#or the you that you make for them at least | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heejamas · 2 days ago

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MANCHILD

➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k

➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty

you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.

“i like my boys playing hard to get.”

you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”

“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”

you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.

he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.

you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.

so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.

but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.

you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.

you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”

jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.

but you definitely hate rodeos.

too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.

so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.

but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.

and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.

you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.

and you hate how hot that is.

when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.

you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.

but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.

you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”

except you don’t. you really, really don’t.

so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.

you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.

(it turns out—he isn’t.)

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.

you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.

and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.

when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.

and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne.

and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.

you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.

and you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.

on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.

you try not to look. but of course you fail.

“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”

he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.

you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”

that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.

“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”

he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

“like you’re bored.”

you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”

he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”

he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”

“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”

he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”

you look down, you are. shit.

he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”

you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.

the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.

and you look stunning, obviously. short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.

he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.

you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.

you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back.

“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet.

you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”

he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.

you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”

“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”

you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”

he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”

you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his.

he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.

“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”

and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.

you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”

and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.

he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.

and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.

but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.

and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.

and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.

jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—

he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.

he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?

it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you.

but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”

and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.

but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked.

he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.

you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.

he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.

he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.

he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.

the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.

later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.

you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.

“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”

he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.

“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”

“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”

he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.

so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”

he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.

“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”

you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.

a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”

you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.

you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.

and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”

he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”

he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.

“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”

“you caught me,” you beam.

he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.

you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.

and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.

he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.

your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.

you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.

but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?

but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.

you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.

“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”

he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”

you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”

he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”

your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.

“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”

you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.

then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.

and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.

you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.

he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.

you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.

not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.

you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”

“walk,” he says.

you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”

“walk.”

so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.

his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”

“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”

you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”

he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”

you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”

he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”

“do i?”

he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”

you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”

the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.

“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”

he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.

“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.

he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.

he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”

and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.

he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”

he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.

“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”

his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”

you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.

and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”

you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”

he arches a brow. “of what?”

“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”

he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”

and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:

“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”

and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.

he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.

he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.

and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.

he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?

and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.

you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.

then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part.

his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.

not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.

he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.

your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you.

he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”

you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.

and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.

his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”

his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.

you smirk. “what gave it away?”

he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”

you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”

he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”

your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”

he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”

you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”

he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

he smirks against your throat. “say please.”

you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”

“say it.”

you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”

he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.

you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”

he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.

his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”

you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”

“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”

“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”

“i’m making an exception.”

he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”

“you’re the one that came after me.”

“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”

and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”

your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”

he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”

you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”

his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”

your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.

he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”

you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”

he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”

you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”

you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”

you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.

you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”

“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”

he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”

you blink, chest rising. “what?”

he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”

you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.

“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.

you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”

he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”

he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.

and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”

you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”

you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.

then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”

you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”

your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”

he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”

you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.

he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”

you inhale shakily. “i want it.”

his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”

you gasp. “you are.”

“say my name, sweetheart.”

“you, jakey.”

he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”

his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”

“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”

he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”

you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”

and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”

he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”

you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”

he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.

his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:

“told you you were obsessed.”

he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”

after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.

you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.

lucky for you, he never stood a chance.

author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠

my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

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cosycryptid · 2 days ago

Text

Eddie has always enjoyed giving people nicknames, it’s just something creative he does that makes people stick in his brain. He’s never forgotten a face and it’s mostly because he has names to go with them.

Typically, he refers to acquaintances by their last name, friends by something jokey and embarrassing, and foes by nicknames that are a little mean and cutting.

Then there's Steve Harrington, who falls into his own category entirely.

Before, when he claimed to dislike Steve it would be:

“Perfect Harrington.”

“Steve Harrington the gorgeous with his flowing locks.”

“Guess what Mr. Hot Sports Man did now.”

“Can you believe Beautiful Steve Harrington and his merry band of assholes?”

“God, look at Mr. Distracting showing off his amazing chest again. He’s such a poser.”

“I was trying to order my usual, but then Steve ‘Dreamboat’ Harrington was behind the counter and he used his evil sorcery to make me say ‘1 scoop of vanilla’ by mistake. Now he probably thinks I'm boring.”

He said the names in a mocking tone, but it always ended with just a hint of something longing. His friends would shoot each other knowing looks across the room whenever he came up with a new one for one of his Steve related tirades.

Then they started to become friends and the names took on a more teasing, flirty nature, which then slowly gave way to softer and more tender names like 'Stevie' and 'sweetheart' and 'honey'. The knowing looks from friends became looks that said 'here we go again' and Steve's reactions went from intense, puzzled stares to warm smiles.

One day, when Eddie's running late for their fortnightly movie night, the rest of the party decide to say something about it.

"So, I have to ask," Mike says. "What kind of magic spell have you cast on Eddie?"

Steve looks up and sees that everyone is staring at him. "Huh?" he blinks. "Were you talking to me?"

"Yes Steve, he was talking to you!" Dustin exclaims. "Who else here in this room does Eddie regularly shower with mushy pet names?"

"Okay, they're not 'mushy pet names'," Steve argues, rolling his eyes. "They're just nicknames, he gives everyone nicknames. I don't see why it's a big deal."

"Steve, he gives everyone else nicknames. Yours are something else." Max points out.

"How?"

"How?" Lucas asks. "Steve, last week he walked into me by accident, said 'Sorry Sinclair’ and then turned to you and went 'Hey, angel. How are you today?'." He puts on a sickeningly sweet voice for the second one and Max laughs.

"Yeah and what about that time he threw a sunscreen bottle at Mike and said 'Stay safe, pasty', then saw you putting yours on and said 'Need help getting your back, darling?'" Max adds. Her and Lucas are snickering to each other by the end of it.

Mike frowns. "Don't know why he called me that. He's just as pale as I am."

Will pats him on the back. "Don't worry about it, he called me Bowlcut Junior two days ago when he was asking me to make a perception check."

"Oh so that's what the Bowlcut Senior thing was about," Jonathan mumbles.

"Steve, he likes you," Robin says, clearly spelling it out. "Or at the very least it's obvious you're one of his favourites."

"He does call you an awful lot of things even me and Jonathan wouldn't call each other," Nancy adds carefully.

"Eddie's just a sweet guy," Steve says.

"Eddie Munson is not a 'sweet guy'," Mike retorts, bewildered. "He killed off all of our characters in last week's session because we were ten minutes late."

"I mean if he went to all of that effort planning and preparing everything then you could have at least turned up on time."

"Thanks, mom."

"I did warn you guys he wouldn't be happy with us," Will points out with a grim expression.

Before anything else can be said, Eddie walks in with Gareth and Jeff trailing behind him. Everyone tries their best to look casual. Most fail. Luckily, Eddie's attention is zoned in on two people.

"Hey Sweet Prince, and Henderson and others," Eddie greets them. "I'll be right back, just gotta run to the bathroom because I was checking something under the van just now and it looks like I got into a fight with an octopus."

He lifts his arms, which are covered in oil.

"Oh shit," Steve says. "Yeah, no problem. Feel free to take a shower and borrow some clothes if you want, we'll wait."

"Thanks, sugar." He calls behind him.

The party's eyes are locked on Steve when he turns back to face them, causing him to flinch a little.

"What's up guys?" Gareth says as he and Jeff make themselves at home, finding a spot on the carpet.

"Yeah, you all looked super awkward when we walked in just now," Jeff adds. "What's that about?"

"We were just trying to get it through Steve's head that Eddie is basically in love with him," Robin fills them in. "Also, I don't know if I should be a little offended that we're 'and others'."

"Oh that," Jeff says, way too casual. "Yeah that's been a thing for years. Even back when he was pretending not to like Steve."

"Wait what?" Mike asks.

"Oh yeah, he used to call him things like 'Handsome Harrington' or 'Beautiful Steve Harrington' every time he talked about him," Gareth shrugged.

"Oh shit," Dustin says. "One time I tried to get him to hang out with us and he said no but he called you 'Pretty Boy Steve'."

"Can you guys just let this go?" Steve sighs, clearly getting annoyed. "It's just a thing he does, it doesn't mean anything."

"Yeah, sure," Jeff scoffs. "Keep telling yourself that. What are you trying not to get your hopes up?"

Steve is too quiet for too long, and he hates the way his friends expressions turn sympathetic toward him.

"All I'm saying is, do it back to him and see how he reacts," Gareth says with a knowing smile. "I dare you."

The opportunity doesn't arise until later, when Eddie gets up to go to the kitchen half way through the movie. He comes back with two drinks, one of which he hands to Steve while lifting the other to his lips.

Robin gives him a look that says 'what are you waiting for?' and Steve takes a deep breath before accepting the drink with a casual, "Thanks, babe."

And that’s all it takes.

Eddie’s hand jerks, his brain short-circuits, and the drink completely misses his mouth. A splash of soda hits his chin, and the rest pours out on the Harrington's expensive carpet. Then he just stands there blinking like he’s been hit with a stun spell.

His brain seems to come back online when he sees Steve's shocked gaze switch between him and the liquid soaking into the carpet.

"Oh shit! I'm so sorry!" Eddie shouts, no longer in control of his volume. He sprints to the kitchen and returns just as fast with paper towels, dropping to his knees to try and soak up the spilled beverage. His face is bright red in a way Steve's never seen on him before.

Steve is still frozen, half-standing, watching Eddie frantically blot the carpet like it personally insulted him. The rest of the group is silent for a beat—stunned into stillness by the sheer velocity of Eddie’s reaction.

Then Robin breaks the silence with a quiet, “Oh my god.”

Max snorts. “I think you broke him.”

“Like, for real,” Dustin adds, eyes wide. “That was a full system crash.”

Eddie doesn’t look up. “Don’t mind me, just ruining your house and my dignity in one fell swoop.”

Steve finally moves, crouching down beside him. “Eds, it’s fine. Seriously. It’s just soda.”

Eddie glances up at him, eyes wide and still a little dazed. “You called me babe.”

Steve smiles, soft and a little shy. “Yeah. I did.”

Eddie stares at him for a second longer, then groans and drops his forehead to the carpet. “I’m never gonna recover from this.”

Steve laughs, nudging him gently with his shoulder. “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

Eddie lets out a muffled noise that might be a whimper or a laugh, it’s hard to tell. But when he lifts his head again, his face is still red, and his smile is blinding. And Steve forgets they have an audience.

"I think I know a way you can make it up to me," he grins.

"How's that, babydoll?" Eddie asks, confused, but hopeful.

Steve pulls Eddie in for a quick kiss and says, "Take me out tomorrow night, when I finish work?"

"Absolutely," Eddie beams.

Their moment is ruined by fake gagging noises from the kids. "This is worse than Dustin and Suzie serenading each other with Never Ending Story," Lucas comments, receiving a middle finger in response from Dustin.

"I'm assuming band practice is off tomorrow then?" Jeff smirks.

"Sorry guys," Eddie says still looking at Steve with a tender smile. "Something incredibly important just came up."

