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aangelinakii · 3 months ago

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HALKIDIKI HOLIDAY.

— define "like."

summary : after going with damian and his family on holiday, pretending to be his girlfrienf no less, you realise pretty quickly that neither of you are pretending anymore. you've been simply friends for so long that it's difficult to cope with. it wouldn't make a difference if you just went back home, would it?

note : female reader !! apologies,, this was a request and they askef for a fem reader, but i have tons of other works with gender neutral readers :)

note 2 : i also hope it's okay that i changed some of the stuff because i decided to only write a certain chunk of the story, and i made it so they were friends before everything, so they aren't enemiez like you asked,, so sorry but i hope this is still okay !!

when your lifelong friend had offered you to go away with him and his family on a holiday to greece, you hadn't expected to be laying in your bed, staring out the window at the waves swishing in the darkness; what's more, you hadn't expected to have to pretend to date him.

you're not sure what the reason was, really.

maybe it was that damian felt out of place when dick asked bruce if he could bring along kory, his girlfriend, or when tim asked if bernard could come; this still left jason, duke, cassandra and steph without anybody. and it wasn't like bruce was bringing any love interests, either.

it was during lunch one day that damian sprung the question on you — "will you go to greece with me?"

it seemed quite forward at the time, but then after you asked your parents and whatnot, and came back to him the next day to say you could and that you were really excited, and to send you the details, you came to see really just how forward damian wayne could be.

his browny-green eyes stayed staring at his alfred-made sandwich as he unwrapped the cling-film, like he couldn't bear to meet your eyes as he said it. "and do you think you could pretend to be my girlfriend, too?"

at this point, your miso soup almost shot out your nose.

it had started off all fine, smiling and holding hands, but dropping them as soon as all eyes were off.

but after a week, sinking into him became all too easy; sitting on a terrace restaurant as the sun sank below the sea, and all you could look at was the way the oranges and pinks danced along his face. perhaps you should've looked at the sun.

each night you went back to your shared room, although bruce had forbade you from sharing a bed — much to both your relief — and talked long and deep into the night until one of you stopped responding, and only soft breathing followed, meaning it was time for the other to sleep.

before this trip, you'd been friends and that was that.

when he enrolled into gotham academy, you'd been eager to make a new friend, especially since he was such a loner at that time; strictly speaking, he still is quite, but you've forced him to open up his shell.

thinking about it, you didn't like him, of course you couldn't. you were friends and that's where the line ended.

eyes were supposed to wander when you splashed in the crystal greek waters with a cute guy your age, even more so when he tussled around with his brothers, muscles rippling with the waves.

it was just hormones, it didn't mean anything.

but now, the most you could see illuminating the world outside was the fragmented reflection of the white moon against the blackened ocean. the sheer curtains were pulled open, and the window had been pushed to, but not a breeze ran through the room.

you're not sure how long has passed since you and damian were talking after getting ready for bed, but one of you stopped speaking, and you were left here to rest, although your day played back in your mind.

that morning, your eyes had blinked open as the sun coming in through the curtains ebbed out of sight, something blocking its shine. standing before your bed — it would've been terrifying had you not been used to this for a week now — was one damian wayne, your boyfriend for this trip. his tan was dark, defining his features, the white t-shirt he wore a stark contrast, but making him look all the better; in one hand he had a ceramic bowl, santorini blue, with a spoon perched inside it.

"eat," he'd said, and you're sure you'd seen his jaw twitch, like he wish he'd been less brash but it was too late to go back.

after seeing dick take back kory a bowl of greek yoghurt, mountain honey and chopped peaches, damian had been doing it, too, though you weren't sure if it was because he wanted to or because he thought he was supposed to.

you weren't complaining anyhow.

biting your cheek to hold down a smile, you pushed yourself up, joints aching and cracking as you did so, and took the bowl from him.

this morning he'd added banana slices along with the usual peaches, but you weren't sure whether to comment on it — maybe he just hadn't been thinking; surely it hadn't been anything to do with wanting to give you a little more flavour and nutrients.

then, after eating, you'd changed into your swim stuff and joined the rest of everybody on the beach; maybe you were seeing things — heat does that to people — but, even in the water, damian seemed to straighten up and get a bit more rough playing around with dick and tim, like he was trying to be stronger than them or something.

it had to have been a mirage, your eyes playing tricks on you.

after dinner — another one of those terrace restaurants with the sunset and you can't even focus on your food — you and damian stood in the mirror, struggling to bite back smiles as you brushed your teeth. although your mouths hung either wide or clenched shut, the crescent of both eyes was impossible to miss, and the gap between your shoulders was practically non-existent.

and then once you'd got into bed, lights off, listening to the rest of the villa get ready to sleep, the two of you talked mindlessly, but you weren't getting any more tired.

recalling it now, it must've been damian who'd stopped talking first, letting your statement on how good your souvlaki had been that you would definitely be dreaming about it later hang loose into the darkness, and you'd stayed staring out the window since.

he had to be asleep by now.

shuffling in bed, you redirected your gaze to the bed at the wall opposite yours, where, although you couldn't see much of him, the outline of damian's shoulders shuddered with sleep.

if he were awake right now, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame, laughing with you like it didn't matter it was keeping jason and duke up next door, you'd be watching how his cheeks, kissed a rose by the sun during the day, plumped up with his smile.

oh, god...

never in your life had you counted the beauty spots on someone's face, or revelled in the mess of their hair after a shower.

never in your life had you memorised the lines on someone's hand, or laced up someone's shoes when they couldn't do it themselves.

you were just friends, you couldn't... you couldn't be.

suddenly, all the souvlaki you were sure to dream about gurgled in your stomach, and you were quick to sit up so it would all settle back down there. you couldn't have fallen in love so quickly, could you?

and, in the dead of night — the time when all decisions made little sense — there was only one thing left for you to do: leave.

being here for a week already, you knew the town stayed up deep into the night, and you could probably find a taxi to thessaloniki airport with the click of your fingers; the only problem being staying in a house of vigilantes, where any creak of a floorboard was bound to wake the whole villa up.

regardless, you decided you were going to take any chances, and you carefully pulled your feet out of the light covers, a light shiver running up your legs as your toes came into contact with the cold linoleum.

constantly checking over your shoulder to make sure damian was still facing the wall, snoozing away — though he certainly was rather quiet — you quietly approached your suitcase in the corner of the room.

knees clicking as you kneeled down, you, as silently as possible, unzipped it round, leaving it open so you could gather all your things.

"are you looking for something?"

a voice breaking the silence of the night, your body gave an immense jolt, sending a spring through your shoulders, and you spun around to find damian sitting up in his bed, eyes almost seeming to glow with the way the moonlight hit them.

"fuck, damian!" you whispered, heart still thumping like a rabbit's when you pressed a hand to your chest. "you scared the shit out of me."

damian reached over and clicked on the lamp, filling your shared room with an amber light, of which you could audibly hear whirring through its wire.

trying not to change your plan with him staring so intently you could feel holes drilling into the back of your head, you continued rummaging through your bag, stuffing a t-shirt you weren't even sure was yours in there.

"what are you doing?" damian's voice asked, soft but confused that it was evidently difficult to not be a little forward.

after a few breaths in and out, you turned around, rising fully to your feet, as self-conscious as it made you feel. "i can't stay here anymore, damian, i'm sorry."

in the dim light, you mistook a flash in his features; a furrow in his brow causing a crease in his forehead, the corner of his lip twitching.

"why not?" he asked first, then, after a few silent beats. "have i done something?"

your head began to move before your mouth did. "no, not at all, it's not that... i can't say."

now you really saw it — it wasn't just a trick of the dark — his mouth was tugging down in the corners, very alike to a frown. "why not?" he asked again. "please tell me. i can fix it."

"you can't, though, that's the thing." and you turned to look out the window, arms coming to fold over your chest. you were so close to the open window that you could hear the water sloshing even from here. "i'm going home."

another gap of silence.

"i think that's a bit dramatic," damian replied, but his voice wasn't harsh. "if anybody has made you feel uncomfortable, i can talk to them. anything you want."

a long breath brushed from your nose, and you began to step back to your bed. when you crawled back on top of the messed covers, you sat your back against the cool wall and drew your knees to your chest, hugging them close like it would save your from this illness they called love.

"i just don't fit in with your family here," you shrugged. it was easy to lie, but, with damian, difficult to make it believable.

"that's not true," he shot back without a beat. "bernard is having fun, tim told me. and kory is from an entirely different planet; their beaches probably rival our earth's, and i can tell she likes it here. we embrace both of them, so i know my family embraces you."

shaking your head uncertainly, you let out a shaky sigh. "what's there to embrace? we're lying to them, we're not actually dating."

with a quick glance his way, you saw the crease in damian's brow soften. no way he'd forgotten you weren't actually dating. surely not.

"you're right, we're not," was all he returned with. his hands had began to fidget with the linen bed sheet.

yet another empty song filled the room, a fluttering of eyelashes but gazes never meeting.

"can you turn the light off?" were the words you spoke when you finally broke the absence of sound. damian wasn't one to ignore your wishes.

once the room was bathed in black once again, you felt less vulnerable, less seen. damian couldn't see you — he knew you were there, but he couldn't see you. if he wanted to, he could reach out, get up from his bed and step over to find you, but even then he'd just be groping around in the darkness for a warm body that he'd never find.

with one deep breath, you spoke again.

"i'm not your girlfriend, but it's feeling too real. i think that's why i want to go home; because i hate the thought of lying to you or your family anymore."

"i know we're lying to my family, but how are you lying to me? we're just pretending." he didn't sound accusatory, just confused.

lips trembled, tremoring to stay together, aching to come apart and spill it all. when a big beast is fighting against you, it's difficult to hold it back.

"i'm beginning to think i'm seeing you in the way a real girlfriend would see her boyfriend. and i can't do it, i can't let that happen. it would ruin our friendship, ruin everything we spent years building. it would be easier for me to go back home and pretend like none of this ever happened."

with a blink, you turned back to damian's side of the room, only for the view to be obscured.

you craned your neck up, and, instead of perched in his bed still, damian wayne stood by your bedside, fingers still fidgeting, but now with the light linen trousers he'd bought from the merchant in town.

for a moment your heart stopped — would he slap you for being so stupid? shout at you? shove you? eat you? god, you hope not, that would be going a bit far.

when his arm flinched by his side, moving an inch, your body stilled, but it took a lot to not outwardly start.

carefully, slowly, he rose his arm, bringing a soft hand to your head.

first it was the tips of his fingers that made contact, like a watt of electricity jolting through your bones, starting at your hair follicles, and they brushed back sweetly along your scalp. once they'd done one full sweep, they pulled back and came back to where they'd started, doing the action again, softer.

"so be my real girlfriend."

not the answer you were expecting to that.

your forehead tightened as your eyebrows pulled together in a furrow. "what?" you couldn't help but blurt.

damian pulled back, the hand running itself through your hair finding his other hand and cracking the knuckles cathartically. "no more pretending. for either of us."

despite his words, you could practically feel the nerves radiating off him, a warmth that seemed to be embarrassed to be so warm. an uncertain kindness.

"you... what?" you stammered again, that ill feeling in your stomach beginning to subside finally.

and then he had the audacity to laugh — well, more of a chuckle, damian wasn't much of a laugher. but he turned on his heel and began to step towards the gap in the curtains. "i think you're amazing; i think you're intelligent, but really? i'm surprised you hadn't figured it out."

"figured what out?"

"what guy asks a girl to pretend to be his girlfriend on a vacation with his family? no sane guy, that's for sure." he gave a scoff directed at himself, and you could see a moonlit silhouette shake its head in self-deprication. "i don't know why i did it. i sort of regretted saying it when i did—"

then he quickly spun around. you couldn't see his expression, but you could guess alarm. "that's not me saying i regretted bringing you— i suppose i just realised afterwards that it was quite forward. i would have said no if i were you, but..."

"but here we are," you breathed, finishing the sentence for him.

"yeah..."

a new heavy cloud hung low, like a fog of confusion.

"so, you like me?" you finally asked, watching him in faint curiosity.

"i'm not sure 'like' is a strong enough word," damian replied with a chuckle, which ended in a gulp. he brought a hand up to scratch at the back of his head awkwardly. had he already ruined this? "are you still leaving?"

this was what he was most worried about.

but your lips only curled up.

"hell no."

#aangelinakii #dc #dc comics #dc imagines #dc reactions #dc headcanons #dc universe #damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagines #damian wayne headcanon

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holdoncallfailed · 3 months ago

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a couple years ago i remember one day i woke up and i knew with an incredible sense of urgency that if i didn't leave the house i was going to figure out a way to kill myself that afternoon. so i made a pb&j sandwich and put my book and my journal in a bag and took the subway to coney island. the train car was empty for almost the entire ride and i remember thinking the sun looked so beautiful reflecting off the orange and yellow seats and faux wood paneling and because there was no one else on the subway i was able to take off my mask, which felt like a both a relief and a privilege because this was before there was a covid vaccine. i just sat in the window seat and watched the sunlight move across the train car and the whole time i was listening to broken english by marianne faithfull, over and over again. when i got to coney island it was still so cold and the beach was deserted so i was able to keep my mask off and i sat in the cool sand all bundled up and ate my sandwich and finished my book and wrote in my journal and then i took off my shoes and socks and stood in the freezing ocean until i couldn't bear it any longer and then ran back to my things on the beach. then i did the whole train ride back home again, still blissfully alone and listening to broken english on repeat as the sun set.

i just remember feeling so grateful to be able to breathe, to not feel any fear or sense of entrapment for the first time in a year. i remember thinking thank god i can do this: sit, hear, and breathe. i remember thinking that marianne's voice sounded so lovely as it slipped in and out and snagged on the notes just outside of her register. i remember thinking thank god she lived. that's always been my favorite thing about her—that she lived, in spite of everything. how could i not admire that, when it's so difficult.

#text #marianne faithfull

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fishfooddude · 4 months ago

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Ooo if it’s okay (totally okay if not!) can I please request an angst to fluff Carmy x fem!reader where Y/n and Carmy had been engaged when he was in culinary school in New York, maybe she was going to a University then for elementary education or something, but they had broken up after Carmy got the news about his brother and went back to Chicago and they lost touch. Fast forward and Y/n is visiting Chicago and happens to walk into The Bear to eat (she didn’t know it was Carmy’s restaurant because the last time they talked, “The Bear” was “The Beef”) holding a little girl almost 2 years old who looks strikingly similar to Carmy. I’m sure he’d be upset that she didn’t tell him about her though, but they talk through everything (maybe Carm has gotten some therapy by this point😅)

Carmy getting to know his daughter and overtime rekindling his relationship and getting back together with Y/n?🥹

Second Chances

Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

The Bear Master List

My Directory

“Carmen! Will you fuckin’ talk to me!” you yelled as you watched Carmy move across your shared bedroom.

“There’s nothin’ to fuckin’ talk about!” he yelled back, throwing clothes into his suitcase.

“Carm, you can’t just ‘move back to Chicago’! We’re engaged! I’m in school, and you haven’t even put in a two-week notice. We just renewed our fuckin’ lease!” you challenged, throwing your hands up exhaustedly. “Listen, I get it. Grief and mourning is hard-”

“Don’t. Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” Carmy said coldly, stopping in his tracks. You stepped back and watched Carmy push a hand through his hair, “Listen. Y/N. I need to do this. Come, don’t come. I honestly don’t fuckin’ care at this point.”

“You don’t care? Carmy… we’re engaged? We’re engaged, but don’t you care about me? About what I want? How do you-”

“Break up with me then.” Carmy cut you off. His words left you blindsided, and you stared at him as you let the emotions ruminate.

“What?”

“This is happening Y/N. I’m moving back to Chicago, and truthfully, I don’t care what you think or how this makes you feel. Mikey left me his restaurant, and I’m gonna make it good. Stay in New York, do whatever. I don’t care.” Carmy said scarily calmly as he zipped his bag.

“Fuck you, Berzatto.” you scoffed as you tried to pry the engagement ring off of your finger. “I’ve known you for two fuckin’ years. You’ve talked to your sister, like, what, three times in the last two years? You’re brother even less- and now you’re throwing away our life to go run some shitty sandwich shop?”

“You don’t fuckin’ get it, Y/N! Okay. You don’t fuckin’ get it.” Carmy exacerbated as he grabbed his bag. “Just forget about me.”

~~~~

“Momma!” You heard your two-year-old's excited squeal from the other side of the AirBnB the two of you had been staying in. You groaned; it was 5 a.m. and entirely too early to wake up, but Hailey couldn’t tell time yet. As you got out of bed, you heard Hailey’s giggles intensifying. You laughed as you walked out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room. Haliey had managed to get onto the window seat by the large bay window overlooking the busy Chicago street.

“Do you see a dog?” you cheerfully asked as you came up and lifted her onto your hip. Hailey nodded furiously and pointed across the street, where a man struggled to walk five large dogs. You smiled and bounced Haliey on your hip. “Just like at home, huh, sugar cookie? Chicago is a lot like New York.” Hailey giggled and rested her face on your collarbone, bringing her thumb to her mouth. “Okay, let’s get you some breakfast. Then we’ll get dressed. After that, you can watch some Bluey while Momma gets ready… then I’m gonna drop you off at Uncle Ryan’s house, and you two will have a super fun day- I heard he’s taking you to the zoo.” you explained, Hailey propped up at the mention of ‘the zoo’ which made you laugh. “Yeah, you and Uncle Ryan are gonna see lions, and tigers, and bears-”

“Oh my!” Haliey exactly squealed against her thumb. You laughed and sat her on the couch before going into the kitchen to make the two of you cereal bowls. “Momma!”

“I’m comin’ Hailey. I’m comin’.” you ensured as you returned to the living room. You placed the bowls on the coffee table and grabbed your phone from your bag. “Okay… Hailey, I’m going to get this job. We are going to move to Chicago permanently… Mommas’ gonna have an amazing job, and you’re gonna be so so so happy.” you said more to reassure yourself as opposed to informing Hailey of your prospective job. “We’re gonna be okay.”

Hailey happily munched on her cereal and babbled on about some elaborate story she’d created while you nervously poked at your bowl. You watched her sandy brown bedhead-ridden hair bounce as she got more invested in telling you her story. Her stories were always the highlight of your day. Hailey was what kept you going when work was a pain in the ass or when everything was overwhelming. The way she lit up over things she loved, the way she laughed and smiled, her imagination… her eyes. The same dazzling blue of her father- you shook your head at the thought of him.

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto. James Beard award-winning chef with a highly decorated resume of some of the most prominent, four Michelin Star restaurants across the country- hell across the world. He not only gave up that to run a crappy sandwich shop, he also gave up your shared future. The night he left was one of the worst nights of your life. You almost failed your finals the following month, and then you found out you were pregnant. Finishing school, having Hailey, and doing internships was hard, but the work paid off. Today was the day you were interviewing to be the principal of one of Chicago's most elite private schools. Cushy benefits, a considerable pay bump, being closer to your brother and his long-term girlfriend… the only downside was the potential of running into Carmy.

