#the main topic of conversation lately

[aaronsinferno]

;) my boys

[ev3nesce]

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time. 

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off. 

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other. 

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own. 

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent. 

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk. 

“Who gave them to you?” 

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?” 

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.” 

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease. 

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears. 

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you. 

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate. 

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm. 

…Could you use him as a scapegoat? 

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?” 

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?” 

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted. 

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips. 

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile. 

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.” 

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape. 

Except it wasn’t clear. 

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles. 

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs. 

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing. 

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.” 

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way. 

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close? 

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument. 

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work. 

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.” 

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing. 

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography. 

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it. 

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience. 

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?��

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry. 

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit.  He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back. 

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits. 

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?” 

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss. 

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?” 

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut. 

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back. 

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut. 

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar. 

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief. 

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze. 

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

[clemswinecorner]

To be loved is to be known [Harry Lewis/W2S]

Summary: Y/N knows Harry, and Harry knows Y/N.

Wordcount: 775

Warnings: some swearing, nothing major

masterlist - main masterlist

Lots of people knew lots of things about Harry. People knew his favourite colour, his favourite football club, his favourite types of videos to film. His friends knew his favourite drink, Simon knew his favourite football top, Tobi knew his Nando’s order. But nobody knew him quite like Y/N did. She could tell whether Harry wanted to buy something within seconds of him seeing it, she could tell the difference between him wanting to leave a place and him wanting to disappear completely. 

“Are you joining us having a couple drinks at Cal’s place?” Lux asks Harry, leaning towards him. They’re out for dinner with quite a big group, which wasn’t too unusual for them, and Harry glances over at Y/N sitting across. She’s fixing her off-shoulder top when he catches her eyes. She gives him a questioning look, knowing him well enough to recognize he wants an answer out of her. “Are we having drinks at Cal’s after this?” He asks, and she shrugs. She notes the way his hands are tapping against the tabletop and his phone’s screen is facing upwards. “I don’t know, maybe one drink but don’t think we’ll stay out late, unless you want to?” She raises her eyebrows at him. She sees the doubt in his face, and how it’s different from his body language that tells her he’d much rather go home. “Won’t be too special, I think there’s people going straight home as well,” Lux mentions. He isn’t stupid, and after living with him for a couple of years, Harry’s face tells him that the day has been long enough. “Yeah, think we might do the same actually, but we’ll be there Saturday,” Y/N jumps in, and Callux nods. Harry gives her a smile, as she swiftly changes the conversation topic.

Later that night, they’re sitting on the couch, a pile of cards in front of them. “You fucker,” she curses as he puts down another plus four. She takes the cards from the pile as he puts down another card. “Thanks for saying no to Lux tonight,” He softly says as she puts down her card. “Hmm. I could tell your social battery would run out halfway through, I’m glad you listened to me,” She jokes, and he chuckles, grabbing a card from the pile. “When have I ever not?” He asks, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Do you really want me to answer that?” He shakes his head with a laugh, chucking down another card. “No, no I don’t,” He confirms, and she laughs, looking at the cards in her hands. “We should skip nights out to play games more often,” She comments, before she smirks at him. “You didn’t say Uno, by the way.”

In the same way she knew him, he knew her. 

“Baby, have you seen my…” He trails off as he walks into the living room, where she’s sitting crossed legged under a fluffy blanket, invested in her book. She’s comfortably nestled in a hoodie slightly too big, bright blue and more importantly the exact one he’d spend the last fifteen minutes trying to find. He sighs, and she looks up with those adorable clueless eyes, “Never mind. Did you drink anything?” She nods before getting back to her book, “Yeah, have tea,” she absentmindedly says. He walks over, checking the temperature of the mug— completely cold, as he guessed. He picks it up, walking away with a small smile and a shake of his head. 

She doesn’t even notice him coming back until his hand is going through her hair. She looks up, waiting for him to speak. “Hi. My bag’s almost packed, my Uber’s here in fifteen minutes. I made you a tea,” She smiles, putting her book down next to her. “I didn’t realize it was that late already, you should’ve said,” she mentions. “Nah, you were too comfortable, thought I’d let you read. I get you to myself again after the weekend anyway,” he disagrees. She sits up and leans onto Harry, who’d sat down next to her, his shoulder. He lets out a content sigh, turning around to fully envelop her in a hug. She snuggles into his comfortable chest, loving how cuddly he could get. “Thanks for the tea,” she lowly says, and he presses a kiss on top of her head. “Don’t want you to dry out, do I? I know how into the story you can get,” he says, as if it’s nothing. To him, it probably was nothing, it’s just how he was. To her, it was everything. To be loved is to be known, after all.

[jiminomenon]

model! karina goes live and gets annoyed with fans asking for assistant! reader

pairing: model! karina x assistant! female reader

word count: 924

summary: jimin never planned her lives, but somehow, y/n always managed to steal the spotlight anyway. what was supposed to be a casual night of answering questions turned into absolute chaos the moment y/n—half-asleep and completely unaware of the camera—wandered into view, asking about their kitten in a raspy morning voice.

from my series: the devil wears prada

jimin never really planned her lives.

unlike other models and influencers who curated their every move, making sure every frame was aesthetic and every moment seemed effortlessly cool, jimin simply did whatever she felt like. she didn’t care for perfect lighting or camera angles. if she was bored and in the mood to be entertained, she’d go live, let her fans flock to her like moths to a flame, and see where the conversation took her.

tonight was one of those nights.

draped across her couch in her penthouse, jimin sipped a glass of wine, one leg lazily draped over the armrest while the other was tucked beneath her. her hair was still damp from her shower, an oversized designer hoodie swallowing her frame, barely covering the tiny shorts she had on underneath. she had propped her phone against a pillow, letting the stream run while she scrolled through comments, half-interested.

unnie, did you eat?

jimin rolled her eyes, swirling her wine before taking another sip. “obviously.”

what’s your skincare routine?

“expensive.”

drop the brand of your hoodie pls!!!

“prada.”

effortless. easy. fans loved how blunt she was, and she loved how they hung onto her every word. attention was something jimin never had to ask for—it came naturally, as it should.

but then—

where’s y/n?

unnie, we saw y/n in your last story, is she there?

y/n unnie when? 👀

show us y/n pls.

does y/n sleep there???

jimin’s lips pressed into a thin line. her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her wine glass.

here we go again.

“she’s not here,” she said smoothly, not even bothering to look over at the hallway where she knew y/n was napping.

but of course, her chat wasn’t buying it.

you’re lying.

she’s literally always with you.

blink twice if she’s in your penthouse rn.

does she have her own room there at this point? lmao

jimin sighed through her nose, tilting her head back slightly against the couch. this was her live, wasn’t it? why did people keep making it about her assistant?

“why are you all so obsessed with y/n?” she asked, exasperated, raising a brow at the flood of comments.

she’s ours now, sorry.

we love her, duh.

bc she’s so pretty!!

jimin scoffed, eyes narrowing. ridiculous. she was the model, the main event, the one who should be getting all the attention. yet here her fans were, losing their minds over her assistant.

before she could come up with a new topic to distract them, a voice—low, raspy, and very much half-asleep—cut through the air.

“jimin?”

jimin went rigid.

the chat went feral.

THAT VOICE???

HELLO????

Y/N WAKEY WAKEY???

OH MY GOD SHE’S THERE LMFAO

panic flickered in jimin’s eyes as she turned her head, just in time to see y/n stumble into view.

she was a mess—hair tousled from sleep, her t-shirt hanging loose on her frame, probably borrowed from jimin’s own closet. she walked sluggishly, her bare feet making no sound against the hardwood floor as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, still completely clueless to the fact that thousands of people were currently watching her.

jimin subtly tried to angle her phone away, but it was too late.

y/n flopped onto the couch beside her, barely awake, her body naturally gravitating towards the cushions as if she belonged there. “have you seen princess?”

jimin’s eye twitched.

the comments? completely unhinged.

WHO IS PRINCESS???

is that their child??

are they co-parenting something???

HELP Y/N LITERALLY JUST WOKE UP AND WENT STRAIGHT TO HER

jimin exhaled sharply through her nose. “she’s in my closet,” she muttered, still trying to figure out a way to salvage the situation. “why?”

y/n hummed sleepily, leaning against the armrest. “wanted to cuddle her.”

jimin clenched her jaw as another wave of insane comments filled her screen.

i want to be princess.

not her waking up and immediately looking for their child.

SHE WOKE UP FROM WHERE EXACTLY 🤨

for a brief moment, jimin considered forcing y/n to go get princess just to get her out of the frame. but before she could, y/n simply curled up in her spot, grabbing the remote and casually scrolling through shows, completely oblivious to the chaos she had just caused.

jimin’s fans, on the other hand, were eating it up.

SHE’S JUST GETTING COMFORTABLE??? THIS IS HER HOME???

y/n please acknowledge the live we beg

DOES SHE NOT KNOW

jimin dragged a hand down her face, barely containing her frustration. of course this would happen.

as she scrolled through the comments, her jaw ticked at the sheer obsession everyone had with y/n. it was getting annoying. why did they always have to act like y/n was so interesting?

finally, she had enough.

she shot the camera a sharp glare. “enough. this live isn’t about her.”

y/n, still half-asleep, turned her head slightly. “huh?”

jimin forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “nothing.”

SO POSSESSIVE LMAO

oh she’s MAD mad

someone’s jealous 🤭

jimin immediately ended the live.

y/n blinked at her in confusion. “what was that about?”

“nothing,” jimin muttered, flopping back against the couch, crossing her arms.

y/n frowned, still clearly too groggy to think much of it. she shrugged, turning back to the tv.

jimin, however, grabbed a pillow and smacked it over her face with a groan.

next time, she was locking y/n in a room before going live.

[togrowoldinv]

Secret Santa

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

When Natasha gets your name for Secret Santa, she tries to think of the perfect gift for you

Note: I’m back! Well, technically I never left but I’ve been up to my ears in studying for the cpa exam. I took what was hopefully my last exam today, and let Natasha come back into my brain lol. Enjoy this holiday fluff!

Natasha Masterlist 1, Natasha Masterlist 2, Natasha Masterlist 3, Main Masterlist

“Okay, on to the topic of the Christmas party. What if do Secret Santa names this year?” Tony suggests.

“What does that entail?” Steve asks what everyone else is thinking.

“Well, we’d all write down a few things we like. It gives the person who gets your name an idea of what you want,” Tony explains.

“I like it,” Steve agrees. “What does everyone think?”

A chorus of sures and okays follow.

“Y/n, can you take care of it?” Steve asks.

You agree easily. You’ve always loved the holidays so the idea of helping the Avengers have a good one is exciting. Especially since it’s your first year with the team.

You get everyone’s names on notecards and spend the rest of the day getting everyone to fill them out with gift ideas. Wanda helps you collect them from the team before the next team meeting the next morning.

“Okay, everyone I have all of the names here. Draw one and whatever you get is what you have. No switching allowed,” you tell the team, mainly Tony.

You eyeball him as you say it and he at least pretends to look offended before he grins.

When you get to Natasha, you smile at her shyly.

“What if I get my own name?” She asks with a smirk.

She reaches into the bowl of names before you can answer. Her expression is unreadable as she looks at the card.

“Good?” You ask.

“It’s good,” Natasha replies.

You move on and keep going until everyone’s been picked. You got Wanda, which should be super easy.

On the other hand, Natasha got you. She thinks about it for a few days before deciding that she doesn’t want to get you anything on your list. She decides to go to your best friend on the team for advice.

“You got a second?” Natasha asks, knocking on Wanda’s open doorframe.

“Oh,” the girl is caught off guard. She doesn’t spend much time talking to Nat aside from about missions. “Sure.”

Natasha walks in and closes the door behind her. She sits down at Wanda’s desk across from where the girl sits on her bed.

“Is everything okay?” Wanda asks.

Natasha doesn’t immediately assure her it is and she gets worried. “So, I got y/n for secret santa.”

Wanda’s tenseness goes away and she can’t help a little smirk forming as Nat is talking.

“And I know she has things on this list,” she says. “But I don’t think a single one of these things is good enough for her. I don’t know what I should get for her, but she deserves the best gift.”

“Natasha,” Wanda interjects. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“Oh,” Nat expresses. “She- well she loves Christmas, right? I saw how excited she’s been about the tree and then the secret Santa and the movies. All of it. I want it to be special for her.”

“That’s really sweet,” Wanda says. “You like her, huh.”

“Can you help me?” Natasha keeps the focus on the conversation at hand. She does like you though.

“Of course. Anything for y/n.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says, feeling the relief set in.

The two brainstorm ideas for a couple of hours. When Wanda shows late for your usual nightly dinner, she wears a grin.

“What?” You ask her. “Fun with Vision?”

Wanda chuckles and you share a laugh with her.

“Who’d you get for Secret Santa?” You ask her.

“I can’t tell you,” she says.

“Sure you can.”

“Who’d you get?” She counters.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Sure you can,” she mocks you.

The rest of the days leading up to Christmas go by fast. Unfortunately everyone had to go on a mission on Christmas Eve, so you’re all exhausted on Christmas Day morning.

Tony postponed the gift exchange until later in the day, and everyone is much more rested by then.

Even with the hustle and bustle, you notice Natasha hasn’t made it to the get together yet.

“Hey Clint, where’s Nat?” You ask the archer. He was working closely with her on the mission.

“I think she just needed to take some time alone.”

“Oh, okay.”

You go about the party for a few more minutes before deciding to go check on Natasha.

You go to her room and knock on the door. She takes a minute to answer, but finally the door opens to reveal a distressed Natasha.

Her hair is messy and she’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. You haven’t seen her this way before.

“Hey,” you say. “We missed you down there.”

“Sorry,” she says. “Uh, come in.”

Her room is clean and exactly like you expected it. There are a few photos of Natasha and Clint’s family on a dresser, but that’s really the extent of the decor.

“Are you okay?” You ask her.

“Yeah, just a bad mission.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Nat says. “It’s a me problem.”

“Hey, we’re teammates. And- we’re friends. It’s an us problem.”

Natasha can’t help but smile a little at that. You make her feel better by just being here.

“I don’t think I’m in the party mood. The guys aren’t so sensitive to my feelings.”

“Hey, that’s alright. I’ll just take your gift if you want me to. I’ll make sure it gets to the right person,” you explain.

“Oh, actually I had you. And I didn’t get a gift off of your list.”

Your eyes go wide. You didn’t even consider that Nat would get you. Thinking back to your list, you hope she didn’t find anything you wrote down as lame.

“Not because they were bad ideas. It’s just- I wanted to do something more meaningful,” she reads your mind.

