#these characters will never know peace will they

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 21

˗ˏˋ birthday shots ˎˊ˗

"Jungkook’s friends, Jungkook’s birthday party… It’s all honestly not what you expected. But then again, Jungkook keeps twisting your expectations of him, once and once again."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,4k

content: jungkook having friends, feeling out of place, pretty girls, judgemental people, tae/hobi/jk protecting the peace, shared secrets, nicknames gaining an intimate layer, stubbornness with spicy food, drinking, doing shots and jungkook being both attentive and protective.

✧ author's note ✧

Aaaand we’re finally here. The party. The build-up. The chaos potential. The birthday. After 20 chapters of yearning, character dissection, awkward eye contact, and conversations that say everything and nothing at the same time… we are officially entering the next arc: actual real-world social interaction. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is every character’s personal hell. Including mine.

First of all—yes, this is Jungkook’s party chapter. Yes, it’s a pivotal one. Yes, I was pacing around my flat in a hoodie muttering “okay but what would he wear” like a deranged method actor trying to get into character. And yes, there are about 15 new people here. But please don’t panic. You don’t need to memorize them all. This isn’t a fantasy war council. You’re not about to be quizzed on the name of Jungkook’s friend’s cousin’s dog. They’re not here to steal the plot—they’re here to color it.

Jungkook’s different social groups, clashing and blending like some unhinged Venn diagram of his life. They each say something about him and the many versions of himself he keeps—because, as always, this isn’t about the party. It’s about him and her, and us, and the very inconvenient reality of human attachment.

Now. Tessa (and yes, Toasty, when you read this… the name comes 100% from you hahaha).

Yup. That girl from the library. She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s talking. And she’s not a villain.

I know, I know, fanfiction is riddled with the evil-rival-love-interest trope. The girl who eyes you up and down with thinly veiled contempt. The passive aggressive bitch who “just happens” to sit on his lap or call him baby in front of you. The girl whose entire personality is “threat to the main couple.” And listen—I could never.

Tessa isn’t like that. Because most people aren’t like that. Attraction doesn’t automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That’s such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I’m not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being “the wrong one.” I don’t want you to root against her. I don’t want you to root against anyone, really. Maybe Mia, but that’s what she’s for. She’s your pressure valve. You need someone to hate. That’s what makes the rest bearable.

Tessa’s presence is not a betrayal. It’s just reality. Jungkook is allowed to be liked. He’s allowed to explore. And so is Nix. She’s not some pushover sainted martyr of “true love.” She’s a girl. She’s confused. She’s a little guarded. She’s still trying to understand herself.

There’s no jealousy because there is no claim. There’s no relationship, no commitment, no confessions, no secret “we’re basically already in love” subtext. There’s just this slow, painful, glacial slide into a kind of closeness that might one day become something else—but hasn’t. Not even close. This chapter is about a possible beginning of something resembling tentative friendship. We are barely out of enemies-to-mildly-tolerating-each-other zone. We are in the “do I text you or is that weird” era.

Don’t rush it. Don’t expect it. That’s not the story I’m telling.

Nix being unbothered isn’t character growth. It’s just honesty. It’s consistency. I’ve spent 20 chapters building a girl who’s emotionally guarded, private, and painfully aware of the dynamics she allows herself to engage in. She’s not “cool with it” to be cool—she’s just not invested like that yet. And that matters. We’re not jumping stages for drama. We’re walking, slowly, through the psychology of two people who don’t even know what they want. Let them be confused. Let them be messy. Let them take their time.

I’m writing slow burn with psychological realism at its core, and that means actions have context. If you came here expecting love confessions and possessive meltdowns and “he’s mine stay away” drama… wrong story, babes. I want you uncomfortable. I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it’s all you can think about.

The story isn’t about dramatic betrayals or Big Plot Twists. It’s about tension. About two people orbiting each other in their own broken, stumbling ways. It’s about glances that last too long and words that don’t come out right and the way your heart knows something long before your brain does. It’s about patterns, and Jungkook’s are catching up to him.

You don’t need to like everyone. But you should understand them. And that’s what I’m asking of you here. Because these characters aren’t plot devices—they’re real to me. They’re studies. They’re messy. And god, I love them for it.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The masks are on, the music’s loud, and no one knows how to behave when they’re being watched. Especially him.

Enjoy. Suffer. Stare at the page like you’re decoding a sacred text. That’s the vibe.

And as always…

You’re here to suffer. I’m here to deliver.

You’re welcome.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You never realized a person could contain so many versions of themselves until you saw Jungkook surrounded by his friends.

"SURPRISE!"

The word explodes through the small ramen shop, followed by cheers and laughter as Jungkook freezes beside you. 

His fingers quickly pocket his phone, eyes widening with a genuine shock that transforms his entire face. 

Gone is the perpetually amused, slightly condescending roommate you've come to know. In his place stands someone younger, almost innocent—lips parting in stunned delight, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's fucking weird is what it is.

"Holy shit," he breathes, a laugh bursting from him as Taehyung launches himself across the restaurant, wrapping Jungkook in a hug that nearly knocks him over. "What the fuck?"

Hobi follows immediately, bouncing on his feet like an overgrown puppy before throwing his arms around both of them, turning the duo into a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter. 

Even Yoongi gets up, offering a slow clap before joining with a more restrained but no less genuine embrace—the kind with back pats that guys do when they want to prove they have exactly two emotions: hungry and sports.

You hang back, suddenly aware of how many strangers are packed into this place. 

The restaurant is full of people—at least a dozen beyond the ones you recognize—all focused on Jungkook with varying degrees of excitement. Some are already raising drinks in toast, others taking photos, a couple shouting things you can't quite make out over the general chaos.

"P-Kill! Happy birthday, man!"

"Proofs! You made it!"

"Proofy, get over here!"

What the actual fuck are these names? 

You frown, trying to connect these bizarre nicknames to the Jungkook you know—the one who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and plays his music too loud and once tried to convince you that Kraft mac and cheese was "technically gourmet."

None of this computes.

Jungkook catches your confusion as he disentangles himself from his friends, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar half-smile that somehow feels like a private joke.

"Hey," he says, suddenly at your side again. His hand brushes your elbow briefly—not grabbing, just a light touch that seems oddly grounding in this chaos. "These are my friends. Guys, this is my roommate."

He says your name easily, no ‘Phoenix’ or ‘Nix’ in sight, and it's weirdly jarring—like hearing a song you know played in the wrong key. 

Not technically wrong, just... off.

The next few minutes are a blur of names and faces, most immediately forgotten as you try to keep track of who's who in this bizarre alternative universe where Jungkook is apparently the center of a large social circle. There's a group of guys—gamers, apparently—who keep calling him those weird nicknames.

"These three idiots," Jungkook explains, gesturing toward a trio of guys who look like they haven't seen sunlight in months, "are my Steam friends. My username is ProofedToKill, so that's where all the dumb nicknames come from."

Of course, that tracks. He's always yelling at the TV when he plays Call of Duty in the living room. You've had multiple arguments about it, usually ending with him putting on headphones and you turning up your music out of spite.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's no real edge to it. "I've already heard all your anti-shooters propaganda."

"It's not propaganda if it's true."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait, already being pulled toward another group by Taehyung. 

"Come on, there are more people you should meet."

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Stand alone by the door like some kind of abandoned pet? 

Besides, you're curious now. Curious about these other fragments of Jungkook's life that you've never been privy to before.

The space is packed, noisy in that way that forces everyone to talk slightly too loud. Sensory overload city. People keep touching Jungkook—hugs, shoulder claps, high fives—and he's letting them, which might be the weirdest part of all this. 

Since when does he like being touched by people who aren't naked?

"Jungkook!" a female voice exclaims, cutting through the noise. A tall girl with auburn hair moves toward him with the confident grace of someone who's never tripped over her own feet in public. "Happy birthday!"

She wraps him in a hug that makes you realize just how tall she is—like, almost his height tall—and beside her, another girl—smaller, with short black hair and glasses—offers a more reserved greeting.

"Hey Tessa, hey Diana," Jungkook says, looking genuinely pleased to see them. "Didn't think you'd be here!"

Tessa. 

The library girl. The one he was doing that group project thing with.  The one who kept laughing too loud whenever Jungkook said something that probably wasn't even that funny.

"Taehyung invited us," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Jungkook says, and you hate how sincere he sounds. 

Where's the sarcastic asshole you live with? Who is this pod person?

"We brought you something," Diana says, holding out a small bag. "Just a little thing."

Jungkook accepts it with a thanks that sounds almost shy, and what the fuck? Since when is he shy about anything?

"Oh, this is my roommate," he adds, suddenly remembering your existence. 

He says your name again, and you force a smile because what else can you do in this bizarre social ritual?

"Nice to meet you," Tessa says with a warmth that feels genuine, which is almost worse than if she'd been fake. At least fake would make sense. "Jungkook's mentioned you before. You're in English Lit, right?"

He's talked about you? To her? 

What the fuck has he said?

"Yeah," you manage, because apparently your vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables in the face of all this unexpected social interaction. "English major."

"That's amazing," she says, and she actually seems to mean it. "I'm in Film too, but I've always loved literature. What's your focus?"

Before you can answer—thank god, because you haven't prepared a thesis statement on your academic interests for a birthday party—Hobi appears with a tray of shots, announcing that it's time for the birthday boy to start celebrating properly.

So, of course, the whole crowd moves towards him, shots being thrown back easily. You find yourself suddenly on the outside of it, still standing with Tessa and Diana but no longer the focus of their attention.

It's a relief, honestly. 

You've never been good at this kind of thing—large groups, small talk, unfamiliar social dynamics. 

It's like being dropped into a play where everyone else knows the script and you're just… improvising. Kinda hoping you don't accidentally say the wrong line and reveal yourself as the impostor.

Your eyes wander around the restaurant, taking in the details you missed—it’s actually a cozy place, warm wood and soft lighting, with private booths along one wall and a long table down the center where most of Jungkook's friends have gathered. 

You can smell the sizzling of pans working through different ingredients—garlic, onion, ginger… But your eyes end up on Jungkook anyway.

He swallows down a shot, grimacing at the burn. 

Someone passes him another. 

Someone else claps him on the back. 

He's at the center of all this attention and he's... thriving in it. Laughing, talking.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. So carefree, so loud (although he’s always loud but this is a different kind of loud?)—so in his… element. 

You can’t help but feel out of place.

Because, truly. Do you even fit in here? Are you an element? Part of his element? Or whatever this is? 

This morning you were agonizing over whether you could be friends with the guy you've been fucking. 

Now you're standing in a room full of people who already are his friends, who've known him much longer than you have, who see a completely different side of him than the one you get.

It's... a lot.

You pull out your phone, needing something to do with your hands, but the screen stays dark. Okay. Dead. Fantastic.

"You okay?"

The voice at your elbow makes you jump. 

It's Jungkook, somehow back at your side despite the crowd still demanding his attention.

"Fine," you say automatically. "Just... observing."

His eyes scan your face, more perceptive than you'd like. "You look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

"Not true. I can think of at least three places that would be worse." You tick them off on your fingers. "The DMV. An insurance seminar. Dinner with my parents."

That gets a laugh out of him—a real one, one you seem to be getting out of him more and more often. 

“Fair enough. Come on, let me get you a drink. It'll help with..." 

He pauses, purses his lips as he tilts his head at you.

"With what, exactly?"

"The whole 'I'd rather eat glass than make small talk with strangers' vibe you're giving off."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but he's already pulling you toward the bar, his hand warm against your lower back.

"It's fine, Phee," he says, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally now that you're momentarily separated from the crowd. "Not everyone's into the whole big social scene. You don't have to pretend."

You want to argue on principle—deny that he knows you that well, that he can read your discomfort so easily—but it would be pointless. 

He's right. 

You do hate this. 

And the fact that he noticed, that he came back to check on you instead of just leaving you to flounder on your own...

It's annoying. Or it should be. 

Instead, it feels weirdly considerate.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter as he flags down the bartender. "Go enjoy your party. I'm perfectly capable of standing in a corner judging people on my own."

"Maybe I'm enjoying my party more over here." 

He orders something you don't catch, then turns back to you with that half-smile that's somehow more familiar than the broad grin he's been flashing at everyone else.

“Besides, if I leave you alone too long, you might decide to ditch, and then who would I blame when I need an excuse to escape Hobi's karaoke demands?"

"Yoongi seems like a good scapegoat."

"Nah, Yoongi secretly loves karaoke. Just pretends to hate it so people will beg him. It's weird."

The bartender slides two glasses toward Jungkook—whiskey is one, by the look of it. 

The other one is… 

Vodka cranberry.

He remembers?

You lick your lips. Nervous suddenly. Maybe. Or not really. Just uncomfortable, because here it is again. Jungkook being attentive, doing these stupid kind things that completely shatter the reputation you have built for him in your head. 

"You really don't have to babysit me," you say again, but you take the drink anyway. "I'm fine."

His eyes search yours, more serious than usual. "I know you're fine. Maybe I just want to hang out with you."

Something shifts in your chest—a small, uncomfortable flutter. 

“Why? You have a dozen other people here who actually like you."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "And here I thought we were making progress on the whole friendship thing."

"The jury's still out on that one."

"Uh-huh." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "Well, consider this evidence for the 'pro' column: I noticed you were uncomfortable and came to rescue you instead of letting you suffer in silence."

"Maybe I prefer suffering in silence."

"No one prefers suffering in silence, Nix. Some people just don't think they deserve better."

The way he says it makes something twirl uncomfortable inside your chest.

You take a large drink instead of responding, welcoming the burn as it slides down your throat.

“Make sure to finish that quickly. Get ready for the party games.”

"There are going to be party games?"

"That’s only the beginning."

"So," you say, swaying your glass slightly, watching the burgundy liquid catch the light, "ProofedToKill, huh? Didn't know I was living with such a badass."

"No? I thought you knew how badass I am.”

“You’re bad, and an ass. That doesn’t make you a badass. Different word.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips without conscious input.

"You know what it actually means?" he asks, leaning back against the wall. 

You raise an eyebrow. "That you're secretly a hitman with terrible grammar?"

"Hilarious." He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "It's a baking term, actually."

"A what now?"

"Baking. You know, that thing people do with flour and heat instead of burning the place down.”

“If you bring up the candle incident one more time—”

He makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and your lips twitch with the effort of chuckling. 

“Wait, are you seriously telling me your super tough gamer name is about... baking?"

He sighs, looking down at his glass. "When you're making bread—sourdough specifically—there's this stage called 'proofing.’ It's when the dough rises, develops flavor. If you overproof it, it collapses. If you underproof, it's dense. But if you get it just right..."

"You've... proofed to kill?" you finish, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.

"Exactly." He grins, clearly pleased that you've made the connection. "Perfect proofing. Killer bread. It's a whole thing."

You stare at him, genuinely speechless for perhaps the first time since you've known him. 

This man—this infuriating, cocky roommate who struts around like he owns every room he enters—has a gamer tag based on fucking bread-making. 

And he's admitting it. 

Voluntarily. 

"So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "Your badass online persona, the one all your friends call you by, is actually a baking pun?"

"In my defense, it's a really good pun. And most people assume it's about, you know, being good at shooting things. Which I also am." He shrugs, cockiness slipping back into place.

“You’re so weird,” you mutter, but you know he doesn’t take it seriously.

"Been doing it since college. The whole sourdough thing at midnight." He confesses, glancing around briefly, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, then lowers his voice. "My mom taught me. She had this whole recipe she'd developed over years, this perfect sourdough method. Made the best bread you've ever tasted."

Again that softness, almost reverence when he speaks about his mom. 

It always catches you off guard. You've never heard him talk like this before. Never heard him talk about his family at all, really.

"After she..." he continues, then stops himself, shaking his head slightly. "Anyway. I keep trying to recreate it. Haven't quite nailed it yet."

Neither of you speak for a couple of beats. His gaze is still fixed on his drink, and then he takes a sip, like his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Is that why you stress-bake at 3 AM? Trying to get the proof right?"

His eyes meet yours, surprised.

Maybe a little grateful for the redirect. 

“You’ve noticed?”

“I mean, I just went to the bathroom one night and saw you fighting the dough, so…”

He chuckles, gaze back on his glass. “Yeah. It's... meditative, I guess. Helps me think."

"Weird way to think, but okay."

"Says the person who reads the same depressing Kafka story fourteen times and calls it 'processing.'"

"It's a good story."

"It's about a guy turning into a giant bug."

"And it speaks to the alienation inherent in modern existence. Your point?"

He laughs again, shaking his head. "God, you're such a fucking English major."

"And you're a secret bread nerd. We all have our crosses to bear."

His smile shifts into something different—softer around the edges, almost vulnerable. "Don't tell anyone, okay? About the username thing. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean your friends don't know your tough gamer handle is actually about your sourdough obsession?"

"Only Yoongi knows. And now you." He drums his fingers on the glass once, twice. "That's enough oversharing on my part for the day, I think. Sooner or later it's going to have to be your turn, you know, Pyx?"

Great. A new variation of your nickname. Does he ever stop coming up with them?

"My turn for what?"

"Sharing something real." His eyes hold yours, steady. "Friendship goes both ways, Nix."

You scoff, ignoring the way your heart rate picks up slightly. "I share things."

"Like what? Your coffee order doesn't count."

"I told you about the IUD."

"That's medical, not personal."

"It's literally inside my body. How much more personal can it get?"

He sighs, but he makes it dramatic this time. "You know what I mean. Something that matters to you. Something real."

You do know. That's the problem. He's asking for exactly the kind of vulnerability you've spent years carefully avoiding. The kind that gives people ammunition, that creates expectations, that leads to disappointment when you inevitably fail to meet them.

But he just told you about his mom. About bread and baking and usernames that mean more than they appear to. He offered something real—small, maybe, but genuine.

And isn't that what this whole friendship experiment is supposed to be about?

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what's going to come out, when a crash from across the restaurant saves you. Hobi has somehow managed to knock over an entire tray of drinks, and the resulting chaos immediately draws everyone's attention, including Jungkook's.

"Shit," he mutters, already half-moving. "I should go help before he makes it worse."

"Go," you nod, equal parts relieved and strangely disappointed. "Your public needs you."

He hesitates, eyes still on yours. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Pretty sure we're just getting started." He stands fully, but doesn't leave immediately. "Come join, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him weave through the crowd toward the spill, already calling out something to Hobi that makes the other man laugh despite the mess. It's strange, seeing him like this—in his element, surrounded by people who know him in ways you don't.

ProofedToKill. A baking pun turned gamer tag. A piece of his mother he carries with him, encrypted in plain sight.

You take another sip of your vodka cranberry, wondering what else about Jungkook you've been missing all this time.

Eleven people crammed around a table is basically psychological warfare in restaurant form.

You're somehow stuck directly across from Jungkook, because apparently the universe has a shitty sense of humor. 

Next to him, Tessa has claimed her territory, her long legs perfectly positioned under the table while yours are already cramping from the weird angle. Of course.

At least you've got Yoongi on your left—a silent, grounding presence in the chaos. When you'd awkwardly hovered near his chair, he'd just grunted and shifted slightly to make room. 

In Yoongi-speak, that's practically a formal invitation with calligraphy and shit.

Diana sits on your other side, petite and prim, her small hands already arranging her napkin with quick movements. She keeps glancing at Tessa across the table with an expression you can't quite decipher—somewhere between admiration and mild disapproval.

The menu in Yoongi's hands looks worn and slightly sticky, but your stomach is basically staging a revolt after hours of nothing but ibuprofen and vodka. You lean over, scanning the options without asking permission because fuck it, you're hungry.

The spicy ramen section catches your eye immediately. 

Your stomach gives another impatient growl.

"I want those," you announce, pointing at the spiciest option on the menu.

Yoongi barely blinks. "Cool. I didn't ask."

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair because, okay, whatever. Rude ass. Though honestly, there's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of social polish. 

At least you always know where you stand with him, which is approximately nowhere.

A movement across the table draws your attention. 

Jungkook's eyes have lifted from his own menu, catching yours with an intensity that feels weirdly intimate in the crowded space. His gaze flickers down again almost immediately, but not before you notice the corner of his mouth tilting upward.

What's he laughing about? Stupid. He's stupid.

"I kinda wanted the spicy ones too," he says, looking up again. "Maybe we can share?"

You squint at him suspiciously. "Huh? No. I want the bowl entirely for me."

Diana makes a soft sound beside you—half laugh, half disbelief. 

“I can't believe you can eat all that."

The words hang there for a moment while your brain processes the judgment packaged in her innocent-sounding comment. 

Did she just really—

"C'mon Diana," Tessa cuts in swiftly, laugh warm and genuine, "not everyone has a small stomach like you."

Diana scowls, her delicate features pinching together. "I just think that's a lot to eat."

"Bro, I could eat two bowls in one sitting," Jungkook says.

"Make that three," Taehyung adds from Jungkook's other side. "You're a fucking goblin, Kooks."

"Three? Amateur," one of the gamer guys—Steve? Sean?—chimes in from the end of the table. "Remember that time after the tournament when you ate four bowls of ramen and then threw up in my car?"

"That was food poisoning," Jungkook protests. "Totally different situation."

"Your face was poisoned."

"What does that even mean?"

"Your face... poisoned... my eyes," the guy finishes lamely, clearly losing his train of thought.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that weak-ass comeback," Hobi declares, raising his beer like a wizard's wand. "Jungkook requires better trash talk in his honor."

"Oh shit, we're using Hogwarts points now?" another one asks. "When did we switch systems?"

"Since I just decided, and I'm the dungeon master."

"That's D&D, you uncultured swine," Taehyung sighs, long-suffering. "Completely different franchise."

"Whatever, they're all just wizard nerds," Hobi says with a dismissive wave.

"That's wizard king to you, peasant," Jungkook corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Do you all... actually play these games?" Diana asks, voice faintly disdainful.

"Only when we're not busy with our super cool and important adult lives," Taehyung says, deadpan.

"I just don't get the appeal," she sniffs. "Sitting inside all day, staring at screens—"

"Yo," Hobi cuts in smoothly, somehow managing to sound both friendly and firm at the same time, "different strokes for different folks. Some people climb mountains, some people slay digital dragons. Both valid." 

Diana shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "I guess."

"Besides," you find yourself saying, "it's literally his birthday. Maybe, I don't know, let him enjoy things without the judgment?"

The words come out sharper than intended, surprising even you. 

Since when do you jump to Jungkook's defense? Since when do you care if someone judges his nerdy gaming habits?

Jungkook looks equally surprised, eyebrows raised slightly as he studies your face. Then his expression shifts into something softer, almost appreciative.

"Exactly. Today's about celebrating you," Tessa adds, turning to Jungkook with a warm smile. "And apparently your inhuman ability to consume ramen."

"It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

A ripple of laughter moves around the table, breaking the awkward moment. Diana still looks sulky, but at least she's dropped the subject.

The waiter appears then, ready to take orders, and the conversation splinters as everyone tries to decide what they want.

"You really getting the level five spicy?" Yoongi asks quietly while the others debate.

"Yeah. Why, think I can't handle it?"

He snorts. "Just checking if I need to order extra water for when you inevitably start crying."

"I do not cry from spicy food."

"Everyone cries from spicy food if it's actually spicy."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

He shrugs, a barely perceptible movement of one shoulder. "Your funeral."

"Comforting as always, Yoon."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face before he returns to his default expression of mild disinterest.

Across the table, Jungkook is in the middle of a heated debate with Taehyung about... something involving a game you've never heard of. His hands move animatedly as he talks, face lit with genuine enthusiasm. One of his friends keeps trying to interject, but Jungkook and Taehyung are in their own world, talking over each other and somehow still understanding perfectly.

He looks so unguarded.

So... normal. Like any other twenty-something guy arguing about video games with his friends.

Not that you care. It's just an observation.

"So you're Jungkook's roommate," Diana says, drawing your attention back to her. Her tone suggests this is somehow both surprising and slightly concerning.

"Yep." You keep it brief, hoping she'll take the hint and drop whatever line of questioning is forming behind those judgmental eyes.

No such luck.

"And how did that happen exactly? Through the university housing board?"

"Craigslist, actually."

Her eyebrows shoot up like you've just admitted to finding the apartment through a demonic summoning ritual. 

“Oh! Isn't that... dangerous?"

"Not really. The apartment was already Yoongi and Jungkook's. I just answered the ad for the third room."

"Still," she persists, "moving in with two guys you don't know. That's brave."

The way she says ‘brave’ makes it clear she means ‘stupid,’ but you're not in the mood to defend your housing choices to someone who probably thinks spicy ramen is too adventurous.

"Not really. Yoongi's background check was pretty thorough," you deadpan. "Only had to provide three references, a blood sample, and my complete genetic history."

Diana blinks, clearly unsure if you're joking.

"It's true," Yoongi confirms without looking up from his phone. "Her midichlorian count was acceptable."

"What’s… midichlorian?" Diana asks uncertainly.

"It’s a real scientific test," you say, keeping your expression perfectly serious. "Very exclusive."

She frowns, increasingly confused, and you feel a small, petty satisfaction at her discomfort.

"They're fucking with you," Taehyung calls from across the table, apparently tuned into your conversation despite seemingly being absorbed in his argument with Jungkook. "It's a Star Wars reference."

"Oh." Diana forces a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Right."

"Ignore them," Tessa says kindly. "They operate on their own wavelength sometimes."

"Especially these two," Hobi adds, gesturing between Taehyung and Jungkook. "Like an old married couple, but with more shouting and fewer financial benefits."

"What do you mean fewer financial benefits?" Jungkook protests. "I've been carrying his broke ass in-game economy for years."

"That gold farm was my idea!"

"Your idea crashed the server and got us banned for a week!"

"Details," Taehyung waves dismissively. "The point is, I'm the brains of this operation."

"And I'm the beauty," Jungkook fires back, striking a pose that makes Hobi snort water through his nose.

It's all so... easy. The banter, the inside jokes, the casual way they navigate each other's personalities. They've clearly had years to develop this rhythm, to learn each other's edges and how to fit together despite them—or maybe because of them.

Something twists in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You busy yourself with your water glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation gathering along its sides.

The waiter returns with drinks, setting them around the table. You're grateful for the distraction, for something to do with your hands besides fidget awkwardly.

"Alright," Hobi declares once everyone has a drink, lifting his glass. "To the birthday boy! May your K/D ratio remain impressive and your hairline unreceded."