~~~

“Yo Y/N- over here!” Danny called, waving his hand to catch your attention just outside some fancy restaurant Suzie had managed to get a reservation at. You waved and saw Hailey smiling in your direction.

“Hey guys- there’s my baby!” you cooed, taking Hailey from his arms. She happily squealed and kicked her feet as you bounced her on your hip. “I missed you, sugar cookie.”

“How’d the interview go?” Suzie excitedly asked. You shrugged as you ran your thumb across Hailey’s cheek. Suzie nodded, “Well, they’d be stupid not to hire you. Com’on The Bear is one of the best new restaurants in the city, and I’ve been dying to try it.”

The four of you had a phenomenal meal, although there was something eerily similar about it. “I swear I’ve had this exact meal before.” you laughed.

Carmy was walking to the hostess stand when he heard your laughter. He stopped dead in his tracks and quickly scanned the dining room before his eyes landed on the back of your head. It had been years since he’d seen you, but your laugh was the dead giveaway he needed to identify you. Carmy turned his attention back to the hostess stand and passed off a clipboard. “Here…” he said before walking back to the kitchen. Before he entered, he looked back into the dining room and saw your side profile. He swallowed softly as he felt memories of the two of you rushing back to him. Carmy paused before quickly walking back into the kitchen and to his station.

Carmy tried to distract himself for the rest of dinner service, but knowing you were on the other side of those swinging doors was enough to throw him off his game. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered in Syd’s direction before quickly walking into the back office before she could respond. As soon as he’d reached the office, he closed and locked the door behind himself before leaning back against the door and pushing his hands through his hair. “Name all the brown things…” he mumbled as he took a deep breath. Carmy looked around the office, “The couch… the desk…, and those shelves… fuckin’ Jason.” he scoffed, realizing the ‘anxiety tricks’ his therapist had taught him had been beneficial. After another deep breath, Carmy went to sit at his desk. He opened the top drawer to reveal a worn bubble mailer. He stared at it for a second before slamming the drawer closed. He couldn’t think about you right now; he needed to get back into the kitchen.

When he walked out of the kitchen again, he saw your party had left. Carmy cursed under his breath as he quickly walked toward the exit. You coming into his restaurant had to be a sign, right? He looked up and down the street, trying to find you. Panic began to creep up as he realized he may have been too late. “Holy shit… Carmy?” your voice made Carmy’s brain go blank as he turned to face you. He was awestruck by your presence and couldn’t manage to string two words together. “Carmy?” you asked again, laughing awkwardly.

“He-ey-y bab- Y/N… hey Y/N.” Carmy corrected himself before shoving his hands in his pockets as he rocked on his heels.

“Hey… what are you doin’ here?”

“Oh uh- this,” Carmy started before awkwardly gesturing up to The Bear, “It’s my-my restaurant. It used to be The Beef- Mikey’s restaurant, but uhh, we remodeled…” he explained. You nodded and glanced at your watch, wondering where Danny was with the car. “So uh- what, what brought you to Chicago?”

“Job interview- principal position at Ridgeview Conservatory.”

“Wow, that’s fancy.” Carmy responded, “You in Chicago much longer?”

“A couple more days… visiting my brother Danny and his girlfriend.”

“Do you wanna get coffee tomorrow afternoon?” Carmy blurted out, “It’s cool if you can’t- I just… this feels like a- like a sign. Ya know?”

You nodded, “I-I uh... Yes. I can do that.”

“Cool, cool… there’s this place on 9th called Ginger Snap- wanna meet up at like 3:30?”

“Yeah, that sounds good… see you then?” you confirmed, finally noticing Danny pulling up to the curb, “Bye, Carm..” he nodded and watched you get into the backseat next to the car seat. You glanced down to see Hailey sleeping. You watched her momentarily before the weight of your decision to have coffee with Carmy finally hit you. “Are you workin’ tomorrow, Danny?”

“Yeah, did you need me to watch Hails?” he eagerly asked as he drove toward your AirBnB.

“It’s okay. I can just take her with me.”

“You have another interview?” Suzie brought up, turning her head to face you. You shook your head and thought for a second.

“Just hangin’ out with a friend of mine.” you slyly responded, hoping Danny hadn’t seen you talking to Carmy. Suzie shot you a suspicious look before turning back in her seat. “I’m sure they’ll love to meet Hailey.”

“Carmy. Ready for our appointment?” Jason called. Jason was a clean-cut man. He wasn’t anything special. Carmy couldn’t pick him out if he'd been in a lineup of men. The waiting room was posh, with muted pastel green walls and some simplistic nature art in simple black frames. After a year, Carmy still couldn’t determine whether they were trees or leaves. He got up from his chair and tossed his empty coffee cup in the trash before following the man into an office. Carmy watched him sit in a dark leather armchair before he sat on a grey couch across from him. “So. What’s new?”

“I’m getting with my ex-fiance in about an hour… that’s-that’s new. Um… I don’t know how I feel about that.” Carmy started leaning back on the couch as he folded his arms over his lap and nervously played with the side seam of his jeans. He looked up to meet Jason’s non-chantant face, “I told her to forget about me, and then a couple of months later, she mailed me her engagement ring… I keep it at my desk as like a reminder of everything I gave up for this freakin’ restaurant- and then she has dinner in my restaurant.” Carmy chuckled softly, “She had dinner at my restaurant on a night when I made one of her favorite dishes- that’s a sign, right? She came to Chicago for a job interview- she’s gonna nail it. She’s a fuckin’ genius… badass clinical social worker with an additional master’s degree in early childhood education. She was always at the top of her class, even when she was working and doing multiple internships. She dealt with me being an ass… I don’t know Jason. It feels like a sign, and I know we talked about coincidences like six months ago, and I don’t wanna get all God-y, but I feel like this is God bringing her back to me. Like-like, the world is this big massive black hole of a place, and my life has been filled with all this pain and shit, right? She was the only good thing I had; now she’s back. I could get her back.” Carmy finally took a breath, and Jason shifted in his seat and moved his pen between his fingers like he had done when he was in deep contemplation.

“Do you remember your first goal when we started seeing each other?”

Carmy thought momentarily before a laugh escaped his chest. “I said I wanted to feel in control of my life.” Jason nodded and shifted in his seat again. “I sound insane, don’t I? I left this woman high and dry. She doesn’t want me back, but I need to apologize for the last time we saw each other.”

“What if she doesn’t accept your apology? Do you think you can accept that?”

Carmy scoffed at the question, “There’s no way she’s going to accept my apology. I think I can accept that… but can you concede it was, in fact, a sign that all of this is happening right now, right?”

“I believe in coincidences. I want you to tell me the worst-case scenario, the best-case scenario, and the most realistic scenario of what this meeting will result in.” Jason calmly asked while he maintained eye contact with Carmy.

“Okay…” Carmy nodded as he thought for a moment. “Worst case scenario, she either doesn’t show up, or she does show up and makes a scene tellin’ me what a d-bag I am- granted, she wouldn’t use that language. She’d say something WAY harsher, which is one of the many things I love- loved about her. She always spoke her mind… best case scenario, we get coffee. While we’re drinking our coffee, she tells me she’s moving to Chicago, and I ask her out, and we get back together.”

“Idealistic. I like that. What’s the most realistic?” Jason asked with a chuckle.

“We get coffee, we talk. She decides she doesn’t hate me for leaving her, and I don’t know beyond that…” Carmy answered truthfully.

“This is a mistake…” you mumbled to yourself as you adjusted Hailey on your lap. Gingersnap Coffee was a small coffee shop. It was cute, definitely a place Carmy and you would’ve gone to when you two were together in New York. You sighed and went back to watching the door as Hailey flopped her giraffe toy on the table.

Carmy arrived at the coffee shop on the dot at 3:30. He saw you sitting at the back table and felt a surge of energy overcome him. The two of you made eye contact; Carmy grinned as he approached the table. You stood up awkwardly, resulting in Haliey pausing her giraffe story, “Hey,” you smiled weakly, immediately regretting the fact you brought Hailey. Carmy was about to greet you when Hailey curiously looked up at him. He glanced down at the little girl and felt his heart stop.

Carmy stared at Hailey. She smiled at him and pushed her giraffe toy in his direction. Unsure of what to do, he looked at you, then back at Hailey, then at you again before finally sputtering, “Yo-you have a kid?”

You nodded slowly and gestured for him to sit down. Carmy hesitated, but after you sat down, he followed suit. Carmy stared at Hailey. “I shoulda told you.” you passively excused.

“W-wait…” Carmy started, “She’s… is she?”

You nodded at Carmy’s implication, “I can explain-”

Carmy shook his head, “You had my baby and didn’t tell me? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“You left me,” you said in a hushed, blunt tone, “Carm, you told me to forget about you. I gave you the ring back. I blocked your number. I was trying to forget about you- then I found out I was pregnant. I hadn’t talked to you in weeks, and I figured if you could so easily throw away our engagement-”

“No.” Carmy spoke sternly, “If I knew you were pregnant, I woulda done the right thing.”

The two of you sat in a tense silence interrupted by Hailey sneezing multiple times, “Bess you!” she giggled, making you laugh as you dug a tissue out of your purse to wipe her nose. Carmy leaned back and watched the scene before him, realizing he’d missed two years of her life. “Tank you Momma.”

Carmy wrung his hands out under the table and nervously glanced at the decorative clock on the wall adjacent to the table the three of you had occupied. “Do you wanna hold her?” your question surprised Carmy. He thought briefly before slowly nodding, “Okay… so Hailey, this is one of Mommy’s friends?” you stopped yourself and sighed. “That’s a lie… this is your Dad…”

Dad. Camy felt like his chest would explode as you spoke to Hailey. The word echoed in his head as he accepted Hailey in his arms. She looked up at him with curious eyes. “Hi,” she softly greeted him as she reached up to touch Carmy’s face. He smiled at her.

“Hi,” Carmy repeated softly, “Is-is that- do… do you like giraffes?”

You were supposed to go back to New York the day after tomorrow; you stared up at the ceiling that night. As tired as you were, you couldn’t turn your brain off. Guilt, shame, regret… you should’ve told Carmy you were pregnant. What did he even mean by ‘do the right thing’? Would he have abandoned Mikey’s restaurant and come back to New York? Would the two of you gotten back together? Hailey’s life would’ve been so different if he’d been there from the start. You sighed, reached for your phone from the side table, and quickly scrolled to Carmy’s contact. You paused for a moment; it was almost 2 in the morning. You knew he was probably still awake.

“Hey- you okay?” Carmy answered on the first ring. “Yeah- can’t sleep… I’m due back in New York… I don’t know if I got the principal job… what do we do?” your voice quivered as you softly spoke into the phone. “I don’t know… I know I’ve only met Hailey once, but I love her. I can’t walk away from her.”

“Are you watching that Italian grandma cooking show?” Carmy chuckled at your question, “Yeah… can’t sleep.” the line was quiet momentarily, “Hailey and I used to watch it when she was colic.”

“She’s my kid.” Carmy chuckled. You nodded, knowing he couldn’t see you through the phone. You rolled onto your side and watched Hailey sleep. She was sprawled out, taking up most of the bed with her little body. “If I get this job and move out here permanently, do you want to do a shared custody thing? I guess it could start with the three of us, and then you can have more individual time with her…”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Carmy asked, ignoring the custody question entirely. “What do you think? I’m workin’ two jobs and have a two-year-old.” you laughed. Carmy smiled and pushed a hand through his hair, “Okay… guess I just wanted to know if- I know you probably don’t wanna get back together, but I don’t know… I was talkin’ to my therapist earlier. He gave some perspective- I wasn’t the man you deserved. I treated you like fuckin’ shit, and I’ve spent the last two years of my life trying to forget about you and move on with my life and create something Mikey would be proud of… I regret how we ended and hate myself for not being involved in Hailey’s life. When I was holding her and-and she was tellin’ that story about her giraffe… I can’t go back to not being in her life.” Carmy admitted. “Uh- if you get that job and move out here, there’s an empty two-bedroom in my building. This isn’t me sayin’ we should move in together or anything, but um, if we’re in the same building, I can help with Hailey more and make that a little easier on ya and get to know her- what do you think?”

“Wow… um…” you swallowed as thoughts raced through your head, “No pressure. If you stay in New York, I can visit- maybe… maybe move back? I haven’t really thought about it, but I want to be in Hailey’s life.” Carmy sputtered. “Uh- yeah… yeah. Even if I get the job out here, I still have to go back to New York to put in my two-week notice and talk to my landlord and just- just a lot of stuff…”

“I didn’t scare you off, did I?” Carmy awkwardly laughed, “No. I mean- we won’t get back together just because we have a kid. But I’m open to you being in Hailey’s life.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy.” Richie coldly said as he helped carry boxes upstairs. Carmy rolled his eyes, opting to ignore him. “Carmen, are you even sure she’s your kid?”

“Will you shut the fuck up? Hailey is my daughter. I don’t need a test to prove it.” Carmy defended as he dropped a box on the floor of your new apartment. You’d gotten the principal position and moved to Chicago. With help from Danny and Richie, today was the day you and Hailey were officially moving out of Danny’s guest room and into the two-bedroom apartment across the hall from Carmy’s place.

“You didn’t say the empty apartment was directly across the hall from you.” you laughed as you entered the apartment. You noticed the tension between Richie and Carmy; your arrival in Chicago surprised the Berzatto family. While you and Carmy were together, you’d never been formally introduced to any of his family. Natalie and Pete welcomed you with open arms. She was happy to be an aunt and to see Carmy happy. Richie and Donna, on the other hand, were apprehensive about your presence in Carmy’s life.

Carmy shrugged. “It’s not a problem, is it?” He tried to be nonchalant and keep his flirty tone more subdued, but everyone saw through it. Richie rolled his eyes and went back out to the moving van.

“Carm.”

“I just wanna be close by, not the worst thing in the world.” Carmy defended himself. You shook your head and took a box into Hailey’s bedroom. Carmy watched you walk away, swallowing softly when his eyes landed on your butt. He shook his head and walked across the hall. He entered his apartment to see Suzie sitting on the floor with Hailey.

“Hey.” Suzie smiled when she noticed Carmy standing by the door. Hailey looked up and happily squealed. You and Hailey had been in Chicago for a couple of weeks, and Carmy was really trying to see Hailey as often as he could.

Carmy sat on the floor by Suzie while Hailey pushed herself off the floor to sit on his lap. He smiled and hugged her loosely, saying, “Hi, baby girl.” Hailey cuddled into his chest, making his heart flutter.

You’d finished wrangling the boxes and wandered out of your apartment and across the hall to Carmy’s. You were going to ask if he was hungry but stopped when you saw Carmy leaning against the couch, cradling a sleeping Hailey, “And then you blanch the greens- that’s when you boil or steam something and immediately dip it in ice water. Your Momma used to hate greens, so one day, I made her this recipe, and she said it was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.”

“I think she’s asleep,” you commented as you approached the couch. Carmy looked up at you and smiled.

“She is… I just wanted to finish reading this recipe to her.” Carmy shrugged, placing the book on the coffee table. You sat next to Carmy on the floor and put your head on Carmy’s shoulder as you watched Hailey’s chest rise and fall.

“Where’d Suzie go?” you asked, scooting closer to Carmy. You noticed him swallow nervously before explaining she had to go to work. “You’re good with her,” you commented, referring to how Carmy cradled Hailey protectively.

“You think so?” Carmy asked as he shifted his attention to you.

You nodded, “You’re a natural.”

Carmy scoffed, “I wouldn’t say I’m a natural… I just wanna make up for lost time.” you nodded again and snaked an arm around Carmy’s waist. He tensed at the feeling and sat straighter.

“Well, you’re doin’ great.”

“Daddy!” Hailey happily squealed as Carmy walked into your apartment that morning. He smiled and put the bag he’d been carrying on the counter as he closed the front door with his foot.

“Hi, baby girl.” he leaned down to pick her up. Hailey hugged him tightly and started explaining a dream she’d had. Carmy smiled and bounced her on his hip. He listened contently as he went into the kitchen. You heard the commotion from your bedroom. You smiled as Carmy’s voice carried through your askew bedroom door. As you finished getting ready for work, you noticed the conversation between Hailey and Carmy. It had been about six months since you’d moved to Chicago, and Carmy was holding on to his promise to be involved in Hailey’s life. Watching your daughter fall in love with him was touching. He was so calm around her and interested in everything she said.

When you left your bedroom, you saw Carmy and Hailey sitting at the table. She was happily munching on a bowl of cereal, and Carmy sat back, drinking a cup of coffee. “Hey Carmy, hi sugar cookie.” you smiled as you leaned in to kiss Hailey’s cheek. She squealed, making you smile before kissing her other cheek.

“Daddy, kiss too!” Hailey demanded, pointing to Carmy.

