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leaawrites · 1 day ago

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Asking for more isn't a bad thing

Jannik Sinner x fem!reader

Summary: where Jannik is willing to give more to her than her actual boyfriend.

Warnings: fluff, angst, no actual cheating but mention of suspected cheating and fast moving on, toxic boyfriend, implications of emotional cheating from both sides, tension, slow burn, 16+, no actual smut but making out

A little treat because Jannik just won Wimbledon!!!!

Wordcount: 5.2k (It's slowly getting out of hand atp)

Masterlist, ATP Masterlist

It had always been the bare minimum. Whether it be what she received or expected, it had never been more than necessary and she had come to terms with that. She lived in a nice flat with enough space to move around comfortably. She had a job that left her with enough sleepless nights so that she wouldn't die but still feel productive. She had a boyfriend that brought her flowers on Valentine's Day and maybe even chocolates.

And if she wasn't meant for more, she decided she wouldn't ask for more. Especially when she knew how often he had complained about them spending not as much time together but how he inevitably came to terms with it. It made her come to terms with it as well.

Everything in her life was comfortable.

It came down to days like this. When she was sat on the outsides of the game but was still emersed in it. The ball flying over the net with every hit until one eventually messed up. The anticipation till that point made her feel more than she ever had in her life. The nerves came raddling down her brain as she watched the player she bet on out of fun in her head fall behind. It made the adrenaline pump through her veins when there was hope resurface and a smile spread across her face when that said player won his second or third game.

Standing behind the camera with her hands clasped together in happiness, filming the post game interview before wrapping the tournament up with a dinner or a movie night with one or more of the players.

It had always been like this. The way she dreamed of it to be.

The opportunity of traveling the world reaching out to her with every time a new tournament was waiting somewhere around the globe. And she took it without hesitation. New places and new people pushed away the guilt she felt when coming home.

It wasn't that everything was bad back then, but she was so used to it all that nothing ever felt as good as being away from it. Whether it be the shoes in the hallway or the shows that played on TV, nothing could ever compare to the loud laughter she shared with her friends or the skyline she saw from her hotel bed late at night. Every mattress felt more comfortable than the one in her own bed. Every coffee woke her up better than the one in the coffee shop down the street.

Every face felt more welcoming than the one waiting for her at home. The one that was sprawled all over the bed when she would arrive late at night or on early mornings, leaving no space for her to relax in. The one that left in the mornings with a quick 'good morning' and a kiss goodbye. The one that was too busy attending business dinners to take her out whenever she was home.

It started like a dream. One neither wanted to wake up from. Though slowly it developed into a hasty completion of daily chores they heard about from happy couples on how to be complete.

But it never worked in the way they wanted it to work.

She always felt more complete in times like these. Sitting on the floor of the small balcony, overlooking the quiet nights of Paris. Her notes for her interview of the following day sitting long forgotten in her lap as she stared down at the people sitting in bars and walking along the streets. It had always been that way. She would watch the other's, taking notes on what made them unique and letting the guilt of wasted potential eat her up afterwards.

Convinced that she would never be the one worth looking at.

"What are you doing?" The all too familiar voice called out to her from a balcony away.

Looking up and turning her head, she knew who it was before making out their face. But the mop of red hair helped her confirm the intruder of her self-deconstruction.

Jannik Sinner, the world's number 1 Tennis player was looking down at her with a smile on his face. Leaning over the railing to get a closer look at her as she scrambled up to her feet and mirrored his position.

"Could ask you the same. Shouldn't you already be in bed?" she mused, tilting her head to emphasize the mockery intention. Awaiting his laugh that she knew would come before continuing, "I don't have the privileged of a tight day to day schedule. I actually have to put up with my body if it doesn't want to go to bed."

"Seems like a schedule doesn't prevent my head from being awake," he said back, gesturing to his present form in front of her. The bedside light from his room reflecting through the glass window onto his sweats and sweater.

"A light in the dark, huh?" she asked jokingly, her tone shifting from mockery to banter. A slight change he caught on immediately.

The weight in his shoulders falling along with his head as he laughed. Exhaustion lacing his vocal chords.

"It seems so, yeah."

Silence settled over them. A comfortable, understanding kind. One of those you noticed immediately when walking into a room of trust and affection. It settled over the whole city the longer they looked at each other, smiling like there was nothing else worthy to look at. And for the first time in a while a question of belonging made itself known to her mind. Depicting her life back home and the one she could have with someone that actually seemed to care.

For now though, she only asked, "Are you nervous?"

The words tumbling down before she could think about them. It seemed reckless to any outsider. They were colleagues in a sense, not long trusted friends. But they knew each other long enough for her to notice the way he fidgeted with his fingers the way he always did before a big match.

"A bit," he said, barely audible if she wasn't leaning so close. "I mean, it's always a bit scary thinking about how many people will be watching, especially with this match against Carlos. I don't think I will ever get used to that. The possibility of disappointment."

Nodding her head in understanding, she tried her best to understand. "I feel the same way about work. Pitching ideas that could be shit, having you not enjoy what I make you do for the content. It's not even half as important as your job, but it still feels intimidating."

"As if," he scoffed, shaking his head in disagreement of her words.

And with the way his tone dropped, she was already prepared for the talk about difference in their jobs. How what she was doing was barely considerable as a way of making money since it was something even toddlers could do. But it never came. She wasn't back with him in the end, she had to remind herself of that.

"Nobody would watch us play if it wasn't for the things you make us do for other's entertainment. I'm just chasing a ball like a dog, you're actually doing something worth paying for."

"Says the man living in Monaco," she mused and if it wasn't for the low lights she swore she could've seen a slight blush appear on his face at the teasing.

Falling back into silence without a counter from his side, she looked down at her phone screen. The bright light and colorful background of it engulfing her face in a way he never thought possible. Reflecting in her eyes like stars in the sky and lining her bones with intense shadows. Dark eyes turning blue, invisible skin tinting purple. His heart trying to escape his chest and run towards her. Capturing the moment forever in his mind before she looked at him again, turning the screen off and drowning herself back in shadows.

"It's already past ten," she announced, making him nod in understanding. It was time for them to part ways for the day.

Leaning back, his hands still gripping the railing, he waited for her to say something. Anything that would make their conversation last a moment longer.

"Not too late for a movie," she said.

Jannik jumping to a counter question immediately. "What do think of watching?"

"I don't know. You've got any ideas?" she asked, gathering her utensils from the little table. Holding them close to her chest like a shield. "Maybe you could come over? Calm your nerves, help me pick a movie?"

And he swore he never agreed to anything faster. Nodding his head and pushing out a quick, nonchalant, "sure," before stumbling inside his room and out of it again. Slipping into his bathroom to put on a extra dose of deodorant and fixing his hair.

The knock on her door came mere seconds after she put her stuff down. Walking to the door and letting him in, Jannik looked more out of breath than it would be usual for the two meter walk he had to put up, but she didn't question it. Only apologizing for her messy room and awkwardly kicking her suitcase out of the way, as it laid open with her clothes sticking out in the middle of the room.

"What's like your favorite movie for overwhelming situations? Like, when you're sick or one that reminds you of your childhood," she asked, walking over to the other side of the bed to settle down beside him. Grabbing her laptop from between the covers and starting to dig through the Netflix catalogue.

"I don't know, what's yours?" he said in such a soft voice it made her spine curl.

Eyes widening in surprise at his answer, rather expecting a detailed list of a thought-through male movie list than an 'what's yours?', she quickly went through the list she had in her mind.

"Hold up, I've got a list for this on my letterboxd," she said, opening a new tab to find the list.

"What's letterboxd?" he said it like a word out of a foreign language he only just discovered for a pr-video. Leaning closer to the screen in interest, gaze skipping through the different tasks and lists, his breath fanned down the side of her neck. All kinds of movie posters, most which he didn't recognize, popping up in front of him.

"It's a website where you can rate movies," she explained, "pretty boring actually." Straightening her spine to get the feeling of having him so close out of her head.

"You like movies that much?" Looking up, he didn't expect her face to be as close at it was to his. Eyes flicking down to her lips as she spoke, her own gaze avoiding his as she tried to pick a movie for them.

"I do, yeah. What about a simple pick, Cars?"

Finally looking back at him, she noticed the small grin spreading across his freckled face. The intensity of it all bubbling up in her stomach until she let out a laugh.

"What?" she asked, a slight blush creeping up on her already hot cheeks.

"Nothing," Jannik quickly said, looking back at the movie posters.

"Is it about the movie?" Sitting forward, the laptop fell out of her lap, tumbling down on her legs. Instinctively he reached for it, grabbing a hold of it before she could and settling on his own spread out legs.

"No, no, I like the movie. It's not about the movie." Tapping through her tabs and apps like second nature, he selected the movie before she could protest. Knowing how she could get when doubts about the slightest situation came up in her mind. "You just looked really cute when you were so focused on picking the right one."

"Did I pick the right one?" she asked just to make sure.

"I don't think you could pick a bad movie."

Before she could imply any further complications, the movie started. Both settling into the comfort of kids entertainment, falling back in time for a while, pretending like nothing besides the story mattered.

The hours went on and with every tick of the clock over their heads, her head fell further. Eyelids closing off with her mind. The pillow under her head becoming his shoulder. The blanket over her body being pulled up by his hands in a gentle motion, trying not to wake her while he sunk deeper into the mattress himself. Closing the laptop and closing his eyes. Shutting off the light and letting the darkness encapsulate both of them.

Dreams taking over a dream reality.

When morning came and the sun brightened the sky, the busy streets sounded from beneath the balcony. The window still open wide, letting the noise in without a barrier. People were shouting at each other, horns were aimed at other cars. The music from another room drifted into hers while she drifted further from her dreams and back into reality.

Her face was pressed into the soft cotton of his sweater, leaving her breath to be sucked into the fabric. Moving through it down to his skin, landing right above his heart.

Jannik's eyes snapped open, his fingers crinkling into the blanket around her waist. Holding the sheets to stay on the mattress and not float into delusion.

This couldn't be. He knew of her boyfriend, having met him a few times when he would still visit her on her work trips at the beginning of their relationship. Now he was a mere mention on the side if someone asked. A 'yeah he's fine' was all he knew about him now. It probably was all that she knew as well.

Slowly, Jannik let his eyes travel down to her peaceful frame. Admiring the way the sun caught every detail in it's hurry. Making all his favourite features seem like golden accessories to her soul.

With time passing by, the thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. This wasn’t what they should do. This wasn’t how she should wake up.

With delicate fingers, Jannik lifted her head from his chest, her steady breathing brushing along his fingertips, making him stop for a second and reconsider, but his mind was already made up. Slipping from under the covers, he put his pillow under her head. Watching her arms tighten around it, her nose pressing further into the smell of it. And just for a second he let himself believe that she would have done the same if he moved with her still on top of him.

But that thought quickly passed when he closed the door of her hotel room behind him, lingering a few seconds before hearing footsteps echo in the hallway. They were too quick for him to not draw any attention on himself in time.

Frozen in place, he watched Carlos round the corner. A sick smile spreading across the Spaniards face as he caught sight of his opponent in front of the girl's door.

"Good night sleep before the match tomorrow?" He mused, cocking his head to the side. Not stopping to wait for him but slowing his step so that Jannik could catch up with him.

"It's not- Nothing happened," he quickly defended himself. Pushing his hands into his pockets, watching his feet as they stepped in front of one another like he had to watch them so they wouldn’t mess up.

"I never said that." Carlos smirked again, patting his shoulder as he left the red head standing in the middle of the hallway.

Glancing over his shoulder, back at the room he just escaped from, Jannik couldn’t stop the weird sensation passing through his chest. Clamping his ribs together and squeezing his skin in between them.

The rest of the day passed in silence. They were both in their respective worlds, neither accidentally running into the other by coincidence. Jannik avoided her at dinner and when she stepped out onto the balcony again that night, the light in his room was on but his door wasn’t open. He didn’t plan on focusing on anything other than the match.

She noticed that when she sat in the grandstands the following day. Fan in her hand while she watched him walk out on court. Waving like he always did, but his expression was more serious, like he was already two sets into the game.

It started out well, the first two sets were his. The third one wasn't and the fourth one could've been. Until the title was out of his sight and held by Carlos.

With his head in his hands, he tried his best to not let the devastation show. Biting his lip to bite back tears. Squeezing the skin around his eyes to keep them at bay. Taking deep breaths in between sentences when he congratulated Carlos and his team so his voice wouldn't be shaking too much. But when, on his walk out, his eyes found hers - her hands clasped together over her mouth but the comforting smile on her lips still visible - he had never walked off court faster. Taking the whole candy jar for the players with him.

She'd watched it happen. The mistakes, the devastation, the break-point. His breaking point. The moment the shimmer of hope left his eyes completely and his shoulders sacked his entire body down. His forehands got sloppier while Carlos' only got sharper. Turning a 5-3 into a 5-7. And lastly into a 2-3.

It felt like a heavier loss after Rome. The suspension. The number that stood in front of his name. Number 1. It would just be a matter of time before he'd fall down the ladder again that he was holding on to for dear life at the moment.

Hours passed before she felt calmed down enough to look at her phone again.

25 missed calls.

15 new messages.

Frowning at her phone screen, she went over the texts first. All incoherent sentences with typos in them that got worse over time.

'Saw you on TV'

'Seems to be the ofly timme U see ye noe'

'You look like ye klie him wed more thn me'

'why dent ypu just fuck him'

'Ye probably alredejy do'

'I don't even fckin care'

'Do what ye wfjn'

'I dotn cfre anymfew'

And it didn't face her as hard as she thought it would. She knew it was coming. Sooner or later. It was inevitable with them. It was predictable. She had imagined it happening many times before, when they were close to breaking. Usually, in her mind, it would be a heated discussion with insults thrown or a quiet confession that neither felt anything anymore. But this was spot on. This was more like them. A plain stream of texts with no other emotions than his drunk insults. They were distant and they were aware of it.

'I'm gonna be back on Thursday. You can take your stuff with you tomorrow, if there even still is something you own at my place.'

'And leave the key in the mailbox after you locked the apartment.'

Shutting off her phone again, she threw her body on top of the duvet that still faintly smelled like Jannik from the night before. Memories rushing back to her as she took it in. The way she felt how she fell asleep on top of him and how she woke up on her own. How his eyes avoided her till the very last second before he disappeared. She hadn't seen him since, nobody had. She heard the door to his hotel room close rather harshly as she sat outside on the balcony but no light came on.

Staring at the wall that separated them, she could only imagine what he was going through. Making a picture up in her mind, sensing the worst outcome in them but pushing it away as soon as it came. Instead she saw him laying in bed, head stuffed into his pillow, letting all the emotions run down his face and into the fabric.

Her heart wrenched at the unrecognizable figure she imagined. She had never seen him as broken as he looked back on court, with every pair of eyes fixed on him, just waiting for his downfall from the calm persona they perceived him with.

Changing from the outfit she still had on into comfortable clothes, she made her way through the hallway over to his door. Waiting outside for a few seconds, overthinking everything that could go wrong, before softly knocking on the door. No answer came, no little, tired footsteps. And she understood, she really did. But she needed to know that he was alright. She needed to see him with her own eyes before she could fall asleep.

Taking her phone out, she ignored the heaviness of the text that she received hours ago and only answered now. Typing a soft, 'Jan, please let me in' before leaning against the wall next to his door. Inhaling deeply as she watched her screen.

He didn't read it but a few seconds after the door opened. Just a little bit, enough for their eyes to meet before she pushed it further open to fall into his chest. Making him stumble back a few steps as he closed the door again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burying his head into her hair.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled with a shaky voice as he tried to push her away but she only clung to him tighter.

"Don't be. You played amazing today, no matter the result." Looking up at him she could see the hesitation clearly displayed in his eyes. This wasn't what he was talking about.

"You still have a boyfriend," he whispered, his voice breaking as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Not anymore," she said, shaking her head as she spoke.

Her words made his head snap up, his eyes widening in realization. Yesterday someone mentioned him still and she answered with the same tone as always. What had happened in the last 24 hours?

"Shit. I'm sorry," he said, his voice still quiet but not as uncomfortable anymore. His fingers were twitching as she sat down next to him.

"Don't be," she repeated herself again. Smiling softly at him. "It was foreseeable."

"You don't seem too sad about it," Jannik noticed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as it fell into her face.

"As I said, it was predictable. We haven't talked properly in a month even when I was home. It was just a matter of time before one of us said what everyone around us saw."

"You two didn't fit anyway," he commented absentmindedly, fidgeting with his fingers. Unable to look at her now that he had a chance of winning still.

"I know," she agreed. "But it was nice being able to say that I had someone. Even when I was stuck in misery."

"You'd rather be miserable than lonely?" It surprised him, not that he couldn't have guessed it, but having it actually confirmed made his chest churn. How could someone so full of life and charming be clinging to the slightest bits of attention?

"If I had to chose than yes." She nodded falling back on his mattress. Intertwining her hands over her chest, staring at the ceiling as he was staring at her. "But I felt less lonely with you around. All of you - the whole tour, I mean. That's why I love traveling all over the world even when I barely get any good sleep. I think it's worth it."

"What about-" Jannik cleared his throat, taking a deep breath and looking up at the ceiling before he continued speaking his thought aloud. "What about just me? Do you feel better when you're just around me? No one else."

"I always feel good when I'm with you."

Laying down next to her, they were face to face. Eyes traveling over the other's face as their breaths got entangled in each other. Pulling their bodies closer until Jannik pushed himself up on his elbow, leaning over her. Their faces inches apart as he stared at her lips like they were the trophy he wanted to claim by the end of the night.

Letting her hand travel to the hem of his shirt, she left her eyes fixated on it. Twirling the fabric in between her fingers before moving them to his skin. Tapping little rhythms on his chest and drawing uncertain figures as she felt his muscles tense under her touch. The rapid beating of his heart etching through her nerve system and mimicking it with her own.

"We're only gonna see each other again in Wimbledon," she whispered, not feeling the need to speak louder than she had to. He would find a way to understand her even if she would lose her voice.

"You're not coming to Halle?"

It's where she was last year, he assumed she'd be there again this year.

Shaking her head, she let her hand lay flat out on his waist. His muscles relaxing at the warmth of her palm. Rubbing her thumb over his skin in comfort, she bit back a grin as Jannik let his finger move over her cheek, down her jaw and letting his hand rest on the side of her neck. Feeling her pulse radiating through his palm.

"I was assigned for Queens this time, since I already have other stuff planned in England," she explained, making him nod in understanding even when he was clueless as to what other plans she could have. "I'm also not gonna make the media days before Monday."

"What have you got planned?"

"Gonna go to Glastonbury the weekend before it starts." Now she let the grin spread across her face in excitement. "And I've got ticket for Oasis opening night so I hope you guys don't play too long."

"If I even get that far." The bitter tone in his voice made her frown. Looking away from her gaze, watching the white bedsheets with a wide look in his eyes. Memories of the final he just played falling back into his memories.

"You will," she assured him, moving his chin back towards her. His jaw flexing as her fingertips hit it. But it was gentle, not forceful. If he wanted to pull away, she still let him. He didn't had to look at her, she told him that she wouldn't mind if he didn't. But he wanted to. Now that he had her near, he never wanted to let her go any further again. "I know that you will, because you are fucking incredible. And I don't just say this so that you give me better answers on media day."

Closing his eyes and letting out a small laugh, she smiled with him. Sucking her lip between her teeth, a proud feeling flashed through her body as his shoulders lost the tension that still lingered in them until now. The last drops of exhaustion falling into his system and letting his body fall on top of her without any second thoughts crashing between them. Burying his head in her chest and breathing in deeply. Sighing in contempt when her hand brushed through his hair, massaging his scalp as she let him relax into her body.

Letting her head fall back into the mattress and closing her eyes as she felt his breath hit her skin. Embracing the feeling of another one's body close to her in a way she had been longing for for so long. Feeling like the luckiest person in the world that it wasn't just someone. It was him. The guy she knew she could trust with every little one of her secrets who wouldn't judge her for any of them. The guy who listened to her ramble on for hours about some topic he wasn't interested in other wise. She could only imagine what would it be like to have him as more of a friend.

"You really are that good to win it."

"What if I'm not?"

"You are. Trust me."

Angling his head up to look at her, his chin rested on her collarbone. Both his hands moving up and down the sides of her ribs. His thumbs rubbing over her skin. Tracing her sides and the outlines of her breasts.

"This is nice," Jannik commented, loosening the muscles in his neck. His head falling to the side, lulling on her shoulder. His lips moving up to her jaw leaving a slow trail of kisses over it. He could feel her chest moving up but not down under his palms as soon as his lips met her skin. The breath she took now stuck in her lungs. Only exiting once he left the proximity of her neck and moved his head above her own. His breath fanning down her skin. Waiting for a conformation that he wasn't reading the room wrong and just made a total fool of himself by taking the risk.

"It is." Her voice barely a breathy tone as she spoke. Tucking his head closer to her own by the collar of his shirt. His body moving with her movement, letting her lead the way and define the pace. "It's really nice."

Their faces were inches apart, breaths tangled up in one another as Jannik's knee moved up between her legs. Pushing his body close enough to feel their lips touching but not kissing yet.

Halting his movement with a hand on his throat, she blinked up at him. Chest heaving as she pushed herself out of her dream-like state of mind. "If we do this, I just- I want you to know that if this should go into a direction of nothing more than tonight, I don't want it. I don't want any more complications than I had before, no longing for someone I know I could have but they don't want it in the way I do."

"You want more than what you had," he declared for her. Watching as she sucked her upper lip between her teeth. "You deserve more. By far."

"I just want someone who cares. That's not a lot to ask for, is it?"

"It's not." Jannik shook his head again, their noses bumping together in the movement. Smiles gracing both their lips again. "Let me care. Let me do more."

He could see the hesitation in her eyes, searching in his words for any form of doubt. Brushing the curls from his forehead out of her sight before finally pulling his face down to meet hers. Both her hands holding his face as their lips moved together. His tongue darting between her lips.

"You promise?" she panted against his lips, pulling back for a second to catch her breath and ask her question.

Nodding his head frantically, Jannik went back to pushing his lips down on her own, mumbling against them as he kissed her, "I promise."

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chococolte · 2 days ago

Note

hello! this is my first time requesting something so sorry if i make any mistakes

can you write for reader teasing them? like not in a making fun of them in a way but yk randomly leaving kisses on their neck, brushing your hand against theirs, putting your hand on their thigh, lifting up their chin and staring at them while smirking and stuff? the characters i would like to request are (yandere) zhongli diluc kaeya and alhaitham but feel free to add or change the characters im here for anything you write for 😭

in all honesty im in LOVE with your work like literally you’re def my favorite genshin writer the way you use your words is just 🤌🤌 cant get enough of your writing, hope you never stop writing here 😭

word count. 3.4k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. i'm so sorry i took forever to write this but hii thank u!!!!! this is my first non-sagau work in a bit and these r a bit shorter so i hope its okayii !! also i added neuvillette rubs my big greedy bellay

zhongli

Zhongli knows you have to be doing it on purpose.

