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urdreamydoodles · 20 hours ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

You Protect The Marvel Comics Characters By Punching Someone Who Speaks Badly About Them

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

- Peter Parker has been insulted more times than he can count. He’s been called a menace, a failure, a joke. He’s used to it, laughs it off even when it cuts deep. But when he hears the sharp crack of your fist connecting with someone’s jaw—when he realizes that you did that for him—his world tilts on its axis.

- “Oh no. Oh no no no.” His first instinct is to grab you, to get you out of there before this turns into something worse. You just punched someone for him. He’s supposed to be the one protecting you, not the other way around. His heart is hammering—part fear, part something softer, warmer.

- He rushes to your side, hands hovering, unsure if he should scold you or kiss you right there in the street. The person you hit is groaning, cradling their face, and Peter is torn between feeling bad for them and wanting to tell them they deserved it. (Because they did. They did.)

- “Okay, that was… something,” he says, eyes darting between you and the stunned crowd. “Not that I don’t appreciate the backup, but—y’know, punching people usually gets me into trouble.” His voice is light, joking, but there’s something else in his gaze—awe, affection, something deeper than words.

- Later, when he’s patching up your knuckles with the gentlest hands, he murmurs, “No one’s ever fought for me like that.” And when he finally meets your gaze, soft and unguarded, you see it—the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most incredible thing in the universe.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

- Tony Stark has heard it all. The insults, the backhanded compliments, the jealous jabs from people who will never be him. Normally, he drowns it out with charm and a drink in hand. But then—then—your fist connects with someone’s face, and the world stops.

- For a moment, he just stares. Blinking. Processing. Did you really just punch someone for him? Then, slowly—a slow-spreading, wicked smirk. Because holy hell, that was the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

- “Well, well, well.” He steps forward, slipping an arm around your shoulders like you’re some kind of victorious gladiator. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” He’s eating this up, reveling in it, in the way you didn’t hesitate, in the way you stood up for him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

- The guy on the ground groans, and Tony glances down, unimpressed. “Next time, try using words, buddy. Or, y’know, just accept that I’m better than you.” Then he turns back to you, tilting his head. “Not that I’m complaining, but—what was that? You got a thing for defending handsome billionaires, or am I just lucky?”

- Later, when the adrenaline fades, he brushes a knuckle over your bruised hand, voice quieter. “No one ever does that for me.” And it’s not teasing anymore, not deflection—just something real. Something raw. And for once, Tony Stark is at a loss for words.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

- Steve Rogers has always fought his own battles. From the alleys of Brooklyn to the battlefields of war, he’s used to standing his ground—used to taking the hits for the people he loves. But this? This is something else entirely.

- One second, he’s turning the other cheek, trying to walk away from the insult. The next, there’s the sharp, unmistakable sound of impact—your fist driving straight into the jaw of the person who dared speak ill of him.

- “Hey—!” His hands are on you immediately, pulling you back before things escalate, before this turns into something worse. But his heart—his heart is a drumbeat against his ribs, because you fought for him. He should tell you it was reckless, that you didn’t have to, but all he can do is stare at you, his throat tight with something he can’t name.

- “That wasn’t necessary,” he says, but there’s no scolding in his voice, only something soft, something incredibly fond. Because no one ever fights for him. Not like that. Not without hesitation.

- Later, when you’re sitting together, nursing your sore hand, he finally murmurs, “Thank you.” And when he looks at you, there’s a warmth in his blue eyes that says more than words ever could—a depth of feeling that leaves you breathless.

Thor aka. God of Thunder

- Thor is used to insults. They roll off his back like rain on a battlefield, drowned out by the thunder in his veins. But when he hears the crack of your fist colliding with flesh— when he realizes you have struck someone in his name— he does not laugh. He is in awe.

- “By the gods!” His voice is both a boom of delight and a whisper of reverence. He steps toward you, eyes shining with something almost worshipful. You are fire, you are fury, you are glorious.

- And then he throws his head back and laughs, loud and full of joy. “A mighty warrior indeed! You honor me, my lady.” He clasps your hand, ignoring the bruises blooming on your knuckles, lifting it as though you have just won a great battle.

- The fool who insulted him scrambles away, but Thor does not spare them a glance. No, his attention is entirely on you. On this magnificent, fearless mortal who would strike in his name. And suddenly, the air around you feels different. Charged. Alive.

- Later, when the revelry has died down, he turns to you, voice softer. “You are… remarkable.” And when he looks at you, it is with the kind of devotion that only gods can give.

Loki aka. God of Mischief

- Loki is no stranger to cruelty. Words have been his weapons, his shields, his burdens. But when someone speaks ill of him— when they dare to drag his name through the dirt—he expects only one thing: to be alone in the aftermath.

- And then you hit them. Hard.

- He blinks. Once. Twice. Shock flickers across his face, unreadable and raw. He watches as you stand, fists clenched, gaze burning with something primal, something protective. And for the first time in centuries, Loki does not know what to say.

- “You—” His voice is different. Lower. There is no mockery, no amusement, only a sharp, jagged edge of something he does not let himself feel. You have fought for him. Him. And the realization shakes him.

- Later, when you’re alone, he traces the bruises on your knuckles with something dangerously close to reverence. “You are a fool,” he whispers, but his fingers linger, his breath unsteady. “A reckless, maddening fool.” And then, softer—so quiet you almost don’t hear it—“And I think I am doomed to love you for it.”

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

- Clint Barton is used to being underestimated. People see the bow, the lack of powers, and assume he’s less. They talk about him like he’s a joke, like he doesn’t belong among gods and super-soldiers. He lets it roll off his back—until you don’t.

- The sound of your fist cracking against a jaw cuts through the noise of the bar, and suddenly, the air is electric. You did that for him. Not because he asked, not because you had to—but because someone insulted him, and that was unacceptable to you.

- “Whoa—hey, hey, hold up!” Clint is beside you in an instant, half-laughing, half-terrified. His hands hover near yours, concern flickering in his sharp blue eyes. You’re pissed. It’s kind of the best thing he’s ever seen.

- The guy on the floor is groaning, but Clint isn’t paying attention to them anymore. No, his focus is on you—on your clenched fists, the fire still burning in your gaze. You’re beautiful like this, fierce and unwavering, and he’s absolutely, irreversibly doomed.

- Later, when he’s wrapping your bruised knuckles in an old bandana, he grins, soft and lopsided. “You know, I usually do the whole reckless, getting-into-fights thing. But I gotta say—kinda nice having someone in my corner for once.” And the way he looks at you then? Like you hung the goddamn stars.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

- Natasha Romanoff has been called a monster, a traitor, a woman who can never be trusted. She’s lived a life of whispers behind her back, of sideways glances and careful distance. She’s learned to endure it. But she never expected you to lash out in her defense.

- The impact of your punch is sharp, decisive— a clean, perfect strike that she would have been proud of. And yet, it startles her. Not because you hit them, but because you lost control for her.

- “You didn’t have to do that.” Her voice is smooth, but there’s something unreadable in her expression—something unfamiliar. She’s used to people fighting beside her, but no one has ever fought for her. Not like this.

- She grips your wrist before you can throw another punch, thumb grazing the pulse point there. “Look at me,” she murmurs. And when you do, she sees it—the fire in you, the defiance, the unwavering loyalty. And it does something to her, something she can’t quite name.

- Later, in the quiet of a dimly lit room, she traces the bruise on your knuckles with the barest touch. “You’re dangerous,” she murmurs, lips curving slightly. And for the first time in a long time, she thinks—maybe she wants to be protected, too.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

- Bucky Barnes knows what people say about him. A killer. A weapon. A man who should have died decades ago. He doesn’t argue. He knows what he’s done. He doesn’t expect anyone to defend him.

- But then—you do. And not with words. With fists.

- The moment your knuckles connect with skin, he’s there. He’s fast, instinctive, grabbing you by the wrist before you can swing again. His heart is pounding. Not out of fear—but something deeper, something he can’t afford to name.

- “Why did you do that?” His voice is rough, almost accusing. But you don’t waver. You stand your ground, breathing heavy, eyes blazing with defiance. It hits him then—no one has ever done this for him. Not Steve, not anyone.

- Later, he sits beside you in the quiet, his metal fingers ghosting over your bruised knuckles. “You don’t have to fight for me,” he murmurs, voice almost broken. And when you reply—“Then who will?”—he feels something shift in his chest, something old and aching and terrifyingly new.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

- Matt Murdock hears the insult before it’s even fully formed—the venom in the voice, the disdain dripping from every syllable. He’s heard it before, about his blindness, about his law career, about the devil that lurks beneath the surface. He expects to ignore it.

- What he doesn’t expect is the sharp, sudden sound of your fist connecting with someone’s jaw.

- His head tilts slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He felt you coil before the strike, heard your heartbeat spike. You didn’t hesitate. And God help him, that does something to him.

- “That wasn’t very lawyerly of you.” He steps close, voice low and teasing, but there’s something else there too—something reverent. His fingers brush against yours, light as a whisper, like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance.

- Later, in the sanctity of his apartment, he takes your injured hand in his own, running careful fingertips over bruised skin. “I don’t need saving,” he murmurs, though the way his breath hitches when you squeeze his hand says otherwise. And when you reply—“Too bad. You’ve got me anyway.”—his world tilts, just a little.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

- Frank Castle is a ghost, a monster, a cautionary tale. He’s used to people spitting his name like it’s a curse. He doesn’t care. He’s beyond caring.

- But then you punch someone in the face for speaking ill of him—and everything stops.

- The guy drops like a stone, groaning, and Frank… laughs. It’s not a soft sound. It’s dark, rough, something almost dangerous. He steps forward, crowding into your space, looking down at you like you’re something holy and terrible and his.

- “You got a mean right hook, sweetheart.” His voice is low, amused, but there’s something else there—something molten, something raw. He doesn’t say it, but he’s never had someone do this for him. Never had someone choose him so recklessly, so violently.

- Later, when you’re both alone, he leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dark. “You don’t fight my battles.” His voice is a growl, but there’s no real anger behind it. And when you meet his gaze, unyielding, he exhales sharply. Because if anyone in this world deserved someone like you fighting for them—he knows it sure as hell ain’t him. But he wants it anyway.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

- Marc Spector is used to being called insane. A broken mind, a fractured man, a violent, unhinged vigilante. The whispers follow him everywhere, behind his back and to his face. He doesn’t defend himself—because what would be the point?

- But then, you do. And not just with words. With your fists. The impact is sharp, the sound of bone on bone cutting through the murmur of the street like a gunshot. The moment is frozen. And Marc? He stares.

- He should pull you away, should tell you not to waste your breath, should laugh it off like it doesn’t matter. But he can’t. Because no one has ever done this for him. Not for Marc Spector. Not for the man beneath the mask.

- “You really shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is low, but there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it. His gloved fingers graze your bruised knuckles, and the moonlight catches in his dark eyes—like he’s seeing something holy.

- Later, he watches you from across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. You stood up for him. You fought for him. And now, all he can think about is how much he wants to fight for you.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

- Johnny Storm is used to the attention. The praise, the criticism, the headlines that reduce him to nothing more than a pretty face and a flame. He shrugs it off. Pretends it doesn’t sting.

- But then, he hears your voice—furious, unwavering, like a flame catching oxygen. And before he can turn, you swing. The guy stumbles back, clutching their jaw, and the entire room erupts.

- “Oh. My. God.” Johnny is somehow both horrified and absolutely delighted. He stares at you like you just set the whole world on fire. Because you did. And you did it for him.

- “I didn’t know you had that in you,” he grins, stepping closer. There’s something in his voice—something deep, awed, almost breathless. Because no one has ever burned quite like you.

- Later, when the adrenaline wears off, he’s grinning like an idiot, watching you ice your knuckles. And when you catch him staring, he just shrugs. “What? It’s kinda hot when you punch people for me.”

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

- Reed Richards has heard every insult in the book. Detached. Cold. Unfeeling. They don’t understand how his mind works, how his thoughts stretch beyond the present moment, beyond normal comprehension. He’s used to it.

- But you? You aren’t. The second someone spits out something vile, dismissive, cruel, your fist is already flying before Reed can even process what’s happening.

- “Oh.” That’s all he says at first, blinking as if recalibrating. He hadn’t expected—this. You. Your anger, your unwavering defense, the fire in your eyes. It’s an equation he hadn’t considered. And now, he can’t stop solving for it.

- “Violence isn’t necessary,” he murmurs, but he’s already taking your hand, stretching his fingers around your bruised knuckles, memorizing the shape of your loyalty.

- Later, he watches you—studying, calculating, analyzing. But for once, the question isn’t why. It’s how he ever lived without you.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

- Felicia Hardy doesn’t need protecting. She’s spent her life clawing her way out of trouble, slipping through shadows, dodging every snare. She laughs in the face of danger, purrs at the edge of chaos.

- But then—you hit someone. For her. And everything stops.

- She should be amused. Should smirk and tease and call you reckless. But instead—she just stares. Because no one, not once in her life, has ever thrown a punch for her. Not like this.

- “Darling, you really are full of surprises.” She steps close, a slow, predatory movement, her fingers tilting your chin up. There’s something wicked in her smirk—but her eyes? Her eyes are soft.

- Later, she finds herself watching you more than she should. Running a gloved hand over your bruised knuckles, feeling something dangerously close to devotion. And for the first time, Felicia Hardy wonders what it would be like to be caught.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

- Stephen Strange is used to arrogance. His own, and the world’s. He’s used to people whispering behind his back, questioning, doubting, scoffing. He doesn’t care. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

- But when someone speaks ill of him in front of you? You react before he does. The crack of your fist against their jaw is startlingly satisfying. And suddenly, the entire universe shifts.

- “You—” He stops himself. Adjusts his cloak. Exhales sharply. He should be chastising you, telling you to hold your temper, to rise above it. But instead, he’s looking at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality.

- “You didn’t have to do that.” His voice is careful, but his fingers are gentle when they brush against your bruised knuckles. He’s spent a lifetime mastering control—so why does it slip when you’re around?

- Later, he finds himself summoning bandages with magic, hands lingering longer than necessary. And when you smirk, teasing—“Was that a thank you, Doctor?”—he only hums, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. Because maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind needing you.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

- Namor is used to disrespect. The surface world dares to look down on him, on Atlantis, on the very ocean that sustains their miserable existence. He tolerates it only because he must. But when someone speaks ill of him in your presence, they are met with something he does not expect—your fist.

- The blow lands sharply, flesh against bone, a declaration of war in its own right. Namor watches, silver eyes narrowing, his body rigid with something unnameable. It is not anger. No, anger is familiar. This? This is something else.

- “You strike for me?” His voice is velvet over steel, laced with the kind of dangerous curiosity that comes before a storm. His people have fought wars in his name. But this? This is different. This is you.

- He moves toward you, slow, deliberate, fingers tilting your chin up. There is no hesitation when he speaks next. “You are worthy of a crown.” And the way he says it—it is not a compliment. It is a fact.

- Later, the sea sings your name. And though he will not say it outright, he watches you differently now—like a king who has found the one thing worth more than his throne.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

- Johnny Blaze has been called many things. Freak. Monster. Hellspawn. He doesn’t care—not anymore. He’s spent too long carrying his curse, dragging his soul behind him like a dying star.

- But then you hit someone. For him. Your knuckles split skin, the sound echoing in the dim light of the bar, and for the first time in a long time, Johnny forgets how to breathe.

- “Shit.” The word is barely a breath. You turn to him, fist still clenched, shoulders tight with fury, and Johnny? Johnny just stares. Because no one, not in his entire damn life, has ever thrown a punch in his name.

- “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, but there’s something dangerous behind his voice—something that flickers like an ember waiting to catch. He should stop this, should tell you he’s not worth it. But instead, his fingers brush over your bruised knuckles like a prayer.

- Later, he watches you from his bike, the engine growling beneath him, his heart doing the same. And when he finally speaks, voice rough, almost shy, it’s only to say: “Next time, lemme do the hitting.”

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

- Eddie Brock has heard it all before. Loser. Washed-up. Parasite. He grits his teeth and lets it slide, because what else is new? Venom, on the other hand, is far less patient.

- But before either of them can react—you do. Your fist cracks against the jaw of the one who dared to insult him, and suddenly, everything goes still.

- “Did you just—?” Eddie’s eyes go wide. Venom, however, purrs with delight.

- “They are ours,” the symbiote rumbles, voice sliding through Eddie’s skull like liquid night. “They fight for us.” Eddie wants to argue, to tell Venom to shut up, but he can’t, because he’s too busy watching you, heart pounding, something terrifying and warm curling in his chest.

- Later, he doesn’t bring it up—but Venom does. “We like them,” the voice whispers, thick with amusement. Eddie doesn’t respond. He just glances at you, hands tightening into fists, and thinks: Yeah. We do.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

- T’Challa has faced enemies greater than words. He has fought battles with his hands, his mind, his heart. He does not concern himself with petty insults.

- But you do. The second you hear someone speak his name with disrespect, your body moves before your mind does. The punch lands with precision, trained and true—a warrior’s strike.

- He should chastise you. Should remind you that his reputation needs no defense. But when he looks at you—fire in your eyes, your breath sharp, your hands still clenched—he feels something stir beneath his ribs.

- “Impressive,” he murmurs, stepping closer. He does not touch you, not yet, but the space between you hums with electricity. He sees you differently now—not just as an ally. As something more.

- Later, as he watches you spar in the Wakandan training grounds, his mind drifts back to that moment. You fought for him. And T’Challa? T’Challa is not used to losing battles—but he is certain he is about to lose this one.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

- Elektra is used to being hated. She does not care. She exists between life and death, between shadow and steel. She does not need protection.

- But then, you hit someone. For her. And Elektra? She does not know what to do with that.

- She watches as the body crumples to the floor, watches as you shake out your fist, anger still radiating from every inch of you. Something slow and dark unfurls in her chest.

- “Foolish,” she murmurs, stepping forward. But her voice is soft. Her fingers graze your wrist, her eyes searching yours for something she refuses to name. “But… admirable.”

- Later, she finds herself lingering near you more than usual, watching, waiting. You fought for her. And Elektra Natchios has spent her entire life surviving—but now, she wonders what it would be like to be worth saving.

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joelslastofus · 12 hours ago

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[SUMMARY: Tess’ jealousy reaches a new level when she finds out you might be pregnant.]

PART TWO

Angst

“The hell did you tell her?”

Tess stood silent and he knew right then and there…he knew she had told you about Sarah and scared you away.

It had been a little over a month since you and Joel had first gotten together, since then you both were inseparable. A few things had changed since Joel confessed his feeling for you although they weren’t exactly changes you hoped for. Tess was still around, silent but always obvious of her dislike towards you. Instead the changes involved a new task, a task that involved a young girl named Ellie. Marlene, whom Joel had known but didn’t seem to like had asked him to take Ellie to a group of firefly’s that would then take over where she needed to be taken to. The only reason he went along with it was because his last chance to get a working car fell through. Now Marlene promised him he’d have a working car to get to Jackson as long as he took Ellie where she was supposed to be.

One thing you noticed was Ellie seemed to be more gravitated to you than Tess, just another thing that pissed Tess off. Especially with seeing how Joel seemed to be getting closer to Ellie.

Ellie and you laughed together at certain jokes she would tell you, looking over you caught Joel trying to hold back a smile.

“You thought that was funny didnt you?” You teased walking beside them through the woods.

“Oh yeah, look at him, he could barely keep himself together” Ellie continued, poking fun at Joel. Tess rolled her eyes at the sound of the laughter, it’s like she hated hearing how well you all got along.

“Can we focus on where we’re goin’?” Tess called out over her shoulder without looking at any of you.

“Someone’s grumpy” Ellie whispered making you look down with a smile until it hit you again. The nausea you had been ignoring for the past week, the nausea that you’ve somehow managed to hide from everyone. At first you didn’t think anything of it but as the days went on, you couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on. Keeping track of your period was pointless with it never being on schedule anyways, so you weren’t alarmed when it didn’t come the same time as the month before. But now you were starting to feel all these things you had read about, all these symptoms you remembered this pregnant woman Dolores spoke about feeling.

Joel and Ellie hadn’t noticed you stopped at first until he looked over to see you weren’t walking beside Ellie. Quickly turning around he found you a few feet behind leaning over on a tree. Ellie noticed Joel’s look of concern and turned herself to see the same thing.

“Hey-“ Joel called out to you making you quickly look up.

“Oh god” you whispered to yourself.

“I’m fine” you attempted to assure him but you should’ve known better, Joel was already quickly making his way to you.

“What’s wrong? You alright?” He spoke low.

You couldn’t speak in that moment, quickly nodding to assure him that you were fine until you looked up. He must’ve noticed something because the look on his face only seemed more concerned than he originally was.

“Here take some water” he passed you his bottle that you quickly took. As if your nausea couldn’t get any worse, Tess’ voice made your stomach turn.

“What’s the hold up?” She called out.

“Give us a minute” Joel responded as she loudly sucked her teeth.

“We don’t have a damn minute, it’s gonna get dark soon” Ellie looked back at how rude Tess was and raised her brows.

“She’s fine, keep walkin’” Tess stubbornly spoke. You nodded quickly handing Joel his bottle of water.

“I’m fine, let’s go” you wiped your lips, still feeling the nausea but not as bad as it was just a few moments earlier.

“We can sit down for a moment” Joel insisted not giving two shits what Tess was saying.

“N-no. I’m fine”

“Let’s go” Tess insisted.

“Hey-“ Joel whispered delicately turning your face to him.

“Ya sure?”

Tess once again rolling her eyes crossing her arms.

“I’m sure, let’s go” you began to walk beside Joel catching up to where Ellie was as Tess walked off.

Throughout the walk you could feel Joel’s eyes on you, although you continued, he didn’t believe you were ok.

The first stop you all made was at a pharmacy, you were surprised to see there was any product left. Tess, Joel and you made sure the building was clear before checking what was left. Thankfully your nausea had gone away but you knew it would come back sooner or later, it always did around the same time every day. Joel was distracted looking in the back of the store while Tess was in a stock room. You watched as Ellie happily packed a few feminine products before you realized the very next aisle had a few things left that caught your eye. Quickly without anyone noticing you grabbed a box of pregnancy tests and some prenatal vitamins stuffing them into your bag just incase.

“I’m surprised there’s anything left in this place” Tess voice made you jump as you turned to find her behind you, her eyes darting between the few boxes of pregnancy tests left and you.

“What are you doing here?” She raised a brow. As if it was any of her business, but the second she saw you even eyeing a pregnancy test she couldn’t help herself. God she hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was.

“N-nothing, I- I just-“ she squinted her eyes, changing her worried expression when you looked up at her.

“Oh god…he’s knocked you up…Hasn’t he?”

“N-no, I don’t know..I-“

“Oh…I feel sorry for you” she chuckled.

“he’s gonna hate you for this”

“What?” You whispered confused.

“You think he wants to have any more kids?” She laughed as you stood silent. More?

“Oh I’m sorry, that’s right…you don’t know certain things about him..” you could hear the taunting in her voice.

“What certain things?” You whispered.

“He never told you about Sarah, did he?” she seemed to get a kick out of this.

“Sarah?” Your chest felt as if it was caving in.

“No” you looked away in shock.

“He doesn’t like to talk about it but she died years ago…when this all started and it….it changed him.” You swallowed uncomfortably.

“He isn’t gonna want this, sweetheart. This will only upset him. You’ll see a side of him that’ll make you want to run away. You’re better off not even telling him if you are and just…taking off” you pressed your lips together holding back tears. For the first time Tess made sense to you.