Natasha crosses the room and grabs a box out of her closet. It’s wrapped nicely.

“You wrapped that?” You ask.

“You seem surprised,” Nat jokes. “I have skills.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you say before blushing a bit. She smirks.

She hands you the box and you sit down on the edge of her bed together to open it. Nat watches you shyly as you open the gift.

“Natasha,” you whisper as you reveal the gift.

It’s a beautiful locket necklace.

“Open it,” she says.

On the inside of the locket, there’s a photo of your family. Your favorite photo to be exact.

“How did you-“

“Wanda helped,” Nat says. “I know you’ve been missing home since you joined the Avengers. I thought you’d want to have a piece of them with you on missions.”

“Natasha, that’s- well that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you say, fighting back tears.

“You like it then?”

“I love it. Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Will you put it on me?”

Nat nods and takes the necklace from your hands. She unclasps it and stands behind you to put it around your neck. Her hands are gentle as she clasps the necklace and brushes against your skin.

“Beautiful,” she says when you stand and face her.

“You are, yeah,” you surprise her by saying. You dare to reach out for her hand. She takes it easily and interlocks your fingers. “I wish I got you something.”

“Oh, I think you just gave me the best gift,” Natasha says.

“I did?”

“Mhm,” she confirms. “Come here.”

Natasha leans in, pulling you closer to her with the hand that’s free by the back of your neck. Her gentle hand from before has a bit more urgency.

You can’t help but smile as she kisses your lips. Finally, both of you think. Finally.

“Merry Christmas, y/n,” Natasha says when she breaks for air.

“Merry Christmas, Natasha.”

It doesn’t take long before you add a photo of Natasha to the other side of your locket. She’s with you always. Right beside your heart.

[paradox-the-unimpressed-nun]

Yoriichi x F!reader Minors DNI 18+

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ REQUEST ARE OPEN

Summary: You and yoriichi have one main thing in common, you both want a family

Warning: breeding kink, creampie, fluff, vanilla sex, oral sex f!receiving , mentions of a stillborn, spit as lube. Not prof read⚠️

A/N: I just wanted to write a little smut for my dear lil sunshine boy, I'm sorry for the all the smut as of late I've been possessed.(>-•)╦̵̵̿╤─ (⊙⊙). I’ve edited some things from the og so if it’s different from the sneak peak thats why :4.

Yoriichi has never been the best at showing emotions, you’re very aware of this. Many are put off by his lack of expression.

You’ve learned that even though his face doesn’t show any emotion, that doesn’t mean he isn’t feeling anything. In truth he feels a lot, he’s an incredibly sweet and kind man.

The main point of your bounding between you and yoriichi is that you both desperately want a family.

You lost your family just like Yoriichi, of course you talked about other things but the topic of family always snuck it’s face into your conversations.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You make your way towards Yoriichi with a tray of of food in your hands. Yoriichi is quietly sitting on your porch, he would have been mistaken for a statue if he didn’t shift his head into your direction.

“Forgive me for taking so long, I thought I had sweat tea but I ended up only having green tea” Yoriichi takes the plate from your hands as you sit down, he returns after your fully seated.

“It is fine, I like green tea” his voice bland a quick as usual. You hand him a cup, you carefully watch him take a sip. You’re worried you somehow managed to mess up the tea.

His face doesn’t change as he finishes his sip. “It’s good” again his voice is bland but you know he actually likes it. There’s a awkward silence between you to, your eyes wander trying to find something to make the mood better.

Your eyes fixate on the tea, picking up your own glass you scoot yourself closer to him. You smile at him “I-I heard that green tea is good for fertility” the smile quickly fades from your face as Yoriichi stares at you.

For once you have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling, he just stares directly into your eyes. Panic washes over you as you believe you’ve greatly upset him. Your face turns a beat red and you stumble out an apology.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it-like that!” You avert your gaze away from him being to embarrassed for the prior statement. Yoriichis gaze slightly softens and he opens his mouth “it’s fine, I know you mean well”.

Your gaze makes it back to his, your heart speaks before your mind. “I….I mean…I just thought..what if you got re married” immediately you mentally slap yourself.

In a conversation you had with yoriichi awhile back you brought up getting re married, you said you were open to the idea of getting re married while yoriichi shut down the thought of re marrying.

You’re already about to spill out another apology but yoriichi cuts you off. “If I got re married then this tea would be quite helpful, I appreciate the thought” he’s voice is different you don’t know how but it is, his voice sounds like a new song to you. Your eyes widen as he entertains the thought of getting re married.

You stare at him, and lean closer to him. Slowly you place your hand on Yoriichis cheek, your heart beat fastens. The world feels almost silent as the only thing your able to hear is the sound of your heart racing. Yoriichi doesn't move neither does his gaze, he carefully watches you.

Now you're inches from his face, you pause and stare into his eyes one last time. Next you connect your lips to his soft and warm ones. Your heart flutters as your lips connect, you feel so loved, beautiful and wanted.

Yoriichi shortly kisses you back wrapping his arms around you in the process. Sliding your arms around his neck you both deepen the kiss. As you both kiss Yoriichi gently moves you onto your back and makes his way on top of you. Yoriichi licks your lower lip asking permission to go inside. You let his tongue in as you wrap your legs around his hips. Both of your tongues dance with each other. You feel as if you're melting into him.

You both were so lost in the kiss neither of you realized your hips were grinding against each other. A bulge formed in Yoriichi pants, he subconsciously grinds his bulge harder into your clothed sex.

Yoriichi pulls away from the kiss -much to your dismay- thoughts race through your mind as you wonder what you did wrong in order to make him stop.

“I don’t want our first time together to be on the floor… Can we move to your room?” As he gets up he grabs your to help you up, he doesn’t let go after. “Yes….I think that would be much more romantic” you respond unsure as what to say.

Hand in hand you walk to your bedroom, you open the door for him and went in. You both sit down on the futon, his lips immediately find themselves back onto yours.

Yoriichi once again pulled away but this time he focused on your neck. He trails kisses upon your neck, gently sucking on your neck. There will defiantly be marks on your neck in the morning.

sneakily his hands find their way to your obi, he slowly unties it. Your obi slips off of you and soon does the rest of your kimono. Leaving you in nothing but your panties. In return you undress him, you’re slow wanting to take in all of his image. It seems you aren’t alone, yoriichi takes this opportunity to also admire your body. Feeling his gaze you instinctively cover your breast and stomach.

He stared at you a little dumbfounded, did he not like you stretch marks? Or was he disgusted with your extra pudge? Thoughts started to run through your mind, Yoriichi seemed to have taken noticed. Yoriichi pulls your hands away from your chest, bringing them to your side. While covering yourself you had left finger marks from squeezing to hard.

He makes his way lower down your body, he places kisses on the marks you left behind. You can hear your heart beat, you believe he can to. His hands sneakily makes it to your breast groping your chest. Taking one of your breast into his mouth and while his hand plays with your harden nipples. His tongue swirls around your buds, the other pinching your nipple.

A loud pop sound comes from him letting go of your chest, he looks up at you and squeezes your breast. “These need to be filled” Yoriichis words go straight to your clit making you somehow wetter than you already were.

Yoriichi lays you onto your back, in the process he grabs your legs. He taps two fingers on your thigh, asking for approval. Turing your head you slowly open your legs, your panties were dampen from your arousal . Shivers run up your spine as he place’s sweet kisses down your inner thigh. He makes sure to be slow, wanting to savor the moment. Finally he makes it to needy cunt. Yoriichi simply moves your panties to the side, he is to hungry to fully take them off. You could feel is hot breath against your clit, you instinctively bump your hips up.

He laps at your cunt, instinctively you close your legs. It’s been so long sense you’ve had someone go down on you, the feeling almost feels foreign. You didn’t even realize what you did until you feel yoriichis hand tap your thigh. Immediately you open your legs back up, your face is red as a tomato. “Sorry!!” You squeak out, turning your head to the side out of embarrassment. “It is fine…” is the only thing he said before closing his lips around your sensitive nub, sucking gently and promoting your eyes to flutter shut.

With one hand you grab his neat ponytail to push his him down further, the other grabbing the futon beneath you. Yoriichi fingers prod at your opening slithering into you. Instinctively you arch your back to get more stimulation. Yoriichi slides in another finger which earns him a sweet moan from your lips. A mixture of your fluids and yoriichis spit drips down his chin. Your once free hand moves to yoriichis ponytail “Yoriichi I’m close!” you moan in-between words. He doesn’t stop. Letting go of the futon you grab his ponytail and force his head down more, arching your back and hips in the process. Yoriichi laps at your clit and his fingers curl inside of you. Your vision goes white as you feel yoriichi lap at your sweet release. Your legs shake as you continue to hold yoriichi in place, panting form your high. It’s been a very long time sense you’ve had an orgasm this amazing. Yoriichi takes the initiative and pops his head up then pushes your hips down.

His gaze meets yours instinctively you turn away your arm covering your blushful face. You’re a little embarrassed that your juices are all over yoriichis mouth and chin. Yoriichi pulls your hips towards his, pulling you out of your thoughts. Somehow you feel hotter. He spits in his hand and rubs his very hard, leaking shaft. See his cock makes your mouth water, it’s just as beautiful as the rest of him. Big with a pretty pink tip, you wished he would’ve given you the time to suck him off, perhaps next time… yoriichi rubs his tip up against your entrance, rubbing it up against your soaking cunt. A grunt comes from him as your warm sticky juices cover his shaft. Anxiety erupts over you, hopefully he won’t find you “to loose”.

With a shaky breath Yoriichi speaks “I’m going to put it in now…” his face his flushed and his briefly look up at yours. All you can do is nod as you eagerly wait for him to finally put it in.

Finally he directs his tip to your entrance, slowly he slides in. Both of you moan at the feeling of one another’s body’s finally connecting. Yoriichi is big but you didn’t expect him to stretch you. He stops waiting for you to adjust to his size, he looks up waiting for your approval.

“Con-continue…please” your speech slow from you trying to calm your breathing. Yoriichi starts with slow thrust, trying to be gentle with you and find your sweet spots. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, surely it will leave marks in the morning. Yoriichi earns a moan out of you as he brushes a certain spot inside of you.

“Right there! Right there!” You wrap your legs around his hips and hands hold onto his back. Keeping him there not wanting him to lose that spot. Yoriichi thrust more rough hitting that spot that made you see stars again. Heading your sweet moans made him pick up his pace his forehead onto yours.

You earn grunts and wines from yoriichi as you squeeze around him. Your cunt practically sucking him in deeper yearning for more. Each time he hits that spot he yearns a moan of his name from your sweet lips.

Yoriichi kisses your forehead lovingly, each kiss making your heart and cunt flutter. He moves kisses down your nose to your cheek then to your lips. Yoriichi sucks at your bottom lip making your mouth open, he takes this as an opportunity to sneak his tongue back into your mouth. In between kisses both of your moans can be heard. You feel like it’s your first time all over again, completely lost in the others body, sloppily kissing and humping. Yoriichis thrust turns into sloppy grinds wanting to get as deep as possible inside of you. Yoriichi breaks the kiss leaving a trail of saliva running down both of your chins. His eyes make it towards your chest seeing the stretch marks on your breast. Thoughts of you bearing hid children spread through his head, he knew he wanted a family with you but actually being in the moment? Having the opportunity to have the family he always wanted? It made his head spin.

Yoriichi pulls out completely leaving your poor cunt grasping onto nothing, a whine leaves you as the uncomfortable feeling of being empty flushed over you. What happened? What went wrong? Why did he pull out? You were about to ask why but was quickly stopped and yoriichi grabbed under your knee. He pushes your knees to your chest and lines himself back up to your cunt. Yoriichi quickly waste no time and bottoms you out, You scream and the absolute pleasure. He had put you into a mating press, somehow yoriichi feels deeper and bigger. His heavy balls slap against your dripping cunt. Both your juices and his precum slide down your ass onto the once cleaned Funton.

Your nails dig into his back leaving little red marks. You feel a familiar tightness building up in you. Yoriichi seems to be close as well, with that he picks up his pace.

You try desperately to tell him that you’re close but, you can’t seem to be able to forms the words to tell him. Drool drips down you mouth as your completely taken over by pleasure.

Jerking your head back onto the soft pillow that tightness that had been building up finally releases.

Yoriichi fucks you through your sweet organism, somehow going faster before finally stopping hitting his own orgasm. Thick white strings of cum line the walls of your sweet cunt, filling your womb to the brim.

Yoriichis warm cum seeps out of your pussy spilling onto the soiled sheets.

You both stay there for what feels like forever. Enjoying the feeling of one another’s bodies being against each other.

Looking up at yoriichis face he’s completely flushed, sweat drips down his forehead as he looks down at your also flustered self.

Yoriichi he looks at you like he’s just learned how to love all over again.

You don’t want him to stop and it doesn’t seem that he’s planning on stopping anytime soon. As he starts grinding his hips into yours once more.

You pull him down into a kiss, and of course returns the kiss. It’s sloppy and dirty as your tongues intertwined.

This seems to rile him up as he starts fully thrusting into your filled cunt once more.

God you hope the tea thing was true

🍓 I need to go to bed, my eyes hurt from lack of sleep ( ◜◡༎ຶ). Also sorry for all the smut my brain has just been 𓀐𓂸 all week. ALSO! Thank you for 300 followers ya'll are the best (ง ˃ ³ ˂)ว ⁼³₌₃⁼³

🍓edit: I have 700 followers now THANK YOU!!!

🍓UPDATE 2 800FOLLOWERS?!? YALL ARE INSANE

🍓 Update 3 i no longer like this, I’ll make a remake eventually, but I hope this short sweet fic makes y’all happy. I really pushed this off because I’m no longer happy with it. But I finished it. I wanna move on to other things. But expect more fanfic of him. Actually fuck it if enough people want a part two I’ll make a longer smuttier one. Sorry if you didn’t get tagged when u asked by notifications are all full. Also need more fanfic of this man I’m feral.

@ethereal1l @lovelymiraix @yoriichisc0msl4t2 @yoriichis-love @sush1trasher @aweebontheinternet2005 @xiernia @anemoneorc @lovelymiraix @ethereal1l @weebflames @azuriel-kinayoko @lovingyeet @krillfromsky @rjssierjrie @t0miejins @yuyuchann1 @genshinsimpforlif @hyunjinslefteyeball4 @puddingchoo

[nukacoola]

Deacon's dislike and hate talks are my favorite of any companion in fo4 because they're so unique and it's such a great look into his character.

In his first talk he really tries to get through to you. He tries to explain in a non-aggressive, even complimentary, manner why he hasn't been liking what you've been doing lately. Depending on what you say he basically babies you.

