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arabella-syntax · 1 day ago

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Update: Part 2

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: A footballer still learning how to breathe after glory. A ballerina who knows her time is running out. A one-night stand in Ibiza that was never meant to last — and yet somehow, it keeps finding them both. Alexia Putellas meets a woman who moves like silence and secrets. But Y/N carries a truth she hasn’t spoken.

Word count: > 40k, one shot

Tone: 💔 queer love 💃 ballet x football 🧠 terminal illness 🕯️ no promises, just presence ⏳ slow-burn · soft angst · quiet intimacy

Rating: Some intimate scenes

A/N: Here’s the second part of the story. To read the first part, here’s the link.

Whilst I’m a trilingual, unfortunately, Spanish is not one of the languages I’m fluent in. So do allow some margin of error with the translation.

————————————————————————

Alexia

She didn’t ask for permission.

Didn’t send a warning text.

Didn’t overthink the logistics — for once.

She just packed a small bag, told Marianne she’d miss two meetings, and booked the next flight to London.

The idea came to her the night after Y/N’s birthday call.

She couldn’t sleep.

She kept replaying the way Y/N had smiled — beautiful, yes, but worn. Like she was trying to hold something together inside her bones. Like she was dancing on a thread too thin to hold weight.

Alexia had told herself not to interfere.

She’d promised not to push.

But there was something about loving someone like Y/N that rewrote the rules.

So she booked the flight.

Because sometimes, love wasn’t a grand gesture.

Sometimes, it was arriving.

She texted once, when she landed:

“Estoy en Londres. No es sorpresa if I say it now.”

(I'm in London. No surprises, if I say so now.)

No reply.

Fine.

She took a cab to Y/N’s neighbourhood. Bought coffee and stood outside her building like some awkward indie film character — hoodie, sneakers, and a tiny suitcase that looked ridiculous next to her very serious face.

She wasn’t nervous.

She was terrified.

Y/N opened the door in a robe, eyes puffy from sleep, hair messy and still perfect.

She froze. Blinked twice.

“You’re here.”

Alexia nodded. “Estoy aquí.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“You didn’t tell me it was your cumpleaños.”

Touché.

Alexia shifted on her feet. “Puedo entrar?”

Y/N opened the door wider. “You came all this way… what, for coffee and confrontation?”

Alexia walked in. Set down her bag. Looked at her.

“No. I came to hold you.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

So Alexia stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.

It was awkward. Heavy with unsaid things.

But Y/N melted into her chest like a breath she’d been holding for weeks.

Later, they sat on the floor of Y/N’s kitchen, eating leftover pasta and drinking tea.

No music.

No performance.

Just quiet chewing and occasional looks.

“You didn’t have to come,” Y/N said finally.

“Ya lo sé.”

“But you did.”

“Claro.”

Y/N reached over and touched her knee. “You’re not scared?”

Alexia smiled. “Estoy terrified.”

“Of me?”

“Of loving you more than you’ll let me.”

Y/N didn’t flinch.

Instead, she leaned in, forehead touching Alexia’s.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

“And tired. And here. And… maybe in love.”

Y/N let out a slow, cracked breath. “Maybe me too.”

That night, they slept tangled up on her too-small sofa.

Alexia snored softly.

Y/N stared at the ceiling, fingers brushing against her ribcage like a tether.

Maybe she couldn’t promise tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight, she would let herself be held.

Y/N

Alexia had fallen asleep first, as usual.

She always curled toward Y/N in sleep, one arm draped awkwardly across her stomach like she was claiming space she wasn’t sure she deserved. Her mouth parted slightly, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands even in bed. Like a child, still too soft in a world that had tried to make her hard.

Y/N watched her.

Watched her breathe.

Watched the steady rhythm that belonged to someone who didn’t know the kind of countdown Y/N carried behind her ribs.

She didn’t sleep.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling.

Counted the months. December. January. February. March now.

Three months since she took the test. Three months of silencing the scream of truth beneath jokes and choreography.

Her mother had started fading in her early forties. The diagnosis came at thirty-eight. By forty-five, she didn’t remember her own daughter’s name without pictures.

Y/N had tested positive at thirty-six.

Same sharp handwriting.

Same lab in London.

Same faulty gene.

She hadn’t told Alexia.

Not that she took the test.

Not the results.

Not anything.

Because saying it out loud made it harder to pretend she could still have a future.

And Alexia? Alexia was a future. That was the danger.

Alexia stirred beside her, groggy.

“Mmh… qué hora es?” (What time is it) she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Late,” Y/N whispered.

“You’re awake still?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Alexia sat up slowly, eyes narrowing at Y/N’s face in the dark.

“Your brain too loud?”

“Too many tabs open,” Y/N said with a dry smile.

Alexia blinked. “You want to talk? Or distract?”

Y/N hesitated. “Talk. I think… it’s time.”

Alexia shifted to face her more fully, legs crossed, hoodie hood halfway up now like she was preparing for a storm.

“I never told you,” Y/N began, “about my mum.”

Alexia nodded once. “No. But I know you miss her.”

“She was brilliant,” Y/N continued. “English. Choreographer. Fire and thunder, but gentle with me. Until… she wasn’t.”

Alexia didn’t interrupt.

“She was diagnosed with Huntington’s disease when I was seventeen. It was a bleak outlook. It took everything from her slowly. Memory, mobility… humour stayed the longest, weirdly.”

“Lo siento,” Alexia said softly. “Mucho.”

Y/N exhaled. “I always told myself I wouldn’t test. That I didn’t want to know.”

“And then?”

“And then I met someone,” Y/N whispered, voice cracking. “Someone who made it all feel very… real.”

Alexia stayed very still.

“I took the test in December,” Y/N said. “Positive. Same mutation. Same progression. Same odds.”

A long silence.

Then Alexia reached out and took her hand.

“No me dijiste.”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to… pity me. Or see me different.”

Alexia was quiet for another beat. Then she said, very softly:

“Yo no te miro diferente. Te miro más.” (I don't look at you differently. I look at you more).

Y/N looked at her, blinking fast. “I’m terrified.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to make you carry this.”

“I carry you anyway.”

“I don’t know what happens next.”

“Pues… vamos paso a paso. Step by step.”

They didn’t say much after that.

Y/N leaned into her chest. Let herself cry — not dramatically, just quietly, in the way only someone used to enduring finally learns how to release.

Alexia stayed.

Held her.

Didn’t offer any grand promise.

Just stayed.

And that was enough.

Alexia

The café con leche was too sweet.

Alexia stirred it absentmindedly, watching the spoon swirl in circles like it could make the ache in her chest less loud.

She hadn’t meant to come here. She was supposed to train. Stretch. Do something constructive.

But instead, she’d walked the familiar steps to Alba’s place — where she knew Marianne would also be, probably hijacking Alba’s terrace and drinking overpriced cold brew from her pretentious thermos.

Sure enough, when Alba opened the door in mismatched socks and a Barcelona hoodie, Marianne was already sunbathing with her laptop, doing something vaguely important for the foundation.

“Hòstia, tía,” Alba said. “You look like shit.”

“Gracias,” Alexia muttered.

Marianne looked up. “You okay?”

“¿Puedo… hablar?”

That was all it took. Alba stepped aside. Marianne closed her laptop. Coffee was made. Feet were curled up on chairs. And they waited.

Alexia took a deep breath.

“Y/N has Huntington’s.”

A beat.

Then Marianne blinked. “Joder.”

Alba frowned. “¿Qué es eso?” (What's that?)

Alexia blinked at her. “It’s… enfermedad neurológica degenerativa. Genética. Su madre la padecía. She just tested positive a few months ago.” (It’s… a degenerative neurological disease. Genetic. His mother suffered from it…)

Alba’s brows stayed furrowed. “So… like Parkinson’s?”

“Un poco. But worse - maybe. It affects movement, memory, mood—everything. Slowly, but… always.”

Marianne exhaled. “It’s brutal. There’s no cure, is there?”

Alexia shook her head.

Alba’s face shifted. “¿Y tú sab��as que se hizo las pruebas?” (And did you know that she got tested?)

“No,” Alexia said. “I didn’t know she tested. I didn’t know anything. She just told me last week. En su piso. Late. Like it was casual.” (…In her apartment…)

“And what did you do?” Marianne asked.

“I didn’t freak out,” Alexia said simply. “I stayed. I held her. I listened.”

Alba was quiet now. Processing. “Joder…”

“She didn’t want to tell me because she thought I’d leave,” Alexia whispered.

Marianne snorted. “She clearly doesn’t know how stubborn you are.”

Alexia gave a weak laugh. “She doesn’t know how badly I want to stay.”

Alba reached over and touched her arm. “¿Y qué necesitas, Ale?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just needed to say it out loud. So someone else would know too. Because now… everything feels real. And heavy.”

“We’ll carry it with you,” Marianne said. “You’re not alone.”

Alba nodded. “Sí. No es un partido que juegas sola.”

Alexia exhaled.

Something loosened in her ribcage.

She still didn’t know what came next — but for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge alone.

Y/N

Her father was late, naturally.

She’d told him to meet her at the café near the park at eleven. He arrived at eleven twenty-two, carrying a paper bag of Russian pastries and his usual expression of amused disappointment in the world.

“You look tired,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Hello to you too, Papa.”

He kissed her forehead, sat down, and immediately began criticizing the table’s wobbliness.

“Do you know,” he said, unwrapping a sticky bun with alarming speed, “what you need?”

“Let me guess. To stop dating women with emotional depth?”

“No. To go blonde.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You already cut your hair,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her neat bob. “Very tragic. Very French. But now you go blonde. Reinvent. Channel this pain into something fashionable.”

She snorted. “You think I’m having an identity crisis?”

“I think you’re boring. Blonde would at least confuse people.”

“Papa, I told you I have Huntington’s.”

“Exactly. Go out in style.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing into her coffee. “You’re so emotionally stable.”

“I am Russian,” he said, sipping his espresso like it had insulted him.

They sat for a while in silence, birds picking at crumbs near their feet.

“I told her,” Y/N said quietly.

“Alexia?”

She nodded.

His gaze softened. “And she didn’t run?”

“She stayed.”

“Good,” he said. “But you are still scared.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

“You’re waiting for the symptoms to shout. You think when that happens, she’ll change. But let me tell you something: love is stupid. It doesn’t care about science or timing. It just stays until it can’t.”

Y/N exhaled. “And when it can’t?”

“Then you grieve,” he said. “And you dye your hair blonde.”

She smiled despite herself. “You’re relentless.”

He reached across and patted her hand. “You are still here, malyshka (baby). Still dancing. Still drinking overpriced coffee. This is not the end.”

“I know.”

“But if you ever want it to be the end,” he said, “just know that I have room on my couch in Moscow. And vodka. So much vodka.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She didn’t go blonde.

But she did go home, curled up in her flat, and opened the texts from Alexia — small, silly, steady ones:

You okay?

I miss your weird slippers.

Do you want me to send you a video of me trying to do ballet? I will.

She smiled.

And she wrote back:

No video needed. Your last attempt at plié is permanently tattooed on my soul.

Alexia replied with a selfie of her in a tank top and very dramatic pout:

Your favourite Catalan disaster still intact.

Y/N held the phone to her chest. Closed her eyes.

Still here.

Alexia

She had rewritten the message three times.

First:

Hey. My mami is cooking next weekend. You should come.

Too casual. Could sound like a trap.

Second:

My family misses you. Dinner at my mami’s?

No. Too much.

Third attempt included a GIF of a dancing empanada and simply:

Hungry?

In the end, she gave up and called.

Y/N answered on the third ring. “Hey, Catalan Disaster.”

Alexia smiled, relief pouring through her chest. “Hola, gremlin de Londres.”

They spoke in a warm rhythm — half teasing, half I-miss-you — until Alexia cleared her throat and said, in a rush of slightly broken English:

“So… next weekend. My mami makes arroz caldoso. Is kind of family thing. My sister also comes. And maybe… tú?”

Y/N paused. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”

“Yes. But more. Not just dinner. Like… proper thing. Not formal. But serious, maybe? You can say no. But no is illegal.”

Y/N laughed softly. “What if I’m a nightmare at family dinners?”

“You already are nightmare,” Alexia said flatly. “So no new information.”

That got a real laugh.

Then a pause. A real one.

“Are you sure?” Y/N asked quietly.

Alexia swallowed. ”Si. They like you, and want to spend time with you.”

Another pause. But this one was warmer. Steady.

“Okay,” Y/N said. “I’ll come.”

Alexia closed her eyes. Let the exhale slip out slowly. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath.

“Bring slippers,” she added. “Mami is dramatic about cold floors.”

“Oh good. I was hoping to be judged by a Catalan mother in my socks.”

“You will be judged regardless. Better to be warm.”

After they hung up, Alexia sat in the quiet of her living room, phone pressed to her chest.

She didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

But something in her had clicked.

Something soft, and stupid, and maybe brave.

She wasn’t just inviting Y/N into her home.

She was quietly, clumsily, inviting her into her life.

Y/N

The smell of garlic and thyme hit her before she’d even knocked.

Inside Alexia’s flat — small, tidy, unmistakably hers — the sounds of sizzling and humming mingled like an old song. When the door opened, Y/N was greeted not by her girlfriend, but by her girlfriend’s mother.

“Cariño,” said Eli Putellas, dressed in a loose linen blouse and an apron that read “La reina de la cocina.” “You’re early. Qué bien.”

Y/N smiled, stepping inside. “You’re the chef tonight?”

“I don’t trust my daughter to feed anyone properly. She keeps vegetables like they’re souvenirs.”

Alexia’s voice called out from the kitchen: “¡Mentira!”

Y/N laughed. “Hello to you too.”

This wasn’t their first meeting — they’d danced around each other at Alexia’s birthday, shared polite glances and cautious affection. But this… this felt more real. Like family, minus the ceremony.

Alexia emerged from the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and a smudge of tomato on her wrist.

“You’re here,” she said, cheeks pink with heat and something else.

“She’s early,” Eli repeated. “Which means I like her.”

Alexia gave Y/N a look. “I said six.”

“It’s 5:57.”

Eli waved her hand. “She’s punctual. You’re lucky. I hope you’re not feeding her frozen pizza when I’m not around.”

Alexia groaned. “Mami, por favor…”

Alba arrived twenty minutes late, naturally, wearing ripped jeans and eyeliner that belonged in a music video.

She entered the flat like a storm with opinions. “This building has no elevator. My thighs are screaming.”

“You’re dramatic,” Alexia muttered.

Alba waved her sister’s reply, tossing her bag onto the couch before spotting Y/N. “Oh look, the ballerina lives.”

“Alive and slightly wine-flushed,” Y/N said, lifting her glass.

“You’ve upgraded your position,” Alba said. “From party mystery to dinner guest. Impressive.”

“She brought wine and washed her hands,” Eli said proudly. “She’s already better than your last girlfriend.”

“Mami,” both daughters groaned in unison.

Dinner unfolded in Catalan chaos and Spanish sarcasm.

Eli kept insisting everyone take seconds — even though no one had finished their first.

Alba dominated the conversation with the fervour of someone who thought Twitter wasn’t fast enough.

Alexia remained steady and quiet, the eye of her family’s hurricane — occasionally tapping Y/N’s knee beneath the table like she was reminding herself this was real.

Y/N wasn’t prepared for how easy it felt.

How laughter came naturally.

How Eli would touch her hand and refill her wine.

How Alba would shoot her a half-smile when she made a joke in Spanish that landed.

It terrified her. And yet…she stayed.

Later, after Alba had gone and Eli insisted on scrubbing every pot herself, Y/N sat cross-legged on Alexia’s bed while the footballer toweled her damp hair and tried not to blush.

“She really does love you,” Alexia said, sitting down beside her.

“Your mum or your sister?”

“Both. But my mum will fight someone for you. Alba will just insult you more affectionately.”

Y/N leaned back against the pillows. “I don’t think I’ve ever… had something like that.”

“What, a chaotic Catalan dinner party?”

“A family dinner that didn’t feel like a performance.”

Alexia looked at her then — all soft eyes and stillness. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I didn’t run.”

Alexia reached over, laced their fingers together. “Then stay.”

Y/N hesitated, then squeezed her hand.

“I will.”

Y/N

It wasn’t a grand question.

Alexia asked it casually, like she was asking if Y/N wanted tea.

“Maybe you move here?”

The words floated gently into the quiet. They were in bed — not wrapped in heat or tangled limbs, but in the softness that came after. After dinner. After teasing. After brushing their teeth with the same mint. Just lying there, backs pressed to pillows, feet grazing beneath the blanket.

Y/N blinked. “Barcelona?”

Alexia nodded, fingers nervously toying with the edge of the sheet. “I mean… you already come a lot. You have a toothbrush here now. Shampoo. Slippers.”

“Slippers?”

“Sí,” Alexia muttered. “Very domestic.”

Y/N smiled, her heart doing that irritating thing where it both warmed and sank at once.

“I want to,” she said carefully. “You don’t know how much. But I have to finish the season, Ale. Royal Ballet won’t exactly replace a principal mid-run, and Giselle’s been sold out for months.”

Alexia nodded. Quiet. Still.

Y/N reached over and tugged gently at her hoodie sleeve. “I’m not saying no.”

“Just… not now.”

“Exactly.”

“I get it,” Alexia said. “I do. I just… sometimes I look at you brushing your teeth here and I think: sí, this is it. Stay.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.

“I can’t stay yet,” she said. “But I’m thinking about after. Maybe Madrid. There’s more ballet infrastructure. I could look into teaching. Performing occasionally.”

Alexia’s face softened. “Madrid is not far.”

“No. And we’re already experts at distance.”

Alexia gave a little smile. “You’ll still get a key.”

“To the flat?”

“To the city,” Alexia said. “Barcelona owes you one.”

Y/N laughed. “So dramatic.”

“I’m in football. It’s required.”

They sat in the silence, both gazing at the ceiling like it might give them answers.

Then Y/N whispered, “This is new for me. Making future-shaped decisions with someone else in mind.”

Alexia turned to her. “We don’t have to rush.”

“I know,” Y/N said. “But I think I want to. For once.”

And just like that, something invisible settled in the room between them — not a promise, but a direction.

Alexia

She didn’t tell anyone she was going.

Not Alba.

Not Marianne, who would have grilled her for answers the moment she saw “LHR” on the boarding pass.

Alexia booked the flight late, on instinct — somewhere between missing Y/N’s voice and missing the way Y/N made her forget she was famous.

London met her with drizzle and muted traffic.

The city was grey and quick. Alexia stayed quiet in it.

She checked into a hotel she barely looked at, ate room service she barely tasted.

The theatre — the Royal Opera House — felt like a palace of silence. Velvet seats, hushed voices, chandeliers watching from above.

Alexia sat at the very back, hoodie up, sunglasses off. No one knew her here. She liked that. She was just a woman with something to lose.

And then — Y/N appeared.

Not walked, not entered.

Appeared.

Alexia had never seen her like this. Not in the daylight, not in leggings and sarcasm and coffee breath.

This was something else.

Y/N danced like her bones held ghosts. Like she knew the end of every story before it began. She moved across the stage with purpose and devastation, bending and breaking as Giselle, soft and dying and defiant.

Alexia didn’t understand ballet. Not properly.

But she understood grief. And hunger. And love that came too late.

And watching Y/N—

Her body so sure, her eyes so vulnerable—

Alexia’s chest ached with it.

This woman — with her sharp humour, her bob haircut that somehow made her even more impossible, her ability to slip past all of Alexia’s defences like water through fingers — was a storm wrapped in silk.

Alexia was helpless to it.

She waited until the curtain fell.

The crowd leapt to their feet. Bravos, whistles, flowers. A standing ovation that thundered like a football stadium — but with more mascara.

Alexia stayed in her seat.

She typed slowly.

Estabas hermosa. Estoy orgullosa de ti.

(You were beautiful. I’m proud of you.)

Delivered. No reply yet.

She didn’t mind.

Sometimes love was a quiet thing.

A hidden thing.

A thing you didn’t announce, only held.

She stepped out into the London rain. The same hoodie up over her head. Same hands in her pockets.

Her boots splashed through the puddles as she walked. Her heart was somewhere else.

Still on stage.

Still in the air.

Y/N

The applause still echoed when she got backstage.

A wall of sound that pressed into her skin even as she peeled off the layers of Giselle — tulle, grief, powdered death across her cheekbones.

Stagehands smiled.

Her dresser gave her a knowing squeeze on the arm.

Another dancer offered her half a protein bar and said, “You killed them out there.”

She laughed, breathless. “Just doing my job.”

But inside, everything was shaking.

The muscle twitch hadn’t come tonight.

But something else had — something just beneath the ribs.

A sharp flutter, like expectation with teeth.

She sat down at her dressing table, surrounded by white lilies someone had sent anonymously. She checked her phone.

One message.

Estabas hermosa. Estoy orgullosa de ti.

Alexia.

No emojis.

No drama.

Just truth.

Y/N stared at it.

And then, without replying, she stood up — still in her stage tights and rehearsal hoodie, makeup smudged — and ran.

Outside, London offered her its usual evening chill.

She didn’t stop for an umbrella.

Didn’t stop for a cab.

She knew where Alexia would be.

Not flashy.

Not front-row.

Back. Quiet. Watching. That was her.

And sure enough, just down the steps of the theatre, beneath the marquee lights softened by mist, Alexia was standing by a column. Hood up. Arms crossed. Looking like guilt and devotion had formed a woman.

Y/N stopped a few feet away.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did Alexia.

Then Y/N stepped forward, grabbed the front of that hoodie with both hands, and kissed her.

Not softly.

Not politely.

But like she had danced death and come back alive for this exact moment.

Alexia melted into her, hands landing on her hips, grounding them both. The kiss was wet from the rain and warm with something older than fear.

When they broke apart, Alexia whispered, “Hola.”

Y/N snorted. “You’re such a menace.”

“Only for you.”

Y/N let her head rest against Alexia’s. Her voice was quieter now. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“You deserved to be seen.”

“I always feel seen with you.”

Alexia let out a breath. “Then stay.”

“Not now,” Y/N said, brushing a strand of wet hair from Alexia’s forehead. “But I’ll come with you to the hotel. If you ask nicely.”

Alexia smiled. That dopey, ridiculous, adoring smile.

“Please.”

They were just two women in the rain.

Still aching. Still trying. Still choosing.

Alexia

She couldn’t sleep.

Not from jet lag. Not from excitement.

Just Y/N — curled up in her hotel bed, face half-buried in the pillow, the London rain still drying in strands of her hair.

They hadn’t done anything more than lie there.

No sex.

No rush.

Just fingers on ribs.

Just stories about stage superstitions.

Just laughter when Y/N found out Alexia once wore the same shin guards for five years “for luck.”

Now, it was midnight, and Alexia’s heart was louder than her breath.