It's torture. Sweet, blissful torture, but torture nonetheless.

Every time you touch him, it feels like heaven, and the fact you pull away so quickly feels like you're leaving a searing brand on his skin. He clings onto the burn, buzzing under his mask of perfect composure; desperate to keep the sting, and desperate more to keep you near him.

You kiss his neck without a word. You brush your hand against his as if it’s nothing. Your lips whisper against his skin with the softest touch, your warm breath a murmur, and Zhongli has to wonder why you insist on torturing him like this. Each time, you pull away fast enough he barely has a chance to register it. Those few seconds, he sits still, reeling— biting his tongue until it settles in, and once it does, he resists the urge to pull you back, his fingers twitching.

Zhongli wants to. He wants to so badly it hurts to keep himself still. He wants you closer. He wants you to touch him, and he wants to touch you, and he doesn't want anyone else to have you or feel even a semblance of the way he does.

His knee bounces without him realizing it.

Zhongli's expression stays the same, every muscle a disciplined quiet. His eyes have a certain quirk to them, crinkled and soft, but it’s the twitch of his knees and the glaze in his eyes that speak of the barking of emotions in his chest, and somehow, even with millennia of control, he’s not aware of how pathetically it gives him away.

All he knows is that he wants to keep looking at you. He wants to ask you to do it again, even if it’s slow and teasing and agonizing and far from what he really wants from you. He wants to ask you to never do it to anyone else, even if he knows it’s selfish, and then he wants to press soft kisses to your skin until his mind stops buzzing and his lips are bruised— until he’s sure you’ll never make the mistake of entertaining someone else.

Zhongli clenches his fists until his nails pinch into his skin each time he thinks of that sickly possibility. Then he relaxes once he remembers you would never do such a thing to him.

Even if it hurts to keep himself still, he wants more. More than you could possibly give him, but he wants anyway. He wants all of you.

Sometimes, he likes to wait for it. Zhongli watches you, a strange eagerness choking him as he waits for you to finally look his way. His chest feels full of something. He doesn’t know what it is— an indescribable emotion that turns him into a mortal’s pawn. He just wants you to glance over and notice he exists, and then he wants you to play with his heart some more, just to hear you laugh when you pull the reaction you want from him.

Whatever you do to him, he likes it. He likes that you do it to him and not anyone else. He likes that this part of you, teasing and cruel, belongs to him.

The thought of you acting this way with anyone else makes him ill, which isn’t a word he uses lightly.

Zhongli knew himself before he met you. You make a stranger out of him, but even with the light of you blinding his senses, Zhongli feels the same sickly jealousy. He wants all of you. He doesn’t want anyone to experience even a fraction of the things you make him feel.

If that makes him selfish, then so be it. If it makes him terrible, then he is.

You set your hand on his thigh and give it a light squeeze. Then you're pulling away, and he misses the warmth of your palm instantly. He almost wants to laugh. You tease him because you have no idea of what he would do to keep you near him.

Zhongli grabs your wrist, pinning your hand back against his thigh.

"Stay," he rumbles lowly, soft enough for only you to hear. He squeezes your hand and tries to engrave the feeling into his mind.

There's more he wants to say. He wants to tell you to touch him more. He wants to tell you about every dark, disgusting part of himself and still have the assurance of your presence— but he knows that if he spoke the full depth of what he feels for you, you'd pull your hand back in an instant. So, instead, he only asks for you to stay.

Your finger brushes against his inner thigh, and he purrs.

diluc

Diluc has to stop himself from begging you to keep touching him each time you do.

It's pathetic, and not exactly in a sad, pitiful sort of way, so he bites his tongue until you pull away and leave him aching for more.

It does nothing to kill the urge.

The touches are nothing. They're little things, the barest of skin-to-skin contact— you hold his hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, brush your fingers against his, touch him when you don't need too— sometimes, you hold his thigh underneath the table where no one else can see, and he just has to sit, unable to make a noise, unless he wants to completely ruin your perception of him.

He already has, if the way you smirk when he audibly shudders is any indication.

Diluc never thought of himself as someone so weak. You don't even have to touch him for the bundle of nerves in his stomach to flutter; you could smile, and it would do the same to him as you kissing his neck.

If it were anyone else, his reactions wouldn't be nearly so prevalent. No, he couldn’t stomach it if it were anyone else.

But it's you, he thinks, so it's inherently different. It's you, so how he'd react with anyone else is meaningless, because he would never allow anyone else to get as close to him.

It still doesn't keep the indignation from bubbling up when he, once again, proves how incapable he is at properly reacting to anything regarding you. It wilts just as quickly as it arises, though; he imperceptibly leans into your touch, unable to truly complain and lacking the desire to.

It's the fact that you do it so casually. You know exactly what to do to get the reaction you want out of him, and he preens under the attention, then gets upset that he does at the same time that he's eagerly leaning into your touch, before you torture him by pulling back.

Each time just makes the ache worse. Strangely, Diluc can't say that he hates it.

He wonders, like he always does in the silence, if you do this to anyone else.

Diluc sits with the thought for a moment before realizing very, very quickly that he hates it. It makes him sick, imagining you so much as brushing hands with someone else. Innocent touches to anyone reasonable, but it makes him want to pinch and tug at his skin until it bleeds.

He wishes he could tell you. He wishes he could ask you, at least, if he’s special, or if this is just some sort of game to you. Maybe you only like him because of how powerful it makes you feel. Maybe you just like the gifts. Maybe you just like the way he looks at you, because Diluc is self-aware enough to know he can’t hide it properly.

Diluc would kneel and kiss your feet if it gave him any sort of assurance of being at least somewhat important to you. He would do more if it meant he knew whether or not this was real to you.

His dignity is meaningless in front of you. He can’t say it bothers him.

You lift his chin with your finger, forcing him to meet your gaze.

His lashes tremble. His skin feels like it's on fire. He can feel his blood pumping through his body and his heart in his ears, rushing like nothing he's felt before.

He loves you. He loves you in a way he knows is far from innocent or pure. He loves you enough to want to keep you forever.

It's terrible, what you do to him. Worse still is what he knows he'd do if you did it to anyone else.

kaeya

You have no idea what you do to him, do you?

Kaeya thinks that, if you did, you wouldn't be nearly as willing to play with him as you are now.

You kiss his skin and then pull away before he has the time to react. You do it so casually he has to wonder if you even know what you’re doing at all. He can’t decide whether he loves or hates it.

In a way, it sets his skin aflame. It makes him think that you might actually care for him; in a way that’s uniquely his, one he doesn’t have to share with anybody else. But it also makes him wonder if maybe you just like toying with him; maybe you just like seeing him twitch as he suppresses every urge to do it right back to you.

Maybe you like knowing how much power you have over him, if you realize it at all.

Kaeya doesn’t know what he thinks. All he knows is that it feels nice when you touch him, even if the contact only lasts for a moment. He knows he hates it when you pull away. All he knows is that he wouldn’t mind if you touched him more, and if you wanted him to, he would never let himself be touched by anyone else again. He knows he hates how weak you make him and how, if only you would ask, he’d be willing to do anything. If it meant he could have you, selfishly and entirely, then Kaeya would curse his bloodline and shirk his duty.

If it meant you would love him even a modicum of the way he loves you, he would depart with all of the things that make him up.

You brush your skin against his, and for a moment, Kaeya thinks he sees stars. It’s a terrible thing. A weak thing. Worse still is the smile on your lips. It makes his heart clench painfully in his chest.

When you touch his thigh, he wonders if this is how he finally dies. He hates how he can still feel your touch even after you pull away, the heat of your palm still warming his skin.

Then, because his mind can’t let him have just one thing, he imagines you with someone else. It’s a human thought. Even if he had you all to himself, he would still be plagued with the same visions. Kaeya sees you touching another with the same tenderness, kissing their throat, intertwining your fingers and holding their warmth, and then he sees you smiling— except you look happier, and he knows it’s the sort of happiness he could never bring you— and then all he knows is agony, because he knows he could never let you have such a thing unless it was with him.

He knows he’s greedy. He knows he’s selfish. He knows that you deserve someone less sick than him, but he can’t bear the thought of living in a world where you’re anywhere but by his side.

“Are you like this for anyone else?” he asks once you’ve laid a soft kiss against his neck, unable to stop himself. There’s a gross vulnerability in his tone that he wishes he could tear out.

“You know it’s just you,” you say.

Kaeya knows that. He just wants to hear you say it.

“Say it again,” he says, and despite himself, looks at you like you’re something eternally precious to him. You are. He can’t help but be afraid of you knowing that.

“I’m only like this with you.” Your fingers are in his hair now, brushing along the nape on his neck.

“Good,” Kaeya says, and this time, he decides to believe you.

al-haitham

Al-Haitham freezes each time you touch him.

It’s not that he doesn’t like it. Rather, it’s the amount of restraint he has to use to keep himself still.

You kiss his neck like it's nothing, pulling away fast enough that he has to wonder if you even know what you're doing. The glint in your eye says you do. The fact that you don't realize what exactly it does to him tells him otherwise.

If you did, then you wouldn't do it as much, especially where other people can see. The surge of emotions that sparks in his chest can't be compared or defined by any human word.

It makes him feel dizzy. It makes him feel wide awake. It makes every thought slow like they're deep in a mire at the same time it causes another hundred to take their place. It makes him, strangely, want to laugh, adrenaline rushing off the high of your attention. It makes him want to whisper every single one of his thoughts and sickly desires into your ear until you never look at anyone else again.

Al-Haitham's body pulses and his veins burn. The fact that each touch could so easily be considered innocuous, if only he didn't already know that their purpose was to make him squirm, just makes his heart all the louder in his ears.

His expression stays neutral each time. The only thing that speaks to his utter depravity is the way his hands slightly shake, itching to touch you. He's unsure if you notice.

If you knew the sorts of things he thought about involving you, you wouldn't want to kiss him at all.

Good, then, that he has no intention of ever telling you; not when he can't be assured you'd stay by him. So, instead, Al-Haitham sits still and accepts it, withholding himself from acting out on his baser urges.

It's particularly difficult when you laugh afterward, maybe enjoying the way he doesn't do anything to stop you. His silence says more than his voice ever could. He doesn't push your hand away when you press it against his thigh. He doesn't tell you to stop when you kiss his neck, even when you do so in the Akademiya's library, rather enjoying the attention it brings.

It feels like you're claiming him. The way no one can believe he lets you do it, in a way, feels like he's claiming you. After all, how could people see such a sight and still think they have any right to you?

Rarely does Al-Haitham ever feel insecure. He feels no sense of shame when you kiss his neck in public, or when you less than subtly grab his thigh under the table. You pull away the next second, and he has to sit with the brand of your lips and your touch, trying to hold onto the sensation for a little while longer while his face stays impossibly still.

But sometimes, he imagines you doing the same thing to someone else. It's a reminder that people other than you exist, and he finds he doesn't quite like it. No, he hates it. The mere thought disgusts him. What need do you have for anyone else when he's right here?

"You only do this with me, correct?" he asks, and it's the first time he’s even referenced your actions at all in conversation. There's a strange note to his tone, and even Al-Haitham can't quite place it.

"Only you," you reply easily, mirth coating your voice. You press another kiss to his neck to accentuate your point.

"Good," he says, his eyelashes fluttering.

neuvillette

The first time you touch his thigh, Neuvillette is struck dumb.

He wasn't expecting it. Without thinking, his leg bounces, and you laugh. Neuvillette’s breath catches in his throat, and he clenches his jaw to stop himself from making a greatly inappropriate sound.

You tear your hand away the next instant. He misses your warmth immediately and almost asks for you to touch him again— before he remembers that asking such a thing is improper— so instead, he nods politely with a strange feeling in his chest.

Even that, he knows, is not the proper response, but you daze him; everything slows for the brief moment you decide to bless him with your touch. His idea of proper would have been grabbing your hand and keeping it there, just to feel you for a little while longer.

Neuvillette has never experienced anything similar before. He struggles to understand his emotions and the way his body responds. He doesn't quite understand why his heart picks up when you brush your hand against his, or why he has to remind himself that he can't just grab you and intertwine your fingers without asking, nor does he understand why he wants to do so in the first place. All he knows is that being in your presence reduces each of his thoughts to their barest components— images of you, you, and you.

He finds that he doesn't hate it. Even when you do it in front of other people, which just makes the journalists in Fontaine buzz with noise and curiosity. That, he notices rather quickly, pleases him and soothes some dark part of his subconscious that cries like a selfish serpent each time you look at anyone else.

Let them see and let them whisper it amongst themselves if in the end it proves that he's yours, and let them write their tabloids if it means everyone knows not to try and take you away from him.

That, he finds, is his greatest fear.

Kissing his neck provokes similar reactions. His eyelids flutter shut, and his fingers tremble with the numerous wants running through him, each equally adept at destroying him and equally indecipherable. It's a display the complete opposite of what he should project as the Iudex, yet he can't find it in himself to care, not properly.

It's you. It's you. It's you, and your every touch feels like rebirth, and he terribly, selfishly, doesn't want anyone else but him to experience it.

Neuvillette knows you do it to provoke a reaction out of him. It’s on purpose. You like seeing the falter in his step, hearing his breath catch in his throat, and you like knowing you’re the cause. Part of him wants to deny you the satisfaction, if only to see you press harder, touch him more, if it means watching his mask fall. The rest of him just wants to give it to you.

You make him weak. You make him selfish. You make him feel like a mortal man.

“Am I special to you?” he finds himself asking. The words don’t feel like his, but they’re wrenched from his throat all the same; coated in that terrible, terrible vulnerability he wishes he knew nothing of.

Strangest of all was that you weren’t touching him. There was no teasing laughter, no gentle brush of your fingers. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, and he asks because he can’t stand not knowing.

He can’t stand the thought of just being a thing to you.

“Of course you are,” you reply easily. You close the gap between you to brush some of his hair out of his face, and the touch feels electric.

Of course he is.

“You are special to me as well,” he says, trying to keep his thoughts off his face.

What would he have done if you’d said no?

Neuvillette isn’t sure. All he knows is that he detests the very thought. He detests the thought of not being important to you. He detests the thought of your relationship merely being something you do to entertain yourself, even though he would gladly be entertainment if it was all he could be to you. He detests the thought of someone else being in his place, feeling your touch— he’s disgusted by the notion that all of what you give him could so easily be given to someone else.

What would he have done if you’d said no?

Neuvillette realizes that what he would’ve done is not anything you would like.

250 notes · View notes

agustdsluv · 2 days ago

Text

GAME BOY 🎮 | JJK

summary | “you’re just a game boy, I ain’t tryna play, boy. I ain’t thinking about you. loving you’s a game boy, l should throw it away, boy.”

inspired by Katseye’s “GAMEBOY”

paring | jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings | enemies (not really) to lovers, “I hate how much I want you” energy, slow burn, playful angst, teasing banter, unresolved sexual tension, emotional walls crumbling, Mature / 16+ (eventual 18+ themes implied) smut implied (nothing explicit, but heavy tension, undressing, kissing, etc.) Mild alcohol consumption

word count | 2.4k

notes: I was listening to Game Boy today and I kinda got this sort of idea but it’s not really my best work so I’ll probably try to re-create it and write something else out of it. It’s literally all over the place so just bear with me and then I’ll definitely try to rewrite it later.

SERIES M.LIST

The café hummed with the usual late afternoon buzz—clinking cups, soft indie music, and murmured conversations blending into a warm, familiar noise. Y/N sat at her favorite corner table, her legs crossed, one eyebrow raised as she scrolled through her phone without much interest. But her eyes kept darting up, scanning the entrance with a smirk tugging at her lips.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Jungkook appeared like clockwork, casual but confident, the kind of presence that made heads turn. The way his hair fell just right, the effortless swagger in his step—it was a carefully crafted act, one Y/N could read like a book. He was the Gameboy: fun, unpredictable, always ready to push buttons for the thrill of it.

Her smirk deepened as he spotted her immediately. His eyes lit up with that familiar mixture of mischief and something more subtle—something he never quite let show.

Sliding into the seat across from her without hesitation, he said, “Hey. I thought you’d be hard to find today.”

Y/N stretched her arms above her head, pretending to be unimpressed. “You’re just on time as always. I’m starting to think you time your entrances.”

“Maybe I do,” Jungkook teased, leaning forward, hands folded casually. “Or maybe I’m just drawn to the drama.”

She laughed lightly, eyes sparkling. “Tell your friends I love the drama. Play pretend, but you know it’s karma.”

He raised a brow, smiling. “Karma, huh? You’re the one always stirring things up.”

Y/N shrugged, unapologetic. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

They fell into the comfortable rhythm they’d perfected over months—a battle of words, a dance of teasing that everyone around might mistake for tension but was really just the early stages of something neither wanted to admit.

“Come on,” Jungkook said, dropping his voice an octave. “You know you’re the one who’s lonely calling.”

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter. “Blame me if you want, but I ain’t the problem.”

The café door jingled, and a few heads turned as a group of Y/N’s friends filed in, laughing and chatting. Y/N waved them over but kept her attention on Jungkook.

“Look at you,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Always acting like you don’t care. But I see the way you watch me.”

He shrugged, trying to look casual but failing miserably. “Maybe I’m just curious.”

Y/N leaned back, crossing her arms. “Curious enough to play a game you’re gonna lose?”

“Game on,” Jungkook said, flashing a grin that was equal parts challenge and invitation.

The rest of the day unfolded like a series of little battles and near-misses. They ran into each other unexpectedly—outside the record store, at the park where Y/N went for her evening run, even at the late-night taco stand she frequented after shifts. Each encounter layered with playful digs and flirty comments, their conversations a chess match of words.

“You keep pushing my buttons, you know,” Jungkook admitted one night as they sat on the steps of an old theatre after a spontaneous late-night walk.

Y/N caught his gaze, steady and cool. “And you? You leveled up, but you’re still losing.”

“Maybe I’m not trying to win,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving hers.

She felt the air shift between them but kept her tone light. “Now I’m somebody you don’t wanna lose, huh?”

He laughed softly, but there was no mistaking the truth beneath his words. “Yeah. Guess you are.”

Back at her apartment, Y/N rolled her eyes at her reflection. She’d been playing this game for weeks now, and despite her tough exterior, she found herself thinking about him more than she liked to admit. Jungkook, with his easy smile and those moments when his guard dropped just enough to make her wonder if maybe he was playing for keeps.

She grabbed her phone and typed a quick message to her best friend: “I swear, he’s like a Gameboy. Always flashing and buzzing, but can’t get enough.”

Her phone buzzed immediately with a reply: “You better watch out. Gameboys get addictive.”

Y/N smirked, pocketing the phone. Maybe this game wasn’t so bad after all.

The city skyline glimmered behind the bar’s floor-to-ceiling windows as Y/N slid onto a stool at the crowded lounge. She scanned the room with a smirk—her friends were already deep in conversation, but her eyes were on the door.

Because she just knew he’d show up.

And sure enough, like a magnet, Jungkook strolled in minutes later, cool and confident, slipping past the crowd toward the bar.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Y/N called out, voice loud enough to catch his attention without seeming desperate.

Jungkook grinned, raising an eyebrow. “You missed me?”

“Miss you? Not really. But I did get bored without someone to tease.”

“Ah, so you admit you like the game,” he said, leaning on the bar beside her.

Y/N laughed, swirling her drink. “Maybe I like winning more.”

Jungkook smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

A few rounds of drinks later, their banter grew louder and more flirtatious, drawing amused looks from friends around them.

“So,” Y/N said, voice dipped in challenge, “I hear you think you’re leveled up.”

“Leveling up is my specialty,” Jungkook replied, eyes locked on hers. “But maybe you’re the one who’s underestimated me.”

She shook her head, mock exasperated. “Underestimate me? Big mistake.”

He tapped her fingers gently on the bar. “Then maybe I’m not underestimating. Maybe I’m just… curious.”

Y/N’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she covered it with a grin. “Curious enough to lose?”

“Not if I play it right.”

Outside, Y/N and Jungkook found themselves alone under the streetlights, the city’s hum fading into the background.

“You’re impossible,” she said softly, eyes glinting in the dark.

“Is that a compliment?” he asked, stepping closer.

She shrugged, trying not to show how her heart sped up. “Maybe.”

Jungkook smiled, voice dropping. “You keep playing this game, but I kinda like it.”

Y/N glanced away, heat rising to her cheeks. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he whispered.

Back in her room, Y/N stared at the ceiling, replaying their night in her mind. The teasing, the tension—it was like they were circling something neither dared to name.

Maybe this game wasn’t just a game anymore.

The soft hum of the city outside was a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside Y/N’s mind. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the framed photo on her desk—a snapshot from years ago, simpler times. Back when life felt less like a game and more like something real.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Jungkook: “You okay? You’ve been quiet all day.”

Y/N smiled, typing back quickly, “Just thinking. Not thinking about you”

Truth was, she was trying to untangle the mess of feelings she was conveniently ignoring. She’d always been the confident one—the girl who laughed off drama, who pushed people away before they could get too close. But Jungkook? He had this way of poking at those walls, gently but persistently.

She remembered the first time they met—he was the guy who dared to challenge her at every turn, who teased like it was a sport. At first, she thought he was just another distraction. But now, it felt different.

Meanwhile, Jungkook’s fingers trembled slightly as he stared at Y/N’s last message: “Not thinking about you.” The words were a dare, a tease—and yet, they torched through his mind like wildfire. How could she say that? How could he stop thinking about her when every nerve in his body screamed her name?

He dropped his phone onto the bed and leaned back, eyes closing. The image of her—the way her lips curved into that confident, challenging smirk—was burned into his brain. Every time he thought about their banter, the way her fingers brushed his arm just so casually, a slow heat pooled low in his stomach.

It was more than addiction. It was obsession.

Jungkook swallowed hard, remembering the last time they’d been close—too close. Her breath had hitched when he’d leaned in just a fraction too near, her eyes dark with something dangerous and delicious. He’d wanted to cross the line, to see if she’d fight him or surrender.

And he knew—he wanted to find out.

The thought alone set his pulse racing.

That night, unable to shake the craving, Jungkook found himself pacing in his room. His shirt was undone at the top, the heat inside him growing unbearable. His mind was a relentless replay of every glance, every touch, every teasing word Y/N had thrown at him.

She’s like a game I can’t quit.

His hands clenched into fists as the need to close the distance between them burned hotter than ever.

Y/N wasn’t innocent in this game. She felt it too—the pull, the magnetic charge between them that sizzled just beneath the surface of their teasing.

One late night, they found themselves alone in a cramped elevator after a night out. The tension was so thick, it was almost suffocating.

Jungkook’s hand brushed her arm, deliberate and electric. Y/N froze, heart hammering, every nerve alive.

“Gameboy,” she whispered, voice low, “you’re messing with fire.”

His eyes darkened, lips curling into a dangerous smile. “And you? You’re the only one I want to burn for.”

They were inches apart—too close to back away, too charged to ignore the desire simmering between them.

Jungkook’s breath hitched as Y/N’s fingers traced the line of his jaw. “I’m addicted to this,” he confessed, voice rough. “To you.”

