes his whole body tense beneath you.

he almost fucking loses it the second he feels you clench around him, his face twisting in pleasure, jaw going slack. his hands grip your hips, guiding you—faster, rougher—eyes locked on where your bodies meet, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. he forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his eyes keep threatening to roll back. “fuck, if i’d known how fucking good this pussy is… i would’ve f-fucked you sooner.” he moans as you move faster, bouncing on his cock—every thrust making obscene, slick sounds that only turn him on more. his eyes drop to your tits, bouncing perfectly in time with your movements, and fuck, he can’t decide what he wants more—to keep watching you ride him like this or to flip you over and ruin you.

but then you tighten around him, your rhythm stuttering as you throw your head back, moaning so loud he swears the whole damn neighborhood can hear you. “fuck— i’m gonna—! i-i’m gonna cum!” you cry out, your whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you cum around his cock. and that’s it. that’s all it takes to break him. “shit—ngh!” his body jerks beneath you, his abs tensing as he spills into the condom, his head falling back, mouth open.

his hands are still gripping you, holding you down against him as he rides out every last pulse of his release, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. and fuck—you’re still wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. you end up laughing for a solid twenty minutes after that, still too high to fully process what the fuck just happened between you two. but even in your haze, every single detail stays with you the next day.

fucking your best friend while high as fuck one night might’ve been an accident. but then it happens again. and again. and again. and you can’t call it an accident anymore.

it happens everywhere.

in his car, where the windows are always fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space. in your apartment, where he barely gets the door shut before he’s got you pinned against it, hands rough and greedy, yanking your clothes off like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this. sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the kitchen—he just lifts you onto the counter, knocking over whatever’s in his way, too impatient to care as his mouth moves down your neck. in his bed, where the sheets are always a mess, tangled from how hard he fucks you into the mattress, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. even in a club bathroom, right after he gives a show, still high off the energy, sweat dripping down his temple. you’re barely inside before he’s got you bent over the sink, hiking your dress up, shoving your panties to the side, fucking into you so deep you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming his name.

wherever. the second you’re alone, it’s happening. it becomes a thing. a need.

you always figured subong would fuck good. he never shut up about the girls he’s been with, the shit he’s done, bragging like he was the best lay any of them ever had. and every time he talked about it, you’d feel heat pool between your thighs, wondering if he was really that good or just full of shit.

now you knew. and fuck, he wasn’t lying.

he’s rough and passionate—the kind of lover who takes without hesitation but gives just as much, maybe even more. he loves watching you squirm, loves the way your body responds to him like it was made for this. like it needs this. his fingers trail down your skin, barely touching, making you shiver before he finally gives you what you want. and fuck, he lives for it—the way you gasp when he finally presses his mouth between your legs, the way your back arches when he fills you up, stretching you wide, making you take every inch.

some days, he drags it out, torturing you with slow touches, lazy kisses, making you beg before he finally gives in. he’ll tease you until you’re trembling, hands gripping at him desperately, “please, subong… need you so bad.” and then, maybe then, he’ll give you what you’re begging for. other days? he doesn’t bother waiting. before you can say a word, he’s got you pinned to the mattress, yanking your legs apart, pressing himself against you, making you feel just how hard he is. “been thinking about this all fucking day.” then he’s inside you, fucking you like he’s been starving for it.

it’s been months now—this thing between you and subong. but you don’t talk about it. not once. there’s no late-night confessions, no whispered ‘what are we?’ between tangled sheets. he doesn’t ask who else you’re seeing, and you sure as hell don’t ask him. but the uncertainty lingers. because he’s still your best friend. you still laugh at his dumb ass jokes, roll your eyes when he’s being his cocky self, and feel that weird, warm twist in your stomach when you catch him watching you from across the room.

and yet, there are a bunch of little things that scream something more. like that time you sat on his rumpled bed while he was writing a song, and you helped him hammer out stupid-ass verses—even when he swore they’d never work. you teased him for his cheesy lines and then watched his face light up like he’d just discovered a new fucking world. hell, he even calls you his muse sometimes, and you hate how damn proud that makes you feel.

or that stormy night. the rain was lashing against the windows, and you two were locked in his tiny studio apartment. one minute you were laughing, taking silly pictures of him with a digital camera while he smoked, and the next, he had your face pressed against the wooden table as he fucked you from behind—your ass cheeks burning from his vigorous spanking. after, he pulled you close, running his fingers through your hair as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

that one night he showed up at your door at 2 a.m., high off his ass, slurring your name with that cocky grin, his knuckles tapping too fast against the wood. “couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. “fucking missed you.” you should’ve told him to fuck off, should’ve rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face because he promised he wouldn’t do that shit again. instead, you let him in, let him collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, pulling you down with him. his arms caged you in, the scent of his cheap cologne filling your senses.

then there was the time you caught him staring at you while you were getting ready. you were fixing your hair in his mirror, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and when you turned around, he was just standing there—arms crossed. “what?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. he just shook his head, smirking a little. “nothing,” he said. “you just—you look good in my clothes, mama.”

and when you called him crying after a shitty day at work, voice shaking so bad he could barely understand you. you didn’t even have to ask—he just showed up, no questions. drove way too fucking fast to get to you, and pulled you into his chest so tight it felt like he was trying to hold you together. “who do i need to punch?” he asked, half-joking, half-dead serious. and you laughed, even through your tears, because that was him—always trying to make you smile. he let you cry into his hoodie, let you hold onto him like a fucking lifeline, and then, when you finally calmed down, he kissed your forehead like it was second nature. “you’re okay, baby” he murmured. “i got you.” he always had you.

or the night he took you to some shitty underground concert, knowing damn well you didn’t even like the band. “it’s not about the music,” he told you, grinning like an idiot. “it’s about the experience.” you rolled your eyes, but you still let him pull you into the crowd, still let him wrap an arm around you when the pit got too wild, still let him hold your hand. afterward, sweaty and breathless, you sat on the curb outside, sharing a cigarette while he rambled about how sick the show was. “you should play up there one day,” you told him, nudging his shoulder. “your songs have gotten better.” “you think?” “yeah. you’re good, bong-bong.” the nickname made him laugh. a week later, he showed you something he wrote. something raw and messy and fucking beautiful. he let you hear a part of him no one else ever did.

you even helped him rebrand himself. it started with him pacing his room, muttering to himself, stopping every few seconds like he was about to say something, then changing his mind. eventually, you sighed, rolling onto your stomach while watching him from his bed. “are you having a breakdown or just being dramatic?” he ignored you, still pacing. and then, out of nowhere, he stopped. snapped his fingers. looked at you like he just discovered the secret to life itself. “i’m gonna dye my hair purple.” you stared at him for a long second, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he was joking. but he just stood there, completely serious, shoulders squared like he was about to go to war.

within twenty minutes, you were in his bathroom, gloves on, a box of purple dye sitting between you. you didn’t even ask how he got it so fast. knowing him, he’d probably been sitting on this idea for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drag you into it. he sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, while you stood over him, parting his hair and working the dye through. up close, he looked smug as hell, like he knew he was onto something. the whole rap game was about standing out, and he was done waiting for people to notice him.

the name ‘thanos’ caught on faster than you expected. at first, it was a joke—you called him that to be annoying, and then he used it in a song, and suddenly, people were saying it back to him. dms started piling up. more people started listening. before you knew it, subong wasn’t just some guy making music in his bedroom—he was thanos. and, of course, he acted like he knew it was gonna work all along.

and fuck, the time he brought you home to meet his family. his mom fussed over you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law, laying on your favorite dish and insisting you have seconds. then, saying, “he talks about you a lot”, making subong choke on his food while his sister goaded him about how he treats you like his damn girlfriend. you felt so out-of-place and yet so damn loved by the way he proudly introduced you to everyone, as if you were the missing piece in his fucked-up puzzle. he even opened up to you about his dad—how he never gave a shit about him, never looked at him unless it was to point out everything he did wrong. maybe that was why he kept stealing glances at you like he was trying to make sense of it—of being wanted, of being next to someone who actually cared.

and later that night, when you were both lying on his couch, full and sleepy, he nudged your knee with his. “thanks for coming, señorita,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “they liked you.” you turned your head to look at him, saying, “of course they did. i’m fucking amazing.” he smirked, but it faded quick, his gaze lingering on you a little too long. “yeah,” he murmured. “you are.”

nights that weren’t about sex at all. the ones where he just wanted you close, his hands resting on your back, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his voice low and sleepy in the dark. “you’re warm,” he’d mumble, pulling you closer. “don’t leave.” “i work tomorrow, baby,” you’d say. “i’ll drive you… stay with me,” he’d always replied.

and you did. every single time.

and there were the nights he fucked you like he meant it. not just like you were some girl he was hooking up with, but like you were the only one who had ever mattered. like he was trying to prove something with every touch, every kiss, every time he pressed his sweaty forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer.

like he loved you. but he never said it. and neither did you.

so instead, you settled for the quiet moments—for the way he always pulled you into his lap at parties, his hands resting lazily on your thighs; for the way he let you pick the music when you drove anywhere, even though he always bitched about your taste; for the way he let you steal his fries, let you doodle on his lyrics notebook, let you wear his hoodies even when you didn’t ask; for the way he texted you ‘good morning, baby❤️,’ and it made you smile for no damn reason; for the way you woke up to find him still asleep beside you, hair a damn mess on the pillow, and traced lazy circles on his chest while he mumbled some half-remembered melody. for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

you can’t help but hope that one day you’ll both just say the damn words and finally admit that all these little moments mean something. you hope that maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop wondering if you’re more than just friends with benefits.

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

who gives a shitttt, i sure as hell don’t, mama

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

oh

alr cool👍🏼💯

can i still come over tho? we could watch a movie or something

yeah okayyy, bring snacks (or else i won’t let you in)

i’m the only snack u need, girl

you don’t expect him to show up with anything, but when you open the door, subong’s standing there, hands full—one holding a plastic bag, the other gripping a bottle of soda. “what’s all this?” you ask, raising a brow. he steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking off his shoes. “you said ‘bring snacks’, didn’t you?” he says, dropping the bag onto your coffee table. “figured you’d want something sweet.” you peek inside—chocolate bars, a pack of strawberry pocky, even a container of sliced fruit. your chest tightens at the thought of him actually remembering the little things you like.“what, no painkillers?” you tease, flopping onto the couch. he scoffs, collapsing next to you, way too comfortable in your space. “what do i look like, a pharmacy?”

you give him a knowing look, and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. grabbing the remote, you ask, “so, what are we watching?” “something i won’t fall asleep to,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “which means no boring indie shit.” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “first of all, my movie taste is elite. second, if you fall asleep, i’m taking pictures.” he grins, lazy and cocky. “yeah? what will you use them for?” heat rushes to your face, and you smack his arm without thinking. “shut up.”

the movie plays, and for a while, it’s normal. easy. you snack on the pocky while subong steals pieces of fruit from the container, acting like he’s doing you a favor by eating the ones you don’t like. he stretches out on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. goddamn.

it's barely been a few minutes when you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch, his strong hand fisting in your hair as you hungrily suck his dick like your life depends on it. you couldn’t help it. he just looked too fucking good. you take him deep, your nose pressing against his abs, gagging slightly but refusing to back off. he lets out a groan as you take him, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your head up and down. “fuck, just like that baby... show me how much you love this dick.” his hips thrust forward, making you gag slightly. “you're so f-fucking good for me... mmm such a pretty little mouth, choking on my cock.”

drool slips down your chin as you struggle to breathe but maintain eye contact, wanting him to see how much you love taking him in your mouth. the wet, obscene sounds of you slurping and gagging fill the room. he watches you intently, pupils blown wide with lust, his dick throbbing against your tongue. moaning around him, the vibrations make his thighs quake. "shit... you’re gonna make me fucking c-cum," he breathes out. “you gonna… you gonna let me cum in that s-sweet mouth of yours, hm?” “mhmm,” you purr around his length, looking up at him with hooded eyes. you double your efforts, sucking him hard and fast, your hand pumping what you can’t reach. he holds your head in place as he comes, making you to swallow every last drop. you take a moment to catch your breath, wiping your mouth before sitting back up.

the bathroom lights hum to life as you rinse your mouth and splash cool water on your face, trying to shake off the heat thrumming through you. you press your palms against the sink, inhaling deep in an attempt to look less flustered. the movie’s still on when you come back. you get comfortable, leaning into subong just slightly. he doesn’t say anything, just lifts his arm and lets you settle in against his side. the warmth of him seeps into you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. subong smiles at you before kissing your forehead, something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.

you shift slightly, but he just pulls you in closer, his body solid and warm against yours. your heart stutters in your chest, and the thought of what you are—what you actually mean to him—becomes impossible to ignore. the longer you sit there, the harder it is to pretend this is normal. your heart is beating too fast, your mind racing with thoughts you’ve been shoving down for months. finally, you tilt your head to glance up. “subong,” you start, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. he hums, eyes still on the screen, but you can tell he’s listening. you swallow, suddenly nervous. “what… what are we doing?” that gets his attention. “what do you mean?” you sit up a little, putting some space between you—enough to see him clearly. “this. us. it’s been months, and we’ve never talked about it.” “what’s there to talk?” “i mean, is this just sex to you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tenses, his eyes flicking away for a second like he’s weighing his words. “does it feel like just sex to you?” he finally asks. your chest tightens. “no.” his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. like maybe he’s been trying to convince himself of something different. “right. it’s not just sex, we’re friends, too,” he says. “then why are we acting like this?” you push. he rubs a hand over his face. “i don’t know.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. the silence stretches thick between you, but you refuse to let it suffocate you. you need to know. “what do you want this to be?”

subong exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. he looks frustrated, like he doesn’t even want to have this conversation. like you’re ruining something by asking. “why do we have to call it something?” he says finally, and your stomach twists. you blink, sitting up a little. “because it’s been months, subong. because we’re not—we’re not just fucking and then going our separate ways. because we’re sitting here, cuddling, watching a damn movie, and it feels like more.” his jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around his knee. “it doesn’t have to mean anything.” that stings. worse than you were expecting. you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “it does to me.” his face twists, like he hates hearing that. “shit, don’t fucking do this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “why can’t we just keep things the way they are?” “because i’m tired of pretending this is casual when it’s not,” you snap, your voice cracking. “not for me, at least.”

he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold something back. when he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, but his next words hit like a punch to the gut. “then maybe you shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far.” you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. “what?” “i never promised you shit.” the words cut deep, sharper than anything he’s ever said to you before. you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. because he’s right. he never did. but the way he touched you, the way he held you after—none of that felt like nothing. you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he hesitates for a second too long. and that’s all you need to know. you force yourself to nod, pressing your lips together. “okay.” his brows furrow, like he wasn’t expecting you to take it like that, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything else. you grab the remote, press stop on the movie, and push yourself off the couch. “you should go.” “are you fucking serious?” you cross your arms over your chest, fighting to keep your composure. “yeah, i’m serious. get the fuck out.” “we have one fucking shitty conversation, and now you don’t want me here?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “what the fuck do you want from me, subong?” your voice shakes, and you can feel it crack, but you force it out. “sit here and pretend like i didn’t just fucking tell you how i feel? pretend i’m not fucking hurt because you—” you stop yourself, biting your lip so hard it almost bleeds. his jaw clenches. “what?” you let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “because you don’t fucking care.” “i never said i don’t care.” “you might as well have,” you snap, voice breaking with frustration. “you just don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.” he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, breathing hard through his nose. “just because i care doesn’t mean we have to slap a fucking label on it!” “and i just have to be okay with that?!” you snap, your voice rising. “i have to sit here like a dumbass and pretend this is fine when it’s not?”

he throws his hands up, his face twisting in frustration. “for fuck’s sake, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” “difficult?!” you let out a humorless laugh. “you’re the one acting like a fucking idiot, subong! you want to fuck me, cuddle me, act like i’m your fucking girlfriend, but the second i ask you to be honest about what this is, suddenly i’m the problem?! you even introduced me to your damn family!” he freezes for half a second when the words leave your mouth, then he stands up, jabbing a finger in your face. “what the fuck did you just call me?!” you swat his hand away, your glare burning into him. “don’t fucking point at me like that!” his jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping. “you wanna talk about being a fucking idiot?! look in the fucking mirror!” he spits. “you’re the one acting like some needy little bitch because i won’t say what you wanna hear.” “fuck you, subong!” you don’t say anything else. you just turn on your heel and walk out of the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. your hands are shaking, your chest tight, and you just need to put some distance between you and him before you completely fall apart. behind you, you hear him scoff. “seriously? you’re just gonna walk away mid-fucking-conversation?”

you grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you stay quiet, he’ll take the fucking hint and leave. but of course, he doesn’t. you hear his footsteps as he follows you in. “you always do this shit,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “running off the second things don’t go your way.” you whirl around, your eyes burning. “what should i do, then? hm? get on my knees and suck your fucking dick again?!” he clenches his fists at his sides, his mouth opening like he’s about to argue—but then he hesitates. because the truth is, you do mean something to him. he just doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. subong has never done this before—never been in something that wasn’t just fucking around, never had to deal with real feelings, real expectations. and the idea of fucking it up? it scares the shit out of him. but instead of admitting that, instead of being honest for once in his life, he just does what he does best—pushes, lashes out. it seems easier than dealing with what he feels when he’s around you.