"Here's to another year of Jungkook being Jungkook," Taehyung adds, raising his own glass. "God help us all."

"To Kooks," Tessa says, her voice softer but no less sincere. "Happy birthday."

Glasses clink around the table, a chorus of echoed sentiments following. You lift your glass automatically, catching Jungkook's eye as you do. He's watching you, before he smiles—small and surprisingly genuine.

"Thanks for getting me here," he says quietly, just for you.

"Don't mention it," you reply, equally quiet. "Seriously. Don't. I'll deny everything."

His smile widens, and for a moment, it feels like you're back in that booth from earlier—just the two of you, everyone else fading to background noise.

Then Taehyung jostles his arm, demanding his opinion on something, and the moment breaks. 

You take a sip of your drink, trying to ignore the strange feeling that's settled in your chest.

It's probably just hunger. Or the vodka from earlier. 

Or the fact that you've been in this loud, crowded restaurant for what feels like hours now, surrounded by people you barely know, playing a role you're not quite sure how to perform.

Yeah. That's definitely it.

The server arrives with a ridiculous number of bowls balanced along his arms like some kind of food-based Cirque du Soleil performer. Steam rises from each one, carrying scents that make your stomach growl with embarrassing volume.

A massive, angry-looking bowl lands in front of you, the broth practically glowing red. It looks like someone liquefied the sun and threw in some noodles as an afterthought.

Perfect.

Two bowls slide in front of Jungkook—your spicy demon soup's twin and something much more reasonable looking, probably miso based on the color.

"Hungry much?" you ask, eyeing his double order.

"Growing boy," he shrugs, already reaching for chopsticks.

Taehyung, meanwhile, receives... a plate of curry rice? 

"Seriously?" You can't help the judgment that leaks into your voice. "We're at a ramen place and you ordered curry?"

He shoots you a look that could curdle milk. "Some of us have taste beyond 'hot noodle soup.'"

"Some of us aren't afraid of flavor, dickasso."

"Bold words from someone currently holding weapons-grade capsaicin," he fires back, gesturing at your bowl. "Does your taste even function, or did you burn it all away with your sad little Hot Pockets diet?"

"At least I'm not too precious to eat what the restaurant specializes in."

“This is objectively superior."

"Only if your objective is being a pretentious dick."

"I prefer 'discerning connoisseur.'"

"You would."

You hate that banter with Taehyung is starting to become more and more comfortable. Like verbal sparring with someone who actually knows how to return a serve, instead of just standing there getting hit in the face with the ball. 

Not that you like him or anything. His whole vibe—artsy, too cool for school, judgmental as fuck—is objectively annoying.

But maybe also a little entertaining. 

In small doses. 

Very small.

Across the table, Hobi watches this exchange with undisguised amusement, head swiveling between you. 

"I feel like I'm witnessing the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he says, grinning widely. "Or a homicide. Hard to tell."

"Definitely homicide," Taehyung and you say in unison, then glare at each other for the coordination.

You turn your attention back to your ramen, inhaling the spicy steam before digging in. The first bite hits like a kick to the teeth—pain followed immediately by pleasure. 

It's fucking delicious despite feeling like you just licked the surface of the sun.

"Good?" Yoongi asks, watching your face with what might be the ghost of amusement.

"Incredible," you manage, already reaching for more.

Across the table, Jungkook dives into his own spicy bowl with enthusiasm, slurping noodles with zero concern for how it looks. A drop of broth escapes, clinging to his lower lip.

You're about to say something—point it out, make fun of his complete lack of eating etiquette, something—when Tessa reaches out, casual as anything, and swipes her thumb across his lip.

"Messy," she says, the word warm with affection.

He tilts his head toward her, smiling in a way that can only be described as flirtatious. 

“That's my brand."

You purse your lips, returning your attention to your own food. 

Whatever. Let him preen over a pretty girl paying attention to him. His loser ass probably never gets that chance.

Although... that's a lie and you know it. 

The guy is annoyingly good-looking and he knows it. He's probably used to girls fawning over him, cleaning his face like he's a toddler who can't be trusted with utensils.

"Whatcha looking at, Phee—" He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening slightly. "—asantly surprised by how spicy that ramen is? Your face is getting red."

Smooth recovery. Not.

"Just thinking about how long it's been since I've had decent ramen."

You grab your water glass, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation spreading across your tongue. 

It's fine. Totally manageable. Nothing to worry about.

"Knew it," Yoongi mutters beside you.

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not spicy."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't even bother looking up from his own bowl. "That's why your face is the same color as the broth."

"It's warm in here."

"Sure it is."

"I can handle spice."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You implied it."

He finally glances at you, expression as bored as ever. "I implied you're a liar, not a spice lightweight."

"I'm not—" Another wave of heat crashes through your mouth, cutting off your protest. "Fine. It's a little spicy."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile on anyone else. "A little."

"Shut up and eat your boring miso."

Amazingly, he actually laughs—a short, quiet sound that's there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it. 

But no, that was definitely a laugh. From Yoongi. Directed at something you said.

Huh.

You return to your ramen, determined to finish it despite the way your sinuses are starting to protest. 

It's a matter of pride now. You said you could handle it, so you'll handle it, even if it kills you.

Which it might. But what a way to go.

You glance up, seeing how Jungkook and Tessa have their heads tilted toward each other, engaged in what looks like a very amusing conversation based on her laugh. She keeps touching his arm, casual little points of contact that seem to arrive at perfectly timed intervals.

She's good at this, you'll give her that. The whole flirting thing. Not too obvious, not too reserved. Just the right amount of interest without seeming desperate.

Huh. He might get laid tonight then. Not by you. 

Good for him. 

"You're staring again," Taehyung says, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "Plotting his murder or just generally disapproving of his existence?"

"Just wondering how someone with the personality of a half-deflated balloon animal manages to function in society," you reply smoothly.

"Years of practice and an excellent support system." He gestures between himself and Hobi, who's busy trying to convince one of the gamer guys that yes, there is in fact sake in the sake bomb he just drank. "We've been managing his personality disorder since freshman year."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." His eyes drift to where Jungkook is now showing Tessa something on his phone, both of them laughing. "But he has his moments."

You turn your attention back to your food. Halfway through, you make the tactical error of taking a large bite just as Hobi says something particularly funny, causing you to inhale sharply—and sending a piece of chili directly into your windpipe.

Coughing. So much coughing. 

Your eyes water immediately, turning the table into a blurry mess of colors and shapes as you desperately reach for your water again.

"Easy there," Yoongi says, actually sounding a little concerned as he pushes your glass closer. "Small sips."

You manage to get the water down between coughs, the cool liquid offering minimal relief to your burning throat.

"You okay?" Jungkook asks, leaning across the table with a frown.

Great. Now everyone's looking at you. Perfect. Just what you wanted. All the attention.

"Fine," you rasp, waving a hand dismissively. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Maybe you should try something less lethal," Diana suggests, eyeing your bowl with thinly veiled judgment. "Like the mild shoyu."

"I'm good with my life choices, thanks."

"Not all of them, I hope," Taehyung mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

You kick him under the table, aiming for his shin but probably hitting the table leg instead based on his lack of reaction.

"If you die from ramen, I'm not cleaning out your room," Yoongi says matter-of-factly.

"Noted. I'll make sure to haunt you specifically."

"Bold of you to assume I'd notice the difference."

"What, between me alive and me as a ghost?"

"You already have a resting bitch face and make weird noises at night. How would I tell?"

You choke again, this time on your own surprise. 

"I do not make weird noises at night!"

"The walls are thin."

Heat creeps up your neck, and it has nothing to do with the spice level of your food. 

“I don't—that's not—"

"Relax. I meant the way you talk in your sleep."

Oh. That's... marginally less mortifying.

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Constantly."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "Mostly nonsense. Something about pencils last night. Very intense opinions on pencils."

"I don't have opinions about pencils," you protest. "Intense or otherwise."

"Tell that to your subconscious."

The conversation shifts as one of the gamers—Ryan? you think?—slams his empty sake cup on the table with more force than necessary.

"Yo!" he announces, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "We should do shots. Birthday shots for the birthday boy!"

A chorus of approval goes up around the table. Even Diana looks on board with this plan, probably because alcohol is the one thing that might loosen up whatever's holding her personality together.

"The birthday boy needs birthday shots," Hobi agrees, already signaling the waiter.

Taehyung groans. "Please tell me we're not doing that ridiculous 'one shot for each year' tradition. I'm not carrying his drunk ass home again."

"That was one time," Jungkook protests.

"One time too many. You kept trying to pet dogs that weren't there."

"I was seeing through the space-time continuum to where dogs would eventually be."

"You threw up in my shower."

"I cleaned it!"

"With my loofah!"

"I replaced it!"

"After I used it!"

You watch this exchange with growing amusement, the rapid-fire back-and-forth almost dizzying in its intensity. It's clear this is a well-worn argument, trotted out for entertainment value rather than actual grievance.

"Fine," Taehyung concedes dramatically. "Birthday shots. But I'm not responsible for any hallucinated canines or bathroom incidents."

"Deal," Jungkook grins, then turns to Tessa. "You in?"

She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should probably pace myself. Early class tomorrow."

"Responsible," he nods, mock serious. "I respect that."

"Unlike some people," Taehyung mutters, glancing pointedly at Jungkook.

"It's my birthday. I'm legally exempt from responsibility for twenty-four hours."

"That's not a law."

"It's the law of birthdays, Tae. Everyone knows this."

Ryan—definitely Ryan—flags down the server successfully this time, ordering a round of shots for the table. 

“Even for the responsible ones," he insists when Tessa tries to decline. "Just one. For Proofs."

She relents with a smile, rolling her stupid pretty eyes. 

"You too, Miss Spicy Ramen," Ryan says, nodding toward you. "Unless you can't handle your liquor either."

Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.

"I can handle my liquor just fine," you say.

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, the menace.

"Oh, fighting words," Hobi laughs, clapping his hands together. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story," Jungkook says quickly.

"I think we've found the first drinking game of the night," Hobi declares. "Most embarrassing Jungkook stories. Winner gets... I don't know, bragging rights and my eternal respect."

"That's not fair," Jungkook protests. "I'm the birthday boy. I should be exempt from humiliation."

"Birthday boy gets birthday roast," Taehyung counters. 

Even Yoongi cracks a smile at that, which might be the most shocking development of the evening so far.

Five shots in and the room has developed that particular tilt that makes everything both sharper and blurrier at the same time.

"Next round!" Seth announces, grinning as he surveys the damage he's caused. 

Seth, as you've learned through increasingly slurred introductions, is one of Jungkook's film school friends—tall, blonde, and way too enthusiastic about drinking games for someone his size. 

"Embarrassing stories! Laugh and you drink!"

Groans mixed with cheers ripple around the table, which has somehow gotten messier and louder with each passing shot. Empty glasses create a small army between plates. Someone knocked over the soy sauce earlier, and no one's bothered to clean it up.

"Oh, oh, OH!" Taehyung practically bounces in his seat, raising his hand like an overeager student. "I have one."

"This'll be good," Yoongi mutters beside you, the most he's spoken in twenty minutes.

Taehyung clears his throat dramatically. "Picture this: Eighth grade. School talent show."

"No," Jungkook groans, head dropping into his hands. "Not that one."

"Yes, that one." Taehyung's grin is borderline evil. "Our boy Kooks here decides he's going to impress Minah Park with a dance routine."

"I'm begging you," Jungkook says, voice muffled through his fingers.

"To what song, you ask?" Taehyung continues, undeterred. "None other than 'Milkshake' by Kelis."

Ryan lets out a bark of laughter, immediately reaching for his shot.

"Oh my god," Diana whispers, eyes wide.

"Did he know what the song was about?" Tessa asks, already giggling.

"That's the best part," Taehyung says, pausing for dramatic effect. "He thought it was literally about making good milkshakes. His mom helped him with the routine."

The table erupts. Even Yoongi snorts, reaching for his shot glass with resigned dignity. You're trying—genuinely trying—to hold it in, pressing your lips together, but then you make the mistake of looking at Jungkook's mortified expression and it's over. Laughter spills out, and you grab your shot, tossing it back with a wince.

"His mom found out what it meant halfway through the performance," Taehyung continues, wiping tears from his eyes. "Her face—I wish smartphones existed back then."

"I hate you," Jungkook mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "So much."

"Did Minah like it at least?" Hobi asks, still chuckling.

"She transferred schools the next week," Taehyung says solemnly. "Unrelated reasons, allegedly."

Another round of laughter, another round of shots.

"My turn," Hobi declares once the chaos subsides. "Let me tell you about the first time I met this guy."

"Which version are you telling?" Jungkook asks warily.

"The true one," Hobi says with a wink. "Picture it: 2021. Dance studio on 8th. This scrawny kid walks in, says he needs to film a project for his class."

"I wasn't scrawny," Jungkook protests.

"You were a twig with hair," Hobi dismisses. "Anyway, he sets up his equipment, very professional, very serious. Then my advanced hip-hop class starts, and halfway through, he abandons his camera to try and join in."

"Oh no," Tessa whispers, delighted.

"Oh yes," Hobi confirms. "He jumps in, full confidence, absolutely sure he can keep up. Two eight-counts later, he slips, takes out my star student, and they both crash into the mirror."

"It didn't break!" Jungkook interjects.

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. I call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

You laugh despite yourself, drinking quickly to hide your smile when Jungkook shoots you a betrayed look.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Seth asks, refilling glasses with alarming efficiency. "How'd you meet the birthday boy?"

Yoongi regards the question like it's asked him to explain quantum physics. 

“Music production seminar. He needed help with a film score." He shrugs. "He wasn't completely terrible."

"From Yoongi, that's basically a marriage proposal," Hobi stage-whispers.

"Wow, such a beautiful story," you deadpan. "So moving. So detailed."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us need a thousand words to make a point."

"Clearly." You snort, then immediately regret it when the room spins slightly. 

"What about you, new girl?" Seth asks, suddenly focused on you with an intensity that feels both flattering and vaguely predatory. "Got any good Jungkook stories from the roommate archives?"

All eyes turn to you, expectant. 

You scramble for something suitably embarrassing but not too revealing.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” you say, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “But I have to live with him, so I’m weighing the entertainment value against the revenge factor.”

“Coward,” Taehyung coughs into his hand.

"Yeah, tell us the real dirt," Seth presses, leaning forward with a grin that suggests he's hoping for something scandalous.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly protective of the weird dynamic you share with Jungkook. These people don't get to know about the late-night arguments over the TV volume, or the silent coffee maker standoffs, or the way he sometimes hums in the shower when he thinks no one can hear.

"Sorry to disappoint," you say with exaggerated sweetness, "but I value my security deposit too much to reveal his darkest secrets."

"Cop-out," Seth accuses, but he's smiling.

"Another round!" Ryan announces, refilling shot glasses with something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and regret. "Tessa, you laughed at the dance story, you owe one."

“I didn’t!” she protests, but she’s fighting a smile now. “I was just… appreciating the story.”

“Liar! Your lips twitched. That’s a drink.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No way. I have that early class, remember?”

Before Ryan can argue further, Jungkook smoothly grabs her shot and downs it in one fluid motion. 

“Problem solved,” he says, setting the empty glass back on the table with a decisive clink.

Something about the gesture—casual, protective, maybe a little possessive—makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol or spicy ramen. 

Seth slides another shot toward you. “Here, you need a refill.”

You stare at it, trying to do math through the fuzzy haze of alcohol. 

How many shots have you had? Four? Five? You've lost count, which is probably not a great sign.

But everyone’s looking at you, waiting, and you’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge—especially when you’re already tipsy and your judgment is shot to hell.

You reach for the shot, hesitating only slightly. It burns going down, making you cough and sputter in a way that is definitely not attractive, but whatever. You can handle it.

Probably.

“Another round!” Seth calls. “Funniest pet stories. Go.”

And so the new game continues, stories flying around the table with increasing volume and decreasing coherence.

You lose track of who’s talking, everything blurring into laughter and voices and the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, and remember when Jungkook tried to sneak into that bar with his cousin’s ID?” someone is saying—maybe Ryan? The faces at the end of the table are swimming a bit. “The bouncer took one look at the picture and said, ‘This says you’re 5’4” and Filipino.’”

More laughter, more shots. The room spins again when you tilt your head back to drink.

“Another one for you,” Seth says, sliding a fresh shot in front of you after you laugh at something Hobi said. His hand lingers near yours on the table, fingers almost but not quite touching. “Don’t tell me you’re backing down so soon?"

The challenge in his tone hits some stupid part of your brain—the part that's been responsible for most of your worst decisions. 

So of course you grab the shot.

"Just getting started," you declare, tossing it back with more confidence than coordination. 

Seth grins, clearly pleased by your response. "I like you. You're fun."

"I'm a goddamn delight," you agree solemnly, which makes Taehyung snort into his drink.

The next round comes with someone telling a tale about Jungkook getting locked out of his dorm freshman year wearing only a towel. Hobi recounts the time Jungkook tried to learn breakdancing and sprained both wrists. Jungkook retaliates with something about Taehyung and body paint that has everyone howling and reaching for their drinks.

You keep pace, determined not to be the one who can't hang, even as the room develops an interesting spin and your tongue feels increasingly disconnected from your brain.

"Another one!" Seth declares, sliding a fresh shot in front of you.

You stare at it, hiccupping slightly. The thought of one more makes your stomach perform an acrobatic maneuver. 

"I don't know..."

"Come on," he urges, eyes bright with that specific drunk intensity people get when they're determined to make everyone else as wasted as they are. "Don't quit now."

You hiccup slightly, staring at the shot with growing uncertainty. 

Your stomach churns in warning.

But your pride is a stubborn, stupid stupid thing.

Before you can decide, Jungkook’s arm shoots across the table, grabbing the shot and downing it in one quick movement. His eyes find Seth’s, narrowed and unmistakably warning.

“I think she’s good,” he says, voice deceptively casual.

Seth raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just keeping the game going, man.”

You stare at Jungkook, confused by the intervention. He catches your look and shrugs, a simple ‘what?’ in his expression that somehow makes you frown harder.

The game shifts again, someone suggesting “Never Have I Ever” as a change of pace. Your brain struggles to keep up with the new rules, everything moving a little too fast, a little too loud.

“Never have I ever…” Seth taps his chin thoughtfully, eyes finding yours again. “Been skinny dipping.”

You groan internally. Of course he’d pick something designed to make people admit to being naked. Typical.

Those who have done it drink, including Jungkook, which makes Tessa raise her eyebrows in a way that seems both surprised and intrigued. 

You remain still, glass untouched, which somehow feels like a victory.

The questions continue around the table, growing progressively more suggestive as everyone’s inhibitions lower. 

A fresh shot appears in front of you, courtesy of Ryan, who’s moved on from the game and is now just passing out alcohol indiscriminately.

“Drink up!” he declares. “We’re celebrating!”

You stare at the shot, swaying slightly in your seat. The room feels too hot, too crowded, too everything. Your brain is sending out warning signals, but they’re muffled under layers of alcohol and stubbornness.

Jungkook is watching you, expression unreadable but lips pressed together in what might be concern. 

He knows you shouldn’t drink that. 

You know you shouldn’t drink that. 

But admitting it feels like losing somehow.

So you reach for the glass. Fingers clumsy.

Suddenly it’s gone—snatched away by a hand behind you.

“She doesn’t want any more, broski.”

You whip around so fast the room spins alarmingly, but there’s no mistaking that voice, that attitude, that general aura of ‘fuck around and find out.’

Yeji throws back the shot with 0 problem, slamming the empty glass on the table with a decisive clink. 

Behind her, Irya and Jimin hover like backup, taking in the scene with varying levels of amusement.

“Surprise.” Yeji grins, sharp and protective. “Happy birthday, dickhead,” she adds, nodding at Jungkook. “Mind if we crash the party?”

goal: 600 notes

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[pitlanepeach]

Clara | Chapter One

Toto Wolff x Original Female Character

Summary — She wasn’t looking for anything extraordinary, just a quiet life; peace. She should’ve known her past would catch up with her eventually — one way or another.

Warnings — Age-Gap (24 & 50), one night stands, unplanned pregnancy, complex family dynamics, sugar daddy Toto vibes, strong language, sexually explicit content.

Notes — It's here! I've concluded that this fic will end up being around 7 chapters, for those who like to know what to expect! As always, send me your thoughts! - Peach x

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

She was nineteen the first time she left home.

Ran, really, was a better way to put it.

There hadn’t been a dramatic moment. No suitcase flung open in the hallway, no door slammed behind her. Just a pink sky, a silent bus ride, and that cold, certain kind of knowing—the kind that settles into your ribs and whispers, if you stay, you’ll drown.

Mick had stayed. Of course he had. That world had always fit him—tight like a glove, stitched together in perfection and expectation. He was good. The golden boy. And everyone told him so.

And Clara? Clara had been handed the quiet burden of being his twin.

The same face, the same blood, the same surname—but none of the brilliance people were looking for. Just enough resemblance to be a reminder, never enough to be a revelation. The pressure hadn’t been loud. It had come in glances, in polite suggestions, in the way people looked at her like they were waiting for something to switch on. Some fire. Some legacy.

After the accident, it became unbearable.

The house was suddenly full of silence. Everyone grieving in their own way. Everyone pushing forward because they didn’t know what else to do. And Clara—Clara had felt like she was being swallowed whole by the weight of it.

The pressure to stay strong. The pressure to stay visible. The pressure to become something great. A symbol. A Schumacher.

But she didn’t want to carry anyone’s legacy. She didn’t want to represent a name. She just wanted… a soft life. Quiet mornings. Gentle hands. To be held more than she was looked at.

So she left before she could unravel entirely. No big exit. No scandal. Just a quiet bag packed and a train ticket south.

She dyed her hair darker. Started using her mother’s maiden name. Learned how to disappear gently, with grace.

Started smiling less. That helped.

Jobs came easily when you were tall and lovely and didn’t ask for much. The world had a place for girls like her—on the edges of luxury, pretty and quiet and always moving. She passed through Ibiza, Berlin, Nice, Dubai. Never stayed long enough to be known. She learned how to flirt without promising, how to disappear while standing still, how to be wanted without being remembered.

By the time she took the winter-season contract at a private estate in the Swiss Alps, she was twenty-four and bone-tired.

The job had come through a friend of a friend. Exclusive. Discreet. Hospitality for elite guests—businessmen, old money, the occasional celebrity trying to avoid cameras and commitments. Clara said yes before she even saw the full details. High pay. Quiet location. No press. No fuss.

She hadn’t realised what kind of people she’d be serving until she saw the guest list.

And there it was.

Toto Wolff.

She’d read the name twice. Then folded the paper and put it out of sight like it might burn her fingers.

He hadn’t known her then, not really. She was just a kid when he used to come by the Schumacher home—tall and intimidating, always deep in conversation with her father, the kind of man who seemed too big for their kitchen table. She’d curl up on the stairs sometimes, half-listening, pretending not to care. But she remembered the sound of his voice. Deep. Calm. Quietly dangerous.

Now he was here. In the exact place she’d chosen to disappear.

And she would serve him drinks like she didn’t know him.

Like she wasn’t someone he’d once seen running barefoot in a paddock. Like she hadn’t watched him from the shadows for years, intrigued and crushing on a man who was thirty years older than her. 

The moment she saw him, she knew it wouldn’t work.

He was older now—sharper, maybe lonelier around the edges—but his presence filled the room the way it always had. Clara ducked her head, took a breath, and told herself he wouldn’t recognise her.

Not here.

Not like this.

She’d buried Clara Schumacher a long time ago.

She just hoped Toto Wolff didn’t know how to dig.

—

The kitchen was warm, too warm—radiators on full blast and the oven open for the pastry chef’s temperamental soufflés. Clara stood near the sink, rolling her sleeves up and letting the heat flush her cheeks. Her blouse clung to her back, but she welcomed the discomfort. It was grounding. 

“Did you see the guest list?” Someone whispered. It was Elise, one of the other servers—French, painfully pretty, and always two steps ahead on gossip.

Clara didn’t look up from the tray of polished glasses she was inspecting. “Briefly.”

“Well, I saw it,” Elise continued, loading her voice with importance. “There’s going to be, like, five billionaires here. That Wolff guy? He’s huge. Like, terrifying. But also... kind of hot in a cryptic-CEO kind of way.”

“I’d let him ruin me,” muttered Anaïs, the pastry assistant, half into the fridge.

Clara forced a smile and kept polishing. 

God, they had no idea.

“Apparently he’s super private about his private life,” Elise said, lowering her voice. “Obviously. I mean, when was the last time anyone heard about him having a girlfriend?”

Clara’s throat tightened. Her hand slipped slightly on a wineglass stem, and it wobbled before she caught it. She turned, steadying her tone. “Which wing is he staying in?”

“East,” Elise answered. “Why?”

“No reason.” Clara dried her hands and reached for her tray. “I’ve got the cocktail round for the main salon.”

“Good luck,” Anaïs said with a wink. “Try not to melt.”

— 

The estate’s main salon was dimly lit and elegant, all old wood and older money. A fire crackled in the hearth. Conversation buzzed low and intentional—men with pocket squares, women in sleek black dresses, the clink of cutlery and crystal.

Clara stepped into the room like a shadow, trained and fluid, balancing her tray with easy grace.

She saw him before he saw her.

Toto was stood near the fireplace, glass in hand, deep in conversation with a man she vaguely recognised from handful of financial tabloids. He looked broader than she remembered, darker around the eyes. But his presence hadn’t dulled. It pressed into the room like gravity.

Clara’s stomach twisted. She approached slowly, circling the room, offering drinks, nodding politely. All muscle memory.

And then—

He turned.

Eyes met hers.

Only for a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough.

His expression didn’t change. No widening eyes, no sharp intake of breath. Just a quiet recalibration, like a man noting a discrepancy in a report—unspoken, but deeply, dangerously noted.

She looked away first. Felt the heat rise to her collarbones. Stepped past him like he hadn’t just undone five years of erasure with a single glance.

She made it to the far side of the room before she let herself breathe again.

But even as she served the rest of the guests, hands steady and smile serene, she felt it.

His gaze.

On her.

All night long.

Not leering. Not obvious.

Just there. Like a hook in the water, waiting.

Not absolutely sure what it had caught—but curious. Focused.

Remembering.

— 

The night had finally exhaled.

Guests were retired to their wings or slowly drifting that way. The last fire in the main salon had been banked. The soft shuffle of slippers and closing doors was the only sound left in the house.

