#tired of liking something watching/reading the continuation

[urrockstar-xe]

need you - j.t x fem!reader

posted july 13th, 1:19 am

watching captain america brave new world to feel something again lols, not proofread and mentions of reader's hair, also the spanish is google translated please correct me if it's wrong!!

dad!Joaquín x mom!reader fluff fluff fluff

masterlist

wc: 1.2

He was exhausted. Aching bones and bruised ribs, and a cut lip, was all he could bring home to you after this past mission. It was too late past midnight, there was no expectation for you to be up at this hour, not when you had updated him just two days prior about your toddler’s current sleeping schedule, and it was not good. 

But maybe, if he was lucky, you had been hoping for his early return, or read his mind somehow, and just knew, and put a plate away in the fridge for him to heat up upon his arrival. 

He was pretty certain he’d take scraps from the 13 month old at this point. 

With tired fingers, he punched in the code on the locked front door, his duffle heavy on his shoulder as he opened the door with a huff. 

It was quiet inside, as he had expected, living room lights were off, but the light in the kitchen was still glowing softly. He waited to hear the door automatically lock with a soft click sound, before going to investigate. 

Clues were splayed out the closer he got to the entry way to the small kitchen, a soft sound of keyboard typing and your quiet hum along to whatever 50s song was playing in your headphones. That must be why you hadn’t heard his entrance. Joaquín audibly sighed at the sight of you, still in your jewelry and makeup from the day but nice enough to yourself to put on pajama shorts instead of jeans and a hoodie, his hoodie. A baby monitor sat beside your macbook, the camera showing the crib of his sweet little girl curled up with a pacifier and her blanket. He smiled at both sights. 

He didn’t want to scare you, but he needed you. It had been rougher than usual without you these last couple weeks. A rougher mission, rougher bad guys.

The sight of you wasn’t enough anymore, he needed to feel you. 

Joaquín dropped his duffel in the doorway, hoping the noise would get your attention before moving to untie his boots.

Luckily for him the sound of it hitting the floor was heard just when the silence between the song ending and another beginning had stalled. You turned when he had his head down, pulling off your headphones ”Joaquín?”

He closed his eyes at the sound of your voice, pulling off his second boot before standing up straight and tilting his head in your direction. He could hear you getting up. 

“Hi honey,” 

he could melt at how sweet you sounded, the way your arms looped around his neck and pulled him into you, guiding his face to your neck and letting him just breath you in. Joaquín has to be in heaven, this must be what paradise feels like.

“I missed you” you murmured into his shoulder, nails running along his back and then down his arms when they wrapped around your waist in attempts to drag you closer. 

“Missed you, please keep talkin’” his voice was barely there, it was the first thing he had said since beginning the journey home. He needed to hear your voice, needed you.

“Okay” you thought for a few seconds on what to say next, pressing a soft kiss to his jacket covered skin. “Thank you for comin’ home to us in one piece. I didn’t wanna tell you over the phone but Mari keeps crying for you.” 

Joaquín let out a sad hum at that, before letting you continue.

“I’ve been up trying to write some while she was finally sleeping. I only made grilled cheeses for dinner but we still have so much stuff if you want me to make you one?” You cut off any rambling that could’ve been forming to ask the question, pulling away to finally really look at his face.

Joaquín opened his eyes, taking in the mix of concern and relief in yours, the faded lipstain and the way your hair was falling into your face. 

His hands found your cheeks, and you leaned into them. Your eyes scanning his face over a billion and one times to make sure he wouldn’t crumble in your arms. 

“Grilled cheese actually sounds really great right now” 

You let out a soft laugh at his whispered words, earning a small, tired smile in return. 

“Okay, I’ll make you a couple.” 

Joaquín gingerly pressed his lips to yours, murmuring a soft thank you, and sighing at the feeling of your mouth on his before begrudgingly pulling away and moving to go change. 

You smiled, doing a small and silent but excited jump at your man finally being home before turning to the table and swiftly shutting your laptop. 

You were just about to open the fridge when you paused, watching the screen on the baby monitor as Joaquín came into frame, leaning barely on the bars of the crib and gently running his hand across the baby’s head. Not enough to wake her up but enough for his own piece of mind. 

You watched until he left the frame, a soft smile settling on your face as you nodded your head in an attempt to get rid of the tears brimming your eyes as you opened the fridge.

They were gone in time for Joaquín to be back, you were waiting for the sandwiches to be ready to flip when you felt his strong arms wrap around you from behind.

“Hola, mi amor, te extrañé” hello, my love, I missed you.

Quickly you flipped his food before turning in his arms to kiss him again, more needy this time, more urgent. 

Your hands found his hair as soon as his tongue found yours. Joaquín hummed into your mouth but the make out session was soon cut short at the idea of burning the last four pieces of bread and having to make another meal at almost 2 in the morning. 

He let out a quiet whine at the loss when you turned back to the stove. Instead pressing soft and wet kisses to your exposed neck, using one of his hands to assist you in tilting your head. Eventually he was just breathing you in again. Just letting his lips and nose linger in the crook of your neck, hands ever so softly squeezing your waist every so often. 

“Okay, baby.” You murmured, turning off the stovetop and patting his hands, a signal for him to move and when he reluctantly listened, you plated the two sandwiches and handed it to him, pecking his lips before letting him go sit down. 

You weren’t far behind him, taking the seat next to him and occupying yourself by cleaning up the small clutter you had left while working. Joaquín smiled, as if knowing that You needed to be near him too brought him some peace of mind about the fact that he would most definitely be up your ass the next couple days.

He always was after missions, you liked it that way. Showed it made an impact on him to not have you around.

Joaquín wiped his hands together after finishing half of his second one and crossed his arms, looking at you with a titled head. Tired and loving glazed over eyes watching you plug in your computer for tomorrow’s usage.

Once you turned back to face him, he was already beckoning you closer, pulling you down into his lap as soon as you became close enough. One hand around your waist and the other settled on your thigh, you ran your fingers through his already disheveled curls. 

“‘M glad you’re home,” you whispered. 

“Me too.”

[sturduststrails]

"Sue me" Ex!sukuna x reader

Exes to??

Masterlist

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6

You sit at the edge of the couch.

He stays standing, like he’s afraid that sitting will feel too much like staying.

You don’t ask him to.

But he does it anyway.

The silence between you doesn’t feel heavy this time.

Just… full. Like a pause that hasn’t decided what it is yet.

You watch him.

Not the way you used to—waiting for warmth, or softness, or some version of him you could hold onto.

You watch him like someone watching a stranger try to find their way back to a home they burned down.

Eventually, you ask:

“When did it change for you?”

He looks up, startled by the question.

“When what changed?”

“When did you stop seeing me as… a person, and start seeing me as a lesson?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

Which is funny. Because you’re not even angry anymore.

Just tired. And done pretending like he didn’t take something.

“Was it when I cried too much?” you continue.

“When I stopped being easy to love?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And for once, you don’t fill the silence.

“No,” he says finally.

“It was before that. I just… didn’t know it then.”

You nod once.

Because of course.

Of course he didn’t.

“You said you didn’t come here to fix anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“So why now?”

He hesitates. Then:

“Because when I read what you wrote… it didn’t sound like someone who wanted revenge.”

“It sounded like someone who needed to be remembered right.”

You go still.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

“And the truth is… I don’t know if I ever saw you clearly enough to do that.”

He says it so quietly, it barely makes it out of his throat.

But it does. And it lands like something sacred. Or maybe unforgivable.

You’re not crying.

You thought maybe you would, when this moment came.

But all you feel is… steady.

“You don’t get to decide how I’m remembered,” you say softly.

He nods.

“I know. I just… I needed you to know I’m starting to understand the version of me you had to survive.”

You let that sit.

And for the first time in forever, he doesn’t rush to soften what he said.

He doesn’t follow it with a joke or a metaphor or a quote from some book he used to love more than listening to you.

He just lets it hang.

And you do, too.

Because this time—finally—it’s not about whether he loves you.

It’s about whether he can really see you.

And maybe that’s a better beginning than pretending you’re not still bleeding from the last ending.

You lean back against the couch, arms crossed. Not defensive. Just… bracing.

He hasn’t looked at you in a full minute.

So you ask—softly, but not gently:

“Is that why you wrote me like that?”

His head lifts a little.

“Like what?”

“Like I never said anything.”

“Like I just stood there and let you walk away.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t answer. But you keep going.

“You made me sound so quiet.”

“Like I only ever spoke in metaphors and soft exits.”

“But I screamed at you, Ryo”

“I begged you to meet me halfway.”

There’s heat in your voice now. Not rage—just the sharpness of remembering who you were before it broke.

“I told you I was scared, and you said I was being dramatic.”

“I told you I couldn’t feel you anymore, and you said I was making things up.”

“You turned it into something palatable. But it wasn’t. It was ugly. And I stayed. Even when it was ugly.”

He looks up, finally. And when he does—really does—his eyes look wrecked.

“You used to say something after we fought,” he says, voice raw.

You go quiet.

“It always made me feel like shit, but I never admitted it. I never even reacted.”

Your breath catches.

“You used to say…”

He swallows. Rubs the back of his neck.

“You’d say: ‘Just tell me if I’m hard to love, so I can stop trying to make it easy.’”

You close your eyes.

God.

You forgot you ever said that out loud.

But it hits. Because of course he remembers that line.

The one that cracked him, even if he never let you see it.

“I almost put it in the book,” he says.

“But it sounded too real. Too close. I didn’t want people to know I let you say that and didn’t answer.”

You’re quiet.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground like it’ll forgive him before you do.

“I should’ve answered.”

You don’t speak for a while.

And then:

“You didn’t have to answer. You just had to stay in the room.”

His head tilts up—slow, cautious—like maybe he’s finally hearing you without trying to translate it into something that absolves him.

You sit with that silence together. Not awkward. Just honest.

And then, because you’re tired of pretending anything less than the truth will help either of you now, you say:

“You made me think my needs were noise. And I started believing it. That’s the part I still haven’t forgiven myself for.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

He doesn’t try to make it better.

He just nods, and says—

“You weren’t noise. You were the only real thing in the room.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began

You believe he means it.

[rannie-moon]

“Rookie It Girl” ENHYPEN’s Lee Heran Named Global Ambassador for Miu Miu

On January 17, 2022, Miu Miu officially named ENHYPEN’s Lee Heran as its newest global ambassador, making her one of the youngest K-pop idols to take on such a role. At just 17 years old (international age), Heran continues to rise not only in the music industry but now firmly within the world of luxury fashion.

Known for her confident stage presence and youthful elegance, Heran’s appointment as an ambassador has been met with overwhelming support from fans and fashion insiders alike. Miu Miu shared in their official announcement:

“Lee Heran brings a rare mix of individuality and modern femininity that perfectly aligns with the spirit of Miu Miu. Her fearless approach to both style and creativity makes her a natural fit for the brand.”

Heran has previously worked with Miu Miu on multiple occasions, notably gracing the cover of Harper’s Bazaar Korea in November 2021 styled entirely in the brand’s Fall/Winter collection. The cover went viral across social media for its effortlessly cinematic concept and Heran’s striking visuals—further proving her strong editorial impact.

In addition, Heran's 2021 collaboration with Elle Korea and Miu Miu featured a playful preppy-chic concept, cementing her as a Gen Z muse to watch. Her ability to blend sweetness with sharp sophistication was praised by fashion directors and stylists, many noting her natural instinct in front of the camera despite her young age.

Despite ENHYPEN’s packed promotional schedule for DIMENSION : ANSWER, Heran’s fashion influence has steadily grown behind the scenes. From her off-duty looks to her stagewear choices, she’s become a trendsetter among idols, frequently going viral for her bold accessories and mix of classic and contemporary styles.

One stylist noted,

“Heran doesn’t just wear clothes—she brings something new to them. There’s a confidence in the way she moves, a softness that never feels forced. That’s why brands like Miu Miu are drawn to her.”

With this new chapter as a global ambassador, fans can expect Heran to continue working closely with the brand on future campaigns, editorials, and perhaps even Fashion Week appearances later this year.

From magazine covers to music charts, Lee Heran’s star is only getting brighter.

“She embodies the type of beauty we no longer have to explain.”

A senior spokesperson from Miu Miu Korea shared:

“Heran has that rare kind of beauty that doesn’t feel curated. There’s something almost instinctive about her—it’s effortless, honest, and never overstated. Whether she’s walking out of a building in sweatpants or sitting front row at an award show, she always looks exactly right. That kind of presence is impossible to manufacture. She embodies the type of beauty we no longer have to explain.”

And it’s true—Heran’s visual identity doesn’t come from polished pageantry or performance makeup alone. It’s how she carries her face when she’s not trying to look beautiful. From the way her fringe falls messily across her brow during dance practice to the way her features light up mid-laugh during a chaotic variety segment—fans and media alike have gravitated to the undone elegance of her beauty.

In 2021, a forum post titled “Heran’s Face Is the Future of the 4th Gen” trended for over 48 hours, gathering over 300K views. Fans pointed out her feline-shaped eyes, soft but sculpted nose bridge, and the kind of mouth that looks like it’s holding back a secret—all adding up to a face that’s equal parts dreamy and grounded.

Korean netizens often describe her look as “눈에 안 지겨운 얼굴”—a face you never get tired of looking at. One post simply read:

“Heran doesn’t have the kind of face that screams for your attention. It just…stays in your head.”

On international platforms like Twitter and TikTok, fans frequently make side-by-side edits of her bare-faced fancams versus her full-glam editorial shoots—captioned with things like “same girl, different universe.” What’s even more striking is that neither look ever seems out of place on her.

Even makeup artists who've worked with Heran in 2021 and 2022 have said she's “shockingly symmetrical” and that her features seem to "adapt effortlessly" depending on the style of the shoot. From the doll-like soft grunge of her Harper’s Bazaar Korea cover to the clean, collegiate charm of her Miu Miu x ELLE Korea shoot—Heran never disappears into the concept. She redefines it.

The Off-Duty Uniform of Gen Z’s Favourite Visual

While Heran may shine on stage, it’s her off-duty style that’s sparked the most fanfare—and that Miu Miu has subtly leaned into since 2021. Unscripted, undone, and undeniably chic, her day-to-day looks have become a style guide for fans across the world.