She reached over gently, tracing the curve of Y/N’s knuckle.

“Can I ask you something?” she whispered.

Y/N hummed without opening her eyes. “That sounds dangerous.”

Alexia smiled, small and crooked. “Why did you leave that morning? New Year’s. Barcelona. You disappeared.”

The air shifted.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly.

“Didn’t think you noticed.”

“I did.”

“I left you breakfast.”

“You left pan con tomate and no goodbye.”

Y/N exhaled, staring at the ceiling now.

“I panicked,” she said. “You looked so… peaceful. And I felt like a storm. Like I was about to drown everything.”

Alexia didn’t say anything.

Y/N sat up, wrapped the duvet around her shoulders like a curtain.

“I knew something was off in my body,” she said. “The twitch, the fall in rehearsal. I hadn’t tested yet, but… I had a feeling. And I didn’t want to make you a witness to the collapse.”

Alexia sat up too. She didn’t reach for her. Not yet.

“You thought I couldn’t handle it?”

“I thought I couldn’t. Not if I looked at you and saw that pity.”

“Pena?” Alexia repeated, a little too loud. “Is that what you think I feel?”

“I didn’t want to find out.”

They were quiet for a moment. Long enough to hear the city breathing outside.

Then Alexia said, carefully, “You scare me sometimes.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“Because you disappear. And I don’t know how to hold someone who keeps vanishing.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She looked at Alexia with something raw.

“I’m scared too. This thing — my body — it’s not a maybe anymore. And I don’t know how to let someone stay when I’m not sure how long I’ll be… me.”

Alexia reached out then, took Y/N’s hand.

“You’re you now. That’s enough.”

Y/N didn’t reply. But she squeezed her hand. Hard.

Then softer.

Then she whispered, “I wanted to stay. That morning. I was just… still learning how.”

Alexia leaned her forehead against Y/N’s.

“I’m still learning too.”

They fell asleep like that.

Not in full understanding.

But in a fragile, deliberate closeness.

No promises.

Just presence.

And for Alexia, that was something like peace.

Y/N

The theatre lights had barely cooled before she was back at her flat.

Same coat draped over the same chair.

Same mug with the chipped handle on the sink.

Same faint ache in her hip — the one she no longer chalked up to bad landings.

But something in her had shifted.

Or maybe—tilted.

She had spent the weekend with a woman who loved like a lighthouse. Quiet, steady, always turning toward her even in the fog.

Now, her apartment felt like a life still clinging to an old season.

She opened her laptop.

Typed: Madrid ballet schools.

Deleted it.

Typed: Contemporary dance teaching positions Madrid.

Then: Dance pedagogy certification Spain.

Then finally: [email protected]

And she just sat there.

Fingers poised over the keys like a pianist who couldn’t remember the melody.

Until she finally wrote:

Hello,

I’m a current principal dancer at the Royal Ballet in London.

I’m considering relocating to Spain in the next year.

Would your school be open to a visiting artist or guest instructor position for the upcoming season?

Warmly,

—Y/N

No CV.

No big flourish.

Just an open door. Slightly ajar.

Later that night, her father called. FaceTime, as always.

“You look pale,” he said, “but dramatic. Good combination.”

Y/N smirked. “Been a long week.”

“You saw your Spanish footballer?”

“Yes.”

He squinted. “Did you cry again?”

“No.”

“Then it went well.”

She laughed softly, curling into the sofa. “I emailed a school in Madrid.”

His face lit up. “So the stubborn ballerina admits she might not live on stage forever.”

“I’ve never lived on stage. Just hid there.”

He nodded. “Madrid is nice. They have jamón. And sun. And maybe… future.”

Y/N looked out the window.

Rain again.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said quietly.

“You’re not dying yet,” he replied. “You’re just changing. That’s allowed.”

Alexia

Some traditions didn’t fade.

This little bar in Gràcia — the one tucked behind a bakery that somehow always smelled of anise and fried secrets — was one of them.

Tonight, they were six: Alexia, Marta, Irene, Caroline, Jana and Leila.

Vermut was on the table. So were olives.

So were memories that refused to get old.

“¿Os acordáis del partido contra Lyon?” (Do you remember the match against Lyon?) Irene was saying. “When Marta got that yellow for shoving someone twice her size?”

“No me arrepiento,” (I have no regrets) Marta replied, calm as sin.

“She stepped on your foot,” Caroline noted, unimpressed.

“She breathed near me,” Marta corrected.

Jana grinned. “Vibes-based fouling. I respect that.”

Then came Leila Ouahabi. She has missed a few of the recent gatherings, but she made it that day.

She walked in like she’d never left the game — long coat, AirPods still in, looking half-deal, half-chaos. But instead of cleats, she carried contracts now.

“Hola, mis reinas,” she announced, switching her AirPods off with flair. “Perdón. One academy deal in Paris, one striker in Bilbao crying about her TikTok clause.”

Alexia stood to hug her. “Eres insufrible.” (You’re insufferable.)

“Y tú, still dramatic,” Leila replied, kissing both her cheeks. “You still walk like you’re wearing the armband.”

“Muscle memory,” Alexia said, smirking.

“Retired, not erased,” Marta added.

They all laughed.

Leila slid into the booth beside Jana, unrolling her scarf. “So, what’s the chisme tonight? Or are you all behaving?”

“Mostly reminiscing,” Irene said. “Until someone—” she side-eyed Jana, “—decided we need another holiday.”

“Girls’ trip?” Leila asked, half a tortilla chip already in her mouth. “Yo estoy dentro. Ibiza or Mallorca?” (I’m in…)

“Ibiza,” Jana said, typing aggressively into her phone. “Aggie’s off-season overlaps. Y/N might be able to come. Patri’s in. Bruna replied to my text with thirteen emojis and a photo of a flamingo pool float, and Bruna sent a thumbs up.”

“That’s practically a blood oath,” Caroline said.

“Sí, sí,” Leila nodded. “I’ll bring the vibes. And sunscreen. And maybe one or two future clients. But not like… agent agent. Just… chill agent.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “There is no such thing.”

“True. I will absolutely poach Patri if Manchester City ever makes her an offer.”

Marta deadpanned, “You’ll lose teeth.”

Irene raised her glass. “To the agent life.”

Caroline added, “To aging disgracefully.”

“To remembering who we are,” Jana said quietly. “And who we still get to be. Together.”

Alexia looked around the table.

At faces that had carried her through years of glory and collapse.

At the women who’d seen her joy, her ACLs, her press conferences, her heartbreak.

This—

This was the team that still mattered.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time for Y/N to see this part of her too.

Y/N

She wasn’t expecting the voice note.

It came through while she was brushing her teeth, mid-scroll through nonsense — one ballet meme, one news article about Russia’s weather being too Russian, and a video of a raccoon stealing someone’s baguette in Paris.

And then: Alexia’s voice.

“Hola, mi amor. I want to tell you something. Is not serious. Bueno… maybe. Jana said we should do a trip. Ibiza. The girls, their… novias, parejas, lovers. You know. Aggie is coming. And I think… I want you to come too.”

There was a pause. Then:

“You don’t have to decide now. I just… quiero que lo pienses, vale? I want you there. With me.” (…I want you to think about it, okay…)

She stared at the waveform.

Replayed it twice.

She could still hear the tiny nervous smile in Alexia’s words. Like she was offering not just a vacation, but… entry.

Later that night, she replied.

How many flamingo floaties are too many?

Alexia responded instantly:

I will bring seven. You, only swimwear. And sunscreen. And maybe some grace for my English.

Y/N laughed. But her hand trembled as she typed.

The truth was, the idea of Ibiza — of being in close proximity to all of Alexia’s past and present — made her want to retreat into an orchestra pit and never resurface.

She imagined it too clearly.

The Barça legends.

Their perfect sun-drenched tans.

Their inside jokes and locker room Spanish and slightly terrifying emotional fluency.

She imagined trying to explain why she didn’t drink much, why she didn’t stay up late, why she flinched when her calf twitched even slightly.

Why she could dance Giselle until her soul bled, but couldn’t promise her body would last the next five years.

She imagined trying to be normal.

Trying to be enough.

And then she imagined Alexia’s hand in hers.

And how it had always been warm. Steady.

How she’d never once asked her to explain anything she wasn’t ready to say.

She booked the leave.

Ordered a new black one-piece that made her feel a little less like a ghost.

She told her father over FaceTime.

“You? Holiday? Voluntarily?”

“Shocking, I know.”

He sipped his tea. “Wear sunglasses. Spanish sun makes English daughters stupid.”

“And Russian fathers smug?”

“Always.”

The night before she flew, she stared at her suitcase.

Packed and repacked.

Then finally, tucked one thing in the side pocket — a book her mother used to love. Slim and dog-eared.

Just in case the silence got too loud.

Just in case the world tried to convince her she didn’t belong.

She texted Alexia before boarding.

I’m coming. Don’t let Jana schedule group yoga at sunrise. I will rebel.

Alexia replied:

You already belong. See you soon, mi bailarina.

Alexia

Alexia stood in her kitchen, phone jammed between her ear and shoulder, one hand trying to wrestle her suitcase closed while the other held a Tupperware full of sunscreen, mosquito spray, and — inexplicably — a packet of chuches she swore she didn’t buy.

“Leila,” she sighed into the phone. “Si Patri trae a su altavoz otra vez, I will throw it into the sea.” (…If Patri brings her speaker again…)

“Let her!” Leila replied, far too cheerful for 9:00 AM. “We need the energy. Ibiza is about chaos.”

“I need sleep. You need therapy.”

“Says la que brought the ballerina.” (Says the one who…)

Alexia paused. “She has a name.”

“I know, I just like watching you go soft when I mention her.”

Alexia nearly dropped the sunscreen. “Shut up.”

“¿Está confirmada?”

“Sí. She comes.”

Leila whistled. “Uff. Brave. You know this group is… not normal.”

“I warned her.”

“Still. I’ll keep Patri and Ona from interrogating her. No promises about Bruna.”

Alexia hung up before Leila could name-drop more group chats.

Later that day, Alba barged in.

“¿Qué haces con esa cara de funeral?” she said, plopping herself onto Alexia’s couch with a yoghurt drink. (What are you doing with that funeral face?)

“Estoy empacando.” (I’m packing.)

“Sí, I can see. You fold like an accountant.”

“You pack like an animal.”

Alba grinned. “I booked a ticket.”

Alexia blinked. “Perdón?”

“IBIZA, hermana. You didn’t invite me, rude. So I invited myself. More merrier, no?”

“You’re not bringing your date, right?”

“Too early. She thinks Ibiza is a brand of tequila.”

Alexia groaned. “Alba…”

“Relax. I’ll behave. Besides, someone has to make sure la bailarina doesn’t get overwhelmed by your football cult.”

“She’s not overwhelmed,” Alexia said — too fast, too defensive.

Alba just smirked. “I’m bringing cards. And sunscreen. And judgement.”

The group chat exploded that night:

LEILA:

All set. Villa confirmed. Bruna called dibs on the biggest float. Patri threatened to sabotage the AC if she doesn’t get the room with the sea view.

JANA:

Aggie just asked if we’ll see dolphins. I told her maybe and now she’s googling snorkels.

ONA:

Dibs on the hammock. I will fight.

ALBA:

Ya voy. Intenta no morirte de la sorpresa. Que alguien traiga sangría.

(I'm coming. Try not to die of surprise. Someone get sangria.)

ALEXIA:

This is not a retreat. This is a hazard.

Y/N:

I’m deeply underqualified but fully committed. See you all soon.

Alexia smiled at the screen.

Let her thumb hover above the keyboard for a second longer.

Then she typed:

She’s coming with me. I don’t need this to be perfect. I just want her to see the version of me that laughs this much.

And hit send.

Third person

Caroline and Marta politely declined - citing to many Gen Zs around - they prefer a chill getaway instead, knowing that it will be hectic. Irene uses her son, Matteo as an excuse - to miss the craziness.

Whilst the group was upset, the trip continued as planned.

Ibiza didn’t welcome them with glamour.

It welcomed them with wind, late luggage, and a taxi driver who refused to believe Bruna was over 18.

The villa was tucked behind terraced hills, sun-drenched and faintly smelling of sea salt, sunscreen, and too many women with too many opinions.

The rooms filled in minutes.

Leila and Patri commandeered the sea view, citing seniority and emotional manipulation respectively. Ona won the hammock by physical threat. Jana and Aggie tucked themselves into a room with matching swimsuits and playlists full of indie acoustic covers that made everyone else want to scream.

Y/N arrived later — the last to land — suitcase in hand, hair tucked behind her ears, and that elegant stillness she wore like a second skin.

She didn’t know what she expected.

She hadn’t expected this.

Not Leila teaching everyone how to open a bottle of wine with a sneaker.

Not Alba sunbathing in socks and accusing people of being mainstream.

Not Alexia looking like she hadn’t stopped smiling since Y/N stepped onto the patio.

“Hola,” Alexia said, kissing her cheek.

“You look… sun-kissed.”

“Burning,” Alexia replied. “But in a cute way.”

Y/N glanced at the chaos — the flamingo float deflating mid-pool, Bruna and Ona bickering over who could do a better underwater handstand, Patri setting up a Bluetooth speaker like it was her job. Jana and Aggie staring at one another with dopey smiles. Whilst Leila was on call, sounding agitated and desperate to escape. Alba was the surprisingly calm one, working on her tan as she was sprawled on the lounge chair.

“You weren’t exaggerating,” she murmured.

“No. They are… a lot.”

“I like them,” Y/N admitted. “They’re… terrifying.”

Alexia grinned. “They’re family.”

Y/N smiled faintly. It was the first time she felt it.

Not like an outsider peeking in, but someone being handed a small space in the noise.

That night, after a grilled dinner cooked by half the group in chaotic rotation, they sprawled across cushions under fairy lights. Someone started a game of “Who had the worst ex,” and Aggie won by telling a story that involved a parrot, an ex-girlfriend, and a football injury she refused to elaborate on.

Y/N found herself curled next to Alexia, wine glass balanced, the hum of Catalan and Spanish and broken English rolling around her like music.

She didn’t understand every joke.

But she understood the laughter.

And Alexia’s hand on her knee.

And the way Leila leaned over, smiled, and said, “You’re brave, you know. Not everyone walks into this circus and stays.”

“I’ve met worse,” Y/N replied. “I used to dance with a man who thought warm-up was for cowards.”

Leila laughed. “You’re one of us now.”

She didn’t know if that was true.

But for once, she didn’t need certainty.

She had sunburnt shoulders and a heart that wasn’t folding under fear.

She had Alexia’s quiet warmth beside her.

And she had tomorrow —another day in the sun.

Alexia

The others were laughing over something inside — Ona yelling “¡Trampa!” at Bruna while Patri accused everyone of cheating at a card game Alexia was pretty sure Leila had invented on the spot.

But she and Y/N had slipped outside.

No announcement. No fanfare. Just the silent kind of pull that required nothing but the act of following.

They sat on the edge of the pool, bare feet grazing the water. The stars were gentle overhead, not showing off, just there — like old friends who didn’t need to be spectacular to be comforting.

Y/N hugged her knees. She wore one of Alexia’s sweatshirts. The sleeves swallowed her hands.

“Too loud in there?” Alexia asked.

“No, just… I like outside better. Fewer rules.”

Alexia nodded. “And less alcohol.”

Y/N smirked. “Also that.”

A beat passed.

Then Y/N leaned into her side, shoulder to shoulder.

“I like your friends,” she said, softly.

Alexia tilted her head. “Even Leila?”

“She’s aggressively persuasive. But really sweet.”

“She was like that as a teammate too. Once kicked my shin because I didn’t pass her. Off the field - good vibes.”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “Romantic.”

Alexia looked over. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“Not sad. Just… full. Like my heart is digesting too much.”

Alexia didn’t say anything, but her hand found Y/N’s under the sweatshirt sleeve. Her fingers were always cold. Y/N’s, always warm.

She whispered, “Estás bien aquí?” (You’re fine here?)

Y/N didn’t respond right away. Just watched the water ripple, catching slivers of moonlight.

Then: “Yes. I feel like I’ve stepped into something that existed long before me… and somehow, it doesn’t spit me out.”

“You fit,” Alexia said. “Even if you don’t think so yet.”

Another pause.

A quieter kind of vulnerability.

“I know you’ll move to Madrid,” Alexia said eventually, “and I know is not… close-close. But is still Spain. Still hours, not countries. I’m happy.”

“I didn’t pick Madrid because of you,” Y/N said honestly.

“I know.”

“But I didn’t not pick it because of you either.”

Alexia let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

“Gracias,” she said.

“For what?”

“For letting this… be real. I know is hard.”

“It’s not hard,” Y/N said. “It’s just new. And I’m out of rehearsal metaphors.”

Alexia smiled, leaned in, kissed her slowly. It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t even about wanting more.

It was about anchoring.

“Te quiero,” Alexia murmured against her cheek. “No pressure. Just truth.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away.

She just rested her head on Alexia’s shoulder and whispered, “You’re my favourite accident.”

Alexia chuckled. “That’s… not so romantic.”

“It’s deeply romantic.”

They stayed outside long enough for the crickets to take over the soundtrack, for the shouting inside to fade into lazy hums of contentment.

There was no rush.

They had time.

Even if the world didn’t promise forever — tonight, it promised this.

Third person

On the last day, the villa held a certain quiet.

Not sadness, not quite. But the kind of hush that follows a laugh so loud your ribs ache — when you finally sit still and remember your body.

There was sand on the kitchen floor. Someone’s towel hanging from the lemon tree. The flamingo float had deflated overnight — Bruna had dryly remarked it “died in service.”

Patri brewed coffee like she was trying to win an award. Ona was sunburnt and pretending she wasn’t. Jana had braided Aggie’s hair into some elaborate pattern that made Leila stare and mutter, “Too domestic, disgusting.”

Alexia stood on the balcony, sipping her coffee. Y/N was still asleep, curled in her bed like punctuation. She’d stayed up late the night before, laughing too hard at something Alba had said, then falling silent again — in that way she did when too much joy slipped in all at once.

From above, Alexia could see it all.

The way Leila sat with Bruna, haggling over whether or not Bruna should sign with her once her Brighton contract ended. The way Ona snuck bits of pineapple off people’s plates. The way Jana leaned her head against Aggie’s and sighed like she forgot anyone else was watching.

And for a moment, it was like time folded into itself.

Like every version of them — the champions, the heartbreaks, the teenagers in cleats and shin guards, the women in swimsuits and bare feet — all coexisted on this lazy golden morning.

Y/N emerged sometime after noon.

Hair still wild from sleep, sweatshirt stolen again. She found Alexia in the hammock, legs swinging gently, trying to read and failing.

“Join me?” Alexia said, pushing her glasses up.

Y/N slid in carefully, their limbs folding together without effort.

They said nothing for a while. Just the sounds of summer and Leila’s awful playlist bleeding faintly from inside.

“I liked this,” Y/N said finally.

Alexia turned. “Ibiza?”

“Your people. Your… world.”

“I liked that you came.”

“I liked that I stayed.”

A beat.

“I’m glad I’m not a secret,” Y/N added, softer.

“You never were.”

Y/N didn’t smile right away. Then she did. Small. Real.

Alexia leaned in, whispered something in her ear that made her snort, slap her shoulder, and kiss her nose.

“Still awkward,” Y/N murmured.

“Always,” Alexia said proudly.

That night, before they left, Alba found a Polaroid camera no one remembered packing. She made everyone pose in pairs or threes, demanding funny face, then serious face, then fake crying face.

When it was Alexia and Y/N’s turn, Y/N tried to refuse. Said it was silly.

Then Alexia made a face so stupid Y/N burst out laughing mid-shot.

Click.

The photo came out blurry.

They both looked ridiculous.

It would be Y/N’s favourite photo for years.

Y/N

The theatre felt different in June.

Sweatier. More urgent. More final.

She could feel it in the way the stage creaked, how the rosin stuck to her slippers, how even the silence between movements felt like it was saying goodbye.

One more month.

A handful of performances.

And then, Madrid.

She said it to herself the way some people whispered prayers. Madrid. Not London. Not Moscow. Not even Paris, where she’d once dreamed of finishing her career.

Madrid — chosen not for ambition, but for proximity to a woman who made her laugh without trying and cry without pushing.

Alexia.

And for once, the decision didn’t feel like a compromise.

She hadn’t told many people yet. Her colleagues assumed she’d simply be taking a sabbatical — a rest before the next season. She let them believe it. She wasn’t ready for long explanations or soft goodbyes.

Her body had begun to whisper small betrayals. Nothing drastic. Just tightness where there should’ve been ease. The occasional tremble. The ever-present hum of not knowing what day the real decline would begin.

She rehearsed anyway.

Danced like she still had twenty years in her.

Because that’s what it had always been — defiance disguised as grace.

The letter came tucked inside her suitcase.

She found it while packing rehearsal tights and a cracked water bottle.

Folded in half. No envelope. Just her name scrawled in Russian and English.

From Papa.

You are not running from anything, finally.

You are walking toward. That is good. That is brave.

Madrid is not a punishment. Ballet will miss you.

But it will miss the woman you were, not the one you are becoming.

Let it.

Also — tell the footballer I said to feed you more. You look like an elegant matchstick.

She laughed through a tear.

Typical.

The last dress rehearsal ended with a standing ovation from the crew — not for the performance, but because someone had brought cake, and dancers are creatures of sugar and starvation.

Y/N sat on the edge of the stage, hair damp with sweat, tights sticking to her skin. She stared at the seats, empty now.

She’d memorised every creak of this space. Every rigging line, every shadow. And she was leaving it.

Not fleeing. Not flinching.

Leaving. By choice.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Alexia.

Tienes tiempo para llamar esta noche? No es urgente. Just… miss your voice.

(Do you have time to call tonight? It's not urgent…)

Y/N replied:

Always. Let me wash off the theatre first.

Then she paused. Typed again:

I’m almost ready to begin again.

__________________________________________

Continue to Part 3

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso x reader #jana fernandez #leila ouahabi #marta torrejon #caroline graham hansen #irene paredes #aggie beever jones #rpf

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ruebossanova · 21 hours ago

Text

professor o'connell: the mini series - 3

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

summary: the rain outside brought them close under a single umbrella again, a moment of unspoken tension broken only by billie's sudden distance. a brief, almost clinical text from billie followed, leaving liora to wonder what had shifted. their next music room session was more reserved, with billie revealing her teaching motivation. a brief, accidental touch of hands reignited the fragile connection, but billie quickly pulled away, emphasizing boundaries, leaving liora to navigate the lingering silence and the unspoken question of what had changed.

masterlist

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

monday felt sharper than usual.

the sky outside was pale and flat, clouds stretched thin like paper, and the classroom lights buzzed faintly above the hum of conversation. liora sat in her usual seat, back straight, notebook open, pen idle between her fingers.

she hadn't spoken to billie since the rain. since the umbrella. since the soft brush of fingers against her temple like it was nothing. except it wasn't.

billie walked in just as the clock hit the hour, dressed in black jeans and a rust-colored tee under an open flannel, sleeves rolled to her elbows. her hair was half up, strands tucked behind one ear, eyes shadowed in a way that didn't look tired, just distant.

liora watched her from under her lashes.

billie didn't look back.