Clara moved like a ghost through the back corridor, tray empty, apron half-tied at her waist, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. She just needed ten more steps. Her suite. Her bed. One locked door between her and—

"Clara Schumacher.”

Her name stopped her like a crack of thunder.

She turned slowly. He was there—Toto. Leaning casually in the mouth of the hallway, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other resting on the trim of the doorframe.

His eyes were unreadable in the low light.

She hesitated. “That’s not my name.”

He raised one brow, just slightly. “No?”

She didn’t answer.

A beat passed. Then two. “I almost did not recognise you,” he said finally, voice low. “But you have your father’s eyes. And your brother’s mouth. That tilt, when you’re irritated.”

“I’m not irritated,” she lied.

“You always were, around me.”

That made her blink. “You remember that?”

He gave the smallest of smiles. “You were a teenager who hated being ignored.”

“And yet you still did it.” She folded her arms, tray pressed between her ribs and elbow. “Ignored me.”

He nodded, thoughtfully. Then his voice lowered even further. “What are you doing here, Clara?”

“I work here.”

“You shouldn’t.”

She stiffened, eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

“You’re a Schumacher,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You were never meant to serve.”

Her mouth pulled tight. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“I am allowed to want to separate myself from my family name.” She told him sharply. 

“I knew your father,” he said simply. “He would be horrified, mäuschen, that you are spending your time cleaning lipstick off champagne glasses like you are somebody else.”

“I am someone else.” She said, on a sharp inhale that cut through the pain of hearing anybody talk about her father. “Clara Schumacher doesn’t exist anymore.”

Toto stepped closer. Not menacing—just steady. Measured. Quiet concern, coiled beneath layers of restraint. “I remember her,” he said. “And I think that she is still in there.”

Clara turned away, blinking hard. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I had to leave. I couldn’t— I couldn’t stay there any longer. I couldn’t stand to watch him fade away. And then to have to sit back and watch Mick rise to the top…” 

“I think that I do understand,” he argued, his eyebrows drawn together, his voice low and careful. “You were afraid, so you ran and hid.”

She flinched. 

The silence stretched, thick and raw. 

Sensing the tremor in her, Toto softened, his voice dropping even lower, the words curling around her like a warmth she didn’t want. "Mäuschen," he murmured, his voice gentler now, “Kleine Maus... it’s okay. You don’t have to hide. Not from me.”

Clara’s breath hitched in her throat at the softness of it—the softness of Mäuschen, a pet name so tender it made her stomach tighten, just a little. 

He reached out, barely, almost as if he were going to touch her arm. But he stopped himself, his hand hanging at his side. “I won’t tell anyone that I have seen you,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, an attempt to ease the tension. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Clara didn’t answer immediately. Her chest felt tight, the words clinging to the back of her throat, but she couldn’t quite say them. “I’m not afraid,” she finally whispered, though the words felt hollow. 

Toto’s gaze softened even more, and for a moment, she knew that he could see the fractured pieces of herself that she was trying so hard to hide. He took a step back, giving her space, but his eyes held her still. His voice was low again, barely audible in the quiet corridor. “Du bist nicht allein, Kleine Maus,” he said, his words barely a breath, more an affirmation than a promise. “But I will be here for a full week. So… when you’re tired of pretending this life is what you want, when you’re done with this ridiculous act of rebellion… find me.” He gave her one last lingering look—and then he turned, slowly, walking away, the soft echo of his dress shoes fading into the distance.

Clara stood there long after he was gone, her pulse hammering in her chest. She could still feel him; like he’d etched himself into the space between her ribs somehow.

“Clara?” Elise called. “Can you come and give us a hand in the kitchen?”

She took a deep breath, pushed every thought of Toto Wolff to the back of her mind, and headed back toward the kitchen. 

—

Clara’s fingers moved quickly, setting the table with an almost mechanical precision. The guests were seated, the room filled with quiet chatter and the clink of glasses. She drifted through the room, her body automatic, her face a practiced mask. The pressure of it all had become second nature: being used, going unnoticed, never really there but always present.

Toto wasn’t like the other guests, though. He had a way of watching her, of speaking to her, that tugged at her in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. He had arrived early, sitting at the far end of the room, casually sipping his coffee, his eyes following her movements with a quiet interest.

“Isn’t it curious?” He asked softly, his voice carrying just to her as the room emptied for a brief moment. “A woman like you… working like this. All your beauty, all your grace... and yet here you are, doing this.” He gestured toward the task she was occupied with, not loud enough to draw attention but still heavy with implication.

His tone was gentle, almost conversational, as though he were commenting on the weather, not on the way she’d chosen to live. “You should be the one enjoying this, not serving it, don’t you think? Being treated the way someone of your pedigree deserves.”

Clara flinched, her heart skipping a beat, but she quickly masked it with a neutral smile. She forced her focus on the tray she carried, avoiding his gaze, but she felt his eyes on her the entire time.

She continued moving through the estate, offering drinks, greeting guests, and pretending that she didn’t feel the tug of his words, that they weren’t echoing in the back of her mind. His comment had been soft, almost kind. But it felt like a crack in the walls she’d painfully constructed.

Later, as she watched guests indulge in the luxury, their every need met with ease, she couldn't shake the longing that stirred inside her. For the first time in years, she remembered what it had felt like to be taken care of, to be spoiled, to be wanted without having to give something in return. Her chest tightened with the realisation of how much she missed it—and how terrifying that was to admit. 

—

The day dragged on. Clara was exhausted. She had been on her feet for hours, serving, attending to every need. And every time she passed by his table, there he was—Toto, watching her. There was something different in his gaze though. Softer, almost knowing, like he could see right through her mask.

He was standing by the door now, his eyes meeting hers as she passed by with a tray. “Kleine Maus,” he said gently, his voice carrying just enough to reach her. “I do not enjoy you like this. Working. Tired to the bone. Shadows under your eyes.” His tone was quiet, almost like a confession.

She stopped in her tracks, his words settling into her like stones in her stomach. She tightened her grip on the tray, trying to push the feeling of vulnerability away, but it was impossible.

“You deserve more than this life. You should be treated better than this.”

His words weren’t forceful. They weren’t demanding. But they lingered. And he said them so softly. 

Clara took a deep breath, but she couldn’t help the sudden tightness in her throat. She turned away quickly, feeling the overwhelming pressure rise in her chest.

She kept moving, trying to keep herself together, but it felt harder with each step. The words continued to swirl in her mind. You deserve more than this life. You should be treated better than this. It was all she could hear.

And then, suddenly, she was aware of him again. Toto’s presence behind her, quiet but insistent. She didn’t need to look to know he was there. The weight of his attention was all-encompassing.

When she felt a hand on her arm, steady and warm, her breath caught in her throat. “Komm, lass uns hinaus gehen,” he said, low and soft, but firm—inviting her out of the chaos, out of the pretence. “Come, let’s go outside.”

Her chest tightened, and without thinking, she let him lead her down the hall. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. Her tears started to fall before she could stop them, soft at first, then uncontrollable.

Toto didn’t say anything, didn’t ask why or try to stop her. He simply led her down the hall, away from prying eyes, into a quiet space where no one could see her fall apart. When they reached an empty corner, Clara collapsed, her sobs racking her body. The years of pretending, the exhaustion, the years of loneliness—it all came flooding out. She couldn’t hold herself up anymore. She was done.

But Toto was there, catching her instantly. His arms enveloped her, pulling her close in a way that was both protective and comforting. He didn’t ask her to stop crying. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just held her, letting her collapse into his chest as if she had no weight at all.

“Du bist nicht allein, Kleine Maus,” he whispered into her hair. His voice was a promise, quiet and steady. “I will never let you go without proper care again. Not for so long. You deserve much better than this.”

Clara clung to him, her sobs quieter now, but her body still shaking with the release of everything she’d been holding back for so long. Toto’s arms, his warmth, were like a safe place she had long forgotten could exist.

— 

The corridor was silent. Every polished stone echoed under Clara’s bare feet as she approached the end of the guest wing, her night coat pulled tight around her. She stood in front of the door for too long, knuckles raised, not knocking.

Then, like he always could, he opened it before she could make a sound.

Toto looked at her without surprise, like he’d known she would come. Like he’d been waiting. "Clara," he said softly. Just her name, but it sounded different in his mouth. Measured. Weighty. Almost reverent. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, eyes wide, still a little red. Her hands trembled at her sides. “You should not be walking the halls like this alone so late,” he murmured, stepping aside. “Come inside.”

She did.

The room was warm, lit only by the fire. It smelled like cedar and expensive cologne, understated and masculine. She stood by the hearth, trying not to unravel.

“I don’t know why I came,” she whispered.

“I do,” he said. Simply. Kindly.

She turned toward him then. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

His eyes flickered, something ancient and gentle behind them. He stepped closer, slowly—giving her time, always giving her time.

“Then you won’t be.”

She searched his face, then nodded once.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “You will let me take care of you tonight, Kleine Maus?” He asked, the pet name soft like silk. “Only if you want it.”

“I do,” she breathed, and God, she’d known this was a possibility, but the reality sunk in with a sharp, exciting spark. “Please.”

And Toto, gentleman always, but not soft, kissed her like he meant it. With control, with patience, with deep, deliberate reverence. Every move was a question. Every answer she gave was enthusiastic, quiet, whole-body yes. He undressed her like she was made of something precious, and the way he touched her, slow and steady and unbearably tender, felt more like worship than want.

He didn’t rush. He led.

And for the first time in years, Clara didn’t have to give. She was allowed to fall back and simply be received—all her walls pulled down, all her edges seen and kissed and kept tenderly safe. It was slow, it was intense, and it was unbearably good.

Later, wrapped in his arms, her face pressed to the warmth of his chest, she felt something terrifying creeping in.

Hope.

—

Clara woke just as the morning light spilled through the windows. Toto was already sitting on the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt, his back to her.

Something about it—about the way he didn’t immediately turn—made her stomach twist.

He finally spoke, quiet, almost too gentle. “You should go home, Clara.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

He turned then, eyes kind but distant in a way they hadn’t been last night. “To your mother. To Mick. They will be missing you dearly.”

She sat up slowly. “You… you want me to leave?”

He stood and walked toward her, kneeling briefly to take her hand. “You have spent too long pretending you’re not loved. You need to be reminded.”

“But I thought…” She blinked, throat closing up. “I thought maybe—”

He hesitated, his thumb brushing softly over her knuckles, lingering like he didn’t want to let go. His voice, when it came, was quiet—so gentle it almost hurt. “This life, liebling… it isn’t something I can offer without cost. And I—” he looked away, jaw tight, “I am not a man who gives only pieces. When I take, it is not done in halves. You understand?”

Clara’s chest ached. Her nod came too fast, too eager to protect her own pride. “Of course,” she said, the words brittle.

His hand tightened once, as if he might pull her back into his chest—but he didn’t.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Instead he leaned forward, kissed her forehead. A parting gesture. “Go home, Kleine Maus.”

She dressed in silence. Went back to her room and packed with numb fingers. 

And by the time the sun had fully risen over the snow-covered estate, Clara Schumacher was on the first flight home. 

— 

The gate creaked just like she remembered. The porch light still flickered faintly in the right corner. Clara’s suitcase rolled quietly behind her, wheels bumping over the uneven stone path leading up to the door. She hadn’t called ahead. Couldn’t bring herself to. She didn’t know what she would’ve said.

But the moment the door opened, everything stopped.

Her mother stood there barefoot, flour dusted on her sweater, eyes going wide with disbelief before softening with something fierce and maternal. “Clara?” She breathed, voice cracking.

Clara nodded—barely—and then she was in her mother’s arms, held so tightly she could barely breathe. The scent of rosemary and warm bread clung to her sweater, and Clara let her eyes close, let herself sink into that long-forgotten feeling of being held.

“You came home,” her mother whispered, voice trembling. “My darling girl.”

Before Clara could even find the words, she heard familiar footsteps behind them—hurried, heavier. Mick’s voice followed a beat later. “Mum? Who was at the—”

Then he saw her. His eyes went wide with disbelief before they flooded with something harder, deeper—relief.

“Jesus, Clara.” He crossed the foyer in three long strides, hugging her like he was afraid she might vanish again. “What the hell?”

She tried to speak but her throat closed up. So she just wrapped her arms around her twin and nodded into his shoulder.

“You disappeared,” Mick said into her hair, voice low. “And I didn’t know if you were okay. I kept thinking—” He pulled back just slightly, searching her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The house had quieted, but the air was still heavy. Clara sat curled on the bench beneath the kitchen window, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. The lights were dim. Her mother had gone upstairs. 

Mick stood by the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t said anything for a long time. Finally, his voice cut through the quiet. “You missed everything.”

Clara flinched. She set the mug down, fingers trembling. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Mick turned to face her fully, eyes sharp with something deeper than anger—hurt. “You missed my first season in Formula One.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry, Mick.”

“No, you’re not,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Do you know what it was like for me? Watching Mum try to smile through it and pretend she wasn’t crying every time she passed your room? I had no idea if you were dead or just—what? Pretending none of us existed?”

“Mick—”

“No,” he said, softer now, but still furious. “You left when we needed you. When I needed you. And I know things were hard—God, they were hard—but I was your brother. I am your brother. Your twin, Clara. You could’ve told me.”

Clara opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes shimmered. And then, all at once, she cracked. “I couldn’t,” she said, voice breaking. “I wasn’t strong like you. I couldn’t keep smiling, couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t hurt, that I wasn’t disappearing inside. I couldn’t sit at the table every day and not know if Papa would ever say my name again. I couldn’t stand in your shadow and carry his too.” Tears streamed down her cheeks now, hot and relentless. “I’m sorry I missed your season. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wanted to be—I did—but I watched every race on the TV no matter where I was, and I cheered for you, Mick. I promise I did.” Her voice cracked on that last word.

She turned, expecting silence, or more reprimand—but instead, she found herself wrapped in her mother’s arms. Sabine had come down at some point, drawn by the weight of voices and grief, and now she was gathering Clara up like she had when she was small—like she always did when the world got too loud.

“Oh, mein Herz,” her mother whispered, fingers combing gently through Clara’s hair. “You never needed to be strong. We never asked that of you. We only ever wanted you safe.”

Clara sobbed harder. Mick looked down, blinking furiously, and then stepped forward too. Slowly, carefully, he sank beside them, leaning in. “I was so angry,” he said quietly. “But I was scared, too. Scared you were gone for good.”

Clara shook her head against their mother’s shoulder. “I was just... lost.”

“Well, not anymore,” their mother said softly. “You’re here. Home. And you will never be alone again.”

—

Six Weeks Later

Clara stood in the bathroom, staring at the small plastic stick in her hand. Her heartbeat was a frantic drum in her chest, each thump louder than the next. The room was quiet—too quiet—and her mind was racing, thoughts blurring together.

She couldn’t seem to breathe. The faint second pink line on the test was undeniable. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a dream.

She was pregnant.

She sank down onto the edge of the bathtub, feeling the cold tile against her legs. Her hands were shaking. The steady rhythm of her breathing faltered, and the world outside the bathroom felt like it was slipping away from her.

Pregnant.

How had this happened? No, she knew how it had happened—of course, she did. 

She hadn’t planned for this. She had barely begun to piece together the fragments of herself she’d left behind, to understand what her future looked like now. How was she supposed to raise a child? How was she supposed to face her family after this?

The thought of telling them made her stomach twist. But that wasn’t even the most immediate problem. The thought of telling him—Toto—made her throat close with dread.

What would he think? What would he do?

They hadn’t spoken once since she returned home. Since the morning after. Since he’d dismissed her from his life entirely. 

A quiet knock on the bathroom door broke her train of thought.

"Clara?" Mick’s voice, muffled through the wood, was cautious, uncertain. “You okay in there?”

She quickly wiped her face, blinking hard to clear the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, her voice thinner than she’d intended. “Just... give me a second.”

Her brother’s voice softened. “You sound like you’re crying.”

She closed her eyes, the lump in her throat tightening again. The weight of it all pressed on her, unbearable. “I’ll be right out,” she called back, her voice a little steadier now. “Just a minute.”

Clara took a deep breath, gathering what little composure she had left. The test sat on the edge of the sink, staring back at her, and for a moment, she just looked at it.

How did you happen?

She took one last glance in the mirror, slid the test into her waistband, smoothed her hand over her hair, and then stepped out of the bathroom.

[chuxmy]

hiiii! not sure if you do headcannons specifically but, boyfriend sieun with sunshine!reader? or a partner who’s the opposite of him character wise. (very positive, loving, etc) luv ur work !!

How he acts with you

Pairings: Yeon Sieun x Sunshine!Fem!Reader

Warnings: none

• At first, Sieun is confused by you. You’re warm, bubbly, and openly affectionate everything he isn’t. You greet him every day like it’s the best part of your life, with a wide smile and sometimes a little jump-hug, and it leaves him momentarily stunned every time. He never knows what to do with his hands.

• He pretends he’s unaffected, but he is. He finds himself watching you when you’re talking animatedly with others, trying to figure out how you can be so soft and kind in such a harsh world. You make even the coldest people open up eventually. He hates how he starts to want that light.

• He never says “I love you” first. But he shows it. Holding your bag without a word when your hands are full. Waiting outside your class even though he could be studying. Silently placing your favorite drink beside you when you’re tired. You say “I love you” for both of you,he just blinks slowly and quietly squeezes your hand.

• You love clinging to him. Arm around his, leaning on his shoulder, poking his cheek to get his attention. He’ll pretend to be annoyed, muttering, “Stop it,” but his ears always go red.

• Your brightness grounds him. When he spirals into overthinking or goes quiet after a bad fight, you don’t try to fix him you just sit next to him, humming softly, rubbing circles on his back, and reminding him you’re there. He’s never known peace like that.

• He worries about being too cold for you. Sometimes, he stares at you while you sleep, wondering why someone like you loves someone like him. You always seem to sense it. Half-asleep, you’ll mumble, “You’re my safe place,” and curl into his chest. He’ll kiss your head quietly and hold you tighter.

• Everyone around you thinks you’re too good for him. And maybe you are. But you love him in a way no one else ever could. And Sieun? He might not say it aloud, but he’d destroy the world if it meant protecting your smile.

[conindiundrum]

i tried to walk away but i must yap

This is so disgustingly true and it makes so much sense because like, Dean grew up knowing what family and peace could be like but Sam never got the same. And Sam has tried to explain that (in 5x16) which kinda implies that he knows why he's like this. But that's the crux of his character, he's too fine with being in distress. And how does he even begin to explain all that to Dean? So he doesn't, he just keeps going.

But here's the thing, there's one thing he repeatedly can't go without. Dean. Which is why fucking SEASON EIGHT AND THAT FUCKING ENDING SHOULD BE GIVEN ABSOLUTION-

I don't know how to explain it coherently but Dean is an empathetic person who uses a pragmatic mask to try and convince himself that he is unaffected so he doesn't have a breakdown whereas Sam is a pragmatic person who uses an empathetic mask to force himself to be affected because he could easily just move on if needed and they're both trauma responses and it's also the reason why they fundamentally misunderstand each other all the time

[clairewritesfanfics]

Mark Grayson Variants as Husbands

Characters: Cap Mark, Full Mask Mark, Maskless Mark, Shiesty Mark, Sinister Mark, Viltrumite Mark

Cap Mark

The hot husband who gets hit on by everyone. He knows he has a pretty face and has a more detailed skincare routine than you. He is vain and takes great pride in his physical appearance and can be quite the charmer when he needs to be. 

While he likes the attention, he never entertains them. He has eyes only for you after all.

He’s a gossip, too. He knows everything about everyone in the neighborhood, likes to spill the tea while you two are in bed. 

One of the Marks who can cook better than their partner, or at least, without destroying the appliances. He loves feeding you. Gives you snacks almost every two hours. You blame him for your weight gain, but he can’t help it. You’re so cute when you’re eating.

Full Mask Mark

Yearns for a simple, peaceful family life. His biggest dream after marrying you is to give you children, not because that’s “the mission,” but because he genuinely wants to be a good father. 

Because he is (lovingly) a momma’s boy, the two of you spend holidays with Debbie. You don’t mind because hello, it’s Debbie.

He tries so hard to honor his commitments to you, but he is still so soft-hearted, he couldn’t just ignore a little girl crying because her balloon was stuck in a tree or a sweet old lady crossing the road. He is always late to your dates. He always feels guilty, but you reassure him each time, because he was almost never late to the important things.

Almost because he was late once and lost you completely.

Maskless Mark

Total introvert. His friends and teammates don’t worry when he doesn’t look at the messages in their group chats or see him outside of work. He genuinely would rather spend his free time with you, alone, in the house.

Strong cat dad energy. You two adopted a stray momma cat once and he used to sleep on the floor next to her when she was too tired to move.

He wants to learn to cook, but don’t let him. He will set off the fire alarms. One time he tried to make you lasagna and you came home to find fire trucks surrounding the house while your husband hugged a big fat cat and her kittens by the driveway.

Shiesty Mark

A total manchild, but beneath all that roughness, he’s thoughtful and devoted. 

When you express disapproval of certain habits, like leaving the toilet lid up when not in use (gross) or drinking the milk straight out of its carton (again, gross), he will pout but won’t do it ever again.

He is extremely protective, they all are compared to normal, well-adjusted people, but this one will fuck up anyone who looks at you the wrong way. He tends to get angry on your behalf, too, like when you tell him about your abusive boss or annoying co-workers.

He is a touch fiend and always has one hand on you. It doesn’t have to be sexual, sometimes he just likes the feeling of your bare chest and the fat of your thighs between his fingers.

Sinister Mark

Quite the romantic, also super competitive. He laughs at humans who get divorced, because in his eyes, that makes them failures. But that’s not to say that he approves of idiots staying together while they destroy each other. Divorce is funny, but pretending to be in love? That’s downright pathetic.

Love is supposed to be fun, but he also knows that it’s about effort. This man doesn’t believe in letting the flame die. He will bring you flowers everyday after work without fail. He will open doors for you, carry your things even when they’re super light, buy you chocolate, and take you to dinner every week, and it doesn’t have to be fancy, maybe you prefer McDonald’s over a sushi restaurant, that’s cool with him.

Despite his own philosophy, he actually doesn’t expect you to treat him the same way. Just agreeing to spend time with him and accepting his presents are more than enough. All he wants from you is to always have you by his side until the end of time, is that so much to ask?

Viltrumite Mark

Awkward and naive, but always willing to learn. 

Due to his upbringing, he is the typical will fix the problem for you type of guy, which can be annoying when you just want to vent. On the bright side, he is a straightforward fellow. He may not understand why you get mad or frustrated when he offers you solutions, but he will do his best to go against instinct when you tell him your feelings.

He is an attentive husband who quietly helps you around the house. He doesn’t keep track of the chores and just does it when he can, for example, when you leave one used mug in the sink (you swear you’ll deal with it when there are more dishes) he will wash it without saying a word. 

Despite, or perhaps because Viltrum does not share Earth’s marital customs, he was one of the Marks most eager to marry you. He could not picture life without you, and he would sooner bite his tongue off than think of you married to somebody else.

MASTERLIST Husband Headcanons for Emperor Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Omni-Mark, Prisoner Mark

[nathanbatemanfucker]

The Falcon & the Machine

summary: joaquin confronts you about your attempt to “protect” him.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!assassin!reader

contents: mentions of canon typical violence, angst, pining/longing, kissing, happyish ending

wc: 1,652

an: i just love the idea of joaquin and his lover being on the opposite side of things or having different morals. idk it makes their love that much better to me 🫶🏾🤭

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The car stops somewhere deep in the Virginia woods—far enough from the base to mean it’s not casual, close enough to mean someone wanted this private but not remote. It has your alarm bells ringing.

You narrow your eyes at Sam through the rearview mirror. “I thought you said this was a tactical meeting.”

“It is,” he says, his voice too casual and smooth. “Tactical for your emotional wellbeing.”

He’s out the car and your door opens before you can snap something back. You step out, instincts sharp even when you’re exhausted. The world around you is quiet, deceptively peaceful. The trees, the sound of wind stirring through the leaves, the birds distant but constant and everything feels still.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t know how to feel still anymore. Not after everything.

You see Joaquin as you keep walking, and all of your practiced cold, all your walls fall away like a sheet of glass hit from the inside.

He’s standing in a clearing, arms crossed, Falcon wings holstered tight to his back. You can’t see his eyes yet, but you know he’s looking at you. You can feel that same raw tension in his gaze, the same pull between you that neither of you can ignore.

You haven’t answered his calls in three weeks, or let him near you since the mission in Turkey went sideways. Since the extraction turned into a bloodbath, bodies hitting the floor from your hands. That’s when the questions started to follow you—yes as always— but him too.

Questions that could ruin everything Joaquin’s shed blood, sweat and tears for.

The second hardest part of all this isn’t having to kill the people that come after you, the people they send to ask questions or torture you. Its the way you saw the fear in Joaquin’s eyes when he realized how far into the dark you were willing to go to protect him, and everyone else. He saw the worst of you. And still…he never wanted to walk away, he never turned away.

The hardest part? Letting him.

Because your file isn’t redacted, you can’t hide in the shadows while living this full life. People know who you are and what you do. You’re a fixer—not in the clean, shiny way that heroes are. You don’t wear the white hat, you don’t dawn the stars and stripes.

You’re someone who does the dirty work when governments, organizations, or even the Avengers themselves need it done. You erase people and trade lives like currency and manipulate systems from the inside out. You’re good at it, but it’s not who you are. At least, not the person you want to be—not when you’ve been given someone like Joaquin by the grace of the universe to stand beside you.

But the world isn’t kind to ghosts, to those who lurk in the shadows. And Joaquin… he’s everything you’re not.

He’s visible. He’s everything that is right and pure and true in the world. People believe in him and they believe in his future. Not in yours, not in the mess that’s followed you around all your life.

“Seriously?” you mutter, glaring at Sam, but he’s already slipping away from you, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Talk to him or don’t. But, if I hear either of you whining and brooding one more time, I’m putting you both in a room with Bucky. You know he’s tryna therapize everybody now that he has a shrink.”

You roll your eyes, but his words sit with you long after Sam disappears back into the trees. Talk to him or don’t…did you truly have a choice? He’s right, neither of you have stopped talking about the other. You turn toward Joaquin, who hasn’t moved an inch.