Some of her most viral fashion moments include: The “Study Date” Look (October 2021): Caught leaving the HYBE building with a scriptbook in hand and AirPods in, Heran was dressed in an oversized navy knit sweater with a Miu Miu logo barely peeking through, paired with a khaki pleated tennis skirt, white tube socks, and vintage-inspired loafers. Her simple wireframe glasses and slicked-back bun completed the look—causing the phrase “Heran student-core” to trend on Korean Twitter for hours. Café Run Chic (November 2021):

Fans snapped Heran at a café in Sinsa-dong, wearing a cropped shearling-lined leather jacket over a soft pink collared knit top, low-rise jeans, and ballet flats. She accessorized with a small baguette bag and her signature rectangle sunglasses. The effortlessly cool ensemble was later featured in multiple fashion moodboards on Pinterest and Weibo, with many dubbing it “the perfect blend of Seoul and Paris.” Airport Paparazzi Gold (April 2021):

Stepping into Incheon in a Miu Miu cropped varsity cardigan layered over a cotton tank, oversized slouchy cargo pants, and a mini top-handle bag, Heran managed to crash not only Korean media outlets but also Teen Vogue’s "Best Idol Airport Looks" list. Her black headphones, subtle glossed lips, and undone braid gave the vibe of a university fashion student late for class—and fans couldn’t get enough. Late Night Company Exit (January 2022):

One particular late-night candid of Heran went viral: hoodie up, oversized blazer slung over her shoulders, low-rise sweats, and chunky Mary Janes peeking out from under the hem. What made the outfit iconic wasn’t just the pieces—it was the quiet don’t-look-at-me confidence that seemed to radiate from her, earbuds in, lip balm in hand, walking like the world was her runway. Post-Rehearsal Pizza Run (October 2021):

After a dance practice, Heran was spotted at a local convenience store in a cropped baby tee, white mini skirt layered over biker shorts, and an old washed-out Miu Miu hoodie tied around her waist. The look? Disheveled perfection. Fans flooded comment sections with captions like “If I dressed like this and ran into someone, I’d never recover.”

What makes Heran’s off-duty style so admired is how unmanufactured it feels. It’s a mix of thrifted-looking staples, balletcore nods, sporty silhouettes, and soft tailoring—with the occasional flash of Miu Miu hardware, hinting that yes, the fashion house knows exactly what they’re doing.

With her appointment as Global Brand Ambassador, it’s clear that Heran isn’t just wearing Miu Miu—she’s quietly reshaping what it means to wear it. Not as costume, but as second skin.

HERAN X MIU MIU X ELLE KOREA [JULY 2021]

HERAN X MIU MIU X HARPER'S BAZAAR [NOVEMBER 2021]

HERAN X VOGUE KOREA X MIU MIU

taglist: @angie-x3 @deluluscenarios @chaeryyeongz @akitoshi39i @sparklydoll444 @yunjiiin @kaitieskidmore97 @yb763 @reibelhearts @enhaverse713586 @dazeymazey11 @alondra6011 @produce48wony @skzfangirl143 @misxteri @hyacinthmutations @enjzeneration

[witerh]

Random SFW/NSFW headcanons w/ leon

p.s. made in honor of di leon and how much i love him and cry for him in the evenings that i cant have this old man;(

SFW

Leon likes to read: sometimes something light to take the weight off his shoulders, for example, as a light novel, or, in extreme cases, read detective stories right in bed before going to sleep. And in the morning he reads something from the newspapers that he takes from a mailbox putting glasses on his nose while you cook breakfast for both of them early in the morning.

Leon won't fall asleep first. First there are warm hugs and kisses and then turning down the volume of the tv in both of your bedroom so you fall asleep in his strong arms. Sometimes it gets too hot that it's unbearable, so you crawl away from his embrace to the other side, but he doesn't mind. He will also watch tv or read something before falling asleep, also following you.

Leon is not that old but with age he has developed a love for gardening. He himself does not know why but he, a seasoned government agent who has seen a lot, liked it. In the backyard of your house he has planted beautiful plants for now only this, he is not ready to grow vegetables and becomes an old man completely. He is still in the prime of his powers!

Leon is still a workaholic. The missions were no longer so frantic and frequent, there was already peace in the world and he was not accustomed to feeling idle. When you are at work, he can become a househusband and clean, cook some food not only to please you (that was the main goal) but also to do something. Sometimes it doesn't turn out the best, but he tried.

Leon, late at night when you're already asleep, can pour himself a glass of whiskey in the kitchen and listen to old pop songs. He is overcome with nostalgia and he relives everything in his mind again. For him, it's relaxing to take scorching sips of whiskey while it is sung «O-oops I did it again!...» He loves Britney Spears.

Leon is considering taking a leave of absence from government work. He is already a battered and tired agent, but he still cannot be outdone by the newcomers. A good salary and now frequent vacations allow him to stay afloat and this is enough to continue working. For him, this is a controversial issue. (but according to re9, it is clear that he has not left the government, eh)

NSFW

Leon is seasoned not only in his work, but also in his personal life. He tries to be youthful, he is still in good shape at forty years old! Younger girls continue to hit on him at the bar, but he refuses, because he has you and he is a busy man. During sex he tries new positions in sex, he is not afraid to experiment to turn you both over and switch roles or move from the bed to the floor.

Leon loves it when you step on his face. This... fetish appeared recently after the mission on Alcatraz. He did not think that during a fight he could get excited when a sharp heel was on his cheek. When he told you about how his mission went, he turned red. It was painful then, but with you in bed it was much better.

Leon began to think about children. He already has problems with erection due to his past where there was a lot of alcohol, but he is working on it. But he really wants a baby, maybe two adorable mini-Kennedys who will hug him after his work day, grab him by the pants and shout 'daddy is home!' This thought makes him wonder if condoms are really necessary right now.

Leon adores when you take the lead, straddling him. It’s pleasure in its purest form, untainted by the expenditure of vital energy. His hands grip your full hips firmly, guiding your movements with unhurried care, his dull nails scratch the skin of your thighs as you jump on him. It made his heart skip a beat, watching how good you felt on his dick.

Oral intimacy, for Leon forgets himself. Your persistent, dizzying caresses are enough to make him surrender completely, letting you do as you please so long as you don’t release him. His fingers get stuck in your hair as he helps you take him, he doesn't force you to take a lot, on the contrary, he wants you to feel good too. When you take him too deep he can't hold back and lets out a terribly loud moan that makes you stop and the awkward pause becomes unpleasant when you have his dick in your hands.

[kiraplex]

hii! can i please request baking with mark and oliver headcannons? thank you!

Headcanons + small ficlet of Mark and Oliver baking with a gn!reader who is marks partner :)

A/n: thank you so much for the request!! This was sososos cute :) I responded to this particular request very fast because when I sat down to write I was very tired and didn’t feel like writing anything heavy, and this was super cute! It’s also quite a short response sorry .. im sorry if you didn’t want reader to be marks partner, that’s just how I read the prompt for some reason.

W/c: Headcanons: 580 , Ficlet: 405

I’m assuming for this that you know about Oliver’s secret identity as well as Marks, but if you didn’t you certainly do now!!

The kid gets so excited when he hears you’re making cookies together he jumps in the air and just forgets to land.

I don’t think he’s ever baked before so of course he’s going to get excited!! 

He’s only a few months old technically, and during his time on earth he’s just never got the opportunity to bake cookies. Debbie is busy a lot with real estate work and Paul, and the babysitter never does fun stuff like that with him, only math and boring homework.

So he’s ecstatic to be able to bake with two of his favourite people :) I think you’re like an honorary big sibling to him especially if you spend a lot of time at home with mark.

Mark has to remind him that he can’t fly in front of people even if it IS you

“But you flew them into your room through the window last night!”

The subject is quickly changed.

The boys bicker a lot so you have to be somewhat of a mediator. Oliver says he wants to bake something extravagant like a cake, and the two of you have to convince him to tone it down a little for you guys first try. Mark isn’t confident with his nor Oliver’s baking ability.

Eventually you guys decide on cookies! Should be simple enough.

(Spoiler alert: it isn’t simple)

When it comes to mixing the wet ingredients Oliver tries to show off and ends up mixing the bowl so hard that the liquid splashes out and gets on the floor and the wallpaper too and it has to be cleaned up by either you or mark, naturally.

He didn’t mean to!! It was an accident.

The entire process is very messy and takes a lot longer than it should between bickering and having to clean up the various messes that you guys (mostly Oliver) end up making.

At one point he manages to explode an entire bag of flour over you all by dropping it.

It’s not all a disaster!! You’re all laughing about it and you and mark get a very sweet moment where he wipes the flour off your face, before Oliver interrupts and tells you to stop doing weird mating rituals in the kitchen. 

He’s still not quite grasped typical etiquette.

When the cookies are in the oven you and mark spend the time tidying up and cleaning up.

You give Oliver the mixing bowl and spoon to lick out and he’s so happy!! It’s so good, why can’t you all bake cookies every day? 

Nevertheless the cookies turn out well :) lots of chocolate chips in them.

Oliver tries to eat one before they’ve cooled down and almost ends up burning himself from grabbing the hot cookie. He’s totally fine, it’s just a bit of a shock. He makes you or mark test the temperature of the cookies before he dares to pick one up again.

After you clean up and the cookies have cooled enough I think you share them with Debbie after she gets home from work and it’s very sweet :)

You all sit in the couch area and watch something on tv while you eat and relax together. 

I really liked this prompt and felt like my headcanons were kind of short so I wrote a short ficlet of it too :)

Oliver laughed loudly as he hovered in the air at about your eye level, holding the unopened bag of flour under one arm, the other clutching his side as he continued to giggle, rolling around in the air as if Mark had just said the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his life. 

“Oliver! Be careful!” 

Mark hisses, exasperated, his own feet planted firmly on the ground. He glances to you almost apologetically, then back at the floating half-alien “you’ll drop the flour! And Mom said no flying in the house.”

“I’m not gonna drop the flour!”

Olive responds, righting himself so he’s floating the right way up, grabbing the flour and starting to juggle it with ease, grinning wide.

“See? Look!”

“Oliver-“ 

“Cmooon, stop being such a killjoy. [Y/N] is having fun too, see?”

Oliver whines, and with zero warning other than his response to Mark, Oliver throws the floor to you with the speed and direction of a baseball pitcher. That is to say, it was much too fast for you to catch in close range, and the ball slams into the counter, coating all three of you, and the surrounding two metre radius, in a thin coating of white flour.

Silence immediately fills the room. 

The first to break the silence is Oliver, who is, unfairly, the least covered in flour out of the three of you, giggling quietly.

Mark groans, wiping his flour covered hands on his shirt, which is also flour covered, giving him the appearance of some sort of unusually sculpted ghost. He turns to you, sighing slightly.

“Sorry, this wasn’t quite the bonding experience I had in mind..”

He admits, wiping his eyes of flour and shaking the dust off of his hands, producing a small white cloud he has to wave away.

“Here, let me get that for you..”

He leans in slightly, reaching a hand up to gently brush the flour off your cheek, averting his eyes as he does so. Even after everything, he’s still shy. It’s sweet, really.

After a few seconds he returns his gaze back to your face, smiling slightly and leaning in towards you for a kiss, eyes fluttering closed and mouth opening slightly-

“Ew! I’m still here, stop doing weird mating rituals, we’re supposed to be baking.”

Oliver pokes his head out from behind mark, causing him to whip around.

“Oliver! Quit doing that- I was just.. cleaning them up!”

[westanleovaldito]

Now to reveal my true evil scheme!!! I made New beginnings... all to make THIS!!!

Thread count

You ask your room mate to take you shopping for sheets

CW: fluff and domesticity, Reader wears scrubs but profession is unspecified, Reader tries too hard to not be a burden (will be a common theme), Spencer profiles reader a bit, financial insecurities?

A/N: In my previous fic, i said they were both in freshman year but i meant to say that reader was in freshman year of college and Spencer sped through it, hes now joining the BAU.

ʚ Your bag slumped off your shoulder and you collapsed. Not from a medical condition, but from a mix of exhaustion and dramatic. Your knees hit the ground, then stomach, then face.

Spencer, who had just woken up, slid off the counter to playfully kick your shoulder.

A loud groan emitted from your throat and chest, holding the not for as long as you could.

"One minute, thirty four seconds." Spencer recalled with a hum, then a crunch from a food item. "Wanna bagel?"

You were overwhelmed with pride as you felt Spencers shell fall away over the few days spent together. Talking with a mouth full was something he would normally never do, and you could imagine him covering his mouth as he did so.

You sighed, turning your head to press the other cheek to the floor. "Blueberry?"

"Mhm- strawberry cream cheese."

"You're my favorite person ever."

Spencer kicked your shoulder again, before stepping away to cut the bagel. You occupied yourself with mustering up the will to get up and not fall asleep right there.

His slim figure was draped in loose sweats, a black tee shirt with planets and books and big bold font that read "A Universe of Stories" and your favourite part, a purple and green t-rex sock, with an orange and brown pterodactyl sock on the other foot.

You were draped in scrubs.

He easily folded himself to sit on the counter again, guiding the peices into the toaster. He took in your now standing form, your hunched shoulders, dragging feet, tired eyes. Even the way you waddled over, seemingly aimless.

"You ok?"

You shook your head, yawning. "Overtime, night shift... Homocidal thoughts."

Spencer nodded. "I join the BAU next week." He started, but didnt finish.

You countered quickly. "Yeah, but then we wont be 50/50." Referencing the room mate agreement you both constructed and framed next to the door.

'No. 4, Both parties will contribute 50% of rent and bills will be determined by majority, or communal use of amenities.'

He shrugged, frowning. "Do more chores?"

"I kinda forgot that you wanted to work for the FBI." You muttered, shaking your head.

"You don't have to get a higher paying job- you're still in school-"

"But that means you're supporting me, Spencer!"

His dark brows furrowed, his face scrunching at he pulled the halves out of the heated appliance. "I'd rather make more income than watch you work double shifts every day."

That seemed to stop you. Your face fell as he extended the plated bagel to you.

You were trying so hard to live up to a standard that you set for yourself, drowning in too much work and not enough sleep.

Spencer, in his adorable sweater vests, unending kindness and his own need for independence, stood and offered you food.

With another sigh, you took the plate. "I've been psycho analyzing myself because of you." You grumbled in an attempt to be bitter. It was hard to be bitter when a pretty boy was basically hand feeding you.

"Let me guess, you have a deep seated need to take care of everyone and everything around you because of your savior complex?" He spoke without faltering, like he had thought this for a while.

Stopping mid bite, you blinked. "N...no?" You retracted yourself, leaving bite marks indented in the cream cheese so you could speak. "I was going to say that I'm overcompensating because I'm very afraid to be a dead weight to you."

Spencer nodded, pursing his lips. "I don't think you're a dead weight."

All you could do was shrug and continue to eat the thing your roomie made for you.

"Thanks, Spencer." You sighed, shuffling down the hall to change clothes.

"Back to bed?"

"Maybe. Theres some shopping I-"

"We can do that tomorrow." He cut you off quickly, handing you as pen and a block of sticky notes. "I canceled your shift. You need to go to bed- It's vital for cognitive function as well immunal functions, digestion and-" he stopped, seeing your sluggish blink and blank expression.

A small smile crossed your face as you leaned into the wall. "I'd hug you, if I weren't in scrubs and if you weren't a germaphobe."

He chuckled softly, taking an exaggerated step back and raising his hands.

You grumbled to open air as the lanky boy walked in to the living room.