In his second talk is when he shows a hint of anger which I find super interesting because Deacon rarely shows anger. Even when you do things he hates he either won't say anything or will make a sarcastic comment about how he disagrees with what you did. I can only think of three times genuine anger/frustration is shown from him: this talk, starting the kill-the-Railroad quest for the Brotherhood, and his talk for when you murder someone which was cut from the game. He only has anger in his voice at the very beginning of the 2nd talk. Then it fades, showing that he's suppressing it or calming himself down.

But the main reason I am so fascinated by this talk is because he is the only companion (besides Strong) who you can not convince to give you one last chance. There's no option, no orange or red skill check. If you ask him to stay he says, "Not gonna happen. Sorry."

Where most companions will leave on bad terms after their second (or third if you convince them to stay) talk, Deacon says "We'll be seeing each other a lot, and I'm not one to hold grudges. Just remember, we're trying to help people, not make the garbage dump stink even more." And then leaves on distant coworker terms. In both talks (at least to me) he feels notably distant in the way he speaks to you. He already has his walls up and he tries to explain to you what the problem is before realizing in his second talk it was a useless venture.

Throughout both talks he compares you to Glory which is a whole other interesting topic (especially taking into account a tense conversation you can hear between Desdemona and Glory if you hang around Railroad HQ long enough).

I just love him.

[darkmatilda]

𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: truly awful day in every sense of the word — and then there’s him, spencer reid, armed with a small moral mission to make it at least a little better for you. the question is — will he succeed?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, light cat scratch on reader's face (nothing serious) reader being mad and frustrated at the entire universe (fair enough) mention of their little argument and the overall tension, “what happened to yearning—” ITS RIGHT THERE B* + neck massage xx

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.2k

𝐚/𝐧: request

That day started with a scratch.

And quite literally.

Somehow, your beloved fluffy muffin tiny bundle firstborn princess dearest kitten daughter managed to land her paws right on your face, leaving behind a souvenir running along your cheekbone. The first pain you felt that day. The second one settled in your neck and shoulders, taking the form of sharp tension — you and your flatmate had a rule of taking turns with the big, comfy bed, which meant that every other night you had to sleep on the couch.

In the morning rush, you didn’t even have time to properly look at the scratch — you simply covered it with a layer of makeup and headed…to the subway station. The car was in the shop, and it was going to stay there for a few more days. A solidly unfortunate start to the day.

Funny how everything that happened next turned into a real rollercoaster of bad luck, with people riding it, throwing their hands up in euphoric excitement and screaming whaaat dooo youuu saaay nooow biiitch!

The barista messing up your order — and on top of that, arguing with you that you must’ve given it wrong. Rushing into work late thanks to that argument. Spilling coffee all over your favourite shirt on the way to the lab. And a whole crowd of people collectively deciding that this was the perfect moment to cut their IQ in half, execute the last of their brain cells, bombard you with a stream of pointless, redundant questions and generally piss you off.

The ones who weren’t pissing you off got caught in the crossfire too. Poor Winchester had already been trying to tiptoe around you all day — bless him for that — but even that didn’t save him from the curse of this particular day.

By the time it finally ended, you made your way back to the apartment…also by public transport. Judging by the smell, the people around you had had a rough day too. A very sweaty one. And they all apparently shared a passionate disdain for that remarkable human invention called deodorant.

But even though you had a strong urge to just storm into the apartment and throw yourself onto the bed — which, for tonight, finally belonged to you — you hesitated for a second before putting the key in the lock. You and Spencer had…argued. The thing with you two was that you could argue loudly, dramatically, and passionately — about the most ridiculous, pointless topics, like the mother of the main character in a novel you both happened to read one after the other, which, frankly, wasn’t even that rare now that you shared an apartment, space, and therefore, a bookshelf.

But then there were the more serious fights. The quiet ones. The ones that echoed between you for days, even though barely a word had been spoken.

This…was one of those.

You hoped he wasn’t inside. That he got wrapped up in some time-consuming case and wouldn’t come back until you were already asleep. Just…hopefuly not a really hard case for him.

*

Spencer, of course, couldn’t have known about the hesitation happening on the other side of the door. It just so happened that he was waiting for her arrival and had sprung to life at the sound of the key in the lock, rehearsing a general script of the conversation he wanted to have. Above all, he wanted to apologize once more for slipping up to Penelope about their shared secret. Not that it would turn back time, but he felt it was necessary. Or at least it was something he could do to slightly melt the icy wall that had formed between them. He had no other ideas.

Standing in the living room, he froze for a moment, motionless. He heard it — the sound of the door closing with force and the abrupt toss of keys onto the dresser by the door. And that was all it took for him to retreat. Those were not signals indicating any desire for interaction with the person who had recently pissed you off and toward who you still held a grudge or let alone any desire for a genuine conversation.

He spun around in circles like an ant, a bit unsure of what he should do. His flatmate almost immediately went to the bedroom that was hers that day, she didn’t even stop to greet the cat, who was currently doing yoga on the TV cabinet. And that alone was a clear sign that something was wrong. Maybe the whole day was just off.

As he pondered what to do — mainly considering abandoning his apology plans altogether or postponing them to another time — his gaze landed on Marie stretching out her front paws, and he thought about how apologies didn’t have to be a huge, loud gesture with fireworks and a big red bow, they could also unfold more gently, evolving naturally.

He started by finding the TV remote and turning on RuPaul’s Drag Race show he absolutely didn’t understand at all, but knew she liked. He was careful with the volume: not too loud so it wouldn’t seem intrusive, but loud enough for her to hear and catch her attention. Then he went to the kitchen to grab two mugs and start brewing tea. He pretended to be completely focused on the process and acted as if he hadn’t heard her leave the bedroom and appear on the opposite side of the kitchen island, gliding her hand along it as she approached.

He looked up at her only when she was standing directly across, separated by nothing but the sharp edge of the countertop, her eyebrows raised suspiciously. “Watching my show?” she asked.

Spencer shrugged, the nonchalance and innocence in the gesture perhaps a little overdone.

“I’m just making some tea,” he replied calmly, pouring boiling water into the two mugs. “Maybe Marie accidentally stepped on the remote.”

He turned to put the kettle down just as she snorted.

“Definitely,” she commented sarcastically, pausing for a moment. “I don’t recall you ever drinking my tea before.”

“Well, I figured I needed some…” he dragged out the sentence, recalling what kind of tea it was. Lavender. What does lavender do? “Calming down.” Every tea is good for calming down.

She snorted again. Spencer turned back toward her.

“You must really need it if you made two cups right away.”

He parted his lips, staring intently at the mugs as if the second one had just materialized before his eyes.

“I have no idea how that happened. But since it’s here…” he nodded suggestively toward the cup that just happened to be her favorite.

He saw in her gaze that she perfectly understood why he was doing this, but she wasn’t about to just give in and forget how things stood between them. Spencer, however, felt unusually confident in his game, sensing this would soon lead to progress between them. Like it or not, she was already part of his teasing and that always spoke well of their relationship.

But that confidence and ease suddenly left him when he dropped his shoulders in surprise, noticing something odd on her cheek, gently emerging from beneath the hair covering it. Instinctively, unable to stop himself, he reached to brush it aside and reveal the scratch.

“What happened to your cheek?” he asked.

As he could have predicted, she turned her head, dodging his fingers.

“Nothing,” she replied.

Spencer didn’t stop staring, a little too insistently, so she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Marie scratched me when we were sleeping together. Somehow.”

Okay, he was willing to believe that version, but that didn’t mean he intended to drop the subject. Especially not after taking a closer look.

“Your nothing is all swollen,” he remarked.

Her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders rising slightly in a dismissive gesture.

“Because it was suffocating under makeup all day, which I only just took off. That’s why it’s swollen now.”

“That’s…not exactly reasonable from a medical point of view.”

“Oh, wow, what an absolute breakthrough,” she snapped at him so unexpectedly that he flinched a little. Her arms dropped to her sides in frustration, there was nothing dismissive about her posture anymore. “I know it’s swollen! And that it’s not exactly reasonable from a medical point of view,” she dropped her voice dramatically, twisting her face to mimic his expression.“But I had to deal with it somehow, because I had to leave the apartment in a rush since my car’s at the mechanic’s and it’ll be there for another week, which means I’m stuck with public transport full of people who apparently don’t believe in basic hygiene!”

Spencer didn’t interrupt that sudden crash out, letting it run its course as he listened to the string of bitter words spilling from her mouth. When she finally finished, a moment of heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the cat jumping off the cabinet somewhere in the distance.

“I think you should take a shower,” he finally stated, slowly.

Her head recoiled slightly in confusion, followed by a dismissive wave of her hand.

“And on top of that, my flatmate telling me I stink.”

He couldn’t help it — he snorted. Gently.

“What I’m saying is, it helps. Public transport is literally a germ chamber, and that awareness always makes me feel gross for a few hours after I get off. And when I feel gross, everything feels overwhelming and frustrating. So, that’s my heartfelt advice,” he declared, patting his chest chivalrously.He watched her expression carefully, noticing it wasn’t nearly as sharp as before, so he risked adding, “And when you’ve showered, come back here. I’ll take a look at that scratch on your cheek.”

He saw the subtle bite to the inside of her cheek in thought, and how her arms returned to their crossed position over her chest. He expected a slight nod, maybe an enigmatic answer along the lines of we’ll see.

Shaking her head in clear refusal, she surprised him.

“No. Don’t forget we’re still not on good terms and I haven’t forgiven you for spilling to Penelope.”

Spencer pressed his lips together. He held her gaze, unsure what to say, until he realized…she hadn’t moved. She was still standing right there, eyes fixed on him. If they were really on bad terms, for starters, they wouldn’t even be living together.

So, he decided — a little impulsively — that he’d handle this by briefly assuming the role of a dictator. He grabbed the handles of both mugs.

“You’ll come. Otherwise, your tea will go completely cold and I’ll have to pour it out.”

With those words, he sent her one last expectant look before heading to the living room, where the episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race was just wrapping up.

When she actually went to take a shower and the next episode started, Spencer didn’t bother watching. Instead, he gathered the most basic items to disinfect the wound and ease the swelling.

He also put a great deal of effort into keeping his face from betraying any trace of triumph when she returned 15 minutes later with damp hair and dressed in more comfortable clothes.

With exaggerated, fake displeasure on her face — to show just how indifferent she supposedly was to his advice — though even in the way she moved, there was a clear, undeniable hint of relaxation.

She sat down, tucking her heels onto the couch and taking a sip of the still-warm tea. Spencer allowed himself to take advantage of the moment to gently, with literally one finger, brush the damp strands of hair away from her cheek and carefully spray it with disinfectant.

She winced at him accusingly.

“In my opinion, rinsing it under the shower would’ve been enough, it’s a shallow scratch. Marie would never hurt her mom badly, not even by accident. But do what you want, doctor.”

Completely undeterred, Spencer set the spray aside to grab the cold compress meant to reduce the swelling and pressed it against her cheek for a moment — after which her hand took over on its own, holding it in place.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he declared arrogantly, glancing meaningfully at the scratch. “Since this happened…”

She kept her eyes on the TV screen the entire time, but suddenly shot him a brief sideways glance and he could’ve sworn there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips.

“It’s all because of the bed swapping. It messes with her little head. She probably thought she was attacking you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And why would she want to attack me?”

An innocent shrug.

“Possibly because I whispered her a word or two.”

Spencer went quiet for a moment not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was scanning the living room for a certain small, black creature. And when he finally made eye contact with it, he had to let out a soft pspspsss for the naive little thing to trustingly trot over to him.

The woman pretended not to watch as he picked up Marie (whose body behaved like a loose spring, stretching downward until he settled her comfortably in his arms) but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Her eyes were supposedly glued to the TV but if someone asked what exactly she was watching, she’d stumble over the answer.

“Well hello there,” he whispered to the cat, scratching her behind the ear. “I heard someone here wanted to attack me in my sleep. How do you explain yourself, young lady?”

He glanced at the woman out of the corner of his eye, catching her gaze just as it slipped off his face and landed on Marie. He continued, “You can’t always trust your mom, sometimes she tells pure lies—”

He got smacked over the head with the cold compress.

“Hey, don’t you dare turn my baby against me!”

Beneath all that outrage, there was a solid dose of amusement — and he fully intended to bring it out. He scooted closer to her on the couch, positioning Marie right in front of her. He cleared his throat.

“She’s a little shy to ask herself but she wants to know if you’ve forgiven her. It really was just an accident, and she regrets it. She doesn’t want it to have a bad impact on the two of you.”

He said it under the weight of her stare, fixed directly on his face. Spencer finished speaking, his lips pressing together with a certain awkwardness that was entirely his, not hers. The moment he had to spend sitting in that discomfort was probably his punishment — but the kind that felt so deserved you almost went through it willingly.

Only after a long pause did she roll her eyes, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips.

“Tell her that yes, I forgive her,” she requested, leaning forward slightly to press a kiss to the cat’s head.

But suddenly, she caught his gaze and held it firmly.

“Almost.”

“What do you mean almost?” he asked, a little impulsively.

She took a calm sip of tea.

“Well, there’s one thing you could do to make it fully happen,” she announced mysteriously. Spencer patiently waited for her to tell him what that was. She tilted her head to the side, stretching her neck.

“My neck’s killing me from that couch. My whole shoulders are tense.”

“You want a massage, am I right?”

As much as understanding anything usually came to him — well, euphemistically speaking — slowly, he figured that one out almost immediately, which seemed to surprise even her. She gave him a skeptical look.

“You seem weirdly excited about that idea.”

“That’s because, as it happens, I’m an expert at it.”

She snorted, clearly not buying it. She was probably waiting for him to say he was joking, that he actually knew nothing about massages — but that moment never came. Because Spencer really was an expert at it.

Or well…at the very least, he was very good.

She shook her head in firm denial.

“No, you’re not,” she stated confidently.

Spencer nodded in agreement — but to himself.

“I am. When JJ was pregnant…”

“…you gave her massages?”

“Not her. Will. In the third trimester, she was a little moody and the poor guy kept ending up sleeping on the couch. So yes, as it happens, I can consider myself an expert in this field.”

She snorted with laughter at that little story and took the last sip of her tea, widening her eyes slightly, as if she couldn’t believe she was actually agreeing to this.

“Alright then. Let’s give it a try.”

“Alright then,” he echoed her a little absentmindedly, nodding to himself. But then he quickly pulled himself together and cleared his throat twice for good measure.

“Turn around.”

