#this turned into chaos oops

[hyperfixatinglove]

Hey Roe! How about 🌱, 🥀, 🧾 and 🔒 from the sleepover asks? (Choose any f/os you like!)

@noire-lover Love to see you on my dash again & screaming for the name usage ♥

🌱 Who was your first F/O?

My first ever was Michelangelo from TMNT 2003 :D I was like kindergarden age when I imagined myself w him on rooftops haha. He was in my F/O list for a while but I didn't like my s/i. She was like mutated cat since Mikey is mutated turtle. I still have soft spot for him. If I could find my native dub of 2003 TMNT more easily perhaps he would still be in the list. Mikey is the reason I tend to drift towards guys with humor (like Frank West). The first F/O on my official list was Ushio of course.

🥀 Talk about some of your fictional crushes and why they aren’t your F/O!

Mentioned Mikey above so perhaps I could discuss this. I have a lot of fleeting crushes, usually from random video games I watch on YT that never make it on my f/o list. Some aren't even crushes it's just romantic interest, possibility that never goes anywhere.

Some of these for example are Joel Miller from tlou game & John Bradford from xcom 2 who's below.

Hilariously I'm sorta haunted by Troy Baker & Brian Bloom as characters they voice is someone I often find myself having minicrushes on. Both Blazkowicz & Bradford are voiced by Brian Bloom for example, but only one is on my f/o list.

🧾 What’s your favorite headcanon someone else has made about your F/O?

I usually stay far away from general fandom & for my f/os don't even have big enough fandom for me to see headcanons. However someone had headcanon made into a fic of Ushio being reincarnated over all the YGO series since he makes cameo appearance in quite many of them (GX, Zexal, Arc V to name few) and him being aware of the fact he had lived multiply lifetimes, even vaguely remembering some details. And some details staying the same like him being an ass first and then changing and being aware that it had happened before. It just seemed fascinating to me.

🔒 What does your platonic F/O think about your F/O? Are they overprotective of you?

Hakon and Deacon are definitely overprotective of me! If I had f/o from Days Gone, Deek would be the overprotective grumpy big brother type.

But I have ton of platonic f/os I don't list like entire 5ds group from YGO 5ds or Alan Wake from the same named game. I think Alan would be on guard if I ever showed him a bf - he's keeping an eye on them, maybe talking about it with Alice who gently laughs it off and calls her husband paranoid.

Vergil would "warn" me about Jesse, how closed off and intimidating he is and asking if I'm sure and would be nervous while tinkering with his projects for Rentier Institute. He just wants me to be safe & he has nothing againt Jesse himself, but he can be off putting & appear like a brute.

T-Bone and Clara would be hilarious if I'd ever tell them I date Aiden. T-Bone would just laugh like I made the biggest joke and then say "I hope you know what you're doing" while Clara just cocks an eyebrow silently. Later T-Bone would call Aiden and kinda give him the threat call cause "She's damn civilian Aiden! What the fuck are you thinking?!". He would get fellow hacker as someone to date, but hates civilians getting involved since the incident with Blume & his own hacking in 2003

Jason Kolchek would hilarious. He and Eric aren't that close & Jason doesn't have the highest opinion of his ex-Colonel so he simply doesn't understand just what can I see in him. It's like him with women, do not compute (Jason's def gay ok) so sometimes he says something brutal and Salim will soften it and I'm just baffled.

[ravvaroniandcheese]

Dude Ive been getting so much better at drawing these guys lately, idk what this fandom is feeding me but god is it good.

[xfand0mfr34kx]

so lets just say the sketch got a little out of hand-

[a-driftamongopenstars]

"Harsh whisper" for Emily ? :3

Ohoho 👀

30. Harsh whisper

Is this what her father felt when the Outsider gifted him the mark? The exhilaration of being just one step ahead, always. An upper hand in any fight, a touch of the supernatural, a forbidden fruit so hated by the Abbey, so wanted by all others.

Now, hers.

Emily crawls with the shadows, harsh whispers of the Void filling her ears. She delights in the way her whole being elongates, disturbing and terrifying. How the unenlightened feel her presence, but cannot see, cannot tell what scares them.

Oh to be a little nightmare. Oh to see the world inside out - and make it bow.

Micro prompts ask

[impishtubist]

peter "james potter's sidepiece" pettigrew, y/n?

YES. This is what caused Peter to go over to the dark side, honestly. They started hooking up at school shortly after Remus and Sirius got together. For James, it was just an outlet, as their other two friends were always out on dates or whatnot and he wasn't making any progress with Lily, so two mates might as well help each other out, you know? Peter caught feelings, though. It continued after school, after James and Lily got engaged, after they got married, after they had a baby....James kept coming to see Peter, hooking up with him on the side, and finally Peter realized that he was never going to be anything more than James Potter's dirty little secret. He deserved more, he deserved better, and James deserved to suffer. He let James fuck him one last time after he took the dark mark. It was dark, and it was fast, and James never saw the mark on his arm, never knew that he had slept with a Death Eater.

[charascarlet]

‌so imagine some kind of void entity, but anthropomorphic (in my brain it looked like deoxys from pokemon - but like ink-black with little white/glowing accents)

‌it sends you falling through different random scenes (think like scrolling on tiktok or something, but around you and you're not the one scrolling), and you have to choose related options in a list as fast as you can/within a time limit(?) (but there's nonsense and gibberish options so you can't just mash through, but you do that anyway because you don't know how this works yet and you're already panicking)

‌it takes your list, shakes it up and adds stuff without you knowing, now (maybe falling/moving through the same scenes again?) you have to add meaning/choose other related options to those in the list, which proves very hard when at least a third of the list is gibberish. you also have to avoid the options in the list the entity added, which are made to be believable (and you don't know it has added them)

‌of course you mess up, because how could you not? the best definition for brilliant in your list is a bowl of chips, and of course you don't remember adding your cats cuddling or a salad with carrots to the list, but you didn't even notice they were there, your brain seemed to think that these options made sense among the rest (that you chose in a rush, remember), so you ignore them.

‌i can't stress this enough, but you're in a constant rush and your brain is constantly filled with images corresponding to the scenes/words in your list, so it's really hard to think straight and you keep messing up, but the entity is just toying with you. after all, it made the original options in the list, and it reveals it added some options that you foolishly chose! you can't win, you could never win, not when you don't know the rules of the game you're playing your life on! you didn't even know how you could win! the entity starts laughing.

‌it just explodes. and you die.

and that was part of my dream last night :D

yeah. here's some added context cause the dream as a whole was hilarious. or just weird. idk.

‌so at the start(?) of the dream i'm at a ski resort (it's summer. wtf) with my friends and parents (or just my dad? i don't know) and well. the "ski resort" is more like a video game dungeon without enemies. think maybe like stone tower temple from majora's mask? but like icy. so with less empty space and puzzles and enemies in the middle, with lots of ice and snow and stairs and cold metal pipes for some reason and. you know. not upside down-able.

‌there's slides to go down that stem from the sides of the building, and stairs covered in snow inside to get to the rooms (yeah cause it's a ski resort. remember. nevermind the fact that you know. the snow and cold are inside as well as outside). think like grand staircases and rooms all around.

‌cue encounters with a bunch of my friends about 'oh wow you're here too! who else is here? been enjoying it so far?' etc etc. and a race against the clock that looks suspiciously like the goron race in majora's mask (though that might've been in another dream, idk). and also an incident with one of the metal pipes that run along the walls but whatever. that's not the focus of the dream.

‌my room is at the end of a staircase, my dad's room right next to it, at the end of a corridor on one side is a series of smaller stairs that lead to a friend's room. said friend is kind of a nerd (read: completely obsessed with videogames, but i am too so uh. pot meet kettle), dad is too, though a different flavour of nerd (tabletop games, he plays bloodbowl which is like fantasy american football with lots of violence, very fun) so we go over to his room to play videogames cause fun so why not!

‌turns out his room is an actual boss battle arena. we are already inside a videogame. his room has a boss battle that gets rerolled each time you retry (read: die and come back). first boss rolled is a queen gibdo knock-off (yes i have been playing too much totk don't judge) but like. metal and snow instead of bug and sand yk. we die. we wake up in our rooms. rush to my friend's room to see if he's ok cause yk. his room is the boss arena. we get there, boss activates, same boss gets rolled, i think we win this time? idk

‌then we decided to roll the boss a third time. for funsies. the symbol on the wall that indicates which boss is being rolled turns ink-black and shows a sparkle design. i hear my friend mutter curses ('worst fucking boss') under his breath

‌boss appears. see first part of the story for the rest of the 'boss battle'. my dad and my friend are actually here too i'm just too focused on panicking to notice them yk.

‌that explosion from the boss that kills us at the end? it looks like a time bomb from totk. i promise i'm not insane about this game.

‌also right after the explosion i promptly wake up (at 7am. I wanted to sleep in :( but oh well) to write everything down cause yeah. weird-ass dream but i wanna remember it so yeah

tl;dr: my dream last night was some kind of boss fight against an entity that looked like deoxys but in black colours and that killed me for not noticing everything :D

[galvatronsthighs]

@malenkiandromeda

Sorry this is a side-blog so I can't reply/send asks

BUT I AM ALWAYS HAPPY TO SEE OTHERS GET INTERESTED IN THIS DUMB DYNAMIC I LOVE!

Roddy and Galvs had a lot of parallels I feel and don't often see them pointed out, combined with the fact Galvatron saw this little Autobot runt show up inside Unicron but still wanted to reach out against their 'common enemy' gets me feeling. Plus the fact this "no-name runt" actually did it and subdued Unicron? Fucking superb you funky little fire car!

[trashytracktales]

https://www.tumblr.com/trashytracktales/778028575513280512/hey-babe-i-cant-stop-thinking-about-lando-fucking

a fic like this would probably kill me, just saying...👀

Season opener | LN⁴

🔸️ inspired by this ask

🔸️ summary ──── After securing his first win of the season, Lando can’t wait to celebrate with his girlfriend.

🔸️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🔸️ rating ──── explicit

🔸️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, swearing, semi-public setting, desperate!Lando, unprotected sex (against the wall), mild praise kink and possessiveness, overstimulation, interrupted intimacy (oops 👀).

🔸️ word count ──── 2.7k

🔸️ date ──── Mar. 25, 2025

🔸️ a/n ──── Here’s a little quickie to hold you over before I drop a 10k (so far) one-shot later this week. That mf has been living rent-free in my brain for a month now, and if I don’t end up posting it, you guys officially have permission to throw tomatoes at me. Enjoy this while you wait 💋

THERE’S STILL A lot of noise ringing in Lando’s ears, even as he’s dragged from one obligation to the next. The podium was nice, the feeling of being drowned in champagne and cheers always welcome, even though it can get really uncomfortable. It’s been a weekend full of twists and turns that, thankfully, is coming to a happy ending for him. But the real celebration awaits in his driver’s room.

However, it seems like the universe has decided to taunt him some extra today, with the post-race interviews where every question feels like it stretches time longer than naturally possible, and the conference where he has to relive every lap, as if there weren’t thousands of cameras that captured every angle of the race.

A real-life purgatory, that’s what it feels like.

His body is still running hot, adrenaline refusing to settle and, trough it all, there’s only one thought consuming his mind. He’s trying not to think about her, though, or the orange mini dress she picked out weeks ago for the season opener. He even tries not to imagine the curves of her body every time he blinks or to hear her soft voice in his mind, that sweet whimper that makes him more tense with every touch.

Lando grips the back of his neck as he listens to another useless question, his patience wearing thin. He can still feel the weight of her teary eyes on him earlier, the way she had smiled at him when he climbed out of the car. It was quick, a moment stolen in the chaos, but he caught it. It was theirs. And ever since, he’s been aching to get back to his girlfriend.

From the conference he is dragged straight to the debriefing and, by the time that finally ends, Lando is already moving before anyone can stop him; he mutters something about needing a minute and storms down the hall. His race suit is still damp from sweat and champagne, hugging his muscles, the collar pulled loose where he had yanked at it earlier. His curls are a mess, damp at the roots, and his entire body is vibrating with something more than just the thrill of the first win of the season.

He doesn’t hesitate at all when he reaches his room. Just opens the door eagerly, closing it just as quickly. The second he sees her, his stomach flips.

She’s already standing up from the little couch, her face lighting up the moment she realizes it’s him. “Congratulations, my lo—”

Lando is on her in an instant, crossing the small space with long steps and grabbing her waist, lifting her off the ground. She gasps in surprise, laughing breathlessly as her arms wrap around his neck, her fingers threading into his damp curls at the back of his head.

“Oh! Someone missed me, I see,” she giggles, breathing against his cheek.

Lando exhales deeply, his chest heaving, hands tightening around her hips. He can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but her warmth against him, the scent of her sweet perfume mixing with the sharp tang of champagne on his suit.

“You have no idea. I was losing my fucking mind,” he admits, chuckling in return. He presses his forehead against hers, his breath hot. Purposely, his hands slide down her back, pressing her flush against him. “Thought about you the whole time. Could barely focus.”

Before she can catch her breath, her back meets the hard surface of the nearest wall. Another startled gasp leaves her lips, swallowed instantly by his mouth, his kiss demanding in ways she’s felt it before.

But not like this.

It’s the kind of kiss that takes her by surprise, leaves her thoughtless and very, very aroused. The dress has already lifted up her thighs, and they’re squeezing around him as if Lando could get out of her embrace if she’s not careful. What soothes her, however, is the fact that he is the one who pushes himself even harder against her, pressing his chest against hers until he almost leaves her out of breath.

Lando’s race suit is tight around his body, but he doesn’t have enough energy to care about anything else but her. All he knows is the way her lips part, letting him in like she has no choice, the way her fingers grip his shoulders, and the way his entire body feels like it’s still racing. Only now, it’s for and because of her.

She deepens the kiss, messy and uncoordinated, teeth grazing and tongues tangling in a tender yet rushed desire. Her hands run up the expanse of his arms, feeling the tension in his muscles as he holds her up effortlessly, her feet barely touching the ground. His biceps flex under her touch, and the realization that he’s holding back, restraining himself just enough so he doesn’t break her against that wall, only makes her more pliable in his arms.

“In here?” she asks between kisses.

Lando lets out a little noise while exhaling, feeling her heat pressed against him even through layers of clothing. One of his hands moves, lifting her dress even higher, until it hangs somewhere around the middle of her waist. His fingers are hungrily skimming her bare skin, until they find the waistband of her panties. He doesn’t have enough patience to tease. Just pulls at them, dragging the thin fabric down her thighs and letting it pool at her ankles.

“That answers your question?” asks Lando, feeling her nails digging into his shoulders as she tries to steady herself.

“Mhm,” she lets out a shaky breath, “So eager.”

Lando grins, shrugging, “Got some adrenaline left I need to burn off.”

He groans in frustration as he fumbles with his zipper, refusing to let go of her even for a second. Finally, he yanks it down just enough, his breath heavy as he works himself free with a sharp hiss. In all the rush, Lando’s hands won’t stay away from her hips for too long, keeping her exactly where he needs her.

The girl watches him, eyes filled with amusement despite the heat between them. Then she laughs, a silky sound that makes his heart race in his chest. Lando looks at her and something tender flickers in his gaze, even as he pushes his hips forward, even as the impatience still coils hot in his veins.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, lips curving into a smirk.

She shakes her head, though still amused at the image in front of her, and the way he’s so impatient he can’t even get out of the suit properly. “Nope. I think it’s hilarious.”

Lando scoffs dramatically, like he can’t believe her audacity. “Oh, yeah?” he challenges, his voice lower now. “Let’s see how funny you find this, then.”

Before she can throw another quip his way, his hand slides between her thighs, fingers trailing over her entrance with a lazy kind of intent. She sucks in a breath, all the amusement vanishing in a blink of an eye, her head knocking back against the wall as her body responds to his familiar touch.

Lando watches her reaction, the smirk widening on his flushed face. “Shit, you’re right,” he agrees, dipping his fingers in just enough to make her shudder. “It is hilarious,” he tilts his head, pretending to think. “Yeah. Getting wet so quickly almost has me rolling on the floor.”

He slides his fingers up and down her opening, then pushes two at once inside, curling them right before pulling out, only to make her squirm. Her thighs tighten around his waist, demanding more, but it’s not about her right now. It’s about him, making it a moment worthy of the Winner’s Room.

He’s painfully hard next time he cups himself, and the first press of his cock against her clit sends a shiver up her spine. Lando drags his length down her folds with uncharacteristic patience, until the distance between them diminishes completely, and he kisses her again, lazier than before. Their world becomes substantially smaller, and there’s just hot skin, erratic breathing, and the slick, aching need to be as close as possible. He lines himself up and thrusts in one smooth motion, punching a moan from her lips that she barely manages to swallow down.

Lando lets his forehead fall to hers, chuckling gently. “Not too loud, yeah?”

She shakes her head, “Don’t ruin the fun.”

He’s buried inside her, stretching so sweet that it sends a full-body shudder through her. The wall behind is harsh, but all she can focus on is the way he fills her completely. How he holds her there, with no chance to slip away. Not that she wants to be anywhere else but here, right now, with him.

Lando’s fingers grip her tighter as he pulls back, then slams into her again, feeling her walls pulsing faster around his cock. A broken whimper escapes her, her head falling defeated on his shoulder. It makes him curse under his breath, finally finding a rhythm that’s both deep and devastating. Each thrust forces a soft cry from her throat, her body moving in unison with his, nails raking down his sweaty back.

The way she pulls him in turns Lando on even more, the only sounds between them the ragged breaths and the wet, obscene noises of him fucking her right there, against the wall.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” exclaims Lando, biting down on her shoulder, his hips snapping up harder.

She lets out a hiss, her head is spinning while pleasure is building gradually, her body burning from the inside out. She fists his curls, dragging his mouth back to hers, swallowing his groans as she squeezes him.

“That’s so good, baby. Shit. Keep doing that.”

The way she feels around him, the way she moans and gasps his name, the way her body reacts to him like she was made for him — everything gets too much for Lando. Yet, he somehow finds himself craving more of her. His movements grow sloppier, pushing him to drive into her faster.