Y/N’s smirk softened into something more real, more vulnerable. “Good. Because I’m not just playing anymore.”

The elevator dinged open, but neither of them moved. The game had changed. The stakes were higher. And neither was ready to lose.

Before she could think twice, Jungkook’s hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

Their breaths mingled, the heat between them impossible to ignore.

Then, finally, his lips captured hers in a slow, searing kiss — the teasing game melting away into something fierce and real.

Y/N responded with everything she’d been holding back, fingers tangling in his hair as the world outside disappeared.

The elevator dinged open again, but neither moved. The line had been crossed. The game was over.

The moment their lips parted in the cramped elevator, the world outside ceased to exist. Jungkook’s hands slid from her face to her waist, pulling Y/N impossibly close. She melted against him, heat blossoming between them like a wildfire.

Her breath hitched as his fingers trailed lower, tracing the curve of her hip beneath the fabric of her jacket. The teasing smiles, the playful rivalry—it all dissolved into raw desire.

“You’ve got me,” he murmured against her lips, voice thick with need. “Completely addicted.”

Y/N’s pulse thundered, her fingers trembling as they explored the planes of his chest. “Don’t think I’m an easy win,” she whispered back, breathless and bold.

His lips found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, nipping gently as she shivered. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The elevator lights flickered as time slowed, their bodies pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Every touch ignited sparks, every breath whispered promises.

The world outside the elevator was distant noise compared to the storm raging between them. Once they made it inside the apartment Jungkook’s hands roamed with increasing boldness, memorizing the feel of her, igniting a fire neither could contain.

Y/N’s breath hitched as his lips traveled down her neck, the warmth of his mouth leaving a trail of heat that set her skin ablaze. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed tight.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered, voice trembling with desire.

He chuckled low, voice husky. “Only when I’m with you.”

The room seemed to shrink around them as the tension exploded into a frenzy of touches and whispered names. Clothes became obstacles to remove, kisses deepened, and the playful battles gave way to something urgent and consuming.

Every stolen breath, every shiver and sigh, told the story of two rivals who’d finally found the line between challenge and surrender.

You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, voice thick with longing.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her fingers trembling as they threaded through his hair. “Maybe I like that,” she whispered, her lips brushing his with a teasing smile that ignited a fresh blaze inside him.

Their kiss deepened, a slow, hungry exploration that left no room for pretense or games. Jungkook’s hands slid beneath her shirt, the warmth of his skin against hers setting her nerves alight. She pressed into him, heart pounding, every touch a promise and a question all at once.

He traced the curve of her spine with feather-light touches, sending waves of heat that spread through her like wildfire. Their breaths mingled, ragged and desperate.

Y/N’s voice was barely more than a breath. “I’m not just your game.”

Jungkook pulled back slightly, searching her eyes. “You’re so much more.”

Every inch of space between them disappeared as he lifted her, pressing her back against the cool metal wall. Her hands roamed freely now, tracing the lines of his strong shoulders, pulling him closer until their bodies were perfectly aligned.

The teasing was gone, replaced by raw, fierce need. Every kiss, every touch, was a surrender—both of them letting go of their walls, their fears, their games.

He pressed closer against her, their breaths mingling. “Maybe losing’s not so bad if it’s to you.”

Her smirk softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “Don’t get comfortable. I’m still winning.”

They laughed, the tension melting into something warm and electric—their rivalry evolving into a dance neither wanted to stop.

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celestialgloaming · 10 hours ago

Text

MCDM's Flee Mortals! Humans are some of my favourite 5e statblocks ever tbh. The "human" band ability is they get to choose to have advantage on 3 attacks a day. Essentially, humans are all variant humans with the lucky feat. Anyway as for the 2024 monster manual I do think there was a pretty good logic in removing orcs and deciding that normal humanoids can be represented by the humanoid npc statistics, but they really should have provided templates for species at the back of the book, and the new "line" between monster and not is just bizzare. To elaborate, it feels like they rules lawyered that whole discussion people had of "it's fine for like a demon or something not of this world to be inherently evil the problem is when you say something that's a person is" and transplanted some selection of previously "monstrous races" into other planes or made them other creature types without actually changing much. For example this works kinda okay for goblins - it's pretty easy to accept goblins as supernatural chaos gremlins that are human-like enough to talk to but ultimately don't live in a way that could reflect and real world people because they're not a society they show up and have chaotic fun that might harm people and then leave. That's a common trope of fey and works pretty okay imo. But you start to get problems doing that to hobgoblins - they're meant to reflect goblins by being feywild magical nonsense instead of "people", but "lawful" instead. Their thing is they're imperial conqueror fey spirits. Okay sure. But to be that they still have to be a society in a sense and thus can parallel humans in a way goblins can't here. And essentially you're leaving them the same except you're changing the justification for them being "inherently evil" from "idk it's their biology or just how it is or smth" to "an inherent drive for conquering" and only justifying it with them being fey. But that doesn't matter if they still functionally live like people they can still fulfil the same old "martial race" stereotype.

Then there's adjacent weirdness where they did the same. Kobolds are unchanged but are creature type dragons now. Why are they dragons and dragonborn aren't? Both are native to the material plane this time too, this is just classifying them as not people. Same kinda goes Aarakocra and Lizardfolk, but these are a little better. They make it clear with these ones that the elementally-aligned stat blocks are for ones attuned to their given elemental planes (air and earth). Particularly in the Lizardfolk case they explain this is done through a ritual. And it says normal guy versions of these should use the generic humanoid statblocks. I actually quite like this, though it's weird that they essentially parallel Merfolk and Azer now which aren't playable in 5e and realistically have too much overlap with existing things to ever become playable. To be honest I think if they were more sensible I think they could have done this for every species, a statblock that represents something to do with their culture and not inherent traits which is designed to lead normal guys.

So apparently they took orcs out of the new Monster Manual, and I get their reasoning. They’re in the Player’s Handbook now, and none of the others from that book, like elves or dragonborn, are in the Monster Manual.

But I think this was a mistake. There was actually another solution, something that literally every other edition of the game did. You want to be a return to the old ways, don’t you, 5e? I know you do you nasty little freak. So here’s what you should have done:

Put the other ones back in the Monster Manual.

4K notes · View notes

withlovemark · 3 days ago

Text

“enough for you.”

pairing: bartender!johnny x barista!reader | genre:angst | words: 11k+

now listening to -> all i ever wanted was to be enough for you.

synopsis -> falling in love with the bartender is the worst form of self destruction.

warnings -> this is the sour series so angsty angst, toxic! johnny, bad boy! johnny (kinda) he has the tattoos and the motorcycle, situationship, no labels, ghosting, gaslighting, +18, crude language, one descriptive sex scene, size kink, fingering, oral (female receiving), nipple play, use of the word: slut, implied cafe sex, implied bar sex, implied shower sex

an -> i lowkey hyper-fixated big time on bartender! johnny from the loverboy series and had to write something about him! please give this series a chance. let it hold your heart in aching hands. let the pain shape you, soften you, show you where it still hurts. embrace the tears if they fall, they mean you’ve let yourself feel. let the angst crack you open and make room for something tender. and above all, have fun reading! - with love, c

͙͘͡★

AM 01:27

johnny was so cool — with his tattoos, arms that flexed under the warm lights of the bar, the smooth flick of his wrist as he poured drinks like it was a performance and that million dollar cheshire smile that made girls forget their names. he didn’t just work at AM 01:27. he is AM 01:27. he gave the bar its pulse. its mystery. its reputation.

every night, people lined up for overpriced cocktails and a shot at his attention. girls wore their best dresses and guys combed their hair just right, all hoping he’d glance their way, toss them a wink, maybe say something clever. he had that kind of charm – dangerous and magnetic. the kind that made everyone lean in a little closer, laugh a little louder, drink a little more just to see if they could keep up. that kind of charm that made people wonder what it would feel like to be wanted by him. to be chosen by him. to be loved by him.

and you were just like everyone else.

you weren’t supposed to be here tonight. you walked into AM 01:27 completely sober, the buzz of neon lights flickering above you as the scent of liquor, sweat and berry-scented vape pens hit your senses. bodies swaying under dim lights. the kind of place that breathed sin into the walls.

you were only here to pick up your friend, irene, after a call from an unknown number jolted you out of bed fifteen minutes ago. the voice on the line had been low, calm, and vaguely amused, “your friend’s not doing too well, might wanna come get her.”

you spotted her immediately, slumped over the bar, her long hair a curtain hiding her face, arms wrapped around a half empty glass of something that reeked of heartbreak and tequila.

“c’mon irene,” you mutter, gently shaking her shoulder, “let’s get you home”

a voice behind the bar cuts through the noise, “you’re her friend?”

you turn. the voice was familiar. and when you looked up, your stomach dropped a little. he was beautiful, tall, easily over six feet, and broad shouldered. his dark hair was slightly tousled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattoos that danced down his arms in thick black ink. his features were sharp but approachable, with eyes that sparkled with mischief and something far more dangerous underneath. he looked exactly like trouble.

you knew his type immediately. the kind that ruins girls without even meaning to. the kind that smiles while your world spins. the kind that leaves and you write poetry about it for the next six months.

still, you met his gaze, steady, you answered, “yeah, and you're the one who called?”

he gave a small nod, resting his elbows on the polished bar, “johnny,” he introduced himself, offering a hand, “official bartender, unofficial babysitter.”

you hesitated. just for a second. then you took it, giving him your name. his hand was larger than yours, warm, the kind of warmth that seeped into your skin and lingered. the handshake was brief, but something about it lingered longer than it should have. sparking something small and sudden, a kind of hush, a pause in the music of the moment that only the two of you noticed. his grip was firm but careful. his skin soft in a way that felt out of place in this bar. like he took care of things. like maybe somewhere under the tattoos and teasing smile, he cared more than he let on.

you tilted your head, “you always call strangers to pick up their drunk friends? or is this just how you meet women?”

he laughed, low, deep, genuine, “depends. is it working?”

you blinked, caught slightly off guard by how easy he made it sound, “i think that depends on how drunk you are.”

he grinned wider, leaning in slightly, like he was letting you in on a secret, “sober as a saint,” he said, “but i’ll confess to being guilty of talking to pretty girls after midnight.”

you shake your head, a smile fighting its way to your features, “well, thanks for keeping an eye on her. i’ll take her home before she starts a podcast about her ex.”

johnny came around the bar, helping lift irene gently off the stool, “no problem, i’ve seen worse. last week someone proposed to a bottle of cuervo.”

your smirk was instant, “did the bottle say yes?”

he glanced at you sideways, mouth curving wickedly, “left him on read.”

you laughed – this time, unguarded. the kind of laugh that cracked the ice. the kind of laugh you didn’t expect to have in a place like this, under neon lights that made everything look a little too honest.

johnny looked at you again. not like you were another girl walking through his doors, but like he was noticing the way your smile changed your whole face. and maybe he was a little caught off guard by it.

“you gonna come back when you’re not doing damage control?,” he asked, that lazy, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. but there was something more in it. a hope he didn’t bother hiding.

you raised a brow, “is that your smooth way of asking me out?”

his smile turned boyish, “maybe.”

not a yes. not a no. just maybe. and for some reason, maybe felt more dangerous than either.

you didn’t promise anything. but as you turned to leave, irene half-asleep against your shoulder, you looked back once. johnny was watching you. not in a way that made your skin crawl. not in a way that made you shrink. but in a way that made you feel…interesting. like he’d remember what your laugh sounded like. like he wanted to know what it looked like when you weren’t just passing through.

trouble. you reminded yourself. he’s trouble.

but your heart was already skipping the warning signs. and you were already wondering how his name would look on your phone.

i knew how you took your coffee.

you weren’t expecting much from your shift. it was a wednesday morning – slow, sleepy and drizzly outside. the usual crowd shuffled in: tired college students, young professionals clutching their laptops and the elderly couple that always split a blueberry muffin and argued over crossword puzzles.

you were behind the counter, apron on, hair tied back, humming softly under your breath as you steamed milk for a cappuccino when the bell above the front door chimed. you glanced up out of habit and almost dropped the milk pitcher.

there he was – tattoos and trouble johnny. the same bartender who called you to pick up your drunk friend, shook your hand with those warm fingers and looked at you like he was a little too good at making people feel special.

today, though, he wasn’t cloaked in dim lighting and loud music. no mischievous smirks as he poured drinks. just a black hoodie and grey joggers. but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine…or a list of mistakes girls swore they’d never make again.

you didn’t say anything at first, watching as he casually scanned the chalkboard menu like he didn’t already know what he wanted. then he looked up, caught your eye, and smiled, “hey,” he said, cocking his head slightly, “you look familiar.”

you raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile, “well, you called me to pick up a girl who couldn’t stand.”

he thinks about it for a second or two, he calls a lot of people for that reason. then he pieced it together, snapping his fingers, grinning, “right, the tequila warrior, irene…was it?”

you nodded, “she made a miraculous recovery, in case you’re wondering.”

he stepped up to the counter, leaning his forearms against it like this was his bar and you were his customer, “that’s good, she’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

you ignore the way your heart skipped a beat, a smile fighting its way on your features, “what can i get you, johnny?”

“hmmm,” he said, pretending to study the menu again, “what do you recommend?”

“depends,” you said, tilting your head, “are you one of those guys who pretends to like black coffee just to seem tough?”

he laughed, “guilty…but i’ll trust you this time. surprise me.” you nodded and got to work, throwing together your favorite drink to serve, iced honey oat milk latte with a dash of cinnamon. he watched you with quiet amusement, like he had all the time in the world.

when you served his cup, he took a sip and raised his eyebrows. and you realize then how much you wanted to impress him. how much you wanted him to like it. to like you. your breath caught just a little in your chest. he raised his eyebrows, lips still touching the lid, “damn,” he said, taking another sip, “that’s dangerously good.”

you exhaled in relief, too softly for him to notice, and leaned your arms onto the counter, “glad you think so, i was tempted to spike it with tequila just to keep your brand consistent.”

he chuckled, a low, easy sound, that you were starting to recognize, “hey, i don’t drink on the job. contrary to popular belief, someone’s gotta make sure everyone gets home in one piece.”

you smirked, “so you’re everyone’s knight in shining armor, huh?”

“something like that,” he winks, flashing that grin you were sure had gotten him out of more than a few bad situations. and somehow, in that moment, it was easy. it didn’t feel like you were standing behind a counter and he was a customer. it felt like you’d been circling each other in some quiet orbit and only just noticed. the coffee shop faded into the background. it all went quiet.

then he sat the cup down gently, “can i get your number?”

just like that. no hesitation. like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he’s done it a million times before. like he knew there was no other answer but yes.

you blinked, caught off guard, “for…?”

he grinned, leaning just a little closer, “for when i want to see you again.”

your breath hitched. you wanted to be smart. to say no. to remind yourself he was trouble. you were complete opposites. the night shift to your early mornings. you were caffeine, quiet and sunrise. he was neon, noise and the moon.

but still…your fingers reached for a napkin before your brain could catch up. you scribbled your number, trying not to let your hand shake, then slid it across the counter like it meant nothing even though you felt everything. he took it without breaking eye contact. tucked it into his pocket like it was valuable.

“i’ll see you around, beautiful,” then he winked, turned and walked out, cool and unbothered, the bell above the door chiming behind him. and all that was left in his wake was the faint scent of coffee, cinnamon and something far more dangerous.

i wore makeup.

you’ve been texting johnny back and forth for the past week. a silly meme, videos of cats, a blurry photo of a coffee spill. and he always responded. always matched your energy. sometimes with voice notes. sometimes with those little one word replies that shouldn’t have made you smile the way they did. but you hadn’t seen him since that morning in the cafe, until:

johnny: hey. off tonight. you free?

johnny: thought i’d finally try that taco truck you won’t shut up about

it wasn’t a date. he didn’t say the word and you didn’t ask. but the moment you saw his name light up your screen, your stomach flipped. just enough to make you stand in front of your closet for longer than necessary. you settled on your favorite jeans, a slightly oversized jacket and that lipstick you always liked but never had the guts to wear – warm red with a hint of berry. bold, but not too much. soft, but not forgettable.

you told yourself it wasn’t for him. you told yourself it was your color. but deep down, you knew better. you may have scrolled through his tagged instagram photos. may have looked too long at the girls he used to be with – gorgeous, confident, the kind of girls who looked like they were born knowing how to make men fall in love. you noticed the lipstick. every one of them wore some variation of the color you were about to swipe across your lips. and still, you put it on.

because a small part of you wanted to be one of them. wanted to be wanted by him.

͙͘͡★

the taco truck was parked in it’s usual spot under the overpass, lit with a string of mismatched fairy lights and the faint glow of a flickering neon sign that just read TA. you spotted johnny immediately, leaning against his motorcycle, arms crossed, dressed in black, effortlessly cool. like this was his movie and you were just now walking into the frame.

he looked up and grinned when he saw you. sending you that lazy, mischievous, cheshire-cat smile, “took you long enough, i almost gave up and got a sad gas station sandwich.”

you rolled your eyes, “please, you would’ve ordered even if i didn’t show up.”

he smirks, “yeah and i would’ve sent you a million selfies to make you feel bad.”

you laugh, shaking your head as you lightly shoved his arm. he barely budged. you could feel the way he let the moment linger, just long enough to feel something hum beneath your skin.

you ordered at the truck. he paid. then sat on the curb nearby. the night was cool, the city alive but distant. the conversation flowed like you’d known each other longer than a week – he asked about your shift, you teased him about that ridiculous gold-flaked tequila in his story and he told you about a guy who walked in to pick up his very drunk girlfriend, shooting daggers at him.

“dude was practically growling at me,” johnny said, eyes bright with amusement, “i didn’t even look at her, i swear.”

you sipped your soda and shook your head, “that’s what happens when you’re too good-looking. you become everyone’s villain and their fantasy.”

“so you think i’m too good-looking?,” he teased, wriggling his brows.

you shoved him lightly, a smile on your face, “don’t act like you didn’t already know that about yourself.”

he laughed but didn’t argue. and then, halfway through your taco, you caught him looking at you. not casually. his eyes were fixed on your face, steady and thoughtful and completely unbothered by the fact that you caught him.

you raised a brow, “what?”

his mouth curled slightly, “that lipstick.”

you paused, suddenly hyper aware of everything – your lips, your breath, your heartbeat, “yeah?”

“i like it,” he said, voice softer now, lower, “looks good on you.”

you tried to brush it off. shrugged like it didn’t send a shiver down your spine, “it’s nothing. just…something i had lying around.”

he nodded, but kept looking for a moment longer, like he was memorizing it. and the way he said it, like he meant every syllable, made your chest tighten. you laughed it off, changed the subject, but the warmth in your cheeks lingered long after the conversation shifted.

you told yourself not to read into it. but that night, as you wiped the lipstick off before bed, your hand hovered. just for a second. and without even realizing it, you made a quiet, secret promise: wear it again. every time you saw him. every time you wanted him to look at you like that again. every time you needed to believe that maybe, maybe, you could be the girl who was enough.

someone more exciting.

it started with a call this time. not a text. not a meme. not a voice note. just your phone ringing, his name flashing across the screen like a dare. your breath caught, a small, involuntary thing, as you stared at it. you answered, trying to keep your voice casual, steady, safe, “hello?”

“hey,” johnny said, casual and warm, “you busy?”

you glanced at the half-eaten instant noodles in your lap and the true crime documentary you weren’t really watching, you bit back a smile, “i’m tragically free.”

“good,” he said, already grinning. you could hear it — that boyish lilt that always made your chest ache, “come outside.”

your heart skipped, “what?”

“i’m parked out front.”

you scramble to the window so fast, the noodles nearly spilled, peeking between the blinds and there he was – johnny, straddling his sleek black motorcycle, helmet in one hand, phone in the other, looking up like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was inviting you into.

and you wanted it. god, you wanted him.

you didn’t think, just grabbed your jacket, applied the lipstick you knew he loved and bolted down the stairs. when you opened the door, he was already stepping off the bike, reaching toward you with the second helmet.

“you ever been on one of these before?,” he asked, his voice softer now but teasing, carefully putting his spare helmet on you.

you shook your head, aware of how close he was, how loud your heart was beating, “nope.”

“good,” he said, fastening the helmet under your chin, his fingers brushing your jaw, “first ride’s always the most fun.”

the way he looked at you right then, eyes lingering a second longer than they should have, it made the air feel thinner. you climbed on behind him. awkward at first, unsure where to put your hands. “here,” he reached back, grabbed your wrists and wrapped them firmly around his waist, “like this.”

you could feel the warmth of him through his jacket, the hum of the engine beneath you, the way your body molded into his like it had always belonged there. you told yourself not to read into it. not to let it mean anything. but it already did.

“hold on tight,” he says, smirking.

the city blurred as he drove – wind in your face, your laughter caught somewhere between nerves and joy. the sharp turns and sudden bursts of speed. the city lights streaking past like fireworks. it was electric. it was loud. it was alive.

you had no idea where he was taking you and for the first time in your life, you didn’t care. you just pressed your cheek to his back and let yourself feel – the rhythm of the road, the curve of your arms around him, the freedom of letting go.

eventually, he slowed, turning off a side road that led to a hill overlooking the city. you’d seen it in movies – those iconic scenes where two people look down at the glowing skyline and pretend like it doesn’t scare the shit out of them to be feeling this much. he cut the engine, silence falling around you like a soft blanket. the city sparkled in the distance, golden and alive. below, the world kept moving. up here, time stopped. you climbed off the bike, tugging the helmet off as he did the same. for a while neither of you said anything. just stood side by side, watching the world breathe beneath your feet.

then he spoke, “i used to come up here when i first moved to the city,” he said, voice quieter now, “didn’t know anyone. didn’t have anything. just this bike and too much time to think.”

you turned to look at him. he wasn’t watching the skyline anymore — he was watching you. the wind gently tousled his hair. his jaw was sharp in the moonlight. his voice felt like something he hadn’t meant to share, but couldn’t hold in any longer.

“it’s beautiful,” you said softly, “peaceful.”

he nodded, “yeah. it is.”

a pause. then, “you’re not what i expected,” he said in a way that makes you feel special.

you raised a brow, “is that a good thing?”

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze drifted down to your lips, then back to your eyes. you watched him search for something, the right word, maybe. the right excuse.