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #my fics

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lazy-ahh · 3 days ago

Note

Hello! Good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are! Hope this isn’t a bother but I noticed that there isn’t any spider-man!Reader and viltrumite mark. I still can imagine spider-man reader making jokes, jabs and baiting villtrumites into traps if they get too close to rebels safe-hold/refugee camps, constantly making trips to find food/supplies for others and being pain in the ass for viltrum empire to the point where mark sent to scout for reader to forcibly join the empire or else. You know, just your friendly neighborhood spider man amidst the conquering/ dystopian world while trying to keep their sanity from falling apart. (We both know that Peter park has terrible luck with fate.)

WEBS AND EMPIRES

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (spiderman) gender neutral reader

in a broken world conquered by the viltrum empire, you swing through the ruins as the last thorn in their side—cracking jokes through the pain, stealing hope from the ashes, and refusing to bow. until mark grayson finds you. not the boy who shared your childhood, your secrets, your promise to always have each other's backs, but the soldier molded by his father's hands. he's here to recruit you or break you. the problem? you still see the ghost of your best friend in his eyes, and that might hurt more than any punch he could throw.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the air is thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning metal clinging to your suit as you swing between the skeletons of crumbling buildings. the city—what’s left of it—is a graveyard of broken dreams and shattered resistance, but you’re still here. still fighting. still cracking jokes and annoying the ever-loving hell out of the viltrumites, because what’s the point of surviving the end of the world if you can’t have a little fun with it?

a smirk tugs at your lips as you land light as a shadow on a fractured rooftop, your fingers drumming an idle rhythm against the brick ledge. below, a squad of viltrumite enforcers—humans who bent the knee and traded their pride (and their everything) for a shred of false safety—stomp through the streets like overgrown toddlers in armor. their faces are twisted in frustration, and it’s delicious.

you’d led them on another wild goose chase, of course. first, the fake distress signal you rigged near the old subway tunnels—just loud enough to lure them in. then, the real trap: a web-line tripwire that sent the first three face-first into the pavement. while the others were busy untangling their comrades, you’d already swiped their comms and left a little present in their supply packs—a stink bomb cobbled together from scavenged chemicals. nothing dangerous, just hilarious.

by the time they realized they’d been played, you were long gone, perched up here with the best seat in the house to watch the chaos unfold.

too easy.

you tug your mask up just enough to free your mouth, revealing a smirk that’s more habit than humor these days. the half-stale protein bar you scavenged earlier crumbles in your grip—some kind of "nutrient-rich survival ration" (if you squint really hard). not exactly the greasy pizza you used to inhale after patrols, back when the world made sense. back when he was still—

you bite down before the thought finishes.

it’s food. that’s all that matters. food is hope, and hope is currency now—for the rebels holed up in the subway tunnels, for the kids in makeshift shelters who still light up when you swing by with supplies. for the ones who haven’t given up, even when the sky is full of monsters wearing familiar faces.

that’s why you do this. why you keep swinging, keep tossing out jokes that land a little too hollow now. why you breathe through the ache in your ribs, the one that has nothing to do with last week’s bruising and everything to do with the gaping hole where your best friend used to be.

(you’d known him since you were both knee-high troublemakers, since shared lunchboxes and scraped elbows and promises whispered under blanket forts. "us against the world, right?" you’d said. he’d grinned, a small smile reserved just for you. "always."

now the world’s burning, and he’s the one holding the torch.)

a sudden gust of wind nearly knocks you off balance—the kind of wind that doesn't belong on a rooftop, the kind that carries the scent of ozone and conquest. your spider-sense screams a second too late, because of course it would hesitate when it's him. your body knows that voice even when your heart wishes it didn't.

"you're becoming a real problem."

that voice. god, that voice. it's deeper now, rougher around the edges like everything about him has been sanded down into something sharper. it sends a cold knife straight through your chest, twisting with the memory of how it used to sound when he'd laugh at your dumb jokes instead of scowling at your resistance.

you don't turn around. you can't. because if you do, you'll see nolan grayson's—no, omni-man's son—not the lanky kid who used to trip over his own feet during little league, but the empire's golden boy with that ridiculous little grey skirt-flap thing that somehow makes him look more graceful (and... hotter?). you'll see the way his shoulders carry the weight of entire conquered worlds, the way his eyes have gone as cold as the vacuum between stars. when did he start looking so haunted? what happened to the boy who used to sneak out his window just to stargaze with you on your fire escape?

mark grayson hovers behind you, a living monument to everything you've lost. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, burning into the back of your skull with an intensity that makes your spider-sense hum uneasily. this isn't your best friend anymore—this is the heir apparent to omni-man's legacy, a harbinger of the empire with the face of someone who's seen too much and regretted too little. the boy you knew would have been cracking dumb jokes about his "princely cape" (it's not a cape, you'd argued a hundred times, but he'd never listened). this man? this man only speaks in threats and ultimatums.

what happened to you, mark? you want to ask. when did we become this? but the words turn to ash in your mouth before you can speak them.

"what's the matter?" you force a laugh that doesn't quite reach your eyes, fingers crumpling the protein bar wrapper as you shove it into your pocket with more force than necessary. the movement makes your shoulders roll in a careless shrug—all practiced nonchalance, all performance. "big, bad empire can't handle one little spider? i'm flattered, really. didn't know i rated this much personal attention from viltrum's finest."

the silence that follows is heavier than it should be, thick with all the words neither of you will say. when he finally speaks, his chuckle is hollow, the sound of fabric closing over something broken. "you're not little. you're a thorn in our side." a pause that lasts just a beat too long. "and thorns get plucked."

your breath catches despite yourself. that's new—the cold precision in his voice, the way he says "our side" like he wasn't once the kid who whispered "your side or no side" during midnight movie marathons when he thought you were asleep.

finally, you turn. and god, there he is.

his hair's longer now, strands sweeping across his forehead in a way that would've made fourteen-year-old mark groan about it getting in his eyes during training. but the boy who used to complain about haircuts is gone—replaced by someone whose gaze cuts deeper than any blade. the insignias on his shoulders catch what little light filters through the smog, gleaming like polished grave markers.

your chest aches. because this isn't just nolan's son, the empire's rising star—this is the human disaster who used to follow you around like some bizarre mix of lost puppy and overprotective golden retriever. the one who'd show up at your window at 2 AM, shaking and silent, until you pulled him inside and let him cry himself out against your shoulder after particularly brutal "training sessions" with his dad. the one who promised through bloody lips that you'd always have each other's backs, even when the whole world went to hell.

liar.

or maybe you're the fool for believing it. for not seeing how deep nolan's hooks were set. for not trying harder to pull him out when you still could. the thought settles like lead in your gut—another weight added to the collection you'll unpack someday when the world isn't ending.

"so what's the deal?" you cross your arms, the movement deliberately casual even as your pulse thrums too fast under your skin. your head tilts with false ease, the way you'd do back in high school when pretending his dad's latest brutal training session hadn't left him shaking. "you here to recruit me? or just to finally squash me?" the words come out lighter than they feel, your trademark smirk feeling more like armor than amusement today.

mark's expression flickers—just for a second—and there it is. that ghost of something human in his eyes. regret? guilt? or just indigestion from whatever morally questionable viltrumite rations he's been eating? you wish you could laugh at your own joke, but the question claws at your ribs instead: why would a conqueror, a killer, someone who chose this path, still have room for that look? the one that used to cross his face when he'd show up at your door with split knuckles and a story about "training accidents" you never quite believed.

"join us." his voice is lower now, rougher, but you'd know that cadence anywhere—it's the same one he used when convincing you to sneak out for 3 AM diner runs. (one of the times he was being rebellious. he should have been sleeping, resting, recovering, before another day of training and listening to boring but brainwashing lectures and teachings about viltrum. instead, he eagerly flew to you when he was sure that his dad was asleep; and you eagerly followed him in-between skyscrapers as you swung and flew by each other's side.) except now it's wrapped around words that taste like betrayal. "you're strong. skilled. the empire could use someone like you."

your chest aches like someone's reached in and squeezed your still-beating heart. strong. skilled. but not 'you'd be safe here' or 'i miss you' or any of the things the boy you knew might have said. just another asset to be collected, another piece on the board. the realization settles heavy in your gut, but you'll be damned if you let it show. instead, your grin sharpens, all teeth and no warmth.

"wow." your fingers tap against your chin in mock contemplation, the movement deliberately theatrical—the same way you'd ham up decisions about which flavor of ice cream to split back when things were simple. "that almost sounded like a compliment." you snap your fingers like you've reached some grand conclusion. "let me think—hard pass."

his jaw tightens, that muscle twitching near his temple just like it used to when you'd needle him about his terrible taste in movies. "this isn't a joke."

the air between you crackles with all the unsaid things—the memories of late-night rooftop confessions when you'd shown him your first clumsy web-shooters, his awed laughter as you stuck to the ceiling of his bedroom that very first time. you let your voice drop, all pretense of humor bleeding away like the sunset at your backs. "never said it was." your fingers twitch toward your web-shooters out of habit, but what you really wish you could reach for is the past. "but i don't bow to conquerors. even if they're..." your throat tightens. "even if they're old friends."

his eyes widen slightly—not with confusion now, but with something far more dangerous: remembrance. you see the exact moment it hits him, that flicker of the boy who'd stayed up all night with you, alternating between freaking out and geeking out over your transformation. his breath catches almost imperceptibly, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say your name.

"you don't know what you're throwing away," he growls instead, but there's a new edge to it now—something raw beneath the anger. the words land differently when you both know exactly what's being thrown away: not just ideals or allegiances, but every shared secret, every whispered promise, every stupid inside joke that still echoes in your head at the worst moments.

"funny," you say, the word tasting like ashes on your tongue. "i was about to say the same thing to you." your voice doesn't waver, but your fingers curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms through the fabric of your gloves. the familiar gesture hides the way your hands want to shake.

the air between you grows thick enough to choke on. for one suspended moment, the years melt away. you're not a rebel and a conquerer—it's just two dumb kids again, shoulders pressed together in your treehouse fortress, pinky-sworn to protect each other from anything and always saving each other a seat at lunch. you can almost smell the grape soda and bandaids.

then you see his head tilt slightly, those enhanced ears catching some distant command you can't hear. his shoulders stiffen like someone's poured liquid nitrogen down his spine. the sudden shift is jarring—the boy you knew freezing over before your eyes, replaced by the soldier he's become. his fingers twitch at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from clutching his temples.

when his gaze refocuses on you, whatever fragile connection you'd almost rebuilt shatters. his face becomes a mask of cold determination, the kind that used to only appear during his father's worst training sessions. "last chance," he grinds out, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction. there's something almost pleading in his eyes, buried deep beneath the viltrumite discipline.

you know this dance too well—the subtle straightening of his spine, the way his fingers flex like he's physically shaking off weakness. you'd seen it a hundred times during childhood sleepovers when nolan's voice would slither through the phone, watched how mark would transform from the boy who laughed at your dumb impressions into a statue of perfect discipline mid-sentence. now his muscles coil with that same terrible readiness, but there's hesitation in the way he keeps shifting his weight, like part of him is physically fighting against his own instincts.

your stomach twists. you don't want to fight him. you never did. not when you were kids defending each other from bullies, not when you practiced sparring moves in his backyard, and certainly not now when every punch would land harder emotionally than physically. the guilt sits heavy in your throat—you should've seen the signs sooner, should've dragged him away from that house when you still could. you were just a kid too, but that excuse rings hollow when you remember how he'd looked at you like you hung the stars, how he'd always followed your lead. you could've led him somewhere safer.