“why do you care so fucking much about not calling it something?” you ask, your voice softer now. “if we’re not seeing other people, if we’re always together, if you do care about me, then why?” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. and then—because he’s a fucking coward—he lies. “who says i’m not seeing other people?” you freeze. his face is unreadable, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he already regrets saying it. “you’re lying.” your voice is quiet. he just shrugs, “i’ve been seeing this girl.” “who?” you raise your voice, taking a step closer as tears start falling down your face. “who?!” “i’m not fucking telling you!” “are you serious?! aren’t we supposed to be friends too?! we used to tell each other everything!”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second—just a second—something flashes in them. something like guilt. but then he shuts it down, scoffing as he shakes his head. you continue, “but we’re not even friends anymore, are we?” “don’t say that.” “why not? it’s true, isn’t it? friends don’t do what we do,” you wipe at your face, even though the tears won’t stop fucking falling. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, pressing it against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to hold something back. but then he just shrugs again, voice flat. “guess we’re not fucking friends either, then.”

your vision blurs as you cry, no matter how hard you try to keep it together. “get the fuck out, subong.” your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate how fucking weak you sound, how pathetic. and the second the first real sob rips out of your throat, something in him shifts. “fuck. no, i—” he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his voice softer now, like he’s realizing he went too far. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry—i’m sorry, baby.” “don’t fucking call me that!” “you gotta listen to me!” you shake your head, taking a step back, your whole body trembling. “no. i’m done listening to your fucking bullshit.” “baby, please.” his voice cracks, and his hands reach for you—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. “please.” you slap them away instantly. “don’t fucking touch me.” “you’re really just gonna shut me out like this?!” “you shut me out first!” “i fucking care about you!” “not enough!” his breath catches in his throat, and for a second, he just stares at you. “you’re being fucking dramatic.” “get the fuck out of my house, subong.” “why are you being such a fucking—” “say it.” your voice is a challenge, daring him to go there. he doesn’t hesitate. “bitch. a fucking bitch. you—you’re acting like a bitch.”

you’ve had enough. without thinking, you shove him—hard. he stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but you don't stop. you shove him again, your palms flat against his chest. “you’re a fucking asshole! fuck you! get out! get the fuck out!” his jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, like he wants to throw something else back at you, but you're already stepping forward again, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the front door. subong wrenches his arm away, but you don't let it stop you. you push him again, shoving him past the threshold. but he’s not moving, so you grab the nearest thing—his damn sneakers—and chuck them at him, one after the other. the first one bounces off his chest, the second one catches him square in the shoulder. “what the fuck, man?!” subong barks, flinching back, his face twisting in irritation. he barely catches the second shoe before it can hit the ground. “you’re a crazy bitch!”

“fuck off!” your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. you’re already stepping forward, already reaching for the door—and you slam it in his face. the sound echoing through the room. for a moment, silence. a long, awful pause where your breath hitches, where your chest tightens so much it feels like you’re suffocating. then—“open the door. c’mon, open—open the fucking door!” he slams his fist against the wood. “stop being so fucking childish!” “you’re calling me childish?! grow up, subong! you’re twenty six, you don’t know what you want and you still dress like a fucking kid!” he bangs the door. “you’re one to talk, girl! always dressed like a damn slut!”

you squeeze your eyes shut and stumble to your room until your knees hit the bed, and then you’re collapsing onto it. the first sob breaks out of you before you can stop it, and then another, and another. you curl into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head, pressing your hands against your ears. but it doesn’t block him out. “fucking talk to me!” another bang. you hear the doorknob rattle. “baby, please! i’m sorry, okay?! c’mon, don’t do this! we’re fucking friends!” your voice is muffled when it finally comes, thick with tears, but loud enough for him to hear you. “go away!” “not fucking happening! open the damn door!” “go away or i’m calling the fucking cops, motherfucker!” that seems to work. you curl tighter, press your face into the pillow, and sob until the sound of his fists against the door fades away. he did this. he made you feel this way. and he fucking hates himself for it. but it’s too late.

the next few days are absolute shit. you barely leave your bed at first. your body feels too heavy, your chest too tight, your eyes too sore from crying. when you do finally move, it’s only to go through the motions—brushing your teeth, pulling on the same oversized hoodie, forcing down a few bites of food even when everything tastes like nothing, and going to work. you don’t check your phone at first. you can’t. but eventually, the screen lights up, and you don’t have to look to know who it is. subong. you let it ring. he calls again. and again. when it finally stops, the texts start.

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

you turn the phone face down. but he doesn’t stop. every time you glance at your screen, his name is there.

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

years and years of friendship man and u throw it all away like that?

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

the texts keep coming. always at random times. but the worst ones come at night. one day, at 4:12 a.m., your phone buzzes against your nightstand. you try to ignore it, try to pretend you’re asleep, but something tells you to look.

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

its fucking 4am. i wake up at 6 to go to work, stfu and leave me alone

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

fuck you, subong. i don’t want to see you again

come bsck

i loveyouy

you block him, roll over, and squeeze your eyes shut. but sleep doesn’t come easy. not when the last words he sent are still glowing behind your eyelids, burning into your brain.

blocking him should have brought peace. should have been the final step, the clean break. but it doesn’t feel like that. instead, it feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting to resurface, except there’s no hand to pull you up this time. the first few days, you keep checking your phone out of habit. unlocking it without thinking. but there’s nothing. you still reach for him in small ways—almost texting him when something funny happens, almost turning to tell him about your day. but you can’t do that. you won’t do that. so you keep yourself busy. you pick up a book, let your eyes scan the words without really absorbing them. go on long walks, let the cold air bite at your skin, hoping it shocks you out of your thoughts. start journaling, writing down everything except his name, except the way your chest still feels hollow. you even try new things—take a yoga class with a friend, bake cookies at 2 a.m., cut your hair just to feel something different. but memories of him are stitched into the fabric of your life.

you hear his voice on the radio sometimes now, when they play a song of his that went viral. see him in the reflection of dark car windows, like he’s just a step behind you. hear a joke and immediately think about how he’d laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the edges. you tell yourself that eventually, you’ll forget. but some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s staring at his too. if he’s thinking about you. and the ache doesn’t go away.

your phone rings one night, when you’re already in bed. you almost don’t answer, but when you see semi’s name flash across the screen, you pick up. “hello?” your voice is groggy, tired. “hey,” semi says. “sorry, did i wake you?” “no,” you lie. “what’s up?” there’s a pause. hesitation. then, “it’s subong.” your stomach drops. “we’re worried about him.” she rushes the words out, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “he’s been acting weird lately—worse than usual.” you close your eyes, already knowing where this is going. already knowing what she’s about to say before she even says it. “he’s been taking those pills,” she continues. “the ones he used to mess with sometimes, but now he’s on them all the time. it’s like he’s not even—shit. he was out,” she says, frantic. “namgyu couldn’t wake him up at first, it was fucking bad, dude. and now he’s still high as hell, barely making sense, and he keeps—” she hesitates. you frown. “he keeps what?” “he keeps mumbling your name.” you feel like you’ve been punched in the chest. you press your fingers to your temple, trying to stop the pounding in your head. “fuck.” “he’s not okay,” she says. “he’s barely sleeping, barely eating. he looks like shit. well, he always does, but you know what i mean. and when he does talk, it’s like he’s—like he’s not there.”

you take a shaky breath. you shouldn’t care. you don’t care. he’s not your problem anymore. but your stomach still twists at the thought of him like that. “maybe you could talk to him?” semi says, hopeful. “when he feels better. i think he’d listen to you. gyeongsu is gonna take us to the hospital in a few minutes, maybe you could come too? we’ll pick you up. we’re at namgyu’s apartment, we had to take him—” “we’re not friends anymore, semi,” you cut off, swallowing down the lump in your throat. silence. “what?” she says. “what do you mean?” “he hasn’t told you?” “told us what?” “it doesn’t matter,” you say finally, letting out a heavy sigh. “i can’t help him.” “but—” “i can’t, semi.” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. she falls quiet. after a long moment, she sighs. “alright, okay,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “i just… i didn’t know.”

and even though you tell yourself it’s not your problem, even though you tell yourself you did the right thing—you don’t sleep that night. maybe you’re the most horrible person ever. for not helping him. that’s what you think to yourself as the days go by. you don’t go to see him. you don’t text semi back. you tell yourself that there’s nothing you could have done, that he made his choices, that you’re not responsible for saving him. but the guilt sticks to your ribs.

you keep moving forward. and then, somewhere along the way, you meet him. he’s nothing like subong. not really. but sometimes, in the way he leans back in his chair, in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, in the way he laughs when he’s had one too many drinks—he almost is. (he even likes rap!) and maybe that’s why you let him take you out. why you let him kiss you. why you let him press his hands against your skin and pretend it feels right. it doesn’t. but you let it happen anyway. because it’s easier. because when you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s subong. it’s fucked up. you know it’s fucked up. but you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that this is what moving on is supposed to look like. but it’s not fair. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. and when he asks what’s wrong, why you get quiet sometimes, why you look at him like you’re seeing someone else—you just smile. shake your head. press a kiss to his lips and hope he never realizes that you don’t mean it. hope he never realizes that no matter how hard you try—subong is still the only one you see.

he invites you to a show one night, says it’ll be fun. you don’t really know much about it—just that it’s some rap battle tournament called ‘rap battlegrounds’—but you’re bored, and it’s something to do. you don’t ask too many questions because, honestly, you don’t care that much. he picks you up, and you follow him through the neon-lit streets to a club you’ve never seen before, the bass already thumping from inside. he leads you through the crowd to a small corner of the club. it’s dark, gritty, with exposed brick walls and dim, flickering lights that barely cut through the haze of smoke hanging in the air. the floor is sticky. it’s the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight, you let it slide.

you're barely paying attention, your eyes drifting over the crowd, the noise just background filler. the battles blur together, the hype not really doing anything for you. you're zoning out, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the beat, hoping this night will pass quickly—regretting all your life choices when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. when suddenly, a voice crackles through the mic, cutting through the noise. “yo, yo, yo, we got a real one up next! fresh off that new heat, straight killin’ the game—make some noise for ‘thanos’!” you freeze, snapping your head to the stage as the crowd cheers. “…and he’s goin’ up against the beast, the local legend, the one and only jace ‘the hammer!’”

there’s no way. you blink, trying to process it, but everything’s too dark, shadows everywhere, making you second-guess yourself. but then, you hear it—his voice. your stomach sinks. this is real. subong is here. for a second, you think you might pass out. he’s standing there, center stage, all cocky confidence, rapping like he owns the room. you wish you could ignore it, wish you could pretend he’s just another guy on stage, but he isn’t. and you can’t. and then it happens. his eyes sweep across the crowd, like he’s eating up the attention, and then they land on you. he freezes. just for a second—just long enough for his flow to falter, the words dying on his tongue. the beat keeps going, but he doesn’t, and the guy he’s battling jumps in, taking advantage of the opening. subong blinks, shakes his head, tries to recover—but it’s too late. he’s lost the rhythm, lost the momentum, and the battle ends with subong’s opponent eating up the win. the crowd erupts, but subong doesn’t hear any of it. he stands there for a second, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe it—like he can’t believe he actually lost. then, without another word, he shoves the mic into someone’s hand and disappears behind the stage.

someone else takes the spotlight almost immediately, the next rappers stepping up, music booming through the speakers again. you turn to the guy beside you, grabbing his wrist. “i wanna leave.” he frowns. “what? why?” you glance toward the side of the stage, your stomach twisting. subong won’t just leave it alone—you know him. “i’m just—i’m kinda tired.” the nervousness in your voice alarms him. “are you okay? what’s wrong?” “nothing. i just don’t wanna be here right now.” he studies you, and you can tell the exact moment he realizes how tense you are, how your shoulders are stiff, how you haven’t stopped glancing over your shoulder. his expression softens, just a little. “hey,” he says, voice quieter now. “it’s okay. i’ll take you home.” “yeah?” “of course.” you don’t move when he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. and it feels like… nothing. just lips on lips, a fleeting warmth that barely registers. your chest feels tight, like you need to shake something off, drown something out. so you kiss him back, harder this time, pressing in, searching for something. maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the way seeing subong on that stage messed with your head, knocked you off center. maybe you just want to prove to yourself that you can feel that rush with someone else. but you don’t. no matter how deep the kiss goes, no matter how much you try to lose yourself in it, there’s nothing there.

and just a second later, he’s ripped away from you—shoved back so hard he stumbles, nearly knocking into the bar behind him. and when you look up, you already know. subong stands there, shoulders tense, and his eyes locked on you. “what the fuck are you doing?!” “me?! what the fuck are you doing, subong?!” the guy composes himself and goes back next to you with a strained expression, one of his hands caressing his side. “what’s your problem, man?!” “who the fuck is this?” subong demands, his eyes never leaving yours. you exhale sharply. “just leave me alone.” disbelief flashes across his face like you’ve just insulted him. “nah, what the fuck is this?” he gestures vaguely between you and the guy. “this who you’re with now?” the guy straightens up. “is there a problem?” subong laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah, there’s a fucking problem. who the fuck are you?” “just go, subong.” you cut in quickly. “no. i’m not fucking leaving.”

the guy beside you steps in, placing himself between you and subong. “you know this asshole?” he asks you. you sigh, “he’s… we used to be friends,” you reply. “yeah, and i’ve probably fucked her more times than you have, bro,” subong adds, a smirk on his face. “don’t listen to him,” you tell the guy before redirecting your attention to subong. “you’re being more than ridiculous right now. stop it. leave us alone.” he just stares, like he didn’t even hear you. like you didn’t just tell him to fuck off. “ridiculous?” he repeats, like the word itself it’s funny to him. “you wanna know what’s fucking ridiculous? you showing up here with—” he finally looks at the guy, eyes dragging over him like he’s barely worth acknowledging “—this.” “enough! i said… leave us alone.” “no, we need need to talk.” “she told you to leave, man.” the guy interrupts. wrong move. subong’s lips curl into something mean. “and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” he sizes him up, scoffing. the guy doesn’t back down. he squares his shoulders, keeping himself between you and subong like he actually thinks that’ll stop him. subong steps closer, just enough to invade his space. you step forward, grabbing the guy’s arm. “seriously, let’s just go—”

subong’s hand shoots out, grabbing his collar. the guy shoves him back instantly, and that’s all it takes. subong’s always been quick to anger, and now he’s pissed. “relax,” the guy says, lifting his hands like he’s trying to de-escalate, but subong’s past that. “relax? you want me to relax when you’re out here kissing my girl?” the guy exhales through his nose. “you wanna fight me over her that bad?” he shakes his head. “man, you already lost once tonight.” subong’s expression shifts in an instant. his shoulders go tense, his nostrils flare, and his jaw locks so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. he snaps, swinging first. it’s fast, a punch aimed straight for the guy’s jaw, but he dodges, stepping back just in time. the guy doesn’t waste time. he drives forward, ramming his shoulder into subong’s chest, sending him stumbling back. for a second, you think it might end there—but of course, it doesn’t. subong recovers quick, too quick. he surges forward, grabbing the guy’s shirt and yanking him down just to throw a knee into his ribs. the guy grunts, shoving him off, and then they’re both swinging. fists connect, curses fly, and you can barely keep up. the guy tries to hold his own, landing a few hits, but subong barely flinches. he’s fueled by something else, and he’s not stopping. one punch lands hard against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. another follows, a brutal hit to his jaw that makes him stumble. then another. and another. the guy grunts, arms coming up to shield himself, but subong doesn’t let up. he grabs the front of his shirt, yanking him forward just to slam his fist into his face again.

blood splatters. and that’s when you snap out of it. “subong, stop!” he doesn’t hear you. “subong!” he pulls back for another hit, and you move before you even think. you grab him by his shirt, using all your strength to shove him back. he stumbles, losing his grip on the guy, his eyes wild when they snap to yours. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, chest heaving. subong’s nostrils flare, hands still clenched into fists like he’s seconds away from going back for more. the guy groans, wiping blood from his face. “you broke my fucking nose, man! you’re insane!” he yells. “shut the fuck up,” subong spits, but before he can go at him again, you shove him harder. “leave him alone!” his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark, burning into yours. for a second, you think he might listen, that the fight might finally be over. but then, in one swift movement, he grabs your wrist. “what are you—” you barely get the words out before he pulls you with him, dragging you through the crowd, past the stage. “let go of me!” you struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t stop. people turn to look, but no one moves to intervene. they just watch. before you know it, you’re backstage, away from the lights, away from the eyes—trapped in a space that feels too small.

subong finally stops, shoving you back against the wall. you barely have a second to catch your breath before you’re shoving him off. “what the fuck is wrong with you?! what the fuck was all of that about?! huh?!” you slam your hands against his chest, but he barely moves. his jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “what the fuck is wrong with me?! you’re really asking me that?! when you’re the one out there acting like a desperate fucking slut?!” your head jerks back, a bitter laugh ripping from your throat. “are you fucking serious right now?! you just beat the shit out of him, and you’re mad at me?! for what?! for moving the fuck on?!” “yeah, i fucking am!” he snaps. before you can react, he steps in, closing the space between you in an instant. his hands come up, slamming against the wall on either side of your head. your whole body tenses. he’s seething, breath ragged and reeking of cheap liquor and god knows what else. “why?!” “because you’re mine!” “yours?! fuck off!” you shove at him again, hard. “and take a goddamn shower while you’re at it. you smell like a fucking alleyway.”

his nostrils flare. “yeah? well, you smell like a cheap whore.” rage flares hot in your chest. “right, because you’d fucking know, wouldn’t you?” you sneer. his head tilts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “at least i don’t pretend to have fucking standards. what’s his name, huh?” your stomach turns, but you don’t let it show. instead, you smile. “why? you jealous? go cry about it, asshole.” he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “you know he’s just using you, right? you’re nothing but a warm hole to him.” your hand flies up before you can think better of it, shoving his face away. “yeah. like that wasn’t exactly what i was to you too, motherfucker.” he stumbles back a step, running a hand over his jaw. “we never talked about what the fuck we wanted, or what we expected from each other. so don’t—don’t—” “that’s what you tell yourself? that you didn’t lead me on? that you didn’t fuck with my head for months?!” you cut him off. “you’re a fucking coward, subong. too fucking scared to admit you wanted me, but the second i move on, suddenly you give a shit?” “move on? to who? that fucking loser? you think he actually gives a shit about you?” “and you do?” “you can’t just act like we never fucking happened!” “we didn’t happen, that’s the thing!” you shoot back. “you didn’t want to be with me like that,” your voice wavers, but you force yourself to hold your ground. “so you don’t get to fucking act like this. you don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to start fights over me, and you sure as hell don’t get to drag me back here like you own me.”