His face is collected, but it’s not just the expression—it’s the way he stands. There’s an edge to him now, something rough, jagged in his posture that makes your heart tighten.

You don’t give him the chance to speak. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you explain, your voice shaking under the weight of the tension.

Sam must’ve told him about the way you’d broken down earlier in the week, how much of a toll trying to do right by him took on you.

He lets out a dry laugh, one that starts to give away that he’s hurting too. You hear in the way his voice cracks. “You mean seeing you be real? Not that— that machine you become. Not worrying about who you are and who I am, just feeling it?”

You flinch, but he doesn’t look at you with judgment. It’s just the truth in his words—raw and impossible to deny. You’ve always tried to protect him from that. From you.

“I meant what I said, Joaquin,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “You have a future.

“We had a future.”

“Did we? You’re the Falcon– you’re Captain America’s right hand. People need you.”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash as they finally meet yours, the intensity there almost too much to bear. “And you don’t?”

“I’m one person. People believe in you. They trust in you.”

He already has a complicated relationship with the pressure of being a superhero. Could he keep something? Not his privacy or his image but you? Or would living his dream take everything from him?

“And they wouldn’t if they knew that I love you? That you love me too?” he asks, voice quieter but no less fierce.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself trembling under the depth of his words. Your own pour out of you almost frantically. “If they knew what I’ve done? If they knew what I still do? I torture and kill for a living, Joaquin. I’ve crossed lines you can’t even imagine. There’s so much that I can never tell you. If the wrong person finds out about me, about us, everything you’ve worked for could be gone in an instant. Your reputation, your team, your wings, maybe even Sam’s shield. I won’t do that to you.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. Your words hang in the air, unspoken truths that neither of you wants to face.

He doesn’t look angry and he doesn’t look scared either. But he looks tired—in the way people look when they’ve spent too long running from something that was always going to catch up with them.

“I don’t care,” he says finally. The words come out rough, a quiet certainty threading through his voice.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“I said I don’t care what they say,” Joaquín continues, stepping closer. His voice drops lower, each word carrying weight, but with something else behind it—something real. Something charged that makes butterflies swirl in your stomach. “I don’t care about politics, or optics, or keeping it clean for the cameras. I care about you, I love you. What matters more to me is you. Not the job or the title. Not the wings—you.”

Your chest feels tight, the weight of his words pushing you down, making your breath catch.You want to pull away, to let the distance between you both grow to protect him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing there—when he’s been so damn sure about you from the first time he laid eyes on you.

“I’m not good for you,” you whisper brokenly, the vulnerability you’ve been trying to shield yourself from finally breaking through.

“Maybe,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, his voice softer, like he’s holding onto every syllable. “But I want you.”

Before you can respond, he’s there. On you, surrounding you. His lips are on yours, pulling you into a kiss that’s fierce and desperate, raw with need. Your hands find his chest, and then his arms, gripping onto him as if you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. The world around you becomes nothing but noise and movement. The distant rustle of the leaves, the pounding of your heart. The overwhelming rush of warmth, heat, and everything that makes this moment feel like it’s been years in the making.

He presses you against the rough bark of the tree, his body flush against yours, his hands moving over your skin with a care and hunger that makes you ache. His lips leave yours only for a moment, just long enough for him to speak, his breath warm against your ear.

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs.

You don’t know how to respond but you don’t have to because he’s kissing you; no consuming you. The fear in your chest starts to melt into something else—that deep, raw desire that you’ve been trying to bury under the fear of ruining the one pure thing in your life. But the way he’s holding you, the way his fingers press into your chin and throat as he holds you, grounds you—he’s not letting go.

Not of you. Not of any of this. He’ll be damned.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, your voice breathless from the kiss, from how warm his mouth feels as it skates against the skin of your throat.

“I’ll show you how,” Joaquin says, his voice steady, confident between kisses. “One step at a time. Just trust me. You trust me right?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust that I know what I’m doing. Trust that I know I meant to choose you. Can you do that for me?”

You nod and close your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat settle against your own. You don’t think you’re ready for this, for everything that comes with it. But maybe, you can trust him to help you figure it out. Because with him, you’re not a ghost, not just a handler or a murderer or whatever the contract names you to be.

You’re just you. Just his.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @seraphibunni, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

[ama3003]

The Cost of Sides

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes! I didn't want to respond directly since it does contain some Thunderbolts Spoilers but I really hope you see this. If you do see this, please message me that you did so, I can have some peace of mind.

The request started with "Can I request a fic for Bucky please? I’m wanting lots of angst of reader and Bucky not seeing eye to eye after..."

Type: Angst

Summary: You and Bucky seem to be on opposite sides.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You met Bucky through Steve during the U.N. bombing fiasco—back when everything was falling apart and nothing felt safe.

From that moment on, you were in it with him. Every step, every fight, every quiet moment in the aftermath. He never had to ask; you were just there.

And when Steve died, when the weight of it all came crashing down, the two of you leaned on each other like you were the only solid thing left in the world. Somewhere in that grief, love happened. Slowly, then all at once.

After that, you were just… you and him. No big declarations. No drama. Just this steady, easy rhythm.

Sure, there were arguments—small ones, over stupid things like laundry or leaving dishes in the sink—but never real fights. Nothing that stuck. You could read each other so well it never got that far.

Until you played the video Sam sent you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers,”

And there was Bucky. In the center. Wearing his suit. Standing with them.

Your heart dropped so fast you couldn’t breathe for a second. Not because you thought he betrayed you or Sam though he definitely did—but because he let it happen. Because he stood there, quiet.

You didn’t want to pick sides. God, you really didn’t. But it felt like he already had.

He said he didn’t ask for it. Said he wasn’t even sure how it happened. But he kept showing up to their briefings, kept running missions with them, kept wearing that title like it didn’t burn.

And the worst part? The government—the government—was backing them. Funding them. Controlling them. You grew up watching them twist heroes into weapons. And now they had Bucky.

You tried to talk. At first, it was calm. Then it wasn’t.

Now it’s been fourteen months. And you barely recognize the way your fights stretch out, sharper, faster, more frequent. Less about the Avengers and more about everything that’s not being said.

You still love him. That’s not even a question. And he loves you. You know that. But sometimes love isn’t enough to close the space that’s growing between two people who don’t see the world the same way anymore.

You try. You both do. But it’s harder than it used to be. Way harder.

This morning, you show up at the compound with coffee in your hands, the paper tray trembling just slightly from lack of sleep—and everything else. It’s your way of saying sorry without saying the words. Not for what you fought about, but for the way it happened. For the silence after.

That’s how you find yourself stepping off the elevator and into the team’s living space chest still aching from the night before—just in time to hear it:

"Weren’t you going to talk to him?"

"I already did," Bucky says. His voice is low, tired. Like he’s already lived through the argument in his head too many times to want to say it again.

"And?"

"It went poorly."

You stop just past the doorway, your stomach twisting. You shouldn’t have heard that. But now that you have, you can't pretend you didn’t.

“You spoke to Sam?” you ask, stepping into the room fully.

Everyone looks up. The weight of too many eyes lands heavy on your skin. No one says anything. They don’t have to. Everyone knows what’s been going on—what’s been quietly breaking between you and Bucky for over a year now.

“I brought coffee for everyone,” you offer, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. It doesn’t hide the tension. It only highlights it.

Then, gently to Bob: “I got you decaffeinated tea.”

“Thank you,” Bob says, offering a soft smile, trying to smooth out the edges of the moment. But it doesn't do much.

You turn back to Bucky, heart in your throat. “You spoke to Sam?”

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?” you ask. You already know the answer. You’re just hoping it’s not the one you’re thinking.

“To see if he would stop all of this,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face.

You stare at him, jaw clenched. “I told you he wouldn’t. Ross is breathing down his neck. He basically has his hands tied.”

Bucky shakes his head, frustrated. “That doesn’t give him the right to make this whole thing hell for us. It’s not our fault that Valentina decided to do all of this.”

You feel the words catch in your chest before they come out. “But you didn’t fight it.”

The room is still. Even the air feels heavy.

Yelena, sitting off to the side, casually adds, “You do know that he filed for copyright of the name.”

Bucky turns toward her, caught off guard. “Did he?” Then his eyes swing back to you. “See? We're not doing anything. He’s taking it too far.”

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger exactly—something messier. “Look, the Avengers stay with the one who has the shield. He has the right to start up the team again. And don’t forget—you’re the one who told him he should.”

“I never said that.”

You glare at him, the words hitting before you can stop them. “He vented to you, Bucky. You gave him advice. You told him Steve didn’t make a mistake handing him the shield. You told him to lead—to build something new. The Avengers. And now not only is there a new team, but you’re in it. With the same government that once tried to erase him. And you didn’t even try to understand his side."

He scoffs, voice rising. “Sam’s side? He’s the one who doesn’t want to speak to me! He’s the one who’s blaming me like I planned this!”

“What happened during that call?” you ask, arms crossed tightly in front of you like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“I told him—” Bucky starts, then shrugs, eyes flicking away. “I told him he was being ridiculous. That there’s already an Avengers team. That there’s no reason to start a second one.”

Your lips part, but it takes a second for the words to come. “So you basically told him to back off.”

“He’s making this really difficult,” Bucky mutters.

You feel something in you crack—quietly. You can't keep arguing. You lost all willpower. You grab your purse off the counter. “I’m not doing this right now,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

But behind you, his voice calls out, rough and wounded. “You’re not even going to hear me out?”

You stop. You turn. Slowly. “I’ve been hearing you out for fourteen months, Bucky,” you say. “Every time. I’ve listened. I’ve tried to understand. But you signed on with them. What more is there to hear?”

He steps forward, like being closer might help you hear him better. “It’s not like that—”

“No?” Your voice trembles, but the anger in it keeps it from breaking. “Because it feels like exactly that. And fine, let’s say you didn’t sign up for the politics, but you’re still here. Standing next to them. Like that shield and that name didn’t come with blood and pain and history.”

His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. That flash of guilt flickers in his eyes again—but he swallows it down too fast. Again.

“This isn’t about Sam.”

You almost laugh. “Everything is about Sam.”

“I didn’t want this,” he snaps. “But sometimes we don’t get to wait for the perfect cause to show up. The world’s on fire. Sam had time—he could’ve acted. But now he’s creating this new team out of spite.”

You look at him like you don’t recognize him for a second. “And sometimes you don’t even realize you’re helping the very system that tried to erase your best friend from history...That tried to bury you.”

He flinches. That one lands. You can see it in the way he goes still.

You take a shaky breath. “Sam bled for that shield. He earned it. But they made him prove himself again and again. Until he was almost broken. And now you’re smiling for the cameras next to the same people who happily tried to hand that legacy to John.” You glance at Walker. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” Walker mumbles. You ignore him.

Bucky’s face darkens. “I haven’t forgotten what they did. But I haven’t forgotten the threats out there, either. This team… it’s not perfect. But we show up. Sam’s team haven’t shown up at all.”

“And when they do?” you say, stepping closer. “Are you really going to go up against Sam? Against his team? Over a name?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

It feels like a punch to the ribs. You stare at him, voice soft and hollow. “And what about me?”

That shatters something in his expression. You see it—the flicker of fear he tries to bury but can’t. Because this time, it’s different. You’ve fought before—circling this dilemma for months, both of you carefully pretending it lived outside your relationship. Like you could keep love and ideology in separate rooms. But this? This is the first time the line disappears. The first time it feels personal.

And you can’t pretend anymore.

“We’re a family, Bucky. After Steve, it’s always been us three. And now you're ready to go against him? Over a group name that we both know belongs to him.”

“I want to be where I can help,” he says, quieter now. “Sure, the government backs us up, but we're not letting them control us. We're on the right side."

Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. “And what happens when the lines between right and wrong blur, Bucky? When the people you’re working with start justifying things again?"

He doesn’t answer right away.

You lower your voice, barely above a whisper now. “What happens when history repeats itself?”

He looks at you, offended. “You think I’d let that happen again?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

The silence hung there like a bruise. No one said a word.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the muffled sounds of the team whispering amongst themselves, trying not to be obvious, failing miserably.

You turned toward the window because it was easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing what was—or wasn’t—left in his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant, cracked at the edges.

“I can’t follow you into this, Buck.”

You heard him breathe in—sharp, like maybe he hadn’t expected that. Or maybe he had.

“I never asked you to,” he said. But there was something in his voice. A break. A catch. Something small but real.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You nodded, once. No drama. No grand speech. Just… done. Then you turned and walked toward the elevator.

No one stopped you.

You felt their eyes on your back. You felt his most of all.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped in stiffly, trying to keep your hands from shaking and your heart from breaking right here in front of them.

The doors started to close.

He still didn’t move.

Still didn’t say your name.

And that? That was the part that broke you. He was letting you go.

Only when the doors shut and you were alone did your shoulders slump. Only then did the breath you'd been holding finally let go—and it came out shaky.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You pulled out your phone, meaning to call Sam. Ask if you could crash for the night.

But your screen lit up before you could type.

Your lock screen.

That damn photo.

You and Bucky, wrapped up in each other, grinning like idiots. Some blurry picture someone else had snapped at some rooftop barbecue. He had his arm around you, his mouth near your ear. You were laughing like the world wasn’t ending.

Back when things still felt easy.

Before sides. Before names meant more than people.

Before all of this.

You stared at it, and your chest ached. Actually ached.

Different times. Different battles. Same man.

But maybe not the same love.

You’d followed him through hell and worse. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

But not this time.

Not into something that went against everything you believed. Not when it meant losing pieces of yourself just to stay close to him. Not when it meant standing against the memory of the only real family you've ever had.

Ahhh, I seriously love getting Bucky requests—they're always my favorite to write!

Also, I know this whole Sam vs. Bucky situation has stirred up a lot of emotions, but honestly, their friendship is so strong that I doubt it'll last long.

Anywhoooo I hope you enjoy this one! Love you all and thank you for all the support!!!!!

Pleaseeeee send me more requests (I'm on a Bucky roll right now lol)! And to those who have requested don't worry I'll get to yours soon!

[baezen]

starving | j.a

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader warnings: smut, nsfw [18+ only], touch starved!jack, loneliness, slight sub!jack, clingy!jack, call girl!reader, male moans/whimpering, dry humping, making out like handsy/horny teenagers, jack's a mess and makes a mess of you, cowgirl, jack begs, dirty talk, desperation, squirting, word count: 5585

summary: in which jack's loneliness causes him to reach out to someone he's surprised is very understanding

author's note: further continuation of this piece. i took so long to write this because i didn't want it to be rushed. i wanted to do his character justice and i hope i achieved that. i hope y'all enjoy

oneshot | masterlist

It started with a phone call, like always. New clients had to be screened, they had to form a working relationship with you. 

You’d had your fair share of sketchy clients. Some who had tried to push you past your limits, others refusing to pay. You’d made a new rule that they always had to pay half upfront, and show they had the rest of the cash on them when you met them. If they wanted to extend the booking, they had that option, but the charge always varied depending on what they wanted to do. 

Some wanted to cuddle, engaging in pillow talk. Some wanted to prove they could make you finish again, if only to gloat. Some simply wanted the time to shower together, helping you to clean up. 

Nothing was ever free. 

There was one client you had who simply liked to talk. The company of watching a movie together, of talking about his day. 

Needless to say, Jack had become one of your favourite clients. You looked forward to his texts, asking for your availability. You always made sure to get a nice hotel. Somewhere with a comfy sofa, a huge bed, and a spectacular view. 

Jack always praised the view. 

At first, you’d assumed it was a compliment for you. He’d said it while staring out the window, watching the sun set over the city. Still, he’d looked at you—looked through you—in order to stand in front of the window. 

You stood alongside him. Muttering something about the city and the night, the peace it brought you, and the smile that had tugged the corners of his mouth had been worth it. 

One of the first things you’d noticed about Jack was that he wore a wedding band. Most of your clients weren’t as obvious with their cheating, opting to take it off, but the tan line was still there. Jack had seen you staring. Hell, he saw everything you did. He was always watching, always paying attention. He hadn’t mentioned it, but you had. 

“She passed away a few years ago,” he had confessed quietly, voice thick and gravelly like he wasn’t used to talking about her. “Can’t bring myself to take it off.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” you had assured him softly. 

Something about him told you everything you needed to know. The faraway look to his eyes, the weight he carried on his shoulders. From the initial phone call, you hadn’t been sure what to make of him. Now that he was in front of you, it looked like he needed a friend more than anything else. So you’d suggested a movie, something easy to watch, and he’d joined you on the bed. 

Jack had sat upright for most of the movie, and you’d made yourself comfortable lying beside him. Head near his lap, his hand aimlessly playing with your hair—like it was muscle memory. His fingertips had scratched your scalp and you’d sighed, enjoying the feeling. The comfort. The familiarity. 

Over the next few months, your meetings had been much the same. Sometimes he made a few comments, thinly veiled jokes to break the tension. Most of the time, he preferred the quiet. Knowing someone was there with him when he was stuck in his head. 

You never pushed for him to talk. Never made him feel guilty for needing a friend to sit with him, even if that friend was being paid to spend time with him. 

You enjoyed it. The break from the norm. The ease you settled into once he picked a movie to watch. 

One time he brought dinner. Something he’d made earlier in the day. He’d been chatty that day, something you noticed he did when he didn’t know how to process what was going on in his head. 

“It’s her birthday,” he’d told you. The weight of his words, the anxious fiddling with his wedding band, the meal. It all made sense. 

He’d watched you pick up the phone to call room service. You’d ordered a bottle of bubbles with three glasses, as well as three slices of cake. You did it so effortlessly that he got a little choked up. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just a patient understanding. Acknowledging the woman he was still in love with, with grace and poise. 

He’d seen you in a new light that day. Over the toast you’d made to his wife, and the care you’d shown him. The understanding that grief was a process. Healing was a process. That you saw him as a friend, not just a client. 

Jack started to talk a little more with each meeting. About his day—you’d learned he was a doctor. About his wife—his smile was always a little brighter each time. About your day—you tried not to reveal too much, but talking to him was easy. He didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. Didn’t push for details like some men did. He let you tell him what you were comfortable revealing. 

Hell, you’d even told him how you got into your line of work. He’d never passed judgement, or made you feel like you deserved better. He never suggested a change in career, but you’d told him you were taking classes and hoped one day to become a licensed child psychologist. 

“You’d be good at that,” he’d said with a smile. “There’s something about you that puts me at ease. That’s not an easy thing. Those kids would thrive with your guidance.”

“You really think so?” You’d asked. 

“I do.”

There was no doubt in his voice. It was firm, assertive, reassuring. Something you’d needed to hear but didn’t know how to go about getting it. And the fact that it came from Jack meant a lot more than you were willing to admit. 

Your body ached as you lowered yourself into the bath, iPad sitting on the tray hooked over the sides, along with a large glass of wine and some snacks. You pressed play on the screen, the intro to your comfort show starting within seconds. 

You didn’t have much time for simple pleasures these days, so you basked in the opportunity. Bubble mixture and rose oil added to the tub, the hot water soaking your aching muscles. The wine going down a treat, and the snacks curbing your hunger. 

The second episode had just started when you got a message from Jack. 

I know this is late notice, but can I see you tomorrow morning when I finish my shift? I need something to look forward to. 

I don’t have anywhere booked. Is a café okay?

You’re comfortable with that?

Absolutely, are you?

I finish at 7am. Will you find us someplace nice? 

I’ll have coffee and breakfast waiting for you. 

You sent him the name of the café you liked to frequent. You knew he worked at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, and it was only two blocks away. It was also nearby your campus, and you had two classes tomorrow with the first one starting at 10. You didn’t think meeting Jack would be that long, but you’d at least be able to get some study done for a paper you had due. 

The bath worked wonders. You felt relaxed, a little tipsy, and had something to look forward to in the morning. Setting an alarm for six, to give yourself enough time to get ready and pack your study bag. 

By the time the morning came around, your alarm pulled you from your sleep, and you made an effort while getting ready. A little touch of makeup to feel put together, hair styled just the way you liked, and a comfy coat that tied your outfit together. You packed your bag, and then you were off. Making your way to the cafe with a few minutes to spare, knowing Jack sill hadn’t finished work yet, but that he would be there shortly.

Coffee and food was ordered, and you took up a seat at a comfortable little table near the back. Grabbing your phone to see if there were any new messages from Jack, and being delighted to see a text he’d sent half an hour ago.

Might be a little late. Had a rough night. Looking forward to seeing you.

Take your time, I’ll see you when I see you.

You sipped your coffee when it arrived, having put a hold on the food for the time being. Waiting until Jack said he was officially on his way to the cafe before you asked the staff to start on breakfast.

Jack walked through the doors a couple of minutes later, backpack hanging off one shoulder, still dressed in his dark scrubs from the hospital. He wore a soft smile when he saw you, one you easily reciprocated.

“Hey,” he greeted easily, looking like the night had tested him one too many times. Still, he dropped his bag to the floor and took a seat opposite you. 

“Hey,” you replied. “You’ve looked better.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled. “Thanks for meeting me, I know you don’t do this.”

“I had time,” you said simply. “You need a friend or a therapist today?”

Jack exhaled heavily, shifting in his seat and reaching for his coffee. “Neither. Both. I don’t know.”

You nodded sympathetically. “Do you want to talk?”

“Not about me,” he admitted. 

“You can be my sounding board for my research presentation later this week,” you decided, pulling your iPad out to flick through your notes. 

Jack looked more settled opposite you, and thanked the waitress for your meals. You gave her a polite smile, picking at a tomato before wasting no time starting your speech. 

You showed different graphs on slides to reiterate your point. Every now and then, Jack gestured to your plate, prompting you to pause and eat, but otherwise listened completely. He nodded along with facts and statistics, asked the odd question to continue along with your line of reasoning. 

When you were finished with your speech, he clapped politely, a smile gracing his face. 

“Any pointers?”

“Look more at whoever you’re giving the speech to,” he said. “Otherwise it was very good.”

You grinned as you packed your iPad away, reaching for your coffee and finishing it. Jack gestured to the empty mug. 

“Another?”

“Please.”

The remainder of your omelette had grown cold, but it was still good. When Jack rejoined you, you were finishing up your last bite. 

“So,” you started. “Bad night, huh?”

Jack sighed, scraping at the dusting off stubble along his jaw. “Yeah, something like that,” he agreed with a half-smile.

“Are you okay?” You asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you replied, giving him a pointed look.

He sighed. “No. We lost a vet. Young guy, did two tours overseas no problem, then gets hit by a drunk driver when he comes home. Just…hit a little too close to home.”

You nodded. He hadn’t told you much of his time with the army, but you knew that he had a history serving.

“Shit,” you cursed.  “I’m sorry. That must’ve been pretty early in your shift?”

Jack nodded. “Spent a few hours trying to contact the family. Eventually got in touch with his sister. It’s just…the worst news to receive over the phone, you know? It’s supposed to be done in person, but she won’t arrive until later today.”

“Will you be going back to speak to her?”

Jack shook his head. “I wrote a letter instead. Gave it to the dayshift to read on my behalf. That’s why I was running late; contemplating life and existence from the roof of the hospital.”

“Just don’t jump, yeah?”

He cracked a smile at that. “Would be rude, wouldn’t it?”

“That, and I don’t really have time in my schedule for a funeral,” you said, earning a genuine laugh.

“Robby said something similar.” He wore a smile. “Dayshift attending.”

“A friend?”

“A brother.”

“I’m glad you have someone who gets it,” you told him. “Thank you,” you said to the waitress who brought your coffees over. “How’s everything else going? I haven’t seen you in a minute.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “It’s been a bit existential.”

You didn’t say anything, giving him the time to decide if he wanted to. Instead, you sipped your coffee and watched him spin his in the saucer.

“Had a breakthrough with my therapist,” he said. “I guess I’ve been a little caught up in it.”

“You’re allowed to be,” you replied. “You look tired, Jack. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Just a crazy shift, is all,” he told you. “I’ll go home and sleep soon.”

“Good.” You smiled. 

“Are you free tonight?”

“For you, I can be.”

There was a slight tinge of colour that blossomed on Jack’s cheeks. “If you already have plans, I get it.”

“Jack, I don’t have any plans,” you assured him. “Go home, get some sleep. I’ll book the usual room, but I’m not watching Mission Impossible again.”

“Understood,” he said, chuckling softly. 

Your day had been busy. Between your two classes, you’d attempted to record your presentation to see how long it actually was. You’d done some shopping for this evening, a little care package you’d decided to put together for Jack. 

It was what friends did, right? Something nice for each other when someone was feeling down? 

You hoped he’d appreciate it. Some nice skincare products, nothing too extraneous. Something soothing, for the days his leg hurt. Something hydrating, for the excessive hand-sanitising he does working at the hospital. Some nice chocolates from the bougie shop in town, since you knew he had a sweet tooth. A knife, because you could never have too many. Lastly, a set of cotton pyjamas. Something soft that wouldn’t irritate him, or get too hot in the warmer months. 

The basket sat on the bed of the hotel, all ready to give to him when he arrived, as you watched the news, waiting to hear back from Jack. He’d gone back to the hospital, despite it being his day off, to help with the shooting that the news was reporting. Several casualties had already been reported, with a lot of critical patients being routed to PTMC. 

From the coverage you knew it was bad. You knew he was doing the right thing by going in to help. His friends, his colleagues, would need the extra set of hands. 

So you waited anxiously, already a glass of wine deep amidst the devastation being reported, and hoped everyone who made it to the hospital survived. 

Sorry to make you wait. Have you eaten? I’ll grab something. On my way. 

Food is a good idea, grab anything you feel like. In our usual room. Did you think of a movie to watch?

No, but I need something lighthearted or funny. Your choice. I’ll see you soon. 

The School of Rock was waiting for you to press play by the time Jack arrived. For the second time today, he looked exhausted, and was still dressed in his dark scrubs. 

Surprisingly, he brought you in for a hug, holding you tightly, as if he needed to know you were real. You rested your head against his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. Not thinking twice about the unexpected hug, or that he took a few shaky breaths. 

“Hey,” you greeted softly, only pulling back when he did. You didn’t notice he’d been balancing a pizza box in one hand, too wrapped up in the hug to register it. “Come in.”

Jack excused himself to the bathroom. He left the door open, splashing some water on his face, while you sat back on the bed and flipped the pizza box open. You were halfway through a slice when he joined you, dropping his backpack by the door and taking his shoes off. 