"okay," she said, setting her laptop down. "new assignment. this one's gonna be weird."

someone in the front groaned. billie smirked, just a little.

"you're working in pairs. or trios, if you're scared of intimacy."

that got a few laughs. liora's heart jumped.

"the goal's simple: take a piece of music — any genre, any decade, i don't care — and write something with it. inspired by it, woven through it, around it. a spoken word piece. lyrics. a duet. even just a mood board with voiceover. whatever feels honest."

liora scribbled down the instructions. her hand trembled slightly.

"you'll perform or present in three weeks," billie continued. "live, in class. i know, terrifying. you'll survive."

billie started reading out names from a list on her phone. liora's name didn't come until the very end.

"rai, you were paired with dua jenkins, but she dropped the course this morning," billie said, eyes skimming the list. "so you'll either get reassigned or—"

she paused. looked up.

and something shifted.

"—i'll help you brainstorm until you do."

liora blinked.

billie moved on to the next names without further comment, but the words sat heavy in the air.

until you do.

like a promise. or a threat. or something worse — hope.

by the time class ended, liora hadn't heard anything else. not really. just her own pulse and the faint memory of rain in her ears.

as everyone filed out, she lingered again, just a little. but billie didn't ask her to stay.

she just looked up once, right before liora walked out, and said softly, "wednesday. after class. music room four."

liora nodded.

and left.

her whole body humming.

the hallway was dim when liora arrived.

music building four was older than the rest — narrower halls, soundproofed doors, yellowing floors that creaked just enough to make everything feel more secret. the overhead lights flickered in the corners, and the carpet smelled like varnish and dust.

liora stood outside the door for a second before knocking.

a soft voice from inside: "yeah."

she pushed it open.

the room was small, lit only by a single floor lamp in the corner, its light warm and low. thick rugs covered most of the space, muffling footsteps. a beat-up upright piano sat against one wall, and billie sat on the floor next to it, cross-legged, a notebook in her lap and a half-empty iced coffee beside her.

she looked up, and for a second, she just stared.

not surprised. not cold.

just looked at her. like she was trying to place her in a song.

"hey," she said. quiet.

liora nodded and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. the click echoed too loudly. she sat down a few feet away, legs tucked underneath her.

"you're on time," billie said, almost teasing.

"i was early," liora said before she could stop herself. "i walked around the building first."

billie's mouth tugged slightly. not quite a smile. "why?"

liora picked at a thread on her sleeve. "nerves, i think."

billie's gaze dropped to her hands for a second. "don't be nervous. this is just… ideas. that's all."

"it doesn't feel like just anything."

another pause. longer this time. billie leaned back on her palms, eyes soft.

"you always talk like that?" she asked.

"like what?"

"like the words are heavier than you."

liora looked down. "sorry."

"don't be. it's rare."

the silence between them stretched.

billie reached behind her and pulled her notebook closer. flipped to a page.

"so," she said, changing gears. "any song stuck in your head lately?"

liora hesitated. then: "'mirrorball.' by taylor swift."

billie's eyebrows lifted slightly. "interesting."

"what?"

"nothing," she said. "just… that song's all vulnerability and no armor. wasn't expecting it from you."

liora tucked her hair behind her ear, self-conscious. "should i pick something else?"

"no," billie said gently. "i like it."

she stood, moved to the piano, and tapped out the opening chords—soft, simple, imperfect.

liora watched her hands move. long fingers, unpainted nails. quiet control.

"you play by ear?" liora asked.

"mostly."

"i could never do that."

billie glanced at her. "you could. you just haven't tried hard enough."

liora felt the words land somewhere deeper than they should've.

billie kept playing. same phrase, over and over. it filled the room with a low, longing echo.

then she stopped. turned on the bench. rested her elbow on the keys.

"what does that song mean to you?" she asked.

liora swallowed. "it sounds like being looked at. and still feeling invisible."

billie's eyes lingered.

"write that down," she said softly.

liora blinked. "what?"

"that sentence. 'looked at and still feeling invisible.' write it down before you forget."

liora reached into her bag and pulled out her journal. flipped to a blank page.

her hand trembled slightly as she wrote.

billie watched her.

"good," she said. quiet again. "it's honest."

liora didn't look up. she couldn't.

because the space between them was too full. of music. of words. of everything they weren't saying.

they stayed another forty minutes.

talking about songs, writing down fragments, humming melodies under their breath. at one point, billie leaned so close that liora could smell the faint warmth of coffee on her breath. at another, liora forgot what she was saying because she was watching billie's hands — long fingers tapping rhythm against her notebook, absentminded, like music just lived under her skin.

by the time they stood to leave, the room felt smaller. quieter. like something had shifted, but neither of them wanted to look at it too closely.

liora followed her out into the hallway. it was darker now. cooler. the windows near the stairwell rattled softly, and outside—

rain.

not a drizzle. not a storm. that steady, soaking kind of rain that turned the pavement to mirrors and made everything smell like wet leaves and metal.

billie stopped at the door. sighed.

"of course."

she reached into her bag, pulled out a small black umbrella — barely big enough for one.

"guess we're getting cozy," she said, not quite teasing.

liora's pulse skipped.

"you don't have to—" she started, but billie was already unfolding the umbrella and opening the door with her other hand.

"come on, rai."

and something about the way she said her name — rai, not liora — low and familiar, like a nickname she'd always had but never heard aloud, made liora move without thinking.

they stepped out together. close. too close. the umbrella barely covered them. their arms brushed. their hands almost touched. their footsteps were the only sound besides the hush of rain all around them.

billie didn't say anything at first. neither did liora.

the world around them blurred — buildings, trees, the dim glow of a streetlamp through fog. everything softened, except the air between them.

then billie said, "you're a little stormy, you know."

liora blinked. "what?"

billie looked straight ahead. "you carry things. quietly. but loud."

liora didn't answer. she couldn't.

a few more steps. a few more seconds of shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath.

they reached the door to liora's dorm. the light above it buzzed faintly, flickering in and out like it didn't want to interrupt.

billie turned to her. close now, the umbrella still above them.

a drop of rain slid from her hairline down to her cheek. liora reached out — without thinking, barely breathing — and wiped it away with the side of her finger.

billie didn't move. just watched her.

"you're wet," she said, stupidly.

billie huffed a breath of a laugh. "so are you."

they stood there, suspended in a moment too fragile to name.

then billie stepped back. lowered the umbrella.

"get some sleep, rai."

she said it gently, but there was something tight in it. something held back.

then she turned. walked into the rain without looking back.

liora didn't move for a long time. not until the sky cracked with lightning in the distance. not until the space beside her went cold again.

the rain had stopped sometime after midnight, but liora hadn't noticed. she lay in bed with her eyes open, headphones in, the same song looping for hours — soft strings, minimal lyrics, too much space between the notes.

her roommate snored faintly from the other side of the room. outside, the world was still damp, sidewalks glossy under lamplight. everything smelled like wet concrete and the inside of a coat that had been worn too long.

she couldn't stop thinking about billie.

about the umbrella.

about the way her hand had lifted — instinctive, gentle — to wipe a drop of rain from billie's cheek.

about the way billie hadn't flinched. hadn't smiled. hadn't looked away.

and then she had.

walked off like it hadn't happened.

like it didn't mean anything.

liora turned onto her side, pulled the blanket over her head, and whispered the words she hadn't said out loud:

"you felt it too."

except maybe she hadn't. maybe liora had imagined the weight behind the glances, the softness in her voice, the quiet way she said rai like she was letting her guard down.

maybe liora had misread the moment.

by morning, her chest felt hollow.

she dressed without thinking — jeans, hoodie, no makeup. her braid was loose, uneven. she didn't care.

the classroom smelled like old coffee and dry marker. the lights buzzed again. students filtered in, sleepy and slow. liora sat down in her usual seat. second from the front. notebook closed. pen resting flat against the desk.

the door opened.

billie walked in.

no umbrella this time. no music in her ears. she looked the same, mostly — loose cardigan, vintage tee, high-waisted trousers, boots with worn laces — but her expression was unreadable. she didn't glance at liora. didn't pause. just moved to the desk and opened her laptop like it was any other day.

liora watched her.

billie didn't look up.

not once.

not even when she said, "okay, let's start."

something in liora's stomach tightened.

class moved on like nothing had happened.

billie taught the same way — hands steady, voice low and sure. she talked about dissonance in harmony, how contrast in tone could mirror contrast in narrative. she played a clip from a nina simone performance and wrote fracture = tension on the board in uneven print.

she didn't call on liora. didn't say her name. didn't even look in her direction.

liora stopped taking notes after the first ten minutes.

her pen hovered. her throat ached.

the room felt colder than usual.

when the clock hit the hour, billie closed her laptop with a soft click and said, "that's it for today."

students rustled to their feet. bags zipped. someone dropped a water bottle, and it clattered across the tile.

liora didn't move.

she waited. waited for billie to say something. to glance her way. to nod or lift a hand or—anything.

but billie just packed her things and walked out.

not fast. not cold.

just… deliberate.

and liora sat there, staring at the door like it had betrayed her.

something had shifted.

and it wasn't just the weather.

liora spent the afternoon in the library, though she didn't read a single page.

her notebook sat open beside a stack of untouched textbooks, half-filled with words she couldn't finish. fragments. lines that started strong and fizzled. metaphors that felt thin. everything sounded fake when she read it back.

her phone sat face-down next to her laptop, screen dark.

she tried not to touch it.

failed.

at 3:47, she flipped it over, opened messages, and stared at the empty thread longer than she meant to.

thank you for earlier

she typed it. deleted it. typed it again. added a period. removed it.

finally, she hit send.

and instantly regretted it.

it felt too small. too exposed. too late.

she tucked her phone under her leg like hiding it would undo the message.

forty-two minutes passed.

nothing.

by then she had changed study locations twice. her brain refused to stay still. she'd reread the same sentence in a textbook about five times before realizing she had no idea what it said.

finally, at 4:29, her phone buzzed.

billie: anytime

that was it.

no punctuation. no emoji. not even her name.

just: anytime.

liora stared at it like it might mean something else if she tilted the screen.

it didn't.

it felt polite. casual. nothing.

but it didn't read casual. not to her.

she reread it. once. twice. ten times.

maybe it was kindness. maybe it was distance. maybe billie had meant it as a brush-off — soft and neutral.

or maybe she didn't know what to say.

either way, it sank like a stone in liora's stomach.

her roommate came in around five, dropped her bag on the floor, and said, "you good?"

liora nodded. "just tired."

"you look like you're being haunted."

liora gave a weak smile. "maybe i am."

later that night, she pulled out her violin for the first time in weeks.

she didn't tune it. didn't set up the stand. just held it.

the strings were out of pitch. the bow felt wrong in her hand. but she didn't care.

she played mirrorball from memory — slow, quiet, full of hesitations.

not perfect. not even close.

but honest.

afterward, her fingers were sore.

her phone stayed silent.

and the only thing louder than the music was the question still echoing in her chest:

what had changed?

and why did it hurt so much?

the hallway outside music room four smelled like dust and leftover coffee. the overhead lights flickered in their usual way — too yellow, too dim — and the linoleum under liora's boots squeaked once when she shifted her weight.

she stood outside the door for almost a full minute before knocking.

a pause. then billie's voice, muffled but clear: "yeah."

liora opened the door slowly.

the room looked exactly the same as before — warm lamplight, worn rugs, upright piano tucked against the far wall. billie sat on the floor again, one knee pulled up, her arm draped over it, notebook balanced in her lap.

she looked up.

not surprised. not smiling. just… there.

present, but distant.

liora stepped inside. closed the door behind her.

"hi," she said softly.

"hey."

billie's voice was even. unreadable.

liora crossed the room, sank into the same spot as last time. a few feet apart. close, but not close enough.

silence stretched between them like thread. fine, taut, fragile.

billie didn't look at her notebook. just stared at the rug, tapping her pen against the corner.

"you bring anything?" she asked after a moment.

liora nodded, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her bag. "just a start."

billie reached for it.

their fingers didn't touch this time.

she read it silently. her eyes moved slowly, like she was hearing it more than reading. then she handed it back.

"i like the part about the sky cracking," she said. "it felt lived in."

"it was," liora said before thinking.

billie looked at her, just briefly. "when?"

"friday night."

another pause.

billie nodded once, like that explained everything.

then she stood, moved to the piano, and played the first few bars of mirrorball again — slower this time. hesitant. like memory.

"you've been quiet," liora said, not looking at her.

billie kept playing. her fingers didn't falter.

"you noticed."

"kind of hard not to."

another note rang out. then silence.

billie let her hand fall into her lap. "sorry."

liora looked up. "why?"

a beat passed. billie didn't answer right away.

then, quieter: "just been in my head."

liora hesitated. then: "about what?"

billie's jaw moved slightly. not a smile. not a frown.

"boundaries."

the word hung between them like smoke.

liora's heart kicked once, then stalled.

she nodded. slowly. "right."

billie looked at her. eyes soft. "not because of you."

liora didn't answer.

billie set her hands on the keys again. didn't play. just rested there.

"it's easy to forget i'm the adult in the room," she said quietly.

liora's throat tightened.

"i'm not trying to make it hard," she whispered.

"i know."

the air felt thinner. sharper. like they were walking a wire.

liora stared at the floor. "can i ask you something?"

billie didn't move. "yeah."

"what made you want to teach?"

billie's eyes lifted, surprised by the question.

she leaned back, folding her arms loosely. "honestly?"

"always."

a faint smile tugged at the corner of billie's mouth.

"because i hated school," she said. "and music was the only thing that made me feel like i wasn't wasting oxygen."

liora blinked. "so you came back to it?"

"came back. stayed close. took the long way around."

billie looked down at her lap.

"i thought if i taught it right, maybe someone else wouldn't feel as invisible as i did."

liora swallowed.

billie met her eyes.

and for a second, the room wasn't a room.

it was something else. something suspended. quiet. waiting.

then billie looked away.

"we should probably work," she said, voice lower now. "before the weird tension ruins the whole project."

liora almost laughed.

almost.

but instead, she nodded.

and they started again. they worked in near silence for fifteen minutes.

billie sketched lines in her notebook — phrases, shapes, chord progressions, arrows pointing from one emotion to another like a map that almost made sense. liora sat cross-legged, watching, sometimes adding a word, sometimes striking one out. the energy between them was fragile. effortful. like trying to fold paper that was already damp.

"this line," billie said finally, tapping the page, "feels too neat. you ever feel something that wasn't pretty?"

liora frowned. "all the time."

"then write like that."

"i thought that's what i was doing."

billie looked up. her eyes were sharper now.

"no," she said. "you're writing like you want it to make sense."

"and that's bad?"

"it's not real."

liora's mouth tightened. "it's my real."

silence.

billie sat back, resting her weight on one hand. her expression didn't change, but something in her shoulders did — a pull, a shift.

"i'm not trying to rewrite your voice," she said, quieter now.

liora swallowed the defensive heat rising in her throat. "i know. i just—i don't always know what the realest version sounds like. sometimes i have to clean it up to even look at it."

billie blinked once.

and then the tension dropped.

not all of it. just enough.

"yeah," she said. softer. "i get that."

liora looked down at the notebook between them. her fingers were curled too tightly around her pen.

"sorry," she murmured.

billie shook her head. "don't be."

they sat there a moment longer. the lamp buzzed faintly in the corner. outside, the rain had started again — softer this time, more like a hush than a warning.

liora reached for her water bottle. missed. her hand brushed billie's instead.

they both froze.

not a dramatic freeze. just… still.

billie looked down at their hands. then up at liora.

"you okay?" she asked. not as a teacher. not even as a friend.

just as billie.

liora nodded.

but she didn't pull her hand away.

neither did billie.

the moment lasted three seconds. maybe four.

then billie exhaled — slow, steady — and stood.

"we should call it for today," she said, not quite meeting her eyes.

liora nodded again. stood too. packed her things without speaking.

at the door, billie paused. one hand on the knob. her back to liora.

"you didn't do anything wrong," she said.

liora stared at the back of her head. at the slope of her shoulder. at the way her hand tensed slightly against the metal.

"okay," she said.

billie opened the door.

the hallway was dim.

the silence followed liora all the way home.

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

tags; @bxllxebxtch @st0nerlesb0 @dousleepanymore @mxmsuki

#billieeilish #billie #billie ellish lyrics #billie x reader #billie fanfiction #billie eilish smut #billie eilish #eilish #happier than ever #hit me hard and soft #hmhas billie eilish #billie eilish fan fic #billie eilish x female reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x reader #wlw

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icycoldninja · 3 days ago

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hi!! This is my first time requesting from you! Could you pretty please do a dante x m! Reader where reader has like a revive/cloning ability? Dante doesn't know about it and then boom reader just 💀 and then BOOM hes alive (angst and fluff please hehe)

Oho yes

Dante x Male!Reader with the ability to revive himself headcannons

-Dante is always extremely protective of you, but not in the harsh, grouchy way that you might expect.

-He doesn't restrict you from doing things, but rather follows you everywhere, from the grocery store to a simple, local mission, making comments and jokes that no one asked for along the way.

-He only does this because he wants to make sure he's never absent when you're in danger. He knows keeping you completely safe is impossible, since demons are constantly hunting relatives of Sparda and their associates, but he still wants to protect you as best he can, and the best way to do that, in his mind, is to hover over you wherever you go.

-One day, you two were dispatched to a particularly nasty battlefield where literal droves of powerful demons immediately set their sights on you the moment you showed up.

-Dante had never been so powerless. One second, you were there, weapon at the ready and on the verge of attacking the nearest creature; the next, you were gone, swallowed up by a flood of snarling, bloodthirsty beasts.

-Panic quickly overtaking him, Dante hacked his way through the throng, trying everything he could to get to you, but no matter how hard he fought, the sea of bodies was seemingly endless. He couldn't see you anymore, couldn't hear you, and was afraid he'd lost you forever.

-Seeing a piece of fabric lying on the ground—a piece of fabric that looked oddly like your clothes—scared him even more. He completely forgot about the things clawing at his back and raced towards it, barely managing to swallow a choked scream when he saw you lying in the middle of the stampede, surrounded by demon corpses, badly beaten and bleeding all over.

-With trembling hands, he scooped you up into his arms and searched for a pulse. There wasn't one. He lowered his ear to your nose and mouth, hoping to feel a weak puff of air, but felt nothing.

-Fully convinced that you were dead, Dante gently laid your body back down on the ground, gave you a tender kiss on the lips, whispered, "I love you", and immediately went berserk on the swarm of demons behind him.

-One Devil Trigger and about twenty seconds later, the battlefield is littered with the corpses of demons, and a blood-soaked Dante is slowly making his way back to where he left you, just in time to watch you stretch your legs, plant your feet firmly in the ground, and rise up like you're fucking possessed.

-Dante just stands there, frozen in place and capable only of watching as you brush the dirt off of your clothes, looking around, catching sight of him, then approaching.

-He can't believe you're actually alive—and doesn't, not until you smile at him and hold your arms out as if you were expecting a hug. His whole body trembling, he decides to take a few heavy steps forward and feels you slump into his embrace.

-He holds you close, stunned and unable to formulate a greeting, a witty joke, or anything in between. He doesn't even move until you pat him on the back and go "Miss me already? I was only gone for a few minutes."

-He doesn't understand how you're even alive and talking to him right now when he remembers so clearly having checked and confirmed your death. It's not until you kiss him on the cheek and explain you had a special ability did he finally put two and two together.

-So, you apparently had the power to resurrect yourself? Well, that's convienent. It's also terrifying, knowing that he might have to watch you die day after day, only to have you run back into his arms a few moments after.

-After squeezing you so tight you thought you might die again, Dante made you promise to always be careful, even if you could come back from the dead, because there was always a chance that one day, your powers would stop working.

-Of course, you're happy to humor him, because honestly, seeing your Dante, who is normally so bright and always ready with a corny quip, shaking like a puppy that had been left out in the rain broke your heart. You don't want to do that to him again.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc5 #devil may cry 5 #dante x reader #dmc dante #dante dmc #devil may cry 5 dante #dante devil may cry #devil may cry dante #dante sparda #dante #dante x male reader #dmc 5 #headcanons #headcannons #requested #thanks for requesting #icycoldninja writes

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honestsunmoon · 3 days ago

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Can you write a Dark Choco cookie x fem reader, like when he left Dark Enchantress cookie he found them as they were being attacked by some snow monsters and he proposed to them after many years spending time with each other ?? PLEASE PLEASE !!

My second request! Of course I can write this for you!

'sword of shadows,heart of light '

Dark choco cookie x fem!reader

---

Snow fell in thick, silent sheets across the mountain pass.

Dark Choco Cookie’s armor was dulled by time and battle, streaked with faint cracks and frost. His cursed sword hung heavy on his back, as if weighed not just by magic, but by guilt and memory. He had finally turned his back on the Dark Enchantress, walking away from the path of ruin he'd blindly followed for so long. The air was colder now—freer, yes, but also lonelier.

That was when he heard it—shouts. Cries for help, just faint enough that most wouldn’t catch them under the wind’s howl.

He drew his sword without hesitation.

---

You stood alone in the snow, bloodied and cornered by monstrous beasts made of ice and fangs. Your breath came in ragged bursts, your magic barely holding out against the growing storm. A final lunge from one of the creatures knocked you to your knees. You braced for the blow that never came.

With a roar that split the wind, a dark figure burst through the haze. A single stroke of his sword shattered the monster into frozen dust. The rest backed away, hissing, before fleeing into the storm.

You blinked up at him, dazed. He was terrifying—tall, cloaked in darkness, his crimson eyes glowing beneath his helm. Yet the moment his gaze met yours, something in him softened.

"...Are you alright?" he asked, voice rough but not unkind.

You nodded slowly. “...Who are you?”

“Someone trying to be better,” he said.

---

Years passed after that day.

Dark Choco stayed.

He never said why—not at first—but he remained by your side. He helped rebuild your village. He taught you how to fight. He learned to plant things, to cook, to sit in silence without guilt pressing on his shoulders. Slowly, the cruel edges of his past dulled in your presence.

You never pushed him to speak of what he'd done. You just stayed.

And that meant more than anything.

---

One winter night, under a star-bright sky, you both returned to the mountain pass where you first met.

There was no more war. No more monsters. Only the crunch of snow beneath your boots and the glow of lantern light on his dark armor.

He turned to you suddenly, looking nervous—a rare and strange expression for him.