(maybe that's why this hurts so much—if you failed him then, fixing him now is your responsibility. the tragic punchline to your childhood promise: "i got your back, okay?")

you pull your mask back down with hands that don't shake (they don't, they won't) as you turn. "see you around, grayson." the surname tastes bitter—you haven't called him that since the day he first introduced himself, small and bright-eyed on the playground.

his fist clenches so tight you hear fabric stretch. but he doesn't stop you. doesn't say your name. doesn't do anything except stand there like a monument to everything you've both lost as you leap off the roof, the wind stealing your breath as you swing into the smog-choked sky.

your heart pounds loud enough to drown out the city's screams. your eyes sting with more than just pollution.

you don't look back, but your traitorous mind paints the picture anyway—that same shattered expression he'd wear when nolan's training went too far, the one where his lips pressed into a thin line but his eyes screamed for help. he'd always wait for you to bridge the gap, to be the one to hug him first or crack the joke that broke the tension. now there's no one to reach for him, and the image of him standing alone on that rooftop, arm half-raised like he might actually call you back this time, hurts worse than any punch ever could.

you can't afford to look. can't afford to hope. not when the world's burning and your hands are already full carrying the weight of all the times you should've reached for him sooner.

wow... wow wow wow. not gonna lie, writing this made me feel like i was emotionally gut-punched in the best worst way possible. who knew 2.6k words could hold so much pain? i just love and hate angst so much—it’s like craving spicy food when you know it’ll burn, but damn if it doesn’t hurt so good. this idea clawed its way into my brain thanks to the request and refused to let go until i wrote it: mark, your childhood best friend, now standing across from you as the enemy, both of you drowning in what could’ve been. the way he still hesitates. the way you still see the boy behind the soldier. THE WAY IT ALL FALLS APART ANYWAY. sobs i hope this one-shot wrecked you as much as it wrecked me. let me know if you cried, screamed, or threw your phone—i’ll be here in the corner, hugging my knees and whispering "but they were supposed to be happy." why am i saying this lolol, i could've made them happy— p.s. if you need fluff to recover… i make no promises, but i might be persuaded.

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dawnfire12 · 1 day ago

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Becoming a Family

Pairing: Saja boys (Kpop Demon Hunters) x You (female manager)

Summary: You have been feeling nauseous lately. Not only that but also a bit more sensitive and it seems your period is late. The boys’ wish of you becoming pregnant may just be true.

Warnings: smut content, light fluff

Word Count: 2049

A/n: for @ackerkisses and @grandesteartherquakedreamer who wanted to see what would happen if you were pregnant. Hopefully delivered!

Gasps, moans, groans and slapping of skin are all that can be heard in the dressing room as Jinu holds you up against the wall pounding into you. Your panties are dangling around one ankle while your high heels are struggling to stay on and your shirt has been pulled to have your breasts exposed. Jinu sucks on your breasts that seem to be more sensitive as of lately. You moan from feeling his tongue circle your nipple and ultimately this leads to your orgasm. He doesn’t last long as your walls squeeze him and he finishes in you with a groan and lazy pumps.

He sets you back on the ground and dresses you.

As he buttons your shirt back up he comments, “Your boobs seem a little bigger recently.”

You raise your eyebrow at him as he zips up his pants and goes to the mirror, “Really?”

He comes up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist, “Yeah and you seem to be glowing.”

You blush, “That’s cause we just finished.”

“Not just that. But lately in general.”

You turn in his arms to face him and your eyes tear up, “I’m glowing?”

He looks a little taken aback, “Yeah glowing. You’re beautiful.”

You sniffle, placing your hands on his cheeks, leaning up to kiss him, “I love you.”

He sighs into the kiss, “I love you too.”

You stay in his arms for a few more moments before kicking him out so he can get ready to perform on the variety tv show the boys are appearing on. Taking this one moment of silence, you make a cup of ramen and get ready to slurp it up when a wave of nausea hits you. You place your hand over your mouth and run to the bathroom to vomit. You tear up a little bit as you kneel on the floor, emptying the contents of your stomach. You place the palm of your hand on your forehead and take deep breaths to control your breathing. Once your breathing is controlled, you flush the toilet and wash your hands. This is at least the fourth time this week you’ve thrown up. You can’t be sick as you have no fever, runny nose, or sore throat. You just happen to vomit at the smell of certain foods which is totally normal.

You examine yourself in the mirror and realize you are glowing even though you did just throw up. You do also feel that your boobs have been feeling swollen and it feels so good when the boys massage them. Usually, you get swollen before your period…. Period. You blink at the mirror. You can’t remember when your last period was. Your heart clenches. There is no way you are pregnant, maybe your period is just late from stress. You smile weakly at the mirror.

Oh who are you kidding? You may be pregnant! Let’s be real here. The boys never use condoms and it’s not like you demand them to wear anyone. Half the time you are pounced on before you can even think. Not to mention the fact that they take any chance they can to not only be in you but to also finish in you.

You slap your cheeks. Okay. All you have to do is buy some tests to make sure and take it when the boys aren’t looking. You look at your watch and see that the boys will just be heading to the stage. You quickly walk backstage to see them about to enter the main stage. Their heads turn at your heels clacking as you wave them good luck. They smile and nod back at you. You stand there for 10 minutes before telling the PA you have to pick some food up for the boys. It’s not really a lie, you just happen to be getting pregnancy tests with some snacks.

You rush to the convenience store, putting a bunch of snacks in your arms and grabbing four pregnancy tests. You get up to the self-checkout aisle, put your stuff in the bag and run back to the studio. You don’t even drop the snacks off, you bring them with you to the bathroom so you can pee on all four sticks. As you wait for all four to turn whatever color you pace and bite your nails. Your timer went off and you looked at all four sticks that said the same thing, positive.

You place your hand against your forehead and lean against the wall. The breath has been knocked out of you. You feel your heart race as well as your mind. What are you going to tell the boys? You would imagine they would be happy with the way they constantly have to have their dicks in you. But what if they would change their minds? What would you do with this baby if they left you? What are you going to do with this baby period?

As you start to spin out a little bit more, you get a text from the PA stating the show has 10 more minutes left before ending. You are at work, you have to stay professional. You nod your head and fix your clothing before grabbing your snacks and heading backstage. You make it in time for the boys to start walking off.

Baby pouts at you, “Where were you?”

You hold up the bag, “I went to get snacks.”

Baby smiles, “Okay, not mad at you anymore,” he takes the bag and runs off.

“Hey! Those are for all of you!” You shout after him.

“Hello gorgeous!” Romance purrs at you and hugs you.

You melt in his arms, “Hi,” and you feel another pair wrap around you, “Hi to you too Abby.”

Abby playfully bites your ear, “Missed you.”

You slap the back of his head and wiggle out of the hug, “Go to the car now.”

He pouts and tries to protest when Romance drags him away. Mystery gently grabs your hand and you pet his head. He nuzzles into you before following the boys. Last but not least Jinu approaches you.

His eyebrows furrowed, “You okay?”

You nod, “Yeah, just a little tired.”

He hums, “Okay.”

You walk out together into the waiting car. On the car ride home, you fall asleep and wake up to being carried in Abby’s arms. You snuggle into his chest and he tightens his arms around you. He places you on the bed and tucks you into bed.

You grab his arm as he goes to walk away, “Stay. Cuddle with me.”

He grins, “Ohh you wanna cuddle? That’s all you want to do huh?”

“Abby.” You whisper with pleading eyes.

He freezes at those and just nods, slipping in right beside you and pulling you to his chest.

For the next week, the boys notice how anxious and sick you seem. Constantly biting your lip or thumb, shifting your eyes rapidly, and not to mention your abrupt timing to go to the bathroom. Unable to take it, one of them confronts you in the kitchen, caging you with both of his arms placed on either side of you at the kitchen counter.

“You are starting to worry me. Are you okay?” Jinu asks.

You open your mouth and close it a few times before you look to the side.

“Y/n. You can tell me. Please let me help you.” He pleads.

A tear or two falls from your cheek before you look at him, “I’m pregnant.”

At first, he looks saddened from your tears. Shocked by your words. Then the biggest grin you have ever seen.

“Really?” He beams.

You nod and he lifts you up, swinging you around.

“Boys!” He shouts and they all run into the kitchen, “We are going to be daddies.”

They all cheer and take turns hugging you. You laugh and wipe your tears.

“Yeah! I’m gonna be a dad!” Abby flexes and spins you around.

“Hey! No spinning the pregnant lady!” Romance scolds him, rubs your back and kisses you on the forehead.

“My baby is having a baby!” Baby smothers you to his chest until Mystery pulls you from him.

Mystery kisses you softly, placing his head on yours and whispers, “I can’t wait to have this baby.”

You had no reason to worry.

For the next few months, you are pampered. Romance makes sure to rub your feet and back. Baby constantly talks to the baby. Abby and Jinu make sure you don’t lift anything heavy or do too much labor. Jinu makes sure the apartment is babyproof. Mystery sits with you when the other boys start to become too much and you need a calming spirit.

You give birth to a beautiful black haired baby boy who is a carbon copy of his daddy Jinu. All the boys tear up when they first hold him.

Jinu is very tentative to the baby. First time he cries, Jinu is up by the crib and rocking him back to sleep. Baby has a video camera always pointing at the baby as he wants every moment to be saved. Abby always picks him up in the air to hear his little giggles. Romance smothers the baby with kisses and Mystery is the best naptime partner to be with.

They all love their baby, however seeing him as a carbon copy of their leader, they also want a carbon copy too. So once the okay is given by the doctor, Jinu is locked out of the bedroom while the boys get hard at work in your foursomes.

Not very long after you are pregnant with twins! You give birth to a baby boy who looks exactly like Abby but with your eyes and a baby girl who looks just like Romance. Since it’s the first girl born all the boys swear with their fists raised and fire in their eyes no man will ever be enough for their baby girl.

Mystery and Baby soon kick Romance and Abby out of the bedroom to get to work on their mini mes and no surprise you're pregnant again giving birth to a beautiful baby girl with silver hair and your eyes. All the boys coo at her giggles and wiggle her toes.

Baby then gets to have you all to himself and he’s not complaining. He gets to go as many rounds as he likes and no one can stop him. You soon give birth to a mini-me baby.

As you stand in the doorway to the kitchen and living room rocking your newest baby, you feel so much joy watching each boy playing with their kids. Mystery and baby Myara lay on the couch together staring at Abby and baby Leo where Abby pretends to eat his toes. Romance is brushing baby Suki’s hair to put it into cute braids. Jinu is playing his bipa for baby Ryo and baby Ryo claps again. Baby comes from behind you to snatch baby Ava.