"Hello?" He asked, tilting his head. You weren't there when he went to bed.

Another sigh. "All my sheets are threadbare or pilled." You were laid out on the couch, curled up under the comforter from your bed.

Spencer hummed, nodding in acknowledgement. He, too, had sensory issues. "Should we get new ones for you?"

Finally opening your eyes, you stretched. "I just want a nap." It sounded too whiny for your liking, but you were too tired to care.

He just nodded, lazily patted the side of your head, and quietly muttered for you to get sleep. He padded off into the kitchen, and a 'flick!' was heard, making the light on your eyes easier.

A huff left your lips as you slipped your keys in your pocket. "Spencer?" You called, standing by the door.

He emerged from his room with a raised brow.

"This is stupid, and embarrassing- so you can't judge me."

Spencer nodded, slipping his shoes on before letting you lead him out of the apartment.

The words left your mouth as you narrowly avoided spilling your energy drink. "I've never bought my own sheets."

"Oh?" You could hear that profiling tone behind you, ever since he really got that stupid job at the BAU. "And... what do I have to do with this?"

You paused, turning to face him as he stepped down onto the landing. Your brow furrowed like it was the most rhetorical question to date. "Because you understand my needs and likings for specific textures?"

He knew your tone well enough to know that there was an unspoken 'obviously!' You just rolled your eyes as he ushered you down the stairs.

"What I mean is that you know how to buy high quality sheets."

He nodded, mentally running numbers as you made it to the car. "So, you're recruiting me."

You nodded, glancing over to him with a nervous smile.

So that's how you ended up standing behind him as he gazed at the shelves with far too much concentration to be dedicated to plain white sheets.

"Those will stain too easily." You suggested, shifting your weight foreward to look at him from another angle.

Spencer nodded, his tongue darting out for a moment. "None of these list thread counts..." his voice faded as he looked up and down the shelf.

You held your hands behind your back, not sure what to do with them as you memorized the bridge of his nose. "So?"

"That typically means they're low quality..."

You felt like you were just there. His awkward shadow, pressing your lips together in the same way he always did. Fuck, you were subconsciously mimicking his habits now- and still psychoanalysing yourself!

He glanced over to you for a moment, clearing his throat and putting his hand over his mouth to hide a blush. Spencer blushing or becoming flustered was not at all a rare occurrence. It had always amused you, but now that you realized it was because of your unconscious staring?

He cleared his throat again and grabbed a set of sheets, grazing his thumb over the corner before handing it to you. "Do you like that texture?" He mumbled, not daring to meet your eyes.

You hummed, feeling the sheets. "Yeah, good enough." You shrugged, tossing them in the cart.

"'Good enough'?" He mimicked, finally turning to look at you. "If we're here because you don't like the texture of the other ones, I'd prefer if you actually liked it-"

You let out a nervous chuckle, nodding. "Yes, I like them!"

"You sure?" He pressed, gesturing to the others on the shelf. "You have a tendency to deny yourself of nice things, and I don't want to let that slide."

You wondered if you had visibly paled, or if you looked like how his words made you feel. Clearly, something changed in your expression, since Spencer also paused.

You felt you eyes unfocus and drift down to his sharp jaw. He hunched, forcing your gazes to meet.

"I shouldn't be profiling you." He started firmly, pinching your chin between his index and thumb. "I'm so sorry- I'm not a therapist, and It's inappropriate for a room mate to attempt to be one."

"Weird, too." You mumbled without thought. He simply nodded. There was a moment of hesitation before he let go of you.

"Lets get you home- y'know it takes four whole days of sleep to make up for a single night missed?" He asked, his lips quirking up like he was afraid to enjoy sharing the fact.

All you could do was nod as you dragged your feet behind him. "Does fact exchange count as a love language?" You asked monotonely.

He hummed, cocking his head as he looked at possible ice cream choices. "Perhaps? Why?"

You met his eyes with a lazy smirk. "Because if it was, everyone would be ass over tea kettle for you."

"I do not appreciate that phrase."

"Sucks to suck, pretty boy."

Bonus ^^

You flopped onto your newly sheeted bed with a sigh. It was still warm, and still smelled of Spencers detergent, since you 'ran out' of your own. You were adamant that his smelled better, but would never outright tell him that.

"May I collapse as well?" Spencer asked from the doorway. He was always weird about germs, but you never really cared.

It was common for you to give him first pickings of things, or his own bowl of popcorn, and now you moved aside to let him flop next to you on clean sheets.

"Permission granted."

And with that, he fell next to you with a content sigh, curling up with one of your stuffies.

"Bitch." You mumbled, kicking his calf.

He poked his head up with a grin. "What was that?"

"You heard me!" You giggled before a plushie slammed into your head. Nothing you couldn't counter.

[sugussugar]

suguru x depressed reader (again...!.!.!!!) mentions s*icidal ideations. read at your own risk.

lately you haven't been feeling well.

you've lost all motivation to do anything. you haven't left the house in ages, you barely text or call your friends anymore and you spend most of the day sleeping.

you're starting to wonder if everything would be easier if you were dead. everything is getting to be too much of a chore. you can't even understand how it got this bad, and you don't even know if anyone notices.

except someone does.

your boyfriend, suguru geto.

suguru can't say he knows exactly how you feel, but he knows he's went through similar and he's pretty good with seeing it when others are struggling. he sees you.

he watches you slug around your shared apartment. he sees how tired you are despite spending 87% of your time sleeping.

he knows this is one of those situations where he can't fix everything for you. sometimes our worst battles must be fought alone. but suguru knows he wants to be a support at the very least.

he's been doing little things to help up to this point. he carries you to the bathroom when you haven't showered in a while, he cooks for you when you're too tired to get up, he holds you when you're sleeping and whispers sweet nothings in your ears.

but he's starting to realize that's not enough. you need more help. professional help. but you won't take it.

he's begged you desperately, praying that one of these days you'll say something different, not the same empty promises of “later, i promise”.

you and suguru are laying in bed on a random evening. neither of you are sleeping. you're laying on his chest while he runs his fingers through your hair.

everything is peaceful, until he speaks up.

“baby, you need to get help.” he mutters softly, careful not to startle you with his sudden speaking.

you don't respond. mostly because you know he's right. you can't argue that. but you can't say you don't hate it every time he brings this conversation topic up.

“i can't keep watching your light dwindle down into nothingness until the woman i fell in love with is gone. i can't lose you. please, just talk to someone. we could get you set up with a therapist, or a psychiatrist to see if meds would help.” he continues speaking.

you feel your heart clench. you don't like that you're losing yourself either, but hearing him point it out hurts more than you'd like to admit.

“what if i don't want help..?” you whisper back.

your question throws both you and suguru off guard. you don't know why you said that. you don't even know if you believe it.

“...what?” suguru responds in disbelief.

he repositions the both of you to be sitting up, facing each other and simply stares at you.

you start to feel bad. you hate that the things you say always affect suguru so badly. but sometimes, you can't bring yourself to care. sometimes, it annoys you, you just want him to shut up and let you feel things without feeling guilty.

but suguru geto is like a weed. like lingering smoke from a long blown-out candle. like a bug sticking to your skin. you can't seem to rid of him, no matter how bad you get. no matter how mean you get. he stays. he always stays.

(i cant finish this because i lack motivation and im sorry ab the shit writing, i just wanna get something out but if i do a pt.2 they are NOT getting a happy ending lolol)

[sweetpeaaquarius]

Last Names & Lost Chances - Part 3

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x f!reader

Summary: Two people who were never meant to last find themselves caught in a night that blurs the line between anger and longing, punishment and forgiveness. It’s not love, but something just as dangerous: temptation, memories, and the defiance of the role, duty, and legacy everyone wants you to be.

What happens when the past isn’t done with you? What happens when neither is the person you never stopped loving?

Warnings: nsfw, smut, rough sex, teasing, unprotected sex, lovers to enemies to lovers, ex-lovers, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, Dark Mark trauma, infidelity (Astoria cheating on Draco), regret, implied sexual history, swearing, angst tension, unresolved love.

Word count: 3,830

Series: Last Names & Lost Chances - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3*

The space they once shared, in secret, in silence, in sin, was still.

The same walls that had once held their whispered promises and stifled moans now felt too close. The room where she used to curl into him after long nights, where her laughter lingered in the velvet drapes and her scent still haunted the sheets.

Before the Mark.

Before the weight of the Malfoy name wrapped around his throat like a noose.

Before Astoria. Before Flint. Before Pansy. Before he let her go.

It was dim now, the moonlight spilling in thin slashes across the stone floor. The fireplace sat cold. The air was thick.

She moved through it like she still belonged.

She dropped her purse and crossed to the bar cart with maddening ease. Poured two glasses of wine, placing them on the low table in front of the old love seats. 

His eyes tracked the space. He remembered the summer she lay there, book in hand, legs bare, while he sat across from her pretending to read, watching her instead. That was before their love turned sharp and before silence became the only thing they were good at.

He sat down across from her. She lounged like royalty, stockings torn, dress riding scandalously high on her thighs. A calculated picture of indifference. She took a sip of wine, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving his, not even when the fire sparked to life at her fingertips.

That smile she wore was cruel. Stunning. Familiar.

“Your stockings,” Draco said, voice lower than he intended, the accusation buried just beneath it. He wanted to know, needed to know, if Avery had touched her. Had gotten close enough to tear the fabric himself. “They’re ruined.”

“The garden wall,” she said coolly, tilting her head. “I was sitting on it when Avery approached. All dark brooding, old money charm.” Her smile was cruel. “They tore when I slid down. Now I doubt he’ll come near me again, after you kindly beat him bloody.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but her voice lingered in the air like a curse, smug and razor-edged. The only other sound was the fire crackling, and the rush of blood hammering in his ears.

“I didn’t want to see you with him,” he said, voice unsteady. “Silas Avery.”

Her brow lifted. 

“I could tell,” she said after a sip, “by the fury in your face when I stepped into the clearing. All while Pansy was curled up like a cat on your arm.”

The words hit like a slap. 

“It’s almost impressive. You went from being cheated on by Astoria to publicly throwing yourself at every witch with a pulse, to playing prince of pity with Pansy, and then you still dared to throw a tantrum because I spoke to someone else. You’re nothing if not predictable, Draco.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Hollow. Tired.

“I’m drunk,” he muttered.

“Excuses,” she snapped. “Jealous behaviour.”

He looked at her, legs folded gracefully, wine-stained lips curled in disdain, chin raised as if she were looking down on him. He used to kiss that mouth as if it were the air he needed to breathe.

“You think I enjoyed it?” he asked. “Any of it?”

She didn’t flinch. “No.” A pause. “I think you were trying to forget me. I know you were.”

He said nothing.

“I heard about the others,” she continued sharply. “The French ambassador’s daughter. The half-blood heiress. Tell me, how would your parents have reacted to that? Considering my refusal to bear the Dark Mark apparently made me unworthy of you?”

Her voice cracked, not with weakness, but with fury.

“And of course… Pansy. The one bred for your heirs.”

“I never loved any of them.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, but her hand trembled. “It was never about love. It was about drowning me in someone else’s perfume, someone else’s body, someone easier.”

He looked away, unable to bear the stare she sent him. One of disappointment, hurt and anger.

“I tried to hate you,” he said. “Every night I touched someone else, I told myself they were better. Softer. That you were poisoned, that I had to drown it out.”

Her breath caught. 

“But none of them worked. They weren’t loud enough. Wild enough. Weren’t enough. You haunted me, even when they screamed my name and I moaned there.”

Her throat bobbed. The glass in her hand shook now, wine rippling.

“I didn’t want comfort,” he said. “I wanted punishment. I wanted to destroy the part of me that still loved you. I did. I’ve ruined myself trying to erase you.”

A beat passed.

“Then why did you let me go?” she asked. Her voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because I thought you’d be better off,” he bit out. “Because I was weak. Because I was fucking scared. You made me feel everything I didn’t want to feel, and I hated it. I hated how much I needed you. I hated how easily you walked away.”

Firelight flickered across her face, catching in the shimmer of her eyes, but the tears didn’t fall.

Her expression was fierce and defiant, despite the tremble in her breath.

“I didn’t walk away, Draco,” she said, voice laced with steel. “You know why I left, and it wasn’t just your family; I could have faced them, but you didn’t fight. Not for me. Not once. So don’t you dare blame me for your regrets.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It buzzed. It burned. 

He stood slowly, as though the weight of every word pressed on his spine. The fire threw jagged shadows across the hollows of his face. His fists clenched like he was holding himself together by force and failing.

“I’ve already paid for what I did,” he said, his voice low, ragged. “Every night, waking up beside strangers who didn’t know me. Every day, seeing your ghost in the places you used to be, in my bed, in my bloody clothes, in my head. I’ve paid.”

She rose too. The air tightened, the room shrinking around them like it couldn’t hold the weight of what they’d become.

“You think that’s payment?” she spat, venom in her voice now. “Fucking your way through every woman stupid enough to look your way? Sulking and brooding in ballrooms like some tragic prince, begging for pity? Don’t fool yourself, Draco. You’re not haunted. You’re cowardly.”

Her voice rose again, sharp, furious.

“You’re right. You are weak. You are scared. But don’t pretend you need me. You don’t. You wanted the fire. You wanted the fight. You didn’t want love, you wanted a battlefield you could win.”

He stepped toward her. Close enough to feel the heat of her skin. His eyes were cold steel now, burning under the surface.

“Don’t act like you didn’t thrive in that war,” he hissed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love being the one thing I couldn’t control. The one thing I would’ve let destroy me. You liked knowing you were the reason I ruined everything else.”

Her laugh was low and broken.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, voice brittle. “You didn’t ruin anything for me. You ruined me.”

A silence fell so sharp it felt like a scream.

“Say it,” he said, voice hoarse, shaking now. “Say you never loved me.”

She stared at him. A breath. Then two.

“I wish I could.”

It landed like a blow. Worse than hate. More honest than forgiveness. The kind of truth that left bruises.

They stood there, inches apart, neither moved.

The fire behind them crackled, furious and alive, casting flickering shadows that danced across their faces. The betrayal. The longing that never stopped gnawing at their bones.

“I hate you for making me need you,” she said, voice shaking.

“I hate you for leaving me with nothing,” he growled. “Not even a fucking ending.”

“I hate you for making me believe we ever had a choice.” She added. 

“I hate you,” she whispered, her voice cracking like splintered wood, “because I still want to kiss you every time you speak.”

Something inside him broke. Not softly. It fractured, a visible shudder through his chest, through his breath, and then he moved.

He was on her in half a heartbeat, mouth crushing against hers with a violence born of grief and memory. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a declaration of war. Teeth clashed. Lips bruised. Hands fisted into hair and fabric, pulling, tearing, demanding.

She shoved him back, hard, into the wall with a gasp, her nails dragging down his chest as a wineglass shattered between their feet. Red spilled across the stone like blood. Neither flinched.