his throat bobs as he swallows. he looks away for a second, like if he doesn’t meet your eyes, this won’t sting as much. like he can pretend this isn’t hitting him the way it is. his fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto something—maybe the last shred of whatever this used to be. his breath comes sharp through his nose, the kind that’s meant to steady him but doesn’t do a damn thing. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “i don’t—i don’t own you.” but there’s something bitter in the way he says it, like he hates that it’s true. like he hates that he ever let it get to this point. you’re not his anymore. you never were, really. “then stop acting like it! don’t try to ruin everything just because you can’t handle the fact that i moved the fuck on!” for a second, he doesn’t say anything. his eyes flick over your face, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something worse. but then— “if you had, you wouldn’t have let that motherfucker shove his tongue down your throat right in front of me.” you scoff. “you think i did that on purpose?” he steps in, too close, and you instinctively take a step back. “fuck yeah, you did. you wanted me to see it. you wanted to fucking piss me off.” “you piss yourself off, subong! newsflash! not everything is about you! get over yourself.” “get over myself? you made me look like a fucking idiot out there!” “what the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes flash. “you made me lose the fucking battle, man!” you blink, caught off guard for half a second, then roll your eyes. “first of all, i’m not a man. second of all, don’t blame that shit on me.” “right. it’s never your fucking fault, huh?” he shakes his head. “you just get to do whatever the fuck you want and act like it doesn’t affect me.” you throw your hands up. “if you weren’t such a fucking asshole, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” “yeah?!” “yeah!”

and then there’s silence. thick, heavy silence. his breathing is still ragged, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. your heart is pounding, your own fists clenched just as tight. then subong scoffs, shaking his head. “you’re so fucking full of shit.” “excuse me?” “you wanna talk about me being an asshole when you’ve been ignoring me for months? like i didn’t fucking exist.” the pain in his voice is evident and it catches you off guard. “i wasn’t—i didn’t ignore you. i was trying to heal. you’re seriously throwing that in my face right now?” “yeah, i am. don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.” “don’t do that.” “do what? tell the truth? you fucking blocked me, girl!” “no! don’t—don’t twist shit around just to make yourself feel better,” you snap. “you know exactly why i did it. don’t act like you’re the fucking victim.” “who is it then? you?” he scoffs. “oh, eat shit, subong! you never fucking came to see me!” you throw your arms out, exasperated. “not once! you could’ve fixed this, but you didn’t.” his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “you think i didn’t want to?” “i don’t know what the fuck you wanted!” your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “i called! and texted you every single fucking day!” “and you think that’s enough?! after everything?!” "i almost fucking overdosed!" he yells. "i was at my fucking lowest, and you—" he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you weren't there." you shake your head, anger bubbling in your chest. "don't put that on me, subong. you did that to yourself," you snap, voice sharp. "don't fucking guilt trip me with that." "are you serious?" “what do you want me to say? did you expect me to just forget everything and come back to you like nothing happened? you promised me—how many times?—that you weren’t gonna do that shit anymore, and here we are! and not only are you trying to make me feel like a fucking piece of shit for it, but you’re also acting like this—all of this—is my fault? when you were the one who decided i wasn’t good enough to be anything more than a fuck buddy?”

his expression falters—just a flash of something almost guilty—but then he scoffs, masking it with anger. “you’re really trying to act like you didn’t fucking replace me the second i was gone?” “replace you?” you repeat, incredulous. “you can’t be serious right now. i wasn’t the one fucking other people when we were…. whatever we were!” he freezes, his face draining of color for a split second. “don’t bring that shit up.” “oh, I’ll bring it up, alright. because you can’t say that shit to me when you were too busy screwing around while i was waiting for you to call me your fucking girlfriend.” he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a group of people walk past, glancing over at the scene. a couple of them whisper, eyes flicking nervously from you to subong. his face hardens, irritation flashing across his features, and without warning, he grabs your wrist. “what the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at them. the group quickly averts their gazes, pretending they weren’t just watching him. he yanks you away and you struggle for a moment, trying to free yourself from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. you’re too caught up in the heat of the moment to really think about where he’s taking you. before you know it, you’re being shoved through a door into a dimly lit room backstage, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that echoes in the silence. the room is small, cluttered with his belongings—bags, jackets, and scattered items. a mirror with round vanity lights casts a dull glow over the space, reflecting the mess on the counter: a half-empty water bottle, energy drink cans, his vape, a lighter, a bunch of candy wrappers and a few crumpled papers.

“you need to stop doing that!” you snap. “dragging me around like i’m—i don’t know—like i’m some puppet!” he ignores your words. “listen,” he says, “i tried to make it right, okay? i did.” “calling me? texting me?” you scoff, disbelief laced in your voice. “that’s what you think making it right looks like? all you ever did was send bullshit messages—half insults, half nothing at all.” you shake your head. “if you actually meant it, you would’ve come to me. you know where i live, where i work—you had every chance to show up, to prove that you actually gave a damn. but you didn’t.” his voice shakes now. “i thought… i thought you didn’t fucking need me anymore! i thought you’d be better off without me!” “better off without you?! that’s the dumbest excuse i’ve ever heard!” before you can stop yourself, you shove him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “you were my fucking best friend, you idiot!” your voice cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek, and you have to look away. “and i…” the words tangle in your throat. you swallow hard, forcing them out. “i fucking loved you.”

the words hit him like a fist to the gut. he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. because he knows. he knows exactly how that feels. he’s loved you too—probably longer than he even realized. but he’s never said it. not properly. not in a way that mattered anyway. and now? now it sounds like it’s too fucking late. “loved,” he repeats. “past tense?” you don’t answer. “you don’t—you don’t love me anymore?” the words slip out before he can stop them, and he hates how pathetic they sound, how fucking vulnerable they make him. “subong i—i’m sorry, i can’t… i can’t do this,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “answer me,” he presses, stepping closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. “please.” “i’m not talking about this,” you say firmly, reaching for the door. but he moves faster, pressing his hand against it, keeping you trapped in the small room with him. you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. “i don’t want to see you again, subong.” “i do.” “well, i don’t.” “why not?” “because it fucking hurts!” the words barely leave your lips before the weight of everything crashes down on you all at once. “it… it hurts.” your throat burns, and suddenly, you can’t hold it back anymore. a choked sob rips through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

subong’s eyes widen for half a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with the sight of you breaking down in front of him. but then, without hesitation, he reaches for you. “i know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “i know, baby.” the warmth of him, the familiarity, the way he holds you…it all feels too fucking good. too safe. too much like home. you sob into his shirt, fists clutching at the fabric, body shaking as months’ worth of pain and anger pour out of you. he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting firm against your waist. “i’m sorry,” he breathes.

you suck in a sharp breath, realization slamming into you. and just like that, the warmth turns suffocating. “no,” you whisper, pushing against his chest. he stiffens. “what—” “get off me.” he hesitates, grip loosening slightly, but you shove harder, forcing space between you. “fuck, subong, what the hell am i doing?” he looks at you, confused, almost dazed, like he doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly pulling away. “baby—” “don’t call me that,” you cut him off. “i can’t—i can’t do this with you.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t mean that. you know you don’t.” “i do! because you fucking broke me!” you yell, hands trembling. “and i hate that you still make me feel like this!” you pause, trying to catch your breath, wiping at your face furiously. you hate the way the tears cling to your skin. you hate even more that he’s standing there, watching you cry. you force yourself to steady your voice. “i’m leaving.” “no, you’re not.” he’s there—blocking the door. you let out a frustrated breath, shoving at him again, but he doesn’t move an inch. “subong, move.” nothing. he doesn’t even blink. “is he your boyfriend?” the question throws you off balance. your brows furrow, and for a moment, the anger is eclipsed by confusion. “what?” “that guy. is he your boyfriend?” you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you glare at him. “jesus christ, subong, really?” “is he?” “it’s none of your business,” the words are clipped, laced with venom. his eyes darken. “none of my—?” he drags a hand through his hair, like he’s barely keeping himself together. for a second, it looks like he might actually lose it. “seriously? you can’t even say no?” “why does it matter?!” you snap. “it fucking matters to me!” your heart pounds. you don’t know why it’s so hard to answer, why the words feel like they’re lodged in your throat. his patience wears thin. “fucking hell, just—” “no!” you cut him off. “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?!” you shake your head. “did you fuck him?” “are you serious right now?” “answer the fucking question,” he demands, stepping closer. you scoff, shaking your head. “you’re actually insane.” “fucking answer!” “yes!” the word rips out of you before you can stop it. “yeah, i did. happy now?”

for a moment, he doesn’t react. he just stares at you, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. but nothing can stop the thought from sinking its claws into him—someone else touching you, having you, getting what he let slip through his fingers. it makes him sick. and it’s his own damn fault. he knows he has no right to be angry. no right to feel this way. but the jealousy curdles in his stomach, and before he can stop himself, the words tear from his mouth like a whip. “you’re a fucking whore.” the second he says it, he hates himself for it. but he doesn’t take it back. your fury is instant, white-hot.“fuck you! don’t call me that!” “i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want!” he snaps. he needs to hurt you, to make you feel even a fraction of what he’s feeling. “you really don’t see how fucking pathetic that is? spreading your legs for some guy who doesn’t even matter?” the words taste like acid in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway. he doesn’t know how else to deal with the anger, the self-hatred he feels. it’s easier to take it out on you than to admit the truth—that he ruined everything, that he’s the reason you were with someone else.

your vision goes red. before you can think, before you can stop yourself, your hand swings up and smacks across his face. his head jerks to the side from the impact, and for a moment, everything is dead silent except for the sharp sound of your ragged breathing. then, slowly, he turns back to you, his jaw tightening, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the sting of your palm. “did you just hit me?” his voice is low. oh, he’s angry. “yeah, i fucking did,” you say, your hands trembling. “because you’re a fucking piece of shit!” “you’ve got some fucking nerve!” he seethes, shoving your forehead with two of his fingers, forcing your head back slightly. you slap his hand away, your own anger doubling at the touch. “do that again, and i’ll break your fucking fingers, motherfucker,” you warn. “you just slapped me!” “and you called me a whore twice, subong! i wonder how the fuck i was ever friends with you! you’re a hypocrite!” he steps closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “don’t fucking talk to me like that!” “and i told you many times not to fucking point your finger at me!” you yell, shoving his hand away harder this time. so hard his arm jerks back. “who the fuck do you think you are?! you can’t fucking judge me when you’re the one who—”

his patience snaps. he grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the wall. it hits with a loud crack, rattling from the impact before toppling over. you flinch, but you don't back down. “real fucking mature.” “you don’t fucking get it.” “why do you even care, huh? you have plenty of other girls to fuck, don’t you?” you spit. “so why the fuck does it matter who i’m with? why is it a problem when you do the exact same shit?” he doesn’t say anything. fine. you’re done here. you reach for the door again, shoving past him. “i’m leaving—” “i lied.” his voice stops you cold. slowly, you turn back, brows furrowing. “what?” he swallows hard. “i lied about it. there was never another girl.” you stare at him in disbelief. “i just—i said that shit to piss you off. to make you hate me. but i never—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i never touched anyone else when i was with you.”

your mind spins, struggling to piece together what he’s saying. he’s lying again. he has to be. “you expect me to believe that?” your voice is defensive. “i don’t give a fuck if you believe me,” he snaps back. “it’s the truth.” your throat tightens. there’s something in his eyes, something desperate, something you’re not used to seeing. “why?” he hesitates. his lips part, then press into a thin line. “because i—” he exhales sharply, looking away for a moment before forcing himself to look at you again. “because i love you. i’ve—” “don’t fucking lie to me, subong.” frustration flashes across his face. “i’m not lying, okay?! i’ve—” “sure as hell you aren’t.” “jesus—can i fucking talk?!” you huff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. but you don’t interrupt again. you let him speak. “i’ve loved you for so fucking long, and it scared the shit out of me. you were my best friend and i didn’t—i didn’t know how to do it. how to be with you without fucking it all up.” you shake your head, gripping your arms tighter. “you can’t just say this shit and think it fixes everything,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you loved me, and you never told me. you preferred this… this shit between us rather than just… being fucking honest. you—” your breath shudders and you stop to breathe for a moment. “you’re confusing me, subong.”

he sighs. you can see it in his eyes—the regret, the pain, the anger at himself. then, he steps closer. his hands find your face, fingers gentle as they cup your cheeks. his thumbs move carefully, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling. his touch is soft—so fucking soft it almost breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in your throat. you shouldn’t let him do this. shouldn’t let him hold you like this, shouldn’t let yourself sink into the warmth of his hands. but you do. because it’s him. “i’m sorry, baby” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face. “fuck, i’m so sorry.” his voice is lower now, and when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you—his brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his hands steady on your face. “i swear to god, i didn’t.” “but you did.” “i know,” he whispers. “i was a fucking idiot.” his thumbs still trace slow paths along your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of you. you try to look away, but he won’t let you. his grip isn’t forceful, but it’s firm—just enough to keep you there. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his brows furrowing deeper, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “no matter what i do—it’s always you.” “don’t—” “it’s the truth,” he cuts in, his hands sliding down to your jaw, his fingers just barely brushing your neck. “i wake up thinking about you. i fall asleep thinking about you. every fucking song i write is about you. every stupid little thing reminds me of you.” you shake your head, blinking back tears. “stop it.” “i can’t,” he breathes. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in slightly, his lips barely an inch from yours. “tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll go.” your heart pounds so hard it hurts. he’s so close… and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s daring you to push him away, makes something snap inside you. before he can say another word, you grab his shirt and yank him down, crashing your lips against his. subong freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he groans into your mouth, his hands gripping at your waist as he kisses you back just as hard. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s backing you up, walking you straight into the wall. the impact makes a sharp gasp escape you, but he swallows it down, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth moves against yours.

then it happens—your breath catches, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. he stops. his lips hover just over yours, his chest rising and falling against you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “are you okay?” you don’t answer. instead, you pull him back in, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. you kiss him harder, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you pour everything you can’t say into this. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to pull your head back before pressing his forehead to yours. “tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. in a broken whisper, you finally say it. “i need you.” he’s been waiting to hear that. for months, it’s been the only thing on his mind—you. every time he got high, every time he tried to flirt with someone else, every time he told himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter. but it was all a lie. because you did. you always did. and now you’re here, in his arms, needing him. and he’s so fucking mad at himself for wasting all this time, for pushing you away, for pretending he didn’t want this when you’ve been the only thing he’s wanted.

that’s all it takes. he’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his mouth crashes against yours. he walks with you, never breaking the kiss, his fingers pressing into your sides, guiding you until your legs bump against the edge of a small table. before you can steady yourself, his hands move to your hips, helping you up until you’re perched on top of it. his lips leave yours, dragging along your jaw and your neck. one hand slides up, fingers curving over your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. the touch alone makes a soft moan slip past your lips. he swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and greedy, before tugging your shirt up, his palms skimming your skin as he pulls it over your head. his other hand moves with purpose, working the clasp of your bra. the second it falls away, his mouth is on you. you gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you. “gonna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, his breath hot on your skin as he switches to your other breast, his teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you squirm. his free hand slides down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease before slipping between your thighs. you spread them instinctively, your breath hitching when his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties. “you’re so wet for me already,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger.

subong takes his time peeling your pants off, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your knees, your ankles. once they’re gone, he hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down at the same agonizing pace, his lips following their path. he tosses them aside without a second thought. then he’s on his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as the cool air hits your skin, making you shiver. “let me show you how sorry i am, yeah?” you nod slowly in response. subong leans in, his breath hot against you, and you bite your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. and then his tongue is on you, licking a long stripe up your center, parting your delicate folds, exploring your wetness. you gasp when it finds your clit, your hands flying to his purple hair as his tongue swirls around it in slow circles. “f-fuck, yeah, right there,” you whimper, and he hums against you in approval.

he focuses all his attention on it, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking it gently into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he applies gentle pressure. you feel one of his fingers slide inside you, then two, curling them upwards and hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. his tongue never leaves your clit, licking and sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers, and you can feel that familiar pressure building in your lower stomach. your hand travels to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek as he works you. moans grow louder, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. “subong—” you try to speak, but the words die in your throat—the pleasure too strong. he smirks, feeling you tightening around his fingers. “that’s it, baby” his voice is muffled against you. “cum for me.” and you do, your back arching, knuckles white from gripping the side of the table, a cry tearing from your throat as you fall apart. his mouth never stops, drawing every last wave of pleasure from you until you’re boneless, panting.

you try to catch your breath as he stands, pulling you into him, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. your fingers tremble slightly as they find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric. he shudders under your touch, muscles tensing before he exhales, letting you lift the shirt over his head. it falls somewhere behind him as your hands roam his chest. this isn’t like before. like the other times you’ve had sex. there’s something different in the way his fingers brush your skin, in the way he watches you like he’s afraid to blink, afraid to miss a second of this. you reach for his waistband, tugging at it, and he lets you, his breathing uneven as he watches your hands work him free. his pants and boxers slip to the floor, and he steps out of them, never once breaking contact.