You smile as you see the family you created and while you try to memorize this picture, arms wrap around your waist and you feel a kiss on your cheek. You look to see Jinu smiling and you lean up to kiss him. He shifts your hips so you are fully facing him and presses you against the counter. He deepens the kiss as his tongue traces your mouth, remembering how you taste and he moans. He grips your hips and you lean your head back, which leads him to trail down your neck leaving soft kisses.

“Jinu. The kids are all right there.” You whimper.

He trails his kisses back up and looks you in the eye, “Well I haven’t gotten my fair share of you in a while. I’ve missed your taste. And so have the others.”

You feel yourself get a little wet at his confession. You have missed everyone too. He pulls you to the closet and lifts you up.

“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.” He sucks on your neck.

Good thing the boys are all distracted because Jinu definitely shows you how much he’s been holding back and missing you. You won’t be surprised if you get pregnant again.

#saja boys x female reader #saja boys fluff #jinu x reader #romance x reader #jinu x reader smut #kpop demon hunters

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kyri45 · 2 days ago

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✨Spicynoodles Bio Parents AU Q&A! 01/07✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach/Spicynoodles Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@monkeyqueen2012 ha chiesto: So we get to see when Kai's grandparents absolutely kick the s*** out of the Ninja' villains? Or a scenario where Kai's family has to say him and the ninjas from the villains and get to see the villain s*** their pants?

we will get badass MK and RedSon protecting Kai, yes. Not really the rest of the fam for now.

@lulushadowpeach ha chiesto: I have a question so since Kai is Spicynoodles fanchild wouldn't that mean nya is Kai step sister?

in a way? but they are still sibling, full bio or not.

@jumpy-buggy-33 ha chiesto: I am curious who proposed: MK or Red Son?

RedSon, mostly because MK allowed him to cause he knew that would make him happy.

@cjtuy ha chiesto: Has red son and mk been on any cute dates yet like a movie night with their favorite snacks or a cute dinner date

oh yeah plenty. They prefer cozy dates where both are in bed, sorrounded by snaks and tv drama.

@lulushadowpeach ha chiesto: Question what do you think Mk and Red son will react when they see Kai their son again?

similar to HTTYD 2 in a way

@stonefox1130 ha chiesto: Okay, so, in your Bio Parents UA, have shadopeach officially said they love each other? Other than saying they forgive each other.

not on the comic, but off-screen yeah.

@pettrainer ha chiesto: Wu is peach, Mac is plum, and Ju ( don’t know how to spell the baby name ) is apricot. Does MK have a cute fruit nickname?

Mango?

@asexual-not-asexual-detective ha chiesto: How did the little monkey buddies on flower fruit mountain react to new baby apricot? Do they call her princess? How did they react to Macaque officially coming back as Wukongs mate? Is he their queen? Other King?

Yes they call her princess. Macaque coming back was like a long-awaited tv-drama character return, they all knew Wukong was still simping hard for him

@wolfsonic ha chiesto: Not me realizing Mk and Red Son are gonna have the same situation with Kai that WuKong and Macaque had with Mk. They don't see their son grow up. Like at least they get to spend however many years, so Red and Mk have his younger years with him, but if they ever see Kai again, he's gonna be a grown adult. Not the baby they remember. I know their situations were different, and Macaque and WuKong were not even equipped to handle a kid, but Mk and Red probably prepared for Kai, and then he's just gone. I'm so scared to learn what Mk and Red's reaction to their son just going missing.

yup, but MK more than anyone else will be understanding of his son situation.

@kingofthe7sins ha chiesto: Hey Kyri, what are your thoughts about Kai (through multiversal shenanigans) meeting over ninja teams, like the Ninja Turtles and their dynamics with each other? since the Four Turtles have similar personalities as Kai and the other ninjas

we aren't really going to that specific universe but i guess they would be bonding pretty quickly

@shortstack-pancakes ha chiesto: Hello!! I saw the ask about Kai’s demon features, so I have a follow up question if it hasn’t been asked before. If Nya is Mei’s daughter, would she have some dragon ish features or qualities/aspects?

yes and she already have experienced them all the times after she became a dragon, they aren't a permanent feature on her but they appear when she uses her power a lot, similar to Mei

@doggodonut12 ha chiesto: Hi! I just want to say I love your art- And ask a small question about future MK- like when Redson and MK have Kai- and even after that. Like what do they wear? Do they wear what they wore for the painting usually? I feel like MK would still wear some casual clothes with some traditional elements? I just want to know if their style would ever change in your au

They wear some hanfu and normal training outfit when at home, and their normal modern clothing when hanging out in Megapolis

@sierracarl ha chiesto: For the spicynoodles bioparents au, Kai would probably have a chinese birth name. So may I suggest... Jinfeng. Jin(金): meaning gold Feng(凤): meaning phoenix or wind I like the tie-in to Iron Fan with the wind thing. Thank you for your consideration. Also, your comic got me into LMK because it's so good and I wanted to know what was going on.💛

We are sticking to their canon name. Also Kai is a gender-neutral chinese name meaning victory (凯)

@cheshire61 ha chiesto: Why can my brain just hear Kai going to Redson and MK after a kid like steals a toy or something while at a park "Father, Baba, I crave violence." And MK is just like "No Kai, No Violence" while Red Son just really wants to say go for it?

they would answer at the same time opposite answer and then they would stare at each other like "what?"

@nica0509 ha chiesto: Mei and Lloyd as distant cousins? Perhaps the dragon father/mother of the first spinjitzu master had as a sibling a Mei ascendant dragon.

I mean.... there are tons of dragons, not all of them are related but yeah there can be the possibility

@darkshadow-lightpeach ha chiesto: This has me wondering… and I have a feeling that you already have a Mystic monkey design for Kai😭 or maybe a bull design? Like Redson? But it’s probably gonna be a mix of both and I have a feeling that it is a mix of both😭

yup, slightly more RedSon than MK but still a mix.

@estellardreams ha chiesto: Since your next series is gonna be Ninjago Dragons Rising x LMK I have a question... Are there gonna be ships from Dragon's rising in this or are you gonna keep that under wraps for now?

Not yet. I WILL keep a little bit of canon Jaya since in Dragon Rising is still relevant but other than that nothing too centered.

@shay-bug ha chiesto: How do you feel about the headcannon of kai adopting wyldfyre? Also, do you like wyldfyre? She's my favorite character!

I love wyldfire! even though I'm still in denial over the fact she already has a boyfriend. Like no. She's my baby. she's too young wdym

@amalgamorph ha chiesto: Was Kai's name always Kai or did MK and Red Son call him something different?

other than nicknames, they called him Kai.

#spicynoodles bio parents au #ask box

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seneon · 2 days ago

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I have no idea if requests are open or not so forgive me if they’re closed but could I request like making out with the Saja boys and how that would go? If that’s too much then putting makeup on them🙏🙏

LIPS HIPS KISS ─── saja boys. suggestive. gn¡reader.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ JINU SAJA

making out with jinu feels like the end of the world. he's a good kisser. why wouldn't he be when he's at least four centuries old? he's had his fair share of experiences that he has learned from. soft lips, smooth skin, tantalising eyes. and his magical hands that has you melting beneath his touch.

jinu holds your face, the back of your neck, or wherever that he could keep you locked in your spot with absolutely no where to run. his lips moved against yours so softly at first— testing the waters. but when you reciprocated, it gets bolder and heated until he could feel both your bodies growing hot, pushing you so close to him you could feel his chest against yours and the growing arousal from below.

he's the type to make out with you after the mood is set, or whenever he needs reassurance. french kisses seemed to be his favourite. he loves the way your lips perfectly moulds against his. kisses like these often leads to comforting cuddles, not very often does it progress into something more heated. he likes keeping it romantic. but when it does get heated, his hands will be under your shirt or beneath your waistband by now.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ABBY SAJA

likes your hand all over his chest when you two make out. it's common to hold onto something to keep the connection going, isn't it? so he always wants your hand on him, roaming all over and feeling his muscles hardening under your touch. it sends fire straight to his core, making him breathe so very heavily into you.

abby heavily fancies rough kisses. ones where it's dominating, controlling, and guiding. this man leads every kiss and every single initiation. he wants to execute, not feel. never much of a feeler. abby only seek to please you and make you feel good. his kisses are a simple start.

while your hands are all over his chest, his hands in return are all over your hips and waist and under your shirt. touching and feeling your skin, simply by brushing his thumb against your hips is enough for him. abby will also make out with you literally anywhere. the underworld if you're a demon, social meetings, meet and greets, at the back lane, anywhere. he could never get enough of the taste of your sweet lips.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ROMANCE SAJA

make outs with romance always end up with his hands on your hips, guiding you to rock your hips against him. no kidding. no shit. no lies. his heavy breathing and the way he holds the back of your head contains a lot of affection, and you can tell by the way he always starts off cheesy and romantic.

but oh, how silly of you to think that sweet kisses couldn't develop into something such as grinding against the obvious arousal in his pants while you feel your own arousal build up. he's a big tease with it. always getting you all hot and bothered but never doing more than that. you know you get him all worked up as well. besides getting aroused sexually, you annoyance from the teasing also gets aroused.

that's okay though. romance likes it when you're all angry and taking control instead when he's became your thirteenth reason in this push and pull. if i hadn't made it obvious yet, he likes you sitting on his lap and looking up at you with that stupid smirk and devilishly handsome face. he's also the type to also nip at your bottom lip.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ BABY SAJA

super big fan of brushing your bottom lip before kissing you or even in the middle of kissing. that was your foreplay before sex, if we're speaking through incoherent metaphors. he finds your lips absolutely pleasing to touch or simply kiss. and suck. oh, how much he adores sucking and then licking your bottom lips. only bottom by the way.

baby is the type of man who wants to taste your whole mouth as if they're potent enough to cover the taste of spicy sauces. exploring your mouth is a normal thing when you make out with him, his hands cradling your cheek just as his thumb gently brushes against your lips.

often times tongues are involved, so there weren't any exceptions. in fact, tongues are a must. you can't even tell if he's teasing you or not. but it makes the kiss heated and to die for. after several minutes of making out, baby yearns to leave his marks on the skin of your neck. he goes down your collarbone, your chest, and your lower abdomen until he reaches his favourite place to kiss.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ MYSTERY SAJA

loud, noisy, and absolutely pathetic. not in a bad way, in a good way to signify to you that he enjoys making out with you. like the rest, mystery will heavily breath into you as he kisses you. only this time with him, this man will emit sounds from the depths of his throat which you swallow.

he whimpers when you touch him, whines when you pull away for air, moans when he himself gets rougher with the kisses. he's so touchy and needs you to touch and hold him. which shocks you, because mystery is so quiet that the thought of him being noisy during heated moments such as these could happen. not that you're complaining though.

him being a yearner makes you feel like a wobbly jelly. maybe even because you get to lead the kiss and do whatever you want to him. he's the type to crumble under one touch from you and become the pillow princess. you have mystery wrapped in your fingers and. he loves being in your chokehold. you might get a few bit marks on your lips with his much mystery digs his teeth into your lips by mistake and pure excitement though.

note. oops i went overboard with this one uhh yay! this one's for you, @skriblobz, happy early wedding day to you and rafayel LMFAOOO

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a-casxandra · 1 day ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊

Sylus x non-mc, sylus's version of third place to a two person home.