Their mouths met again, raw and devouring. She kissed him like she was punishing him for every night she cried alone. He kissed her like she was salvation dipped in poison, something he knew would kill him and still couldn’t stay away from.

His hands tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp again. Her fingers scrambled at his shirt, popping buttons with rage and desperation, the fine fabric giving way like it had no say in the matter.

They were falling. Not to the ground, but into the madness of them. The wildfire. The hunger. The place they swore they’d never return to. Yet, they were here, again.

He lifted her without asking. She wrapped her legs around his waist without hesitation. The desk behind them was cleared with a single swipe of his arm, glass crashing, books thudding, a silver-framed photo hitting the floor and splintering with a tragic sort of poetry.

Her back hit the wood. Her head tipped up, and when he kissed her again, slower now, deeper, it wasn’t tenderness, it was confession disguised as heat.

“You don’t get to pretend we were nothing,” she panted against his lips.

“I never did,” he rasped. His hands gripped her thighs. “You were everything.”

“Then why did you fuck everyone else?” she demanded, fury sharpening her voice even as her fingers dug into his skin.

“To punish myself.”

“For what?”

“For losing you.”

She froze, briefly, like the truth had stunned the air from her lungs.

Then her head fell back, throat exposed, and he devoured it. Rough. Reverent. Marking her like he could still claim what he lost.

“You think this means anything now?” she gasped as his mouth burned a trail down her neck, her hips lifting involuntarily to meet his. Her voice trembled. Her body didn’t lie.

He pulled back just long enough to look her in the eye. “It means everything. It always did.”

The chaos swelled again. His hands were beneath her dress, tearing at ruined stockings and damp lace. Her nails dragged angry lines down his back. 

Her moans were muffled against his mouth. His name, Draco, spilled from her lips like a curse and a plea.

“You don’t get to have me just because you miss me,” she snarled, her legs tightening around his waist.

“I don’t miss you,” he breathed, trembling now. “I ache for you.”

His voice was ragged. Not with lust. With something deeper. Older. Wounded.

Her dress was bunched at her hips. His belt hung open. Their skin met in a fevered tangle, harsh and unrelenting, mouths and bodies moving with the rhythm of something feral and half-forgotten.

“You don’t deserve me,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “But I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

When he finally pushed inside her, it wasn’t soft. It was desperate. Punishing. Worshipful. Everything at once.

She gasped, one hand fisting in his hair, the other clawing at his shoulder as she arched into him, like she could bury herself inside his bones.

They moved together, fierce and reckless and sinful.

It was punishment.

It was all unspoken, expressed through breath, bruises, and a kind of intimacy that felt like drowning.

Her nails raked down his back, her body trembling as her moans spilled out loud and unmasked. He hiked her legs over his shoulders, growling through gritted teeth, knowing this angle always unravelled her, and he needed her undone. Fast.

Because her sounds, those high, breathy cries, the way she clenched around him, he wasn’t going to last.

She shattered in his arms, cursing his name into his mouth like a hex and a plea. And he came undone with her, every part of him splintering into pieces she still somehow held in her fists.

Afterwards, they didn’t move. They couldn’t.

Their foreheads pressed together, gleaming with sweat and surrender. Their bodies trembled under the weight of what they’d done. Of what they were.

The fire behind them was the only thing breathing steadily.

Blood trickled from the split in his lip, right where she had bitten. A single tear slid down her cheek.

His shirt hung from one shoulder, half-ripped. Her dress was wrecked, torn and bunched around her hips. Still, neither of them pulled away.

“You still hate me?” he asked, voice like gravel dragged over broken glass.

She closed her eyes. Her lashes were wet.

“Yes,” she said. “More than anything.”

Finally, she moved, slowly, carefully, sliding her dress down to cover herself as though any sudden shift might shatter the fragile control she still clung to. Then she slid off the edge of the table.

Draco didn’t move. He just watched her.

Watched her fix her straps, her hair, everything he had undone. His breath came uneven. The cut on his lip still bled.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, voice low, her back to him. “Like you suddenly remember I’m real.”

“I never forgot,” he said quietly.

Too late. Too honest.

She turned, arms crossing over her chest like armour.

“You think this changes anything?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sex was never the problem,” she continued, colder now. “You were always good at that. Good at apologising with your hands. With your mouth. But the moment it mattered, when I needed you to choose me, you didn’t.”

He took a single step forward. She didn’t move.

“I know.”

“Knowing isn’t enough.”

He nodded, slowly. His voice dropped, all defences stripped away. “Then let me give you more.”

His tone was different. Not desperate. Not angry. Just bare.

“I ruined us,” he said. His chest rose and fell like the words were heavier than breath. “I let the pressure break me. My father. The legacy. The name. I let it all convince me you were too much, when really, you were the only thing that ever felt like mine.”

Her breath caught, and she hated that it did.

“I didn’t fight for you,” he said. “And I’ve been punishing myself ever since.”

“You don’t get to fix this with regret, Draco.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I’ll keep trying. Even if you never forgive me. Even if tonight was the last time.”

She looked at him, really looked.

His shirt hung open. His eyes were rimmed with red. Blood dried at the corner of his mouth. He looked like the war had never ended; it had just moved inside him.

Still, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but steady. “Because if you don’t say it now, I won’t let you pretend it didn’t mean anything later.”

Draco stepped forward again, slowly. Carefully. Like approaching something that could break or bite. He reached for her hand, hesitated, then wrapped his fingers around her wrist like it was something sacred.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said. “Not tonight. Not in the morning. Not again.”

She stared at him. Long and hard.

“You’re not good for me.”

“I know.”

“You hurt me,” she added.

“I know.”

“Then why should I stay?”

“Because I’ve never been more willing to be the man you deserved years ago. I’ll prove it, even if you sleep in the guest room, and I don’t touch you again until you ask.”

That caught her off guard.

Enough to soften something in her gaze, not forgiveness, but maybe the start of belief.

A long silence stretched between them.

“You don’t have guest sheets,” she said finally.

He blinked. “What?”

“In the linen cupboard. There aren’t any. I checked last Christmas when your mother banished me to the guest room.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped back, gave her space, and gestured toward the hallway. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on in the guest suite this time.”

She didn’t move.

“I’m not sleeping in your bed alone.”

His breath hitched.

“I’m not asking for more,” she added. “But I’m not pretending we’re strangers, either.”

He nodded. Afraid to speak. Afraid to break it.

She walked past him slowly, murmuring a spell under her breath, and the shattered glass, the buttons, the mess, all of it vanished.

God, she was still so talented.

That used to make him jealous. The way magic bent for her, obeyed her like a second language. She had a natural gift, as if she spoke to magic, not just used it, while he struggled with wandless incantations and precision charms. Yet, she never seemed to study. Never needed to.

She disappeared into his closet like she owned the space. The rustle of shirts, the scrape of drawers, echoed into the quiet as he buttoned his trousers and raked shaky fingers through his hair.

He knew he wouldn’t leave this room unless she told him to.

For a man who prided himself on control, especially around her, she was the only one who ever truly had it. She told him what to do, when to do it, and how to do it, and he always obeyed.

Because he had nothing. Nothing but her.

His mind flicked to Astoria, probably crying on her friend’s shoulder, probably halfway through a bottle of wine she didn’t like, and planning her next attempt to win him back.

He could picture her face now, when she came looking for him and found him exactly where she always feared: in his room, in his bed, with her.

The girl who kissed him like sin.

The girl who broke him and still made him beg.

The girl he’d just fucked against his desk like a pathetic man with no self-control.

God, she was perfect.

Draco didn’t speak as she reemerged from the closet in one of his old Slytherin Quidditch shirts, faded from too many wears and washes. He had no idea why he’d kept it. Maybe for this moment. Maybe for her.

She padded barefoot across the room. Her makeup was smudged, her lips swollen, her hair still wild from his hands. Yet, there was something impossibly elegant about her even now, unapologetic and self-possessed, like she knew exactly how much damage she could do simply by existing.

Without a word, she slipped into the bed and curled onto her side, turning her back to him.

Draco stood frozen longer than he meant to, fingers clenched, heart pounding like a prisoner trying to escape its cage.

She sighed, quiet but sharp, as if irritated by the distance. Then she turned to face him, eyes steady, and patted the space across from her.

He crossed the room.

He didn’t take off his already half-undone shirt. Didn’t dare. Instead, he sat stiffly on the edge of his bed like a guest in her space, not his.

“You were shaking earlier,” she said, her voice hushed, her hair a halo of chaos against his pillows.

He blinked at the ceiling. “I know.”

She rolled onto her back, the blanket slipping slightly to reveal the soft line of her collarbone.

“I forget you’re human sometimes.”

“I try to forget it too,” he murmured, almost smiling. “It’s easier that way.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“You didn’t use to be afraid of me,” she whispered.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked at her then, her skin glowed golden in the firelight, but her eyes held him like a blade at his throat.

“I’m afraid of losing you again.”

Something flickered across her face. Not softness. Not forgiveness. But something.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

Another long pause.

Then, she slid closer. An inch. Then another. Until her fingers brushed softly against his wrist.

He swallowed hard.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me unless I asked,” she whispered.

“I did.”

“Good,” she said. 

Then, barely louder than a breath. “Touch me.”

His resolve cracked like old stone beneath pressure.

He reached for her hand first, lacing their fingers together, and pressed his lips to her knuckles like a silent prayer. Then his hand slid to her hip, her waist, the bare curve of her thigh beneath the hem of his old shirt.

He kicked off his shoes. Her fingers tugged at the edges of his shirt, helping him shrug it off. Then came the slow fumble of buttons, zippers, and breath. He slipped beneath the covers beside her, closer now, skin to skin.

She was warm, soft, and genuine. When she kissed him again, it felt different.

It wasn’t chaos this time; it was surrender.

Their mouths met slowly, like rediscovering something sacred, something stolen. Her hand found his jaw, her thumb ghosting over the cut she’d left earlier. This kiss didn’t demand. It asked.

Permission. Forgiveness. Hope.

His body shifted over hers, settling between her thighs. There was no crash, no recklessness. Only hands. Only breath. The slow rise of heat like a storm with no lightning, only the tension, building and building.

She gasped into his mouth as he trailed kisses down her neck, over the gentle slope of her collarbone, to the hem of her shirt where her body awaited, where she trembled beneath him. 

She whispered his name, not as a curse or as an accusation, but as something between a sigh and a vow.

When he entered her again, it was like a key sliding into a long-locked door. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. His lips found her pulse. They moved together with reverence now. Slowly. Deeply. As if they were carving new memories over the ruins of the old ones.

She clung to him with what felt like trust. He held her as if he were already mourning the moment she would leave. When she came again, soft and quiet, it was felt like permission. As he followed her over the edge, her name caught in his throat, her breath tangled in his. They lay tangled in silence afterwards.

Eventually, she curled into his side. One leg slid over his. Her head nestled beneath his chin like it had never left. And when he wrapped his arms around her, he knew that she might still walk away.

But right now?

She was here, and that was enough.

[trenchcoatimpala]

The Only Thing Left

Read below or on ao3

Castiel hadn’t expected it to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, and yet here he was, standing on top of fresh dirt, staring at a headstone that bore the name: Dean Winchester. It didn’t seem real. 

“You gonna be okay?” Sam asked from where he stood next to Castiel; his voice was raw with grief.

“No.” There was no use in lying. 

Sam simply nodded, his breath billowing in the cold December air. “Yeah. Me either.”

“Yes, you will,” Castiel said. It was fact. Sam would never forget but he would move on; live. 

Castiel was an ancient being, an angel born before the creation of Earth itself. He had nothing to move on for, no day to day to find a way through. He could spend eternity here, in this graveyard, where Dean’s body decayed with rot below his feet; where he wished he could crawl into Dean’s bones and stitch him back together as he’d done once before. Of course, he couldn’t do that. Dean was dead for good and Castiel had no way of reaching him, of ever seeing him again. 

In order to defeat Chuck, Castiel had been granted his powers back in full force, but the cost was that he could never return to Heaven. He’d meddled too much in Heaven’s affairs and the angels that were left were tired of it. But then Dean had died and Castiel realized that Dean would go to Heaven, where he belonged, where he’d always belonged, because he was good and he was kind, and Hell never should have held such a beautiful soul in its decaying hands in the first place.

Castiel couldn’t bring himself to let Sam burn Dean’s bones; Heaven wasn’t going to let Dean come back in any way, there was truly no need. Sam had been wise enough not to fight him on it and so Castiel had picked out Dean’s coffin and arranged Dean’s body with precious care. Dean looked like he was sleeping, his expression calm and devoid of all of the horrible things he often wore under a mask. His laugh lines looked deeper in death, more worn, like they were tallies of life’s good moments, which Castiel knew were truly rare. Now, Dean lay under six feet of dirt, where those lines would fade as time moved on without him. The world without Dean in it seemed like no world at all. 

Sam sniffed beside him, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “I think I’m gonna head out. You coming?”

Castiel continued to stare at Dean’s headstone, his feet rooted to the spot. He didn’t want to leave Dean’s side ever again. “No.”

Sam sighed sadly. “Okay, man. Just… the bunker is open to you whenever you wanna drop by.”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t watch Sam leave, barely heard his footsteps trail away. 

Dean Winchester

1979-2020

It was too simple, but there wasn’t enough space on a single grave to list all the wonderful things about the man buried beneath it. So, Castiel stood there and began to list them into open air. All of the things he wished Dean had seen in himself. His love for his family and the world– and his passion just the same. The way he ate his food like each time was better than the last; how he insisted on cooking for everyone, even Castiel himself who didn’t eat, and how he took pride in it. The love and care he showed his car. His obsession with classic rock, that had turned endearing the longer Castiel had grown to know him. His sometimes vulgar and colorful language. The way he teased him and Sam with love in his eyes and a playful smirk on his lips. The way he’d talk along with the awful cowboy movies Castiel was forced to endure, doing his best impressions of the characters or laughing along to something they said.

Castiel wished he could’ve bottled Dean’s laugh. The sound of it was the best thing he’d ever heard in all of his time in existence, he was sure of it. 

He continued his list as the sun rose and set, continued it through the next few days and weeks. Sam came and went and Castiel stayed. Time crept by in intervals he was hardly aware of. Snow fell around him and he only noticed when the snowflakes began to pile up on top of Dean’s grave. The first time he moved it was to brush that pile of snow away, to keep Dean’s name legible, but the snow was falling heavily and Castiel couldn’t keep up. 

He moved behind Dean’s grave and sat down in the snow. His wings unfurled from his back and he brought them forward, wrapping them around the headstone, protecting it from the elements. His forehead came to rest on the cold stone and he waited out the storm just like that, as more and more snow piled up around him, covering him in white, the purest color in the universe; the color of Dean’s soul. 