“You want Daddy to kiss your cheek, too?” you asked, resting your chin on her head.

“No! Daddy kiss too!” Hailey demanded again, “Momma, kiss Daddy too!”

You looked at Carmy and saw a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Do you think Daddy wants a kiss, too?” Hailey squealed and pointed at Carmy again. You nodded and kissed the top of her head before moving over to kiss his cheek. Hailey giggled and went back to eating her cereal. Carmy swallowed softly and quickly finished his coffee before abruptly standing up to rinse out his coffee cup. You waited a second before joining him in the kitchen. “Sorry, was that weird?”

Carmy shook his head, “No, it was okay, but… can Daddy have a real kiss sometime?”

“I think that can be arranged.” you chimed nonchalantly.

“Can Daddy take you out sometime?”

“Only if you stop referring to yourself as Daddy.” you laughed as you playfully pushed his shoulder.

“Deal.”

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leighsartworks216 · 5 months ago

Text

Being Sick HCs with Zayne + Sylus

Zayne x gn!Reader x Sylus

Part Two

Imagine dating both Zayne and Sylus in a poly relationship and you get sick and have to quarantine. Basically just how they'd handle that (I'm projecting)

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, polyamory, sickfic, cuddling, mention of food

Word Count: 500 (hell yeah)

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Having to quarantine which means you can't see your partners :(

Sylus is more than happy to call, facetime, sit outside the door and chat, literally anything that will make you feel better

Zayne is enforcing all the caution 100%

"I don't get sick" unstoppable force Sylus vs "If you do, you'll make things worse for all of us" immovable object Zayne

I do think Zayne would want you to quarantine at Sylus's manor or one of his villas tho, so there's more space for you to exist in without fear of contaminating something (like by going to the bathroom or smth)

Domestic moment of both of them cooking together in the kitchen to make dinner for you while having a tablet/laptop set up nearby video calling with you 🥺

Sylus is more open about missing being able to hold you, but Zayne isn't immune either

He's way more cuddly with Sylus than usual, but neither of them bring it up cuz they both know why that is

Mephisto brings notes and treats to you through the window

If you're craving anything at all rn? Ask and ye shall receive

They each leave one of their sweaters outside of your door for you to wear and cuddle

You bet your ass Zayne is badgering you about checking your fever and taking your medicine

If you start feeling really bad, like can't bear to move at all and feeling like you're dying, type bad, they will put on masks and go in there to take good care of you

Indulge in touching you a lot then, even if it's all hidden behind excuses of helping you

All three of you in masks, cuddled up in a sandwich in bed, both of the lads on either side of you absolutely wrapped around you as much as possible

Zayne disinfects Sylus and himself thoroughly after that, reinstating the quarantine again now that you're "stable" once more

Sylus staying during the day and Zayne staying during the night

Whether that be sitting outside the door or literally sleeping while on the phone with you

Best believe that as soon as you're out of quarantine, you're all cuddling together and just being physically affectionate

Even tho physical touch isn't high up on Zayne's list as far as love languages go, he really does crave yours, especially after so long (like, a week) without it

Just imagining Sylus ruining his sleep schedule to take care of you while Zayne's at work and staying awake to try and fix it, just watching you two as you sleep and being swarmed with so much affection

You, still recovering from the weakness and fatigue from being sick, sleeping during the day with Sylus. Zayne admiring you both as he gets ready for work or even just getting up early cuz his circadian rhythm just in time to see Sylus off to sleep

Okay this is just turning into normal poly hcs and not just sick ones so I'm done

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy

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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Mr. Pickles, your small fluffy dog, has disappeared and your lover goes on a hunt to find him

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Mr. Pickles is my proudest creation ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter knows what it means to lose something you love. The moment he sees your face, tear-streaked and trembling, he drops everything—his textbooks, his half-eaten sandwich, his entire afternoon—to pull you into his arms. "We'll find him," he whispers into your hair, his voice a promise, a prayer. His mind races with every possibility—where a tiny, fluffy dog could have wandered, what dangers lurk in the city streets. He forces himself to stay lighthearted, for you. "Mr. Pickles is a survivor," he assures you, "just like his mom." But inside, his heart clenches at the thought of you losing something you love. Again.

- He swings across the city, calling the dog's name, peering into alleyways and between dumpsters, ignoring the odd looks from pedestrians below. "C'mon, buddy," he mutters, landing softly on a rooftop. "If I were a small, dumb, fluffy dog, where would I go?" His mask hides his worry, but his pulse betrays him. You had whispered once, in the quiet dark of your shared bed, that Mr. Pickles was there before Peter—that the little dog had curled against you on nights too cold, too lonely to bear. That he had been your solace. Peter clenches his fists. He has to find him.

- Hours pass, and the city hums beneath him, indifferent. He stops only when he hears the faintest whimper from a storm drain, the soft scrape of tiny paws against metal. Relief crashes over him so fast he almost collapses. "Oh, Mr. Pickles, you little troublemaker," he breathes, scooping the trembling dog into his arms. The weight of him, warm and alive, nearly makes Peter cry. He presses his forehead against the dog's tiny head. "Your mom's gonna kill me if I bring you back dirty," he laughs, voice shaking.

- When he swings through your window, landing with a soft thud, you barely get the chance to register his presence before he's pushing Mr. Pickles into your arms. You sob into the dog's soft fur, and Peter watches, eyes warm, body aching with love. Then, when you finally look up at him, when your beautiful face splits into the most brilliant, teary smile, Peter Parker knows—he would search a thousand cities, lift a thousand storm drain covers, break apart the world itself if it meant keeping that smile.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- "It’s just a dog," Tony had said at first, exhaling through his nose, watching you pace the length of his penthouse with wild, desperate eyes. But then you turned to him, looking at him like he had just shattered the universe, and something in his chest tightened. "Okay, okay, bad choice of words," he amended quickly, setting down his glass of scotch. "We’ll find him, sweetheart. Trust me." He kissed your forehead, and when he pulled away, he was already barking orders at J.A.R.V.I.S. to scan the streets.

- The city is his playground, and when Tony Stark hunts, nothing escapes him. Drones sweep over sidewalks, infrared cameras scan the gutters, and his A.I. combs through every security feed within a ten-block radius. It should be easy, finding something small, white, and fluffy. But as the hours stretch, as your voice cracks when you call Mr. Pickles’ name into the empty night, Tony feels something unfamiliar claw at his throat. Panic. Helplessness. He can build weapons that level cities, fly into warzones, rewrite the future with his mind, but he can’t stop the way your hands shake. He can’t fix this with money or brilliance. He just has to find that damn dog.

- And then—finally—one of his drones pings. A little white fluffball, trapped behind the fence of a construction site, tail wagging pathetically, waiting. Tony exhales sharply. "Gotcha, you little idiot," he murmurs, already summoning the nearest Iron Man suit. He could call someone, sure. Could send a bot, have the dog airlifted in a grand display of Stark-level theatrics. But he doesn’t. Because he wants to be the one to bring him home to you. He wants to be the reason your eyes stop looking so haunted.

- When he steps through the front door, Mr. Pickles in his arms, you don’t hesitate. You throw yourself at him, burying your face in his chest, shaking with relief. Tony doesn’t joke. Doesn’t smirk. He just holds you, one hand stroking your hair, the other keeping a firm grip on the tiny dog between you. He sighs against your temple. "Next time, we’re microchipping this little bastard," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. But the truth is, if it meant making you happy, Tony Stark would search the ends of the earth for that damn dog again. And again. And again.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- You are inconsolable. Steve sees it in the way you sit curled on the couch, your arms wrapped around yourself like you are holding something together. The sight alone shatters him. He kneels before you, his large hands settling over your trembling ones, his voice low, steady. "We’ll find him, sweetheart. I swear." His words are a shield, a promise carved from the same steel as his bones. Because he will find Mr. Pickles, if only to take that sorrow from your eyes.

- He searches the old-fashioned way. No drones, no high-tech satellites. Just a man and his will. He jogs through the streets, stopping people with a polite, firm urgency, showing a picture of your dog on his phone. He speaks to shopkeepers, to children on bicycles, to the kind-faced woman selling flowers on the corner. Every second counts. But even as his pulse quickens, as the sun dips behind the skyline, he doesn't waver. The world has taken too much from him already—he will not let it take this from you.

- He finds Mr. Pickles in a tiny park, curled up beneath a bench, his fur damp with the evening dew. Steve exhales a deep, relieved breath, crouching slowly, his voice softer than a whisper. "Hey there, buddy," he murmurs, extending a careful hand. The dog whimpers, then leaps into his arms as if he knows—knows this man, knows that Steve Rogers is the safest place in the world.

- When Steve carries him home, you are waiting at the door, your beautiful face lit by the glow of the porchlight, eyes wide with hope. And then—joy. You let out a breathless sob, scooping the dog into your arms, pressing frantic kisses into his fur. Steve watches, his heart twisting in his chest. Then you turn to him, eyes glistening, and throw your arms around his neck. He catches you, as he always will, burying his face into your shoulder. "Told you I’d find him," he murmurs, holding you as tightly as he can.

Thor

- The moment Thor sees your sorrow, it is as if the very sky darkens. "Your heart aches," he rumbles, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "This shall not stand." And with that, he strides from the room, determination crackling in his wake. He does not understand how something so small could mean so much—but he does not need to understand. He only needs to act.

- He searches with the force of a storm. He speaks to the wind, commanding it to carry your dog’s scent across the city. He calls down thunder, demanding the heavens show him where your little beast has gone. Mortals look on in awe as the god of thunder strides through the streets, golden hair windswept, cape billowing. "MR. PICKLES!" his voice booms, rattling windows. "SHOW THYSELF, TINY WARRIOR!"

- And then, a soft yip—so small, so insignificant against the noise of the city, yet Thor hears it as clear as a battle cry. He finds Mr. Pickles atop a fruit cart, having somehow clambered to its highest peak. The vendor stares, frozen, as Thor reaches out, plucking the tiny dog from the pile of apples. "A most daring escape," Thor muses, holding the squirming fluff in one enormous hand. "You are braver than you appear, small one."

- When he returns to you, the dog safely in his arms, you let out a breathless, laughing sob. "You found him," you whisper. Thor beams. "Of course I did, my love," he declares, sweeping you—dog and all—into his arms. "No force in this realm shall keep what is yours from you.”

Loki

- Loki does not understand the gravity of it at first. A small creature, insignificant in size and strength, lost in the chaos of Midgard—what of it? But then he sees your face, the way grief pools in your beautiful eyes, the tremor in your hands as you call the dog’s name into the empty night. He watches, silent, as sorrow sinks its fangs into you. And suddenly, the matter is no longer trivial. The world may not care for Mr. Pickles, but you do. And Loki… Loki cares for you.

- He does not search as mortals do. No, he does not waste time scouring streets like a fool. He summons illusions, a hundred spectral versions of himself that spill into the city like shadows, slipping through alleyways, gliding across rooftops, whispering Mr. Pickles’s name to the wind. Magic coils at his fingertips, weaving through the currents of the world, seeking out the pulse of something small, something white and ridiculous. “Where have you gone, little fool?” he murmurs to the void. “Your mistress grieves for you. And I will not allow it.”

- The answer comes in a flicker of magic—an image flashing behind his eyes. A storm drain, deep beneath the city streets, where a tiny, trembling thing curls into itself. Loki sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Of course,” he mutters, exasperated. Then, in a breath, he is there—appearing in a ripple of green light, boots sinking into damp concrete. The dog yelps, startled, but Loki merely raises an eyebrow. “You are filthier than I expected,” he muses, kneeling. Mr. Pickles stares, wide-eyed. Loki clicks his tongue. “Come now, do not be tiresome. Your lady awaits.”

- When he steps into your home, dog cradled in his arms like an offering, you let out a choked breath. Relief breaks across your face, radiant and overwhelming. You snatch Mr. Pickles from his grasp, burying your face in his fur, and for a moment, you are too consumed by joy to speak. Loki watches, arms crossed, head tilting. "You are lucky I find your devotion endearing," he drawls. Then, softer, he reaches out, fingertips ghosting along your cheek. "Do not grieve again, darling. I find I have little patience for it."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint knows what loss does to a person. Knows how it hollows them out, how it lingers in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. He sees it now, creeping into the corners of your beautiful face, sinking into the line of your shoulders. And he hates it. So, with a sharp breath and a determined set to his jaw, he presses a kiss to your forehead and grabs his jacket. “Don’t worry, babe,” he says, shouldering his bow. “I’ll bring the little guy home.”

- He moves through the city like he was born to it—quick, sharp-eyed, hands in his pockets as he scans every street, every alley. He whistles low and easy, calling Mr. Pickles’s name like he’s coaxing an old friend. He asks the vendors, the cab drivers, the kids playing basketball on the corner. And when that doesn’t work, he climbs. Up onto fire escapes, across rooftops, perching on ledges with the keen gaze of a predator. His archer’s eyes miss nothing. Somewhere down there, a small dumb dog is waiting to be found.

- It takes time, but eventually, he hears it—a faint, frantic yipping from behind a chain-link fence, where Mr. Pickles has somehow managed to trap himself in a tangle of garbage cans. Clint huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re really makin’ me work for it, huh, buddy?” The dog’s tail wags furiously at the sight of him. Clint doesn’t hesitate; he scales the fence in seconds, dropping down effortlessly. “C’mere, troublemaker,” he murmurs, scooping the tiny thing into his arms. “Your mom’s losing her mind over you.”

- When he walks through the door, Mr. Pickles wriggling excitedly in his grasp, you gasp, half laughing, half crying. “Clint!” And before he can react, you throw your arms around him, pressing desperate kisses to his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. Clint grins, warmth curling in his chest, burying his face in your hair. “Told ya I’d bring him back,” he murmurs. Then, pulling back just enough to look at you, voice teasing, “How ‘bout a reward for the hero?”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha does not waste words on comfort. She sees the way your hands twist together, the way your breath hitches unevenly, and she simply touches your arm—firm, steady. "I’ll find him," she says, no hesitation, no doubt. And then she is gone, slipping into the night like a ghost, like a promise.

- Her search is meticulous, methodical. She moves through the city like a shadow, unseen, unheard. She checks every corner, every crevice, following the trail with a hunter’s patience. She kneels in the dirt, fingers brushing over the faintest paw prints. She watches surveillance footage from gas stations and convenience stores, scanning for any glimpse of white fur. Nothing escapes her. Nothing ever does.

- And then, finally, she finds him. A scared little thing, shivering beneath an abandoned car, too afraid to move. Natasha exhales slowly, lowering herself onto her stomach, voice quiet, gentle. "Hey, малыш," she murmurs. "Been having an adventure, huh?" Mr. Pickles hesitates—then, with a whimper, scrambles toward her. She catches him easily, tucking him against her chest. "Good boy," she whispers, stroking his tiny head. "Let’s get you home."

- When she returns, she says nothing—just steps into the room, holding out the small, trembling dog. The sound you make is small, broken, and then you are running to her, hands shaking as you take Mr. Pickles into your arms. Natasha watches, something warm and aching unfurling in her chest. And when you turn to her, whispering "Thank you," voice thick with emotion, she simply pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Always," she murmurs.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knows the weight of grief. Knows how it clings to the ribs, how it turns the world gray. When he sees it on you, something inside him twists. He cups your face, brushing his thumbs beneath your eyes, steel and flesh both warm against your skin. “I’ll get him back,” he says, voice rough, edged with quiet desperation. “I swear it.”

- He searches with the kind of relentless patience only a soldier possesses. He moves through the city in silence, scanning every street, listening, waiting. His training takes over—tracking, reading the subtle disturbances in the world. A knocked-over trash can. A set of tiny paw prints in the dust. He follows them like a wolf on a scent, every step precise, measured. He does not stop. He does not falter.

- He finds Mr. Pickles curled up on a stranger’s doorstep, looking lost and exhausted. Bucky crouches slowly, voice soft. “Hey there, little guy.” The dog perks up, ears twitching. A moment passes—then Mr. Pickles scrambles into his arms, pressing his tiny face against Bucky’s chest. The super-soldier lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

- When he brings Mr. Pickles home, you make a sound—something between a sob and a laugh—and Bucky barely has time to react before you are clinging to him, burying your face in his shoulder. He holds you tightly, breathing you in, grounding himself in your warmth. “Told you I’d find him,” he mutters into your hair. And when you pull back, eyes shining, hands cradling his face, Bucky Barnes knows—he would walk through fire for you. Would chase down a hundred lost things, just to keep you from breaking.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- It starts with the sound of your voice breaking. A sharp inhale, a stumble of words, a silence where there should be breath. Matt’s head snaps up immediately, his whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. “What’s wrong?” he asks, already moving toward you, already reaching. And then you say it, voice trembling. “Mr. Pickles is gone.” The world tilts. He doesn’t need sight to know the grief settling in your frame, the way your arms are wrapped around yourself like a shield. He takes your hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll find him,” he promises. “I swear.”

- The city is an orchestra of noise and movement, but Matt filters through it with razor precision. He follows the trail of memory—the last place you saw Mr. Pickles, the familiar scuffle of tiny paws on pavement. He kneels in alleyways, fingertips ghosting over the ground, feeling for the faintest traces: a disturbed patch of dust, a scent still lingering in the air. He listens. A hundred heartbeats, a thousand voices, the ever-present hum of New York’s restless energy. And then—there. A frantic, rapid little rhythm, lost beneath a fire escape.

- He moves quickly, scaling the metal with effortless grace, landing silently in the narrow space behind the building. Mr. Pickles is trembling beneath an old wooden crate, his tiny frame pressed into the shadows. “Hey, buddy,” Matt murmurs, crouching low. “You gave us a scare.” The dog yelps as Matt reaches out, but there’s no hesitation in his hands, only certainty. Warmth. He scoops Mr. Pickles up, tucking him close, fingers gentle against soft fur. “Let’s get you home.”