Sypnosis : When you married Sylus, you believes you found your forever– a loving husband and a future filled with hope as you both await their first child. But when Sylus’s past reappears in the form of his sickly daughter from his ex-girlfriend, your world is thrown into turmoil. Torn between responsibility and love, Sylus struggles to hold his family together, while you were left battling loneliness, grief, and the haunting fear of being forgotten. As promises are broken and choices made, your love is tested in ways neither of them ever imagined.

Some people say that the past doesn’t matter. That what truly matters is the present and the future ahead.

You reminded yourself of that. Every single day. Over and over.

You were happy.

You thought you were, at least.

You had just graduated with a full degree in tourism, your lifelong dream.

You married the love of your life, Sylus – the man with silver-white hair, crimson eyes, and an intimidating presence that melted only when he was with you.

And now, you were pregnant. Three months along. The life growing inside you made every morning worth enduring.

But with happiness comes an exchange. A price. And life made sure you paid yours in full.

Sylus’s mother never liked you.

She never said it directly, but she never tried to hide it either. Her cold eyes scanned over you like you were nothing more than dust on her polished floors.

She saw every flaw. Every inadequacy. Every wrong move you made.

But that wasn’t the only problem.

MC. Sylus’s first love. His only ex.

Beautiful. Warm. Perfect. Everything you weren’t.

One day, she appeared in his life again, not alone.

She brought with her a six-year-old girl. Lilith.

A child with Sylus’s silver-white hair and crimson eyes. A miniature copy of him.

But Lilith was sick. Frail. Her small body was constantly hooked up to IV drips and oxygen tubes. The doctors said it was a miracle she was still fighting.

Because of that, Lilith spent most of her days confined to a hospital bed. MC was always by her side. And now, Sylus was too.

“Sylus… can’t you just stay here tonight, please…?” you whispered, tears pooling in your eyes as you clutched the sleeve of his coat. Your voice trembled with desperation. Hormones surged wildly through your veins, amplifying your fear, your anxiety, your loneliness.

“[y/n]… I can’t. Lilith needs me in the hospital,” he replied softly, avoiding your gaze as he adjusted his wristwatch.

“B-but I need you too!” you cried out, your voice breaking into sobs. “I… I haven’t been feeling well since last night… I feel dizzy, and… and I…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. Fear clogged your throat like a noose. You were terrified of losing your baby. Terrified of the cramps that woke you up before dawn. Terrified of being alone.

“My mother is here. She’ll stay with you. I’ll be back,” Sylus said. He pried your trembling hands away from him and kissed the top of your head, like a routine farewell, before walking out the door.

You watched his back disappear into the dark driveway, the taillights of his car fading into nothingness.

His mother didn’t say a word. She sat silently on the sofa, her eyes fixed on the television, never glancing your way.

You felt so alone.

Utterly, completely alone.

That evening, you tried to distract yourself. You folded the baby clothes you had secretly ordered online. Tiny onesies in neutral colours. Matching socks. A small knitted hat. You pressed the fabric against your face, inhaling the scent of new cotton, imagining what your baby would look like.

Would they have Sylus’s crimson eyes? Your hair colour? Your smile?

Tears blurred your vision as pain stabbed through your lower belly again. You gasped, clutching the table for support. The pain subsided after a minute, leaving you shaking and breathless.

His mother looked up briefly, her lips curling in faint annoyance. “You’re making too much noise,” she said coldly, before turning back to her drama series.

You wanted to scream. To beg her for help. But your pride swallowed your words. You staggered into the bedroom, clutching your belly, hoping sleep would take away the pain.

It was midnight when Sylus came home. The house was silent. Dark. He placed his keys on the counter and walked into the bedroom, thinking you were asleep.

But faint sobs reached his ears, echoing from the bathroom.

“[y/n]…?” he called out softly as he approached the door.

He pushed it open–and froze.

You were there. Sitting curled up on the cold tiled floor, your back pressed against the bathtub. Your knees were drawn to your chest, your trembling hands smeared with blood as they clutched your belly. The floor beneath you was stained crimson. Your pajama shorts were soaked through.

Tears streamed down your face, your sobs quiet and broken.

“Sylus…” your voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and small. “It hurts… it hurts so much… Sylus…”

Panic clawed at his chest as he rushed to you, gathering you into his arms. Your body felt so small, so fragile, so cold.

“It’s okay… it’s okay, [y/n]… I’m here… I’m here now…” Sylus whispered, voice trembling. But the words tasted empty on his tongue.

He carried you to the car, ignoring his mother’s questions as she followed him out the door in confusion. He drove to the hospital, running every red light, his hands shaking around the wheel.

You were rushed into the emergency ward. Nurses surrounded you, their voices urgent yet professional.

“Ma’am, can you hear me? Stay with us.”

You cried silently, staring up at the bright white ceiling lights as tears slid down the sides of your face. Pain radiated through your abdomen like a knife twisting deeper and deeper.

Sylus tried to follow you into the room but a nurse stopped him. “Sir, please wait outside.”

He watched helplessly as the doors swung shut in his face.

Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days.

Finally, the doctor stepped out, removing his gloves with a quiet sigh. “Mr. Qin?”

Sylus stood immediately, his entire body tense.

“I’m sorry… your wife experienced a miscarriage. We did everything we could, but the baby… was already gone by the time you brought her here.”

Gone.

The word echoed in Sylus’s mind like a gunshot.

He felt his knees buckle. He stumbled back against the cold hospital wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, his hands trembling as he buried his face into his palms.

Gone… the baby is gone…

He clenched his fists into his hair, tugging harshly as tears fell freely. Guilt burned through his chest, hot and suffocating.

It’s my fault.

It’s all my fault.

If I stayed… if I just stayed with her… our baby… our baby would still be here…

His shoulders shook with silent sobs. The hallway was quiet, except for the distant beeping of heart monitors and the muffled cries coming from inside your room.

Inside, you lay curled up on the hospital bed, staring blankly at the IV drip beside you. Tears streamed down your face endlessly, soaking your pillow.

Your hands rested protectively over your now-empty belly, feeling hollow. Cold. Dead inside.

“It was supposed to be you and me… baby… just you and me…” you whispered, your voice cracking with grief. “I’m so sorry… I’m so… so sorry…”

You closed your eyes, wishing you would never wake up again.

Outside, Sylus sat with his back against the wall, eyes red and unfocused, his mind screaming the same words over and over.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry…

But no matter how many times he whispered it, the reality remained unchanged.

Because Sylus chose the past.

He chose his guilt.

He chose everyone else… except you.

And now, he had lost the future you carried within you.

Because he couldn’t even stay by your side…

When you needed him the most.

Author's note : Did i just wait for the wedding banner to comes out before posting this? diabolically yes. Also sylus came home early at 17 pulls!!

p.s i have no problem if you guys filled my comment section, i like reading all your thoughts and reaction when it comes to my stories! (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤

#casxandraꔛ♥️#lads #love and deepspace fics #love and deepspace #lnds #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads caleb #lads sylus #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #sylus x you #non mc reader

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ao3commentoftheday · 3 days ago

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Hi! Lately, I've been trying real hard to start writing again after a break of a couple of years, and it's simply not happening. I took the break to begin with because I figured that I could pick up writing fic again easily when I felt less burned out. But each time I've tried since 2025 started I can barely get the words out. I keep telling myself I need to go slow and build up to it, but my brain blanks after a sentence or two, with or without an outline. I can force myself into a drabble or two, or even a flashfic, but it feels like pulling teeth the entire time. I even tried going back to old drafts and adding to them (unsuccessfully). Nothing works! I'm getting more and more frustrated and angry with myself for taking this long of a break from being creative. Do you have any concrete recommendations for what to do when the ideas/words/characters/whatever just aren't coming? My brain is mush.

(I love this blog. So excited to see you back.)

I'll tell you what I do, but I also want to encourage folks to add their thoughts on the notes. This is very much a situation that can be worked on in a million different ways, so any one particular take might or might not work. Often, frankensteining a bunch together is the better route.

I've currently got two creative hobbies: writing fic and making site skins for AO3. When a site skin isn't working, I just have to drop it. I've been attempting to redo my glowy blue Tron skin from like 4 years ago and every time I go back to it, I just get frustrated and need to stop. I don't have a clear idea of where I want to take it, and so nothing looks "right" because everything feels wrong. For site skins, I need to have a solid idea to latch onto in order to get anywhere with them.

For writing, it's kind of similar. It's a LOT easier to write when I have an idea that really lights a fire under me. However, I've found that I can write even if I just know what the end goal of the story is. Even if my ending is just "and then they bone" at least I know where I need to get my characters in the end, and that guiding principle is really helpful because most of what my characters do in the fic is going to be aimed at that end point.

I don't know if it's just the way that you've phrased it in this ask, but it seems like you can't see the story for the words. If you're focused too much on the act of writing then you might need to back away from that for now and work on just imagining the story first. Spend more time daydreaming or lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and picturing your blorbo in situations. Get into the habit of thinking about the story before you start writing the story. Then the writing part is just transcribing the picture that's already clear in your head.

I well understand the frustration that comes when you've got something in you and no way to get it out. Whatever else is happening, the way you used to go about writing fic doesn't work for you anymore and now you need to discover a new method. Maybe it's handwriting in a notebook instead of typing on a screen. Maybe it's dictating into your notes app. Maybe it's chatting it out with a bestie over coffee or in a DM. Maybe it's something else.

Let's see what other people suggest for you, and then you can cobble together a method of your very own. Good luck, anon! I'm rooting for you ❤️

#asks and answers

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dark-night-hero · 1 day ago

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Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader.

Imagine you did not even remember when you stopped breathing. One second, you were standing beneath the soft glow of the chapel lights, heart beating inside your chest like something caged but still hopeful and before you even knew it, time simply stopped.

Imagine the string quartet has been playing the same piece over and over again and now it sounds less like music and more like an apology.

Imagine the aisle is long. Beautiful and lined with white flowers and people who love you or at least pretend to and all of them are watching you. Watching as the minutes keep ticking.

Imagine twelve minutes have passes on and then, eighteen. Twenty seven.

Imagine, He's not coming. Thats the thought that slices through you like a blade and you hate it. Hate that your brain dares to whisper it before your heart is ready to accept it. But you’ve already scanned the room three times, and every time your eyes pass over the empty double doors, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Like your ribs are closing in on themselves.

Imagine Leanne's voice, your friend finally cuts through the hush beside you. "Hey." She whispers. "Let's go wait in the back for a minute, okay? Just... Just to breathe. Okay?" You nod or maybe you didn't. Maybe she just leads you and your body follows because it doesn't know what else to do.

Imagine as she takes your arm, you hear the first real whisper that makes your stomach drop. "MC isn't here either." Your legs almost give out. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From recognition. MC. Of course.