One day, Sam stopped coming. Castiel supposed he’d been getting older, though he hadn’t really taken the time to notice just how much older. It was when Eileen hobbled up to him one day with gray in her hair and lines on her face (that Castiel didn’t remember being there before) and told him that Sam had died that he realized for the first time just how long he must’ve been standing guard over Dean’s grave. 

Eileen never came back after that day. 

The Earth continued to spin. 

Time was so insequential, and yet Dean had not had enough of it. Castiel mourned his lost years, all the love he could’ve shown to so many more people. He mourned them, too; the people who never got to know Dean. He mourned Sam once it truly sunk in that he was gone. 

Sam used to sit with Castiel for hours, bring a drink to share and regale him with stories of Dean when he was a kid. Castiel hadn’t really said anything during Sam’s visits, too lost in his own thoughts, but now that Sam was truly gone, he found himself missing him. 

Come to think of it, all the others were starting to stop coming too. Jody, Donna, Garth; everyone. Claire came by when she could, but she too was growing older, gray streaks peaking through blonde. She’d leave flowers; once she left a mini-golf ball, Castiel didn’t understand but he didn’t ask.

“You’re really never gonna leave him, are you?” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like the little girl he’d torn a father away from. She was so grown up now, so sure of herself, so kind. So like Dean. 

“Never,” Castiel answered softly. 

When Claire didn’t return, Castiel began to realize that maybe he should continue his watch in a plane of existence unseeable to the human eye. People had tried to talk to him since he’d started his vigil, but he’d always waved them away and ignored their questions. They didn’t matter. 

For the first time, eternity looked daunting. 

He would sometimes appear at night, just to prove to himself that he wasn’t becoming a ghost, but eventually he stopped doing that, too– well, almost stopped. He would appear to the select few; to the children. The ones who would come up to the grave that was as pristine as the day it was put in the ground and would whisper Dean’s name aloud. 

Their parents would tell them the legend of a man who was seen in the graveyard, watching over this singular grave. They would talk of the fresh green grass that Castiel grew for Dean in the summer, the sprinkling of leaves he’d let dust around the base in autumn, the snow he would let fall around the grave but not on it in winter, and the little flowers that he would guide to the sunlight in the spring. 

When they turned to walk away, Castiel would appear. The children would look back and he would offer them a smile before disappearing in the wake of their shocked expressions, tugging on their parents’ hands as they tried to explain what they’d seen. 

There were of course the teenagers who wanted to see what made Dean’s grave so special; the ones who came with sledgehammers and pickaxes. Castiel would call thunder and lightning from the sky, allowing his wings to be the only thing to penetrate their plane, sending them flying with a flick of his unseen hand. They never came back and word traveled quickly not to try and rip the grave from the ground.

To the lonely kids who came to the graveyard for peace and quiet, or to gain inspiration for novels or art, Castiel would let them approach Dean’s final resting place. Some of them would whisper soft hello’s, others would sit down cross-legged with an open sketchbook or gently trace Dean’s name with their fingertips, mouthing his name out loud for what must be the first time in centuries. If they were truly kind souls, Castiel would appear to them. 

When their shock subsided, and assuming they stayed, they would listen to him tell the story of Dean Winchester. Once, the teen he’d been telling his tale to, rested a warm hand on his arm and gave him a teary smile. “I’m sorry you were left to love him like this.”

Castiel had shaken away the gentle pity. “Loving him like this is better than not being given the gift of loving him at all.”

“Love is the longest form of suffering,” the kid had replied, and Castiel had been surprised at how right they were.

More and more time came and went. A book had been written about him, The Moonlight Angel, it had been called. Castiel had quirked a small smile at that; it was fitting. 

It was when she came that everything changed. She was too young to be out on her own and yet here she was. Castiel watched her approach and was surprised when she didn’t look at the grave, instead she came to stand beside him, the sunlight catching the green of her eyes, Dean’s green, as she looked up at him.

“He says you can rest now,” she said. 

Castiel blinked at her. “What?” 

“He says you can rest now,” she repeated. “He says it’s okay.”

“Who?” Castiel choked on the word.

The little girl giggled. She couldn’t be older than ten. “Dean, of course.”

Castiel felt many emotions crowd him at once, disbelief being the first and hope being the last. “You’ve talked to him?” he asked in a whisper.

“More like just listened.”

Castiel dropped to his knees. Dean had been watching him the whole time. Dean had been here the whole time and he hadn’t known. The sun suddenly seemed brighter, the grass greener, the birdsong less melancholy.  

“He says you should ‘stop hangin’ around my grave like a damn widower and go do a miracle or somethin’’. I think you should listen to him.”

Castiel laughed. It rumbled from his throat in an unpracticed wheeze, but it was a laugh nonetheless. And then the tears began to fall, because this little girl, whoever she was, had just allowed him to hear Dean’s voice again, the cadence of it, the gruff fondness and exasperation. He had missed it so dearly. His grave was the only thing he had left of Dean, but now he had this. 

The little girl patted his back as he cried, standing with him until the tears subside and he could offer her a raw and raspy, “Thank you.”

The girl smiled at him; her two front teeth were missing. “Get on with your life, Castiel. It’s time you stopped being shackled to this grave. Grief is no friend.”

She was right, of course. He should not become a gargoyle against gray skies. Slowly, he rose to his feet and placed his hand on Dean’s headstone. “I love you.” He would never stop. 

Beside him, the girl closed her eyes, her smile widening before she opened them again. “He says he loves you too.” Castiel let out a deep sigh, relief and acceptance mingled with profound happiness at those words. The girl offered him her hand and he took it, allowing her to lead him away from the graveyard.

Time continued to wage its war, turning many graves to dust. Dean’s, too, aged slowly. Lichen and moss covered it like a curtain, the top began to chip away as it was battered by the elements, but the stone never fully crumbled. Castiel doesn’t have the heart to let it. He can't stay away forever. No, Dean’s name would forever remain on the stone, for Castiel could never truly abandon his post. After all, it’s what he was best at: watching over Dean Winchester. 

tag list, ask to be added or removed:

@undeadcas @tearsofgrace @hellerstiel @casgetoutofmyass0907 @wantstoflyafraidtofall @gayhuckleberryinatrenchcoat @thepixelagora@thelahatiel  @im-sam-fucking-winchester@piebook67 @theedeangirl@november5th@bixlasagna@ancient-fangirl@famouspsychicpizzabandit@you-cant-spell-subtext-without@bumbledumble1@cascigarette@addicted2demons @our-stars-graveside @fivefeetfangirl @evillittleguy @nekoshi13 @notreallyaroad @quiltcas @dotti55

[jordanswwe]

It’s You

Masked Officer x f/reader

summary: y/n had been sucked into the game. after her boyfriend of 5 years disappeared out of the blue, she was determined to find him and save him. she wasn’t aware that he didn’t need saving though.

f/reader is 25 and the masked officer is 50 we’ll say. the show didn’t give us much information on him, so let’s just use our imaginations lol.

DISCLAIMER: this is my first time writing a fanfic that isn’t wwe related, so i hope you guys enjoy!

y/n. you had just turned 25. you were drowned it debt, so you were shocked when all of your piled up bills were miraculously paid off. you didn’t know how or why, but you were relieved. prior to the news, your boyfriend of 5 years had basically vanished off the face of the earth months ago and your heart ached. the love of your life left without a word. did something bad happen to him?

you went into his drawer and picked up his sweater. it still smelt like him. warm, fuzzy, and a feeling of home. you continued digging in the drawer when you saw a weird cardboard box. it had a number on it with weird shapes.

without hesitating, you called the number. you answered their questions and they gave you the place they’d pick you up from. when you got their a big van approached. “passcode” the masked circle guard said. “red light green light” you said in a confused tone. the doors opened and you saw more people. they must’ve been tired because everyone was sleeping and before you realized it. gas filled the car and you faded into a slumber.

—

waking up to classical music, you saw everyone had a uniform with numbers on it. you looked down at your own outfit. 260 was yours. players started to gather in the middle of the room, so you joined. you looked up at the big led board and it read 456 players.

the big sliding doors in the front open and guards came into the room. they explained how the games worked and started walking us up to the first game. red light green light was a game you use to place with your friends, so this was light work. or so you thought.

“if you move after it calls out red light, you will be eliminated” rang throughout the room. you were all frozen in fear. what did you get yourself into. after the game ended and you made your way past the finish line. you looked around, hoping to see the man you loved. there was no sign of him.

watching from the monitors though, behind his black suited squared masked was him. he couldn’t believe what he was staring at. how did you get here, why were you here. for once in his life, he was terrified. terrified of what outcome might be in your future. before the guards left the control room to go to the quarters where you were. where the other players were, he halted them.

“i’m coming with you” he needed answers. surely he couldn’t talk to you directly, but he wanted to see you. be in your presence. when the doors open and the guards came into the room, they showed the results of the first round. the black squared masked guard kept staring at you. you didn’t know he was behind the mask though.

you went to bed that night glad you made it past the first game and scared for the next. you went to bed pretty late that night and woke up basically restless. as the next game was beginning you and other players made your way to the next game.

more guards were at this game today, you were playing mingle. the black masked guy had been watching from the control room. with each round, he grew more squared. he monitored for a couple of the guards to bring 260 to him. claimed it had been urgent business. before the next round of mingle began, guards came and grabbed your arms. they pulled you to the side and out of view from the other players.

“our superior wants to see you” one of the regular square guards had told you. you were confused, but you weren’t complaining. mingle was getting too scary and intense for your liking. you ended up following the men. as you passed purple hallways and went up an elevator, you wondered what their boss needed.

as the elevators opened on what seemed to be a penthouse you saw the black squared masked guard. cigar in hand. “leave us” he called out to the guards. the elevator doors closed and you made your way to the man. you sat in front of him waiting for him to say something. instead he lifted his hands to his face and took his hoodie off. your eyes furrowed, until he took his mask off. that’s when you saw him. the man you came here in hopes of finding. in hopes of saving.

shocked at the sight of him. you reached your hand out and placed your hand on his check. you rubbed your thumb on his bottom lip. you both stood. the air was tense and your breathing was uneven. you managed to get the words “it’s you” out before crashing into his chest for a hug. his warm embrace felt like home.

he wrapped his arms around back and lifted you up. he backed you into a wall and covered your lips with his. his tongue fighting for dominance against yours. this man was yours and you weren’t leaving him. even if it meant staying with him here.

[geminison]

I can't finish disco elysium not bc it's boring but bc it's a BOOK in form of an rpg game and I can only read so much in a couple of days and if I don't finish a book in a couple of days I just... leave it. "it wasn't meant to be". I know it's a problem and yet I can't make myself sit and just fucking read through it UGH

[i-like-loserz]

apt for two

pairing: san x reader

cw: smut (18+), drunk!san with needy-desperate vibes (as always), afab!reader, friends-to-lovers, praise kink, mommy kink, handjob, nipple play (m!recieving), breeding kink, unprotected piv, eternal boner (you'll find out), mention of asian glow, san's fancam, not beta-read, etc.

wc: 4k (wow)

note: I WAS SUPPOSED TO FINISH LIKE THREE 1/4 DONE FICS BUT INSTEAD IM DOING THIS :) also i get asian glow too, so i love the representation i'm getting with drunk-teez!

1 shot

tonight was supposed to involve a pregame at your place before bar-hopping, but somebody decided to ditch you and turn in early (wooyoung). of course, it wasn't until 9:30 that you got the text.

you'd been waiting so patiently, only having one drink. you were saving the rest to share with your friends once he arrived. it was supposed to be the three of you, but now it's just--

2 shots

"maybe he's just tired because of work or something?"

san is sweet, trying to lighten your disappointment.

he just took his second shot, barely wincing as he swallows it quickly before gently setting the glass back on the counter -- you can tell he's trying to hide his distaste for the liquor.

"he's just hungover because he decided to go out without us last night, sannie..." you drone, "he's probably sleeping off the club."

"hm, you're probably right. but if he were here, it probably wouldn't be that fun if he's hungover."

"that's true..."

you pour another round of shots.

3 shots

"hey, let's play a game." san looks at you with bright eyes.

you can see it already -- the flush spreading across his cheeks. for such a big guy, he sure get tipsy easily.

"what kind of game? there's only the two of us."

"how about...apateu?"

"with two people?" he nods with a cute little smile. how could you deny him? "sure, if you want"

5 shots (for san)

you bite back an adoring smile as you watch san down a second shot. his expressions are a lot freer now, letting himself wince just from the smell of tequila, followed by a grossed-out groan after he takes it.

"okay, maybe we should stop. you've lost twice already." he's not very good at this game -- even when you let him pick the number for each turn.

"no, no, let's go again!" his eyes are glazed over, lids heavy from the liquor as he tries to convince you to continue.

you let a smile crack as you watch him sway prettily in front of you, "...you seem a lot more drunk than me though."

"hm?" he smiles back, "that's okay? right?"

you can't help but laugh at his adorableness. he picks up your shot glass and nudges it closer to you.

"just take one, so we're even."

it might just be the liquor, or that pretty blush on his face, but you're feeling bold.

"mm, but you had two, baby."

you say it so casually, yet he reacts to that word immediately. his expression is quickly replaced with something needy.

oh, so he liked that....

"t-then take two." he suggests with a stutter.

you pour yourself one more, right to the brim, and he watches on in awe. you drink it easily, enjoying the way san's eyes stare at your lips as you lick them clean.

"i don't think we're gonna make it to the bars tonight." you tease.

his small shy smile returns, "just stay here...with me, then."

5 shots + a glass of water (for san)

you guide san to the couch with a glass of water in your hand.

barely a few steps from the kitchen counter, he makes you stop for a moment so he can clumsily lace his fingers with yours.

"it's more secure" he murmurs shyly.

you don't say anything as you continue to lead him into the living room, but when you turn away you're biting your lip to stop yourself from pouncing on him.

you're afraid that your cuteness aggression will scare him away.

he immediately picks up a pillow to snuggle against his chest as he sits down. always needing something in his lap...

he looks up at you, all pink cheeks and smiles, as you set the glass of water down on the coffee table in front of him.

you sit down next to him and settle against the plush seat with a sigh.

"what now?" he asks eager and curious.

eager for what?

"well, first, drink some water," san obediently takes a few sips of water as you continue to speak, "do you want to watch a movie or something?"

you were planning on letting him crash on the couch, but how could you leave him when he's looking at you like that?

"hm..." he puts the glass down before looking back at you with a shy expression, "can we watch something else?"

"like what?"

"can i show you some of my fancams?"

"...fancams...?"

"yeah, i want to show you how i look in concert."

you almost giggle from how shy he's being. isn't tequila supposed to make you bolder?

"sannie, i've been to your concerts."

he pouts -- actually pouts, "but you haven't seen them like this!"

how could you deny him?

"ok, ok, let's have a look then."

you try to give him the remote to look it up, but he immediately struggles to type with it -- even turning off the tv at some point -- so you have to take over.

"so it's...'san fancam--'" you press in each letter individually.