“Got you something,” you told him, gesturing to the basket you’d moved to the desk under the tv. Jack turned his attention to it, pulling it towards him. “Felt like you needed a pick me up, and that was before you went back into work.”

He chuckled softly. “Are those pyjamas?”

“Yeah. It was that or a teddy bear with some corny phrase embroidered onto the stomach,” you replied, earning another laugh. “You can shower if you want…change into them?”

“Later,” he promised, the smile still on his face. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t judge the movie you picked. In fact, he’s grateful for the choice. Settling in beside you on the bed, the pizza box between you. Slices slowly disappeared while it was still hot, and silence washed over you as the movie played. 

Jack shuffled around to move the near-empty box, and you watched him remove his prosthetic and massage the stump as if it pained him. Brows drawn together, eyes closed, as if he did this all the time. 

Of course, it was the first time he’d done it in front of you. 

You reached for his free hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, it—”

“Leave it off,” you told him. “If it’s bothering you, leave it off.”

He stared like he wasn’t sure what to make of you. Like he was in over his head. Out of his depth. And maybe he was, just a little bit. It was you, after all. Always understanding. Always supportive, never judgemental. 

Maybe he did see you differently. Maybe the months of friendship had caused something to build—something real. He certainly felt like it, but the nagging voice in his head told him this was your job. That he was only a client to you. 

He hadn’t seen you for two months because the last meeting you’d had, you’d refused to take his money. 

“We’re friends, Jack. Friends don’t charge each other for their time,” you’d told him. 

There’d been no mention of money this morning. No talk of what tonight would cost him. You were throwing him off his rhythm. He felt uneasy, but not in a bad way. In a way that had his heart rate spike whenever he thought of you. 

The same way he felt when he first met his late wife. 

Jack swallowed thickly, trying to overcome the lump in his throat. “Okay.”

You smiled that sweet smile and patted the spot on the bed next to him. The spot that he shuffled towards, leaving no space between you. And still, you moved his arm to drape it around your shoulders, hand settling on his thigh, just above his knee. 

His pulse thundered in his ears, and he was looking at you. Still. Like you might disappear in front of him at any second. Like this was easy for you, comfortable, and yet you weren’t anywhere near as nervous as he was. 

Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe it had been too long since he’d held another person, that he was seeing signs that weren’t there. 

The thoughtful gift—he was a client after all. Maybe you did that for everyone when they were having a tough time of it. 

The ease you displayed physical affection—again, maybe he was still only a client to you. Maybe this was all just part of the services you offered. 

Jack was tense. He felt like he couldn’t relax, couldn’t enjoy this for what it was. His brain was telling him to be reasonable, to not make this a bigger thing than it was, but his gut told him to take the leap. Even if it didn’t pay off, he would then have a definitive answer. 

The tapping on his leg was distracting, but it was working. You knew what he needed and did something to distract him. To pull him back to the present after getting lost in his head. 

“Is that Morse code telling me to breathe?”

Jack’s bewilderment was genuine and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

“Yeah. Figured talking might spook you,” you replied. “You went all tense and stopped breathing for a second.”

“Really? Sorry,” he replied, making a point to exhale loudly. “Army brat?” 

You hummed. “High school wasn’t challenging enough, so I taught myself to read braille and communicate in Morse code.”

“Nerd,” he commented, earning a small laugh. 

“Shut up and watch the movie,” you muttered, playfully pinching his leg. 

You saw his smile soften in the corner of your eye, but he didn’t immediately turn back to the tv. You tapped out w-e-i-r-d-o on his leg, only for him to tap back on your shoulder I-k-n-o-w. 

He only turned his attention back to the tv when you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder, his fingers trailing aimlessly up and down your arm. It was comfortable. It felt good—natural. It made him feel warm inside. And that wasn’t something that happened often, so he allowed himself to enjoy it, if only for a moment. 

Jack’s hand found its way to your head, fingertips lightly scratching at your scalp. 

“Keep doing that and I’ll start panting,” you mumbled. “It feels good.”

He hummed, making no sign of stopping. You sighed softly, contently, and snuggled a little closer to him. Hand flexing against his leg as you shifted. 

He smiled at you cuddled into his side, and was pressing a kiss to the top of your head like he did it all the time. 

“You always smell so good,” he spoke softly, resisting the urge to take a huge, obvious whiff. 

“You smell like hospital.”

“What’s that smell like?”

“Sanitizer. And sandalwood, but I think that’s just your cologne.”

He tucked his chin, sniffing his chest. “That’s sandalwood?”

“That’s delicious,” you replied with a laugh. 

“Delicious, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you tsk’d, fighting back a smile. 

Jack hummed. “Too late.”

He was tapping out a message on your arm before he lost the nerve. 

I-w-a-n-t-2-k-i-s-s-u

You were turning to look at him before he finished his message, hand cupping his cheek and turning his head towards yours. Your gaze dropped to his lips, gasping as he cupped the back of your head and met your lips with his own. 

There was an urgency to his kiss, a desperation that leached into you. Your hand on his thigh gripped it a little tighter, your eyes closing at the rush that washed over you. The relief. 

You twisted a little more, trying to get a little more comfortable. Swinging your leg over his waist, his hand settled on your hip, aiding your movement as you straddled him. 

He groaned appreciatively, sinking deeper into the kiss. Into you, like you were a lifeline. You gasped as he tugged your hair, a sultry moan rumbling in your chest. His lips turned up, smiling against yours, only for him to gasp as you rolled your hips. 

Wicked, he thought. Struggling to gain composure as you did it again, nipping at his bottom lip. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, parting his lips so his tongue could meet your own. 

You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed you like this. Like the tension had built so much—grown so hot—that you felt frantic. Kissing Jack was as thrilling as you thought it would be. The way he cupped your head, tugged your hair. The way he gripped your hip, fingertips digging into your flesh as he guided your movements.

And he was just as into it as you were, his erection pressing against your core, straining against his scrubs.

You wanted him to be the one to initiate things further. He hadn’t mentioned any specifics, but from how raw his grief was about losing his wife, you assumed this was the first time he was even kissing another woman. You didn’t want to do anything to spook him—he deserved to be comfortable—to not be pushed, even if your body was begging your brain not to listen to itself.

“I want this to last,” Jack mumbled. “Fuck, it won’t if you keep this up.”

You giggled, cupping his face as you kissed him slowly. “We have all night, Jack.”

You slowly, deliberately, rolled your hips, watching his eyes screw shut as he groaned. Both hands settled on your hips, anchoring you in place, stopping your oh-so-sweet torture.

“God, you’re the devil,” he said breathily.

You hummed, sliding your hands down his chest until you were tugging at the hem of your own shirt. You were more than comfortable being the only one naked—or semi-naked. Jack watched with hooked eyes and bated breath as you pulled the material over your head, throwing it somewhere across the room.

You’d find it later, or you wouldn’t. Maybe Jack would take it home as an excuse to see you again. That thought made you almost giddy.

Jack moaned your name, hands skimming up your sides. Thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

“Jack.” You sounded desperate even to yourself, but he looked at you so hungrily, so ready to devour, that you lost your train of thought. 

“Say my name again,” he pleaded.

You slowly rocked your hips, placing your hands on his and moving them to cup your breasts. “Jack,” you repeated, feeling your nipples harden under his palms. He looked like he was going to pass out, fingers squeezing your breasts, head dipping to capture a nipple in his mouth. “Oh, fuck. Jack.”

He growled lowly, the vibration sending shivers to your core. You stilled, legs squeezing either side of his waist, hands flying to his hair to tug it as his teeth grazed your nipple.

You hissed as he lightly bit down, back arching your chest further towards him. He closed his eyes and hummed, lightly raking his nails down your back. You shivered, skin prickling at the sensation.

Jack smiled as you tugged his shirt, hitching up the black scrub tee, as well as his pale undershirt. Your fingers trailed over his abdomen, his lips seeking yours once more as you worked his shirts higher. Jack groaned, briefly breaking the kiss to tear the shirts over his head.

His chest was spotted with freckles, a mixture of dark and light. You trailed your fingers over his collarbones, fingertips tickled by the hair covering his pecs. He leant back against the pillows, watching you curiously explore every protrusion, every defect. Evidence of his time in the military was more than just the prosthetic leg, but also the shrapnel scars and muscles.

God, he was magnificent—so fucking beautiful.

Your breath hitched as you felt his hips flex, cock straining desperately against his scrubs.

“Tell me what you want, Jack.”

It was a simple request,  yet one you weren’t sure was going to be answered. You thought for sure this was all that would happen, that his mind would win out and put a stop to this. You desperately didn’t want that to happen, but the ball was in his court—it had to be.

Jack’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying to process your words. Your hands settled around his head, fingers twirling his hair, scratching his scalp.

“You,” he eventually breathed out, like he was afraid of his own answer. “I want you.”

He sought your lips, slower this time—more calculated, like he wasn’t afraid to want. The desire still burned beneath your skin, one that was more intense, yet every bit as frantic—as dangerous.

The temperature in the room felt like it had been dialled right up. Perspiration dotted at your temples, Jack’s body just as hot beneath your touch. You rocked your hips slowly, gasping as he pinched one of your nipples, his hips rocking up to meet yours. 

“Jack.” 

Sinful, that was the only way Jack could describe it. The way you touched him, the way you kissed him. God, he was in over his head and about to cum in his pants like a starving teenaged boy. 

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded, watching you put distance between the two of you. 

“I’m not,” you assured him, taking a second to tenderly cup his cheek. “I’m getting a condom.”

Jack felt stupid, laughing deliriously as you grabbed a condom from your bag. His chest rose and fell heavily, watching your tits sway with each step. How they hung when you bent over, and how good your ass looked in your pants. 

The foil packet was taunting him as you walked back to the bed. His cock strained agonisingly against his pants, desperate for relief. He lazily palmed himself, watching your eyes drop to his lap. 

You bit your lip and he groaned as he watched you tuck your thumbs into the side of your pants, slowly wiggling them down your body. 

“You’re killing me,” he panted. 

Jack watched you crawl towards him on the bed, hand roughly squeezing his cock as he took in your soft, supple body. Each dip, each mark, all signs of a life lived. 

You reached for his pants, untying the drawstring that kept them cinched tight at his waist. Jack exhaled heavily through his nose, watching your face for any sign of hesitation. Any sign that this wasn’t something you wanted. 

He didn’t see it. 

He felt your soft touch ghosting over his pelvic bone. He lifted his hips, helping you remove his pants, before he was pulling you into his lap again. You grinned as you straddled his waist, nothing between you now as you rolled your hips. 

Jack was a goner. The heat of your cunt wrapped around him, the way you kissed along his jaw. His fingers flexed against your waist, digging into your flesh, as your arousal coated his hard length. 

“Fucking hell,” he cursed lowly, desperately trying to gain some self-control. He felt way too close to the edge, too far gone, but you were everywhere. You were everything. “Please.”

“Please what, Jack?” You asked softly, nipping at his ear. You hummed as he gripped your hips a little tighter, an arm snaking around your lower back and holding you still. Body flush against his own. 

“I need you.” 

His voice sounded foreign to him. So husky, so distraught, so wildly aroused, but you looked exactly how he felt. Horny, needy, desperate. God, and here you were, sitting in his lap, bare pussy sliding against his cock, and he couldn't think—couldn’t breathe. 

Your lips found his, frantic. Teeth clashing, mouths bruising, tongues tasting like there was no time left. Like this was the pinnacle—the crux—his be all or end all. 

You fumbled with the foil wrapper, Jack’s arm snaking around your waist to keep you still–pinned against him.

“God, listen to you,” he said. “So fucking wet.”

Sinful. Jack couldn’t even think straight. 

“Jack,” you whined. 

He took the condom from you. You shuffled back, drawing him in for a kiss as he rolled the rubber onto his length. 

His fingers sought the spot between your legs that was drenched. The sloppy wetness was like music to his ear, reiterating that this wasn’t just one-sided. That you were as far gone as he was. 

He raised you, hands firmly gripping your ass as he held your gaze. Your hands locked behind his head, bottom lip taken between your teeth as his tip nestled at your entrance. 

When you lowered yourself onto him, neither of you dared breathe. The air felt electric, your bodies anchored together. 

Jack’s groan rumbled in his chest, rippling up his throat. “Fuck, baby.”

Your head was swimming. You inhaled raggedly, pressing your lips to Jack’s in an effort to ground you. But he was moaning, a delicious sound that had you clenching down around him. 

“Fuck, move. God, please,” he begged, voice strained as he desperately tried to hold his orgasm at bay. “Baby.”

You rocked your hips, pushing him back further into the pillows so you could raise your hips and sink yourself down onto him again. Hand splayed against his throat, lips pressed to the corner of his mouth. He cupped the back of your head, the other arm still wrapped tightly around your lower back. His own hips bucked, desperately seeking your thrusts. 

You gasped, cradling his head to your chest as you rose to your knees and he fucked up into you, the sound of his balls slapping your slick cunt flooding the room. 

“Ja-aa-aack,” you moaned, a desperate giggling falling past your lips. “I’m so close.”

“Shit,” he cursed, hips stilling as the hand that cupped your head slid between your bodies. Thick fingers circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. “Come for me, baby.”

You were there. You were seeing stars, and Jack was relentless. His fingers, his cock, his words. Your head swam as you moaned, as your body reached its breaking point and he pushed you over the edge. 

Your body was a cacophony of euphoria. The tightness in your abdomen that snapped. The moans rippling from your chest from the man you cradled in your arms. The way he held you, even with your tidal wave of arousal surged from you. Unprepared. Unrelenting. Unwavering. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his hips stuttering as he held you tight, bodies joined together. And still, you throbbed around him. Body overcome with aftershocks—convulsions. The way you squeezed him just right as he spilled inside the condom, clinging to you desperately like he could lose himself if he dared let you go. 

It took a minute, maybe a couple, before your breaths calmed. Synchronised. His hand tenderly stroking your hair, bodies completely spent. 

B-a-t-h you tapped on his shoulder. 

Y-e-s he tapped back, pressing a kiss to your forehead, but neither of you making the effort to move just yet. 

[xoxocher]

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐘 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

SUMMARY - josh has been unusually handsy all night–lingering touches and whispered jokes against your neck. it’s getting harder to tell if it’s just the alcohol...or if he’s finally giving into what you've both been pretending not to want.

PAIRING/SETTING - fem!reader x bsf!josh washington. no prank au (that timeline hurts too much). no use of y/n. 

WARNINGS - graphic sexual material (porn with plot basically), dubcon(ish?), strong language, & underage drinking.

W/C - 1,876

A/N - hey, hey, heyyy…i’m not exactly “new” to the game, but this is my first work on this page (how exciting)! a full-length josh x reader series is currently in its development stages. until then, enjoy my silly, sappy, smutty one shots ♥︎

joshua washington is a lot of things. persistent, loud-mouthed, and a bit perverted–but ohh does he know how to throw one hell of a party. you hate to admit it, but nothing hits quite like a washington house party at full tilt–too many bodies, not enough boundaries, and the absolute guarantee that you will wake up with glitter in places it should never be. there’s something euphoric about the filthy spectacle. 

you manage to make your way to the kitchen amidst the chaos, converse clinging to the tile drenched in sweat and spilt red solos. there was chris, mystery shot in hand–the two of you had developed this unspoken tradition over the years of ragers–you blithely accept his offer, throwing back the concoction. the faint taste of lemonade and lighter fluid burns the back of your throat. you’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. you jet to the sink, running your tongue underneath the faucet before swishing and spitting. 

“gahh~ what the fuck is that?”

he brings a wagging finger up to your face, “ah-ah-ah, a magician never reveals his secrets.” 

“i’d hardly call that magic,” you retort, eyeing the empty glass. “eugh~” you shiver.

you reach for a paper towel, dabbing away the water that dribbles down your chin, when you feel an unmistakable shift in the air. 

“annnd there she is…” there stands josh washington in all his smug glory, leaning against the doorframe with a beer in hand and that shit-eating grin he wears like a trademark. “tsk, tsk, tsk–and to think i had faith you’d last at least 15 minutes before making such poor choices,” he tuts, stepping further into the kitchen. 

you don’t bother with formalities. “well you can blame chris and his shitty taste in alcohol.”

josh shoots him a finger gun, “doing god’s work, man.” 

chris brings his hands together in prayer, bowing before his best bro, “always a pleasure.”

you can’t help but roll your eyes, “ahem~ losers,” you cough out before turning on heel to make your escape.

suddenly, josh’s free hand is planted on the counter beside you, boxing you in–not enough to trap you, but just enough to make your breath hitch. “and just where do you think you’re going?” he questions, a tinge of devilry curling around his words. 

“i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a party josh. i’m going to dance, obviously,” you patronize.

he furrows his brows, eyes raking up and down your figure, tongue slowly swiping across his lips before perking up. “well, if that’s the case…” he starts, walking his fingers up your arm and down your spine, hands finding solace on your waist, “mind if i ride along?” 

the cool sweat from his bottle drips down your thigh, sending a slight shockwave through your body. you manage to steady your breathing, “not at all.” 

“sweet,” he spins you round, giving you a small push towards the door before turning back to chris to shoot him a two-finger salute.“peace-out cub scout.” 

as the two of you make your way through the sea of bodies, you become hopelessly aware of josh’s grip on your hips. sure, it wasn’t exactly out of character for josh to get a bit handsy with you, but this felt different, very different. “what has gotten into you tonight?” your tone is light, playful, but his touch caries an edge, far from innocent.  

he leans down—lips hovering mere centimeters from your neck—“mm~ wouldn’t you like to know?”

his breath is hot against your skin, laced with the sharp bite of booze. his tone, low and wanton, sends a pool of warmth to the pit of your stomach. what the hell is wrong with you? 

relief washes over you as you spot an opening in the crowd, a brief, fleeting escape from the dizzying heat of josh’s touch. you turn to face him, fingers sharply pressed into the skin of his forearms as he moves the pads of his fingers to brush over your ass. 

you suck in a breath, eyes now glued to the floor. “you keep touching me like that,” you stammer, just loud enough to be heard over the booming bass of the speakers, “people are gonna start talking.”

he chuckles, low and satisfied. “good. let ‘em.”

you narrow your gaze, half-expecting him to stumble, slur, do something to explain his sudden brazenness. this was new territory–for you, that is. josh washington flirted like it was sport, sure–but this? this felt…focused. intentional. like he had tunnel vision, and you were the prize at the end of it. 

he must be drunk, you tell yourself, a futile attempt at rationalizing his behavior. he brings his beer to his lips, taking a quick swig. a sly smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he swirls the bottle around. “second one,” he says, as if reading your mind. “i’m barely buzzed.” 

your stomach flips. 

so he’s not drunk. not even tipsy. which means every longing look, every teasing word–its all him. clear-headed and in total control. 

you must’ve zoned out for just a second too long–snapped back into reality by a rough tug on your waist as he pulls you in. he cocks his head to the side, “what’s wrong? you’d prefer i was?” he taunts. 

the air around you begins to thicken as the sound of your pounding chest fills your ears. 

“josh i-” you murmur, your voice becoming increasingly shaky as he presses his now painfully obvious hard-on against your body. “tell me to stop and i will, no questions asked.” his gaze doesn’t stray, steady and unflinching. 

you persistently shake your head, throat bobbing as you swallow, “no, don’t stop. please.” 

his pupils blow wide, the last shred of restraint flickering out like a snuffed candle.

“upstairs,” he rasps, “i’ll be up in a minute.”

“promise?” you question sweetly–god, what has he done to you? 

he takes your chin between his pointer and thumb, “ohh~ absolutely.” his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up with a sinful grin. “wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

you make your way up to his bedroom, the familiar scent of his cologne floods your senses. you take in the charming mess before you, and for a brief moment, everything is still. your fingers graze over the soft fabric of his sheets as the door quietly clicks shut behind you. 

josh brings a swift hand up to your hip, swiveling you towards him, the other loosely fisting your hair. 

“miss me?”

you arch into him, positively aching. 

“i’ve got you,” he mutters against your skin, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.

your lips crash into his in a messy, hungry kiss. he tightens his grip onto your thigh, sweeping your other leg from underneath you, forcing you to stumble onto the bed. you gasp against his mouth as he grinds his erection against your clothed heat, allowing his tongue to slip past your lips. 

your hands roam over his chest, desperately twisting at the fabric of his shirt. he takes the hint, swiftly pulling it over his head and discarding it with the rest of his dirty laundry that lays in a pile on the floor. you follow suit, evening out the playing field–but not for long.

he undoes the button on your jeans, arms hooking around your legs as he peels them off. his lips never leave your skin for long–trailing a line of kisses from your jaw down to your inner thigh–until your legs are trembling beneath him and your voice is nothing more than a whisper of his name. 

“god, look at you,” he worships, gently thumbing over your clit. “so perfect for me.” you whine at his words, hips shamelessly lifting off the mattress. he chuckles at your desperation, “sooo needy.” he hooks his fingers around the band of your panties, pulling them down your figure at a painfully slow pace. he’s practically torturing you, and enjoying every second of it. 

“josh–please~” you breathlessly plead. there’s that stupid cheesy smile again, “well, since you asked so nicely…” he dips his tongue into your cunt with all the fervor of a starved man–drawing tight circles on your swollen clit as he coaxes you open. you bring a hand to his hair, tugging at the dark locks, your other grasps onto his navy sheets. his eyes never leave yours, drawing you further in as your climax grows closer. 

“fuck josh, 'm gonna-” 

you’re cut off by the wave of pleasure that crashes over you. 

he lifts his head, a string of spit connecting his swollen lips to your pussy. he runs his thumb along his chin–slick with a mixture of saliva and cum–before sucking it in and out his mouth with an obnoxious pop. it’s a vulgar sight, but the prettiest you’ve ever seen. “so sweet,” he smirks, before pulling you into a sloppy kiss. 

you fumble with the button on his jeans, dragging down his zipper with a satisfied sigh. “impatient much?” he teases, nipping at your bottom lip. you let out a whimper, “mhm~” josh groans, low and guttural, “jesus christ, you’re something else.” he pulls a condom out of his back pocket before hurriedly kicking off the denim. he removes his gray boxers–now stained with precum–soon after, simultaneously tearing at the foil with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his length. 

fuck he’s big. you’re practically gawking, almost wincing at the thought of taking all of him. 

he recognizes the hesitation in your eyes, brushing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. his tone is soft, but his words send a fiery heat to your core, “you’re okay, you can take it baby. be so good for me.” 

you let out a breathy moan as he rubs the tip of his dick through your soaked folds. he begins to push into you, slowly, inch by inch. your moans quickly turn to choked sobs. the stretch stings, but if it doesn’t hurt so. fucking. good. 

“atta girl, let me hear all those pretty noises.” your walls flutter around his cock at the praise. “ohh fuck~” he sputters–head dropping at the sensation–“yeah, squeeze me just like that baby.” 

you bring your legs up to wrap around his waist as he fucks into you, nails clawing down his back at the erratic pace. the sounds of slapping skin and your broken moans–now borderline pornographic–fill the room, drowning out the party just below you. he finds a delicious rhythm, each snap of his hips pushing you closer to the edge. 

“m’fuck josh, please” you plead as he wraps a hand around your throat, giving it a light squeeze. “yeah? ya like that? so-fuck-hot.” your eyes roll back as you are overcome with ecstasy. “come on baby, be a good girl and cum on my dick.” 

with that, you come undone–melting into the mattress as josh continues to use your pussy as his own. he follows just behind you, spilling into the condom with a few more thrusts. he collapses next to you, flushed and fully fucked out. he’s never looked better. 

“best. pussy. ever.” you giggle at your new superlative, but not before reaching for a pillow to smother him with. 

still a total loser.

© 2025 xoxocher | don’t copy, repost, or translate my work

[natsaffection]

The Weight of You. | N.R

Older!Natasha x Younger!Reader

Warnings: AgeGap! (N= 32, R=22), Fluff, blood, character death

Word count: 2,3k

A/n: I was just in the mood for something soft again. There won’t be a part 2, just a little one-shot. Enjoy! 🫶🏼

There were few things in the world that could make Natasha Romanoff feel peace. Real peace. The kind that settled into her bones and stayed there, humming quietly beneath her skin.

You were one of them.

Natasha came home late that night. Another mission, another debrief, another carefully-worded SHIELD report she didn’t care to read. She was quiet when she stepped through the door, her boots barely making a sound on the hardwood. The apartment was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of candles on the coffee table. And there, buried under a pile of fluffy blankets on the couch, was you.

You had clearly tried to wait up. There was a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the floor, your laptop still playing something soft and romantic. Your cheek was smushed against a pillow, mouth parted slightly in sleep, one arm flopped off the edge like a sleepy kitten. Natasha felt the smallest smile tug at her lips.

God, she’s cute, she thought. Then immediately: What has she done to me?

She moved quietly, slipping out of her jacket, careful not to wake you. But she didn’t get far, you stirred, blinking blearily, and gave the sleepiest, happiest little smile when you saw her.

“‘Tasha..!” you murmured, reaching out, fingers barely brushing Natasha’s wrist. “You’re home.”

“I am.” Natasha said, brushing a hand through her hair, still damp from the rain. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” you said, clearly lying, and then yawned so hard your eyes teared up. “Just resting my eyes.”

“Mm-hm.” Natasha teased, but she leaned down anyway, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Or..” you mumbled, tugging her down instead, “you could stay here with me.”

So Natasha stayed. Let herself be pulled into the cocoon of blankets and tangled limbs. You curled against her like it was the most natural thing in the world, legs thrown over hers, arms wrapped around her middle. Natasha ran a slow hand up and down your back, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath your skin.

“You’re always so warm..” you whispered, half-asleep again. “Like a sexy space heater.”

Natasha laughed quietly, the sound rare and real. “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Good.” you said proudly, nuzzling into her neck. “You deserve all the compliments. Even the weird ones.”

Another night, you ended up in the bathtub. It had been your idea, of course. After a particularly long week for both of you, you had pulled Natasha into the bathroom with a mischievous grin and a bag of pink bath salts that smelled like strawberries and vanilla.

“This is self-care.” you had declared. “Non-negotiable.” And Natasha, somehow, always found it impossible to say no to you.

Now you were submerged in hot, sweet-smelling water, Natasha with her back against the cool porcelain, you lying in front of her, head tilted back against her shoulder. The air was thick with steam and soft music played from a phone on the counter.

You had a ridiculous flower crown perched on your damp hair, an impulse buy from the store that you had insisted you needed.