Imagine she was supposed to be here hours ago. You had texted her when your makeup was done. She did not respond. But that wasn't weird. She had probably been caught up with something. Probably helping Caleb. Helping Caleb. That phrase alone makes your stomach churn now.

Imagine you could feel the crack forming somewhere deep inside. Small. Quiet. But real. More voices follow. "They were at the base together this morning…" "They always had something, didn't they?" "He probably ran to the one person who knows him best." "It's always the best friend."

Imagine the way tbe pain doesn't come in one sudden blow. It comes in pieces. Slow. Deliberate. Like someone's peeling your skin off inch by inch.

Imagine you blink at Leanne as she tries to close the dressing room door behind you, blocking out the whispers. You think she says something, but you're already gone inside your own head.

Imagine as you sat in the middle of the sofa, gown spread out like wasted silk around you. Your hands won't stop shaking. Your bouquet lies forgotten on the floor. Your phone shows one voicemail from this morning.

Apple: No matter what happens, I love you.

5:13 a.m.

Imagine what the fuck does that even mean? Your hands tighten. Your breath comes out in sharp, humiliating gasps. That's not a message from someone running late. That's a goodbye. That's a pre written excuse. That's a coward's escape route.

but Imagine Caleb is not a coward. Is he? God, no. He's not. You love him. You know him. He had never... But she was always there. MC. Always just close enough. Always just understanding enough. Never stepping over the line but never quite behind it either.

and Imagine you trusted her. You liked her. Hell, you thought of her as a friend. She zipped you into this very dress three days ago and told you you looked like a walking promise. And now she's gone. Alongside him.

and Imagine for one gut wrenching second. Just one, you imagine them together. Caleb kissing her temple. MC whispering. "You deserve better than a life that cages you." Caleb agreeing. Caleb choosing freedom. Choosing someone who understands the scars you never earned the right to ask about.

Imagine you hate yourself. You hate yourself for even thinking about it. Because that's not MC. That's not Caleb.

but Imagine the doubt is there now. And doubt, once it takes root, doesn't care how much you believe.

Imagine you slam your phone face-down. You pull at the pins in your hair. You press your hands to your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, because if you let yourself speak, it'll turn into a scream.

"Why wasn't I enough?" That's the question that breaks you.

Imagine you hate it. You hate yourself for the shadows in your heart. You hate the silence that Caleb's absence has left behind. And most of all, you hate that you might never get your forever.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: caleb when I catch you-!!!!

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z0mi3 · 1 day ago

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Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

Chapter One —The Offering

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ parings: Barbarian!tf141 x civilized reader

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ synopsis: On the day meant to mark your passage into womanhood, something feels wrong. The smiles are forced, the ceremony hollow, until you're taken beyond the village, hooded, and left in the hands of those once called monsters.

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ contents: Barbarian AU, price is the bear, ghost is the dark wolf, gaz is the white wolf, and soap is the leopard!, it'll make sense later, arranged offering/non-consensual trade, mentions of dehumanization and folklore-based fear, implied threats of violence, implied cannibalism, fear of cannibalism, reader is in her 20's, implied sexual violence (fear of rape; does not occur), emotional distress (panic, fear, dissociation)

Reader discretion is advised!

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ word count: 1k+ words

Series Masterlist | next | moodboard | playlist

You should’ve known something was wrong.

You had only seen your parents once that morning—briefly, distantly—before the others swept you off to get ready. Your mother barely looked at you. Your father said nothing at all. They wore stiff expressions, both avoiding your eyes, speaking to others instead of to you. You told yourself it was just nerves. Ceremony jitters. Tradition, maybe. But something about it… something about it felt off.

Today was supposed to be a celebration. Your celebration.

They were honoring you—finally recognizing you as a woman of the village. After years of preparation, you had completed the long-standing ritual required of all women to earn that title. Now, you were of marrying age. That’s what they said, at least.

The feast, the procession, the jewelry pressed into your skin, the way your hands were painted with ink and powder—it was all tradition. All supposed to mark a joyful transition.

But joy didn’t come. Not from your parents. Not from you.

Even as the village cheered, even as petals were thrown and horns were blown, you couldn’t shake the tight coil in your gut. Couldn’t ignore how your hands trembled when they fastened your ceremonial cloak around your shoulders. Couldn’t stop the way your throat dried up when they kissed your forehead, then stepped back.

Why weren’t they smiling?

Why weren’t you?

The parade began.

You were paraded through the village like a lamb fattened for slaughter—crowned with woven branches, led barefoot through the dirt. Cheers followed you. So did drums. Women danced, children ran, and men watched.

And then…

Then something changed.

The music didn’t stop. But the people around you did.

Hands closed around your arms. You turned, confused, lips parted to speak, but they were already moving you. Steering you toward the edge of the square, past the far fences. You looked back once—just once.

Your parents didn’t stop them.

They didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t move.

You thought maybe it was part of the ritual. That it was symbolic. That perhaps you had to be led into the forest as part of becoming a woman.

But no one told you where you were going. No one answered your questions.

And then came the hood.

Rough cloth. Damp. Smelling of smoke and old leather. It was pulled over your head with practiced hands. Tight hands. You kicked, cried out, struggled until something hard cracked against your skull and the world went black.

⸻

You wake cold. Your bones ache. The world smells of damp earth and pine needles.

Your body is covered in furs you don’t recognize, resting on the floor of something that might be a tent—or maybe a cave. Light flickers behind your closed eyelids. A fire?

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above is made of thick animal hide, stitched together crudely. Bones line the seams. Your breath fogs in the air. You sit up slowly, teeth chattering.

Outside, voices murmur. Deep. Masculine. Sharp like flint.

You crawl toward the opening and peer out.

The forest surrounds you—tall, dark, endless. And scattered within it are shelters just like this one. Fires burn in pits. People move among them, cloaked in furs, metal glinting on their arms and chests.

Not your people.

Barbarians.

The ones your parents warned you about.

The ones they called less than men—the beasts who lived in the mountains, who raided villages, who wore wolves like armor and drank the blood of their enemies.

You scramble back, panic clawing its way up your throat. Your heart pounds so hard it echoes in your ears.

This wasn’t part of the ritual.

This wasn’t symbolic.

You weren’t being honored.

You’d been given.

You’d been offered.

Your parents gave you to them.

The same people they called savages. The same people they said weren’t even human.

You remember the way your mother’s voice dropped to a whisper whenever they were mentioned. How your father’s jaw would tighten when the name of their tribe was spoken aloud. Don’t say it where children can hear, he once warned, eyes darting to the corners of the room like something might be listening.

They spoke of these people like a myth. Like monsters.

Beasts in human skin who roamed the highlands, tasting human flesh like it was delicacy. Creatures who didn’t just want your body, but your soul—your emotions, your fear, your pain. They fed on it, lived in it, thirsted for it.

They were stories told by firelight, warnings woven into bedtime lullabies. Don’t stray from the path. Don’t follow the drums. Don’t answer the howling in the night.

And now, here you are.

Not stolen.

Traded.

Like meat.

Like nothing.

You can’t believe it.

You refuse to believe it.

No. There has to be something else—anything else. A mistake, a mix-up, some elaborate ritual your village kept secret until the final moment. Something twisted and old and symbolic.

But the truth keeps pressing in, heavy and suffocating.

You weren’t taken.

You were given.

Your thoughts race, frantic and desperate, trying to conjure even a single explanation that makes sense. Maybe it was a trade agreement. Maybe for peace. Or protection. A gesture of loyalty. A debt.

Maybe they didn’t want to, maybe they had no choice—

But no matter how you twist it, no matter how you try to make the puzzle fit, it all leads back to the same gut-sickening truth:

Your parents handed you over.

Their only child.

Their daughter.

They let you go without a fight.

Your breath comes faster now. Too fast. Your chest rises and falls in shallow gulps, your eyes burn as tears sting your lower lashes. You press your palms against the ground, trying to steady yourself, but the earth feels like it’s swaying beneath you.

And that’s when you hear it—

Footsteps.

Not one.

Several.

Heavy. Measured. Coming closer.

You freeze.

Then, instinct kicks in.

Your eyes dart around the tent—this massive structure of stitched hide and bone—but there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. It’s just you and the fire. You press yourself back, scooting until you’re wedged in the farthest corner, limbs curled in, body shaking. The firelight flickers over you briefly, exposing the sheer panic on your face.

The footsteps stop just outside.

Your lungs go still.

The flap of the tent shifts—drawn aside—and they enter.

One by one.

Four enormous figures, each one ducking under the threshold, their sheer mass making the already-huge space feel crushingly small. Their presence is immediate. Dominant. Terrifying.

They don’t look human.

They look like nightmares.

Each one is cloaked in fur, bone, leather. Adorned with teeth and claws strung like trophies along their bodies. They wear masks—animal heads hollowed and worn like armor.

The first wears a towering bear skull atop his broad shoulders, his eyes hidden beneath the thick shadow of the mask. He carries no weapon, but you don’t need one to be dangerous when you’re that large.

The second wears a dark wolf’s head, pelt draped like a cloak over his chest. He doesn’t move like the others—there’s a stillness to him, a silence that makes your skin crawl.

The third is lighter, with a white wolf mask and a body decorated in ivory beads, claws, and pale fur. His head tilts when he looks at you, and for some reason, it feels almost gentle. Almost.

The fourth—

God. You hate the fourth.

He wears a cat-like animal mask—something feline, maybe a leopard. His chest is bare, thickly muscled, marked with old scars and painted lines. The way he walks is casual, almost amused. A predator with time to spare.

They stop just inside.

Four men.

Four monsters.

Four beasts.

You don’t know which one is worse.

You curl in tighter, trying to shrink into the shadows, praying they’ll ignore you. But they don’t speak. They just stare—through you, past you, into you. Like they’re trying to figure out if you’re a threat, or prey.

They feel too close.

Even when they’re standing on the other side of the fire, they feel right on top of you.

And somewhere deep in your stomach, dread coils.

You hope—God, you hope—that they really are monsters. That they’re more beast than man. Because if they’re men… if they’re human… if they have the capacity to feel, to want—

Then this will be so much worse.

You’ve heard stories. Of what men do. What they take. Of women discarded and broken, left as nothing but vessels for someone else’s hunger. If these are the kind of men your village feared—if your parents knew that, and still gave you up—

It would almost be better to be eaten.

Bones and all.

The silence stretches on, heavy and unbearable. You feel their eyes on you, picking you apart, weighing every breath, every twitch. You can’t stand it. You can’t stand the not knowing.

So you break.

Your voice comes out small, terrified. Cracked like old wood.

“Are you… gonna eat me?”

It’s barely more than a whisper. A child’s voice. A broken prayer.

The silence holds for one breath.

Two.

And then the leopard-mask lets out a howl of laughter.

It bursts from his chest like an explosion, his head thrown back as the sound echoes through the tent. Loud. Wild. Startling.

You flinch so hard your back hits the wall of the tent.

God, how you want that stupid cat to shut up.

The white wolf looks at you, visibly confused.

“…Eat… you…?” he repeats, tilting his head.

