#you can't stop me from saying it like that

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Movie Week

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Male Yandere x Fem Reader, 1.7k words

 Your dad doesn't like your boyfriend.

Hardly breaking news. The amount of boyfriends who are chummy with their future father-in-law is in decidedly short supply. Like, national crisis level shortage.

Still, you aren't sure why your dad has such a problem with him.

Your boyfriend is sweet. He's charming. He takes your dog out on walks and gets along with your ancient and sour tom cat. He picks you up from school and keeps his hands to himself whenever your pops is around.

He's smart, in his own way. Good with his hands, the top student in your school's auto shop class.

A catch really. Out of your league, if you want to be honest.

But your dad doesn't want to hear any of it.

"Home before ten, not a second later."

"Don't you dare leave the living room when he's here. Either you stay where I can see you, or he doesn't come over at all."

"You're only allowed to drive home from school with him. I don't want you in that deathtrap of his any longer than you need to be."

Your boyfriend takes it in his stride. The only sign that it bothers him is the slight strain in his voice.

"Yes, sir. I'll get her home on time."

"No, sir. We won't leave the living room."

"I drive under the speed limit all the time, sir."

A different man would have given up on you ages ago. It isn't pleasant, being subjected to scrutiny and barley veiled menace every time you want to take your girl out on a date.

Somehow, he manages.

"It's easy," he tells you after yet another uncomfortable dinner with your father, his arm around the back of your seat as he pulls out of your driveway.

"I just keep reminding myself that I'm going to marry you. He'll have to soften up once I have a ring on your finger."

You can't ignore the way your heart jumps when he says that.

"Don't joke about stuff like that."

He grins at you. "Not joking. Gonna make you my wife someday."

You twist your hands in your skirt and tell yourself he's just pulling your leg. You're too young to be thinking about marriage. You need to focus on picking out graduation gowns, not wedding dresses.

Still, it's a nice thing to think about. A silly little fantasy to keep your smile in place when you get home from your date and your dad insists on grilling you. Something to dream about before bed, when the sheets are cold and you want nothing more than to have your boyfriend between them.

He brings it up again on your next date.

"Gold or silver?"

"For what?"

You're at the gun range, your boyfriend polishing up his skills. The crack of gunfire only slightly muffled by your ear protection.

He's reloading his pistol, fingers quick and fast.

"For your engagement ring."

You freeze for a second, and then start giggling.

"Yeah, right. Are you going to ask me if I want cream or ivory tulle next?"

He shrugs, cocking his pistol with a practiced, easy pull.

"I say cream. Looks better with your skin tone."

He gets into a firing stance and aims at the cut out.

"My dad might not even say yes. Have you thought about that?"

He fires. One bullet after the other until the clip is empty. The veins and muscles on his forearms stand out; he's gripping the gun that tight.

When it clicks on an empty chamber, he sets it aside and pulls off his ear protection. The retrieval system whirs as his target gets pulled towards you.

"I've thought about it," he says quietly.

You're about to say something when you catch sight of his target. Bullet holes straight through its forehead, a stray or two lodged in its throat. You count them up in your head and compare it to the amount of bullets you saw him load.

He didn't miss a single shot.

He's good with guns, but you've never seen him this accurate before. What the hell is he focused on, to land every shot?

You look up to find him watching you.

"Your dad will say yes. I know he will."

Your dad doesn't say yes.

You aren't aware of it. All you know is that your boyfriend stops walking you to your front door after school, and that your dad is awfully quiet at dinner for a few weeks.

Your dad doesn't say yes the second time either.

It's a late Friday afternoon. You're at study group with your friends while your father and your boyfriend square off against each other. Sun slanting through the big bay windows and spilling in golden stripes across the carpet.

"You're too young."

"I love her!"

"You don't even know what love is!"

"I know enough. I want to be with her. Is that so wrong? We won't get married right away."

"Not. Happening."

Your father is as tight wound as a hair trigger. Your boyfriend not much better. For a second, your dad thinks the kid might actually be stupid enough to hit him.

Go on, give me a good reason to kick you to the curb, you little shit.

He doesn't. Just pulls in a deep breath and turns to leave, door slamming hard behind him.

Your father sits down with his anger still coiled tight in his chest. Anger, and fear too. There's something about your boyfriend that unnerves him. That hair raising feeling of nails on a chalkboard. Not logical at all, but too strong to just be gut instinct.

Kid looked like he wanted to kill me.

You father has to make a conscious effort to unclench his fists.

When you get home that day, he kisses your forehead and prays that you change your mind about the whole thing. Date someone a little less... strange.

No luck. He hears you on the phone with your boyfriend all evening.

Is the kid really going to let it go? Or is he going to keep asking?

Your dad doesn't get his answer. Two days later, his car goes off the road.

Brake lines wore out and finally snapped, the cops tell you.

It's raining hard when they give you the news, little droplets of water on their uniforms despite their oversized black umbrellas.

You're too cold and stunned to answer them.

It's only when your boyfriend comes over that you manage to speak, to think of a sentence or two beyond, "But I just saw him. How can he be dead if I just saw him five minutes ago?"

He pulls you onto his lap and let's you cry into his shirt, smoothing your hair away from your face.

"It's okay baby, I'm here. I've got you."

It's only after the funeral that he asks the question he's wanted an answer to for months. The funeral parlour is almost empty. Your dad's coffin long gone.

He keeps his arm curled around your waist as you bid the last of the mourners goodbye.

"You never gave me an answer."

You blink at him, thoughts mired in molasses.

"An answer to what?"

He smiles, head tilted in that boyishly charming way of his.

"The only question that matters. Gold or silver?"

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[sa2sugu]

....hi everyone......... i know that some of you already know about this but i have a bl comic that is currently being published on lezhin. it's called "처음의 여름" or "a first of summers". it's explicit and i'd be really happy if anyone who is interested in this type of thing or my art gives it a read.

you can read the english version at: https://www.lezhinus.com/en/comic/first_summer

(or the korean version here if you're into that): https://lezhin.com/ko/comic/first_of_summers

you can also follow me on twitter: https://x.com/pppanghouse

i have gotten many messages asking me if i was the one behind a first of summers (because apparently my art style is very recognizable i can't hide from you guys!!), and i've been ignoring them for months (sorry, everyone) because i was never fully proud of the work that i was putting out there. i still don't think i am at a point where i can confidently promote my work like a normal person would because me and shame are like this -> 🫂. but i am working on getting better at managing my shame and making this post is a step towards that goal. in a way, i felt more reluctant to post about it here because i see the connections i've made on tumblr as real tangible friendships rather than parasocial ones so it's even more embarrassing.

as a lover of yaoi, slice of life and queer media, i tried to make something that i personally would like to read, in an art style that i would have found inspirational when i started digital art. here are some panels that i am kind of proud of ahh hee hee

to be honest it feels very very weird to "make a story" and "share it with people", because i've never done something like this before and having to offer my personal themes and internal symbols to people in the hopes that some of you may resonate with them feels like i'm running down the street with my whole ass out in the open. idk how people do this.

also, i know a lot of you consume media illegally and i know that i alone can't stop you from doing that. which is why i'm all the more thankful to anyone who chooses to support me by buying the chapters on the official websites. i'm slowly learning that this (working on stories and drawing) might be something i want to keep doing and get better at, so i'm so deeply grateful to those who make that possible for me by supporting me financially. it always feels super nice when people show appreciation for my art and recommend it to other people and talk about it.

anyways, so that's me. i have a lot more to say but this post has already gotten long enough, and none of it includes any information on what the comic is about lol so here's a short synopsis: hyeonseon is a 40yo divorced salaryman who, after having a bit of a midlife crisis about where he is at in life, decides to learn electric guitar. his teacher, yeoreum (which means summer) is a 24yo college student who is also having a bit of a crisis of his own aaaand falls for the older dude. uhhhh and as i said it's explicit they are fucking it oppa homo style, and it does deal with themes related to age gaps but please don't come for meeeee!!!!!!!! i tried to make it tasteful and chose to work with age gaps because i had something to say about the concept of adulthood/life, also i enjoy a dude who's a little old getting dicked down by a younger lad what do you want me to say, damn......

if you have any nice things to say about my work then weeheee please go ahead, thank you

[gojosoups]

DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

cw: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, consensual sex, creampies, breeding kink, mating press, panty thief toji, cucking, cheating, age-gap between toji and reader implied, modern au, f! reader, all characters are 18+, MDNI, not proofread

a/n: pt 2 for burglar toji which has been long overdue.. thank you all for 3k! enjoy <3 might also write a pt 3-

burglar!toji who’s furiously fisting his cock, your pretty pink panties from his last visit wrapped around his thick length, wet from precum as he jerks off to the thought of you and your tight pussy, how he had you bent over your kitchen counter and stuffed full of his cum and gun.

burglar!toji who’s phone is in his other hand, recording every pump of his fist, every groan falling from his lips, ever dribble of precum dripping from his angry red tip. All of it, for you.

burglar!toji who’s left on seen :( but that doesn't stop him from sending you nudes of your pretty spoiled panties wrapped around his cock, or selfies of him sniffing them like the nasty perv he is.

burglar!toji who can’t wait to see you again… but turns out he won’t have to wait for long. What a coincidence it is, breaking into another apartment, only to find you sitting curled up on your boyfriend's couch in a pair of disgustingly short shorts and a tight tank top, perked nipples straining against the tight material.

burglar!toji who finds you distracted, staring at your phone instead of the movie playing, your screen open to one of the many videos he sent. A hand underneath your shorts as you rub your sensitive clit to the sound of his breathy moans and spurts of cum recorded.

burglar!toji who somehow manages to lock your boyfriend in the bedroom from the outside. Creeping up from behind you before you feel a hand in your hair, gripping it into a makeshift ponytail as Toji pulls your head back against the couch, his lips hovering over your neck as he breathes in your scent.

"Guess your little boyfriend can't satisfy you," he says, hand trailing underneath your top to play with your perked nipples. Lips interlocking with yours to keep you quiet as mewls escape your soft lips.

You gasp for air, eyes clouded with lust, "Is that a gun in your pocket? or are you just happy to see me?" you say cheekily, receiving a chuckle from him before he slams you against the couch and folds you in half.

burglar!toji who has your legs thrown over his shoulder in a heartbeat. Clothes discarded on the floor as he locks your wrists above your head, watching you helplessly squirm and grind your bare, drooling pussy against his aching cock.

burglar!toji who stretches you out so good, the girth of his cock stretching your velvet walls as you struggle to take him in, toes curling from pleasure with each wet thrust of his long cock. The feeling of his cockhead curling against your sweet spot, kissing your poor cervix has you dripping.

"Ah-ah fuck Toji-" you moan, throwing your head back as his canines dig into the soft flesh of your neck, covering you in hickeys and bite marks, claiming you as his.

burglar!toji who makes sure his seed takes this time. Emptying every single drop of his cum inside your warm walls, breeding your poor pussy with each relentless thrust.

"Gonna get you-fuck- round with my babies ma," his breathy groans of pleasure only make you further clench around his cock, greedy pussy gripping him like a vice, "and fill you up with a lil mini me." You merely moan in response, pussy complying with each clench.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[yeetspace]

Unless you know for a fact there the perpetrator of the action themselves, at the very least holding your mind let the person who is touting whatever insane horseshit that you disagree with is a victim of being lied to the entire time like you were almost.

Each and every one of us has that experience of hearing right wing ideology, nearly falling down that pipeline, but kind of just plugging up the whole realizing that expressly saying the things being touted out loud just boils down too

"those damn poor people shouldn't deserve to get the things that they don't have because of the fact that we've made it to where they can't get a hold of them, that's their fault"

Like fr, I can be pissed at someone who thinks that is correct and also know for a fact that they think that's correct because of intentional indoctrination through societal norms. Again doesn't stop me from being pissed at them but I can at least acknowledge they are a victim of a system intending for that consequence

Hey I don't know who needs to hear this, but kids who were never taught about a subject acting like the subject they never heard about doesn't exist aren't active participants in its erasure. They are the people the erasure has been done to. Of course you know what's been done to people like you, but attacking kids about it is like beating a dog for being domesticated.