- The moment Matt steps through the door, you let out a breath that shatters into relief. He barely has time to react before you are in his arms, hands in his hair, lips pressing desperately against his. Mr. Pickles wiggles between you, but neither of you care. Matt holds you tighter, his own relief threading through his pulse. “Told you,” he breathes against your mouth. “I’d never let you lose something you love.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- You’re crying, and that alone is enough to ignite something violent in Frank. His hands clench into fists, his jaw locks tight, his body coils with the instinct to hunt. But there’s no enemy here. No one to punish. Just you, beautiful and wrecked, your hands trembling as you whisper, “Frank, I can’t find him.” He exhales slow, steady, pushing down the fury. His hands cup your face, rough thumbs brushing over wet cheeks. “I’ll get ‘im back,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

- His search is relentless. Frank moves through the city with soldier’s efficiency, checking every street corner, every back alley, every goddamn sewer grate if he has to. He interrogates people without mercy, his voice low and dangerous as he asks, “You seen a little white dog around here?” Nobody dares to lie to him. He is a shadow in the night, a force of nature, and nothing—not time, not distance, not God himself—will stop him from bringing your dog back.

- Eventually, he finds Mr. Pickles cornered by a stray, trapped between a chain-link fence and a growling, desperate mutt twice his size. Frank doesn’t hesitate. One sharp whistle, one step forward, and the stray bolts. “Damn idiot,” he mutters, kneeling. Mr. Pickles stares up at him, wide-eyed and shaking. “You’re lucky she loves you,” Frank grumbles, scooping him up, pressing the dog to his chest with surprising gentleness. “Otherwise, you’d be on your own, dumbass.”

- When he gets home, you’re waiting at the door, eyes raw with worry. The second you see him, you choke out a gasp, arms reaching. Frank hands Mr. Pickles over, watching as you cradle the tiny thing like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and then you’re kissing him—deep, breathless, full of gratitude. His hands grip your waist, pulling you close, his voice rough against your lips. “Told you I’d fix it, baby.”

Bullseye (Lester)

- “You’re joking.” But the look on your face tells him you’re not. And the worst part? He cares. Too much. About you, about the way your lip trembles, about the devastation in your beautiful, stupid eyes. His fingers twitch, the urge to break something crawling under his skin. He can kill a man from a mile away with a paperclip, but he can’t fix this. Not with a bullet, not with a blade. “Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. Then, voice dark with resolve—“I’ll find the little bastard.”

- Lester doesn’t search like a normal person. No, he turns the whole goddamn city into his hunting ground. He perches on rooftops, scanning the streets below with hawk-like precision. He talks to informants, threatens people in back alleys, flips a knife between his fingers as he leans in close and growls, “If I were a tiny dumb dog, where the hell would I be?” Nobody dares to waste his time.

- He finally spots Mr. Pickles trapped on a moving truck, the tiny idiot balancing on the edge, about to tumble onto the freeway. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lester moves before he thinks. A perfect throw—his knife slicing through the air, puncturing the truck’s tire. It screeches to a halt, and before anyone can react, he’s already there, snatching Mr. Pickles up. “You got a goddamn death wish?” he mutters, tucking the tiny dog under his jacket. “Let’s get you home before I start regretting this.”

- The second he walks in, you’re on him, eyes wide with relief. You press kisses over his face, his jaw, whispering, “Thank you, thank you.” Lester smirks, tilting his head. “Y’know, I don’t do this rescue shit for just anyone.” You arch a brow. “Oh?” His grin sharpens. “Yeah. So, how ‘bout you thank me properly?” His hands slip around your waist, pulling you in, his lips brushing your ear. “In bed.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- He knows loss. Knows the way it digs into the ribs, the way it carves out something hollow in your chest. And when he sees that same ache in your eyes, his heart clenches. “I’ll find him,” he says, his voice low, steady. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking soft against your cheeks. “I won’t let you lose him.”

- He moves through the night like a phantom, like a god of the hunt. Moonlight glints off his armor as he scales rooftops, his senses sharp, his pulse steady. He tracks the city like a predator—footprints in the dust, paw marks in the mud, the scent of something small and lost. Every streetlamp flickers as he passes, every shadow seems to bend toward him. He is relentless.

- He finds Mr. Pickles huddled in the hollow of a tree in Central Park, shivering, tiny paws covered in dirt. Marc exhales, dropping into a crouch, his cape pooling around him. “Hey, little guy,” he murmurs. “Scared?” The dog lets out a small whimper, tail tucked. “Yeah,” Marc sighs. “Me too, sometimes.” He reaches out, slow and patient. Mr. Pickles hesitates—then, finally, clambers into his arms. Marc holds him close, pressing his forehead to soft fur. “Let’s get you home.”

- When he returns, you break. Your arms wrap around him, your whole body trembling with relief. Marc holds you, silent, solid, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “Thank you,” you whisper. He exhales, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll always bring back what you love,” he murmurs. “Always.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- You are pacing. Your hands are shaking. Your lips are parted as if you want to say something, but no words come. Tony watches, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. His skull mask tilts ever so slightly. “You’re stressin’ over a dog,” he drawls, but there’s something in his voice—not mockery, not amusement, just observation. You shoot him a sharp look, eyes shining with unshed tears, and that’s all it takes. His posture shifts, his fingers flex, his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet. A mission, then. “Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s go hunt.”

- Tony doesn’t search. He tracks. He moves like a predator, analyzing the world through the same ruthless lens he uses in combat. He remembers the way Mr. Pickles moves, the rhythm of his little paws on the floor, the places he lingers longest. He follows invisible trails, crouching low to examine scuff marks on the sidewalk, flicking his hood up as he moves through the city like a ghost. He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t need it.

- He finds Mr. Pickles before dawn, stuck in a drainage pipe, trembling but unharmed. Tony crouches, tilting his head. “Y’know,” he muses, voice low and sardonic, “for a dumb little mutt, you got a lotta guts runnin’ off like that.” Mr. Pickles whimpers. Tony sighs. “Yeah, yeah. C’mere.” He reaches in, grips the tiny dog by the scruff, and lifts him effortlessly. There’s a moment of silence as he looks at the tiny, ridiculous creature. Then, begrudgingly, softly—“Good boy.”

- When he returns, you practically crash into him, arms wrapping around his neck. He stiffens for half a second—then melts. Your lips find his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, whispering endless thank-yous. Tony smirks against your lips. “Told ya I’d find ‘im,” he murmurs. His gloved hands tighten on your waist. “Now, you gonna give me a reward, or what?”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- The second you realize Mr. Pickles is missing, you collapse onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. Johnny is beside you instantly, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands gripping yours. “Hey, hey, hey, no tears, babe,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re gonna find him.” You shake your head, voice breaking. “But what if—” Johnny cuts you off with a grin, cupping your cheeks. “Nope. No ‘what ifs.’ You and me? We got this.” His eyes flicker with fire. “And lucky for you, I’m kinda the fastest guy around.”

- He takes off like a shooting star, flames trailing behind him as he soars above the city, scanning the streets below. He shouts Mr. Pickles’ name at the top of his lungs, occasionally stopping to ask strangers, “Hey, seen a fluffy little guy runnin’ around?” He speeds down alleyways, streaks of fire illuminating the dark corners, his energy boundless, relentless. It’s not just about finding the dog—it’s about fixing you. About bringing back the light in your eyes.

- Finally, he spots a flash of white fur near a hot dog stand. Mr. Pickles is standing on his tiny hind legs, trying to steal a bite from an unsuspecting tourist. Johnny lets out a relieved laugh, swooping down. “Oh my God, you little menace,” he groans, scooping the dog up. “You had her crying, dude! Not cool.” Mr. Pickles licks his face. Johnny sighs, tucking him under his arm. “Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m a sucker.”

- When he gets home, you’re standing by the door, breath held tight in your chest. The moment you see them, you let out a half-sob, half-laugh, arms flinging around both Johnny and Mr. Pickles. “Told ya,” Johnny murmurs against your hair, grinning. “Flame on, baby. Fastest rescue in history.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Now, how ‘bout you show me just how grateful you are?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- The moment you realize Mr. Pickles is missing, you don’t even need to say anything. Reed notices the micro-expressions on your face, the tiny shift in your breathing, the way your fingers twitch like they don’t know where to go. He sets his book down immediately. “I assume,” he says, in that calm, measured way of his, “that we are dealing with an emergency.” You nod, lip trembling, and he reaches out, brushing a gentle hand against your wrist. “Then let’s begin our search.”

- He doesn’t waste time. He maps out the city in his head, calculating Mr. Pickles’ likely movement patterns based on past behavior, environmental factors, and canine psychology. He extends his limbs, stretching impossibly long, weaving through traffic and alleyways, covering more ground in minutes than most could in hours. Occasionally, he stops to scan the area with a handheld device he designed on the spot to track small biological signatures. Mr. Pickles is, unfortunately, an unpredictable anomaly. But Reed does not believe in unsolvable problems.

- At last, he finds the dog nestled inside the engine of a parked car, trapped but unharmed. “Ah,” Reed murmurs, extending a flexible arm to gently extract him. “A remarkably foolish but statistically predictable hiding spot.” Mr. Pickles whimpers. Reed tucks him against his chest, adjusting his glasses. “I would advise against repeating this experiment.”

- When he returns, you nearly collapse in relief. You take Mr. Pickles from his arms, cradling him, whispering his name over and over. Reed watches you for a moment, expression unreadable—then, finally, he steps forward, cupping your face. “There was never a doubt,” he says softly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead. “I will always solve any problem that brings you pain.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- “Aw, hell.” The moment you start crying, Ben is done. He has no idea what to do, how to fix it, how to stop that horrible look on your face. He’s good at breaking things, not putting them back together. But this? This, he can try to fix. He places a massive, careful hand on your back. “Don’tchu worry, sweetheart. We’re gonna get yer lil’ guy back. Just leave it to ol’ Ben.”

- He scours the city on foot, his heavy footsteps echoing through the streets. People move out of his way as he calls out, “MR. PICKLES! C’MON, BUDDY!” He checks every alley, every trash can, even gets on his hands and knees to peek under cars. He talks to street vendors, cab drivers, little kids—anyone who might’ve seen a small, fluffy blur.

- After what feels like forever, he finally hears a familiar yipping sound. He turns, spotting Mr. Pickles perched on top of a hot dog cart, happily munching away. Ben groans, shaking his head. “Ya gotta be kiddin’ me.” He reaches out, scooping up the tiny troublemaker in one massive hand. “Yer givin’ me gray hairs, ya dumb mutt.” Mr. Pickles wags his tail. “Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters. “Let’s getcha home.”

- The second he steps inside, you sprint toward him, practically climbing his massive frame to get to Mr. Pickles. “Thank you,” you whisper over and over, eyes shining with gratitude. Ben rubs the back of his neck, cheeks going a little too orange. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he grumbles. But when you lean up and press a kiss to his rocky jaw, he goes still. Then, with a soft chuckle, he wraps you up in the safest, warmest embrace you’ve ever known. “Anythin’ for you, doll.”

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- The moment she sees the distress in your eyes, the tremble in your fingers, Susan moves with the quiet urgency of someone who has carried the weight of others for as long as she can remember. “We’ll find him,” she promises, voice steady, hands cupping your face. She presses her lips to your forehead, a whisper of warmth against your skin. There is no hesitation in her. No doubt. Only unwavering resolve. “Just hold on, love. I won’t stop until he’s back in your arms.”

- Susan moves like the wind—unseen, yet everywhere. Her force fields expand in rippling waves, creating invisible barriers to guide the search, sealing off streets, preventing Mr. Pickles from wandering further. She steps through the city like a ghost, her presence unnoticed by the world, her focus honed to a razor’s edge. She asks the right people, checks every hidden corner, listens for the frantic patter of tiny paws.

- When she finds him—trapped in a fenced-off garden, too small to climb back out—her breath catches in relief. She kneels, extending a hand. “There you are, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice softer than the dawn. Mr. Pickles hesitates, then scurries into her arms. She holds him close, invisible tears slipping down her cheeks. “You scared us, little one,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his fur.

- When she returns, you barely have time to react before she’s wrapping you up in her arms, pressing you close, Mr. Pickles nestled between you. “Told you,” she breathes into your hair. “I’ll always bring you back what you love.” And then, because she cannot help herself, because she needs to erase the sadness she saw on your face—she tilts your chin up, kisses you slow and deep, sealing her promise with something stronger than words.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- “Oh, baby,” Felicia purrs, cupping your face in her gloved hands, brushing her thumbs over your cheekbones. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll break my heart.” There’s a playful tilt to her lips, but her eyes—sharp, feline, dangerous—gleam with something softer. Something devoted. “No one takes from me,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Not even fate. And definitely not some city street swallowing up our little guy.”

- She moves through the city with the grace of something not quite human, slipping through the shadows, scaling rooftops, landing lightly on balcony railings as she surveys the streets below. The city belongs to her in a way it never will to anyone else—its secrets, its dark corners, its hidden treasures. And tonight, the only treasure she seeks is a tiny, fluffy menace named Mr. Pickles.

- She finds him at the docks, standing nose-to-nose with a massive alley cat. “Oh, sweetie,” Felicia sighs, perching on the edge of a crate. “Making enemies already?” The alley cat hisses. Mr. Pickles barks back, fearless in his stupidity. Felicia chuckles, scooping him up effortlessly. “You really are my type,” she teases, nuzzling him before vanishing back into the night.

- When she returns, she doesn’t give you a chance to react. She drops Mr. Pickles into your lap, then straddles you, tangling her fingers in your hair, kissing you like she’s staking a claim. “Mine,” she murmurs against your lips. “You. The mutt. Everything. Mine.” Her voice is velvet and sin, but there’s something deeper there, something unspoken. She saved your dog because she would burn the world down before she let you cry.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- He watches you, standing in the Sanctum’s grand hall, your arms wrapped around yourself, your breath unsteady. A storm brewing behind your eyes. Stephen has faced nightmares made flesh, walked through dimensions of madness, fought gods and demons alike—but none of it compares to the sheer, unbearable helplessness of seeing you in pain. He exhales slowly, gathering himself. “I will fix this,” he vows, voice a quiet thunder. “I will bring him back.”

- He opens portals, stepping between realms, searching beyond the limits of the ordinary. His cloak flutters behind him as he moves through the city, eyes glowing with eldritch energy, scanning for the telltale imprint of Mr. Pickles’ presence. He does not guess. He calculates. He peers into the threads of time, tracing the tiny, insignificant path of one small life—because no life is insignificant if it matters to you.

- He finds Mr. Pickles caught in a drainpipe, whimpering, his fluffy fur dirtied with city grime. Stephen kneels, murmuring a soft incantation, and the pipe bends, the metal warping to free its prisoner. “You,” he mutters, scooping the dog up with the same careful precision he uses when handling mystical artifacts, “are far more trouble than your size should allow.” Mr. Pickles yips. Stephen sighs. “Yes, yes. Let’s go home.”

- When he steps back through the portal, you are waiting, eyes wide, body trembling. Before you can speak, he hands you the dog, then—without a word—pulls you into his arms. His fingers tangle in your hair, his lips press to your temple. “Do not look at me like I have done something extraordinary,” he murmurs. “You should know by now—I would defy the laws of the universe for you.”

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- “This is unacceptable.” His voice is steel wrapped in silk, his eyes burning with the fire of a thousand storms. He stands before you like a god carved from the depths, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set with unshakable determination. “No creature that belongs to you shall be lost. The world will return him to you—or it will suffer for its defiance.”

- He commands the sea, bending its will to his own, sending forth silent summons to the creatures of the deep. Whales sing in the distance, dolphins weave through the harbor, seabirds circle the skies, their sharp eyes scanning the city for one foolishly misplaced pet. Namor himself moves like the tide—relentless, unstoppable. The people part for him as he walks the streets, his presence commanding, his gaze sharp enough to cut through the city itself.

- He finds Mr. Pickles tangled in a fishing net near the docks, a group of sailors laughing at the tiny creature’s predicament. Namor does not speak. He does not warn. He simply moves, and the air itself seems to bow before him. The sailors stumble back as he lifts the dog with regal precision, eyes flashing like the heart of a storm. “You belong to her,” he murmurs, brushing a careful thumb over the tiny head. “And that means you belong to me.”

- When he returns, he does not wait for gratitude. He places Mr. Pickles in your arms, then tilts your chin up, studying your face. “Never doubt,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, intimate, “that what is yours is mine to protect.” His lips brush against yours, the ghost of a promise. “And I do not lose.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny has seen hell. He has ridden through the infernal flames, faced demons that would drive lesser men to madness, and carried the weight of sins that do not belong to him. But nothing—nothing—unnerves him quite like the sight of you, beautiful and heartbroken, with tears trembling in your eyes. “We’ll find him,” he says, his voice rough, calloused like his hands. He brushes his thumb over your cheek, gentle in a way most wouldn’t expect from a man like him. “I swear on my goddamn soul, sweetheart. We’ll get your boy back.”

- He revs up his bike, and the night itself seems to shudder in response. The wheels burn with hellfire as he tears through the streets, eyes glowing with something unnatural, something righteous. He hunts like a predator, cutting through alleyways, questioning people in that low, gravelly voice that makes even the toughest criminals step back. His shadow looms long and unrelenting, the scent of brimstone trailing in his wake.

- He finds Mr. Pickles at the edge of a junkyard, trapped between rusted metal and the prying claws of something dark and rabid. A hellhound, perhaps, sensing something of Johnny in the small creature. The Rider emerges then, the chain coiling in his grip like a living thing. “You picked the wrong damn dog,” he growls, and in one flaming strike, the beast vanishes into nothingness. Johnny kneels, picking up the trembling ball of fluff. “Come on, little guy,” he mutters. “Let’s get you home.”