“I once believed I was unworthy of peace,” he said. “Unworthy of love. But you… you made me feel like I could be more than what I was forged to be.”

He knelt down in the snow and held out a ring carved from obsidian and moonstone—simple, but warm with power and care.

“Will you be the one to share the rest of my days? Even if I still carry shadows?”

You stared at him, heart full.

And you smiled. “I’ve loved you with your shadows, Dark Choco. I’ll love you through the light too.”

He stood and wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if you were the only real thing in a world of fading frost.

---

And so, the former warrior of darkness found his redemption not in battle, but in the warmth of your hand in his, walking together through the snow, hearts beating as one.

---

Let me know if you like it!

#cookie run kingdom x reader #crk x reader #dark choco cookie #dark choco cookie x reader #x female reader

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anastasiareadsnwrites · 2 days ago

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Hi hi! Can I request something with anthony bridgerton x top male reader? Things getting heated between him and reader and him being a little tiny bit scared/hesitant bc of reader's size (I mean in both height and u know what...)

Eat Your Young ( Anthony Bridgerton x Top! Male! Reader)

Author's note: Very McSteamy, honestly I'm so sorry for the delay. And everything I'm really trying to get my requests down and most certainly a good idea

Summary:Anthony Bridgerton finds himself drawn to a taller, more dominant male reader. What starts as tension turns into something deeper as they share an intimate night together—full of hesitation, trust, and slow-burning passion.

Warning(s):Explicit sexual content, size kink, light size difference anxiety, emotional vulnerability, consensual intimacy, male x male.

The MAIN Masterlist

The Bridgerton Masterlist

It started with a glance.

Not just any glance-one that lingered just a second too long, one that was laced with the unspoken. One that should have been forgotten, ignored, brushed off like the hundred others that passed between lords and ladies at any given ball. But this? This was different.

Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of his family, prided himself on control. Poise. Measured reactions. He was not one to be caught staring.

And yet, there he was-shoulders tight beneath his fine waistcoat, jaw subtly flexing, dark eyes trailing the towering figure across the room. You. Taller than most, confident in the way you carried yourself, and with a voice smooth enough to slip under skin and settle deep in the marrow.

You had noticed him, of course. Everyone did. But unlike everyone else, you didn't fawn. You didn't flirt. You didn't try to corner him with flattery or conversation. You simply looked at him.

Like you knew him. Like you knew what he needed.

And that unsettled him.

The tension build over weeks. Subtle touched, fleeting glances, the occasional brush of fingers at the card table, or a barely-there press of your palm at the small of his back during a passing moment. It was enough to drive anyone mad. Enough to drive him mad.

And one evening, after too many drinks and too little resistance, he found himself alone with you.

The drawing room door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in with the weight of everything unspoken. The air was heavy-thick with expectation. He stood near the fireplace, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying desperately not to show the way his breath had quickened.

You approached slowly, your height casting a shadow across him as you stepped into his space. He looked up at you-eyes sharp but flickering, uncertain. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than you expected.

"You know this is... foolish," he said, though he didn't move away.

You didn't respond right away. You didn't need it. Your gaze alone was enough to make him shift-his fingers flexing at his sides, his breath hitching slightly as you stepped even closer.

"Is it?" you finally asked, voice low and calm, dipping into something darker.

Anthony's lips parted, but whatever retort he had planned died on his tongue as your hand lifted-slow, deliberate-and brushed along his jawline. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, then opened, wide and uncertain.

He could feel the difference in you. The strength behind your touch. The ease in which you loomed over him. There as no malice in it-only power. Confidence. It was intoxicating.

And terrifying.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, eyes darting between your mouth and your gaze. He hated how small he felt. How his body betrayed him with every breath, every beat of his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.

You noticed his hesitation.

You leaned in close, your voice a whisper against the shell of his ear.

"I'd never hurt you," you said. "Unless you wanted me to."

That made him shudder.

His breath came shakier now, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're so-...big."

The confession hung between you, thick and vulnerable. He hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not so honest.

You smiled.

"I know," you murmured.

And with that, your hands came to rest on his waist-not forceful, not demanding. Just present. Your touch grounded him. Held him in place when everything inside of him felt like it was spiraling out of control.

He looked up at you again. This time, there was heat behind the fear. A spark. Curiosity. Longing.

And then?

He nodded.

Just once.

The kind of permission that says: I'm scared. But I want this.

And you... you planned to give him everything.

You didn’t rush him.

You never did.

Your hands stayed steady on his waist, not tightening, not pushing. Just there. Grounding. Inviting. Like a silent promise: You lead. I follow.

But Anthony’s breath was ragged, and his eyes were still locked on yours—uncertain, hungry, terrified of that hunger. His hands trembled slightly at his sides until he finally moved one to rest on your chest. His palm was splayed over your heart, and he could feel the steady beat beneath—calm, patient, in sharp contrast to his own.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, half a breath, like a confession. “I think you know it.”

“I do,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “But I’d never be dangerous to you, Anthony.”

The sound of his name, spoken so reverently—so intimately—sent something fluttering low in his stomach.

Then your hand slipped into his, fingers weaving together, warm and sure.

“Come with me,” you said, your tone gentle. “We don’t have to do anything. But I want you to feel safe with me. That’s all.”

He hesitated for only a heartbeat.

And then… he followed.

—

The bedroom was quiet. The kind of quiet that thickens the air and makes every breath feel like a weight.

Candles glowed softly, casting amber light over the plush furnishings. The bed was large, and the moment Anthony saw it, he tensed.

You noticed.

“I’m not expecting anything,” you said, voice calm. “We can sit. Talk. Or not.”

But he didn’t let go of your hand.

Instead, he walked to the edge of the bed with you, lowering himself slowly until he sat—his posture still guarded, but his eyes finding yours again. “I’ve never felt… like this before. Like I might come undone just from someone looking at me.”

You stepped in between his knees, gently brushing his hair back with your fingers. He leaned into it instinctively. “That’s not weakness,” you murmured. “That’s trust trying to be born.”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed. “And if I’m… not ready for all of it?”

“Then I’ll kiss you,” you said softly. “And that’s all I’ll do. Until you ask for more.”

Anthony’s breath caught.

Your words were so simple. So easy. But they cracked something open in him.

“Please,” he whispered.

You leaned down slowly, your lips brushing his. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t ravenous. It was gentle. Soft enough to tremble against. And when he kissed you back, his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he was holding on for dear life.

You took your time. Let the kiss deepen gradually—letting him explore, letting him set the pace. Your hands rested on either side of his thighs, never straying, never rushing. And every time he gasped or tensed, you pulled back just slightly, grounding him with your touch and your voice.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered against his mouth.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged.

“I want you,” he admitted, almost brokenly. “But I’m scared of how much I do.”

You lifted his chin and kissed him again—this time firmer, more possessive, just enough to make him whimper into your mouth. “Then we go slow. Until you’re not scared anymore. And even then, I’ll ask. Every time.”

He shivered.

And that night, in the warmth of your bed, with the world outside forgotten, Anthony Bridgerton didn’t need to be Viscount. Didn’t need to lead. He only needed to feel.

And you made sure he did—every tender stroke, every whispered reassurance, every press of your lips to his skin. You showed him that surrender wasn’t weakness.

It was freedom.

Anthony’s breath was hot against your throat, his hands now clinging to your shirt like a lifeline. The kiss had deepened, grown heavier with want, but there was still that hesitation—an edge of nervousness that lingered in the way he trembled beneath your touch.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Still okay?” you asked, voice husky but gentle.

Anthony nodded, then whispered, “Yes… I just—God, you make me feel so small.”

You smirked faintly and brushed your thumb across his cheek. “That’s not a bad thing. Not when you trust the one holding you.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes dipping downward, unable to meet your gaze for a moment. “It’s not just the height,” he admitted quietly. “It’s all of you. You’re—” he stopped himself, cheeks flushed.

But you understood. Every inch of him was betraying the truth.

“I’ll take my time,” you promised, voice low and commanding, “but I want you to feel it. Every second.”

Then you kissed him again, deeper this time—your tongue sliding into his mouth, claiming, tasting. His lips parted so willingly for you, and the noise he made—half-whimper, half-moan—sent a rush of heat straight through you.

You gently pushed him down onto the bed, watching as his arms gave in and his back met the plush sheets. He looked up at you, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling fast beneath his linen shirt.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, fingers undoing the first few buttons.

Anthony flushed deeper. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut him off firmly. “And I’m going to show you.”

You took your time undressing him, layer by layer. The way his body shifted under your touch—the soft gasp when your hands brushed along his ribs, the slight arch of his back when your mouth found the skin over his collarbone—made your own restraint waver.

When he was bare beneath you, skin flushed and breathless, you could see the tension in his limbs. The way his thighs tensed, the nervous clench in his hands as he fidgeted with the bedding.

You leaned down, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “Tell me what you want.”

He hesitated, but then, voice tight, he breathed out, “I want to feel you. All of you.”

You kissed the side of his neck, then murmured against his skin, “Then relax for me, sweetheart.”

You let your hand trail lower, slow and measured, down his chest, past his navel, until it ghosted over the hard heat between his thighs. He whimpered—God, that sound—and spread his legs a little wider without even realizing it.

You wrapped your hand around him, firm but teasing, stroking slow. His head tipped back into the pillows, lips parted in a silent cry, chest rising with sharp, shaky breaths.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Let me hear you.”

He did. Every touch, every stroke had him gasping. When you finally pushed his legs back, opening him up gently, you could see the mix of need and fear in his eyes.

“You’re big,” he whispered again, voice barely there.

You kissed his knee, soothing. “And I’ll go slow.”

You reached for the oil, slicked your fingers, and began with feather-light touches. Teasing first, then pressing just enough to make him moan. You watched his face the entire time—every twitch of his brows, every flutter of his lashes, every breathless gasp.

“You’re doing so well for me,” you said, curling your fingers just enough to have him sobbing your name.

He was already shaking when you pulled back, lined yourself up, and paused.

“I need you to tell me you’re ready,” you murmured, voice tight with restraint.

“I’m ready,” he whispered, gripping your wrists. “Please.”

You pressed in slowly—inch by inch, letting him feel the stretch, the weight, the way your body claimed him. His back arched, legs trembling, mouth falling open in a strangled moan.

“F-Fuck—” he gasped, eyes shut tight.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered again. “Breathe. You’re taking me so well.”

Once you were fully sheathed inside him, you stilled, letting him adjust. He was gripping the sheets now, knuckles white, breath stuttering. You leaned down and kissed his temple, then his mouth, deep and slow, until his breathing evened out again.

And when you moved—slow at first, shallow thrusts—his voice broke around your name.

The rhythm built gradually. He clung to you, wrapped his legs around your waist, moaning into your mouth, gasping with every slow, deep thrust. You could feel the way he trembled beneath you, overwhelmed, split open, undone.

“You feel so good,” you groaned against his neck. “Tight. Perfect. Mine.”

He cried out at that—mine—and it pushed him closer to the edge.

The pace increased, just a little, just enough to make him sob. His body writhed under yours, pleasure and pressure building with every thrust, every whispered word, every kiss you gave him between moans.

When he came, it was with a shattered cry of your name—eyes glassy, mouth open, body clenching so hard around you that it nearly undid you.

You chased your own release with a few more thrusts, burying your face into his neck as you groaned low and deep, letting go with a raw intensity you hadn’t expected.

Afterward, the silence was thick with breath and heat. You didn’t pull away. You stayed wrapped around him, still inside, holding him as his body trembled through the aftershocks.

“Still with me?” you asked, voice hoarse.

He nodded slowly, dazed and flushed, eyes barely open. “Yes. Still… here.”

You kissed his forehead. “That was everything.”

Anthony hummed, nuzzling into your shoulder, weak and boneless and blissfully ruined. “You weren’t lying.”

“About what?”

“You took your time. And made me feel everything.”

#fanfic #bridgerton #x reader #reader insert #anthony bridgerton #x male reader #Anthony Bridgerton x male reader

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maskedbyghost · 3 months ago

Text

Part 3 of fuck buddies with Simon

You didn’t wear anything fancy. Just jeans, a sweater you didn’t have to think too hard about, and your hair pulled back because you didn’t have the energy to fight with it.

You weren’t even sure why you texted him. It was impulsive, sort of. A moment of weakness, maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t weak at all—maybe it was brave, letting him back in even just a little. You told yourself it was just coffee. Just a talk. Just two people who used to mean something meeting up like civil adults.

But your hands were shaking a little on the steering wheel the whole way there.

You parked down the block from the coffee shop, needing the walk to settle your nerves. It didn’t help. Your stomach was twisting up like it always used to when he’d come over—when you didn’t know if he was going to be gentle or cold, if he’d stay the night or leave without a word. You hated that the nerves felt the same now, even after everything.

When you pushed open the door to the café, the little bell overhead jingled like something out of a movie. And there he was—already sitting at a table near the window, back straight, fingers wrapped around a cup. He looked up as soon as you walked in, like he’d been watching for you, like he hadn’t taken his eyes off the door since he sat down.

And he smiled.

But something about it made your chest tighten. Your legs felt suddenly heavy, and you paused just inside the door, your fingers curling in the sleeves of your sweater like you needed something to hold onto. You stood there for maybe three seconds—maybe four—and then you turned around.

You couldn’t do this. You thought you could, but you couldn’t. Not when your heart felt like it was ready to give itself away again, not when your head was screaming that he could still break you with a single word.

Your phone was already in your hand as you pushed back out into the street, your fingers moving fast.

I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

You hit send, and at the exact moment, it started to rain.

Of course it did.

It wasn’t even dramatic rain—just that soaking kind that gets into your clothes and hair and makes your shoes squish with every step. You didn’t have an umbrella, nor have the presence of mind to pull your hood up. You just walked fast. Like if you could get far enough away, none of this would feel so raw.

And then you felt it—arms wrapping around you from behind, firm but not forceful. Strong, familiar, and warm, even through the wet fabric of your jacket.

“Don’t go,” Simon said, his voice low and right against your ear. “Please, just… don’t walk away again. Not like this.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t. Your whole body was tense, like you were stuck between wanting to lean back into him and wanting to shove him off.

“I get why you left,” he said, and his voice was a little shaky now. “I deserved it. I didn’t give you anything to hold onto. I made you feel like you were just... convenient. And I fucking hate that I did that to you.”

The rain kept coming, dripping down your face and clinging to your lashes, and still, he didn’t let go.

“I don’t want anything from you right now,” he said. “I’m not trying to push. I just wanted to see you. Talk to you. I miss hearing your voice. I miss the way you laugh when you’re annoyed and the way you go quiet when you're thinking too hard. I miss knowing that you were somewhere in the world thinking about me, even if I didn’t deserve it.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m scared,” you said, finally, voice soft and small in the rain.

“I know, love,” he whispered, arms still around you. “I’m scared too. Scared I already lost the best thing I ever had. But I’d rather take a thousand chances to show you I’ve changed than go back to pretending I don’t care.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t have the words. But you turned slowly in his arms, your hands resting lightly on his chest, and he looked down at you like you were something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking again.

“Come on,” you said after a long moment. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

You brought him back to your place, not because everything was fixed, not because you’d forgiven him, but because you wanted to be warm and dry and maybe not alone tonight. You gave him a towel and made coffee the way you always used to—strong, with just a little bit of sugar because he never took milk.

You didn’t sit on opposite ends of the couch. You sat beside him. Close, but not touching. You talked for a while. About small things. Big things. He told you he started seeing a therapist. You told him about work. You both avoided talking about what would happen next.

For the next few weeks, it was like that. Texts. Calls. The occasional late night spent watching old movies without touching. He didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t push. He just... showed up. And stayed.

And then one night, you were both laughing about something—some dumb story from years ago—and you turned to him, and he was already looking at you. Not with hunger or desperation, but with a much softer look.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

And he met you halfway.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t like before. It was slow, and warm, and full of everything he hadn’t said and everything you hadn’t asked for. Like a promise he didn’t know how to make out loud, but was trying to anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself kiss him back.

He pulled back just a little, like he was giving you the space to change your mind, like he was scared you’d vanish if he touched you for too long. But you didn’t move. You just looked at him—really looked at him—and felt your heart beat so hard it hurt a little.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nodded, even though everything inside you felt scrambled and upside-down. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He smiled—barely—and brushed a thumb across your cheek like he was memorizing the feel of your skin. Then he sat back, but not far, not like he was pulling away completely. Just enough to give you space again. And you knew right then he wasn’t going to ruin this by rushing. He was trying, really trying, and you felt it in your chest like a weight slowly lifting.

You both stayed on the couch for a while after that, talking about nothing and everything, voices soft and close.

Eventually, it got late. You stood up to stretch, and he watched you, his gaze lingering on your face, not your body. Like he was trying to read your mood before he made a move.

“I should head out,” he said, standing slowly.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at you, eyes flickering with surprise. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… don’t make it weird.”

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

So he stayed.

You handed him an old T-shirt and a pair of sweats you forgot he left behind once, and he changed in the bathroom while you got into bed. And when he climbed in beside you, he didn’t touch you right away. He laid on his side, just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him under the covers.

“Do you want me to—” he started.

You reached for his hand under the blanket. “No talking now. Just stay.”

And he did.

You fell asleep to the sound of his breathing. Not tangled up like you used to be, not desperate for skin or heat. Just… close. Like two people learning how to be near each other again without breaking apart.

In the morning, you woke up before him.

For a moment, you just watched him sleep—his brow still furrowed a little, like even in rest he was carrying something heavy. You could see the edge of an old scar near his temple, one you never asked about, and you wondered how many more there were now. On his skin, in his mind.

You weren’t sure what would happen next. But for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He shifted a little, eyes fluttering open, and when he saw you, he smiled. That same small, quiet smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

And when his lips found yours, it didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending—it just felt like finally coming home.

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

my girl @daydreamerwoah gave me an idea about the rain scene <33

@kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @hiraethvita @scaleniusrm @cosmic-sleep-demon @roastyyytoastyyy @salfetkablog

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley

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kashverse · 5 months ago

Text

on today’s episode of career development at the sukuna household, your toddler has discovered a passion for the beauty industry. it all begins with you.

you, a mother with little time, attempting to make your nails look somewhat presentable between juggling a toddler, a husband, a business of your own, and not to mention your sanity. and, of course, sukuna, ever the provider, barks at you the second he notices you even thinking about paying for them yourself.

"the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"painting my nails?" you say, mid-stroke.

"nah, not that. the part where you paid for them yourself," he grumbles, folding his arms. "what kinda husband would i be if i let my woman spend her own money on nails?"

"a normal one?" you offer.

"don’t be ridiculous," he scoffs, pulling out his phone. "from now on, i’ll have someone booked for you. weekly." you sigh, rolling your eyes. but before you can protest, a tiny voice pipes up from beside you.

"…mama, do mine?"

your daughter is fascinated by the process. she watches intently as you carefully paint her tiny nails, eyes wide with wonder. the next day, she proudly declares:

"i be nail artist now."

and so it begins. your toddler, now a professional (self-appointed), practices daily with her little kid-friendly nail polish set. her technique is… chaotic, to say the least. colors clash. lines are questionable. top coats? optional. but her most loyal customer?

her father.

"papa, sit," she commands one evening, patting the floor in front of her. sukuna, who had been minding his own business, quirks a brow. "what?"

"sit."

he glances at you. you shrug. "she’s the boss." with a dramatic sigh, sukuna plops down. his daughter gets to work.

thirty minutes later, sukuna, the big bad wolf of the corporate world, sits with his hands and feet covered in glittery, pastel-colored nail polish. "there," his daughter says, nodding in satisfaction. he stares at his nails.

"…you tryna kill my reputation?"

she gasps, scandalized. "no!"

"then why the hell am i sparkly?"

"it’s good luck," she insists, crossing her arms. "you can’t take it off."

he stares at her. then at you. then back at her.

"…yeah, alright," he mutters.

so, naturally, he goes to the gym the next day with the nails fully intact. as expected, no one dares say shit. except for choso. poor, unsuspecting choso, who is midway through a heavy set, looks up to see his terrifying older brother gripping the weights with glittery, pastel-colored nails.

he immediately fumbles his lift. weights clang to the ground.

"fuck," choso wheezes, sitting up. "what the hell is on your hands?"

sukuna flexes his fingers. "fashion."

choso gapes at him.

"and luck," sukuna adds, smirking.

choso is still in shock. "what—who—"

"your niece," sukuna says simply. "she’s a nail tech now. gotta support the business." choso buries his face in his hands. "i hate this family."

meanwhile, in the background, nanami—who has seen far too much—quietly removes his glasses and massages his temples.

"i should have gone into teaching," he mutters.

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kannady · 7 days ago

Text

ever, ever after

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: sylus didn't love you. how could he when she was around? but would he come look for you if you willingly step into EVER's boundaries?

word count: 2.6k

a/n: ehhhh just a random idea. not too proud of it. listening to cinnamon girl prompted me to write this. ive never written or read anything angsty. its not great, just my first attempt. lemme know your thoughts! would you wanna read more?

The hallway stretched before you, dim and silent except for the muffled creak of the floorboards beneath your boots. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something sharper, gun oil, maybe. You exhaled slowly, your breath barely disturbing the stillness.

And then you heard it.

A laugh, bright and effortless, ringing through the house.

You froze.

You didn’t need to follow the sound. You didn’t need to see her draped over Sylus’s arm, her fingers curled around a wine glass, her lips parted in amusement. You knew. You had always known.

Sylus had loved her long before he’d known you. Not in this life, perhaps, but in another, one where they were bound by something deeper than reason. You had sensed it the moment you first saw them together, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke her name.

And you? You had been careful.

You never let your hands tremble when you handed him reports. Never let your voice waver when he stood too close, his presence like a storm pressing against your skin. You were smarter than that. You had to be.

The file in your hand suddenly felt heavy. You set it down on the side table, the sound swallowed by the thick silence of the house.

A few steps farther, and there he was. Mephisto, perched on his stand like a sentinel, his feathers catching the faint glow of the hallway sconces. Sylus’s ever-watchful spy.

Your fingers closed around the bird’s body before you could second-guess yourself. Cold metal bit into your palm as you twisted its neck, pressing the hidden switch beneath its wing. A faint click, and the red light in its eyes flickered out.

No more watching. No more recording.

You didn’t walk to your room so much as you drifted there. The corner by the window looking welcoming, the floorboards smooth beneath your knees where you had sat so many nights before. You didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Just waited, as if some foolish part of you still expected.

But no. Of course he didn’t come.

Why would he? You were just an asset. A tool. And tools don’t warrant concern when they go quiet. They’re replaced.

The realization settled over you like a weight.