If it's "not your job to educate people", then I'm curious to know what exactly are you doing in the activism you say you're doing.

[satorus-princess]

she loves me not, she loves me

synopsis: gojo satoru - the oh-so-confident, strongest sorcerer - becoming a nervous wreck on his wedding day? no way. (one suggestive joke, but otherwise sfw)

fem!reader x gojo satoru, canon au but geto never defected 🥰

gojo thinks he's successful in being able to conceal the effect of his doubts and worries on his demeanour. but, obviously, his best man picks up on the way that he constantly fixes his pushed-back hair, straightens his tuxedo for the umpteenth time, and redoes his tie for a third time. well, honestly, anyone would be able to infer his fears from his behaviour, no matter how forced his smile is.

“are you nervous, satoru? you have no reason to be, you know,” geto says, sitting on a chair in his own suit as he observes his best friend standing in front of the mirror who brushes off atoms from the sleeves of his tux.

“hah, why would i be nervous? i'm hard to resist, and she loves me,” the tone and manner in which gojo says that sounds as if he's reassuring himself rather than trying to convince geto he isn't nervous.

“she does. i've seen you get into destructive relationships, but not this one. (y/n)'s perfect for you,”

“she's so perfect... what is she doing marrying me?” gojo groans, stepping backwards and slumping into an armchair behind him.

“she said yes for a reason,” geto reminds gojo.

“you're right, you're right. she said yes to me. she wants to marry me.” gojo's head is tilted back over the edge of the chair, trying to keep his thoughts under control. that lasts a minute before he's grumbling under his breath, “shit, i'm a mess.”

while gojo is consumed in his whirlwind of thoughts, he doesn't even hear geto calling someone on the phone and talking to them. that's until he scoots closer to the groom, holding out the phone to him with a short “here”.

“what are you doing?” he asks, lifting his head up, confused as to why his rambling is cut off and what could possibly be more important.

“‘toru?” your sweet voice chimes through the speaker, and suddenly, gojo feels as if his heart has stopped. he takes the phone from geto, who steps out of the room to let you two have your moment, knowing that the only person who can ease gojo's nerves is his future wife herself.

his fingers slightly tremble around the phone as he presses it against his ear. he swallows thickly before speaking, “(y/n)?”

“yeah, it's me, my love. are you okay?”

a gentle smile paints over his lips, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he lets out a sigh - subconsciously relieved. he nods, despite you not being able to see him. “yeah... yeah, i'm okay now that i've heard your voice. fuck, you sound so pretty through the phone, i might cry,” he jokes, but the choked-up laugh that tumbles out suggests that he might not be completely joking.

he hears you laugh on the other side of the phone and his heart signs up for a marathon. “hey, save the tears for when you see me.”

“oh, those aren't gonna be tears. that's gonna be full-on sobbing and snot everywhere,” his tone is light and playful, feeling much calmer now.

you laugh again, this time louder. “you're ridiculous. although i'm not sure i doubt you.”

“i'm definitely not joking. just thinking about you in your dress is bringing me to tears.”

“you love me,” you state simply in a quieter tone, but it's such a powerful affirmation.

“i do, with every fibre of my being. i can't wait to marry you and spend forever together.”

“me too. you know what else i can't wait for?” you ask playfully in an attempt to lift his mood, waiting for gojo to respond before continuing. he gives you a soft hum in question. “the honeymoon. spending lots of quality time together. in bed, especially.”

he lets out a surprised laugh, though his deep, ocean eyes soften into something more tranquil, like a fresh stream shimmering in the sun. “god, i love you. this is why you're my wife-to-be.”

“but seriously, you have nothing to be nervous about, you know? we're getting married because we love each other, there's no doubt about that.”

gojo releases a heavy, shaky sigh. “i know... you're not gonna leave me waiting at the altar, are you?” he jokes, but there's an underlying concern that's more serious than he lets on. but, of course, you sense it.

“that's the most ridiculous thing you've said in your life, my love. i wouldn't be here, dressed up to marry you if i was going to leave you. i'm not going anywhere or leaving you behind, no matter what, okay?”

he hums in understanding, and you assume he's chewing on the inside of his cheek to hold back his emotions.

you continue, “satoru, my heart belongs with you. if, in the craziest scenario you can think of, i leave you, my heart will still be with you. it'll always love you, and it'll never forget about you. i hope you know i love you more than anything.”

he swallows again before speaking, “i do know. that's why i can't believe you only want me; do i even deserve you?” he whispers, and the broken crack in his voice makes your heart crack along with it.

“hey, none of that. i don't think i can stress how much you deserve everything good in the world. and you were the one that taught me that i deserve only the best, that i should never settle for anything else. so, here i am, only marrying the best,” you say softly with a smile that you hope he can hear in your voice.

and you assume he can when you just about hear the hitch in his breath. “... thank you, (y/n),” he murmurs. it's a simple utterance, but it means everything to you, knowing you were able to reassure him in such a vulnerable moment. he didn't think his words could be used against him in the best possible way - if he believes that you deserve the best, then it must be true that you believe he deserves the best too. “who knew the strongest would be so nervous on his wedding day, huh?” he attempts to lighten the mood again, but this time, he isn't burying his emotions - he's overcome them thanks to you.

“ah, but you're the weakest when it comes to me, aren't you?” you tease. “i love this side of you, you know. the human side, the one that you only show to me.”

“alright, i get it, i get it. you don't need to make me cry again yet. we haven't even gotten to the vows yet,” he chuckles lightly, revealing the fact that he may have shed some tears while you were reassuring him.

“my sweet boy, you really are gonna be sobbing, huh?”

“without a doubt. continuously from the moment i see you.” his heart flutters when he hears your laugh ring through the phone, half filled with amusement and half with love.

“well, now that you aren't doubting anything, why don't you go out there and wait for me, hm?”

“mhm, yeah... i love you, sweet girl.”

“i love you, too, ‘toru. i'll see you out there, okay?” you confirm in a tender tone that is unreplicable, tugging at his heart strings that form a beautiful melody that only you manage to orchestrate.

“okay, mrs gojo.”

[littelovelunette]

Nonsense

not proofread, there may be errors!

Contains suggestive themes, size kink, fingering, fisting, cnc, praising, squirting, mentions of blood.

You were a mess. Sweating and spurting nonsense with your shaky legs forced open by Sevika's imposingly big mechanical arm. "I can't..." You whispered shakily.

Sevika replied in a sweet voice, almost bordering on creepy, "Oh, but you will, my little angel. I know it stings a little." She pushed more of her two thick fingers inside your struggling pussy, watching it stretch to accomodate her. "But you'll pull through."

You wished that was true but right then it felt like Sevika was ripping you open with her fingers. "I can't, please take them out!" You sobbed, earning a warning glare from Sevika.

"Don't be ungrateful now, sweetie." Sevika twisted her fingers painfully, scraping against your sensitive inner walls, making you gasp and scream.

"Too much! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll behave!" Sevika chuckled darkly, "That's more like it." As you laid there helplessly sobbing, Sevika pushed her long thick digits passed the initial resistance of your virgin hole. Her mechanical arm let go of your thigh to graze the cold metal fingers over the bulge on your tummy. "See how deep I am?"

"No way..." You whimpered, the sound coming out almost lewd, "You're stretching me out so much." You complained in a shaky sob, trembling under her pleasurable torment. You clenched around her, wetness gripping her fingers as if physically and silently begging for more of her fingers.

"My sweet girl." Sevika cooed thrusting her fingers in and out in a steady pace. You could clearly see the noticeable bulge at your lower abdomen signifying just how big and thick her fingers were. Sevika curled her fingers against your g-spot causing your whole body to jerk. "Well, I'm glad you're starting to enjoy this. Dirty little pussy." Sevika said before she rubbed a third finger over your slit, pushing it inside.

Your eyes widened and you tensed up. "Come on, relax now. If you squeeze my fingers so much with your pussy, I might start thinking you like the stretch." Sevika chuckled.

You whimpered, shaking your head. Sevika moved her mechanical hand around your abdomen tracing the bulge on your lower tummy while her three fingers pushed deeper inside you.

With another twist of her fingers, your hymen broke and you let out a series of whimpers and sobs from your throat. You blabbered at Sevika to stop but she just held her blood coated fingers there, unmoving.

"Shhhh, my sweet girl, you can take it. I know it feels like it's all gonna break. But your pussy is so small. It's bound to hurt." Sevika said, giving you sweet reassurance laced with something darker.

"Your fingers are way too big..." Despite your complaints, the stretching pain was so damn pleasurable that it was putting your mind at a haze. You were a complete and utter mess.

"You'll be fine." She reassured in an almost sickeningly sweet voice. Your tear filled eyes widened once you felt her add a fourth finger, forcing the digits inside.

Your cunt felt way too small. You were way smaller than Sevika as it was. And now, her big hand stretching you out only made you feel more vulnerable. Without warning, she thrusted in her whole fist eliciting a loud scream from you.

"I can't! Sevika! I can't!" You cried out as Sevika fisted your pussy. She didn't say anything, sweat trickling down her temple as she precisely fisted your tight cunt. You choked on your own sobs and moans, your legs trying to close but Sevika held them open forcibly.

"Take it." She growled. "Your cunt is tightening around my fingers so damn much, do you really want it so damn badly?" Sevika grunted and with a final thrust you squirted.

Your release came in a stream, soaking the sheets underneath you but you didn't care. Your brain felt mushy, hands giving away splayed across the bed as well as your twitching legs. Your clit throbbed from the pleasure, cunt as sensitive as ever. "See, told you you could take it." Sevika smirked.

Your eyes closed slowly as you heaved a deep breath of relief. Atleast, Sevika was proud of you.

[lulujamesspencer]

I think for sensitivity/authenticity readers you need to approach it like any other outside reader or editor: approach it as you would a therapist and pick one that fits with your style of working, actually reads and likes your genre, and will be able to give their edits/critiques in a way that is accurate AND kind. This is especially important for neurodiverse folks (solidarity fist bump to my RSD neurodiverse folks).

Story: About 10 years ago, I graduated seminary and had an idea for a theological non-fiction book on mulit-faith spirituality, which also strayed into politics and other issues. I wrote an introduction that I thought was good and interesting, so I sent it to someone who I thought would give me good advice on some of the topics, since she had experience in those areas, and maybe point out if I'd gone too far afield with some of the topics.

When I got their comments back, it was devastating and soul crushing. They ripped it to shreds, and, in areas I thought we shared similar opinions they shredded my manuscript as if they put it in a wood chipper then stomped on the mulch. Much of it the shredding was due, I think, to a mininterpretation of my wider neurodivergent thinking, but it may just be that I didn't explain myself right or... well, I just don't know, since it was hard to get past their criticisms and telling me how I was completely stupid and wrong about all of it. Now, if their comments were more like, "I don't think I agree with this statement. Did you mean for it to come off saying XYZ?" of "This doesn't happen in my experience, could you explain what your thought process was here?" I probably would have been fine, but instead they were angry and mean and assumed I didn't have knowledge about certain areas when I actually did have extensive knowledge. It was my first foray into non-fiction and as I said earlier, it was soul crushing. I really wanted to write that book, and still wish I could, but to this day I can't even start writing non-fiction without thinking about that and getting extrememly anxious. (And yes, I go to therapy, etc etc) For my fiction stuff, I'm much more careful about who I let read my early drafts. My Wife is my first reader/listener and she loves scifi and fantasy and she's able to give me feedback that's constructive, but also kind and compassionate. I have a great editor who is also very good at giving me constructive edits and feedback, but is also very kind and compassionate in the way she does it. I have a lot of friends from different experiences in life that I am comfortable asking questions of if I need to check things and I'm also very good at research. This, so far, has worked for me, and now I have 5 books of fantasy and science fiction out.