- When he returns, he doesn’t say a word—just walks straight to you, places Mr. Pickles in your arms, and wraps his arms around both of you. His forehead presses against yours, his breath warm and tinged with smoke. “Told ya,” he murmurs, voice low, gravel scraping against velvet. “I’d go to hell and back for you. And I will—whenever you ask.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- “Oh, babe,” Eddie sighs, running a hand down his face as he watches you crumple onto the couch, Mr. Pickles nowhere to be found. His heart clenches. He’s not good at this—comfort. But he tries. “We’ll find him,” he promises, kneeling in front of you, gripping your hands like an anchor. “Me and Venom, we’ll tear the whole damn city apart if we have to.”

- “YES,” Venom rumbles, the symbiote’s voice crawling up Eddie’s spine. “THE LITTLE FLUFF CREATURE BELONGS TO US. WE WILL DEVOUR ANY WHO HARM HIM.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but the truth is—he’s grateful. With Venom’s heightened senses, they scour the city like something primal, moving through rooftops, slithering through the underbelly of New York, sniffing out every trace of their tiny, ridiculous prey.

- They find Mr. Pickles cowering near a dumpster, shaking but unharmed. “HE IS SAFE,” Venom declares, wrapping tendrils around the small creature, lifting him gently. Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “You look like an idiot,” he tells Mr. Pickles, though there’s no real heat in his voice. Venom coils protectively around the dog. “HE IS OURS NOW.”

- When they return, Eddie barely has time to react before you throw yourself at him, clutching Mr. Pickles between you. He grunts, but his arms instinctively come around you, holding tight. Venom purrs—purrs. Eddie groans. “Great. Now I got two clingy idiots.” But then he buries his face in your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a man of unshakable control, a king whose every step is measured, every breath purposeful. But when he sees you—so strong, so fierce, now unraveled by something as small and precious as a missing dog—his heart tightens. He cups your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I will not let you suffer,” he murmurs. “No matter how small the loss may seem to others, I know it is not small to you.”

- The Dora Milaje move swiftly, Wakandan technology scanning the city with ruthless efficiency. But T’Challa does not simply stand by—he hunts. He moves like a shadow through the streets, his senses sharper than any mortal’s, his agility unmatched. He does not run. He glides, a predator in the night, every step silent as he follows the invisible trail of a tiny, lost thing.

- He finds Mr. Pickles at the feet of a would-be thief, a man who thought stealing a small, expensive-looking dog might earn him a quick payday. The man doesn’t even see T’Challa before he’s on him, a whisper of claws, a silent strike. The thief crumples before he even knows what happened. T’Challa picks up Mr. Pickles, cradling the tiny creature with surprising tenderness. “You have caused quite the commotion, little one,” he murmurs.

- When he returns, he does not speak right away—simply hands Mr. Pickles to you and watches as relief floods your face. And then, with the grace of a ruler, the ferocity of a warrior, he kneels before you, his hands on your waist, his lips ghosting over your knuckles. “You are my heart,” he whispers. “And I will always return to you what you love.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra does not love lightly. Love, to her, is a battlefield—something you fight for, something you bleed for. And so when she sees you, eyes red-rimmed, body curled in grief over your missing dog, something inside her snaps. She kneels before you, takes your hands, and presses a kiss to your wrist. “He will be found,” she vows, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And those who took him will regret it.”

- She moves through the city like a blade, slipping between buildings, whispering threats in the ears of informants. She is not gentle in her search—Elektra is a storm, a hurricane dressed in crimson, and when she wants answers, she gets them. The city bends before her, criminals whispering her name in fear as she cuts a path through the underworld, searching for a dog that dared to run from you.

- She finds Mr. Pickles in the hands of a smuggler, tucked beneath a coat, a prize to be sold. Elektra does not speak. She does not negotiate. She simply moves. The fight is over in seconds—bones breaking, a body crumpling, the sound of breath stolen away. She lifts Mr. Pickles into her arms, brushing blood-stained fingers over his fur. “You are lucky,” she tells him, voice a deadly lullaby. “She loves you. That is why you are alive.”

- When she returns, she does not hand him over immediately. Instead, she tilts your chin up, studies your face with eyes that have seen too much, and kisses you—deep, slow, possessive. And then, finally, she places Mr. Pickles in your hands. “He is safe,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over your forehead. “Because you are mine. And nothing that is yours will ever be taken from you.”

Muse

- Muse does not understand grief in the way others do. Suffering, to him, is art. Blood, tears, sorrow—they are strokes on a canvas, fleeting expressions of beauty. But when he sees you undone, sadness spilling from you like a watercolor bleeding into the edges of the world, something inside him twists. He tilts his head, dark eyes drinking you in, committing your heartbreak to memory. “You are beautiful when you mourn,” he murmurs, almost dreamlike. But then, softer, something close to reverence—“Tell me who I must bleed.”

- He moves through the city like a ghost, a whisper lost in the wind. No doors stop him, no walls contain him. He slithers between cracks in the world, past flickering streetlights, through alleys where rats scurry at his presence. He listens—to the murmurs of the city, to the stutter of fearful hearts, to the stories inked in dried blood on concrete. He sketches shapes in the air as he moves, painting Mr. Pickles’s outline with invisible strokes, willing the world to yield its secrets.

- He finds the dog in a forgotten place—a shuttered church, abandoned and hollow, where the echoes of old prayers cling to rotting wood. Mr. Pickles is curled beneath the altar, lost in something greater than himself, a dumb, small creature in a world too vast. Muse crouches before him, fingers brushing the cold stone. “Even the most foolish of things seek sanctuary,” he murmurs. He lifts the dog into his arms like a relic, cradling him as one would a delicate masterpiece.

- When he returns, he does not hand the creature to you immediately. Instead, he watches you, drinking in the relief that softens your grief, the way you tremble with something raw. “Your sadness was divine,” he tells you, his voice reverent, worshipful. “But your joy—” He steps closer, his breath a whisper against your skin. “Your joy is the kind of art that kills.” And then, at last, he places Mr. Pickles in your hands, his fingers lingering, his head tilting as if considering whether to carve this moment into eternity.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate imperfection. The world is a broken thing, filled with fragile creatures who tremble at the weight of their own insignificance. But you—you are not insignificant. You are his, and that means you are above such things as sorrow. And yet, here you stand, shattered by the absence of something as small, as foolish, as utterly unworthy as a dog. He cups your face in his gauntleted hands, his voice a low command. “You will not despair. Doom will fix this.”

- The search is swift, efficient, without hesitation. His Doombots flood the city, scanning every street, every shadow. There is no corner of the world Doom does not control, no path hidden from his gaze. He does not waste time questioning—he demands. When a man hesitates to answer, Doom does not repeat himself. He simply removes the obstacle. The world bends before his will, because it must.

- He finds the dog in the hands of a thief who does not understand the gravity of his mistake. Doom does not strike immediately. He steps forward, his very presence sending the fool to his knees. “You have taken something that belongs to me,” he states, voice smooth, absolute. “That is unacceptable.” The thief stammers, begs, offers apologies Doom does not need. With a flick of his wrist, Doom reclaims what is his. The thief remains on the ground, trembling—his punishment will come later.

- When he returns, he does not hand you the dog. No, he holds Mr. Pickles before you, as if offering proof of his superiority, as if daring you to ever doubt him again. “Do not weep for lost things,” he tells you, his voice softer now, for you alone. “Not when you have Doom. Nothing that belongs to you shall ever be taken from you while I draw breath.” And then, as though bestowing a gift upon royalty, he places Mr. Pickles into your waiting arms, watching as you press your face into the ridiculous fluff with something close to peace. Doom allows himself the smallest of smiles.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- “Oh, babe.” Peter’s heart breaks a little at the sight of you, curled up on the couch, your eyes wet, your lip trembling. He’s seen you fight, seen you take down things twice your size without so much as flinching, but this—this tiny, stupid missing dog—has unraveled you. He cups your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Don’t worry, okay? The Legendary Star-Lord’s got this. I’ll have Mr. Pickles back before you can say ‘Peter, you’re the best boyfriend ever.’”

- He takes off running—literally. No plan, no strategy, just vibes. He asks around, chasing every lead with the reckless charm of a man who talks his way out of problems more often than he solves them. He nearly gets into a fight with a street vendor, accidentally enters an underground dog racing ring (and somehow wins money he never meant to bet), and ends up bribing a kid with a pack of alien candy just to get a lead.

- When he finally finds Mr. Pickles, the little guy is on a rooftop, looking profoundly lost and utterly confused. “Oh, buddy,” Peter sighs, scooping him up. “Your mom is gonna kill me if she finds out I let you get this far. You owe me, man.” Mr. Pickles licks his face. Peter grimaces. “Gross, dude.”

- He returns to you, arms wide, Mr. Pickles balanced on his shoulder like some kind of pirate parrot. “Ta-da!” He grins as you snatch your dog, pressing frantic kisses into his fur. Peter watches you with something soft in his eyes, something real. “See?” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. “Told you I’d bring him back. And not just ‘cause I didn’t wanna see you cry—though, babe, I really didn’t wanna see you cry.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, grinning. “Next time, though? Maybe we put a tracker on this little dude.”

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard’s stomach sinks when he sees you like this. You’re never like this—never fragile, never still. But now, your arms are empty, your lips pressed tight, your whole body tensed in a way that tells him just how much you’re holding back. He reaches for you, thumb brushing against your wrist. “We’re gonna find him,” he promises. “No matter what it takes.” And when he says it, he means it.

- He takes to the sky, the city unfolding beneath him in a blur of neon and shadows. He scans every street, every heartbeat, his senses stretched thin, reaching beyond what should be possible. He moves like a comet, burning through the night, a streak of gold and blue against the dark. No lost thing escapes his gaze—not when he is Nova.

- He finds Mr. Pickles in the middle of traffic, a tiny, oblivious fluffball wandering straight into chaos. Richard doesn’t think—he moves. One second, the little dog is about to meet a terrible fate. The next, he’s safe, cradled against Richard’s chest as cars screech to a halt beneath them. Richard exhales, pressing his forehead against the ridiculous creature. “You are so lucky I like your mom.”

- He lands in front of you, Mr. Pickles still tucked in his arms, and the second he sees your relief, he knows—he would have torn the universe apart for this moment. He hands the dog to you, watching the way your whole body softens. And then, before he can say something stupid, you throw your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to his. He laughs against your mouth, breathless. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “I know. I’m the best.”

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kannady · 1 month ago

Text

do you remember me too?

pairing: sylus x mc reader

synopsis: love and deepspace was a newfound obsession of yours. you installed the game shortly after sylus was released as a love interest. it'd be safe to say he was the reason you installed the app. however, finals week was approaching and you had to say goodbye to your favourite game. not for long, ofcourse. but you decide to login for the last time to check the new event.

a/n: hello everyone! this is my first LADS ffc so please bear with me, and yep you probably guessed it. the reader somehow ends up inside the game. very typical, ik. but trust me, i have a different take on this. ALSO my first language is not english so please ignore grammer errors. i recheck atleast 10 times and still end up overlooking every mistake. enjoy!

check out all chapters here

Chapter One

DING! DING!

You woke up to the shrill screech of your alarm. Eight already? Time always seemed to slip away faster during exam season. You had no idea when you’d finally dozed off, but judging by the heavy exhaustion clinging to your limbs, it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. No wonder I feel like shit. Groaning, you mustered every ounce of strength to reach out and silence the alarm.

It was Sunday. Golden sunlight spilled through the window, warming your face as birds chirped outside. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees.

The weather was perfect. Perfect for a picnic. But first, you had to finish your revision before the midday heat set in. Your gaze drifted to your study table, still littered with notes and textbooks exactly as you’d left them last night couple hours ago.

Okay, let’s see…

You closed your eyes, mentally retracing yesterday’s progress. Finished chapters 5, 6, 8, and 11. With a yawn, you cracked your knuckles, stretched, and forced yourself upright. If I can somehow finish chapters 2, 9, and 10 in two hours, I can reward myself with some outdoor time.

Grabbing your chemistry book, you flipped to the first page. Three chapters in two hours? Doable. Maybe.

Just as you reached for your phone to check the time, your eyes snagged on the date.

April 12.

OH. MY. GOD. Sylus’s birthday. Your fingers twitched toward the notification banner—then froze.

No. Not yet. The anticipation alone was fuel. If I finish early, I’ll have the whole day to play Love & Deepspace. Let’s do this!

“Mom! Three pancakes, please! I’ll be down in two minutes!” “You always say that—but fine!” Her voice faded as you bolted to the bathroom. True to your word, you slid into your seat at 8:03.

“Slow down, or you’ll choke,” your dad warned, peering over his newspaper. “I thought exams weren’t until next week. Do you have plans?”

“Picnic,” you mumbled around a mouthful of pancake. “But I need to review my notes first.” A glance at the clock—8:12—sent you sprinting back upstairs, your sister’s snicker trailing after you: “Why’s she acting like she’s never seen sunlight before?”

8:03 – Breakfast. 8:13 – Chapter 2. 8:52 – Chapter 2 done. Five-minute break. 8:57 – Chapter 9. 9:27 – Chapter 9 done. Five-minute break. 9:32 – Chapter 10. 10:11 – Chapter 10 done.

Holy shit. I actually did it. A disbelieving laugh escaped you. All this frenzy… for a fictional man. But this wasn’t just any man—this was Sylus. You’d been hoarding diamonds since the Tomorrow’s Catch-22 event, even skipping Zayne and Caleb’s 5-star memories.

A small sacrifice for the greater good.

You plugged in your phone, then made your bed, folded your sheets, and organized your desk. A sandwich, grapes, and a cold drink went into your bag, along with your sketchpad and pencils. The weather was too good to waste.

Stepping outside, the crisp air kissed your cheeks. Something about today felt… different. The birds’ chirping wasn’t grating for once. Even the neighbor’s usually yappy dog lay sprawled in the sun, too lazy to bark. The park was eerily empty—odd for such a gorgeous day—but you claimed a shady spot beneath a tree.

“The perfect day for my perfect man.” Smiling, you reached for your phone—

A tap on your shoulder.

“AH!” You whirled around. “S-Sorry! You scared me. I didn’t see anyone when I came in.”

The woman winced. “I did call out a few times…” Probably too busy daydreaming about Sylus.

“Have you seen a white cat? I swear I only dropped the leash for a second—” She raked a hand through her hair, scanning the park. “Sorry, no. Want help looking?” “No, no! Enjoy your day.” She dashed off before you could insist.

Weird.

You pulled out your phone—and froze. A cluster of dead pixels marred the corner of the screen. What? It was fine when I left. You’d just bought this thing last month. Did I drop it when she startled me? No, you were sure it had been unharmed until now. Shaking off the unease, you opened Love & Deepspace.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

“Seriously?!” The screen was frozen. Force-closing the app did nothing. Rebooting took forever. When you finally reopened the game—

“ERROR. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.”

A dozen attempts. Same result.

Defeated, you trudged home, blinking back frustrated tears. After weeks of stress, this was the one thing you’d been clinging to. And now? Nothing. Maybe tomorrow… After all, the event had just started and you had atleast 6 more days. But with exams looming, would you even have time?

The neighbor’s dog was now snoring loudly. Inside, your family still sat at the breakfast table, all eyes snapping to you as you entered.

“Back so soon?” Mom frowned.

Dad lowered his newspaper. “How’d it go?”

“Unless she chickened out,” your sister sing-songed. “What, scared of needles now?”

You dumped your bag on the couch. “Went to the park. My phone’s glitching, so… yeah. Not in the mood anymore.”

“You’re not in the mood for the doctor?” Mom rushed over. “What does your phone have to do with anything?”

Doctor? Needles?

“I was just at the park.”

Your sister howled with laughter. “BAHAHAHA! SHE'S LOST IT!”

Dad set down his paper, removed his glasses, and leveled you with a grave look.

“Your appointment with Dr. Zayne. He scheduled it himself last week.”

Your blood ran cold.

“…Doctor who now?”

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

Hi Jade! I had an idea for a request! I was thinking about reader with a really low sex drive and maybe one day she starts to get a little worried and insecure about it and one of the boys just reassures her that he doesn’t care about it<3 idk if that made sense but write for whatever boy you want to I don’t have a preference love you 😚

How Remus, James and Sirius would comfort you when you worry your low libido is a problem. fem, 2.2k

❥ Remus

Remus sits with his legs crossed in the corner of the settee, a book open on his thigh, though his attention has been caught and kept by the TV.

You think some grovelling may be in order after last night. Quiet, you round the settee and climb onto the seat next to his, body turned away from the TV, arm creeping onto his thigh.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He encourages you closer, leaning back to give you room to lie on him. His right arm does most of the work to keep you up, sandwiching you to his chest, an almost not quite hug. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“How do you know something is wrong?”

He taps your back with his fingers, looking up at the ceiling with a sarcastic smile. “What could it be?”

The hints of green in his irises are more pronounced when he’s sitting in the sun like this, rays cutting in through the window, turning his pale skin slightly tanned and his hair a warmer chestnut colour that curls behind his ears. The scar on his lip relaxes as his joking smile fades to a proper one, a lovey-dovey type that melts you. It’s nice to be looked at so nicely, like just the sight of you inspires happiness.

You shift off of your legs, deciding you might as well lay flat with your head in his lap instead. He lets you sink down. His hand takes up station near your cheek, the back of his curled fingers brushing the skin just shy of your eye.

“This is nice,” he whispers.

“I have to say sorry,” you whisper back, drawing shapes into his t-shirt, the soft muscle of his stomach pillowy to poke.

Remus nods emphatically. “Yes, you didn’t come and see me as soon as you woke up. I heard you on your phone in bed. That’s not very nice, is it, depriving me of your company?”

You shake your head into his thigh, a slow, guilty movement. “No, about last night.”

“What about last night?”

Last night, Remus had given you a very slow kiss. He’d been half asleep and you’d been more so, but it was a lovely kiss and his hand had been rubbing sweet half circles into your hip, but it still made you feel awful when he asked if he could touch you and you’d told him you were too tired, even if he didn’t mind. He’d just kissed your cheek and snuggled into you like a life-sized teddy bear. He never takes your rejection as an insult.