You stood. Your bag was already half-packed from some forgotten mission, duffel shoved beneath the bed, dust clinging to its straps. You yanked it free, tossing in the essentials: cash, a knife, the forged papers you’d been smart enough to prepare months ago. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

You didn’t bother with stealth. Didn’t tiptoe past his study, didn’t glance toward the wing where her laughter still curled through the air like smoke.

He wouldn’t notice you were gone.

***

Two years.

Two years since you'd walked out of that gilded prison with nothing but a half-packed duffel bag and the clothes on your back. Your plan had been absolute in its simplicity: vanish from the N109 Zone completely. Disappear into some forgotten corner of the world, someplace so remote and inaccessible that not even Sylus with his vast resources would think to look.

But you were never naive enough to believe it would be that easy.

In the silent hours before dawn, when the city outside your new apartment windows hummed ever so softly, the truth would wrap around your throat like cold fingers. If Sylus ever truly wanted to find you, he would. No amount of running, carefully constructing false identities, calculating distance would stop him.

The realization should have terrified you. Instead, it settled into your bones like an old scar, familiar, aching, but no longer sharp. So you did the only thing you could: you became invisible. Not by hiding, but by thriving in the last place anyone would expect to find you.

EVER Group. Those gleaming letters embossed on every lab door, every piece of correspondence, every business card that now bore your name. Eternity Vanquishes Evolution Restraint. A name as pretentious as it was accurate. They didn't recruit through job postings or career fairs. They hunted. For minds like yours. Sharp, adaptable, willing to dance on the edge of ethics if it meant progress.

And when they'd found you six months after your disappearance, when they'd slid that first offer across the table with promises of resources beyond imagination and challenges worthy of your mind, you'd said yes without hesitation.

Your new title, Human Augmentation Engineer, rolled off the tongue with clinical precision. The work suited you in ways you hadn't anticipated. Your days were spent in sterile white labs where the air smelled faintly of ozone and disinfectant, your fingers dancing across holographic displays as you designed biomechanical enhancements that pushed the boundaries of human limitation.

Cardiac regeneration systems that could theoretically keep a heart beating forever. Neural interfaces that blurred the line between human thought and machine precision.

The ethical implications would have kept a lesser person awake at night. For you, it was just another equation to solve.

The irony wasn't lost on you. EVER was, by any reasonable standard, monstrous. Their research ventured into territories that would terrify most people. Resurrection protocols, memory extraction, experiments that could theoretically stop death. And yet, for the first time in longer than you could remember, you were happy.

Mornings began with the quiet ritual of coffee brewed exactly how you liked it, black with a single sugar, sipped while reviewing data from your latest prototypes. Your colleagues greeted you by name, their respect earned through competence rather than fear. Meetings were lively debates rather than tense performances, your ideas were met with genuine interest rather than dismissal. There was a birthday celebration for you, a real one, with terrible store-bought cake and off-key singing.

Your apartment, small but yours, became a sanctuary. The couch was worn in just the right places, the kitchen stocked with foods you actually enjoyed rather than what was expected. Evenings were spent curled up with research journals or trashy novels, the city lights painting shifting patterns across your walls.

No more straining to hear footsteps in the hallway. No more rehearsing conversations in your head, measuring every word before it left your lips. No more choking on the sound of her laughter ringing through the halls like wind chimes.

You thought about him, of course.

It was impossible not to.

Sometimes when you passed a certain shade of crimson in a shop window, his colour, your breath would catch just for a moment. The scent of expensive bourbon would still make you turn your head. And on rare nights, when sleep eluded you, you'd find yourself wondering. Did he still keep that ridiculous collection of antique pistols? Had he replaced you immediately, or had he waited out of pride, if not sentiment? Was she still there?

But the thoughts came less frequently now. When they did surface, you’d forget about them after a moment or two. Did it hurt? You weren't sure. More importantly, you didn't care enough to find out. This life, this messy, complicated, gloriously ordinary life, was yours by choice. Every late night at the lab, every terrible office party, every quiet evening alone was a decision you'd made for yourself.

And you didn't regret a single second of it.

The past was a closed door.

***

Two years.

Two years of silence.

Two years of waking up expecting to see you in the study, bent over reports with that familiar furrow between your brows. Two years of catching himself turning to make some dry remark, only to remember that there was no one there to hear it.

He had to admit. You'd outsmarted him.

The realization still tasted like broken glass.

Sylus sat in his office, the glow of a dying fire casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. The room smelled of leather and gun oil, of expensive bourbon left untouched in its crystal decanter. His fingers traced the edge of a file, your file. The one he kept locked in the bottom drawer despite having memorized every word.

Page 37 showed your favorite café, the one with the terrible coffee you pretended to enjoy because the owner reminded you of your grandfather. Page 89 mentioned your habit of humming off-key when working late. Page 203 contained the little notes he’d leave for you around the house. He knew you loved his handwriting. He’d known the moment you asked him to write down everything he needed done instead of telling you.

He snapped the folder shut.

Mephisto had been his masterpiece. Programmed to follow you silently if you ever left unannounced, to watch over you when he couldn't. A safeguard. A gift, in his own twisted way. But you'd known. Of course you'd known. The way you'd manually shut the bird down with the sole purpose of running away from him, haunted him more than any ghost ever could.

He'd searched every corner of the N109 Zone. Burned through favors, called in debts, even risked venturing into rival territories himself. Nothing. No whispers in the underground, no sightings in the usual haunts. Just empty leads and dead ends piling up like corpses.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

He'd been a fool.

All those carefully calculated moves, every strategic play, and he'd still managed to lose the only piece that ever truly mattered. Standing too close under the guise of examining your work. Leaning down just to catch your scent, ink, gunpowder and something faintly floral. Asking you to move in like some lovesick idiot instead of just saying it.

What kind of boss invites a mere employee to live with him?

The answer burned in his chest.

One who couldn't admit he'd rather die than watch you walk out that door.

His fingers found the scar along his collarbone. Four precise lines from when you'd stitched him up after a job gone awry. You'd been furious he'd gotten shot, even after seeing him heal himself, you still insisted on medical care. Your hands steady but your voice trembling as you told him exactly how stupid he'd been. That was the moment, if he was honest with himself. When he'd known.

Then, a knock came at 2:17 AM.

He didn't bother looking up. "If this is another dead end, don’t bother coming in."

The door creaked open, revealing two familiar silhouettes, tall, lean, their features obscured by those masks they never removed. Even in the dim light, he could tell them apart instantly.

Neither spoke.

Sylus set his glass down with deliberate precision. "Well?"

They exchanged glances, Luke's mask tilting just slightly left, Kieran's right hand twitching toward his hip holster. A full three seconds of silence.

The decanter shattered against the wall behind them.

"Where is she?"

Kieran didn't flinch at the spray of glass. "EVER Group's Bioengineering Division. Senior augmentation specialist." His voice was flat, but the way his thumb rubbed against his index finger.

A long silence. The ticking of the grandfather clock.

The name hit like a bullet. The irony was almost poetic. His brilliant, cautious girl hiding in the belly of the beast itself. His laughter cut through the silence, sharp and humorless. "Of course she is."

Luke’s gaze shifted from Sylus to his brother. Then, all of a sudden he blurted out, "She's happy."

Sylus' cufflink caught the light as he reached for his pistol case.

“Get the car.”

***

The alarm screamed at 5:00 AM.

Your hand slapped over it before the third shrill could shatter the fragile peace of your apartment. For three breaths, you lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling where dawn’s first light painted watercolor streaks through the stained-glass window. The sheets smelled of lavender detergent. Real lavender, not the synthetic crap they pumped through EVER’s ventilation systems.

The shower scalded just shy of painful, steam curling around the bullet scar on your left hip. You scrubbed with a lemon-scented soap, the odour sharp enough to cut through the chemical fog that clung to your skin after long days in the lab.

The mirror fogged over, but not before you caught sight of the woman staring back. Nearly unrecognizable from the ghost who fled N109 Zone. Your hair was now cropped into a sharp bob, your cheekbones pronounced from actually remembering to eat. Only your hands remained the same. Steady, scarred, capable of both delicacy and breaking a man’s wrist in three places.

You dressed methodically. Black tailored slacks with the hidden knife slit in the right seam, a white blouse buttoned to the collarbones, a lab coat starched stiff as a corpse’s shroud. The ridiculous 3-inch Louboutins Luke stole for your birthday pinched near the pinky toe, but you wore them anyway. The coffee brewed strong enough to dissolve spoons, poured into the chipped World’s Okayest Engineer mug Kieran gifted after your first successful mission.

The elevator to Sublevel 7 smelled like antiseptic and ozone. You balanced the coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, scrolling through today’s schedule when Dr. Cho’s voice interrupted.

“Dr. (reader)!”

He clutched a sealed dossier to his chest like it contained nuclear codes, sweat beading along his receding hairline under the fluorescent lights. “You are reassigned,” he blurted. “Effective immediately.”

The coffee turned to acid in your throat.

Conference Room B smelled like, well, cool, clean air.

Twenty-seven faces stared back as Cho announced Project HDS-7213, EVER’s first live-subject augmentation trial. Your promotion to Lead Biomedical Engineer. The way his voice hitched on live sent a tremor down your spine.

“Congratulations,” Mara whispered, nudging a thicker dossier across the table. “You earned this.”

The file weighed more than it should’ve. Page 1: Subject M-7. Male. 28 years old. Page 3: Evol Classification: Energy Manipulation (Class VIII, potentially IX). Page 9: Containment Protocols: Electromagnetic shackles. Sedation drip. Two cranial failsafe implants.

Your thumb left a smudge on the surveillance photo, a blurred figure in black attire. “Why bother with a photo?” Mara commented.

“Mara,” you murmured, tapping the Evol classification. “We never worked with anyone above Class IV.”

Her knee pressed against yours under the table. “Remember those Tesla-looking monstrosities they brought in last week? Turns out they are portable suppression fields.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing to worry about. I guess.”

Frowning, you turned your gaze back to the file. Your mission was clear cut. Suppress the subject’s Evol to null and transfer it to another subject. You gulped. Wouldn’t that kill him? What had you gotten yourself into?

The walk to Lab 7 took exactly 4 minutes and 37 seconds. You counted each step, each sip of now-cold coffee, each erratic heartbeat as clearance doors hissed open before you. The file revealed another horror. Subject resisted standard sedation (they switched to a veterinary elephant tranquilizer).

The final door required retinal scan and voiceprint.

“Dr. (reader), authorization code Rose-9-White.”

The locks disengaged with a sound like bones breaking.

Lab 7 was colder than the morgue.

Your heels clicked against frosted glass flooring as you approached the observation window. The suppression field hummed at a frequency that made your teeth ache. Coffee sloshed over the rim of your mug as your hands betrayed you.

On the other side of the glass was a man. Not just a subject.

Chained in a chair that looked more like a medieval torture device, his bare torso marked with fresh burns where the electrodes bit into flesh. Blood crusted along his split lip. Silver hair matted with sweat and something darker near the temple. His head lolled forward, chin nearly touching chest, but you could see the rise and fall of ragged breathing.

Then, as if sensing your presence he looked up.

Crimson eyes locked onto yours through the glass. Not the dull gaze of a sedated prisoner. Not the wild glare of a feral test subject.

Your mug shattered on the lab floor.

Because the man strapped to that chair, the man whose file now trembled in your hands, was Sylus.

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gyuuberryy · 5 days ago

Text

don't look back!

pairing: yandere!jungwon x reader

genre: backrooms au, thriller, psycho!jungwon

synopsis: while working late at the waterpark, you slip through reality and fall into the nightmare realm known as the backrooms. you think you’re alone—until you meet jungwon, a charming boy who offers comfort, survival tips, and the promise of an escape together. but something about him doesn’t feel right. the more time you spend together, the more his affection turns eerie... and the deeper you fall into his trap.

warnings (MDNI 18+ only!!) : smut(corruption kink, oral f receiving, fingering, mild marking/biting, unprotected sex), yandere themes, obsession, slight horror themes, manipulation, slight dub con, choking, some degradation, dom!jungwon, swearing, not proofread

note: this is probably my darkest work, and also my first time writing smut!! i hope you like it >///<

word count: 10.3k

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

you had been working late at the waterpark again, the last employee left on closing duty.

the usual nighttime sounds surrounded you—the steady drip of water from the slides, the faint hum of the filtration system powering down, the occasional creak of the structure settling. it was peaceful in a way, being alone in the empty park after hours, though tonight the silence felt heavier than usual.

you pulled your hoodie tighter around yourself as you walked past the wave pool, the water still and dark now that the pumps were off. your sneakers squeaked against the wet tiles, the sound echoing strangely in the vast, empty space.

as you moved toward the tower of spiral slides to complete your final check, you couldn't shake the feeling that the air had grown colder, thicker somehow.

that was when you heard the first laugh—a high-pitched, playful sound that seemed to come from the top of the blue slide.

you froze, your grip tightening on the flashlight. that couldn't be right. you'd checked every area twice already, made certain no guests remained. the park was supposed to be empty.

"hello?" you called out, your voice steady despite the sudden chill running down your spine. "the park is closed."

there was no response at first, just the continued dripping of water and that odd, heavy silence.

you were about to dismiss it as your imagination when the laughter came again, closer this time, seeming to bounce off the fibreglass walls of the slides.

your pulse quickened as you approached the staircase leading up to the slide platform. the metal steps were slick with condensation under your hands as you climbed, your flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

"if someone's up here, you need to leave now," you said, forcing authority into your voice even as your palms grew damp.

when you reached the top, the mouth of the slide gaped before you, a circle of darkness that seemed deeper than it should be. you crouched to shine your light down its length, expecting to see nothing but empty plastic. instead, there was movement—something pale flickering at the edge of your vision.

before you could react, the world twisted around you. it wasn't wind that pulled at you, but something far more unnatural. the slide's opening seemed to stretch, the darkness within it suddenly alive and hungry. you tried to scramble back, but your feet slipped on the wet platform.

as you fell forward, you realised this wasn't just a slide anymore. the walls pressed in around you, warm and yielding like flesh, the air thick with the cloying scent of chlorine and something decaying. you flailed, trying to find purchase, but there was nothing to grab onto as you tumbled through that impossible space.

then there was only nothingness.

the impact knocked the air from your lungs before you even realised you'd stopped falling. your elbows stung where they'd slammed against the tile, your ribs aching like you'd been folded in half.

for several terrifying seconds you just lay there, gasping, your vision swimming as you tried to remember how to breathe. when you finally managed to push yourself up, your hands slipped on the damp floor—not the smooth fibreglass of the slide, but something older and cracked that felt wrong.

the slide was gone.

you whirled around, panic rising like floodwater in your chest, but there was only a wall behind you—water-stained wallpaper peeling away to reveal moldering drywall beneath. the cheerful cartoon dolphins printed on it were faded, their smiles stretched and warped where the paper bubbled.

your breath came in short, sharp bursts as you staggered to your feet, the room tilting dangerously around you. this wasn't possible. you'd just been at work. you'd just been checking the slides.

the space around you stretched endlessly in every direction, a nightmare parody of the waterpark you knew. the same blue-and-yellow colour scheme, but bleached and sickly under flickering fluorescents. the wave pools were empty except for stagnant puddles that reflected the ceiling back at you in distorted fragments. the air clung to your skin, thick with the scent of mildew and that same overpowering chlorine sting—but underneath it, something sweet. cloying. like fruit left to rot in standing water.

"hello?" your voice cracked on the word, barely louder than a whisper.

when no answer came, you tried again, louder: "is anyone here?" the sound died almost instantly, as if the humid air had swallowed it whole.

you moved forward without meaning to, your sneakers sticking slightly to the tacky floor with each step. the lights buzzed overhead, their flickering intensifying as you passed beneath them. down one hallway lined with lockers rusted shut, past another shallow pool that had no visible edge—just tile that stretched on until it blurred into the distance. your fingers trailed along the wall for balance, coming away damp.

a sound from above made you freeze. not the creak of old pipes, but something... wetter. like flesh dragging across metal. you didn't look up. couldn't look up. your pulse roared in your ears as you forced yourself to keep moving, your breath coming too fast.

in the reflection of a murky puddle, you saw something move behind you—a pale shape where nothing should be. when you spun around, there was only an empty hallway. but the puddle rippled, as if whatever had been there had just stepped out of view.

you broke into a run.

the corridors twisted in ways that made no sense, leading you past the same cracked mirror three times, past a snack stand with its menu board melted like wax. your lungs burned, your thighs aching, but you didn't stop until you reached a small kiddie pool tucked between two crumbling walls. its cheerful mosaic tiles were chipped and faded, the painted sea creatures now just vague smudges of colour. you collapsed beside it, pressing your back against the wall as you struggled to catch your breath.

that was when you heard the whistling.

low. off-key. a tune you almost recognised but couldn't place. your blood turned to ice in your veins.

the sound was getting closer.

you scrambled behind a rusted lifeguard chair, its paint flaking away under your desperate grip.

the whistling continued, unhurried, accompanied now by the steady tap of footsteps against tile. a shadow stretched long across the floor before its owner appeared—a boy, maybe your age, dressed in a staff polo that looked freshly laundered. his black hair was neatly styled, his sneakers pristine where yours were soaked. the name tag on his chest caught the light when he moved, but the letters swam when you tried to focus on them.

he saw you immediately. of course he did.

"there you are," he said, as if you'd been keeping him waiting. his voice was pleasant, almost friendly, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. they stayed dark and unreadable as he took a step closer.

"it's not safe to be out alone."

you pressed yourself harder against the wall, your mouth dry. he looked human. normal. but nothing here was normal.

when he extended his hand, his fingers were clean. no dirt under his nails. no dampness on his skin.

"come on," he urged, tilting his head slightly. "before they find you."

above you, the lights flickered again. somewhere in the distance, something heavy dragged itself through water.

his smile never wavered.

your fingers twitched before you even realised you were reaching for him—some primal part of your brain screaming that warmth meant safety, that another human voice in this suffocating silence was worth clinging to, no matter how wrong this all felt.

his hand closed around yours without hesitation, his skin almost feverishly hot compared to the clammy chill clinging to your own.

"i'm jungwon," he said, pulling you to your feet with unsettling ease, like your weight meant nothing.

his fingers lingered a second too long when he let go, leaving behind a tingling imprint that made you want to rub your palm against your jeans.

"you're lucky i found you first."

the words slithered under your skin. first before who? before what?

he was already moving, his steps light and certain against the warped tiles as he led you down another decaying hallway. you followed because there was no other choice, your sneakers squeaking against the damp floor while his made no sound at all.

when you opened your mouth to speak, your voice came out cracked and thin: "where—"

"this place doesn't have a name," he interrupted, glancing back with a smile that didn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes. "not one you'd understand."

his gaze flickered over your face, lingering on the way you bit your lip, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat.

"i call it the aquatic sector."

your breath hitched. the backrooms. those creepy internet stories you'd skimmed late at night, half-believing, half-mocking.

"like... the backrooms?" you whispered, the word tasting absurd even as it left your tongue.

jungwon's smile didn’t waver, "something like that." he said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather, and the sheer normality of his tone made your stomach twist.

he turned a corner without checking if you followed—of course you did, where else would you go?—and you realised with a jolt that he knew this place. the way his shoulders never tensed at the distant, wet sounds echoing through the pipes. the way he stepped over a particular cracked tile without looking down, avoiding the dark stain spreading beneath it like he’d done it a hundred times before.

when he finally pushed open a door marked staff only, the room beyond was so jarringly intact it made your eyes water. clean towels stacked neatly on a shelf. unopened cans of fruit lined up in a tiny pantry. a battery-powered lantern cast warm light over a faded couch, its cushions dented from use. it looked like a lifeguard break room plucked straight from your own world and dropped here, untouched by the decay choking everything outside.

"this zone's safe," jungwon said, watching your face as you took it in. he grabbed a water bottle from the cabinet and held it out to you, the plastic crinkling in his grip. "but only for now."

your fingers trembled as you took it, the condensation cool against your palm. you wanted to drink so badly your throat ached with it, but the way he watched you—head slightly tilted, dark eyes tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed nervously—made your grip tighten without opening it.

something about the way his smile didn't reach his eyes, about how his uniform was still perfectly dry when your clothes clung damp and clammy to your skin, about how he'd known exactly where to find you in this endless maze.

"you should drink," he said, softer now.

he took a step closer and you could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, so out of place here it made your pulse skip.

"you'll get dehydrated fast in this sector."

his fingers brushed yours as he reached to twist the cap off for you, and for a dizzying second you considered letting him. his touch was the only warm thing in this entire place. but then the pipes above you groaned, a wet, meaty sound that had you jerking back, the water bottle slipping from your grip to roll across the floor.

jungwon's expression darkened for just a second—a flicker of something sharp behind his pleasant mask—before he sighed and crouched to retrieve it.

"you'll learn," he said, more to himself than to you as he placed the bottle carefully on the table.

outside, something heavy splashed into one of the pools, the sound echoing through the thin walls. when you tensed, jungwon's hand settled between your shoulder blades, warm even through your damp hoodie.

"don't worry," he murmured, his breath stirring your hair. "i won't let anything hurt you."

the promise should have been comforting. so why did it feel like a threat?

time bent around you like wet paper, the hours stretching and warping until you couldn’t tell if minutes or days had passed.

jungwon became your only constant, your lifeline in this rotting, endless maze. he told you where to sleep (the staff break room, always with the door locked), when to hide (when the lights flickered in a pattern that wasn’t random), which corridors to avoid (the ones with the faint smell of overripe bananas). but he never explained why.

"don’t follow the laughter," he said one evening, or what you thought was evening, as you both sat cross-legged on the floor of the break room, sharing a can of peaches.

the syrup was too sweet, clinging to your teeth, but you ate it anyway because hunger gnawed at your stomach like a living thing.

you frowned. "what laughter?"

jungwon’s fingers paused where they’d been tracing patterns on the tile floor. he didn’t look up.

"you’ll know it when you hear it. it sounds almost human. almost." his voice dropped on the last word, and something in his tone made you set the can down, your appetite gone.

"that’s not an answer," you muttered.

he finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. "it’s the only one i can give you."

you wanted to push, to demand more, but then the walls breathed—a slow, wet expansion of the water-damaged drywall that made you recoil. jungwon didn’t even flinch.

"also," he continued, as if nothing had happened, "don’t trust water that moves on its own. and never, never go into a glowing slide."

"why not?"

he leaned forward suddenly, close enough that you could see the faint scar on his lower lip, the way his pupils swallowed the dim light.

"because some doors only open one way," he whispered. then he pulled back, his smile returning like a curtain falling.