This is also why I self-publish. The constant rejection of traditional publishing would stop me from writing all together. I still can't write non-fiction in book form and that was from just one person who didn't really think about how their criticism would effect me. I also don't do writing groups, as many writing groups use a model that would absolutely ensure I never write again. So, if you are an editor, beta reader, part of a writing group, or even an agent or publisher, know that your rejections, harsh criticisms, or tough love, doesn't improve most writers, especially neurodivergent writers. Know that a lot of writers DO want to do justice to characters from experiences that they don't have experience in. I've heard stories like mine with really mean sensitivity/beta readers, and a number of those people will never write again, or never write publicly again. Please be aware that you can kill someone's passion and talent, possibly permanently.

And writers, be careful who you ask to read your stuff, and if someone has been mean, know that it's not you or your writing. Try not to give up, or give in to the tapes in your head that tell you you're horrible. Find better people to read your stuff.

On sensitivity readers, weakness, and staying alive.

The other day I was part of a Twitter conversation begun by a fellow-author on the subject of sensitivity readers, in which he said that no serious author would use sensitivity readers, and spoke of work being “sanitized”. The conversation devolved, as it often does on Twitter, but it got me thinking. It must have got someone else thinking too, because a journalist from the Sunday Times got in touch with me the next day, and asked me to share my ideas on the subject. Because I have no control over how my words are used in the Press, or in what context they might appear, here’s more or less what I told her.

I think a lot of people (some of them authors, most of them not) misunderstand the role of a sensitivity reader. That’s probably mostly because they’ve never used one, and are misled by the word “sensitivity”, which, in a world of toxic masculinity, is often mistaken for weakness. To these people, hiring someone to check one’s work for sensitivity purposes implies a surrendering of control, a shift in the balance of power. 

In some ways, I can empathize. Most authors feel a tremendous sense of attachment to their work. Giving it to someone else for comment is often stressful. And yet we do: we hand over our manuscripts to specialists in grammar, spelling or plot construction. We allow them to comment. We take their advice. We call these people editors and copy-editors, and they are a good and necessary part of the process of being an author. Their job is to make an author’s work as accurate and well-polished as possible.

When writing non-fiction, authors sometimes use fact-checkers at the editorial stage, to make sure that no embarrassing factual mistakes make it into print. This fact-checking is a normal part of the writing process. We owe it to our readers to be as accurate as possible. No-one wants to look as if they don’t know what they’re talking about.

That’s why now, increasingly, when writing about the lives and experiences of others, we sometimes use readers with different specialities. That’s because, however great our imagination, however well-travelled we may be and however many books we have read, there will always be gaps in our knowledge of the way other people live, or feel, or experience the world. Without the input of those with first-hand knowledge, there’s always a danger we will slip up. That’s why crime writers often consult detectives when researching their detective fiction, or someone writing a hospital drama might find it useful to talk to a surgeon, or a nurse, or to someone with the medical condition they are planning to use in their narrative. That’s why someone writing about divorce, or disability, or being adopted, or being trans, or being homeless, or being a sex worker, or being of a different ethnicity, or of a different culture – might find it useful to take the advice of someone with more experience.

There are a number of ways to do this. One of my favourites is The Human Library, which allows subscribers to talk to all kinds of people and ask them questions about their lives  (Check them out at https://humanlibrary.org/). The other possibility is to hire a specialist sensitivity reader to go through your manuscript and check it. Both can be a valuable resource, and I doubt many authors would believe that their writing is sanitized, or diluted, or diminished by using these resources.

And yet, the concept of the sensitivity readers – which is basically another version of the specialist editor and fact-checker – continues to cause outrage and panic among those who see their use as political correctness gone mad, or unacceptable wokery, or bowdlerization, or censorship. The Press hasn’t helped. Outrage sells copies, and therefore it isn’t in the interest of the national media to point out the truth behind the ire.

Let’s look at the facts.

First, it isn’t obligatory to use a sensitivity reader. It’s a choice. I’ve used several, both officially and unofficially, for many different reasons, just as I’ve always tried to speak to people with experience when writing characters with disabilities, or from different cultures or ethnic groups. I know that my publisher already sends my work to readers of different ages and from different backgrounds, and I always run my writing past my son, who often has insights that I lack.  

Sensitivity reading is a specialist editorial service. It isn’t a political group, or the woke brigade, or an attempt to overthrow the status quo. It’s simply a writing resource; a means of reaching the widest possible audience by avoiding inaccuracy, clumsiness, or the kind of stereotyping that can alienate or pull the reader out of the story.

Sensitivity readers don’t go around crossing out sections of an author’s work and writing RACIST!!! in the margin. Usually, it’s more on the lines of pointing out details the author might have missed, or failed to consider: avoiding misinformation; suggesting authentic details that only a representative of a particular group would know.

Authors can always refuse advice. That’s their prerogative. If they do, however, and once their book is published, they receive criticism or ridicule because their book was insufficiently researched, or inauthentic, or was perceived as perpetuating harmful or outdated stereotypes, then they need to face and deal with the consequences. With power comes responsibility. We can’t assume one, and ignore the other,

Being more aware of the experiences of others doesn’t mean we have to stop writing problematic characters. Sensitivity reading isn’t about policing bad behaviour in books. It’s perfectly possible to write a thoroughly unpleasant character without suggesting that you’re condoning their behaviour. Sensitivity is about being more authentic, not less.

People noticed bigotry and racism in the past, too. Some people feel that books published a hundred years ago are somehow more pure, or more free, or more representative of the author’s vision than books published now. You often hear people say things like: “If Dickens were around today, he wouldn’t get published.”

But Dickens is still published. We still get to read Oliver Twist, in spite of its anti-Semitism. And those who believe that Dickens’ anti-Semitism was accepted as normal by his contemporaries probably don’t know that not only was he criticized by his peers for his depiction of Fagin, he actually went back and changed the text, removing over 200 references, after receiving criticism by a Jewish reader. And no, it wasn’t “normal” to be anti-Semitic in those days: Wilkie Collins, whose work was as popular as Dickens’ own, managed to write a range of Jewish characters without relying on harmful and inaccurate stereotypes. 

But it isn’t automatic that a book will survive its author. Books all have shelf lives, just as we do, and Dickens’ work has survived in spite of his anti-Semitism, not because of it. The work of many others has not. Books are for readers, and if an author loses touch with their readers - either by clinging to outdated tropes, or using outdated vocabulary, or having an outdated style – then their books will cease to be published, and they will be forgotten. It happens all the time. What one generation loves and admires may be rejected by the next. And the language is always changing. Nowadays, it’s hard to read some books that were popular 100 years ago. Styles have changed, sometimes too much for the reader to tolerate.

Recently, someone on tumblr asked about my use of the word “gypsy” in Chocolat, and whether I meant to have it changed in later editions. (River-gypsies is the term I use in connection with Roux and the river people, who are portrayed in a positive light, although they are often victims of prejudice.) It was an interesting question, and I gave it a lot of thought. When I wrote the book 25 years ago, the word “gypsy” was widely used by the travelling community, and as far as I knew, wasn’t considered offensive. Nowadays, there’s a tendency to regard it as a slur. That’s why I stopped using it in my later Chocolat books. No-one told me to. It was my choice. I don’t feel as if I’ve lost any of my artistic integrity by taking into account the fact that a word has a different resonance now. On the other hand, I don’t feel that at this stage I need to go back and edit the book I wrote. That’s because Chocolat is a moment in time. It uses the language of the moment. Let it stand for as long as it can. 

But I don’t have to stay in one place. I can move on. I can change. Change is how we show the world that we are still alive. That we are still able to feel, and to  learn, and to be aware of others. That’s what “sensitive” means, after all. And it is nothing like weakness. Living, changing, learning – that’s hard. Playing dead is easy.

[melk-maid]

warnings: everyone is aged up 21+, afab/fem reader, reader is nagi's girlfriend, cheating, weed smoking, piv sex, degradation kink, spit kink, begging, drugged sex, creampie, couch sex, guilty confessions synopsis: You show up at Reo's front door soaked from the rain and sobbing into his chest. After a fight with your boyfriend, you run into the arms of his best friend and quickly get over one man for another.

note: this is a commission for the darling @antique-remains!! thank you again for commissioning me and trusting me with this idea, and it being my first time writing reo/bllk!! i did have so much fun with this i love this downbad loser hehe enjoy~♡ minors & ageless blogs dni - you will be blocked

Reo shares everything with Nagi.

They share similar interests, goals and ideals. Shared living spaces, bathrooms, toothbrushes. On occasion they've shared a bed, shared food with one another, shared dark secrets no one else knows about.

So why does he feel an intense bout of guilt when Nagi's girlfriend is riding his cock?

Paper splits against Reo's fingers for the fourth time and he growls in frustration, clenching his jaw to stop a childish temper tantrum. He's one of the best, most sought after soccer players in the world, and yet he can't seem to effectively roll his own joints. Something that was supposed to relax him during the off season is becoming another pain in his ass. Nagi's words ring around in his head mockingly, grimacing at the fact he turned down having them rolled for him because he thought he could do it himself.

Unfolding the destroyed craft and spilling the ground nuggets onto a fresh roll of paper, Reo is soon distracted by the doorbell notification on his phone. It's a weekday evening and he planned to spend it alone — that plan turned around pretty quickly when he saw you on the other side of the camera.

After ogling at your pretty face — entirely ignoring the way your lips are drawn into a frown, arms wrapped around yourself in rain-drenched clothes — Reo realises you're on your own.

It's rare to see Nagi without you since you're often his point of authority, encouraging and babysitting him into training and attending other events. It's even rarer to see you without Nagi.

Reo is eager to open the door, catching you easily in his arms when you throw yourself at him. His heart races, thumping wildly in his chest. You've never been this close to him before and despite soaking his clothes, he couldn't be happier for the contact.

"Where's Nagi?" He asks before anything else.

It's then he realises you're sobbing into his chest. Words muffled by his shirt as he catches "Sei" "fight" and "kicked me out" between jumbled cries. While he often tries to stay out of his best friend's private life, Reo can't help but feel sorry for you; a damsel in distress in need of being saved. This will gain him favour with both you and Nagi.

The cold rain transfers from your clothes to his but he wraps both his arms around you anyway, pulling you inside and pushing the door closed. Each of your sobs echoed throughout the near empty mansion, bouncing off of white marble walls and back to Reo. Of course seeing you upset tugs at his heartstrings, but he can't help himself from being entranced with the way your chest is pressed against him.

While you're in his guest room changing into some dry clothes, Reo returns to the living room and contemplates texting Nagi about your whereabouts. He knows his best friend well, and even if he doesn't show care or worry outwardly, it's likely that Nagi will begin to wonder and worry where you've gone — especially if all your friends report back that you aren't with them. The idea is tossed out of the window and subsequently blasted into space when you walk into the living room. Hair still a little damp from rain, your make-up cleaned up, you fit into one of Reo's old football kits a little too well.

"Thanks for letting me borrow these." You say with a grateful smile, making yourself comfortable on the couch. The shorts ride up your thighs when you pull your legs onto the couch to sit sideways, nylon tightening around supple flesh and Reo can't help but stare.

Snapping out of his trance, Reo beams. "It's okay, anything for my best friend's girlfriend." It was a vocal reminder to himself.

Looking down at the egregiously expensive coffee table that houses his failed craft, Reo sighs short through his nose and drops to the floor to return to rolling. The mansion is silent and empty — no music, no TV playing in the background, no one else roaming around fulfilling their paid duties. It gave you an opportunity to watch, crawling onto the floor next to him; not close enough to touch him but not too far away either.

"What're you doing?"

Looking up he catches your gaze, heart fluttering as he wonders if you're looking at him like that on purpose. A sultry smile, curious eyes, your body leaning towards him ever so slightly. Every night he thinks about you; the way you look at him compared to anyone else, how your hands feel on his arms when you laugh a little too loud at something he's said. Sometimes it's hard to remember you're Nagi's girl and not his — unavailable, off limits, out of bounds.

Yet you allow him to do and say certain things to you that would earn him a fist to the jaw if it were anyone else.

His hands would find their way onto your hips if he passes behind you at the club or an event, the same hands resting low on your back when he hugs you. He compliments your outfits in a way only your lover would — Reo pushes the boundaries every day. By now Nagi should've said something — or you — but to maintain favour with his best friend especially and keep his football career, Reo tries to hold himself back on a tight leash.