“Lando…” she moans his name in a whisper, cupping his face with the intention to kiss him. But the way he’s moving inside her makes her weak, so she ends up holding on to him with limited strength, like her life depends on it.

And right now, it does.

Their eyes meet just as he lifts her thigh higher on his waist, the small adjustment allowing him to sink deeper.

“Fuck, Lando,” she whines, her voice barely more than a breath. “You feel so—”

He doesn’t let her finish. A hard thrust has her choking on her words, and the way she clenches down around him makes his jaw go slack.

“Yes, tell me,” he urges, his voice too unsteady, hanging on by a thread, while his fingers press into the curve of her waist like he’s trying to brand himself into her skin.

She loses it, her hands tugging at his hair just to hear his little noises in return. “Feel so good, love,” she breathes heavily, her head falling back, exposing her throat. “Fucking me so good.”

A guttural curse escapes him, dragging her against him with a pace that makes her cry out in pleasure. “That so?” he rasps, his teeth grazing her jaw before his lips claim hers, swallowing every desperate sound she makes. “Then take it, baby,” he orders gently, “All of it. All for you.”

“Shit—don’t stop,” she begs, her eyes teary because of how tense with pleasure her body gets.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Feel how perfect you are? How fucking tight, hm? That’s it,” he encourages her, watching the way her lashes flutter open to look at him. “Gonna let me feel you fall apart?” asks Lando, going somehow even deeper with each thrust.

Her back arches, a broken moan spilling from her lips. She’s so full and desperate to come, and he knows she’s close; her whines and the way her body reacts giving it away in the most obvious way.

“Need you, Lan,” she breathes in spasms, “Please.”

“I can see that, baby. Come on,” he grits out, his movements turning frantic. “Let me have it.”

Her body trembles at his words, at the sheer heat in his voice. The way he holds her, firm and possessive, sends her spiraling. Every thrust, every rough snap of his hips only winds her tighter, like he’s pulling her apart piece by piece just to put her back together again.

“Lan-do,” she breathes, voice breaking on his name. “I… oh, fuck,” she can barely think anymore, barely breathe with the way he’s fucking into her, like stopping isn’t even an option.

His hand slides up her side, gripping the back of her neck, tilting her head so she has no choice but to meet his gaze again. His eyes are way too dark now, blown wide with lust, sending another wave of heat flooding through her veins. He goes harder when he sees the desire on her face, pushing her further against the wall, and she lets out a high-pitched moan before biting her lip, remembering where they are.

“Wanna feel you all over my cock,” she hears him saying, but she’s so overstimulated now that can’t quite process the meaning of his words. She’s not sure she’s even breathing as Lando presses his body against her with more force, continuing, “Be a good girl and let go for me.”

That’s all it takes. Her body seizes, her head spinning as pleasure rips through her, hot and intense. And endless. She clenches around him, pulsing, shaking, and the feeling, the sight of her unraveling for him, sends Lando spiraling too.

He chokes out a curse, burying his face in her neck as he surrenders, his hips pressing deep and desperate to keep her close as he fills her. The warmth spreads between them, spilling down her thighs, and the sheer filthiness of it only makes her moan, her fingers flying to curl in his hair once again.

Lando rests his forehead against hers, panting, his lips ghosting over her cheek. He doesn’t move away just yet. Instead, he pulls out, and a sharp whimper escapes her as she feels the mess they’ve made drip down her thighs.

Then, without warning, he pushes back in making her gasp silently this time, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“Wait, Lan,” she almost cries, her voice raw.

He keeps her still while he rolls his hips, slow and teasing, his other hand trailing down her stomach before settling low on her belly.

She shudders at the touch and at the way he’s still so deep inside of her, tilting her head and blinking heavy-lidded. “Wh—what are you doing?”

Lando barely hears her. His attention is caught on where they’re still connected, mesmerized by the way his cock glistens with their release as he continues to lazily move in and out. He watches the way her spent body still takes him in, so perfectly, his jaw clenching as pleasure coils in his gut all over again. It sends his head spinning, the wet sensation of skin on skin almost maddening.

Every shift, every sudden flutter of her walls around him, threatens to pull him under completely.

“Fuck, baby,” his raspy voice is laced with adoration. “I can look at you all day.”

Her body is already responding before her mind can catch up. She clenches around him again and again, and Lando chuckles lowly, the sound rich with satisfaction.

“Oh, shit! You like that, don’t you? Hearing how good of a girl you are for me, hm?”

She nods and, without meaning to, she tightens around him harder.

Lando’s grin turns smug. “Yeah, you do,” his hips still for a beat, his hands flexing against her waist before he gives her one hard thrust that knocks the air from her lungs. “Like that, baby,” he groans, the words dripping with heat. “Keep me in.”

The sensation of her pulling him even deeper rips a moan straight from his throat, and Lando drops his forehead to her shoulder, breathing heavily.

“Fucking hell, you’re killing me,” he rasps, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against her damp skin. “Swear to God, I’ll come again if you—”

“Lando?” a muffled, familiar voice rings out from the other side of the door, accompanied by knocking. “Your parents are waiting, mate. You good in there?”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[emilys-bangs]

baby, if your love is in trouble | e.p

Tags: emt!reader, flirty!emily, blood and injury, established relationship (we won’t question how they went from point A to point B), canon typical injuries, quite a few mentions of blood in this one oops, medical inaccuracies, use of petnames, reader is pissed but emily’s a smooth mf with big brown eyes

Summary: You get called to a scene and find your girlfriend—yet again—all bruised and bloody. She flirts, you don’t reciprocate. Requested here.

Word count: 2.2k

Part one (you don’t have to read it to read this part)

When you arrive at an abandoned warehouse, the last person you expect to see is your girlfriend. The surprise is muffled; you were aware this wasn’t outside the realm of possibility once Emily told you two weeks ago that the unsub they’re hunting is local.

Even in a messy, crowded scene like this, crawling with FBI agents and police officers alike, it’s easy to spot her amidst the chaos. She doesn’t notice you, leaning against a cop car and shying away from a lanky guy who reaches out with his finger, attempting to prod at her bleeding nose. A crumpled tissue is held between her fingers; it’s soaked through with blood, barely an inch of it unblemished white. Emily doesn’t seem to mind it as she glares and avoids the guy’s touch, swatting at his hand with hers.

“It’s not broken, Reid.”

“I’m just saying, it looks a little swollen—”

“Emily.” You say unthinkingly. She turns, her ponytail swishing as her eyes meet yours. 

The first thing you notice is the bruises on her face, a violent galaxy etched around her right eye. The cut on her cheekbone, dried blood crusted around the skin you just recently discovered you loved to kiss. Not the way her brows lift in surprise, her mouth parting to breathe out your name.

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is muffled into the hand holding the tissue.

You can’t reply for the nausea in your throat. Emily’s coworker is frowning at you, no doubt mentally tearing this interaction to pieces. It kickstarts your brain into action, practicality forcing its way over the queasy roiling in your stomach. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask him.

He shakes his head.

Jaw set, you meet Emily’s eyes and try to pretend they’re anyone else’s. “Come with me, please.” You say tightly, one hand listlessly extended to her body.

This time, it’s easier to wrestle her into the back of the rig. Emily wordlessly shoves off of the cop car and lets your fingers grip her elbow, lets you drag her to the ambulance and force her to sit on the hard metal ledge. The heat of her eyes follows you as you get your kit, burning holes into your face when you set it down next to her and pinch the sodden tissue she’s holding. Her hand falls away, exposing the bottom half of her face; a blooming cut on her lip stains her chin red.

Your mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Hi,” Emily says again, softly. “I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here.” She tilts her head to meet your gaze.

You don’t let her.

She exhales a low sigh. You ignore it as you toss away the bloodied tissue and scan her face, surveying the damage but not settling on the near magnetic pull of her eyes. What you find is harrowing: bruises on her temple and brow, a black eye, a cut on her cheek. They’re quickly darkening into deep reds and purples, visciously marring her ivory skin. Oh, and not to forget her bloody nose and split lip. Her face is a kaleidoscope of color.

Jesus.

“What happened?” You ask, reaching for the straps of her kevlar. Velcro separates, screeching as you rip the wretched vest off of her body. Shoulders, hips; you free her, then toss it carelessly into the ambulance.

“Can I get a hi first?” Emily retorts tiredly. You finally meet her eyes, the weight of them a physical blow to your gut. The black eye doesn’t help. “Hi?” Her fingertips skim yours.

You swallow thickly. Grab her hand, squeeze. “Hi.” You say back.

A smile flickers over Emily’s face. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m okay, I just got a little banged up.”

A little.

Your lips purse. “What happened?”

Emily laces her fingers through yours. You need to pull away, but you can’t help the way your shoulders loosen under her touch. Her skin is warm, thumb skating over the back of your hand with her head ducked. 

“Doesn’t matter.” She murmurs.

“Emily.” You take your hand back. The movement isn’t quite so gentle; Emily’s brows dip into a frown as she winces, a low curse escaping past her lips. “What?” You demand. Taking her hand again—carefully—your eyes travel until you find a dampness on her shirt sleeve, the blood almost invisible against the navy blue fabric. You cut it off to expose a long cut, the width of her arm, just above her elbow. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, most of it staunched into her shirt.

Nausea stirs again. 

Your jaw is tightly set as you let go of Emily’s arm and snap on a pair of gloves, eyes fixed on your hands and the forceful sting of the elastic. If you look up, if you find the face of the woman you’re half in love with rather than some nameless stranger’s face, you’ll fucking lose it. Already your breathing is shallow, not enough oxygen filling your lungs as you try your best not to breathe in the scent of Emily’s blood.

“Hey,” she says quietly. You let the silence answer as you clean around her cut. It looks deep, deeper than you can manage, but at least it’s clean. Emily’s ragged inhale sours your mouth when you place pressure on it, stopping the flow. Blood blooms on the gauze, and—maddeningly—she still persists. “I’ll be home tonight.” Her voice is only slightly choked. “All on my lonesome. Would you like to keep me company?”

There’s a few things you’d like to do to her right now. You voice none of them.

When you’re certain the bleeding has stopped you grab a roll of gauze, wrap it around her arm. “We could order pizza. Get that cheese crust you like.” The first layer dampens; the second doesn’t. Neither does the third, but you still wrap another layer for good measure.

A low sigh tickles your ear.

“I miss you,” Emily says, velvet soft. 

Work had gotten in the way more than usual these past few days, both yours and hers. You missed her too, more than you think is in any way logical, but you can’t rise to her flirtations when she’s half beaten and bloody. Just the sight of the bruises on her pale face turns your stomach.

You snip the gauze and tuck the end under the layers. Her shirt is in tatters now; you don’t linger on the fact that it was one of your favorites on her.

“It’ll probably need stitches,” you lift your gaze from the bandages around her arm and grab another antiseptic wipe. You don’t mean to catch her eyes. It’s accidental, a stupid move that freezes you in place, stops your hand from meeting the cut on her cheekbone.

Her pupils are blown wide with adrenaline, the black carving out her irises until all that’s left is thin brown rings. And still they’re captivating. Emily shakes her head, tongue darting over her lip. “Honey, talk to me.” She says desperately.

You exhale a short breath through your nose. “What do you want me to say?” You murmur, dropping your eyes from hers and focusing your attention on cleaning her wound. The skin scrunches beneath your touch as she winces; guilt stabs you in the chest. Your heartbeat quickens, the pace of it making your hands shake. Briefly, ever so briefly, your eyes fall closed.

You can’t do this. Fuck, you can’t, not when it’s her.

“I already asked you what happened and you didn’t answer.” You toss the wipe away. Looking down, you take a moment to breathe in before grabbing the antiseptic ointment. She’s fine now, you try to remind yourself. Mostly. At least she’s in one piece.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” Emily says. Her fingers find your chin; she pinches it gently and tilts your face up, to her tentative smile. It tugs at the cut in her lip. “I’m fine now.”

You can’t tell if it’s profiling or if she can genuinely read your mind.

An exasperated breath parts your lips. “You have a skewed definition of fine.” You huff, dabbing ointment on her cut. Emily’s lashes flutter closed, a frown digging its way between her brows. You bite down on your lips, immediately hating yourself. “Hurts?” You ask quietly.

“Mmm,” she doesn’t verbally confirm nor deny. It’s answer enough. By the time you peel a bandage and are placing it over her cheek she’s opened her eyes. “Maybe you can kiss it better?”

“You’re bleeding.” You say flatly.

“Babe,” she murmurs, frowning as if you’re being unreasonable, “don’t be like that.”

Her too calm tone sparks fire in your blood.

“Like what?” You bite out. “Like someone whose girlfriend is beaten and bloody because of god knows what trouble she was in? How exactly do you want me to act, Emily?”

“Girlfriend?”

You falter. “W-What?”

Emily grins stupidly. “You called me your girlfriend.” Her eyes glitter.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It knocks over the guilt, the nausea, swarms of butterflies crowding your lungs. God, what are you, fifteen? 

You huff out a flustered breath. “Well, aren’t you?”

You’d had this conversation weeks ago. Not over an intimate, candlelit dinner; rather Emily had found romance in the early morning light of her bedroom. Body warm over yours, she’d grabbed your sleep-pliant hand, murmured into your knuckles if you would be her partner, let her be your girlfriend.

It had taken a few slow blinks of your eyes, chasing the blurriness from your vision and sharpening her tentative silhouette, before you’d said yes.

“I am. It’s just the first time you’ve called me that.” Emily’s arm goes around your waist. Her smile is transcendent and bloody.

“Don’t try to distract me,” you rub at your temple. “I’m still mad.”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. Her fingers squeeze your side. “Cross my heart.”

The childish promise makes you huff out a humorless laugh. It thins out quickly, dissolves into the air between the two of you.

“You can’t look me in the eye and honestly tell me you’re fine, Emily.” You sigh. This close, you can’t help yourself. You gently cup her jaw, your thumb just shy of the broken skin at her bottom lip. It’s wet with fresh blood, the cut deepening with her careless smiles.

Emily gives you another one. You internally wince, wishing she’d stop. “Okay, well, I’m banged up.” She murmurs, leaning into your hand and blinking long lashes at you. “At least I have you to stitch me back together.”

Stupidly, thoughtlessly, your heart jumps. With no regard for the violence on Emily’s face or the complete lack of privacy of the scene around you. It’s basically your first meeting, reincarnated.

“And if I wasn’t here?” You mumble half heartedly, beginning to crack under her persistent flirtations. “Do you flirt with all your EMT’s or just me?”

Emily gives you a soft smile, a dizzying flash of dimples. “Just you, sweetheart. Only ever you.” 

The saccharine drip of her voice only makes you feel more like shit. Here she is, actually, physically hurting, and taking the brunt of your sour attitude because you couldn’t stand seeing it for yourself. You don’t know how she wipes the pain almost clear from her voice, how she can brave injuries that make you squirm at the thought of bearing them yourself, but somewhere beneath all the worry, there’s awe. 

“That’s reassuring,” you say lamely. You give her fingers a squeeze, attempting to convey what your dry tone can’t as you lean away. “Just please don’t get so banged up next time.” Reaching for another patch of gauze, you gently press it to her bottom lip. Her knee bumps into yours. “You do already have my attention, y’know.” 

A whole lot of it. Who are you kidding, probably all of it is hers.

Emily tucks the gauze into the corner of her mouth. “Like to have it at all times.” She mumbles.

You shake your head, breathing out a slow breath through your nose as the corner of her lip turns up. The ring of bruises around her eye has darkened into purple, capillaries bursting in blooms to chase away the unblemished expanse of her skin. It’s a terrible contrast, unmistakably stark and dripping violence. Still, you try your best not to shy away from her gaze.

“Will you come home with me?” Emily asks again.

You’re nodding before you know it. “Yeah, baby. Is that okay?” It’s a miracle she still wants you around after your wretched demeanor.

“That’s a stupid question, Y/N.” She says, so bluntly a laugh is forced from your lungs. It bubbles past your lips, making Emily’s smile stretch into a beam.

“Don’t fucking do that,” you scold, grimacing when fresh blood soaks the bandage. “God, you’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot girlfriend.”

It’s no use trying to staunch the blood. Her grin is so wide you discard the gauze and reach for her jaw instead of another one. 

When you finally kiss her, the metallic taste of her blood flooding your mouth, you know you’re in too deep.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights @professorsapphic

[jellofish-plant]

A 101 Step Guide to Win His Heart

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader Genre: Fluff, Slight Chaos, Mutual Pining Setting: Gotham, modern day

[Masterlist]

Step 1: Don’t fall for the emotionally unavailable, motorcycle-riding vigilante. …Oops.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, gripping your phone like it personally offended you. The screen glows mockingly with the tab still open: “101 Ways to Win His Heart.” It's a dumb article. It's clickbait. It's also bookmarked.

Because unfortunately, you have a massive, incurable, stupid crush on Jason Peter Todd. Yes, that Jason. Ex-Robin. Current Red Hood. Hotter than the Gotham heatwave and about as emotionally stable as a raccoon in a dumpster fire.

Still. You’re in deep.

Step 12: Find common interests.

Turns out, Jason likes books.

You also like books. Perfect.

Except his taste is Russian literature and tragic antiheroes and yours is witchy romances with glittery covers and spicy tension.

So when you spot him in the bookstore’s café (half-buried in Dostoevsky, black coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up like a crime), you panic and grab the first dark-looking book off the shelf.

…It’s a YA vampire romance.

You sit beside him like you're totally chill. “Love the… metaphorical depth,” you lie, clutching the sparkly book like it’s your thesis.

Jason peeks over the cover, lips twitching. “Did you just pick that up to impress me?”

You blink. “What? No. Obviously not. Who does that?”

He quirks a brow. “It still has the security tag.”

“…I’m gonna go die now.”

Step 45: Make him laugh.

You didn’t expect Jason to be funny.

Dry, sarcastic, subtle but when he really laughs? It’s this warm, unguarded sound that makes your knees weak.

So you start collecting terrible jokes.

“Why did Batman and Robin never use smartphones?” you ask one night.

Jason’s eyebrow lifts. “Why?”