“yeah,” he said, eyes still on you, “it is.”

there was something thick in the air now. something weightless and heavy all at once. you didn’t know who moved first, maybe it was both of you, but suddenly he was closer. a breath away. one hand gently brushing your cheek, the other resting lightly at your hip.

and then, just like that, johnny leaned in and kissed you. it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t greedy. it was slow and deliberate, like he was learning the shape of your mouth. like he was memorizing the feeling of you against him. you kissed him back without hesitation. because there, under the stars, above a city that never stopped moving – you wanted to be memorized. you wanted to be chosen.

all of your self-help books.

after that kiss, something shifted. not immediately. not loudly. but you felt it. you started talking more. not just memes and flirting, though there was plenty of that, but real things. quiet things. things that made you stop mid-text and stare at your phone because he actually wanted to know.

he’d ask how your shift went and actually wait for the answer. he’d send you photos of sunsets from his rooftop or voice notes when his hands were too full to type, rambling about the drunk couple who fought over a song or the old man who gave him life advice in exchange for a free beer.

sometimes, he’d show up at your coffee shop five minutes before closing, right before his shift started. not to be cute, well, maybe a little, but mostly just to see you. he’d sip whatever you made him, sit at the corner table and listen as you wiped down counters and ranted about spilled oat milk or that one customer who always paid in coins. sometimes he’d steal a kiss or two. sometimes his arms would wrap around your waist, large hands settling on your stomach, completely taking over all of your senses.

it wasn’t a date. none of it ever was.

he’d pick you up sometimes on that bike of his, telling you to wear something warm and not giving any other detail. you learned to stop asking. learned to trust the way he rode — fast but not reckless. the way he’d tap your leg twice before making a turn. the way he always pulled over to the shoulder if your grip around him ever loosened, even a little.

he never said it. but you knew. he paid attention. he cared.

you’d find yourselves in strange places – a drive-in theater with the sound turned down because you were too busy arguing over whether the notebook was overrated. a rooftop you didn’t know existed, lying side by side in the dark with only the stars to eavesdrop. a 24/7 diner at 3AM, splitting pancakes and stealing bites from each other’s plates.

and in those moments, the world felt suspended. no labels. no pressure. just this. whatever this was.

but it wasn’t all laughter. there were quiet pauses too. moments when you’d catch him looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with what he was feeling. like it scared him. like maybe, just maybe he hadn’t planned for this either.

once, after a particularly long silence, you asked, “what are we doing?”

he didn’t answer right away. just looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyes and said softly, “i don’t know. but i don’t want it to stop.”

and somehow, that was enough. not a label. not a promise. but it was something. you didn’t know what you were to each other. not exactly. not yet. but you knew how his hand felt in yours. you knew how his voice softened when he said your name. you knew how your body leaned towards his without even thinking. you knew the way he kissed.

it wasn’t love. but it could be. and that was the most terrifying part of all.

͙͘͡★

you’d swung by the bar just right after his shift, partly because you missed him, partly because you wanted to see if he’d miss you back. you spot him behind that bar, talking to a couple girls who were giggling and blushing over something he said. but the second he saw you, he had that look in his eyes — the soft one, the quiet one. that one that made you feel like he was only reserved for you.

“long day?,” he asked, sliding you a drink you didn’t even order.

you nodded, sinking into your usual seat, “you have no idea.”

he didn’t push. he never did. just gave you that space, that comfort, that warm silence that wrapped around you like a hoodie that smelled like him. you stayed until he served his last customer. stayed while he changed out of his work clothes and into something more casual. stayed until he was pulling you towards his motorcycle.

“come home with me,” he said. it wasn’t laced with anything dirty. no teasing smirk. no playful wink. just a quiet question in the way he said it. like he didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. you said yes.

his apartment was nothing like you expected. warm. lived-in. music posters framed on the walls. self-help books neatly tucked in his shelves. a half-dead plant he insisted was “just going through something.” the place smelled like cedarwood and mint and something unmistakably him.

you dropped your bag by the door and kicked your shoes off, nerves fluttering somewhere between your ribs. you curled up on his couch with him, a movie playing in the background that neither of you were really watching. your head on his chest, fingers tracing over the ink on his arms. his hands running gently through your hair.

eventually, he tilted his chin down, “stay.”

you looked up, a small smile on your lips, “i thought i already was.”

he smiled, “just making sure.” there was no pressure in his voice. just hope and a little fear too. like he didn’t want to be wrong.

the sheets were soft, the bed too big for just one person. he handed you a t-shirt to sleep in. you changed in his bathroom, stared at your reflection for a moment — at the girl who had told herself not to get attached. not to fall.

and now here you were, wearing his shirt, crawling into his bed, tucking yourself ino his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

there was no sex. not that night. just warmth. just his hand on your waist. just your fingers brushing his chest as you whispered about nothing and everything in the dark — you learned that he was scared of thunderstorms and losing people. that he used to dream of being a musician but music didn’t bring in money and sometimes dreams are just that. in return, you told him things you didn’t even know you needed to say. you fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and real, right beneath your cheek.

͙͘͡★

you woke up before him. the sun hadn’t fully risen yet. soft morning light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the walls. you turned your head slowly, taking him in. his face relaxed, lips parted slightly, lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. there was a boyishness to him like this, something raw and unguarded that made your chest tighten. you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, your fingers featherlight.

and in that moment, it hit you — you’ve never felt this rush before. not like this. you didn’t say it out loud. not yet. but deep down, you knew. you were falling. hard. quietly. hopelessly. and god, you weren’t sure if he’d catch you.

but still…you stayed.

with his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck like he needed to be on you to breathe. his legs tangled with yours. and underneath the sheet — you could feel it. the heat. the size. already pressing into your lower back.

you shifted, breath hitching, and immediately his grip tightened. his hips rolled once in his sleep, instinctive, grinding into you. a deep sound rumbled in his chest, low and animal. then, voice rough and wrecked, “you moving like that on purpose?”

“didn’t mean to wake you,” you said, barely above a whisper.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, jaw tight. hair wild, mouth swollen from sleep, and that cocky little smirk beginning to curl on his lips, “you’re grinding on me in those tiny panties and you didn’t mean to?”

he laughed, playful and disbelieving. “try again.”

your face flushed, “johnny—”

he kissed you before you could finish, and nothing about it was soft. his mouth was hot and bruising, tongue sliding against yours like he was already fucking you with it. his hand slid under your shirt, found your breast, and squeezed hard — possessive, demanding.

you bit your lip, dragging the sheet off of him completely, exposing the full length of him, thick and already leaking through his boxers. your breath caught again, mouth going dry.

“you’re–,” you blinked, “jesus.”

he grinned lazily, “well, no, just johnny.”

you laughed, eyes still locked on the outline of him. “you’re not gonna fit.”

he laughs. really laughed. the sound was beautiful. addicting. he was beautiful.

“we’ll make it work,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “been hard all night,” he growled, voice like gravel, “and now you’re gonna fix it.”

before you could answer, he rolled you under him, pressing your wrists into the mattress. he caged you in with his arms, chest broad, cock thick and heavy resting between your thighs, teasing your folds with every shift of his hips.

“you wake up aching, baby?” he asked, voice low and rough, “or just needy for me?”

“johnny—”

“shhh.” he kissed you hard, stealing your breath as he tugged your (his) shirt off, large hands cupping your breasts. he grabbed your tits with purpose, squeezing, thumbing your nipple until it peaked hard beneath his fingers. you gasped into his mouth, hips lifting.

“there we go,” he said darkly, pulling back to watch your face, “fuck, you’re sensitive here, huh?” he moved lower, hot mouth trailing down your neck, biting a line down to your collarbone, then lower. you knew where he was going — and it only made the ache between your legs worse.

when his mouth finally closed around your nipple, you moaned. loud. unfiltered. he groaned in return, sucking hard, tongue flicking relentlessly, “so fucking soft,” he muttered between licks. he switched to the other breast without warning, dragging his teeth lightly over the skin, just enough to make you twitch. then he sucked, deep and slow, lips wrapped tight around your nipple like he could drink from it.

you cried out again, thighs falling wider, “johnny—fuck—”

“god, you love this,” he growled, cock grinding into your soaked panties, “waking up to me sucking on your tits like it’s my fucking breakfast.” you whimpered, fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue circled your nipple, lips hot and wet. he bit down — not hard, but enough to make you arch even more into him. then he soothed the sting with his tongue, keeping your breast in his mouth like he owned it.

“fuck,” he hissed, pulling back just enough to look down at you — spit-slick nipple still pebbling in the air, “look at them. all swollen and needy,” he licked a slow stripe up your chest, then sucked your nipple back into his mouth, hand still toying with the other, tweaking and rolling it between his fingers.

you were dripping. clenching around nothing, “please—,” you gasped.

“you gonna cum just from this, baby?” he asked, flicking your nipple with his tongue, watching your body jolt, “from me sucking your tits like this?”

you nodded helplessly, thighs trembling, “i can’t—i need—”

“you’ll take what i give you,” he growled, pinning your hips down with one hand while his mouth switched between your breasts — biting, sucking, licking until your skin was flushed and marked and wet with spit.

you felt ruined already and he hadn’t even put his cock in yet.

then finally, finally, he pulled back and shoved your panties aside, “you’re leaking,” he said, voice thick with hunger, “bet you’d cum the second i put it in.”

“do it—please, johnny—” your voice cracked, dripping with want, as you reached between your bodies, tugging at the waistband of his boxers. he helped you immediately, lifting his hips to shove them off, cock slapping against his abs—thick, flushed, already leaking.

“oh my god,” you breathed. johnny growled low, yanking your panties down your thighs and tossing them without a second thought. and when you spread your legs wide for him, needy and bare, he froze. for just a second. he didn’t touch you. he just stared — jaw clenched, eyes dark, breath ragged. like he was trying to memorize the sight of you ruined and waiting.

“god,” he muttered, “look at you. so wet it’s fucking dripping down your thighs.”

“please johnny—,” you beg for the umpteenth time, squirming under the weight of his stare, desperate, clutching at his arms. but he just smirked. shook his head. and sank lower, lowering himself between your legs until his shoulders pushed your thighs wider.

“not yet,” his voice was darker now. rough. dangerous. “you don’t get to take my cock until you’re shaking. until i’ve stretched this tight little pussy with my fingers and have you cum on my tongue.”

your breath hitched. he kissed the inside of your thigh, soft, mocking, before dragging his tongue slowly up your slit, tasting you. you cried out, hips jerking, but he locked you down instantly, one hand pressing flat on your stomach, the other already sliding between your folds.

“god,” he groaned against your pussy, “you taste like fucking sin.” then his tongue was everywhere, licking broad, greedy strokes up your cunt, swirling around your clit just to avoid it. he was teasing. deliberate. making you writhe. and then, just when you thought he might finally suck, his thick finger slid in deep.

you gasped, thighs trembling, “johnny—oh god—”

“that’s it,” he muttered, lips pressed to your folds, “let me open you up.”

he fingered you slow and deep, curling his finger until you moaned shamelessly. his tongue finally found your clit, licking slow and obscene circles, and you nearly arched off the bed, “more,” you gasped, fingers in his hair, “i need—”

he slid in a second finger, pumping harder, faster, while his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a wet sound that made you choke on your breath. your hips bucked, but his free hand gripped your thigh tightly. anchoring you. possessive. controlling.

“stay still,” he growled between licks, “let me wreck you.”

you whimpered, completely at his mercy. the way his fingers fucked into you brutally, always finding that perfect spot, and the way his tongue devoured your clit like it belonged to him, it was too much, “i can’t—johnny—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he groaned, his mouth wet and ruthless against you, “cum for me, baby. cum on my fucking face.”

and you did. your orgasm hit like a slap, your body tensing then breaking apart as you moaned his name, legs shaking, cunt pulsing around his fingers. he didn’t stop. he kept fucking you with his fingers, prolonging your orgasm, licking your clit like he needed to taste every last drop, groaning into you like he was the one falling apart. you tried to push him away, too sensitive — but he just growled against your cunt.

“don’t run now,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “you wanted this.” you whimpered helplessly and he pulled away, licking his lips slow, dragging his fingers from your cunt with a slick sound and licked them clean with a moan, like it was his favorite fucking meal.

then, wordlessly, he reached for the condom on the nightstand, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled it down over his cock, still hard, still massive, the flushed tip smearing pre-cum across his stomach. when he looked back down at you, trembling, wrecked, spread wide and soaked, his voice dropped again.

“you think you’re ready now?” he asked, fist stroking himself slow. all you could do was nod, breath ragged, thighs still shaking from the orgasm he’d just licked out of you. he lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your dripping folds, and grinned when your hips jolted at the contact.

“feel that?” he whispered, rubbing the tip over your clit with slow, cruel pressure that made you whine, “you’re begging for it. this pussy’s starving.”

“johnny—fuck me—please—,” he leaned over you, his chest pressing to yours, one hand guiding himself to your entrance, the other brushing sweaty hair from your face, “breathe,” he whispered against your lips, “nice and slow. i got you.”

you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. and then—he pushed in. one thick inch…two…three…four…you cried out, back arching off the bed. the stretch was intense, every muscle tensing, trying to accommodate him, and failing. your walls clung tight, trembling, trying to adjust.

“jesus—” you gasped, voice cracking, “you’re huge—i can’t—”

“i know,” johnny groaned, his voice thick, jaw clenched tight. his forehead dropped to yours, breathing ragged, “you’re doing so good. just a little more, baby.”

your hands clawed at his back, “johnny—fuck—it’s too much—”

“you can take it,” he growled, and then he bit down on your neck, hard, as his hips shoved forward, bottoming out in one deep, brutal thrust. you screamed. your hands fisted in his hair, your thighs locked around his waist, body shaking, wrecked, stuffed so full it felt like he was in your stomach.

“that’s it,” he groaned, watching your face twist beneath him, “look at you. fucking stuffed full of me.”

he gave you one moment, barely, before he pulled out halfway and slammed back in, hard enough to jolt the bedframe. you cried out again, legs wrapping tighter around his waist on instinct. he didn’t stop. didn’t slow down. his hips snapped into yours with a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“feel that?” he grunted, dragging your hand down to your lower belly, pressing down, “that’s me.”

you choked on a moan, “i feel it—fuck—i feel all of you.”

he laughed, wild and breathless, and kissed you hard, teeth clashing, tongue deep and desperate. then he growled against your lips, possessive, feral, “i’m splitting you in half, baby.”

you couldn’t speak. couldn’t think. every time he drove into you, it knocked the air out of your lungs. your nails dug into his back, your body bouncing helpless beneath him.

“taking it like a good girl,” he snarled, “so tight and wet and fuck— this pussy was made for me.”

his hand slid between you, finding your clit, rubbing ruthless circles that made you sob, “you gonna cum?” he asked, voice low and taunting, “gonna cream all over my cock like a little desperate slut?”

“yes—yes, johnny, please—”

“you like it rough, huh?” he snarled, pulling your leg over his shoulder and angling his hips so deep you swore he was in your throat, then he increased his pace, “you want me to fuck you till you forget your own name?”

“please,” you managed to say, head thrown back. your body moving with every thrust.

he grabbed your face, forcing your gaze to his, before wrapping his hand around your throat, enough to spike the heat coursing through your veins, “eyes on me. watch me ruin you.”

and you did. you watched as your body shattered under him. watched as your orgasm crashed into you like a fucking freight train, legs trembling violently, mouth open in a soundless moan, eyes rolled so far back you saw white, cunt clenching around him so hard it stole his breath.

“fucking hell—” johnny cursed, hips faltering, “so tight when you cum, shit–shit—”

he slammed into you one last time, so deep it felt like your bodies became one. he spilled inside the condom, groaning your name like it was the only word he knew. one hand stayed wrapped around your throat. the other gripped your hip so tight it would bruise. he stayed inside you, both of you breathless, twitching, bodies soaked in sweat.

then he leaned in and kissed you — slower, messier. a kiss that lingered, that tasted like possession and praise and everything unsaid. when he finally pulled back, he just stared at you. the fire hadn’t gone out. but it had changed. something softer burning in the ashes.

“you okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

you nodded, barely able to speak.

his thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kiss, “did i break you?”

you let out a small, shattered laugh, “a little bit.”

he smirked, eyes dark and gleaming, “good.”

then he kissed you again. deeper this time. lingering. like he meant it. like he wasn’t done with you — not even close. and neither were you. because even through the aftershocks, with your body still trembling and his cock still inside you, you knew: you wanted him again.

he didn’t say anything else. and you didn’t either. because part of you was scared that if he did speak, it wouldn’t be the thing you needed to hear. instead, you let him pull you into his arms, heart pounding, wondering what it meant — wondering if it meant anything at all. and deep down, you hoped maybe it did.

because no one kisses like that without feeling something… right?

enough for you.

the next few days blurred into heat. you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. it was like something snapped open between you after that morning—like the floodgates had broken and now there was no going back.

it was barely soft. it was barely slow. most of the time it was desperate.

like on the counter of the cafe after closing. the lights were still half on, the smell of roasted beans lingering in the air. you had barely shut the blinds when johnny’s hand wrapped around your waist and spun you into him, his mouth already on yours, rough and impatient. he lifted you like it was nothing. your ass hitting the cool marble countertop, the espresso machine whirring in the background like white noise but you barely registered it. not when his teeth dragged along your jaw, not when his palms pushed your skirt up to your hips and he slotted himself between your legs like they belonged there. you didn’t speak. only the sound of your breath hitching as he pushed your panties to the side. only the rasp of his jeans against your bare thighs, the sting and the spark of it. only the grip of his hands, the desperate press of his body, the way your legs locked around his waist as though instinct alone could hold him there. he moved with a kind of reckless need, thrusting into you with deep, bruising rhythm, each one pulling a cry from your throat you couldn’t even control. his hand slid up your spine, curling around your nape, anchoring you as his body took and gave in equal measure. you clung to him like he was oxygen. he kissed you through it, open-mouthed and greedy, tasting the soft whimper in your throat as he moved harder, deeper, like he wanted to pull every secret out of you. and you let him.

sometimes it was behind the bar, past the swinging door that led to the back hallway – the storage room, the employee lockers, the shadows. it smelled like spilled rum and old wood. the floor was sticky in places, the air still humming faintly with bass from the speakers outside. but the second the door swung shut behind you, none of it mattered. johnny had you pinned before you could breathe — his body a wall of heat pressing into yours, his hands already up your shirt. the wall at your back was rough. he kissed you like the hours he spent on the floor pouring drinks and flashing that easy smile at strangers had built a pressure in him that only you could break. his hands roamed like he was searching for something he’d lost — rough and urgent, like even this couldn’t come close to being enough. “needed this,” he muttered against your throat, between kisses that left your skin flushed and marked. you barely got out a breath before he was pushing your pants and panties down just enough to give him room. and then working his own jeans open. it was clumsy and fast, but it was real. like instinct. like ritual. you helped, just as eager to pull him closer, your hands fumbling with his belt, your breath coming quicker with every second. and when he finally freed himself and pushed into you, it was almost dizzying. the stretch, the pressure, the sudden full-body shock of him sliding deep with no space between. you moaned his name, a prayer, something half-lost, as your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud. his hand curled around your thigh, hoisting your leg higher, angling you just right. every thrust drove up into you with unrelenting force, deep, fast, needy. like he wasn’t just trying to get off, but trying to brand himself into you. the air filled with the muffled sounds of skin meeting skin, the low hum of his groans, the wet echo of your body welcoming his over and over again. your fingers clawed at his shoulders, holding tight, grounding yourself in the rhythm of him. he kept one arm locked tight around your back, the other gripping your ass, his hips snapping into yours like he couldn’t bear to stop. like he didn’t want to leave any part of you untouched.

other times, it was the shower. steam wrapped around your bodies like a second skin, the mirror fogged completely, the air thick with heat and water and him. the glass door rattled softly behind you as your back hit the cold tile, a gasp escaping your lips at the sudden contrast but it was swallowed quickly by johnny’s mouth as he kissed you again, deep and deliberate, like he couldn’t get enough. his hands cradled your face, thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones in a touch that didn’t match the urgency of his mouth. almost reverent. like he was making up for all the times he grabbed you roughly, pressed you hard against counters, walls, bar stools. here, he wanted to memorize you slowly. maybe. or maybe he just liked the way your lips parted when his fingers slid between your thighs, spreading you open under the hot cascade of water, the pads of his fingers pressing exactly where you needed him. you let your head fall back against the wall with a quiet sigh, mouth parted, steam curling against your skin. his lips trailed after it. down your neck, your collarbone, slow and wet, chasing the droplets of water as they traced down your chest. he kissed you there, just above your heart, then lower, slower, wetter. his hands slipped to your hips, pulling them forward slightly so you were tilted just enough, his shoulder pressing to your thigh as he went down on his knees like worship. like habit. the sight of him there — mouth open, eyes already glazed, wet hair slicked back and drops of water catching on his lashes nearly undid you. his tongue found you like he knew you by heart now. his hands kept you steady as he licked slow, patient circles that had your knees shaking in seconds. he didn’t speak. just groaned low in his throat when you arched toward him, one hand in his soaked hair, the other braced against the wall. he glanced up at you, lips slick and pupils blown wide, water running down the hard line of his jaw, as you moaned his name. “i got you,” he said, voice hoarse, low. and maybe he did. for now. later, you'd ask yourself what it meant. the way he kissed you after like he meant it. the way he picked you up, hands firm under your thighs, pressing your body to the wall as he sank into you slowly, your gasp echoing through the tiled space. the way he moved inside you like he didn’t want to break you — even if he already had. you held on. legs tight around his waist, arms around his neck, forehead to forehead. the water raged around you. but the silence between you grew louder. and still, you moved. together. like you knew the ending was coming and neither of you wanted to be the one to stop it.

then there were the quiet moments. you’d end up on the couch in your apartment, legs draped over his lap, a movie playing in the background that neither of you ever finished. he’d trace lazy circles on the inside of your thigh with one hand, the other nursing a half-drunk bottle of beer. he kissed the inside of your knee first — soft, almost innocent. then higher, to the dip where your thigh met your hip. his stubble scraped gently against your skin, the kind of burn that made you shift in his lap just to get closer. because somewhere deep inside, you were starting to realize something: this felt like intimacy. like warmth. like closeness.

but it wasn’t. not really. it was want. and you were drowning in it. still, when he leaned up to kiss you, you let him. mouth soft, slow, coaxing. like a secret passed between your lips. like a promise he’d never say out loud. his hand slipped beneath your oversized shirt, fingertips pressing into your waist as if to say i’m here. as if to make you forget that he never said you’re mine.

you pressed your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut, letting yourself fall a little deeper into the illusion because when he touched you like this, when he whispered into your skin and kissed the place beneath your ribs like he meant it — you were giving him everything. and he hadn’t even asked for it.