"eat your peaches."

you noticed things, over time. the way the walls never dripped when jungwon was near, how the flickering fluorescents steadied when he walked beneath them, as if they were afraid to sputter out in his presence. you noticed how he watched you—constantly—his gaze lingering on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how your fingers trembled when you were tired.

and then you found the notebook.

it was tucked under his pillow, the leather cover worn soft. you hadn’t meant to snoop, but he’d been gone longer than usual (to "check the perimeter," whatever that meant), and the silence had pressed in on you until you needed something to focus on besides the sound of your own heartbeat.

the first page was a sketch of your face, rendered in startling detail. your lips slightly parted in sleep, your eyelashes casting shadows on your cheeks. you turned the page.

another. another. dozens of drawings, all of you—your hands clutching a blanket, your back arched in alarm when something had banged on the door the night before, your tear-streaked cheeks from when you’d broken down sobbing your third day here.

your breath caught.

"you’re beautiful when you’re afraid."

you hadn’t heard him come in. jungwon stood in the doorway, his head tilted, his expression unreadable. your fingers clenched around the notebook, the paper crinkling under your grip.

he stepped closer, his movements smooth and predatory.

"just kidding," he murmured, but his eyes—dark and endless—never left yours.

he pried the notebook from your hands with terrifying gentleness, his thumb brushing over a sketch of your crying face. "you’re beautiful all the time."

the air between you thickened, the silence broken only by the distant sound of something heavy dragging itself through water. jungwon didn’t seem to hear it. his gaze burned into you, possessive and hungry, and for the first time, you realised the most dangerous thing in this place wasn’t the shifting halls or the things that lurked in the water.

it was the boy standing in front of you, smiling like he already knew every way you’d break.

the air in the filtration room had been particularly thick that day, clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat as you followed jungwon through yet another routine patrol.

you'd memorised the path by now—past the cracked wave pool tiles, left at the concession stand with its permanently stuck "hot dogs $3.99" sign, right at the third set of rusted lockers.

his flashlight beam cut through the perpetual twilight, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny galaxies in the stale air.

"wait here," jungwon said suddenly, his hand squeezing your wrist just a bit too tight before releasing.

the filtration tunnel gaped before you both, its mouth dark and damp.

"i need to check something. don't move." his smile didn't reach his eyes as he said it, the way it never did anymore.

you nodded, forcing your breathing to stay even as you watched him disappear into the tunnel. the moment his light vanished around the first bend, your body thrummed with nervous energy. this was it. you'd been watching for weeks, noting which corridors made him tense, which doors he always locked extra carefully. the copper-scented hallway to your right had been his most consistent avoidance.

the first step away from the tunnel entrance sent a jolt of electricity up your spine. your sneakers made barely a sound against the slick tiles, your movements practised after so many days of following his lead through these endless halls. the chlorine-copper smell grew stronger with each step, so potent it made your eyes water and your tongue feel coated in pennies.

halfway down the corridor, your foot caught on something soft. you barely stifled a scream as you looked down to see what appeared to be a waterlogged park uniform, the fabric bloated and discoloured. something about the way it lay—too flat, too empty—made your stomach turn. you stepped over it carefully, your pulse pounding in your ears.

the maintenance ladder appeared like a mirage, its rusted rungs nearly blending into the water-stained wall. you tested the first step with your weight, wincing as the metal groaned in protest. every creak seemed deafening in the silent hallway. as you climbed, the air grew noticeably colder, each breath forming visible clouds that dissipated into the gloom above you.

at the top, the platform was smaller than you expected, barely three feet across. the glowing slide pulsed before you, its eerie green light casting strange shadows across your trembling hands. up close, the hum you'd noticed from below vibrated through your teeth, setting your nerves on edge.

you hesitated, one hand hovering over the slide's entrance. jungwon's warning echoed in your mind, but so did the memory of his sketches, the way his fingers lingered just a beat too long when he touched you. the way he'd started saying "we" instead of "you" when talking about the future.

the decision crystallised in an instant. you launched yourself forward, the slide's surface shockingly cold even through your clothes. for one glorious moment, you felt weightless, the current carrying you forward with exhilarating speed.

then the world twisted.

the temperature plummeted so fast your muscles locked in protest. the smooth tunnel contorted violently, the walls rippling like disturbed water before going rigid at impossible angles. your scream caught in your throat as you were flung sideways, then upside down, the laws of physics abandoning you completely.

when you finally crashed into a brackish pool, the impact drove what little air remained from your lungs. the water tasted foul—salt and something organic, something living. you thrashed toward the surface, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and terror.

breaking through into the air brought no relief. the cavernous room stretched endlessly in every direction, the ceiling lost in shadow. the pool's edges weren't tile but something porous and veined, pulsing faintly in time with your racing heartbeat.

then you saw him.

jungwon stood perfectly still at the water's edge, his clothes soaked through as if he'd swum through miles of tunnels to reach you. water dripped from his hair into his eyes, but he didn't blink. the quiet rage radiating from him was more terrifying than any monster this place could have conjured.

"didn't i say," he began, his voice deceptively soft as he stepped into the pool, "not to trust glowing slides?" each word carried the weight of betrayal, his hands flexing at his sides.

the water resisted as you tried to back away, its viscosity suddenly wrong - too thick, too clinging. jungwon closed the distance effortlessly, his fingers wrapping around your biceps with bruising force as he hauled you onto the slick ground.

your body hit the floor with a wet slap, the impact reverberating through your bones. jungwon loomed over you, his knees caging your hips, his breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged in the frigid air. up close, you could see the way his pupils had swallowed nearly all the brown in his eyes, leaving only thin rings of colour around bottomless black.

"you could have died," he hissed, his voice cracking on the last word.

one hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing roughly over your cheekbone.

"do you have any idea what's out there? what would have happened if i hadn't found you?"

tears spilled hot down your cheeks, the salt taste mixing with the brackish water still dripping from your hair.

"i just wanted to go home," you choked out, your voice barely audible over the distant, watery echoes of the cavern.

jungwon's expression fractured. he pressed his forehead to yours, his nose brushing against your tear-streaked skin.

"this is your home," he whispered, the words vibrating through your skull. "i'm your home."

his grip gentled as he pulled you upright, his arms wrapping around your shivering form in a mockery of comfort. one hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"don't ever do that again," he murmured, his lips grazing your temple. the kiss felt like a brand.

"next time..." his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in your hair. "next time i might not be able to save you."

the unspoken threat hung between you, heavier than the humid air, darker than the endless corridors stretching in every direction. as he helped you to your feet, his arm slung possessively around your waist, you realised with dawning horror that you'd just proven his worst fear.

and in doing so, you'd given him the perfect excuse to never let you out of his sight again.

that night, something inside you finally cracked open—not with the sharp snap of defiance, but with the slow, inevitable splintering of resistance worn down by exhaustion and something dangerously close to surrender.

you sat shivering on the edge of his mattress, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging to your goosebumped skin like a second layer of shame. the scent of chlorine still clung to your hair, undercut by something darker—something organic and vaguely sweet, like fruit left to rot in standing water, which seemed like a recirring scent in this place.

jungwon knelt before you, a threadbare towel in his hands, his movements methodical as he dragged the rough fabric up your calf. the friction should have warmed you, but you only felt colder with each pass, your skin pebbling under his touch.

"you never listen," he whispered, his voice almost affectionate, the way one might scold a beloved but wayward pet.

his fingers tightened slightly around your ankle—not enough to hurt, just enough to make the bones shift under his grip.

"do you know how many rules you broke today?" his thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your ankle bone, a silent demand for your attention.

you swallowed hard, your throat clicking with the motion. "i just—"

"shh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips. his skin tasted like salt and metal. "i know what you were trying to do. but we don't lie to each other, do we?"

his hand slid higher up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, just shy of bruising. "say it."

your breath hitched. "no. we don't lie."

"good girl." the praise curled warm in your stomach despite everything.

his thumb hooked into the waistband of your soaked shorts, tugging them down your legs with agonising slowness.

"i should punish you," he mused, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he pressed a kiss there, "but you look so pathetic like this."

his teeth grazed your skin—not biting, just testing. "all shivering and wide-eyed. like a drowned kitten."

you should have stopped him. should have pushed him away. but your hands stayed limp at your sides, fingers twitching against the mattress as he pulled you closer to the edge, his grip firm on your hips.

"jungwon—"

"tell me you're sorry," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the crease of your thigh.

your pulse pounded in your ears. "i'm sorry."

"for what, exactly?" his tongue darted out to taste you, just once, making your stomach clench.

"for—for trying to leave." the admission tasted bitter on your tongue.

he hummed, the vibration travelling straight to your core. "and?"

"for not listening." your voice broke on the last word.

his mouth found you then, soft at first—just the barest flick of his tongue that made your toes curl. then deeper, firmer, until you couldn't stifle the gasp that tore from your throat. your thighs trembled around his head, your fingers twisting into the sheets as he worked you open with his tongue, each lick sending sparks up your spine.

"that's better," he murmured against you, the vibrations making your hips jerk.

"this is what you need, isn't it? to be reminded?" his fingers dug into your hips, holding you still as his tongue circled your clit with devastating precision. "to be taken care of?"

you couldn't answer. your thoughts had dissolved into static, your body no longer your own. when you whimpered his name, he hummed in approval, the sound curling low in your belly.

"use your words, sweetheart." his breath was hot against your soaked skin. "tell me what you want."

"please—"

"please what?" he nipped at your inner thigh, just hard enough to sting. "you have to say it."

your vision blurred at the edges. "please don't stop."

he rewarded you immediately, his tongue laving over you in broad strokes before he pressed two fingers inside, curling them expertly until your walls fluttered around him.

"like that?" he asked, his voice rough. "you want me to make you cum? to remind you who you belong to?"

you nodded frantically, your hips rocking against his hand.

"say it." his fingers stilled inside you, denying you the friction you craved. "say you're mine."

the words stuck in your throat for only a second before you choked them out: "i'm yours."

he crooked his fingers just right, the heel of his palm grinding against you in time with each thrust, and you shattered—your back arching off the mattress, your walls fluttering around him as pleasure ripped through you like a riptide.

he kissed you after, his lips tasting of you, his grip bruising on your jaw as he held you in place.

"you're mine," he said again, his voice rough, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the brown of his eyes.

"no one else gets to have you. not even reality."

his words settled into your bones like a curse. you wanted to protest. wanted to tell him you belonged to yourself, that this place wasn't your home, that you would find a way out. but when he pulled you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you didn't resist. and when his fingers traced idle patterns over your hip—claiming and possessive—you let him.

because the worst part wasn't the way he touched you.

it was the way your body arched into his hand when he reached for you again.

the way your breath caught when he whispered, "again."

the way you obeyed.

after that night, the invisible leash around your throat pulled taut like a noose gradually tightening. jungwon became your shadow, your keeper, your only tether to anything resembling safety in this rotting labyrinth.

when he did leave—always with that same murmured excuse about "checking the perimeter"—the backrooms seemed to come alive with malicious intent. the first time it happened, you sat perfectly still for exactly three minutes after he left, counting each second by the erratic drip of water from a ceiling pipe.

then the lights began stuttering like a dying man's pulse.

"jungwon?" you called out, immediately hating how small your voice sounded.

the hallway ahead warped suddenly, the tiles rippling like water disturbed by some unseen force. when you turned to run back to the break room, the door you'd just come through was gone—replaced by a staircase that definitely hadn't been there before, its steps slick with something dark and viscous.

"no, no, no," you chanted under your breath, pressing your back against the wall as the staircase shifted again, the top step now leading to a ceiling vent far too small for any human to crawl through.

that was when you heard it—a wet, clicking sound from the darkness beneath the stairs, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of overripe bananas and something metallic. your stomach turned as the clicking grew louder, more rhythmic, like dozens of tiny bones knocking together.

jungwon found you exactly seven minutes later curled behind a stack of mouldy pool noodles, your nails digging bloody crescents into your palms.

"i told you not to wander," he sighed, crouching before you.

his fingers were warm when they pried yours open, his thumbs rubbing circles into your clenched fists.

"what did you see?"

"the stairs—they moved," you gasped, still trembling. "and there was something under—"

"shhh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips.

his eyes darted to the hallway behind you, suddenly sharp. "don't say it out loud. this place listens."

he helped you stand, his arm slipping around your waist in a way that might have been comforting if not for how easily his fingers spanned nearly the entire width of your torso. "let's get you cleaned up."

you tried to assert yourself exactly once, three days later.

it started as a simple request—"i need space"—but the words came out cracked and brittle, like you were begging rather than demanding.

jungwon paused in the middle of rewrapping your blistered foot (when had you gotten blisters?), his head tilting in that unnervingly precise way of his.

"space?" he repeated, the word curling oddly in his mouth.

his smile bloomed slow and sweet, like blood spreading through water. "oh, sweetheart. there's nothing but space here."

his fingers brushed your ankle, trailing upward with deliberate slowness.

"endless, hungry space." when his hand reached your knee, he squeezed just enough to make your breath hitch. "i'm just protecting you."

you swallowed hard. "from what?"

jungwon leaned in so close his lips brushed your ear, his next words a warm puff of air that made you shiver.

"from what happens to pretty things that get lost in the dark."

he pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching yours.

"this place listens to me. you don't want to hear what it says about you when i'm gone." his thumb traced your lower lip. "the way it licks its chops every time you stumble. the way the walls whisper about how sweet you'd taste."

that night, you woke abruptly to the feeling of something cool and padded encircling your wrists. your eyes flew open to find yourself in jungwon's lap, your arms secured to the bench with what looked like salvaged lifeguard rescue tubes—the orange foam frayed but still sturdy.

"w-what—" you stammered, panic surging as you tugged against the restraints.

"shhh, just for your safety," jungwon soothed, his fingers already carding through your hair. the casual ease with which he held you down sent ice through your veins.

"you were thrashing in your sleep again. nearly rolled right off the bench." he held up a can of peaches, the syrup glistening in the low light. "let's get some food in you, yeah?"

when you turned your head away, his grip tightened fractionally in your hair.

"now, now," he chided, popping the lid with a metallic snick. "none of that."

the first syrupy slice pressed against your lips was cold and cloying. "open."

the fight drained out of you with terrifying speed. by the third bite, you were chewing mechanically, the sweetness coating your tongue like medicine. jungwon's approving hum vibrated through you as he wiped a stray drop of syrup from your chin with his thumb—then sucked it clean with a soft, satisfied sound.

"good girl," he murmured, kissing each of your knuckles in turn. the shackles stayed on all night.

as the days bled together, resistance became a distant memory, as foreign as sunlight or fresh air.

his touches became your only constants—the steadying hand at your elbow when the floor suddenly slanted, the broad palm spanning your back when a corridor narrowed unexpectedly, the strong arms that lifted you effortlessly over patches of suspicious-looking water. in the hot pool (the one oasis in this rotting place, its waters always perfectly clear and heated), he would wrap around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as the steam curled around you both.

"feel good?" he'd murmur, his hands drifting along your arms beneath the water.

you'd nod silently, too tired to lie or protest. his heartbeat against your back was the only rhythm left in this place, the only thing that still made sense.

the backrooms themselves seemed to worship him. puddles stilled when he approached, their surfaces going eerily smooth. hallways straightened obediently at his approach.

once, when you caught your reflection in the pool's surface, it grinned at you—wide and knowing—even as your own face remained carefully blank. when you jerked back with a gasp, jungwon just tightened his arms around you.

"just a trick of the light," he murmured, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

the question burned in your chest for days before you finally found the courage to whisper it one night: "what are you?"

jungwon went very still, his fingers pausing where they'd been tracing nonsense patterns on your bare shoulder. for a long moment, the only sound was the distant drip of water and your own too-quick breathing.

"i used to be like you," he said at last, his voice soft with something almost like regret. "scared. lost. convinced there was a way out."

his hand returned to your shoulder, his thumb brushing the knob of your collarbone. "then i stopped pretending to be afraid. stopped fighting what this place wanted from me."

his lips grazed your temple, lingering just a second too long. "you'll understand soon."

the promise should have terrified you. should have sent you scrambling for escape. instead, a warm heaviness settled in your chest, spreading through your limbs like syrup. when he pulled you closer, you went without resistance, your head finding its familiar place against his shoulder.

outside your fragile bubble of warmth, the backrooms groaned and shifted—but here, cradled in jungwon's arms, the world held its breath. you closed your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you into something like peace.

somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten how to fight.

somewhere deeper still, you'd stopped wanting to.

it had been weeks—or maybe months, you had no idea how the warped time her worked—since jungwon had let you out of his sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

you'd practised the request of wanting to sleep alone in your head for days, carefully framing it as concern for his own rest rather than your desperate need for space.

"you look tired," you ventured one evening as he rubbed your sore feet (when had you started letting him do that?).

your fingers played with the frayed edge of his sleeve, the fabric soft from countless washes in the pool's filtration runoff.

"maybe... maybe you should take a night for yourself. i'll be fine here."

jungwon's hands stilled on your instep. the silence stretched so long you could hear the drip-drip-drip of water from the ceiling vent counting out your racing heartbeat.

when he finally looked up, his smile didn't reach his eyes—those dark, fathomless eyes that always seemed to see straight through you.

"one night," he conceded, his thumb brushing the delicate bones of your ankle. the casual possession in that simple touch made your stomach clench.

"but scream if you need me." his fingers trailed up your calf, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "the walls carry sound beautifully here."

he left you in a small bunkroom near the filtration systems, the space eerily pristine compared to the decay everywhere else. thick blankets covered the narrow bed, their faded nautical patterns almost cheerful under the glow of luminous pool tiles embedded beneath the frame.

you waited until his footsteps faded completely before letting out the breath you'd been holding.

the second the door clicked shut, the air grew heavier, pressing against your skin like wet hands. you told yourself you wouldn't sleep—just rest your eyes until morning came, whatever that meant in this endless place. curling up on the bed, you pulled your knees to your chest and stared at the door, straining to hear anything beyond the ever-present hum of machinery.

every sound became magnified in his absence. the walls creaked like old ship hulls, the pipes groaned with more than just water pressure, and every distant droplet echoed like approaching footsteps. at one point, you swore you heard whispering—not words exactly, but something like the hiss of water through cracks, forming almost-syllables that prickled the hairs on your neck.

"it's just the pipes," you muttered to yourself, your voice thin and unconvincing in the heavy air.

pulling the blankets over your head, you tried to focus on your breathing, but the fabric stuck to your lips with each panicked exhale.

when the bed suddenly shifted beneath you—just a slight dip, like someone had sat at the foot—you nearly screamed. your muscles locked, every nerve ending alight with primal terror as you waited for the inevitable touch, the breath against your neck.

but nothing came. the silence that followed was worse than any sound, thick with anticipation and something else—something watching.

by the time jungwon returned, you were curled into a tight ball, your face pressed against your knees to muffle the quiet sobs wracking your body. the door opened without a sound, but you knew it was him from the way the room immediately stilled, the oppressive weight in the air lifting as if by command.

"oh, sweet thing," he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy as the mattress dipped behind you.

his hands were warm where they slid under your shaking form, gathering you against his chest like a child. you hated how easily you folded into him, your body betraying your mind with its immediate relaxation.

"see?" he whispered into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. "you're safest when i'm touching you."

you wanted to protest, to push him away, but your limbs felt leaden, your resistance worn to nothing by the terror of the empty hours. when your fingers twitched weakly against his chest, jungwon made a soft, approving sound and kissed your forehead.

"shhh, i know," he murmured, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.

his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear in slow circles. "you just needed to learn, didn't you? needed to see what happens when i'm not here to keep you safe."

his kiss started soft, just the barest brush of lips. but when you didn't resist, it deepened, his mouth hot and insistent as his tongue slid against yours. the taste of him flooded your senses, metallic and sweet like the canned fruit he always fed you, and some broken part of you responded without thought, your hands fisting in his shirt.

when you didn’t pull away, he pressed deeper, tongue slipping past your lips with practised ease. he kissed you like he had the right to. maybe that’s what terrified you most.

“see?” he whispered against your mouth, tasting you in slow drags. “you’re already calmer.”

you weren’t. not really. but your breathing had steadied, your muscles unknotted just enough to stop trembling, and your arms were curled weakly around his shoulders. it felt… safer. wrong, but safer.

he coaxed your top over your head with ease, discarding it like it meant nothing. his hands were warm and slow as they skimmed over your skin, trailing reverent touches across your ribs and stomach.

“let me take care of you,” he murmured, more command than offer, but spoken like a promise. “you were scared without me. i know. i felt it.”

his mouth moved to your chest, kissing your collarbone, then lower. when he sucked your nipple into his mouth, you flinched, but didn’t stop him. the heat of his tongue, the way he hummed low in his throat when you arched into him—it made your stomach twist, shame and need tangled too tight to separate.

“you don’t have to think,” he murmured, his palm sliding down your side. “just let yourself feel.”

you should’ve said no. you didn't want his presence right? but you didn’t push him away, instead clung closer to him whispering a breathy okay. because your limbs still felt heavy, your brain still foggy with the memory of isolation and the cold silence of the bunk.

and his hands were so warm.

he kissed his way down your stomach, pausing to bite gently at your hip before nudging your thighs apart with his palms. his eyes flicked up, reading your expression in the low light. your breath hitched.

“tell me to stop,” he said. his voice was calm, but something coiled underneath it. “i’ll stop if you ask.”

you didn’t. you couldn’t.

and that was enough.

his mouth met your folds with agonising slowness, tongue sliding through you like he already knew exactly where to touch. he teased you with slow flicks, warm and wet, circling your clit until your hips twitched, then pulling away just to hear you whine. you hated how quickly your body betrayed you.

“you’re already dripping,” he murmured into your skin. “sweet thing… you missed this too, didn’t you?”

his fingers slipped into you without resistance, two of them stretching you gently. the stretch made you gasp, your walls clenching around him instinctively. he crooked them slightly—finding a spot that made you buck, unbidden—and smiled against your thigh.

“so sensitive,” he cooed, kissing the inside of your knee. “so good for me, even now.”

he kept going until your legs were trembling, slick pooling where his wrist met your body. you were panting, eyes hazy, brain empty of anything but the rhythm of his fingers and the hot drag of his mouth against your clit.

when he finally pulled back, you almost whimpered at the loss.

he stripped without a word, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between you. when he hovered over you again, cock in hand, he paused at your entrance.

“i’ll go slow,” he said. “i want you to feel everything.”

he pushed in with a groan, hips moving with infuriating control, stretching you inch by inch. the burn was real. but so was the way you clenched around him, the way your legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct.

“fuck,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. “you feel like you were made for me.”

his rhythm started slow—careful, deep thrusts that filled you completely, his fingers locked with yours on the sheets. his other hand hovered at your throat again, resting lightly as if to say remember who’s in control.

and still, you didn’t push him away.

you didn’t want to.

you’d tried to sleep alone, and it had nearly broken you. here, at least, you could pretend his touch was warmth and not some strange obsession.

he moaned when you clenched around him, and his thrusts picked up pace, harder now, deeper. the bed creaked beneath you, his hips slapping into yours with a rhythm that turned everything else to static.