“You… you wanted to fuck and I didn’t, I’m sorry. I feel like every time you ask lately I say no.”

Remus frowns at you. Deep frown, eyebrows pinching and brown eyes bordering sullen. His fingers uncurl over your cheek and cover your ear as he cups your face. “I don’t want you to be sorry. The reason I ask is so you can say no, you can always say no.”

“I kiss you, and I wind you up, and then I can’t–”

“Which I enjoy. You don’t have to worry about that.” He leans down to kiss you but doesn’t fully get there, your noses touching, and then he’s leaning away again. “Please don’t say sorry. You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to make you into the bad guy.”

Remus taps your nose with his and leans in again. “I know you’re not. You aren’t one either. Sex is just another fun thing to do, okay? If you don’t want to, that shouldn’t bother me, and it doesn’t. I promise.”

You curl your arms around his neck. He lifts his head, subsequently lifting you as he moves, his arm curling behind your back for a hug.

“Sometimes I want more of you than you want to give,” he says, “but it’s just because I love you, not because I need it. Don’t be silly, dove. Don’t say sorry.”

He presses the heel of his palm to your back and begins the heavy pressure of a back rub. You won’t say sorry if he doesn’t want you to. You shouldn’t anyways. But he’s your boyfriend and you love him, so his being accepting of it is a relief.

Like he can read your mind, he says, “You never have to say sorry for this.”

“I know.” You lift your chin. “Kiss?”

Remus kisses you quickly before tucking you into his neck for a long hug.

❥ James

“You’re beautiful.”

You’re boiling. James doesn’t notice, kissing and kissing and kissing, your neck flushed with his touch and his murmured compliment. “James.”

He tilts his head, weaving in on the other side of your neck to give it the same loving treatment. “Pretty doesn’t cover it,” he says in a rush, his teeth scratching dully up to your jaw, his kissing like nips without any pain behind them as he reaches your cheek.

You catch his face in your hands and push him away gently. It’s so hot in here you can’t breathe, and you’re not in the mood for any further action. It’s funny. You adore his kisses and James is undeniably a good fuck, but your libido is low no matter how pretty your boyfriend is, or how pretty he finds you. You’d always wondered if that meant there was something wrong with you.

James doesn’t seem to think so.

“Sorry,” he says, beaming, “that’s enough, right?”

You feel a weird sharp stab in your chest. “Sorry?”

“I’m getting ahead of myself.” James sits up where he’d been lying on top of you, having manoeuvred such a position in the midst of all his warm kisses. He sits back on his calves, kneeling in the space between your legs, a hand falling instead to your knee. “It’s fucking hot in here, isn’t it?”

“Sorry.”

“Did you make it hot?”

You look at your hand on your chest. He’s noticed you don’t want to take it any further, you hardly ever do. You knew he’d see that eventually. You have the libido of a panda, where James is an athletic young man who loves you.

“No, I mean. I’m sorry, because I never want to when you want to.”

Your serious tone surprises him. “Baby, what the fuck are you talking about?” he asks. “I am so lost.”

“Just– Most of the time when you try to sleep with me I turn you down. You know already.”

“Baby, that doesn’t matter.” He leans in again, only to hold your wrists, two big hands curled around your arms to stop your fidgeting. Two pet names in quick succession is unlike him, and it relaxes you before he’s begun to explain. “It doesn’t matter at all. Just makes it better when we do manage to want it at the same time.”

You grimace. “Are you sure?”

“You want me to be honest?”

You’re not sure. “Yeah. Please be honest.”

“Sometimes we kiss and you know I want you,” his eyes dart down, prompting a surprised laugh from you, and an easy chuckle from him in return, “and it’s frustrating, but it’s not ‘cos of you. I can go shower and sort myself out and it’s not the same as being with you, but it’s not your fault. It’s just a reaction.”

“But I feel bad for making you deal with it yourself.”

“What are you supposed to do? You can’t force yourself if you’re not in the mood. That’s the last thing I want you to do. I’d rather have it fall off.”

You laugh again. James’ smile is glowing, and warm as he presses it to your wrist in a chaste kiss. “We can do other things. If you feel that badly about it, you can give me a scalp massage, please. You shouldn’t feel badly about it, but still. If you’re okay with it, I’d love one.”

He presses his cheek to your chest in want of your hand.

You press your fingertips to his hairline and weave your fingers into the roots of his soft hair, shaking them, nails scratching lightly at his scalp like you know he likes. “How’s that?” you ask.

“Better than sex.” He is unmistakably sincere.

❥ Sirius

“Did you lock the door?”

Sirius hums.

“Close the kitchen window?”

“I did,” he says, waving your hand gently where he’s holding it between you both. You lay straight in bed with the duvet up to your chests and the TV playing one of his favourite movies.

“Okay. Did you take your medication?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Everything’s done. You can relax.”

You pick your book up and open it to the first page. You’ve been meaning to read this one for a while, you’re happy to get the time, but you’re feeling queasy about something.

Sirius is a loud guy. He loves the glitz and glamour of life, he likes to go out, play fast and hard, he’s electric most of the time. He can be quiet, too, like you tend to be, but you’re worried that you’re another night closer to him deciding he’s bored. It’s been weeks since you went anywhere, and you haven’t fucked in almost as long.

“Can I have this?” he asks, pulling your hand to his lips.

You smile as he kisses your knuckles, barely there presses of his lips to your skin that linger.

“You haven’t turned a page yet.”

“It’s hard to start,” you tell him.

“What’s it about? Fantasy?”

“No, just a romance, I think.”

“I like your romances. You read the complicated ones with the good love, like ours.”

It’s a very nice thing to say, even if you’re not sure how he knows what romance you’re reading. He enjoys listening to you talk about books when they’re done, so perhaps the details have sunk in.

You let the book flop to the side and curl up around your joined hands. “I love you,” you say.

He curls into you in return, “You should. That was a good line,” he says teasingly. “I love you too, my girl.” He speaks it with a quiet, gentle cadence that suits him and the pet name well. “Lift your head. Wanna see you.”

You angle your face up to give him a view of the half that isn’t hidden by the sheets. “I’m so boring.”

“Says who?”

“Everybody, probably. All we do is watch TV and sleep.”

“Good thing I love both of those things.” He wraps an arm around you, palm to your shoulder. “And it’s not true. We went to the cafe yesterday after work. On the weekend, we’re going to the cinema. Why, do you want to do more?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Siri. Aren’t you bored?”

He stares at you. Long, non-judgmental looking, his dark lashes kissing in the corners as his gaze wanders down to your neck. “Is this about something else?”

“No.”

His mouth turns sympathetic, a wobbly frown. “Are you sure, lovely? You can talk to me.”

You weigh each word as you say it, determined not to embarrass yourself, “I’m worried that I don’t make your life very interesting. We don’t go out much, we don’t drink, and I never…”

You turn your face down, your forehead to his chest. Sirius hums unhappily and encourages your head back to see you again almost immediately. “You never what?” he asks.

“Never mind.”

“No, please. Tell me, Y/N. You can tell me anything, I won’t care.” He’s getting so serious about it and it’s making it even more embarrassing than before, but you don’t want him to worry. You spit it out.

“I don’t put out. We hardly ever have sex.”

“Does that upset you?” he asks.

“Well. It upsets me if it upsets you.”

“It doesn’t.” His hand cups your cheek, his forehead drops down to yours. “It doesn’t upset me. Did I make you think that?”

“You’re just so cool and I’m your loser.”

He laughs happily. “You’re my loser,” he agrees.

“The last couple of times I’ve said no. I guess I just worry you want more than I’m giving out, so. I don’t want you to wish we were having more sex, but I can’t make myself want it more.”

“I see.”

You listen to him breathing, the warmth of his exhale like a kiss all its own as it fans over your mouth.

He rubs your cheek with his thumb. “Can I tell you what I think?” You nod, and he continues, “I only want to have sex with you, that’s one of the consequences of being in love. It’s a good one. So if you don’t wanna have sex, it’s safe to say I don’t want to either. Okay? Love you just as much with or without it.”

Unlike him and not to be this tender. You bite the inside of your lip.

“Promise?” you ask.

“I promise.”

#the marauders #marauders #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #remus lupin fanfiction #sirius black fanfiction #james potter fanfiction #remus lupin fic #sirius black fic #james potter fic #the marauders x reader #the marauders x fem!reader #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter

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dramagodesss · 8 days ago

Text

eleven : early flashing

playin' the players

saturday morning. jj’s room.

you wake up to the dull throb of a headache—and the even louder realization that you’re topless, sandwiched between two very familiar shirtless bodies.

jj to your right. rafe to your left. both knocked out. both somehow even hotter asleep, which feels rude, honestly.

you blink, trying to piece it all together. and then it hits you.

a girl puked on you. on your dress. on your favorite bra. your victorias secret bra.

you groan softly, sitting up. yep—still topless.

there’s jj’s cowboy costume from last night crumpled near the bed: a flannel shirt, a ridiculous belt, and a plastic sheriff’s badge.

you grab the flannel, tugging it over your head. it’s huge, smells like cigarettes and jj. great. annoying. you’re not thinking about it.

you step off the bed quietly, only for both boys to stir. of course.

jj’s blue eyes crack open first, all bleary and confused—then rafe’s. both their gazes drop instantly.

yeah. you forgot to pull the damn shirt down.

you adjust it casually, voice bone-dry.

“morning, guys.”

silence. they’re just staring.

“why y’all lookin’ at me like that?” you raise a brow, slipping rafe’s sweatpants off the floor and stepping into them. “i doubt this is the first pair of tits y’all’ve ever seen.”

jj coughs into a pillow, definitely grinning. rafe mutters a low “jesus christ” under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

you adjust the waistband of the sweats and look for your phone.

“anyway, i gotta go. my friends are probably planning my funeral.” you check the mirror—shirt wrinkled, glitter smudged, hair wild. honestly? you’ve looked worse.

“so… nothing happened?” jj asks, voice rough with sleep.

“well, unless one of y’all threw up in my bra, no.” your tone is deadpan.

rafe practically chokes on a laugh. “god. classy.”

you’re already at the door, tossing a wink over your shoulder.

“i’ll send a thank you card for the hospitality.”

and just like that, you’re gone.

barefoot, hungover, swimming in jj’s clothes—and leaving two very confused boys in your wake.

it’s already afternoon when you hear it — a sharp knock against your bedroom window.

you jolt upright in bed, heart racing, the room spinning just a little from your hangover. sunlight’s spilling across the floor in golden stripes, catching the dust in the air. your head’s pounding, you’re half-buried in blankets, and for a second you think you’re hallucinating.

thump thump.

you sit up slowly, groaning, peering toward the noise.

and there he is. jj fucking maybank. on your fire escape.

he taps the glass again, grinning like he’s done something heroic. one hand clutches a gas station plastic bag stuffed full of candy, the other balancing a mason jar filled with... some suspicious neon-orange drink.

you squint at him. “what the hell are you doing?”

he mouths: open up.

you sigh, dragging yourself over to the window and popping the latch. jj ducks inside easily, sneakers scuffing the floor. he’s still got that easy, sunshiney energy even though you know — know — he has hockey practice soon.

“i come bearing gifts,” he says, flashing you a smile that should be illegal.

he holds up the bag first: sour patch kids. twix. peach rings. then the mason jar.

he tosses a mini pack of sour patch kids at you like a reward.

you catch it weakly, flopping back onto your pillows. the motion makes your head spin again. you groan into the blanket.

jj laughs and sits on the edge of your bed like he belongs there — still in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, looking stupidly good for someone who also got wasted last night.

"drink," he orders, nudging the mason jar toward you.

your face twitches in disaproval.

“scientifically proven. tested on myself. one hundred percent success rate.”

you blink at the drink. “…is it safe?”

jj snorts. “safer than whatever the fuck was in that punch last night.”

you hesitate, then take the jar. it smells citrusy and weirdly fresh — not awful.

“don’t sip it, chug it," he instructs, dropping onto the couch like he owns the place. "you’ll feel alive again in ten minutes. guaranteed."

you eye him suspiciously but do it anyway — chugging half the jar in one go. your mouth puckers at the taste, half lemonade, half mystery, but somehow... not bad.

jj grins, draping his arm across the back of your bed, looking smug.

“told you,” he says.

"oh shut up" you mutter.

he just shrugs, completely unbothered, kicking back so he's lying beside you, one arm tucked under his head.

you both sit there for a beat — the only sounds your breathing and the faint honk of a car outside. the room feels warm and hazy, your headache slowly retreating under the force of jj's hangover potion and the quiet comfort of him just... being there.

he glances over at you, grinning crookedly.

"still look hot, by the way," he says, voice low and teasing. "even with, like, thirty percent brain function."

you toss a pillow at him weakly. "shut up."

he laughs, catching it easily, then props himself up on one elbow to watch you sip the rest of the drink.

you’re halfway through sipping jj’s weird neon-orange hangover drink when you realize he’s no longer sitting beside you.

you blink over the rim of the mason jar.

he’s wandering your room — casual as hell — like he’s on a museum tour. touching shit. poking through your bookshelves. spinning the rings you left on your nightstand. peeking at the polaroids you pinned up on the wall.

"jj," you croak, voice dry from sleep, "what are you doing?"

he glances over his shoulder, completely unbothered, holding up a tiny ceramic frog you picked up at a flea market.

"investigating," he says brightly. "this is prime blackmail material, y/n. don't mind me."

you groan and flop back onto the pillows. "you're such a little shit."

"facts," he agrees, tossing the frog back onto your dresser. (it somehow doesn’t break. miracle.)

he grabs something from the gas station bag he brought — a little orange bottle of tylenol — and saunters back to your bed.

"take two," he says, dropping the bottle onto your lap like he’s your personal nurse. "then i’ll allow you to keep breathing."

you shoot him a deadpan look but pop the pills anyway, chasing them with another gulp of the hangover drink. jj just grins like he’s proud of you.

then — he sits down right beside you again.

not at the edge like a normal person. no. he plops down heavy, hip bumping yours, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him through his hoodie.

you blink up at him.

"what now?" you ask suspiciously.

he shrugs, kicking his feet up onto your bed like it’s his.

"nothin'," he says, stretching lazily. "just keepin' you company. makin' sure you don't die and shit."

his grin softens, just a little. less teasing, more real.

"plus," he says, voice lower, "you looked kinda sad when i climbed through your window. figured i could fix that."

you stare at him — messy blond hair, hoodie half-zipped, socks mismatched — and feel something stupid and warm flicker behind your ribs.

"you're an idiot," you murmur.

"yeah," jj says easily, bumping his shoulder against yours, "but i’m your idiot."

you snort, head thunking against his shoulder as you slump against him.

he smells like dryer sheets and leftover cologne. he’s warm. steady. annoying in a way that feels good.

jj shifts a little, twisting to face you more. his knee brushes yours, his hand finding a casual spot on the bed just behind your lower back. almost like he’s not touching you. almost.

you peek up at him through your lashes — and freeze.

he's already looking at you.

blue eyes soft but intense, mouth tipped into the ghost of a smile. like he's trying real hard not to say something dumb. or maybe trying real hard not to do something dumb.

your breath catches, and jj’s eyes flicker to your mouth.

oh.

your heart skids sideways.

"what?" you whisper, a little breathless.

he huffs a tiny laugh under his breath. "nothin'. just... you’re really fuckin' pretty right now. like, unfair levels."

you blink.

and before you can think too hard about it — before you can talk yourself out of it — you're leaning up, brushing your mouth against his.

soft. hesitant. a question.

jj freezes for half a heartbeat — like he wasn’t expecting you to move first — then groans low in his throat and kisses you back.

harder.

hungrier.

his hand slides up your back, dragging you closer until you’re half in his lap, fists curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie. this kiss is different from the one in the dark room. he kisses like he talks — fast, messy, a little reckless — all heat and teeth and need.

your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder against you.

he pulls back an inch, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours.

"fuck," he mutters, voice ragged. "been wantin' to do that for so long."

for a second, you forget about everything.

the bet.

the lies.

that fucking lake house.

and you smile, dazed, tugging him back down.

"then shut up and keep doing it."

you shouldn't have said that.

because you know jj doesn’t need to be told twice.

his mouth crashes into yours again, hands roaming under the soft fabric of your pajamas— not too much, not anywhere dangerous, just enough to feel the heat of your skin under his fingertips, to make you gasp into his mouth.

you're so tangled up in him— in the scrape of his teeth against your bottom lip, in the way he mutters fuck, you’re so pretty against your skin— that you almost miss it.

almost.

knock knock knock.

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart

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wendichester · 1 month ago

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hi so i had a really cute idea but i am TERRIBLE at putting them into words so bear with me here :,)

so like, my psyche NEEDS to have daughter!reader (maybe 6-10 yrs?) and dad!dean. desperately. like, maybe something happens where she gets hurt because of whatever the boys were hunting and he’s guilty and she’s terrified because she didn’t know about ANY of the hunting or supernatural things (she’s just a baby </3).

(if it wasn’t obvious, i have a thing for angst to fluff works lol. LOVE YOUR WORK, THANK YOU IF YOU CONSIDER WRITING THIS!!)

-🔆

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ safe and sound,

summary. you find out monsters are real in the hardest way possible.

pairing. dad!dean winchester x kid!reader genre. angsty with a bit of fluff

wordcount. 740

notes. thank you so much for requesting this hun! hope you like it 🩷

The motel room smells like antiseptic and something sharp, like whiskey. The air conditioner rattles in the window, struggling against the Tennessee heat, but you barely notice. Everything is a blur—your body aches, your breathing is shaky, and your head is spinning with words that don’t make sense.

Monsters. Ghosts. Demons.

They’re real.

And your dad, your always-there, always-protective, bring-you-pancakes-on-Saturday dad… he hunts them.

Dean is kneeling in front of you, eyes flickering between your face and the damp cloth in his hands. He presses it to your scraped knee, and you flinch. Not from the sting, but because suddenly, you don’t know how to look at him.