“Because the Bat-Signal was enough.”

He stares.

Then snorts into his drink.

You mark it as a win.

Step 67: Be there when it counts.

It’s pouring when he shows up at your door bloody, bruised, soaked through and silent.

No words. Just your eyes meeting his. The way he sways a little, exhaustion pulling at him.

You don’t ask. You just pull him inside, patch him up, make him tea, and let him fall asleep on your couch with your throw blanket barely covering his long frame.

In the morning, he’s gone.

But your bookshelf has a new addition: a well-worn copy of The Idiot with a sticky note inside.

It reads: You’re not one. But I like that you try anyway. – J

Your heart does a triple backflip.

Step 101: Be yourself. Even if you’re a little chaotic, a little nerdy, and a lot in love.

You’re mid-rant about Gotham’s trash system when Jason grabs your hand during a late-night walk.

You blink.

He shrugs, cheeks faintly pink. “I’ve read a lot of books. Been through hell and back. Fought monsters, real and metaphorical.”

He pauses.

“But no one’s ever tried to win me like you do.”

You stare.

Then smile.

“Is that a compliment?”

He smirks. “It’s a confession.”

Bonus Tip #102: Sometimes, all it takes is being the one who stays. Who laughs. Who brings band-aids and bad jokes. Who loves without expecting him to fix himself first.

And sometimes? That’s all he needs to fall for you, too.

Tag list:

@dreamzaremyrealityy

@not-herexo 

@a-brilliante-mariposa

@fandomtrashsblog

[linoxpudding]

Fading Love (Pt 3)- Lee Know

summary: after the misunderstandings are cleared, he desperately tries to win you back—you're hesitant, but he refuses to give up on you and your future together

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

word count: 6521 words

warnings: mentions of—divorce, pregnancy, morning sickness, hospital, and emotional distress

a/n: so I got a little carried away with the final part (almost 10k words, oops), so I’ve split it into two parts, part 4 will be up tomorrow after I finish a few final edits!

SERIES: PART ONE PART TWO PART FOUR

~°~

You stood frozen at the top of the stairs, staring at Minho’s retreating figure. His words echoed in your mind, but the sharpness of the pain left you breathless. 

The silence of the room felt suffocating. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Changbin slowly walked over to you, his face drawn with guilt. “Y/N… I—”

“Why did you say that?” you cut him off, voice trembling with confusion. You had missed most of what happened, only waking up from your nap in time to see Minho’s fury. You had heard the yelling, the insults. The punch. You had screamed for him to stop, but everything after that was a blur.

Changbin sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. He was about to lose it, and I... I didn’t think.” He winced. “I just... panicked.”

You stared at him, heart sinking. “Changbin, why did you say it was yours? Why would you lie?”

He closed his eyes briefly, looking ashamed. “I don’t know. My brain short-circuited at that moment. I thought... I thought it would stop him from doing something worse. I didn’t think it’d make things worse for you, or for anyone.”

Your chest tightened. “Changbin, you don’t understand… I never wanted him to think...” You shook your head in disbelief struggling to form a coherent sentence. "You know he sees you as a brother. If he believes I betrayed him like this…with you, it’ll shatter him.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he muttered, his face filled with regret. “I was trying to protect you, but I messed up.”

Tears stung at your eyes. You quickly wiped them away, reaching for your phone. The anxiety of not knowing where Minho went was eating at you. “I need to call him. I need to fix this. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.”

Changbin hesitated, watching you with guilt and concern. “Y/N, he was so angry. I don’t think he’ll answer. But you should still try.”

You nodded, desperation creeping as you dialed Minho’s number. 

Meanwhile, Minho was miles away, his hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. His mind raced with thoughts of betrayal, confusion, and heartbreak. The drive was a blur of city lights and empty roads, but the anguish inside him only grew with every passing second.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he gripped the wheel tighter, his vision blurring. He had to get away from it all—away from the apartment, away from the two people who had been his closest ones. The emotions were too much. He couldn’t hold them in anymore.

Minho pulled off the road, taking a sharp turn into an abandoned park, far from the noise and the chaos. The car came to a screeching halt, and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing uncontrollably, his chest heaving with each breath. His fists clenched as he punched the steering wheel, unable to release the pain in any other way. He punched the car’s dashboard, the sound of his own anguish echoing through the empty space around him.

How could you do this to him? With Changbin, his brother, out of all people? How could you both betray him like this? 

With every tear that fell, the rage inside him grew. He couldn’t understand how this had happened. His heart felt like it was being torn apart, and the more he thought about it, the more his pain twisted into an unbearable knot. He didn’t know what to do.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the crushing realization that he had pushed you to this point. That he had done this to himself.

His phone vibrated on the passenger seat, and he saw your name flash across the screen. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, the guilt and anger churning in his stomach.

But he couldn’t answer. He didn’t have the strength to hear your voice, to face the reality. 

Minho closed his eyes, and the sobs came harder. He dug his fingers into his scalp, trying to hold himself together, but it was too much. He had lost you and it was his fault. 

With trembling hands, he turned his phone off, not wanting to hear anything right now.

You, on the other hand, kept calling his number, and your heart dropped each time it went to voicemail.

“Minho,” you whispered, tears beginning to well in your own eyes as your worry grew. “Please don’t do this…”

Changbin was on his phone, calling Chan. “Hyung….we need your help. Minho’s gone off the deep end. I don’t know what to do. He’s not picking up. Please, I don’t want him to hurt himself.”

*********************

Minho’s mind was a mess. He had spent hours driving around the city aimlessly before finally pulling into the dorm's parking lot.

Even though all of the members had moved into their own places, the dorm remained—a space they occasionally crashed at when practice ran too late. But Minho… he moved back. While his divorce was being processed, he hadn’t gotten a new apartment, hadn’t even considered it. He told himself it was because it was convenient, but deep down, he knew the truth. He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk into a new, empty apartment, knowing it wouldn’t be your home.

He moved back into the dorm after crashing at Jisung’s place for a month, but some nights, when the loneliness is too much, he still crashes there.

After entering the silent dorm, he sighed and climbed into bed. He turned on his phone to find a flood of notifications but ignored them all—your messages and missed calls included. The only one he responded to was Chan, reassuring the leader that he was fine but wanted to be alone. He then set his phone aside and tried to rest, but sleep refused to come.

Why did it hurt this much? Hadn’t he already made peace with his decision? Hadn’t he already told himself this was for the best?

Then why…why did the thought of you carrying someone else’s child make him feel like his entire world was caving in?

But it wasn’t just the pregnancy. It was you. Your voice. Your tears. Your presence. The way you still looked at him like he was your whole world. The way his heart ached for you despite every wall he had built between you two.

He had thought leaving would be easier. That you would be better off without him. But he had been wrong. So, so wrong.

And now… it was too late.

The next morning, Chan arrived at their dorm, knocking on Minho’s door with no response. After a moment, he opened it cautiously, finding Minho sitting on his bed, staring out the window, his expression empty.

“Minho… what the hell is going on?” Chan’s voice cut through the silence, laced with frustration and concern. “Why aren’t you answering Y/N’s calls? She’s been trying to reach you, man.”

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His eyes remained fixed on some invisible point beyond the glass, empty and distant.

Chan stepped further into the room, his patience wearing thin. “You owe it to her. I get that you’re hurt, but you can’t just shut her out like this. This isn’t the way, Minho. You need to talk to her.”

Minho let out a bitter chuckle, finally breaking his silence. “What’s the point?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, “She moved on.”

Chan stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

Minho’s jaw clenched. “She has Changbin now,” he muttered. “She doesn’t need me anymore.”

Chan’s frustration boiled over. “No, you idiot!” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Just talk to her! That child—” He pointed at Minho’s chest, eyes burning with urgency. “That child is yours.”

Minho’s breath hitched.

His entire body stiffened, his heart stopping for a moment. He turned to Chan slowly, his face pale. “What?” His voice was barely audible, but the sheer panic in it was undeniable.

Chan swallowed, his own expression softening. “Y/N’s pregnant, Minho. And it’s yours.”

Minho felt the air leave his lungs. His vision blurred, a sharp ringing filling his ears as the words sank in.

You were pregnant with his child. Not Changbin’s. And he had left without even hearing that.

His entire world tilted, crashing down around him in an instant.

Chan’s voice softened, but the weight behind it was firm. “You were so caught up in your own pain that you didn’t stop to think, did you? You assumed the worst and ran away instead of fighting for her. But now, you don’t have a choice. You have to face her. You have to make this right.”

Minho’s hands trembled as he buried his face in them, his mind spinning with every missed call, every moment he had spent wallowing in his own misery while you had been carrying his child—alone.

"I want you to get your dumb ass over to Y/N’s place. Now." Chan sternly said.

*********************

Your hands trembled as you set down the cup of chamomile tea. 

He was coming. Chan had called to let you know.

You sat on the couch, your hands twisting together nervously as you stared at the clock. Every minute felt like an eternity. The doorbell rang, and your heart leaped into your throat. You stood up, walking slowly to the door. When you opened it, there he was. 

Lee Minho.

He looked tired. His face was paler, dark circles lingering beneath his eyes. His usual confident stance seemed hesitant.

You stepped aside to let him in, your pulse racing. 

“Come in,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, stepping inside. He didn’t speak, but the air between you was thick with unsaid words. You could feel the weight of the situation.Then his gaze flickered downward to your belly. To the undeniable bump beneath your sweater.

Minho sucked in a sharp breath. "It's mine, isn't it?"

Your throat tightened. "Yes."

A choked sound escaped him. Minho’s lips parted slightly, his entire body stiffening as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

"You’re not lying," he whispered, almost to himself.

You shook your head, eyes burning with emotion. "I would never lie about this."

His hands clenched at his sides. "Then why—why didn’t you tell me sooner?"

Your chest ached. "Because I didn’t want to baby trap you, Minho."

"Baby trap me?" His voice cracked slightly. "Is that what you thought?"

Tears welled in your eyes. "You wanted a divorce, Minho. You told me you couldn’t do this anymore. What was I supposed to think?"

Minho became quiet, then finally broke the silence. “I—I’m sorry,” his voice cracked. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Y/N. I didn’t know what to do. Everything happened so fast, and I couldn’t think straight.”

You let out a frustrated sigh.

Minho’s breathing was uneven now. He took a shaky step forward, then hesitated. "Can I…?" His voice was so quiet you almost missed it.

Your brows furrowed. "Can you what?"

Minho looked almost nervous, his eyes darting between you and your baby bump. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Can I touch it?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You nodded, almost instinctively, and Minho’s hand gently rested on your belly. His fingers splayed across the curve, as if memorizing the shape, as if feeling the life that grew inside of you—the life that he was a part of.

"I missed so much," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

His other hand came up to cover his face, and to your shock, a quiet sob escaped him. You had never seen him cry like this before. But now, here he was—breaking right in front of you. 

Tears welled in your eyes as you stared at him,“Minho…”

Minho’s voice was hoarse, filled with emotion. “I missed so much… so much of everything. I should’ve been here. I should’ve been part of this.”

You wiped your tears furiously, willing yourself to stay strong, to not let the overwhelming emotions consume you.

"We're still getting divorced, Minho," you said, voice wavering but firm. "That was your choice."

Minho’s eyes widened in sheer panic as he took your hand, his grip tightening. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "I regret it. I regret everything."

Your heart clenched at his words, but you forced yourself to stay rational. "You regret it because you just found out I’m pregnant."

He flinched, but you pushed forward, "You don’t get to change your mind just because of this, Minho. I don’t want our child to grow up in a home where their parents constantly fight—where they know their father fell out of love with their mother before they were even born."

Minho looked absolutely wrecked, his entire body going still at your words.

"Who said I fell out of love?" he whispered, voice cracking.

You stared at him, tears blurring your vision. "You did," you shot back, a quiet sob escaping you. "You said, ‘we can’t do this anymore.’ Doesn’t that imply you don’t love me anymore?"

Minho let out a sharp breath, shaking his head desperately. "No. No, baby—that’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Minho?" Your voice rose slightly, the months of pain bubbling to the surface. "Because that’s all I’ve been trying to figure out! Why did you leave me? Why did you suddenly decide that our marriage wasn’t worth fighting for?"

Minho inhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. "I—" His voice faltered.

"Tell me the truth," you begged.

He clenched his jaw, his entire body trembling. And then—finally, he broke.

"I left because I thought you deserved better!" he burst out, chest heaving. "I thought I was being a shitty husband, Y/N! I—I stopped making you happy, I stopped making you laugh, I let my own insecurities eat away at me until I thought maybe the best thing for you was to just—let you go."

Your breath hitched.

Minho ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tears brimming in his eyes. "I kept overthinking everything. I thought I was hurting you by staying when I wasn’t the same man you fell in love with. So I convinced myself that the best thing I could do for you was leave before you started hating me."

You gaped at him in shock.

He had convinced himself that… what? That he was saving you?

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling with the weight of his words.

“So… you left because you thought I’d be better off without you?” Your voice was eerily calm, though inside, a storm raged.

Minho swallowed hard, nodding. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to drag you down with me—”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “You thought you were doing the right thing,” you repeated, tasting the bitterness on your tongue. “Minho, do you even hear yourself? You didn’t even give me a choice! You didn’t talk to me, you didn’t tell me what you were feeling—you just straight up asked for a divorce.”

Minho flinched, guilt washing over his face. “I know. I know I fucked up.”

You exhaled sharply, wiping at your damp cheeks. “And now you regret it because of the baby.”

“No—”

“Yes, Minho,” you cut him off, your voice unwavering. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the baby. You wouldn’t be saying any of this if you hadn’t found out.”

Minho clenched his jaw, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach. “If I weren’t pregnant, would you still be standing here, begging for another chance?”

Silence.

That was all the answer you needed.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, composing yourself. “I hear you, Minho. I hear what you’re saying. But I can’t just go back to what we were. It’s not that simple, so let's just focus on figuring out what to do next.”

Minho’s gaze snapped to you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do we handle custody?” You forced the words out, ignoring the sharp sting in your chest. “Because that’s where we are now, right? We’re still getting divorced. So we need to figure out the next step.”

The shift in conversation was jarring, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at you, his mind scrambling to catch up.

“No,” he whispered. “Y/N, don’t do this—”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Your voice cracked, and you hated how vulnerable you sounded. “Pretend none of this happened? Pretend you didn’t leave me? Pretend you didn’t break my heart?”

Minho took a shaky step toward you. “I know I hurt you, but I love you—”

“Love isn’t enough, Minho!” You snapped, the dam finally breaking. “You don’t get to walk away from me and then come back whenever you feel like!”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “That’s not why I came back.”

You let out a trembling breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Then why did you?”

Minho parted his lips, but for once, he had no answer.

You took a step back, the space between you growing. “We need to focus on the baby now. So let’s talk about custody.”

Minho looked utterly broken, but you ignored the ache in your chest. You had to protect yourself. You had to protect your baby.

He shook his head in disbelief. "No, Y/N. We’re not talking about custody. We should get back together." 

You let out a bitter laugh. "Absolutely not." 

"You left. You made that choice. And now that there's a baby involved, you're suddenly here again?" You shook your head. "I can’t do that." 

Minho’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with frustration. "I never fell out of love with you, Y/N." 

You sucked in a sharp breath, but you forced yourself to remain composed. "I don’t know if I can believe that," you admitted quietly. 

Pain flickered across his features. "I made a mistake. The worst mistake of my life. And I regret it every single day." His voice cracked slightly. "Please, just give me a chance to make it right." 

You hesitated, your fingers trembling slightly. "I need time to think," you finally said. 

Minho exhaled shakily, nodding despite the pain in his chest. "Okay. I’ll wait." 

You looked down, avoiding his gaze. 

"When is your next doctor’s appointment?" He asked.

You blinked up at him, surprised. "Next week."

"Can I come?" He asked nervously.

A beat of silence. You hesitated, every instinct screaming to push him away. But then you sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Fine." 

Relief washed over his features, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thank you." 

*********************

The next week Minho showed up ten minutes early at the hospital. 

Minho was standing at the entrance of the hospital when you arrived. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the ground as he waited. You stepped out of the car and spotted him almost immediately. The awkwardness was thick in the air as you approached him, and neither of you knew what to say. It felt like the first time you were seeing each other again, after everything.

“Hey,” you greeted, offering a small nod.

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours briefly before looking away. “Hey.”

You both stood there for a moment, unsure of how to bridge the distance. But then, almost instinctively, you started walking toward the entrance together. Neither of you said anything else, both of you lost in your own thoughts, the silence hanging between you.

Inside, the waiting area felt cold and distant. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, adding to the clinical feel of the place. The room was filled with other expectant parents, most of them chatting quietly, while you and Minho sat in a corner, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife.

Minho broke the silence, his voice soft but hesitant. “You’re, uh, seven and a half months along, right?”

You nodded, glancing down at your stomach. “Yeah. Time’s flown by.”

He hesitated for a second before asking, “Do you… do you know the gender?”

The question caught you off guard. You looked at him, your heart giving a little twist. You hadn’t expected him to ask. You’d wanted to know, so badly, but a part of you had held back from asking anything, feeling guilty for how everything had gone down between you two.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the familiar sting of loneliness creeping in. "I couldn’t hear it… without you."

Minho’s entire body stilled. His breath caught in his throat, his fingers flexing as if the words physically struck him.

"You…" He exhaled shakily. "You waited?"

You nodded, looking down at your hands. "I went to the appointment. I sat in that chair. The doctor asked if I wanted to know." You let out a breath, blinking away the tears threatening to form. "But it didn’t feel right without you there. So I told them not to say it."

Minho’s gaze softened. “Then…if you don’t mind—let's find out together?”

You looked up at him and nodded slowly,“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The doctor greeted you both with a friendly smile as she led you to the ultrasound room. Minho stayed close to you, but there was still a bit of distance between you—both of you walking carefully on this fragile line.

You settled into the bed while Minho sat beside you, his hands resting on his lap, his eyes following every move the doctor made. He looked at you nervously, as though he didn’t quite know how to act, or whether he even belonged there at all. You told the doctor you’re ready to know the gender. 