“do you… do you have a condom?” you ask quietly. he stills, his hands resting on your hips as he looks at you. his brows pull together slightly. “no,” he admits, then asks, “do you?” you shake your head. “no.” “shit,” he exhales, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you can tell he’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. “it’s… it’s okay. we don’t need one,” you add softly. his head snaps back up. “you sure?” he asks, and you nod. “i want to feel you.” your words are the confirmation he needs. he grabs your thighs before pulling you closer to the edge of the table, spreading them apart to find room between them. his raw tip presses against your clit and you take a deep breath when he starts grinding against you, his stiff dick sliding across your wet slit. you both moan at the feeling, but nothing compares to the gasp that escapes both of your lips the moment he slides inside of you.

he’s slow at first, letting you adjust to the feeling, his hands holding you in place as he sinks in deeper, stretching you around him. you try to steady yourself, holding onto the side of the table with one of your hands again. his breath is uneven, and each slow, measured thrust makes you ache for more. but then his pace shifts. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back and thrusts in harder and faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, mixed with your breathless moans and his ragged groans. when you meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed, his lips parted. you can see it all written on his face: how much he’s wanted this, how long he’s been waiting, how badly he’s yearned for you. he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s afraid he won’t last because you feel too fucking good. “fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, his fingers flexing against your hips. “i missed you s-so fucking much…” his words cut off in a groan, his head dropping forward, forehead pressing to yours as he fucks you like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. “i missed this… mmm… missed this pretty pussy of y-yours.” he drives into you harder, like he’s trying to claim you, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else who’s ever touched you—muttering curses under his breath like he’s punishing himself as much as he’s fucking you. your nails scrape down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake, and he groans at the sting, at the way you cling to him. “fuck, baby—” he gasps, voice rough. “was he better than me? tell me,” he demands, his thrusts turning brutal, each one punctuating his words. “did he—did he fuck you like this? mmh? shit… did he make you cum like i-i do?” there’s anger in his voice. not at you—at himself. for waiting too long, for not telling you the truth when he had the chance, for letting someone else have you. you shake your head in response. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. “answer me.” “n-no!” you whimper “he… he didn’t, baby. only you—mmph!—only you make me f-feel this good.”

his grip on your chin tightens for a second before he releases you, his hand sliding down to wrap around your throat instead. not squeezing, just holding—just feeling you. his pace doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets rougher, like your answer wasn’t enough to satisfy the anger. “that’s right,” he grits out, sweat slicking his skin. “he could never…he could never fuck you like this.” his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, making you cry out. you hold onto him, and he loves it—loves feeling you claim him the way he’s claiming you now. and fuck, he needs this, needs to remind himself that you’re here, wrapped around him—that you’re his. “look,” he mutters, commanding. “look how fucking g-good you’re taking me.” your breath hitches as your eyes drop, and fuck—seeing it is different. watching the way his dick disappears inside you, the way your body clenches around him, the way he’s completely buried in you, over and over again… “see that?” he pants. “you were made for me. this was fucking made for me.” his hand moves again, sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles. “shit—subong!” you let out a broken moan. “y-yeah… fuck, yeah, just like that!” a whimper slips from your lips when subong fists your hair, tugging your head back up until your eyes meet his again. “say it,” he practically pleads. “say that you're mine.” “i-i'm yours!" you gasp, your voice shaking, your whole body trembling from the intensity of him. “i'm fucking yours…mmm… always been.” “i’m yours too, baby.”

his thrusts grow frantic and his breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts. all he can hear is the sound of his name falling from your lips in desperate, breathless moans. he swears he’s never heard something as beautiful. you can tell he is close, holding you in place as he leans over you, his forehead pressing against yours. your body tenses, your gummy walls clenching around him, his fingers still pressed on your clit as he pounds into you, making it impossible for you to hold back. your body tenses, and your free hand clings to the back of his neck with desperation as you kiss him, trying to muffle your whimpering. “gonna cum for me, b-baby?” he whispers, pulling away for a moment. “gonna—mmh! gonna cum on my cock?” you can’t even nod. his words are like a spark, and you can’t hold it back anymore. your body snaps, the pleasure flooding you. “subong!” you cry out, legs shaking. he watches you, his name on your lips, and the sight of you completely undone drives him to the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he follows you, quickly pulling out, his release spilling into your lower stomach. his face contorts, a strangled gasp escaping him as he rides out his own climax. he stays there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. “i love you,” you whisper, hands running through his messy hair. “i love you too, señorita,” he smirks, his hand cupping your cheek before leaning in to give you a small peck on the lips. “i missed you.”

subong is a good boyfriend. or at least he tries to be. he still messes up sometimes, still says things without thinking, still gets into fights he shouldn’t, but he’s trying. you see it in the way he waits for you after work, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s been standing there for a while. in the way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even though you never asked him to. you see it in the way he always grabs an extra drink when he stops by the convenience store, handing it to you without a word, like he just knew you’d want one. in the way he texts you did you eat? before he even says hello. in the way he always grumbles about carrying your bag when it looks too heavy, but takes it anyway. in the way he lets you steal his hoodies, rolling his eyes when you show up wearing one but never actually asking for it back. you see it in the way he lets you mess with his hair, even when he pretends to hate it. in the way he looks at you, like he still can’t believe you’re his. in the way he says your name, soft around the edges. in the way he tells you he loves you—not just with words, but in a hundred different ways, every single day.

there’s no confusion anymore. no second-guessing, no wondering where you stand with each other. he wants you, and he’s not afraid to say it. he tells you all the time, in every way he knows how. sometimes it’s casual, like when he looks at you in the middle of a conversation, something soft in his eyes, and says, “you know i love you, right?” like he just needs you to know. and then there are times when he’s shameless about it. like the time he made it his entire mission to embarrass you in front of both of your friends, throwing an arm around your shoulders and grinning as he declared, “isn’t my girlfriend the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen? no offense to you, semi.” there’s a beat of silence before half of them go “what?!” while the others just exchange knowing looks. “wait—dude, since when?!” namgyu asks. “oh, come on,” semi scoffs, rolling her eyes. “like we didn’t all see this coming.” subong just smirks, pulling you a little closer, dropping a kiss to your cheek. he’s here, and he’s yours, and he makes sure you know it.

you’re still best friends. you still laugh until your stomach hurts, still steal food off each other’s plates, still shove at each other like you’re kids. except now he kisses you after. or before. or sometimes instead of shoving you back. he’s still stubborn, still gets on your nerves more than anyone else. he’s not perfect, but he never pretends to be. and maybe that’s what makes it feel so easy. there’s nothing to prove, nothing to question. just the two of you, exactly as you are, exactly as you’ve always been. just you and him.

if you’ve read this far, i love you, let’s get married pookie ong

[monolotus]

°˖✧◝ (𝘾𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨) ◜✧˖°

includes: mentions of a fight, vernon being an apologetic puppy, mention of Hoshi

Your hands are shaking. You’ve been in the bathroom for ten minutes, and you can’t calm down, it doesn’t matter how much you splash water onto your face, or how many breathing exercises you do.

You can’t come out of the bathroom though, you won’t let your boyfriend see you like this.

Couples fight all the time, right? So it shouldn’t shake you so much this one argument you’ve had with Vernon. But you can’t help it, he has raised his voice towards you, chuckling when you would try to defend yourself. It was a dumb argument, too. Little things that had been bothered you two during the week ended up collapsing against each other, even if you had nothing to do with it.

You go past him, towards the kitchten. Is really hard to ignore his gaze on you, scanning every movement as you make your dinner.

Maybe is the sound of the knife against the cut board, but you can’t help look towards your boyfriend as you start chopping the onions.

As you rub your eye, you can only curse realizing you touched the onion with the same hand you have in your eye. Cursing, you try washing your hands, before you can dodge it a new pair of hands take the hand towel you kept close to the sink, dampening it on warm water.

You tried closing your eye, as Vernon kept applying a soft pressure with the towel on the damaged eye.

“I’m sorry” he murmured “I overreacted, i shouldn’t have raised my voice”

Feeling tears welling up to your eyes, you whispered it was the onion’s fault. Seeing his shy smile you took the towel between your hands, still acting annoyed. Turning back to your food, you kept chopping the veggies, feeling Vernon’s chin finding its place on top of your shoulder.

“We’re both adults, i should’ve talked things out earlier, and i shouldn’t be so… peevish towards you just because i got stressed out from practice.” With each apology, he would place sweet, short kisses on whatever exposed skin he could reach: behind your ear, on your shoulder, your neck.

“Mh, I will tell Hoshi. He should kick your ass tomorrow” you weren’t going to accept so quickly, no way.

“You’re so right. Let me grab my phone so you can send him a voice note explaining why i should do a hundred runs of the coreo tomorrow” Being always the first to apologize, Vernon knows exactly where and how to kiss you for you to melt, at least a little, between his arms.

With a sigh, you turn around. Being kept between the countertop and his body. Taking his face in your hands, you make sure he is looking at you.

“This will be the first and last time you don’t talk things out, get it?” Nodding energetically, the only expression on your boyfriend’s face is pure need: of kisses, forgiveness and maybe a nice dinner. Who knows.

[daddysl1ttl3toy3]

Daddy’s play time Part 1: Daddy told me I could play on the Xbox while he went to the shows but I might have to come off when he’s home. But when he got home he sat right behind me on the sofa and watched me play asking questions about what I was doing. Daddy said that I could play more often because I was so good but that I could only play if he was there to help me if I got stuck… well I did get stuck and turned around to see if daddy could help me and when I did I saw that he was wearing the same as me just a top and underwear. “It’s so hot today isn’t daddy” I giggled while asking for his help. “It sure is baby girl” daddy replied as he removed his hand from his boxers and grabbed the controller from me to help me on the bit I was stuck on. As he handed back the controller he said “you’re sitting too close to that screen baby you need to move back a bit.” I shuffled back a little “no baby right back here” daddy said as he grabbed my waist and pulled me back lining my Princess parts up with his but leaving a small gap so he could still see everything. The way he pulled me caused the fabric in my panties to bunch in my mound and show off every fold and bump perfectly. I giggled and said “okay daddy” as I continued to play daddy continued to play too although I didn’t know what he was doing as I wiggled and squired around trying to beat each lever and quest in the game it didn’t take long before daddy said “if you’re getting too hot you can always take some clothes off” I didn’t know but the heating was on full blast and the sun was breaking down on the big bay window “thank you daddy it is too hot” I took off my top but left my panties on exposing my delicate skin and bare perky little tits. Daddy took his top off too and continued to play with himself. About an hour passed and now sweat was starting to bead all over my body. Daddy said carefully, “baby girl I’m sorry but daddy needs to take his boxers off it’s too hot is that okay?” I nodded not really listening and then heard him say “do you need me to taken your panties off you too?” I nodded still focusing on my game as daddy peaked my panties off and began using them to jerk his hard cock admiring my pussy in detail close up for the first time. My legs slowly started to spread wider as I played exposing my glistening little pussy and tight little ass hole to daddy beautifully as daddy continued to jerk his hard cock into my damp panties in became too much as he wrapped the panties around the tip of his cock he exploded into them shooting his load filling and staining them with his juices. After that he grabbed the other controller and started playing the game with me for a little bit his hands resting on my ass then as he started to get hard again from the sight off my legs spread so wide, pussy exposed and glistening with sweat and my juices he got an idea. He leaned back but kept his hands fully outstretched and rested one side of the controller hand grip on my clit the vibrations from the games controller shot through me making a moan rip from my lips as my pussy visibly clenched and juices began flowing out from my tight little hole. Daddy kept the controller there for 30 minutes until I was just a moaning squirming messy little pile in front of him. “Right baby girl daddy wants the play a little game with you and if you do really really well then maybe I’ll take you shopping tomorrow and you can buy anything you want. Here’s the rules. Daddy is going to try and distract you but you have to focus on your game you have to keep playing no matter what. Do you think you can do that?” I giggle and nod excitedly “anything daddy?” I question. Daddy is quick to reply “yes baby I’ll buy you anything but daddy has one hour to distract you so much you drop your controller or you stop playing for a full minute.” I nod and continue playing as daddy starts his fun.

[missdynamighttt]

Situationship with Bakugo 😵‍💫

a situationship with katsuki bakugo would be chaotic, intense, and incredibly frustrating.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who's not the type to do things halfway, so the fact that he won’t fully commit (or admit his feelings) means he’s fighting himself the entire time.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who takes care of you in little ways—grabbing your favorite snacks when he’s out, making sure you get home safe, memorizing all your food orders from various places—but if you call him out on it, he’ll scoff and say, “tch. don’t think too much about it. it was just on the way.”

KATSUKI BAKUGO, where he’s got no problem pulling you into his lap, throwing an arm around you, or grabbing your wrist to keep you from walking away during an argument, only for you to cuddle right back into his arms again. "you always come back anyway. might as well stay where you belong."

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who will go out of his way to coincidentally be where you are, but if you ask, he’ll act like you’re the clingy one. "the hell are you lookin’ at me like that for? it’s a free fuckin’ country—you act like i’m followin’ you or somethin’. maybe you’re the one who can’t stay away."

KATSUKI BAKUGO, the man who kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane but refuses to call it love. the man who pulls you into his arms after a rough day but won’t say he needs you. the man who gets pissed when other guys flirt with you, yet still won’t claim you as his. he knows they’ll never measure up to him.

but then, one day, you get tired of it. tired of the mixed signals, tired of feeling like you’re caught in something he refuses to name.

so you pull away. stop answering his late-night texts. stop letting him hold you like you’re his when he won’t even say the words. stop caring because what’s the point when he won’t admit he cares just as much?

at first, he acts like he doesn’t notice. like it doesn’t bother him. but it does.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who sees you laughing with someone else and his jaw tightens so hard it aches. he catches himself reaching for you before stopping short, fingers twitching like they’re fighting the habit of pulling you close. he sees you stop waiting for him and realizes, too late, that he never thought you would stop.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who stands at your doorway, all heat and tension, eyes burning like a wildfire ready to consume you whole. he doesn’t say a word at first, just grabs your wrist—gently, but firm enough that you can feel his frustration thrumming beneath his skin.

“you’re ignoring me,” he accuses, voice low and dangerous.

you lift an eyebrow. “i thought you didn’t care.”

his grip tightens just slightly before he lets go, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

he hates this. hates feeling out of control, hates that you make him feel anything at all.

but he’s done lying to himself.

“you think i don’t care? you think i don’t—” he cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose.

you scoff, crossing your arms. "you sure as hell act like it. or is this just another one of your games?"

his jaw clenches. "it was never a damn game, sweets."

"then what was it, katsuki?" you throw your hands up. "because it sure as hell wasn't a relationship."

"you think i don’t—" he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, pacing like he's physically fighting with himself. then he turns back to you. "damn it, i was trying!"

"trying what?" you challenge. "to string me along until you got bored? to keep me so that no one else could have me?"

"no! i was trying to—fuck—i was trying to figure it out! trying to—" he stops himself again, exhales hard through his nose, then looks at you, really looks at you. "trying to not fuck this up."

the words hang between you, heavy, aching.

your voice is softer now, but no less sharp. "and yet, you still did."

for a moment, he just stares at you. and then, before you can turn away, before you can push him out of your life completely, he closes the distance.

"no," he growls. "i'm not letting you walk away from me again."

you shake your head. "you already let me go."

"the hell i did!" his hands grip your arms, not to restrain but to hold on. "you think i don’t want you? that i don’t—"

he stops, sucks in a breath, and then—

he cups your face and kisses you. not like before. not out of desperation, not just because it’s easy. not like the heated, desperate, i need to feel something kisses he’s stolen in the past. this one is different.

raw, messy, everything he’s been too damn stubborn to say.

this one is real.

and when he pulls back, breathless, eyes blazing, he mutters, "you wanna know what this is? it’s me, fucking telling you, that i’m all in on this. now tell me you don’t want me, and i’ll walk."

you swallow, your own breath uneven. but you can’t say it. because you do. you always have.

and he knows it.

you stare at him, chest heaving, your lips still tingling from the force of his kiss. your mind is screaming at you to push him away, to remind him that he had months to figure this out, to tell him that it’s too late.

but your heart? your heart is beating so damn loud it drowns out the logic.

katsuki sees the hesitation, the war behind your eyes. he doesn’t rush you. for once, he doesn’t bulldoze his way through with brute force.

"you’re such a fucking asshole," you mutter, shoving at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

he exhales, a short, almost bitter laugh. “i know.”

you lick your lips, looking anywhere but at him. “you put me through hell, katsuki.”

“i know that too,” his voice is rough, but there’s no anger anymore. just quiet, painful honesty. he huffs, rubs a hand down his face before dropping it. “i was scared, sweets.”

you blink. katsuki bakugo, scared?

he sees the doubt flash across your face and scowls. “don’t. don’t look at me like that. like i don’t get to be scared of this—of you.”

your breath catches, and suddenly, the anger flares up again. “me? you were scared of me?”

“yeah,” he scoffs, eyes flicking between yours. "i ain't good at this shit, alright? but don't ever think for a second that i didn't want you."

your jaw tightens. "then why the hell did it take losing me for you to say it?"

something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. frustration. the words sound like they hurt to admit. "because i was a goddamn coward. because i didn't know how to have you without screwing it all up."

you stare at him, searching his face, waiting for the catch—for him to backtrack, for him to make another excuse. but he doesn’t.

instead, his grip on you softens, hands sliding down to your wrists, fingers brushing over your pulse. he watches you carefully, fingers grazing your wrist.

"tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll let you go. but if you do…” he leans in just slightly, gaze flickering to your lips. “then stop fighting me and let me be yours.”

and damn it—damn him—because you do. you always have.

your breath is unsteady, your chest tight as you stare at him. he looks like he’s ready for a fight, ready to prove himself, but you’re not making this easy for him.

he doesn’t deserve easy.

you step back, but he follows, unwilling to let space grow between you again. "if you really mean it, you’re gonna have to work for it."

his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. then, he huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "fine. i will."

"you don’t even know what that means."

"doesn’t matter," his eyes burn with determination. "i’ll figure it out."

you study him, searching for hesitation, doubt—any sign that he’ll walk away the moment things get tough. but all you see is conviction, a stubborn resolve that’s so him it almost makes your chest ache.

still, you’re not going to let him think this is some quick fix.

"no more mixed signals," your voice is firm. "no more acting like i don’t matter just because you're scared of your own feelings."

his jaw clenches, but he nods. "yeah."