“you’re mine,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “you know you’re mine.”

your orgasm hit with sudden force, tearing through you like a cracked dam. you cried out, shaking, your nails digging into his back.

jungwon swore, driving into you once—twice—before he spilled inside you with a shudder, pressing in so deep it felt like he was trying to disappear inside your body.

neither of you moved for a long time. he stayed buried in you, breath shallow, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“you won’t ask to be alone again,” he whispered against your hair. “will you?”

you didn’t answer. your eyes were already drifting closed.

he pulled the blanket up and curled around you, possessive and still, his fingers tracing lazy shapes across your stomach, like he didn't want to stop touching you.

“good girl,” he said softly. “sleep now.”

and you did, not because you felt safe.

but because you were too tired to be afraid.

the next night, jungwon’s fingers interlaced with yours in the dark, his grip just shy of painful.

"i want to show you something," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. you hadn’t even heard him approach—he moved through these rotting halls like a shadow given form.

"it’s late," you whispered back, your voice hoarse from disuse. the words tasted like a lie because you both knew time didn’t exist here.

jungwon’s thumb stroked your knuckles, a mockery of comfort. "it’s always late here," he said, pulling you to your feet with effortless strength. "come on."

he led you to the broken diving board—the one with cracks spiderwebbing through its surface like veins. you’d passed it a hundred times, maybe more. but tonight, under the flickering glow of the emergency lights, something was different.

"watch," jungwon breathed, pressing your palm flat against what looked like solid wall.

beneath your fingers, the surface pulsed like a heartbeat before peeling away with a wet, tearing sound. your stomach lurched as a hidden alcove revealed itself, the air inside stale and thick with the scent of mildew and something sweet.

"what is this?" you choked out, trying to recoil, but jungwon’s arm banded around your waist, holding you in place.

"ours," he said simply, stepping inside and dragging you with him.

the shelves were lined with artifacts—your waterpark nametag, the plastic slightly warped as if melted. your favourite silver bracelet, the clasp broken, the chain tangled in on itself like a strangled snake. the hoodie you’d been wearing that first night, the fabric stiff with dried pool water and something darker.

"the place gave me these," jungwon murmured, running his fingers over each item with reverence.

his nails scraped against the nametag, the sound making your teeth ache. "it knew you belonged here." he turned to face you then, his eyes glowing an unnatural blue in the dim light. "just like i do."

your breath came in short, sharp bursts. "that’s not—that’s not possible."

jungwon stepped closer, the wall sealing shut behind him with a wet, sucking sound.

"you feel it, don’t you?" his hand rose to cup your cheek, his skin fever-hot against yours. "the way the water stills when you touch it? the way the lights flicker when you’re scared?"

his thumb brushed your lower lip, his grip tightening when you tried to turn away.

"you were always meant to be mine."

you wanted to scream. wanted to claw at his face until that smug certainty bled out of him. but your throat closed up, your voice abandoning you just as it had so many times before.

jungwon’s lips crashed into yours, wet and cold like the slide that had brought you here. his teeth caught your bottom lip, sharp enough to draw blood. the taste of him flooded your mouth—chlorine and copper and something alive, something wrong. behind you, the pool water began to ripple without any disturbance, parting in perfect symmetry as if making way for something unseen.

"see?" he panted against your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair to keep you close. "even it knows."

the days bled together after that. you watched, numb, as the backrooms bent to jungwon’s will.

you sat cross-legged by the pool’s edge, trailing your fingers through water that had gone suspiciously still. jungwon watched you from a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest.

"make it move," he said suddenly, nodding toward the water.

you blinked. "what?"

"the water." he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing yours whole. "try."

you shook your head. "i can’t—"

"try," he repeated, his voice hardening.

you swirled your hand through the water, creating weak ripples that died almost immediately.

jungwon sighed, crouching beside you. "you’re thinking too small."

he placed his palm flat against the surface, and the water recoiled as if burned, forming a perfect circle around his skin.

"it’s not about force. it’s about knowing." his eyes locked onto yours. "knowing this place is yours."

you swallowed hard. "i don’t want it."

jungwon’s smile was all teeth. "liar."

the punishments grew subtler but no less cruel. when you tested him—when you asked one too many questions or pulled away from his touch—the backrooms themselves turned against you.

"why won’t you let me leave?" you demanded one night, your voice cracking.

jungwon, who had been humming under his breath while braiding a strand of your hair around his finger, went very still.

"leave?" he repeated, the word dripping with amusement. "oh, sweet thing. there’s nowhere to go."

the lights chose that moment to flicker violently before plunging you into darkness. something wet dripped onto your shoulder from above. jungwon’s fingers found yours in the dark, his grip vise-like.

"shh," he murmured, though you hadn’t made a sound. "it’s just angry you’d even ask."

when the lights returned, his knuckles were smeared with something dark and glistening. you didn’t ask.

sleep became your only respite, though even that was tainted. jungwon insisted you rest curled against him, his arms banded around your waist like living restraints.

"sing to me," he’d whisper into the nape of your neck on the bad nights, when the walls groaned a little too loudly.

his voice would curl around words you didn’t recognise, the language guttural and wrong.

"it’s an old lullaby," he explained once when you stiffened. "the first thing this place taught me."

sometimes he’d disappear for what felt like hours, returning with his hands stained rust-red under the nails and a smile that made your stomach drop.

"someone else got lost," he’d say, wiping his fingers clean on a towel that was somehow always pristine afterwards.

his eyes would roam your face hungrily, as if comparing.

"but they weren’t you."

the unspoken always hung heavy between you—they weren’t special. they weren’t his.

eventually, he began allowing you to explore—always with him, always with his hand clamped firmly around yours. the invisible leash between you grew shorter each day, tightening whenever you strayed too far.

"why do you hold my hand so tight?" you asked once, your voice barely above a whisper.

jungwon stopped walking, turning to face you. the hallway seemed to hold its breath around you. "because i can’t trust you yet," he said simply, his free hand brushing your cheek. "but you’re learning."

you held his hand not just out of fear, but because his skin was the only warmth left in this rotting place. because the hollow in your chest ached when he wasn’t near. because you couldn’t remember what your reflection had looked like before it started smiling at you with too many teeth.

the pool became your twisted mirror. no matter how still you stood, how blank you kept your face, your reflection always grinned back—wider each time, its eyes darker, its features sharpening into something that wasn’t quite yours anymore.

"she likes you," jungwon said one day as you stared at your warped reflection, his chin hooked over your shoulder. his lips brushed the shell of your ear. "she knows you’re staying."

and now it felt like you did too.

the tallest slide loomed before you—the same one that had first swallowed you whole months (or was it years?) ago. only now, it twisted upward into the flickering fluorescent void, its plastic edges blackened and glistening like the inside of a living throat. you could feel it breathing, each pulse of the structure sending warm, damp air washing over your face. jungwon stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist in a mockery of tenderness, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both stared into the abyss.

"it's beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, his lips brushing your ear.

his fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach through your thin shirt.

"i've been waiting so long to show you this."

your throat tightened as the slide emitted a low, wet hum that vibrated through your shoes and up your spine.

"what... what is it?"

jungwon chuckled, the sound dripping with amusement.

"it's our way forward, sweet thing."

one hand rose to cup your chin, tilting your face toward the spiralling darkness.

"this one leads deeper. to where the water is warm and the lights never flicker," his thumb brushed your lower lip, "where nothing can ever separate us."

you swallowed hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. "i don't understand."

"you will."

his arms tightened around you, pulling you back flush against his chest. you could feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

"it's where we belong. where you've always belonged."

when you turned in his arms to face him, your hands came up instinctively to brace against his chest. jungwon was already smiling, his dark eyes gleaming with something ancient and hungry. up close, you could see the way his pupils dilated—not round anymore, but slit like a cat's. when had that happened?

"we'll be happy there," he promised, his voice dropping to a whisper.

his fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "no more running. no more fear. just you and me. forever."

the word hung between you, heavy and final.

you searched his face—the boy who had fed you when you were starving, who had shackled you when you tried to leave, who had kissed you with teeth that were just a little too sharp. the only constant in this endless, rotting nightmare.

"what happens to me if i say no?" you whispered.

jungwon's smile didn't waver, but something dark flickered in his eyes. behind him, the walls groaned, the sound wet and pained. a single drop of black liquid oozed from the ceiling, landing with a splat between your feet.

"oh, my love," he sighed, brushing your hair back from your face with terrifying gentleness. "that's not an option."

the slide pulsed again, the hum rising to a fever pitch that made your teeth ache. your reflection in the pool behind you grinned, wider than any human mouth should allow.

jungwon's hands slid down to grip your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh there.

"trust me," he murmured, his lips grazing yours. "you want this."

and the terrible thing was—

you did.

you took a shuddering breath, your fingers curling into his shirt. jungwon's smile widened, triumphant and tender all at once. his forehead pressed against yours as the slide's opening stretched wider, the darkness inside beckoning.

"together?" you whispered, the word tasting like surrender.

jungwon's laugh was warm against your lips. "always."

you closed your eyes—

and let yourself fall.

ALTERNATE ENDING

you found it again.

the tallest water slide in the entire park—the one that had pulled you into the nightmare when this all began. even after everything, it was still here, standing exactly where you remembered it, though now it shimmered faintly with a green glow that pulsed gently from within the tunnel’s mouth.

jungwon stood beside you, just slightly behind your shoulder. he didn’t say a word. his silence was heavier than any threat he’d ever spoken aloud.

when you turned to glance at him, the absence of expression on his face was more unsettling than any of his smiles. he wasn’t smiling now. there was no softness, no cold affection, not even the hint of disappointment.

“it leads out, doesn’t it?” you asked, your voice quiet and unsteady, though you already knew the answer.

it had to lead out. you felt it. everything in your chest ached with the possibility.

jungwon didn’t answer. instead, he reached for your wrist. his fingers curled around it tightly—not enough to hurt, but firm in a way that told you he was prepared to hold on if you ran.

“it doesn’t matter,” he said eventually.

his voice was calm, too calm, as though your desperation was something he didn’t need to take seriously.

“you don’t want to leave.”

but he was wrong.

you did.

you wanted to leave more than you had ever wanted anything in your life. your body was already bracing to run, every instinct firing all at once. your heart pounded in your chest, loud and fast, and your mouth had gone dry with the weight of the decision forming behind your teeth.

the tunnel wouldn’t stay open forever. the backrooms would shift again. the slide could vanish. and jungwon—he wouldn’t give you another chance. if you hesitated now, if you gave him even one second longer to read your fear, he would never let you get close to this kind of freedom again.

you looked at him—really looked. at the boy who had trapped you with soft hands and quieter lies. who fed you, touched you, claimed to protect you from the things out there when he had become the worst thing in here. the fear in your chest rose like bile.

“jungwon,” you breathed, but the rest never came out.

instead, you ripped your arm free.

his fingers slipped from your skin, and before he could react, you turned and sprinted toward the tunnel, your bare feet slapping loudly against the damp tile. you didn’t look back. you couldn’t.

he called your name, but it came out ragged—loud and broken in a way that didn’t sound human. his voice echoed across the walls of the abandoned park like something that belonged underground.

but you kept running.

you threw yourself into the slideheadfirst, and it swallowed you without hesitation.

the slide gripped you instantly, and the light blurred as you careened downward. the curves of the tunnel twisted your body in every direction, and each sharp turn sent jolts of pain up your spine. the green glow surrounded you, too bright and too close, pressing in like it wanted to consume you. your lungs burned with the pressure, and your arms flailed for anything to hold onto, but the walls were smooth and slick.

you were falling, spiralling, unmoored in a tunnel that didn’t feel like it was ever meant to end.

and then, just as suddenly, it did.

you hit the ground hard, the concrete beneath you unforgiving and wet. the impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, and you lay there for a moment, stunned and breathless. the world spun behind your eyelids as you coughed, your body shaking violently.

but then you realised something was different.

the air you were breathing—it was real. it wasn’t thick with that damp, humming rot of the backrooms. it was cool and dry, laced with the familiar scent of chlorine, dust, and cheap coffee. the silence around you had edges again. and above you, warm sunlight filtered through cracked skylights, casting real shadows onto the floor.

this was the waterpark.

the real one. the one that didn't stretch endlessly into pools of nightmare

you were back.

you pushed yourself upright, palms scraping against rough tile, and looked around with wide, disbelieving eyes.

everything was where it should be. the vending machines stood in their proper place. the lazy river looped around peacefully in the distance. the walls were solid. your own breathing echoed back to you. you had made it.

you had escaped.

your chest clenched as a sob rose up from your throat, and before you could stop it, you were crying. laughing and crying at the same time.

you curled your arms around yourself and let it all out, letting your body shake with the unbearable mix of relief and exhaustion.

you were safe.

you had finally done it!

but then, just as you began to steady your breathing, a sound broke through the quiet.

it came from above, from deep within the vents lining the ceiling—soft at first, almost unnoticeable. but as it grew louder, the shape of it became clear. it was a whistle.

your breath caught in your throat. the sound was too familiar, it was the same off-key melody jungwon always hummed when he thought you were sleeping.

the first footprint appeared in the puddle you'd left behind—larger than yours, the edges too perfectly defined against the concrete. then another, materialising closer as if someone invisible was walking toward you. the water in the lazy river began to ripple against its current, forming patterns that looked disturbingly like grasping fingers.

your hands shook as the lights above you flickered once, twice, before plunging the park into darkness.

the temperature dropped so fast your breath fogged in the air, the hairs on your arms standing on end as the silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

then suddenly, cold fingers brushed against your ankle, their grip tightening like a vice.

"did you really think," jungwon's voice whispered from right behind you, his breath chilling the nape of your neck, "that i'd let you go that easily?”

“i will make you mine no matter what”

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

#ady 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀...👩🏻‍💻.ᐟ #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fics #enhypen x reader #jungwon #yang jungwon #jungwon x reader #jungwon imagines #jungwon fics #jungwon oneshots #kpop fics #enhypen horror #jungwon horror #yandere enhypen #yandere jungwon #enhypen smut #jungwon smut

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sceletaflores · 8 months ago

Text

I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent.

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts.

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning.

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more.

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you.

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved.

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure.

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure.

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist.

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain.

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer.

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours.

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow.

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest.

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt.

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

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yanderedrabbles · 5 months ago

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Private Military Contractor - Yandere Noncon

Yandere Male x Fem Reader Heavily inspired by this incredible fic.

He took you. Plucked you straight off the street on the way back from class. He must have known your routine down to a tee, because he did it all with a casual, brutal efficiency. Parking his rented van on the quietest road on your route, stacking a ladder and some paint cans outside so you'd think he was just a regular workman. The door open and waiting just for you, though you didn't know it yet.

You remember greeting him ‐ a quick good morning to be polite - without stopping or even really looking at him. You walked a little bit past the van without realising he was following you. Oblivious right up until the moment he grabbed you, one paw against your mouth to swallow your scream.

He was quick. So ruthlessly quick. Yanking you inside the van and closing the door before you even fully registered what was happening.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.

"Because I could. Because I can."

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #reader insert #x reader #yandere oc #yandere lemons #yandere oc x you #yandere noncon #yandere male

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shuafiles · 8 months ago

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making the bed [c.sc]

MDNI, 18+

SUMMARY | you and seungcheol’s marriage is hanging on by a thread. separate rooms, broken conversations, and barely any contact, it's clear that what you once had is slipping away. desperate for a second chance, you both turn to couples therapy, but when intimacy—or the lack of it—becomes the topic of conversation, everything changes.

PAIRING | husband!seungcheol x afab!reader

CONTENT | nonidol!seungcheol, angst, bad relationships, miscommunication, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

WORDS | 4.9k

A/N | quick disclaimer i know nothing about therapy sessions, so there may be inaccuracies. i loooved writing this ! i hope u enjoy it as much as i did, pls pls pls leave feedback if u can. ty <3 not proofread !!!

you woke up to yet another feeling of cold sheets beside you. the sun peeking through the curtains, the cool breeze of air conditioning meeting your skin. you shivered at the sensation. you patted seungcheol’s side of the bed, knowing you would be disappointed yet again. your eyes fluttered open, the sight of neatly tucked sheets on the opposite side of the bed made your heart heavy. as if he hadn’t slept there at all.

for months now, your marriage had a cloud looming over it. love that was once warm had grown cold and silent, reduced to taking care of household necessities and meaningless small talk. you couldn’t remember the last time you felt comforted by your husband of three years. and even if you did, the memory wouldn’t bring any comfort.

seungcheol’s career was at its peak. he was a few steps closer to getting promoted to a higher position at the firm he worked at. of course, along with this almost promotion, he had to sacrifice spending time with you. he was never home most days of the week. and if he were home, he would instead be resting and catching up on whatever sports he watched on tv.

needless to say, you were getting tired of that routine. you felt lonely. you tried to keep yourself busy with work or even joining a pilates class, but every corner reminded you of how much you missed your husband. the sight of other wives being picked up from work or how some husbands would join their wives for workouts. the feeling was gnawing at your chest.

you and seungcheol didn’t fight. in fact, you barely even talked. you resorted to cooking his favorite meals–which were mostly piling up in the fridge because he was never home–and steaming his suits for him. the silence that gathered in your home was louder than any argument could ever be.

it was strange, living together, yet he felt farther than when he went on his business trips.

you loved seungcheol. you were so in love with him that the thought of losing him terrified you. but sometimes you wonder if love alone was enough to hold your marriage together. you often thought about what went wrong, questioning if you ever did something to make him lose interest in you.

you sighed, pulling the covers off you to prepare for the day. after showering and brushing your teeth, you headed to the kitchen to make lunch. the silent air greeting you as you walked through your shared apartment. you decided to make coffee for your husband, even if deep down you knew it would just grow cold. you wanted to show your affection for him somehow.

you took a sip of coffee from your cup, the bitterness lingering longer than usual. you glanced at the clock, seeing it was almost time for your therapy appointment.

it was your idea to attend couples’ therapy, seeing it as a last resort to salvage your crumbling marriage. when you first suggested it to seungcheol, he was hesitant and weary about the idea of running to another person about your problems. but seeing that it would mean a lot to you, and he didn’t want to put up a fight, he agreed to give it a try.

you hadn’t seen seungcheol since the previous morning when he hastily left for work. bidding you goodbye with a tired smile when he left you alone in the kitchen. a small part of you was worried he had forgotten about the appointment, not wanting to be disappointed, so you decided to send him a text.

wifey <3: hi, just wanted to remind you about our appointment at 2 pm

you stared at the screen, fingers dancing anxiously as you awaited his response.

cheolie <3: yea, i'll meet u there

that was it. no greeting, no apology for not coming home the night before. you pursed your lips at his response. feeling somewhat disappointed with his nonchalance. you convinced yourself that he was preoccupied with his career, too busy to send you a proper response. but nevertheless you decided to brush it off, tucking your phone in your bag as you got ready to head out.

when you arrived at the clinic, you couldn’t help but glance around the waiting area to find a glimpse of your husband. but to your dismay, you were the first one to arrive. you took a seat in one of the empty chairs, scrolling mindlessly through your phone in an attempt to ignore the tightening feeling in your chest.

exactly a minute before the clock struck 2, the doors swung open, and seungcheol walked in. his hair was messy, bags surrounded his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. he looked like hell, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was affecting him more than it was affecting you. his eyes landed on you and he made his way towards you, sinking in the seat beside you.

“hey.” he said softly, eyes barely meeting yours. hearing his voice reminded you how much you missed him.

“hi.” your eyes scanning him. you heart fluttered at the proximity between the two of you. you weren’t sure whether you were just touch deprived or you just missed your husband too much–it was probably a mix of both–but the thought of having him close to you made your head slightly dizzy. your mouth opened to speak but decided against it. you wanted to tell him that you were glad he made it and how much it mattered to you. but words felt too heavy to speak, so you enjoyed the silent company he provided instead.

the therapist’s door opened, and a nurse emerged, calling his and yours’ last name. you both stood up, walking inside the room side-by-side, hands almost grazing each other.

you and seungcheol settled on the couch in front of the therapist. she offered you a soft smile, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“hi, mr. and mrs. choi. how are you two feeling today?” she asked, her tone gently with a hint of curiosity.

your eyes shifted to seungcheol, wanting to see if he would speak first. he shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “it’s been… a busy week.” he let out, eyes glancing between you and the therapist.

your lips formed into a frown, fingers fiddling with each other. “it has been tough. recently i’ve been feeling like we’ve been living separate lives despite sharing the same space.” you forced yourself to speak, the words falling out of your mouth before you could even comprehend them. “i’m afraid that if we let it happen for too long, we might lose each other in the process.”

you could feel seungcheol’s gaze on you, his once tired eyes growing soft from taking you in. he could tell you were extremely upset, your lips quivering and your hands playing with one another–which you only did when you were visibly upset. he wanted to reach for your hand, to provide you with comfort. but his cowardness was taking over him.

she leaned forward, her voice soft but firm. “i see. this must be incredibly difficult for both of you.” her eyes flickered between the two of you. “if you both want to reconnect, we need to address the emotional and physical barrier forming between you.”

you felt a lump form in your throat at her words. you glanced at seungcheol only to find him staring at you. his expression was guarded and unreadable. you felt tiny under his gaze, not used to the intensity of his eyes on you.

the therapist cleared her throat, drawing both of your attention to her. “the effort you two took to meet me today is a sign that you both want to save this relationship, but it seems that there’s a lot of distance–both emotional and physical.” you shifted in your seat at her words. you couldn’t deny the truth; it had been a while since you had a proper conversation with seungcheol, let alone a moment of intimacy. “when was the last time you two… shared a moment of true closeness?” her question was left open. still, you and seungcheol know her meaning was leading to one thing.

your cheeks burned slightly at the thought of it. it had been months since you last shared a bed, weeks since he last held you close; you couldn’t even remember the last time you had sex. you glanced at your husband, wondering if he felt the same embarrassment or if the thought of this issue would bring him back to you.

seungcheol let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, a hand rummaging through his hair. “i-i don’t know, it has been a while.” he admitted, voice so soft you barely caught on to what he was saying. “i’ve been too caught up with stuff at work, i don’t think we’ve shared a bed in a while.” hearing him admit your problems made your heart ache. he was capable of acknowledging his mistakes, yet he made no effort to correct them.

she gave you both a sympathetic look. “it’s not uncommon for couples under this kind of strain to lose touch emotionally and physically. often, intimacy is the first thing to slip, but it’s also one of the most important bridges to reconnecting. i’d like to encourage you both to try spending time together, maybe even share the same bed, and just… see how that feels.”

the suggestion lingered in the air. silence erupting from the two of you as you processed her words. glancing at seungcheol, whose gaze was fixated on the floor while it seemed like he was in deep thought. seungcheol lifted his head, facing you briefly, his eyes filled with vulnerability for the first time in a long time. you caught your bottom lip between your teeth, nodding at your therapist while sending her a soft smile.

the session ended with an agreement to try. hoping that the words you heard today were a head start to fixing your crumbling marriage.

seungcheol mentioned that he had to return to work but promised to be home early. without having a choice, you went separate ways and decided to go home. your heart was heavy on the drive home. you weren’t sure how he took the session today and all you wanted was to talk to him, to hold him, for him to remind you that everything would be okay and that he loved you.

as the afternoon turned into evening, you couldn’t help but pace around the apartment. you already tried everything to keep your mind off of what happened today, but it was nearly impossible. your habit of cleaning every surface took place, every inch of the house spotless as you awaited your husband’s return. even catching up on your favorite series couldn’t help you keep your mind at ease.

you found yourself checking your phone every so often, the time taunting you as it nearly reached 7 pm and there were still no signs of seungcheol. you sighed, feeling a twinge of disappointment form in your heart. not wanting to feel the empty space of the house any longer, you decided to get ready for bed.

after taking a shower and doing your skincare, exhaustion begins to seep through your body. you felt stupid, stupid to think that seungcheol wanted it to work as much as you did. you started to accept that maybe he no longer needed you, no longer felt the same affection he had for you when you first started going out.

you lay in bed, going under the covers as tears escaped your eyes. the memories of you and your husband’s early days haunting you, wondering where it all went wrong.

you hadn’t noticed that you cried yourself to sleep. the sound of rustling around awoke you from your slumber. with heavy eyes, you tried to make out the source of the noise.