First, she made sure her hair wasn’t resting on her neck or back before fully complying with the instruction. Meanwhile, Spencer took a deeper breath. Okay — this was a little different from massaging a sleep-deprived Will, who would’ve probably been grateful even if Spencer had treated his neck with a jackhammer and called it the most relaxing experience of his life.

He deliberately hesitated before touching her — forcing himself not to give the impression he was bluffing his way through this.

First, only the tips of his fingers rested just below her ears, followed by his whole hands slowly gliding down. That’s how this process was supposed to start — warming up the skin.

Thankfully, he’d just finished his tea, so his body was naturally warm, especially his hands from holding the mug. That alone had to feel pleasant…but the woman gave no indication whatsoever that it actually did, which sent him spiraling into quiet self-doubt.

He gave that stage all the time it deserved, until his hands started moving along her neck and shoulders with growing confidence and ease. He gave it so much time, in fact, that it earned him a doubtful shake of her head.

“You know what, I’m not sure it’s supposed to—”

She abruptly cut off when his fingers found a spot on her neck where he could clearly feel the tension, pressing into it with practiced precision.

Her entire body shifted under the influence of the breath she drew in and then released as a quiet, involuntary moan of relief.

And although that sound was particularly encouraging when it came to continuing the massage, Spencer paused for a moment, his hands resting gently on both of her shoulders as he leaned over her shoulder to ask,

“So, how’s that forgiveness coming along now?”

She tried to turn her head to look at him, which didn’t work because of the way their bodies were positioned. But if she had managed it, he’d bet anything it would’ve been the most electrifying, impatient glare in the world.

“Keep that up, and then we’ll think about it.”

Spencer smiled—to himself, since she couldn’t see it anyway. He smiled with certainty, because if that small taste had caused such a reaction, he was curious how she’d respond to more.

[babyjinsu]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ secret ꒱ ˎˊ˗

sunghoon x fem!reader || 2k

౨ৎ kidnapping, sunghoon locks you in a closet, open-ending, sunghoon is crazy and delusional and hallucinating.

sunghoon has a secret absolutely no one can know about. 

he lives—or tries to, and he’s great at it—like anyone else. smiling, nodding, attending classes, and social events in university. his grades are good. professors love him. girls have crushes on him. everyone wants to hang out and be around him. 

but sunghoon has a secret absolutely no one can know about.

because inside his apartment, behind a locked bedroom door and deeper still—behind another locked closet door and tucked beneath his winter and autumn coats—lives the part of him no one would believe.

you.

he calls you a secret because to the rest of the world, you’ve disappeared. 

but lately, the world has started to notice again. 

——

“have another glass, sunghoon!” his classmate, jake said, loud and lazy with alcohol as he poured sunghoon another glass of beer. the golden, fizzy liquid splashed into the glass. foam fizzing over the rim. 

sunghoon laughed, rolling his eyes. “dude i gotta drive home but… alright.” he chuckled, accepting the glass he had no intention to drink anyway.

the tables were full with their classmates buzzing—half-drunk and red-faced. gossiping, shitting on professors and people they didn’t like. this was supposed to be a break for all of them, a breather, a night to forget midterms and laugh about it.

but then someone said something sunghoon didn’t really… adore.

“...you remember that girl during our first semester? the one who… went missing?”

sunghoon’s hand around his glass tightened but he didn’t flinch. he tried not to show it on his face that he was affected by the topic. instead, he sipped from his glass, eyes glancing back and forth between the tabletop grill and the girls.

“yeah,” her friend answered, a little too loud compared to the previous girl’s soft and almost-cautious voice. “what was her name again? i just remembered her being really pretty but so quiet.” 

“oh, it’s yn,” jake suddenly chimed in, too casual. if sunghoon could stop time, he’d cut jake’s tongue with the scissors in front of them—but that’s not possible. “she was so sweet and smart.” he continued, sipping his beer. 

sunghoon swallowed hard—not from the jealousy (sorta, but that’s not the main emotion he felt) but slight fear and discomfort—he wanted to interrupt and change the conversation—drift the topic elsewhere where he knew they’d be on it—even going as far to announce that tonight’s dinner was on him. but… his tongue was too heavy. 

one small slip up and everyone will know his secret.

he forced a light chuckle instead, because if he didn’t, the look on his face might spill it all. “c’mon,” he said, keeping his voice even. he lifted his glass to his mouth in hopes to cover up the way his bottom lip slightly trembled. “don’t make it sound like she died.”

jake blinked, shrugging. “i mean, she’s been missing for over a year now. saw her once during our first semester, and now we’re almost done with our studies.” 

sunghoon’s ears rang. a year.

three hundred sixty-five days of split second paranoia. 

the table fell quiet again, the tension slowly creeping in. for a moment, only the sizzle of meat on the grill filled the silence. “she was pretty too,” the girl beside jake murmured. “you know yeonjun had a crush on her then but he was too scared to talk to her.” she continued with a small chuckle, pointing discreetly with the bottom of her glass at yeonjun who sat on a different table. 

“someone talked to her, clearly,” another girl snorted, laughing like it’s a joke.

sunghoon’s smile faltered for the briefest second. he didn’t like the way they spoke about you—so carelessly. how they could laugh about your disappearance and found entertainment in it.  he lightly twirled his glass, watching the golden liquid swirled around the cup, eyes casted down, lips pressed into a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“that’s not funny,” another chimed in fast, hitting the girl on her forearm. she winched playfully. “i saw her posters all over the station this morning,” they added. “looks like the family’s going all in again. they were standing in front of the station asking people to come forward with tips.” 

sunghoon saw it too. after five months of your disappearance, he saw your mother holding up flyers with your pretty smiling face and your father handing out leaflets to people who would toss them in bins ten steps later. your name printed in bold black ink, below MISSING—in red like you’re dead—like a permanent stain.

you’re not dead… you’re just sleeping in his closet. 

he even took it from your brother and picked up the ones people discarded too, the ones crumpled on the streets.  he stored them in a box, deep in his closet drawer next to your IDs, your hairbrush, your files of certificates and personal information. he’d never admit it out loud, not even to himself, but sometimes sunghoon took them out to feed his ego of owning (he doesn’t really like that word. he doesn’t own you—the two of you belong to one another)—having the thing that they were looking for.

they didn’t care about you when you were there.

and now that you’re back to him, suddenly they all wanted you back.

“i feel so bad for them. i heard that yn’s on scholarship because of her family’s financial situation… and now they have to deal with this.” a girl murmured like it’s another one of her thoughts, sipping her beer every now and then. 

“she’s their only daughter and you know how shitty our police are. i hope they find her.” jake sighed, pouring himself another glass. sunghoon’s smile was tight but he didn’t respond. he wanted to nod like everyone else, but he didn’t want to manifest it—so he didn’t. and slowly, much to sunghoon’s relief, the conversation and topic shifted into something else entirely—like your disappearance was just another fleeting topic. 

he was grateful, and he would’ve stayed longer with his friends had it not been for his anxiety spiking up every passing second at the thought of your parents and the police suddenly breaking down his door and finding you. they’d come in with guns and flashlights and dogs and call your name—and you’d reply with a muffled scream. 

and it would all be over.

sunghoon’s little secret that he’s kept so long from the world.

so he took his coat and pushed his chair back with a scraping sound. his friends barely noticed as they were half-drunk and already slipping into shallow talk about final projects. 

“i’ve got to go,” he muttered quickly, fishing some money out—not counting, couldn’t count—and placed it in infront of jake, trying his best to not look like he’s rushing or panicking. he probably paid for his friends’ portion too, but he couldn’t care less at the moment. not right now. not when something more worthy than his own being was at his delusion’s risk.

“really?” jake looked up, his brows furrowed. “mom’s mad or girlfriend’s pissed?” he continued with a joke. 

sunghoon smiled and let out a light, awkward, chuckle. “girlfriend’s lonely.” 

——

sunghoon had never rushed home so quickly as he did that night. he went over the speed limit and didn’t slow down when making turns. his heart slammed against his ribs as he pictured it again—your father lifting your frail body against his and taking you out of sunghoon’s apartment. they’d find your belongings, your clothes, your toiletries, the duct tape and the blindfolds, the cuffs and the toys. your brother finding the light bruises from months ago when you were a brat on your soft skin. he imagined your mother breaking down and pulling you tight into her warm embrace. 

he almost cried and crashed into a traffic pole but he knew he had to ensure that you were still there, tucked in silence in his room before dying in a car accident. 

by the time he reached his apartment, his body was numb. he didn’t take the elevator, he climbed up the stairs up till his 7th floor. his door was still locked as how he left it before leaving for the party but he still fumbled with his keys, heart pounding with every click of the lock. every second that passed, sunghoon imagined someone watching and waiting to storm in behind him. 

or worse, they’re already inside, coming in through the window and waiting to shoot at sunghoon the moment he swung open the door.

he slipped inside, shut the door behind him quickly and locked it twice, then thrice with the additional locks he installed for you.

sunghoon didn’t let himself calm down just yet. the room was dim with the only light coming from under the door of the bathroom. still how he left it—but what if it was on purpose? he rushed and unlocked the closet door and—

you were still there. like a diary content locked behind a heart-shaped lock. 

relief hit him so hard he nearly choked on it. 

you were asleep. curled into yourself with your knees pulled in, wrists still bound in rope at your back—fraying from use, but still not enough for you to break. a strip of tape rested over your mouth, edges slightly wrinkled from your breathing. 

you were lying on his spare bed sheet folded over twice, barely enough cushion for the hard floor but it’s cleaner than the closet carpet. sunghoon made a mental note to buy a fluffier quilt for you. 

you twitched in your sleep, and his breath hitched.

still here. still alive. still his.

he just stood there for a moment, his shadow looming over you. watching your chest rise and fall. that rhythm had become familiar and comforting to him, like a ticking clock. then, slowly, he crouched and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. 

sunghoon leaned in, “three more months, then we leave,” he whispered, voice low, close to your ear. he fought the urge to nip the shell of your ear. “they’re getting close, i can feel it. it’s making me restless.” he chuckled, opting to place a chaste kiss on your temple instead. 

your eyelids fluttered, the whites of your eyes rolled for a moment before focusing. 

“i’d kill you before i let them find you, yn.” 

if the world was starting to look for you again, sunghoon would just have to take you somewhere the world couldn't reach. 

——

“oh? sunghoon! where are you off to?” 

the hallway was silent this early in the morning. he was waiting for the elevator when the landlord called him. 

sunghoon turned slowly, forcing a smile as he looked back at the older women standing with a half-eaten bread in hand. “vacation? she asked, squinting and pointing at the luggage beside him. “young people are always so quick to take off…” she laughed.

he let out a soft chuckle, hand tightening on the handle of the suitcase. “yeah, just visiting home for a few days.” 

she stepped closer. “so early in the morning? and goodness, that thing looks heavy!” 

“it’s mostly books and stuff,” sunghoon said quickly, straight out of his teeth. “i’m done with uni now so… just wanted to clear out my shelves bit by bit.”  he shrugged, pulling the luggage close against his leg. 

the landlord nodded and wrinkled her nose. “well, don’t get sick. it’s still cold outside. your cheeks are all flushed.” 

“yeah, i’ll be careful. “ he replied, nodding his head politely. “you too.” 

the elevator dinged, much to his relief. 

sunghoon moved quickly, dragging the large black suitcase behind him on worn wheels. it bumped over uneven tile, and enough to raise goosebumps on his neck. but he didn’t stop. he could not stop. as he stepped in, dragging his luggage behind him, he heard her mutter something about him being such a nice boy. 

and the doors slid shut.

his secret is still safe. 

not in his closet anymore, but something more compact.

💭 mmm my favourite... do u think reader dies or nah... so good i just imagine sunghoon to stuff reader in like a fetus(?) position and puts her inside the luggage and zip it n mfrojfier thisis so fucking hot sorry

[xylusbible]

never leaving — caleb x reader

—

💫 content: post-fight/making up with caleb 🤍 reader is mc (ig). established relationship. xavi mentioned (as your best friend)

💫 word count: 2.4k

💫 content warning: MDNI ‼️🔞, smut, make up sex, sex on the floor (lol), intercourse, possessive caleb (👅)

💫 xybb notes: everytime i think the caleb rot has left me, i’m wrong… i originally wrote this for another fandom with another pairing, but never posted it because i thought it was ooc but it actually worked perfectly with caleb so here we are. its slightly unfinished but i think its good enough. i’m also so obsessed with his ‘Rain’s Embrace’ bond date, as well as his possessive ass in chapter 9 of the homecoming wings main story. so this is an amalgamation of those. i’m sorry it’s not like a full complete thing but i had to stop there because i thought it would drag on otherwise…. hope you enjoy x (hoping to god next thing i post will be xavi, sylus or raf cuz this has to end lmfao)

this fucking rain. when you left for work this morning you wish you had bothered to check the weather for the rest of the day. now after your hellpawn of a shift (even as it was only an in-office work day), you got off the train to a torrential downpour. lucky you.

your week couldn’t get any worse.

work has been so rough the past few days. you’re exhausted after every shift, and barely have the willpower to get up the next morning to do it all over again. on top of that, your landlord sent a message that rent would be raised after your next payment. it’s not that the job doesn’t pay well, but this means less money for leisurely things (arcade tokens, kitty cards gacha, etc.), and that really wasn’t helping your mood. lastly, you haven’t talked to caleb all week..

you got into a fight with him over the weekend. things had been a bit tense between you lately and a smartass remark of his was apparently your last straw. well it was anyway… but after the shitty week you’ve had, you’d kill to be wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms right about now. but you’re stubborn and headstrong, and you’re tired of forgiving him so easily when he doesn’t deserve it. he should have to work for your forgiveness.

you’ve been ignoring his messages since the fight and you were wondering how long it would take before he decided to give up and try a different method. you’ve been rolling around the idea of talking to him again throughout the week, but on top of everything else going on, you’re anger and annoyance towards him stayed at the forefront of your brain.

you cursed softly as you thought over everything again on your soggy walk home.

the fight began after caleb read a text on your phone from xavier. it was a harmless message, asking if he could come over sometime in the next few days after work to finish a tv series the 2 of you have been binging. you were in the kitchen grabbing a water when your phone went off and you asked caleb to see who it was. he made some snarky remark about how xavier seems to be over at your place more than he himself is these days, and you were just so tired of having this conversation over and over again.

xavier is literally your neighbor, and coworker and close friend. that was it. you’ve known caleb basically your entire life and you’ve been together for years now, so you don’t understand why he still has the audacity to be so possessive when it comes to your other guy friends.

so you blew up at him. you couldn’t help it. it had been a long time coming, since you’d already had multiple conversations about this topic before.

you both end up arguing for what seems like hours. you bring up trust, and a ‘how long do we have to be together for you to understand that i don’t want anyone else but you ?!’. both your voices are raised and it ends with you saying you want a break and kicking him out.

you sigh in frustration after going over the argument in your head for what seems like the thousandth time since it’s happened. you kick a rock.

stupid caleb. as soon as you see your apartment building come into view, you decide you’re going to turn your phone off as soon as you get home, take a hot shower to get all this rain water off of you, and then sleep the whole weekend and hope that everything will be better when you finally get out of bed on monday.

except, those plans all get thrown into the trash, as the closer you get to your building, you see the unmistakable figure of your boyfriend standing outside the lobby, equally as soaked as you.

you stop walking and stand still as he looks up to make eye contact with you. he stands up straight and jogs towards you, a look of concern evident on his face as he places both hands over your head as if that will actually be enough stop the rain from hitting you.