“We can stay here for the night” Joel called out from the back quickly distracting you from the conversation. Without saying a word you quickly walked away, you had no idea to where but anywhere away from Tess. Of course that was when you ran into Joel.

“Hey-hey, what’s goin’ on?”

Joel could tell you were upset, his hand caressing the side of your face.

“Nothing, I’m just looking for stuff” you lied, you couldn’t even look at him.

“Did somethin’ happen?”

“No!” You stubbornly lied taking a deep breath.

“Just let me look at what they have left” you composed yourself and looked up at him. He silently nodded and let you walk off before looking up at Tess down the next aisle. She didn’t notice him looking at her and caught her chuckling to herself before walking away.

Ellie sat beside you pulling out a sandwich from her bag that Marlene had packed. The smell instantly striking you making you quickly turn your face. Ellie hadn’t noticed, you quickly stood up and ran off to the back room as Joel looked at you strangely.

“Just let her be already” Tess spoke as Joel stayed staring at the door you had ran into.

“If I were you, I’d ignore her” Tess snacked on a cracker as Joel stood up.

“Well I ain’t you and she ain’t your problem, she’s mine” he uttered under his breath as he walked off to where you were.

Hiding in the back you heard footsteps coming close, you already knew it was Joel and quickly turned away.

“Y/n, what’s wrong?” He stopped a few feet away making sure to give you space.

“Nothing, I just-“ you squeezed your eyes shut with your hand over your mouth as another strong wave of nausea hit you.

“You alright?” You heard him begin to get closer and snapped.

“I’m fine!” You screamed without turning back to him.

“Just get the hell away, give me a damn minute!”

He stood silent for a moment feeling defeated, hopeless. How could he not know what the hell was wrong with you?

“Did I do somethin’ to upset cha?” His question creating a knot in your throat. He didn’t deserve to be spoken to this way, but you knew it was the only way he’d listen.

“Just go” you whispered.

Joel took a step back silently leaving the room leaving you to cry alone. Still you hadn’t taken a test but you knew, you knew you were pregnant.

Later that night while everyone slept you found a private space and finally took the test. Just as you thought two bright pink lines appeared. You cried in a panic, it was all real now. Hiding the test and the packaging where it couldn’t be found you wiped your tears and grabbed your backpack, you knew what had to be done.

Never did you think in a million years that you would be needing Tess’ help, yet here you were carefully waking her up out of her sleep.

“Tess” you whispered, she looked up at you confused.

“I need you to help me get out of here without Joel or Ellie waking up. Distract them as much as you can so I can get as far as I can” a rush of excitement went through Tess as she sat up.

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to” you whispered.

“You did the pregnancy test?” She asked with a raised brow.

“Yes, I just did” you pressed your lips together.

“Where do I tell him you went or why you left?”

“You don’t. You act like you never saw me leave, hell, I don’t even know where the hell I’m going. I just…I’m too afraid to tell him and I need to leave now.” Tess stood up straight as you struggled to hold your tears back.

“Take care of him for me ok?” You whispered through a trembling voice before turning away and as quietly as possible sneaking out of the store.

Tess for the first time in a while felt satisfied, her plan had worked. You were gone and Joel never knew you were pregnant but neither of you knew that as you spoke with Tess, Ellie lay awake listening to every word being said.

Afraid to say anything to Tess, Ellie lay quietly looking over at Joel. She didn’t know what Tess was doing but all she could hear was footsteps around her, she closed her eyes pretending to be asleep, she didn’t trust Tess.

Once she heard Tess finally walk into a room she quickly threw a rolled up paper at Joel and closed her eyes. At first he didn’t budge, making Ellie sigh and try once more, this time his eyes flung open. Squinting, she found him staring directly at her a few feet away before he began to look around and that’s when he realized you weren’t around.

Joel quickly stood up looking around the store just as Tess walked out of a back room with a surprised expression not expecting him to have woken up.

“Where is she?” He asked looking around as Tess hesitantly walked towards him.

“Um, I don’t know…I just woke up she must’ve snuck out-“

“Snuck out?” Joel turned to her with confusion as Ellie opened her eyes. Quietly she got up without saying a word to either of them, both of them distracted with what was going on Ellie wandered to the back.

Looking around for any possible evidence she needed, Ellie heard you say you had taken a test. Of course, there it was, an opened pregnancy test box stuffed between 2 bricks in the wall. God you were sneaky. Inside the box lay the positive test you had taken, Ellie quickly ran out to Joel who was in the middle of a heated conversation with Tess.

“Joel!” She ran to him as he looked down at her confused. Without saying a word she handed him the box, Tess’ eyes widened.

“Where the hell did you get that?” She whispered.

“The hell is this?” Joel looked inside the box.

“It was y/ns, I heard her say she took a test Joel” his brows furrowed as he pulled the test out of the box and read the positive results. His face turning pale as he realized what he was looking at before he snapped back to reality. His eyes darkened, looking straight up at Tess.

“The hell did you do?” He whispered coldly.

“I-I didn’t do anything, Joel, you barely knew her-“ Joel stepped forward with a deadly look in his eyes making Tess step back.

“The hell did you tell her?”

Tess stood silent and he knew right then and there…he knew she had told you about Sarah and scared you away.

“She needed to know about Sarah, Joel, she’s here thinking you two can actually have this-“

“That wasn’t your decision to make” Joel responded as he began to pack his back pack.

“Oh come on, Joel, you know damn well you don’t want that baby” he stopped moving, the silence so tense Ellie held her breath. Joel stood up and slowly walked towards Tess-

“If anything happens to her or my baby, I’ll find you.” Tess couldn’t believe how Joel was speaking to her. Speechless she watched as he walked out and called Ellie to follow.

He had no idea how or where he was going to find you but he knew his priorities were now only you and the baby and he was going to make sure he found you.

Joel’s tags

@moonpascal @katmoonz @picketniffler @stcrrjoon @itsamandi @starry-eyes-love @theoraekenslover @psychoenergy @joeldjarin @heartpatch @baronessvonglitter @guelyury @mynameistokyo @harriedandharassed @locaparapedrito @untamedheart81 @rosaliedepp @illyanam1011 @hopefulatrocity @tikikiki @thewritermj @l0veang3l @manuymesut @katiemarieeee @unknownomgg @secretcheesecakenacho @missladym1981 @xmaykeca @dendulinka6 @wintersquirrel @malfoycassimalfoy @scorpio-echo @orcasoul @mysteryhexgirl @locaparapedrito @alloftheimagines @mystickittytaco

@ashleyfilm @justajoelsreader @lonely-ey3s

@elliesr1fle @ro-nahime-things

@readingiskeepingmegoing

#pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x pregnant reader #joel miller fan fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us #tlou fanfiction

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yanderedrabbles · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! Btw It’s my first time on this blog & Love your scenarios! Just wanted to Ask in general: would Yandere military contractor ever be amused by an mc who’s very willing or will he want more of a struggle from them? 💝

Yandere! Military Contractor x Affectionate Reader

Hmm, I've said before that he's the kind of guy who takes what he wants from you regardless. But no matter how monstrous, he's still a man. Deep down, he wants you to want him back.

The thing that scares him though? The inherent vulnerability that brings. He's used to covering all his bases, used to squashing down his emotions to get the job done - to the point where he's numb and dull to almost anything. Admitting, even to himself, that he needs you in that way? Absolutely not happening.

Even when he was watching you - weeks spent on the roof of the building across from your apartment, hours parked outside your work - he always told himself it was just curiosity. Just an itch that he needed to scratch. He'd feel better once he had his hands on you, that's all. He'd stop thinking about fucking you once he got it out of his system.

Such a great liar that he doesn't even realise when he's doing it to himself. The second he had you - skin on skin, your throat under his teeth - he told himself he'd keep you just a little longer. Just to really work out his frustration. Gotta get his fill so when it's over he doesn't get the craving again.

But he's never full enough.

No matter how much he's had you - crying or whimpering or even begging him not to stop - it's never enough. There's this thing inside him that always wants more, wants it different. On your back, flipped onto your stomach, up against the wall with your forehead in the crook of his neck, begging, crying, laughing. All of it. All the time.

He holds you at night and tells himself tomorrow, I'll let her go tomorrow. But tomorrow never quite seems to come.

When you start wanting him back, kissing him, pressing against him at night, he isn't sure what to think. You're clever. This could all just be a trick.

Showing him affection just makes him sink his teeth in deeper, makes him fuck you harder, makes him double lock the doors everynight. Makes him want to break you under him because how can you be so cruel? Giving him what he's wanted all along but doesn't deserve? He lives in fear of you taking it back, changing your mind.

Fucking you so rough that you're sobbing, snarling in your ear that he'll be nice if you say 'I love you.' Liar. It just makes him worse.

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere lemons

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 2 days ago

Text

Safe With You, Always

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: Discussions of reproductive rights, abortion laws, political distress, anxiety, feelings of helplessness, comfort, soft Simon, protective Simon, affirmations of love. If these topics are triggering or distressing for you, please take care of yourself and skip this story.

Author’s Note: This piece is deeply personal, reflecting the fear and frustration many women are feeling right now. If you’re struggling with the weight of everything happening, please know you’re not alone. Take care of yourself, and lean on the people who love you. Simon would want you to.

Summary: The world feels like it’s crumbling around you, and the weight of it all is unbearable. When fear and anger threaten to consume you, Simon reminds you that you’re not alone—that with him, you are safe.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The news droned on in the background, the screen glowing in the dimly lit living room, but you weren’t really watching anymore. The words blurred together, each headline another blow to your already fraying nerves. You gripped the blanket wrapped around your shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric as if it could somehow ground you.

It wasn’t just today. It wasn’t just one decision or one law—it was everything. It was the feeling of being powerless, of screaming into a void that only answered back with silence or worse, laughter. Every time you thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. Every time you thought, this has to be the last straw, another was added to the pile.

Your chest was tight, breath coming in uneven bursts as you pressed a hand against your sternum, trying to will away the anxiety curling in your ribs. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted—

The couch dipped beside you, and before you could even look up, a warm, calloused hand covered yours, easing the tension in your fingers.

Simon.

He didn’t speak right away, just reached for the remote and turned off the TV, casting the room into a soft, heavy silence. He let you breathe, let you process, before finally breaking the quiet.

“You’re shakin’, love.” His voice was low, gentle, but laced with quiet concern.

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I—” Your voice cracked, and you sucked in a sharp breath, trying again. “I just feel so… so helpless.”

Simon exhaled slowly, shifting closer. He didn’t press, didn’t demand you explain—he just waited, patient and unwavering, the steady presence you needed.

You clenched your hands into fists, staring down at them in your lap. “It feels like the whole world is against us. Our rights, our choices… it’s like we’re not even people to them. Just something they can control.” Your breath hitched as frustration and fear tangled together in your chest. “I don’t—I don’t feel safe, Simon. I don’t feel safe anywhere.”

His grip on your hand tightened—not painfully, but firm enough to anchor you.

“I know.” His voice was rough with something deep, something barely contained. Anger? No. Fury. Not at you, never at you. But at the world that made you feel this way.

“I wish I could tell you it’s gonna get better tomorrow,” he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, steady circles against your skin. “That one day you’ll wake up and all this shite will be fixed. But I can’t.”

Your throat tightened. “Then what’s the point?”

Simon shifted, turning so he could cup your cheek in his palm. His touch was warm, solid—real. “The point is you don’t fight this alone.” His thumb brushed against your cheek, catching the tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen. “The point is you’ve got people who love you, who will stand with you, fight for you. Me included.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. “It just feels so… endless.”

“It does.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “But you’re not carrying this alone, yeah?” He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath fanning over your skin. “I’ll carry it with you. For as long as you need. Forever, if I have to.”

A broken sound left your throat, something between a sob and a laugh, and Simon pulled you against his chest without hesitation. His arms locked around you, strong and unyielding, holding you together when you felt like falling apart.

“You’re safe with me,” he murmured against your hair. “No matter what, you’re safe.”

You curled into him, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like a lifeline, allowing yourself to believe him—if only for tonight.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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allthingsfangirl101 · 2 days ago

Text

Big Brother's Wedding Part 2 – Glen Powell

Part 1

I checked my watch before going outside. I had enough time to walk along the beach for a little while before I had to be back for the wedding. I was on my way back when I stopped. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves.

"Your brother was looking for you."

I turned around to see Glen walking toward me. I picked up my dress and met him halfway.

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine," he smiled. "He just wants. . ."

"What?" I asked when he didn't continue. I held my breath as he looked me up and down. "Is something wrong? Glen?"

"Wow," he whispered. "Y/N, you look beautiful."

My face burned when his eyes returned to mine. I reached up and subconsciously tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

"Shannon really wanted all the bridesmaids in this color," I started to nervously ramble. "I was hesitant. I don't think I look good in this color, but you can't argue with the bride. At least the cut of the dress is flattering. And the slit's not too high."

"I think you look gorgeous."

I studied his eyes, trying to unscramble my thoughts. Glen has always been sweet to me. He's always had my back. He and Matt have always protected me. To be honest, I never thought Glen would ever look at me the way I looked at him. I always thought that he thought I was his younger sister. Never anything more.

"Thanks," I finally said. "You look red carpet ready."

My comment made him laugh. "At least, this time, I won't be the one everyone is focused on. I'm looking forward to fading into the background."

"I don't think you could ever fade into the background," I teased. Glen laughed as he walked over and grabbed my hand. I didn't do anything as he looped my arm through his and escorted me back to the venue.

"I'm worried," I whispered. I felt Glen look at me but I didn't return it.

"Worried about what?" He asked gently.

"About Matt," I said slowly, "getting married."

"He's going to be fine," Glen said, still not sure where I'm going with this.

"I adore Shannon," I tried to clarify. "But I'm worried that things are going to change once Matt's married. Change with him and me."

"Well," he said, pausing to think about his next words, "some things will change. He's getting married. But nothing is going to change with you and Matt. You two have always been extremely close. Nothing is ever going to change that, Y/N."

"I know," I sighed. "Deep down, I know that."

"All else fails," he said, trying to lighten the tension I had caused, "you got me. If your brother is caught up in married life, just give me a call. I'll come rescue you."

* * * * *

As the music played, Glen and I got ready to walk down the aisle. Every time I looked at him, my heart jumped into my throat and I couldn't form words.

"Don't let me trip," I whispered right before we started to walk down the aisle.

"Don't worry," Glen chuckled. "I won't let you fall."

Without another word, we walked down the aisle. Every second we walked, my stomach jumped all over. I couldn't settle my nerves. I felt like my legs were shaking so badly that I was seconds away from falling. I couldn't tell if Glen was making things better or worse.

Throughout the ceremony, my eyes would glance past my brother and toward Glen. Whenever they did, it seemed like Glen was already looking at me. After the ceremony, we all walked back down the aisle before heading to cocktail hour. I was talking to my family so I lost track of Glen. I didn't see him again until the reception. He was across the room, talking to their old friend group. I quickly looked away when he started to look toward me.

This went on all night. Whenever I looked for Glen, it seemed like he was already looking for me.

"Have you seen Matt?" Shannon asked, playing with her fingers. "It's time to cut the cake."

"I just saw him," I said, trying to comfort her. "He might have gone outside with some old friends. I'll go get him."

I walked outside and searched for my brother. It took a few minutes but I eventually found him and Glen standing off to the side, under a nearby beach gazebo.

"Alright," I heard my brother sigh, "I'm tired of this."

"Tired of what?" Glen asked.

"You and Y/N staring at each other, but neither one of you having the guts to tell the other how you feel. Will you just man up and tell my sister you're in love with her? I'm tired of her dating losers when my best friend would take better care of her."

"It's not that simple. I mean. . . And I'm not in love with. . . Wait, you think that Y/N has feelings for me?"

My brother just laughed. "She has had feelings for you almost as long as you've had feelings for her. So, save me the pain and just tell her."

I held my breath as I waited for Glen's response. "You sure you're okay with me asking out your baby sister?"

"I actually am," Matt chuckled. "All a big brother wants is to see his baby sister happy. And I think you could make her happy."

"I'll try," Glen mumbled to himself after my brother walked away.

When Matt turned around, he saw me and instantly smirked. He walked over and not-so-subtly pushed me toward Glen. He heard the scuffle and turned around.

"Hey, Y/N," he smiled like nothing happened. "You having fun at the party?"

"I am," I said, subconsciously smoothing out my dress. Glen's eyes glanced behind me. I looked over my shoulder, holding in my laughter when I saw my brother almost trip over a chair as he ran away.

"He's not very smooth, is he?" Glen laughed as we looked back at each other.

"About as smooth as a cactus," I chuckled.

Suddenly, a thick tension fell between us. I wanted to say something, but nothing seemed good enough.

"So," Glen started slowly as he walked over to me, "your brother seems to believe that we both have feelings for each other but neither one of us has said anything to the other."

"I guess so," I said quietly. "But to be fair, I always thought you thought I was Matt's annoying little sister."

"You have never been annoying," he said, lowering his voice as he took a few steps closer to me. "And you were so much more than Matt's little sister. I wanted you to be more."

My heart jumped into my throat when Glen grabbed my hands.

"I wanted you to be more than Matt's best friend."

Before I could think this through, Glen leaned in and pressed his lips delicately to mine. The kiss was slow and built up. As it built, I wrapped my arms around his neck and he wrapped his arms around my waist.

We broke apart, both of us out of breath. The second we leaned back, we had matching blushes on our faces.

"I know the reception is still in full swing," Glen smirked as he reached up and moved a piece of hair out of my face, "but what do you think about going for a walk along the beach?"

"I think that is the perfect first date."

#glen powell fanfic #glen powell #glen powell imagines #glen powell imagine #best friend's brother

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writhyv · 3 days ago

Text

⋆｡°✩ [jay, jake, ni-ki, sunghoon] your bf comforts you from 'haters'

unsorted | park jongseong x male!reader + sim jaeyun x male!reader + nishimura riki x male!reader + park sunghoon x male!reader

pairing: jay x male reader + jake x male reader + niki x male reader + sunghoon x male reader genre: sad angst vibes at the start but def fluff or comfort fgjkasjf notes: there's always going to be people who will hate you and your relationship. and yes, it's normal to be affected. however, it's also normal to accept some comfort by your side. everything's just better with someone you can rely on :)

Of course, you weren’t Korean. Of course, you weren’t used to their culture. But… did they really have to throw that in your face? Did they have to make you feel left out? Or was it just a game to them?

Jay could only look at your face, which seemed so troubled and gloomy. You were going through a lot of emotions right now, and he hated seeing you like this.

He held your hand tightly, warming it with his grip before speaking softly, like a gentle thread of silk. “I’ll talk to them.”

You held onto his hand, never wanting to let go. Jay wasn’t surprised, waiting patiently for you to unclasp his arm.

“Jagi…”

He knew he shouldn’t do that. It felt embarrassing. It felt stupid. It was—

“I won’t make a scene,” Jay reassured you, placing his hand on your shoulders.

You continued to grip his hand firmly. Jay sighed and lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles as you turned to face him.

“I’m just going to tell them how hardworking you’ve been.” He flashed his signature smirk, managing to relax your nerves for just a moment.

“And how grateful I am to see you every single day.”

You both exchanged thoughtful looks, gazing into each other’s eyes. In that moment, you felt your eyes begin to dampen. He wiped away the tears slowly falling from your cheeks. “And how I’m so in love with you that no one could possibly understand.”

Jay looked at you with such a loving gaze that you couldn’t help but wonder—what kind of life had you led before to deserve this kind of blessing?

“But Jay…”

“No buts.” Jay placed his hand gently over your glossy lips, his finger softly trailing down your bottom lip. “Just let me handle it.”

You tightened your grip on his hand one last time. You didn’t want him to get involved in something that seemed so silly, yet somehow, you felt relieved.

Relieved that someone cares for you. Someone who looks out for you.

Someone who sees your worth and values you.

Jay understood the silence that filled your head. So what’s the best thing he could do right now? A kiss. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, a soft sway in the wind as he landed his lips on the top of your head.

“I’ll be right back,” Jay said with a warm smile.

You let his hands go, knowing Jay’s intentions were pure and nothing more. You smiled back, trusting your lover to defend you.

It was comforting—to be defended and cared for, just as you would do for him.

“Babe?” Jake knocks on the door, clearly waiting for you on the other side.

“This is nothing, I swear!” you call out, sniffing as you huddle in the corner of the restroom.

Yes, the place is damp, messy, and definitely not nice… but nothing could be worse than the hurtful things you’ve heard from other people.

And Jake can’t bear not knowing what happened.

“I... I’m sorry,” Jake whispers, his sadness evident in his voice. Even the tone reveals his regret.

You turn your gaze toward him. “Oh, don’t be!” you say, trying to wipe your face and smile as if everything is fine. “C’mon now.”

“But they said bad things, right?” Jake asks, trying to express his feelings. He cares deeply about what he missed. He swears that if he hadn’t taken his time at the counter, he wouldn’t have hesitated to teach those mean people a lesson.

Yet he needs to know how you feel first. When he saw you run to the restroom, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. He was scared, worried, and he wasn’t going to let this slide.

He was determined to be your protector.

“It’s not that bad…” you try to defend yourself, almost reflexively.

Were they really NOT that bad? Is that how you would describe being labeled as someone your boyfriend doesn’t deserve? Not bad?

Words sting. Words hurt. Is it really not bad if they call you an opportunist just because you love your boyfriend?

“I don’t think you’d lock yourself in a public restroom if it wasn’t, babe,” Jake sighs, hoping you’ll open the door quickly.

“They…” you suddenly burst into tears, remembering every single hurtful word you’ve heard.

Why must it be you who feels this way? Why must it be you experiencing something that shouldn’t happen to anyone?

“I’m gonna bust the door open—”

“Wha—”

“HAH!!!” He successfully breaks through the distance between you and him. With a bright smile, he wants to comfort you right then and there.

“Ow…”

Wherever ‘there’ is…

“B-baby!” Jake jumps in surprise, his heart racing as he sees you on the floor, all tumbled up.

“It’s fine…” you say in a gasping tone. You don’t mind it at all, though Jake’s strength is definitely nothing to be messed with.

“Sorry! I thought you were in one of those!” Jake points at the two restroom divisions, thinking you were hiding somewhere.

“So cute…” you coo, making Jake blush a little. “You’re trying to save me like a hero?”

Jake rushes to your side and helps you get up. “Ugh, look at your clothes! It’s your favorite, right?”

“Pssh. Like it matters.” You deny it, clearly relying on this mechanism to cope.

Jake looks at you with serious eyes. “C’mon. Don’t do that now.”

“Huh?”

“You were hurt. Two times.” Jake raises his fingers. “In one day. It HAS to hurt.”

You look at him, realizing how much you’ve been denying your own feelings. Of course, you hate it. You hate feeling what you’ve felt today. Although Jake’s little push wasn’t much, that earlier situation scraped at your heart.

Just then, you notice your eyes are wet. They aren’t just damp; they’re soaking. You can only cry right then and there.

Jake sees your tears fall and lets you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Shh…” he says softly, trying to comfort you, patting your back as you sob against him. “I’m here.”

You continue to cry, letting it all out. Maybe on this day, or in this life, you feel like you don’t matter to anyone. You’re willing to accept that.

But you matter to Jake. Just as he matters to you.

Maybe that’s all you really need.

“Something wrong?” Ni-ki asks, his voice low and filled with concern as he leans closer to you, sensing the tension rising in your body before you even fully process the words.