The paper tears in his hands again, though this time he had hardly begun to roll. Instead, he was lost in his racing thoughts and battling a dry mouth after locking eyes with you, a little too rough with the delicate material. There's a furrow of his brows as he looks down in frustration, threading fingers through his long fringe and tossing his loose hair back. "I'm trying to roll but I keep breaking it. I should've asked Nagi to help."

There was an apology on the tip of his tongue at mentioning your boyfriend who you're upset with, but when he looks up, you seem entirely unfazed. Instead, you reach out and slide the broken paper towards yourself, taking control of the task and rolling with ease. Reo watches the way your fingers move so nimbly. It was like watching a professional at work. Sweat begins to build across his forehead seeing the peek of your tongue wet the paper. You smile as you hold the joint out towards him by the tip; easy work when he'd been trying and failing for the past half hour.

"Thanks," He says almost breathless as he tries to ease his aching heart. "I didn't know you knew how to roll."

You shrug. Careless, casual and cool. Reo can't look at you. Rather, he tries to find his lighter and remind himself you are not available, you are not single.

But the challenge makes you all the more tempting.

"Sei taught me when we first started dating." The way you say his name shouldn't be a stab in Reo's gut like it is. "Are you planning on sharing?"

Your smile was so sweet and mischievous as you looked from the joint to Reo — as though he would ever say no.

He lights up and draws a couple of breaths, passing the joint to you. When your fingers brush against one another, he inhales a little too fast, causing him to cough uncontrollably. You giggle and take your own drag, inhaling and exhaling with ease before checking if he's okay.

"Yeah," Reo gasps out as he nods, "Bad take."

Passing the joint back and forth, you each take your turn until Reo hit the filter, stubbing out the last of the flames in the ashtray. He felt a little more at ease, though expected the effects to keep kicking in. When your eyes meet — because you had been staring at him for his attention and Reo was trying not to indulge in his fantasies — you giggle and lean forward.

"Reo~" You sing, face so close to his he can feel your breath on his lips. It feels shameful to smile at your proximity but he couldn't help it.

"Yeah?"

"Why are we sitting on the floor? Are we teenagers?"

He licks his lips and balls his hands into fists at his sides, screaming internally not to reach out and lick your lips. Instead, Reo huffs out a laugh, responding in a low voice. "I was hoping to channel my inner teenager when rolling."

You hum and lose your balance, leaning forward with your legs at an awkward angle from being sat down, but your hands planted on the floor between you both. Whether you lost it purposely or not is unclear, but it results in your nose brushing against his and your lips barely missing each other. With a squeal and laugh you fall into Reo, head landing on his chest while he throws his back, mouthing a curse into the high ceiling of his mansion.

"Whoops! Sorry Reo," You giggle and crawl off of his lap, your hands a little too nice on his thighs. "I forget smoking hits me pretty fast."

Every moment becomes harder to tame himself. This is probably one of the first times you've been alone together — without Nagi, any other friends, paparazzi. It's the perfect opportunity to take what he wants, to indulge in this year's long challenge, but Reo cares about his friend. And he also cares about your relationship with his friend, of course.

Before he possibly gets too high and melts into the floor, Reo stands and reaches out to offer a helping hand. "Let's sit on the couch."

You look so angelic underneath him, even so far away. Hair splayed out across his floor, a wide smile on your face, vulnerable. Giggling, you reach out and let him help you up and throw yourself onto the couch. Reo is quick to follow, placing himself a comfortable distance from you — though that doesn't last long when you immediately shuffle closer to his side. Your bent knees on the couch are pressing into his thigh, resting your head against the back of the couch, he turns on the TV as a distraction for himself.

A random show plays, one neither of you recognise nor do you care about, honestly. Reo was more focused on keeping his hands to himself, sinking back into the couch and letting his high take effect. It felt like time was moving slow when all he could think about was you. Shuffling in his seat and repositioning his arms a hundred times a minute, he couldn't find a comfortable position that didn't involve his hands spread across your thighs.

When you giggle it pulls him from his thoughts. Turning towards you feels like he's moving in slow motion, as though his eyes are lagging. It takes his brain just as long to process you, realising you're looking at him and just how close you are. He smiles at your presence, laughter bubbling in his chest before sticking his tongue out at you.

Reo doesn't hear his own moan when your lips wrap around his tongue. He barely registers the delicate way your hand cups his face. Eyes falling closed instinctually, he leans in to you, chasing as you pull away. Your lips release him with a suckle, giggling at his flushed features. It doesn't feel real. Did you actually just do that? The sparks that linger on the tip of his tongue tell him it was real, especially the way he tastes you when returning.

Nagi's name is caught in his throat. Swallowed like venomous bile, he tries to convince himself you're not in a relationship with his best friend.

Instead, he mutters, "We shouldn't do that."

You laugh and he feels like a child who said something so naive to an adult. It wasn't your intention but he feels small under your gaze. His high is hitting him so fast — or maybe he lost track of time when telling himself not to give in to impulses.

"Why not?" You play dumb and Reo bites his tongue watching you tilt your head. Acting so cute and innocent, as though you didn't just suck on his tongue like a harlot.

There's a war that rages inside of him; one side fights for his best friend, his teammate who he deeply cares for. The other side fights for his personal desires, arguing that what Nagi doesn't know won't hurt him. You made a move first, not him — though he wouldn't be any better if he didn't stop you.

Reo is an international footballer, he can have anyone he wants. Women fall at his feet all the time. Super models approach him at events and galas for a chance to be with him, the most beautiful women in the world throw themselves at him, he's blessed to have the pick of the litter when it comes to relationships and sex.

Except they're all too easy. Boring and uninteresting. None of them provide a challenge or sense of danger like you do. As gorgeous and ethereal as you are, there's an added layer of risk. It's not so easy to have you. Reo can't have you eating out of the palm of his hand without severe consequences that follow. Although before tonight, you hadn't been handing yourself out on a silver platter for him.

His response is just as childish as he feels. "You know why."

Your grin widens and Reo can't be sure if you're closing in on him again, it feels like his brain is so slow but his heart is so full of excitement and desire. The sparks of your touch still burst like tiny explosions against his cheek and the taste of you lingers as a delicious treat.

"Don't you want to kiss me?"

It's whispered against his lips, a hum of temptation following it. Reo can practically see the words behind his half closed eyelids, it feels like he's going to start drooling if you don't stop him, but there's still a small part of his brain working hard to keep him back. Your nose bumps into his face next to his own and you giggle, a soft and delicate hand finding a place high on his inner thigh — he can't hold back any longer.

Reo kisses you like a man starved. It's aggressive, hungry and desperate. He would devour you right here and now if he could. Your lips are soft and wet against his own, tongues immediately mingling with one another like long lost friends. The way his hands grab onto you and pull you closer is a little more forceful than he intended, causing you to moan in response, noises that Reo swallowed eagerly.

All of this feels like a dream; the hungry kisses, fingers threaded through your hair, the weight of your chest pressed against his as he pulls you closer, your hand palming his half-hard cock through his pants. If he didn't think about it too hard, Reo would convince himself that none of this is real. A wet dream he had one night. He would wake up full of shame covered in his own cum, forced to clean his own bed sheets and shower away the guilt, vowing never to speak of it to anyone.

Except it's real.

Much like he swallowed all your moans, you happily accept all of his noises. The curse that's croaked out against your lips in a brief moment of respite causes you to smile, dragging your thumb along the underside of his cock that stands from your attention, sucking on his bottom lip with a hum.

"Still don't think we should do this?" You ask and it momentarily sobers Reo. He blinks and sees you so clearly, thinking about Nagi and all the times he's seen you both share a kiss. It must have shown on his face because you laugh, pulling back to lie across the couch, thumbs hooked under the elastic waistband of his shorts you're wearing. "What's the matter? Don't want to fuck your best friends girlfriend?"

You shouldn't say it — it only makes his cock harder. Twitching against the fabric of his pants, hot and heavy, Reo groans and pants like a dog. His eyes grow hazy as his mind begins to lag again, wiping his mouth where it feels like he's drooling. Your giggle bounces around the walls of his skull like a pleasant symphony. Even your foot on his chest that's keeping him from closing in on you feels like heaven. Reo wraps his fingers around your ankle, pulling your foot up towards his face. It feels right when his lips find your delicate skin, missing the way you pull down his shorts with underwear in tow, dragging his tongue and teeth along flesh.

"I didn't know you were into feet, Reo." You tease and Reo feels the heat on his cheeks. Fire on his face, it burns and grows when you hook your leg over his to straddle his lap. It's instinctual the way his hands grab your hips. "You're a little freak, aren't you?"

Talking feels impossible because none of this feels real. Mouth dry and at the same time oozing with saliva, Reo's mind roaming a mile a minute yet he lags in processing what's happening. Every few seconds it feels as though he's forgotten it's you in front of him. Hazy and angelic, he's living through a dream.

And at the same time, everything feels so very real. Your skin under his fingertips is like touching silk. The weight of you in his lap brings about a sense of comfort he hasn't felt since he was a child. Every slight motion of your hips against his cock is like fireworks.

Reo can and can't believe this is happening.

"I'm into anything you want, baby." He says, the words forcefully pushed out between the invisible cloth pressed against his tongue.

A collective gasp fills the room when his cock is freed from his pants. You were surprised and excited at just how thick and hard he was, while he drew breath between his teeth from the relief. Stroking him in a languid motion pulls out a long moan deep within his chest.

"Tell me what you want." You tease, still sitting in his lap with his cock in your hand, so close to your exposed cunt. "Tell me you want to fuck me. Say how much you want to fuck Sei's girlfriend." There's a curse that falls off of Reo's lips when you squeeze his sensitive head — he's forced to hold his breath to keep a squeak from following. "Come on, say it. You wanna fuck your best friends girl."

His head spins, flashes of Nagi swirling through his mind, an attempt to connect to his consciousness. The horny part of his brain is too much, though it still proves difficult for him to say it.

"Please…" Reo murmurs, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, as though it will keep him safe from judgement.

"Not what I asked." You squeeze his tip again, leaning in to bite his bottom lip. "How bad do you want it?"

"…Bad, really bad."

Reo's hands on your hips tighten, pulling you closer with a whine. "Then say it."

Never has a handjob felt so good and Reo fears he might cum already if you keep stroking him like this. Each swipe is an adrenaline rush, a pleasant punch to his gut. Grinding his teeth, he leans into you, face buried in the crook of your neck.

"I want…I wanna fuck you."

"You wanna fuck who?" Your free hand laces through his hair and Reo feels like he could cry.

"You, please."

"Who am I to you?"

His balls tighten and he's forced to take a breath and focus on not cumming and speaking.

"Nagi's girlfriend."

You hum. "Good boy."

How Reo didn't cum as soon as you began to sink down on his cock, he may never know. Teeth clenched, body taut beneath you, he closes his eyes and breathes deep through his nose. You're so warm and tight and wet, it's everything and more than he ever imagined. Everything has been amplified to the max; his cock hypersensitive to every little move you make, feeling the way your walls flutter ever so slightly as you begin moving, hearing each tiny pitch change as you breathe.

Of course he enjoys sex but this was different. Whether it's because it was with you or because he was high, Reo felt like he was in the clouds.

You bounce on his cock so easy, finding a solid rhythm fast and sticking to it as your thighs meet in the steady pattern. He didn't even have to do anything — just enjoy the sight before him, watch the way your tits bounce beneath one of his old football shirts. Reo's eyes were glazed over as he held onto your hips, convinced he was drooling like an animal despite his arm remaining dry whenever he wiped his lips.

It's sickening what you're doing. Cheating on a good man like Nagi. Having a fight and being kicked out for the evening isn't an excuse to fuck your boyfriends best friend. Reo wonders if you did this on purpose. Was your intention to come over and seduce him this whole time? Sure, he's been caught by you with wandering eyes and overly friendly hands but that's innocent. Never did it lead to this.

At the same time, Reo can't deny how his cock drooled over your hand when you forced him to tell you how much he wants to fuck you.