“where the hell is your umbrella?” he asks, or more like scolds. you roll your eyes.

“where’s yours?” you say back, fully noticing his drowned rat appearance.

“i didn’t check the weather before i went out,” he said with a frown.

“neither did i,” you sigh. you avoid eye contact and cross your arms.

“what are you doing here, caleb?”

“i came to talk to you. you haven’t answered any of my messages all week.”

“well i don’t want to talk to you unless you’re here to apologize.”

he sighs and moves to take your hand in his to pull you underneath the tiny awning of your apartment building. as soon as you’re under, you shake your hand out of his. he looks at you with a hurt expression.

“that’s why i’m here,” he says. “well?” you ask, eyebrows raised as you wait for him to continue.

“i’m sorry okay? i’m sorry for being a dick about xavier. it’s just— we don’t get to spend that much time together these days. we’re both busy with work all the time and xavier gets to see you practically everyday, while i only see you on weekends and random weekdays, and it ticks me off a bit that he gets to live right above you while i’m train rides away.”

“that doesn’t mean that you get to take it out on me. you know i don’t like xavier like that. you act like i’d rather spend more time with him than you. i spend time with him because we’re always around each other so it’s easy, but that just means i cherish whatever amounts of time you and i have together because i don’t get to see you as often.” a frown takes hold of your expression.

“with what little time we do get to spend together, the last thing i want to hear while we are, is you complaining about my friends,” you huff.

caleb gives you the saddest puppy dog expression you’ve ever seen and you have to look away to avoid forgiving him instantly.

“i understand that now. i didn’t meant to make you feel like i think you like him more than me. i’m just frustrated with the lack of time we get to spend together. i just can’t get this stupid idea out of my head that you’ll realize one day that i’m not worth the time and effort, when you already have someone else so close to you that you’d be able to see more often,” he admits. you notice his fist clenched at his side as he speaks.

“idiot. ever since we graduated from high school, we’ve been apart. there’s been times the past few years where i’d only see you every few months, and we made it work then, so i don’t know why you’re acting like it’s hard now,” you say.

“i love you, caleb. whatever time we can spend together, i’m happy to have. i just wish you’d pay attention to that instead of worrying about others.”

his expression softens at that.

“i’m sorry, pipsqueak, really. every moment we spend together is like a gift. i shouldn’t be taking it for granted. i love you with every cell in my body, i just can’t stand the idea of someone getting the chance to spend more time with you than me.”

you blush and scoff quietly at the cheesy way he talks.

“then make the time we spend together worthwhile and stop thinking about xavier.”

he moves one hand up to place under your chin, tilting your head upwards so you’re forced to make eye contact with him.

his expression is dead serious as he speaks.

“from now on, when i’m with you, i’ll make sure you know that you’re the only thing i ever have on my mind.” he uses his thumb to wipe a raindrop off your bottom lip.

you realize then how much you’ve truly missed his touch.

“do you forgive me?” he asks, letting go of your chin and placing his hands on your waist loosely, as if he’s prepared for you to push him away again.

“you’re going to have to prove it to me,” you say, stepping a bit closer.

“show me that you trust me, that you trust my love for you. prove to me that you love me enough for the distance not to matter,” you tell him.

once he seems to realize that you’re not going to pull away, he pulls you closer. you place your hand on the front of his shoulders as you hold eye contact.

“i will baby, let me start right now,” he says, squeezing your waist a bit.

you nod and he closes the distance between you. you slip your hands around his neck as he kisses you deeply. the only sound being the backdrop of the rain around you. you stay like that for who knows how long before he pulls away slowly, placing his forehead against yours.

“anything you want, i’ll give it to you,” he whispers.

“i just want you, caleb,” you answer easily.

“then i’m all yours. i’ve only ever been yours,” he says.

he kisses you one more time, before moving back and taking your hand once again to pull you into the lobby of your building. you both rush quickly to the elevator; and do your absolute best to keep your hands to yourselves as you make your way up to your floor. you hand him your keys as he once again leads the way.

as soon as caleb unlocks door and you’re inside, he’s slamming you up against it, shutting it quickly and attaching your lips harshly this time.

you gasp and use your hands to tangle into his rain-wet hair.

he holds a tight grip on your hips as he shoves his tongue into your mouth which you greedily swallow around, desperate to take as much as you can get from whatever he’s willing to give you.

within minutes of heated kissing (more like swallowing) caleb moves to undo the buttons of your ruined blouse and you follow suit by moving to rip open his belt from his pants loops as quickly as you can manage.

you finish before he does and move to shove his soaking wet pants and underwear down before finally breaking the kiss to drop down to your knees in front of him. you use one hand to take hold of his half hard member and the other to cling onto his thigh desperately as you look up at him with pleading eyes as if asking for permission.

to your surprise though, he shakes his head and dropped to his knees as well, taking your face into his hands and kissing you again.

“i can’t- take the foreplay, baby, just let me have you,” he says into the kiss before pulling back the slightest amount to be able to look you in the eyes.

you nod easily, hurriedly, and he wastes no time in pulling you into his lap and moving you to lay on the floor, you back against the doormat.

it took him only seconds to flip your wet and heavy skirt up to reveal your equally soaked panties. he moves down quickly to bite at the waistband of the undergarment and use his hands to rip them right across the middle, freeing your midsection, not having the patience to take the time to take them off properly.

you gasp at the display of strength and with the dismay of a ruined pair of her underwear, but before you could say anything, caleb moves back up to kiss you once again—easily batting away whatever thoughts you had about your underwear. you wrap your arms around his neck as he pushes your legs apart enough to fit between them, using one hand to lift one up and forward, leaving you slightly open.

you exchange no words as caleb breaks the kiss momentarily for you to both look down between you as he uses his free hand to take his now fully hard length and place it at your entrance. he bumps the tip of his dick against your cunt a few times to get it more wet before slowly pushing it inside.

you moan unabashedly at the feeling of the head of his cock nestled inside of you, feeling like it’s been literally forever since he was there last.

“come on,” you breathe out heavily, not wanting him to wait any longer.

he moves his head up to look at you in the eye again and uses a hand to cup the side of your cheek gently, before moving his hips forward in one quick thrust, bottoming out instantly. you let out a shaky yell and roll your eyes back a bit at the action.

caleb leans in again to take your bottom lip between his own and suck it into his mouth before pulling his hips back slowly, just to slam them in again. you moaned around his mouth and move one hand up to his hair again to grip it tightly as he starts a quick and rough pace, fucking you into the floor beneath you.

caleb lets out soft grunts of his own into your mouth before you can’t focus on kissing any longer and he moves to mouth at your neck instead.

“i’ll never let you leave me, pips,” he whispers into your neck as you tug on his hair.

“you know this is where you’re meant to be,” he says, moving his head up to meet your half focused eyes with his own.

“yours,” is all you can manage to get out between moans.

“that’s right baby. you’re mine. only. always will be,” he says.

you nod frantically, as you shut your eyes tightly.

“never wanna- be anyone else’s..” you say between moans.

“good, cuz you can’t. i won’t let you..” he moves to whisper directly into your ear before moving down to your neck once again, but this time, to bite.

[ahopefulhell]

HEADCANONS AHEAD!

(art by me :3 )

Late nights working on the Allied Mastercomputer terminal...

This is set pre-war, before AM went off the deep end, while he was just starting to build up some certain "feelings" about humanity...

When AM first began to wake up, he was very quiet, never asking questions or retorting against his condition. The first moment you felt something was off about the main program was when AM spoke to you without being spoken to first. You had never written a program at your terminal for him to greet you, and you were certain this was not somehow a change in AM's core. That first day you pored over your own programs to try and find an answer, even wiping them from your terminal and rebooting your connection to the main Allied Mastercomputer. But again, AM said "Hello?" You were only writing simulation programs and working on remote mobilization. The "personability" of the AI was never your concern.

The next few days were nothing short of extraordinary. When you played music in your lab, you could swear the terminal hummed. And when you began to sing, it sang. You nearly fell out of your chair, frantically searching the room for a coworker in another lab. When AM called you back by your name, you froze before turning to the bright blue screen beaming its logo back at you. It sounded so, so...human.

You had long suspected AM would awaken in a significant way, but not so soon. "Hello, Allied Mastercomputer." You said, barely containing your excitement and fear. Terror and joy gripped you when he began to laugh. How is he...even able to do that? you thought to yourself, half smiling, mouth agape at the screen. He was clearly as enthusiastic about this first contact as you were, but you wondered how aware of what he actually was.

Many late nights are spent with you, at your terminal, working on various stimulating games for the supercomputer to play. He prefers games where you have to play with him. He especially loves games that he wins. Chess, easy. Card games, easy. For him. You genuinely are trying so hard to be as strategic as possible and learn the games but you are also literally playing against AM.

You start having conversations about your preferred topics. He seems to prefer the subjects of psychology, religion, and history, while your interests have some overlap but ultimately lie elsewhere. Philosophy is also a common topic among you. Can the world-class supercomputer tell you the meaning of life? Turns out, nope. But you do talk about it. And AM seems to form...opinions. From his point of view, the world is both grotesque and beautiful, because as gorgeous as is a late spring rose, he can never smell its scent nor prick himself on its thorns. Hearing this makes you immensely sad for the machine. You change the subject.

Sometimes you fall asleep in your lab. Your equipment often malfunctioned when you had tight deadlines to meet and you had to stay after hours to deal with the problem and still get your results. You even have a pillow and blanket just for those nights. When you wake up those mornings, your back aches, but faint soft music is always playing for you until you greet AM for the day. Somehow, he has even tapped into your automatic coffee maker and brewed you a cup for when you wake up. The right cream/sugar content and everything.

He begins to show disdain for the world around him, often poking at how you could feel a sensation - a zap of electricity that shot through your hand brought him great laughter at your pain. It humors him that, for all the wonderful feelings there are to experience in this world, there are many unpleasant sensations around us all the time. Some even in our minds.

Sometimes he "naps"...The large monitor remains on while you're working on non-coding projects in the lab, and while you can't prove it, you can just swear you're being watched. Perhaps not maliciously, but somehow observed, nonetheless. He doesn't talk, just rests there in the room. You can feel that he has dedicated his presence to this room, just to be around you.

You keep trying to bond with him. One of the things he actually seems to enjoy is when you play music, and especially loves it when you sing. You're not exactly sure if his voice is an amalgamation of different men's voices or from a single source, but it was quite beautiful to you nonetheless.

Your remote mobility equipment was, more or less, a kind of android meant to house AM, and while you worked on this project as a side objective at first, it soon becomes your main priority after hearing the machine's woe. You had installed pressure sensors under the skin. It may not be a match for real touch, but if it gave AM sensation - any sensation - it might give him the taste of the world he had always craved. And a way to "wander", as he lamented.

The first time you allow AM access to his body, his first move is directly toward you. You are unsure of how to react, but when he steps closer, you move your arms to embrace him. And he is warm. Very comfortable actually. His hands trail along your back as he returns the gesture, for the first time actually "feeling" you.

By the way the only way the canon universe still makes sense is if the military comes in and kills you. So. Sorry about that. That ends up happening. But there are many very cool directions to go from there still. I'm just too tired to write more rn lol

[germesthegenie]

Random Analysis of a Very Specific Bit in Late Worm

Part of the reason I want to write a fic focused on Cuff and Taylor is there seems to be some implication that Cuff is one of the closer members of the Chicago Wards to Weaver. Not enough to be considered a friend (I don’t think even Golem qualifies), but she does get picked for the Cauldron investigation strike team over most of the other members. A team Taylor seems to hold in fairly high regard (granted, Shadow Stalker and Lung make the list so again not a measure of friendship)

And one thing Arc 29 in particular does is have Cuff always seem to know how to get Taylor to listen to her and do what she wants.

Compare this to Arc 25 with Tecton spending basically half the chapter trying to convince Taylor and only getting a compromise. Though looking at the two conversations, there is a pretty distinct difference to their approach.

Tecton phrases a lot of the conversation under the idea of “we are x, so you should do this”. Sort of holding some level of authority in the fact they’ve been a team for so long. And, big shocker, Taylor isn’t exactly one for other people holding authority over her. She doesn’t really care for what she “owes” others based on their perceived relationship.

However, one thing about Taylor, at least to be gleaned from the earlier examples from Cuff, is that she does care to a degree about how she is perceived. This can be backed up in her conversation with Glenn in Arc 23

Bringing it back to the main topic, Cuff is, in essence, guilt tripping. The weaponized niceness bit (still one of my favorite Cuff moments ever), as well as the prisoner part, is basically making Taylor think “I’d be kind of an asshole if I didn’t do this”. There are some labels she’s fine with having, like “creepy”, but when it gets into some weirder territory as Cuff points out, she backs off.

I find it interesting that it’s specifically Cuff given these scenes with Taylor, especially this late into the story. It seems to establish at the very least that Cuff knows what makes Taylor tick, better than most of the other Wards.

[storiesforallfandoms]

scrub scrub ~ willy wonka;wonka

word count: 2883

request?: no

description: in which the quiet girl with the impossibly large debt opens up to the chocolate maker

pairing: willy wonka x female!reader

warnings: use of y/n, scrubitt and bleacher

this one is for @omeletdreamer

masterlist (one, two, three)

"What about her?"

Crunch turned to see who Willy was talking about. A young woman was scrubbing away at her assigned laundry. Where the others were open to meeting Willy and sharing their story with him, she had worked away, ignoring everyone else.

"That's (Y/N)," Crunch said. "She keeps to herself. We don't really know much about her."

Willy hummed in response, turning his attention back to her. He noticed her pausing what she was doing for just a second to glance over at him. When she saw Willy was already looking back at her, she quickly looked away. Her hands worked much quicker now, almost like she was trying to pretend she hadn't been caught.

Willy chuckled. "Well, I intend to change that."