His gaze, sharp and hyper-observant from years of reading rooms as a performer, flickers to the source of the whispers around you and then back to your face.

At first, he thinks you’re just your usual unfazed self, but as he studies your expression, he realizes the truth—you are affected.

This awareness shifts something in him, prompting him to step closer. His shoulder brushes against yours casually, yet it feels fiercely deliberate—a shield disguised as coincidence.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, tilting his head down so only you can hear. His hand finds yours, warm and grounding, guiding you toward a quieter corner away from prying eyes and judgmental voices.

Ni-ki isn’t one for dramatic confrontations; he prioritizes your peace over their noise, ready to remove you from the chaos that surrounds you.

Once you find a moment alone, he faces you fully. His usual playful smirk is replaced by a quiet seriousness that catches you off guard.

“You know they’re wrong,” he states simply, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You recognize this side of him—the one that surfaces during tough rehearsals, when he’s pushing himself to perfect a move. He is stubborn in his convictions.

“I... I know. It’s just—” you begin, but the words catch in your throat.

“It’s nothing but smack.” Ni-ki tries to push away that trembling fear of yours, the snake that keeps crawling up your leg, the creeping anxiety that always seems to burn you down whenever something like this happens. He weighs his words carefully, wanting to make you feel better, or at least let you know you’re not alone in times like these.

“You’re... stronger than they think. And I know what’s real.” His thumb grazes your wrist, a fleeting touch that carries the weight of his loyalty, reminding you that you’re not alone. "I just-" A sudden kiss then touches your lips, warmth bathing your own. "Wah-" Another kiss graces you again. Ni-ki smirked as he prompted to wait another moment for you to speak. "He-" One last kiss to shut you up. That will do it, Ni-ki thought.

“Hehe.” You felt suddenly lighter than before. Maybe three kisses worked their magic already. As for Ni-ki? He looked proud as one definitely would, like winning a raffle prize. Bumping his head close to yours, he lightens the air with a half-smirk.

“Next time, I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill my drink on them. My clumsy era.”

“What the..." You looked at him, a familiar glance he knew well you'd do when he teased you.

"Riki.”

“What?” Ni-ki smiles, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Is that a game plan or what?”

You giggle, knowing how he always tries to cheer you up has been a success in the past. Even amidst the buzz of the world, just having Ni-ki right with you feels like enough. With him, you feel stronger and much better.

And Ni-ki? He loves you even more. Nothing compares to that.

The next day, he shows up at work wearing the hoodie you once teased him for borrowing, unbothered by the stares of others around you. Yes, it was pink. Yes, it was a Donald Duck comic panel hoodie and yes, it wasn't his taste at all. But with all of this, his presence is a silent rebellion against any negativity. For Ni-ki, comfort isn’t found in grand speeches; it’s in staying.

He proves, through every small choice he makes, that he will walk beside you—loudly, unapologetically—no matter who’s watching. In this moment, you feel a sense of reassurance, knowing that with Ni-ki by your side, you can face anything that comes your way.

“You good?” Sunghoon asks, noticing the bad vibe in the air before you even do. His polite smile, which he uses in public, freezes just a little as his instincts kick in to hide his irritation.

But his eyes, usually calm and peaceful, darken with a hint of protectiveness, a fierce guardian ready to shield you from the negativity surrounding you.

“Mhm.” You nod, trying to show him that it’s not a big deal, even though you know it is. You want to be strong for him, to not add to his burdens.

Without breaking his cool demeanor, he steps subtly between you and the voices, standing tall like a strong tree, unyielding against the gusts of harsh words.

“Let’s get some air,” he says lightly, as if he’s just suggesting a casual walk, but you can sense the underlying urgency in his tone.

“O-okay.” His hand gently presses against your back—a silent command to follow, not argue. You feel the warmth of his touch seep through the layers of your emotional turmoil, grounding you.

Once you both find a quiet spot, nestled away from prying eyes and judgmental whispers, he turns to you, and his icy facade melts into something softer.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low but steady. Sunghoon isn’t one for long speeches, but his gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering, making you feel truly seen.

“W-What are you talking about?” You smile, doing your best to deny what you’re feeling and hide it from him. You don’t want him to worry; he has enough on his plate.

As you try to shrug it off, he raises an eyebrow—that look he gives when he knows you’re lying. It’s a look that makes your heart flutter, even in such a heavy moment.

“Hoonie—”

“They’re idiots,” he says plainly, crossing his arms. “The kind who’d fall flat on their face trying a single axel jump.”

The reference catches you off guard and makes you giggle a little. “A-axel jump? That’s a throwback.”

Sunghoon takes a good look at you as you settle, fixing the hair strands that almost cover your face. He can tell you’re trying to keep it together, but he’s seen you crumble before, and it breaks his heart to witness it again.

“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” He hesitates for a moment, showing a rare side of himself, before saying, “It hurts me too. Seeing you like this.”

You understand what Sunghoon is trying to say. People aren’t always kind about idols dating, especially when they’re the same sex. You’ve faced your share of hate and gossip, but it’s not something serious enough to ruin his reputation. It’s something very personal for him when he knows you’re being targeted.

But to him, none of that matters. As long as he can show his love for you while doing what he loves, he feels content.

“They want a reaction. Don’t give them one,” he says, firm but not cold. “We’ll show them this instead.” He flashes his bright, dimpled smile, warm and calculated, before linking his arm through yours and leading you back into the room.

You laugh again, seeing how cute your partner is. He’s trying his own way of showing how much he cares for you, and nothing can compare to his efforts.

You lean against his shoulder and tighten your grip on his strong arm, silently thanking him for everything he does.

Of course, Sunghoon smiles. Deep down, it’s all that matters to him.

That you feel happy, comfortable, and loved. With him.

“You’re better than every single one of them.” His breath feels warm as he kisses your forehead.

“And I’m never wrong about people.”

wishing you comfort in these small drabbles. from me and enha <3

hope you guys enjoyed it! please like, comment, or reblog~

my masterlist!

made by writhyv 💘

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zuhaism · 6 hours ago

Note

i saw you have a sophia fic brewing and i’d love to req for literally ANYTHING ELSE YOU HAVE OF HER. she’s such a perfect muse and i just love reading people’s thoughts on her 🥹🥹 any hcs?

pairing : sophialaforteza x brothersbff!reader

a/n : THIS IS LIKE A SPOILER FOR MY SOPHIA FIC COMJNG OTW. my it girl this month is sophia i love her face omg and her kindness on dream academy i cant. my angel.

• sophia who tries to convince her friends she’s not into you and it was just a silly childhood crush. "i don't like her like that," she insists, arms crossed, looking almost offended at the accusation. her friends, however, know better. they exchange glances, barely holding in their laughter.

• she gives herself away all the time. like when she immediately straightens up whenever you walk into the room. or how her gaze subconsciously follows you when you’re talking to someone else. manon smirks. “oh, and what about how you always go quiet when she’s around?” “i do not—” daniela cuts in, deadpan. “you literally stop mid-sentence.” and right on cue, you walk by—brushing past sophia with a casual “hey, soph.” sophia freezes. entirely. her friends just watch. they watch as she visibly tenses, eyes wide, jaw slightly clenched like she’s trying to not react. the moment you disappear down the hall, her friends burst into laughter. "SHUT UP," she groans, face burning.

• whenever you call her name unexpectedly, she turns around way too fast and then tries to act normal, like her heart isn’t racing. her stomach flips at the sound of your voice saying her name, but she plays it off by raising an eyebrow. “what?” she asks, trying to look like she doesn’t care, crossing her arms. you just smirk, shaking your head. “nothing, you just looked cute in my jacket.” her friends bursts into laughter at how fast she turns beet red. “i thought this was Basil’s,” she tries to brush it off, tugging at the sleeves like that’ll somehow make the situation less mortifying.but then you tilt your head, smirking, “well, maybe this should be yours.”

• her friends gave eachother knowing glances and teasing smiles to sophia. she’s trying so hard not to react, but she can’t even come up with a snarky response her face is burning, her heart is pounding, and she’s pretty sure she just forgot how to breathe. “whatever,” she mutters, turning away in an attempt to save face, but she doesn’t take the jacket off. in fact, she wears it the rest of the day, pulling the sleeves over her hands whenever no one’s looking. sometimes she wears it at home but no one knows that of course.

• if you ever ruffle her hair or flick her forehead playfully, she’ll grumble about it but secretly loves the attention. “y/n, stop it,” she huffs, swatting your hand away, even though her ears are already turning pink. but the second you turn around, she’s fixing her hair with a small, hidden smile. her friends definitely catch it. if you don’t do it for a few days, she wonders if she did something wrong. like, are you mad at her? did you get bored of messing with her? she tells herself she doesn’t care, but when she sees you approaching in the hall, she stands a little closer, waiting to be fake annoyed.

• and when you finally ruffle her hair again, she’s about to grumble like usual, but then “ugh, y/n—” “hold on,” you cut her off, and before she can process it, you’re smoothing her hair back into place, carefully fixing the strands you just messed up. her breath catches. she just stares up at you, wide-eyed, completely frozen as your fingers lightly graze her scalp. her face is burning. “there. much better,” you say casually, like you didn’t just ruin her entire day in the best way possible.

• and then, to make things worse you give her a light pat on the head. like she’s some flustered little puppy. “good girl.” sophia doesn’t even breathe. she just stands there, stunned, mouth slightly open like she’s about to say something but nothing comes out. she watches you walk away with her brother groaning at you. once you were out of earshot her friends lose their minds immediately.

• megan is the first to react, nearly choking. “GOOD GIRL??” she gapes at soph, then turns to the others. “did i hear that right?” manon leans in, smirking. “sophia… if you’re still not into her, i’ll gladly take your place.” daniela hums, side-eyeing you as you casually walk off. “honestly? if you’re serious you dont want her, it’s open season.” sophia finally snaps out of it, whirling around. “SHUT UP. ALL OF YOU.”her friends just laugh, shaking their heads, because she’s so obvious.

• when she’s walking in the cafeteria, she subtly checks if you’re already there. if you are, she pretends she didn’t see you, but if you wave, she instantly wave back. sometimes, she tries to act like she’s so busy looking at her phone, but the second you greet her, her focus snaps to you. her wave is always a little awkward too stiff but you smile anyway, which makes it worth it.

• if you casually drape your arm around her shoulders, she stiffens for a solid three seconds before melting into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the first time it happened, she froze like a deer in headlights. now, she tries to act unbothered, even tilting her head slightly against you but if anyone teases her about it, she immediately pushes you off with a glare (but she doesn’t really mean it).

• the first time it happened, it was so unexpected. you had just casually thrown an arm around sophia’s shoulders like it was second nature—like it was normal. but for her? she almost passed out. meanwhile, you? completely unbothered. just chatting away like this was the most natural thing in the world. and after a solid three seconds of internal chaos, she relaxed. melted, even—because your arm was warm, your presence was familiar, and if she leaned just a little into you.

• tilts her head slightly against you? sure. shifts a little closer? okay. lets herself enjoy it? absolutely not. because the second someone (usually megan or manon) raises an eyebrow as they walk down the hallway, she immediately stiffens, shoving you off with a glare. "get off, y/n." you just laugh, raising your hands in surrender. "okay, okay." then she goes off to regroup with her friends. ignoring the way her cheeks burn. megan grins as she comes over. "you literally didn't care five seconds ago." "i DIDN’T NOTICE," sophia argues, glaring at her. but later at home, when you do it again effortlessly slinging your arm around her like it belongs there. she doesn’t push you away. she just pretends not to hear her heart pounding.

• whenever your band plays at school events, sophia acts completely unbothered. arms crossed, face neutral, like she’s barely paying attention. but the second the song ends? she’s the first to cheer. loud. enthusiastic. maybe even a little too eager. she swears she’s just there for her brother. just supporting the school. not because you’re on stage looking stupidly good under the lights. definitely not that. but her friends aren’t blind. her eyes never leave you the entire performance.

• and when you’re learning a new song? she’s suspiciously invested. “you should play this one next,” she says, casually sliding her phone across the table with a playlist already queued up. “oh?” you smirk, leaning in a little too close. “you been thinking about my setlist, baby?” immediate regret. her ears turn red. "shut up. just listen to it." and it doesn’t stop there. she finds excuses to hang around when you’re practicing in her basement with Basil and the others. she says it’s ‘boring’ at home, but everyone knows better.

• Basil groans every time she shows up. "you don’t even care about band stuff." “i can’t hang out with my brother now?” she huffs, plopping onto the couch like she belongs there. but the way she sits up the second you pick up your guitar? the way she suddenly has opinions on which songs you should cover? yeah. Basil’s not buying it. "jesus, if you like her so much, just say that." “i do not.” but the giddy little smile she tries (and fails) to hide when you invite her to listen to the set. tells him otherwise.

• sometimes she texts you late at night, she spends at least five minutes rereading what she wrote before pressing send. and if you take more than a minute to reply, she convinces herself that she said something dumb and deletes it. the next morning she’s met by your text “??” “nothing”

• if you ever notice something small about her—like a new bracelet or how she tied her hair differently she thinks about it for the rest of the day. “nice bracelet, soph.” your voice is so casual, like you didn’t just send her entire nervous system into overdrive. she blinks down at her wrist, lips parting slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of the little beaded bracelet she put on that morning. “oh… thanks,” she mumbles, trying to play it cool, but the second you walk away, she’s staring at it like it’s the only thing in the world. her friends don’t miss the way she keeps glancing at it, fiddling with the beads between her fingers. “you’re so obvious,” lara snickers, nudging her side. “mind your business,” sophia hisses, face burning, but even as she says it, she tugs her sleeve down over her wrist. she suddenly wants to protect it from the world.

• when you laugh at one of her jokes, even if it’s dumb, she gets this little proud smile and immediately tries to think of another one to keep you laughing. sometimes she catches herself laughing when you laugh too. it’s like muscle memory. now, whenever she gets the rare chance to make you laugh, she feels this ridiculous sense of accomplishment, like she just won something.

• sometimes, even when she’s not trying, she still finds herself smiling just because you are. like earlier today when you were joking around with her brother. she had no idea what was even said, but you were laughing, and next thing she knew, she was already smiling. she’s not even focusing, but whenever she sees you smile, she smiles too.

• “what are you smiling at?” daniela teased, catching her in the act. sophia immediately wiped the smile off her face, turning away. “nothing.” but the both of them knew it wasnt nothing.

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babsworlds · 1 day ago

Text

COMPLETELY WASTED.

pairing. Dave Lizewski x bsf! fem! reader

synopsis. Dave gets very very drunk and say some things that really catch you off guard.

warnings. drunk Dave (like whoa), alcohol, mention of throwing up, pre relationship.

babs’ notes. this is similar to Midnight Confessions but this is standalone, i just had to write wasted Dave lol.

BRINGING DAVE TO THE PARTY WAS THE STUPIDEST IDEA EVER. You didn’t know what you were thinking when you told yourself it would be a great idea and so much fun. In hindsight, you realized that taking someone who never drank to a party with free-flowing alcohol was a recipe for disaster. You had envisioned a night of dancing, laughter, and good times, but it quickly became clear that the evening would take a very different turn.

Dave never drank; he just wasn’t used to that. And the fact that he didn’t know his limits made it even worse. When he agreed to have "just one drink," you had no idea that it would lead to several more. Before you knew it, he was well past his tolerance level, and the effects of the alcohol were evident. His usually composed and responsible demeanor had disappeared, replaced by a goofy, unsteady version of himself.

You stumbled through the house, trying to keep Dave at least a bit stable, as he was completely wasted. You had never seen him like that before—logically, because he was always the one who took care of you when you were drunk. But you found it funny anyway; seeing him like this was just something hilarious.

As you tried to support his weight, you couldn’t help but laugh at his unsteady steps and the slurred, playful comments he made. He was trying so hard to keep it together, but the alcohol had clearly gotten the best of him.

You sat him on the stairs, taking a moment to look at your drunk best friend. His head was leaning against the wall, his usually composed expression replaced with a goofy grin. You thought about what to do next and honestly, you had no idea.

Dave looked at you, grinning from ear to ear. “You are so done, mate,” you laughed at his expression. His eyes were half-closed, and his smile was lopsided, making him look even more comical.

He completely ignored how you practically laughed at him. “I need you,” he slurred, looking at you with his drunken blue eyes, but still, they were full of desire and longing. His normally clear and sharp gaze was clouded by the effects of the alcohol, but there was something earnest in his expression that tugged at your heartstrings.

It was as if, in his inebriated state, he was more honest and vulnerable than he had ever been before. The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more to his drunken confession than just the influence of the drinks he had consumed.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “To call your dad to get you? Definitely,” you finished his sentence, trying to play it off as if it didn’t mean anything. You hoped that injecting a bit of humor would diffuse the intensity of the moment, but deep down, you knew there was more to his statement than he was letting on.

“Oh no, please,” he panicked, a look of horror crossing his face. Of course, you wouldn’t do that to his dad, and he knew it deep down. Still, the idea of involving his father seemed to sober him up just a bit, and he looked at you with a pleading expression. “Don’t call him. I can handle it,” he insisted, his voice trembling slightly.

“So you better start sobering up, Lizewski,” you said with a smile, but your tone was firm. You knew that getting him home safely was your priority, and seeing him in this state was a reminder of just how vulnerable he could be. The balance between teasing and concern was a delicate one, and you wanted to ensure he knew you were there for him, no matter what.

Dave nodded, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He tried to sit up straighter, but his head lolled back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words barely audible over the noise of the party. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“You’re not causing trouble,” you reassured him, gently patting his shoulder. “But we need to get you home. Can you walk, or do you need me to call a ride?” Your voice was soft yet firm.

Dave took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I think I can walk,” he said, though his wobbling stance suggested otherwise. He took a tentative step, his legs unsteady and his balance precarious.

You managed to get Dave out into the fresh air. Luckily, the party was just a few blocks from your house, so it wasn’t a long walk. Dave had obviously lied about being able to walk—he could hardly stand. He collapsed onto the grass, and you rolled your eyes in exasperation.

You knew you couldn’t do it yourself, so you decided to call Todd, who was also at the party, hoping he wasn’t in a similar state as Dave.

“Todd?” you said into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. “Can you come out in front of the house and help me get Lizewski home?” you asked, glancing over at the wasted Dave lying on the ground.

“I’m coming,” Todd replied, his voice determined. He clearly didn’t know what was waiting for him.

You kept an eye on Dave, who was now mumbling incoherently to himself. His usually sharp and witty demeanor was nowhere to be found, replaced by the drunken ramblings of someone who had definitely had too much to drink.

A few moments later, Todd appeared, looking relatively sober and ready to help. “Oh man, he’s really out of it,” Todd remarked, taking in the sight of Dave sprawled on the grass.

“Yeah, he is,” you replied with a wry smile. “Let’s get him home before he decides to start singing or something.”

Todd chuckled and nodded, bending down to help you lift Dave to his feet. With a bit of effort and coordination, the two of you managed to steady him and start the slow journey back to your house. Dave leaned heavily on both of you, his steps unsteady but grateful for the support.

“I want to kiss both of you,” Dave slurred, looking at you, then dramatically tilting his head towards Todd.

You and Todd shared a look, and you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile. “Being drunk isn’t an excuse for acting gay, man,” Todd said, narrowing his eyes at Dave. Todd definitely wasn’t completely sober either.

Dave giggled, clearly amused by his own bold statement. “I mean it,” he insisted, though his words were heavily slurred. “You guys are the best.”

“You can start reciting love sonnets next,” you pointed out as you tried to steady Dave’s walk.

“Alright!” Dave exclaimed with a slurred laugh, his enthusiasm unrestrained by his inebriation. He was clearly up for the challenge, even if his words were stumbling over each other.

“Please no!” Todd yelled, his voice filled with mock horror. The idea of a drunken Dave reciting love sonnets was terrifying for your ears. Todd’s exaggerated reaction only added to the absurdity of the situation, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the playful exchange.

You finally saw your front door, your eyes flickering with hope. You gave Todd a nod. “Okay, Romeo, say goodbye to your Juliet,” you said, as Todd let go of him.

Dave wobbled a bit but managed to stay upright, giving Todd a lopsided grin. “Goodbye, Juliet,” he said dramatically, attempting a bow but nearly losing his balance. You and Todd both chuckled at his theatrics.

“Thanks for the help,” you said, looking at Todd as you held Dave by his waist, his arm around your neck. “Can you make it home?” you assured yourself as you asked Todd.

“Yep,” Todd said confidently, waving to you with a grin.

You opened the door to your house, relieved that nobody was home. If your parents saw Dave like this, they would probably forbid you from hanging out with him. The thought of explaining the situation to them was something you were glad to avoid.

You led Dave to your room, where he promptly collapsed onto your bed. You took off his shoes, shaking your head at the state he was in. “Sit,” you commanded, trying to maintain some semblance of order.

Dave sat up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. You reached for the hem of his shirt, wanting to change it since it was smelly and stained with throw-up. “I love you, Y/n,” he confessed, his voice a mix of sincerity and intoxication.

“Shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes and trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. His confession made you feel something, but you pushed it aside for the moment. “Hands up,” you commanded again. Dave obediently raised his hands, allowing you to take off his shirt.

As you removed his shirt, you couldn’t help but glance at his bare chest, especially his abs. He had mentioned that he had been working out lately, but damn, seeing the results in person was quite the revelation. You felt a mixture of surprise and admiration, but you quickly refocused on the task at hand.

You grabbed a clean shirt you had once decided to keep and helped him put it on. “Much better,” you said, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy despite the fluttering emotions inside you.

“Now pants,” you said, you couldn’t believe you were really doing this. You forced him to open the button and zip of his jeans.

As you took hold of his pants, rolling them down to his ankles, Dave looked at you with a mischievous grin. “Y/n, you are an animal,” he teased, clearly enjoying the situation despite his intoxicated state.

“You wish,” you replied, rolling your eyes as you threw his sweatpants from your drawer at him. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on you, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at how the night had turned out. Dave struggled a bit to pull on the sweatpants, his coordination not quite up to par, but he eventually managed.

You gave him a blanket as he comforted himself in your bed, still leaving enough space for you to fit. “I love you, you are the best,” he mumbled, his eyes half-closed as he watched you changing. You didn’t really mind his gaze; in fact, it felt oddly reassuring to have him there, even in his drunken state.

“You better,” you said with a smile, the words laced with affection as you turned away to change into your own sleepwear. The room was quiet except for the soft rustling of the sheets and Dave’s gentle breathing. The events of the night played back in your mind, and despite the chaos, you felt a deep sense of contentment.

Once you were changed, you climbed into bed next to Dave, careful not to disturb him. He shifted slightly, making room for you and reaching out to pull you closer. The warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing brought you a sense of comfort.

As you lay there, the weight of the night’s events slowly lifted, replaced by the simple joy of being close to someone you cared about deeply. Dave’s earlier confession echoed in your mind, and while you had brushed it off at the time, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of emotion at his words.

The morning after was a bit hectic. Dave had the biggest and his first hangover ever. You gave him some meds as he sat at the kitchen island, his head in his hands, regretting everything as you made breakfast.

“What everything did I say?” he asked carefully, his voice filled with a mix of curiosity and dread.

Your smile turned mischievous, but you didn’t look at him, keeping your attention on breakfast. “You sure you want to hear it?”

Dave groaned, even though he wanted to know, he was scared, fearing the worst. You turned around and handed him a plate of scrambled eggs.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at him with a mix of amusement and concern. “You wanted to kiss Todd, almost threw up, and wanted to recite love sonnets,” you started, watching as Dave’s eyes widened in horror. “And you said multiple times that you love me and need me,” you added, your voice becoming quieter as you spoke.