Even your moans are more heavenly than he ever expected. It's shameful the thoughts he's had about it, replaying everything you've ever said, every noise he's heard you make in an attempt to imagine what you'd sound like in this position. It's better than any music. Like a blessing, he needs to hear it over and over again.

You smile at Reo as you bounce in his lap, kissing him with hunger akin to a starving beast. It feels like you'd eat him alive if you could — shamefully, he'd let you.

Reo follows the kiss when you pull back, unwilling to let you escape him just yet. Your hips had stopped moving and he was left buried deep in your pussy, helplessly twitching against your warm walls, he leaks against your cervix. Wrapping his arms around you, Reo moans into your mouth, head tilted all the way back. When you finally pull away, you hold his mouth open with a thumb on his chin. The lavender of his eyes is almost entirely overshadowed by the size of his pupils, watching as you purse your lips and roll your tongue. Reo happily accepts the spit that's slowly hanging from your mouth into his, groaning when it hits his tongue. The taste of you is delectable. You giggle and follow your saliva, tracing your tongue along his to spread yourself all over his mouth.

Disgusting, immoral, so fucking good.

His hips begin to move into you, thrusting in the non-existent space he occupies between you and the couch. More, more, more. He can do this all day but he needs to feel you moving, to memorise the way your walls clench around him, permanently etch your moans of his name into his memories.

In a flurry of motion, you're flipped onto your back. Reo is quick to follow, not for a moment did he let you detach from his cock or his mouth when he moves you. The thump of your head hitting the arm of the couch rattles your brain but the pleasant high that fogs your mind blurs the pain. It's exciting when Reo takes over and fucks you how he wants, because he's relentless.

Much faster than when you were riding him, Reo fucks you like winning the world cup is on the line. He pulls out until just the tip is still inside of you, quickly and forcefully burying himself back into your heat, his pubes flush against your clit. Panting into your open mouth like a dog, Reo is at your mercy.

You cry out in pleasure, moaning his name like it's the only word you've ever known. It makes his eyes roll, balls tightening in his sack, his hands gripping onto your hips so hard you're bound to bruise. Reo has wanted this for years. Ever since he first laid eyes on you, he knew he wanted you sheathed on his cock.

When you wrap your arms around his neck and throw your head back, he honestly believes he's in love.

Your walls pulse around him violently, clenching and releasing, daring to milk him for all he's worth. He's on the edge and he's been staving it off this entire time. Never does he want this to end but seeing you finish like this was all worth it. His teeth drag against your throat, feeling you flex underneath him, you tighten around his cock as you whimper. He doesn't relent — all he wants is to fill you to the brim with his seed.

Licking, biting, kissing. Reo tries desperately to remind himself that he can't mark you. You're not his and the fact only makes his cock throb. Each stroke along your walls makes him dizzier, losing his grip on you and reality itself. Finally, he lets go, burying himself deep as he cums inside you.

Half expecting the post-nut clarity to hit, Reo is elated to find the haze still clouding his mind. Never has he experienced such elation. His mouth finds yours again in a lazy, hungry kiss and you moan into his touch. If he could remain like this forever, then Reo might never have any problems ever again.

Reo has a problem and it won't leave him alone.

Every night he struggles to sleep. His training coach has begun to point out the bags that rest under his eyes, scolding him for sloppy footwork and lack of speed. All his moves are sluggish and no amount of berating is helping him get his act together. When he's forced to sit on the sides and watch the rest of his team practise, he's left stewing on his own thoughts.

It was the best and worst night of his life. He thinks about it constantly, stroking himself to completion over and over again to the thought of you on top of him, remembering how you felt around his cock. The way you say his name, how sweet your moans are.

Then he remembers Nagi.

No one has mentioned it since. You haven't brought it up or tried to contact him about the night, not even to tell him to keep it a secret. That much was obvious but he thought you'd say something. He's seen Nagi numerous times since the incident and he seems none the wiser. Treating Reo like he normally does with a lazy attitude and disinterest. The normalcy puts him on edge more than ease his worries.

"You look tired."

It's embarrassing the way Reo jumps out of his skin upon hearing Nagi. Hoping that he didn't notice, Reo chuckles and offers a light "Yeah," in response, returning to changing into his regular clothes.

"Being tired is such a hassle."

With his back to Nagi, Reo rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. It's hard to look at his best friend these days — for obvious reasons — nevermind talk to him. He was hoping Nagi would take the subtle hint that he's too tired to talk.

"Yeah," Reo repeats, "It's hard sleeping with the season coming up."

There's a hum and for a moment, Reo believes Nagi has realised he doesn't want to talk.

"Normally you're excited."

Reo stuffs his sweaty kit into his locker; a worry for another day. Right now he needs to get out of the locker room and away from Nagi.

It feels like his chest is being torn apart. Hands clawing at his ribs, breaking one at a time, clambering to extract his organs so the guilt he feels can make a comfortable home. It's hard to breathe, hard to think of anything but Nagi's girlfriend moaning in his mouth. You were so beautiful. How can something so perfect cause him such guilt?

"Mikage?"

Finally, Reo turns and looks at Nagi.

He's laid across the benches in the changing room, shirtless with a sweat towel that once hung around his neck. As usual, his phone was settled between his hands, pointed at him but it's likely he's in between games. Nagi's face doesn't move while looking at Reo. There's no sign of life when his best friend's heart is painfully shown on his sleeve.

Reo slams his locker door shut, head hung low as he gasps for air. He can't say it. There's no way. Nagi will abandon him — as he deserves. The scandal will be blasted all over the media. He'll become public enemy number one and forcibly removed from his team. His football career will be over already and Reo will never know happiness ever again.

But he can't keep feeling like this for the rest of his life. It will kill him eventually.

Swallowing thick, he inhales and lets loose.

"I fucked your girlfriend!"

The changing room is painfully silent. Reo shouted the words with his eyes firmly shut. There's no way he'd be able to look at Nagi as he said it. His head hangs low again, staring at his feet and awaiting the barrage of consequences that he should face. There's immediate relief in his chest after the confession, but the longer the silence draws out, the more nauseous Reo becomes.

When Nagi still doesn't respond, Reo is forced to look up. It's hard — harder than looking at him with his secret — but Reo looks at his best friend. His face is unchanged; the same lidded eyes staring back at him, mouth pressed in a neutral and relaxed pose, staring blankly at Reo.

"I know."

Reo isn't sure how his legs are keeping him upright. His whole body feels like it's collapsing and he can't pinpoint any of what he's feeling. Relief? Regret? Confusion? Speechless. Baulking at his best friend, any and all words are stuck in his throat.

Eventually, he croaks out, "You know?"

Nagi hums, returning to his game and tapping away with his thumbs; as though Reo hadn't just confessed an affair with his girlfriend.

"What does that mean?" Reo asks breathlessly, watching as Nagi sits up, still focused on his game.

"It was my idea." He answers easily before standing and approaching the washroom. "Going for a soak. Bye. Peace."

Two fingers are thrown Reo's way, a friendly gesture before he disappears down the hall. Reo is left by himself in the changing rooms to process the information, tormented by a new slough of emotions that he's going to have a hard time processing by himself. 

[carlthecloaked]

Wrong Number, Right Person

tried writing something after a while :3| 1.3k words | no cw |

Steve was pissed.

This date was not working out. At all.

He thought he was going out with this sweet guy from California. At least, that’s what his Tinder profile had made it seem like. But clearly, he had been very wrong.

Where would he even start?

First of all, the guy wouldn’t shut up about his ex.

Like, she sounded great and all, but maybe don’t talk about her the entire time we’re on a date?

Secondly, he wasn’t even listening to what Steve was saying. Half the time, he was scrolling through Instagram, looking at his ex's profile. Laughing at whatever post he was looking at, or he was texting someone else.

Third—and perhaps the worst part—the guy had the personality of a wet sock. Zero energy. No conversation skills. Just dull. Clearly not the charming, funny guy he’d seemed to be over text.

Steve sighed internally. Guess that was his fault for believing his Tinder profile was real.

And then, as if the date wasn’t already bad enough—

“So, are we going to your place or mine? "

Steve barely stopped himself from gaping. He forced a polite smile instead, setting down his drink.

“Yeah, I don’t think this is working out,” he said smoothly, placing his half of the bill on the table. “I have to go.”

The guy blinked, as if he hadn’t just bombed the entire date.

“But wait—”

Steve walked fast out of the cafe, he had to get out of there quickly.

“Ugh, that was the worst. I have to go tell Robin.”

While walking to the subway, he winced as he opened his backup phone. It wasn't as good as his currently broken phone. He totally didn't drop it in the toilet. Nope, that never happened.

He sighed, scrolling through his messages. He still hadn’t updated his contacts, so every number looked unfamiliar. Normally, he’d recognize Robin’s name instantly, but now? It was just random numbers.

He just figured he would text the most recent number, It'll probably be fine.

Steve: WORST date ever. like worst ever. robs i swear to god i wish i could turn back time and never swiped right on him at all. if you ever see me texting him again, throw a microwave at me

Unknown Number: any personal preference or do i just chuck it at you

Steve: chuck it

Steve: robbie i swear it was SO bad

Unknown Number: oh i didn't realize you'd actually think i was your friend

Unknown Number: uh yeah so this is not robbie

Oh. Steve blinked at his phone.

Huh.

That was… unexpected. But not bad, necessarily. Just—Huh.

He stared at the message for a second longer before shaking his head, exhaling through his nose. This was fine. Totally fine.

Steve: oh god

Steve: i'm so sorry wrong number

Unknown Number: it's fine lol

Unknown Number: but how bad was it though, like on a scale of “awkward as hell” to “can the ground swallow me whole?”

Steve hesitated.

He shouldn’t keep talking. He should just apologize again and move on.

But… what else was he doing today?

Steve: definitely “can the ground swallow me whole?” territory

Unknown Number: okay now i'm definitely invested. spill the tea

Steve: dude. he kept on going on and on about his ex, i swear it went on for 30 minutes. THIRTY. MINUTES.

Unknown Number: 🚩🚩🚩 IMMEDIATE red flag, redder than the color red

Steve: RIGHT??? and when he finally stopped he just kept scrolling on his phone

Steve: he was stalking her insta too 😭

Unknown Number: are you fr???

Steve: i wish i was lying but nope

Steve: then when i tried talking about literally anything else other than his ex he’d just respond with “yeah” or “whatever”

Unknown Number: what does that even mean??????

Steve: i have literally no idea

Steve: he even had the NERVE to ask if we would go to his place or mine

Unknown Number: the AUDACITY. the sheer unhinged delusion. did he think he was charming?????

Steve: LMAO stop i can't💀

Unknown Number: i bet he thought you 'd swoon bat your eyelashes and say “oh my god, yes! let's go to another place where you can pretend i'm not there!”

Steve lips curled at the stranger’s response before replying back

Steve: honestly i wouldn't be surprised if he thought that i should be grateful for his presence

Unknown Number: i can't believe you suffered through that

Unknown Number: no wait, you didn't suffer. you endured and you survived. for that you deserve an award. a dramatic opera performance

Steve: i hate how funny you are

Steve grins at his phone.

Unknown Number: you can repay me by continued conversation ;)

Steve: okay but you have to say who you are though

Steve: please don't tell me this is my professor🙏

Unknown Number: lol no definitely not your professor

Unknown Number: but i kinda want to keep it secret now, adds to my mysterious aura

Steve: no hints? :(

Unknown Number: i have hair

Steve: wow that really narrows it down. i totally know who you are.

Unknown Number: good luck finding it out ;)

Steve tilted his head, amused.

There was a pause.

Steve stared at his phone for a second, drumming his fingers against the back of it. He wasn’t sure why, but something about this felt… different. Not bad, just—unexpected.

He should probably just let it go. It wasn’t like it mattered who this guy was, right?

Still.

Steve: so are you gonna give me a real hint or do i just have to suffer

Unknown Number: hmm. suffer sounds fun

Steve let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. Great. Just his luck to end up texting someone who enjoyed messing with him.

And, okay. Maybe he didn’t mind that much.