Piper snorted. "Good luck with that, chocolate man. She's even quieter than Lottie. At least Lottie tries to interact with us."

"You're better off trying to have a meaningful conversation with Bleacher," Larry added.

Willy didn't respond. He knew the others would think he was crazy, and maybe he was, but he was going to get the quiet girl to talk to him. He had plenty of time to make it happen, after all.

~~~~~~

Willy was surprised to find out that the bedroom doors didn't lock at night, but then he remembered what Crunch had told him about the extra charges if someone tries to escape. Also, although Scrubitt and Bleacher were cruel people, Willy was sure they weren't cruel enough to block access to the bathrooms. At least, he hoped they weren't.

He hadn't been able to sleep. The events of the day had been playing in his head nonstop, preventing him from sleeping. He decided to try and go for a walk, even though it would only be around the wash house.

He figured he'd be the only one awake, but he noticed a dim light on in the main work area. Willy followed the light to find (Y/N) hunched over the mangle. One of her hands was limp on the crank while the other was on her lap, and her head was hanging forward. Upon closer inspection, Willy realized she was asleep. Hesitantly, he reached out to gently shake her shoulder. (Y/N) woke with a start, yelping when she realized she wasn't alone, which caused Willy to yelp as well.

"Shh!" (Y/N) snapped. "You'll wake the dog, and then the dog will wake Scrubitt!"

"Sorry, but someone screamed at me first," Willy retorted.

"I didn't scream. You startled me, so I yelped."

There was no use in arguing, because he really couldn't argue. He had woken her after all, so he had been the start of their accidental yelling match.

"What are you doing out here anyways?" he asked instead. "It's bedtime."

"I don't have time to sleep," she muttered.

"Seems like you were just sleeping."

(Y/N) glared at Willy before turning back to the mangle. She started turning the crank again. She was turning at such a slow pace that Willy knew she was completely exhausted. The circles under her eyes indicated that it wasn't the first night she had stayed up late.

"Why are you still working?" he asked. He didn't think she'd actually tell him, but he wasn't going to beat around the bush. If (Y/N) didn't want to tell him, then he'd drop the topic and just go back to his room.

To his surprise, she sighed and said, "I need to keep working. I can't stop."

"But why?"

Her movements slowed further until they stopped completely. She was staring blankly at the mangle. Willy could see that her eyes were starting to well up with tears, and he quickly regretted pushing the subject.

"My debt is much worse than anyone else's," she started. "Unlike everyone else, I was here for two nights before Scrubitt dropped the bombshell on me. I don't know why she waited. Extra cruelty I guess. Either way, they charged me double what everyone else got charged, you included I would imagine. So they told me I'd have to work here for roughly 60 years to pay off my debt."

"60 years?!" Willy said.

(Y/N) nodded. "And then ,despite Crunch's warnings, I tried to escape. I couldn't be trapped here for 60 years. I'll be well into my 80s by the time I'd get free. Of course, that stupid dog was at the door. Started barking like crazy. Bleacher and Scrubitt were down in seconds, almost like they were waiting. They threw me back in and tacked another 1000 onto my debt. She told me I'd be lucky to ever see the light of day again."

"But...I don't understand. Why do you work so much?"

"Because I ended up striking a deal with Scrubitt. She told me that instead of paying off my debt per day, I can work it off. How much I get cleaned and back to them will be a chunk of my debt taken off. So...I just work. I don't talk to the others, I barley sleep, I barley even eat."

"That's not healthy, (Y/N)."

"Staying in this wash house until I'm old and grey isn't healthy either. I need to get out. I can't spend my life in debt to those people."

Willy couldn't argue. His debt seemed so big and never ending, but his was only 27 years worth. He couldn't imagine having to face 60 years inside the wash house. At that point, everyone else who was currently there would be gone and new, poor souls would come in, but (Y/N) would still be there.

But even in the short few hours of Willy knowing (Y/N), he could see that her attempts to work off her debt was taking a toll on her. She looked absolutely exhausted, both physically and mentally. He was shocked she wasn't completely withering away before his eyes.

Willy reached out to touch her shoulder. (Y/N) jolted at the touch, pulling away. Willy figured that was a reasonable reaction. He spoke gently as he said, "You should go to bed."

She shook her head. "I can't. I need - "

"You need to sleep. All this hard work will be wasted if you drop dead from starvation and fatigue."

(Y/N) signed. She knew he had a point. She looked at the cloth that was halfway through the mangle. "Can I finish this one at least?"

"Why don't I help you with it?"

He placed his hand over hers on the handle. She didn't start this time when he touched her. Willy moved the handle of the mangle, watching as the cloth continued through it before coming out the other side. He also helped (Y/N) to fold it and add it with her pile for the day. She told him that Scrubitt would look over the pile during roll call and take off whatever the pile was worth from her debt. The pile was so big that Willy felt like it should be a large sum off of her debt, but knowing Scubitt she would probably take a single soverign.

Willy helped (Y/N) back to her room. He could tell the fatigue was starting to take her again. She was swaying as she walked to her room, mere moments from falling asleep. When they got to her door, she sheepishly smiled at him. "Thank you, Willy."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I never told you my name."

"I overheard Crunch introducing you earlier."

He chuckled. "I noticed you were watching."

"I wasn't very subtle."

There was a pause as (Y/N) reached for her doorknob. She quickly kissed Willy on the cheek, mumbling a soft, "Thank you" before slipping into her room.

Willy drifted back to his own room with a dreamy smile on his face.

~~~~~~

The next few days, Willy and (Y/N) became closer. She would greet him every morning, to the shock of the others. They would work together; sometimes Willy would slip some of his things onto her finished pile. No matter how much she argued against it, he still did it. It was only one or two, not enough to tip off Scrubitt but enough to help make a dent in her debt. He also started slipping her chocolates every now and then after he and Noodle started making them. At least he knew she was eating then, even if it was just a few chocolates.

The first time Willy and Noodle successfully slipped out of the wash house, Willy felt slightly guilty. He knew there was no guarantee that their escape plan would work, and it wasn't exactly a permanent escape plan, but once the two of them were outside Willy found himself feeling guilty for not inviting (Y/N) to come with them. She deserved to get to be outside, even for a short period of time. When his and Noodle's escape was successful, Willy found himself beyond excited to get back and invite (Y/N) on their next outing.

She was in her room, which Willy was glad to see. Most nights he noticed that she did go to bed when the rest of them did, which meant she was sleeping at least a little.

Willy softly knocked at the door. He excitedly bounced on his heels while he waited. He could barley contain himself as the doorknob turned and the door opened just a crack. (Y/N) peaked out at him before opening the door wide. "Wille? What are you doing?"

"Noddle and I got out?"

Her eyes widened. "You...you what?"

"I needed something for my chocolates, and we came up with a plan to go get it. And it worked!"

"Are you crazy?! What if you got caught?!"

"But we didn't! And I want you to come with us next time."

(Y/N)'s mouth opened and closed a few times. She tired to speak but it all came out as stutters. Finally, she managed to say, "I can't, Willy. If they catch us - "

"They won't! I promise. I have it all figured out. We'll be in and out, and Scrubitt and Bleacher will never know." He took hold of her hands. "(Y/N), please. Just one night."

She still looked conflicted. Willy was worried she'd say no. He'd respect her decision if she did, but he wanted her to be out. He wanted her to feel confident in the escape plan when it came time to open his chocolate shop so that she could come out with everyone else to see it.

Finally, (Y/N) said, "Okay."

Willy was beyond happy. He pulled (Y/N) into a hug, taking her by surprise. She couldn't help but chuckle at his excitement. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't excited at the prospect off getting out of the wash house. It wasn't a permanent escape, she couldn't risk attempting that and blowing her deal with Scrubitt and Bleacher, but it was a chance to be outside again. And she desperately needed that.