Dave’s head shot up, and he yelled, “I did what?!” The loudness of his own voice seemed to make his headache even worse, and he winced in pain. “I said I love you?”

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yeah, you did. Several times, actually.” You watched as Dave’s expression shifted from shock to embarrassment.

“Oh my god,” Dave breathed out. “I’m never letting Todd mix drinks again,” he tried to make it Todd’s fault.

“You mixed them yourself,” you corrected him, shrugging. Dave’s face turned a shade redder as he remembered the events of the previous night. He looked like he wanted to disappear from the world after all the disaster he caused.

“Y/n?” He broke the silence, his voice tentative. You turned to him, giving him a nod to show you were listening. “And do you love me?” Your heart dropped, and for a moment, you thought he was still drunk. But as you looked into his eyes, you realized he was completely serious and sober. The vulnerability and sincerity in his gaze were unmistakable.

You took a deep breath, your mind racing with thoughts and emotions. This wasn’t how you had imagined having this conversation, but here it was, staring you right in the face.

"Yeah," you said, smiling softly. "I do." You had just admitted you had feelings for your best friend after denying it for years.

In the end, drunk Dave was actually pretty useful in uncovering long-buried feelings.

#fem reader #ynstories #reader insert #aaron taylor johnson #atj #atj x reader #x yn #aaron taylor johnson x reader #dave lizewski x y/n #dave lizewski x you #dave lizewski x reader #dave lizewski #kick ass x reader #kick ass

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radioactivepeasant · 22 hours ago

Text

Snippets Friday: Jak 3 alternate opening

What if the Spargans and Marauders both found the boys at the same time?

Jak's saving grace was that prisoners were separated by age range in this strange and terrible place. He was dropped onto a cot in a smaller cell across from the raiders that had taken his goggles and jacket and boots before they were all captured. Without the jacket, some of his worse scars had been pretty visible, as well as fresh injuries.

He didn't remember when the field medic stepped into the cell, but at some point he was given water, and highly concentrated eco.

"Easy, kid. Drink slow," the medic directed him. He scowled over his shoulder at the raiders in the other two cells. "Bloody barbarians, letting one of their young'uns get to this state."

The water had barely returned even a fraction of his voice, but it was enough for Jak to whisper,

"I don't know them"

The medic pulled back, concern etched on his pockmarked face. Then a knowing look.

"Rot. Okay, okay-" He stood up and ran a hand over his hood. "I gotta report that. Crap, I hope they didn't already schedule the trial."

Jak's blood ran cold. Trial.

Images of sneering faces, stun rods when he tried to speak, flooded his memory and he twitched nervously.

"T-rial?" he rasped painfully.

"Trespassing and theft, possibly murder," the medic answered, almost distracted. "I guess we gotta add kidnapping to that too. Trial by combat though. If they make it through, they earn a pardon. So. Hope you don't mind, you might have to see em again."

The medic patted his shoulder. "I'm going to send down an eco and electrolyte mixture. Try to drink all of it today. Barring medical emergencies, I'll get the ball rolling on transferring you."

Jak didn't put much stock in that. No one who put him in a cell ever really cared what happened to him. He lay on the thin palette, sweating, barely able to roll to his side even after the eco. At least he knew Daxter had made it out. He'd find Jak. He always did.

Across the room, the Marauder who'd taken his scarf glared at him with murder in his eyes. What was he looking at? Jak wasn't the one who got them locked in cells!

The stare unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He had no idea who the bandit was, and yet the man looked at him as though he recognized him.

"What's the plan for the trial, eh?" one of the Marauders asked quietly.

"What plan?" another scoffed, "It's just survival in these dogs' gladiator games."

"Not what I heard."

The one wearing Jak's coat leaned back against the bars and scratched his cheek.

"You know they got all the water and eco access, Berni. Worse places to try to fit in than this."

The one glaring at Jak snarled. "That's treason, boy."

The young man shrugged. "I'm a practical man. You pass a trial, they let you emigrate. No consequences for anything that came before, you earn your freedom. Access to eco, clean water, and a shot at real power. You tell me that don't sound like a good deal."

Some muttered grudging assents. Others were as angry as the glaring one. One of them went as far as promising to kill the man if he tried to defect.

"You won't make it out of that Arena," he promised, "I'll smash your skull in."

"Pretty cold, big brother."

"I'd rather see you dead than a Spargan," his brother answered coolly.

Jak closed his eyes and tried to block them out.

A combat trial.

Well, unfortunately, that was one thing he excelled at.

This talk of emigration piqued his interest. He'd never technically existed on paper in Haven. He had no legal rights or protections -- which was why the sham trial was able to take place at all: they classified the boy their leader had kidnapped as an undocumented immigrant. An easy target to exploit for labor and then betray.

If this city gave you rights just for surviving, his odds had just gotten a lot better.

______________________________

The guards came to take them to the Arena before Jak had finished the electrolyte solution. Which, he guessed, meant that medic hadn't told whoever was in charge that Jak wasn't a Marauder.

The eight of them were herded unceremoniously up a narrow set of stairs and into the blinding glare of midmorning. They were pushed out onto antigrav platforms at the end of the stairs that ferried them down into a massive stadium. There had to be thousands of people in the stands, far more than Jak remembered seeing at the races.

Out of habit, he looked around for a floating viewing pod for a leader, like Haven would've had. Instead, he saw a balcony high above the center of the south wall. He could barely make out a figure seated a little ways in. Did this place have a Baron too? Spoiled nobles enamored with bloodsport?

A flash of orange along the railing caught his attention, and his eyes widened.

Daxter!

There he was, climbing up into that balcony like a man on a mission. Jak couldn't help the small smile brightening his face as he looked towards the balcony.

Gunnar, the Marauder with his scarf, only seemed to get angrier when he saw Jak's grin.

"Oh don't look so relieved," Gunnar hissed in his ear, "He isn't going to save you, whelp."

"Rot you," Jak retorted, jerking away from him on unsteady feet.

An unpleasantly familiar voice rang out over the ring, announcing the purpose of the combat trial.

Pecker.

That overgrown feather duster had survived?! What, had he gotten work as a sports announcer?

The moncaw was just explaining that their opponents would join them shortly when Gunnar suddenly surged forward to lock an elbow around Jak’s throat. He'd caught him off guard, allowing him to drag the boy several steps away from the others. Jak started to fight his way out of the grip, but halted when he felt the prick of the blade against his neck.

"Just try, whelp," Gunnar laughed, "I'll open your throat right in front of him."

Was he talking about Daxter? Jak scanned the balcony, but didn't see his friend.

Gunnar stepped sideways until they were directly facing the balcony, then raised his voice.

"I'll kill him, Damas!" he threatened, "You want the whelp to live? You're gonna have to come get him."

Who the Frith is "Damas"?!

The figure in the balcony rose and stepped up to the edge. Now Jak could make out a well-built man in his late thirties or so, covered in Precursor metal armor and wielding an impressive looking staff. There was no chance that this was just another warrior. This man carried himself like a ruler.

Jak remembered his face.

That was the man who had led the capture. That was the man who had been driving when he was tossed unceremoniously into the back of a vehicle.

The man folded his free arm behind his back and peered down at Gunnar and his hostage. He did not look impressed.

"You think threatening the life of one of your own -- without giving him the chance to defend himself -- is going to grant you absolution?"

Gunnar bared his teeth. An agressive smile, like a shrimpanzee.

"Didn't get a good look at him in the storm, didja, you old wolf?" He taunted. The blade pushed just hard enough to draw a bead of blood to the surface.

"Get off that throne, or your spawn dies."

"The rot are you talking about?" Jak grunted.

He gripped the restraining arm with one hand, the knife hand with the other, just barely keeping some breathing room. He wasn't strong enough to pry himself loose without injury. He needed an opening first. A distraction.

Daxter appeared as if by magic, leaping up onto the rail beside this Damas person. Jak couldn't hear what he was saying, but by his stiff posture, he knew Daxter was angry. He pointed now and then in Jak’s direction, then at the armored man in an accusing fashion. The man's brows rose in a concerned expression, then lowered quickly. With each passing second, the frown deepened into something much more hostile.

"You are mistaken," he called down at last, "I don't know the boy."

Then he reached back and handed his staff to someone out of sight. He set down two small side arms and a knife on the railing, and straightened a vambrace. A menacing smile cut across his weathered face.

"But," he announced, "if you wish to invoke a blood feud, I am more than happy to oblige regardless."

With that, he stepped down onto the antigrav platform and let it carry him down. On the railing, Daxter turned to face the ring and signed quickly to Jak.

There was a plan.

Clever, clever Daxter!

He had signed, "Found your opening."

#fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter #dadmas #king damas #jak and daxter au #au prompt #aus i don't have time to fully write so they're boxes of random scenes #long post #jnd Marauders #jak 3 #Marauders: 'we have your kid!'#Damas: 'No you don't but I'll fight you for him anyway'#Jak wasn't supposed to be in the Arena yet. The Spargans kind of didn't notice him there 😅#Damas’s wife is going to throttle him for this idiocy

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honey-on-your-tongue · 2 days ago

Text

FWB

Part 8 Logan Howlett x fem!reader Series masterlist

two weeks ago

He’d run away. He’d disappeared. He’d turned his back on what scared him and he’d left.

He’d left you. There, in his bed, alone. He knew you’d probably wake up confused, unsure. You’d look for him, you’d call him. But he’d turned his phone off, he’d left no note, and he had absolutely no intention of going back.

It’s best if I just disappear, he convinces himself. It’s best if I’m not in her life. She’s better off…

He repeats that to himself, over and over again, until no amount of emotion could make him doubt it or wish it away.

But he misses you. Misses the scent of you, the way you’d look at him with eyes full of warmth, the way you’d bite down on his shoulder when he fucked you hard, the way your body fit against his while you cuddled. He misses everything about you, and it hurts. So bad.

So he drowns it in alcohol, wills the world away.

He’s not exactly sure how or when or why he returns to the mansion. He just finds himself there again, standing in front of your bedroom door, his cock already hard just from the thought of fucking you.

He needs you so bad.

I’m not good for her. I should leave her be.

But, fuck, he can’t. He really, really wishes he was a better man. But he’s not.

He bursts into your room, throws the door open and barges in just like he did in the beginning, just like his entire life has been. Him just barging in everywhere he’s not welcome, everywhere he hasn’t been invited, everywhere he doesn’t belong. Still, he does it and then he stays until he’s pushed past his welcome.

Your sweet eyes find his and they light up. “Lo,” you say, and his resolve almost crumbles, his lust almost gives way to his heart. Almost. “Where’d you go? I woke up and—”

“Yeah, I know,” he cuts in, shutting the door after himself. And I wasn’t there. And you were alone. And you realized you deserve better. And I know you’ll figure it out eventually. But, God, please, let me have one last moment with you. Please.

It doesn’t take much convincing to get you into bed. In fact, it doesn’t take any convincing at all. You pretty thing, always so willing for him. He refuses to believe that you like him or, worse, that you love him. He tells himself he’s just good in bed, enough that you’re so enthusiastically giving yourself to him again.

He ends up flipping you over, pushing your pretty face into the pillows and pulling your ass up. He fucks you hard and relentless, mind spinning as your warm, wet cunt accepts him in.

I don’t deserve this.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips, as he tries to push his thoughts away and focus on you.

Your body jerks forward with every deep thrust he delivers, and he hopes he’s not hurting you. Although you keep whining and moaning, pretty pussy clenching around his cock, so he assumes you’re enjoying yourself.

I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve her love. I don’t deserve to love her. She deserves better.

Every time his orgasm comes close, he can feel his guilt get the best of him, and it retracts him from the brink of pleasure.

“C’mon, c’mon!” he growls, willing his mind to shut the fuck up for a second so he can get his release before his conscience gets the better of him.

To his grand relief, his body seems to have had enough edging and his cock twitches in you, his thick load spurting into you and his mind goes into blissful blankness for a full minute.

But the second he comes down from his high, he realizes what he’s just done, realizes that he’s come back to you, realizes that he’s exposing you to the hurt and that he’s betraying Jean’s memory and everything comes crashing down on him until he feels like he can’t fucking breathe—

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. It’s like he watches his body take control of his mind. He pulls out of you and leaves you there, on the bed, without you having finished too. He climbs off the bed and scrambles for his clothes, quickly pulling them back on.

You glance at him over your shoulder, those soft, innocent eyes full of confusion and uncertainty. “Logan?”

He almost flinches at the sound of his name on your lips. “Gotta go,” he manages, glancing at the floor, not wanting to see the disappointment in your expression. He doesn’t want to see how he hurts you.

A frown creases your eyebrows and he has the urge to kiss it away. But he holds back. “What?” you ask. “What are you talking about?”

I’m not good enough for you. Don’t you understand? You’re better off without me.

“I’m leaving,” he says, wishing he could offer more.

“Wh—? Is something wrong?”

He hates the way you sound so vulnerable, so unsure, the way he knows you’ll wonder if you messed up.

But it’s not you. It’s him. He just can’t tell you that.

He gives you a look and you fall silent, pulling the rumpled bed sheets up around your naked body.

“I’ll see you around,” he grumbles and heads for your bedroom door. It takes all his self-control to pull away from you, to leave and not run back, kneel at your feet, kiss your thighs and beg for your forgiveness.

She’s better off without me.

---

Taglist

@nerrivm @rosiahills22 @d3vils-adv0c8 @thychuvaluswife @18lkpeters @daddy333 @e-nonsense @ch3rryblossms @ayamenimthiriel @thesecretlifeofmo @simming4sims @raideaters-blog @1cam8 @angelicbbsblog @giuliahowlett @lemonsquaredd @meadow-field @secretpandaconnoisseur @givenoutlaw @wunder-blunder @aredheadednerd @fictionalmen-dilflover @insanesociopath @m1cky-y-y @fictional-hooman @ion-even-know @znerac @steviebbboi @insanesosciopath @reidsworld @arrozconpepitoria @meadow-field @sir-thisisadndserver @wolviesgirl @rooroen @tezooks @nervousmumbling @sowhatariyana @mikyapixie @breezeybre @andmuzzlethat @takeyour-pants-off @manifester3 @ddwnghead

---

Blog masterlist

#logan howlett #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x you #logan wolverine #logan howlett x reader #logan smut #wolverine smut #wolverine #logan howlett angst #wolverine x reader #logan x you #wolverine x you #logan howlett fluff #wolverine angst

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ilium-ilia · 2 days ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Nineteen: rot

tw: minor smut

January bleeds into February like blood on snow.

It’s steady, and faster than you realize. Time has always been like this for you—some immeasurable idea that you find is easier to ignore than attempt to keep track of. You’ve spent the better part of the last fifteen years slaving away at your job for Marco’s benefit all while you pretended that you get to live any longer than what he determines for you. You think that’s why the years have flown by—why they’ve slipped through your fingers faster than blood through a wound or water through a sieve. These last few years have been borrowed. None of it is supposed to be yours; why should you get to enjoy it to its fullest extent?

Yet, things are different than usual—as far as the passage of time goes, anyway. It warps into something congenial, like you’re losing hours and minutes only because you’re too busy laughing to pay attention to it. You spend your nights tucked away in Simon’s house rather than in the heat of Sapori and your days lounging on the couch or in the garage watching him tinker away with some motor or another.

These days, you do significantly less math.

It feels strange to admit it out loud, but you don’t think you’ve ever been so happy before. Even with the looming threat of Marco’s letter and your father’s debt, the solicitude is muted. How can your heart have any room for fear when you have warm arms to embrace you at night and rough lips to kiss your cheeks?

This is a life you never believed you would live to see—even from a young age you thought romance wasn’t for you. Something about you always felt broken. There was silence when there should have been a bomb ticking away in your chest waiting to explode. There was never anything that hungered for a playful fling or a one night stand. As a child, your only concern was to study, or perhaps enjoy the sunshine that basked the wooden benches in your neighborhood’s park.

Now, you find yourself with an unfamiliar yearning. There’s an odd appetency that tugs at your heart with each smile that graces Simon’s scarred lips or every hum that rattles his chest as he listens to you speak. Your mouth grows sere more often than not these days at the mere thought of his body twisting with yours. Sometimes, when he looks at you, your heart pounds so violently you swear it might kill you.

It’s a death you wouldn’t mind experiencing—infinitely kinder than a knife.

The thing that makes everything worse is your dreams.

Legs tangled in sheets, you dream of him kissing you, soft and tender like he always does, but the warmth is enough to sear your skin. You dream that his fingers press into the back of your neck to hold you still as his tongue slides along your lips, licking you as if he’s never tasted a nectar so sweet. Even in this dreamscape you feel the way his breath fans across your face as he grunts, hands wandering over your body with just the right amount of pressure. He does not claw or bruise—he rubs and caresses. Your dream-self must make a sound, because when he paws at your chest, he leans back to look at you with a grin.

You’re clothed, but you wish you weren’t. Or, maybe it’s your dream-self that wishes she wasn’t. Where does the real you and the dream you end and begin? Can you only be brave enough to admit these desires into the void where no one can hear you?

Everything begins to melt. Simon’s shirt slithers off of his back in frayed tatters until his bare chest is pressed against your own, and you don’t realize that you’re naked until his warmth bleeds into you like a sigh into cold air. Nose pressing against the side of your neck, your legs fall open for him and it… you don’t know how to describe it. All you know is that your entire body throbs and yearns for him to crush you as you hold the back of his head against the crook of your neck.

Hips bucking, knees bending; it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. It’s dulcet but numb, not quite reaching you but so close to embracing you. You just need more. Of him. Of his lips on your collarbone. Of his hands on your stomach trailing lower until he’s brushing between your legs; you just need—

You wake up when Simon stirs next to you in bed.

His legs stretch out until the tips of his toes touch the edge of the bed and your eyes fly open as if all the air has been sucked from your mouth. Hands curled underneath your chin, you pull the blankets closer to your body as you shrivel inwards on yourself. You ache. It’s a terrible, pitiful ache that burrows deep between your legs and throbs. You nearly languish when Simon turns on his side and tosses an arm over you, pulling you into his chest.

“Mornin’ baby,” he murmurs against the crown of your head.

“Morning.”

Your voice is quiet. So fragile that it nearly shatters in your throat. You nuzzle your nose against his sternum as that vicious need still rages inside of you. Breathing him in does not quell your concupiscent want; it only stokes the fire until it grows from a whisper into a roar.

“You feelin’ alright?” he questions.

“Yeah.” Your answer comes too quick. Too sharp. You swallow. “Just… don’t wanna get out of bed.”

Simon only hums in response before his muscles begin to melt around you. Loving fingers caress the curve of your spine as you breathe each other in. Your heart beats so strongly that you realize you can’t hear his pulse over your own, as if you’re drowning out everything in the universe all because of your unfamiliar want. Eventually, he tenses as he places another kiss to the top of your head before he pulls away and leans over you while he drags the blankets higher up over your body.

“Stay in bed a while longer,” he says. “I’m gonna shower, then I’ll cook up breakfast, yeah?”

You stare up at him with wide eyes—he looks at you for so long you’re afraid he might see the way erotomania has clouded your mind. “Yeah, okay.”

It’s foolish of you to believe things would be easier the moment he slides out of bed and hides himself behind the door to the master bathroom, because if anything it only gets worse. Surrounded by the scent of him and with the memory of his kiss still lingering on your skin, you find your fingers tingling. They’re being pulled down, down—

You sit up as soon as the shower begins to run. Covers tossed aside, you sit there for a moment with quivering thighs before swinging your legs over the bed. Anxious molars dig into the insides of your cheeks as you attempt to steady your thoughts. It doesn’t work. All you can imagine is Simon in the shower—moist skin beaded with fresh water, inky arms wrapping around you, teeth flashing before they’re hidden away with soft lips ready to devour yours.

Snatching your phone off of the nightstand, you wander out of the bedroom as you shake your head. Distracting yourself, you click your phone on as you skim through a handful of unread messages. You’re met with unimportant spam e-mails and system notifications, but your lips pull into a smile as you notice a message from Bee.

[1 attachment(s)]

Nonno made capellini pomodoro last night and I thought of you. I miss you ): Come back soon!!! Please!!!! You’re the only hostess I can stand working with!!! Oh, and bring Simon with you ;)

She adds a picture of the pasta with her text message, and as you send off a quick reply, you find your stomach growling at the sight of fresh tomatoes and golden noodles. Breakfast—yes.

A distraction.

The stove hums to life with a click as the coils on the burner begin to illuminate a bright red. There’s no shortage of eggs in this house, so you bring the carton out and set it on the counter as you prepare your ingredients. Pan on burner. Salt and pepper. Maybe some toast. Melted butter. The motion of cooking is enough to quell the thoughts in your mind, but you don’t even dare to thank the universe for this change in pace, lest you jinx yourself.

It isn’t long before eggs are sizzling and heat wafts around the kitchen as if it was the middle of July. You stand with a spatula in hand as you watch the food. Your eyes meticulously soak in the way moisture bubbles along the bottom of the pan as rolls of steam emanate upwards, melting the skin of your face in the process. You breathe in, then out, and—

“I thought you were stayin’ in bed.”

—a pair of hands brushes against the sides of your waist and you squeal. Jumping on the tips of your toes, you twist around with wide eyes only to be met with a heavy chuckle from Simon. His hand ensnares your wrist as the spatula nearly digs into the side of his face and he only raises his eyebrows at you.

“Easy there, killer,” he says with a titter.

Huffing, you lower your hand and set your cooking utensil on the counter behind you. “You scared the shit out of me, Simon Riley,” you chastize. “I couldn’t hear you coming.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Reckon you might have to put a bell on me,” he teases.

Your mouth opens with a retort at the ready, but it snaps shut once you see him. Really see him. Fresh out of the shower, Simon’s short hair sits in messy strands on his head, clumped together with lingering moisture. Aftershave mixes with the eggs cooking next to you as you realize the stubble on his chin and jaw have vanished, leaving behind smooth skin—or, as smooth as the various scars on his face will allow his skin to be.

He’s handsome. Diabolically handsome and—

—not dressed.

Not fully dressed. Donning nothing but a pair of house slippers and joggers, he stands in front of you shirtless. Water still gathers in tiny beads on his collarbones, and his chest glistens with soddenness. Sparse hair dots along his chest and thickens below his navel, and your mouth dries at the bulk along his pecks and abdomen. There are a few scars to be found—ones you’ve never been able to fully pay attention to during the brief moments he’s changed in front of you. A thick, puffy keloid sits along his shoulder, and another lighter one slashes across his sternum.

You’ve never seen him like this; bare and up close. The warmth of his shower clings to his skin where it flows from him and into you. Pulse quickening, you feel your thighs begin to quiver again and you let out a huffy laugh and pray that it obscures your embarrassment.

“You’re burning the eggs, baby.”

Blinking, you whip back around and clasp the spatula in your hand once more as you curse. Turning off the heat, you remove the pan from the burner before attempting to divide the eggs evenly between the two plates you have set up, but you’re trembling so bad that you end up dumping all the contents onto one instead.

“I swear I’m a better cook than this,” you say as an attempt at a joke.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Simon chuckles. You’re hardly able to put the spatula back on the counter before his hands are on you again, and this time you don’t jump. Thick fingers gently squeeze the sides of your hips, and your muscles tense and twitch against him as your mind goes blank. All rational thought leaves you. “You seem a little distracted, sweetheart.”