His voice is low, accented. Soft in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him.

The leopard is still laughing, hands on his hips now like he can’t breathe, and you burn with shame. Your face goes hot, your eyes prick with humiliation.

How stupid. How stupid you must sound.

“Johnny.” The bear-mask speaks at last. His voice is deep, gravelly, sharp with warning.

The laughing one—Johnny, apparently—chokes on another chuckle, then finally quiets, though you still see the grin twitching beneath his mask.

You press further back into the corner, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

The white wolf is still watching you.

But something’s shifted.

He’s not confused anymore. He looks… curious.

And the silence returns.

bones and all mentioned 🤓 | lemme know if you wanna be in the taglist! | i will differently add more onto this like the moodboard and playlist ! | this took forever to make so please enjoy! | borders by @saradika-graphics !!

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zephyrchama · 3 days ago

Text

You rubbed your eyes. You were seeing things. Strange, sparkly things floating in the air around Solomon. They appeared to radiate out of him, causing you to stare and making his surroundings look dull in comparison.

He was just sorting books, leafing through them one at a time before placing them in one of five piles. The books were not dazzling. In fact, they were rather dusty and some were starting to fall apart. None of them had the same strange shimmer as Solomon. He practically had his own personal limelight. Your eyes narrowed. The rays didn't seem physical, perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight.

Solomon noticed the staring. The corners of his mouth turned up into a bemused smile. "See something you like?"

"Did you... do something?" you asked. It was hard to put into words exactly what was wrong.

The walking glowstick only grinned more. "You mean, with my hair or clothes?" He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the side above his ear. A tiny wave of starlight flowed out like a swarm of fireflies and dissipated into the surrounding air. "I did try some new soap that Simeon recommended the other day. Funny enough, it markets itself as 'soap scented.'"

He was being way too casual about this.

"That's not it. Something is different." You shut your eyes really hard, then opened and closed them in rapid succession. The weird lights were still there, and still only on Solomon.

"Did you enchant yourself?" you blurted out in accusation.

"Is that what it looks like?" The sorcerer looked highly amused. It made the radiant glitter shine brighter in contrast to his seasoned old books.

"Yeah. You're all sparkly. You look like the love interest in a shoujo manga." When you closed your eyes, you could still see Solomon's afterimage.

"Is that how you see me? Well, I'm flattered."

You knew Solomon, and you knew him well. If this wasn't planned, he'd take it more seriously. He'd ask questions, diagnose your vision, and check himself over for charms or curses at the very least. He'd probe for information. He'd express more than a vague entertainment over the issue.

You pooled your magic and, to the best of your ability, dispelled whatever Solomon had going on. It was a trick he'd taught you months ago that you only used once in a blue moon, but it worked. A little gust of power crossed the room from you to him. The glitzy sparkles faded away and Solomon stopped glowing.

"I knew it!" you shouted, pointing your finger at your mentor. "You did enchant yourself!"

"Well, I always want to look my best in front of you." Solomon was chuckling as the last of his magical effect evaporated. "What do you think, did it work?"

With silver-gray hair that sparkled like stars in the right light and a bright glossy cloak that looked like the universe, Solomon was plenty eye-catching on a normal day. He didn't need more. You frankly stated, "You looked like a human disco ball."

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meadowfics · 3 days ago

Text

hemiplegic migraine

namgyu x f!reader

synopsis: caring for your junkie boyfriend brings back a serious type of migraine.

warnings: toxic relationship, namgyu on drugs, homicide, withdrawals, hemiplegic migraines, the fourth game, swearing, violence. reader discretion is advised.

SPOILERS FOR SQUID GAME SEASON THREE BELOW -> DON'T CLICK 'KEEP READING' IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS!

the knife's handle is squeezed in the palms of your hand, the weight of it grounding you in some way knowing that you are not the one being hunted.

the starry night maze looms around you, its walls painted with swirling galaxies that seem to mock your every step. you wished they could've been real at least. maybe an outside stadium or something.

your skin crawls knowing what you'll have to do in this game. namgyu’s laughter echoes ahead, unhinged, cutting through the eerie silence in your mind like a blade.

he’s jogging, his movements erratic, his eyes wild with the high that’s been his constant companion since the club days. you trail behind him, your heart pounding...not just from the game, but from the fear of what namgyu might do next.

myunggi’s ahead too, his broad shoulders tense as he checks another locked door, his key useless against the triangle lock.

the red team, your team, has been a mess since the start of this fourth game.

thanos’s death last night still hangs heavy, a reminder of how quickly things can spiral. you’d heard about the light leaving his eyes from namgyu, the way subong's body crumpled under the weight of myunggi's fork.

it wasn’t namgyu who killed him, but it could’ve been.

your boyfriend’s been teetering on the edge of homicidal ever since the drugs took hold, his moods swinging between manic devotion to you and a reckless disregard for anyone else.

you’re not sure which scares you more.

“where are you goinggg?”

namgyu’s voice is sing-song, taunting, as he catches up to myunggi. you can hear the smirk in his words, the way he’s relishing the chaos.

myunggi doesn’t turn, his focus on the next door, his fingers fumbling with the square key in his hand.

“i’ve got to find someone,” he mutters, his voice low, almost desperate.

you know who he’s talking about. you’ve seen him with her...junhee, the pregnant woman whose eyes carry a quiet strength despite the hell you’re all trapped in.

you’ve watched them argue in-between the last three games before this one, their hushed words laced with a history you can only guess at.

exes, maybe. or something more.

you’re sure myunggi’s the father of her baby, though you haven’t breathed a word of it to namgyu.

not for 222’s sake, as they say in this cursed place, but because you’re not sure how namgyu would react.

namgyu is a gossiper, and smarter than he looks. honestly, you think he already knows about junhee's baby... but you won't tell him about 333's involvement.

“that bitch you have a thing with?” namgyu says, his smirk widening as he leans closer to myunggi.

your stomach twists at the word. you’ve told him a hundred times not to throw the word 'bitch' around about women.

junhee’s carrying a child, for fuck’s sake.

the way he’s talking makes your skin crawl.

“namgyu,” you snap, your voice sharp enough to cut through his haze.

he glances back at you, rolling his eyes like a petulant child, but there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze....something that makes your chest tighten.

he’s high, unpredictable, and you’re the only thing keeping him to reality.

myunggi stops dead in his tracks, his hand still on the door. the air shifts, heavy with the promise of violence.

before you can blink, he’s got namgyu pinned against the wall, his knife pressed to namgyu’s throat.

“you touch her, you’re dead,” myunggi growls, his voice low and lethal.

“you and your girl.” myunggi's eyes flick to you, and the blade swings in your direction, a warning. your breath catches, and you step back, hands raised, your own knife still gripped tightly.

you’re not like namgyu since you don’t have it in you to kill a woman like junhee, pregnant or not.

the thought makes your stomach churn, but myunggi’s gaze is intense, and you know he means every word.

namgyu, though, doesn’t flinch.

he’s too far gone, the drugs making him reckless, almost gleeful in the face of danger.

“you’ve been so sensible,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery, “and now you’re just a total drama queen.”

he laughs, a sharp, grating sound, and then...fuck...he drags his finger along myunggi’s blade, deliberately cutting himself. blood wells up, bright and stark against his skin, and he grins like it’s a game as he licks at his own blood.

your heart lurches.

you want to scream at him, to drag him away from this madness. unfortunately, you’re frozen.

“namgyu, stop,” you say, your voice quieter now, pleading.

you step forward, grabbing his arm, trying to pull him back. he’s shaking, not from fear but from the high, his pupils blown wide. myunggi releases him, stepping back with a look of disgust, and you tug namgyu away, your grip tight.

“you’re gonna get us killed,” you hiss, but he just laughs again, slinging an arm around your shoulders like you’re on a fucking date instead of running for your lives.

the maze is full of dead ends and locked doors, each one a strange type of gamble.

you’ve already taken out a blue team player, so you passed. it was five minutes ago, on the clock, when your knife found the guy's chest before namgyu or myunggi could even react.

you’d seen the guy running, his footsteps echoing in the starry glow, and you’d bolted after him, your body moving faster than your mind.

in some way, you figured that getting a kill would've been hard with namgyu and myunggi involved. you were terrified that they would've let you fail the game if it meant them passing.

so, when you caught the blue player, it was over in seconds...your blade, his blood, the sickening thud of his body hitting the ground.

myunggi and namgyu chased you to see what had happened.

seeing the blood everywhere in the maze corner sent namgyu into a cheer. he had screamed with delight, his laughter bouncing off the walls as he watched you wipe the blood from your knife.

“our that’s my babygirl,” he’d said, his voice thick with pride.

you had a light smile, loving namgyu's pet names for you, even as your stomach twisted.

now, as you follow myunggi through the maze, namgyu’s still jumping in joy from the kill, his energy infectious but dangerous. he’s teasing myunggi again, his voice loud in the quiet.

“what are you gonna do when you find her? protect her? we can protect that bitch with you,” he says, pointing at himself and you with a grin that’s more sarcasm than sincerity.

your heart drops. you know he doesn’t mean it, not really, but the way he says it makes you feel sick. you want to tell him to shut up, to stop antagonizing myunggi, but before you can, myunggi’s already moving, his focus back on the doors.

you’re tired. so fucking tired.

not just from the game, but from everything. from namgyu’s addiction, from the way you have to watch him every second to keep him from spiraling.

you're also terrified about something else.

hemiplegic migraines are a thing that have haunted you since you were a kid, the ones that could strike at any moment and leave you useless, one side of your body paralyzed, your vision blurred, your head screaming.

you’ve been lucky so far...no neurological attacks since the games began...but the fear is always there, lurking.

if one hits during a game, you’re done.

you won’t be able to run, to fight, to protect namgyu or yourself since you'd be too weak.

the thought makes your chest tighten, your breath shallow.

you push it down, focusing on the maze.

myunggi’s still checking doors, his movements frantic now, and you know he’s desperate to find junhee. you don’t blame him. if it was namgyu out there, you’d be the same way.

maybe worse.

namgyu’s still talking, his voice a constant stream of nonsense, and you’re starting to tune him out when you hear it...a faint sound, like a footstep.

you freeze, your hand tightening on your knife.

namgyu doesn’t notice, too caught up in his own head, but myunggi does.

he stops, his head tilting as he listens.

“shut up,” you whisper to namgyu, grabbing his arm. he looks at you, annoyed, but quiets down when he sees the look on your face. the three of you stand still, the maze holding its breath.

thats when you see a flash of blue, a player from the other team, darting past an open doorway. myunggi’s gone in an instant, his knife drawn, and namgyu’s right behind him, laughing like it’s a fucking game show.

you follow, your heart in your throat, your legs burning as you try to keep up.

the blue player doesn’t stand a chance.

myunggi’s on him first, his knife swift and precise, and namgyu joins in, his movements wild but effective. the player’s down in seconds, blood pooling on the floor, and namgyu’s laughing again, kicking the body like it’s a toy.