"and no more kissing me like i’m yours and then pretending it doesn’t mean anything."

his eyes darken slightly. "that one was never pretend."

you don’t give in just yet. you let the silence stretch, let him sit in it, let him feel the weight of what he’s asking for.

then, finally, you nod. "alright. then we’ll see."

from the moment you demanded he work for your trust, he treats it like the most important damn mission of his life.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who starts showing up—not just in the ways he used to, sneaking into your life with little gestures he refused to acknowledge. no, this time, he makes it clear.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who texts you good morning. goodnight. little things throughout the day that show you he’s thinking about you. did you eat? i know you don’t like the coffee at work, so i left one for you on your desk, call me if you need a ride.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, where at work, he swings by your office under the pretense of “checking in,” but you catch the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap against your desk like he’s resisting the urge to touch you.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, when he knows you’re out with friends, he doesn’t pull the usual possessive coincidentally running into you routine. he lets you have your space but makes sure you get home safe. text me when you’re back.

but the real proof is in the way he listens. the way he remembers.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who recalls things you mentioned offhandedly weeks ago—your favorite dessert from that bakery downtown, the dumb movie you wanted to watch but never got around to. one night, you mention offhandedly that you’ve been stressed, and the next day, he drags you out of your apartment. "c’mon. you need a break."

you expect something explosive, something him—but instead, he takes you to a quiet spot, lets you rant, doesn’t rush you. just listens.

and when you look at him, skeptical, waiting for him to make some kind of sarcastic remark, he just shrugs. "told you i was serious."

he never demands anything from you. never pushes you for an answer.

but one night, after another long day, after another moment where he reminds you, without words, just how much he’s changed—how much he’s trying—you finally give in.

you reach for his hand.

it’s tentative, just a light brush of your fingers against his. he looks down, then back up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

you squeeze lightly, voice quiet. "okay."

he blinks. "okay?"

you take a breath. "i believe you."

and for the first time in a long time, he smiles. really smiles.

then, with all the patience he’s learned just for you, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

"’bout fuckin' time."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ hi!! a little something to publish bc i feel i havent been posting much like i've been before? js burnout from school and shit, also indulging my free time😭 hope you guys enjoy💜💜

[amywritesthings]

care. / a levi period comfort fic

pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader word count: 1.4k summary: You have to skip your gym date with Levi due to bad period cramps. Levi, however, isn't going to let you suffer alone.

note: set in the press four for more options / dating on airplane mode universe tags: modern au, neighbors au, menstruation, cramp pain, period talk, doting new boyfriend levi, fluff, adult language, reader has a chronic pms pain

author note: today is my birthday!! my gift to you is this little P4/DOAP one shot. this is a little self indulgent, so i hope this helps anyone else that experiences bad pains like me! i will be writing one shots all month for my endo awareness event, so feel free to send requests if you would like to see more! credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

( Read on AO3. )

You know as soon as you wake up what kind of day it’s going to be.

As you stir from slumber, you’re met with the familiar, unforgiving punch to the gut before you take your first deep inhale. The sharp jab is a tell-tale sign that you should have probably hit the pharmacy when you had the time during your lunch break — yesterday.

You know, before things got awful.

“God damn it.”

Periods have always been a sore spot to discuss in your life. The immense pain that follows the next agonizing few days is not a new occurrence, but knowing them intimately never makes them any better. No matter how many times you’ve prepared, weathered, endured — it’s a gamble whether or not you have the energy to eat today, much less do anything productive.

Dragging your phone off of the adjacent nightstand, your heart sinks when you see your most recent notifications:

Alarm set for 7:30 a.m. (Dismiss?)

Remember to pay credit card bill. (Eventually.)

New text from Levi Ackerman.

Shit.

Opening the third notification first, you read his text from five minutes ago.

[LEVI:] Hey. Still going to the gym this morning?

Self hatred floods your system when you realize there’s no way in hell you’re going to be going to the gym today, much less leaving this apartment. It’ll be a miracle if you can drag yourself to the bathroom.

Missing out on seeing Levi today hurts more than you’re willing to admit.

Tapping the reply bubble, you type in response:

[ME:] Sorry, not feeling well. :( Rain check?

It’s weird to confess why, right?

Everything is way too fresh, much too new, between the two of you.

You can’t burden your newest partner with the—

Another notification pops up immediately.

[LEVI:] What’s wrong?

Double shit.

Sighing to yourself, you type back, hesitate, then send.

[ME:] Don’t worry about it, it’s pretty embarrassing. I probably won’t be able to leave the apartment today. I’m rooting you on from down here!

Or up here, technically, if he’s going to be at the gym.

(Dumbass.)

You drop your phone to your mattress, slowly easing yourself out of bed. You check the sheets behind you to make sure you didn’t ruin them — thank god, there’s a singular win for this morning — before waddling to the bathroom.

Grabbing a new pair of underwear and a pad, you sit on the toilet with your head in your hands, taking some time to breathe through the initial cramps.

A few days.

Just a few days and you can—

It’s faint, but you hear it.

Three raps at your front door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Perking your head up, your brows furrow as you finish up, tug your pajama bottoms back on, and wash your hands. Crossing the living room to the front door, you use the peephole to see who’s waiting outside.

For the briefest moment, you forget your cramps altogether.

“Levi?!” you yelp, shocked by his presence.

“Hey,” he states, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing his typical white workout tank, displaying his lean arms in the fisheye lens of your doorframe. “You okay in there?”

“I— yeah, I’m okay!” you lie, higher pitched than usual. “Sorry, I can’t let you in.”

You note how his chin tilts, contemplating your brevity. 

“You come down with some shitty cold or whatever?”

“No, it’s—”

“Stomach bug?”

“No, not at all, it’s just—”

“I can wear a mask if you got something catchable.” He shifts, thumbing back to the hallway behind him like he knows you’re watching. “I have a bunch at my place.”

“Levi, no,” you blurt, getting frustrated. “I have my period!”

The dark-haired man stops.

His brows furrow, contemplating with evident confusion on his face.

“...I’m confused, a period of what? Fucking dysentary or something?” When you’re about to argue, he pointedly glances at the peephole. “Can you at least open the door for a sec?”

Reluctantly you agree to his request, unlocking the door and swinging it open. You feel immense shame standing in front of your new boyfriend looking messy and make-up free.

There hasn’t even been time to at least put on some moisturizer, damn it.

When he finally sees you at your worst (or so you perceive to be your worst) he doesn’t even bat an eye.

The stormy grays just stare into your own, brows rising expectantly.

“What do you need?”

You lean against your doorframe, trying to breathe through another wave of cramps. “What?”

With a tsk, he steps a baited sneaker into the threshold of your apartment. When you don’t push him out, he fully enters your apartment and beelines to your kitchen.

(Right. Same layout, just a couple of floors higher.)

“Get comfy on the couch,” he states like he’s a coach again, devoid of nonsense. “You have any tea lying around?”

“I don’t understand,” you state, only then closing the door to your apartment. “You were about to go to the gym—”

“Yeah, and now I’m not.”

“Levi.”

“Couch,” he counters, plucking the kettle you had sitting dormant on your stovetop to fill it with water. “Or your bed, if that makes you more comfortable.”

You can’t really argue with that, not when your cramps are making you dizzy.

Hell, his insistence on helping is making you even dizzier but in an entirely different way.

When you dated Porco, he never extended help beyond some comforting words and a stray pint of ice cream. Levi looks natural rummaging around your kitchen as if he’s been spending time here for months.

“You really don’t have to babysit me,” you try to reason, though you find yourself slowly shambling towards your couch anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, well, my mother used to have a lot of really bad months when I was growing up.” Levi starts the stove, heating up the water. His eyes briefly flicker to you. “My friend, Hange, doesn’t exactly have a walk in the park with this shit, either. They left an arsenal of supplies at my place whenever they come around. Can’t imagine they’ll care if I borrow some of it.”

So Levi has period supplies at his apartment for friends and family?

That…

You’ve never heard of any man who has something like that.

“Supplies like what?”

“Admittedly it’s a bunch of stuff we used to offer people at our gym in case they were having a rough week,” he explains as if this is nothing while he watches the kettle grow hot. 

Then again, periods are supposed to be nothing.

They’re natural and half of the planet go through them monthly, and yet —

“Heating pads, two different sizes. Mint and ginger tea are soothing for cramping. I’ve got a decently fresh stock of those leaves. Not sure if you’re out of sanitary products, but I got some of those in a cabinet, too.”

You stare dumbfounded, your heart skipping a beat.

(As if this man couldn’t be any more attractive.)

When you don’t respond, he turns around to look at you. His eyes soften as they search your face.

“I’d ask how your pain is right now, but I take it it’s high?” You nod. “Alright. Mind if I keep the door unlocked? I’ll run upstairs and grab everything.”

“You don’t have—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, but it isn’t firm like before.

Levi walks across the room towards you. As he bends at the hip, his dog tags slip out of his tank top.

Gentle lips press to the crown of your head.

“Let me take care of you, alright? You’re my girl. That’s my responsibility, especially when you’re feeling like shit. I can do push-ups anywhere. Gym’s not a necessity.”

Melting at his reassurance, you can’t help but tease. 

“So I get pampering and a show? Talk about high-class service.”

The lips on your head curve to a smirk before pulling away, his eyes meeting yours. His hand raises to cup the side of your face adoringly. An absentminded thumb strokes your cheek.

“Yeah, well, you know me. High fucking class or whatever.”

When you laugh, the corner of his mouth twitches again. He lifts your chin and leans forward, kissing your lips. You return the gesture, warmth spreading throughout your body.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he whispers against your lips.

“It only takes you five minutes to run up six flights of stairs and back?”

“You can time me if you think I’m lying.”

“Deal.”

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗛𝗔𝗛𝗔 𝗣𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗞𝗘𝗗!! lando norris x  fem! girlfriend! reader (fluff) fic summary . . . because why wouldn't you prank your boyfriend?

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

You stretch, a lazy smile on your face as you glance over at Lando. He’s still lying in bed, propped up on his elbows, catching his breath, but his eyes are glued to you with the most intense, bewildered look on his face.

You had just finished a vigorous round of sex, and now . . . well, now it was time for a little fun.

You slowly swing your legs over the side of the bed, making sure to deliberately ignore Lando’s wide, panicked eyes. You grab a random shirt from the floor, straighten it, fold it, and toss it into the laundry basket, all the while acting like absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

You walk across the room, tidying up, folding the blanket on the chair, and fluffing up a pillow like it's just a regular day.

Lando’s staring at you in absolute horror, mouth hanging open. He shifts on the bed, his entire posture stiffening like he’s trying to figure out what kind of alternate universe this is.

Finally, after a few agonizing minutes, he speaks. His voice is tight, unsure. “Yn . . . ?”

You turn casually, still not looking at him. “Yeah?”

“Are . . . Are you, uh . . . Are you just gonna . . . clean up? Like nothing happened?”

You finally turn to look at him, and that’s when you see the panic and anxiety in his eyes—the dread written across his face. His hands, which were nervously playing with the sheets, suddenly drop to his lap.

Wait . . .

You suddenly feel a little guilty.

He looks like someone who’s just been told the world’s ending. There’s no denying it: the man’s face is full of genuine concern.

Lando hesitates, his voice barely a whisper. “Yn, was it . . . bad? Am I that bad that . . . you’re just gonna go, you know, clean up instead of . . . cuddle? Or, you know, do some aftercare?”

Your stomach does a little flip, your heart softening at the sight of him, still lying there like he’s been rejected in the worst way possible. You realize exactly how horrible your little prank might have seemed to him.

You walk back to the bed, your face suddenly more serious, and crawl onto the mattress, straddling him. Lando’s eyes are still wide, like he’s waiting for you to tell him the worst news of his life.

“Babe,” you say softly, cupping his face in your hands. “You know I love you, right?”

He nods quickly, still looking terrified. “Y-Yeah, but you just . . . You looked so casual, and I thought I…” He trails off, clearly too embarrassed to finish his sentence.

“Lando,” you say gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was just pranking you.”

His eyes widen, clearly confused. “A prank?”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Yeah, a prank. I wanted to see if you’d freak out because you thought I was too busy to cuddle.”

For a moment, Lando doesn’t say anything. Then, after a beat, he groans and flops back against the pillow, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, clearly both relieved and embarrassed at once.

You smile, running your fingers through his hair. “But you love me.”

Lando sighs dramatically. “I don’t know. After that stunt? Maybe I should rethink that.”

“Oh please, you know you’re obsessed with me,” you tease, pressing your body closer to his.

He lifts his hand to look at you, raising an eyebrow. “I’m obsessed with cuddles and aftercare, actually.”

You chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Well, then let’s get to that.”

Lando grins mischievously. “I was thinking more of revenge.” He smirked, flipping you over and hooking your knee above his shoulder.

[reminiscingtonight]

Guilty

Lia Wälti x Russo!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Tis the season for sequels. Featuring a lot of Kyra and Alessia and not so much of Lia

[The Thing About Families Masterlist]

You should have known better than to trust her. 

There’s a reason Steph’s always more than happy to drop Kyra off on your doorstep whenever camp’s over.

There’s a reason Mini looks like she’s gained five years every time the younger girl has been granted privileges to “babysit” her two kids. 

You have a million reasons to not trust her yet you did. 

Why did you trust Kyra with the ring?

Your knuckles are nearly white as you drag the young girl into a nearby unoccupied conference room. Kyra’s looking apologetically guilty, but a delirious haze is starting to take over you. It’s a mixture of horror and disbelief, but at the bottom of it all, you feel beyond stupid.

“What do you mean you lost it?!”

Kyra looks like she’s moments away from crying, but you can’t find it in yourself to be compassionate. You can console her later. Right now you need to get to the bottom of this and try to salvage your relationship with your girlfriend first. 

“I swear it was stashed at the bottom of my drawer but it just wasn’t there when I looked this morning.”

“Well where did you put it?”

“I never moved it! Someone must have taken it.”

You pinch your eyes shut, praying to whatever soccer gods that are above that this was just a cruel joke. This wasn’t really happening and you weren’t about to postpone all the plans you’ve spent months working on. “Kyra, I am begging you not to do this. What am I supposed to do? The dinner’s been booked! The restaurant knows I’m proposing!”

“We can get you a new one! I’ll front it, I swear.”

Forget Kyra crying, you’re going to cry. 

“Unless you’re willing to shell out five grand in the next few hours, I don’t think ‘buying me a new’ one will work.”

The young Australian’s eyes bulge out at the sound of how much you spent on Lia’s ring. 

It’s not a well kept secret that you were going to propose. You and Lia have been together for years now, married in every way except for the official one. Wedding plans have already been discussed, from venues to food to the invitation list. The last thing you actually had to do was the actual proposing and getting married parts.

Though with the ways things are going, you’re not sure you’re going to get married anytime soon. 

There’s a knock on the door but you ignore it, pacing back and forth as your mind races. There’s not really much you can do at this point. The place you got Lia’s ring custom made at is already closed at this time of day, and your girlfriend deserves something better than a last minute generic engagement ring. 

A flash of blonde enters your peripheral just as you make your decision.

“Okay. I think I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh I’ve been looking for you guys--”

“Now’s not a good time, Less,” you wave your sister off, not even bothering to pay her any attention. “Okay Kyra, listen closely because I won’t repeat myself.”

The younger girl nods, determination painted all over her features. 

“I’ll cancel the reservations. That’ll buy me a couple days.”

“Guys--”

“Less. Not a good time,” You repeat, shuffling to turn your back to her to ensure Alessia can’t interrupt again. “The jeweler still has the plans I sent him. I can probably get Gio and Luca to lend me some money, but you have to find where you stashed that ring, Kyra. It wasn’t cheap.”

“About the ring--”

“Not now Alessia!” This time your and Kyra’s voices blend together, neither of you willing to give Alessia a minute of your days. 

She lets out an offended huff and you have half a mind to just strangle her right here and now, your mother’s feelings be damned. 

Gritting your teeth you turn around, not really happy to have to find out what your sister wants. She has free reign to bother you at any minute of any day but why was she so insistent on doing so right now? “What could possibly be so important, you impatient piece of--”

You cut off suddenly, eyes doubling in size when you look down at her hands. 

There’s a velvet box clutched between her perfectly manicured nails, the tiny thing sitting there like it’s mocking you for losing your temper earlier. 

“That’s my--”

“The ring! But-- but--”

“Where’d you find it?”

“Oh god, Lessi I could kiss you, you just saved my ass--” Kyra breaks off, something clicking in her brain. “Wait, where did you find it?”

There’s a slight pause as you wait for Alessia’s answer. 

“Err… so funny story.” She blows out a breath of air, trying her best to look nonchalant. “I might have been-- actually Kyra hid…” Alessia fidgets, not liking the crease that was growing deeper and deeper between your brows. “IwantedtoprankKyraaftersheprankedmesoItooktheringthelasttimeIvisited.”

She slams her mouth shut the second the words are uttered, but no one says a word. 

An uncomfortable tension settles into the room and Alessia does her best not to wilt to the ground. 

You stare at her.

Kyra stares at her.

Alessia stares at a spot past your faces, nervously shuffling under the weight of your gazes.

There’s no mistaking icy stare or the clenched jaw that proved you caught every word of her fastball confession. 

“You… What?” There’s an edge to your voice, a tone Alessia rarely was at the end of growing up, but one that she recognizes all the same. The order there is clear, but Alessia’s not so sure she wants to repeat herself out of self preservation.

She shrinks, suddenly wishing she wasn’t so tall. “Um. Well. So Kyra hid my earrings the other day, and I, uh, I thought hiding this would be a funny way to prank her back?” Alessia cringes, not liking the way this all sounds now that she’s saying it out loud. “But judging by the looks on your faces, I’m going to say otherwise.”

Your nose flares but that’s the only response she’s given. 

Kyra looks grumpy, probably the result of taking your misplaced anger from earlier. 

You hold out your hand.

No words are exchanged but Alessia is quick to drop the box into your hand. 

Just as quick as she darts forward to do so, she jumps back, shoving her now empty hands into her pockets. 

“See, no hurt no foul, right?”

Crickets. 

That’s all Alessia hears as she nervously chuckles. 

Neither you nor Kyra have moved, faces giving nothing away. 

At least not until you call the Australian’s name calmly, eyes never leaving your sister’s.

Alessia watches as the two of you slowly peel away from each other. Her eyes keep darting between the two of you, feeling more and more like prey that’s being stalked as the seconds tick by. “Guys, c’mon–”

“Remember how I told you to play nice with my only sister?”

Kyra’s frowning. It’s probably supposed to come off frightening but she looks too much like a kicked dog for it to really do too much.

But the look on your face… yeah, that was intimidating enough for the two of you.

“Forget everything I’ve ever said. I don’t have a sister.”