"'--ice on my teeth 241115'" he finishes for you.

"...1...5..."

you finally type it all in and click on the video. you see woo (the ditcher of the night, you remind yourself) crouching in front of a sleekly dressed san, who looks very different from the soft and cuddly man next to you.

"how do you remember all of the numbers for the title?" you question as you finally relax back onto the couch.

he shrugs, "i dunno, i just do -- wait, start it over, we were talking during the start!"

"san, it's been like, two seconds."

"please??"

you start it over to placate him.

as you watch the video, you notice how quiet he is next to you.

he must be really into his own fancams...

you get it though. you've never watched his fancams before (you've only seen woo's because he forces you to binge them with him whenever you facetime), but he looks really good in that long coat, glasses, and with his hair slicked back like that, hitting every note with that stupidly handsome look on his face.

he looks so serious...so domineering. delectable.

so...not how you usually see him.

you turn to look at him, wondering if he's just as entranced by himself as you are -- but he's already looking at you.

you feel your cheeks heat up as you're caught ogling your friend, right in front of him.

"so...? do you like it?"

"yeah, it was a good performance, san."

"sannie." he corrects, "do you really like it, or are you just saying that?"

"no, i really like it--"

"which part? do you like the outfit? a lot of people say they like that outfit on me the most. but there's also one where i have on a see-through top..." he starts to ramble.

oh, now you know what he's looking for.

your voice is soft as you coo to him, "you looked great up there, sannie. so talented...and handsome." he smiles sheepishly as you compliment him, "did you show this to me because you wanted to show off? show me how good you are in front of a crowd?"

now he's shy.

"just wanted to know if you liked what you see."

you cradle his face with your hand, "you're so cute, baby," he melts against your touch, nuzzling his warm cheek against you, "just want some praise, hm?"

it's crazy that you have this man falling apart for you with a few words and a bare touch of your hand.

on stage, he looks so regal and put together.

right here? he looks undeniably soft and malleable.

"do you like me?"

"of course, i do." you caress his cheek with your thumb, enjoying the heat that radiates off his skin, "you're a sweetheart."

"no, like, do you like-like me?" his eyes meet yours, wide with hope and yearning.

"what, are we in middle school?" you tease.

he whines softly, "im serious"

you ignore his question and throw it back at him.

"do you like me?"

he's hesitant, timid, but eventually --

"mhm."

"oh really? since when?"

"since forever."

"why didn't you tell me?"

"because..." san briefly looks away, "because i don't know if you like me"

your hand drifts from his jaw to his chin. you can't help but admire his perfect features -- his fluffy hair, dark brows, intense eyes, cute nose, and...his lips.

you carefully glide your thumb over his pretty bottom lip, enamored by how pretty and pink it is.

he stutters out a breath.

"and if i do?"

"c-can you kiss me?" he sounds so sweet and timid when he asks. his eyes eagerly glance down at your lips as you drag his bottom lip down, revealing his pearly white teeth.

you're mesmerized by his mouth. you press against his perfect teeth and he opens up immediately, letting you drag your thumb against his soft tongue. he sucks it in, laving sweetly against the sensitive pad of your finger as he stares up at you, eager to please.

"such a good boy~"

he whines, brows furrowing in desperate need. what a sweet sound.

you move your hand from his mouth so you can get in a better position. you shift from the couch to his lap, wanting to feel his body against yours. his arms immediately loop around your body, finding your waist so he can press you closer.

you dip in, hand at the base of his neck to control him, and nudge your nose against his -- just to tease him. he tries to push up and press his lips to yours, but you stop him, hand firmly holding him back.

"what am i gonna do with you?" you shake your head, "silly boy..."

he looks confused, brows tighten together endearingly, an expression that's slightly embarrassed.

"i-i thought you wanted to kiss."

"did i say that?"

"n-no, but--"

"you think you're so pretty that anyone would let you hit?" your hand moves up to the center of his neck. you press gently on the sides of his throat, pulling a groan from his lips. "mm...maybe you are pretty..."

he shivers from the praise. you can tell he's trying to hold back, but he's still subtly trying to move his hips under you, desperate for any type of friction.

"please? just one kiss?"

"just one?" you ghost your lips on his.

he whimpers at the feeling. you guess his lips are especially sensitive.

"please"

you give in, leaning against his silky pink lips. you feel him melt against you, sighing into it like it's the sweet relief of water in a barren desert. he desperately attempts to pull you closer by your waist, but you're already firmly pressed against him.

he deepens the kiss, delicately licking against the seam of lips before diving in and dragging his tongue against yours. you taste the tequila and lust -- it makes you hungry for more. he moans prettily when you nip at his lips, sucking on the sweet, sensitive skin until it gets all puffy and plump.

when you break the kiss, he attempts to chase your lips for more, not ready to separate. you dodge his advances with an amused smile, loving how needy he is already.

"you said one kiss"

"mmm, i think i messed up on that one..." he swipes his tongue over his swollen lips as he stares hungrily at yours, eyelids heavy but gaze wanting, "can we try again?"

“maybe if you earn it again…”

he groans, “fuck,” he presses his hips against yours, making you feel how hard he is under his pants, “but i need you so bad, mommy.”

hearing that word slip from his beautiful lips almost makes you melt into a puddle, right on his lap. if it weren’t for the way you were straddling him, your thighs would’ve immediately pressed together from the amount of need you were feeling. 

you press down on him just as eagerly, panting from the pressure of his hard cock against your aching clit. 

"yeah? you gonna be a good boy and fill me up?"

"mhmm~" his deep voice drones, vibrating from his chest against yours, "please let me -- i need to be inside of you."

you roll your hips against him, coaxing cute whimpers from him with every press.

"think you deserve it?" you taunt. san can't even answer you, merely nodding with his eyes squeezed shut, reveling in the feeling of your body grinding against his.

your hands move down from his neck, over his chest and stomach before settling right against his covered cock. you can feel the way he twitches under his pants, desperately begging for attention.

he groans when you press against him, the minimal pressure is already too much for him to handle.

"you're already so hard for me." you stroke him over his pants, feeling the perfect contours of his erection even when separated by the fabric.

"m'always hard for you" he slurs, hips subtly flexed upwards in an attempt to feel more of you.

"let me see." you unbutton his pants with ease and use a bit of force to pull them off just far enough to reveal his pretty cock and the top of his legs. his blushing tip weeps delicately with beads of cum, already spilling against his shaft -- evidence of how close he already is to the edge.

when you wrap your hand around him, his body stiffens and his hands instantly grip over the top of your thighs to ground himself.

"w-wait...not yet--" he begs, head thrown back in ecstasy.

you haven't even done anything yet.

"sannie," you can feel him throbbing against your fingers, "baby, are you okay?"

"d-don't move." he shudders, "i m-might--"

you watch his facial expressions closely as you squeeze your fist around him, nearly drooling from the way his eyebrows scrunch together with intensity.

"oops..." you fail to hide your smile but it doesn't matter, he can't see it anyway. you swipe your thumb against the edge of his tip, massaging that sweet spot as his legs begin to shake.

you slip your other hand under his shirt, feeling up his muscled torso to his heaving chest. his skin is warm and smooth against your fingers and it makes you want to leave pretty marks all over him.

his back arches when you lazily drag your index finger against his nipple. you circle your finger around it experimentally and the needy bud hardens from your teasing touch.

"sensitive boy..." you hum.

he whimpers sweetly, "t-too much--"

you ignore his words and pinch his nipple. his mouth opens and he's barely able to take a handful of breaths before he's crying out in broken moans and thrusting against your hand. you work him through it with hushed praises, letting him fuck your fist until he's too weak to continue.

you take your other hand and run your fingers through his hair lovingly as his climax moves through him before caressing the back of his flushed neck. his overstimulated body shivers against your gentle touch, but he still leans into it.

he made a mess.

his cum spurted all over -- spilling over your hand and dripping on your lap -- so now, your pants (and his) are ruined. when san finally calms down a bit, he peeks down at the mess as well.

"i-i'm sorry, i tried to hold it in..." he stares at you with rounded eyes, sparkling with shame and embarrassment.

you tilt your head as you regard the flushed man before you, "if you're gonna be so messy, clean it up." he cowers slightly at your taunting words.

"h-how..."

you lift the hem of his shirt wordlessly and -- after a moment of confusion -- he obediently raises his arms to let you take it off. he watches on with a surprised expression as you bundle it up and use it to wipe your hands and lap.

"what? you thought i'd make you lick it up?" you tease, "didn't know you were that much of a pervert."

"i-no, i d-don't know." he stammers.

you accidentally brush against him as you're cleaning up and his body jolts harshly from the feeling. you gently move the shirt away and notice that he's still hard.

how the fuck--

he can feel your stare.

"u-um...it's..." he attempts to cover himself up with his hands, "this is normal." you throw his shirt to the side and take him by the wrists. you move his hands away and his cock twitches from your attention.

"is it?" when you look up at his face he's blushing, thoroughly embarrassed by his needy body.

"only...when i think of you." he says quietly, "y-you can just ignore it though." he stares at the way your smaller hands wrap around his wrists.

cute.

just to see what he'd do, you put his hands on your body, leading them up from your hips to your chest. he immediately gropes your tits in his large hands, letting out a pathetic noise.

"didn't know you were so insatiable..." you push him away and get off of his lap. he whines from the loss of contact but as soon as he sees you start to strip for him, he's silent, watching on in awe.

you pull off your shirt but leave your bra on -- just another way to tease and deprive him of what he wants. next, you shimmy off your pants before throwing them in his lap.

"look at the stains you left on them," you pout, "those were new." (no they weren't) "you're gonna have to buy me a new pair."

"yeah, o-ok, i'll buy you anything you want..." san ignores the pants and continues to stare at you with a cute spaced-out expression, refusing to miss even a second of you nearly naked in front of him.

he looks so good sitting there, waiting so patiently for you. his broad shoulders -- that stretch every shirt he owns -- lift every so often with the deep breaths he's taking.

his bare body is tan and fucking chiseled, you swear you could get off just grinding on his stupidly perfect abs. and the way he's keeping his hands to himself, despite how eager his cock stands for you.

when you start to approach him again, he shoves the stained clothing away to make room for you. you caress his face as you settle on top of him again.

"don't worry, baby, i'll help you."

"fuck, please."

back on top of him, you roll your hips so your covered cunt just barely grazes his hard cock. he lets out a helpless groan from the bare touch.

"oops, i forgot to take these off..." you snap the waistband of your panties against your hips, "is it okay if we just shove them to the side?" you ask, guiding his hand to feel the lace that decorates the edges.

he tugs at the fabric with thinly veiled frustration. you're surprised he hasn't lost it already. you loop your arms around his neck, letting him touch as much of you as he wants.

his hand travels under your thighs to press right over your clothed center.

"just don't mess these up too, okay?"

"i'll try my best" he presses the pads of his fingers against your cunt, feeling your wet slick soak through the thin fabric of your underwear. "f-fuck, you're already dripping."

"i'm all ready for you, sannie..." you press your hips against his hand, "you could probably just slip it right in" you whisper.

that's all the convincing it takes for him to push his hand under the fabric and run his finger against the soft lips of your cunt.

"feels good, baby~" you shove your face against the crook of his neck, mouthing and nipping against his skin. he hums gratefully at the praise -- it almost sounds like he's purring.

your slick coats his fingers as he rubs them against your sopping hole, gently pressing into you until you stretch around him. you bite your lip as he thrusts into you shallowly, barely able to finger-fuck you correctly because of how far his arm is stretched around your body.

you swear you're making a mess of his hand, dripping everywhere because of how much you want him inside of you. you pull your face away from his neck, eyes locking with his, "sannie, just fuck me."

you lift your hips up enough to press his weeping cock against you.

"b-but what about--"

you pull him in for a kiss and he immediately leans into it, melting against you once again. if you weren't so horny, you'd gush over how easy he is for you.

"don't worry, baby, i can take it."

san listens, pulling your panties to the side so he can position himself against you. he runs his cock against the seam of your cunt a few times to lubricate himself enough before slowly pushing against you. you press down at the same time, legs shaking slightly as your body stretches to accommodate his size.

"o-oh, fuck!" he chokes out, overwhelmed by the feeling of your soaking cunt sucking him in. you both moan when you sit all the way down, letting him fill you to the brim.

"mm...you fill me up so good, baby." you sigh, starting to roll your hips against him. he's so big that he presses against all the special spots inside of you with every move you make.

his hips involuntarily jerk upwards every time you lift your hips away from him, desperately needing to feel you all around him. he'd probably like cockwarming, you think -- or you would think if he wasn't fucking the thoughts from your mind.

"m-mommy, it's -- too much--" his hands wrap around your waist, squeezing faint bruises into your skin as he grapples with the feeling of your tightness fluttering around him.

your head tilts back as you speed up against him, "be good, sannie..." your breaths come out short and labored, "let mommy use your cock -- mm...fuck, yes." your mind is hazy as he hits all the right places inside of you.

he whines, pressing his face against your chest as you move against him, "i don't think i'm going to last." he twitches inside of you, already worked up to the edge.

"then go ahead," you breathe, "cum in me."

you feel the way his hips flex at the thought of filling you up, of making a mess out of you.

"i-i shouldn't..." he says -- but he's fucking up against you harder.

"why not, sannie?" you taunt, "don't want to get me pregnant?"

he lifts his head from your chest to look at you, "p-pregnant?"

"mhm," you smile down at him, "give me your babies so i can't go anywhere."

you're suddenly pressed against his hips, hard, his cock stretching you to your limit. you can feel him everywhere. you moan loudly, cunt fluttering uncontrollably from the intense pleasure he's pressing into you.

"you'd be mine?" he questions with an eager tone, almost innocently so. you can feel the way he throbs inside of you, just a touch away from tipping over the edge.

he refuses to move until you answer him.

so you try to. at least with the 1% of brain power he leaves you with.

"a-and you'd be mine." you can barely focus on the words you want to say.

san starts to shallowly thrust into you, "i'm already yours..."

"then i'm yours too."

his hands cradle your face as you continue to move against each other more desperately. he guides your face to his, pressing his lips against yours messily, teeth dragging and tongues mingling.

it's like he's only doing it to taste you. to feel you because he can't believe you're real. to claim your whole body because he can't take being away from you, even by a few centimeters.

you reach your highs together, moving perfectly in sync until you're both shaking in pleasure. you feel his hot cum fill you up, spurt after spurt -- so much in fact, you can feel it start to drip out of you, down his cock, and onto his lap.

"fuck, i might actually get pregnant from this." you say to yourself.

you feel him twitch inside of you again.

well, shit.

[punkkture]

need to verbalize my desperate need for mr nonchalant businessman simon

mdni: ddlg , size kink

wc: { 1050 }

he’s busy at work, he’s always busy at work. sitting in his at home office, looking over paperwork tapping his pen against his desk. those worn out hands holding hours of tension from his day using them. gripping the pen a little too tight, his eyes felt heavy as he read over each word.

but when simon saw your gentle frame walk in through the door, he softened. his straightened back relaxed and he could sigh out and finally have it not be in a bemoaning way.