Humming, he pulls you against him so that your back is flat against his chest. Hands still firmly on your hips, he begins to sway and you let him dictate the flow of your body as your head leans back against him. You’re coming undone. Trembling hands rest on his, and when you squeeze him he squeezes you back.

“Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?” he purrs.

You swallow. “I dunno- I just… you’re…”

Discombobulated, your words are cut short and staccato. There’s not enough air in your lungs or blood in your brain—it all rushes elsewhere. It pools in your skin until you’re superheated to the point you might melt in his hands, bones and all.

“Yeah?” he prompts. Head dipping low, Simon rests his cheek on your shoulder. His damp hair bleeds into your night shirt, but you find that you don’t really care about that; not when his lips begin to tenderly press against the side of your neck. “Tell me more.”

His teeth softly nip at the side of your throat and you gasp. “Y-You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doin’ what?”

“T-This.”

“Oh?” Simon stops swaying, but he keeps his hips flushed against yours. “Should I stop?”

“No.” Your reply is quick. Sharp. You hardly recognize the desperation in your tone.

Simon pulls himself away from you, and you nearly whine until he spins you around to face him. Lower back pressed against the edge of the counter, you stare at him with wide eyes and warm cheeks. His dark eyes rake over your body—he soaks up the way your legs rub together and the odd quirk of your lips. Hand coming up to rest on your chin, his thumb swipes over your bottom lip as he tilts his head to the side.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, baby,” he reiterates.

Your lungs allow you to exhale only one shuddering breath. “You.”

Mouth pulling into a faint smirk, he leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your forehead. Humming, he slowly works down until his lips have touched half of your face—all the way from your cheek to the curve of your jaw. You begin to ebb beneath his touch. Each connection of his body against yours leaves your skin tingling and your brain buzzing as if your skull can hardly hold together your thoughts. Mustering as much bravery as you can, your arms slowly begin to snake up around him. Courageous fingers dance along his chest until you’ve wrapped them around the back of his neck, pulling him closer; even then it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Then—finally—he kisses you. Lips locking together, you have to hold back your moan as his hand moves from your chin to the back of your head, cradling you close. This is different than the other kisses you’ve shared with Simon. It’s not quick and sweet. It’s hungry. The pressure of his mouth on yours grows as you dance in sync, fingers tenderly sliding up from the nape of his neck into the mess of his hair.

That desire begins to throb inside of you again. It pulses and writhes so much that it hurts, and you don’t think this is enough to satiate it. A simple kiss. His body against yours. You need more. Hungry to be devoured, you yank Simon even closer, but the movement breaks your embrace. Grinning, he chuckles, breath washing over your face and—

—it’s mint.

It’s on your tongue and in your nose. Fresh and stinging menthol. Peppermint like candy canes during Christmas. He’s just brushed his teeth, and he’s kissed you, and now it’s in your mouth. Stuck. Stagnant and plaguing.

You try to blink your shock away, but you cannot cease the pounding of your heart anymore than you can forget the way blood soaks linoleum. But mint is never just mint anymore—it is death. It is rosy intestines cradled in cold hands and a fresh floral arrangement bathing in stale ichor. It’s someone kicking your feet and forced oaths and promises.

Suddenly, the counter against your back feels like a wall, and the hands on your body feel too low. They traverse too far—further than what feels comfortable. Hands sliding free from wet hair, you find your palms pressing up against his chest. You can’t breathe. Simon looks at you and it’s Marco.

It’s Marco, and he’s grinning as his hands slide up between your thighs, and he’s grinning as his fingers press against your sex, and he’s grinning as he taints you, and he’s—

“Hey, hey, Chip. Breathe, baby.”

It’s Simon. His hands retract from your body to instead cup your cheeks in his hands, and you don’t realize you’re crying until his thumbs wick the moisture off of your skin. Tremulous fingers brush against his as you mentally scream at your body to focus, but everything is too fuzzy. Circuits are snipped and you have nothing but fried synapses attempting to force everything into submission, but your breathing comes so quickly that your vision begins to fade and your knees feel weak.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You laugh and it feels wrong. It’s tense in your throat and your bottom lip begins to tremble the moment the sound escapes you. “I dunno what’s happening to me, I just- oh my god, Simon, I don’t know what’s wrong, but- I c-can’t-”

“I’ve got you.” He’s pulling you away from the counter, but the lack of support nearly makes you collapse. “C’mon, let’s sit you down. I’ve got you, baby. C’mon.”

Your panic morphs into unbridled sobbing the moment you reach the couch. Knees buckling, Simon pulls you into his arms and holds you against him as your sorrow wracks your body with constricting muscles and uncontrollable tremors. Each wail that leaves your mouth rips through your throat with the same kindness a bullet offers unprotected flesh. You are raw. A pile of meat.

You clutch your stomach as a coalescence of grief and shame rips through you, leaving you as nothing but an empty husk. Can Simon smell the rot? All the sewage and filth that stains you? Can he see the squalid fingerprints that taint your skin with Marco’s essence?

Does it sicken him as much as it sickens you?

It doesn’t matter—this moment has proven that your worst fear has come to fruition. Marco haunts you. He has control over you even when he’s not here to force your hand.

“Talk to me baby.” You’ve stopped shaking. Your sobs have quelled into simple pules, but your body feels limp against his own as he continues to hold you against him. A desperate thumb rubs against the side of your arm as if he’s coaxing an animal out of hiding. “What’s goin’ on?”

You do not answer him—he does not push any further.

Settling into the couch, Simon Riley closes his eyes as he leans his head against your own, knowing that—in this moment—there is nothing he can do except hold you as you rot away in his arms.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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soobmint · 1 day ago

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moon song | choi yeonjun [a] ; [s] (14.8k words)

“so i will wait for the next time you want me, like a dog with a bird at your door.” moon song, phoebe bridgers

first installment in the “punisher” collection. masterlist can be found here.

pairing; choi yeonjun x fem!reader

blurb; for better or worse, you have placed your heart in the hands of choi yeonjun, a struggling musician trying his best to be all you expect of him. but when you realize you’ve been losing more and more of yourself just to keep him near, you fear you may be too far gone to keep yourself from falling down with him.

genres; angst, established relationship

warnings; alcoholism, profanity, suggestive content, themes of mental illness & destructive thought spirals

playlist; find it here!! shoutout to @heetendo for helping me make this, she found half the songs for it <3

author’s note; hi all, welcome to the first piece in my punisher series! this is my first time putting out both a suggestive fic and a fic that’s 99% angst haha. it was really exciting to try out some new things, and it helped me get out of my writing slump for sure! do be sure to check out the warnings before reading, and i hope you enjoy moon song <3 (also, highly suggest giving the song a listen!! you can find it here.)

taglist; @hoonbear @hyuckworld @heetendo @yeonjuniper @soobin-chois @magicalstellar @maplecornia @baekberrie @boba-beom

[back to my masterlist]

WHEN THE MOON RISES, YOU FEEL AT PEACE.

The muted blue reflects off the ocean, illuminating the stones beneath your bare feet with a soft glow. In the distance, the bright beam of a lighthouse streaks its way through the dark blue sky. Waves gently caress your toes, but you can hardly feel the chill of the evening sea. Instead, you feel the warm hands covering your own, tucked away in the front pockets of your coat.

As you sink back against a firm chest, you can hear a far off sea barge blare its horn. You taste salt on your lips, smell the smoke from a campfire a little ways down the beach. If it weren’t so cold out, you would suggest taking a walk down the pier to your favorite ice cream stand, but the biting air keeps you in place. You close your eyes, snuggling back against the figure standing behind you. He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” He says quietly, lips brushing against your skin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything special for you today.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be. This is perfect.”

“Perfect? Really?” The doubt lacing his voice makes you smile. He has always been so unsure of himself.

“Yes, perfect.” You tighten your grip on his hands. “Just being here with you is enough for me.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then he asks, “Do you remember this place?”

Of course you do. It’s the place where you had first met him. It seems like so many years ago now, you have begun to lose track of how much time has passed since then, all the days blurring together in one whimsical haze.

“How could I forget it?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder. “Look up,” he whispers.

You cast your eyes upwards, and what seems to be hundreds of thousands of stars speckle the sky, surrounding the blue moon. When you see the stars, you can’t help but think of his eyes. They would sparkle just like this from time to time, entrancing you with their wonder, as if endless possibilities lied just beyond them. God, you would do anything if it meant seeing that starstruck gaze for even one extra moment.

“They’re beautiful,” you say.

“Wanna know something?” He asks.

“What?”

“For you, I’d capture every single one of those stars. I’d bring them right down to earth, tie them up with strings, and hang them from your ceiling so you could see them every night before you go to sleep.”

You laugh a bit, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’d do that? With your bare hands?”

“Of course.” You can hear the smile in his voice. It’s velvet, warm and soft.

“And what about the moon?” You tease.

“The moon? No problem – I can give you that too.”

“And how would you go about doing that?”

“Easy – a lasso. Throw it around the whole thing and pull it down to you. I’ve been working out a lot more recently, you know.”

Your laughter is vibrant this time; contagious as it falls from his lips as well.

“I love you,” you say.

His lips are on your neck now. “I know.”

There’s a burning in your throat. Your chest is tight, mind racing. There’s so much you want to say – so much you need to say – but the words are stuck on the tip of your tongue. It’s as if your head has been overcome by a fog. You feel everything all at once; desperation, panic, desire, hope, anything and everything in between.

You turn around. “Yeonjun.”

The space behind you is empty.

----------

When you wake up, you remember nothing of your dream other than the faint taste of salt.

Your phone is ringing beside you on the couch. You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing at the time before answering the call. It’s 11:42 PM, and you can hardly see anything in the pitch black room.

“Hello?”

“Y/N, thank God! This is my fourth time calling you.” It’s Yeonjun’s friend, Wooyoung, on the other line. You’ve gotten quite used to his late night calls.

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep.” You stand up and flick the lights on, forcing your mess of unfolded laundry and empty coffee mugs out of hiding. You wince at the disarray; you’ll be sure to clean up later. “Where are you guys?”

“We’re at Mr. Kim’s, it’s on the –”

“The corner of First and Main. I know.” You grab your keys – heavy with an assortment of keychains, most of them gifted to you by your boyfriend – from amid a pile of notebooks and loose pieces of paper on the coffee table. In your hurry, you don’t even take the time to change out of your house slippers. “I’ll be there in five.”

The drive feels long, though it only lasts a few minutes. You crank up the volume on the radio, the generic pop song nothing but white noise to your buzzing mind as the lights of your small town turn to one big blur out the window. When you park beneath the street lamp outside Mr. Kim’s pub, you close your eyes and take a deep breath before you step out of the car.

The bell above the door jingles as you enter the pub, the smell of grilled pork and fried rice filling your nose. The place is nearly empty, a few drunken laughs and dated music from the crackling speakers filling the otherwise quiet atmosphere. The fluorescent lights flicker. You squint, scrunching your nose. You’ll have to take a couple painkillers when you get home – you always get a headache from the blaring artificial light.

Hands in the pocket of your sweatshirt, you glance around. It doesn’t take long for you to spot your boyfriend, face down on his usual table in the back corner of the restaurant. Wooyoung is seated across from him, head in his hands, several other empty plates abandoned on the table. The rest of the group must have left already, you suspect.

Wooyoung catches your eye and waves you down. You nod, making your way towards the table. “Sorry for waking you up,” he says when you arrive. He gestures to Yeonjun, who hasn’t made a single movement since your arrival. “I just figured he shouldn’t stay out like this for much longer.”

You wave off the apology. “No, it’s okay. Thank you.” Gently, you brush a hand through Yeonjun’s bleached hair. His skin is warm when your fingertips grace his forehead, glistening with sweat. He groans, and you’re glad – a tiny part of you always wonders if he’s even alive when he gets like this. “Rough day, I’m guessing?”

Wooyoung shrugs, stacking the scattered shot glasses together. “I thought it was okay. We played a gig down the street. Got a couple hundred bucks out of it. He looked so happy for a while but then he just . . . I dunno. Started drinking.”

You nod, easing your arm around Yeonjun’s waist. “Hey, time to get up. Let’s go home.”

It takes both you and Wooyoung to lift the barely conscious Yeonjun from his seat. He’s leaning against you as you pull him along, feet dragging along the laminate. The scent of cherry soju is strong, bitter as it overcomes your senses. You’ve always hated the smell; it reminds you of the cough syrup your mother would have to force down your throat when you were a child. Yeonjun never seemed to mind it.

You stop by the front counter. The pub’s owner has just come out from the kitchen, and you pull your wallet from your back pocket. “How much, Mr. Kim?”

He shakes his head, eyes crossing from the money in your hand to Yeonjun’s head on your shoulder. “He can pay me for it himself next time he comes in here – next time he’s sober, that is.”

You sigh, pushing your card closer to him. “We talked about this. No more handouts.”

“It’s not a handout. I’m just waiting for the customer himself to pay me. Consider it me putting it on his tab or something.”

“No use arguing with him, Y/N,” Wooyoung says. He spots Yeonjun’s guitar case by the door before you do, picking it up as he throws a wink at Mr. Kim. “We’ll see you soon then, sir!”

“Sooner than I’d like, I’m sure.” Mr. Kim’s gruff voice is difficult to hear when he mumbles. “Why don’t you ever offer to pay, eh? You’re just as bad as he is!”

“See you!”

Wooyoung practically pushes you and Yeonjun out of the pub, bell ringing once more to announce your exit. He hurries to open the passenger door of your car, and you all but drop Yeonjun into the seat. He moans, squinting at the brightness that falls from the streetlight. You buckle him in and close the door, sighing as you brush the hair from your face that had begun to stick from sweat.

“You know, these days you have to act more like a mom to him than a girlfriend.” Wooyoung’s voice breaks your moment of solitude. He closes the trunk – you assume he’s put Yeonjun’s guitar in there. “And by these days I guess I mean the past like, eight months or something.”

“Funny. I’m barely containing my laughter.” Your voice is monotonous, not a trace of humor to be found.

“Sorry. Too far?”

“Always.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t last long. “I’m wondering though, Y/N. How long are you gonna keep doing this?”

You lean back against the car, raising a brow. You don’t smoke, but if you did, you figure you’d be craving a cigarette right about now. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think Yeonjun’s been treating you like shit lately?”

The question is a knife to the heart. It’s instinctual, the way you shake your head in an instant, standing up straight and squaring your shoulders as though you’re preparing to defend your very life. “Of course not. He’s just going through a lot right now. You know that.” Your words are sharp, retaliation for the stab of Wooyoung’s.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, I never said he wasn’t. He’s my friend, so of course I’m sympathetic to what he’s going through. What we’re both going through. He’s not the only one in a failing band.”

“If you understand, why would you accuse him of treating me like shit?”

“Because he is!” The force of his voice takes you by surprise, and you’re stunned into silence. He sighs, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just – you’re my friend too, y’know? So I see what you’re going through because of him, and I can’t help but get pissed off.”

“I appreciate it, Wooyoung. Really, I do.” You pause, reading the doubt in his eyes before glancing over your shoulder. Yeonjun’s leaning his head against the window, lips pursed. You swallow. “I swear, it’s fine. We’re fine.”

It’s Wooyoung’s turn to lift a brow, leaning forward onto the balls of his feet. “Really? Tell me then, did he get you anything for your birthday today? Or at least acknowledge that it’s your birthday?”

“That’s not fair. You know he’s had so much going on today and –”

“Y/N, would you listen to yourself? He could’ve sent a text, left a note, or God forbid, given you a phone call at the very least.” He’s not yelling anymore, but his words still strike like blades across your skin, and you flinch.

Wooyoung closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opens them again, the frustration is gone. Now, he’s looking at you like you’re a wounded dog, desperate and dependent, waiting for something that’s never going to come.

“When’s the last time he asked you about your passions? Your dreams, your goals? Have you even had time to sit down and write lately?”

Your silence is the only response he gets. The muggy air is suffocating you.

“You deserve more than this, Y/N. You deserve so much more.”

Your eyes are burning, and you feel the lump in your throat that’s been there for what seems like days get bigger.

“I love him.” It’s all you can say, because in your world of drunken calls at midnight and the bitter scent of cherry soju, it’s all you know to be true.

He sighs in defeat. “I know you do. I just wish you would give a damn about yourself sometimes too.”

You go your separate ways after that, him giving you a halfhearted wave as a farewell. His words are still lingering as you put the car into drive and begin your route home. When you hit a red light, you glance over at Yeonjun, his sharp features glowing crimson in the hue. His brows are knit together, sweat beading above them. You notice his dark roots growing in; it’s been months since he last got his hair bleached. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted. He used to look so peaceful when he slept, you recall. You wonder how long it’s been since you’ve last seen him without that crease between his brows.

Carefully, you wipe your hand across his forehead to rid him of some of the sweat. He sighs, leaning into your touch before taking hold of your wrist. “Y/N?”

“I’m here, Jun,” you say, ignoring the tears that bead in the corners of your eyes. “I’m right here.”

He presses his lips into your palm, kissing you once, twice, three times. Your heart dances at the touch, aching for more. Yet the desire is diluted by the smell of alcohol and the absent look in his eyes. The light turns green, and you can’t bring yourself to pull away from him. You make the rest of the drive with one hand.

When you get home, it takes all of your strength to get him out of the car and into the apartment. His feet are dragging, and he’s clinging onto you as though you’re his lifeline as you stumble through the living room, nothing to light your way but a single lamp in the corner of the room that you had left on just for this reason. He accidentally knocks one of the empty coffee mugs to the ground, mumbling an apology that you immediately dismiss.

“It’s fine, baby,” You say without a second thought. “Just focus on getting to the bed, yeah?”

Somehow, you make it to your room, moonlight spilling in through the crack in the gray curtains as you drop Yeonjun onto the unmade bed. You push your hair back from your face, sinking into the mattress. His eyes are tethered to you, glazed and heavy, watching you pull his feet into your lap as though he’s in a trance. You’re trying, desperately, to push your conversation with his bandmate out of your mind, even as the words swarm you like moths to a flame. With an absent mind, you untie his shoelaces, slipping the sneakers off his feet and setting them down on the carpet.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

It’s a mantra in your buzzing mind, the only loose thread you have left to cling to as everything else unravels. Your days may be hell, your nights may be lonely, moments may go by like whispers in the wind. But you love him. You love him, and this should be enough. It is enough.

You’re grabbing the cuffs of his socks now, rolling them together before placing them inside one of the sneakers. Taking hold of his wrists, you gently pull him towards you so that he’s sitting up. For some reason, you’re unable to meet his eyes as you begin to unbutton his shirt; perhaps you’re afraid he’ll be looking at you with the same pity that Wooyoung had shown earlier, or even worse, with some amount of contempt or disdain for you.

The first button is undone, then the second. When your fingers hover over the third, you pause. Yeonjun’s fingers gently encircle your wrist, his thumb tracing its way along your veins. Heart in your throat, you meet his gaze. He’s looking at you with heavy lidded eyes, pink lips barely parted.

“Yeonjun?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

He moves your hand, slowly, til your palm is pressing into his exposed chest, fingertips brushing against his collarbone.

“Touch me,” he rasps. “I want you to touch me.”

You’ve gone still at his words. You know he needs rest – that you need rest. But his eyes are begging you, his hands luring you, as he moves your own further up so that it’s on his neck, your fingers touching his hair. He leans forward, his forehead on yours, nose just barely meeting the skin of your burning cheek.

“Please,” he whispers, and you feel his breath against your lips. “I need you.”

Those three words; simple in theory, but dangerous in practice. They’re your Achilles’ heel, your fatal flaw. You’d do anything, anything, if it meant that he needed you. You’d lose yourself in him completely if that’s what it took to see the stars dance in his eyes once more, to see his shoulders lift as though the weight of a thousand worlds no longer rested upon him, to see his brow unfurrow from the release of his countless burdens.

You’d do it all a thousand times over. Why, for him, you’d even offer the moon.

And so, you oblige to his request, unable to ignore the fire in your own chest as you push your fingers into his hair, raking your hand through the knots and tangles. He sighs in what must be relief, grabbing your thighs and pulling you onto his lap. You make quick work of the remaining buttons on his shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders and tossing it to the ground. He buries his face in your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your collarbone. You bite your lip, feeling the trail of sparks he leaves against you as he works his mouth along your skin. Your hands are moving up and down his bare chest, feeling every bump, every line, every perfect imperfection. The feeling of his skin on your own is addictive; you cannot satisfy your senses, the urge to feel all of him, everywhere, all at once fogging your already clouded mind. You can feel him beneath you now, as his hands travel higher up your thighs, fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. Breath hitching, you press against him, feeling warmth between your legs.

“God, yeah, just – just like that.” He groans, hips raising up to meet yours as he catches the skin of your neck between his teeth. A whimper slips through your lips as you keep your hips moving against his, your lips following your hands as they explore his jaw.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles against you, fingers pressing into your thighs so hard, you’re sure they’ll leave marks; but you don’t mind. In fact, you only wish he’d press harder, your body aching for him more and more, even as you’re practically melded together. You want to feel him on every cell of your skin. You want to taste him, to cover him, to breathe him in and never exhale.

It’s sudden when he pushes on your shoulders, causing you to fall back against the mattress. He’s over you now, taking both your hands in one of his and holding them above your head, his other hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, traveling up your ribs. Your back arches at the touch; you’re desperate to push ever closer to him, even if it’s impossible. He pulls the neckline of your shirt down, exposing your shoulder and the top of your bra. His lips are on your chest now, sucking and biting at the skin there. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, your eyes rolling shut as he slides his knee between your trembling legs, his tongue tracing its way along your collarbone.

You’re panting, chest heaving as his lips travel back up your neck, your jaw, your cheek; every inch of your skin is burning in his wake. You’ve been aching to feel his lips on yours, craving the sweet taste of him in your mouth.

But when his lips finally cover your own, the taste isn’t sweet like the vanilla ice creams you used to share on the pier, or the peaches you had sunk your teeth into backstage before one of his first gigs all those years ago. Instead he tastes bitter, the traces of cherry soju still burning on his tongue.

It’s the taste that brings reality crashing down around you. Suddenly, the burning between your legs isn’t pleasant – it’s too hot, too dangerous. His hands are singeing your skin now, your name falling from his lips a curse rather than a blessing. It’s a brutal reminder: he’s not sober. That’s why he’s doing this. It’s a stab straight to the gut.

“Yeonjun,” you whisper, breathless, when he comes up for air. “You’re drunk.”

His breathing is shallow, his hand still gripping both of yours. “What?”

“You’re drunk,” you repeat, freeing your hands from his grasp. You place your palms on his shoulders, easing him back as you sit up. “We have to stop.”

He’s breathless still, lips red and raw and hanging open, hair tousled. His eyes are searching yours, pupils big as saucers, his ever-knit brows showing his confusion – or maybe even concern. “Y/N, I –”

“It’s okay, Jun. Really.” You push a halfhearted smile, brushing a strand of bleached hair behind his ear. “You should rest.”

There’s so much he wants to say. You can see it in his eyes. But you also see the exhaustion, the confusion, the dismay. You’re terrified of what may come next.

Pity.

Regret.

You need to leave before he even has the chance to show a hint of either.

You lay him down, pulling the covers up over him. When you lean down to press a kiss to his forehead, his heavy eyes are already falling shut.

With a sigh, you walk to the window and cast a quick glance at the sky before pulling the curtains all the way shut. You leave the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind you as quietly as you can. You hate the silence that has settled over the apartment, the only sound being your bare feet against the cold floor. There’s a sudden sharp pain in your heel and you wince, looking down to see a single shard of glass that had chipped off the mug Yeonjun knocked over in his drunken haze.