Alessia gulps.

“Get her.”

She bolts.

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (16 - A Heart to Break)

Chapter Summary: This was cold, deliberate. Wanda wasn’t avoiding you, not exactly. She was around, always there at team meetings, in training sessions, and the common areas. But she never acknowledged you. When she did look at you—on those rare occasions—it wasn’t to meet your eyes. It was to look through you, as if you weren’t even there.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags: Angst

A/N: I'd like thank all of you again for following this series. Getting asks or feedback for this story is always the highlight of my week, especially how busy I am with school. Hope you like more angst :) P.S. @justagaynerdsblog it's not what you think. It's not THAT kind of triangle, it's just two idiots in love and being stupid // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wanda started dating Vision right away.

Much to your chagrin.

Not that you had any right to feel that way. You’d practically shoved her toward him, hadn’t you? Painting Vision as the perfect choice, the logical choice, the safe choice. You could almost laugh at how quickly they’d made it official. 

Well, almost.

Every time you saw them together, that laugh stuck somewhere in your throat. The compound wasn’t exactly big enough to avoid them. You saw them everywhere—Vision holding open a door for her, Wanda tilting her head back to laugh at something he said. It was all perfectly polite—just like you’d told her it would be. 

You told yourself it was fine. You had no right to feel jealous, no right to feel the knife that twisted in your chest every time Wanda smiled at him the way you wanted her to smile at you—how she used to smile at you.

Still, it grated.

You didn’t realize how much until the team dinner that Friday.

The dining room was rampageous, everyone laughing and talking over each other in a way that only happened when Tony was footing the bill and the drinks were flowing freely. Wanda sat next to Vision, their chairs too close, their hands brushing often enough to make your jaw clench every five minutes.

You’d taken a seat at the far end of the table, two spots down from Sam, who was loudly recounting some mission story that had Natasha rolling her eyes. You weren’t really listening. Your attention kept drifting to the other end of the table, where Wanda was leaning in to whisper something to Vision, her lips curving into a soft smile at his response.

You looked down at your plate, stabbing a piece of grilled chicken a little harder than necessary.

“Having fun there?”

You glanced up, startled, to find Sam smirking at you, his arms crossed like he’d been watching for a while.

“What?” you asked, your brain still catching up.

“You’re murdering your dinner,” he nodded toward your plate, “What’d that chicken ever do to you?”

You looked down and realized your fork was practically embedded in what used to be a respectable dinner. Now, it was just a mushy lump, draining what was left of your appetite. You loosened your grip and mumbled, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Sam said with a wink, his grin widening before he went back to the group discussion.

At the other end of the table, Vision said something that made Wanda laugh. It wasn’t one of those fake ones (you could honestly tell) she gave when she felt like she had to. Against your better judgment, you risked a glance. Wanda’s eyes were bright, her head tipped slightly toward him, looking positively smitten. Vision said something else, and she laughed again, this time quieter, her hand brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“God, this is pathetic,” you muttered to yourself, barely audible.

“What’s pathetic?”

Natasha this time. For someone trying to keep their head down, you were doing a terrible job. 

“Nothing,” you mumbled quickly, hoping she'd let it go. 

Of course, she didn’t. “You’re sulking like a teenager, and it’s making everyone uncomfortable. Come on,” she said.

Before you could make your defense she was already on her feet, nodding for you to follow. You hesitated for a fraction, then pushed your chair back, grateful for the excuse to leave. You could feel Wanda’s gaze on you as you stepped away from the table, Natasha leading the way out.

By the time you reached the balcony, you were ready to empty the meager contents of your stomach. You hadn’t been eating well lately, and it was starting to take a toll on your training regimen. You’ve been skipping workouts more often this week, and Natasha had been noticing that too.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asked, though there’s no pressure in her tone of voice.

“Nope,” you replied, short and to the point.

Natasha shrugged, unbothered. “Suit yourself.” 

She shifted to one side of the balcony, pulling a cigarette from her back pocket and lighting it with the kind of flair that made you wonder if she smoked to think or just to piss people off.  She inhaled deeply, held it, exhaled away from you in a long, steady stream. 

You leaned against the railing, your fingers curling around the cold metal, trying to focus on the night sky rather than the conversation you knew was coming. Natasha never forced anything, but she didn’t let things go either. Not when she thought there was something worth digging into.

“This… push and pull with Wanda. It’s exhausting to watch, honestly,” she started.

You scoffed, almost exaggerating it. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“You were friends, real friends, and now you can’t even be in the same room without turning into this.”

“Into what?” you asked.

“Like a zombie, Y/N. And Wanda—or maybe Vision—is the brain you want to eat. You’re not yourself. What happened?”

“That’s ridiculous.” You bristled, looking away. “Nothing happened, okay?”

“Right. Because ‘nothing’ turns people into brooding messes who barely eat, barely train,” she countered.

You kept quiet. Natasha had no business knowing about this. If your face gave you away this evening, you were just going to have to fake it until you make it.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” Natasha said, not even bothering to disguise the accusation. “Between you two. Because this? This isn’t just awkward. It’s worse. My guess? You broke your own damn heart.”

“I don’t have—”

“A heart to break?” she cut in, rolling her eyes so hard you could practically hear them scrape against her skull. “Stop it. The more you deny it, the more it owns you. That’s how it works.”

You frowned, trying to parse where she was going with this.

“There’s a way to handle it,” she continued, exhaling smoke as if it carried some of her frustration with it. “You move on, Y/N. But, clearly, you’re doing it wrong.”

“You’re the expert now?”

“I’m saying I’ve been there,” Natasha said, taking another drag of her cigarette. “You’re stuck because you haven’t accepted the decision you made. And it’s eating you alive.”

“How do you know that I—”

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows Wanda’s been obsessed with you since she joined the team,” she said with a faint smirk. “And now she’s with Vision. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. You chose something—or someone—and now you’re second-guessing yourself.”

What she said settled over you like a suffocating blanket. Natasha was right. It was the ‘what if?’ that’s been haunting you since you denied your feelings for Wanda—rather impulsively if you were being truly honest. 

“Do you… Do you think I made the right choice?”

“As much as I’d love to hand you the answer on a silver platter, I don’t have it,” Natasha said, brushing ash from the tip of her cigarette. “Only time will tell, I guess. But I will say this: you made your choice for a reason. Trust yourself on that, at least.”

Natasha pushed off the wall, brushing her hands against her pants. “Better get back inside before she comes looking for you.”

“She won’t.”

Natasha let out a dry, skeptical hum before heading back inside. You’d thought she’d dragged you out here to convince you to get Wanda back. But this was harder to swallow.

Trust yourself. 

As if it were that simple.

—

The fallout with Wanda this time was different. Different from all the other times you tried to jumpstart some version of a friendship or a co-working relationship and failed. It wasn’t the wary distance you’d both kept when she first arrived at the compound, when trust was something neither of you could afford to give. This was worse.

This was cold, deliberate. Wanda wasn’t avoiding you, not exactly. She was around, always there at team meetings, in training sessions, and the common areas. But she never acknowledged you. When she did look at you—on those rare occasions—it wasn’t to meet your eyes. It was to look through you, as if you weren’t even there.

She was always with Vision now. Rarely did you see her without him by her side. The team had started referring to them as Wanda and Vision, like they were one entity. It wasn’t, “Ask Wanda,” or, “Ask Vision.” It was, “Ask Wanda and Vision.” As if they’d merged into one seamless, perfect unit. When Vision wasn’t around, the questions still fell to Wanda, as if she spoke for him. When Wanda wasn’t around, Vision became her proxy. The separation between them had dissolved in everyone’s minds, and you hated it. Not because they didn’t deserve to be happy—no, you’d told yourself you wanted that for her. You just hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to watch it unfold right in front of you.

You told yourself you’d get used to it, that it was just a phase, but it wasn’t. It was more like a drawn-out misery you couldn’t escape. You missed her. You missed the easy banter you’d started to build before everything fell apart. You missed the way her sharp wit challenged you, the way she’d smirk when she knew she’d gotten under your skin just enough to make you react. You found yourself wondering if she still trained, if she was keeping up with the progress she’d been so proud of.

And sometimes, when you were alone in your room, you wouldn’t even turn up the music. You’d sit there in the quiet, waiting, straining to hear anything from her side of the wall. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you’d hear her playing the guitar—something she’d started doing more often in recent weeks. Most nights, though, it wasn’t the guitar you heard. It was Vision. Wanda’s voice rarely reached you, but when it did, it was laughter. Laughter that you didn’t cause, that wasn’t yours to hear anymore.

The worst of it came when they started leaving together. Late at night, when the compound had quieted down and most of the team had gone to bed, you’d hear the faint sound of their footsteps, see them heading toward the exit. You told yourself they were just walking, just talking, but you weren’t naïve. You knew what couples did late at night.

And they were a couple now.

—

You considered going back to your apartment in the city. It wasn’t far—just a few miles—but the missions were rolling in again, and timing was everything. It was easier to stay at the compound, to be ready for whatever disaster came next. Besides, throwing yourself into work was better than sitting alone in an empty apartment with your thoughts circling Wanda and Vision like vultures.

Missions came and went, and luckily, you weren’t paired with Wanda or Vision. Someone else was always available, someone else always volunteered. It was a small mercy you clung to as you poured yourself into the work. You kept yourself busy. Busier than usual. You took on every assignment thrown your way, volunteering for extra shifts, running double-time during debriefs. 

But the work didn’t just distract you—it became a way to punish yourself. You didn’t take unnecessary risks; you took reckless ones. If the odds were stacked, you went in headfirst.  It wasn’t that you wanted to get hurt—at least, not consciously—but somehow, the pain on the outside felt like the only thing that could dull the pain within.

And the wounds came. Small ones at first—a sprained wrist, a shallow cut above your brow. Then larger ones. A nasty gash along your arm during an ambush. Against protocol, you never went to the in-house medical team. You handled it yourself—bandaging wounds in your room, stitching yourself up with clenched teeth, biting down on a scrap of fabric to muffle the sounds of pain.

It was only a matter of time before your luck ran out.

—

The bullet grazed your side during a narrow escape, tearing through your jacket and slicing into your skin with brutal efficiency. You barely had time to think about it in the heat of the moment, too focused on getting out alive. But by the time you returned to the compound, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving nothing but the sharp, unrelenting pain and the blood—hot and stick— seeping through your fingers as you clutched your side.

Turning a corner, you nearly collided with Wanda, who was coming back from the gym. She was still in her workout gear, a towel slung over her shoulder, her hair pulled back, a light sheen of sweat on her skin. Her eyes darted up to meet yours, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t look away immediately.

You managed a small nod and tacked on a weak smile for good measure. She returned the nod but the smile didn’t come. She moved to step past you, and you thought that would be the end of it.

But then you faltered—just a split-second wince as the pain surged, a grimace you couldn’t quite hide. Her steps slowed, her head turning slightly. Her eyes landed on your hand, pressed against your side, and then on the dark red stain spreading through your shirt.

“Wait,” she said sharply.  

“It��s fine,” you muttered, trudging along, trying to walk straight even though your side burned like hell.

Without a word, she turned back and then unwound the towel she had draped around her shoulders, stepping closer and pressing it firmly against your side. You jerked back at the pressure but didn’t stop her. Her hand stayed steady, though her expression betrayed none of what she might’ve been thinking. It wasn’t anger, or at least not just anger. 

“I’m calling the medic,” Wanda said.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just a graze. I don’t need the medics.”

Wanda merely glared at your wound, though you could see the tightness in her jaw, the way her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re bleeding through a towel,” she said flatly.

“I just need the first-aid kit,” you mumbled, glancing toward the storage room. “That’s all.”

She didn’t look at you as she asked, “Where is it?”

“Why?” you asked cautiously.

“So we can patch you up.”

We.

Did she mean you and her? Or was this some prelude to Vision walking into the hallway and the couple patching you up together? You didn’t ask, though the thought burned in the back of your mind.

“It’s just right there,” you finally said, pointing weakly toward the door a few feet away.

She didn’t move right away. Her hands stayed where they were, pressing the towel firmly against your side, applying just enough pressure to slow the bleeding but not enough to stop your brain from wondering why the hell she was doing this. Wanda had made it pretty clear she wanted nothing to do with you. A wound like this wasn’t life-threatening at all. But she was treating it like you were on death’s doorstep, making it more difficult for you to ignore the flutter of feelings you’d been working so hard to bury.

After what felt like too long, Wanda stood, releasing her grip on the towel. “I’ll get it,” she said simply. You stayed where you were, slumped against the wall. The absence of her hands left you trembling slightly, and for the first time, you really felt the weight of exhaustion pulling at you, the weakness from blood loss settling in.

Fine. Maybe you’d lost more blood than you’d let on. Maybe being stubborn about not calling the medic wasn’t your brightest move. Still, you’d had worse. This didn’t even rank in your top five.

Wanda returned a moment later, but instead of handing you the first-aid kit, she surprised you by crouching beside you and looping your arm over her shoulder. Without a word, she guided you to the storage room, half-carrying you with surprising strength. Once inside, she maneuvered you to sit on a low bench against the wall, then turned away to open a cabinet. When she crouched back down in front of you, first-aid kit in hand, she didn’t so much as glance in your direction. She snapped the lid open and laid out the supplies.

“You don’t have to do this, Wanda,” you whispered, your voice scratchy and weak, which annoyed you more than the actual wound. You were starting to feel a little loopy, unsure if this was really happening or just a dream—if you were dead somewhere else or still lost in sleep in your bed. If it were the former, you thought, it was certainly a good way to go. It made you smile without realizing it, which only seemed to make Wanda more alarmed.

Now moving with a bit more urgency, she grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and a piece of gauze, pouring the liquid onto it before pressing it against your wound unceremoniously. You hissed, waking you up a little, your hand gripping the edge of the chair as the pain flared. She didn’t acknowledge the sound, her attention fixed on cleaning the blood away.

“Stay still,” she warned after you’ve shied away too far.

When she pulled out a needle and thread, your stomach sank like a stone in dark water. “Stitches?” you muttered, though it barely qualified as a question—more of a sigh, defeated before the fight even started.

“It’s deep enough,” she reasoned, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

The first stab of the needle lit up your nerves, a white-hot jolt that ripped through your side. You sucked in air through clenched teeth, fists balled tight at your sides.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath.

“Stop moving,” she said, her voice maddeningly calm.

You didn’t stop moving, not entirely, but you managed to keep your whimpers to a minimum as the needle went in again. And again. At some point, the pain dulled—not because it got easier, but because it started to blur, your skin either numbing or your brain deciding it had enough.

When she tied off the last one, she grabbed the bandages, wrapping them around your torso.  The bandage had to loop around your waist, and for that, she leaned in, her arms slipping behind you. She was so near that you could almost count the freckles scattered across her nose. The proximity made you hyper-aware of yourself—how you reeked of blood, smoke, and sweat, and how there was nowhere to hide from it.

And then it was over. She finished without ceremony, knotting the bandage with quick fingers before standing and turning away. For a moment, she hovered by the cabinet, her back to you, her shoulders stiff.

“Don’t make me do this again,” she murmured so quietly that you couldn’t quite decipher the emotion behind it.

Her words should’ve felt like an admonition, but instead, they landed like a plea. You weren’t sure if she was talking about the stitches or something much more complicated. And as you watched the way her shoulders sagged slightly, the way her head dipped like the fight had drained out of her, it hit you—this wasn’t easy for her either. None of it was.

“Wanda…” Her name came out too soft, like you didn’t really want her to hear it. Like you weren’t sure what you were going to say next.

“Get some rest,” she murmured, the words almost tender—

But final.

[euphoria-looney]

Astro!

Yan!Batfam x Neglected!Reader Squid Games!AU

m. list|next

"And goodness knows, The Wicked's Lives are lonely. Goodness knows, The Wicked die alone. It just shows, when you're wicked, You're left only, on your own." 'No One Mourns The Wicked' by Wicked the Musical

Divider creds: (?) and @dollywons

As a kid, all I longed for was someone to play a game with me that didn’t require some form of technology to keep both of us entertained.

Well, be careful what you wish for, because I have reached an all-time low, willing to kill people with children's games to earn money.

How much longer will I spend in this twisted game before getting killed? Maybe this is better whether I win or lose, I still gain freedom.

One choice is just the better option. 

That’d be losing winning.

Sure I would feel immense guilt, but I’d be free from debt… and then what? No longer needing to slave anyway from the amount of money I receive.

What then?

Could therapy even help? They’d probably send me off to a mental ward. 

Who's going to believe I won millions from playing some children’s games?

I looked around and saw the old man again from earlier, sitting alone in a space, I approached him, and he accepted to play with me.

“When I was little, this was one of my favorite games as a child.” The old man told us while we were walking into an open area.

“Really? I’ll be honest, I’ve never played this game before.”

As we finally found a point to play the game, we conversed.

—

“Did we do this to make a pact?”

He held out his hand, his pinkie and thumb sticking out, I laughed, wrapping my pinkie around his, pressing our thumbs together.

“Sir, no my gganbu- I think that’s what they called a really close friend right?”

—

Eventually we went all for nothing, this was the funniest game I ever played… I almost forgot the fact that I was going to die at the end.

“Ah, guess you won, betting all my marbles for your single one. Didn’t see that one coming.” I chuckled sadly.

He held my hand and placed the last marble in my palm.

“Take it, it’s yours anyway.” I looked up at him in shock, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“We are gganbu aren’t we? Remember we swore on it. And Gganbu always shares everything no matter what. You made this all possible.” My shoulder shook, as I could only stare at my shoes, my eyes felt like facets at the point. 

And then I felt these same hands embrace me, and I felt like a child all over again.

“What a great way to go.”

He pulled away, making me face him.

“Thank you. I had a good time.”

I hugged him once again, my tears overflowing on his shoulders.

He let go and I walked out of the gates.

Sniffles were all I could do before I heard the voice behind me.

“I remember my name now. My name is Il-nam. Oh Il-nam.”

I kept walking then flinched when I heard a ‘bang’ go off.

Surrounded by all these dead bodies, and these empty emotions, I pushed forward.