“what’re you doin’ outta bed, honey?” his voice grumbles lowly.

your sweet and soft nightslip looking even better in the subtle glow of his desk lamp. a gentle shrug as you walked over to him. bashful yet shameless all so effortlessly. his low eyes watched as you padded over to him, fragile hands grabbing at his chest. “can’t sleep, need you” was all you breathed out. his precious girl all tired but not tired enough to doze off on her own.

simon nodded, he always understood. “okay honey, you wanna stay with me while i finish this up?” he mumbled against your temple as you settled on his lap. your chest nuzzled into his.

it was soft and sweet for the first ten minutes. his left hand rubbing your side and back, sometimes playing with your hair as his other hand continued with the paperwork. it was a comfortable silence.

still quiet even when your hips started rutting against his lap. he let you do whatever you needed to do. you were his angel.

of course he would let you do anything you wanted.

his strong hand helping your little motions while his eyes stayed focused on the paperwork in front of him.

but you could barely stay like that for five minutes. needing more already. and you couldn’t interrupt him like that when he was so busy with work. so you asked a soft question you knew he would be happy to agree to . . . “can i use you for a little?”

of course he would let you. nodding his head, eyes still on the paperwork. gently taking his hand off of your side and pushing back in his chair so you could get his suit pants unzipped.

fragile and delicate hands taking out his thick cock and palming it until it was hard enough to stick in. the most you got from simon was a gruff sigh occasionally, but his eyes didn’t glance away from his work. signing his signature on a couple documents as you started to ease the first inch in.

he only acknowledged your actions by placing his hand on your waist. not a tight grip, but definitely not a soft one.

"easy, little baby" he mumbled.

you were never too good at listening when it came to something you wanted. even after years of being with him, the girth of his cock never got any easier to handle. so the tight soppy hole was almost burning in pain when you shifted down a little too quick.

"what did i just say?" simon breathed out softly when he heard your yelp. giving your hip a gentle swat to let you know that was a bad move. then moving to rub the bridge of his nose, his mind was pounding from all the paperwork he had done today, but there were at least two more documents that needed his attention at the moment.

the last thing he wanted to worry about was his precious girl getting hurt because she's too sensitive and dumb to know her own limits.

that entire time he was reading over the words and analyzing the numbers as best he could, your cunt was squeezing him in. fucking yourself on the first four inches of his cock while the wet and sticky slick leaked down the rest of his shaft - coloring his already dark suit pants an even darker cashmere stain.

fragile and delicate nails grabbing at his shirt, your face nuzzled up against him while letting out soft pants. simon sighs out, grabbing your hips and easing you down on the rest of him. heavy fingers digging into the little bit of fat there and helping you bounce up and down softly.

once you eased up to his thick eight and a half inches, his hands released their hold and let you do the rest of the work. his eyes going back to the mind numbing paperwork.

simon could never and would never get enough of your sweet little mewls and purrs as you let your fingers dig into his button up and rock back and forth in his lap. not moving up and down, but instead rutting on his cock. like you didnt even want to think of letting some of him slip out. it was cozy almost, knowing he was right there.

the sweet sounds just got too much for him. it wasn't his fault, not really. but he did feel a little bad when he picked you up off his cock and slammed your back down on his desk. crinkling some of his papers in the process.

but every man has a limit of what they can take and endure. you were his vice. simons warm hands holding you down forcefully on his desk while pistoning in and out. groaning at the way his ears started to ring from the over abundance of pure euphoria.

"pussy's always so warm"

shoving that thick cock into you so hard it made a cute little bump form at the bottom of your tummy. eyes that couldn’t leave the sight of his and his stuck exactly on the way you were leaking around him and onto his desk . simons eyebrows curved pathetically and desperately as he drank in that view.

your legs bouncing back with each one of his eager thrusts. “ah-!” leaving your lips like unheard prayers with glossed over eyes struggling to stay steady.

"you wanted this though, didn’t you baby? you wanted daddy to get you all tired out before bed?"

and of course he kept going until you had creamed out around him two or three times. making sure his little baby was all snuggled up and tuckered out before he took you back to bed where you would stay this time.

[zyafics]

CAN YOU PLEASE, PLEASE ON MY KNEES WRITE ABOUT BITCHY!READER X RAFE AND IT'S SMUT?? I FEEL LIKE YOU'LL DO IT JUSTICE!!! thank you

you literally read my mind because i was just thinking of this prompt that works so well with bitchy!reader!! hope you'll enjoy <3 (if it’s bad, look away!!)

WHATEVER SHE WANTS | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot)

Pairing — Rafe x Bitchy!Kook!Female Reader

Content — 18+, power/dominance play, p in v, doggy style, orgasm denial, and dirty talks

Word Count — 2.2K

lıllılı Whatever She Wants by Bryson Tiller

You always wanted Rafe.

It's your right. Since you were a child, you demanded the best in everything—toys, clothes, boyfriends. They had to be perfect. Had to be yours. And yes, it may come off a little superficial but who cares? It's what you deserve, and it'll be hell if you don't get it.

Since the first look, when you caught Rafe lounging on a chair with his friends, tipping the rim of his beer onto his lips, while his eyes scanned over the room in an attractive lazy way, you knew you had to have him. It didn't help that you were competitive, and Rafe garnered attention with women. They flocked to him and begged for a minute of his time. It became a game to you, and that heightened your need.

Everything was calculated. The makeup you wore, the outfits you curated, the glances. You always timed your arrivals—when you knew Rafe would be watching the door—and marked your exits. You knew exactly what to wear—dresses that tantalizing exposes your ass, but only as a preview—and the cosmetic style he liked. Rafe's the type of man who believes he wants a bare-faced woman, but truly, he wants something natural that enhances your features.

You came with friends. You left alone. You drank enough to loosen your nerves and danced with the crowd, but not enough to make a fool of yourself. You knew your tolerance and knew Rafe didn't like a messy girl.

At least, in public.

You caught his gaze a couple of times, flashing a flirtatious smile over your shoulders, but never lingered longer than three seconds. Rafe can't know how easy he can have you, because Rafe, like most boys, loves a chase. You're not easy, you're spoiled. He had to come to you.

And he did.

Rafe tried to introduce himself on several occasions. On those nights when you're leaving early—as planned—Rafe would cut to the door to pay a parting remark. "You're leaving so soon?" he would ask, "Alone? Again?" He would add. You always told him it was because no one caught your eye, and Rafe took that as a personal challenge. He would then try to tell you his name, as if he were different, to which you nod—detached—as if it didn't matter.

It drove him insane.

Because you didn't offer the same courtesy. You kept him guessing. He had to finally ask around to learn your name, which he would use to tease you the next time he saw you. And he did. And you laughed. But you acted like you didn't care. Like all the trouble he went through didn't prove a thing. That's when Rafe knew he needed you.

Tonight's no different. Just as you're about to leave, Rafe catches you with another smooth pick-up line. You just giggle. He studies how your eyes crinkle with amusement, the curve of your lips painted in his favorite shade of lipstick, and the lithe tilt of your head to the side as you ask him with your gaze, is that the best you got?

It isn't. But Rafe's determined to get further with you tonight. He continues to talk, asking about which men disappointed you and the reasons for your constant disappearances from these parties. And, for once, you're answering his questions with little resistance. Perhaps, it's because of the amount of cheap wines you consumed, or maybe you—for once—are tired of the games and want it to come to a fruitful end. Because when Rafe finally asks to take you home, you don't say no.

The walk to his truck is brisk. His arm wrapped around your waist, directing your path, while his fingers trail over the backless cut of your dress, producing a buzzing feeling beneath your skin. He's whispering something in your ear, but all of it is incomprehensible as you revel in the feeling of his touch and his touch alone. The feeling of your game coming to a conclusion.

And, just as you're about to reach the car, Rafe slams you into the side of the vehicle with a searing kiss.

His mouth catches yours and everything feels perfect. As if the buildup leading to this precise moment had been worth it, and every needy emotion rises to the top. His hand travels down the length of your body, to your hips, pulling you closer, and needing to eliminate all the space and wait you made him do.

Rafe's movements are swift and controlled. One of his hands props open the backdoor of his car, pushing you inside, and laying you against his leather seats. All without breaking the kiss.

"You don't know how long I wanted this, wanted you," Rafe blubbers between wet kisses. "Seeing you at every party, in these tiny dresses, not being able to touch," he rasps, bundling the hem of your dress into a tight fist. "Tell me you wear them for me."

"And if I did?" You say with a moan, tipping your head back to grant him access to your neck. "Did you like them?"

"Of course I did," he murmurs against the curve of your neck, the vibration of his words sending heat straight to your core. "You dressing up for me like my own perfect doll."

You want to retort that it's him who's in the palm of your hand, but Rafe sucks on a sensitive spot, causing your eyes to roll back and a whimper to escape your lips instead. He grabs your wrists with one hand, throwing them over his shoulder as he pulls you flush against his chest.

"So pretty, so fucking untouchable," Rafe kisses down the length of your throat, his fingers collecting the spaghetti straps of your dress before sliding it down the slope of your shoulders. "I'm going to fuck you so good."

His words snap you out of your haze. And while Rafe continues to expose more of your body, lamenting each reveal of flesh with a kiss, you withdraw enough to grab his attention.

"You're not fucking me in a car."

"What?" Rafe breaths, unable to snap out of the trace you had him in. Delirious with want, his mind warped around the idea of you being so close to attainable, that all rational manners left his system. He tries to kiss you again, to resume the moment, but you pull enough to send him a deadly glare, pouty and spoiled.

"Rafe, take me somewhere nice or we're not fucking at all."

He can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe he's contemplating it. But Rafe doesn't understand that you have it all planned out to result in a perfect moment. You won't let it be disrupted just because Rafe can't drive the extra mile to take you somewhere nice. You'd rather leave him with blue balls.

"Are you serious?" He asks slowly, his eyes drawn to your swollen lips, the little pout, and the desperation to have them back on his. Sure, Rafe's had girls who wanted something more than a casual fling. He had them ask him for a better spot, but he never obliged. He never cared. But you're different. He wants you, and it's been a hell of a chase to get you here. He'll be damned if he lets it slip away because of a pretentious standard.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" You cross your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts further up. He nearly groans at the sight. "We're not having sex here."

"The nearest place has to be at least a fifteen-minute drive," Rafe argues. And it makes you upset, brows pinched together. "We can just—"

"I don't care," you snap. "Take me somewhere nice or I'm leaving."

You're serious. He sees it on your face. Rafe can't risk that, despite wanting to protest, because he knows he if he messes this up, he won't have another chance. Swearing under his breath, he drags himself out of the backseat and into the driver's side, pulling the car out of the parking lot.

Dangerously, Rafe speeds down the road, while you're sitting in the backseat with a self-satisfied demeanor, fixing your makeup through the rearview mirror. Occasionally, Rafe spares a glance through the same reflection, connecting with your gaze, and while there's subtle bitterness coiled in his chest, he recognizes the bigger prize at hand.

And what he can do with it.

Because, despite your bratty attitude, Rafe is a person who wants control. You want perfection. You two can have both.

That's how you find yourself in a newly-booked penthouse suite at one of the bougie hotels in Kildare, your head digging into the soft comforter of the bed, your ass in the air, as Rafe drills into you from behind.

When you reached the room, everything moved frantically. Rafe slammed you against the nearest wall to kiss you again—needing your lips, needing your taste—while his hands roamed over your dress and pulled down your cleavage, revealing your tits. Your hands wandered down his pants, unbuttoning them hurriedly, needily, and he assisted you by pulling them off alongside his boxers. His cock was big, slightly red with a pearly bead of pre-cum that rolls off the tip. And you could tell by the look on Rafe's face that he wanted you to suck it.

But you told him, "I don't do blowjobs."

So fucking pretentious.

It didn't matter. He hauled you over to the king-sized bed and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft thump, while Rafe hauled you up to your ass, pushing up your dress, until it became nothing but a bundle around your waist. His movements were urgent, and he wanted—no, needed—to be inside you because a bratty girl was going to be a great fuck.

And he was right.

You're perfect. The way you wrap around him, the way he sinks inside you. He doesn't know if it's because of the delirium of wanting you so desperately, of chasing you for so long—but he never had better pussy. And it doesn't help that your moans are sweet, breathy, and loud—begging him to go faster.

"Such a pretentious brat," Rafe grabs your throat, hauling you upwards till your spine rest on his chest, airway constricted by his harsh grip. "Making me wait this fucking long."

"R—Rafe," you mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your skull at the way he's angling his cock deep into your cervix, bullying the sensitive spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.

"Had to get the princess treatment, did you?" He murmurs hotly into your ear, nibbling a spot on your neck as you rest the back of your head on his shoulder. His thrusts grow more erratic. "Had to make me earn you, didn't you?"

"You weren't going to fuck me in a car," you persist, and despite how cockdrunk you became, and how much of an attitude you're willing to sacrifice to feel good, you were still adamant about receiving what you deemed enough. He respected that. "I'm not one of your whores."

"But I'm fucking you like my own personal slut. Is that any better?" He bites the lobe of your ear, and his other hand wanders up to grab a handful of your breast, squeezing the fat before rolling your perked nipple between his fingers. You moan louder. "What does that make you?"

You can't seem to answer him, can't seem to find your senses. The words Rafe uses are vulgar, but there’s still no regrets about this entire thing. Rafe wanted you so badly, that he was willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a hotel he probably won't even stay the night in. All because you demanded it.

You win.

"Shut up," you stammer, your stomach tightening. "Shut up and just fuck me, Rafe."

Rafe grins. The hand playing with your tits slips between your thighs to assist, finding your clit easily as he rubs it with his thumb in sync with his thrusts. Breathy moans escape you as you arch into his palm, while he pistons deeper inside of you, bottoming out.

"You sound so pretty, doll," Rafe murmurs against your heated skin, "Come on, take my fucking cock."

Everything’s so dirty. The way he handles you, the way your wetness drips down your thighs, the way his words breathe onto your skin and tighten your core. But you love it. You do, but you're not willing to give in so easily. No matter how good it feels. No matter how much he feels like a prize.

"You don't deserve me." You whisper with a mewl, body tightening with the familiar wave of your undoing.

Yet, Rafe merely grins.

"But you're sucking in my cock like you need me," Rafe taunts, pleasure coursing through his body at the way your walls grip him in a vice. The way your words spark challenge and invitation. He knows, despite your spoiled attitude and pretentious demands, he'll do anything to get another chance like this. "Now, behave like a good girl or you're not coming tonight."

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[a-casxandra]

❝𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫.❞ part 2

Caleb as your boyfriend x you (non-mc), birthday angst.

𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗯'𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘃

Caleb had never noticed it before—not really.