You’re only eight years old. You’re supposed to be worried about scraped knees and bad dreams, not—

Not the thing that grabbed you.

Not the way Dean shot it in the head like it was nothing.

Not the way he killed a monster.

“Hey, sweetheart, you with me?” Dean’s voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. The same voice that sings classic rock in the car, that tells you goofy bedtime stories, that calls you “kiddo” like it’s your real name. But right now, there’s something else in it. Something tight, like he’s trying not to break.

You stare at your hands, fingers twisting into the hem of your shirt. It’s one of Dean’s old flannels, draped over you like a shield. You don’t remember him wrapping it around you. You don’t remember much of anything after the thing—Dad called it a wraith—had yanked you off the sidewalk outside the diner.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is small. Too small. You hate it.

Dean exhales slowly. He reaches out but hesitates before touching you, his hand hovering inches from yours. “I wanted to keep you safe,” he says. “I didn’t—” His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “You weren’t supposed to ever know about this.”

You sniff, blinking hard. “Then why did it come after me?”

Dean flinches like you hit him. He shifts back onto his heels, rubbing a hand down his face. “Because I screwed up,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Because I got careless. Because I thought—” He swallows hard and looks at you, his green eyes glassy in the dim light. “I thought I could give you a normal life. That I could be a normal dad for you.”

You stare at him, your lip trembling.

He looks so tired. He looks guilty. And you don’t know why, but that makes your chest ache more than the bruises on your ribs.

Dean’s always been your hero. He makes the best sandwiches and never forgets extra syrup on your waffles. He lets you stay up late to watch movies, even though he always ends up falling asleep first. He never, ever lets you feel scared.

Except now.

Now, you’re scared, and you don’t know what to do with it.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, then mutters something under his breath. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he says finally, voice thick with something heavy. “I should’ve—I should’ve told you the truth. I should’ve been more careful. This—” He gestures vaguely at the motel room, at the bloody towels in the sink, at the silver knife on the nightstand. “This isn’t something you should’ve ever had to see.”

A lump forms in your throat. You feel like you should be mad. Maybe a part of you is. But mostly, you just feel… lost.

And Dean is the only thing in the world that’s ever made you feel safe.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach for his hand. He freezes for half a second before lacing his fingers with yours, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“I don’t want monsters to be real,” you whisper.

Dean exhales shakily. “Me neither, sweetheart.”

You look up at him, searching his face. The exhaustion. The guilt. The way his thumb rubs slow, steady circles against your knuckles like he’s trying to comfort you and himself at the same time.

“Are you gonna keep me safe?” you ask.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

You nod, eyes burning. And for now, that’s enough.

So you scoot forward on the bed, curling into his side. Dean doesn’t say a word, just wraps an arm around you, holding you close. And even though your world has just been turned upside down, even though nothing will ever be the same again, you believe him.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #.req

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fear-is-truth · 6 months ago

Text

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐘 . . . hc .ᐟ franken! 𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑

loves it when you let him play with your hair. you’ll settle between his legs while he brushes your hair with painstaking care, occasionally fumbling with the brush but always being so mindful of not to hurt you.

walking through the academy’s gardens together, hand-in-hand. you both enjoy the peace of being outside, and he gets this soft, happy look on his face whenever you stop to point out pretty flowers or birds.

kyle adores cuddling, even if he doesn’t always know how to initiate it. you’ll often find him sitting awkwardly, staring at you with big puppy-dog eyes, waiting for you to give him the cue. once you did, he’s like a giant teddy bear, resting his head on your shoulder while you stroke his back, and he lets out soft sighs of contentment.

you love introducing him to animated films, especially disney / dreamworks. he’s fascinated by the visuals and gets emotionally invested in the plot, his face lighting up during funny moments and his brows furrowing during sad ones.

in the beginning, kyle hates the idea of baths, tensing up visibly whenever the subject is brought up. but over time, with gentle encouragement and lots of trust, he finally lets you help him. you make sure it’s a calm, safe experience, filling the tub with warm water and bath salts. eventually, he starts to relax, especially when you sit by the tub and talk to him quietly or wash his hair with slow, soothing strokes.

one evening, you decide to put on some music, and to your surprise, kyle awkwardly holds out his hand, asking you to dance. you take his hand and sway together in the room, his arms gently wrapped around your waist. he’s naturally not the best dancer, but he’s trying for you, and you both end up giggling and stumbling around.

super clingy in the mornings. he’ll wrap his arms around you in bed and bury his face in your neck, refusing to let you get up.

on rainy days, kyle loves nothing more than cuddling up with you under a blanket while listening to the soft patter of raindrops outside. you’ll both lay there for hours, tangled together, sharing a nap or two. you’ll rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he strokes your hair.

kyle gets this childlike joy whenever the seasons change, and fall is his favourite. you’ll take him outside, and he’ll stand watching as you make the leaves swirl with a flick of your hand. eventually, he joins in, clumsily chasing you and throwing handfuls of leaves in the air.

he loves the first snowfall of the year. he’ll pull you outside, even if it’s freezing, and spin you around in the snow, his eyes wide with excitement. he’ll try catching snowflakes on his tongue.

you’ve slowly re-introduced kyle to things like making hot chocolate or folding laundry, and while he’s still a little clumsy with these tasks, you can see how proud he is when he gets it right. you always praise him with a gentle kiss on the cheek, and he beams so huge :)

when the weather gets colder, the two of you a build blanket nest together in your room at the academy. you’ll spend hours just cuddling, surrounded with pillows, stuffed animals and blankets, wrapped in each other’s warmth. sometimes, you read books to him, and he leans his chin on your shoulder, completely immersed.

on chilly mornings, you and kyle love making hot cocoa together. you’ll stand side by side in the kitchen, stirring mugs of cocoa while he sneakily tries to steal marshmallows from the bag. once it’s ready, you both curl up on the couch, sharing a blanket and sipping your drinks while watching the frost gather on the windows.

when you can’t sleep, kyle will follow you to the kitchen for late-night snacks. you’ll both raid the fridge together, making little sandwiches or grabbing cookies. kyle will sit on the counter while you talk softly about nothing in particular, and he always offers to share whatever snack he’s holding.

kyle loves being the big spoon, wrapping his arms around you protectively while you sleep. sometimes, though, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and switch positions, laying his head on your chest and curling up into you. either way, he always makes sure he’s touching you somehow.

he has this adorable habit of gently cupping your face with both hands and staring at you with wide, loving eyes. sometimes he just wants to admire you, thumbs brushing your cheeks, as if he’s in awe of how lucky he is to have you. even though he doesn’t talk often, his eyes tell you everything.

he’ll awkwardly bring you flowers he picked from the academy garden (sometimes with dirt still on them), or he’ll fumble when trying to do something sweet, like clumsily putting on your jacket for you.

#kyle spencer x reader #kyle spencer #american horror story #ahs #ahs coven #Kyle Spencer fluff #kyle spencer headcanons #franken kyle #evan peters #Ahs Season 3

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fortunxa · 4 months ago

Text

「 ✦ brewing feelings ✦ 」

Jinx x ballerina!reader / modern AU

─── ballerina masterlist ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ // third position

summary: Your calm was like the stillness of water before it begins to boil, while Jinx’s chaos swirled around her like a whirlwind of heat and flavor. Your love brewed slowly, like leaves unfurling in warm water—an unexpected infusion of something that neither of you could have prepared for. But love doesn’t ask for permission. It brews on its own time, in its own way, and somehow, it always finds its way to the heart—a warmth that lingers long after the last sip.

contents: modern AU, opposites attract, established relationship, smoker!Jinx

author's note: the flow is flowing, so this is what i do instead of studying for a law exam. also, french/french-speaking people please do not come for me for the mild stereotyping in this, i am one of you. all for the story’s purposes my pookies.

Jinx never expected to fall for you. It caught her off guard, sneaking in quietly and subtly, much like the way the morning sun spills its golden light through dust-coated windows, illuminating everything it touches—and perhaps this analogy felt a little too real.

It hadn't happened all at once. Love never did, not really. It grew between you like a vine threading through cracks, tender and persistent, finding places you hadn't known were empty.

The confession revealed itself through a series of subtle admissions at first: how you leaned into her during a walk home, how she started buying pink roses instead of spray paint, how the both of you let yourselves be seen. It was in the way her teasing remarks slowly mixed in with praises and in the way you'd sit beside her on rooftops, watching her paint murals on forgotten walls, your admiring gaze an encouragement in itself.

You even started bringing snacks—carefully wrapped sandwiches or thermoses of tea—because you knew Jinx would forget otherwise. The real kicker, though? Jinx didn't forget; she just hated tea. Something she would never admit to you, of course, because your warmth was better than any beverage’s, and she just couldn't bear to see your beaming smile fade in disappointment.

It was how her pulse quickened when you laughed—that soft, quiet laugh that she felt more than heard. How she found excuses to touch you—fingers brushing during a handoff, an arm slung around your shoulders, a hand catching you when you stumbled. It was in the way you began looking for Jinx in every room, how your heart stuttered when she called you "ballerina" in that raspy voice. It was in the way late-night conversations grew longer, your silences more comfortable.

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she realized it, but she remembered the way it settled in her chest—a quiet knowing. And it terrified Jinx because her world was—more often than not—anything but quiet.

For weeks, you lived in that in-between space, balancing the line between friendship and something more. By the time you finally let the word slip, it felt inevitable. The air was still thick with chemicals after a particularly messy graffiti session, and she had just stepped back to admire her latest creation. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and excitement, though as she turned to you for approval, you found something warmer in them, too.

Then, in a moment that felt both spontaneous and fated, she leaned in. The kiss was tentative, a gentle brush of lips that carried the weight of questions unasked. And you answered without hesitation, finally tasting the allure of her cherry chapstick mixed with the warmth of her breath and melting against her like you'd been waiting forever.

Months later, the ballet studio hummed with the soft notes of a piano, the same way it always did. The late afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, painting the room with a hazy gold. Jinx leaned against the wall with her arms crossed as she watched you dance, her gaze holding an intensity that would've made anyone else self-conscious. She wasn't supposed to be here—not during class, anyway—but she had a way of slipping past boundaries as easily as she slipped past locked doors.

And besides, how could she stay away when you looked like this? She just couldn't help herself this time.

You were in the center of the room, surrounded by other dancers. But to her, you might as well have been alone. Every movement was graceful, like you were born to make beauty out of thin air. There was something humbling about it. Jinx had always felt like she was meant for breaking things, for running too fast and hitting walls she didn't see coming. She wasn't a dancer—hell, she didn't even really understand ballet—but she didn't need to. All she needed to understand was you, and she did.

You hadn't noticed her yet, too focused on the lesson unfolding in front of you. She didn't mind. Her usual smirk morphed into something more tender. She'd seen you like this a hundred times, but it still hit her like the first. To anyone else, you might have looked untouchable—perfectly composed, a picture of poise. But Jinx knew better by now. She knew the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, how you stomped your pointe shoe in frustration with a dull clunk—almost like a bunny—when you slipped out of a pirouette, how your voice softened even further when you told her stories about your childhood, and how you leaned on her without hesitation when the world felt too heavy.

And then, as if drawn by instinct, your gaze flickered to the back of the room, and you finally caught sight of her. She saw the exact moment her presence registered; your concentration faltered, your foot slipping slightly on the polished floor, but a small smile broke across your face nonetheless. Without hesitation, you stepped away from the group—a faux pas—ignoring the raised eyebrows of the other dancers as you practically leaped across the floor toward her, your cheeks flushed from exertion.

"What are you doing here?" you whispered, the words slipping out between breaths. Your tone held no real reprimand—more like giddy surprise tinged with a warmth you couldn’t quite suppress.

"Came to see the best ballerina in the city,” Jinx said with a shrug that was far too casual to match the quiet intensity in her eyes. Her hand found its way to your waist with practiced ease, like it belonged there, her fingers curling with familiarity. "You're doing so good. You know that, right?"

"Really...?" you asked, your voice almost shy, betraying a hint of insecurity you usually kept buried under layers of performance. Yet, the tension coiled in your shoulders began to melt at the gentle pressure of her touch.

"Mhm," she hummed, a sound rich in affection and soft. Jinx had never been soft for anyone. Softness, she thought, wasn't hers to give. But she'd try—for you. Her thumb moved in slow circles against the fabric of your pink leotard, her touch so light and reverent it sent a shiver down your spine. She treated you like you were something rare, something fragile—not in a way that suggested you were weak, but in a way that made you feel precious, irreplaceable. Her ballerina. “Dressed so pretty, too."

Her gaze roamed over your frame, lingering on the soft pastel hue of your leotard wrapping around you like second skin and the satin of your pointe shoes. A faint heat bloomed in your chest at her words but before you could reply, a sharp voice cut through the moment, calling out your name.

"Have you forgotten where you are? Return to your position at once!"

Your head snapped to your ballet mistress, her piercing gaze holding all the refined venom only a Frenchwoman like her could muster. Her scolding struck you like a slap, each word perfectly aimed to remind you of your place. "I—I'm sorry, Madame," you stammered, your voice small but tinged with the careful respect she demanded.

"This is not the time for socializing. If you're not focused on your work, you're wasting everyone's time." The woman's harsh gaze then shifted to the blue-haired girl, a frozen mask of disapproval. "And you, mademoiselle, have no business being here. This is a closed lesson. A place for discipline, not distraction."

Jinx’s lips twitched as she watched the woman, clearly amused by the disdain in her voice. She tilted her head, her eyes glimmering with mischief. "Distraction, huh? I prefer to think of myself as a muse." She mimicked the mistress’ harsh accent with exaggerated flair, letting the French syllables roll off her tongue, clearly finding the theatrics in her delivery hilarious. “Muse,” she quietly repeated to herself, drawing it out like a well-rehearsed joke, barely able to stifle a snort.

"Jinx," you whispered, your tone pleading, and that seemed to do the trick.

"Alright, alright." She raised her hands in mock surrender, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I'm leaving."

The other dancers watched in silence, their expressions a mix of curiosity and poorly hidden judgement. Jinx moved toward the door, but as her hand rested on the handle, she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. You were already returning to your position, your body mechanically slipping into form, but there was hesitation in your steps—an uncertainty in the way you shifted your weight, the slight misalignment of your feet that betrayed your fractured focus.

A pang of guilt twisted in her chest. She hadn't meant to cause trouble—not for you, at least. Watching you dance felt like standing too close to something fragile, something you didn't dare touch for fear of ruining it, but she couldn't regret coming. Still, the weight of her presence had been too much—again—so she shut the door behind her, the soft click echoing in the empty hallway.

It was another half hour until class had finished, the natural gold shining in from the outside replaced once again by the fluorescent light of the studio, buzzing faintly as the dancers began to scatter. You lingered, your chest still rising and falling from the last routine.

"Looks like someone had her mind elsewhere today," one of the girls teased, her voice light but pointed as she adjusted her warm-up sweater.

"Yeah," another chimed in, tying her shoelaces. "Couldn't focus on your turns, huh?"

You flushed, your hands fussing with the ribbons of your pointe shoes. "I was... fine," you protested quietly, though even you could hear the thread of uncertainty in your voice.

"Sure, sure," she continued with a sly smile. "Must be nice to have a fan club. It's kinda cute. Our little daydreamer."

Laughter rippled through the group, playful but sharp, like the sting of cold water. They hadn't meant any harm, not really. The teasing had been light, coated with the kind of sugar that only barely masked the sting beneath it. Still, the words stuck to your skin like burrs.

You hadn't answered them, hadn't tried to defend yourself despite what Jinx had taught you. What could you say? That they were wrong? They weren't. Your focus had faltered when you caught sight of the blue-haired girl—all careless confidence and sharp-edged charm, even from a distance. And how foolish were you to break basic ballet class etiquette, running toward her the way you had?

But that wasn't the point.

The point was how your devotion to your craft suddenly felt fragile in their hands, like something they could joke about and toss aside, how they took your love and tried to turn it into something laughable. And now, sitting alone with only the quiet buzz of the lamp for company, you felt offended in a way you couldn't quite explain.

Finally, you stood, zipping up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. How fucking dare they?

Jinx was leaning back against the brick wall outside the studio, the rough texture pressing into her jacket as she lit another cigarette. She didn't smoke often—only when she was angry, stressed, or waiting for someone. Her thoughts wandered as they always did when she was still for too long.

This wasn't her kind of place—too clean, too ordered. The neat row of bicycles locked up along the fence, the delicate lettering on the studio sign, the muffled strains of classical music seeping through the doors—it all felt a world away from the chaos that usually surrounded her. And yet, she stayed.

She shifted her weight, one hand stuffed in her pocket while the other toyed with the cigarette. She didn't need to be here. She could've been halfway across the city by now, spray painting a rooftop or tuning up one of her gadgets in her cramped apartment. But instead, she waited, her breath fogging in the cold like the steam rising from a hot cup of tea as the minutes dragged on.

It was you. It was always you.

The thought made her smirk, a wry, self-deprecating twist of her lips. She hated routines, and she definitely hadn't meant to fall into this one. But here she was, loitering outside a ballet studio like some stray cat who couldn't figure out where else to go.

The heavy door suddenly creaked open, jolting Jinx from her thoughts. A group of dancers spilled out, laughing and chattering, their voices breaking the stillness of the street. She stepped back into the shadow of the wall, letting the small crowd pass without a word, but the slight scowl on her face spoke volumes by itself.

And then you appeared, your steps dragging just enough to betray your mood, and her features softened.

"There she is," she drawled, almost to herself, her voice warm and smooth. She straightened as she took a final drag, making sure to exhale the smoke away from you and crushing the cigarette under her boot with one swift motion. She reached for her gum, popping a piece into her mouth. She knew you hated it, the bitter sting of tobacco clinging to her tongue, so she made the small effort just for you.