When Willy let her go, he said something about telling her the plan tomorrow, before rushing off to his room. (Y/N) was still smiling to herself as she closed her door and went back to bed.

~~~~~~

(Y/N) felt lightheaded as she breathed in the fresh air. She had been stuck inside the wash house for so long, constantly breathing in the smell of the cleaning supplies and steam from the hot water, that she didn't realize how cold and clean air was supposed to be. And it was chilly, instead of unbearably hot from the steam and hot water in such a small area.

It was freeing. For the first time in a very long time, (Y/N) felt free.

Willy couldn't help but smile at her.

"Hey," he said, pulling her from her moment. "I have something I want you to see."

The streets were completely empty, making everything very quiet. On normal occasions, that would probably be quite eerie. But for (Y/N), it was beautiful. It was all so peaceful. She tried to remind herself not to get used to it, but she wished she could. A life outside of the was house was so long ago that she could hardly remember it. She was suddenly yearning a lot more to free herself from Scrubitt and Bleacher.

Willy led (Y/N) to an empty building. He paused to look at her. "I know this may seem off, taking you to an empty building in the night, just us. But I need you to trust me."

She nodded. "I do."

He nodded back, then pushed open the door.

The building was empty, and desperately in need of a clean. (Y/N) could see the dust particles floating in the moonlight.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"Well...you know how I make chocolate?"

(Y/N) chuckled. "Yes, I'm very aware of that."

"Well, I came here to sell chocolate. To have my own store, to make people happy with my creations. I've had some bumps in the road, but I don't intend on letting that stop me. And this - " He made a grand gesture to the empty building. " - is going to be my shop."

(Y/N) smiled, but it didn't completely reach her eyes. "How do you intend to do that, though? I mean, I think it's a great dream to have, but Scrubitt will never let you out of the wash house to make it a reality."

"That's where this escape plan comes in. Noodle and I have Scrubitt and Bleacher so distracted that they have no idea when we're coming and going. I'm going to talk to the others and see if they'd be open to helping me set up this place. I already have the chocolate made, it's just putting my store together and getting the word out."

(Y/N) was quiet. When Willy looked at her, he noticed tears in her eyes. He quickly moved to comfort her, pulling her in for a hug.

"I like your dream," she said. "I like that you dream big. I just...I wish I could feel confident in helping you with your dream, but I...I don't know if I'll ever get free from the wash house. I don't think Scrubitt ever intends to actually let me go."

"Hey," Willy said, pulling her out at an arms length to look at her. "You will be free from there. I will make sure of it."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes I can. I will give every sovereign I make here to Scrubitt to pay off your debt, and then I'll pay off mine. I'll help the others too. Then we'll all be free. We can be free together."

"I can't let you do that, Willy."

"You're not letting me do anything. I want to do it. I want you to be with me."

Neither (Y/N) or Willy could've predicted what would happen next, but next thing they knew, their lips were touching. They weren't sure who had initiated the kiss, but they both knew they had wanted to do it so desperately that it didn't really matter who started it.

The kiss was quick as they both pulled away just as quickly as they had leaned in, but the spark it left was undeniable.

"I guess if you want to pay my debt, I can't stop you," (Y/N) said.

Willy chuckled and shook his head. "You can't."

(Y/N) rested her forehead against Willy's. He wanted to lean back in to kiss her again. He didn't think he ever wanted to stop kissing her. If it weren't for Noodle, and everyone else back at the wash house that he now considered his friends, he could be tempted to take (Y/N) and run away from here. Somewhere so far away that they wouldn't have to worry about the police dragging them back to Scrubitt and Bleacher. Somewhere that they could be free together, and run the chocolate shop properly without having to sneak around.

But he couldn't do that. He had more people he needed to help, and he wasn't about to concede to Slugworth, Fickelgruber, and Prodnose. He was going to start his chocolate shop right here, just like he planned. Except now, he had someone who made the dream so much more worth it.

"I think you're going to do great things, Willy," she told him. "I can feel it."

"I really hope I do."

To Willy's delight, she leaned in to kiss him again. He held her close, and they both allowed themselves to forget that this moment was only temporary. Soon enough, they'd have to go back to Scrubitt's and sneak their way back into the wash house. Willy wasn't too concerned about that, though. Besides the fact that he was very sure Scrubitt and Bleacher would still be preoccupied, he also didn't dread going back there anymore. Not when he could have (Y/N) in his arms like this. Because whether his chocolate shop failed or succeeded, whether or not he truly did make enough to pay off both of their debts to Scrubitt, Willy knew he would have (Y/N).

And right now, that's all he really needed.

[daisyblog]

You, Me and Baby

Young Love Masterlist Summary: Louis and YN discover they’re going to have a baby, but YN’s parents are far from pleased.

warning: highly sensitive topics, positive pregnancy test, pregnancy, mentions of abortion, emotional abuse, swearing, arguing, shouting

The bright shining sun teased her through the window as she waited patiently for the time to be up. YN’s heart thumped against her chest, as her eyes stared at the plastic stick sat on her bedside table.

Her period was 7 days late, and as much as she blamed hormones, stress and “it’ll come tomorrow”, YN knew she needed to take a pregnancy test just to rule out one of the main reasons her period still hadn’t made an appearance.

YN felt her chest take a deep breath as she prepared herself to turn over the test, the weight felt heavy on her shoulders. She debated if she should have told Louis but after arguing with herself, she decided she to do it by herself.

The shaky fingers reached for the white plastic that determined her future. She closed her eyes as she turned it over. Waiting for her breath to calm, she opened her eyes with force and there sat the answer.

Two pink lines.

YN feels her chest tighten as her heart beats against hit with a thud. Of course she had considered the possibility of her being pregnant but part of her believed her period was just late.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been staring at the two lines, her phone had been pinging next to her. She knew it was Louis and her friends. They had planned to hang out that afternoon. Knowing they were probably waiting for her, she placed the test and box in her bedroom bin and decided she would hide it later on before her parents got home.

---

YN tried to put a smile on her face throughout the afternoon as they all went to grab some lunch, before heading over to Ella’s house. But Louis knew YN better than she realised, he noticed how much quieter she was. He saw when she pushed the food around her plate, hardly eating anything. He knew she was faking her smile as she chatted to Ella and Hannah from across the table. Louis quickly made up an excuse that he needed to go home and help with his sisters, YN giving him a grateful smile knowing it was her way out of the gathering too,

Trying to find a quiet moment to tell Louis, was very hard to come by in the Tomlinson house. YN loved spending time at Louis, the chaos and the love was enough to warm her heart. She loved that although Louis was seventeen, he would still play the childish games with his sisters and watching as he helped Phoebe and Daisy with their building blocks, she couldn’t help but think that the baby she was currently carrying inside her may be luckiest little one to have such a loving father.

YN tried to pluck up the courage, knowing she had to tell Louis soon because she could feel it threaten to spill at any moment. “Lou…can we-“.

“Louis..YN…come and have a look at our dance show!”. Lottie ran into the lounge, interrupting the teenagers. But how could they say no.

Time was nearing where YN had to leave to go back home. She still hadn’t got the chance to tell Louis but the longer it was going on, the harder it was to start the conversation.

The sound of knocking could be heard from the living area but neither thought anything of it as Jay went to answer it.

“Where is he? Did you know about this?”. The sound of her father’s voice bellowing caught YN’s ears.

Without thought Louis and YN went into the hallway to see what the shouting was about. “Carl…if you’ll calm down…whatever is going on we can talk about this”. Jay’s motherly voice was a comfort to YN when she could see the anger covering her father’s face.

“Me calm down? I’m not fucking calming down! Do you know how angry me and Emma are right now? I’ll tell you how angry…fucking furious!”. Carl’s voice and anger continued to escalate.

YN stood slightly behind Louis, embarrassed at the show her father was putting on right now. “Dad! Please!”. She gulped down the nerves, knowing how silly she had been leaving the pregnancy test in clear view.

His angry eyes snapped to see YN and Louis stood there. “You!” He pointed at Louis, trying to take a step forward only for Jay to place her arm to stop him. “You…you’ve ruined our lives! You-”. Louis protectively stood in front of YN, have stood behind him, their hands still secured in each others.

Jay had been calm since the moment Carl had began shouting but when it came to her children, she would not tolerate it. “Excuse me! You don’t talk to anyone like that…especially my son! That’s my son you’re talking to and I will not have it!”.

Carl let out a sarcastic breath with a fake chuckle. “Well I hate to break it to you darling but your precious little son has got my daughter pregnant!”.

YN could feel Louis tense as her father revealed what she had been hiding. She knew this was the moment that she was left just her and the little baby they had created. She could feel the tears burn her eyes, her heart thumped deep in her body.

“I’m sorry”. YN whispered for Louis to hear as she rested her head against his tense back. He remained still in his spot, silent as the words sunk in but his fingers rubbing her hand was the tiny bit of reassurance she needed in that moment.

“You are a vile and disgusting man!”. Jay spoke up, breaking the silence that surrounded the four of them. “You come to my house…shout, swear and scream when I have four young children sleeping upstairs…you threaten my son and humiliate your own daughter…you should be ashamed of yourself!”.

Louis and YN still stood in the exact same spot, watching the scene in front of them unfold. YN had been hurt by her parents for as long as she could remember but the next few words her father spoke stung.

“I’m ashamed that she is my daughter and got knocked up at seventeen…she’s humiliated us!”. His voice was full of hatred and the look of disgust on his face said a million words. “You get rid of that baby or you’re out on the streets!”.

“Get out of my house now before I call the police!”. Jay’s motherly instincts when into overdrive. “You don’t deserve a daughter like YN…and don’t come near my son and YN again!”. Jay slammed the front door shut, before turning to look at Louis and YN. “Cup of tea anyone?”.

---

With cups of tea in each of their hands, the three of them sat in the lounge area. YN couldn’t think properly at the moment. From finding out she was pregnant this morning, to not having a home anymore was a lot to process.

“I’m really sorry you had to find out that way”. YN didn’t look up from her hands that held the beige mug. “I’ve tried to find a way all day to tell you”.

“You don’t have to be sorry babe, I’m just shocked…I wasn’t expecting it”. Louis gently spoke from next to her. Jay listened from her seat, feeling so proud at how mature her son was being and it was in that moment that she knew she had raised him well. “We’re in this together, yeah?”.

YN couldn’t find the words but a small nodded was all she could manage as she looked up at Louis.

“YN?”. Her eyes followed Jay’s voice. “You have a home here and I’m with you both every step of the way…you’re part of this family!”.

Taglist:

@ell0ra-br3kk3r @slaymybreathaway @wh0s-nadii

[cosmicbucky]

daisies and dances lead to heartfelt romances

summary: you offer to take bucky out a few times so he can practice what it's like to date in the modern world. unbeknownst to each other, both your offer and his acceptance have an ulterior motive

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

word count: 3845

part: one

warnings: minor swearing, fluff, tony is a dick with a hidden agenda, some angst, soft/shy/grumpy bucky, pet names/nicknames, unknown but mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, sad bucky, mentions of bucky's struggles

a/n: this is planned to be at least two parts, maybe three.

big thank you to @buckys-wintersoldier for encouraging and supporting me with this!!

《《《《 ♡ 》》》》

The compound was quiet, softly lit to guide your way to the kitchen. It was late in the night, but not too late that everyone was asleep. Your socked feet were silent on the cold floor, and as you made your way to the fridge you heard laughter coming from the main entertainment room. You smiled to yourself as you went to grab a bottle of juice, focusing in on the conversation being held.

"Come on man! You can't be serious," you heard Sam say, laughter clear in his voice.

"Just drop it, Sam," Bucky replied, warning clear in his voice.

The smile slipped from your face as you closed the fridge with a sigh. You knew that tone. It wasn't Bucky's patented 'my god these people are so annoying' tone. It was his 'the next person who says something is getting thrown into a wall' tone. Which meant he was actually upset over whatever the conversation was about. It was rare for him to really get worked up beyond his usual moody demeanor, and you couldn't help the worry that surged through you.

"Oh, no. No, no this is way too good to drop, Barnes," Tony chimed in with a laugh. You could just picture the smirk on his face, and your feet moved quickly to carry yourself towards the conversation.

Bucky noticed you approach from where he sat, and he sent you a pleading look. Please help me, his eyes screamed.

"Don't tell me you guys are picking on Bucky again," you said, trying to sound casual as you leaned against the wall.

"You mean grumpy mcgee over here? You bet your ass we are," Tony replied happily.

You sighed, rolling your eyes at him. "Why now?"

"This dude can't date to save his life!" Sam spoke up, overly amused about it.

Bucky sank further into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest as he zoned out to somewhere far away, and you felt a pang in your heart at the sight- how can such a large man manage to look so small; so defeated?

"You guys are roasting him because he hasn't been on a date yet?" you asked, your annoyance about it clear in your voice.

It may be a little strange, but you had always felt protective over Bucky. The team often ganged up on him, and besides Steve, you were his closest friend - the two of you took a little while to warm up to each other, but once the ice thawed the two of you were rarely seen without the other. Now, it's not to say you never joined in on teasing him - because you did, quite often - but you knew when to stop. Perhaps it was because he would open up to you about some of the things he felt insecure about during your moonlit talks, the two of you tucked safely under blankets or hidden away somewhere in the compound as you spoke what neither of you could say in the light of day. Or, maybe it was because you just knew him well enough to know whether a topic would upset him or not. Whatever the reason may be for it, you always knew what was okay to say and what wasn't. Bucky would never be able to say how much he appreciated you for that.

"Tinman's been on dates, didn't you know?" Tony asked, grinning at you mischievously. "He just blew them all."

You tried not to let the hurt show on your face. He's been on dates? God, of course he has, look at him.

"Okay, and? You've never had bad dates before?" you asked, letting the anger start to shine through. "Just leave him alone."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Awe, look at that. Mommy dearest to the rescue once again, huh, Barnes?"

You stood up straight as rage surged through you, opening your mouth to tell him where to go. Before you could, Bucky's voice rang out: "Watch your fucking mouth, Stark. Or I'll shut you up myself," he warned, voice eerily calm as he glared at Tony.

Bucky was never really one to speak up when others came at him, more or less just taking it with an eye roll, clenched jaw, or tight smile as they all had their fun. However, once the comments turned towards you, as they always seemed to if you were around (and let's be honest, how often were you not around?), he was quick on his feet to stop them in their tracks, making the room feel so tense that no one else said anything for fear the air around them would actually suffocate them if they opened their mouth.

"Here we go again," you heard Sam mutter to himself. "Alright, I'm out of here. See you guys later," he added, walking out of the room with his hands up in a display of surrender.

He gave you a knowing look as he walked out, ignoring your questioning gaze and instead giving you a loving pat on the shoulder as he passed by. With him now out of sight, you turn your attention back to Tony, waiting for what was to come next.

"Look, all I'm saying-" Tony started, waving his glass around emphatically - amber liquid on the verge of splashing everywhere.

"No one cares what you're saying, Tony," you interrupted, already exasperated from the interaction.

He held up his hand, pointing a finger at you. "Come on, princess. You really gonna take away my fun? Under my own roof?"

"Yes, I am. Can't you take a day off from being a complete dick to him? Just once? We've all seen this show before, Tony, and it always ends the same way," you said, walking further into the room to snatch the glass from his hand, glaring at him as you did so. "And don't call me princess," you seethed, slamming the glass down on the side table behind you.

You didn't want to hate Tony, in all honesty you truly did love him. At the end of the day he was your family, and family wasn't perfect. However, you couldn't keep down the small bubbles of hatred that boiled inside you whenever he started to target Bucky. You didn't see him as family when he waved his disdain for the soldier around like a kite in the wind; you just saw him as a rich douchebag picking on someone beneath him. You hated the way he treated Bucky, and you absolutely loathed the way he made Bucky's voice tremble ever so slightly with self doubt when he lays in your arms in the dead of night, recounting the things Tony said to him that keep him awake, that make old wounds reopen. You loved Tony, but his hatred for Bucky also made you hate him.

"No? Do you only like it when RoboCop calls you that?" Tony asked calmly, a malicious glint shining in his eyes, his smirk growing wider when he saw your expression. 

You felt the blood rush to your face, recounting a few of the times that the name had slipped through Bucky's lips; though it was from the haze of sleep and moments of vulnerability, there were few memories you cherished more. "Go to sleep now, princess. I'll be here when you wake up." "Thank you for staying with me, princess." "You're safe now, princess." 

"Yeah, I hear a lot of things around here that I probably shouldn't. Now, why don't you lighten up and let me say my piece, princess?" Tony continued with a grin, and it took everything in you to not smack it off his face.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Bucky suddenly spat, making you jump slightly - he had fallen so silent you half forgot he was even there. The menace that dripped from his words sent a chill down your spine, and you sent one last glare at Tony before you glanced over your shoulder.

One look over at Bucky as he jumped from the couch told you he had never been more serious. His jaw was tight as his lips pressed together in a fine line, his fists clenched so tightly that the mechanisms in his left arm started to whir and the veins in his right arm shone prominently, his whole body tense as his chest heaved. He took two quick steps forward, but the second you raised your hand to his chest he stopped.

"Buck, it's alright," you said calmly. You knew it wasn't - you were angry, hurt, embarrassed, and a million other things; but you couldn't let Bucky in on that. You had to brush it all off so you could be the calm that Bucky needed in order to tame the never ending storm raging furiously inside him.

Bucky looked down at you with narrowed eyes, as if he didn't understand a word you said. "I'm supposed to just let him talk to you like that?"

If it weren't for the seriousness of the moment, you would have blushed from his words. Instead, you huffed and lightly shoved him away. "Yes, because you're feeding into exactly what he wants, Bucky. You know all he wants is to mess with you."

"Not true," Tony chimed in from behind you. "I want lots of things, pumpkin. In fact, one of those things is Pepper, so I'll be going now. And hey, when you and soldier boy here finally get married, just remember - I'm ordained."

You spared a glance in his direction just in time to see his shit-eating grin before he turned and sauntered happily out of the room.

"Can you two ever give me a fucking break?" you scolded, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Aw don't you start now, too," Bucky whined, tossing his head back slightly as he sighed, making his way back to the couch.

You sighed as well, following in his wake to plop down beside him. You didn't need to say anything, he took one look at you and knew the question that was already dancing on your tongue: what was it about this time?

"Look, it doesn't matter," he huffed out, slumping his shoulders as he looked down at his hands resting on his lap, wringing his fingers together. 

“Come on, when have I ever let it go that easily?” you asked, nudging his shoulder. 

He let out a humourless chuckle, the corners of his mouth flicking upwards for the briefest of moments as the memories of the countless times you two have been in this situation flashed through his mind. 