The way your smile never quite reached your eyes these days. The way your fingers fidgeted in your lap when MC leaned a little too close. The way Gideon looked at you with something that resembled… pity.

He thought things were fine. You never complained. You were always understanding. Supportive. Gentle. So he convinced himself you were okay.

That night at the club, he hadn’t thought twice about offering MC his jacket. She was cold, drunk. He didn’t even see your bare arms shivering just inches away. Didn’t notice the way your lips pressed into a tight line when MC clung to him in her usual, tipsy way.

Didn’t realize how wrong it all looked—until much, much later.

It wasn’t until he saw Gideon hand you his jacket, and you hesitated, almost embarrassed, that something in his chest stirred. A flicker. Just a flicker.

He should’ve checked in.

But MC laughed, and his attention shifted again. It always did.

Caleb had always thought love would be obvious.

Loud. Chaotic. Unavoidable. Like the kind he saw in movies, or felt years ago, when he was young and stupid and MC was the girl next door with a crooked smile and dreams bigger than both of them.

But maybe that was the problem.

He didn’t realize love could also be quiet.

Like someone sitting on his right side all night.

Someone who didn’t need to speak to be loud.

Someone who didn’t cry even when he deserved to be yelled at.

He didn’t realize until you were gone.

Caleb noticed your silence the morning after his birthday.

No good morning kiss. No breakfast for two. No light footsteps moving through the kitchen.

Just... silence. The kind that made his chest tight.

He walked into the living room. Your phone was gone. So was your jacket. The dress from last night? Folded neatly on the chair.

His heart sank.

A note sat on the table, your handwriting small, almost apologetic.

> “Happy birthday again. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye in person. Take care of MC. She needs you.”

He read it twice. Then again. And again.

Then he said your name out loud, like maybe if he spoke it enough, you’d answer.

You didn’t.

Day 2.

He texted.

No reply.

Day 3.

Called. Straight to voicemail.

Day 5.

He showed up at your workplace. Your co-worker said you took leave. “Needed space,” was all they offered.

Day 7.

Gideon found him sitting on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by takeout containers and empty glasses. “You look like hell,” Gideon said, pulling him up by the arm.

“I think she’s gone,” Caleb croaked. “For real this time.”

Gideon didn’t say I told you so. But the look in his eyes said everything. “You hurt her, man. You didn’t even notice. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but damn, Caleb… the way you looked at MC that night? You should’ve seen yourself.”

Caleb ran a hand through his hair, chest aching. “She’s just my childhood friend.”

“No,” Gideon said, dead serious. “She was your future. And you treated her like a seat-filler.”

One week later, Caleb finally found you.

You were at the park, sitting alone on a bench with a takeaway coffee cup in hand, face tilted toward the pale sun. You looked peaceful.

And he hated himself for wanting to disturb that peace.

Caleb stood there for a moment, just watching. Then took a slow step forward.

You noticed him before he could say your name. “I thought you’d be with MC.” Your voice wasn’t bitter. Just… tired.

Caleb winced. “She’s not the one I want to be with.”

Silence.

“I was stupid,” he continued, swallowing down the guilt. “I didn’t see what I was doing until you left.”

“No,” you said, calmly. “You saw. You just didn’t care until I finally walked away.”

Caleb froze. Because you were right.

And it hurt. Because he deserved it.

“You looked at her like she was the only one in the room,” you whispered. “And I was there the whole time, Caleb. I was there.”

He stepped closer, voice raw. “You have every right to hate me. But I—God, I miss you. I miss us. I’d do anything to fix it. Anything.”

You looked at him then. Eyes glassy, but steady. “And if MC called you drunk again tonight?" Your words were like a dagger. “If she needed you again? Would you leave me in the backseat again?”

“…No,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

You nodded slowly, letting his answer hang in the air like fog. Then you stood, brushing off your coat. “I don’t want to be your second choice, Caleb. Not anymore. I loved you enough to accept crumbs. I loved you enough to believe your silence meant safety. But I love myself more now.”

His hands trembled, he didn't think twice as he sank down on his knees, kneeling infront of you. “Please. I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you—”

But you shook your head. “I don’t want you to make it up to me. I just want you to feel it.”

And with one last look, you turned and walked away.

Caleb kneeled there long after you disappeared, clenching his fist, throat burning.

And for the first time in years, Caleb finally understood:

𝗛𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂.

���𝗲’𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.

soo here's caleb with my mc! (●'◡'●)

[solxamber]

Want You Back with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

Where they're still in love with you

Other parts: Housewardens

Trey Clover

Trey insisted that he was doing just fine after the breakup. He said it with a firm, reasonable tone which made people afraid to challenge him. But there was a sudden spike in sweet production that should've triggered an intervention.

The first sign that something was deeply wrong was the dessert box you received. Deuce was the delivery method–nervous, sweating slightly, and holding it like it might explode.

"Trey asked me to give you this," Deuce said. "He made too much again. I didn't ask questions. Please don't ask me questions."

Inside was your favorite dessert. Made exactly the way you liked it, portioned perfectly, with a note about storage instructions.

The next week it happened again. Deuce looked more tired this time.

"I don't even think he's making any for us anymore," he said. "There were twelve of these and they all had your name on them."

The week after that, he just left the box outside your door and sprinted away.

Meanwhile, Trey had developed a new habit of dropping half-memories into conversations and then staring into the distance. He'd start a sentence with something like, "Remember when we went to—" and then just stop speaking altogether. Sometimes he'd blink slowly. No one ever asked him to continue.

The real problem happened during a meeting, when Riddle asked Trey to pass the sugar.

"Sure thing, babe," Trey said, without thinking.

Silence. Absolute, dead air silence.

Trey apologized immediately, said he'd been distracted, maybe overtired, clearly mixed something up. Riddle stared at him for a full ten seconds before continuing like the moment had been stricken from existence through sheer force of will.

But for the rest of the day, he referred to Trey exclusively as "Mr. Clover."

Even Cater started noticing. During a tea party planning session, Trey was explaining seasonal pastry pairings and said, "They always liked the these in spring—" and then stopped. And just stared into space with a haunted look, eyes unfocused like he was watching a flashback play out on the wall.

Cater, in a rare moment of self-preservation, slowly slid his chair backward and excused himself from the room.

Trey never addressed any of it. The desserts kept coming. The flashbacks kept happening. He went about his day as if this was all very reasonable.

He never asked you to come back and you never said anything either.

But when the next dessert came with a note that read "Let me know if you want to bake something together again," you kept the note.

You'll answer him soon enough.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie took the breakup well. Or at least, that was the impression he worked very hard to give. He laughed a little too loudly at everything, kept his tone light and breezy, and absolutely would not stop making jokes. About anything. Including your name, the concept of heartbreak, and on one occasion, a broom that somehw reminded him of you for reasons he refused to explain.

He also always seemed to know where you were. He could recite your schedule better than most professors, which was concerning considering he never wrote anything down and clearly wasn't trying to remember it for academic purposes.

That was around the time the snacks started appearing.

A variety of edible items were now being left on your windowsill with increasing regularity. One day it was a crumpled bag of crackers. The next, something that looked like it had been stolen from the cafeteria. The quality varied, but the intent was consistent: he was absolutely not going to speak to you, but he was going to feed you like you're a raccoon whose trust he's trying to earn.

Eventually he started doing things "just because." Favors you didn't ask for, tasks you hadn't gotten around to, errands you never mentioned. You'd open your bag and find things you lost last month. Your laundry got done at suspiciously convenient times. When your dorm got mysteriously dusted while you were in class, you caught a faint trace of a very familiar scent and found a magift disc that definitely wasn't yours under the bed.

You stepped outside your dorm one afternoon to find him lying on the ground in the grass, dramatically clutching his ankle and squinting at the sun like it had personally wronged him.

When you asked what happened, he made a vague gesture and said he "might have twisted something," although there was no visible injury and his shoes were off for some reason he refused to explain. He stayed there, groaning softly, waiting for you to help him, and occasionally adjusting his pose whenever you looked away—presumably to appear more pitiful.

When you finally helped him stand, he immediately stopped limping, dusted himself off, and suggested that maybe you could "hang out or whatever, since we're already here."

And how could you say no?

Jade Leech

Jade didn't make a scene. That wasn't his style. After the breakup, he went about his life with the same calm demeanor he always had. There was no change in his expression or his routine but there was a slightly unsettling increase in how often he happened to be standing somewhere near you, doing absolutely nothing.

It wasn't stalking. That would be unrefined. But it also clearly wasn't coincidence. He never approached you directly, he just loitered with purpose, nearby, always pretending to be on his way somewhere else.

The mask only cracked once, when Floyd casually brought you up in conversation and Jade's smile froze so precisely mid-expression it looked like it was carved onto his face. He just stopped blinking for a moment, like he'd mentally stepped out of his own body to scream into a bucket somewhere. Floyd stared at him, then slowly reached across the table and took his drink without asking.

He never brought you up directly. Instead, he asked theoretical questions that weren't quite as subtle as he believed.

"If one were to mend a broken relationship," he asked Azul one afternoon while reorganizing in the lounge, "would it be wiser to reintroduce emotional intimacy gradually, or would a surprise approach prove more... efficient?"

Azul didn't respond. He just walked out of the room.

Every time he ended up beside you, always by coincidence, of course, he acted surprised.

Jade didn't sit next to you on purpose. That would imply intent. He simply appeared, occasionally, in the seat beside yours with a faint expression of interest and a stack of papers that had no relevance to the current activity. He never made conversation. He'd just sit there, glancing sideways every so often, not enough to be obvious but enough to be very clear that he was waiting for something.

Eventually, during one of these "well-timed encounters," you shifted slightly toward him.

He didn't say anything and he didn't look at you. But his posture straightened, and he put the papers away.

They had been blank the entire time.

Jamil Viper

Jamil tried to maintain the illusion that everything was fine but it was convincing nobody. It was the kind of performance that might have fooled a distant acquaintance or a houseplant, but not anyone who had seen him operate at full power.

He still showed up where he was supposed to be, still got things done, but he looked like he hadn't been sleeping, hadn't been resting, and had possibly stopped eating.

The worst part was the silence. He didn't correct anyone, didn't complain, didn't throw out any of his usual quietly exasperated commentary. The version of Jamil who rolled his eyes at other people's nonsense had vanished. In his place was a pale imitation who sat in the corner during group work and didn't even make a face when someone proposed an obviously bad plan.

People stopped bothering him with small talk. It was like he had been quietly reclassified as an emotional hazard zone—calm on the surface, but likely to combust without warning. Even Kalim gave him space, which was saying something.

Eventually, something gave out. He cornered you after class and he looked like he had rehearsed being casual and then immediately forgot how to be human. He asked, very quietly, why you were still being nice to him if you were done.

His voice cracked on the last word in the most inconvenient, humiliating way possible. You didn't even have a chance to respond. He just blinked like he wanted to walk into a wall and left before he could hear whatever answer might make it worse.

You caught him pacing behind the library one day, clearly in the middle of talking to himself.

"Just say you want them back. Just say it. Just—"

He noticed you and immediately fell into silence. He tood perfectly still like he thought if he didn't move, you might forget he existed. The silence stretched for so long it started to feel like you were intruding on a wildlife documentary.

And when you stepped closer and reached for his hand, he didn't pull away. If anything, he looked offended it had taken you this long.

Rook Hunt

Rook didn't take the breakup well, but in typical fashion, he made it everyone else's problem long before it became obvious to you.

Every animal in the woods now had an opinion about your relationship with Rook. Squirrels paused on branches when you walked by. Birds gave you judgmental side-eye. There were rabbits that watched you like they knew something.

Rook took the breakup in stride, if your definition of "stride" included extended lurking behind trees and several suspiciously well-tended patches of flora outside your dorm.

He didn't approach you or speak to you but somehow, your favorite flowers were always in bloom, even out of season, even when they shouldn't have survived.

When this failed to produce results, Rook made a tactical shift that alarmed everyone more than the silent stalking ever did. He became "normal."

It had people watching him out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for him to snap. He spoke plainly. He answered questions without dramatic pauses or poetic tangents. He didn't climb anything. He didn't even add French into his sentences.

It was so unnatural that Epel asked him, in all seriousness, if he had been replaced with a government clone. Vil asked if he'd taken a blow to the head. Trey nearly dropped a tray when Rook said "thank you" without calling him "chevalier."

And through it all, he stayed out of your way.

If you went to the greenhouse, he was suddenly busy elsewhere. If you entered the courtyard, he exited as though he'd simply remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of campus. It was like he was trying to give you something you hadn't asked for: peace or space.

Then one afternoon, you saw him outside your dorm, kneeling beside the flowers with a small trowel while performing an act of unspoken devotion.

You didn't say anything and just knelt beside him in the dirt.

And when he shifted slightly closer, you stayed exactly where you were.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia claimed to be doing fine. He laughed about it and told everyone he was at peace. He tossed out a few remarks about how heartbreak was good for the bones, and then promptly vanished for three days.

When he returned, he looked like he'd been emotionally dry-cleaned and hung out to air. The sparkle was gone from his eyes. His posture was slightly hunched, like he'd lost a duel with gravity.

No one mentioned it. He brought it up before they could.

"Refreshing trip," he said, standing perfectly still in the doorway. "Cleared my head. Found myself. Spoke to a bird."

From that moment on, the descent was slow and profoundly unserious.

He started texting you again, always in the middle of the night, always with images no one could trace to a known source. Memes of screaming frogs, unidentifiable creatures holding signs that said things like "miss u" and blurry screenshots from ancient anime with captions he had clearly written himself.

The culinary sabotage began shortly after. Each dish felt like a personal challenge to every culinary rule known to man. There was something that resembled soup but smelled like pickled beans.

One meal arrived in a jar, bubbling slightly. Silver tapped it with a spoon and backed away slowly. Sebek refused to eat altogether and Malleus did not comment—but the haunted look in his eyes said enough. If he ever got down on one knee, it would be to beg you to fix this.

Lilia, of course, pretended to remain blissfully unbothered. He'd hum quietly to himself while pouring powdered sugar into things that weren't desserts and casually mention how lovely it would be to "have someone to experim—I mean, cook for—again."

One evening, as you were winding down, you heard a strange tapping at your window. It wasn't the usual rhythm of branches or wind so you pulled the curtain aside.

And there he was.

Lilia, suspended upside down from your roof. He was perfectly still while grinnimg. Hanging there as if this was the most natural way to say hello. You screamed. He screamed back. It was as though he'd forgotten that normal people didn't expect unsolicited nocturnal bat-visits from their ex.

The silence afterward stretched far too long. He remained dangling. You stood frozen. It became a standoff of mutual embarrassment and stubbornness.

And then, with a sigh, you opened the window.

Not because it was a good idea or because you'd forgiven him. Not even because he'd apologized.

Because, in some twisted way, you had missed him too (and honestly, it was starting to rain.)

Masterlist