The subway car jolted slightly as it began to slow, Steve barely looked up from his phone, used to the way the train moved as it went into the station. The train came to a stop, the doors opening with a mechanical chime, letting in the sound of city noise and passengers.

He stood up getting out and walking to his and Robin’s apartment nearby, glancing at his phone occasionally to check if the stranger texted again.

Steve barely had the door open before Robin’s voice rang out from the couch.

“Finally! What took you so long? Did the date go well?”

Steve groaned, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the couch next to her.

“You have no idea. I swear to God, worst date ever.”

Robin gasped dramatically, “Worse than the girl who ordered an expensive meal and made you pay?”

“Way worse”

“Way worse than the one who left you at the bar for three hours?”

“Robin.”

“Okay, okay tell me everything.”

Steve launched into the whole story, how the guy wouldn’t stop talking about his ex, stalking his ex’s instagram, the dry-ass responses and the sheer audacity of asking if they were going to his place or their shared apartment.

“That’s tragic Steve, how are you so unlucky at this?”

“I have no idea man, I guess I just attract weird people.”

“Why didn’t you text me?”

Steve suddenly sat up, remembering. “Oh, speaking of.”

Robin narrowed her eyes.

“So, uh I may or may not have accidentally texted a stranger about it.”

Robin grinned in amusement. “What?”

“I thought it was you!” Steve said defensively. “I haven’t updated my contacts on this phone yet, and I just picked the most recent number in the list.”

Robin stared. “Wait. Hold on. You had a whole conversation with a stranger instead of asking who they were like a normal person?”

Steve shrugged. “They were funny.”

Robin gasped again, dramatically. “Oh my god. You like them.”

“What? No. I dont even know who they are!”

“But you want to”

Steve opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

Robin grinned, throwing a pillow at him. “You absolute idiot. We’re figuring this out right now.

Steve caught the pillow. “Fine. But if this turns into some embarrassing rom-com nonsense I’m blaming you.”

“Oh it’s already a rom-com, Stevie. You just don’t know it yet.”

Steve sighed, but smiled anyway.

Maybe he did want to know.

[v6quewrlds]

https://www.tumblr.com/v6quewrlds/779100053760573440/joe-gives-me-major-dad-joke-vibes-like-he

i need this as a blurb so bad

like her banishing him to the other side of the bed is crazy

referencing this ask <3

read more⠀⁎⠀joe burrow masterlist / series masterlist.

"Why're you so far?" Joe's voice broke the quiet hum of the room, blue eyes hopeful as he peered over the pillow at her, who had retreated to the near edge of her side of the bed.

She hummed dismissively, her eyes still glued to the book in her hands. She didn't even bother looking up from the page. "Because you're in a weird mood tonight," she said, her voice flat. She could feel the scrutiny of Joe's gaze on her, his icy blue eyes trying to gauge her level of seriousness.

"Weird?" Joe propped himself up on an elbow. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. I'm in a great mood." A warm hand slid across the sheets, seeking hers.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smirk tugging at her lips. She scooted even closer to the edge, setting her book down on the bedside table with a thump. "You've been banished," she said, her tone playfully stern.

Joe's hand stopped mid-air, his grin widening. He flopped onto his back with a dramatic sigh. "But what did I do to deserve such a fate?" His voice was laced with mock despair.

She set her jaw, trying to keep her amusement from showing. "Those dad jokes," she said, as if recounting a heinous crime. "They're punishment enough."

Joe chuckled, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. "C'mon. They're not that bad."

"They're worse than bad," she retorted, squirming away once again when Joe's hand made another attempt to claim her side of the bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin, feigning innocence. "You're lucky I don't make you sleep on the couch."

Joe's smile didn't waver. "But it's cold over there," he sighed, his voice dropping into a lower octave. "And lonely."

She tossed him a side-eye, trying to keep her expression stern. "You brought this on yourself," flinching away with a smile as he made another attempt to bridge the distance between them.

The room filled with the sound of his laughter, deep and warm, rumbling in his chest. "You can't ignore me all night," Joe said, his tone teasing.

She didn't respond, simply arching her eyebrow in challenge as she reached for her book again. But the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement. Quietly, Joe stood from the bed, stretching muscled arms over his head, cursing softly under his breath at the crack of his back. She watched him, eyes tracking his movements as he padded over to the foot of the bed, his footsteps almost silent on the plush carpet.

Then he pounced, agile and sure; one hand found her ankle, tugging gently, while the other tickled her ribs. She shrieked, the book flying out of her grasp as she squirmed away from his touch. "Joey!" she yelled, laughter bubbling up in her chest despite her protests.

"What?" Joe's voice was pure innocence, his eyes dancing with glee as he feigned ignorance.

She couldn't help but laugh as she squirmed under his touch, trying to push his hand away from her ticklish side. "You know exactly what," she managed to say between giggles. Her heart was racing, pounding in her chest as she thrashed around, trying to escape his hold.

Joe leaned in closer, his eyes shining. "Oh, so you do find me a little bit funny," he murmured. His free hand tightening around her ankle, pulling her closer to him despite her struggles.

"Please," she begged, her voice a mix of laughter and desperation as Joe's tickling grew more insistent.

"Un-banish me," Joe demanded as his fingers continued their assault on her ribs.

She could barely breathe through her laughter, pushing ineffectively at his hand. "If… you… stop," she managed to choke out.

Joe paused, his eyes searching her face. "Promise?"

She nodded vigorously, her chest heaving with laughter. "I promise!" She gasped out.

With a satisfied grin, Joe ceased his tickling, allowing her to catch her breath. He released her ankle, the mattress dipping under the weight of his body as he moved closer. She felt the warmth of his body pressing against her, his chest to hers as he held himself over her, his strong arms braced on either side of her head. She gazed up into his blue eyes, still smiling. "You're a brat," she accused, her voice breathless from laughter.

"But you love me," Joe replied, leaning in to kiss her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and finally her lips. She melted into the kiss. The warmth of his smile spreading through her as her hands trailed up his sides before finding his floppy, unstyled hair.

When they finally broke apart, Joe settled beside her, pulling her into his arms. She fit perfectly against him, their legs tangling under the covers. She sighed contentedly, her heart rate returning to normal. "I do love you," she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest.

"I know," Joe murmured, kissing the top of her head. His fingers traced gentle circles on her back. "But you know I can't sleep without you close."

Her eyes drifted shut, the steady thump of Joe's heart beneath her cheek a comforting lullaby. "I know," she said softly, her voice thick with affection. "I've spoiled you."

Joe chuckled, his hand still moving in soothing circles. "Maybe a little," he admitted. His voice grew softer as he spoke, his energy winding down. "But you're the best part of my day."

She felt a warmth spread through her at his words, pushing aside the last of her irritation from his earlier joking. She snuggled closer, her head fitting just under his chin. "You're the best part of my day," she echoed, arching up to kiss his jaw.

[himasgod]

Where you are an artist

HOUSEWARDENS X READER

How would the housewards react if they realized that the person they love can't stop sketching and drawing about them…

leona, riddle, azul, kalim, vil, idia and malleus.

I lost the original request message, so I had to take a screenshot, sorry :(, I hope you like it!

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, when Riddle discovers your notebook full of his sketches, he doesn't know what to think. He's embarrassed to the core, but also��� something warm ignites in his chest.

He's aware that he's the center of attention in Heartslabyul, but he never imagined that you, of all people, would focus on him so much.

When he looks through the drawings, he realizes you've captured moments no one else would: his calm expression when he reads, the way he elegantly holds his teacup, the sparkle in his eyes when he gives an order with conviction.

"Why do you draw me so much?"

He asks with a mixture of disbelief and shyness, unable to look at you directly.

If you tell him that you simply like to draw what you consider beautiful, Riddle falls completely silent.

His ears turn red, and he presses his lips together in a failed attempt to hide his emotion.

From that day on, he begins to notice you more.

He wonders if you're observing him at that moment, if you're storing his gestures in your memory to later capture them on paper.

And when, on a quiet afternoon, he works up the courage to ask you if you can take a formal portrait of him, you realize there's more to his gaze than simple curiosity.

There's a desire to be seen by you, always.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona quickly notices your habit of drawing him.

At first, he pretends not to care, but in reality, every time he notices he's your recurring model, his ego inflates a little more.

When he finally glances at your sketches, his expression is unreadable. It's not just that you draw him a lot, it's the way you draw him.

His features look relaxed, even serene in some illustrations. Is that how you see him?

"Tch. Why do you keep staring at me so much?"

He asks with a crooked smile, eyeing you with interest.

If you dare tell him you like the way he looks, or that you enjoy capturing his essence, Leona leans dangerously close to you.

"If you love drawing me so much, you should do it in person." "You could sit next to me while I sleep. It saves me the trouble of you spying on me."

It's his way of telling you that he doesn't mind you watching him, that somehow, he enjoys being the center of your attention.

Since then, every time he sees you drawing, he throws out comments like

"Make sure you capture my best angle." "If you do a portrait of me, I want it in my room"

He doesn't say it outright, but he loves the fact that you only have eyes for him.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is a businessman. He knows that his image is crucial, that people look at him with admiration or distrust.

But when he sees your drawings, he's speechless. It's not the calculated image he always projects; it's him, at his most natural.

In your sketches, you captured him smiling contentedly after a successful deal, losing himself in thought while reading, taking off his glasses with a tired sigh.

"This… is quite unexpected"

If you confess that you simply enjoy drawing him because you like the way he looks, Azul covers his mouth with his hand to hide the trembling of his lips.

"Ah… I see. How interesting."

But he can't stop thinking about it. You look at him in a way no one else has.

One day, without warning, he approaches you and places a cup of tea beside you.

"If you're going to draw me… do it now. I want to see how you do it."

It's not a demand. It's his way of asking you to keep looking at him, to keep your gaze on him.

Kalim Al-Asim

When Kalim discovers you've been filling pages with his drawings, he nearly collapses with excitement.

He doesn't understand why you would want to hide it; to him, this is wonderful.

"Wait, wait! Does that mean you look at me a lot? That's adorable!"

Unlike the other housewardens, he doesn't try to hide his happiness. On the contrary, he shows it with all his might.

"This makes me so happy! Can I keep one of your drawings? I'll frame it in my room!"

When you explain that you didn't mean for him to know, Kalim just laughs and waves his hand.

"Why not?! If you like me enough to draw me like that, then you should know that I really love you too!"

It's the most natural and sincere confession in the world.

From that day on, every time he sees you with your notebook, he approaches you with a big smile.

"Are you going to draw me today too? Let me pose for you!"

For Kalim, the fact that you portray him so lovingly means only one thing: your feelings for him are as great as his feelings for you.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil immediately realizes that you've been drawing him. He's an expert at noticing glances, at reading subtle gestures… and your gaze on him is something that hasn't gone unnoticed.

One day, when he happens to look through your notebook, he stops. He didn't expect to find entire pages filled with his sketches.

Each stroke is rendered with stunning delicacy, as if each line seeks to precisely capture his essence.

"My, my… So you've been watching me with such devotion"

He says with a satisfied smile, but his eyes sparkle.

When he confronts you about it, he looks you straight in the eye.

"Tell me, darling, why are you so obsessed with me?"

If you tell him you admire him because he's beautiful, Vil smiles, pleased.

But if you tell him you draw him because you want to capture his true essence, beyond the perfect image he shows the world, his expression changes.

"Hmph… So that's what you see in me"

He whispers, touching his lips with his fingers.

For the first time in a long time, someone has looked beyond the public image of Vil Schoenheit.

Since that day, every time you draw, Vil approaches you naturally.

"If you want to portray my beauty, at least let me pose for you properly,"

He says elegantly, but deep down, he wants you to continue seeing only him.

Until one day, he leans into your ear and whispers,

"If you've already fallen so deeply for me, why don't you admit it? Show me that your obsession with me goes beyond the limits of your notebook…"

Idia Shroud

Idia never thought anyone would find him worthy of being drawn, much less someone like you.

When he accidentally discovers your notebook full of his sketches, he panics completely.