The doctor applied some gel to your belly and began moving the ultrasound wand around. You could hear the familiar whooshing sounds as she scanned, and then you heard it—the unmistakable rhythm of a heartbeat.

Minho froze. His eyes widened, and his breath caught. He hadn’t heard it before. Not like this. Not with you.

The sound of the heartbeat filled the room, a steady, powerful beat that belonged to the tiny life growing inside of you. Minho’s hands shook slightly, and he turned to look at you, his eyes shining with emotion.

The doctor smiled warmly, glancing at the screen. “It’s a boy.”

Minho’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he was silent, his gaze glued to the screen as he tried to process what he was hearing. This was it. His son. The child he had missed out on, the child that was still so real, so close, but so far away from him at the same time.

You watched him as he reached out a hand, his fingers trembling, his expression breaking open with a mix of joy and regret.

But as his hand reached for yours, you instinctively pulled back, just a little. You didn’t mean to, but the distance between you was too much. The hurt, the history—it felt like too much to bridge in that one moment.

Minho froze, his hand still hovering in the air for a second before he lowered it slowly, hurt flashing in his eyes. You saw the pain in his face, and your heart clenched.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t force the issue. Instead, he just sat there, his eyes flicking between you and the screen, the pain quietly written across his face, but also understanding. He understood why you couldn’t be the same with him yet.

You both sat in silence as the doctor continued with the ultrasound, but the moment had shifted. Minho’s fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you again, but he didn’t. The sound of the heartbeat, your baby’s heartbeat, was all that filled the room. 

*********************

After the appointment was over, you walked ahead of Minho, arms wrapped around yourself as you stepped outside the clinic. The cool breeze kissed your skin, but it did little to calm the storm inside you.

Minho followed a few steps behind quietly. Then, just as you reached your car, his voice broke the silence.

"Let’s get ice cream?"

You turned, frowning. "What?"

Minho scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. "Ice cream. Just… let’s go get some."

You paused for a second, then you replied coldly, “No.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he would let it go. But then his voice softened, barely above a whisper, "Please?"

You hesitated.

He took a step closer, "I just… I want to hear about everything. The pregnancy milestones, the first time you felt the baby kick…" His breath wavered. "I missed so much, Y/N. I want to know it all."

You swallowed hard, your heart twisting at the raw emotion in his voice.

"And tell me your cravings," he added, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

It was the tears in his eyes that did it.

Against your better judgment, you sighed. "Fine."

Minho blinked, like he hadn't expected you to say yes. Then, his shoulders relaxed slightly, a flicker of relief crossing his face.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay. Let’s go."

*********************

You sat across from each other in the small dessert café, the atmosphere a sharp contrast to the tension between you. Minho watched as you took a spoonful of your ice cream, his heart aching at the sight.

He had missed this. Missed you.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "Tell me everything."

You hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "I first felt the baby kick at sixteen weeks."

Minho’s eyes widened. "That early?"

You nodded, a small, bittersweet smile playing on your lips. "Yeah. It was soft at first, but by twenty weeks, it was strong enough that I could see it."

Minho’s eyes softened as he listened, hanging onto every word you said. The longing was clear in his gaze. “God, I wish I could’ve been there for that.”

You both fell silent again, and you saw the way his fingers toyed with his ice cream cup, how he tried to mask the pain with humor. “What about morning sickness? I heard it’s brutal.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It was. You should’ve seen me. I barely kept anything down for weeks. I lived on crackers and ginger tea. I don’t think I’ll ever look at crackers the same way again.”

Minho chuckled, “What about cravings? Was there anything weird?”

You huffed a small laugh. "Would you believe me if I said strawberries dipped in ketchup?"

Minho made a face. "What the hell?"

You shrugged. "I don’t make the rules, Minho. Pregnancy does weird things to taste buds."

He shook his head, smiling. "I would’ve gotten you as many strawberries and ketchup as you wanted."

Something in your chest clenched. You looked down at your ice cream.

"Minho…" 

He perked up slightly. "Yeah?"

You hesitated for a moment before saying, "Talk to Changbin."

His expression darkened instantly. The warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder. He sat back, crossing his arms. "No."

You frowned. "Minho, don’t do that."

His jaw clenched. "He—"

"He was being a loyal friend," you interrupted firmly. "To me. He saw me breaking apart and did what he thought was right."

Minho let out a sharp exhale, looking away. "You think I don’t know that?"

"Then why won’t you talk to him?"

His fingers gripped the edge of the table. "Because," he said, voice tight, "I don’t know if I can forgive him yet."

"He’s feeling like shit, Minho. Just hear him out." You tried to convince him.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. His shoulders were tense, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I get why Changbin did what he did," he muttered, voice hoarse. "But it still fucking hurt."

"I know," you whispered. "But don’t shut him out forever. He misses you."

His eyes flickered to the side, the conflict in his expression telling you just how torn he was. For a long moment, there was only silence between you two. Minho stared at the ice cream in front of him, his mind clearly racing. 

Then, finally, Minho sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, and his voice was a little less cold. “Fine,” he said, almost reluctantly. “I’ll talk to him.”

A small smile ghosted your lips.

"But," he added quickly, narrowing his eyes, "he’s still on thin ice."

You let out a quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

The evening became calmer, the tension easing. As Minho spoke about the baby and his excitement, the distance between you slowly faded. There was still much to heal, but this felt like a small step forward.

Minho smiled softly at you, “Thank you for today.”

You smiled back. And though there was still so much to figure out, this was a good place to start for the sake of your child.

*********************

Since that day, Minho had been coming over more often—bringing you homemade meals, checking in on you, and finding little excuses to stay longer. Sometimes, he’d drop by just to say hi, other times, he’d bring small gifts—a box of your favorite pastries, prenatal vitamins he researched online, or even silly little trinkets he thought you’d like. You told him you didn’t need his help, but he insisted, saying he just wanted to make things easier for you since you were nearing your due date. You didn’t have the energy to argue, so you let it be.

Still, the distance remained—thick, lingering, like an invisible wall he had yet to break through. You listened when he talked, allowed him to talk to your baby bump, but you kept your heart guarded. You weren’t sure if you could ever let him back in, but for the sake of your child, you allowed him to stick around.

Still, he tried.

"Did you… set up a nursery yet?" he asked one day.

You smiled softly before nodding. "Come see."

You led him down the hall, pushing open a door to reveal the half-finished nursery. The soft blue pastel walls were already painted, and a crib sat in the corner, still missing a few finishing touches. A small shelf was lined with baby books, some stuffed animals resting against the side.

Minho stepped in, his fingers tracing the edge of the crib.

"You did this all by yourself?" His voice was quiet.

You nodded. "Yeah."

His jaw clenched. He hated that you had to. That he hadn’t been there.

But instead of wallowing in guilt, he turned to you. "Can I help?"

You studied him for a moment. He looked so hopeful, so desperate to be included.

"Sure, if you want," you said.

Minho's face lit up slightly. "Okay. I’ll bring some things tomorrow."

*********************

The next day, you were curled up on the couch, eating a plate of cut-up fruit when the sound of the doorbell startled you. With a sigh, you got up and opened the door—only to freeze at the sight of Minho standing there, arms full of bags filled with baby items.  And behind him? A stack of unopened boxes, clearly filled with even more.

You blinked. "Minho… what the hell?"

He grinned sheepishly. "I may have gone overboard."

You raised a brow. "May have?"

"Okay, fine. I definitely did," he admitted, stepping inside. "But it’s my son’s nursery. Of course, I’m going to go all out."

You bit the inside of your cheek, watching as he eagerly set everything down in the nursery. His energy was contagious, his enthusiasm impossible to ignore. Before you knew it, you were setting things up together.

Minho pulled a baby mobile adorned with tiny dolphins, starfish, and seashells from one of the bags and carefully adjusted it above the crib while you folded tiny onesies. He struggled to assemble a baby swing, stubbornly refusing to read the instructions, while you sat back, watching him in amusement. You picked spots for the plushies, placing a few soft ones near the crib, including a tiny plush cat. Meanwhile, he dramatically insisted on making everything “baby-proof.”

At some point, he paused, watching as you gently placed a small stuffed bear beside the baby swing. He looked at you fondly.

The nursery was nearly finished now.

"Look at this," he grinned, holding up a onesie. "It has little tiger ears."

You glanced at it, fighting back a smile. "He’ll look like a tiny cub."

Minho’s gaze softened. "Yeah… our little cub."

Your heart clenched, but you stayed quiet, focusing instead on putting away the new baby socks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

You froze for a second before asking,"For what?"

"For everything."

You placed the last blanket down, standing straight. "Minho—"

"I'm serious." His voice was firm, raw with emotion. "For walking away. For not being there when you needed me. For hurting you when all I wanted to do was protect you."

You swallowed hard, refusing to meet his gaze. "I should be the one apologizing too," you admitted quietly. "I didn't tell you about the baby right away. But you have to understand my side, Minho. You made it clear that you didn’t want me. So why would you want the baby?"

A sharp, audible breath left him.

His head snapped up, eyes searching yours with something close to devastation. "No," he choked out. "No, please tell me you don’t believe that."

You remained silent.

"Y/N, I want you," he whispered. "I’ve always wanted you." His voice wavered. "The main reason I let you go was because I thought I wasn't enough for you. That you deserved better. Someone who wouldn’t drag you into my mess."

You clenched your jaw, looking away.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “You were always enough. You don’t get to make that decision for me. I loved you, Minho.”

Minho stared at you, frozen, his breath catching in his throat. His chest tightened painfully.

Loved. 

As in past tense.

Then you turned and walked out of the room, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. You didn’t want to hear what he might say, because you knew if you listened, you might just crumble.

Minho stood there, it hit him like a freight train, the realization that you might not feel the same anymore. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt the sudden rush of regret, like a wave crashing over him. What have I done? The thought kept repeating in his mind, and it tore him apart. His eyes stung as he blinked rapidly, trying not to cry. But he wasn’t ready to give up. Not this time. This wasn’t how it was going to end.

*********************

A week later, at 11 PM, as you’re just about to drift off to sleep when your phone lights up on your nightstand. The name flashing on the screen is Minho. 

Your heart skipped a beat. After the tense silence that followed that evening in the nursery, you hadn’t expected to hear from him. you wondered if this was a call for closure, or maybe just one last attempt to explain himself.

With a sigh, you swipe the screen and press the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” you say softly, trying to sound calm, though your pulse is racing.

There’s a long pause on the other end, and you can hear him exhale shakily.

“Y/N,” Minho’s voice sounds almost small, uncertain, like he’s not sure if he should be calling at all. “Can we talk? Just for a bit?”

You shift in bed, pulling the blankets around you as you try to think. There’s something in his voice, a vulnerability, that makes you hesitate before answering.

“Talk about what?” you ask quietly.

“Anything,” he says, the word coming out almost as a plea. “I miss hearing your voice. I miss us, Y/N. I don’t know where to start, but... can we just talk? About the baby, about whatever.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of everything hanging between you both. He was asking for more than just a casual conversation, wasn’t he? He wanted to reconnect. But could you do that? Could you be so close to him again after everything?

Something in you cracks, the desire for closure, or maybe the hope that he really meant it when he said he wanted to make things right. You take a deep breath.

“Okay,” you say softly, “Let’s talk.”

And talk, you both do.

Hours seem to pass without either of you realizing. At first, it’s the baby—Minho’s questions come in soft, tentative bursts. How has the pregnancy been going? What does it feel like now? Is it strange to feel the baby moving inside you?

You both talk about random things, too—things that don’t make sense in the grand scheme of it all, but somehow, it feels like you’re rediscovering each other. You talk about your favorite childhood memories, the oddest things that made you laugh, and how you’ve been filling the days. You tell him about the simple joys of watching sunsets, the way your body aches when you try to sleep now, and how you’ve been trying to stay healthy for the baby.

And the conversation isn’t always serious. You laugh. You even joke about the weird pregnancy cravings and how your sense of smell has become so sensitive that you’ve developed a sudden dislike for certain foods. Minho chuckles, his voice lighter, as if this moment of connection is allowing him to forget some of the heavier weight he’s been carrying.

But the laughter eventually fades, and the seriousness returns. You feel the tender undercurrent of his words, the things he can’t say out loud.

“You know,” Minho says softly, after a long pause, “I missed everything. The small things. Just… being with you.”

You hesitate, your fingers clutching the blankets tighter. “Minho, you can’t just expect to… pick up where we left off.”

“I know.” His voice cracks, full of remorse. “I don’t expect that. But... I want to try, Y/N. I want to be there. I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve never let you go through this alone.”

You take in a shaky breath, feeling the old familiar pain resurface. “Minho, it’s not that simple. You can’t just come back and pretend like everything is okay.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then he speaks again, almost too quietly. “I’m not pretending. I’m not expecting you to forgive me, or to just come back to me. I just… I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

Your heart twists in your chest. There’s a part of you that’s still holding onto the memories, the love, but you can’t let it go. Not yet.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But we have to take this slow, Minho. I can’t just erase everything.”

“Slow,” he repeats, his voice filled with something close to hope. “I’ll take whatever you give me. I just… I don’t want to lose you again.”

----------------

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[nicholasluvbot]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMY LIPS DON'T LIE,ㅤ보이넥스트도어

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ― my pretty lips are only for you.

𝑓emale 𝑟eader ⟡ TWOTHOUSAND&FOURHUNDRED / fluff , down bad bnd ᵔᵕᵔ suggestive , kissing ⸝⸝ ❪ CLiCKFORMORE ❫

ALTERNATIVELY ──── first kiss with them.

myung jaehyun.

jaehyun keeps psyching himself out. he wants to kiss you—god, he wants to—but every time he even thinks about it, his heart starts racing, his hands get clammy, and he ends up chickening out. he tells himself he’ll do it next time. next time. always next time.

but then one day, you're sitting next to him, completely unaware of the internal chaos he's going through. he's absentmindedly playing with your hair, running his fingers through it as you flip through a book, your focus entirely on the pages. and jaehyun—jaehyun is completely focused on you.

he doesn’t even register the question you just asked him until you turn to him with the softest expression, waiting for his response. and that’s it. his brain just goes static.

"can i kiss you?"

he blurts it out before he can stop himself, and before you can even process the words—before he can process them—he panics and kisses your cheek instead.

you blink at him, confused. it’s not that it’s unusual—jaehyun is an affectionate person, always has been. but something about the way he’s suddenly avoiding eye contact, ears turning red, tells you that wasn’t what he meant to do.

he groans, hiding his face in his hands. "wait, that’s not—ugh, never mind."

you can’t help but giggle, reaching over to tug his hands away from his face. "it's fine," you say, amused, and your smile is so warm, so sweet, that it completely undoes him.

before he can second-guess himself, he kisses you.

this time, he doesn’t hesitate. one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him, while the other stays tangled in your hair, holding you close. he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever, like he’s making up for all the times he wanted to but didn’t. and it’s soft, but sure—like a weight lifting off his chest, like everything has finally clicked into place.

when he pulls back, he’s grinning—completely, utterly lovesick. his face is warm, just like yours, and he feels so, so giddy at the sight of your wide, surprised eyes.

"cute," he murmurs, and before you can even think of responding, he starts pressing kisses all over your face. your cheek, your forehead, your nose, your temple—everywhere.

"jaehyun—" you try to protest, laughing as you push at his shoulders.

"nope." he kisses the corner of your lips next, grinning against your skin. "this is your life now."

park sungho.

sungho has been holding back for so long. he’s been waiting for the right moment, for the perfect excuse, but you’re just… effortlessly cute all the time, and he’s running out of patience. every laugh, every glance, every small touch has been chipping away at his resolve, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he gives in.

then one day, while walking together, you playfully bump into him with a little smirk, teasing, “oops, my bad.”

and something in him just snaps.

"okay, that’s it."

before you can react, his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you closer in one swift motion. his lips crash against yours—quick, firm, like he’s been dying to do this for ages. there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing, just pure instinct. his free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb grazing your skin as he tilts his head, pressing deeper, more insistent.

it’s all so sudden that your breath catches in your throat. but then the shock melts away, replaced by warmth, by the way he’s holding you like you’re something precious, by the way his lips move against yours like he never wants to stop.

when he finally pulls back, it’s just enough to look at you, to take in your dazed expression, the slight part of your lips like you’re still processing what just happened. he smirks—smug, triumphant, like he already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“yeah,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement. his thumb traces slow circles against your skin. “should’ve done that sooner.”

and just when you think it’s over, he dips back in—slower this time, softer, like he’s savoring it. like he’s making up for lost time.

lee riwoo.

you and riwoo had been lying side by side, scrolling through tiktoks on your phone, the soft glow of the screen casting shadows over his face. every now and then, one of you would break into quiet laughter, making playful comments about whatever ridiculous video popped up next. it was comfortable, easy—just like always.

but then, in the middle of laughing at some cat video, you turned to say something to riwoo, only to realize how close the two of you were. his face was just inches away, his dark eyes meeting yours. you noticed it. he noticed it. but neither of you said a thing.

riwoo’s lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. he didn’t hesitate—just leaned in, soft and slow, like he’d been waiting for this moment without even realizing it. his lips brushed against yours, barely there at first, testing, before he pressed in just a little deeper. his hand found your jaw, thumb ghosting over your cheek as he kissed you, warm and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

when he pulled away, he didn’t move far. his gaze flickered over your face, taking in the warmth blooming on your cheeks, your slightly parted lips, the way your breath hitched like you were still processing what had just happened. something about the sight made his heart squeeze.

so he leaned in again.

this time, his hands settled on either side of you, caging you in as his lips met yours again—firmer, more certain. the kiss was still gentle, but there was something else there now, something deeper, like he was savoring the way you felt against him. when he finally pulled back, his breathing was slightly uneven, and so was yours. 

riwoo, still hovering over you, took your hand in his, bringing it up to his lips and brushing a featherlight kiss against your palm. his lips curved against your skin, a little shy, a little giddy. neither of you spoke, but when he settled back beside you, he draped an arm around your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

the two of you went back to watching tiktoks, but there was no ignoring the way your lips tingled, the way riwoo’s fingers traced soft patterns against your arm.

and when the next video made you both laugh, you caught him biting back a smile—not because of the video, but because of you.

han taesan.

taesan was so obvious—from the way he kept sneaking glances at your lips to the way he pretended to stretch just to drape his arm around your shoulder. you’d asked him more than once if he was okay, but he just waved it off with a shrug, refusing to meet your eyes for too long.

he wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so shy. he’d spent countless nights thinking about this, imagining how it would go—how he'd pull you close, how effortlessly smooth it would be—but now, sitting this close to you, all that confidence had disappeared.

meanwhile, you were completely unaware—just chatting away about your favorite artist’s new album, your childhood dog, anything that crossed your mind. and taesan, instead of listening, was too busy staring at your lips, heart racing at the thought of finally closing the distance.

his fingers tapped anxiously against his thigh. he swallowed. and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned in—just close enough for you to catch your breath, for your words to falter.

his lips brushed against yours—soft, fleeting. barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. you froze mid-sentence, your eyes widening slightly as he pulled back just enough to look at you, searching for any doubt, any hesitation.

when he found none, he moved in again. this time, he lingered. slow, deliberate. his lips pressed against yours more firmly, warm and sure, savoring the way you melted into him.

and then he did it again.

and again.

each time he pulled away, his grin grew wider, more playful, his breath mixing with yours in the small space between you. he was teasing now—pressing a quick peck to the corner of your lips, then another, barely holding back a chuckle when you huffed in frustration.

finally, he tilted his head in mock consideration before swooping in once more, capturing your lips in a deeper kiss—one that left no room for doubt. his hands found your waist, fingers pressing into your sides as he pulled you flush against him, stealing the breath right from your lungs.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his chest rising and falling with quiet laughter. he let out a small hum, voice laced with amusement.