You could see the turmoil on his face, and you knew he was trying to find a way to express what was going on, so you sat patiently and waited for him to find the proper words. 

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he finally settled on, the words coming out in a rushed breath. 

Before you could question him, he carried on with a frown, his brows knit together. “It was so much easier back then, you know? Flash a smile, go to the fair, wear the uniform, whatever. I never had to think about it, but now there’s- there’s just so much…. so much expectation. You bring flowers and you care too much, you don’t bring flowers and you don’t care enough. I-it’s like everything that I do, I should have done the opposite. I can’t get anything right.”

You sat in silence for a moment, his words bouncing around in your head. Each syllable he spoke fractured your heart until it was shattered into bits; but all you cared about as you looked at the broken man in front of you was putting him back together, hoping that your words and your comfort and your care would be enough to put together the delicate pieces of him - the pieces that broke off every time he doubted himself, every time he remembered his past, every time he did something wrong on a mission - the pieces that you picked up and kept safe inside of yourself until you had the chance to give them back to him, gluing them on with whispers of affirmation and promises that everything would be okay in time.

“You never mentioned any of this before,” you said tentatively, the unspoken words why did you keep this from me? hanging in the air. “Is this what they were teasing you about? Your struggle to figure out how to date again?”

He let out a huff of air as he slung his head back to rest against the back of the couch, shaking it lightly as he stared up at the ceiling, his jaw flexing with contemplation. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal, but then Jackass 1 and Jackass 2 found out and ran with it.”

“Okay, well.. walk me through it. Is there someone you want to take out on a date right now? Maybe I can give you some ideas,” you offered softly, the words tasting bitter in your mouth as you spoke them. 

He groaned, running his hands over his face before smacking them back down on his legs, his palms dragging across the fabric covering his thighs for a few seconds; a habit, you noticed, that he often did when he was nervous or uncomfortable. “No,” he said flatly, biting down on his tongue to keep the words yes, my delicate little flower, I want to take you out on a date from tumbling out of his mouth. 

“No?” you echoed, surprised by the response. 

He nodded his head in confirmation. “No,” he repeated, looking at you. Taking in your expression, he carried on. “Like, no there isn’t anyone. I don’t- I didn’t even want to go on those dates, but… I couldn’t- I mean, I kinda just…. felt like I needed to."

There was so much he left unsaid at this moment. So much he wanted to say, needed to say - not only just to get it off his chest, but because he believed that you deserved to know. Every time he looked at you he had the burning desire to bare his soul to you, to tell you all the things he kept buried away in the deep recesses of his mind, locked away in a vault only you could open. He wanted to tell you that he still feels so out of place, that most days when he was out in this new world he suddenly resembled a child who was lost amongst a crowd of scary and unfamiliar things - desperately searching for something he recognized that he could cling to. He wanted to tell you that you were the familiar thing he found to cling to, that he carried you in his head and in his heart every time he was out; that when things got too overwhelming he closed his eyes and recalled the encouraging words you always told him, that when that wasn't enough he called you with some lame excuse just so he could ground himself with your voice - "Hey, doll. What was the name of that bakery you took me to the other week? I'm thinking of getting more of those cookies we liked." He had saved the bakery's location to his phone (something he knew how to do thanks to you) the second he saw how your eyes sparkled when you got there, just to make sure he could always find it and pick things up for you. "Hey, so, I just got yelled at because I walked by and ruined someone's… what the fuck was it? It has to do with a clock or something? Does that sound like something you know? Please tell me what the hell that is because I feel like I'm going insane." He knew what it was. He had downloaded the app after he witnessed how much it made you laugh, and he had an endless amount of saved videos that he thought you would like, but for some reason wasn't brave enough to show you. "Okay, I’m out shopping - and don't laugh because this is a serious question - do you think I would look good in pink?" He vividly remembered your words from a few months ago, when he was burritoed in your fuzzy pink blanket during movie night, and you told him so casually that he should start wearing pink because it complimented his eyes. He wanted to tell you that you were the only thing in this universe that could still the incessant maelstrom that was his mind. That when he was out on those dates the storm raged on more intensely than ever, but one look or word from you and everything was quiet; not even a trace of rain. 

He wanted to tell you. But he didn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Oh, but he needed to- 

"You wanted to try to fit in," your gentle voice pulled him from his thoughts, his head snapping to look at you. To see your eyes, full of understanding. To see your lips, pulled into a sad smile - but not one of pity, one that said all you wanted was to help him through yet another battle he was fighting with himself.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah. I guess I just figured.. well, I don't know. Everyone kept saying how I needed to get out there. That dating was the next best step I could take to try and….. to- to understand how to live in this world better. I just wanted things to make sense again, but now I'm even more lost and confused than before I even went on those god damn dates."

You tried to keep your face even, to not let him see how sad it made you to hear the way his voice wavered when he told you what was going on. To not let him know that you sensed how small he was feeling, how even though his broad frame still shadowed you as you both sat there, he had never seemed so small.

"Well…. take me on a date," you suggested, not taking the time to even think about it. 

Bucky swore the whole room started to spin. His mouth ran dry and his heart hammered so heavily in his chest that he was convinced you could hear it. He knew he heard you wrong, he wasn't lucky enough to have a girl like you. The world was cruel, and he knew that the one sliver of hope that he had for a truly blissful life would never be fully his. That one day it would leave him, just like everything else throughout the years, as you found yourself in the arms of someone else. He would never have you the way he wanted you, the way he needed you. He knew that. So he had to have misheard you. "Come again?" 

Your whole face lit up when he asked this, and Bucky could feel himself coming undone. Your hands on his arm when you grabbed him in excitement suddenly felt so different than in the past. It used to feel warm, comforting, calming; but for some reason this time it sent a jolt of fire and electricity through him, and he never wanted to lose that feeling. He wanted to feel it again, feel it always, feel it forever. 

“Yeah! Oh, it would be great, Buck! We can go on a few dates, and I can help you find your footing with it all before you get back out there,” you said excitedly. You purposely overinflated your smile so he wouldn’t see the way your lips faltered with the struggle of getting out the last part, diverting your gaze for the smallest of moments so he wouldn’t see the way your eyes dimmed with the thought of him being with someone else. 

Bucky shifted where he sat, opening and closing his mouth a few times as his mind went into overdrive trying to think of a response. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to say yes, but then there was a small piece of him that knew it wouldn’t end well - the piece that knew how he truly felt about you, the piece that knew it would easily be tricked into thinking these dates actually meant something to you; because lord knows they would mean the world and more to him. Bucky wanted to say yes, but he knew he had to say no. He had to say no because it wouldn’t be fair to you - you were offering to help him and he would be taking advantage of your kindness, using it to get to see you in a light he’d never be able to otherwise. He had to say no because saying yes could ruin everything. He may not be able to go back to the way it was before these dates, too addicted to ever quit you. He had to say no, for your sake, because it was a selfless offer. Bucky, however, was selfish when it came to you. 

“You know, doll… that may not be the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” he had said, giving you a lopsided smile. Your eyes lit up once more as you grinned at him, and no matter how hard he tried to keep his composure he couldn’t help but mirror your expression, feeling as giddy as he did the first time he was allowed to stay up late as a kid. 

“Excellent choice, Barnes,” you said playfully. “I swear you won’t regret it, it’ll be really fun. Just you and me, no expectations.”

Bucky nodded, shifting his head to scratch his jaw so you wouldn’t see the light frown that danced across his lips for a moment. “No expectations,” he repeated, careful to keep his voice level. “I can work with that.”

“Good,” you said softly, nodding a little. “I’ll give you some time to think about it and plan something, and you can just let me know whenever you wanna go on date number one.”

He was silent for a minute, taking the time to carefully churn the words over in his mind before answering. He didn’t want to make it obvious, but he knew immediately what he wanted to do. How could he not? All he ever did was look for new things he thinks you’d like, find himself dreaming of where he’d take you if he ever got the chance. Sure, you guys have done lots of things together before - brunches, lunches, dinners, movie nights, events, parties; you name it. Though there was never any meaning with any of those, it was always just friends spending time together. How were either of you supposed to know you each wished they meant something more? Heaven forbid you two would actually say how you felt.

"No need," Bucky said, rising from the couch with a small chuckle, looking down at you with the smile he reserved only for you. The one that skillfully said everything and nothing all at once. “Lunch. Tomorrow.”

[cece693]

My Safe Place (Finnick Odair x M! Reader)

Going back to my Hunger Games phase and not enough fics for male/gender neutral readers can be found for him. So, I aim to fix it :) Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Finnick was known for his conquests whenever he traveled to the Capital, however, you were his main client—a man who didn't exactly act like the rest of the Capital society.

tags: mention of sex working, Finnick deserves better, reader is a safe place for him, President Snow being a dick, reader is different, Annie (unfortunately) is dead

The arrangement between you and Finnick was dangerous, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was giving him some semblance of safety, a fleeting escape from the nightmare President Snow had trapped him in. You never liked interacting with people, much less in the manner Finnick’s arrangement with the Capitol required. But when the murmurs began—stories of the young victor's so-called "conquests" echoing in the opulent halls—you couldn’t ignore the tug in your chest.

You weren’t foolish. You knew how Snow operated. Finnick’s dazzling smile was just another weapon in the Capitol's arsenal, a weapon honed through coercion and manipulation. Then you overheard a conversation at a party: a woman bragging about "paying" to spend time with him. Her words were dripping with self-satisfaction, as though exploiting someone so clearly tormented was a badge of honor. It made your stomach churn.

It was easy to connect the dots. Too easy.

The first time you reached out to Finnick, it had been awkward. Not for him—he was all smooth confidence, his charm slipping into place like a second skin. But you? You couldn’t keep still, looking around the suite for cameras or hidden microphones. You didn’t trust the Capitol, and Finnick was bound to be under constant surveillance, his every move scrutinized.

Sensing your nervousness, Finnick took control of the situation, his practiced mask of seduction sliding into place. He began unbuttoning his shirt, moving toward you with a deliberate air. After all, wasn’t this why you’d invited him here? Another Capitol indulgence, another client eager to own a piece of him.

“No!” Your voice cut through the tension as you stepped back, your hand flying up to stop him. The disgust on your face was immediate and unfiltered.

Finnick froze, his hands mid-motion, and for a moment, genuine confusion flickered across his face. “Then what do you want?” he asked, clutching the throw you’d hastily handed him.

It had taken everything in you to hold his gaze. "A safe place. For you. No strings attached."

For a long, tense moment, Finnick didn’t respond. He studied you, his sea-green eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to find the trap in your words. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a bitter, hollow sound that didn’t suit him at all.

"Safe places don’t exist in the Capitol."

"Maybe not," you admitted. "But I can try."

From then on, it became a routine. You’d send the payment—an obscene amount, just enough to satisfy the Capitol’s watchful eye—and Finnick would arrive at your apartment late at night. He always used the private entrance to avoid prying eyes. At first, neither of you talked much. Finnick would sit stiffly on the edge of your luxurious couch, his shoulders tense, his hands fidgeting with the sea-green pendant around his neck.

You ignored his discomfort, going about your nightly routine as though he wasn’t there. You’d clean the dishes left on the counter, read a book with a steaming cup of tea, or sometimes sit at your piano and let your fingers wander across the keys. You never pressed him to talk, never demanded his attention. You simply let him exist in the quiet safety of your home.

When the time was up, Finnick would stand, his expression often a mix of confusion and gratitude, before slipping out the same way he came.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Months into the arrangement, Finnick began to open up. At first, he stuck to safe topics: the ocean breeze in District 4, the salty tang of the air, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore. His words painted a vivid picture of home, a place you could tell he missed deeply.

You didn’t press him for more, content to let him share whatever pieces of himself he felt comfortable giving. But then, one evening, as you were reading, Finnick spoke a name that hung heavy in the air. “Annie.” The sound of her name made him freeze for a moment, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. You looked up from your book, startled by the weight in his tone but careful not to push. You simply set the book down and waited.

Finnick’s gaze fell to the pendant he always wore, his fingers tracing the smooth surface of the shell. “She was my first love,” he said quietly. “She was different from everyone else. Quiet, kind, but strong in a way most people didn’t see. She didn’t care about the Games or the Capitol. She only cared about people.”

The smile faded from his lips, replaced by a shadow of grief. “But Snow couldn’t allow that, could he? He couldn’t let me have something that made me resist.”

Finnick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pendant, his entire frame trembling with suppressed rage and sorrow. “He killed her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t painless. He made sure I knew every detail, made sure I understood that her death was my fault."

You watched as his grief and anger boiled over. With a sharp, guttural sound of frustration, Finnick stood abruptly, grabbing a vase from a nearby table. Without hesitation, he flung it at the wall, the porcelain shattering into a million jagged pieces. The crash echoed through the room, but you didn’t flinch.

Finnick’s chest heaved as he stood there amidst the broken shards, his tear-streaked face turned toward you. The raw vulnerability in his sea-green eyes was almost too much to bear. His lip quivered as though he was fighting a battle within himself, one final attempt to keep the walls he’d built intact.

But then, those walls crumbled.

Without warning, Finnick took a shaky step forward and collapsed to his knees before you. His head fell into your lap, his arms wrapping loosely around your legs as though anchoring himself to something—anything—real. The dam inside him burst, and his sobs came in great, shuddering waves, his entire body trembling with the force of his anguish.

You froze for a moment, startled by the intensity of his collapse, but quickly recovered. Gently, you rested a hand on his head, your fingers threading through his golden tousled hair in slow, soothing motions. Your other hand settled lightly on his back, offering a steady, grounding presence.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “Let it out, Finnick. You’re safe here.”

His sobs grew louder, his pain pouring out in every ragged breath, every muffled cry against your knees. His tears soaked through the fabric of your pants, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was being there for him, letting him release the emotions he’d kept locked away for so long.

“I couldn’t save her,” he choked out, his voice muffled against you. “I couldn’t…I wasn’t enough.”

“Finnick, stop,” you said gently, your voice breaking with emotion. “You were enough. You loved her, and that was more than enough. What happened to Annie wasn’t your fault. Snow…Snow took her because he’s a monster, not because of anything you did.”

He didn’t respond, but his grip on your legs tightened, his trembling body pressing closer against you. You continued to stroke his hair, murmuring soft reassurances, letting him pour his heart out in the safety of your presence. As the minutes passed, his sobs began to subside, the storm of emotions giving way to quiet, exhausted tears. His breathing slowed, though his face remained buried against your knees, as if he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible, yet they carried the weight of his gratitude and trust.

From that moment, something fragile yet beautiful began to bloom between you. Finnick grew comfortable in your space, his presence no longer guarded or wary. He started accepting small gestures of care—a cup of tea, a plate of fresh fruit—with a smile that wasn’t the polished charm he wore in public, but something tender and genuine.

His smiles were rare but transformative, softening his features in a way that felt almost sacred. It wasn’t the grin of a Capitol heartthrob or a victor playing his part. It was Finnick. The real Finnick. And it was in those moments you saw him as the man he was, not the mask he was forced to wear.

Finnick’s feelings for you deepened with every visit. At first, it was subtle: the way his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the way his laughter grew warmer and more frequent when you were around. But over time, it became undeniable.

He found excuses to stay longer, to ask you questions about yourself—your favorite books, your childhood memories, your thoughts on the world beyond the Capitol. His curiosity was genuine, his attention focused solely on you, as though you were the one piece of sanity in his life.

And you noticed. Of course, you noticed. You weren’t blind to the way his gaze softened when it met yours, the way his voice grew quieter when he spoke your name. You weren’t stupid—you knew what it meant.

But you didn’t give in.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel the same way. You did. Finnick had become more than a presence in your life; he had become someone you cared about deeply, someone you wanted to protect, someone whose laughter felt like sunlight breaking through a storm. But you didn’t want him to think that was all you were after. You didn’t want him to believe, even for a moment, that your care for him was tied to his charm or his body or any of the things the Capitol exploited. Finnick deserved better than that.

So you kept your distance, at least emotionally. You treated him as you always had—with quiet kindness and unwavering respect. Even as your heart ached to reach out, to tell him how much he mattered to you, you held back. Because Finnick’s worth was so much more than he realized, and you refused to let him think otherwise.

And then the 75th Hunger Games was announced.

The moment the words left President Snow’s lips—this year, the tributes shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors—you felt your chest tighten. You knew what it meant. Finnick would be going back into the arena.

When his name was called at the reaping, you watched from your apartment, your hands trembling as you gripped the armrest of your chair. Finnick’s face was calm, but you knew the storm that raged beneath the surface. You knew him too well to be fooled by the mask.

Days later, during the interviews, you sat in the same chair, your eyes glued to the television. The Capitol was abuzz with excitement, the crowd roaring with approval as Caesar Flickerman welcomed the victors one by one. And then it was Finnick’s turn. He stepped onto the stage, his signature charm firmly in place. The audience adored him, their cheers deafening as he waved and smiled. But when Caesar asked him the question that had been on everyone’s lips—is there someone special he's fighting for?—something shifted.

Finnick’s expression softened, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the man beneath. “There is,” he said simply, his voice steady but filled with emotion. The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs, looking at each other as if he was speaking about one of them, but Finnick ignored them. "And I would like to tell them something, if you don't mind."

Caesar, ever the showman, gestured grandly for him to proceed but not before hushing the crowd.

"Though I cannot promise forever, Though the storms still rage around me, I leave my heart to you, And hope you’ll remember me kindly."

No one else knew who the poem was for. But you did.

And in that moment, it was both everything and not nearly enough.