You pull the shard out of your skin, hobbling one-footed to the bathroom to grab a bandaid. When you open the cabinet above the toilet, all that’s left in terms of bandages are the cheap Iron Man ones Yeonjun had bought nearly a year ago. As you peel it open, wiping the blood from your skin before pressing the bandage on, you almost smile.

After taking care of the cut, you head towards the kitchen. You light the candle on the counter, slowly filling the room with the faint scent of vanilla and amber, the wooden wick crackling as the flame begins to flicker. After setting the lighter down, you pull open the fridge and grab a paper plate covered in plastic wrap. It holds a single slice of semi-stale chocolate cake, leftover from the last-minute birthday treat your coworkers had purchased during your lunch break. You grab a fork from a drawer and glance at the clock. It’s 12:59 AM; too late to even wish yourself a happy birthday.

When you sink down on the couch and take your first bite, you can’t help but think that the cake tastes quite bitter as well.

----------

Yeonjun is cold when he wakes up the next morning.

The sun beats in through the tiny slit in the curtains and he groans, pulling his pillow down over his face. He tucks his blanket around his body, desperate to kill the chills that shake his nearly naked self, but it’s no use. With an exasperated sigh, he turns onto his side, stretching his arm out.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, fingers searching for your body in the bed beside him. He pries his eyes open when he doesn’t feel you. Your side of the bed is bare.

He sighs, tossing his pillow off and running a hand over his face. When he sits up, he sees his discarded clothes on the floor and the memories of the night come rushing back to him. He remembers the heat of your body, the desperation in his voice as he practically chanted your name like a prayer. Most of all, he remembers the ache in the pit of his stomach as he watched your eyes go dim beneath him, and the defeat on your face as you laid him down to sleep.

Choi Yeonjun, you fucking idiot.

He’s no stranger to calling himself names. His mind is no friend of his.

He stumbles out of bed and towards the pile of unfolded laundry in the desk chair, pulling on a pair of joggers and one of your old tee shirts. It’s not his size, but he doesn’t mind; he likes how it smells just like you. Your favorite lavender perfume must be embedded within the threading, filling him with both comfort and guilt as the scent overtakes him.

In the living room, he finds you curled up on the sofa. No blanket, no pajamas – just a half-eaten slice of cake on the coffee table, the T.V. remote loosely gripped in your hand, reruns of an old sitcom buzzing on the screen before you. Slowly, he takes the remote from your hand and switches off the T.V., brushing his fingers over your cheek before he kisses it lightly, careful not to wake you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Of course, you don’t hear him. Deep down, in some twisted way and for reasons he cannot attempt to explain, Yeonjun is glad that you don’t.

He walks to the kitchen, seeing your favorite candle still burning in a pool of melted wax. He blows it out, watching the tendrils of smoke rise and dissolve in the air. He walks to the cabinet, pulling out garlic, bean paste, and some red pepper. He puts some water on the stove to boil, grabbing the tray of diced vegetables you keep in the fridge for him. Though he doesn’t mind the taste of his own haejangguk, he much prefers it when you make it; but he knows it would be cruel of him to wake you up.

The water has come to a boil, so he throws in the rest of the ingredients for his hangover soup. His head’s pounding, and he wishes he could shut off the sun as its streams in through the skylight above him. He sets the burner to low heat and puts a lid on the pot, leaving it to simmer for a bit.

He leans back against the counter, his hand brushing over a small stack of photos behind him that you had recently gotten developed, knocking some to the floor. With a sigh, he crouches down to gather them back up, his hand pausing as he grabs the first one. It’s a picture of him with his arm around your waist, both of your hands cupping his cheeks as he holds a vanilla ice cream cone. In the background, the sun is setting over the ocean, the sky painted in strokes of pinks and purples and reds and golds. You have a dot of the ice cream on your nose – he remembers that he had smeared it there himself after you tried to take a bite of his dessert. Both of you are laughing, mouths wide, your eyes scrunched up into crescent moons while his bright gaze is fixed on you. He remembers Wooyoung taking the picture during one of your walks to the pier near your home. It’s dated back two summers ago.

A smile is tugging the corners of his lips. He can’t remember the last time the two of you had taken a photo together. For the briefest of moments, he can feel a ghost of the joy that had once filled him. It’s spilling out of the picture in his hands, seeping through to his chest.

The feeling doesn’t last long. It never does.

The smell of his soup boiling on the stove draws him back to the present. He quickly scoops the rest of the scattered pictures together, setting them back on the countertop as he rushes to the stove. He takes the pot off the heat and switches the stove off, taking the lid off to let the steam free. The spices fill his nose, causing him to cough as they overpower his senses. You have always told him he’s a bit heavy-handed when it comes to adding the red pepper, but he only seems to remember your advice when it’s too late. Every time.

“Jun?” He turns at the sound of your voice, seeing you sleepily rise from the couch. You rub your eyes, covering your mouth as you yawn and make your way towards him.

“Morning,” he says, trying his best to smile, though he can’t be sure what the correct way to speak to you is right now. He knows he acted selfishly last night, but he also knows that you’ll refuse to bring it up. At times, he wishes you would unleash all hell on him; he wishes you would scream, dig your nails into his skin, bite into his flesh with the words of resentment and anger he only imagines you have buried deep within your heart of hearts.

But you never do. And he’s far too much of a coward to ask you to. The tension of last night will linger, you’ll both carry on until the next thing happens and it snowballs, getting bigger and bigger but never crashing down around you. You wrap your arms around his waist, looking down at his breakfast. “You should’ve woken me up, Jun. I know you like my haejangguk more, I would’ve made it for you.”

“I know you would’ve,” he says. “That’s exactly why I didn’t wake you up. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine though,” you mumble, leaving his side to pull a couple of bowls down from one of the cabinets. He notices the dark circles beneath your eyes and wonders how fine you truly could be. You take a ladle from a drawer and scoop two servings of the soup into the bowls, fishing out some spoons to eat with.

“You don’t have to eat this babe. You’re not hungover.” He watches as you set the dishes down at two of the bar stools, climbing up to sit atop one of them. “I’ll make something else for you.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, smiling sweetly at him. “It tastes pretty good regardless. Can you bring me the black pepper?”

He nods, turning around to find it. When he turns towards the cabinet, his eyes fall on the calendar that’s hanging on the side of the refrigerator. Yesterday’s date is circled in red, with poorly done doodles of a cake and confetti surrounding two words written in bright pastels: Y/N’s Birthday.

His stomach drops. There’s a big black line crossing out the date.

“Do you have any gigs today?” Your voice is distant to him, his gaze still stuck on the calendar as his head swarms with thoughts, his hand shaking around the can of pepper in his grasp. How could he forget your birthday? How had he reached such a devastating low that he couldn’t even properly celebrate with you, the one person who had stuck with him through every high and low? And how could you not even think of mentioning it to him?

“Jun? You okay?” He slowly turns back to face you at the sound of your voice, seeing the worry lines creasing your forehead. One day, those wrinkles would be permanent, and he can’t help but feel like the full responsibility of it will fall upon his shoulders.

He walks towards you, passing you the pepper you had asked for as he sits down beside you at the counter. Hesitantly, you take it from him, but your eyes are still fixed upon him as he stares down into his bowl, his appetite seeming to be completely erased from him.

“What’s wrong?” Your hand is on his shoulder now. His skin nearly burns at the touch.

“I missed your birthday.” His voice is quiet, heavy. Silence settles in the room afterwards, and he can’t bring himself to look at you. Your hand drops from his shoulder.

“Oh. That. Seriously, don’t worry about it. I know you’ve had a lot going on lately with the band and all, so it makes sense that –”

“Y/N.” He cuts you off, his eyes meeting yours. You stop mid-sentence, mouth ajar. “Stop it. Stop making excuses for me.”

“They’re not excuses, it’s just the truth. What kind of partner would I be if I got mad at you for being overworked all the time?”

“And what kind of partner would I be for letting myself get away with forgetting your birthday?” His words are piercing, but he can’t help it. He already feels terrible, and for some reason, the lack of anger or spite on your part is making him feel even worse. You shrink down into your stool, gazing absently at your soup.

He closes his eyes, sighing as he runs his hand down his face. “Y/N, I’m not – I’m not angry. Not at you anyways; just at myself. I’m sorry for getting frustrated, it’s just . . . God, I wish you would care more about yourself.”

“I care about myself enough, Jun.” You’re almost whispering now, moving your spoon around in your bowl but not taking a single sip of the broth. “But I care about you too. Of course, I was a little disappointed but – I don’t know. I just want to be here to support you, I can’t justify getting angry at you when I know you’re having a hard time.”

The words are not new to him. He’s heard them from you countless times before. At first, he found them comforting; knowing you would always be there for him, supporting him through the dark times and not just the good. But as time went on, the words had begun to weigh him down. How often was he there to offer you the same support you gave to him constantly? How often did you even ask for it?

He sets his spoon down, taking both your hands in his. Your eyes go wide when they meet his, your shoulders tense.

“I’m going to make it up to you, Y/N. I swear.” His words are firm, and he means them, truly, with every bone in his body. He’s tired of being a burden to you, so tired that he makes these promises to you almost every day. But this time, he’s going to keep it; this time, for sure.

Your eyes look dim when you smile. “Alright.”

“Where do you want to go? We’ll do something tonight, right after my show at the Alley.”

You purse your lips, mulling over a thousand different possibilities in your mind. “Can we go down to the ice cream stand at the pier? The one we used to go to all the time.”

He nods, squeezing your hands tightly. “Of course. It’s a date.”

Your smile grows wide, and you lean forward, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose. He lets his eyes fall shut, savoring the way the kiss warms his heart that had felt like ice for so long, even if the relief only lasted a moment.

He is going to do everything he can to keep you smiling this time. He is done making you wait for him – he has to be. This is the promise he makes to himself.

And so, the cycle begins.

----------

The air is muggy inside the venue that night. The red lights are dim, the aroma of spilt beer and fried chicken taking over Yeonjun’s senses as he steps inside the small building known as the Alley, home to many aspiring bands booking their first venues or failed musical acts who never made it past this point. The line between the two categories is quite thin.

The crowd is gathered round the stage, a few stragglers left behind at the bar near the back of the open space. The venue capacity sits around two-hundred, and it looks to be about halfway full. He has to push along the edge of the crowd to make it to the waiting rooms.

Yeonjun is pulling you along behind him, his painted fingers interlocked with your own as the hum of the crowd buzzes over the grunge rock spilling from the loudspeakers. He’s got his guitar slung over his shoulder, tightly clutching the strap in his free hand. When he glances down at you, he can tell that you’re a bit nervous – this crowd was a bit larger than most of the open mic nights that Yeonjun and his band frequent.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay, Jun?” You ask, straining to be heard over all the noise as you make your way to one of the back rooms near the stage. “I know you get nervous with larger crowds.”

You’re not wrong, of course. One of the more popular up and coming bands in the area had asked Yeonjun’s to open for their set. Most of the people in the crowd tonight – if not all of them – have no idea who they are. Not to mention the fact that the venue hadn’t even offered them a soundcheck – they were coming in cold, with little to no preparation.

“A little bit,” he answers honestly. He smiles, bumping his shoulder against yours. “But the show must go on, right?”

You smile back at him, giving his hand a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”

“And what about the rest of us?” A high-pitched voice pierces Yeonjun’s ears as Wooyoung joins the both of you, throwing his arm around your shoulders. “Are we gonna do well too, or is it just him?”

You laugh, the three of you entering the assigned waiting room with floors made of checkered tile and a cheap popcorn ceiling overhead. Nobody else is there yet – the room is empty aside from a cheap wine-stained couch and a couple of folding chairs.

“Of course you’re gonna do well too, Wooyoung,” you assure him, leaving Yeonjun’s side to sit down on one of the folding chairs. “I just figured that went without saying.”

“Where are the others?” Yeonjun asks as he sits on the other folding chair and begins tuning his guitar, Wooyoung stretching out on the couch and taking up all the space for himself. “They usually come with you.”

“Not sure; they haven’t been answering my calls at all today.” Wooyoung sighs, pulling out his phone. “It might just be you and me tonight.”

Though Yeonjun is disappointed by the statement, he can’t say that he’s surprised. The days where he and Wooyoung end up taking the stage alone have become more and more frequent. He twists the final peg on his guitar, plucking the strings one by one to check that they’re in tune.

“We’ll make it work,” he says.

Wooyoung nods. “We always do.”

Yeonjun can feel your eyes on him, but he doesn’t look your way. He knows you’re worried about him. He knows you want to offer him support and encouragement, but he can’t take it right now. He’s terrified of letting you down – again.

A woman with bright blue hair dressed in all black pops her head into the room. “You guys are on in five. Get ready.”

Yeonjun nods as she disappears, standing up from the chair with his guitar in hand. He glances in the full-length mirror hanging before him on the wall, wondering if he’s underdressed in his ripped black jeans and Pink Floyd tee that’s so old, he would label it as ancient – but you always correct him, preferring the term vintage. He doesn’t have time to contemplate his choice of dress any further though, as you and Wooyoung both stand up with him, following him out the door and up the stairs that lead to the side wings of the stage.

Wooyoung pulls his drumsticks from his back pocket, making a quick glance at the rusty old drumset sitting towards the back of the stage. You grab hold of Yeonjun’s sleeve, smiling up at him as you squint against the colorful lighting. Yeonjun notices the way your nose crinkles along with your eyes – something he’s always loved about you.

“Knock ‘em dead, yeah?” Your voice is as soft as it can be while still being heard above the murmuring crowd. You run your fingers through his hair, a last-ditch effort to fix up a few of the pieces that frame his face.

He gently takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it from his face as he leans down to kiss you swiftly. “I’ll do my best.”

The stage is set with a single microphone in the center, the drumset a bit behind it. There’s a single spotlight hanging low over the mic, the same burnt red as the rest of the lighting in the venue. He glances at Wooyoung, who gives him a reassuring nod. He clutches the strap of his guitar.

He takes his first step out onto the stage, Wooyoung following close behind. A few people in the crowd notice, turning towards them. Most give the two of them a passing glance, checking to be sure that they’re not the main act of the night, before they resume their buzzing conversations or boisterous laughter.

He stops in front of the microphone, tilting it upwards so that it matches his height. He spots the aux on the ground and leans down to plug it into his guitar, a high-pitched screech humming over the room for a brief moment before it fades away. He looks over his shoulder to see Wooyoung take his seat behind the drums, giving him a thumbs up, mouthing the familiar words, You ready?

With a sigh, Yeonjun gives the only honest answer he can think of by shrugging his shoulders. This was their routine as of late.

He taps a finger against the mic, the familiar thumping coming out muffled through the loudspeakers. He clears his throat, taking another look out at the crowd.

“Hey everyone, how are we feeling tonight?” His voice is clear, gaining the attention of a few more people in the crowd. A couple of half-hearted cheers resound, and he’s thankful for that at least. “My name’s Yeonjun, and this is my buddy Wooyoung on the drums. We’re happy to be here tonight to open up the show for you.”

He looks over to the wing, seeing you standing there, hands clasped together over your chest. You’re glowing red from the overhead lights, eyes sparkling. You perk up when you catch his gaze, throwing him your ever-warm smile. He can only lift the corner of his mouth, his nerves already beginning to wear him down.

He glances back at Wooyoung again, giving him a nod as he adjusts his grip on the neck of his guitar, fingers clasped tightly around the pick. The drummer smiles, clicking his drumsticks together, counting off the beat.

One, two, three, four.

He strikes the first chord, letting his eyes fall shut as the sounds of his strings fill him, drowning out the buzz of the crowd. When the first lyrics leave his lips, he’s already felt himself drift away. Eyes closed, he can imagine himself being somewhere else, anywhere but here. He’s not standing on the stage burning beneath the lights, overwhelmed by the flood of voices kept in time by the steady beat of the drums and the thrumming of his heart, sending hot blood coursing through his veins.

Instead, he’s sat upon a blanket in the sand, the plucking of his guitar harmonizing with the waves melting against the shoreline, a crackling fire burning before him beneath the starlight, slightly blocked out by the wisps of a few gray and blue clouds. The salt air is muddled by the smell of smoke, the gentle breeze tickling the tip of his nose. Wooyoung’s fast asleep on the other side of the fire, arm covering his eyes as his mouth hangs open, a trickle of drool slipping down his chin.

And you. You’re there by Yeonjun’s side, head resting upon his shoulder as he picks out the melody, singing softly, the words falling upon your ears alone.

This, he thinks, is what music is meant to be. A connection from himself to you, the lines of a song reaching your heart much deeper than any words he could speak. Words failed him so often when he tried to talk. If he could sing forever, serenading you with all the right words set to a lulling melody that rang sweet in your ears, he would sign himself away to it in a heartbeat.

The first song has ended, and he opens his eyes to find himself back in reality, square center on the stage. It’s not you he’s looking at – it’s a crowd of uninterested strangers, eyes seeming to fall anywhere but himself. It’s like whiplash, the serenity he felt moments ago rapidly being replaced by the anxiety and displacement he’s become all too familiar with. The lights are too bright, the voices are too loud, the air is too warm. He feels so small. He shouldn’t be here – he should be anywhere else.

He turns to look at you again. Even across the distance that separates you, he can see the worry swimming in your eyes as you give him a thumbs up. He’s certain that the words of his song had fallen short even upon your ears. You had probably heard nothing but your own racing thoughts, screaming with worry and tension as you watched him intently, wishing for him to not fail.

He knows you – perhaps a little too well. His throat is tight, his chest screaming for air. He’s never felt as far away from you as he does in this moment.

The rest of the set flies by in a haze of tension and suffocating disinterest from the crowd. He expected this, prepared for it even. But for some reason, he can never seem to get past the disappointment that comes from it.

He manages to push out a quick “thank you” to the mic when they’re finished, but he can hardly see the point in it as it falls upon deaf ears. A few people clap, but Yeonjun doesn’t stay on stage long enough to hear. He unplugs his guitar, all but running towards where you wait for him in the wing.

“You did great, Jun,” you say. “I mean it.”

He can’t even force himself to smile now. He needs to get out of here.

“Good job, sweetheart!” Wooyoung throws his arm around Yeonjun’s shoulders, drumsticks clanking together as he clutches them in one hand. “How we feeling?”

“Can we get out of here?” Yeonjun feels as though there’s a fist around his throat, choking all the air out of him at an alarming pace. He rubs a hand along the base of his neck, skin burning. “I can’t – I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Yeah, yeah of course.” You waste no time in linking arms with him, pulling him alongside you down the steps with Wooyoung following close behind. “Woo, can you grab his guitar case from the waiting room and meet us outside? I think he needs some air.”

“Sure thing. See you out there.”

Yeonjun is in a trance, not feeling his feet touch the ground as you guide him along the edge of the crowd once more towards the exit. When he takes his first step out into the cool night air, he feels like he’s finally come up from underwater, taking a cleansing breath in, exhaling moments later. He sits down on the cement steps, ignoring the thud of his guitar hitting the concrete behind him. You waste no time in sinking down by his side, rubbing his arm in an effort to provide even the smallest bit of comfort.

“You okay?” You ask. He can feel the pity in your eyes without even looking at them. He keeps staring down at his scuffed sneakers.

“I’m alright.”

He hears the door open behind them and looks up to see Wooyoung hovering above him, his black guitar case littered with stickers in hand.

“You good?” His friend asks, motioning for Yeonjun to hand his guitar over.

He lifts the strap over his head, grabbing the guitar by the neck and handing it to Wooyoung. “I just needed some air. I’m okay.”

“I think we did a pretty good job,” Wooyoung says, kneeling on the ground to set the guitar in its case. “We got a decent response from the crowd.”

Yeonjun watches you nod in agreement, but he himself remains quiet, fiddling with his shoelaces. He can hardly remember any of their set to begin with, and what little he does recall feels like it’s the opposite of “decent”.

“So, what’s the move for tonight?” Wooyoung asks. “Celebrating a late birthday for Y/N? Oh wait – did you ever end up remembering it in the – ow!”

You’ve leaned down to smack Wooyoung’s cheek, ending his trail of harsh – but well deserved – words that were no doubt pointed towards Yeonjun. He doesn’t miss the venom in his friend’s voice, and he feels the sharp pang of guilt dig deeper into his chest than it already was before.

“We’re gonna go down to the pier,” he says in response, forcing a smile. “See if the ice cream shop is open.”

He feels your eyes on him again, but can’t bear to look. He knows that concern he doesn’t deserve will be waiting for him in your gaze. It’s nothing but salt to his open wound.

“You know Jun, maybe we should just go to Mr. Kim’s tonight instead.” He looks at you then, eyes widening at your suggestion. “You’re not feeling the best, and it’s super cold out – I bet the shop isn’t even open during this time of year anyways.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs both your hands, shaking his head. “It’s your day, we’re going to the pier. That’s what you wanted.”

You smile, running your thumb along his knuckles. His skin tingles at the touch. “Seriously Jun, it’s okay. We can just wait til it gets warmer out. It’ll be more fun at that time anyways.”

Yeonjun glances at Wooyoung, surprised to see his friend minding his own business for once – or at least pretending to mind his own. He’s whistling the tune of one of their songs, securing the latches on the guitar case as he clearly does everything in his power to avoid eye contact.

The one time I need his loud ass to chime in and back me up, Yeonjun thinks. He’s really useless, huh?

He looks back at you. “Y/N –”

Your lips cover his, cutting his words off. He hesitates before his eyes flutter shut, taking in the warmth that comes from the feeling of you against him as his body shakes from the chilling air.

When you pull away, you’re still smiling. “It’s okay, Jun,” you whisper. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

He remains quiet for a moment. He can’t quite tell if your smile reaches your eyes.

“Okay.” His voice is barely audible, his nose brushing against yours. “Let’s go.”

You nod with contentment, standing up and pulling him to his feet along with you. “What about you, Woo? Wanna come with?”

“Sure, why not.” The drummer smirks as he walks closer to Yeonjun, bumping their shoulders together while wiggling his eyebrows. “As long as this guy’s paying. You’re good with that, right sweetheart?”

“Stop calling me that,” Yeonjun mutters, sinking his elbow into Wooyoung’s side with enough force to send the latter stumbling back a few steps. “And I’m paying for my girlfriend, of course. But you’re on your own.”

Wooyoung flashes a middle finger, tongue stuck out in mockery, and Yeonjun returns both gestures as he wraps his arm around your shoulders, noticing the hand you’ve placed over your lips in an attempt to hide your laughter. “Lead the way, sweetheart. Y/N and I will be close behind.”

“Screw you,” Wooyoung says, unable to mask the smile blossoming on his lips. “And take your stupid guitar too. It’s heavy.”

Yeonjun grabs the case with his free hand, the two of you falling into pace behind Wooyoung as you make the short walk to Mr. Kim’s pub. The lights outside are flickering; Yeonjun makes a mental note to remind Mr. Kim to check the batteries later. That is, if he remains sober long enough to remember to do so.

But tonight is about you. He will stay sober if that’s what it takes to make things up to you. He has to.

The bell above the door jingles in its familiar tune, the scent of soju and samgyeopsal wafting towards you as soon as the three of you cross the threshold. The pub is fairly quiet, only a few of the tables occupied by guests.

Mr. Kim is waiting behind the counter, barely containing his eye roll when he spots Yeonjun and Wooyoung. “You two again? Was last night not enough for you?”