“just making sure,” he teased, eyes twinkling, “that first one wasn’t a fluke.”

kim leehan.

leehan had been staring at you with a dazed expression for far too long. you noticed it, and judging by the way his ears were turning pink, he knew you noticed it too.

you poked his cheek, amused. “what’s up?”

he blinked, startled. “n-nothing.”

liar.

you tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “you sure?”

leehan swallowed—visibly. his gaze darted away, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to do something but was too nervous to act on it. and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he finally moved.

he leaned in—eyes fluttering shut, lips barely brushing against yours, soft and hesitant. his hands trembled slightly as they rested on your arms. the kiss was fleeting, nothing more than a whisper of contact before he pulled away too quickly.

but when he saw your expression—eyes wide, lips parted in surprise—something inside him melted.

the rush of warmth, of relief, pushed him forward before he could think twice. his hands cupped your face with gentle urgency, pulling you back in as he kissed you again. this time, it wasn’t so fleeting. it was still soft—leehan had never been anything but gentle with you—but there was something new in the way his lips lingered against yours, like he wanted to hold onto the feeling for just a little longer.

his thumbs traced over your skin, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. and when you responded—when you kissed him back just as softly, just as sure—he sighed against your lips, something tender uncoiling in his chest.

he pulled back only slightly, enough to search your face, his own breath uneven. his lips were curled into a small, bashful smile he couldn’t quite hide. his fingers brushed over your cheek, his gaze warm, a little dazed.

then, in a moment of unguarded fondness, he ducked his head and kissed the tip of your nose, a soft laugh escaping him when he felt you stiffen in surprise.

his own cheeks burned, but his voice was barely above a whisper. “i like that. a lot,” he murmured.

and then he was kissing you again, his hands slipping down to rest at your waist as he pulled you closer, his lips slotting against yours with a newfound confidence. he kissed you like he couldn’t quite get over the sweet taste of your lips, like he didn’t want to. each brush of his lips grew a little bolder, a little more desperate, as if he was trying to make up for lost time.

when he finally pulled back, his breath was shaky, his heart pounding against his ribs. and yet, even as he tried to catch his breath, his arms stayed locked around you, his forehead resting against yours.

he laughed, breathless, eyes shining. “i really, really like that.”

kim woonhak.

the day was just like any other, as normal as ever. you were hanging out with woonhak, having planned to do your homework together—though that plan had been abandoned a while ago. he had a ball in hand, lazily throwing it against the wall and catching it on the rebound for the past fifteen minutes, while you were lost in your own world, doodling absentmindedly in the back of your notebook.

but woonhak got bored quickly. you noticed the shift when he set the ball aside, his fingers drumming against his thigh, his lips pressed together like he was debating something in his head. his gaze flickered to you every few seconds, thoughtful, unreadable.

and then,just as you were about to ask what was on his mind, he just did it.

no hesitation, no warning—his hands found your face, warm and gentle, as he leaned in and kissed you.

it was soft but certain, like he'd made up his mind in an instant and didn’t want to give himself the chance to second-guess it. his lips molded against yours, slow and warm, lingering for just a beat longer than expected before he pulled away. his large hands cradled your jaw, thumbs tracing over your skin as his eyes flickered over your face, taking in your wide-eyed, dazed expression.

but instead of teasing you for it, he just smiled—small at first, then wider, his arms slipping around your waist, pulling you closer.

there was no shyness, no uncertainty—just quiet comfort, the kind that made it so easy for him to touch you, to want you. like he had never even considered being nervous around you in the first place.

and then—just when you thought it was over—he dipped back in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. then another on your temple. soft, affectionate, each one lingering a little longer than the last. you barely had time to recover before he tilted your chin up and stole another kiss from your lips, quick and playful, like he was testing the waters.

but when you didn’t pull away—when you leaned in just the slightest—he kissed you again. slower this time. deeper. his hands smoothed down your back, drawing you in until there was no space left between you, his lips moving against yours,like he wanted to memorize the way your lips felt against his. 

when he finally pulled back, his breathing was a little uneven, but the grin he wore was lazy, pleased.

his voice was impossibly fond as he murmured, “yeah,” pulling you in until you were against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. “definitely gonna need more of those.”

‎ ‎     • feedback 🗯 reblogs ───── highly appreciated ˆᗜˆ ( requested )

tags @voikiraz , @coquettejunnie , @hanninova , @chaeneu , @aloe-7 , @en-dream , @rizzkisworld , @sgz-net , @kstrucknet , @k-films

[zeroseuniverse]

heyy first of all dont listen to anyone sending hate no one deserves that and specially you🫶

so ive been inactive for a couple of days and i was just catching up with your fics and i was wondering if you would consider doing a part2 for lovesick fool?

i was thinking like rival gang kidnaps reader and cheol goes all crazy looking for her BUT i was thinking (since i get baddie energy from her oops) that maybe he shows up to save her but girlie already saved herself like a girlboss

just a thought haha

i hope you have a great day and remember that you deserve good things 😚🫶

Lovesick Fool III

Word Count: 1.1K Summary:“No,” he mumbled into your shoulder, wrapping himself around you like a human blanket. “You almost got kidnapped today. I deserve this.” Pairing: S.coups X reader

Taglist: @haaruki  @agaha127 @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120  @ltfirecracker

Navigation

The warehouse reeked of gasoline and sweat, the flickering overhead light casting eerie shadows across the concrete floor. A group of men stood around, some pacing, others leaning against crates, each one glancing nervously toward the chair in the center of the room.

Their hostage sat there, bound and blindfolded, head tilted slightly as if listening.

“You sure this was a good idea?” one of the men muttered.

“Boss said to grab her,” another replied, though his voice wavered. “Said it would bring Choi Seungcheol to his knees.”

At the mention of that name, the air seemed to grow heavier.

Everyone knew Seungcheol was terrifying. Everyone knew messing with him was a death sentence. But no one had ever dared to lay a hand on you.

Until now.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made them all tense.

And then—

A soft laugh.

Slow. Amused. Dangerous.

“Bring him to his knees?” your voice cut through the silence like a blade. “You really thought this was going to work?”

The blindfold slipped, revealing sharp, unreadable eyes. The ropes that had bound your wrists lay loose at your sides.

The realization hit them all at once.

You weren’t waiting to be saved.

You were playing with them.

Someone moved first—bad decision.

Before he could react, you grabbed the chair leg and swung it, knocking him to the ground. Chaos erupted. One reached for his gun—too slow. You ducked, sending an elbow into his ribs before grabbing his wrist and twisting, forcing him to drop the weapon.

Another lunged, but you sidestepped, using his momentum to slam him face-first into the crate behind you.

By the time the last man standing realized what was happening, you were already in front of him, pressing the stolen gun beneath his chin.

“Go ahead,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Make a move.”

He didn’t.

The only sound in the room was his shaky breathing—and the unmistakable click of a safety being turned off.

Then—

BOOM.

The warehouse door flew open with a resounding crash, the walls practically shaking from the force of it.

A storm in human form stood at the entrance.

Choi Seungcheol.

Gun in hand, eyes blazing, chest heaving as if he’d torn through hell itself to get here.

His men flooded in behind him, weapons drawn, ready for blood.

And then—he saw you.

Standing in the middle of a room filled with groaning, barely-conscious bodies, a gun still poised under one man’s chin.

His eyes flicked over the scene. The broken chair. The scattered weapons. The men who had dared to take you.

And then—back to you.

Untouched. Unbothered.

Unapologetic.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping slightly, though the fury in his eyes remained. “Are you kidding me?”

You smiled. “Took you long enough.”

He dragged a hand down his face, stalking forward with slow, deliberate steps. The remaining conscious man whimpered as Seungcheol’s gaze landed on him.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned in and whispered, “Run.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Seungcheol watched him go, then turned his full attention to you. “Are you hurt?”

“Do I look hurt?”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not an answer.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer until you were standing chest to chest. “I’m fine, Cheol. They were sloppy.”

Seungcheol inhaled deeply, forcing himself to breathe. To push past the primal urge to hunt down every last one of the bastards who had taken you.

Because you weren’t just fine. You were standing there, smirking at him, like this was all just a mild inconvenience.

And maybe that was the real reason he was losing his mind.

Because no one else could do this to him.

No one else could terrify him and make him fall harder in the same breath.

Finally, his hands found your face, tilting it up as his forehead pressed against yours. His touch was firm but careful—like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were really here.

“I swear to God,” he murmured, voice rough, “if anyone ever lays a hand on you again—”

“They won’t.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. You weren’t reassuring him. You weren’t telling him to let it go.

You were making a promise.

Something dark and possessive flickered in his gaze before he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

You grinned. “That’s why you love me.”

His grip tightened slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle, lips curving upward. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Mingyu, who had been standing behind them, muttered, “I don’t know if I’m turned on or scared.”

Jeonghan sighed. “Both, probably.”

Joshua just shook his head. “They deserve each other.”

And Seungcheol?

He just kissed you—hard.

Because damn if they weren’t right.

Back at Seungcheol’s penthouse, you barely had time to take off your shoes before you found yourself tackled onto the couch.

“Cheol—”

“No,” he mumbled into your shoulder, wrapping himself around you like a human blanket. “You almost got kidnapped today. I deserve this.”

You huffed out a laugh, trying (and failing) to push his massive frame off you. “I did get kidnapped.”

“And you saved yourself like a badass.” He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes with a devastatingly soft pout. “But what about me, baby? Do you know how scared I was? I almost set the entire city on fire.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He ignored that, nuzzling into your neck. “You can’t just be all fearless and independent. Let me save you at least once, damn it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart flipped at how ridiculously clingy he was being. “Cheol—”

He groaned dramatically, tightening his hold. “No. Don’t ‘Cheol’ me. I’m in distress. You’re my weakness. I need to recharge.”

“You’re being so dramatic.”

“I almost went feral for you. You can’t just walk away from that.”

You sighed, giving in and running your fingers through his hair. That earned you an immediate, satisfied hum as he melted into you completely.

From the hallway, Jeonghan leaned against the wall, sipping his drink. “Told you,” he muttered.

Joshua nodded beside him. “He’s done for.”

Minghao scoffed. “The scariest gang leader in the city… reduced to a lovesick puppy.”

Seungcheol, who had somehow maneuvered himself so his head was now in your lap, cracked open one eye. “Jealous?”

Jeonghan just smirked. “No. Just impressed.”

You chuckled, stroking his cheek. “Guess I do have too much power over you.”

He grinned, tilting his head into your touch. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[toiletclown]

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.

spencer agnew x f!reader

fluff <3 word count: 6354

summary: being best friends with spencer agnew was the greatest gift the universe ever gave you. you don't have anyone else in your life who keeps up with you like he does. which is why the flirty banter between you two is so fun, right? it's silly. it doesn't mean anything. right??

(basically the you wanna kiss me so bad x that's so gross get tf away from me freak bestie to lovers trope. or whatever. i don't know. love u.)

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

“Spencer, ew!” You yelled from across the Board AF table. You were in the middle of a Moose Master shoot, and it had very quickly turned to chaos – as usual. Luckily, Moose Master shoot days meant a long, long lunch after wrap to recuperate the massive amount of energy you lost after screaming and laughing like a banshee for an hour. 

“What, you don't think that’s funny?” Spencer shot back. He was using his freshly-pulled Echo Master card on you, because of course he was. “I'm the one in charge here! You're my echo and you have to say baaaabe if I say it.” He dragged out the word, a whiny cadence, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. Cute, he was attempting to put his foot down.

“I’m not doing that, Spencer!” You crossed your arms right back. Two could play at this game.

Being best friends with Spencer Agnew was the greatest gift the universe ever gave you.

Courtney, Chanse, and Angela were just whipping their heads back and forth, following the banter from each side of the table.

“Alex!” Spencer called out, a last ditch effort.

Alex laughed from off-camera. “Sorry, Y/N. He has the card, he makes the rule.”

“Judas!” You hissed. 

Everyone was laughing at this point, and despite your bickering, you were over the moon. You loved your job, and all your friends. 

“What’s wrong, babe?” He winked at you, and you pretended to gag.

“Babe, nothing is wrong,” You deadpanned. You didn't use the same inflection as Spencer, wondering if he would try to argue that that counted as a penalty.

“Penalty card! Pull a penalty card!” Spencer’s face was filled with childlike glee. Bastard, of course he would pull that shit. Although, you selfishly loved seeing his face light up like this. You loved seeing him happy. 

“For what?” Courtney asked, no malice in her voice – they were enjoying the show.

“No answering questions!” Spencer yelled, thinking he pulled one over on you.

But really, Courtney pulled one over on him. “Penalty card, pull a penalty card, Spence!” You mocked him, rubbing it in his face.

“Bro, you want to kiss me so bad right now,” Spencer made several kissy noises at you.

“Do we still have a yeet bucket available?” You begged, tipping your head back and rolling your eyes.

“Do we?” Spencer asked you, remembering the rule that got him yet another “bummer, this is your penalty card to keep!” card. It was first to seven, and he was at six. You, however, were at four.

The game went on and on, you echoing Spencer’s babe, incessantly. You finally missed one and took your penalty card, but you had lasted several rounds of play and were still proud of yourself. However, if this was a bummer card, you would lose.

You hold the penalty card face down, attempting to build suspense. “Can I have a drumroll?”

Spencer immediately began tapping his fingers on the table.

You squealed. “Lucky day! Hmm, who shall I give this to…” You held the card up to your face, tapping it against your chin as though in deep thought.

Everyone started shouting names. Courtney called for Spencer. Spencer called for Angela. Angela called for Chanse. Chanse called for Spencer, too.

You shot the card across the table to Spencer, and it hit him in the face. “Oops! Sorry, I’m a bad shot,” you shrugged, knowing he wouldn’t actually care.

“I gave you a drumroll!” He yelped, incensed that you would do this to him, knowing he was one card away from being out.

“Sorry, babe, it wasn’t the right tempo.”

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

You and Spencer decided on Homestate for lunch, sitting in your car in the Smoffice parking lot, bent every which way to be comfy and facing each other in the small car.

You loved having time alone with Spencer, and you refused to think deeper into why. You weren’t that extroverted in your real life. It was easy to be extroverted on camera, especially when your best friends in the entire universe are there with you, making you double over in laughter, egging you on to take a joke further.

The past few times you’ve been one-on-one with Spencer, you had gotten a bit nervous right beforehand. You’ve never, in all your years of friendship with Spencer, felt nervous before seeing him. And you were choosing to blame one Courtney Ruth Miller for this.

“Spencer’s thirst trap edits on TikTok,” Courtney giggled.

Shayne breaks into that high-pitched laughter that only Courtney brought out of him, and Amanda was laughing in either disbelief or agreement. Actually, it was probably both.

“No, I don’t save them,” Courtney clarified. “But I send–I send them to him.” 

“Check this out, dude,” Shayne said in his frat bro voice.

“And also me, why don’t I check it out again?” Courtney laughed again.

“Also, where did I save that? Hmm…” Amanda added.

The room devolved into a fit of giggles.

Courtney left out a small part of the story. You were usually the one that sent the edits to her.

You wouldn’t say that you had a crush on Spencer. Or that you even had feelings for him that weren't platonic. But sometimes, late in bed, scrolling on TikTok, your for you page would really be for you and put a thirst trap edit of your best friend on your feed. Sometimes, once you sent a video to Court, your algorithm would pick up on it and put a bunch of edits in a row. You’d watch them all, sending half of them to Courtney, fawning over how pretty he was.

You didn’t have feelings for Spencer, you just had eyes that worked. You knew he was beautiful, with his wild, curly hair, his glasses, his humor. Everything about him was attractive to you. He was extremely funny, never took a joke too far, and respected your boundaries. These were all desirable traits, normal things to find attractive in another person.

But, when you watched that Smosh Mouth episode, and dared to look at the comments, your stomach started burning.

The spencer thirst edits is so real, courtney

I also send my friends spencer thirst edits <3

Spencer thirst trap enjoyers rise up !!

You couldn’t place the emotion that was rising inside you, swallowing you. You weren’t dumb, you knew that other people saw those edits. You once saw one with over 20k likes, clearly Spencer being attractive wasn’t a hot take. And it wasn’t – he was objectively hot in looks alone, right? But knowing him personally, well, that only endeared you to him more. 

Jealousy. You felt… jealous. You had pinpointed the emotion that was skyrocketing your body temperature, but you needed to pinpoint the reason now. Why do you feel jealous? What is there to be jealous of? He’s not yours. 