“You look like a goddess..” Natasha said, voice low in her throat.

“I am a goddess..” you replied dramatically, striking a pose and nearly splashing water over the edge. “And you’re my mighty protector. My bodyguard-slash-lover-slash-personal foot rubber.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but her hands were already massaging gentle circles into your shoulders. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.”

“Don’t I know it.”

There was a silence then. Not uncomfortable, never uncomfortable, but one filled with quiet affection. Natasha pressed a kiss to your temple, breathing you in.

“You make everything feel easier.” she said, almost to herself.

You turned slightly, looking up at her with those wide, kind eyes. “You don’t have to be strong with me all the time, you know..” you whispered. “You can just…be.”

And Natasha, who had never in her life known what it was like to just be, felt something loosen in her chest.

This, cuddles on the couch, bubble baths and laughter, sleepy kisses and soft smiles, this was the life she never thought she’d have. The life she never thought she deserved. But you gave it to her anyway. Over and over again. And Natasha, for once, allowed herself to accept it.

It was in the way her eyes softened when you entered the room, how her posture, so often honed into a blade, became something tender in your presence.

You brought with you a kind of light that Natasha hadn’t known she needed. It wasn’t loud or demanding. It didn’t scorch. It warmed. A steady heat that thawed the ice buried deep in Natasha’s bones, the kind of ice that came from years of silence, from red ledger pages and missions that had no clean endings.

You were opposites in so many ways. You were warmth, laughter, soft hands brushing away the darkness. You were sunlit mornings and coffee that always tasted better because you made it. Natasha was shadow, precision, instinct. She was the one who checked the exits out of habit, who barely flinched at explosions, who knew twelve ways to break a man with her bare hands. And yet, when you touched her cheek and said, “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself with me.” Natasha almost believed it.

Everyone saw it. They saw it in the way Natasha would find you in a crowded room without even looking. In the way her hand would reach for yours under tables, just the brush of fingers like a secret shared in silence. They saw it in the rare smile that would bloom on Natasha’s face, small, fleeting, but real, when you told some dumb story about a grocery trip gone wrong or when you mispronounced some obscure Russian word on purpose just to tease her.

Steve once caught you in the kitchen late at night. You were wearing one of Natasha’s hoodies, too big on your shoulders, sleeves dangling past your wrists as you stirred tea. Natasha leaned against the counter, arms crossed, saying nothing, just watching you with that look. The kind of look that made Steve feel like he was intruding on something holy.

“She makes her laugh.” Steve said to Sam later that night. “Actually laugh. Like…full smile, relaxed shoulders, the whole thing.”

“I didn’t think Romanoff could do that.” Sam replied, eyes wide. “Thought she was permanently stuck on ‘deadly’ and ‘brooding.’”

But around you, Natasha wasn’t the assassin, wasn’t the spy, wasn’t the ghost of her past mistakes. Around you, she became someone else. Someone softer. Someone freer.

You never pried about the past. You knew it was there, knew it haunted Natasha in ways you’d never understand, but you never pushed. You just offered your presence like an open door, always waiting, never pressuring. And Natasha, who had spent a lifetime with secrets stitched into her skin, began to let them go, one at a time, like petals falling from a tired flower. She told you things. Little things at first. Then bigger ones. Then the things she thought she’d carry to the grave.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Natasha would wake from a nightmare, breath caught in her throat, fists clenched in sweat-damp sheets. And you would be there, whispering softly, wrapping her in arms that felt like home. “You’re here.” you would say, voice like silk. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And Natasha would believe you. They were love in a world that didn’t always make room for softness. And yet, they carved it out anyway. Quiet, steady and real.

——

The sky over New York was burning.

Explosions bloomed in the distance like flowers made of fire. The streets screamed with sirens and the shriek of metal. Above, portals cracked the sky open, spilling Chitauri like insects from some rotted hive. Buildings crumbled. Cars flipped. Civilians ran, wide-eyed and bleeding, from the monsters that tore through their world like paper.

“Okay, who gave the aliens a cheat code?” you muttered, ducking behind a flipped taxi. “Ten out of ten for chaos, zero for originality.”

Natasha glanced at you, breathless. “Stay focused, Y/n.”

“I am focused!” you said, peeking out to shoot down a flying hovercraft. “But you gotta admit this feels a little too ‘Avengers..Endgame’ meets Independence Day? No?”

Natasha gave the smallest shake of her head, lips twitching. “Only you would be cracking movie references while New York’s being torn apart..”

“Yeah, well…” You turned to smile at her, cheeks flushed with adrenaline. “You love that about me.”

You turned, grinning, cheeks streaked with soot, blood speckling your jaw. Your eyes sparkled even in the carnage.

Natasha didn’t say anything. Just looked at you for a moment..really looked. Because even covered in ash, even armed to the teeth in a bulletproof vest and scorched gloves, you looked so young. You moved through it like it was a video game. Or that’s what you told yourself..

They moved. Together. Side by side, like always.

You were fast, light on your feet, quick with a blaster and quicker with your mouth. Natasha kept close, eyes scanning, watching your six. They worked seamlessly, like something rehearsed a hundred times over, but under the rhythm of their teamwork, Natasha felt it. That familiar weight in her chest. The one she only ever felt when you were in the field.

The fear. And then..They she saw it.

A little girl, no older than six, stood in the center of the street. Her arms were outstretched, face soaked in tears, hair tangled with ash. Behind her, a building groaned, a massive skyscraper whose side had been carved open by a leviathan moments ago. Smoke coiled from its wound. Chunks of rebar hung like ribs. And high above, a massive slab of concrete, easily the size of a truck, had cracked loose.

It was falling. Slow at first, then faster. Straight for the child.

“No…” you shouted before Natasha could grab you. You moved, too fast. Natasha’s hand snapped forward, trying to catch your wrist.

“W-What!” she barked. “Y/N, STOP-!”

Everything after that came in flashes. You sprinting through fire and smoke, your boots slamming the cracked pavement, your breath coming in frantic gasps. The child, frozen, screaming. The concrete slab above, snapping fully free with a sickening crack.

And Natasha running. “Y/N!!” she screamed, throat raw, sprinting as hard as she ever had. “STOP!!”

Time slowed, and you reached the girl, threw yourself forward, scooped her tiny body into your arms, and shoved her with everything you had. The child tumbled, safe.

You looked up, and the slab came down.

There was no sound at first. Just a sickening crunch that echoed like thunder in Natasha’s skull as the full weight of the stone hit you.

It didn’t bounce..It crushed. The world went quiet before it went cruel. It didn’t make a boom. Not at first. Just a sick, wet, final sound.

She turned her head away. Closed her eyes. Tried to erase it. Tried to unsee it. Tried to shove it into some corner of her mind where it wouldn’t shatter her.

You were gone. Natasha stopped. Stopped running. Stopped breathing. Her body jerked backward like she’d been struck. Her boots scuffed on the asphalt. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

No. That didn’t just happen. That didn’t-

She stayed like that for a breath. Maybe two. Then, slowly, trembling, she looked back. And the world split open. Beneath the massive slab of concrete, a pool of blood was spreading. Not a splash. Not a drop. A flood.

It seeped out from under the slab like oil, thick and dark, too much. Way too much. Crimson soaked into the gray pavement in slow, merciless ripples. Bits of fabric, charred and frayed, peeked out from under the edge.

The same fabric you had been wearing. No body. No movement. Just blood.. Everywhere.

Natasha staggered back a step, one hand clamping over her mouth. Then she dropped to her knees and vomited.

She retched hard, again and again, until her stomach gave nothing but bile. Her fingers scraped the pavement. Her breath hitched, caught, snapped.

She stared at the blood- your blood, and shook her head like a child refusing the truth.

“No. No no no no no-”

Then, the metal groaned again. The building above them, split open like a carcass, shuddered. Chunks of stone rained from the edges. The street trembled.

And still, Natasha didn’t move..She crawled forward on scraped hands and knees, toward the red..Toward the impossible.

“Y/n…” she whispered, voice cracked and broken. Steve appeared behind her and saw it. His face went pale, eyes wide, but he didn’t say anything at first.

He knew. He knew.

You were gone. Not buried. Not injured. Gone.

There was nothing left of you under that slab. Just blood. And Natasha, who still refused to believe it, reached the stone and tried to lift it. She pressed both hands against it, legs shaking, muscles straining, screaming in frustration.

“Come on, get up! Come on baby, you’re okay, you’re okay, just hold on, please-“

Steve stepped forward. “Natasha-”

“Don’t!” she shrieked. “She’s in there! She’s just hurt! I can get her, I CAN GET HER!”

“You can’t.” His voice cracked. “Nat..there’s nothing lef-“

“NO!!”

She turned on him, fists flying, hitting his chest over and over, screaming. “You don’t know that! You don’t KNOW! Let me- L-LET ME-”

But he grabbed her. Wrapped his arms around her and held tight. And when she finally collapsed into him, sobbing so violently she couldn’t breathe, he held her tighter..

The building began to collapse behind them. Dust surged like a wave, and still, she screamed for you.

Screamed like it would call you back from the dead. But there was no answer. Just blood on the pavement. And silence.

-

-

-

-

The End :)

[tkomptgoedluv]

revenge.

tear you apart pt.2

pt.1 here | pt.2

grumpycafeworkervampire! joost x f! reader

tags: dead dove do not eat, f! reader, internetcafe & vampire au, reader doesn’t know how to cope very well, joost’s heart is too big for his body, they’re both desperate to be the other one’s peace, so much hurt, possibly even more comfort, plenty of angst, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.

word count: 8,490.

warnings: very detailed descriptions of blood and self harm, descriptions of an un-specific mental illness, semi-heavy stalking, breaking and entering, mentions of gore, brief mentions of violence + abuse, rpf.

notes: hello my lovelies <3 thank you so much for being so patient with this one! it’s not only the longest fic that i’ve ever written, but also genuinely my pride and absolute joy. i fear that i might not ever be able to top this one, actually, so please enjoy it! just keep in mind that this fic comes with a MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING.

also once again, a big big shoutout to my BABY @joosthead for putting up with me constantly asking her to check the doc every time that i added something. please go check out her work if you haven’t already — she’s got some mad shit coming 💋

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

you never really were too good at knowing when to stop, were you?

it’s always been easy for you to get lost in it, lost in the feeling of your old razor blades carving line after line into your skin. once you started, you just had to keep going until you physically couldn’t. not until you’d get too dizzy to focus, until you just couldn’t quite keep your grip tight enough on the razor anymore.

you never learned how to cope any other way; since you were fifteen, it had been your default. cutting yourself up whenever you started to feel too much, or whenever levi would push you too far. as a kid, it was more of a punishment but with him, it was your way of controlling all the pain that you felt.

that’s why you’d done it again, why it’s been the only thing that you’ve managed to do over the past five days or so. you were trying to control things, trying to come to terms with what you had seen and all the big feelings that came right along with it.

you’d spent so long wishing him away — daydreaming of all the terrible things that could happen so you’d finally be free of him. you never actually thought that it would happen, though. that you’d witness your own boyfriend get ripped apart limb from limb; devoured as if he was nothing more than a piece of meat.

you hated that some sick and twisted part of you deep down, missed him. that you just couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that he was gone now. and you hated that when it came to joost, you weren’t quite sure what you felt. for less than a fucking hour he’d been the closest thing to a friend that you’d had in years, but then he’d gone and done that and —

blood dripped down from your wrists, the tops of your arms, and your thighs, and onto the dirty white tiles of your bathroom floor. you’d never gotten this carried away before, and you had made such a mess of it. all the cleaning up would have to be done tomorrow because right now you doubted that you’d even be able to stand.

at least you weren’t feeling quite so much anymore; only the stinging of each and every single one of the fresh cuts. it all hurt, but it was a better thing to feel than the guilt that had kept you confined inside the walls of your own home for so long. you couldn’t help but wonder if you would die here, alone and bleeding on your bathroom floor, or if the police would find you before you’d get the chance to.

you’ve seen bits and pieces of what his friends had been saying online— knew that they wanted to report levi as a missing person now. you wondered how long it would be before the police would come for you, either looking for him or his killer. then again, you weren’t actually sure if there was even a body left behind for them to find.

finally, after god knows how many, you put the razor blade down. it clattered against the linoleum and laid still in one of the few small pools of your own blood. honestly, you were a little proud of what you had done to yourself, even though it still felt like it wasn’t enough. 

in a daze, you just sat there quietly as the time passed, as the blood slowly began to dry. you weren’t entirely sure of the time but it had to have been late from how dark it was outside. your phone was somewhere in your flat, having died a while ago after you neglected to charge it for a few days, but it’s time probably would’ve read something like one or two o’clock in the morning.

no one had been by to check on you, not that you had expected them to, especially not at a time like this, so you jumped when you heard a knock at your front door. silence rang out as you waited, too afraid to move, until you finally heard another one. only then did you get up.

it was with wobbly legs that you limped your way out of the bathroom and through your hallway, your heart hammering away inside your chest. you tried to peer out through your front room windows as you hobbled over to the door, certain that you’d see flashing blue lights or the silhouette of a police officer waiting for you on your doorstep.

but as you opened your front door just an inch, barely wide enough to peak your head around outside, all you saw was nothing. no cars going past, no people wandering by, nothing.

for just a moment, you could have laughed. because this was it now, surely; your breaking point. all that guilt, all of that paranoia — it was finally driving you mad. 

the old hinges of your door squeaked as you went to close it again, turning on your heels as you did so. you glanced up as one of the floorboard creaked from behind you, the gloss in your eyes only slightly blurring the sight of him standing right there, somehow.

you went to scream, a high pitched, blood-curdling shriek right on the rip of your tongue when his hand came up to cup your mouth shut. he knocked you back into the door, slamming it shut as his entire body weight came down to have you pinned against it. you could feel just how hard he was shaking as he held you there, see how those big, panicked eyes of his were flickering between blue and red.

“no no no, please, please don’t scream. i’m not gonna hurt you.”

joost was frantic as he spoke, almost choking on each of his words, begging for you to keep quiet. no matter how desperately you were trying to fight against him, your nails clawing at his chest through his shirt as you fought to get him off of you, you weren’t going anywhere. the more that you struggled, the harder his grip on you got.

you had no way of knowing it yet, but this was killing him. seeing you so small like this, crying out, sobbing, against his hand as you used what little strength you had left to try and push him away — it was undoubtedly going to haunt him. 

he knew that he shouldn't be here, not really. he shouldn’t know where you live, shouldn’t have followed you home that one night a couple months ago. it was just that there had been an attack in your city that week; some poor girl found dead in an alleyway, all bloody and beaten, barely clothed. he’d already had your routine memorised by then, so he knew that you’d be making your way back from the cafe alone, in the middle of the night.

joost had just wanted to protect you, he’d just wanted to make sure that you weren’t about to become the next headline in the local newspaper. at least, that was what he had told himself as he’d stayed hidden away in the shadows, his head down low and hood pulled up as he’d ‘escorted’ you home without you ever knowing it.

sure, it had definitely crossed some lines, him sneaking out of the cafe’s back door after you’d left that night to follow you, but the alternative was worse, right?

that’s what all this came down to, really. his insatiable need to know that you were safe. because last week, you’d ran from him that night with marks on your arm that your boyfriend hadn’t been the one to put there. and you’d ran from him, no less, scared out of your mind at the mere sight of him as he’d stood there pleading with you to stay.

and joost couldn’t stand that.

everyone else could view him as a monster and treat him as such, but not you.

never you. 

that was the only reason why he’d ended up on your doorstep tonight. he needed to know that you were okay, that you were still alive, and that you understood that what he had done to levi, he would never, ever, do to you. 

it was never his plan to ‘invite’ himself in the way that he had. he was going to knock on your door and wait for you to answer it, and he was prepared to spend the rest of the night out there, reasoning with you to just hear him out if he had to. and if by the end of it all you were to still cast him out with the promise of never wanting to see him again, he’d find a way to live with it. just as long as you’d be okay; he’d live with it.

it was never his plan to get to the top of your street and already be able to smell it. the thick, sweet, iron-heavy smell of your blood already so strong that he was gagging by the time he made it to your doorstep. hunched over and heaving, he’d stumbled up to your front door, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths through his mouth before finally knocking. it took everything in him, every little last bit of willpower, not to turn right then and there.

“lieverd, it’s okay. i promise it’s okay; i’m just here to talk. you…you don’t have to fight me.”

even as you were still thrashing, joost leant down to rest his forehead against yours. his eyes bore into yours as they continued to flash between the two different colours, a few tears of his own welling up behind his waterline. the last time that you were up this close, close enough to see the sweat shining on his temples, you were grasping onto his arm in such a feeble attempt to hide yourself from who you thought to be the only monster in the room.

the one whose blood you’d later seen dripping down from in between joost’s fingers, as he’d clutched onto his heart like a trophy.

he should be the real monster to you — a small part of you even wanted him to be. as terrible as levi truly was, he’d never bitten the head off of anyone, never ripped a heart straight out of someone’s chest. he was just…levi. he was your boyfriend and you hated him, but you never wanted him to die.

there was a bigger part inside of you, though, one that twisted up at the thought of joost being anything like one of the ‘bad guys’ from your old bedtime stories. because despite everything that you’d seen, despite how he’d found out where you lived, somehow, and now had you pinned up against your own front door with his hand holding your mouth shut, you knew that he wasn’t. he wasn’t evil, wasn’t dangerous like how your boyfriend had been, and you knew that. you just didn’t quite know it yet.

still, you began to relax. whether it was by choice or because you simply didn’t have any fight left in you anymore, you weren’t entirely sure. your whole body felt as though it was on fire from how several of your cuts had ripped open slightly from your struggle. small spots of blood started to seep through the thin, white cotton of your shorts as you almost went limp against joost; your eye-contact unbreaking. 

there was just something about the way in which he was looking at you. it was the exact same one he gave you that night last week, when he was desperately trying to convince you not to go back home to levi. his hands had been cupping each one of your cheeks, his warm breath fanning across your face as he panted. seeing that same look on him now, it was enough for you.

joost had felt you start to ease, had heard the fast beating of your heart start to slow. his grip on your mouth loosened as he gently wiped away the wet from your face with his free hand, tucking the loose strands of your hair away from your eyes.

“i’m gonna let you go now, okay? then we can talk?”

you nodded, blinking away the tears from your eyes.

as he held back a breath, joost finally moved his hand away from your mouth and took a single step back — allowing you just enough space to stand up on your own. he still hadn’t looked away from your face, his eyes stuck on yours as he searched your features for any signs of fear, any signs that you were about to turn and run. 

but instead you seemed…calm. still very much in shock; your hands still very much trembling as you wrapped your arms around your middle. but you were calm enough to stand your ground and not shrink underneath his gaze. you didn’t flinch when both of his hands came up to cup either side of your jaw, the pads of his thumbs caressing along the skin.

“are-are you okay? i’ve not seen you in…i thought that maybe you had…”

he couldn’t quite find it in him to finish his sentence. it wasn’t like he needed to, you already knew exactly what he was talking about, and now it all started to make sense. 

that look in his eyes, the way his voice kept shaking every time that he spoke. he was here because he was scared, terrified even, that you’d done something to yourself. that night you’d told him, or rather shown him your secret so he knew what you were capable of now, and it had been driving him mad ever since you disappeared.

you hadn’t needed to say anything; the way you suddenly pulled yourself away from him had said enough. in all of the chaos he hadn’t thought to simply look down. if he had, he would have seen all the damage you’ve already done; every single one of the fresh cuts that you’ve given yourself tonight and all of the ones from the nights before. the old vest top and pyjama shorts that you were wearing weren’t hiding anything — from your shoulders down to your shins, he could see everything now that he had finally dropped his gaze.

with his head down, you couldn’t see his face but you could feel the way he tensed up. you could hear him sniff, cough, and swallow down the bile that was rising up in his throat as he stumbled back a few steps.

you were still bleeding. 

it was making his teeth ache.

neither of you said anything for a while. you stood frozen by the door, your arms still wrapped around yourself as he just stared blankly at you with tears running down his cheeks. 

he felt sick; sickened by the very thing he’d been so afraid of now staring at him right back in the face. he couldn’t stand the sight of it but couldn’t bring himself to look away, either — there was just so much red. long, neat lines of red that covered you almost completely from head to toe; no patch of skin left unmarked. it was vile, it was abhorrent, it was breaking his heart.

“why?”

that was all joost could muster. a pathetic, broken question as he tried so desperately to pull himself back together. 

“i…i don’t know.” you paused only to wipe your teary eyes on the back of your hand. “i never know what else to do when i feel like this; it’s just been hard, joost -”

you trailed off, quickly losing your train of thought when you heard him sob all of a sudden. you hadn’t seen him start to crack because you’d been staring down at your feet, suddenly feeling too shy to meet his eyes. except now he was the one trying to hide, his arm coming up to cover his face as he cried hard enough to make his shoulders bounce.

he repeated ‘i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.’ like a mantra in between shallow gasps of breath and hiccups.

he was blaming himself for this because how could he not? all those cuts along your skin; you might have been the one behind the blade but he had been the one to do it. he’d been the one to scar you like this. that one irreversible act of his that he prayed would keep you safe had pushed you to an edge that he feared he wouldn’t be able to pull you back from. 

it wasn’t even his responsibility to, not really. he didn’t know you and you didn’t know him, either. still, he found himself loving you in a way that didn’t make any sense. 

and you loved him too, didn’t you? in a way that you couldn’t quite wrap your head around because of course you did. you proved that to both yourself and to him by how you finally moved from your spot by the door just so you could take his hands and pry his arms away from his face. you let him engulf you, cradling you close to his chest as he cried into your shoulder because you knew that he needed it.

you didn’t know who he was or even what he was, but you knew that he wasn’t something to truly fear. deep down you knew that you loved him in such an awfully twisted way, and you knew that he needed to feel you just to know that you weren’t going anywhere. 

joost was still spilling out his apologies as you tried so hard to soothe him. you felt him shiver under your touch when you let your hands slip underneath the hem of his t-shirt to rub the hot skin of his sides, your soft little whispered assurances filling his ear. 

it wasn’t his fault, nor was it levi’s or anyone else’s. you were like this long before he’d ever set his eyes on you and a part of you had already accepted that you always will be. the very last thing that you wanted was for it to be a burden someone else had to carry, let alone somebody like joost.

“you didn’t do this, okay? it’s alright. i’m gonna be alright.”

maybe it was cruel of you to try and calm him with words that even you didn’t fully believe in. what you had done to yourself only an hour ago, only you would ever be to blame for it, but you didn’t know if you were going to be alright in the end. you were still a witness to what he’d done and you were still doomed to live with the guilt of that.

“you don’t need to apologise for what i’ve done; you know that this is what i do. it’s not your fault.”

“but i fucked up, lieverd.”  joost shuddered as he sucked in a sharp breath, sniffing. “i fucked up and i did this to you; you did it because of me.”

you hushed him, carefully stepping back just enough so that you had the room to cradle either side of his neck in your hands, urging him to look back at you. as soon as he did, you could see that his eyes were back to being just their usual sweet blue, nothing else.

“i did it because i was scared, joost. i didn’t know what else to do.”

“what, scared of me?”

his question was more like a punch to the gut than anything else. for just a moment it knocked the air out of you; left you winded and with no idea on how to go about answering it. truthfully, the answer was yes, but also no, because it was never actually him that you were so afraid of.

you were just afraid of what he did; what you know joost is truly capable of now. you were afraid of the part of you that was almost relieved to see levi suffer what he did, knowing that it meant that he wouldn’t be able to hurt you anymore. but again, you never wanted him to die. you never wanted to see him get torn apart, piece by piece.

joost whimpered out your name when you didn’t answer and instead just stood there with your mouth slightly agape. your lack of an actual, verbal answer was an answer in itself, really, and he knew that; knew that you were probably just too scared and too kind to tell him the truth. still he needed to hear you say it though, purely for his own sake, he needed to hear you say that he wasn’t just another monster to you.

but the longer that he waited, the weaker his knees started to feel. he kind of fell into you, in a way, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck as your arms came up to hold him against you. his hot tears ran down your skin and pooled together in the dip of your collarbone and it was right then that your own eyes started to burn. 

slipping out from his grasp, you wordlessly led him by the hand over to your sofa. you watched him collapse onto it as you took a seat next to him, his elbows rested on his knees as his head hung low in between them. his shoulders were still shaking and you could still hear each of the muffled cries that were spilling from his lips.

“please, please, believe me, lieverd. what i did…i never wanted it to hurt you. i’m so sorry.”

you curled yourself into a tight little ball and let out a long, deep breath, one that you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. you had questions; so, so many questions that had been festering, growing like mould in the back of your head. and joost could almost feel you holding them back as he looked up at you with such watery eyes, the only red in them being the sore, puffy rings around them.

“ask me anything, whatever you wanna know.”

“why did you do it?”

there was no emotion in your voice and you kept your face blank as you spoke — it was only the slight quiver of your bottom lip that gave you away.

“he was going to hurt you, schatje.” 