“wake up, I want to play!” he shouts, stabbing the already-dead player with a grin. myunggi rolls his eyes, wiping his knife on his sleeve, but you’re not looking at them.

your eyes are on the other body.

your eyes are on the one lying next to the one they just killed.

player 100.

he was already laying there.

however, you notice the faint rising of his cheat going up and down.

you fail to see stab marks on his body as well.

you step closer, your heart pounding. you’ve seen this before...players faking death, hoping to slip through the cracks.

not this time. not with you.

especially with a fucker like player 100.

you kneel beside him, your fingers finding his pulse. it’s strong, steady, alive.

your rage boils over.

this fucker, this coward, is the reason you’re all still here, trapped in this maze, fighting for your lives.

you don’t hesitate. your knife finds his neck, right where you felt his pulse, and you drive it in, hard. blood sprays, hot and wet, and player 100’s eyes fly open, a gurgle escaping his throat before he goes still.

namgyu’s squeal of excitement is deafening.

he grabs you, pulling you to your feet and planting a sloppy kiss on your forehead.

“you smart girl,” he says, his voice dripping with pride.

“you fucking got him when that fucker tried to play dead!” you force a smile, but your hands are shaking, the weight of what you just did settling into your bones.

you’re not like namgyu.

you don’t revel in this but you had to do it for the team.

myunggi’s watching you, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the judgment in his gaze. he doesn’t say anything, just turns and starts checking doors again. namgyu’s still buzzing, his arm slung around your shoulders as you follow.

you want to push him off, to tell him to focus, but you don’t.

you can’t.

he’s all you have in this place, fucked up as he is.

the maze seems to stretch on forever, the starry walls closing in, the air growing heavier with every step. you’re starting to feel it...the pressure in your head, the faint tingling in your left arm.

no. not now.

you shake it off, gripping your knife tighter, but the fear is there, clawing at you.

a migraine could hit at any moment, and if it does, you’re fucked.

you glance at namgyu, his wild grin, his blood-streaked hands, and you wonder how you got here. how the man you loved, the one who used to dance with you under neon lights, became this.

how you both became this.

“come on, baby,” namgyu says, tugging you forward, “let’s find the next one.” his voice is light, playful, like you’re not surrounded by death.

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, and follow him deeper into the maze. myunggi’s ahead, his focus unwavering, and you know he’s still searching for junhee. you hope he finds her. you hope she’s okay.

more than anything, you hope you can keep namgyu from spiraling even more, from dragging you both down with him. in this starry night maze, with blood on your hands and a migraine lurking ahead, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold on.

after another ten minutes the maze game is over.

your white shoes echo on the cold floor as you stumble out of the starry night maze, the swirling galaxies fading behind you, replaced by the sterile glare of the dorms lights.

namgyu’s arms are wrapped around your waist, his grip tight, almost suffocating, making it hard to walk straight. your man's breath is hot against your neck, his body pressed too close, and you can feel the erratic energy pulsing through him.

he’s still high, still riding the wave of whatever he’s been snorting, but you’re too exhausted to care.

you gently push him off, turning to face him.

“are you alright?” you ask, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

namgyu nods, his lips curling into that crooked smile that used to make your heart skip back in the club days, before all this.

the man's slender fingers reaches for the cross necklace around his neck...the one he took from thanos’s body, the one he’s been using to hide his stash of pills.

you’ve hated that thing since he started wearing it last night, a grim trophy that’s only fed his addiction.

however, his fingers freeze while groping at empty air.

the smile on namgyu's face vanishes, his eyes widening as he pats his chest, his neck, his panic rising like a tide.

“where is it?” he mutters while frantic, “where’s my fucking necklace?”

your stomach drops.

you glance at his neck, confirming what you already know: the chain is gone. lost somewhere in the maze, probably during the chaos of the game, when he was laughing like a maniac and slashing at anything that moved.

“namgyu, it’s gone,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm.

however, he’s already turning, his body lurching toward the dorm's exit like he’s going to run back in.

“no, no, no, i need it,” he says, his voice cracking, his hands shaking as he stumbles forward. you grab his arm, but his stronger body moving under your grip, his desperation making him reckless.

before you can pull him back, the guards are on him...two of them, their faces blank, their guns drawn and pointed right at his chest.

namgyu freezes, his eyes wild, and then he drops, his knees hitting the floor hard as a guard shoves him down, the barrel of a gun inches from his face.

your heart lurches into your throat.

“namgyu!” you shout, dropping to your knees beside him, your hands up in surrender to the guards.

“he’s okay, he’s not going back, he’s fine without going back there,” you say, your voice steady as the guards move their gun barrels down.

you wrap an arm around namgyu, pulling him close, his body trembling against yours.

the guards finally lower their weapons entirely, stepping back, but their eyes stay locked on you both, cold. namgyu’s breathing is ragged, his hands twitching, and you can see it...the first signs of withdrawal creeping in.

namgyu's skin is clammy, his eyes darting, unfocused. he’s not processing this, not fully. he’s still muttering about the necklace, about the drugs, his voice a low, desperate whine.

“come on,” you whisper, hauling him to his feet.

he’s heavier than he looks, his body sluggish but jittery, like a live wire. you drag him down the dorm room, past the other players’ wary glances, past the guards who watch you like hawks.

your arms ache from the effort, but you don’t let go until you reach the bed that you and namgyu share. the thin mattress room creaks as you ease him onto it.

he’s shaking harder now, his hands clawing at his arms, his neck, like he can still feel the ghost of that necklace. you sit beside him, your eyes drifting up to the piggy bank mounted on the wall...a mocking reminder of the 500 million won debt hanging over you.

you’ve earned more than enough in these games, more than enough to walk away, to start over.

namgyu? you know him since his crazy ass will want to stay to chase the thrill, and the high.

you can’t think about that now, though.

you lie back on the bed, your body heavy with exhaustion, the adrenaline from the maze draining away. namgyu’s curled up next to you, his head on your chest, his breaths uneven.

you stroke his hair, trying to calm him, but then you feel it...a sharp, familiar pressure building behind your eyes. your heart skips.

no. not now.

you try to breathe through it, to will it away, but the tingling starts in your left fingers, a creeping numbness that makes your stomach churn.

another episode of a hemiplegic migraine, thanks to your stress.

you’ve dreaded this moment since the games began, the fear of your body betraying you in the worst possible place. your vision blurs slightly at the edges, and you grip the edge of the mattress, your knuckles white.

namgyu’s still trembling, muttering to himself, and you know you can’t let him see this.

you close your eyes, trying to focus on your breathing, on anything but the way your left hand is going limp, the way the room feels like it’s tilting. you’ve had these migraines since you were a kid, the kind that leave half your body useless, your head splitting open with pain.

in the outside world, you could hide away, ride it out in the dark.

here, there’s no hiding. if it hits full force, you’re a liability. you’re dead weight. with namgyu spiraling into withdrawal, you’re all he’s got.

you force yourself to sit up, ignoring the way your left arm feels like it’s made of lead, and you glance at him. he’s staring at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, his hands twitching like they’re trying to claw their way out of his skin.

“baby,” you say, your voice soft but firm, “look at me.”

he turns his head, his eyes glassy, and for a moment, you see the namgyu you fell for. the one who’d dance with you under strobe lights at club pentagon, not the one who’s screaming for a necklace he’ll never find again.

namgyu nods, but his gaze flicks back to the piggy bank, and you know he’s not listening.

“i need it,” he mutters, “i need that fucking necklace.”

“it’s gone, namgyu,” you say, sharper than you mean to.

“you’re not going back in there.” you can feel the migraine creeping up your neck, the numbness spreading, but you can’t let him know.

you stroke his hair, whispering, “you’re okay. we’re okay.”

however, your words feel hollow. the pain in your head is starting to pulse.

namgyu curls tighter against you, his body shaking harder now, and you know the withdrawal’s hitting him fast. the drugs in that necklace kept him floating, but without them, he’s crashing. hard. you want to hold him, to anchor him, but your own body is betraying you.

the headache’s growing, a vice around your skull, and your left hand is useless now, dangling at your side. you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay steady, but the world feels like it’s slipping sideways.

the vote comes sooner than you expected. you sit beside namgyu, your head pounding, each throb like a hammer against your skull.

namgyu's sitting too close, his knee bouncing, his fingers twitching as he stares at the floor. the withdrawal’s got him in its grip, and you can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes dart around like he’s looking for something that isn’t there.

when it’s his turn to vote, namgyu stands, his movements jerky. he gives some time to think while looking down at the two buttons. you give him a curious look before his hand lightly presses down on the red X.

you blink, surprised, your foggy brain struggling to process it.

namgyu, who’d rather die than walk away from a thrill, wants to leave?

unfortunately, it didn't take long before a realization hits you, and you feel stupid for not seeing it sooner.

the necklace is gone which means his drugs are gone.

this place has nothing left for him but pain, and you know he’s not thinking about the 500 million won debt or the life you could build together.

he’s thinking about where he can score next, about the streets outside this hellhole where he can get high again. your chest tightens, a mix of relief and dread.

you want him out of here, away from the blood and the knives, but you’re terrified of what he’ll do with the money. you’ve seen him blow through cash before, trading it for powders and pills without a second thought.

you want him clean...goodness, you want it so badly...but you know he might not use his share to pay off the debt. he might just disappear into the neon haze of the club scene again, leaving you to pick up the pieces.

it’s your turn to vote, and you stand slowly, your right hand trembling as you raise it to quickly smash the red X button.

the effort of standing up and walking makes your head throb harder, and you take a long blink, the room swimming for a moment. you sit back down, your left arm limp, the numbness creeping up your shoulder now.

you’ve had these migraines since you were a kid, each one a nightmare that leaves you half-paralyzed, your body betraying you for days at a time.

you’ve seen neurological doctors, racked up bills that contributed to the debt hanging over you, but most of them just shrugged.

“it’s normal for some people,” they’d say, “no underlying cause, just something you live with.”

it’s bullshit, and you hate it...the way your body turns against you, the way you’re forced to just endure it. you’re praying you can sleep this one off before the next game, but deep down, you know these neurological attacks can last days.

you ease yourself onto the thin mattress, the piggy bank on the ceiling mocking you with its silent tally of your debt. namgyu follows, his movements sluggish but restless, like his body can’t decide whether to collapse or keep running.

he slides in behind you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.

namgyu, surprisingly, is big-spooning you, his chest pressed against your back, his breath uneven against your neck. you can feel the tremors in his hands, the way his body is fighting the withdrawal, but he’s holding onto you like you’re his lifeline.

he smells like sweat and blood and something faintly like the cologne he used to wear back when things were different, and you wish it could comfort you.

however, your head is splitting, and at this pint your left side is totally numb.

you can’t relax, can’t sleep.

neither can he.

you both lie there in silence, the weight of everything pressing down on you. you want to say something, to ask him what he’s thinking, to beg him to promise he’ll get clean once you’re out of here.

unfortunately, the words stick in your throat. you’re not sure you want to hear his answer. namgyu's arms tighten around you, and you close your eyes, trying to focus on his warmth, on the faint hope that you can both walk away from this alive.

the migraine pulses, keeping sleep just out of reach.

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