You had had a bit of an anxiety attack over it all when you woke up this morning. You let it all fade away once you got to the office, but sitting in your tiny car, cramped up next to Spencer… the confusion, the jealousy, it was all rearing its head once more.

“You good, babe?” Spencer asked, followed by a large bite of quesadilla.

For some reason, the pet name – despite its frequency in conservation with Spencer – burned you just a little more.

You moved your food to the side, no longer hungry. “Yeah, Spence. I’m okay.” But your voice was tight, and you knew it gave you away. Spencer always knew.

“Y/N, you know you’re a shit liar.” He tossed a crumpled up napkin at you, his way of encouraging you to open up. 

You let out a laugh, weakly. “Shut up.”

Spencer tapped your leg, prompting you to meet his eyes. “Hey. Please? Let me help my best friend,” he said, and the platonic tone he used made you want to shrivel up and pass away. His best friend. That was all you were, all you would ever be. You thought you had made peace with this sentiment, years and years ago. You thought this was a thing you understood, a thing that was an unspoken agreement. 

But maybe it wasn’t. “I don’t think I want to talk about it just yet. Let me process a bit more, and you’ll be the first one to know.” You held out your right pinky, silently asking for a pinky swear.

Spencer smiled, a beautiful sight in the afternoon sun, and linked his pinky with yours. You both leaned in, kissing your respective thumbs to signify the pinky swear was official. It was something you had done for so many years at this point, that the motion was entirely subconscious. 

You pulled away with more force than was necessary, but if Spencer noticed, he took mercy and he didn’t question you. “Let’s talk about you!” You blurted out, desperately trying to redirect the conversation. “How are the apps treating you?” You said ‘apps’ with a certain sense of disdain, meant to come off as a joke but coming out more truthful than you meant.

You’re not sure why this was your best choice for “redirecting the conversation”. Because whatever he was going to say wasn’t going to be any easier to hear.

“Oh, I deleted ‘em.” 

Eyes wide, you leaned forward again, your body constantly stuck in a gravitational pull towards him. “What? When? Why?”

“Who, what, when, where, why, and how?” He mocked you, and you made a big show of rolling your eyes.

“You’re so dramatic, Y/N. I love it.” He said. 

So, you did what you always did. “I might be dramatic but I’m always right.” You loved your friendship with Spencer, because he was the only one that pushed you hard enough. You loved to volley insults back and forth, and to have someone keep up with you when you’re really in the groove. Here you were, starting up your game. A back and forth of barbs with frightening frequency, always on the same page. Spencer never had a problem keeping that insane pace with you. It almost seemed like you were the one running, and he was on a leisurely stroll right behind you, never struggling to keep up with you. Always right there.

“Best friend my ass, why didn’t you tell me!” It was a rhetorical question, and you didn’t need or want an answer to it. You were afraid of what his reasoning would be. 

What if he met someone?

He didn’t seem to pick up on your internal battle. “I don’t know, we haven’t really hung out lately.” His voice was suddenly a lot lower, an air of sadness in his tone. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve had you to myself in a month.” 

Your heart skipped a beat, just for a moment, at that. You decided to push your luck.

“Had me to yourself, eh?” You winked at him, “And you say that I want to kiss you so bad.” You leaned back again, letting the space between you and Spencer return to a normal, friendly, platonic amount. 

To his credit, Spencer was usually the one that made the suggestive jokes. Then, you would shut him down immediately. You would call him disgusting, say he could only have you in his dreams, make a small dick joke, something. That was how the bit went. But you were surprised to see how dumbfounded he looked.

“Sorry I stole your bit,” you exhaled, a bit breathless at the way he was looking at you. Like you were always surprising him, and that he loved it. Like he could maybe love you.

Your phone’s alarm went off, signaling it was time to go back inside. You didn’t have another shoot today, but Spencer had a livestream. Maybe you’d sit in, but you’d more than likely go for a walk to try and get rid of this negative, nervous, jealous energy.

Spencer groaned, and you laughed. “What?”

“I just wanted more time with you is all,” he started, measuring your reaction. When you raised an eyebrow, he pushed his luck. He leaned over the console, right up to your face. Your lips were merely an inch apart, a soft, warm kiss just a small distance away. You stayed silent, and you stayed still. 

A beat.

He looked down at your lips.

Another beat.

“Wanted to see how bothered I could get you,” he whispers, and as he speaks he loses his balance for a second. Your lips brush for the quickest moment. It wasn’t a kiss, not really, just a slight touch. Lips to lips, but no pressure. No romance. 

Somehow, you both managed to keep your faces straight.

Then, Spencer pulled away, agonizingly slow, tantalizingly slow. You didn’t breathe for a moment. It felt like recess again, like you had just run around too hard for too long and now your little lungs couldn’t fill up all the way. 

You forced yourself to stay silent. He smiled again, a wickedly beautiful thing. Then he left you in your car, a raging fire fueled further with every one of his antics.

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

After three full minutes of deep breathing exercises, you finally reentered the office. As soon as the door came to a close behind you, Alex came sprinting up to you, scaring you a little with their sense of urgency.

They came to a stop right in front of you, and after doubling over trying to catch his breath, he finally spoke. “Angela got sick after lunch,” Another quick breath, “can you come do the livestream with Spencer in her place?” 

All that fucking nervous energy came flooding back in, thousandfold. Those deep breathing exercises were useless. All for naught.

Alex was desperate, and despite your current problem, you loved him. And Spencer. And Smosh. Fuck it.

“Yeah, of course I can. Is there anything planned?” You said, following behind them when they rejoiced and started heading for the stage.

They laugh, which makes you laugh, only his was genuine and yours was nervous and obvious.

“Oh, no, what?” You asked, another nervous chuckle coming out of you.

You had reached the door to the stage, and when you walked in you watched as Spencer rattled on about – you listened a bit closer – Family Guy? What the hell, sure. Alex probably told him to start the stream and keep it going while they grabbed someone to cover.

You’d like to think you were Alex’s first choice. You knew that you and Spencer had incredible chemistry on camera, which was only because you had incredible chemistry for real. There was a not insignificant amount of the fanbase that shipped you two. Sometimes, if your TikTok FYP didn’t serve you Spencer thirst traps, it served you edits of the two of you flirting. Compilation videos of moments you shared on camera would come up in your YouTube suggestions. And you watched them all. All the way to the end.

And that never really made much sense, now did it? Why watch these videos speculating on the romantic nature of the friendship you cherished so dearly? You wanted it to be just friendship. That’s what you’ve wanted for nearly ten years now.

And now, all of the sudden, it really was starting to feel like ‘friends’ wasn’t enough. Like you wanted more, and you wanted it bad.

Shit.

You walked over to the livestream setup, making a loud whooping noise to announce your arrival. “Big dick daddy’s back in town baby!” You said, for some fucking reason. While you were doing your breathing exercises in your car, you were also on Twitter. Clearly the brain rot was influencing you. Or it was the gas leak.

You went with that.

“Whoa, coming in hot, eh?” Spencer said, looking up at you while you fiddled with the headphones before sitting in the comfy little swivel chair next to him.

His eyes were full of love, but you knew that was just because you were saving his ass right now.

That was all. You couldn’t indulge yourself in the possibility of it being more. 

You just realized, as you nestled into the chair next to him, that you and Spencer hadn’t done a solo stream together yet. You were in a few of the group livestreams together, when there were four or five cast members involved. But you had yet to do one this… intimate. You shuddered mentally at that word.

“I’m here with Mr. Spencer Agnew, sir, can you tell us what we’ll be doing today?” You asked Spencer, holding your fist up like you had a microphone in. You leaned closer and shoved your hand in his face.

He laughed, and if you actually did have a mic in your hands, the audio would have peaked from the sheer sound of it. You didn’t think your bit was that funny, but you appreciated his enthusiasm.

Spencer played into all your bits. You were always thankful for that. You were never made to feel like your joke was going to bomb. He put his mouth right up close to the ‘mic’ you were holding, and he wrapped his hand around yours like he was trying to steady the ‘microphone’ himself. You threw your head back, giddy.

“Well, Mr. Big Dick Daddy, today we have a FNAF livestream! Super excited to be here, super excited that you are here, because I know how much you hate jumpscares.”

“Alex! You fuck!” You screamed in his general direction. That was why they had laughed when you asked them what was planned.

Spencer snickered, then added a dramatic gasp. “Hey! I was the one who decided that we were playing FNAF, don’t give them all the credit!”

“The only thing I’m going to give you credit for is giving me a heart murmur at such a young age, dickwad.” You crossed your arms in defiance, then bumped shoulders with Spencer to make sure he knew you were okay. “You play, please?” You asked, timid, picking up the controller. “I’ll watch. Please?”

Spencer couldn’t deny you much. He’d proven time and again that despite the way you both spoke to each other, your best friend had a soft spot for you. He gave you a reassuring smile, grabbing the controller from your hands. Just out of frame, one of his hands landed on your knee, a sign of safety, a hint of comfort. You instantly found yourself calming down, despite knowing you were about to get wrecked in the chat for your reactions to the jumpscares.

You looked over at chat for the first time since you sat down, and a blush started forming. The monitor displaying the chat was just off to your left side, and you were able to eye it surreptitiously. 

fuck they are SO cute

shayne and courtney truthers turned to spencer and y/n truthers WAKE UP!! it’s our time!!

the way she’s leaning into him goddddddddd ME AND WHO?

between the shourtney lore we’ve been getting and now these two, i’m going to explode

they act just how me and my now wife acted before we made the leap from friends to lovers. i have faith !!

The last comment stood out to you the most. So much so, that you didn’t realize you didn't answer Spencer’s question. The chat was flying, the comment you committed to memory long gone.

“Sorry, I zoned out. That Homestate was so good, I think I need a nap now.” You decided to acknowledge it while still deflecting. 

Spencer chuckled. He was swapping through the cameras in the game at warp speed, click, click, click. Click, click, click. You didn’t know how he even processed what he was looking at, or for. “You didn’t even finish it, how are you this tired?” 

“If I remember correctly, I was interrupted.” You shot a fiery look at him, pushing him. This was a livestream, nothing could just be cut out of it. He had to be careful. You wanted to see if he would be.

“You want to kiss me soooooo bad, Y/N.” To anyone else, that retort was normal. He’d said it to you on camera about a hundred times. Hell, he said it a few hours ago. But he was pushing back. Teetering dangerously on the line of caution.

You were trying to figure out if you should just push both of you over the edge, sending each other tumbling into madness. But you also wondered if you should pull him back by the sleeve of his stupid hoodie. “Maybe, maybe not,” was what you settled on. 

Chat exploded again, you could see the feed rapidly updating in your periphery. For your own sanity, you decided not to actually try and read anything being said.

“Oh, ew!” Spencer shouted. Your look of confusion, borderline a look of hurt, sends him spiraling and he hurries to explain. “You always say something mean to me when I flirt with you, I figured I’d return the favor this time.” He ended his declaration with a wink. Spencer wasn’t being mean, he was giving you a dose of your own medicine.

Fuck the cliff, fuck any sort of ground you’ve ever stood on. You were free falling, hurtling at record speed, mere moments away from going splat! all over the comically large bullseye painted below. It was the best adrenaline rush you’d ever experienced. All-encompassing, consuming, hungry.

“Ohhhh,” you said, like you just got the joke. “Okay, let’s go again. I’m ready this time!”

Spencer continued playing the game, focus never breaking because this was everyday for you. Neither of you had an on-camera persona when you were next to each other. It was just your friendship. The things you said off-camera, you said just as loud on-camera.

You watched as his thumbs flew around on the controller, flipping through the cameras, shutting the doors. No major jumpscares yet, but the knowledge that they would come was still in the back of your mind.

His hands were nice. Not too big, his fingers stopping not far above the tips of yours when you would hold your hands up to each other’s. You were both big on physical affection, so that was often. They were extremely dextrous, watching him type on a mechanical keyboard felt near-religious. The way they sped around, key-to-key, no effort needed, no concentration, no looking at the keyboard. 

He finally spoke again. “I’m waiting for you to do your line, babe.”

Spencer was on the brink of the danger zone. He didn’t call you babe on camera that often, as though he wanted to keep that for just the two of you, as often as possible. When he did, it was either a whisper – low enough the editor would have to add in an on-screen caption – or in a mocking manner like today’s Moose Master.

“Shit, sorry. Okay.” You did a few speech and breathing exercises, rapidly moving from noise to noise, just to make him laugh. “If I remember correctly, I was interrupted.”

“You want to kiss me so bad, babe. You want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Your head turned to him at Mach 1. Not necessarily because of his words, but because of how nonchalantly he spoke them. Like you didn’t have at least 5,000 eyes on you right now. Like you weren’t livestreaming, on the internet, for everyone and their fucking mother to see.

Like you weren’t having your heart ripped out on a live feed. 

The universe decided to throw you a bone, but it was unfortunately in the form of a jumpscare. It had you screeching, knees pulled up to your chest in your chair, both hands suddenly gripping Spencer’s hoodie. Your heart rate was through the roof, and anything you felt a minute ago was gone, replaced only with this new strain of adrenaline and a little bit of fear.

“Fuck!” You yelled one last time, your string of expletives sure to get clipped and bleeped to death for TikTok. “Sometimes I try to play this game and I remember that literal children can play this. This shit scares me at my big age, and my little cousins are telling me all about the fucking lore like it’s fun!”

“It is fun!” Spencer cut in, defending Scott Cawthon’s honor. The game was still on the ‘game over’ screen, and he was making no moves to jump back in. He wanted to make sure you were okay to continue, and you loved him more for it. He was so thoughtful, you wanted to throw up.

“No, no, the game is fun, please don’t attack me, chat!” You said through a fit of laughter. “I like the game, I promise. I can watch Spence play it, but I can’t ever play it myself because I simply freak out at everything. It’s embarrassing!”

“It’s cute.” Spencer restarted the night, since you had lightly tapped his knee to let him know you were okay to keep going. But now that he said that, you weren’t as sure. He was going to be the death of you, and he was likely going to enjoy it. Sadist.

After a few small jumpscares, another big one came in the form of Foxy. You yelped, again, shutting your eyes and grabbing onto Spencer’s hoodie for the second time in less than twenty minutes. “I told you that you would give me an irregular heart beat, but I think you just want me to die on camera.” 

“Hey,” Spencer said, voice soft and serious while not being too vulnerable. You were being watched after all. “Don’t say that.”

You kissed his cheek, deciding that nothing fucking mattered anymore. So what, you were in love with your best friend. It’s okay that he doesn’t think of you that way, because at least he’s in your life. You might as well do some fan service. Have some fun. 

“Sorry, babe.” Your head found his shoulder, curled up into him. Far too intimate for a Five Nights at Freddy’s let’s play livestream, far too intimate for ‘friends’. But Spencer just readjusted to wrap his arm around you, reuniting his hand with the controller once you wiggled around a little to get comfortable. It was a tight fit, but it wasn’t a bad one. It was comfy. You’d played video games like this with Spencer before, though usually you were in a dark living room, illuminated only by the TV screen as you watched him play Fortnite or Resident Evil or as you played Stardew co-op together. Never like this, cameras and microphones and viewers. But it felt nice, that he wanted to love you so loudly, despite you just being friends.

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

Ian called you into a meeting room two minutes after the livestream ended. Both of you, actually.

“Ian? What’s going on?” You asked, feeling panicked.

Ian sat down and let out a breath, contemplating his word choice. “Okay, so,” he paused, once again trying to figure out his wording. “So, I just have to ask, because I’m your boss, and because this is unfortunately a ‘business’ –” he added air quotes around the word ‘business’, which made you and Spencer chuckle, “Are the two of you in a relationship?”

You were genuinely too stunned to speak. You looked at Spencer, who was already looking at you. Because of course he was. Because of course Ian’s asking this question. Because why aren’t you dating? Why have you been wasting all these years as ‘just friends’ when you’ve both clearly been in love with each other this whole time? You finally broke the silence.

“Not that I’m aware of?” It was a cop out, but you needed to talk to Spencer one-on-one. This wasn’t a conversation to have in front of your boss. “You?”

Spencer slowly shook his head before looking at Ian once more. “Yeah, no, not as far as I know.”

Ian sighed. “And you would be one hundred percent honest if this changed?”

“Yes, Dad. If me and Spencer decide to start making out, we will ask for your consent first. Sorry, Dad.” You said, trying to ease the tension in the room. It was making you claustrophobic.

Thankfully, Ian and Spencer laughed. “Yeah, sorry Y/N’s Dad. We promise to ask you first. Please make sure you do not have Slack alerts silenced at any time.”

After some laughs, Ian stood back up and wrapped you and Spencer in a hug. Once he pulled back, he whispered, “Please tell me first so I can win the office bet.” And then, he was gone.

“Office bet?” You asked, turning to Spencer in confusion. 

He shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

“Okay. Well, can you come over tonight? I think I want to talk to you about that thing from earlier. I think I’ve processed enough.” You smiled at him, baiting him in.

“Well, I was supposed to hang with Alex tonight, but they’ll understand.” Spencer grabbed your hand, linking your fingers loosely. “I’ll see you tonight, babe.” 

And then you were alone.

With a lot of thinking to do.

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

You had agreed that Spencer would be at your place at 9pm. It was currently 8:45pm and you were on the verge of passing out from stress. You’d been doing laps around your apartment for an hour, and you’d never been so happy to be on the bottom floor. You cannot imagine being someone’s upstair’s neighbor right now. 

You paced once more, repeating the cycle. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, on and on forever. Luckily, Spencer was always a little early. He knocked on your door at 8:50pm.

You rushed over, but waited a second before opening the door. You didn’t want to seem too eager. This likely was going to be an extremely emotional conversation. What if you came off desperate?

Once you had paused for what felt like a normal amount of time, you opened the door to Spencer’s beautiful smile. “Hey, babe,” he greeted.

“Hi.”

He nodded towards the entrance, “Can I… come in?”

Oh, right. You were still fully blocking the way. “Oh, sorry, of course!” You laughed, stepping to the side. “Entrée!” You were acting like a fool, but you were nervous as hell. You deserved some slack.