"T-THIS IS A SYSTEM ERROR, THIS CAN'T BE REAL!"

He flips through it with trembling hands and realizes you've drawn things he never thought anyone would notice.

His hair illuminated by the screen in the dark.

The way his fingers move precisely on the keyboard.

His calm expression when he's focused on a game.

"What is this? Why did you do it? Is this some cruel joke from Fate's RNG?"

If you tell him you just enjoy drawing him because you like him, his hair turns completely pink in a second.

"S-Stop saying things like that, my emotional HP is at 1!"

From that day on, every time he sees you drawing, he gets nervous, but also happy :>

Until one day, between mumbles, he whispers to you

"Hum, if you like watching me so much… then… does that mean you like me…?"

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is used to people looking at him with fear or respect… but never with the warmth reflected in your drawings.

When he finds your notebook by chance and sees so many of his sketches, he falls silent for a moment.

The shadows of the night envelop him, but you have captured him with light.

His serene expression when he gazes at the stars.

The melancholy in his eyes when he walks alone through campus.

The gentleness with which he touches a gargoyle.

"That's how you see me…"

He murmurs, a strange feeling of warmth in his chest.

When he mentions it to you, it's not with mockery or embarrassment, but with genuine curiosity.

"Tell me, little artist… why do you watch me so much?"

If you tell him you simply enjoy drawing him because you find him fascinating, Malleus smiles gently.

"So… if you enjoy watching me, would you like to spend more nights with me?"

From that day on, Malleus becomes your personal model, letting you draw him while he tells you stories of ancient times in Briar Valley.

And when, one day, on a stormy night, he asks you in a low voice:

"Is this the destiny you have chosen? To look only at me, in all my facets?"

You will know that Malleus Draconia has already fallen head over heels for you.

[rex-rambles]

➤ HOMEMAKER | LEWIS HAMILTON

summary: if your past relationships have taught you anything, you'll never be a homemaker, as hard as you try - so what do you do when lewis comes home to you? (inspired by 'homemaker' by next of kin)

pairing: lewis hamilton x celebrity!reader

wc: 1.8 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending, discussions of negative past relationships

➤ MASTERLIST

You had gotten used to silence. 

It didn't matter that you had adoring fans, or paparazzi trailing you, photoshoots or interviews, when you were alone, you were silent. That's how it always seemed to be, anyway. 

You don't know how many nights you'd sat like this, not saying a word as you're curled up at the end of some guy's couch. Sometimes, you had a book. Sometimes, you had a mug of tea or coffee, clothes actually put away in drawers or closets.

Other times you were just passing through. 

You don't know how many nights you'd sat like this, phone left on the table in front of you, waiting for that text, that call, anything. It always started out sweet, the messages, the compliments, only to turn to silence in a few months time. If you had a dollar for every night you spent like this, you could buy an island somewhere far away to be silent in, but instead, you waste your time and your money on the rare chance that they come through in the end. 

They never do.

In your fantasies, they're knights in shining armour, who come home with flowers or a surprise dinner, but even you couldn't fool yourself sometimes. You don't think any of the guys you'd seen have ever fantasized about you in that way, either, because you already did it. You showed up, you planned surprises, you played the role of the loving, doting partner. 

Yet, despite it all, you weren't a homemaker at the end of the day. It wasn't even like you were trying to be some stay-at-home spouse, you just wanted a relationship that was real, that lasted, that you could call home.

But, no matter how much time, or energy, or god forbid love you put into a relationship, it didn't last. In the end, it seemed that you just housed people who liked you break your heart. Men saw a star, something to chase, but never keep. Marriage was never in the cards, something long, something stable either. There was a time you used to dream about it, of actually settling down and finding enough love somewhere to marry someone, but now, you'd seen the worst of enough men to be content with silence, with not throwing your life away for them. 

It didn't stop you from curling up on strangers' couches, or watching your phone. 

It just made it that much more pitiful. 

"God," Lewis's voice makes you jump, mug of tea rocking forward and spilling onto his probably ridiculously expensive carpet. Penthouse guys always splashed out on whatever cost the most, even if it didn't look good. "Shit, sorry babe." 

"Shit," You echo somewhat numbly, trying to rise to find something to clean it up with, and Lewis waves a hand, moving from the open front door to the kitchen, and you can't help but stare at it. 

The hallway is brightly lit at all hours, casting a warm glow into the darkened apartment. It's like a little glimpse into whatever heaven Lewis had come from, and you spare a glance at your phone on the table, no message waiting for you. You'd surprised him, by being here, and he'd surprised you by showing up.

Lewis returns with a roll of paper towel, dropping to your feet to try and pat down the carpet, and he spares a glance up at you. "What are you still doing up?" He asks, before noticing the door is open. "Can you get that for me?" 

"I was going to wait to see if you made it in on time." You answer as you slowly move to the door, pulling Lewis's luggage aside as you close it, casting the apartment in darkness again. For some reason, you can't bring yourself to turn any lights on, so you stand in the little front hall, staring at the shadows of Lewis as he does a fairly poor job of cleaning. 

"It's so late," He says, finally rising with his hands full of soaked paper towel. "You should be in bed. You should be at home." 

"I can go." Most didn't want you to stay, anyway. Some liked this little gesture, of waiting up for them, surprising them with their favourite, back home treats after long periods away, but you'd only been going out with Lewis for a month or two now. It might be overstepping, or it might just be another sign of commitment you can never have. 

"No, no." Lewis says, throwing the paper towel away in the kitchen and flicking on the overhead island light. It was a soft kind of glow that made Lewis seem that much warmer, and the dark that much farther from him. "I gave you the key for a reason, but it's almost 2 AM. You're going to ruin your sleep schedule." 

You move forward to stand in the shadows of the living room, wrapping your arms around his oversized shirt you'd adopted to sleep in for the past few days. "You're one to talk," You try to tease, though it doesn't quite reach your voice. "How many time zones have you gone through this week?" 

"That's different." Lewis says, coming to stand before you. His hands are gentle on your waist, pulling you close to him. "You really stayed up? For me?" 

"Even got those brownies you like from that bakery." You say, gesturing to the kitchen counter. Lewis glances over and a warm laugh bubbles out of him, echoing off the walls. Your hands come to smooth against his chest, as if to feel that he's actually there. It wouldn't last, history tells you. He'd be this sweet, for so long, and then he'd go. 

"Great minds think alike, hm?" Lewis moves to grab one of his bags, and he fishes out a somewhat crumpled container that he hands to you, a logo embossed on the top that you'd recognize anywhere. "There was that cookie place you liked, and I had a layover. I was going to surprise you with them tomorrow, but you sort of beat me to that." 

You slowly take the cookies in hand, and silence rests over you once more. 

It was a regional bakery, a place you talked about loving as a kid. No one ever really cared about it, it was just a sweet story to share over desserts to make people think you had something to talk about. You spare a glance back up at Lewis, who smiles softly back down at you, and neither of you says a word. 

You had gotten used to silence, but you didn't know how to break it. You didn't know how to vocalize that he'd remembered, that, cracking open the top, he'd even gotten the flavour right, that he went out of his way to get them for you. You don't know how to think about this as anything other than doomed, but all the signs keep saying otherwise. 

Gently, Lewis's hand comes up to cradle your cheek, turning it so it's more in the light of the kitchen. "Are you alright?" He asks quietly, "Tired?" 

"I-" All words die on your tongue. You didn't know how to be anything other than what the world wanted to see of you, of a star with their equally famous partner, of being too much or not enough, never going anywhere. Every relationship had been some kind of car wreck, wheels spinning uselessly as you tried to move forward when all they wanted to do was press on the break. 

You didn't know how to love Lewis. You just knew how to pretend.

"You can tell me, you know." He says, letting his hand drop. "You've always got this look on your face, like you're so far away. Is it me?"

"You?" You manage to get out softly, "No." 

"Don't say 'it's me, not you'," Lewis says, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. "Give me something real." 

"You didn't text." You find yourself saying, and Lewis pulls back with a knowing look. 

"Didn't want to wake you. But this isn't about that, because you told me just yesterday I don't have to check in all the time." He moves forward until you hit his couch, and easily he lifts you up to sit on the back of it, cookie box now resting in your lap, and he leans his arms on either side of your legs. "So? You making up reasons to leave?" 

Maybe. You stare down at the open box of cookies, and as honestly as you can, you try to explain the strange sort of pulling feeling at your heart. "Most guys don't text. When they go out, or when they travel, it's just radio silence. They give me a time, and I stay up, and they don't show." 

"Most guys?" 

"You know my reputation, Lewis." It was every other headline, every other blurry photo. You were the one they called a heartbreaker, despite the fact you were the one who wanted these things to work out. "I'm not exactly a homemaker." It's not that you didn't try, that despite it all you wanted to have the perfect relationship, but that they didn't let you. "Men come into my life, and for a blissful moment, I convince myself it'll work out, and it never does. No one's getting down on one knee, no one's remembering anniversaries, they just leave. Because of me." 

"That's not because of you." Lewis tries to defend, and you shake your head. 

"It is." It's a gallant thought, to try and defend you like that, but at this point there is only one part of this equation that remains the same: you. "I'm too famous, or I'm not famous enough. I'm too clingy, or I don't care about their art. I'm too far away, I can't travel, I'm just not enough. And you didn't text." 

Lewis moves one hand to gently graze the side of your thigh, gently rubbing his thumb in circles. "So you didn't expect me to walk through that door. That's why I scared you." 

"I get their apartments all nice and ready, change the sheets, pick up a favourite of theirs, get a text about it the next day and they repay me for it with a fancy dinner to make us both feel less guilty." You admit, suddenly far too close to Lewis to stop.  "And you showed up. You remembered. Why?" 

"Why?" Lewis echoes, sounding rather surprised by the question. "Because it meant something to you." 

"No." No, it didn't mean something to you, that's not how your partners have ever thought. It had to mean something to them, a bribe, something to ease the guilt, something to help them, not you. "It meant something to you." 

"Yeah, you mean something to me." The words force the air from your lungs, and Lewis leans forward to gently press his forehead to yours. Maybe it was that he was a British gentleman, maybe that he was a different kind of a celebrity, maybe that he was older, but he was different, and you didn't know what to do with that. "I guess I've been out of the dating pool too long," He jokes softly under his breath, "Seems like the world has lost their minds." 

You try your best to laugh, a small, sad thing, and Lewis pulls back to stare at you in a way you fantasized about for years. "Lewis," You finally manage to say, "I...I don't know what to do with all this."

"You don't have to. Just let me care for you." Maybe that was how love worked, after all.

You didn't have to know how to do it, or how it worked, but rather, you just tried your best to care for those who meant something to you.

Lewis's arms come under your knees as he scoops you up, carrying you bridal style toward his bedroom, and for the first time, in a long time, you think that this might last. "And to begin, that means getting us to bed." 

a/n: LISTEN TO NEXT OF KIN!! Homemaker and Jekyll and Hyde are my favourites

[carnalcrows]

QUIET - GYEONGSU

pairing: gyeongsu x top male reader

synopsis: You can't get him to be quiet.

content warnings: 18+,thanos is an asshole, the smut starts abruptly lol, dumbification, full nelson (kinda).

word count: 0.8k

The second Thanos kicked Gyeong-su out of the group during Mingle, you knew he was screwed.

He just stood there, frozen, as the remaining groups turned their backs on him. No one wanted dead weight. No one wanted to take a risk. And Gyeong-su—despite his sharp tongue and quick temper—looked small. Like he’d just been tossed into the deep end and left to drown.

You clicked your tongue.

“Tch.”

Before you could even think about it, you grabbed his wrist.

He flinched, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wha—?”

“Shut up and move.”

You yanked him forward without waiting for a response, scanning the crowd. Most groups were already full, people standing in tight little circles, making their bonds clear.

Then you spotted two guys lingering near the back, hesitating.

You strode right up to them. “Us four.”

They looked between you and Gyeong-su, uncertain, but when the alternative was death, people didn’t argue. The moment the timer ran out, you and Gyeong-su were still standing.

Gyeong-su, however? He had barely moved an inch away from you for the rest of the night.