“you’re dangerous,” he’d whisper, lips brushing just below your navel.

you’d arch a brow, “me?”

he’d grin, kiss the corner of your mouth, “yeah. all this sweetness? it’s a trap.”

you didn’t say it, but you’d never wanted to be dangerous. you just wanted to be wanted. and with him, with the way he touched you, the way he pulled you into his lap like you were gravity itself — it was easy to pretend you were.

you lost track of the days. of how often. of where. of how many times you’d woken up in his bed, still sore from the night before, only to feel his hand slip between your legs before you even opened your eyes. and you told yourself it meant something. that the way he gripped your hips like you were a lifeline, the way he moaned your name into your neck, the way he looked at you afterward, chest heaving, sweat on his brow, was more than just desire.

but the more it happened, the more he started to fade behind it.

stupid, emotional, obsessive little me.

you started memorizing the firsts — the first time he gripped your hand too tightly, the first time he kissed you just to shut you up, the first time he came and didn’t say a word after. the first time you cried in the bathroom, quietly, while he dozed in your bed.

he didn’t talk as much anymore. didn’t linger after. his touches were still addictive, still practiced and devastating, but the softness was gone. the way he used to brush your hair out of your face. the way he used to smile into your kisses. the way he used to say your name like it meant something.

now it was all heat. all rhythm. all ache. or maybe it was always like that and you were too caught up in the fairytale in your head. he doesn’t even try to act like the knight in shining armor anymore. when it was over, he’d roll away with a sigh and reach for his phone instead of you.

still, you stayed.

you curled into his side, tracing the ink on his chest like it might spell out something you didn’t know how to ask. you laughed at his dry humor. you wore the lipstick he liked. you stayed quiet when he didn’t ask how your day was. you let his hands pull you back in, let his body convince you to stay. because maybe if you gave enough of yourself — your skin, your warmth, your quiet willingness. maybe he’d see what you were trying to be. maybe he’d see you.

you kept playing the role — cool, easy, sexy. the girl of his dreams. the girl who didn’t ask for more. because if you kept him wanting you… maybe that was close enough to love.

but even then, deep down, you could feel the shift.

his kisses started to feel practiced. his touches are automatic. like muscle memory instead of desire. and though your bodies moved like they were made for each other…it stopped feeling like he wanted you. he wanted something. and the more you tried to be enough. the more you feared you never really were.

one morning he kissed your forehead but didn’t stay for breakfast.

“i’ve got some stuff to do,” he said casually, tugging a hoodie over his head, “i’ll text you later.”

later never came.

you told yourself it was fine. told yourself he was just busy. told yourself you didn’t care.

then you checked your phone for the fifth time in an hour. then you checked his socials. then you checked the read receipt on your last message—delivered. not seen.

that stupid lump swelled in your throat, thick and hot and shameful. you hated this. hated feeling like this. you weren’t the clingy type. you weren’t the girl who waited around.

but with johnny, you were becoming that girl. the one who memorized his schedule, who read too much into the way he used punctuation in his texts.

and it was stupid. because he’d never promised you anything. not really. but he’d looked at you like he meant something. he’d touched you like he needed you. he’d fucked you like it wasn’t just sex.

so what changed?

you started replaying everything. the way he used to send good morning texts. the way his thumb used to rub lazy circles on your back after he came. the way he used to say your name like it mattered. when did all of that stop?

you sat on your bed, wearing his shirt like a fool, staring at your phone screen like it might blink with his name at any moment. your chest ached with the weight of something unspoken, something unfinished.

you want him more than he wants you. that was the sickening truth of it. and once the thought took root, it burrowed deep, infected everything. every moment of silence became a rejection. every missed call, a knife. every flicker of distance from him felt like punishment for wanting too much.

you’d let him inside you—in every way that mattered and now he was pulling away, unraveling you thread by thread while pretending everything was fine.

i knew from the start.

the bar was loud. of course it was. music pounding. glasses clinking. laughter spilling like liquor over worn leather and neon lights. the place felt claustrophobic tonight, even though you’d come here a dozen times before. for him. you used to feel safe here — tucked away in the lull between his shifts, the quiet in-between moments where it felt like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than a secret. but tonight, the air felt heavier. like it knew.

the second you stepped inside, you felt it — the pull. the sharp ache behind your ribs when your eyes found him behind the bar.

he’s in his black button-down rolled to the elbows, sleeves pushed just enough to show off his forearms, veins prominent as he popped a cap and handed off a beer with that lazy, devastating smile. he looked good. he always looked good. like sin dressed in sunday clothes. effortless and untouchable.

and he wasn’t alone — she was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar. new girl. glossy and giggly. leaning in too close, laughing too loud. her hand brushed his forearm when she said something, and he grinned at her like he hadn’t just ghosted you five nights ago. like he hadn’t disappeared from your sheets with no explanation. no apology.

you watched, stomach churning, as he slid a drink her way — his signature. the same one he made you for you in all the nights you found yourself on the stool now occupied by her.

she lifted it to her lips, smiled, said something flirty. he laughed. then leaned in. the same playful handshake. that same stupid, cheshire cat smile. the one he gave you when he was trying to charm his way under your skin—and into your bed. it was a routine. a script. and you realized with horror that it had never been just yours.

it was worse than being ignored. it was being replaced — publicly, seamlessly, with the same damn lines. the same damn smile. your stomach dropped, nausea crawling up your throat. he looked happy. unbothered. like you were just another girl who got too attached. just another night he didn’t lose sleep over.

you weren’t going to say anything. but then he laughed again, low and familiar, and she reached across the bar, fingers trailing down his chest like it belonged to her. and something inside you snapped.

you didn’t even realize you were moving until you were standing right in front of him. your breath was shaky. your chest was burning. you didn’t know if it was rage or heartbreak — probably both. he looked up, mid-pour, and his smile faltered. just for a second. his eyes met yours. and for the briefest moment, something flickered. recognition? guilt? no — annoyance.

“don’t look at me like that,” he said flatly.

like what? like you were breaking? like he mattered?

you laughed, bitter and breathless, “who was that?”

johnny’s jaw tightened, his hand clenched around the bar towel. “she’s none of your business.”

the words hit harshly. blunt. cold. final.

you flinched, swallowing hard as heat rose to your eyes, “right,” you whispered, nodding, lips trembling as you tried to keep your face together. “because i was never your business either.”

he didn’t answer. didn’t fight. didn’t defend. didn’t care.

you stared at him, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a marathon. like your body was still catching up to the heartbreak in your throat.

“you’re just never satisfied, are you?” he muttered under his breath, not even looking at you now, “no matter what i do, it’s never enough.”

you blinked, stunned. was that what he really thought? that you were difficult? demanding? that wanting him to care, even a little, was asking too much?

you laughed. it came out cracked and broken. “jesus, johnny, i wasn’t asking for the fucking moon. i just wanted you to care.”

silence. he grabbed another glass. started pouring. like you were just another customer. just another voice in the noise.

“i knew,” you said softly, like a confession to the air, “i fucking knew, from the start, this is exactly how you’d leave.”

still—nothing. so you stepped back. watched the man you fell in love with measure liquor with perfect precision and zero remorse. watched him return to his routine. his bar. his smile. his new girl. and then you turned. walked out. shaking. shattered.

used and discarded.

you waited for the bar to clear out. you stood outside for over an hour, pacing the sidewalk like a ghost, watching your breath fog in the cold night air, replaying every touch, every word, every smile you swore meant something. maybe you were wrong. maybe you read it all wrong. but something in you needed to know — needed to hear him say it. out loud. where it could finally shatter you clean.

when the last customer stumbled out and the music dulled into a low hum, johnny started stacking chairs with the kind of ease that made you ache. he looked so unaffected. like this was just another closing shift. like your heart wasn’t on the floor he was sweeping.

you waited a moment longer, breath catching, and then you stepped inside — into the familiar hum of neon lights and the stifling scent of spilled liquor and citrus and everything you used to think was yours.

he looked up when the door creaked open. didn’t look surprised. didn’t smile. just wiped the counter like you were an inconvenience, “we’re closed.”

you didn’t budge, “i’m not here for a drink.”

he sighed, like you were a problem he’d already solved, “then what do you want?”

that did it. that tone. detached. irritated. as if you weren’t bleeding in front of him.

you walked straight to the bar, legs trembling, the soles of your shoes sticking slightly to the floor like even the universe was trying to stop you from doing this. your hands pressed down hard onto the counter to steady yourself, “i want to know where the fuck you’ve been?! and what the fuck was that tonight?!”

johnny didn’t answer at first. he kept wiping the counter, slow and methodical, like the conversation was beneath him. like you were beneath him.

you bit down hard on your cheek, the metallic tang of blood rising on your tongue, “you don’t owe me anything, right?” your voice cracked, rough with the sharp edge of rage and heartbreak, “that’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it? that i knew the deal. that it was just sex.”

he finally looked at you. his eyes were cold. hollow. like all the warmth he used to offer you had evaporated somewhere between the barstool and his bed.

“you’re not my girlfriend.” he said.

“you don’t get to tell me who i can and can’t talk to. i don’t have to explain myself to you.”

the words sliced you open. simple. brutal. final.

you blinked. swallowed the ache, “i’m not your girlfriend.” you repeated. “right.” you stepped back, breath catching. “so what was i? practice? a placeholder? someone to warm your bed between shifts?”

“don’t do this,” he muttered, already turning his back to you.

“no.” you said quickly, voice rising, “no. you don’t get to walk away. not after everything. not after all the nights you held me like i was yours. after you looked at me like you—,” your voice broke, “—like you felt something.”

he stayed quiet. and that silence? that was the answer. you stared at the back of him like it might change if you just waited long enough. like the boy you’d fallen for might turn around and apologize. say something. anything.

your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, “don’t you think i loved you too much to be used and discarded?”

johnny’s jaw clenched. his eyes flickered with something—guilt, maybe. regret. but whatever it was, it vanished just as quickly.

“i never asked you to love me.”

and just like that, the floor dropped out. you stared at him, every part of you trembling. “no. but you made me think you did.”

your voice collapsed in on itself, sharp with disbelief, “you touched me like you cared. you kissed me like you meant it. you pulled me in, and then you threw me away like i was some bad habit you were trying to quit.”

still nothing. he didn’t even turn to look at you.

you backed away slowly, heart in your throat, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, “you don’t get to be cruel just because you’re scared.”

that landed. for just a breath, johnny looked down. his hands gripped the edge of the bar so tight his knuckles went white. but then he let out a long exhale, and when he looked back at you, his face was unreadable again. empty. hardened.

“you should go.”

no softness. no flicker of the man who used to whisper your name in the dark. just those three words. cold and clean and final. so you did. you left. you didn’t slam the door. you didn’t cry until you were around the corner. you didn’t scream or beg or ask him to call you later. you just walked out. and you never looked back. because this time, you knew. he wouldn’t be looking for you.

i just want myself back.

the hardest part wasn’t losing johnny. it was losing you. the version of yourself that laughed easily. that believed people meant what they said. that thought looking into someone’s eyes during sex meant something. that version was gone.

you weren’t sure when it happened. maybe it was the night you curled into his side and he didn’t reach for you. maybe it was when you sat on the edge of his bed in his t-shirt and he never looked up from his phone. maybe it was when you silently begged him – with your eyes, with your fingers, with your body – to not look at you like you were the one who made things messy.

but somewhere in the quiet unraveling of all the things he never said, that girl — the one who believed in softness — disappeared. and all that was left was the ache. the slow, hollow process of relearning how to exist without orbiting someone else’s gravity.

the café became your safe place again. your sanctuary. not because it healed you, but because it didn’t ask questions. there was comfort in the routine. the way your hands knew how to pour coffee and steam milk and sweep crumbs off the counter. you wore your tiredness like armor, kept your head down, and smiled only when necessary. you tucked the grief under your apron, and made small talk only when you had to.

you didn’t talk about him. not to your coworkers, not to your friends. not even to yourself.

but he was still everywhere. in the drink order you used to bring him during his breaks. in the stool he used to sit on with that cocky smirk and tired eyes. in the song that always seemed to play when it rained. you hated that you still remembered his coffee. hated that your body still flinched at the sound of the door chime at certain hours, like maybe — maybe — but he never came.

and it was strange, almost supernatural. because this was a small city. you knew all the same places. shared the same streets. but somehow, he disappeared from your life entirely. and you remembered that saying:

if someone’s not meant to be in your life, you won’t run into them. no matter how close they are. no matter how small the world feels.

it was like the universe conspired to keep you apart. you started to believe it was protecting you. maybe the absence was a gift. maybe he wasn’t meant to come back. maybe you weren’t supposed to stay broken.

so you stopped checking your phone. you stopped glancing through the windows of AM 01:27 when you walked past. you started laughing again. not the way you used to. but it was real. you got better. not healed. but better.

what you didn’t know was that johnny came by more often than he should’ve. he never came in. never texted. never said your name.

he just stood across the street, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on even when it was cloudy. he watched through the glass. he came during the times he knew you’d be working — the in-betweens, the slow hours when the café was half-empty and the sunlight made the windows soft. just long enough to see if you were okay. just long enough to catch a glimpse of you tucking hair behind your ear, laughing at something a coworker said, wiping down the counter like the weight of him wasn’t still stitched into your spine. and he hated himself for it. for needing that sliver of you. for missing you this much when he was the one who let you go.

and then, one day, you were gone. no note. no goodbye. just an empty hook in the breakroom where your apron used to hang. just someone else behind the counter, smiling too brightly, who didn’t know how to get the milk-to-foam ratio quite right. you’d stopped existing in the only place he knew how to find you.

you’d left the café. left the city. left him.

johnny never asked where you went. he never bothered looking for you. because deep down, he knew — you finally picked yourself.

and that kind of goodbye. the kind where someone saves their own life by walking away? that’s the kind you don’t get to chase after. not when you had your chance. not when you let her disappear piece by piece — and watched.

THE END.

͙͘͡★

an: and that’s johnny in the sour series! thanks for giving it a chance 💜☂️… any suggestions on who and what song i should do next? please feel free to comment or drop by my ask! <3

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⋆⭒˚.⋆

#johnny suh x reader #johnny suh x you #johnny suh smut #johnny suh angst #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 x you #nct 127 angst #nct 127 smut #nct 127 fluff #johnny suh fluff #johnny suh scenarios #johnny suh #nct blurbs #nct angst #nct x reader #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct smut #withsourseries

124 notes · View notes

zepskies · 2 days ago

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awwww I'm blushing!! 🥰 Thank you so much, friend!! 💕

the opening itself was so good, you have such a way with descriptions it's so easy to get immersed and be able to visualize it all ✨

ehehe I'm so glad you enjoyed the steamy opener! 😘

prime example right here. the wordplay? the phrasing? the descriptions?? insane. chefs kiss. 🤌🏽💋 had me blushing, fanning myself, talking into the air — amazing ❤️‍🔥🫠

🤭💜🤭💜🤭 legit thank you so much!! Gotta admit, smut writing is my biggest challenge lolol

this is so sweet are u kiddingggg 😭

Aww that was my favorite part to write for this scene tbh 🥹 finally we get Mark's side of the missing her, wanting her, hurting without her. 💙

this had me cracking up

LOL I'll admit the "dropping the soap" was a bit cliché, but it still made me giggle 😂

aghhh my heart 😩 the bathroom scenes in the show have been making my chest ache fr, i'm worried for himmm 🥺 (and now i'm worried for him in this series-verse too... loll)

omg yesss, they're literally hurting my heart so much, so of course I had to inject one here lolll (oh, expect more of that kind of angst to come, unfortunately 🥲)

cryinggggggg i love this, and them 😭

Ok, thank you for highlighting my actual favorite line. It may be too sappy but I couldn't help myself 😂💕

I’ll admit this soft sequence with her mom made me cry a little 🥹 i've been missing my mom a bit extra lately and this really took me back to being in the kitchen with her :') lisette seems so sweet already, I loved her dynamic with the reader and with mark 💙 (even with rachel, ik that look of disappointment has gotta sting 😗)

I'm so sorry, hun. I didn't know you lost your mom. 🫂💙

Yeah, Lisette is a sweetheart for real. 💓💓💓 She def treated Mark like family (and was verrrry disappointed in Rachel)

i know that's right !!! now this i love to see, get her 🤣 I love that she went straight for the punch, that bitch deserved to get milly rocked hard lmao

Ohhhh get ready lmaooo. Reader is NOT playing - whem she said on sight, she really meant on sight 🤣

yikessss, i feel for him. traffic here is a nightmare but rush hour? blegh 😔

Ooh are you out in Cali? Forgive me if I ever misrepresent the state bc I've actually never been there loll

aaaand crying again. i love that he had that with her and I hope with time he can get that again 💙

aww don't worry, he'll get a piece of that again in this one-shot (and maybe more later on in the series) 🥹💙

hooooooly shit lmfaooooo this is so much better than i could imagine. para que se le quite a la pendeja 🤣

ahahaaaaa exactamente! 😏

and she's stiiillll lying like oh my god girl, give it up 🤦🏽‍♀️ bien que tiene los cojones para hacer desmadre pero no para decir la verdad? wild.

por eso - ella necesita quantos cocotazos to get her head right. lying ass bitch 😂

man :(( I feel for them, I really do. hopeful for those second opinions...👀

oh we're gonna work on it! 😅

I hope this truly sits with her, and settles deep into her bones. not for a redemption arc, but so she can actually take the time and effort to self reflect and stop being such a nasty person with terrible intentions. like her apologies mean nothing considering it took over nine months and a face full of dog shit to admit to what she really did.

Yeah I doubt I'll write a true redemption for Rachel, but this is an important step for her realizing the scope of the damage of what she's done to both reader and Mark 💔💔 (and she doesn't even know about his diagnosis). She's truly damaged and vindictive

i'm glad the table setting ended up working out, with a much better third guest :p i'm truly obsessed with mark and this little series verse, 💙💙 i'm excited to see where you take this !!

Yesss exactly! Mark gets to be their #3, and he gets a home-cooked meal, even if it means he has to come clean to his second mom too 🥲

I'm so happy you love this storyverse because I'm having so much fun with it so far! 🥰 I can't wait to share more of it soon 💞💞

SISTER, SISTER

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: You and Mark have an emotional reconnection after he finally comes clean. But that also means you have some unfinished business to take care of with your sister, Rachel.

AN: Wrote this last week because I guess I can't stop myself! 😂 So yep, these Mark stories have officially become a series of one-shots called — ‘Til When Do Us Part. This one is also a gif check requested by my friend @lamentationsofalonelypotato for the 5K Follower Celebration. I think this is an important puzzle piece to explore after Catastrophic Blues. 😉

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x02] 18+ only! Reunion smut, fluff, an epic cat fight (lol), angst, hurt/comfort

Series Masterlist

His hair dragged through your fingers again. First soft and loose, then gripped tight—desperate, hot tingles across your skin.

It was almost too much.

A halting moan fell from your lips, his biting kiss along your throat as he moved inside you.

“Fuck. Takin’ me better than ever, baby,” he said into your skin, his words gritted out and tinged with smoke and relief. “Gonna feel me for fuckin’ days at this rate.”

The sound of his voice reached deep into your bones. The safety of his arms caged you underneath him on his bed, the old mattress creaking with every test of the springs. He wrapped an arm around your thigh like curling steel, opening you up more for him, making his rolling thrusts hit deeper. Harder. A man possessed.

You gasped, your pussy already throbbing in time with your heartbeat. Your words were barely syllables, but they escaped you nonetheless. "Oh, fuck. Mark..."

He smirked into your neck. His lips trailed down to your shoulder and nipped harder with teeth, just to feel you writhe against him. You whimpered, your sensitive nipples brushing against his chest when you arched back up into him.

His hot breaths further ignited your skin. Your nails raked down the back of his neck and down his shoulder as you held on for the ride—an obscene squelching of wetness and hot breaths, skin against flushed skin. Your fingers pressed into every divot of muscle, as if you could sink right through his skin and make him feel you. Not for days. Forever.

You didn’t have words to speak. It was all in your eyes when they met his. Raw, vulnerable, glassy with pleasure, your breaths unsteady with emotion.

He pulled back a little, just so he could slip his hand between your bodies and find your slick, swollen clit again. He swept the pads of his fingers in the angles and rhythm he knew would serve you best in between his thrusts.

He swallowed your gasp of his name, your whimpers as you shuddered and came. A sensation like kaleidoscope colors, bursting like so many stars. You fucking squeezed him from the inside out for the third time tonight, finally forcing a ragged groan from his own lips as he spilled into you. His hips stuttered a shaky and powerful release.

You grabbed his face and poured your soul into that kiss, a wet and filthy meeting of lips and tongues.

Panting breaths forced their way through his nose, but he wouldn’t break that kiss for all the world. He finally had you back in his arms. He had the scent of your floral soap in his nose, your familiar sweetness on his tongue, your hair threaded through his fingers. He had it all.

It wasn’t the faded memories he clung to in a brick-and-mortal cell, or the daydreams of what if that had been torturing him whenever he saw a girl in a white dress, or a family sitting at dinner with their little kids in highchairs.

It was you, solid and real.

Your kiss swollen lips dragged from his slowly, reluctantly, with shaky breaths in between.

He let your thighs slip down to rest more comfortably around his hips, but he didn't move just yet. He stayed buried deep inside you.

He brushed your frizzy hair away from your forehead, his eyes a little softer, less crazed. You sniffled as a tear rolled from the corner of your eye. He swept the wetness away with his thumb.

“I know it was good, but you don’t need to cry, sweetheart,” he teased lightly. There was a tender note in his voice though.

Your heart clenched to hear it. Part of you still couldn't believe this was real. Despite yourself, you laughed a little, breathless and boneless.

“I guess it’s just, um…it’s been a while.”

“Really? You haven’t, uh, been seeing anyone?” he asked, trying to hide the hope from his voice.

You snorted. “No.”

Plain and simple. He quirked a smile.

“And you?” you asked reluctantly, as if the answer wouldn't tear into you if he said any form of yes.

He almost laughed. “I was in lockup for nine months, remember?”

Relief allowed you to relax again. A smirk began to curve your lips as your fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his dewy arms.

“What, you didn’t get yourself a little boyfriend? No ‘drop the soap’ action?” you teased.

Mark’s jaw nearly unhinged. He stared down at you, disbelief and amusement warring for dominance at your cheek.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?”

Your whole body shook in effort to contain your giggles, but you couldn’t help yourself.

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. Honestly, he should’ve expected nothing fucking less from you.

You were still kee-keeing when you caressed his bearded face with both hands, then twined your arms around his neck. But soon, you sobered up.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… You had to live with those animals for almost a whole year. I can’t even imagine how deeply shitty that was. How scary,” you said.

Mark huffed, shaking his head. He rubbed your arm and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“Heh. I was in hell long before I walked into Palmdale,” he said.

The confession slipped through his lips before he could think better of it, but there it was. Your expression fell even more. With a sigh, he stroked your cheek. Then he carefully withdrew, pulling out of your heat. You both felt the loss with soft groans.

He climbed out of bed just to grab a towel from his bathroom for the cleanup.

This was the first time you’d come to his place, just a couple of days since he took you home from that bar in Downtown. Two days since he came clean to you about what happened in Venice. Two days since you somehow found it in your heart to forgive him.

He still didn’t know what the hell he was doing with you. He hadn’t discussed it with you, hadn’t labelled it. It was almost as if you two had picked up from where you left off, except this time, there was an unknown expiration date.

That reminder literally hit him between the eyes. It forced him to pause in the bathroom and white-knuckle grip the edge of the sink. He grimaced and willed the pain away, stifling a grunt. Fuck...not even a moment's fucking peace.

"You okay?" your voice filtered over from the bedroom. Mark turned his face away from the mirror, just in case you could catch an angle of him.

"Yeah," he said, a little rougher. He breathed in deep, until the sharpest edges were passed. He padded back out and brought the dampened towel back to you.

It was late, but he still checked his phone on the nightstand for any missed notifications. He never knew when he might get called in by Blythe—another thing Mark couldn’t tell you about. He wondered if the taskforce was on your radar anyway, what with how D.A. Valwell was consistently trying to butt into their operations.