[Player 1, Eliminated]

—

Despite everything, I’m still having these selfish thoughts of staying alive.

We had just played ‘glass bridge’ leaving three of us here, dressed in suits, and eventually I was talking with Penelope, she’s the one that helped me out of the restraint we were in after we left for the first time.

“Hey, [name], just in case either of us can actually make it out of this hellhole, promise that we will take care of each other's loved ones, okay?” 

“Don’t say that, we’ll be okay.”

But she took more damage than any of us once the glass had shattered and was losing blood fast.

“Stay where you are, I’ll go get someone.”

I left and went to the guard or whatever they were, to beg, plead, for a doctor, maybe one that could’ve been on standby, but instead they walked past me with a coffin.

I could only stare at my once best friend standing over her bed.

I ran over there and held her body up, shaking her for some sign of hope.

“No, Penelope, please, no…”

—

Approaching the end game, we ate a feast, so fresh and nicely made, I felt the need to puke.

We place in the field shapes surrounding us, to resemble a squid, this was, Squid Game.

The rain soaking both of us, gray skies, and a single guard on the side.

Astro’s shirt still soaked in blood, his suit back on. He spoke before the game began, a knife in hand.

“I ended her suffering. You know she would have died anyway.”

The tears that once stained my face had been washed off by the rain, and now I could only feel disdain for the man I once knew in front of me.

“That’s bullshit, stop lying. She could’ve survived, they could have treated her.”

He retorted.

“I know what you’re like, you’re the reason I had to kill her. I knew you two would stop all this, so she didn’t die there. Even though we’ve gone so far, just to quit?” 

It seemed so similar to the time back at the manor.

—

“Damian had a lot happen to him as a child, are you going to blame him for this?” Dick sighed Damian behind him with no remorse for the fact I had slashes on my arm, not deep but painful. And though they wouldn’t leave scars, would that really matter?

He held a weapon against me while all I had was a stack of books now discarded and torn on the ground.

“[name]. You’re older than him, he’s still a child. You are the reason for this, it could’ve been avoided if you didn’t egg things on. Don’t blame Damian for your faults.” Egg him on? All I did was try and avoid him.

It wasn’t fair.

—

Now, if it wasn’t high before, my blood pressure had to be spiking. For that petty reason? Simply because he didn’t want all of this going to waste?

“Was that it? You killed someone because this might end?” My voice trembled.

“Yeah! You and that girl would have been the majority you needed to get out! Going home without anything! I couldn’t live with that!”

“And you think that means anything?! What?! one more life on top of the others you’ve stolen isn’t enough, and won’t be enough until you receive something?! You’d rather have one more dead than for all three of us to leave and somehow find another way to bring something, anything home?!” I shouted back at him.

I took my knife out of my pocket.

“It's over…”

“I won’t let you leave here with the money.”

3RD POV

While the VIP’s finally stood up to watch this entertaining last game.

Two people who have developed over time physically and mentally, once friends, were squabbling, fighting with very small amounts of energy, but a passion to win.

Both stabbed the other when eventually, player 456 was able to get the other on the ground and punched him over and over again.

The Waynes couldn’t help but be relieved this was it, they’d never let her go again, they would make up for everything starting with making sure she would be okay.

“Found the location heading there soon!” They heard Cassandra on the other line.

Late, but they would make it.

—

[name]’s POV

I held my knife, before stabbing it into the field, next to his face, before limping over to the goal point, it felt miles anyway, the guard had his gun loaded and aimed at Astro.

There before me was the practical finish line.

I can’t… No, I refuse to if anything, playing this game has fucked me other the head, but I refuse for one second to let this game be the last thing I ever see Astro at.

“I wanna end here.” I face the guard walking back to them.

“Clause Three of the agreement. The players are able to end the game when the majority agrees, so if we both give up,  you have to end it right?” I stumbled over.

The guard spoke on the walkie-talkie while I gazed back at Astro.

“Astro.”

“Back when we went to the same school, we’d hang out together and study before leaving chasing after our purpose that called out for us. Nothing's calling anymore.” After all this time, he still is.

I smiled at him, that once gummy smile I adorned, one that I hated so much.

“Let’s go”

I extended my hand to him. 

“Let’s go together.”

He slowly lifted his hand.

“[name], I’m sorry.” 

And before I could react, he took that hand and grabbed the knife that I put right next to him, and impaled himself in the neck with it. 

Blood gushed out and he choked out blood.

I quickly went to his side, stabilizing his head.

“Astro! Astro!”

“[name]..”

“No, no, don’t speak! Hang on!” I was panicking, this can’t be the end of us.

“M-my mother, please take care of my mom. And…”

“I love you.” That made me freeze my erratic movements, I was sure he could’ve seen my eyes widen.

“Loved you since meeting you.” With that, he closed his eyes and I could only call out his name, and held onto his body, it was getting colder fast.

[Player 218, Eliminated. Congratulations, Player456]

—

3rd POV

“Believe in Jesus or go to Hell!” A guy holding two signs chanted outside in the rain, strangers walking past each other, a white limo rolled up on the side of the street, dumping a bruised and exhausted body on the sidewalk, the same guy chanting untied the girl.

“Believe in Jesus.”

The girl was in the bank depositing 4.56 billion dollars before withdrawing some out. Her hair a mess, eyes sullen and eye bags that dragged down her face, she seemed exhausted. Walking back to the store she once worked at, a sign stated ‘SOLD’ and next to it a reef, “Rest in Peace, Conny Claire, Died too soon, old shop owner that meant so much to many people.” Flowers that surround the message.

The girl that came there for a snack could only sink to the ground in shock, hands rising to cover her face, body shaking and quivering.

Walking down a store alleyway, Astro’s mom approached the girl.

“How have you been, here take some food for the road after losing…” She sighed, and patted the girl's back, walking back to her shop.

“Have you heard from… Nevermind.” 

The girl opened her run down apartment where she once lived and went to see all the old photos in the yearbook of classes she had with Astro and in all of the group ones featuring her, her classmates, and Astro she noticed how in each one he was looking at her, with those fond eyes.

She could only fall onto her bed, her tired state crept on her before she fell asleep.

Some time later, the girl kept her promise to Penelope and helped out her family, then left them with Astro’s mom, leaving a wealthy sum of money, they became a family… somewhat of a replacement for the other's loved one, and the girl left paying off whatever debt any of them had.

The girl was sitting alone at the pond, drinking some alcohol. Before an old woman approached her, a flower basket in hand, it seemed she needed to sell them immediately before they wilted away. The girl reached into her pocket, handing her some money before the old woman went off. 

Picking up the nicely wrapped flower, a card appeared, making the girl stumble at picking up the card before reading it.

Approaching a hospital, card in hand.

It was the old man.

“What is this… Who are you?”

“Pour some water for me. Please, [name].”

And there she sat, anger rising in her, but she couldn’t do anything against the man who made the games.

She sat listening to the man talk, about the homeless guy below them, about how everything he said about himself was true, how he missed the old days, him and his friend used to have the time of their lives, and how no matter if you're homeless or rich both lives are no fun. Then a clock struck.

She looked at the machine to see that his heart was no longer beating, instead a flat line appeared. Getting up, she closed his eyes.

That’s when she finally started her life again. She got it together.

So, at the first place, her life changed at the same bus stop, well across from it, the skies were clear and the sun was glaring into the area. It had been a regular day for her, working at her own company and all.

Maybe that’s why when she unlocked her car and stared right in front of her at that same place, she was shocked to see her father, Bruce Wayne, and his family.

That’s it for this part of Astro! Did you like it?

Also, unlike Squid Game, soon after [name] left, everyone that participated in Squid Games got arrested, which made it on the news, but was looked past after a few months, [name] made gravestones for Penelope and Astro.

Ofc the Batfam got the credit and got even more famous for uncovering this incident, which is also why they hadn’t ‘visited’ [name] and now are just getting to it.

Not the update you expected, but I hope you like it.

Any comments, advice and corrections are appreciated!!!

-ILoveeeMoney

Taglist time! ❤

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek and a new addition that I'm super happy I bumped into @alilobsessive.

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento @randomlyappearingartist @beyondblissxoxo @sirairi @yhin-gg @frankie-moon3 @welpthisisboring @yokesmam @bat1212 @enchantingarcadecreation @twismare @delias-stuff @ladylupuscrow @ferchu0406 @c4xcocoa @cruzerforce4256 @anonymoushehehehe @godoreo22 @blerp-22 @facelessisnthere @sirenetheblogger @themightybee4067 @boredselkie @tiffyisme3760 @random4137 @midnightgrimoire @mybones537 @chaoticmoontimetravel @jsprien213 @crazycaoticsimp @elfollaburras3000 @czarinera @tiffyisme3760 @exactlynumberonekryptonite @gwyneveire @k-anaru @a-lurking-fae @nxdxsworld @ryuushou

I think that's everyone who wanted to be tagged, I hope I didn't spell anyone's name wrong and tag the wrong person.

[urrmomzfavorite]

PAC: HOW POSSESSIVE/JEALOUS IS YOUR PERSON?

PILE ONE

This person is really sure of themselves, attractive, and knows how to contain themselves. But when it comes to you? Baby, this is another person. I'm hearing about a situation happening on your honeymoon? They do not play.I see them being really protective of you. They feel like you trust strangers too easily and offer a helping hand without thinking. This sense of community is honorable, but it tends to burn *you*, Pile One, and your person notices this. They want you to put a lot of your responsibilities on them—take the weight off your shoulders. (They have nice shoulders, btw.)

They have a good nose for smelling bullshit. This person could work in finance or have well-placed investments? Bro, I don’t know anything about this type of stuff. Guys, also, this is your FS. You could be different ethnicities, countries, cultures. You’ll spend your honeymoon in their country; they have a home there. They get mad when someone tries to sell you something overpriced 😂 They like to stand by your side. Not gonna lie, you’re arm candy—you have this glow that draws people in. They feel proud standing next to you. They *love* when people say you’re a beautiful couple. They’re tall; I’ve been getting huge vibes of a tall man obsessed with hiking in my readings lately. They love staying active—and hey, it never hurts to have good stamina 👀

They’re thirsty for you. This person wants to show you how strong they are. Some of you wonder about them lifting and pinning you against the wall. It’s more than possible 😏

So Pile One: They aren’t jealous or possessive, but you’re really important to them. They don’t want your kindness taken advantage of.

✨💖 Heyyy cuties! 💖✨ Don’t be shy, take a little peek at my other posts—you know you wanna!

PILE TWO

**YESSSS**. Just thinking about it makes them sick. This is the type of person who gets low-key mad when you talk about your kindergarten crush. They’re competitive—they need to be the *only* one in your eyes. And they’ll make sure they are, crushing the competition to pieces.

Pile Two, you’re a rare commodity, and they know it. This person is obsessed with you. I know you like it, but listen: You’ll get annoyed by this energy eventually. They’re controlling. Might tell you not to wear certain outfits. This person gets insecure…

The way they see it? They wouldn’t hesitate a second to steal you if you were someone else’s. That’s why they’re paranoid—they know for some people, “I have a bf/gf” means *nyet*. So they need to make sure you’re all theirs. They’d rather spend time alone with you just to guarantee your full attention. You make them feel so mellow.

Pile Two, I’m gonna be honest: Obsession can be flattering, but there’s a healthy limit. When insecurity infringes on your freedom, speak up. They can either step up and change their behavior, or someone else will happily do it.

If this gets too much, talk to them. They love you enough to work on this—it’s a win-win. A relationship needs both people to feel secure. But yes, they’re obsessive, jealous, and controlling. Still, they don’t have ill intentions. The only alarming thing is how far they’ll go to keep your heart theirs.

✨💖 Heyyy cuties! 💖✨ Don’t be shy, take a little peek at my other posts—you know you wanna!

PILE THREE

This person wants me to preface by saying they’re logical and understand the stakes… *but* (there’s always a *but*):

IT’S FUCKING DISRESPECTFUL WHEN THEY’RE RIGHT THERE!

They’ll mean-mug, tell them to fuck off, scare off, or fight anyone disrespecting you, them, or your relationship. They’ll start *all* the wars for you, Pile Three. They aren’t scared of a challenge.

If they can handle you, they can handle anything 😅

This person does boxing or martial arts—they can actually fight. They’ve got Aries energy; they’ll keep you up all night.

OMG, after losing their shit at whoever talked to you that day, it’s *your* turn, Pile Three. Your turn to be reminded who you belong to (and where—which is on their… *yup!*). They can’t wait for an intimate moment to hear you moan their name, tell them you’re theirs, and get wet/hard under their touch. Then, and only then, the rage they couldn’t release by punching the latest guy fades. When they’re on top of you, and you’re begging to feel them inside, there’s one thing they need first: **hearing that you’re theirs**.

✨💖 Heyyy cuties! 💖✨ Don’t be shy, take a little peek at my other posts—you know you wanna!

[eepy-cookies]

I will ask as anon for I’m to scared to ask otherwise but can we please have more art of

Characters: Shadow Milk Cookie x G/N! ReaderContent Warning: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

You made a little story of with that title and I swear you made one art of it and I really want to see more art of it like a little sorry book if that happen if that’s okay for I love the story so much how we meet shadow milk again after we waked up

I didnt made a title at that time since I just want to type a one shot. So I might as well add some explanations about this with only two arts! Oh btw, if anyone is a bit offended by this. I’m sorry. Your warned in advance about the yapping.

About his name: He can be called as either Blueberry Milk Cookie, Blue Moon Cookie, Blueberry Yogurt Cookie, and etc tho its safe to call him Sage of Truth. At that time his soul jam is similar to Pure Vanilla for a good solid reason, it was the first original soul jam but I do want to add a tiny head-canon that there should be a “closed eye” to his soul jam but the canon was just like Pure Vanilla’s. Just like what happens at the Blueberry Yogurt Academy before it was abandoned, it was ONCE his second history wanting to teach the cookies more knowledge while his first being crated. Plus meeting Y/N Cookie allowed him to experience what falling in love feels like.

About Y/N Cookie: They made their own appearance as a mortal cookie but had an incurable illness that the witches made a mistake, but what if it wasn’t and it was part of their experiment? Although it was very cruel Y/N Cookie was one of the cookies who suggested Sage of Truth to create that said academy to not find a way to get the cure but also to create memories that can last through time. But they knew their time is up and yet they wanted to live more just to see him one more time, after all they love him.

About the Incurable Illness: Its hard to find a better title for the name so lets call it “Incomplete Dough Illness” its just similar to humans who had disabilities that won’t let them survive much longer, however even tho it’s incurable it’s incurable since it was THE PAST before modern technology was introduced to the new generation of cookies, wether or not it can be cured it can never be cured despite everything.

The life longer spell: A spell casted by the Sage of Truth before he had become Shadow Milk Cookie, it extended a cookies lifespan thus converting them to become almost immortal, the word almost is that a Crescent Moon needs to be presented in order for that spell to perform well. The consequences is becoming corrupted and if that caster perishes that person perishes with them. If that person is also sealed they are comatose until the seal is broken and if that unconscious person is touched or worse that unfortunately cookie will live the most unluckiest and cursed life till they perish.

What happens to them: Shadow Milk Cookie took Y/N Cookie with him to a more safer place. Of course that would make the other cookies worry but Pure Vanilla told them that they will be find, after all Y/N Cookie is the ONLY COOKIE Shadow Milk Cookie recognize despite them being new in a newer world that cannot go back. Of course this time Shadow Milk Cookie CANNOT afford to let go of Y/N Cookie, they are immortally connected with him but they are still weak so they need good care by Shadow Milk Cookie himself (it has become a connected soulmates). If that makes you happy you can see Y/N Cookie still being sweet to him despite everything, sure it takes alot of time for them to understand but you should know that they are an understanding and wise cookie.

Bonus: Shadow Milk Cookie got a kiss in the end. A comforting one. ❤️

[russo-woso]

Scrunchies || Emily Fox x reader

Request | Masterlist | Prompt list

Summary You’d given full responsibility of your scrunchies to Emily and she looks after them with her life, but what happens when Emily loses one of them?

“This one’s my favourite, I’ve had since middle school.” You had told Emily, referring to the scrunchie that ironically had little foxes on it. “I got it soon after I met you because it reminded me of you. It was my little good luck charm when you weren’t around.”

You were sat cuddled up next to Emily on the sofa.

Emily was moving to London that following morning so the two of you were as close as possible - not wanting to be away from each other.

“I want you to take it with you.” You said, Emily looking at you with wide eyes.

You loved your scrunchies and let no body even touch them, sometimes barely letting Emily touch them.

So when the words left your mouth, Emily was stunned.

“Babe, you love this scrunchie.” Emily pointed out

“I know but it’s a piece of me that I want you to have when we’re apart.” You explained

“I’ll guard it with my life.” Emily swore, kissing your head gently as your body melted into hers even more.

“You best do, foxy.”

Emily remembered that conversation like it was yesterday.

She remembered her promise to you and Emily had made a promise to herself that she was going to guard it with her life.

Yet here she was, running around her apartment at 9 o’clock at night, looking for the scrunchie.

You were flying out to England tonight and to Emily’s luck, she’d lost the scrunchie. 

“Less, I can’t find it anywhere. I’ve tipped my apartment upside down and looked all over it, I’ve looked in my car, I looked at training today. It’s no where.” Emily rambled to Alessia over the phone.

“Em, take a breath. Me and Lotte will be there in ten minutes. You go sit down, make yourself a cuppa and we’ll come look for it.”

“You’re a life saver. Thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem, foxy. See you soon. Hey, em, remember to breathe.”

Alessia and Lotte arrived with high expectations of finding it.

They arrived and was met with a stressing Emily and a very very messy apartment.

Emily wasn’t kidding when she said she’d tipped her apartment upside down.

The three of them searched high and low in every single room until they were sat in the middle of the living room, still scrunchieless.

“It’s gone.” Alessia breathed out, throwing her hands in the air.

“I don’t know what you’ve done with it, foxy, but my god you’d be good at hiding a body.” Lotte said

“What am I gonna do? Y/N’s gonna be so disappointed.” Emily asked, shaking her head in disbelief at the situation she’d found herself in.