You attempted a smile, but it faltered, not quite reaching your eyes, though the tension in your body eased in her presence, and you greeted her with a soft peck. "You didn't have to wait for me.” Yet you were glad she did. She knew that, too.

"Where else would I be?" Jinx replied, her tone steady, but her gaze lingered on your face with a flicker of suspicion. She noted the dullness in your eyes, the subtle shift that went deeper than just the exhaustion from class. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly, a question forming in her mind as her tongue traced the inside of her cheek. "Those girls being dicks to you again?"

Your smile slowly dropped, slipping away like a mask too heavy to hold. You opened your mouth, instinctively preparing to deny it—not because it wasn’t true, but because you didn’t want to worry her, to trigger the fierce protectiveness you knew so well. Yet the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you exhaled shakily, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. When you finally glanced up at her, your eyes—vulnerable and wounded, like those of a kicked puppy—met hers. The sight hit her square in the chest, tightening something deep inside her.

“I think they were just teasing,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the hurt more real. You hugged your jacket tighter around yourself, a futile shield against the mockery they left behind. “But… it got to me, I guess. Made me feel like I wasn’t good enough.”

Jinx watched you carefully, her gaze softening as you shrank further into yourself. She hated seeing you like this, folding in under the weight of someone else’s cruelty.

“You know,” she began, her voice steady but edged with quiet fire, “they’re just trying to drag you down so they don’t have to feel so small. That’s all it is. It’s pathetic if you ask me.”

“I know,” you admitted softly, the words almost lost in the space between you. You didn’t sound convinced, but it was clear you didn’t have the energy to argue.

She sighed, taking a step closer. Her hand reached for your wrist, fingers surprisingly warm and firm as they curled gently around it. “C’mere,” she said, her voice low and coaxing, as if speaking to a wounded animal. She pulled you toward her, her touch more comforting than commanding.

And you listened, the weight in your chest loosening slightly more at the simple, familiar gesture. She always knew how to make you feel safe.

“You’re sensitive,” Jinx pointed out softly, her thumb brushing lightly against your wrist, grounding you in the moment. “And that’s not a bad thing, y’know? One of the things I love most about you, actually. You’re real.” Her words carried a calm, steady conviction that made your heart ache in a different way—this time, with gratitude.

She let a beat of silence pass before adding, “And you’re still miles ahead of them. Don’t let their shit get to you.”

You sighed, the last of your insecurities slipping away with her words. You stepped closer, letting yourself be pulled into her orbit once more as you leaned your forehead against her shoulder. The movement stilled something restless in her, and her hand instinctively slid to your back, offering the soothing caress of her palm.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you murmured, the words slipping out unbidden, barely louder than a breath.

Jinx cocked her head at you, a spark of mischief lighting up her eyes. She didn’t reply—not right away. Instead, with an almost exaggerated nonchalance, she reached out and grabbed the strap of your bag. Before you could react, she pulled it off your shoulder in one smooth motion and slung it over her own like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Wait, no, you don’t have to—” you protested, your hand darting forward to take it back.

She raised one eyebrow in a way that always stopped you in your tracks. “Not up for debate, princess,” she stated, her voice carrying that cocky, singsong lilt that was so distinctly hers. “You should know that by now.”

This earned her a faint scowl, but the way she adjusted the bag on her shoulder, standing a little taller like she was showing off, made it impossible to stay annoyed. Her grin widened, smug and sharp, as if daring you to argue further.

“Seriously, I can carry it,” you tried again, though your voice lacked conviction because, deep down, you liked it. There was something comforting in the way she carried your bag so effortlessly, like it wasn’t just your belongings but the weight of the day she’d decided to shoulder without being asked. And the way she looked at you, as if she saw straight through the weak protest to the flicker of gratitude you couldn’t quite put into words, made your chest tighten.

“Yeah, sure you can,” she shot back, already turning and walking ahead, easily taking you with her by lacing your fingers together, “but you’re not gonna. So suck it up, buttercup.”

The two of you fell into step, following the familiar route back to your apartment. The evening air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of the city—a mix of concrete, rust, and the distant promise of rain. As you walked, you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, a silent thank you that lingered in the air between you. Jinx didn’t say anything, but the slight flush that crept up her neck didn’t escape your notice.

Normally, she would have been a chatterbox by now, her words tumbling out in an endless stream of stories, jokes, and wild tangents that only she could follow, and you chased after. But tonight, she surprised you. She stayed quiet, not in the uncomfortable way that usually signaled her restlessness, but in a way that felt… calm. Like she didn’t feel the need to fill the space with noise, content to let the quiet speak for itself. It was rare, and you found yourself savoring the unspoken connection between you that settled into the rhythm of your steps.

The streets were quieter now, save for the occasional rattle of a passing train in the distance. Streetlights cast a hazy glow, their golden halos reflected on the slick pavement from an earlier drizzle. You reached an intersection where the streetlight blinked red, and you paused, neither of you letting go. She rocked on her heels, her free hand shoved casually into the pocket of her jacket. Her gaze flickered to the ground, then back to you, strands of her blue hair falling messily into her face. You turned slightly, stealing a glance at her. The faint neon from a nearby sign danced in her eyes, making her grin look almost electric. It was lopsided, unpolished, but real in a way that made your chest tighten in adoration.

Jinx slowed as you approached the familiar building, her steps faltering just enough to take in the worn brass numbers on it. Her expression was unreadable for a moment, her eyes tracing the scuffed edges of the metal as if seeing it for the first time—or maybe for the thousandth, in a different light. Without a word, she fished out your keys, holding them out with a small, almost shy motion.

You accepted them, your fingers brushing hers briefly before you stepped forward and unlocked the door. The sound of the lock clicking open echoed faintly, and you looked back at her, your expression quiet and expectant. The question wasn’t spoken—it didn’t need to be—but she answered it anyway, stepping through the door with you as you tugged on her hand lightly.

Her grip tightened slightly as you led her up the familiar stairs, the soft creak of the old wooden steps the only sound between you. The weight of the day slipped away, left in the cracks of the peeling paint and the worn floorboards below.

The apartment was small but warm, bathed in soft pink and orange hues from the neon sign made by yours truly. The living room was cluttered but comforting—colorful pillows strewn haphazardly on the worn-out sofa, a coffee table stacked with books and magazines, empty mugs, and bits of Jinx’s tinkering projects that she’d forgotten to take home. And in the middle of it all? A vase holding a fresh bouquet of pink roses, the message card still attached.

Both of you kicked off your boots by the door, the dull thud of leather against wood breaking the stillness. She dropped your bag beside the couch before straightening and glancing around the room, taking in every detail like she always did, as if trying to see it through your eyes. You, meanwhile, drifted toward the tiny kitchen, the motion so routine it didn’t require a second thought.

“Still haven’t cleaned up, huh?” she teased lightly, her voice carrying a warmth that made you smile.

“Like you’re one to talk,” you shot back, poking your head out just enough to send her a playfully pointed look.

Her grin widened as she finally shrugged off her jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch before following behind you, the heels of her shark socks scuffing lightly against the floor.

Your hand reached for the kettle almost automatically. The chipped red enamel on its side glinted faintly in the light as you filled it, the soft clink of it settling on the stove feeling like part of a quiet ritual.

“Tea?” you asked, already pulling open the cabinet to retrieve two cups, their mismatched patterns a part of your routine as much as anything else.

From behind you, Jinx leaned lazily against the doorframe with an almost amused glint in her eyes. A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, carrying a secret only she knew the truth behind.

"Sure."

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rmview · 3 months ago

Text

dating another member’s older sibling, ATEEZ.

featuring — ateez members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — an imagine of how the ateez boys sneak around when they’re secretly dating another member’s older sibling!

contents — fluff, no warnings.

hong ★ joong

hongjoong prided himself on his ability to keep a secret, and dating yunho’s older sibling in secret was no exception. he knew the chaos it would bring if yunho found out — he could already imagine the loud accusations and awkward silences. but that didn’t stop him from stealing precious moments with you whenever he could.

one afternoon, you had agreed to meet hongjoong in a quiet café across town, far from yunho’s usual haunts. he was already seated in the corner, a baseball cap pulled low over his face, when you walked in. his face lit up at the sight of you, and he couldn’t help but reach for your hand under the table once you sat down.

“you’re late,” he teased, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“traffic,” you replied, rolling your eyes before grinning. “yunho almost caught me leaving, too. he asked where i was going.”

hongjoong smirked. “what did you tell him?”

“that i was meeting a friend. which isn’t a lie, technically,” you said, leaning closer.

hongjoong chuckled softly, but his expression turned serious. “we need to be careful. he’s not stupid, and if he starts connecting the dots…”

“i know,” you said, squeezing his hand. “but this is worth it, joong. you’re worth it.”

he smiled, his heart swelling with affection. moments like these reminded him why he was willing to take the risk.

later, back at the dorms, hongjoong nearly had a heart attack when yunho suddenly asked, “have you been texting someone a lot lately? you’re always grinning at your phone.”

hongjoong kept his face neutral, glancing up from his laptop. “just group stuff. you know, schedules and all.”

yunho narrowed his eyes but didn’t push further. hongjoong let out a quiet sigh of relief. it was a delicate game they were playing, but as long as he could keep seeing you, he’d find a way to make it work.

seong ★ hwa

seonghwa wasn’t one for taking risks, but dating san’s older sibling secretly was an exception. he couldn’t bear to stay away, even if it meant sneaking around and dodging san’s sharp eyes.

one evening, you and seonghwa were sitting in his car, parked on a quiet street near your house. the windows were slightly fogged up from the cold, and seonghwa’s fingers brushed against yours as he passed you a cup of coffee he’d brought.

“san’s been suspicious lately,” you said with a sigh. “he keeps asking who i’m spending so much time with.”

seonghwa frowned, his brows knitting together. “what did you tell him?”

“that i’ve been busy with work,” you replied, shrugging. “but i don’t think he bought it.”

seonghwa’s lips twitched into a small smile. “you’re a terrible liar.”

you nudged him playfully. “i wouldn’t have to lie if you’d just tell him.”

“and deal with san glaring at me for the rest of my life? no, thanks,” seonghwa said, chuckling. but there was a nervous edge to his laugh.

he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “i hate hiding this, but i hate the idea of losing you even more.”

your heart melted at his words, and you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

when you finally pulled away, seonghwa sighed. “we’ll figure it out. i just… i need a little more time to figure out how to tell him without it turning into a disaster.”

yun ★ ho

yunho never thought he’d be the type to sneak around, but dating wooyoung’s older sibling required a level of stealth he hadn’t known he was capable of. the problem wasn’t just that wooyoung was protective — it was that wooyoung had a way of knowing everything.

one afternoon, yunho met you at a secluded park. you’d brought a picnic basket, and yunho spread out the blanket while keeping a wary eye out for anyone who might recognize him.

“this feels like a spy movie,” you said with a laugh, handing him a sandwich.

yunho grinned, his dimple showing. “yeah, except i’m a terrible spy. if wooyoung ever caught us, i’d fold in five seconds.”

you chuckled, shaking your head. “he’d probably strangle you first and ask questions later.”

yunho laughed, but the thought clearly made him nervous. “i wish we didn’t have to hide,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “i want to be able to hold your hand in public, take you out without looking over my shoulder.”

“we’ll get there,” you said, squeezing his hand. “wooyoung will come around. eventually.”

yunho nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. that evening, back at the dorm, wooyoung flopped onto the couch next to him.

“you’ve been acting weird lately,” wooyoung said, squinting at him. “anything you want to tell me?”

yunho’s heart skipped a beat, but he forced a laugh. “weird? me? nah, you’re imagining things.”

wooyoung eyed him suspiciously, but yunho quickly changed the subject. as nerve-wracking as it was, sneaking around felt worth it when he was with you. one day, he’d find a way to make it right. for now, he cherished every stolen moment.

yeo ★ sang

yeosang was meticulous by nature, so sneaking around with seonghwa’s older sibling wasn’t something he took lightly. every moment together was carefully planned, from choosing meeting spots far from prying eyes to ensuring his phone notifications were silent when you messaged him.

one evening, the two of you were huddled in a corner booth of a small, dimly lit café. yeosang had chosen the spot specifically for its privacy. his fingers lightly traced circles on your hand as you sipped your coffee.

“seonghwa was asking about you today,” you said, your voice low.

yeosang froze for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “what did he say?”

“that i’ve been smiling a lot more lately,” you replied, grinning.

yeosang’s lips twitched upward into a small smile. “you do have a beautiful smile.”

you rolled your eyes playfully, but his compliment made your heart flutter. yeosang’s gaze softened, and he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“i hate that we have to hide this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “but seonghwa would never let me live it down if he found out.”

you leaned closer, resting your forehead against his. “it’s worth it, though. you’re worth it.”

yeosang smiled, a rare but genuine expression, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

later, as he returned to the dorm, seonghwa glanced up from his book. “where’ve you been?”

“just out for some air,” yeosang replied smoothly, though his heart raced.

seonghwa didn’t seem convinced but didn’t press further. yeosang exhaled quietly, determined to keep your relationship under wraps a little longer.

san ★

san loved adventure, but sneaking around with hongjoong’s older sibling was a thrill of a different kind. it wasn’t just about the secrecy — it was about the stolen moments that felt like they were yours and yours alone.

one night, san picked you up in his car, driving out to a secluded spot by the beach. the two of you sat on the hood of the car, watching the waves crash against the shore.

“i almost got caught today,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence.

san turned to you, his eyebrows furrowing. “what happened?”

“hongjoong saw me texting you. i had to pretend it was a work thing,” you explained, laughing nervously.

san winced but chuckled. “you’re a terrible liar.”

you swatted his arm, but san caught your hand, intertwining your fingers. “i’ll tell him,” he said, his tone serious. “i just need to figure out the right time.”

you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. “i know you will. just… don’t wait too long, okay?”

san nodded, his free hand coming up to brush your hair back. “i won’t. you’re too important to me to keep this a secret forever.”

as the two of you sat there, the sound of the waves filling the silence, san knew he’d never let anyone come between you — not even hongjoong.

min ★ gi

mingi wasn’t exactly subtle, which made sneaking around with wooyoung’s older sibling a challenge. but despite the risk, he couldn’t stay away from you.

one evening, the two of you were sitting in his parked car, sharing takeout and laughing over something ridiculous mingi had said.

“wooyoung would kill us if he found out,” you said, half-joking.

mingi paused mid-bite, then grinned. “probably. but it’s not like he can stop me.”

you laughed, but the nervous edge in your voice didn’t escape him. mingi set his food down and reached for your hand. “hey, don’t worry. i’ll handle it when the time comes.”

“you make it sound so easy,” you muttered, leaning back in your seat.

“it’s not easy,” mingi admitted, his voice softening. “but you’re worth it. every single risk, every sneaky meetup — it’s all worth it.”

your heart swelled at his words, and you leaned over to kiss him.

later, back at the dorm, wooyoung eyed mingi suspiciously as he walked in. “you smell like perfume. who’ve you been with?”

mingi froze for a split second before forcing a laugh. “must’ve been the lady at the takeout counter. she was wearing a lot of it.”

wooyoung didn’t look convinced but didn’t press further. mingi let out a silent sigh of relief, already counting down the hours until he could see you again.

woo ★ young

wooyoung wasn’t one to do things halfway, whether it was performing on stage or sneaking around with seonghwa’s older sibling. the thrill of keeping your relationship a secret only made it more exciting for him, but there were moments when even he felt the weight of it.

one afternoon, the two of you met at a small arcade in a quiet neighborhood. wooyoung had insisted on the location, saying it was “too random for anyone to suspect.”

“come on, just one more game,” he pleaded, holding up a token.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your smile. “you just want another chance to win after i crushed you last round.”

“crushed me?” wooyoung gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “it was pure luck!”

as the two of you bantered, he leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “you’re really enjoying this, huh?”

you grinned. “maybe a little.”

wooyoung’s playful expression softened as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i just love seeing you happy,” he murmured, his tone unusually tender.

before you could respond, your phone buzzed. you glanced at the screen and froze.

“who is it?” wooyoung asked, peering over your shoulder.

“it’s seonghwa,” you said, your voice tight. “he’s asking where i am.”

wooyoung’s eyes widened, and he quickly ushered you out of the arcade. “we need to go. he knows my hangout spots too well.”

as the two of you hurried down the street, wooyoung chuckled nervously. “this sneaking around is going to give me gray hair.”

“then let’s tell him,” you said, stopping in your tracks.

wooyoung hesitated, looking into your eyes. “soon,” he promised, taking your hand in his. “just give me a little more time to figure out how to survive the fallout.”

despite the tension, his sincerity made your heart flutter.

jong ★ ho

jongho was the steady, reliable type, but even he wasn’t immune to the chaos of sneaking around with yunho’s older sibling. his practicality and calm demeanor often clashed with the secrecy, but he couldn’t imagine giving you up.

one evening, the two of you were sitting in a quiet park, sharing a bag of snacks under the dim glow of a streetlamp. jongho’s hand rested casually on your knee as he told you about his day.

“yunho almost caught me texting you earlier,” he said, his voice calm but laced with a hint of amusement.

your eyes widened. “what did he say?”

jongho smirked. “nothing. i told him i was texting a friend, and he bought it.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re so chill about this.”

“i have to be,” he replied, squeezing your knee gently. “if i panic, you’ll panic, and then we’ll both give ourselves away.”

despite his calm exterior, jongho’s gaze softened as he looked at you. “i hate hiding this, though. you mean too much to me to keep you a secret forever.”

you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. “then let’s tell him. what’s the worst that could happen?”

jongho chuckled softly. “yunho giving me a lecture for the rest of my life, probably.”

the two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while before jongho spoke again. “i’ll tell him soon,” he said, his voice steady. “i just need to figure out how to do it without ruining everything.”

as the night wore on, jongho walked you back to your car, his hand never leaving yours. despite the secrecy, his quiet confidence and unwavering presence made you feel like everything would be okay.

notes: interesting request! thank you anon, and i hope this was to your liking <3

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