“Relax, Mr. Kim.” Wooyoung’s voice is smooth and assuring – he’s very used to charming his way into various kinds of situations. “We’re not here to drink our sorrows away tonight. It’s our lovely Y/N’s post-birthday celebration! You wouldn’t want to turn away your most loyal and dearest customers on such a special occasion, would you?”

Mr. Kim’s eyes narrow when they land on you, peeking around Yeonjun’s shoulder, offering a meek wave in greeting. He sighs, gesturing towards the table in the back corner of the room. “Just go sit down.”

“Ah, see! I knew you had a big heart.” Wooyoung reaches towards the older man with two arms, almost as if he were going in for a hug.

Mr. Kim flicks him square in the middle of his forehead. “Get away from me.”

“Love you too, Mr. Kim!” Yeonjun notices the redness that the elder’s contact had left behind in the center of Wooyoung’s forehead – there would definitely be a welt there tomorrow.

Yeonjun leaves his guitar propped up in the corner behind the counter like always before he leads you back to your usual table, pulling out your chair before he takes his place beside you.

“Three servings of rice and samgyeopsal, please!” Wooyoung yells, earning a shout of confirmation from the staff as she heads back towards the kitchen. “And a few bottles of cherry soju!”

“Wooyoung.” Yeonjun makes a cutting motion across his neck with his hand, head shaking with intent. “No soju.”

“It’s okay, Jun,” you say, pushing his hand down. “I wanted a drink anyways.”

His brows crease, lips pursed. “But you hate the cherry flavor.”

You shrug, pouring a cup of water from the jug on the table. “It’s growing on me.”

Your words linger with him as the waitress sets a few glasses and two bottles of cherry soju on the table.

“Two?” Wooyoung asks, raising a brow. “You guys think that’ll be enough?”

“Should be.” Yeonjun takes a sip of your water as Wooyoung fills your other glass first with the fruit-flavored alcohol. “I’m abstaining.”

There’s silence for the briefest of moments. Then, boisterous laughter echoes across the room, drawing the attention of a few other patrons. Wooyoung is clutching his stomach as he continues to laugh, and Yeonjun kicks his shin under the table.

“Would you shut up?” He hisses, nodding a thank you to the waitress as she sets down a few bowls of rice along with the plate of uncooked pork.

Wooyoung wipes the corner of his eyes, the laughter finally having subsided. “Sorry. I just – I’ve never seen you turn down a drink.”

“There’s a first time for everything, right?” He turns the grill on, smiling at you when he notices you staring at him with wide eyes, hands frozen around the glass of soju. “Come on,” he says, nudging you in the side. “Drink up, birthday girl.”

You hesitate before throwing the shot back, eyes crinkling up as you take a hard swallow. Wooyoung cheers as you pour him a glass next.

“I haven’t seen you drink in ages, Y/N,” he says before taking his first shot as well. “You deserve to let loose a bit tonight.”

You cough, placing your palm flat against your chest. “Well, I’m remembering now why I don’t drink. This tastes awful.”

“Nah, you’re just not used to it.” Wooyoung motions for you to raise your glass again. “You’ll be loving it in no time.”

You shake your head in disagreement, but oblige to his request as you lift your glass up once more, taking your second shot. You shake your head, lips pursed in disgust as you force the liquid down.

“Alright, stop forcing her, Wooyoung,” Yeonjun insists, pushing his friend’s hand away as he raises the bottle towards you once more. “You’re the kind of person they warned us about in middle school during all those assemblies about peer pressure.”

“You’re one to talk,” Wooyoung mutters, pouring a second shot for himself and taking it down only seconds later. He barely even flinches at the taste. “I see you drunk way more than I see you sober.”

Yeonjun pauses, and Wooyoung immediately knows he’s crossed a line. You clear your throat, gesturing towards the plate of pork. “I think the grill’s warm. Want me to put the meat on?”

“No, stay still,” Yeonjun insists, glad for the break in the uncomfortable tension that has settled over the table. “I’ll do it.”

The grill sizzles as the pork settles atop it, the savory aroma immediately filling his senses. He pushes the pieces around with the pair of tongs that were resting beside the plate, focusing all his attention on his task as he tries desperately to ignore the scent of the soju creeping in. The sight of the third shot glass, empty and untouched, burns in the corner of his vision. He’s determined to ignore it.

Yeonjun sets the first few pieces of cooked pork on your plate, giving Wooyoung a pointed look as he does so. The meal carries on smoothly for a bit – no more talks of sobriety or peer pressure from Wooyoung for you to take another shot of the bitter drink. There’s light conversation and laughter, reminding Yeonjun of how things were just a few years ago when the three of you first started hanging out together, right after he had asked you out.

“It’s nice to be out together again – all three of us,” Wooyoung says, taking the last piece of pork from the sizzling grill. “Why’d we stop doing this again?”

“We just got busy.” You take a swig of water, bowing your head in thanks to the waitress as she sets another dish of meat to cook and two more bottles of soju on the table – Wooyoung had already drained the first.

“You’re right. How could I forget our band taking off in infinite success?” Wooyoung shakes his head, emptying the contents of the new dish onto the grill. “The life of a star isn’t an easy one, I suppose.”

You laugh a bit, but quickly bite it back, glancing over at your boyfriend. He forces a laugh of his own, though the words of his friend are piercing blows to his already fragile ego.

“Lighten up, sweetheart.” Wooyoung reaches over the table, ruffling Yeonjun’s hair. “It’s all jokes.”

Yeonjun smiles bitterly, nodding in assumed agreement. He passes the metal tongs to Wooyoung who then takes his turn cooking the meat, returning to the light-hearted conversation he had been having with you moments before.

This leaves Yeonjun with the perfect opportunity to begin thinking.

And thinking.

And thinking and thinking and thinking.

He thinks about the buzz of the disinterested crowd watching their show that night, a sea of blank faces and muddled voices drowning him out.

He thinks about the bright lights, burning through his eyelids despite how tightly he shut them, desperate to keep the beams from slipping through the cracks.

He thinks about the steel strings of his guitar, digging into the calloused skin of his fingertips, the pain so familiar he hardly feels it at all anymore, but still potent enough to remind him that it was there.

He thinks and he thinks, until he cannot bear to do so for a second longer.

Without a word, he takes an unopened bottle of soju and twists the cap off with the ease that only comes from what feels like a lifetime of experience. Ignoring how your eyes burn into the side of his head, he pours himself a glass and throws back the shot. The alcohol burns its way down his throat, and he closes his eyes as the feeling overpowers him and then subsides all in an instant.

Just one shot, to keep me sane. That’s all.

He lets his eyes meet yours once again. You quickly look away, reaching toward the grill as the second batch of meat finishes cooking. He glances at Wooyoung, who is pointedly keeping his eyes anywhere but his best friend.

It’s guilt this time that’s flooding Yeonjun’s entire being. God, how could he be so fucking selfish? It was just one night, one night that he needed to push his own needs aside for yours. He wanted to, more than anything. Yet, somehow, he always lost in this battle against himself. No matter how hard he tried, what moves he made, this was a game he was forever destined to lose.

His throat feels like it’s closing, ears ringing, head swarmed with the sounds of the restaurant. The relief from the first shot is long gone, and he’s staring at the bottle of soju again. He’s merely a puppet, the bottle of burning liquid his master, pulling the strings as he reaches forward and takes the bottle in his hands once more.

He had already screwed things up. One more shot couldn’t hurt, right?

When he throws back the second shot, he tells himself it is just to keep the thoughts quiet. With the third, he assures himself that it’s to loosen up the tightness in his chest – nothing more.

The fourth is to chase the third. He hates leaving things on odd numbers.

By the time he gets to the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth, he’s far too tired to think of reasons why he continues to down them. He loses count soon after that.

----------

Deep down, you had known the night would end up this way from the very beginning.

You tell yourself that you’re not resentful. It doesn’t bother you at all, the fact that you’re leaving Mr. Kim’s with Yeonjun’s arms wrapped around your neck from behind as you desperately try to pull him along the sidewalk, the buzz from the two shots you had taken long gone. All that’s left now is a searing headache and a knot in your stomach.

Wooyoung has left already, carrying Yeonjun’s abandoned guitar with him. He had offered to help you bring Yeonjun home, but you insisted that he go first. You don’t know why, but you’re embarrassed – not of Yeonjun, of course, but of the fact that Wooyoung thinks you can’t handle him on your own. You’ve gotten quite used to this.

You’ve made it a couple blocks down the street, drunken words falling from Yeonjun’s lips in incoherent rambles that you’re too exhausted to try and make any sense of. You shift his weight, bringing one of your arms around his waist as the other holds the wrist of the arm that he has draped across your shoulders.

“Y/N,” he mumbles. “Stop.”

There’s sweat beading on the back of your neck. You shake your head, gritting your teeth as his feet drag down the sidewalk. You hate to think of the scuff marks it’s sure to leave on his sneakers “No, Jun. We’ve gotta get you home.”

“I wanted to walk you home tonight,” he croaks, his words followed by a few hiccups. “It’s your sort-of-birthday, I should – I should be carrying you.”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just focus on walking. Left foot, right foot, left –”

“No.” He plants his feet, legs wobbling. The movement is so sudden that it causes you to trip, bringing him crashing to the cold hard ground with you. The back of your head smacks against the pavement, his form crashing down atop of you. You hiss in pain, but you quickly push the feeling aside, sitting up to grab Yeonjun’s shoulders.

“Are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his dull ones for any hint of pain. He blinks at you slowly, lips settled into a pout as he brings his hands up to cup your face. His palms are clammy, fingertips rough with guitar-string callouses.

“Yeonjun.” You grab hold of his wrists, voice dripping with worry. “Are you hurt? Talk to me.”

“Do you love me, Y/N?”

The question is so sudden, it freezes you to your core. You go still, hands clasped around his wrists.

“Of course I love you, Yeonjun.” The words require no thought on your end, spilling from your lips freely. You’ve said them so many times, you’re not sure why he even feels the need to ask you to say them again. Maybe you’ve done a worse job at showing it than you thought.

He frowns, brows knit as always. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much do you love me?” You can see tears brimming in his eyes, and your heart aches.

“So, so much, Yeonjun,” you say, running your finger along the back of his hand in a soothing rhythm. “More than you could ever imagine. I’d do anything for you. Anything at all.”

He sighs, eyes falling shut. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Would you catch the stars for me?”

It’s an odd question. If he weren’t completely wasted and practically sobbing in your arms in the middle of the street, you might even find it to be an endearing one. “Yeah, sure. I’d catch the stars. I’d bring each and every one of them down to the ground for you.”

“What about the moon?”

“The moon too. If you asked me for it, I’d give it to you. I’d give you anything, Jun.”

He stares at you in silence, a single tear falling down his cheek, hanging onto his jaw.

“Kiss me,” he rasps, leaning even closer so that his lips are only a breath away from yours.

For some reason, you’re hesitating. His lips are practically against your own already, tempting you closer to the comfort they always provide for you, melting the worries of your small and insignificant world to nothing as you’re taken over by thoughts of nothing but him.

But tonight, you don’t want your worries to fall to the wayside. You’re searching his eyes again and remember how you used to see the stars shining in them. Tonight, you curse the city lights under your breath. They’ve killed your shot at seeing the starlight’s reflection there when you need it the most.

His eyes fall shut. “Y/N. Kiss me.”

Your throat feels tight, the worries in your mind pressing in on you, like the walls of a prison cell that are about to cave in, locking you forever in their grasp. They come closer, and closer, until you fear they’ll suffocate you and swallow you whole.

You throw away any reservations, closing the distance between yourself and Yeonjun, taking his lips captive with yours. Every clash of your teeth, every swipe of his tongue against your chapped lips, every breathless whisper of your name falling from his mouth – it all pushes the negative thoughts further and further away. His kiss is a haven, despite the burn of the cherry soju, just like you knew it would be.

You’re reminded once more, as you are every moment of every day: you love him. You love him, and it’s still enough to get you by.

----------

No matter how many times Yeonjun wakes up in bed with a hellish hangover, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the pain and guilt that simultaneously wash over him within an instant of him opening his eyes to the late afternoon light seeping through his window.

When he turns over on his side, squinting against the brightness in the room, his guilt multiplies tenfold when he realizes that you’re not in bed next to him. Again.

He sits up, running his hand over his eyes. He takes a whiff of his own breath, nearly gagging at the rancid smell of sour soju that pours out of him. One sniff is all the motivation he needs to drag himself out of bed and stumble towards the bathroom. He grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste, getting to work at remedying the horrible version of morning breath that’s plaguing him.

The memories of the night before are coming back to him, playing one by one in his head like a bad movie looping on a broken DVD player, skipping and replaying all the most dreadful moments, savoring the bad luck of the lovers on screen. He squeezes his eyes shut, scrubbing furiously at his back teeth as his mind works against him once more, reminding him of how badly he’s screwed up, of how awful you must feel, of how you’re definitely not going to bring it up to him, and of how he’ll need to make it up to you for certain this time, promising you to never screw up that badly ever again.

He spits into the sink, turning on the water to rinse it down. He watches it go down the drain, eyes unfocused as his mind races. He’s tired, he’s so tired of this vicious cycle that he puts you through every week – no, every day. He can promise himself til the end of the world that he’s going to change, that he’s going to abandon his reckless ways, that he won’t let the thoughts win ever again.

But he’s afraid. He can hardly believe his own promises now. How long can he keep convincing you to have faith in him, when his faith in himself is already gone?

He hears the front door to the apartment open, followed swiftly by your voice. “Jun? You up?”

He turns the faucet off after splashing a bit of cold water in his face. “Yeah, in here.”

“Ah, perfect. You’re already here,” You say as you turn the corner into the bathroom. There’s a plastic bag in your hand, and you set it on the counter, pulling the items out one by one. A box of black hair dye. Conditioner. A pair of plastic gloves. A plastic mixing bowl and a brush.

“What’s this?” Yeonjun picks up the box of hair dye, turning it over in his hands.

“Your roots are growing in.” You stand on your toes, gently pulling your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut for just a moment, savoring the touch, before the guilt in his stomach pulls him back to reality. “I know it’s not really in the budget for you to go back for another bleach, yeah?”

He nods, setting the box dye back on the counter. “You’re gonna dye it for me?”

“Of course.” You respond without hesitation, and he’s not surprised. Your words from the night before are seeping into his brain, clouding everything else around him.

If you asked me for it, I’d give it to you. I’d give you anything, Jun.

You’re prying open the box, pouring the color and developer into the bowl. His throat feels tight. Whether it’s from the chemicals or the lump of regret he’s been harboring for what feels like decades, he’s not sure.

Per your instructions, he sits down on the closed toilet as you pull on the plastic gloves. You clip up a section of his hair, slowly working the product into his blonde strands, fried from too much bleach. Every touch from you against his scalp, every brush of your chest against his shoulders, every breath from your lips that he feels gently caress his neck as you lean in for a better angle is working a fire up within him. He’s suffocating from the inside out. He needs you closer, your touch, everything. The fire is creeping his way through his stomach, invading his lungs, burning his throat. He needs you. Yet, at the same time, he wants you to step as far away from him as possible. He’s afraid, so afraid, of this consuming fire within him jumping from himself to you, burning you alive right along with him.

He’s quiet during the entire process, and so are you for the most part, only the occasional hum from your lips breaking the silence. He realizes you’re humming one of his songs. His eyes burn. He chooses to blame it on the chemicals.

“Okay,” you say when you’re finished covering his hair with the black dye. “All done. I’m gonna hop in the shower while it develops, then you can rinse it out.” He nods, and you narrow your eyes. “Jun. Have you eaten today?”

He gulps. “No. . . Kinda just woke up.”

You huff out a breath, pulling the gloves from your hands tossing them in the garbage. “Go eat, please. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

You practically shove him out of the bathroom and towards the kitchen before turning back to put the shower on. He glances over his shoulder, seeing that you’ve left the door cracked open. He wanders towards the fridge, trying not to itch his scalp. The dye burns a bit, but he barely notices.

He finds a cup of yogurt and fishes a spoon from the drawer, propping himself against the counter as he slowly starts on his “breakfast”. Soon enough, he’s finished the cup and he hears you shut the water off.

“Jun!” You call. “It’s time!”

“Mm, coming,” he mumbles, tossing his garbage into the can before he slowly makes his way back to the bathroom. He pushes the door open, a thick cloud of steam hitting him instantly. He waves his hand through the air a bit and stops when he sees you through the fog, nothing but a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet and sticking to your shimmering skin. His breath catches in his throat as his eyes travel up your body, tracing all the curves and edges until he meets your gaze.

You smile softly at him. “Ready?”

“Ready?” He rasps, clearing his throat. “I mean – for what?”

“To rinse your hair?”

He swallows. “Oh.” He pulls off his tee shirt, leaving him in just his boxers. He feels warm as the steam wraps around his bare skin. You push back the shower curtain and motion for him to step inside. He sees the stool that you’ve set on the floor of the shower and sits down, watching as you step in behind him. You pull the shower head down and turn the water on, testing the temperature on your hand before letting the water run over his hair, gently running your fingers through his locks.

The water is lukewarm and muddied from the black dye, trickling down his neck and bare chest. He’s not sure why he feels so guilty for the way his heart is pounding against his chest, the way his hands are aching to touch you as you stand behind him and rinse the product out. He’s been with you for so long and he’s seen every part of you time and time again, but no matter how much he tries, he can never seem to shake the nervousness that overcomes when he feels your breath down his neck, sending sparks flying down his spine, igniting a fire in his veins that he had no means of extinguishing. Every touch of your fingertips against his scalp pains him. It makes him want you more and more.

“Y/N.” His voice is raspy. He clears his throat. “How long is this gonna take?”

“I’m supposed to rinse until the water runs clear.” You’re leaning down when you answer him, probably to get a better angle as you continue to run your hands through his hair as you rinse. He’s sure you’re unaware of the way your lips accidentally brush against the shell of his ear when you speak, but he isn’t so lucky. He can’t ignore it. The sparks are running all along his skin now.

He swallows. Hard. “And how long does that usually take?”

You laugh lightly, your fingers casually sliding a bit further down the nape of his neck before retreating back behind his hairline. “Why, Jun? Do you have somewhere to be?”

He doesn’t understand how you still can’t seem to see the agony you’re causing him. He doesn’t quite understand it himself; he’s made you his countless times. Yet, for some odd reason, he still feels the same desperation, the same urgency, the same overwhelming longing for your skin against his as if it’s the first time all over again.

He reaches behind him and clasps a hand around your wrist, stilling your movement. His chest is rising and falling with labored breaths, water continuing to slide down his skin, pooling beneath his feet.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He slowly pulls your hand down, your palm sliding over his shoulder and down his chest. By pulling your hand down, he’s also drawn you closer to him. He feels the rough fabric of your towel against his back. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You’re closer now; he can feel your breath against his neck more distinctly than before. Your breathing has become labored to match his own. He feels your chest push against his back with each inhale. He tilts his head back so he’s looking up at you as you loom over him. Your cheeks are flushed, and he’s unable to tell if it’s because of him or the lingering steam. He keeps one hand over yours on his chest and brings the other up to cradle your jaw, his fingers lightly grazing over your cheekbone.

“Jun.” You inhale sharply after whispering his name, still holding the showerhead in your other hand. The water is pointed at the shower floor now, occasionally splashing up onto his legs. He pulls your face down, closer to his own, until his nose is brushing against your skin. Then, his lips are against yours, soft and gentle, heart fluttering in his chest.

You sigh against him, your hand moving freely along his chest now, tracing circles across his damp skin. He moves his other hand up to hold the other side of your face, pulling you further against him. He wants to remain gentle, afraid of the intensity of the fire that continues to blaze within him. Yet, as though entranced, he parts his lips and closes them around yours with more pressure than before. You hum at the movement, your hand halting briefly against his chest before slowly sliding lower down his stomach, reaching dangerous territory as your fingers tease the waistline of his boxers.

Electrified by the sensation, Yeonjun loses control. He breaks the kiss, leaving you with your mouth agape as he stands abruptly, prying the running shower head from your grasp and hanging it back in its place. The water pours over both of you now like rain, black from the dye as it runs down Yeonjun’s bare chest. He tosses the stool out of the shower, ridding himself of the only obstacle between himself and you.

He cups your neck in his hand, pulling you flush against his chest as he collides with you once more, desperate and feverish as his teeth graze your bottom lip. You gasp against him, hands sliding up his back, tangling themselves in his dripping black hair. He turns and pushes you back against the wall, hands desperate as they work to unravel the towel that still covers you. He tosses it over the curtain rod once you’re free of it, his lips trailing down to explore what he’s just uncovered. Your hands are still in his hair, small gasps and moans slipping past your lips when he reaches the sensitive spots on your chest with his lips, biting gently before smoothing the skin over with his tongue.

Your hands slide down his chest, followed by a trail of black from his hair as they wrap around to his hips. You pull him into you as his mouth travels back up to the crook of your neck, grinding your hips against his. He gasps, biting at your skin when you make contact.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he whispers, palms covering your breasts as you push yourself into him once more. He groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder as you continue to move against him rhythmically, kissing along his collarbone.

“Yeonjun,” you rasp, moaning softly when he slides his knee between your legs, pushing against your sensitive spot.

“I want you, Y/N.” He knows you know this, but he feels the need to say it at this moment.

You still at his words. He raises his head, eyes meeting yours. He can’t be sure if it’s tears or the shower water, but something is welling in your eyes.

He furrows his brow, brushing your sopping hair behind your ear. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “Nothing. I just– I needed to hear that.” You softly push your lips against his, sliding his boxers down as you kiss him slowly.

“I love you, Jun,” you whisper against him, jumping up to wrap your legs around his waist. He catches you, holding you against him as he kisses you back, gingerly, closing his eyes and shutting out the pain he had just seen in your gaze.

He’s too aware now– aware of why there were tears in your eyes. About the guilt he’s felt all these months, and the sickening feeling that has been growing in the pit of his stomach; it’s all become so clear to him. The way he’s been holding onto you so tightly, without thinking about how he’d been dragging you down with him. How he’s been so afraid of the person he was becoming that he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with himself– without you.

Because he knows, at the end of the day, that you would do anything for him without him even having to ask. That you would stay beside him with claw marks in your skin and bruises around your wrists from how desperate he had been to keep you there, no matter the cost.

He knows that you would ruin yourself a million times over for him. You would never let him go.

Not without him letting you go first.

----------

You had heard it said before that everything would feel just right for a fraction of a moment right before it all went so horribly wrong, so horribly fast.

It’s subtle at first. You open your eyes, smiling as the sunlight trickles through the open window. Rolling onto your side, you reach out your arm, hoping to brush your hand against his skin. When you find the space beside you to be empty, you’re disappointed, but not particularly surprised. This is to be expected.

However, when you sit up, something is off. Everything is too quiet, too empty. You slide out of bed, wandering into the kitchen, heart rate increasing with each step you take.

“Jun?” You call, biting the inside of your cheek when silence is the only response.

You see a note taped to the front of the fridge. Your breath catches.

Before even reading it, you’re certain you know what it says. There’s a feeling somewhere deep in your gut, toiling like a stormy sea.

You hold your breath as you pull the note off and begin to read.

Y/N,

Have I ever told you how much you remind me of the moon? You are soft, glowing, lighting the darkness. Constant – even when I can’t see you, I know you are there. Somber, kind. Beautiful.

Everything.

How could I deserve to love the moon when, right now, I can barely even see the stars?