So far, you hadn’t mentioned anything weird going on with your boss in the office. Maybe Valwell was keeping you out of it. As he should.

You welcomed Mark back into bed and under the covers, luring him into a kiss as he settled in beside you. He drew you into his arms and couldn’t help but stare. He took in every contour of your face. Every shade of beauty.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I said that yet?”

A slight, sad smile twitched at your lips. Your heart pulsed sharply.

“What’s happening to you isn’t your fault. There’s no reason to be sorry,” you said.

“There is a reason,” he nodded. “I didn’t want to leave you twisting in the wind. I just…”

“I know,” you sighed. You watched his profile as he looked ahead, rather than at you directly. A deep breath ran through him, not altogether steady.

“I love you,” he said. He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Think it’s pretty obvious that I never stopped.”

You guided his face back toward you with a gentle hand on his cheek. Your thumb brushed over his lips.

“It’s become painfully clear to me,” you said, “that I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

Morning came, and you weren’t ready. You didn’t want to leave this house with its familiar smell and its gray-blue walls, which you and Mark painted together. After he inherited the house from his mother, who passed away a few years ago, you helped him clean and touch it up without losing the character of the house.

You were going to officially move in with him after you two got married and let go of your Downtown apartment that was close to your job, but often so empty. Obviously, that move never happened.

“You’re having dinner with your mom tonight, right?” Mark asked, pulling you from your thoughts.

You finished tucking in your blouse into your skirt and began to fix your hair in his wardrobe mirror. You had to go into work, and so did he. He was buckling his belt over his jeans, already dressed in a dark green shirt and one of his favorite leather jackets—the black one you helped him pick out.

“Yeah, every Tuesday,” you nodded. You turned and reached for the edges of his jacket. “I know it’s your business to share, but…can I tell her about what you’re going through? That we’re back together? She would want to see you.”

Mark hesitated. “I’d like that too, but let's just keep this between you and me for now.”

You frowned. “I still can’t believe you haven’t told your precinct. How long do you plan to work like this? Mark, what if…what if something happens when you’re on the job? I mean medically.”

He couldn’t blame you for your worry and concern. He held you by your arms and gave a reassuring squeeze.

“You know I’m on a case right now. It’s important,” he said, trying to communicate the gravity of it through his eyes, the tone of his voice. “After that’s done…I don’t know. We’ll talk about it. That and the, uh, second opinion stuff.”

Despite your lingering worry, a small smile peeked through. “At least you said we.”

Mark flickered at a smile too. He bowed down to kiss you on the forehead, lingering there with a short sigh. Ever since he left you, he’d been operating with a reckless head and a worse heart. But if you were determined to stick this out with him, like you seemed to be, then it wasn’t just about him anymore.

He’d have to protect you too.

“Mmm, smells good, Mom,” you said, shutting the door of your childhood home behind you. Inside, the modest three-bedroom house was filled with the rich savory smell of something warm in the oven.

Your mom, Lisette, waved you over with her oven mitt hand.

“Hey, honey. Come ‘ere and taste this.”

She took out a large glass pan filled with beef pot roast, complete with carrots, little yellow potatoes, and charred sprigs of rosemary on top.

“Wow, all that for just the two of us?” you asked, kissing her on the cheek. She just smiled and gave you a forkful after she blew on it first. You took the bite and fairly melted.

“Ughhh, so good. It’s been a long time since you made a whole…” You trailed off as you realized it.

Lisette’s smile turned bittersweet. “Yeah, it was your father’s favorite.”

She took off her oven mitts and left the pan to cool on the counter. She braced a few fingertips on the edge of that counter, as if her mind contained too many memories to sort through. You brushed a hand against her arm, earning her attention.

“Thanks. I brought dessert too,” you said, raising the grocery bag in your hand. You set that on the counter as well. You gave your mom a hug, warm and comforting.

Lisette sighed and hugged you back gratefully. She rubbed your back, like good moms did. But when she pulled back, she noted the smile on your face with a raised brow. It was genuine, not the fake ones you gave to pacify her. In fact, you looked more relaxed, more like yourself.

“You seem…”

“What?” you asked in confusion.

“I don’t know. A little happier today, I guess,” she said. “Did something good happen at work?”

You huffed. “No. Valwell’s antsy and frustrated about something, but every time I ask what’s wrong, he tells me it’s fine. Nothing for me to worry about.”

Not to mention, he’d taken three long lunches at odd times in the past week alone. Every time he got back to the office, he seemed more agitated and upset, storming through the halls like they owed him rent money.

“Well, it’s probably above your clearance, honey,” said Lisette. “If he wanted you to know, he would tell you.”

You frowned thoughtfully, tapping a nail on the counter. Before you could think too hard on it, your mom subtly cleared her throat, the way she always did when she was a bit nervous. She busied herself with grabbing silverware for the dinner table. Your brows drew together.

“You grabbed three sets,” you pointed out.

“Mhmm,” she nodded. “We’re going to be three today.”

“Who else is coming?”

Lisette hesitated, didn’t seem to want to meet your suspicious gaze. “Your sister. I invited her.”

Your face fell. Stony and incredulous.

“You did not.”

“I did. You two haven’t spoken in almost a year.”

“For good damn reason, Mom!”

“I know,” Lisette said, in a sharper voice than you expected. After a moment though, she softened. “I know. What she did to you…it’s frankly incomprehensible. But she’s still your sister. Your father would be sick to know you two are fighting like this.”

A harsh sigh fell from your lips. You rubbed your temples with both hands.

“We’re not fighting,” you said. “I’m just choosing to pretend I’m an only child.”

Lisette gave you a sad frown that spoke more volumes than her words could. You felt a stab of guilt for it, but you didn’t take it back. If you had to see that hateful bitch today, then you wouldn’t hold back this time. It would be on sight.

And…of fucking course.

As if on cue, there was a commotion at the front door. The lock began to turn and click. Then the door slid open, revealing Rachel with her key to the house poised in hand. She was a personal trainer and yoga instructor, so she was wearing her skin-tight Halara leggings (yes, the “TikTok Leggings”), along with a breezy crop top.

She had a chain-link purse strung over her shoulder and oversized sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, but you could still see her eyes widen when she caught sight of you, her steps stopping short in the doorway.

You stared right back at her. Your teeth clenched, like a train grinding against the tracks at a hard stop and shooting off sparks. Everything Mark told you two days ago came rushing through your mind—every unwanted touch, every disgusting, manipulative word she used to try and spin him into her web while he was at his worst.

“What—What’re you doing here?” she said, a frightened little deer caught in your trajectory.

You didn’t even answer. You couldn’t speak.

You just moved, rounding the kitchen counter and cutting through the dining room with a purpose. Rachel squeaked, and she scrambled to back out of the house the way she came in. She flung the door open and retreated.

You followed.

“I know what you really did, you lying, psycho bitch!” you hissed. Your voice carried and seemed to slap Rachel upside the head. She stopped on the stone walkway leading up to the house. She turned around, lifted the sunglasses to the top of her head, and she glared at you warily.

“What’re you talking about?” she shot back.

You laughed in disbelief. “Oh, don’t act dumb now. What you did to Mark isn’t just reprehensible. I should file a report and get you fucking arrested for being a vile cunt.”

Rachel’s eyes flashed. Her face screwed up in anger, so much that she strode back up the steps and slapped you across the cheek. Your head twisted to the side at the stinging blow. You even stumbled a little, but your shock gave way to a grim smile.

Can we say, self-defense?

Her face dawned with realization, just a bit too late. She didn’t even have the instincts to duck your punch.

“Goddamn it. Fucking move, people!” Mark muttered uselessly at the cars in front of him.

It had been a long damn day. It also looked like he and the team were heading to Mexico in the morning. Doing a drug run for Javi, a local cartel boss, would hopefully get them one step closer to finding out who he carried a shipment of goddamn fissile material for. They had to find out who was trying to orchestrate another 9/11 in California.

Mark was on his way home, cutting through L.A. traffic the best he could during rush hour. His stomach was practically attacking his liver in hunger. He also wanted to see you before he left, hopefully for just a day or two.

Didn’t you say you were over at your mom’s for dinner? Damn, that woman could cook.

How many Sunday dinners had he spent with your family in the past five years? All those Christmases and Thanksgivings, birthdays, Fourth of Julys at the beach and Memorial Day backyard barbeques.

Your mom was a sweetheart, too. She always bought him gifts at Christmas, never forgot his birthday, always saved him a special cut of whatever she was cooking. Truth be told, she was like a second mother to him, especially after his mom passed.

Mark sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his head slowly fall back against the headrest. A warning flash of pain echoed through his skull, like a small oyster knife on the twist.

Fuck me.

It would be good to see Lisette—and be able to share another one of those meals with you too, however many of them he had left.

The traffic light finally turned green. Mark found himself changing lanes, then changing directions. Another twenty minutes had him pulling up to your family home on a quiet residential street.

Well, it was usually quiet.

“Aw, shit.” Was that Rachel out there on the driveway? What the hell was she doing here?

She was beelining up those cobblestone steps right for you. She threw you a slap so hard it snapped your head to the right, making your hair fly in your face.

“The fuck?!” His angry brows furrowing, Mark parked the car and unclipped his seatbelt quick, but when he next looked up, he caught sight of your swift left hook.

“God-damn,” he couldn’t help but laugh. As a man of the law, he knew he should've been stepping in right about now, but this opportunity was a little too satisfying to give up. He stayed where he sat to watch the show.

Rachel went down like a sack of shit.

And you didn’t waste no time. You pushed her the rest of the way down into the grassy front yard and got on top of her, pinning her arms behind her back and wedging your knee in her spine. Before she could swing back and headbutt you, you shoved her face into the grass.

Your dad taught you pretty damn well.

Rachel screamed and cried for help, but all it did was fuel your ire. You felt crazy and deranged, but you also felt alive too, for the first time in a long time.

Meanwhile, your mom watched in worry from the porch. Her protests weren’t strong enough to reach you though.

“Get off me, you fat ugly bitch!” Rachel screeched.

You saw a nice little brown pile the neighbor’s dog must’ve left this morning. It was just close enough for you to grab (unfortunately) with your bare hand. You pulled her head back by her hair and smeared dog shit all over her face—her cheeks, her forehead and chin. Her shrill screech reached new heights.

The neighbors could’ve been watching with shocked open mouths and iPhone cameras raised high, but you didn’t give even half of a fuck. You did quiet her down though, by shoving her face back into the dirt. The lawn was still nice and damp from the afternoon sprinklers.

“Yeah? You like that? Keep talking shit and I'll break your fake-ass nose, which I helped pay for!” you shouted. “I waited in that fucking lobby for hours while they hacked off the old one. I gave you cold compresses for your swollen, puffy lobster face. Now how about I snap that shit off like you’re Mr. fucking Potato Head?”

She cried as if you were killing her. Dramatic, as always. But eventually she stopped wriggling and thrashing so much, just shaking her head and sniveling. Realizing she wasn’t about to get out of this so easily, she switched tactics.

"Okay." She splayed her hands out the best she could behind her back in surrender. "Okay! Jesus Christ, I'm sorry!"

“Oh, yeah? You’re sorry? What’re you sorry for?” you asked.

"I already told you I fucked him! I fucked your fiancé!"

"No, but you tried to," you seethed. "You just couldn't, could you? Because he's a good man, and you're a lying slutbag. Isn't that right?"

Rachel tried to deny it, but the harder you shoved her shit-stained face into the wet dirt, the more she coughed and spluttered. You eased up just enough for her to nod her head, lips trembling.

“I-I’m sorry. I-I was wrong. I didn’t mean for it to end up so bad,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just let me go—”

Tears began to sting in your own eyes. “Do you know what you actually stole from me?”

Your breaths shook, along with the inner most depths of your soul. You bent closer to her ear.

“Time. That’s what you took from us,” you said, a coarse whisper. “Time we’ll never get back.”

Rachel continued to cry pitiful tears. You almost, almost started to feel bad for her.

But then, you didn’t. Too many memories were rising to the surface.

“Why’d you do it, huh? Danny Mendez wasn’t enough for you?” you said. “Oh yeah, you remember him, back in high school. You made out with my boyfriend the night of my senior prom, bitch!”

Oh yeah, that was a fun little memory to unlock from the brain bank. You realized now that it established a pattern of behavior, one you still couldn't completely understand. It hurt your heart.

“Why?” you demanded through blurry tears. “Why do you hate me so damn much?”

“Because!” she yelled. Her own tears had mixed with the shit smears on her face. Her lips wobbled. “Everyone thinks you’re so fucking perfect! Mom…Dad…he practically worshipped you.”

Your brows knitted together. “No, he didn’t. What the hell are you talking about? He rode my ass all the time! Way harder than he ever did to you.”

Your dad had been a good man, but he'd also been a fucking hardass. A former marine turned LAPD, from officer to Homicide Detective, and finally Captain. In typical firstborn syndrome fashion, you took on the brunt of his expectations, and even resented him for it at times. But you eventually saw the wisdom and the work ethic he was trying to instill in you.

Then again, it would’ve been better for everyone if he had paid closer attention to Rachel. She had been a wild child who even you had a hard time corralling. Your mom was a loving, nurturing person, but unfortunately, not much of a disciplinarian. Your father had too much on his plate at work to wrangle Rachel in as much as he’d wanted.

“Because he believed in you!” she said. “He didn’t just pick at you or criticize you or tell you what to do like you were one of his little soldiers. He talked to you like…like a person. Even…even when he was dying. He only ever asked for you, or for Mom. He never asked for me.”

You heard the resentment and immature selfishness in her voice, but you also heard the hurt. The deep kind of hurt that could make you lash out at others, just to try to mask the pain.

After a long moment of hearing her pitiful sniffles, you sighed.

“He did ask for you,” you admitted. “That day, when you and Mom went out to get coffee, and it was just me and him…I think he knew it was the end. He opened his eyes for the first time in days, and he said your name. His eyes went all around the room, like he was looking for you.”

Rachel’s body shook underneath you. Her quiet sobs of realization reached your ears.

“I called you, but you didn’t pick up. Maybe you had your phone on silent because we were in the hospital… Anyway, a few minutes later, he was gone,” you said. “But he loved you, Rachel. He just hated that he couldn’t stop you from becoming what you are. Selfish. Insecure. Immature and vindictive. A truly heinous combination.”

Rachel had long stopped fighting you. She just cried and shook like a leaf.

You jolted at a touch on your shoulder. You were surprised to find Mark, looking down at you with calm reassurance and a tinge of humor in his eyes.

“All right, sweetheart. Think she’s had enough,” he said.

Rachel gasped and craned her neck up as far as she could. Her eyes went impossibly wide, her mouth falling open in shock to see him.

Mark helped you up with one hand on your arm and another around your waist. He guided you away from your sister. Rachel pushed off the ground and scrambled shakily to her feet. She wiped at her disgusting face painted with three kinds of shit, but shame was what radiated the most when she looked up at you and Mark.

“I…I’m sorry,” she said.

It was the first time you actually believed her. You didn’t say anything, but you swallowed tightly.

Rachel shot one last glance at Lisette, who was teary herself with disappointment. Rachel grabbed her purse off the ground and retreated quickly to her car. You watched her go, releasing a deep breath and the rest of your fury.

Mark massaged the back of your neck, pressing a kiss to your temple. He felt a surge of pride well up in his chest for you. Not just for being a veritable badass and handling your business, but for still having the kind heart he knew underneath.

“You good, Rocky?” he asked with a note of teasing.

Your lips tugged reluctantly at a smile. You wondered how much he saw. How much he heard. All you knew was, you really needed to get cleaned up.

“I don’t know. I might still be a danger to myself and others,” you said, a little slyly as your gaze ran up to his. “Might even need you to restrain me.”

His brows rose, his resulting grin showing teeth. You still knew how to catch him off-guard, in the best fucking way.

“Mark, is that really you?” your mother asked from the porch.

You two had to put a little pin in your game, for now, but his green eyes were full of promise. His lips twitched upward and he squeezed your waist. Then he looked up.

“Hey, Lisette. Been a while.”

When you and Mark ventured up the steps to join her, Lisette welcomed him into a warm, warm hug. The kind that sunk into his bones and made his shoulders feel a little lighter.

She later sighed and pulled away, giving you both a raised brow.

“It looks like there’s more to the story of what happened last year,” she said.

“That there is,” Mark nodded. He shared a look with you, and with your clean hand, you rubbed his back in support. However he wanted to do this, you would back him up.

“Well, we can talk about it over dinner,” Lisette said. She opened the front door to the house, giving a small smile. “I made a pot roast.”

Mark’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, I’m excited.”

You and your mom had the same laugh, like sweet sunshine.

“You remember my pot roast?” Lisette asked.

“’Course I do. With the little potatoes, sprinkle a’ rosemary?”

Mark held the door open for you like the gentleman he was, and he shut it behind him.

AN: Sister, sister, dog shit eater. Amirite? 🤣

I have another Mark fic in this storyverse for you guys next week! I do have more ideas too (especially after watching 1x05 😭), so I plan to continue this little series as we get deeper into the season. 💜

But until then, I'd love to know what you guys think of this one! I think reader and Mark deserve a lot more "making up for lost time" moments lol. And was her confrontation with Rachel everything you wanted it to be? 😂

Next Time:

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a rancid farmhouse and covered in sweat and grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Mark Meachum Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats LLP @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@waynes-multiverse @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @jackles010378 @nancymcl @spnaquakindgdom @bettystonewell

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl

@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws @gabavaldman

#lovely review! 💞💞#reader appreciation #lovely mutuals #zep replies

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dreamerdoodles · 17 hours ago

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so I've been playing a LOT of visual novel demos

you know, since they STILL haven't fixed Date Everything on switch (sobs). but I thought I'd give them all a shoutout because damn these games are GOOD, the indie dev scene is killing it. these are in no particular order, I loved all of them :3

Our Life: Beginnings and Always by @gb-patch

I'm late to this party, of course. it's not even a demo!! it's a whole entire game that you can play FOR FREE with optional paid DLC!! it's a beautiful, heartwarming experience about growing up over multiple summers during your life with the boy who moves in across the street. the art is beautiful, the amount of choices and character customization is staggering, and the way you can truly be yourself without worrying about "messing up" and getting a bad ending has honestly spoiled me. Cove is my beloved, I love him so much.

2. Our Life: Now and Forever

the sequel to OLBA! the demo has a ton of content already and I heard they're updating it with even more later this year?? all my love to the absolute madlads over at gb patch. like the first game, it's about growing up, but it's autumn (my favorite season!!) and there are TWO leads to fall in love with or befriend or if you're a monster hold at a distance and stay only neighbors for your entire life. I'm only judging you a little I promise. it seems like the game will be everything I loved about OLBA and more!! I can already tell the full game is going to be 10/10

3. Touchstarved by @redspringstudio

trust one of five monstrous strangers as you try to find a cure for your curse... maybe fall in love, maybe they'll kill you, maybe you both die tragically?? this was actually the first one I found when I was looking for things that my stupid very old very weak not-even-technically-a-laptop can run, and it did not disappoint! it's VERY different from the two games above, as it is a dark romance, so just make sure you read the content warnings and take care of yourself first. the art is absolutely delicious, all 5 love interests are intriguing (Ais is my favorite so far), and I can't wait to see how the full game shapes out in the future.

4. OBSCURA by @rottenraccoons

not a curse this time, nope, you're actively dying of a super rare disease! how fun! you still gotta trust one of four people you definitely shouldn't, though, in a masked market underground where theoretically one can acquire anything. this game is honestly even darker than Touchstarved, so DEFINITELY read the content warnings first. but the game has a really awesome safe word system for you to nope out if things get too much! the demo covers the first chapter of all 4 love interests' routes, which is amazing, and there's more in paid early access, but I haven't played that yet, so I can't review it. the LIs and the story are what shine the most in OBSCURA in my opinion. each LI is unique and has a very fun dynamic with the MC, who is definitely not a blank slate and has a pretty defined personality (they are, as Keir my beloved says, "mouthy") but that works in this particular game's favor. you can still self insert if you want, or maybe I just have the superpower to self insert into anything haha. I'm so invested in the story that I'm even trying to avoid spoilers until I have the money to buy the game, so it definitely hooked me!!

5. Alaris by @crescencestudio

the world is in trouble, old lore about dragons and fae is stirring, and somehow you, a healer, is caught up in all of it. I. love. fantasy!!!! Kuna'a, Fenir, and Aisa were cooked in a lab to appeal to me, specifically. and there's 3 more love interests too who also all managed to win me over??? amazing. I loved the free time date feature and I haven't even played through all the possibilities yet. there's a lot! the demo covers the common route and I can't wait to see what happens next!

6. Intertwine by @crescencestudio

can I just say VAN MY BELOVEDDDD I just discovered this game tonight and played through it in one sitting. I devour stories about soulmates and past lives and this game did not disappoint!! it's short and sweet and you should go play it right this second actually go go go

7. Threads of You: Beyond the Bay by @lavendeerstudios

your car breaks down and you get stranded in the middle of nowhere, but don't worry, seven (7!!!!!) pretty boys are here to keep you company. this demo is a bit shorter than some of the others in this post but it's very fun!! I love the little character creator, it's the most adorable thing I've ever seen. also, it doesn't come up in the demo, but I'm VERY interested in the part of the game description that says "Maybe you want more than one partner or want to see them with each other?" because if I can create an 8 person polycule I am absolutely going to >:3 LOVE ME AND LOVE EACH OTHER PLS

8. Keyframes by @blank-house

what if Our Life, but college?? I say as the highest of compliments. it's a slice of life that starts with the spring semester of your second year, and I think it's planned to go all the way to graduation eventually, which is incredible and insane and I absolutely can't wait (except I will wait and be very patient actually <3). I LOVE slow burn romances and this game seems like it's gearing up to give me the tastiest slow burn of all time. the art is beautiful and charming and has SO much character, the characters themselves are so well written, and there's a ton of replayability with possible events and the order you do them in! I haven't even done them all yet and I'm in love. in love with Jamie Porter, specifically, despite my best efforts. damn you pretty boy!!