As he entered, you could tell he showered before coming over. You could smell his body wash and his cologne. And it… excited you. You loved the way he smelled, which is why you were constantly stealing his hoodies. 

You followed him through your kitchen and into your living room, sitting down next to him on the sofa. Instinctively, you curled right up to him. Though, as soon as you actually noticed this, you pulled back and put a bit of space between the two of you. You can’t be cuddling him when you’re planning to have a heavy conversation about feelings.

Spencer cleared his throat, and you finally met his eyes. “Is everything okay?” He reached a hand out, and you graciously accepted it. You needed a little grounding right now.

Without your consent, tears started pouring out of you, but you did your best to get your words out. “Yeah. Yeah, Spence, everything is okay,” you let out a laugh, and even though it sounded sad due to your state, it was a happy laugh. “Everything is great. I just, um, I just have a question. And it might be silly, but I want you to be honest.” You were thanking the universe that you got everything out without choking. Your tears were still falling, but luckily they were mostly silent.

“Of course, Y/N. What’s up? You’re starting to scare me a bit.” His thumb was rubbing at your hand, a featherlight touch that was so comforting, you could start sobbing all over again.

“Um, Spencer, are we in love?” You were sheepish, admittedly. It was a strange question to ask, and you were terrified at what his answer could be. It seemed like any answer was going to hurt, whether it was a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.

Spencer started blushing, and sputtered a bit before saying, “Uh, are we in love? Like you and me?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re saying it like it’s impossible!” Even though that thought should hurt, a stab wound with the knife ripped out to make sure you keep bleeding, it didn’t. Because it wasn’t impossible, it was the reality, and you knew that.

“I-I mean, fuck, Y/N. Yeah, I’m definitely in love with you. I just didn’t know it was a mutual thing.” Spencer was getting teary-eyed now, and you just wanted to hold him.

So you did. You climbed into his lap, straddling him. Not in a sexual way, in a, I-need-to-be-close-to-you-right-now way. In a way that brought both of you comfort and peace. You hugged him as tight as you could. “I’m sorry, Spencer. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand.”

Spencer was hugging you just as hard, and when he laughed you felt the vibrations blossom in your chest, too. What a beautiful thing, physical touch. 

“It’s okay, babe. I was okay with waiting,” Spencer was softing running his hands through your hair now. “I knew I was going to have to wait – you’re fucking oblivious.”

You pulled back with a gasp, “Hey!”

“Baby, it’s been nearly ten years. I’ve been flirting with you excessively and loudly in videos with millions of views for years.” Spencer’s eyes were shining again, and you let yourself get lost in them for a moment. 

“I watch YouTube compilations of us flirting!” You blurted out, again, for some fucking reason. What the hell was going on with you today? 

Spencer’s laugh was boisterous, and it shook both of you. You were laughing just as hard. “Hey, I do, too. One time someone on Twitter caught me liking a fancam of us. I’m secretly very happy likes are private now.” 

“Wait, am I your girlfriend now?”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend now?”

You shook your head, “That is not how you’re asking me out, Spencer Agnew.”

He laughed, “My bad, let me start over. Y/N, baaaabe? Will you be my girlfriend? FInally? After ten agonizing years? Please?”

“Oh, my god, Spencer, that one was bad, too!” Your laughs were slightly betraying you, however.

“Baby, please, be my girl. Please?”

You broke out in a feverish blush, and put your head on his shoulder. “Yeah,” you laughed, “Yeah, I will.”

Spencer pressed a soft kiss to your head. “Sorry, what was that?”

You pulled back to look him in the eyes. You grabbed his chin with both of your hands so you could really drive your point home. “Yes, Spencer. I’ll be your girl.”

“Thank fucking god, can I kiss you now?” He was borderline panting now.

“Anytime, babe.”

And he did. He kissed you hard, and he kissed you soft. He was rough, and he was slow. He was everything, all at once, and it was dizzying and intoxicating in the best fucking way.

You weren’t sure how long you both sat there kissing, but it was well into the morning. You woke up in the middle of night, legs tangled with Spencer’s. You had both fallen asleep on your couch, and you were sprawled out across Spencer’s sleeping body. He was snoring very faintly, which was fucking adorable.

You fumbled around in the low light for your phone, checking the time. It was 2:04am. You also had a message from Ian.

I’ll have the HR forms on your desk in the morning. Love you both <3

Damn him.

You woke Spencer up after you had gotten up to pee. After a few minutes of attempting to get him to stand up, you both migrated to the bedroom. Under the covers, you both cuddled up to each other instantly. He sleepily kissed your forehead and wished you a good night. It was the most peaceful sleep of your life.

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

When your alarm went off a mere four hours later, you both were tempted to ignore it. Unfortunately, you both had extremely busy days to tend to. You showed Spencer Ian’s text, which he laughed at. “I hate him.”

You snorted, “Same.” Despite this, you shot him a text.

I’ll bring my favorite pen to sign them with. We’ll be a little late this morning. Busy night :)

“Oh, don’t tell Ian that, please.” Spencer laid back against the pillow with his arm over his eyes, always the drama queen.

Ian’s reply came in, Please respect my boundaries of not discussing my employee’s sex lives. Love you both.

You laughed at his semi-contradiction. You won’t talk to your employees about personal shit but you’ll tell them you love them. Okay, Dad.

You then sat your phone down, and cuddled back up with Spencer. Just for another quick moment. “Five more minutes of this? Then we can get ready.”

“Yeah, I’ll steal something from cast wardrobe today. And I’m sure one of my hoodies is in your car.”

You gaped at the accusation, “Ugh! You don’t know that.”

“Y/N, I saw my grey Legacy hoodie in there yesterday.” He smiled at you, and you loved that he paid attention to you like this. You knew that that hoodie was in there. But it was in the backseat under a number of random items, because you were trying to conceal it. But he saw it anyway, because he sees you. And you were beyond thankful for that.

“Yeah, yeah.”

You both laid in silence, just breathing each other in. This was nice. You could get used to this. You were excited to have this part of Spencer, this side of him that’s just for you. The one that’s extremely soft and caring, but still extremely hilarious. The side that’s so understanding, so observant, so loving. 

Maybe loving Spencer Agnew was the greatest gift the universe ever gave you.

[slutoru1207]

Variant!Invincible x Variant!Reader funny imagine

haha i had fun writing this

The battlefield was pure chaos. The Invincible War had brought together versions of Mark from across the multiverse, and now? Now there were also multiple versions of you.

And it was absolute insanity.

One Mark—dressed in a sleek black and red suit—landed beside the original Mark, wiping blood off his face. "Okay, not gonna lie, I was not expecting this many versions of your girlfriend."

"Tell me about it," Mark groaned, dodging a stray blast. "They’ve been all over me for weeks!"

"Sounds like a dream."

"It’s not!"

Meanwhile, across the battlefield, your variants had found their Marks.

"Hey there, handsome," one of you cooed, sidling up to a Mark with a scar over his eye and a much darker aura. "You look dangerous. I like that."

Scarred Mark raised a brow. "And you don’t look scared of me."

You smirked. "Why would I be? I’ve got a thing for bad boys."

Somewhere else, a more unhinged Mark—eyes burning with bloodlust—was being held back by two versions of you, both giggling. "Aww, you’re cute when you’re trying to kill people."

"Let. Me. Go," he snarled.

One of you poked his cheek. "Nah, you’re kinda fun to mess with."

Back with the original Mark, he turned just in time to see three versions of you hanging off different versions of himself. One had her arms draped around a Mark with a robotic arm, whispering in his ear. Another was poking at a Mark with white streaks in his hair, teasing him about how cool he looked.

And the worst? One of you had cozied up to a Mark in a full Viltrumite uniform—the kind that screamed evil overlord.

"So," she purred, tracing a finger down his chest. "Conquering planets, huh? That’s hot."

The Viltrumite Mark smirked. "You’re intriguing."

Original Mark nearly had a stroke. "ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH A VILTRUMITE?!"

Your variant shrugged. "I mean, yeah. Have you seen him?"

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I can’t deal with this. I can’t."

Meanwhile, the Guardians of the Globe watched the multiversal madness unfold, completely dumbfounded.

"Dude," Rex whispered, eyes wide. "I don’t know whether to be jealous or terrified."

Dupli-Kate sighed. "Both. Be both."

As the battle raged on, it became very clear that the variants—both of Mark and you—were a force to be reckoned with. Some worked together perfectly, back-to-back in combat, protecting each other without hesitation. Others? Well…

"Babe, heads up!" One of you flung a chunk of debris toward a Mark locked in combat.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t her Mark.

"THAT'S NOT MY MARK!" the original you shrieked as the wrong Mark got flattened.

"Oops."

Mark groaned. "I hate this war."

Suddenly, a new portal ripped open in the sky, and out came even more Marks and Readers, their outfits and battle stances making it very clear they had been fighting in their own universes. One Reader stepped forward, looking around with a smirk. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

One Mark, wearing an old, tattered cape, scoffed. "Oh great. More of you."

Another Mark, who looked far too comfortable covered in way too much blood, tilted his head at one of your variants. "I know you."

She grinned. "Yeah, you killed my Mark. Wanna make it up to me?"

Even Original Mark had to do a double take. "WHAT?!"

The battlefield somehow became even worse. One of your variants challenged a Viltrumite Mark to a sparring match, another was actively helping a villain Mark take down a Guardian, and one had somehow convinced a half-robotic Mark to carry her bridal style mid-battle.

"She actually pulled it off," one of your other selves whistled, watching in awe. "Respect."

At this point, even the universe itself seemed exhausted by the sheer amount of chaos. But through it all, one thing remained the same.

It was chaos. It was madness. And, somehow, it was the most entertaining thing that had ever happened in the multiverse.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter what universe they came from—

Marks were Marks.

And Readers? Readers would always drive them insane.

[cloudyluun]

London Fever (p2) | neighbour!harry 

Summary: Y/N knew exactly what she was doing when she slipped into his oversized merch. She wanted a reaction, and oh she got one. Harry doesn’t take well to being toyed with, especially not when she’s been pushing his buttons for weeks. One knock at her door is all it takes for things to spiral out of control. But after a night that leaves them both wrecked and wanting more, reality comes crashing in. The world finds out, the headlines explode, and suddenly, it’s not just a game anymore.

A/N: Turns out, playing with fire does get you burned. Who knew? 🥹 Anyway, here’s Harry losing his mind over Y/N in his clothes, an ungodly amount of tension, and a smut scene so intense it should come with a safety warning. Enjoy the chaos, my loves.

Word Count: 5,5k

Warnings: 

Smut (explicit, detailed, and very NSFW)

Power play, dominance, and control (Harry is in charge, let’s be real)

Possessiveness (because of course)

Teasing & sexual tension (this could fuel a power plant)

Rough sex (hair pulling, manhandling, praise + dirty talk)

Aftercare & softness (he may be mean, but he’s also sweet 🥹)

Angst (because life is cruel)

Public fallout & paparazzi drama (oops)

[part 1]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

A line had been crossed.

He moved.

A slow, deliberate step forward.

Then another.

She felt it before she fully registered what was happening—the shift in the air, the heat rolling off his body, the static crackling between them like a wire pulled too tight.

Until her back hit the door.

Until he was so close that she could feel the ghost of his breath against her cheek.

Warm. Unsteady.

His presence swallowed her whole.

The scent of spice and cedarwood curled around her, intoxicating, familiar. It filled every inch of space between them, sinking into her skin, into her lungs, making it impossible to think clearly.

She swallowed hard, pulse hammering at the base of her throat.

This was new.

Harry had always watched. Always pushed, always teased—a smirk here, a lingering look there. He kept the tension simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken, something electric.

But he had never touched.

Not like this.

Not with his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, knuckles grazing her skin, the tips barely pressing into the delicate hollow of her throat.

Not with his body caging her in, his chest nearly brushing hers, his presence a weight she could feel everywhere.

Not with his lips hovering so, so close.

His emerald gaze flickered over her, slow and dangerous, cataloging every reaction. Every stuttered breath. Every slight part of her lips, every flutter of her lashes, every tiny movement.

Like he was memorizing something.

Like he was committing every single detail to memory.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers curling against the doorframe, nails pressing into the wood to ground herself.

But it didn’t help.

Not when his thumb brushed against her cheek.

Featherlight.

A whisper of a touch. So delicate, so intimate, it sent a shiver racing down her spine, left a hollow ache in its wake.

Made her knees feel weak.

Made her mind spin.

His gaze dipped lower, lingering at her mouth.

And then—his lips parted, voice dropping into something low and lethal.

"Because, sweetheart," he murmured, the words slow, deliberate, dripping with something dark.

Something possessive.

Something that curled tight in her stomach, hot and consuming.

His fingers tilted her chin up.

Forcing her to look at him.

To really see the heat in his gaze.

The warning.

"I don’t like sharing."

Silence stretched between them.

Thick. Heavy.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

She wanted to say something. Anything.

But she couldn’t.

No words came.

Just the heavy pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

His fingers lingered; thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, tracing the delicate curve.

A test. A tease.

And then—

He pulled away.

Abrupt. Sharp.

Like the snap of a rubber band pulled too tight.

The loss of his touch was instant.

A cold rush of air in his absence.

A hollow ache in the pit of her stomach.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look back as he turned and walked away, his shoulders tense, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Leaving her there.

Pressed against the front door.

Heart slamming against her ribs.

Every nerve ending burning.

She made a choice the next morning.

A deliberate decision.

The oversized shirt slipped over her frame easily, the fabric soft against her skin, hanging loose, dipping just enough to expose the curve of her collarbone.

It was his merch.

A bold logo stretched across the front, his name, his design.

It wasn’t actually his. Not something borrowed, not something stolen.

But that didn’t matter.

It was the implication that counted.

It was the game.

She saw him before he saw her.

He was leaning against the front desk in the lobby, scrolling through his phone, fingers tapping idly against the polished marble surface.

Dressed down. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. A hoodie pushed up to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms.

Casual. Unassuming.

But then, he looked up.

And everything changed.

His entire body went rigid.

She saw it all.

The flicker of realization. The quick inhale through his nose. The sharp clench of his jaw.

His eyes darkened.

Dragging down. Over the loose neckline exposing her collarbones. Over the way the fabric swallowed her whole.

Over the fact that his name—his brand—was stamped across her chest like a mark.

Then lower.

To the bare stretch of her thighs.

His nostrils flared.

His grip tightened around his phone.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

Just looked at her like he was trying to figure out if this was real. If she was really doing this.

If she was really taunting him.

Then—

"I thought you weren’t really a fan."

His voice was rougher than usual. Low and sharp.

She tilted her head, lips curling into something dangerous.

"What can I say? Opinions change, I guess."

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t smirk the way he usually would.

His jaw ticked. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to do something.

To touch.

To grab.

To undo this tension that was so close to snapping.

But instead—

He exhaled.

A slow, measured breath.

And then, he walked away.

Not a word.

Not a glance back.

But the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides—

It told her everything.

This wasn’t over.

It happened late that night.

Three knocks.

Deliberate. Heavy.

The kind that demanded attention.

The kind that made her breath catch before she even opened her eyes fully.

She stirred beneath the sheets, her heartbeat slamming in her ears.

It was late.

Too late for neighbors.

Too late for casual visits.

And she knew.

She knew who it was before she even reached the door.

Fingers trembling slightly, she curled them around the handle.

She exhaled—slow, steadying—before she unlocked it.

Before she pulled it open.

And when she did—

There he was.

Harry.

Standing in the dim hallway.

His hoodie was gone.

Just a white T-shirt, clinging to his frame. His curls were messy, like he’d been running his fingers through them.

His eyes—

Dark. Blazing.

And when he finally spoke—

His voice was hoarse. Low.

"Open the door wider."

For a second, she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her fingers curled tighter around the handle, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. But then she did—slowly, cautiously—stepping back just enough to let the door swing open. Just enough to let him inside.

The second he crossed the threshold, she knew she had made a mistake.

The air shifted.

His presence sucked the oxygen from the room, leaving behind something thick, something stifling. The hallway light behind him cast his features in sharp relief—the sculpted lines of his jaw, the tension coiled in his shoulders, the unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

He looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

His gaze swept down, dragging over every inch of her, drinking her in like he was committing her to memory. Her bare legs. The way the oversized shirt swallowed her frame. The way the fabric dipped past her collarbones, slipping from one shoulder, exposing the delicate skin there. It wasn’t his shirt—but it might as well have been.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He reached out.

A slow, deliberate movement.

Fingers curling around the hem of the fabric, thumb barely grazing her thigh as he tugged it between his fingers. Testing. Teasing.

"You think this is funny?"

His voice was rough, like it had been scraped raw. A warning. A challenge.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse hammering, her skin prickling beneath his touch. "I don’t know what you mean."

Harry huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. Then he stepped closer.

Too close.

His body heat was suffocating. His scent—spice and cedarwood and something purely him—wrapped around her, invading her senses, making her head feel light.

"You’ve been teasing me for weeks." His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, the calloused tips ghosting up, up, up, barely touching, barely there.

A shiver raced down her spine.

His breath was hot against her temple, his words slow, measured, dangerous. "Is this what you wanted?"

Her knees felt weak. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Every nerve ending in her body was on high alert, every muscle coiled tight, waiting—

She barely heard her own voice. Barely recognized it when she whispered—

"Yes."

That’s all it took.

The snap.

A fraction of a second and his mouth was on hers.

Hard. Desperate. Bruising.

A collision of lips and teeth and frustration. His hands gripped her waist, firm and unyielding, pressing her back against the door. She gasped, the sound swallowed between them, lost in the mess of it all. He kissed like he was trying to punish her, like he had been holding back for too long and was finally snapping.

His hands slid up—fingers tangling in her hair, gripping just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to let him take more. Take everything.

His knee parted her legs, pressing up, pressing against her. She let out a small, choked sound, one she barely recognized as her own, and his grip tightened in response.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t give her a second to breathe.

And she didn’t want him to.

His hands moved lower, fingers skimming the bare skin beneath the fabric, tracing the soft curve of her waist. Teasing. Exploring. Making her squirm.