Back at the bunks, it was immediate. The second you sat down, Gyeong-su flopped next to you. Not just near you—on you. Practically latched to your side like a damn barnacle.

“You saved me,” he said.

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

“No, but seriously. If you hadn’t—”

“You’d be dead. Yeah. I know.”

“I just—why?” His voice was quieter now, almost unsure. “You didn’t have to.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Because I felt like it. Stop thinking about it so much.”

He huffed, but you knew he wasn’t letting it go.

He didn’t say anything else, but he also didn’t leave you alone for the rest of the night. When lights-out rolled around and you pushed yourself up with a sigh, Gyeong-su immediately straightened.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” you muttered.

“I’ll come with you.”

You raised a brow. “You scared of the dark or something?”

He scoffed. “What? No. Just—you know. Safety in numbers.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

The second you stepped into the bathroom, Gyeong-su turned to you, face unusually serious.

“Seriously,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do to repay you, just say the word.”

You let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Actually, there is.”

He straightened. “Yeah? What?”

Instead of answering, you grabbed his collar and yanked him into the nearest stall.

“Wh—” His breath hitched as his back hit the door. Before he could say anything else, your mouth was on his.

–

Gyeongsu’s hands scrambled for something to hold onto. He gripped your arms, then your waist, then your shirt like he was trying to ground himself. The kiss turned messy fast—wet, desperate, all teeth and tongue. You could feel how warm he was, how shaky his hands were as they moved up to your shoulders.

You pressed closer, pushing your cock further into him, finding places he didn’t even know existed.

He gasped.

You grinned against his lips. “You’re so loud.”

“S-shut up,” he stammered, trying to catch his breath.

But then you snapped your hips against his.

He choked on a moan, fingers digging into your shirt.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, pressing your forehead to his. “Will you shut up?”

“I—I’m trying,” he whined. His head tipped back against the stall door, breathing heavy. “But you’re not making it easy.”

“Not my problem.” You licked into his mouth again, swallowing the next sound that slipped out of him.

He trembled, legs barely holding him up at this point.

His fingers found the hem of your shirt, curling into the fabric like he was holding on for dear life.

You slid a hand into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp.

“Quiet,” you warned again.

He bit his lip, nodding shakily.

You smirked. Cute.

You kissed him again, slower this time, drawing it out. His breath hitched, his body pressing completely into yours now. The warmth of him, the way you fit in him perfectly, almost like you were molding him out—it was intoxicating.

You felt yourself release before you even registered it. He moaned, head hitting the wall behind him. His eyes scrunched as he came– staining your shirt, which was already wrinkled.

You leaned your forehead against his and breathed deep. His legs were still trembling.

By the time you pulled back, he was a wreck. Flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide.

You tilted your head. “That shut you up?”

His lips parted, like he wanted to say something—then his brain short-circuited. He nodded dumbly.

You chuckled. “Good.”

Then you pulled both your pants back up, before unlocking the stall and patting his cheek. “Let’s get back before people notice.”

Gyeong-su blinked, still dazed, before scrambling to follow you out.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[stevesgother]

Can you do something with Steve x pregnant! reader? Maybe fluff to smut or insecure pregnant! reader to smut? Idk I’m babbling, I love your writing btw!!

18+

mmmm i love this! i feel like steve would literally be at your every beck and call while you're pregnant. you're carrying precious cargo, like, of course he'd want to make sure you're as comfy as possible.

it'd be well into the middle of the night, and you just can't fall asleep. every position causes one part of your body or another discomfort--

your constant tossing and turning rouses the sleeping man next to you, but rather than being annoyed for the early wakeup call, he's concerned.

"can't sleep, baby?" Steve asks groggily from beside you.

"just can't get comfortable," you sigh in response, "my back kills."

he shuffles closer-- the musky scent of sleep and something ineffably steve invading your senses. his calloused hands begin to rub firmly up and down the column of your back and over the hills of your shoulders and you noticeably relax into him.

"this helping?" he asks.

"mhm," you nod, gratefully, "thank you, stevie,"

"'course," he says and continues his ministrations on your exhausted muscles. you can feel the hardness of his morning wood pressing into your backside, but he makes no attempt to initiate anything intimate with you. he simply continues massaging you in an attempt to ease your discomfort.

heat pools low in your belly at the thought of him hard under his boxers-- only a one, thin layer of fabric separating you. your hormones have been all out of wack the past few weeks, having just began your second trimester.

without so much as speaking, you take his hand in yours-- halting his movements over your shoulders. slowly, so slowly, you guide his hand to where your arousal is collecting between your thighs. he stifles a groan upon feeling how wet you are for him.

he begins placing languid, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive spots just below your ear, "need something else, baby?" he asks, and you can feel the grin on his face growing against your skin.

you sigh at the sensation, "just you."

"yeah? need me to tire my girl out?" steve questions as he gently ruts his hips against your ass-- making it all the more apparent just how much he wants you.

his middle and index finger slip below the trim of your cotton panties, idly circling your clit in slow, relaxed motions. you release an airy whine at the feeling, circling your hips in time with his fingers to encourage him to keep going.

"that feel good, honey?" steve asks, voice husky and low in your ear, sending a chill down your spine and blood straight to your core.

"yes," you whisper in the stillness of the room, "god--don't stop,"

he picks up his pace just slightly, the hand under your neck curls around to play with your breasts-- swollen and attention-starved. his deft fingers gently pinch and roll your nipple through your sleep shirt, eliciting a moan from your lips.

"need more, steve," you pant into the empty space in front of you.

"you want my cock or my fingers, baby?" he sounds more desperate than he did minutes ago, though you can tell he's trying hard to maintain his composure. you think he must be leaking like a sieve behind the cotton of his boxer briefs.

"need you to fuck me like this," you whine, needy as ever. steve wastes no time ridding himself of his underwear, taking his length into his hand and pumping a few times before sliding the head of his cock through your slick.

"god-- you feel so good. so beautiful carrying our baby," he praises in your ear, causing goosebumps to erupt all over your skin. steve had never made you feel anything less than stunning, even when you felt bloated and crampy from pregnancy. to him-- you were as gorgeous as gorgeous could be.

he takes your leg and carefully guides it behind you and over his hip-- opening you up for him and effectively entangling himself with you.

"just relax, sweetheart," he instructs as he slowing sheaths himself on you cunt, "i've got you."

you can't help the small cry that escapes when he's fully seated inside you. steve keeps a firm grip on your thigh, seeing to it that you don't expend any unnecessary energy holding it up for him as he picks up his pace-- sliding with ease in and out of your entrance.

"feels so good, stevie," you whine, "just like that, oh--"

the springs of your mattress squeak quietly underneath your bodies and he continues thrusting into you. steve had always been well-endowed, but you've been infinitely more sensitive since you became pregnant-- something your obgyn had warned you about. your orgasms arrive quicker and more powerfully than they ever have before, and you find yourself lasting for half the time you used to.

"can feel you gettin' tighter, baby," steve says through gritted teeth from behind you-- trying to stave off his own release, "you gonna come for me? huh?"

"yes!" you shout, "don't stop--" turning your head to capture his lips in a kiss over your shoulder. one of your hands moves to grasp the hair at the nape of his neck, securing his lips against yours.

"touch yourself." steve commands, sweaty foreheads pressed together and panting into one another's mouths.

you own shaky fingers travel south to where your achy clit begs for some stimulation. the second your fingers begin circling it, the white-hot pleasure of your impending orgasm floods you from head to toe.

"steve!" you cry out as your body tenses, then relaxes around him.

"good girl," steve pants into your skin, as his thrusts falter. he'd only been holding off for you to finish, "love you--fuckin' love you, baby,"

two more ruts of his hips and he's spilling into you with a strangled moan-- thighs shaking where they're tangled with yours. you're both silent as you come back down to earth; the only sounds in the room are your combines labored breathing.

you turn around fully to face a flushed and sweaty steve. even in the dark of your bedroom you can tell his cheeks and neck are a beat-red.

"you tired yet?" he asks, chuckling wearily.

"I don't know..." you lilt, "could go for round two in a few minutes."

he gives a playful roll of his eyes, "c'mere, you heathen."

you laugh and nuzzle into his chest-- the thatch of hair there damp and tickling your cheek.

he leans down to kiss the crown of your head, "goodnight, my love." you can tell by the sound of his voice that he's already dozing off again. you feel a pang of jealously that he's able to drift off so easily, but the feeling is quickly overcome with the pure adoration you have for him.

"goodnight, stevie."

you sleep soundly until noon the next day.

[cherryw0n]

NOCTURNA — enhypen

chase atlantic inspired series

each of the seven parts is based on a chase atlantic song that provides the feeling throughout the whole story, taking you on an emotional journey and showing the real raw side of each character's struggles.

CAREFUL, this series contains some sensitive and serious topics. Read at your own risk!

CONTAINS: profanity, drug abuse, drug addiction, mental health problems, family problems, toxic relationships, organized crime, infidelity, smoking, violence, alcohol consumption, explicit sex description

MDNI!

Lee Heeseung — The Walls

pairing: dabbler!heeseung x addict!reader (afab)

synopsis: the world of intoxication and ecstasy was something you never thought could be so enchanting, so tempting. until you went spiraling into it, unable to suppress the inner cravings and strong thirst for something so forbidden but so euphoric.

"Everybody's leaning on the walls,

I don't think they're ready for the fall

Had a little, now she wanting more

Told her that I gotta make some calls"

read here

Park Jay — Moonlight

pairing: downbad!jay x grumpy!reader (afab)

synopsis: having a pain in the ass at your heels all the time was not on your bucket-list for this semester. but still he was chasing you, not giving up even if you said it to his face, every time.

"Busy on the weekend

Caught up in your own small world

Well, I might wanna see it then

Call it hesitation, girl"

read here

Sim Jake — DEVILISH

pairing: toxic!jake x toxic!reader (afab)

synopsis: the relationships was falling apart, no thing could salvage the damage it faced, not when you keep drifting from him every chance you get and he is always up for the payback.

"Devilish, fucking with my guys, yuh

I make sacrifices you make lies up

Heaven lost an angel when I signed up

I might fuck your friend, I made my mind up"

read here

Park Sunghoon — OHMAMI

pairing: druglordsson!sunghoon x frutera!reader (afab)

synopsis: fast and luxurious lifestyle wasn't anything spectacular to sunghoon, and it can't be when he grew up bathing in it's glory. who knew that just by stopping at the random frutería in puerto vallarta would be the moment he spotted his next target, you.

"Ooh, Mami, I got blue molly

I throw Louis V, Supreme on top of Murakami

Bitch, I'm fuckin' styling, yeah

I might say I love her, but I'm lying, yeah-ah-ah"

read here

Kim Sunoo — Tidal Wave

pairing: boyfriendsfriend!sunoo x friendsgirlfriend!reader (afab)

synopsis: he shouldn't be doing this. you shouldn't be doing this. you both can't be doing this, but the tension and connection was something you didn't feel with anyone before, not even with your own boyfriend — but his friend was there to make up for it.

"Throw another stone at a glass house

He might kick my ass if he finds out

I don't wanna share, it's a damn shame

I'll still play it fair, won't drop no names"

read here

Yang Jungwon — Right Here

pairing: desperate!jungwon x done!reader (afab)

synopsis: you were done. done with this empty game of leading on. he was like that, everyone told you that but you didn't listen, only ended up being hurt and feeling like the only right thing you could do was finally walk away, and you did just that. but he was not done yet.

"It's happening again

Well, I don't give a fuck about your friends,

I'm right here"

read here

Nishimura Riki — Numb To The Feeling

pairing: addict!riki x goodgirl!reader (afab)

synopsis: who knew that the accidental encounter in a campus library would be such a turning point in your life. was is destiny? or something else?

"I need you to show me love

'Cause I'm getting numb to the feeling, yeah

I need you to ride me harder when we fuck

'Cause I'm getting numb to the feeling, whoa"

read here

COMING SOON...

! this is all work of fiction. in no way this is a representation of enhypen members nor do I believe this is how they behave in real life or condone these actions!

©cherryw0n