9. Lost in Limbo by @ravenstargames

a ritual sends you to another world ruled by seven deities. seven hot deities. I'm going to chase Envy around Limbo until they let me love them and NO ONE CAN STOP ME. ahem. the demo covers the common route and sets up an intriguing story! it seems like each route is going to be very unique from the others and each LI will have a different dynamic with the MC, so there should be something for everyone! also the art. THE ART. THE ARTTTTTT the sprites are beautiful and the backgrounds are INCREDIBLE I want to eat them?? they're partially animated and the lighting is so cool and colorful and they're just masterful honestly.

and that wraps up my list for now!! I've had so much fun with these and I can't wait to see all the full games eventually. hopefully I will have money for all of them (and maybe a proper laptop sobs). if I can beat my depression into submission long enough I'm going to draw fanart for all of them uwaaaaa

#our life beginnings always #our life now and forever #touchstarved vn #obscura vn #alaris vn #intertwine vn #threads of you: beyond the bay #keyframes vn #lost in limbo

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queernyra · 2 days ago

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i respect everyone’s opinions… but seeing people say that lesbian spirk just “wouldn’t work” is offending my big fat lesbian heart! and i’ll start this off by saying that i am by no means the smartest person around to be talking about this but whatever. i think it’s easy to forget that women are just as complex as men, especially when female characters in tv are often flat and have little to no nuance. this one’s for all the women of the past (and present) who had to marry men and ended up having illicit emotional affairs with their girl best friends!

yes my takes are 100% biased but just imagine the comphet, their both being women in power who strayed from the paths that were laid out for them, feeling distinctly other than except for when they’re with each other. spock doesn’t mind being an aberration in the eyes of everyone else if (yes im using the name jane leave me alone lmao) jane can see past that and makes her feel like she’s right where she’s meant to be. it’s easy to ignore just what her feelings for her captain mean just like it’s easy to ignore the way she feels sick around men she should find herself compatible with. not wanting to disappoint her father more than she already has, but feeling like she’s already crossed the line of no return… PON FUCKING FARR?! repressed as fuck gay as fuck depressed as fuck pick a struggle omg.

when jim kirk brandished his bare chest to get his way, it sure as hell wasn’t because he felt like he HAD to, but for women the situation is different. something something deeply resenting men but still desiring their validation and wondering which parts of your actions are authentic. yes there’s power in her sexuality, and she gets shit done with or without it, but part of her deep inside wonders if this is all she’s reduced to. every relationship she’s had with men ends up being unfulfilling, especially intellectually. she’s always the smartest person in the room, and men underestimate her, but at least they’re a little fun to play with. she thinks that until she meets spock, someone who finally challenges her, and that rush of endorphins when the smartest vulcan you know values your opinions and thinks you’re intelligent… yeah. she finds her mind constantly drifting back to spock, and thinks that despite her reputation, she’d be fine never sleeping with anyone ever again as long as she had spock to occupy her time. any time she feels flutters in her stomach at the other girls voice or face, she immediately dismisses it. it’s easier that way.

i have so many thoughts about this and honestly i don’t care if people disagree bc my ass is just rambling opinions annoyingly and passionately, i just think that saying lesbian spirk wouldn’t work period is such a lame (and kind of lazy) take. obviously they wouldn’t be the same, they’d be something totally different because duh they’re women not men, but at the core is the same mutual codependency and deep commitment. i just think lesbianism is beautiful! and spirk transcends all of this! they are soulmates in every universe and every timeline!

#love women #love lesbians #pls #star trek #james t kirk #spock #spirk #fem spirk #queernyra

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leilasletters · 15 hours ago

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Kiss Me, Kill Me

🏈Jason Todd X Fem!reader📖

bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."

masterlist

Chapter 5

The universe, in its infinite cruelty, has decided that you deserve suffering.

Because this morning, on a perfectly normal Thursday, your AP Lit teacher says the words that will ruin your entire week:

“For this unit, you’ll all be working in pairs for the final presentation on modern themes in romantic tragedy. I’ve already assigned partners.”

You already know.

And sure enough—

“Todd and (Y/L/N).”

You snap your head toward him across the classroom. Jason’s already looking at you. Smirking. Like he expected this. Like he manifested it with his criminal energy and cocky eyebrows.

You want to fling your annotated Wuthering Heights across the room.

You work in the school library during lunch that day. Or at least, you try to.

Jason, on the other hand, keeps talking.

Loudly.

“Okay, so I was thinking we do something easy. Like Romeo + Juliet. Baz Luhrmann style. I’ll grow sideburns, you get a gold gun. We’ll make out in a fish tank.”

You give him a look so deadpan it could bury him.

“No.”

“Come on. People love doomed love stories.”

“And I love not failing.”

Jason sprawls in the chair across from you, hands behind his head. The size difference between you is laughable—he takes up so much space without even trying. Meanwhile, your legs are crossed, your arms are folded, and your entire body is coiled like a trap every time he says something flirty.

He leans in. “What do you want to do? Something nerdy and depressing?”

You raise a brow. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

“Because you scream, ‘I wrote a college essay on Euripides for fun.’”

“And you scream, ‘I passed English because someone paid off the school board.’”

“Not wrong.”

You sigh and flip open your notes. “We’re doing A Streetcar Named Desire.”

Jason frowns. “That’s the one with the screaming guy, right?”

You blink. “You mean Stanley?”

Jason cups his hands to his mouth: “STELLA—”

You slap your hand over his mouth before the entire library kicks you out.

“Geez,” you hiss. “Shut up.”

His eyes sparkle with mischief under your palm. His mouth lingers a beat too long on your skin. You yank your hand back like it burns.

Jason’s smile fades a little.

And in the silence that follows, there’s something… charged.

Too quiet. Too heavy. Too real.

Over the next few days, things get strange.

Not bad.

Not good.

Just strange.

You and Jason actually work well together—annoyingly well. He listens more than you expect. When you bring up feminist theory and how Blanche Dubois is a symbol of post-war fragility and toxic femininity, he nods. He asks questions.

You almost forget who he used to be. Or maybe… you’re just seeing who he is now.

Sometimes your hands brush when you both reach for the same note card.

Sometimes you look up and find him already watching you.

Sometimes he says things like, “You’re a lot, you know that?” in this soft voice that doesn’t feel like an insult. Just a truth. One that he likes.

And sometimes—like today—it all goes to hell.

You're outside school after rehearsal, sitting on a bench, still in your uniform shirt and jeans, flipping through your notebook. Jason's late. Of course.

He finally shows up ten minutes before the bell rings for sixth period, wearing a black hoodie, jaw tight.

“You’re late,” you say, not looking up.

He sits beside you but doesn’t respond.

You glance at him.

His knuckles are bruised again. Fresh. His expression is locked down.

“What happened?” you ask carefully.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Jason—”

“I said it’s nothing.”

You blink at the tone—sharp, cold. Not like him. Not like how he's been with you.

Your stomach knots.

“Don’t take it out on me,” you say tightly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I never said you did.”

You snap your notebook shut. “You’re acting like I’m the one who ruined your day.”

“Maybe I’m just realizing this was a mistake.”

The words hit harder than they should.

You go still.

He exhales, dragging his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Too late.”

Silence coils between you again—but this time, it hurts.

You stand up, arms crossed. “You don’t get to play sweet one second and snap the next like nothing matters.”

Jason rises, too. “I’m not playing anything.”

“Then what is this, Jason? What are we doing?”

He hesitates.

And that’s the worst part.

He doesn’t say nothing. He just doesn’t say anything.

You scoff under your breath and grab your bag.

“I’ll finish the project myself.”

You walk away before he can stop you.

He doesn’t.

[JASON]: I’m sorry.

That night, he texts.

And then…

[JASON]: Things are messy right now.

[JASON]: It’s not about you. It’s just stuff. With my family.

[JASON]: I didn’t mean to take it out on you.

You stare at your phone for a long time.

[YOU]: That’s not good enough.

You don’t expect him to show up to class the next day.

After all, Jason Todd is nothing if not consistent—consistently late, consistently charming, consistently someone who burns bridges just to see if you’ll still meet him in the smoke.

But when you walk into AP Lit, he’s already there.

At your table.

With the project folder in front of him.

His head is down like he’s reading something, but his eyes flick up the moment you approach.

You hesitate. You’re not ready to forgive him. You’re not even sure you want to. But there’s something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders drawn in, not trying to take up space like he usually does—that makes your chest ache in that slow, reluctant way.

You sit.

Silently.

Jason clears his throat. “Hey.”

You don’t answer.

He pushes the folder toward you. “I, um. I rewrote our scene breakdown. It was bothering me.”

You glance down, confused. Your last draft had been solid. You’d worked hard on it. Even stayed up editing it line by line. But when you start skimming his notes… your breath catches.

He didn’t rewrite it to erase you.

He rewrote it for you.

It’s neater. Clearer. Your analysis is still there, word for word—but now it’s supported by new sources. New formatting. Your scattered bullet points have been organized, with a clean structure that matches the rubric to a T. And in the margins—tiny, cramped handwriting in blue pen—are Jason’s own notes.

Blanche uses femininity like armor here. (Just like you said—v smart.)

I don’t think Stanley’s the villain exactly? But I like how you framed it—maybe he’s society’s consequence?

Added that thing you said about mirrors & fragility from class — good point.

You freeze.

This is… thoughtful.

Embarrassingly thoughtful.

It’s not flashy. It’s not public. It’s not a “look at me” performance with a marching band.

It’s just him. Quietly trying.

He watches you read, picking at a frayed thread on his hoodie sleeve. When you finally lift your eyes, his voice is low.

“I know you said that wasn’t good enough. My apology.”

You don’t say anything.

He licks his lips. “But I didn’t want to let the project die just because I suck at talking.”

You set the folder down carefully.

“You didn’t suck at talking,” you say, voice even. “You just sucked at not shutting me out.”

Jason exhales—half a breath, maybe even relief.

“I’ve got some stuff going on. With my brothers. And Bruce. And school, and—” he stops himself, shakes his head. “No excuse. I was just angry, and I didn’t want to feel like I had to explain myself. But you didn’t deserve that.”

You nod slowly.

The classroom is loud around you—papers shuffling, chairs scraping, someone whispering about the math quiz in third period—but none of it registers.

Not when he’s looking at you like that.

“I’m not gonna grovel,” Jason says softly. “But I’ll keep showing up. You can ignore me, yell at me, punch me in the face—”

“I’ve considered it.”

He smirks a little, but his eyes are serious.

“—but I’m not gonna stop trying.”

That shouldn't sound as good as it does.

Jason’s grin falters, turns crooked. “Yeah, well. Maybe I want to be more than ‘not a complete asshole.’”

You shift in your seat. “You shouldn’t have to try this hard just to convince me you’re not a complete asshole.”

He pauses. “At least to you.”

You hate the way your pulse jumps.

Hate the way it means something.

Your fingers brush the edge of the folder. “You really highlighted my points in blue.”

“Only the brilliant ones.”

“You wrote jokes in the margins.”

“You laughed at like two of them.”

“I snorted.”

Jason leans forward slightly. “Best sound I’ve heard all week.”

You shoot him a dry look.

“I’m still mad,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not ready to forgive you.”

“I can wait.”

There it is again—that damn patience of his. Like he’s not in a rush. Like you’re the only thing he’s willing to take slow.

You exhale and open the folder again. “If we’re going to survive this presentation, you’re annotating the second half of the text.”

Jason raises a brow. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and you have to print it.”

“God, you’re ruthless.”

“You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it any other way.”

You don’t smile.

But your lips twitch. Just a little.

And Jason sees it.

—

The classroom lights are dimmed.

The chalkboard reads:

STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE — FINAL PRESENTATIONS TODAY

Group 3: Todd + [Your Last Name]

You pace in the hallway just outside the door, holding the stapled script like it might bite you. You’ve highlighted your lines, annotated everything, even color-coded your cue notes—but your stomach still turns.

This isn’t nerves. It’s something else.

It’s him.

Because ever since that damn apology, Jason’s been different.

He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t push. He listens.

And worst of all—he’s… good at this.

You thought you’d be dragging him through this scene like dead weight, but Jason’s performance during rehearsal was tight. Tense. Devastatingly aware of you.

You hated it.

You kind of loved it.

The door creaks open.

“Hey.” Jason’s voice is low. “You ready?”

He’s in a plain gray tee and jeans—nothing flashy. Just that stupid leather jacket slung over one shoulder and the kind of look in his eyes that says he’s not just playing Stanley—he understands him.

You exhale sharply.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He tilts his head. “You sure?”

“Why? Scared I’ll outshine you?”

Jason grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

—

The class is quiet when you step inside.

Your teacher sits at the front, a clipboard in her lap.

You and Jason take your places at the front of the room. No costumes, no props—just raw scene work. The moment you face him, everything else disappears.

He opens his mouth and begins the scene.

“You come in here and sprinkle the place with powder and spray perfume—” Jason’s voice is low, controlled, heat simmering beneath the surface, “—and cover the lightbulb with a paper lantern, and lo and behold the place has turned into Egypt and you are the Queen of the Nile!”

He’s staring at you.

No—through you.

Your reply snaps out like a whip. “That’s not fair.”

Your breath catches. You weren't supposed to feel this.

But Jason’s voice softens—just slightly. “I’m not sayin’ you’re lying. I’m sayin’ you’ve got to be realistic.”

His eyes lock with yours. And that’s when it happens

The scene bleeds. The lines fade.

It’s no longer just Stanley talking to Blanche. It’s Jason, voice laced with something quieter—something raw.

“And I’m not gonna let you lie to me,” he murmurs.

That line wasn’t in the script.

You blink.

Jason’s lips part like he hadn’t meant to say it that way. Like maybe he’s not sure what just happened either. But he doesn’t drop your gaze. He holds it, steady.

The room doesn’t exist.

Just your heartbeat. Loud. Wild.

You go off script too. “Then stop pretending you know who I am.”

Your teacher clears her throat from the front. You both flinch.

Jason breaks eye contact, dragging a hand through his hair. You turn sharply back to the script and finish the last lines in a rush—something about light and shadows—but your voice shakes.

The moment you say the final word, your teacher claps.

“Well done,” she says. “That was… heated.”

The class titters.

Jason gives a tight nod. His ears are red.

You grab your folder and head back to your desk, heart pounding.

Jason catches up with you just before you sit.

He leans down, voice quiet. “That wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off, refusing to look up. “Don’t explain.”

“I’m not.”

You finally glance up.

His face is too honest. His voice is too gentle.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, “maybe it wasn’t just Stanley talking.”

You open your mouth—but no words come out.

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you wish he wasn’t.

You hate that your chest is still burning where his eyes were. Jason backs off slowly. “I’ll… see you tomorrow.”

You nod.

But you don’t look away until he’s gone.

—

After the Streetcar presentation, you think maybe he’ll back off again. But he doesn’t.

Jason doesn’t try to kiss you. Doesn’t crack a joke or send a text at 2 a.m. saying “so what was that?” He doesn’t even sit beside you in class. Instead, he lets the moment settle like dust—quiet, slow.

You find yourself watching him when you shouldn’t.

The way he leans back in his chair like he’s too big for the room. The way he mouths along with poetry under his breath, like he already knows the ending. The way his eyes flick to you whenever someone mentions the word love—like he’s waiting for your scoff, like he wants to hear what you really think.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because for once, you don’t know.

You don’t believe in love. Not the big, cinematic kind. Not the kind that makes people forget themselves. But the look he gave you during the scene? The line that wasn’t in the script?

It felt like something you shouldn’t touch.

So you do what you always do: you write it down. Three days before prom, your class gets a final creative writing assignment:

Poetry Slam Presentation.

Write a piece that explores a personal theme. Share aloud.

You pretend it’s stupid.

You pretend you don’t care. And then you go home and write until 2 a.m., your pen slicing across the page like it’s angry too.

Presentation Day.

You stand at the front of the room with your notebook. Jason’s in the back row, chewing the cap of a pen, legs stretched out like he’s not ready for this. You glance down at the title.

“Kill Me.”

You inhale.

Then begin:

kill me.

by [Your Name]

kill me with your stupid voice

your deep, careless, silver-tongued voice

that drips charm like oil on fire

too loud for a library

too soft when it counts.

kill me with your hands

that always hovered near mine

never touching

but never gone.

like you wanted to hold me

but didn’t think you deserved to.

kill me with the way you say my name

like it’s a dare

or a secret

or both.

kill me with your eyes—

kind and cruel,

like they want to read me

like they already have.

kill me because you don’t make sense.

because you’re the boy who made a bet

and then stopped smiling when i got hurt.

the boy who sang like a joke

and meant every note.

the boy who annotated my rage in blue pen

and said i was brilliant

like it was a fact, not a flirt.

kill me because you waited.

and i don’t know what to do with that.

no one’s ever waited.

kill me because i don’t believe in love,

but i’m starting to believe in

you.

Silence.

You close the notebook.

The room is silent.

Your teacher opens her mouth like she wants to say something profound, but even she is caught off guard.

Jason?

Jason’s just… staring. No smirk. No quip. Just his eyes on you. Locked.

You walk back to your seat like nothing happened. Like your heart isn’t about to cave in on itself. When you pass him, he whispers:

“…Was that about me?”

You don’t look at him.

You just say:

“If you have to ask, it wasn’t.”

And keep walking.

The day after you read “Kill Me,” Jason doesn’t show up to first period.

Or second.

He’s not in the cafeteria. He doesn’t text. And for someone who’s made a career out of being everywhere all the time, it feels… wrong.

The classroom feels colder without him slouched in the back row.

So when he finally shows up in English—five minutes late, hood pulled low—you don’t know what to expect. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

But when your teacher calls his name for the Poetry Slam presentation, he stands.

And for the first time in forever, Jason Todd looks nervous.

He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, walks to the front, then pauses—eyes sweeping the room, landing on you.

“This is… uh.” His voice is lower than usual. “This is for someone. You’ll know who.”

He doesn’t wink.

He doesn’t smirk.

He just begins.

kiss me.

by jason todd

kiss me like you hate me.

because i know you want to.

i saw it in the way your hands shook

when you dropped your pen and didn’t want me to see.

i saw it when you called me a walking cliché

but still let me walk you home.

kiss me like it’s the only time.

because i’ll take it.

i’ll take scraps, i’ll take seconds,

i’ll take whatever you think you can give me—

and treat it like it’s everything.

kiss me when you're angry.

when your voice gets sharp,

when your eyes flash like fire alarms,

when you say you don’t believe in love

and still look at me like i might be

the first thing to change your mind.

kiss me because you wrote about me.

because every line in your poem was a bullet

and i still wanted more.

because even when you said you hated me,

you knew i’d be listening.

kiss me like it’s a bet.

kiss me like it’s revenge.

kiss me because if you don’t,

i’ll keep waiting.

and waiting.

because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

i’d wait a lifetime for a girl like you

to believe in something as stupid as

me.

The class is silent again.

But this time, your throat is.

Jason folds the paper once. Twice. Tucks it into his jacket and walks back to his seat. When he passes your desk, his hand brushes the edge—just once—and he doesn’t say anything.

You want to. God, you want to. But the words don’t come. Instead, you just watch him sit. And you realize—somewhere deep and awful—that maybe he was always telling the truth.

He was just waiting for you to believe it.

—

Two days before prom.

You find the note during detention.

The kind that shouldn’t exist anymore, passed like secrets in ruled paper, folded sharp and thin, slipped under your elbow as the teacher’s back is turned.

You uncrumple it without thinking. The handwriting is jagged. Familiar.

I wasn’t gonna ask.

Didn’t think I deserved to.

But you in that poem? You looked at me like I was already yours.So if you show up, I’ll be waiting.

If you don’t… I’ll still wait.

There’s no name. But there doesn’t have to be.

You press your lips together so you don’t smile.

And you fold the paper back up like it’s something you might want to read again later.

Prom night.

You don’t have a date.

You said no to everyone who asked, which wasn’t many—most too scared, a few too stupid. You told your mom you didn’t feel like it, that it was dumb, that you’d rather stay home and rewatch Little Women and scream about feminist rage.

But she made you the dress anyway.

It’s soft. The color is nothing like what you’d normally wear—something too pretty, too kind for the girl who argues with teachers and makes boys cry. But it fits. And it’s yours.

So you show up. For her.

Not for him.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The gym looks exactly how you expect: gold streamers, mismatched lights, a disco ball that spins like it’s trying to hypnotize you. There are too many people. Too many dresses. Too much laughter.

You hate it.

Until you see him.

Jason Todd, in a wrinkled black button-up and boots he didn’t bother to polish, leaning against the far wall like he belongs there. Not trying. Not performing.

Just waiting. Like he said he would. And when his eyes meet yours? He freezes. Like he didn’t think you’d actually come.

Like he can’t believe you look like that.

The song changes.

And suddenly, you hear it.

A slow, pulsing beat. Familiar.

Soft, dangerous, quiet at first—

But growing.

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathing in your dust…

Jason straightens. You take a step forward.

Neither of you says anything. Not yet.

And if you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot…

The room blurs. The music swells.

He’s standing in front of you now.

And you swear—for one breathless second—he’s going to say something stupid. Something like "I told you so,” or "You clean up okay.”

But he doesn’t.

He just holds out his hand.

You hesitate.

And then take it.

Because of course you do.

You don’t speak as he pulls you into the middle of the dance floor.

You don’t argue when his hands settle on your waist, unsure.

And you definitely don’t make a joke when you let your head rest lightly on his shoulder.

You just move with him. Breathe with him. Like maybe you’d been waiting too.

Let me be your 'leccy meter

And I'll never run out…

The words are ridiculous. You’d laugh, normally.

But Jason sways with you like he means every syllable. And suddenly, it’s not funny.

It’s terrifying.

Because if you look up now, you’ll say it.

All of it.

But then his voice—barely a whisper—cuts through the music.

“Why’d you really come?”

You lift your head.

And the truth spills out, small and brutal:

“Because you waited.”

Jason breathes in—sharp.

You expect him to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He just pulls you closer, like he’s memorizing the weight of you in his arms.

And murmurs: “I always would’ve.”

The lights spin.

The song ends.

But he doesn’t let go.

Neither do you.

The end.

[ ➤ taglist: @reagan707 @lassoinyourlap @ravenna-rvnclw @deadbeatphobos @freythecrazyfae ]

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bangchanplzbangme · 20 hours ago

Note

can you please make a jealous idol seungmin after he catches you starting to bias a member more than him?

so creative!!! I love this because it matches his personality so well omg!! i’m sorry it took so long, but i went on a trip. guys please send me requests!! i have lots of fun with them. i hope u like it @hansxcheesecake

if u like this please check out my masterlist

warnings: MDNI, smut, suggestive content, jealousy sex, exhibitionism, sexual pictures

only me

he only really noticed when you replaced his picture. his photocard. the one that looked perfect in your phone and showed other men that he was your favorite. only him. and it was Changbin too. the man you spent the most time with besides him. but he wasn’t really jealous. not until the party.

appreciating changbin was one thing, but did you need to be all over him, in that dress that drove him insane? constantly talking to changbin, appreciating his muscles, and putting your hands all over him. that should be your boyfriend u were doing that to. not changbin!

by the end of the week, you were decked in dweakki merch, changbin photocards and other items. he was tired of it. tried to replace your dweakki with puppym? you put the pig right back on. he gave you a whole stack of exclusive seungmin photocards? you appreciate them for a while, but they just end up on your desk. at least he’s still your wallpaper. wait! you changed it???! to a picture of changbin?

his jealousy has been slow cooking for a whole week. boiling under the surface, just waiting to be let out. and on the day of han’s party, it was all let out. he walks in with you on his arm, only to immediately be abandoned for changbin. that was it. he fucking had enough. did u forget who made u scream into the pillow? who makes you breakfast when you had headaches and period cramps? because from the way you’re acting, he might as well be a candy wrapper compared to your bias changbin.

without a single word, he drags you to the bathroom when changbin leaves to get drinks. “what’s up with you ignoring me?” “ignoring you?”. “ yeah. you completely replaced me for changbin. i bet you want him more than me.” you cup his cheeks and kiss him softly “ baby, i could never want anyone more than i want you”. “prove it then. let me fuck you in this bathroom so that changbin hyung hears how much my girl loves me”

he doesn’t even give you time to protest before he props u up on the kitchen sink and starts furiously kissing you. hans house has paper thin walls, so you’re mostly sure the people in the living room can hear you collective groans and gasps. hopefully felix’s music drowns it out. your shirt is on the floor and your skirt is pushed up to leave your bottom half exposed and dripping for seungmin. “this is all for me baby. not for changbin. say it”. “a-all for you minnie”. he grins wickedly and you feel a flash of excitement.

he pulls you off the counter and bends u over the counter. pulling his pants and boxers down, his hard angry cock springs out. you salivate at the sight of it in the mirror. he thrusts it in with no warning or prep, just his achingly long dick working its way through you walls and turning your brain into mush. as you start going dumb on his cock, he puts a hand on your chin and makes you look at yourself getting wrecked.