“but how…how were you even…?”

it had happened decades ago, back when internet cafes were still just your average libraries and when only the rich could afford to have their own mobile phones. 

joost had been young, living off the high of infamy and adoration that came with being in one of the best punk bands in the scene at the time. him and his friends, they’d been something of local legends; for good and for bad, it just depended on who you asked. those that loved them deemed them god-like in their old denim and rusted chains, and those that hated them, simply feared them.

he’s not proud of it, how they spent day after day rotting away in a garage, doing whatever drugs they could get their hands on and writing songs just to spend night after night playing shows at only the worst bars they could find. how they’d get even more off their faces afterwards and start fights, smashing up the venues and spray-painting anarchy symbols anywhere and everywhere that they could. how if the night didn’t end with them running away from the cops then it would end with them in the bed of anything with a pretty face, two legs, and a heartbeat.

and then what was supposed to be the best night of the band’s life, the biggest show they’d ever played to a crowd that already knew all the words to their songs, became nothing more than the beginning of the end. it’d happened after they’d all really outdone themselves, whilst those so-called ‘friends’ of his that only ever brought out the worst of him were all passed out somewhere, and joost had decided to go out for a little wander. 

still to this day, he can’t remember the face of who had jumped him. the alleyway had been too dark and he’d been too drunk to even know where he was, so all that truly stuck with him was the agony of it all. the searing pain of a pair of fangs plunging deep into the side of his neck, the gradual, stinging cold he’d felt as the life was almost all but drained from him. whoever it was, they’d left him there to die afterwards — still to this day, a part of him wishes that he had. 

waking up that next morning something so much worse than human, consumed by an appetite so uncontrollable that he just couldn’t help himself when he came across that lone jogger whilst on his way back to his friends. surely it had to have been worse than death. he’d torn that poor guy to shreds as if it was nothing, as if he was just pulling chicken off the bone. 

but he hadn’t stopped there, had he? he couldn’t, he didn’t know how to. even after he’d shown up on his drummer’s doorstep covered in blood and crying his eyes out, he had to keep going, keep feeding. because joost wasn’t too good at knowing when to stop, either, was he?

it had taken him years to figure it out, actually. years of mindless, reckless slaughter to realise that he actually hated what he was now, and that his ‘friends’ weren’t ever really his friends. from the moment he’d shown up that day, all stained red and babbling about the man he’d just killed, the band played him like a puppet simply because they knew that they could.

regardless of the change, he was still joost. they knew that it really wouldn’t take much to get inside of his head, to spin whatever that had happened to him into something almost profitable for them all. and it hadn’t, because everything they had him do was always ‘for the band’, so really, how could he have said no? 

besides, he would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t come to enjoy it, after a while. seeing the life drain from their eyes as they’d beg for mercy, pleading with him, promising him that they’d do whatever he wanted if he’d just let them go. he’d always laugh then, before sinking his teeth into their throats. 

and it helped that these people also happened to be nobodies, too. from shitty bar owners that wouldn’t let them play to members of a rival band that had just gotten a little too cocky for their own good. no one ever missed them, most hardly noticed that they were gone.

joost was never a monster to them, to the band, just an over-glamorised attack dog that could do a lot more than just bite.

it had taken him far too many years to realise it.

“that’s how i ended up with the cafe…i wanted to get away; i didn’t want to be like that anymore.” he paused only to gauge your reaction, or more so your lack of one. you hadn’t said a word the entire time, hadn’t flinched or pulled a face; you had barely even blinked. 

“what did you do with the body?…his body?”

the sudden sound of your voice, it made him glance back up at you with a small quiver in his lip. you were still staring blankly at the wall ahead, your expression borderline unreadable, but your words hadn’t cracked and your hands weren’t shaking anymore, either.

“i know some people that are…like me; they handled it.” when you fell quiet again, joost continued, wiping the snot from his nose as he did so. “i’ve done a lot of bad things, lieverd. what i did to levi, fuck, that’s not even the worst of it. you should be scared of me; i’m scared of me.”

“i’m not.” 

“why?”

“because if you were still the monster that you think you are, i wouldn’t have even made it halfway out the door that night.” 

after only another moment or two of silence had passed did you finally look down to meet his eyes again. whilst there was a shine in yours that definitely matched his own, there was something so soft about the way you were gazing at him. it made the muscles beneath his shoulders relax and drop down as he breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

you didn’t need to elaborate any further, didn’t need to say anything else to prove to him that you knew he wasn’t that person anymore. he could tell simply from the hint of a smile that was tugging at the corners of your mouth. from how it was with careful, delicate movements that you moved to crawl onto his lap and hugged him, nuzzling your face into the curve of his neck.

the large, warm palms of joost’s hands slid underneath the cotton of your tank top and soothed the cool skin of your spine as he rested his head against yours. instead of asking how you were even real, how someone so undeniably good was able to look past each and every single one of his sins, he kept quiet to let the last few tears of his fall.

but if he had in fact asked, then you would’ve told him that truly, you couldn’t hold any of it against him. 

of course it was all awful, from the countless faces he’d torn apart to the people that he terrorised even before the change. your skin had been crawling as joost had spoken and you just couldn’t ignore the fact that anyone else in your position probably would’ve taken off running by now. that, and that they’d have every right to.

except you weren’t just anyone, were you? as far as you were concerned, those old so-called ‘friends’ of his were the real monsters, because you of all people knew what it was like to be hurt by those you trusted most. to have someone so deep inside your mind that you quickly became blind to everything else. you couldn’t hold it against him because in your heart, you got it. you could feel that, that wasn’t who joost was anymore.

“can you stay tonight? for a little while?”

you felt his hands trail down to the side of your hips and squeeze as you pulled away just enough to see his face, your own two hands falling down to rest against his stomach.

“i’ll stay for as long as you want me to, schatje. i’m here.” 

being on the brink of almost giddiness as you nodded, that small smile of yours twisting up into an almost grin, you hadn’t realised how his fingers were starting to roam. that his hands were gently moving around, rubbing up and down the flesh of your waist until they reached the very front of your hips. 

you hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been able to take hold of his wrists to stop him before the soft pads of his thumbs could find the aching, bumpy lines of the cuts you’d put there a few days ago. as you froze, you watched his own sweet smile drop and his eyebrows furrow, and felt him slowly lift up the hem of your top just enough to see the true extent of it.

even in the low light of your living room, even if his eyesight wasn’t as unnaturally good as it was, he still wouldn’t have been able to miss it. just like the rest of you was, the tight skin of your stomach and all the way across to your hips were marked with the same harsh, red gashes. most were scabbed over but a couple were sprouting fresh drops of blood from where you’d been moving around so much, pulling them apart at the seams.

you went to stand and then tried to simply twist yourself away when you couldn’t, but even then joost’s hold on you was too strong. his touches were feather-soft as he traced the tips of his fingers along every single one, following them down to the ones on your things and then back up along the ones on your arms. by the time that he reached your eyes again they were already scrunched up closed, hiding from him.

“because of me.”

it was more of a statement than a question, partly because he already knew the answer, and partly because he knew that you’d still deny it if he asked.

“joost -”

“- you have a first aid kid somewhere, right? lemme help.”

you shook your head as you went to tug your vest top back down, only to freeze when you finally caught a glimpse of all the little spots of blood that had seeped through your clothes. you stopped and stared at them for longer than you meant to, your hands trembling as you toyed with the material between your fingers. 

the blood was always your favourite part. how it would slowly peek through the small breaks in your skin before oozing out, running down your body until the drops would fall and hit the floor. it had a way of hypnotising you every single time, making you want to keep going and going just so you could see it happen over again and again. even now, when the tiny red polka dots were nothing more than just a few sticky stains on your top, turning the tips of your fingers a deep pink.

it took joost gently prying your hands away for you to snap out of it. 

“n-no, no, i can’t let you do that. it wouldn’t be fair, not when there’s so much blood and you’re…”

“i’ll be fine, lieverd, i promise.”  you felt him give your hands a soft squeeze as he paused, “let me help you.”

there was no point in trying to change his mind. once you lifted your head back up and saw how those big blue eyes of his were staring back at you, the smudged, dark makeup around them making them seem so might brighter, you no longer had the heart to tell him no again. he could have asked anything of you, and you would’ve said yes.

“it’s in the bathroom.”

without warning, joost moved to grip the backs of each of your thighs and stood up, smiling when you squealed as you wrapped your arms and legs around him. it baffled you for a moment how it seemed as though he already knew where to go, that he already knew that your bathroom was all the way down the hall, last door on the left. you chalked his strong sense of direction up to it just being another one of the many perks that came along with being…well, him.

and whilst that was true, maybe it wasn’t the only reason why he specifically knew the layout of your home already. maybe he’s escorted you home more than just the once, twice, three times. maybe this wasn’t actually his first time walking down your hallway at all. 

the cold of your bathroom counter underneath you made you jump slightly as joost carefully set you down on it. you’d left the light on from when you were in here earlier; your razor still laying discarded on the floor, coated in a drying layer of your own blood. you hadn’t even thought he’d seen it until he was picking it up and tossing it in the bin as if it was just a piece of rubbish that he’d dropped. 

neither of you were saying anything. joost had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, breathing somewhat heavily through his mouth as he dug through your cabinets until he finally found that little green box with the red cross on on the front. his hands were shaking as he opened it, pulling out the countless packets of alcohol wipes and plasters, dropping a few things as he did so.

had you been paying more attention, then you would’ve noticed that actually, this was taking quite the toll on him. but you couldn’t shift your eyes away from the bin, the one that now contained the very last one of your razor blades amongst a small collection of used tissues and tampon wrappers. joost had thrown away your last one, and now you had none.

“okay, i’m sorry if this stings, schat. let me know if you need me to stop, okay?”

it was as you were nodding that you suddenly hissed, your leg jolting from the pain of the alcohol wipe joost had used to clean the first of the cuts on your upper thigh. on instinct you tried to pull away, fighting against the grip that he held on you to keep your leg still against the counter.

you weren’t expecting it to hurt as much as it did. considering how many times that you’ve been here before, cleaning yourself up because you didn’t always have someone around that cared enough to want to do it for you, you thought you would have been used to it by now. you never would have guessed that it would have you in near tears all over again, gripping the edge of the bathroom counter until your knuckles slowly started to turn white. 

maybe this was just the price you had to pay for going a little deeper than you meant to. 

“hey, do you think you could just…i don’t know, talk, for a while? tell me something about yourself?” at the look of confusion on your face joost just smiled, raising his hands a little to show you just how hard they were shaking. “it’ll help me concentrate.”

he was struggling more than he thought he’d be.

except how could he not be? this was a lot for him. all that blood of yours smeared and stained across his fingers aside, simply just being this close to you was enough to somehow make him feel lightheaded. feeling your knees on either side of his thighs as he stood in between your legs, so close to you in fact that he could hear your heartbeat louder than anything else. 

he just needed to hear your voice, needed something else to focus on besides your blood that now laid underneath his fingernails.

“oh shit, uh, okay….um…”

you weren’t sure why you started to chuckle, almost, stumbling over these noises that barely even resembled words. you wanted to come up with something to talk about fast, to help get joost’s mind off of what he was actually doing, but the harder you thought the quicker your mind went blank. nobody’s ever really asked you to talk about yourself before; you had no idea what to say.

there wasn’t a whole lot to say, really. you used to have interests; hobbies that you used to put your heart and soul into, dreams that you were so determined to make a reality for yourself. levi had, had other plans for you, though. either, he would simply take up too much of your time, or he’d be so insistent that those hobbies of yours were ‘pointless’, that eventually you grew to lose interest in them. since day one of the relationship, everything about you had to be about him.

you used to think that it was probably for the best, that maybe he was right and you really were just wasting your time. but now that he’s gone for good, and you’re stuck with someone in front of you that genuinely wants to get to know you, you realise now that there’s nothing for you to tell them. there’s nothing of who you used to be left.

joost gave your knee a quick squeeze before turning his attention onto your arms, having slowly picked up on the fact that once again, your lack of an answer told him far more than you wanted it to. 

“okay, let’s start with the easy stuff — what did you want to be when you were growing up?”

“i wanted to be a painter.”

you hissed again at the burn of one of the alcohol wipes against your skin; smiling softly when he reassured you of just how brave you were being.

“a painter? that’s sick! did that happen?”

“almost. i went to school for it, got a degree and everything, but uh, levi always said that it’s not a ‘real job’ so…”

joost’s frown was immediate. he was shaking his head, the lines in his forehead already so prominent. “did you really give it all up because of that? that’s bullshit.” 

“i didn’t really have much of a choice, joostie.”

you both fell quiet again after that.

he felt horrible for reacting like that, fearing that you mistook all of his anger towards levi and each of the silly little ideas that the guy had planted in your head to be aimed at you. you’d sounded so defeated as your shoulders slumped, your voice falling to a near-whisper as you moved your gaze onto the floor. of course you didn’t have a choice; that much should’ve already been obvious. 

and it was the look on your face now that was hurting him the most. a look of mourning as you pondered the life that you almost had, had it not been for that asshole and the hold that he’d once had over you. as joost wiped another cut clean, he regretted for just a moment not going back for seconds that night — it would’ve been the least that levi deserved.

“what kind of art did you do?”

that brought something of a smile back to your face as your mind drifted back to all of the scrapbooks you had hidden underneath your bed. old, dust-covered notebooks filled to the brim with page after page of everything from doodles to full-fledged paintings. your bottom lip wobbled when you thought of all the canvases though, the same ones you once watched levi destroy one night just because he’d wanted to see you cry after a fight.

“everything — oil paint, acrylics, watercolour. i really loved chalk, though. seeing all the stains it would leave behind made it feel like it meant something more, you know? like i was really creating something.”

a gentle grin curled the corners of your mouth up as you spoke, beginning to ramble so passionately about what you loved that joost really did almost forget what he was doing. he had to stop for a second just so that he could witness that smile of yours, see that gleam in your eyes that he’d once had himself back when he was just kid writing songs in his bedroom. in a blink of an eye, you had suddenly become so alive and it had him floored.

it had him captivated, actually; irrevocably wrapped around your finger.

his hands weren’t shaking so much anymore.

“i have a friend that’s a painter; he mainly does the oil stuff, i think, but maybe i could introduce the two of you one day? he’ll probably have some chalk laying around somewhere.”

“is he…?”

“no, he’s not like me. can i lift your shirt up a little bit? we’re almost done, i’ve just got to get the last ones.”

you nodded, wondering how it was that his skin felt so warm against yours, all things considered.

“it wouldn’t have mattered to me if he was.”

joost knew that you were telling the truth, could hear it in the way that your heartbeat kept its rhythm. 

and the conversation continued to flow as joost patched up the last few cuts of yours, sticking little hello kitty plasters delicately across your hip bones. he told you all about this oil-painter friend of his, ‘daan’ — how he’d been the first genuine friend that joost had made after the change, how he never would’ve been able to get away from the band if it wasn’t for him.

joost even opened up to you about his family, his parents. even after so many years, you still had to help him breathe through it as he told you their story with tears all in his eyes. it was only fair that you did the same after that; he almost couldn’t believe it when you’d said you'd lost your parents when you were younger too, spent some time in the system just as he had. after all, that was how you met levi. 

and he told you all about another friend of his, ‘lenny’, how it’s because of her that he likes foreign graphic novels so much. whenever he’s not reading those porn mags that he swears he only picks up for the articles, he’s reading and then re-reading her old japanese comic books. you were never much of a comic book kid yourself, having always preferred to lose yourself inside the pages of a stephen king or a neil gaiman instead, so you promised to read ‘death note’ if joost read ‘the shining’.

by the time that he was pulling your shirt back down and chucking away all of the used, bloodied wipes that had accumulated, you were fighting to keep your eyes open. joost could tell that he was losing you just from the way that you kept swaying from side to side and nodding your head slightly even when he hadn’t asked you a question. it made his heart ache, knowing that you were so, so exhausted but still so unwilling to sleep because you wanted to keep the conversation going.

he hadn’t told you his favourite colour yet.

“cmon you, i think it's bedtime.”

you were yawning before you could argue, letting your head fall back against the cabinet behind you. the thought of your bed was undeniably heavenly; the feeling of your mattress dipping below your weight as you curl yourself into a ball beneath your blankets. the only problem was that you were just as comfy here as you would be over there, though, perched on the edge of your bathroom countertop with joost still standing in between your legs, his hands resting on each of your thighs.

this bubble you had created with him — it wasn’t one you were ready to leave quite just yet. there was still that fear of waking up alone again lurking in the back of your mind.

and it was before you could argue that joost was also scooping you up again, holding you up by the backs of your thighs as he began to carry you back down the hall. you let your head fall to rest against his shoulder, your arms draped loosely around his neck. if it wasn’t for that fear of yours twisting your insides and rotting your brain from the inside out, you could have fallen asleep right there. 

you probably would have.

“you’re gonna stay with me, right?”

joost glanced down at the top of your head with a crease in his eyebrows, carefully nudging your bedroom door open with his foot. “i already told you, lieverd, i’m not going anywhere. i promise.”

“no, i know that. i just mean -” you paused when he gently set you down just beside your bed, only stepping away to turn on the light until you made a sudden, desperate reach for his wrist. 

when the warm glow of the lamp flooded the room, you could see that he wasn’t smiling anymore. instead there was worry in his eyes as he took that step back closer to you again, his hands coming up to tuck loose strands of hair behind your ears.

“what’s wrong?”

“- i meant that you’re not gonna exile yourself to the sofa or anything, right? you’ll stay with me?”

it finally clicked in his head what you were asking. 

and it definitely felt like a lot to be asking of him, again all things considered. you just couldn’t do it though, you couldn’t handle the idea of being by yourself anymore. it was why you always stayed in the end, with levi, why a part of you couldn’t help but miss him. his presence would be chilling but his side of the bed would always be warm when you would wake up in the mornings. 

you didn’t want to start crying when you felt as though it was taking joost too long to answer. you didn’t want to guilt trip him like that, make him feel as though he had to even if he didn’t want to. but it was just another thing that you couldn’t help, because you were so tired and so afraid that you just didn’t know what else to do besides sit down and cry.

he copied you by sinking down into a squat, placing both of his hands onto each one of your knees. since you kept your eyes focused on the ceiling, trying and failing at trying to blink away your tears as you hiccuped, it was from the corners of your sight that you saw joost reach up to wipe them away himself. the pads of his thumbs stroked along the skin of your cheekbone and lingered there for a moment or two before he spoke.

“can you look at me, schatje?”

you did so almost reluctantly.

“i’m not going anywhere, alright? i’m not gonna leave you.”

nodding as you sniffled, you kept your eyes locked with his as you crawled back onto your bed and pulled back the covers. neither of you said anything nor dared to look away from the other as joost kicked off his shoes and undid the clasp of his watch, slipping it off of his wrist to leave it on your bedside table. 

that was all he did before he climbed into bed with you, still dressed in the same hoodie and sweatpants that he’s had on all night. you let his arms wrap around you and tug you up into his chest as you grabbed onto fistfalls of his sweatshirt, trusting that he meant it when he said he’d stay with you but still feeling too afraid to let go. 

more tears began to fall from your eyes, your shoulders wracking against him as you cried. soft, gentle circles were drawn anywhere on your skin that he could reach; your shoulders, your hips, your sides, and he murmured sweet little assurances into your ear.

“i mean it, okay? i’ve got you. i’m right here.”

it was with your whole heart that you believed him. with your tears slowly soaking through the cotton of his jumper, you believed that he’ll still be here when you wake up, all curled up with you with his hand still rubbing up and down your back. 

“i’m here.”

[bedobabe]

Hello! First time requesting, can I request wanderer, xiao, kazuha and albedo (seperate) courting reader:D? Like how they would act and do as a suitor:3 thank you!

⸻ ᛝ 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗬𝗢𝗨 !!

⸻ Characters included : Albedo, Wanderer, Xiao & Kazuha

⸻ Non specific / gender neutral reader

⸻ Hello thank you so much for requesting I hope this is worth it! ♥︎

Due to 𝗔𝗟𝗕𝗘𝗗𝗢 being only a synthetic human - he doesn't realise at first that these feelings for you are in fact romantic. He doesn't really care. He's aware he loves you in a way that's beyond friendship, but the concept of love isn't something he's ever really understood. It's like watching someone else's movie, trying to feel their emotions. But with you, it's different. It's real, raw, and utterly confusing.

You've noticed the way he looks at you, the subtle changes in his behavior around you. The way his eyes light up when you enter the room, the way he lingers on your words, analyzing every inflection. You're not oblivious to his growing feelings, but you're not sure how to navigate them.

One evening, while you both sit side by side in the dimly lit lab, he finally speaks up. "I've been observing human emotions," he says, his voice a mix of curiosity and something else—a hint of vulnerability you've never heard before. "And I believe I'm experiencing something similar to what humans call 'love'."

𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗥 wasn't made to be loved. He hasn't felt love for hundreds of years. You, irritate him strongly. Because he's head over heels in love with you. Why did you have to disturb his eternal loneliness and peace? Now he's torn apart by his emotions, and it's all your fault. On one side, he wants to protect you from his distant nature, and on the other, he craves your touch, your warmth. You've unknowingly become the light in the abyss of his soul.He'll try to push you away, to protect you from his own shadow. Wanderer's cold gaze, which had once pierced through the fabric of time, now softened at the sight of your smile. You, oblivious to his internal turmoil, continue to weave your warmth into his cold existence. His heart, a frozen artifact, begins to thaw in your presence.

"You shouldn't follow me around so much," Wanderer gruffly said, his eyes averted from your gaze. The words hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken yearning that churned within him. Yet, you remained undeterred. "You shouldn't be such a grump," you replied with a cheeky grin, reaching out to touch his arm. The warmth of your skin against his sent a jolt through his system, a stark contrast to the chill he had grown accustomed to. He flinched slightly, unused to the sensation of human contact, but didn't pull away. "That's..nice," Wanderer murmured, his voice a rumble that seemed to resonate from the very depths of his being.

He didn't know what to do with the feelings you stirred up, so he chose the only thing that was familiar to him - retreat. He took a step back, the coldness of the air rushing to fill the space your touch had warmed. His eyes searched for something to focus on, anything but the way your smile made his heart ache.You watched him, puzzled by his reaction, but didn't let it deter you. Instead, you took his hand in yours, your grip firm and reassuring.

"You're not so bad when you don't try to scare everyone away," you said, your voice filled with gentle teasing. He felt your warmth seep into him, melting the icy barriers he had spent centuries constructing around his soul. "Whatever you say," Wanderer replied, his voice thick with emotion he hadn't felt in centuries. He allowed your touch to linger, a strange comfort that he hadn't anticipated. The feel of your hand in his was like a lifeline to a drowning man, and he found himself reluctant to let go.

𝗫𝗜𝗔𝗢 is totally lost in this situation - you're his first crush, ever. He doesn't know how to charm someone or sweep them off their feet. All he can do is awkwardly stand there, his heart thumping like a drum in his chest, trying to decide on the right words. What if you reject him? What if you've secretly hated him this whole time? Those thoughts swirled in Xiao's mind like a tornado, threatening to blow away any semblance of courage he'd managed to gather.

You look up at him, your eyes wide with curiosity, and he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. The silence between you stretches, and you can almost hear the tick of the clock on the wall. Xiao's cheeks start to flush, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's clear he's nervous, and somehow that makes you feel a little more at ease. You decide to break the ice. "What's wrong, Xiao?" you finally ask, a gentle smile playing on your lips as you notice the sweat beads forming on his forehead. He stammers for a moment before blurting out, "Nothing a mortal should concern themselves with."

The cryptic reply hangs in the air, leaving you puzzled yet intrigued. He feels slightly ashamed by his tone and quickly tries to recover, "I got these for you," he says, holding out a small bouquet of flowers. They're not fancy, just some qingxin - but he presents them with so much hope that their simplicity is overshadowed by his earnestness. You accept them with a warm smile, feeling the softness of the petals against your skin.

The scent of the flowers is faint but sweet, filling the air with a hint of spring."Thank you. Anything else you want to tell me?" you ask, placing the bouquet on the counter, the question lingering in the air like the sweet fragrance of the qingxin. "No. Goodbye," Xiao says abruptly, turning to leave. Oh, well... Maybe next time?

𝗞𝗔𝗭𝗨𝗛𝗔 takes a more confident approach to his newfound crush then some may think. He wants to make you feel so loved and accepted that you can't help but be drawn to him. He's the type that notices when you're feeling down, and goes out of his way to cheer you up. He's the guy that brings you soup when you're sick, and listens to your ramblings without judgement. He's not perfect, but his intentions are pure

.It's been a week of subtle gestures and hopeful glances, and he's pretty sure you've noticed his efforts. You've started to smile at him more, and he's caught you looking his way a couple of times, a soft blush blooming on your cheeks before you look away. It's the little things that keep him going, the unspoken acknowledgment of his growing feelings.

I feel like he would just tell you straight up how he feels and there's no use in hiding his strong feelings for you. So, he'll take you out on a 'friendly' date - spoil you the entire time then after all the guns finished blazing, when the night is still young, he'll pull you aside and confess everything.

[speaknowgirl3184]

omg can I pls request a fic where anakin does turn to the dark side but then sees the twins he has with the reader and tries to idk redeem himself? with like a shit ton of angst but then a little light of hope in the end

im really bad at explaining what exactly the request really Is but u get the gist of it😭

Ashes To Stars

Unburnt! Darth Vader x female reader

As the galaxy burns under the Empire’s shadow, a lost love and hidden children may be the only light strong enough to reach what remains of Anakin Skywalker.

Warning: ANGST, Major character death, killings, death, funeral, gore, kinda war. (Let me know if there is anything else).

Word Count: 2.2k

Masterlist

Before

The Jedi Temple burned behind you, its flames licking the Mustafar skyline like fingers of hell reaching toward the heavens. A grotesque parody of a funeral pyre, for hope, for peace, for everything the Jedi Order once stood for.

You had arrived too late.

Smoke thick as mourning shrouds coiled around the great stone pillars, charring once-pristine walls with soot and sorrow. You stumbled through the carnage, boots slipping in blood and ash, the stench of death clinging to your robes and searing itself into your lungs.

Tiny bodies, so many of them, scattered like broken dolls on the marble floor. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Faces frozen in fear. Lightsabers still gripped in small, trembling hands that would never grow strong enough to wield them again.

You dropped to your knees beside one of the younglings, brushing a strand of hair from their wide, glassy eyes. You bit down a sob.

“Anakin,” you gasped, your voice hoarse from smoke and disbelief. “Anakin, where are you?”

No answer came.

Only silence.

Then—

Snap-hiss.

The hum of a lightsaber igniting echoed in the ruined hall like a war drum.

A blade, red as spilled blood, pierced the gloom.

Your eyes lifted.

And there he stood.

Your Anakin… and yet not.

His silhouette emerged from the shadows like a nightmare carved from obsidian. Cloaked in darkness, his saber casting hellish light across the smoldering temple, he looked more wraith than man. His face was impassive, carved from stone, but those eyes—

Gone was the sun-gold warmth that once danced in his gaze when he looked at you.

Now his irises burned a molten amber, twin infernos of hate and agony and something worse than rage—emptiness.

“Anakin?” Your voice cracked, nearly drowned by the crackling of flames and the weight of the moment. You took a step forward. “What have you done?”

He didn’t speak.

Only stared.

You wanted to reach for him. Wanted to believe this was a trick, a vision, some dark Force illusion. But the truth lay around you, splattered on the floor in crimson and silence.

Your hand hovered over your lightsaber hilt. You didn’t draw it.

He did.

He was trying to kill you.

And some twisted part of you understood why. Because you knew him. Knew the guilt would rot him alive if he let you live. You were the last piece of the old Anakin. The last witness.

If you lived, he couldn't hide from what he'd become.

He wouldn't let that happen.