As soon as she’d said them words, her phone rang, your name and a pink love heart displayed across the screen.

The three gunners looked at each other, their eyes wide open.

Hesitantly, Emily answered the phone.

“Hi, baby. I’ve just got to airport. My plane boards in an hour and a half. I just wanted to make sure everything was still okay for me to come over?” You said over the phone

“Hi, babe. There’s nothing on earth that would stop you from coming over. Everything’s all good. Just relaxing on the sofa with a cup of tea.” Emily lied, a panicked expression across her face.

“Good. Anyway, I’ll see you and my scrunchie tomorrow. God I’ve missed the two of you. Maybe the scrunchie a bit more. I’m only joking. I love you, em.”

“Love you too.”

“Well, foxy, looks like you’re screwed.” Lotte concluded

“I’m a dead woman.”

Emily couldn’t get any sleep that night.

Her mind was solely focused on where that damn scrunchie was.

She tried her hardest to remember where she’d last had it.

She hadn’t had it for the last week so it had to be a week ago.

She’d been to training - it wasn’t a the training grounds, she’d been to a few shops - it was securely wrapped round her wrist when she’d jumped in the car after shopping, she’d gone to Liverpool for the match against Everton - she wore it for the game but had taken it out when they reached the hotel.

The memories faded into one after that moment, except she remembered one more thing - the scrunchie being on her bedside table at the hotel.

Emily sat up in her bed, realising exactly where the scrunchie was.

She reached for her phone, googling the hotel they’d stayed at last weekend.

Clicking on the number, she waited as the phone rang.

It rang and rang and rang and Emily thought they wouldn’t pick up - despite advertising that they had 24/7 service.

Eventually, the receptionist picked up and Emily let out a sigh of relief.

“Hi, me and my team stayed at your hotel last weekend and I believe to have left something in my room.”

“What room was it?” The receptionist asked

“152.”

“Emily fox?” She questioned, clearly looking at the history of who’d stayed in the room.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“And what do you think you’ve left?”

“A scrunchie with foxes on. It’s only something small but it means a lot to me.” Emily explained

“Unfortunately whatever is found in rooms is thrown out. The only things that are kept are more valuable items.” The receptionist told Emily

Emily’s face dropped. She’d definitely lost the scrunchie now.

“Okay, thank you.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“It’s fine. It’s my fault. Thank you again.”

Emily hung up, her phone dropping onto the bed as she thought of how disappointed you were gonna be.

Somehow, Emily got to sleep, dreaming of seeing you but also about your face when she told you about the scrunchie.

“Em!” You exclaimed, dropping your suitcase and running out the terminal to hug Emily. “I’ve missed you so much, baby.”

Emily clung to you, her face buried in your neck as she hugged you for the first time in months.

“I’ve missed you too, babe. So so much.”

You pulled away from the hug, looking into Emily’s eyes before connecting your lips.

“Fuck I’ve missed that. I’ve missed you.” You said, Emily nodding in agreement.

You frowned slightly at her.

You knew Emily like the back of your hand, and you knew exactly when something was wrong.

And you could tell something was wrong with her.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I need to tell you something but please promise you won’t be mad.” Emily begged

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the worst scenarios flowing through your head.

“Em, what’s wrong?”

“I lost the scrunchie. I’m so so sorry, baby. I wore it to the game last weekend and I left it in the hotel in Liverpool and I rang them last night and they said they threw it out. I’m so sorry.” Emily explained, tears welling in her eyes.

Emily expected you to start shouting at her, but instead you just enveloped her in a hug.

“Baby, why are you crying? It’s just a scrunchie.”

“It’s your favourite though.”

“I don’t care if it’s my favourite. All I care about right now is being with you, with or without a scrunchie.” You told her, rubbing her back as she calmed down. “And anyway, I’ve bought loads more for you.”

“I love you so much.” Emily said, hugging you tightly.

“I love you too, em. I love you more than any scrunchie.”

[kissylec]

RAFE'S DREAM.

directed by love you goodbye...

pairing . . . rafe cameon x pogue!reader in which . . . in an unexpected late night conversation, rafe thinks it's the right time to tell his dream warning .ᐟ . . . mention of smut, wedding talk, fluff at the end. english is not my first language w count . . . 1.0k kissylec says . . . HI IS THIS THING ON? i didn't want to end love you goodbye like that out of the blue, so i brought you a nice extra so you don't cry so much

masterlist .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 navigation .ᐟ

RAFE RARELY ASKED YOU TO STAY. the first time he did was when he had done so many drugs that he ended up having a nervous breakdown. that night you stayed until you were sure he was okay. today was different, although you couldn't understand why.

stay.

it was a request that came out of his mouth just as he reached his orgasm, your breath stuck in your throat as you felt him paint your walls with his cum. you thought you had heard wrong, but as if rafe was reading your mind, the words came out of his mouth again.

"stay" he breathes. "stay the night."

you swallowed hard and your lips parted. your eyes fluttered open slightly, feeling your lashes wet from the few tears that had gathered at the edge of your eyes when rafe hit your cervix over and over again.

“i–” you had started, but rafe was determined.

“i’ll give a ride in the morning” he says, his voice raspy against the skin of your neck, giving you convincing kisses. “i promise.”

and it wasn't hard to convince you. you stayed.

the grey sheets caressed your bare skin as you hugged him, legs intertwined in front of the television at zero volume, playing a show about weddings. the air conditioning was on, but your body still felt hot. and suddenly rafe's bed had never felt as big and comfortable as it did at that moment.

you felt his hand caress your back, your head on his chest allowing you to hear his heart, which was beating calmly. rafe's eyes felt heavy, and instinctively he snuggled closer to your body.

you licked your lips, staring at the television. the program on was planning a wedding in italy, making you smile unconsciously as you watched the bride's excitement over her dress. the corset had an exquisite pattern, the sleeves were lace and the skirt fell delicately, the dress worthy of a princess. it wasn't white, but rather a creamy shade, making it look more delicate and unique.

“i always wanted to get married in tuscany” your lips trailed out, almost uncontrollably.

rafe opened his eyes instantly. “hm?"

your lips parted, your gaze fixed on the television.

“if i’m going to get married, i'd like to do it in tuscany,” you murmured. “nothing too big or too… flashy.”

rafe gulped, his gaze going to the television. his mind wanders to a dream he had, and it seemed like the perfect time to tell it.

"i–" he starts, his words dying on his lips. "i had a dream once…"

you raise your head, and rafe mentally cursed, thinking it would be easier to tell you all this with you not looking at him.

"i don't want to be weird and shit, it's not my plan," he mutters. "but–uh, i had this dream that i was marrying you."

he seemed to be making it up, something he's probably saying because you said you wanted to get married. his eyes drifting back to the TV, avoiding your gaze.

"did you?" you asked.

rafe nodded his head. “yeah,” he said. “it wasn’t in italy anyway, it was here,” he continued. “secretly.”

you looked at his lips, unconsciously nodding your head.

"you had this beautiful white dress on... and the veil was falling over your face," rafe says, his gaze going to you. "you looked gorgeous."

you felt your heart race, and you stopped to think. this was too intimate, which was a joke, because rafe had been inside you countless times, which was way more intimate. but talking about a wedding? another level you never thought you would touch, especially with him.

"and what does that mean?" you asked.

"what does what mean?"

"your dream."

"well, it doesn't mean anything," rafe answers, his gaze shifting to the television.

your eyebrows furrow and your head lifts slightly. "dreams always mean something," you insist.

the one who frowned this time was rafe. “not this one,” he says. “this one doesn’t mean shit.”

you quickly sat up in bed, the sheet falling off your chest leaving it exposed, catching rafe’s eyes.

“you dreamed we were getting married and it doesn’t mean anything?” you asked incredulously.

rafe lets out a tired breath through his nose, his eyes closing as his head began to throb. "it was just a dream, you don't need to look for an answer to everything."

"so you wouldn't marry me?"

his eyes instantly opened, bringing his frown to you. "what?"

"answer the question," you insisted.

rafe parts his lips, looking you up and down. "i–" he begins. "yes i would marry you."

"don't bullshit me."

"i'm not" rafe sat up in bed.

the atmosphere in the room had changed, as if it was colder and your lips felt dry. you didn't know why you were so offended by the idea of rafe not wanting to marry you, but it bothered you, so much that just thinking about it made your stomach hurt immensely.

"i would marry you," rafe repeats. "i–i didn't want to–" he stumbles over his words. "i didn't want to make this weird or awkward."

"why would you make it awkward?"

"because i'm not supposed to want to marry you," rafe says.

your heart starts racing faster than it can possibly go, because rafe wasn't telling any lies, he shouldn't want to marry you and you shouldn't want to marry him, but at that moment, it was an idea that sounded brilliant and wonderful in your head.

"i want to marry you too" you said without even thinking twice.

rafe opened his eyes wide, as if your comment was the stupidest thing he had ever heard, but after a few moments, he let out a sigh that he didn't know he was holding back.

"great."

"great," you imitated him.

you swallowed hard, lying back down on the bed, close to him. "turn off the TV, i'm sleepy," you said, covering yourself up to your shoulders.

rafe couldn't help but smile, grabbing the remote from his nightstand and turning off the television. "i don't want a bossy wife."

"shut up, yes you do."

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© KISSYLEC. 2025 — please do not plagiarize, repost, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

[eclipixels]

Babysitting

Jason x Reader

Content: You and Jason get tasked with babysitting

[1,917 words]

      You and Jason had been called in at the last minute to babysit Dick and Kori's daughter, Mar’i. Damian had more important things to do (probably brooding somewhere), and Wally, well, he wasn’t trusted to babysit anymore after a certain incident. That left you two—definitely not parents, but trusted enough to make sure their kid didn't accidentally set the house on fire.

      Jason had made a comment earlier about the whole thing being a bad idea. "I'm not built for this," he muttered, sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table. "You know I’ve got a reputation to uphold."

      You had just rolled your eyes. "She’s not that bad, J. Besides, it’ll be fun. You’re good with kids."

      He shot you a skeptical look. "When did that happen?"

      "Let’s see… maybe when you stopped acting like a psychopath and started being halfway decent to people?"

      He grumbled something under his breath but let it go, giving in. That was Jason Todd for you, more complicated than a five-page essay on why not to mess with Gotham.

      Mar’i was busy in the living room, stacking blocks in her little fortress-building project. Her black hair, inherited from Dick, was tied up in pigtails, and her emerald green eyes sparkled with mischief as she concentrated on making sure no two blocks were out of place.

      You were on the floor next to her, organizing some blocks into colors when Jason casually asked, “What’s she building again?”

      “A fortress.” You glanced at the little girl, who nodded sagely.

      “A fortress?” Jason raised an eyebrow. "For what, exactly?"

      “Defending against bad guys!” Mar’i chimed in, her voice full of excitement. “Like you!” she added, pointing directly at Jason.

      Jason snorted and leaned back on the couch. “Me? A bad guy? Why am I always the bad guy?”

      "Because you're the only one who can be bad," Mar’i said with a grin, somehow more confident in her statements than she probably should’ve been at her age.

      “Alright, little one. You’re about to see just how bad I can get,” Jason said dramatically, getting to his feet.

      You shook your head but smiled, knowing Jason had a soft spot for his niece despite his tough exterior. “Uh-huh, you’re really selling it there, Romeo. Let’s just finish the fortress so we don’t lose this round.”

      Suddenly, there was a loud noise above you, a scratching, scuttling sound that definitely didn’t belong. But to your surprise, Mar’i was nowhere near the ground anymore.Y

      You blinked. “What the...?”

      Jason turned to look, his face full of confusion as Mar’i’s voice echoed from above.

      “Guys! I’ve got a better idea!” she shouted, her voice coming from the ceiling. Your eyes darted upward, and sure enough, there she was, clinging to the ceiling.

      Jason’s jaw dropped. “How—?”

      Before he could finish his sentence, Mar’i dropped down from the ceiling, landing on her feet with the precision of an acrobat. She grinned like a little troublemaker. “I made a tunnel! The bad guys won’t even know what hit them!”

      You blinked again, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “Did you just—did you just crawl on the ceiling?”

      Mar’i shrugged innocently, her tiny hands on her hips. “Yup. Mommy and Daddy taught me. It’s like an easy trick.”

      Jason rubbed his temples as though trying to process the entire situation. “Okay, first of all, why is that an easy trick? And second, why did your parents teach you to do this?”

      Mar’i looked at him, deadpan. “You want me to go back to my fortress and defend it?”

      Jason’s expression softened. Despite the fact that his brain was still trying to make sense of the fact that this little girl could defy gravity at such a young age, he smiled. “Alright, alright. You win. I’m the bad guy. You’re the hero. But know this…” He leaned forward, making a show of cracking his knuckles. “I’m not going easy on you.”

      “Bring it on!” Mar’i yelled back with a devilish grin.

      You just sat there, slack-jawed. “You’re seriously going to go along with this?”

      Jason shot you a look that said, You know what? Why not?

      You sighed and stood up. “Fine. But if you break anything, I’m calling the big bat before I call Grayson”

      Jason raised an eyebrow, already getting into character. “He’ll probably reimbursh for everything. You know he’s got a soft spot for Mar’i”

      Mar’i was already back in her fortress, peeking around the corner with only her eyes visible. “Come on, bad guy! Let’s see what you’ve got!”

      Jason nodded, cracking his neck as he casually strolled forward, pretending to ignore the fact that Mar’i was doing some acrobatic backflips around the room. “Alright, kid. Get ready. This fortress? It's going down.”

      Just as Jason reached for one of the block towers, Mar’i leapt from a shelf on the opposite side of the room, landing on his back and immediately trying to knock him over like a wrestler. “Gotcha!”

      Jason stumbled for a second, then grinned. “Not bad. But you forgot one thing.”

      “Oh yeah? What’s that?” Mar’i asked, tilting her head.

      “Never underestimate the bad guy,” Jason said, spinning around and scooping her up off his back. He tossed her in the air and caught her, grinning. “Your fortress might be safe, but you’re not getting away that easy.”

      “Wait a minute, you’re supposed to be the bad guy! You can’t just—” Mar’i laughed, but then she twisted around and pointed at you. “Help! The bad guy is taking me hostage!”

      Jason smirked. “Oh, you’ve already lost. It’s game over.”

      As the two of them continued their playful “battle,” you couldn’t help but laugh. Sure, it was chaos, and things might get a little out of hand, but you’d never expected babysitting to be this entertaining. Mar’i had her parents’ adventurous spirit, and Jason, well, he was having way more fun than he’d like to admit.

      And you? You were just here for the ride. Even if you did have to deal with the aftermath of broken furniture and very strange, upside-down ceiling crawls.

      But hey, that’s what you signed up for.

      Jason would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little sad when Grayson came back to pick up his daughter. It wasn’t the usual case where Jason would be happy for things to go back to normal. No, today was different. He’d spent the last few hours getting a crash course in chaos, laughter, and, for once, not being the one causing all the destruction.

      Mar’i had attached herself to his leg as soon as Dick had walked through the door, her little arms wrapped around him in a tight hug. “Daddy, don’t go yet! Can you come back another day to play? I want to build another fortress!”

      Dick chuckled, bending down to scoop her up. “You know I have work, sweetheart. Maybe next time, okay?”

      Mar’i pouted, clearly torn between her desire to keep her fortress intact and the fact that she had to say goodbye to her most favorite "bad guy" in the world. “But I like Uncle Jason! He’s fun!”

      Jason gave a half-hearted shrug, though a grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He had to admit, having the little girl look at him like that was a strange kind of feeling. “Don’t get too attached, kid. I’m a dangerous criminal.” He threw a glance at Dick. “Right?”

      Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re real dangerous, Todd.”

      “Okay, fine. Just—don’t forget me!” Mar’i finally relented, giving him one last hug before she was gently placed into her father’s arms.

      Jason chuckled as he watched them go, a weird, unfamiliar feeling settling in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was the way Mar’i’s laugh still echoed in the air, or the fact that he had actually enjoyed himself. Maybe it was the fact that for once, he had been the one to show someone else how to embrace the chaos.

      When the door clicked shut behind Dick and Mar’i, Jason let out a long sigh and fell back against the couch. He stared at the door, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line.

      You, still sitting on the couch beside him, couldn’t help but notice the change in his demeanor. His usual tough-guy act had faded for a moment, and there was a softness in his expression you rarely saw.

      "That was cute," you said, humming softly as you stretched out on Jason’s lap, trying to get comfortable after the whirlwind of the afternoon.

      Jason’s hand immediately slid to the back of your neck, absentmindedly stroking the skin there as he looked toward the door. His voice was low, almost contemplative. "Yeah. Made me think... maybe having one of our own wouldn’t be such a bad thing."

      You nearly choked. “What?”

      His hand froze, and he turned his gaze to you, a smirk pulling at his lips. “You heard me.”

      For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. The idea of Jason Todd, your Jason, the one who made sarcastic comments every other minute, saying something like that threw you completely off balance.

      Now that you thought about it, he would make a pretty damn good father.

      You tried to hide the laugh that bubbled up. The guy who still had a tendency to hold grudges over the smallest things, was talking about fatherhood like it was a casual weekend hobby.

      “As fond of the idea as I am, I’m not sure if the world is ready for a mini Jason Todd and Y/n L/n,” you said, finally breaking into a smile.

      Jason grinned, leaning in closer to you. “Maybe not. But you’ve got a point. We’d probably make one hell of a team. Think about it—our kid would be the perfect mix of stubbornness, sarcasm, amazing survival instincts and, of course, good looks.”

      Your heart skipped a beat, and you looked at him, half-amused, half-skeptical. “Jason, I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here.”

      He let out a laugh, his hand still lazily resting on your neck. “Hey, I’m just saying. We’d get to see Mar’i more for playdates”

      You let out a breath, feeling the warmth of his hand on you. “There are other ways to spend time with Mar’i than giving her a cousin.”

      “Fair” He put a hand on his chin before pulling you in closer on top of him for a kiss, “but I like my idea better.”