“cmon baby, don’t hold back those pretty moans. let changbin hyung know exactly who has you like this”. you moan his name like a broken record, and you’re sure they hear, because most of the lively chatter stalls. as you finish while seeing stars, he pulls out and pauses. you see him pull out his phone and take pictures. you would ask, but right now, after he blew you back out, you can find it in yourself to care.

you both hurriedly clean yourselves up. wipe off the lipstick stains, tidy your hair, and clean up your outfits. as you both step outside together, you’re met with a snide remark from han. “hey guys? next time you want to fuck, please don’t use my bathroom. some people actually need to use the bathroom, and those same people have been standing outside waiting for you horndogs to finish for like an hour”. seungmin smirks and looks at you before pulling out his phone and sending pics to changbin along with a text. “my girl”

taglist: @m-325 please lmk if u want to be in my taglist

#seungmin smut #skz smut #skz x reader #stray kids smut #seungmin x reader #seungmin #seungmin stray kids #seungmin skz #seungmin fanfic

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simp-for-love · 1 day ago

Text

Little Things

Mattheo Riddle x femReader

It’s your birthday — a day you never expect much from — but your best friend Mattheo Riddle has other plans.

Warnings: Pure fluff, friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, one perfect and caring boy

Word count: ~ 1,4k

A/N: to my sweet and absolutely beautiful angel @ur-local-wizard. I wanted to give you something warm and soft like you do every time I talk to you. Love you, be happy today and always 🩷

P.S.: Check her works. She's not only kind and sweet, but also a really talented pookie.

You had never expected much from birthdays. A few texts, maybe a cupcake from a coworker, some calls from your family. You didn't mind it, not really. You were used to being the one who planned surprises, made lists and notes, remembered everyone else's special days. All those little things made them happy. So you were glad you could bring some joy to people's lives. It just felt easier that way — safer.

But Mattheo Riddle always had other ideas.

It started with a text at 8:01 a.m.

"Happy birthday, sunshine.

Hope u got some sleep. Big day ahead."

You blinked at your screen in confusion. Big day? That sounded oddly suspicious. But you brushed it off — he was certainly just being dramatic. He always had a thing for theatrical gestures and words. Mattheo was probably going to bring you a cake with silly wish and doodle on it or sing you a ridiculously bad version of happy birthday song.

With that thought you shuffled into your kitchen to find a little white bag waiting for you on the counter with your name scribbled on it in Mattheo's awful, jagged, but heartwarming in its familiarity handwriting.

Something warm stuttered in your chest. He'd been here?

You opened the bag carefully. Inside was your favorite coffee — from the one café that managed to make it exactly right — and a note:

"I know you always say you don't care about birthdays. But I do. So drink this and don't argue. — Yours, M"

You read it twice. Then again, like the paper in your hands was just an illusion of your still sleepy mind.

You didn't know what to make of it. He was your best friend. He teased you constantly, poked fun at your bad TV taste, stole fries off your plate, send you links to the most unhinged memes with cats at 2 a.m.

But this? This was... thoughtful. Almost soft.

And it made your cheeks warm and chest tighten gently — that quiet, fluttery ache that had started happening more often around him lately. Like your heart was trying to tell you something before your mind caught up.

You didn't know when it had started. Maybe the time he shared his last bite of your favorite dessert without being asked, or when he walked you home in the rain just because.

But he kept doing things like this. Little things. Gentle things. Things that made you feel seen. And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn't feel anything.

You drank the coffee with a silly little smile on your lips, but still, you truly expected that to be the end of it — coffee, note, maybe a sarcastic card later in the evening.

You were wrong.

At exactly 2 p.m., Mattheo showed up at your door. His arms were full of takeout boxes, a messily wrapped gift tucked under his arm.

You blinked in surprise, opening and closing your mouth a few times before managing, "Are you—?"

"Yes," he said with a proud nod, pushing past you. "Happy birthday, beautiful. Now move. I’m setting up."

You followed him into your own living room like a confused puppy. Your eyes lingered on Mattheo as he unpacked the food, casually taking over your table like this was just a normal Thursday occurrence.

"I—, you— what is happening right now, Matt?"

Mattheo didn’t look up, too busy with setting the table up. "You're having a good day. And I'm helping with it. That's what's happening," he said matter-of-factly.

"You got me four different kinds of pasta," you exclaimed, looking at the food with wide eyes.

He just shrugged. "Couldn't remember which one was your favorite. So I got them all."

Your brain and heart short-circuited once again in his presence.

You sat beside him, the scent of garlic, basil and lemon drifting in the air, making your mouth watering. He handed you a fork with triumphant gesture and a warm container of something that smelled heavenly.

"Try the gnocchi," he said. "You'll cry."

You took a bite. And, damn him, you almost did.

Halfway through the meal, your laughter bubbled out uncontrollably. He'd gotten sauce on his shirt and tried to wipe it with a paper napkin, only smearing it worse across the fabric.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, mock-scandalized. "I made a mess for you. It's festive."

"You're a menace," you replied with a smile, not being able to stop giggling.

"And you love it."

All you managed to do in response was to blush and look away.

He let it go and didn’t comment. But his eyes lingered on you a moment longer, quiet and warm.

Later, after the food and the laughter and the truly cursed attempt at karaoke to Beggin’, Mattheo grabbed the little maroon gift box from the table.

"I debated ten different things," he said, pressing it into your hands. "This one felt right."

You unwrapped it carefully, your stomach fluttering at the idea of him thinking so much about your gift. Inside was a custom vinyl record with your name etched on the label. The sleeve was personalized with a little doodle of you — stars in hair, a gentle smile on your lips — and inside was a playlist of Måneskin songs, curated "For the softest girl with the loudest heart."

You stared at it, blinking hard, trying not to cry. "Mattheo..."

"You like it?" he asked, suddenly looking genuinely nervous.

"I— I don't know what to say," you mumbled quietly as your fingers ran on the vinyl reverently.

"Say I'm a genius."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You looked up at him, heart hammering in your chest.

He was so close. Closer than you expected. His knees brushed yours, and his eyes — usually gleaming with mischief — were unreadable but quietly genuine now.

"Mattheo," you whispered. "It's... Why are you doing all this?"

He tilted his head slightly, smile shifted into something softer. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked gently, almost like talking to a child.

You shook your head, small and uncertain.

He reached for your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles tenderly.

"I've wanted to do something like this for you since the day we met," he said finally. "You're always doing things for everyone else. You light up every room you walk into and never even notice. You make people feel seen — and you never ask for anything back."

Your breath caught. That quiet and gentle ache in your chest intensified again.

"I guess I just wanted you to feel special. Because you are. And not just today." His voice dropped lower. "You're special to me every day."

You looked down overwhelmed, not being able to hold his gaze that was shining with warmth and softness. The record clutched in your lap, his fingers laced through yours, your heart in your throat.

"But it's too much," you trailed off quietly. "You didn’t have to do all of this. We're just—"

"Friends?" he asked softly.

You managed to barely nod.

He smiled with a hint of sadness in it. "Since it's your birthday, let me tell you a secret. I think I've been in love with my best friend for a while now."

Silence stretched. Gentle, pulsing silence.

You looked up at him slowly, feeling your cheeks burning. "Me?" The question slipped out from your lips without thinking — surprised, hesitant, maybe a little hopeful.

He laughed softly, shaking his head a bit. "Obviously you. Who else would put up with me?"

Your cheeks burned even more now.

"I— I didn't know," you whispered, still trying to process the information.

"I guess I just didn't want to pressure you," he said, free hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "But it's your birthday. And I thought... if there was ever a time to tell you, it's today."

You stared at him. At the boy who remembered your favorite band, your favorite coffee, your little throwaway comments from months ago. The boy who made you laugh when you wanted to cry. Who was loud and ridiculous and impossible — and who, somehow, made you feel like you mattered more than anyone in the whole world.

You leaned in before you could second-guess yourself.

And Mattheo met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Sweeter than you ever thought a kiss could be. A little clumsy. A little breathless. Like he'd been waiting a long time, and didn't want to rush a second of it.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

"So," he said, grinning like he'd just won in the lottery. "Best birthday ever?"

You laughed, heart full to the brim. "Yeah. It really is."

And he kissed you again, sealing your words with his lips.

#kat's write #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle

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only-lonely-star · 3 days ago

Text

Always a Knock (pt. 3)

Darry Curtis x Curtis sister!reader

Warnings: This is angst. Topics include grief + mentions of a deceased body.

Summary: This is a heavily requested part 3 to my Always a Knock series!! I highly suggest you read parts one and two if you haven’t already.

Author’s Note: EEEE PART 3!!! I’m so glad y’all are enjoying this as much as I have been writing it. Well, besides a tear here and there, it’s been fun.

Word Count: 2.7k.

── ─── ─── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─── ─── ──

The following morning had come so fast that Darrel hardly blinked before he saw daylight. Any amount of sleep would suffice under these circumstances. His head already pounded before he lifted it from the steering wheel. Today was bound to be the more stressful day of the two he spent in this limbo of grief and mourning. The night of the accident leading to the surprise visit to the morgue earlier this morning was the most stressful period of time he’d experienced. It couldn’t have been any later than seven in the morning now, considering the sun barely peeked through the surrounding trees of the parking lot. It was unsettling how life could move on so carelessly. The birds still sang their merry tune, cars still flooded the streets, and the sun still rose again, signaling a new day was beginning. How come the world continued on without you when Darrel’s world shattered the second he laid eyes on that police car? It wasn’t fair.

He took a moment to ponder. Life never stopped for Darrel. He would have to explain that he needed today off from work, find an easy way to break the news to his brothers, and figure out how he would manage a funeral on such a tight budget. While one hand jammed his seatbelt into the buckle, he glanced to the brown bag in the passenger seat. “Come on, baby, let’s get you home,” he whispered, his voice still raspy from the night before.

The drive home was silent. He wasn’t in the mood for music. Not even to distract himself from his racing thoughts. The last time Darrel had to give such horrible news was eight months ago. He had done everything he could to beat around the bush, leading to a messy breakdown from each of his brothers. He didn’t want it to end that way. Grief came in all different ways, of course, but he wanted things to go smoother this time around.

Darrel twisted the key into the brass doorknob. To his surprise, Ponyboy and Sodapop were fast asleep on the sofa. Each claimed their own sides, resting their heads on the armrests. Darrel tried his best to keep the door quiet as he shut it behind himself. He kept the brown bag with your clothing tucked beneath his underarm, striding to your bedroom. He pushed the door open, feeling that unmistakable wave of grief wash over him yet again. Everything was just as you left it. Your hairbrush messily tossed onto your vanity, shoes kicked across the floorboards, and your unmade bed were quiet reminders of your past.

Darrel set the bag onto the edge of your bed and quickly left before he lost control again. He had to remain composed to deliver such news. He figured this could wait until the boys had eaten, and maybe had a chance to fully awake. Darrel tiptoed into the kitchen, occasionally checking the couch to make sure he didn’t disturb them. He made himself busy in the kitchen, preparing a rather large cup of coffee. Darrel was at loss of an appetite; food hadn’t even graced his thoughts since last night. But for his brothers, he figured they would appreciate some eggs and buttered toast to wake up to.

The gentle patter of Sodapop’s bare feet against the kitchen tiles stole Darrel’s attention from the frying eggs in front of him.

“You’re back,” he mumbled, still half asleep. “What happened? Pony and I were worried sick. We figured you’d be back before daylight.”

“I’m alright,” Darrel dismissed, moving the pan around in slow circles. “You hungry?”

Soda nodded. “What happened?” he asked again, hoping for an answer this time around.

“We’re going to talk about it when Pony is up. Go sit down, I’m making y’all some breakfast.”

Anyone with a brain understood what that meant. Dodging the question not once, but twice painted a picture worth a thousand words. Soda slumped into his seat at the table, holding his head up with his chin on his palm. He drummed his fingers along his cheek impatiently. “Pony could sleep for hours, you know that,” he countered firmly, but not argumentatively.

Darrel used a spatula to maneuver the egg whites around in the pan. His lips pursed slightly, “Let him rest, kid, he probably needs it.”

“You do too. All you do is work. ‘Round the house, up top someone’s roof… Darry, you need a break.” Sodapop’s eyes glistened with sleepiness. He glanced towards the sofa, eyeing Ponyboy who lay wide awake. Soda kept quiet, hoping to stall as long as he could before this scheduled ‘talk’ became a reality.

“I know it. I’m taking today off,” Darrel replied. He stood with his hands on his hips, keeping a watchful eye on the eggs. “Maybe tomorrow, hell if I know. I’ve just got a lot going on.”

“What really happened?” Ponyboy asked, projecting his voice from within the living room.

Darrel inhaled deeply, rolling his eyes in frustration. He had been awake all this time. “Come on and eat,” he huffed. Breakfast was served among three plates, though Darrel’s had nothing more than a slice of toast on it. He brought the butter dish, half-eaten jar of grape jelly, and silverware to the table.

Ponyboy trudged towards the table, seemingly less concerned than Sodapop. “She okay?” he yawned.

“She’s alright,” Darrel reassured through a frown. “You eat first— I don’t want you goin’ hungry on me.”

Ponyboy scarfed down the first few bites of his egg, his gaze flickering back and forth between his brothers. They seemed to have known something he didn’t, and it ticked him off a good deal. He noticed how Darrel picked at his toast, only tearing it into bits to make it seem as if he’d eaten some. Soda struggled to slather grape jelly across his eggs without stealing glances at Darrel. The air was thick with tension. Ponyboy could sense you were anything but ‘alright’. He set his fork down and spoke between swallows, “Why were you gone all night? We thought you’d be back within an hour.” Ponyboy nodded towards Soda.

“Cops wouldn’t let me go without— without stopping by,” he finished, executing his answer somewhat decently. Darrel realized in that moment that he was beating around the bush again. And while it may have been painfully obvious already, he couldn’t hide for much longer. He sighed, fumbling with the bits of toast in his hand before popping one into his mouth. “You both know there was a wreck,” he began dryly, his eyes somewhere distant and far away.

But Darrel wasn’t present as he spoke, and that was a telltale sign that something terribly wrong had happened amidst the accident. He stared at the fabric of the tablecloth, unable to blink. Ponyboy silenced his chewing noises, speaking to Soda through facial expressions only. Darrel’s hand mindlessly rubbed against his thigh, a movement created to self soothe. He took one big breath and held it, “She passed away last night on account of drunk driving. That truck swerved off the road so goddamn fast it killed the driver and five others, our baby sister included.”

Darrel’s hands ran down his face in agony, his eyes bloodshot from holding back tears. The boys simply stared at him, lips parted and expressions dropped. He turned towards his shoulder, unable to keep composed. Soft, shaky breaths left his lips as a tear rolled onto his cheek and down his hand.

Sodapop was first to stand, nearly knocking his own chair over. He stood on Darry’s right side, holding onto his shoulder and shaking him violently. “No, Darry,” he heaved. “No, that ain’t true,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he tried his hardest to console his brother. Tears spilled from his own eyes, feeling a sharp pain attack his gut at the news.

Ponyboy sat and stared, losing his own composure second by second. His eyes grew twice in size and watered at the haunting realization of his eldest brother’s news. The only thing he could afford was to stare at the floor as his chest tightened. Ponyboy didn’t want to hug; he didn’t want any touch. He wanted to run right into his sister’s room, rouse her awake, and tell her Darry had cooked a swell breakfast just for her. That’s how his morning should’ve gone.

“All I’ve got left is a bag of her clothes,” Darrel said through quiet sniffles, allowing Sodapop to hold onto him as long as needed. “That’s all.”

It stayed quiet for a longer than the boys had been awake. Shaky exhales and sniffles came from each of the boys, but not a single one dared to speak. They would look over at one another, red-eyed and frowning, and glance back at your empty chair at the table. Maybe that’s what filled the air with such silence. You weren’t there to cheer them up with a joke, offer a warm hug, or cry along with them. This wasn’t the usual silence between them when you stayed at a friend’s house overnight, claiming you’d be back before dawn, and show up just as Darrel plated breakfast. This time, you weren’t coming back. The house you were so eager to get out of would never see your smiling face again, and neither would your brothers to tried everything humanly possible to keep you here.

Ponyboy gathered the courage to speak first. He gulped back the overwhelming lump in his throat and locked eyes with Darrel. “Can I see ‘em? Her clothes?”

Darrel looked up from the tablecloth, almost possessive at the thought of anyone else touching that brown bag on your bed. Even he didn’t wish to open it. Alive or not, those were your clothes balled up and wrinkled to hell and back. And Darrel respected your privacy, even though you had no way of seeing that for yourself. After staring the boy down, he finally nodded. “Yeah… we can look at ‘em,” he replied, a tender voice he rarely used now present.

The boys slowly walked into your bedroom, each feeling the same mixture of loss and dread. Darrel was first to grab the bag of clothing, clutching it against his chest. “These aren’t stained. Apparently,” he added on, his face slowly turning from blazing red to a more calm hue of apricot. Darrel sat on the very end of your unmade bed, across from your vanity that never seemed to keep clean.

Soda fell unusually quiet, claiming a spot beside Darrel. And Ponyboy? He made himself comfortable on the floor in front of Darrel, sitting right below his knees.

Your familiar scent still lingered around them, filling the air with memories of you. In some strange way, it felt like you had never left. Or maybe it was the fact that Soda and Ponyboy were still in denial. The news of your passing was too fresh to accept just yet. Darrel was beyond that stage. As soon as he laid eyes upon your cold and lifeless body, it set in— slowly, but surely, he came to accept the fact that it was you underneath that white cloth. He shuddered slightly at the thought, squeezing the bag tighter.

“Apparently?” Soda pressed, tilting his head in confusion. Though he wasn’t too keen on admitting it, he still felt that lump in his throat. He was an expert at hiding his emotions from others, but during situations like this? He was the family’s bawl baby all over again.

Darrel nodded. “I don’t think she was hurt too bad. I only saw her shoulders ‘nd up. No cuts… no blood… only a little bit of bruising…” he shrugged, forcing himself to relive those moments to be able to retell it.

“You saw her?” Ponyboy interjected. “Is that why you didn’t want us tagging along? You think we couldn’t handle it?”

The poor boy was grieving. That snappy tone wasn’t coming from his heart; Darrel knew that it wasn’t. He hung his head to look at Ponyboy. “I thought it’d be best if I go alone. You don’t want to look at that kind of stuff, Pony. I want you to remember what she looked like alive ‘nd well, not like how she did in that morgue.”

Sodapop nodded, “He’s right, Pony. Give it a rest.”

Darrel gave a small nudge to his arm in appreciation. “I only looked to confirm it was her, nothin’ else. Somethin’ below her shoulders could’ve been hurt real bad, but I think it was her neck. She just…” he cut himself off, at loss for words. “She was just lying there. Her neck was all bent and— and… you get the point,” he finished, unwilling to finish that thought. With a sharp exhale, he reluctantly pulled the bag away from his chest. “You ready?”

The boys nodded. Nobody was ever truly ready for moments like these. But what else could they say? The world didn’t stop moving because they suffered from such a loss.

Darrel tore open the bag, peeking at its contents. He reached a paw inside and retrieved what seemed to have been a skirt. It was cut right through the seams, serving as a painful reminder of where your body was, and how it was being handled. It was cut right off of your body, just like the rest of your clothing would be. He passed it down to Ponyboy with a gentle ‘here’. He took it graciously, studying it as his eyes welled with tears. Darrel then pulled out a faux leather vest that you would always insist on wearing without a shirt underneath. As hard as it was to pass it on, he held it over Sodapop’s lap patiently. The vest was dissected just as badly as your skirt. Darrel reached back into the bag for a piece of his own clothing to hold, quickly jerking it away at the soft texture of your undergarments. Those were yours, and as bad as he missed you, that was a line he’d never cross. He set the bag down beside himself and swallowed hard.

Ponyboy noticed Darrel’s pouty look and stood up straight. He handed the skirt off to his eldest brother. “Here, you can have it,” he said kindly. Even during moments of pure agony such as this, Ponyboy remained selfless and caring.

Sodapop’s tears slid down the faux leather of your vest as he slightly rocked himself back and forth. “My God, Darry, how’d you do it?” he cried aloud.

“Hey, now, it’s alright,” Darrel cooed, rubbing his hand along Sodapop’s spine. “You’re okay.”

Ponyboy offered a gentle smile. “That vest ain’t going nowhere. You’ve got her in your arms now,” he reassured.

Darrel felt an ounce of dignity at his little brother’s attempts to be strong. This wasn’t an easy situation for anyone— much less the youngest of the family. “Yeah, Pony,” he grinned, “We’ve got her right in our arms, look.” Darrel squeezed the torn skirt, showing Sodapop just how to do it.

His bottom lip quivered. Sodapop squeezed the vest against his own chest, continuing his soft rocking motions. And slowly, tears no longer streamed down his cheeks. He seemed to have grown at peace with the leather in his arms, unable to let it out of his sights, even for a mere second.

Ponyboy looked to Darrel for consultation. “Darry?”

Darrel lifted his gaze back towards Ponyboy expectantly.

“Darry, is she going to rest with Mom and Dad?”

He looked around your bedroom hesitantly. He didn’t have the heart to tell Ponyboy that there was only a slim chance of hosting a funeral at all, let alone reserving a spot beside their late parents. “I can-- I can try…? I don’t know yet, Pony. We’ve still got time.”

“Do we?” Soda asked doubtfully, leaning back on your mattress. “They can’t keep her there forever.”

“We still have some weeks before funeral plans become pressing. I doubt they’ll be quick to kick her out, Soda,” Darrel replied. “Besides, I— I’ve got a lot to catch up on. At least she’s being stored safely.”

‘Stored.’ Like some inanimate object who never experienced life like yours. It was dehumanizing to describe your body in that sense, but it was the truth. Because there was no life left for Darrel to protect. No matter how badly he wanted you back, he was never going to feel the satisfaction of being your protector and help guide you through life’s journey. He could protect you no more.

UM I MIGHT DO ANOTHER PART BC THIS WAS GETTING LONG + I PROMISED Y’ALL I’D POST TONIGHT. LMK IF UR INTERESTED IG?? 😭😭

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING!! 💗

-Sophia 🫶🏼

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