Not willingly.

You survived. Barely.

It took everything, every drop of strength, every trick Obi-Wan ever taught you, every prayer you’d never believed in, to get away.

Mustafar nearly finished the job.

Lava scorched the sky, a mirror to the fire that had swallowed the Temple. You collapsed on blackened rock, your body broken, saber gone, breath shallow and wet with blood. You remembered the smell of burning flesh, his screams, and the stench of betrayal seeping into your skin like poison.

You had seen him fall.

And you had still reached for him.

“Please, come back. You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re a liar.” “I loved you.”

“You killed everything we ever were.”

He hadn’t hesitated. Not then.

You crawled away from that planet half-dead, dragging yourself aboard a stolen ship, your limbs barely responding, the pain a constant roar in your ears.

You didn’t know how long you drifted in space, slipping in and out of consciousness. Sometimes you screamed. Sometimes you prayed.

And sometimes you whispered his name.

Anakin.

Anakin.

Anakin.

But he didn’t answer.

Not until the Force began whispering back.

Not until you felt it—a pulse, faint but persistent. A flicker of life inside your broken body.

It started as a warmth low in your belly, a tiny flutter like a star being born. You thought it was the pain, a hallucination.

Until the Force wrapped around you like a breath.

Two heartbeats.

Not just your own.

You were pregnant.

And that was the moment the last piece of you shattered.

You wept for Anakin Skywalker.

The man who had died with his hands soaked in the blood of the future.

The man who would never hold his children.

The man you loved more than anything.

Even now.

-----------

Years Later

The Outer Rim was harsh, but you raised your children in its shadows. Two of them, twins. Luke, steady and protective, with his father’s quiet strength. Leia, fierce and luminous, her eyes full of fire and stars.

You told them stories of the Jedi. You told them of a man named Anakin Skywalker, who blazed through the galaxy like a supernova, too bright, too fast, trying to hold back fate with bare, bleeding hands. But you never spoke of Darth Vader.

But the war never truly ended for you. You moved often. You taught them to hide, to bury their power. The Force pulsed strong in both, and the galaxy was no place for children of Skywalker blood.

You dreamed of him sometimes. The man with sun-touched curls and a smile that softened even your darkest days. The one who kissed your bruised knuckles after battle and promised that if there was ever a peace, he’d build you a home on Naboo.

Sometimes, even now, you still woke up crying.

-----------

Now

The Empire was relentless. It never stopped hunting.

You were a fracture in its foundation. A splinter of the past the Emperor never managed to crush beneath his boot. A memory wrapped in flesh. A threat.

So it was only a matter of time.

Vader found you on Dantooine.

The wind was sharp that morning. The sun low and veiled by ash-grey clouds. The cold arrived first. Then the silence.

Then the dread.

You barely had time to usher the children into the underground chamber, heart hammering, before the bunker doors blew inward with a metallic shriek.

They came in like a flood, stormtroopers, faceless and ruthless, shouting orders you didn’t hear as they seized your arms and forced you to your knees in the dust. Your cheek scraped the stone floor, blood smearing your lip. You didn’t struggle. There was no point. You could already feel him drawing closer, every step a thunderclap in your soul.

And then he appeared.

Black armor. Labored breathing. A towering shadow of death, framed in smoke and ruin. The mask was the same you’d seen in holos, the one children feared and rebels cursed. But it wasn’t just a mask to you.

It was a tombstone for the man you loved.

Your throat clenched. Your heart tried to crawl out of your chest. You couldn't breathe, not from fear—but from knowing. Because behind that mask was Anakin. Your Anakin.

Or what was left of him.

“You should have died,” he said. His voice wasn’t his. It came through a filter, flat and warped and wrong. It sounded mechanical and hollow.

Your fingers curled into the floor.

“And yet I didn’t,” you spat, tasting copper. “Neither did they.”

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then his head turned, the mechanical whirring was the only sound.

“They?” he repeated, slow. Almost cautious.

And then, like a wire pulled tight between you, the Force cracked like a whip.

He felt them.

His body stilled, like stone beneath ice.

Two presences pulsed in the distance. Two familiar, flickering stars. Bright. Trembling. Luke’s resolve was already hardening, his small fingers wrapping around the hilt of his training saber. Leia’s fear shone brighter, like fire, but it didn’t crack. She was afraid, yes, but not broken.

He felt all of it.

And you saw the tremor ripple through his stance like lightning striking the sea.

“No…” you whispered, barely audible, tears springing to your eyes. “Please. Anakin... not them.”

The name, Anakin, split the air like a scar. It clung there, heavy and hollow, a word too full of history.

He didn’t speak. But he didn’t move, either.

You saw his hand twitch. Not toward his saber.

"Look at me," you said, voice trembling. "Look at what you became. Look at what they could be. Don’t let this be it. Don’t let this be how it ends."

Something cracked in the silence. Not out loud. Inside him.

The air grew heavy, tense, like the galaxy itself held its breath.

The stormtroopers were frozen, unsure whether to fire or wait for a command. You weren’t sure what would happen either. You were trembling, whether from fear or hope, you didn’t know.

And then, with slow, almost painful movements, Vader stepped forward.

And removed his helmet.

It hissed as it detached. The sound was final. Like the slamming of a coffin lid, only backward. A door opening, instead of closing.

He looked... ruined.

Older. Worn. Paler than you remembered. Scars crawled across his skin like jagged cracks in porcelain, and his eyes, his eyes, they were sunken, haunted things.

But they were his.

Blue, beneath all that shadow. Just barely.

And the moment he saw them, really saw them, everything stopped.

Two small figures stepped into the threshold of the hallway behind you, drawn by something they couldn’t name. Luke, wide-eyed, tense with uncertainty. Leia, brave as ever, her hands clenched at her sides even as her lip quivered.

The second he saw them, Anakin Skywalker fell to his knees.

Not in pain.

Not to dominate.

To beg.

His saber deactivated and dropped beside him with a thud.

“I didn’t know,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper through scarred lungs. “I didn’t know you lived. I thought—I thought I killed you—I saw you fall—"

His voice broke, and so did your heart.

You didn’t know how you moved, only that you were in front of him, the twins behind you. He looked at them like they were ghosts.

Leia stepped forward first. Brave little flame. She looked at him, chin held high, and said in a voice far too soft for the moment:

“Mom said you were a hero.”

Anakin flinched as if struck.

A breath escaped him, ragged, wounded. His shoulders crumpled, hands shaking. His fingers curled against the floor, as if trying to hold on to something slipping too fast through his grasp.

You moved closer.

Kneeling in front of him, you reached out and gently touched his cheek.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

You saw it then, the flicker. The flicker of the boy who’d held you beneath Naboo’s waterfalls. The man who kissed your stomach when you first told him you wanted a family. The warrior who fought with too much passion and loved with too much fire.

“You still can be,” you whispered, your voice breaking in two. “It’s not too late. Come back. Please. Let them know their father.”

Silence.

Then a sound.

Snap-hiss.

Your breath caught.

But the blade wasn’t red.

It was blue.

He turned it, not on you, not on the children, but against the stormtroopers still standing dumbfounded by the door. Against the monster he had become. Against everything Palpatine ever chained him to.

He moved like the wind. Efficient. Cold, but not cruel. He didn’t slaughter them for vengeance.

He did it for you.

For them.

For the light still buried beneath years of shadow.

-----------

Later

You buried him beneath the trees of Naboo.

A quiet resting place, where the wind sounded like laughter, and the light through the leaves looked like peace. Where the water shimmered like glass and the grass remembered bare feet and kisses stolen under moonlight.

You chose the spot where he'd once told you he wanted to build a home. Back when his eyes were still blue, when the war hadn’t yet carved him into someone else. When you’d both believed, naïvely, foolishly, bravely, that peace was possible.

Leia’s hands trembled as she laid her bouquet down, delicate blossoms she'd gathered herself, wrapped in a strip of her old tunic. She didn’t cry, not where anyone could see. But she stayed closest to the grave, as if trying to understand the shape of a man she’d never truly known.

Luke stood beside her, quiet and still, his eyes fixed on the horizon like he was trying to see the galaxy their father once believed he could save.

The stone you placed was simple.

No titles. No rank.

Just a name.

Anakin Skywalker.

The one he finally earned again.

As the final clumps of soil were placed and the wildflowers arranged, Leia knelt beside you. Her small fingers laced through yours. Her voice was soft, almost unsure.

“Did he say anything? At the end?”

You turned your head, you swallowed against the grief swelling in your throat and smiled through the ache.

“He said he loved you,” you whispered. “Both of you. And me.”

There was a long silence after that. No one moved. Even the wind seemed to still, as if the world itself wanted to preserve the moment.

Then Luke stepped closer.

Without a word, he took your hand.

And as the three of you stood there, beneath the trees where love had once bloomed and returned to die, you looked up.

The stars shimmered above you.

Endless.

Quiet.

Hopeful.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something out there waiting to be healed.

Something worth fighting for.

Something worth remembering.

Something like hope.

---------------

I loved this rec, I hope it matched their expectations. Also sorry for the sad ending but at least it was happier than my other stuff. 💗 Tysm for reading everyone hope you enjoyed!!

[x-i-l-verify]

Welp, I was tagged, I might as well give this my best attempt. Full disclaimer, all I know about the Links are from LU. I have never played any of the games, haven’t read any of the manga (though @kuraiacoris thoughtfully sent me 2 that are on my reading list), literally everything I know is from fanworks and the wikis and the occasional video essay. I don’t have any nostalgia for this franchise whatsoever. I am coming at this from the perspective of a LU fan first and foremost. Additional disclaimer is that I love all 9 of these characters v much, they are all blorbo material and I’m squishing all their cheeks, there’s not a one I actively dislike or think is uninteresting. I just think some are more interesting than others. XD

Also, fair warning, rankings 4-8 really depend on my mood and the day, I sat here literally for like 30 mins trying to rank them and going back and forth. >.<

1. Four – Four stuck out to me almost immediately upon looking through the LU concept sketches and eventually the comic just because of his design. It’s very striking and unique, and I love how small and tiny he is. We don’t have enough short kings in fiction imho. I love his hairstyle, too. But it was his personality that really intrigued me. He’s observant and clever, dramatic and very expressive, and so quietly caring. His love language is 100% acts of service, and it’s clear he loves doing things for people and making sure they’re taken care of. It’s no wonder he’s the Hero of the Minish, of quiet, simple, everyday kindnesses. I also find his placement in the timeline fascinating, like what do you mean he’s the second hero ever right after Sky, who never wielded the Triforce or Master Sword but still secured the peace and prosperity for Hyrule for years and years to come? *pokes fandom* Hey, hey fandom, where are all my fics where Four is absolutely awestruck by Sky and they have a relationship like Time and his successors or Downfall Duo, huh? Huh??? Fandom, you are slacking. >:[ I also am not quite sure why so many people seem to have such a hard time writing him or getting a handle on his character. He’s a complex little guy, sure, but not that complex, surely?

2. Warriors – I wasn’t sure what to make of him at first, but a dip into the fandom convinced me of what I was missing out on but also that the poor guy was incredibly maligned in some fanwork, made the villain in fic just because he sometimes clashed with fandom darlings Wild or Legend, and that made me determined to support him. And tbh I think the group really needs someone like him as one of its pillars. He’s one of the only Links who has a lot of experience working as a team, and it’s clear he cares a lot about the others and really tries to keep them safe. Yeah, sometimes he can get frustrated with some of the more independent or hairbrained of the lot, but coming from his background, that behavior gets you dead. It totally makes sense why he’d react that way. Add to that, I love his banter with Twilight and Legend in particular, and his semi-canon relationship with Time and Wind from the War of Eras makes me go 👀 👀 👀 👀 Speaking of the War of Eras, if you think about that conflict for more than about 10 seconds, the more horrifying it becomes. That man has baggage and no mistake. And it’s fun to unpack that baggage. B)

3. Time – Time duked it out with Warriors for my #2 spot for awhile before Warriors got a leg up on him, but make no mistake, I really do like Time a lot. I have a big soft spot for team dads, especially reluctant team dads who are like “Shit, I’m the adult in the room, oh no.” XD It’s really interesting to see the Link from OOT and MM in this in-between stage of his life, to see one of the Links all grown up as an adult who’s married and has a happy, peaceful life. Love his relationship with Malon, and the way he tries his best to look after the younger heroes while still encouraging independence is adorable. Plus, he’s clearly still a dramatic gremlin, and I think him being all cryptic with his past exploits is hilarious. XD He’s a cool guy, and I’m glad Jojo went this direction with his character.

4. Sky – Sky kinda fades into the background when he doesn’t have the spotlight directly on him so far, but I watched a cutscene compilation of Skyward Sword and instantly fell in love. <3 I adore how expressive and mellow he is, but also how fast he can turn on a dime and absolutely destroy any threat to his loved ones. He’s also just a huge little shit, and I love that such a sweet face hides such a gremlin. XD Sass king, this one. Also the prospective angst of his place in the timeline as the first Hero and founder of the royal line of Hyrule is choice. I love him. He’s great. If you don’t love him, please go watch some cutscenes of Skyward Sword.

5. Twilight – So now we’re getting into “oh boy, I have no idea how to rank these guys” territory, so take this ranking with a grain of salt. Twilight could be lower on any given day, but right now, he’s at 5 because I really enjoy big brother characters and LU!Twilight’s design is immaculate. I love the Twili markings so freaking much. But also, he’s just a unit, a brick, a fine, helpful young man. <3 You can tell he’s such a people person and has a lot of experience corralling people younger than him. XD His relationship with Time is very interesting, and while I do like his relationship with Wild, too, imho it's really been done to death in fanworks. I’m desperate to see him interact with other characters, which is why I’m so pumped that Jojo paired him with Sky. They will be such besties by the end of the dungeon, mark my words.

6. Wind – I am somewhat sheepish that Wind is this far down in my ranking, especially since I have a friend that blorbos him really hard, but it is what it is. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I do like him! He’s a cute kid, and a good kid, helpful and sweet and impish as all Links are. I’m not a huge fan of the super foul-mouthed pirate that fanon tends to make him, as that has little basis in canon, either from the games or LU. Wind is a Good Boy. A big brother that’s now the youngest of nine, and there’s a lot you can do with that dynamic. He’s used to caring for others, not being cared for himself, so giving him eight overprotective older brothers is a fun twist. His dynamic with Time is intriguing, and I’m crossing my fingers and praying very hard that the common theory of him being Four’s descendant is true.

7. Hyrule – I was rather underwhelmed with Hyrule at first in the comic, since he’s so quiet and takes such a backseat to the rest of the characters, but now that he’s gotten more of a chance to shine, he’s grown on me a lot. He may be quiet, but he’s no pushover, and he’s so sweet and kind and optimistic in spite of how run down his own era is. His abilities are so unlike the other Links’, too, and he’s just really mysterious, which is intriguing.

8. Legend – Legend took by far the longest to grow on me during my first read of LU, where I found him annoying and unpleasant (I’m not usually a fan of tsunderes), but despite his placement on this list, he really has grown on me a lot. Despite his abrasive exterior, he really does love very deeply, and he’s been badly hurt in the past, so his abrasiveness makes sense. I think some people take that too extremes, though, especially in fanworks, where he can sometimes be pretty insufferable. Also, fanon Downfall Duo is out, canon Downfall Duo is in. Also Legend+Warriors is the best Legend dynamic ur arguments are invalid.

9. Wild – Yeah, sorry. I know BOTW/TOTK is super popular and all, and Wild is a very fun character to play with, I’m just kinda tired of him getting shoved front and center in everything. Twilight occasionally gets a pass because I have a weakness for his character archetype, but Wild does not have that luxury. I might also be a bit biased because of the mess his games (TOTK specifically) make of the timeline, which directly affects LU canon, since Jojo has to work with what she’s got. But also his recklessness makes me want to drub him over the head with a stick occasionally. Yes, it's funny, but also boi you are taking years off your brothers’ lifespans, stoppit.

Reiterating that all Links are good Links, though. Just throwing that out there.

Tagging @scarlettediscord and @silverne-nonsense, though of course no pressure

Gonna try and start a tag game, so let's go!

We've all got our favorite Links, but I wanna know how ALL the LU Links rank for you.

I'll start! And just to note, I've only played Sky, Wild, and Twilight's games so far.

1. Sky- My favorite Link, though his game is my second favorite

2. Wild- Second favorite Link, but his games are my favorite

3. Warriors- Haven't played his games, but @crazylittlejester has made him one of my top three

4. Time- Gives big Dad vibes, he's just trying to keep his children out of trouble

5. Twilight- Absolutely the big brother

6. Legend- Not as bitter as I often see him portrayed. He's just a (older) kid whose been through a lot

7. Hyrule- Played his games a LONG time ago, never made it past the first dungeon. I don't really have much to say about him though

8. Wind- Cute kid, I like him but don't have much to day about him either

9. Four- I unfortunately don't know anything about him beyond LU, sorry Four!

Tagging:

@skyloftian-nutcase @crazylittlejester @skyward-floored @sprite-and-the-bunnydragons and anyone else is welcome to join as well!

[obsidian-pages777]

PAC: How will the battle end?[You/Your gang v Toxic Opps series]

Tope Left to Right= Pile 1-> Pile 2, Bottom Left to Right- Pile 3->Pile 4

Introduction

Hope this reaches those who have been having a desire for the blood of the enemy, the one that is in the world that comes against you the moment you step out. Inspired by my favorite movie series of All time John Wick.

🗡 Reading 1: "Silent Exit, Shattered Stability" Timeline: Within 2 weeks to 1 year

You disappear from their life like smoke—no warnings, no long goodbye, no explanation. They underestimated your silence. By cutting off all contact, you removed their energetic anchor. Without you to monitor, provoke, or manipulate, they spiral. Their obsession grows as your absence becomes louder than any words you ever spoke. At first, they fake it. But over time, their mask slips. They lose their grip—emotionally, mentally, even financially. It's not just about you leaving; it’s that you took with you the attention, energy, and reflection they thrived on. Their support systems begin to crumble. The people they used to triangulate start to walk away too. The image they maintained begins to crack. Within months, they're a hollow version of themselves, while you bloom—untouched, unbothered, and glowing in a peace they’ll never taste again.

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🔥 Reading 2: "Power Moves in the Shadows" Timeline: Within 5 weeks to 2 years

This win is slow-cooked and deliciously strategic. You don’t rush it. You don’t need to. You play chess while they play checkers. With quiet precision, you leverage your connections—friends in higher places, allies who owe you favors, or people who simply respect your character. You don't need to attack them directly. You whisper the truth to the right ears, and doors that were open for them start to close. Opportunities vanish. Their name gets replaced on guest lists. Projects get restructured without them. They try to fight it, but it’s not a loud war—it’s a thousand silent no’s and missed calls. A gatekeeping they can't prove. You are seen as the phoenix; they, the liability. The petty satisfaction? Watching them realize they opened the door to their downfall. And that you didn’t lift a weapon—just a single finger pointed in the right direction.

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⚖️ Reading 3: "The Law of the Land, and the Land of the Law" Timeline: Within 7 weeks to 3 years and 1 month

You collect evidence like moonlight—quietly, thoroughly. You have receipts. Timelines. Screenshots. Statements. You make your move not out of spite but out of necessity. You report them. Maybe to HR. Maybe to legal authorities. Maybe to a higher force like a licensing board or community body. At first, they scramble. Deny. Lash out. But the weight of truth is too heavy. The case builds slowly. You may even forget it’s ongoing. But they don’t. Every step forward they try to take is interrupted by consequences: court summons, workplace investigations, public exposure. Their energy drains in legal fees, stress, and reputational damage. Eventually, they are held accountable—fully. You don’t celebrate publicly. But you sleep better knowing justice was served—not by rage, but by righteous precision.

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🌍 Reading 4: "Universal Justice & Cosmic Reversal" Timeline: Continuously over 5 years

This is a divine orchestration. The kind of karma that doesn’t come as thunder—but as a long rain. You do nothing. Others start to see the truth for themselves. Allies emerge—not just for you, but others who were wronged by your opps. You become untouchable, while they become increasingly exposed. One by one, their masks fall—publicly. People stop defending them. The people they betrayed turn on them. Friendships dissolve. Relationships break. Their lies become too obvious to ignore. And the world? It responds faster than expected. New rules, new systems, new energies align against them. They keep trying to play the same dirty game in a reality that no longer supports it. And you? You ascend. Higher than they ever imagined. Without revenge. Without effort. Without having to look back. This is divine justice in its most poetic form—and it will be undeniable.

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[07121989]

𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 - 𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 𝗴𝗼𝗷𝗼

sypnosis. your dreams with Satoru coming to an end after the 'shinjuku showdown' fight aftermath.

contents. hurt/no comfort, canon-typical violence, blood, major character death, emotional distress, angst, fiancé!gojo.

word count. 1k

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Life had a way for screwing him over.

When Satoru Gojo thought about death, he brushed it off. The strongest can’t die, he used to say. Almost thinking it as some sort of joke or an insult towards him. He believed—deep down—that he’d be the one sorcerer to walk away without regrets. Or at least, that he’d be exempt from them.

But after the fight with Sukuna in Shinjuku on December 24th, 2018?

He realized just how wrong he was.

Even after declaring victory, he didn’t quite expect Sukuna to stop right there and then. One second of letting his guard down was all it took. One second to cost him everything.

There’s so much blood. The metallic scent hangs heavy in the air as Satoru lies on the ground he once fought beneath—his body in two halves, cleaved straight through his Infinity. He’s barely conscious now, slipping in and out. Something he never thought would happen. Not to him.

Everything hurts. God, he forgot just how bad this felt ever since his fight with Toji Fushiguro. His one and only slip up, he thought. It was almost like deja vu for the man. But not hurting as much as seeing you cry.

When he hears your voice tremble—*“I just got you back”—*something in him became aware of something he hadn’t realize yet. All this time, putting work above, rushing for the thrill of not only fighting but his goals as well made him realize it wasn’t just him being affected, but everyone else who admired him.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice raw and fragile. Even speaking hurts.

Years.

Months of finally having peace. Of holding your hand without fear. Of knowing you were his, and he was yours. Of talking about wedding venues and late-night takeout. And now—just like that—it was all crumbling.

You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. No. You shouldn’t cry.

He was going to make it.

He had to.

But the more blood you saw, the more you saw his eyes flutter closed, the more that belief began to feel like a fantasy.

You had just gotten him back.

You were just about to get married.

You were finally building the life you dreamed of.

You shook your head, rejecting his apology. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay…” you whispered, your voice nearly breaking. You stood at his side, frozen. Paralyzed. You didn’t care who was watching—his students, Shoko—it didn’t matter. You were more vulnerable than ever, and all you could see was him.

Then he asked if you were mad at him. Even now, even like this, he was worried about your feelings. About where you stood. About hurting you. “No… no, don’t say that…” you mumbled, finally stepping forward to take his hand. Your outfit was soaked in blood—his blood. Your eyes were red, your face flushed. You looked like a mess, but none of it mattered.

You wanted everyone to see what had been done to him.

To feel even a fraction of what you and Satoru felt.

His eyes drooped again, and panic set in. Was time running out already? “I’m not mad. I’ll never be mad,” you sniffled. Your voice cracked again. Even through every fight, every harsh word, your devotion never wavered. Satoru managed a weak smile, relief softening his battered face. Pain rippled through him as he leaned into your touch. His eyes fluttered closed, and a shallow, rattling breath escaped him. Speaking was getting harder.

When his gaze met yours again, it faltered. You were covered in his blood. You looked completely broken. “You don’t… have to see me like this…” he whispered. The words were barely air. But you couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“I love you.”

It was time.

Those words had waited too long. Always there, always understood—but never said. They weren’t casual words. Not for you. They carried weight. Meaning.

Real. Serious.

That’s why he looked so shocked.

“I love you, Satoru Gojo,” you said again, firmer this time. Your voice wavered, but it was clear.

If he wasn't in his current state, he would've probably taken that statement as a joke to deflect the tension between them. But Satoru couldn't deny the sincerity of your words, and the emotion behind them made his heart ache. For the first time in a long time, he felt vulnerable, even if he was close to death.

He squeezed your hand—weakly, but with intent. His lips parted, trying to reply, but his throat clenched. No words came.

You didn’t need them. Not really.

“I will always love you,” you whispered.

You wanted to hear it back—just once. But you didn’t ask. You wouldn’t put that weight on him. Not now.

Leaning down, you kissed him.

A soft kiss. Gentle. Barely there.

It felt like your first kiss—right outside Jujutsu High. The day when you two finally became teachers, you two also confessed to one another. The sun had been warm, and despite being adults, you’d giggled like kids.

You pulled away, lips stained in his blood, and studied his face. Your love had always been complicated. Messy. Raw. But he never doubted you. You never doubted him.

Unspoken, but always understood.

You were already thinking back.

Your first mission.

Your first kiss.

Your first time.

Your first date.

Your first everything.

You remembered the quiet talks about a future. About family. About souvenirs from the missions he will have outside of the country as a makeup. Sharing strawberry cake after midnight when you two had cravings. Making Kikufuku—his favorite—and making a disaster of your kitchen.

And then came the regret.

Not the big things.

The little ones.

Regretting the times you scolded him over trivial things.

Regretting not buying that stupid cake he nagged you about all day.

Regretting the times you said, “Not today,” when he wanted to hang out.

Regretting not savoring every single second—even though you thought you had. Because it’s always the littlest things that stay with you when you’re losing someone. The things you thought you’d always have. But you weren’t the only one with regrets.

His?

He didn’t do enough.

He worries—despite all his strength—that nothing truly changed. That the higher-ups will keep failing the next generation. That more students will die too soon. That the cycle will never end.

He should’ve done more.

He could’ve done more.

He didn’t even want to believe he was really here, bleeding out and thinking about his regrets. He wanted to laugh at himself for even thinking that way, but he couldn’t run away from it. Not anymore.

He was getting weaker. Silently he was telling himself this was really it. Fighting the urge to stay awake, his time was coming to an end. Even with death, he hadn’t felt this peaceful since the day he was born. Being the only time in his life that he was ever at peace.

The last thing Satoru feels before he closes his eyes is your kiss. And despite the pain, despite the blood and the agony— that moment where his body become unfamiliar to the feeling of comfort and relaxation—

He savors it.

He savors you.

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note. this is my first time publishing on tumblr! i’ve been using my notes app as a journal and thought a small wip could be shared :). thank u xo