Then—

He pulled away.

Just enough to let her feel the loss.

To make her chase after him.

His mouth hovered just above hers, his breath unsteady. His eyes, dark and blown, flicked down—to her lips, her throat, the way her chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

He smirked. Barely.

Then, he whispered—

"Told you, sweetheart."

His hands found the hem of the shirt again.

"You like playing with fire."

He peeled the shirt up.

Slow. Torturous.

His fingers traced every inch of newly exposed skin, dragging up the sides of her ribs, feeling the way her body shuddered beneath his touch. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her stomach as he lifted the fabric higher, higher, his tongue grazing over sensitive spots, inhaling the way her body reacted to him.

When the fabric lifted past her breasts, he paused.

Pulled back.

Just enough to look at her.

His thumb brushed over a peaked nipple—a featherlight touch, teasing, testing—watching the way she gasped at the contact, watching the way her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something.

But before she could, he leaned in—

And wrapped his mouth around her.

A gasp ripped from her throat.

He took his time.

His tongue flicked, slow, deliberate. His teeth grazed, just enough. He worked her up, dragging out every tiny sound, every sharp intake of breath, every shiver that wracked her body.

Then, he switched.

Repeating the same sweet torture on the other side.

By the time he finally pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, she was trembling.

And they had only just begun.

His hands skimmed down her waist, slow and deliberate, his palms branding heat into her bare skin. She barely had time to process the loss of the shirt before his grip tightened—firm, commanding—as he caught the backs of her thighs and lifted her with effortless strength.

A startled gasp left her lips, her fingers scrambling against his shoulders, nails digging in for balance as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

The air felt thick, electric.

Her back pressed against the door, the hard surface grounding her as he held her up, his body locked against hers, caging her in.

And then—he rolled his hips.

Just once.

A slow, deliberate grind that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through her core.

A strangled moan slipped past her lips.

His reaction was immediate.

A low, deep groan rumbled from his chest, his grip on her thighs tightening like he needed to steady himself. His forehead dropped against the side of her face, his breath warm against her cheek, his voice rough.

"This what you wanted, sweetheart?"

He did it again, slower this time, pressing himself against her just enough to make sure she felt him.

Felt how hard he was.

How much he wanted her.

The friction sent another shudder rolling through her, her body betraying her, her head tipping back against the door with a sharp gasp.

His teeth scraped along her jaw, catching the sensitive skin before he sucked lightly, just enough to make her whimper.

"Yeah," he murmured, voice dark, smug. "That’s what I thought."

And then, he let her down—just barely.

Lowering her just enough that her toes skimmed the floor, his fingers still digging into her thighs, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

And then—he dropped.

Sank to his knees in front of her, his hands still gripping her thighs, fingers spreading over the soft skin, holding her open.

His gaze flickered up.

Dark. Intense.

Watching her as he pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh.

Slow.

Lingering.

She exhaled shakily, her entire body tensed, caught in that unbearable space between anticipation and desperation.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t move too fast.

Instead, he took his time, his lips trailing a slow path higher, the heat of his breath searing against her already-sensitive skin.

A soft gasp escaped her lips when he nipped lightly, just above her knee, his tongue flicking out to soothe the spot.

He hummed against her skin.

"So sensitive," he murmured, voice full of wicked amusement.

She bit her lip, fingers curling into fists at her sides as he kept going.

Higher.

His mouth moved up the inside of her thigh, his tongue dragging in slow, torturous strokes.

When he reached the curve where her thigh met her hip, he paused.

She could feel his breath there.

So close.

Right where she needed him.

Her hips shifted instinctively, a small, unconscious movement. A plea without words.

And instead of giving in—

He pulled back.

A small, teasing chuckle rumbled from his throat.

"Impatient?"

She made a small, frustrated noise, her hands twitching at her sides.

And then—

His fingers curled into the waistband of her underwear.

A small tug.

Not enough to pull them down.

Just enough to snap the elastic against her skin.

The sharp little sting made her jolt, made her breath catch.

Harry grinned.

"So eager," he murmured, voice dark, teasing. "Look at you—already soaked for me."

She whimpered.

His fingertips traced just above the fabric.

Not touching her where she needed him.

Just hovering.

Letting her feel how close he was.

Letting her ache for it.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice rough, his lips brushing the inside of her thigh.

"Do you want my fingers or my tongue first?"

Her breath hitched, fingers clenching into fists at her sides. The heat of his breath against her skin sent a shiver rippling up her spine, and she felt like she might go mad if he didn’t touch her properly.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She knew what he was doing—pushing her, making her beg for it.

But her pride could only hold out for so long.

"Your mouth," she whispered, voice unsteady.

A pleased hum vibrated against her skin. "Good girl."

And then—he snapped.

In one sharp motion, he hooked his fingers into her underwear and ripped them down her thighs. A gasp caught in her throat at the sudden movement, at the way the fabric barely had time to glide over her skin before he was shoving it aside like it was a useless scrap in his way.

The cold air barely had time to meet her exposed skin before his mouth was on her.

Her whole body jerked against the door, a strangled sound escaping her lips as his tongue flicked out, slow at first.

Testing.

Tasting.

He took his time, dragging the tip of his tongue in a long, deliberate stroke, savoring the way she trembled, the way she exhaled in stuttered little gasps.

His grip on her thighs tightened, thumbs pressing into the soft skin as he held her open for him.

"Fuck," she breathed, already struggling to stay upright, nails clawing at the wooden door behind her.

His tongue moved again, flicking over her in a lazy, teasing rhythm that made her hips stutter forward—chasing the feeling, chasing him.

That seemed to amuse him.

"So desperate," he murmured against her, lips curving before he dipped his tongue deeper.

Her whole body jolted. A strangled moan caught in her throat, her knees nearly giving out.

Harry groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, making her stomach tighten, her pulse race. His grip tightened on her thighs, holding her steady, keeping her exactly where he wanted her as he worked her open with his mouth.

And then—he got impatient.

The slow teasing disappeared in a snap.

His tongue pressed deeper, flicking faster, rougher, his lips sealing over her in a way that sent electricity shooting through her limbs.

She gasped, back arching, hands slamming against the door as her whole body clenched.

He didn’t let up.

Didn’t give her time to breathe, to process, to do anything but take it.

Her hips tried to jerk away, the pleasure rolling through her so intense it was almost too much.

But Harry wasn’t having it.

His hands pinned her in place.

"Stay still," he ordered, voice muffled against her. His lips brushed over her slick, sensitive skin, a promise, a warning. "Take what I give you."

And then—his fingers slid inside her.

She nearly sobbed.

His fingers curled inside her just right, pressing into that spot that made her see white behind her eyelids.

She was already unraveling, already falling apart in his hands.

And he loved it.

His mouth and fingers worked in tandem, pushing her higher, pushing her toward the edge so fast she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but let him wreck her.

Her hands clawed at the door, her head falling back, a sharp cry slipping from her lips.

So close.

So close it was torturous.

Her body clenched around his fingers, legs trembling, the pleasure building, burning, threatening to consume her whole.

She was right there.

Right on the edge of breaking.

And then—

He pulled away.

Completely.

Her eyes snapped open, her breath catching, her head spinning in a dazed, wrecked, frantic haze.

"Harry—"

Her voice came out shattered, her body desperate, aching, ready to fall apart.

But he just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips red and glistening, his eyes dark and burning as he stared up at her.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice low, rough, firm.

She didn’t move at first, still gasping for breath, her mind slow to catch up, still clinging to the pleasure he had just ripped away from her.

But Harry—

Harry didn’t wait.

He grabbed her.

Spun her in one swift motion, pressing her face-first against the door.

Her hands braced against the wood as she sucked in a shaky breath, her body still trembling from what he had done to her.

But she barely had time to recover before she felt it.

Him.

His cock, thick and hard, dragging over her slick folds.

Not pushing in.

Not yet.

Just teasing, letting her feel how ready he was, how desperate he had become.

His breath was hot against her ear as he leaned in, pressing his chest against her back.

"You like playing with fire?" he murmured, his voice low, taunting. His lips brushed over the shell of her ear, the words a dark promise.

"Now you get to burn."

Her body shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. There was nothing cold about the way he held her, about the way his hands framed her hips, keeping her pinned between his body and the door. Nothing cold about the weight of him pressing into her, the hard line of his chest against her back, his thighs bracketing hers as his grip tightened—possessive, unrelenting.

His fingertips dug into her skin, marking her before he’d even properly touched her. A slow, dark thrill curled in her stomach, anticipation pooling low, thick and hot, making her legs tremble beneath her.

Harry tilted his head, letting his lips graze the curve of her jaw before trailing lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of her neck. He hummed against her skin, his voice nothing but a rasp. "You were teasing me all night. Now look at you."

She bit her lip, swallowing down the sound that threatened to escape. It was pathetic, how easily he unraveled her, how effortlessly he wound her up. He hadn’t even touched her properly, and already she was teetering on the edge of something reckless, something that stole the breath from her lungs.

His fingers skimmed down her stomach, deliberate and slow, until they settled on the waistband of her underwear. He played with the fabric, tugging it just enough to make her gasp, before dragging his hand back up.

She whimpered.

"You hear that?" he murmured, pressing his lips to the hinge of her jaw. "You’re already desperate for me."

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing down the response on the tip of her tongue. He knew it was true. He knew exactly what he did to her.

And still, he made her wait.

Seconds stretched between them, thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of what was coming. His fingers flexed against her waist, his breathing uneven, his restraint razor-thin.

And then, finally—finally—he pushed inside.

There was no hesitation, no teasing. No gentle buildup.

The moment he entered her, it was deep and hard, stealing the breath from her lungs in one sharp thrust.

Her fingers flew to the door, pressing against it for support, her body arching in response to the sudden fullness, the delicious stretch of him inside her. A broken moan tumbled from her lips, her forehead falling forward, her body tensing around him.

"Fuck." The word was a ragged groan from behind her, his voice thick, strained. His grip on her waist tightened, his nails pressing crescents into her skin. "So tight, sweetheart. Always so fucking tight for me."

She barely heard him. Barely registered anything beyond the way he felt, the way he filled her completely, the way his hips pulled back—just enough to make her whimper—before snapping forward again.

It was punishing. Relentless.

There was no slow build, no tenderness. Just pure, raw need.

His other hand slid up, fingers tracing the path between her ribs before curving around her breast. He squeezed, rough and possessive, his thumb swiping over the peak. She gasped, her knees nearly giving out beneath her.

She couldn’t think.

Couldn’t focus on anything beyond the way he moved, the way he took her—deep and desperate, like he needed this as much as she did.

"This is what you wanted, huh?" His voice was nothing but a rasp, wrecked and breathless. "To be fucked like this?"

A strangled moan was all she could manage, her hands scrabbling against the door, nails scraping against the wood.

His pace quickened, hips slamming into hers, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the dimly lit room. The dresser beside them rattled with every thrust, the sharp edge of the door biting into her palms as she braced herself.

She could feel herself slipping, unraveling beneath his touch. The pleasure built rapidly, winding tight in her stomach, threatening to snap.

But just as she reached for it—just as she started to fall—he pulled away.

She gasped at the sudden loss, her body protesting immediately, but before she could even form a coherent thought, he spun her around.

Her back barely hit the dresser before his hands were on her thighs, lifting her easily, placing her exactly where he wanted. Her fingers scrambled for purchase, gripping his shoulders, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he aligned himself again.

His mouth crashed against hers—desperate, bruising.

The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongues, heat and hunger. He nipped at her bottom lip before swallowing the breathy moan that slipped out, his hands digging into the flesh of her thighs as he held her still.

And then, without warning, he slammed back into her.

Her head tipped back, a strangled sound escaping as her fingers clawed at his back.

He didn’t give her time to adjust. Didn’t give her time to catch her breath.

He set a brutal pace from the start, each thrust deep and deliberate, dragging pleasure through her like fire licking at dry wood.

"Look at me."

His voice was commanding, his grip tightening as his fingers tangled in her hair.

She forced her eyes open, her vision hazy, dazed, as she met the intense green of his.

His pupils were blown, his jaw tight, sweat dampening the curls at his temples. He looked wrecked, desperate, and completely in control all at once.

The way he was looking at her—like he wanted to watch every second of her unraveling, like he wanted to imprint this moment in his memory forever—sent a fresh wave of arousal through her.

The dresser rocked beneath them, the force of his movements sending jolts of pleasure through her, her body trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

She was close.

So close she could taste it, could feel it creeping up her spine, threatening to pull her under.

And then he did something devastating.

He slowed.

His thrusts dragged out, the pace shifting—not easing in intensity, but stretching the moment, prolonging it, making her suffer.

She whimpered, her nails digging into his skin, frustration making her eyes sting.

"Harry," she pleaded, voice wrecked, shaking.

His smirk was slow, teasing, even as his own restraint wavered. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured, "Come on, sweetheart. Let go."

The words shattered her.

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, dragging her under, burning through every nerve ending. She gasped, her whole body tensing, thighs squeezing around him, fingers gripping him so tightly she was sure she’d leave marks.

The sound that left her—somewhere between a sob and a scream—sent him spiraling after her.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself deep, his whole body shuddering as he spilled into her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Their breathing filled the silence, ragged and uneven, the scent of sweat and sex lingering between them.

Then, Harry let out a breathless, hoarse chuckle against her shoulder.

"Fuck," he muttered, forehead dropping to hers.

She exhaled shakily, still floating somewhere between reality and oblivion.

And when she finally laughed—soft, dazed—he smirked, shaking his head.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to her jaw. "Real funny."

Her body still hummed from the aftershocks, her skin dewy, her limbs heavy and languid. The dresser was cool against her back, contrasting the overwhelming warmth of him—his body still pressed to hers, his breath warm against her temple.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself exist in this space, in the remnants of what they’d just done. Her fingers trailed absentmindedly along his shoulder, nails scraping lightly against damp skin.

He sighed, a slow exhale that ghosted across her collarbone. "You okay?"

It was soft. Barely more than a murmur, but the concern in his voice made something pull tight in her chest.

She swallowed, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. You?"

His lips brushed over her throat, lingering there for a beat before he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Always."

She huffed out a tired laugh, shaking her head. But she didn’t argue.

Because for now, she’d let herself believe it.

The first thing Y/N registers is warmth.

It surrounds her, presses against her back, blankets her in something heavy and solid and safe.

A slow, steady breath ghosts over her shoulder, warm lips barely grazing her skin in sleep.

Harry.

Reality creeps in slowly, threading through the fog of exhaustion. The sheets are tangled around her legs, twisted in the aftermath of limbs and desperate touches. His arm is draped over her waist, his fingers relaxed against her stomach, but even in sleep, his hold is possessive—like even now, he doesn’t want her to leave.

She blinks, adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the window, to the weight of his body curled around hers.

This is real.

The thought hits her with startling clarity. The heat of him against her, the soft inhale and exhale of his breath.

His fingers twitch against her stomach, flexing slightly—like he’s making sure she’s still there.

For a moment, she lets herself sink into it.

She stays still, breathing him in, memorizing the feeling of his skin against hers. She closes her eyes, reveling in the warmth, the intimacy of it, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed against her back.

But then, the second thought comes.

She needs to go.

Carefully, she shifts, trying to untangle herself without disturbing him, but the moment she moves, his grip tightens.

"Where you going, trouble?"

His voice is low, thick with sleep, rough in a way that makes something clench deep in her stomach.

She swallows. "I should leave before—"

His arm tightens around her, pulling her back into him.

"Stay."

The word is soft. Barely a whisper.

But it steals the breath from her lungs.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Because this? This isn’t supposed to happen.

She bites her lip, staring at the ceiling.

"Harry, this—" she hesitates, her voice quieter now, less certain. "This wasn’t supposed to happen."

His fingers move slowly, tracing small circles against her hip, his breath steadying.

"Maybe not." He presses a lazy kiss to her shoulder. "But it did."

She doesn’t respond.

Because she doesn’t know how.

So, for now, neither of them moves.

For a while, they exist in a bubble.

The tension is still there—always—but now it’s laced with something heavier.

Something neither of them speaks about.

They steal moments.

Quick touches in the elevator. Lingering glances across the lobby. The brush of his fingers against her wrist in passing. A hand on her lower back when no one’s looking.

The silence between them is thick with unspoken words, with things they should say but don’t.

Because saying them makes this real.

And if it’s real, it can break.

But then, the bubble bursts.

A paparazzi photo leaks.

"Harry Styles spotted leaving neighbor’s apartment in the early hours."

Her phone is vibrating before she even opens her eyes.

A constant buzz against her nightstand, insistent and relentless.

She groans, squinting against the early morning light as she reaches for it.

Calls. Messages. Notifications blowing up.

Her stomach tightens.

With shaking fingers, she swipes through the alerts.

People found her Instagram. They’re digging through her posts. Speculating.

Her heart pounds as she scrolls through the headlines. The invasive comments. The messages flooding her inbox—some curious, some vicious.

Her stomach twists.

Her hands shake.

She doesn’t even hesitate before grabbing her keys and heading to Harry’s apartment.

By the time she gets there, the door is already unlocked.

She steps inside cautiously, closing the door behind her, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Harry is pacing.

His back is to her, his hands tangled in his hair, his shoulders rigid.

He turns sharply at the sound of the door clicking shut.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark, stormy.

"Harry—"

"We can’t do this."

The words hit like a slap.

Her breath catches, her stomach twisting so violently she thinks she might be sick.

"So that’s it?"

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t know.

And that’s the worst part.

Not the photo. Not the headlines. Not the fact that the world is picking apart something she doesn’t even understand herself.

It’s this.

The hesitation in his voice. The conflict in his eyes. The way he looks at her like he wants to pull her close but knows he shouldn’t.

She waits.

Waits for him to take it back.

To say something, anything, that makes this hurt less.

But he doesn’t.

His throat bobs, his fingers twitch at his sides, his mouth parts slightly—like he might speak.

But he doesn’t.

She exhales shakily, her vision blurring.

And when she finally turns, when she finally walks away—

He doesn’t stop her.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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