I am the tide. Pulling close to you, then rushing far away. I want to stay close, but right now, I can’t. Something pulls me back, each time.

I love you. So, so much. Because I love you, I have to let you go. I need help. The kind of help that would be cruel to continue asking you to give me. I want to get better, not just for you, but for myself as well.

My moon, please continue to shine. I may not see you, but I will always know you are there. And, like the tide, you will still hear me, even from afar. In the songs on the breeze, the melodies in the trees, the steady beat of your heart. Remember me in all of it.

When the time is right, and if I can get better, I will find you again. I promise. But in the meantime, I ask you just one thing: don’t waste away waiting for me to return. Live. To the fullest, in the most beautiful way you can. Please don’t forget to live.

Love, Jun

Teardrops stain the paper. Your hand shakes as you sink to the ground, unsure of what sounds leave you as your chest heaves, eyes squeezing shut to block out the sunlight that now feels blinding.

Yet, in the midst of it all, something small and warm settles into the pit of your chest. It burns, yet it comforts you. As you sob, fists wrapped up in the soft fabric of his tee shirt that you had fallen asleep in, you pretend that you are holding on to that warm feeling, keeping it close, never letting go.

This feeling – this hope – is what keeps you going. You know that, despite it all, you will not forget to live.

----------

THE SUN SETS, AND YOU FEEL AT PEACE.

The soft pinks and purples of the last bit of sunset begin to fade, rippling away with the ocean’s waves as the sun sinks beneath the horizon line. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as the salt air fills your nose. The sand is cooling beneath your feet and you shiver as the breeze flows by, wrapping your cardigan tighter around your shoulders.

There’s nobody behind you now, but that’s okay.

A bell dings in the distance. You turn, letting your eyes slide open.

You aren’t sure if it’s him at first, partially due to the distance, and partially because his hair is now back to his natural black color. He’s riding his bike, dinging the small bell from the handle. As he approaches, you can see the soft smile settling on his lips. In his hand, he holds an ice cream cone.

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but you smile, so big you can’t help but laugh.

He stops in front of you, nearly dropping the ice cream cone from his hand before he lets the bike fall to the ground. His own eyes are full of tears, but he too smiles, stars dancing in his eyes. He extends the ice cream cone to you, and you smile wider, fingers brushing against his as you grab hold of it. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

Your heart skips a beat at his voice. “Thank you, Jun.”

You’re both silent, soaking in the presence of one another, listening to the waves crash against the shore, saltwater spraying across your ankles. His head is tilted towards the sky.

“Look up,” he whispers.

You lean your head back, sighing in contentment as the moon comes into sight.

“It’s beautiful,” you say.

His hand slides into yours.

“Yes. You are.”

#txt imagines #txt oneshots #choi yeonjun #soobmint #txt series #txt au #txt fic #txt scenarios #txt x reader #yeonjun suggestive #yeonjun angst #yeonjun oneshot #yeonjun drabbles #yeonjun scenarios #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun fic #yeonjun au #yeonjun x reader #txt yeonjun

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floef-likes-minecraft · 2 days ago

Text

We Fixed Tango's Redstone

Wordcount: 862 Summary: Grian and Pearl decide to fix Hungry Hermits

Grians heart was beating in his chest. A hot bead of sweat rolled over his cheek and he blinked hard against the growing numbness in his mind. He needed to be sharp, sharper than ever as this was a task so impactful he couldn’t afford to mess it up.

He flexed his fingers in the hope it would stop them from shaking. The task was simple at heart, but if he messed up the consequences would be detrimental. That didn’t mean he knew what would happen, he just knew it would be bad.

Pearl was watching over his shoulder and he felt her breath against his skin. She had whispered the instructions to him, but grew agitated at his hesitation. Just do it she had whispered. That was easy for her to say, if anything went wrong she could always blame him. She wouldn’t have touched it, Grian had.

“Are we sure of this?” Grian asked for the ninth time. “Do I have you permission, Pearl?”

“Look, it’s already broken,” Pearl said, though she was lacking conviction. She too was well aware of Grians capabilities of breaking redstone. It was a small miracle the belly of this beast of a minigame was still in tact apart from the malfunction Pearl had noticed earlier. This was also because Pearl had pulled Grian away from more than one button down here. In Grians defense, they looked important.

“Tango will kill us both if this goes wrong,” Grian tried again. He stared the dropper down, as if that was going to make the singular stone in it jump over to the hopper by itself. Grian loved problems that fixed themselves, though this didn’t seem to be one of those.

“He won’t find us in this mess of redstone noodles anyway,” Pearl remarked, which made Grian snicker and offload some of the nerves. This place would be excellent for a game of hide and seek, maybe even better than Joels base.

“Alright, I’m going to do it,” Grian said, though he didn’t move a muscle.

“Do it,” Pearl pushed.

“Maybe we just wait for Tango.”

“I – no, this should be it. It’s a timer, there should be eleven stone in that hopper. Absolutely, that should be it.”

“Right, right, with your permission – “

“Grian just do it you make me doubt myself!”

“Then maybe we just don’t!” Grian turned around, almost knocking Pearl of her socks. He couldn’t handle this, this was too much pressure for him so early in the morning. “We’ll get Tango.”

“He’s asleep,” Pearl argued as she quickly redid her ponytail. She barely wore he hair tied back, but it seemed like a wise thing to do down here. Grian felt like just the slightest pressure on a redstone line would send the whole place sky high.

“He needs that,” Grian agreed quickly. Tango had a reputation of having a terrible sleeping schedule so he would hate to wake him. He’d hate it so much he might as well liked messing with his redstone more, which said a lot.

“What if… I do it and we just run?” Grian suggested. “Get out before this thing kills us.”

“Eh, do you remember the way out in that case?” Pearl asked, and rightfully so. Grian could probably find his way out, but not in a matter of seconds.

“Just imagine how impressed he will be with us,” Pearl started again, as that had been one of her main arguments to try and fix this thing. “You’ll lose your reputation of breaking every redstone machine you look at.”

“That’s going to take more than just fixing one machine,” Grian instantly said, which was something Pearl knew as well. “And by the way, I’m not taking any credit for it. You discovered it, you are just to afraid to do it.”

“What?” Pearl actually sounded somewhat offended by that. “No, I’m not! I can perfectly well do it myself, just watch.”

As she reached over to the dropper, Grian stepped in. He couldn’t bare it if this thing went south and Tango would blame Pearl. Like Pearl said, Grian already had a reputation of destroying every machine he touched. He wrecked Doc’s tunnelbore and survived to tell the tale, this couldn’t be much worse.

Before Pearl could reach into the dropper, Grian trusted his arm into the small hole and felt around for the stone. He had grabbed it before Pearl could even cry out in surprise and dropped it in the hopper as if it was burning hot. He backed away from the timer, grabbing Pearl by her arm in the process and several levers and blocks started to move. Redstone flashed around them and…

Not much happened. Sounds went off around them, but Grian didn’t hear any explosions. No, it got… quiet, after a good minute. The ever lasting music ended and, best of all, that annoying phone stopped ringing.

“Did… did we do it?” Grian whispered. Pearl breathed out, then nodded.

“The sounds are good,” she said in the same hushed voice. “Yes – that right there, that is the noise that the game is finished. We did it, G. We fixed Tango’s redstone.”

#this was so fun to watch so I did a little reimagined rewrite of it #grian #pearlescentmoon #hungry hermits #hermitfic #hermitcraft #hermitcraft s10 #floef writes #mcyt

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babybearnation · 1 day ago

Note

arthur with a partner recovering from a bad mental health period?

arthur leclerc x gn!reader (mental health recovery headcanons)

your mental health had gotten worse to the point that it started to affect your day to day life in a way that was unavoidable

you took time out of school/work to get yourself through this part of your life

the worst part was your friends turning their back on you when you couldn't stay on top of your hygiene or when you couldn't stop crying

but luckily, not everyone abandoned you

arthur remained by your side throughout everything

helping you when you needed it, never pushing you to do things before you were ready

arthur was incredibly patient with you and never once made you feel bad for struggling

when things finally got better, arthur helped you get back into the world again

he helped you shower and brush your teeth and do everything you needed to feel refreshed

he cooked you food and ate with you, not pushing you to eat more than you could handle

arthur even cleared his schedule for a few weeks to help you get about and get back into the world again

he didn't understand how struggling went for you, how it ruined your life for days at a time

but he did understand that you needed time and support

and he knew how to be patient and pick you back up

arthur would always be careful with you and when you finally got back on your feet, you made sure to thank him and gift him something as a token of your appreciation

he promised you never would need to thank him for taking care of you, but you always did and, deep down, he really appreciated that

#ᵔᴥᵔ fics #sir bear's sweetheart special #bear's anons #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #al39 #al39 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #f1 #f1 x reader #babybearnation

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snowflakeanimelover · 1 day ago

Text

Title: Change For The Better

Fandom: The Walking Dead

Relationship: Daryl Dixon x OC

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, child abuse, young Daryl and Merle, Flashbacks, loneliness, Katelyn’s kind of a creep, Daryl is a jerk

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Summary: The apocalypse was like a nightmare come true. No one had expected it to really come into reality, until the day the dead started walking around, feasting on human flesh. It was a sight no one could forget. And, frankly, it doesn’t seem to end.

It’s been two years since the virus took over the world, taking about half of the world's population along with it. Katelyn Davidson has been on her own practically the whole time. Due to past experiences, she is unable to bring herself into being in a survival group once more. However, that all seems to change when she runs into her childhood friend, Daryl Dixon.

Past trauma, memories, and conflict comes back to the surface between the two friends. Despite the world changing for the worse, maybe Katelyn and Daryl can change for the better.

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Note: so….i have never dealt with or met someone who has experienced abuse. I apologize if there is anything wrong related to that. No, there will not be any explicit abuse scenes…well, from her childhood anyway. Typical TWD violence will be in the story. I’m kind of just going off of things I’ve learned from movies, and might be looking things up here and there.

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Master list | …

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Chapter 1

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Katelyn stepped into the forest, the familiar crunch of leaves underfoot bringing her a sense of calm. At just ten years old, she often sought refuge among the tall trees, escaping the chaos at home. With each stride, the world's weight faded away, and the forest welcomed her like an old friend. She had wandered these trails before—sometimes as a retreat, to dream—and today, she was eager to discover the hidden wonders just beyond the next bend. This was her secret world, and adventure awaited her.

The nature around her was loud. The branches snapping under her feet, leaves crunching into pieces from her weight, birds chirping in the trees, and the branches groaning above her as the wind makes them dance. This was her peace. The home she had always wanted.

Katelyn always kept herself busy in the forest near her home. She was always by herself, making up games she could play, and running around the trees to entertain herself. It was calm and peaceful, and there was nothing to bother her.

As many times as she has been out here, she has never seen anyone else. Maybe a few animals here and there, such as squirrels or rabbits. Seeing the creatures was joyful for her. She enjoyed chasing them around, seeing if she could pet it or at least get a better look at it.

Today was a lucky day for her, she believes. While she hopped over logs with a big grin, her expression brightens when she catches sight of a white rabbit a few feet away from her. A breathy giggle leaves her lips as she hops down from the log she was standing on, trying to be as quiet as she could while approaching the small creature.

However, the rabbit perks up, noticing her coming close. In a panicked reaction, it quickly runs off, finding shelter to hide. Katelyn doesn’t let this get past her, though, and she chases right after it.

The trees are winding as she runs through them, jumping over roots and logs to not trip and avoiding branches that hang low. She hadn’t run far from the spot she noticed the rabbit. The creature was quick, but she managed to keep her eye on it, following it through the quiet forest.

As soon as she ducks a branch to follow it further, she suddenly stops. Her happy grin falls at the sight before her, a tall boy standing there. He had wild brown hair that stuck up in all sorts of directions, with cautious blue eyes staring back at her. Katelyn shifts from one foot to the other, completely forgetting about the white rabbit that most likely got away, and begins to fidget with her hands. She has never met this boy before. He’s a little taller than her, maybe a little older. His clothes consist of a brown and black flannel, unbuttoned to show a stained dark grey shirt underneath. His jeans were loose, dirty and unkempt.

She didn’t know what to do. She doesn’t talk to people much, especially ones around her age. At school, she often keeps to herself, and her classmates like to keep their distance with her. “….Hi…” she finally murmurs, trying to gather as much courage as she could to speak to the boy.

The boy, however, looks rather annoyed by her presence. She hadn’t noticed before, but he had a couple sticks and a bundle of wire in his hands. “Who the hell are you?” He grumbles, his glare full of curiosity and caution.

Katelyn instinctively blinks at the curse word, remembering how often her parents use them around her in a fit of rage. She didn’t visibly flinch, but it certainly made her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, hanging her head. Is he mad at her? Did she do anything to make him feel that way?

A scoff leaves his lips as he takes a step back, half turning away to leave. “Go home. Ain’t nothin’ ‘round here for yah.”

She doesn’t say anything as she looks up, watching him walk away, deeper into the forest. His shabby shoes shuffled through the dead leaves, causing small sticks to snap under his weight in his path.

The one thing Katelyn knew, at this very moment, is that she didn’t want to go home. Not now, anyway. She still had time before her parents would even notice she’s gone. So, she takes it upon herself to follow the boy. She kept her distance, but she was too curious not to keep him in her sights. Why was he there, in the forest? Did he live nearby? She has never seen him in this area before, nor anyone, for that matter. What was he up to?

Katelyn seemed to have gotten away with following him for a little bit longer. He never looked back to see if she was there, assuming he doesn’t even know she’s following. Soon enough, the boy stops walking, putting one knee on the ground as he looks around the area. She watches as he grabs a sapling tree near him. He begins to pull on the tree, making it bend down to where he can tie some of the wire at the end.

She was perplexed by what he was doing. She has never seen anything like it, quite curious to what he was making. When he stands back up, some sort of contraption is made. The tree is bent downwards against its will, held in that place by a wire that was attached to two carved sticks in the ground. The wire soon ends in a large loop, resting on the ground.

Katelyn doesn’t notice he has a knife until he stuffs it in his back pocket. A pocket knife, Katelyn could guess. Just as she’s ready to follow him some more, The boy turns around, his eyes meeting hers. This time, his expression holds more irritation than annoyance. “What the hell are yah doin’, huh? I said go home!” He snaps, flicking his wrist at her to point somewhere behind her, a gesture for her to leave. “Quit followin’ me ‘round…” he then murmurs under his breath, turning back around to leave.

Before he can leave, though, they hear a set of heavy footsteps coming their way. “Alright, little brother,” a raspy voice with a heavy southern accent grabs their attention. Katelyn could see a figure approaching, a taller man in about the same kind of clothing as the boy. He’s skinny and looks to be in his late teens. “Got some snares up an’ runnin’?” He asks, stopping his tracks once he’s by the boy.

The boy doesn’t respond, simply looking up at his older brother, as if that was enough to get him to notice the girl following him. His brother doesn’t seem to notice. He looks around, seeing the snare that was set up, but his eyes soon move up to the small figure behind it. *A girl*.

“Now would you look at that,” he grins, looking down at his little brother as he pats him on the shoulder. “Found yerself a little girlfriend, huh?” He snickers.

The boy visibly grimaces at that, and shakes his head. “Shut up, Merle! Ran into her earlier, an’ she’s been followin’ me ‘round since.” He practically scowls at her when he looks her way.

“Ah, don’ get yer panties in a twist,” Merle chuckles, stepping around his brother to approach the girl. “You lost there, girl?”

Katelyn cautiously steps back as he approaches, a memory of her father stepping up to her like that, angry, flashes in her mind.

“Now, now,” Merle starts, noticing her rising fear. He slows his steps, eventually kneeling down to her height about two feet away. “I ain’t gonna hurt yah.” He sits there for a moment, seeing as she hasn’t run off yet. “You from ‘round here?”

Her green orbs study him, taking a moment to answer his question. She soon nods, a little too shy to speak.

Merle nods, satisfied that she answered. “Why don’t you run on home now, huh?” A friendly grin quirks up. “An’ keep what yah saw to yerself.”

She fidgets, her fingers playing with the end of her shirt. Once again, she nods, keeping his words to heart as she turns and runs off to where she came.

“She’s gonna tell someone,” Daryl says once the girl was out of their sight, giving his older brother a worried look.

Merle huffs as he pushes himself off of the ground, turning back to the boy. “She ain’t gonna tell no one,” he reassures, patting Daryl’s back a little more roughly then he intended as he walks by. “Now come on. Got a couple more snares to put up.”

The fact of meeting a new person was intriguing to Katelyn. Maybe it’s because she’s always alone, but either way, she couldn’t help but to follow the two males she met in the forest. The day after she met them, she had returned to the cover of trees to see if they were there. She ran all over, seeing if she could see anything that wasn’t just foliage and animals. When she did run into the younger boy again, this time, she was more cautious. She stayed a distance away, simply following him around as he undid all of the snares he and his brother put up.

Katelyn told herself that following him was just wrong. It didn’t look right, and it might even make them suspicious of her. However, she couldn’t bring herself to greet the boy or speak up. She was….scared. She has always had trouble making friends.

Her constant following went on for a few weeks. She would run to the same forest whenever she could to look for them, see what they were up to. And everyday, she always wondered if she’ll get to finally speak up to them.

However…she never could. Katelyn always got too scared, too nervous to make the move to make a friend. Over the few weeks, she had heard the brothers talk. She had always wondered why the older one told her to keep quiet about what they were doing, or that they were there. It’s because they don’t live in this area, and were illegally hunting on private property. The good thing to do was to go tell her parents, but….she knew her parents wouldn’t believe a word she says. Despite that, she was intrigued by them, and didn’t want them to go.

The sun beating down on the forest gave the dense forest life. Katelyn found the sun shining through the trees to be a beautiful sight. She’d often sit on a log, hold her rabbit stuffed animal, and watch the forest before her. She’d watch it move, come to life. The wind makes the trees and grass dance and the animals pass by on their journey of survival.

Today, however, Katelyn wasn’t admiring nature. Instead, she was following the younger brother from a distance, as usual. Everytime she came out here, she’d tell herself she’d finally go up to him, which she found out his name is Daryl, And talk to him. She wanted to be friends. She wanted to learn what he’s doing.

When Katelyn started following Daryl around the forest, she noticed he was alone again. His older brother was probably off doing his own routine or something. As she followed him, she noticed he’s a pretty quiet kid. He hardly ever spoke, unless spoken to. Although, so,times, he’d speak out about his opinions to his brother when needed.

Before Katelyn could continue to scold herself for not making a move, Daryl suddenly runs off. His steps were hurried, and she practically jumped at his quick action. Why did he run? Did he see something scary? Did something spook him? The action must have been contagious, as Katelyn finds herself chasing right after him. She didn’t want to lose sight of him, scared that if there was something chasing them, she’d have him there to protect her…right?

Just as she rounds a tree, where she last saw Daryl disappear behind, her path is abruptly stopped. Katelyn hadn’t processed the impact her body received from whatever she ran into, and she yelps in pain when she falls back onto the dirty ground.

Katelyn lets out gasps of hair from her overworked lungs, craning her head back to see what she ran into. To her surprise, it was the boy she has been following for the past few weeks.

Oh no, he saw her! What kind of excuse could she make?

She doesn’t get a chance to speak, though, when she notices Daryl’s harsh snarl. “I told yah to stop followin’ me!” He yells at her, teeth bared and shoulders stiff. “Yer such a creep! You don’t think I didn’t notice?”

Katelyn’s breaths instinctively quicken, watching as he steps closer, his hand moving around as he points at her angrily. She could feel her cheeks burn in embarrassment, and her eyes beginning to burn as tears unwillingly swell up.

“Yah got nothin’ better to do? Go to yer parents! Play with them, huh? You got friends, don’tcha?” He continues, each word being spat out with such irritation and force, she could feel the spit sprinkle on her skin. “Quit botherin’ me! It ain’t any of yer business what we do here—“ Daryl’s rant comes to a stop before he could finish, suddenly noticing what the girl before her was doing. He hadn’t noticed as he was trying to scare her off, but now, he does. Her body shook, trembled, as she had her knees up to her chest and her arms covering her head.

“P-Please don’t hurt me,” she hiccups, sobbing in fear.

Daryl didn’t have to ask why the hell she was so freaked out. He knows this. He knows, just by looking at her, what this meant.

She’s been abused.

He now realizes that his harsh words and threatening movements must have been a trigger to her trauma, and she freaked out, thinking he’ll hurt her. That thought alone makes his hands clench into tight fists, feeling his nails dig into his skin.

Daryl knows exactly what she’s been through. And although he won’t say it out loud, seeing her so scared of him makes him feel…guilty. “I’m not…” He starts awkwardly, now more calm. He reminds himself to take a step back, give her space. “I’m not gonna hurt you…” he mutters. He had no idea how to comfort someone like her, how to comfort anyone in general.

When she doesn’t respond, still too in her head as she cries into her knees, Daryl huffs. He wasn’t any good at this. He knows his brother isn’t either. Daryl eventually lets out a sigh, hesitating before he moves. He cautiously steps up to her, slowly lowering himself to sit beside her. He wasn’t touching her, but he figured that sitting there, beside her, would be enough to show he wasn’t a threat.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, but her cries had slowly quietened into soft sniffles. She slowly lifts up her head, her eyes puffy and red, nose runny. Daryl quickly looks away, not wanting her to catch him staring.

“You’re…not going to hurt me…?” She finally speaks, her words soft and fragile.

Daryl furrows his brows, a bit offended she’d think he would. “Nah,” he shakes his head, looking down at the ground he's sitting on. “‘Course not.”

The silence between them is stifling, almost suffocating. He hates awkward situations. The only person he’s actually comfortable with is his brother. He has no other friends. “I didn’t mean to scare yah…” Daryl says. He wasn’t necessarily apologizing, but it was good enough.

Katelyn sniffles loudly, rubbing her nose before she speaks. “I’m sorry…”

“For what?”

“For…um…” she hides her face in her arms that rested on her knees, too embarrassed to look at him. “For following you…?”

He snorts, the corner of his lips quirking up into a tiny smile of amusement. “Yeah? Why were yah doin’ it anyway?”

“I just…I was curious…”

“Curious about what?” He was starting to get a little irritated. The girl was slow, quiet, and beat around the bush.

“I don’t know,” she replies instantly in defense. “I’ve never had friends, okay? I…I wanted to ask if we could be friends…”

That was enough to make him officially look at her, giving her a raised brow in question. Be friends? Why in the world would she want to be friends with him? He’s anything but a normal kid, to say the least. Obviously she’s a little younger than him, but still…he doesn’t get it. What does she see in him?

“Friends?” He echoes incredulously. “We’re strangers. Yah know nothin’ ’bout me.” The only response she gives him is a simple shrug of her shoulders, shutting down on him. He stares at her for a moment, studying her now stoic expression.

Although the thought of being friends with her repulsed him, he felt that he couldn’t just leave her like this. She’s going through the same thing as him. He has his brother, who is hardly there half of the time. He doesn’t know who she has, but…clearly she would’ve been with them if she did have someone, instead of being out here in the forest all of the time by herself.

Daryl grunts as he pushes himself off of the ground, sticks and leaves sticking to his jeans, but he didn’t bother to brush them off. “Come on,” he huffs, walking in a certain direction.

Katelyn perks up, “where are we going?” She asks, curious. To her dismay, he doesn’t respond, continuing to walk further in the forest. She scrambles off of the ground, running to catch up to him.

For once in a long time, she’s smiling. Because, no matter how hard it is to read him, she feels that he has accepted her.

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