“fuck.” seungcheol whispered as he dropped his phone that had his flashlight on as he tried to navigate the room in the dark.

“cheol?” you mumbled, hand rubbing your eye as you sat in bed. seungcheol turned to face you with an apologetic look on his face.

“y/n!” he said, surprised, guilty that he had woken you up. “did i wake you? i’m sorry, i was trying to find a change of clothes.”

you leaned over the bedside table, turning on the lamp to provide light for him. eyes secretly glancing at the time, seeing that it was only 8 pm. “don’t apologize, this is your room too.” you said, but it felt more like a reminder than a statement; it had been so long since he slept here with you.

without saying a word, he stepped towards the bed, sitting on the edge while his back faced you. his shoulders were tense; you could tell he had much on his mind.

you watched with worried eyes as he sighed before he turned to face you. “i’m sorry, y/n.” his gaze was soft, lips dry as he mustered up the courage to speak to you. you inched towards him in bed, sitting directly in front of his body that was turned to you. “i know i’ve been… absent these past couple of weeks, months even. and your head was probably filled with thoughts about what was going on, and i-“ he gulped, tears forming in his eyes. it had been so long since he opened his feelings to you since he looked at you with warm eyes and honesty. the nights you spent alone and mornings waking up next to an untouched bed flashed before you. “i was trying to prove something… to myself, to you.” he admitted, his eyes filled with shame and regret. still, you listened to his words intently. “i thought that if i kept my head down and focused on work, i could finally give us this picture-perfect life that you deserve. and i-i thought you’d be okay with waiting.”

you took a moment to register his words. your fingers absentmindedly fiddling with one another–which he caught. you hadn’t been okay. the loneliness swallowed you these past few months, and his physical distance from you only made it worse. you missed him. you missed his scent, his touch–his hand on your back as you slept, the feeling of his arms around your shoulders, the way he pulled you close in his sleep. you missed the feeling of his soft lips, the feeling of his hands on your body. it had been so long since you felt good.

“you have no idea how hard it’s been, seungcheol.” you started, voice almost trembling as you spoke. “going to bed alone, having no clue if you’d even come home to me. i felt like i was losing you, little by little.”

“god, no.” for the first time in forever, seungcheol reached for your hands instinctively. comfort rushing through your body by his touch. he held your hands tightly, his eyes pleading. “i thought i was doing this for us, y/n, but i was being so selfish. i pushed you away. i pushed us away.” his voice cracked, pain written all over his face. “i missed you. i missed everything about you. i missed us.” he admitted, his thumb gliding over your hands in an attempt to provide solace. “i didn’t want to fail you, y/n.”

his eyes shut, a tear slipping down his cheek. you reached out to cup his face, your thumb wiping away his tears. you felt him lean against your touch, making your heart ache. you couldn’t remember the last time he had been this vulnerable with you. you could see how deeply he felt the loss, even if he had hidden it from you.

seungcheol’s eyes fluttered opened, his voice barely above a whisper. “i promise i’ll make up for the lost time. i want to show you that i’m here and i’m sorry. you’re not losing me.”

his words impacted you harder than you had expected, providing you with both comfort and hurt. it felt silly to be so relieved by his simple promise. but after longing for him for so long, you couldn’t help it. it was exactly what you were waiting to hear. the assurance from him was more than enough to give you ease.

instead of saying anything, you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. he exhaled softly at your touch. god, you missed him. it meant everything to you that he was here. actually here.

“cheol.” you mumbled, eyes shutting. “i missed you so much.”

you felt him nod lightly. “i know, angel.” hearing his pet name for you flooded you with warm memories. “i missed you, too. more than you could imagine.” his hand slid to the back of your neck. you pulled away from his forehead, eyes staring up at him as he rubbed the skin. slightly shivering at his touch as it reached down into the parts of you that had felt cold and empty for so long. “let me make up for the lost time.” his voice was deep as his gaze on you darkened.

your eyes fluttered open, gaze falling to his lips. you let your hands slide down his shoulder, almost pulling his body close to you. he leaned closer to you, his breath fanning your face, lips brushing against yours. you melted into his touch as he connected his lips with yours. your hands finding their way to his chest as the kiss deepened, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. it reminded you that he was actually here, and you weren’t alone as you had felt for all those months.

seungcheol wrapped his arms around your waist as he laid you on the bed, your back meeting the soft sheets as he climbed between your legs. his thigh rubbing against your core that was growing warm with his every touch. feeling the tension between you dissipate with each kiss and touch. the gap between the two of you shrinking as he showed you just how much he missed you.

his fingers made their way to the hem of your shirt, pulling away from your lips to tug the fabric off your body, leaving your upper half naked. he groaned at the sight of you, reminding him how much he missed seeing your body. “god, i missed you.” he whispered before leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. moaning when his hand slipped between your legs, hand cupping your pussy that was growing wet at his mere touch. your body craving him more than you anticipated.

“cheol, i need you.” you whimpered against his lips as his fingers traced over your clothed core. desperation lacing from your voice made him grow hard against his suit. feeling his hard-on against your thigh. your hands reached up to undo his tie before unbuttoning his shirt. he hovered over you to give you more access, sliding the shirt off once you were done. you shamelessly checked him out, running your fingers over his chiseled chest. you almost forgotten how much you loved his body.

seungcheol hooked his fingers around the waistband of your shorts and underwear. sliding them down your legs, feeling your arousal sticking to the fabric. in a swift movement, he inched his body down the bed until his head was in between your thighs, face dangerously close to your throbbing pussy. he took a whiff, your familiar scent welcoming him. “you smell amazing, baby.” his arm hooked around and over your thigh, pulling your body close to him. bringing two fingers up to your entrance, collecting your arousal, and spreading it up to your clit. “so wet and needy for me.”

you moaned at his touch, hips bucking upwards as you tried to get more friction but his grip around you prevented you from moving. he softly smiled at your state, wasting no time in pressing his tongue against your clit. you gasped, hand flying down to grip his hair.

seungcheol ran his tongue up and down your folds, lips sucking on your clit, occasionally flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. the sudden movements had your back arching off the bed, hand gripping the sheets beneath you as his tongue lapped your hole. “f-feels so good.” you whimpered.

his free hand snaked around your body, his thumb circling your clit while his tongue fucked your entrance. the sensation driving you crazy as you let out curses. he knew your body all too well. he knew exactly how to push you over the edge even after all these months.

“my pretty girl. i bet your pussy was waiting for me, hm?” he hummed against your folds, the vibrations sending shocks throughout your body. you lifted your head to meet his gaze, his eyes flickering to yours. maintaining eye contact, he slipped his fingers down your core, abruptly inserting two of them inside you. you could barely let out words once you felt his digits curl inside you. he beamed once he saw you writhe beneath his touch, glad that you weren’t that disconnected from each other in every way.

seungcheol pressed his mouth against your clit, sucking on the bud as his fingers relentlessly fucked your hole. thrusting them in and out of you in addicting movements. your hips jerk up from the overwhelming pleasure. toes curling as you felt a knot form in your stomach.

“p-please, cheolie, i want to cum.” your voice shaking as he continued his movements. your hand reaching up to your breast, squeezing them as you felt your orgasm forming.

“let it out, angel.” he whispered against your clit, sucking on it harshly to the point tears fill your eyes. without warning, you came undone with his fingers in you, cursing his name. your insides clenching around his digits as his movements slowed down. you head thrown back against the mattress as you let out shaky breaths.

seungcheol detached his mouth from your clit, pulling his fingers away before entrapping them with his lips. savouring your cum to account for the many months that went by without tasting you. “my good girl.”

seungcheol kneeled between your legs, his cock hard against his stomach–you hadn’t even noticed he took his pants off. you lifted your head to face him, mouth watering at the sight. nearly forgetting how big and thick his cock was. you wrapped your fingers around his length, pumping it lightly before stroking it. his hips inching towards you as he leaned into your touch. your thumb running over his tip that was leaking with precum. you looked at him through your lashes, but his eyes were already dark and focused on you.

“fuck, baby.” he grunted once you jerked him off, but his hand reached for your wrist to prevent your movement. “stop teasing, princess. i need my cock inside your pussy.” his confession made sparks shoot throughout your body and onto your cunt.

seungcheol positioned his body between your legs, gripping his cock in one hand, aligning it with your entrance. you couldn’t help the moans that escaped your lips as he glided the tip of his cock along your folds, spreading your wetness before sinking into you. you gasped at the size of his length. your fingernails digging (careful not to hurt him) into his shoulders as you adjusted to his size.

“i know, baby.” his voice soothed you, hushing you as tears threatened to escape your eyes. fuck, you forgot how his dick felt inside you. “you’re taking me so well, angel.” he pressed kisses all over your face.

once he was balls deep in you, he stayed still for a moment. letting you get used to the sensation, he reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“m-move, please.” your voice barely a whisper. “you’re so big, cheolie.”

seungcheol growled at your words, slowly starting to move his hips. “missed your pussy, baby.” you felt every inch of his cock in you, insides splitting from his size. your insides burning, but it felt so fucking good. you bucked your hips, meeting his thrusts.

he took this as a sign to gradually increase his speed, his hips rocking into you faster. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer to you, scared that if you let go, he’ll disappear again.

the proximity allowing him to bury his cock deeper into you. in a swift motion, he pulled his cock out before slamming his hips against yours. sounds of skin slapping filling the room, along the moans that emit from you and the groans that escape his throat. he buried his face into your neck, leaving soft kisses against the skin.

“you feel so fucking good, shit.” his hand sneaked to your breast, taking your nipple in between his fingers, circling the sensitive bud. the rough pad of his thumb and index adding to the overwhelming pleasure. “fuck, i’m never leaving you alone ever again.”

you don’t know if it was his words or the pleasure from his cock that brought tears to your eyes. he pulled away from your neck, towering over you as he held eye contact with you. “my pretty wife, i love you so much.”

“i-i love you, cheol.” you breathed out, feeling him twitch inside you from your confession. the words felt foreign from your lips, but the feeling was reeling in so many memories. he picked up his pace again, relentlessly fucking you as if to remind you that he’s here now.

seungcheol leaned forward, capturing your lips with his. the kiss was more passionate and needy, his taste leaving you intoxicated. his hand inching down to your clit, rubbing circles on the nub. the stimulation building your orgasm even more. he knew you were getting close when you clenched around him, driving him to fuck into you deeper and harder.

“are you gonna cum for me, angel?” his voice deep as he watched you squirm underneath his touch. he latched his lips to your chest, sucking on the skin softly, enough to surely leave a mark. the overwhelming amount of pleasure he was providing was enough to drive you insane. the coil in your stomach begging to be released. “cum all over my cock, baby, let me feel you.” with the encouragement of his words, you released all over his cock. stars clouding your vision as you ride out your high. “s-shit, baby.” the sight of you cumming on his cock was enough to send seungcheol over the edge. with a few final thrusts, his warm seed burst inside you, painting your walls white, groans filling the room.

seungcheol slowly retreated his cock from you, his cum spilling from your pussy. you winced at the sticky feeling. he pressed a quick kiss on your forehead before he disappeared into the bathroom and grabbed a towel which he ran under cold water. he returned and immediately nursed you, dragging the towel up and down your entrance which made you giggle.

“thank you.” you mumbled as he went to return the towel in the bathroom.

“anything for my beautiful wife.” seungcheol grabbed a shirt from the closet, handing it to you because he knew how much you loved wearing his shirts to bed. even helping you slip it on your body. your heart warmed at the sight of him taking care of you. you barely noticed that he climbed into bed and pulled you close to his chest. “i told you, i’ll make it up to you, my love.” he whispered, pressing a kiss on the side of your head.

you could only nod at his words, feeling slumber take over you. hearing him whisper how much he loved you before falling unconscious.

you woke up to the warmth of a body shifting beside you, feeling the familiar weight of your husband’s arm around your waist. the soft morning light greeted you as you opened your eyes. you glanced at his sleeping figure, taking in the sight of his relaxed face, lashes resting against cheeks and lips slightly parted. he was still here. your heart was pounding so loudly that you were sure he'd hear it if he were awake.

your hand reached up to brush away the strands of hair falling onto his face. but before you could do so, his eyes fluttered open, a soft smile forming on his lips as he focused on you.

“g’morning.” seungcheol mumbled, voice deep and husky, still laced with sleep.

“good morning.” you responded, unable to hide the chipper in your voice. you rested your hand on his bare chest, rubbing the skin comfortingly, slightly scared that you were in a dream.

his hand fell to your back, pulling your body close to him. “i meant it, you know.” he whispered, his thumb rubbing circles along your back. “i don’t want us to fall apart again.”

your chest tightened at his words, but this time, the ache was different–it was hopeful. “neither do i.” leaning your head against his neck, softly kissing the skin.

“you have me forever, baby.” he said, a promise that felt as grounding as his touch on your body.

you closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his embrace engulf you. comfortable silence taking over as you lay there in each other’s arms. you both knew this was just the start of finding your way back to one another.

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sosa2imagines · 2 months ago

Text

Are you mine?

Warnings- Angst, Steve and Bucky are idiots.

Being in love with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes felt like living in a dream.

A dream so perfect, so utterly untouchable, that even the ghosts of the past couldn’t tarnish it. The three of you had fought wars together, bled together, and survived against impossible odds. You trusted them with your life and, more importantly, with your heart.

Steve, ever the protector, held your hand through the nightmares, his voice a quiet promise in the dark. Bucky, all sharp wit and unspoken devotion, pressed kisses into your hair when he thought you weren’t paying attention. They made you feel safe, like nothing in the world could shake the foundation of what you had.

You belonged to them, and they belonged to you.

The compound had always been your sanctuary, a place where the weight of being an assassin and an Avenger didn’t feel so heavy.

Missions were brutal, but coming home to them made it worth it. Your mornings were tangled limbs and soft murmurs, their warmth pulling you from restless sleep. Your nights were laughter and whispered confessions, hands intertwined beneath the sheets.

Everything was fine, until she arrived.

A trainee named Cassidy.

Sent to the compound for a few days of “intense training” with the Avengers. Young, eager at least, that’s what Fury had said. But from the moment she walked through the doors, it was clear training was the last thing on her mind.

You caught the way her eyes lingered on Steve's broad shoulders, the way she smiled just a little too sweetly when Bucky grunted in response to something she said. You noticed the way she conveniently positioned herself between them whenever she could, the way her touch lingered just a second too long.

It was nothing. Just admiration, maybe even hero worship. You told yourself that, again and again. Steve and Bucky were yours. They loved you.

And yet… doubt had a way of creeping in, even where trust once lived.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar in your own home.

Unease.

You weren’t the jealous type, you had no reason to be, not when Steve and Bucky had given you every reassurance, every reason to trust them. And you did trust them. You trusted them blindly.

But can you trust the world?

Trust didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you saw Cassidy wedged between them on the couch, laughing at something Bucky said. It didn’t stop the sting when Steve placed a comforting hand on her back, so absentmindedly, so effortlessly, like it was second nature.

Like it was something he used to do for you.

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. That was your spot. That had always been your spot. Between them. Their arms around you. Their warmth surrounding you.

Now?

Now Cassidy sat there, twirling a lock of her hair, giggling, her body angled towards them like she belonged. And Steve and Bucky?

They didn’t even notice you standing there.

“You’re imagining things, Y/n.” Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee as she watched you pick at your food. She didn’t say it dismissively, but there was caution in her voice. Careful, Y/n. Don’t spiral.

“I’m not...” Your voice was hollow. You pushed your plate away and exhaled shakily. “She’s always there, Nat. Always with them. Always touching them...” You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. “I feel like… like I don’t exist anymore.”

Natasha sighed, setting her cup down. “Come on. You know Steve and Bucky. They’d never…”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Your fingers curled into fists. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Natasha studied you, eyes softer now. “Talk to them, then.”

You nodded. You would. Of course, you would.

But deep down, you were terrified they wouldn’t see it, because they never seemed to see you anymore, ever since Cassidy came.

At first, it was small things.

A conversation cut short because Cassidy had a question. A training session where she suddenly needed Bucky to correct her stance, his hands on her wrists, her waist. A mission debrief where she sat beside Steve, too close, her voice too soft.

Then the canceled plans started.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but we promised we’d show Cassidy the training simulations today.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I swear.”

“We’ll take you out tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

And suddenly, your nights felt emptier. You’d wake up reaching for them, only to find cold sheets where they should have been. You weren’t sure what hurt more.

The loneliness or the fact that they didn’t even realize you were lonely.

They were still yours, weren’t they?

Then why did it feel like you were losing them?

It had been days, days since you had a proper conversation with either of them. Days since they held you like they used to. The only time you got them was at night, in bed.

And yet, there she was again, always there, standing too close to Steve as he poured coffee in the kitchen. Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking at something she said, arms crossed over his chest.

“God, Steve, I still don’t know how you carry that shield around all day.” Cassidy reached out, brushing her fingers over his bicep. “Guess it helps that you’re, like, all muscle.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“What about you, Bucky?” She turned to him, eyes bright. “I mean, that metal arm has to be heavy, right? Can I?”

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s lighter than it looks.” Bucky smirked, flexing his vibranium fingers.

Sweetheart.

Your stomach dropped, that was your name. He called you that. Not her.

Your blood ran cold as Cassidy laughed, playfully nudging Bucky’s arm. Steve smiled, amused. Not once did they notice you standing there. Not once did they feel the air shift, the way your entire world was starting to crumble.

That night, you laid in bed alone. Again.

Because, Steve and Bucky had been in the common room with Cassidy, and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you had left.

You curled into yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the sob from escaping.

They were just being nice. Right?

They didn’t see what you saw. Didn’t feel what you felt. Didn’t see how much it was killing you. Right?

And you were too afraid to ask the question burning inside you, “What if they don’t miss me like I miss them?”

You didn’t know how long you had been sitting all alone in the common room.

The compound was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. You sat curled up on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, arms wrapped around yourself as if that could hold you together. The weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, pressing down, suffocating.

You had spent the entire day alone. Again.

They hadn’t noticed. Again.

The cushion beside you dipped, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Natasha.

“You’re doing that thing again…” she murmured.

You blinked. “What thing?”

“Shutting down.”

You inhaled sharply, dropping your gaze to your lap.

Natasha sighed, shifting to face you. “Sweets, talk to me.”

Natasha always called you that name, and her reason was you were the only sweet person in her life.

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” She reached out, squeezing your knee. “I see you, you know. The way you’re fading. The way you barely eat. The way you don’t sleep until you’re too exhausted to fight it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants.

“They love you, Sweets.” Natasha’s voice was gentle but firm. “This… whatever this is, it’s temporary. They’ll see what’s happening.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, they won’t…” Your throat burned as you whispered, “They don’t see me anymore, Nat.”

Silence.

Natasha shifted closer, resting her forearm on the back of the couch. “We survived worse, you and me. Remember?”

You knew where she was leading the conversation, but you didn’t care.

“I wish I could remember.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Natasha frowned. “Remember what?”

You exhaled shakily, gaze unfocused. “How they trained us. How they made us feel nothing.”

Natasha tensed. “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t go there.”

You lifted your head to meet her eyes. “Why not? It would be easier.” Your voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this. Wouldn’t have to wake up reaching for them only to remember I don’t exist to them anymore.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your smile was hollow. “They canceled our date today, Nat. Again. I was supposed to spend the evening with them. Instead, I spent it watching Cassidy laugh at Bucky’s jokes and touch Steve’s arm and…” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “And they let her.”

Natasha’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

You turned your gaze back to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

She was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “You’re not in the Red Room anymore, Sweets. You have them. You have me.”

You nodded. But the ache in your chest remained, because deep down, you weren’t sure if you still had them at all.

The bed felt massive. You lay curled up on one side, facing away from the door, the covers pulled tightly around you. The scent of Steve and Bucky still lingered on the sheets, but it brought no comfort.

Then the mattress dipped.

First on one side, then the other. Warm bodies slid in beside you, their familiar presence surrounding you.

“Doll?” Steve’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Bucky shifted behind you, his arm resting loosely around your waist. “We’re sorry about earlier, sweetheart.”

Your throat burned.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Steve added quickly. “We’ve got a whole day planned for you tomorrow. Just the three of us. No interruptions, promise.”

Tomorrow.

You closed your eyes.

They had said that last time.

And the time before that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay silent.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, talk to us, Doll. We know you’re mad.”

Mad.

Was that what they thought this was? Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what was the point? Tomorrow would come, and it would be the same.

Cassidy would be there.

Steve and Bucky wouldn’t notice.

And you? You would be alone again. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept your eyes closed. If you stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t hear how badly you were breaking.

Morning passed in a blur.

You moved through training sessions on autopilot, barely speaking, barely feeling. Natasha watched you carefully, her sharp gaze catching every falter, every moment you hesitated before leaving the gym. You knew she wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure if you had it in you to listen.

So you just kept going.

Kept pretending.

Kept waiting for Steve and Bucky to remember.

And then they did. Or so you thought.

“Doll, come on! Movie night’s all set up!”

Bucky’s voice rang through the hall as you made your way toward the common room, a flicker of hope stirring in your chest.

They remembered. They finally remembered.

For the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel so heavy. You ran your fingers through your hair, exhaling softly as you reached the doorway, ready to sink into the warmth of your boys.

And then you saw her.

Cassidy.

Sitting between them.

Again.

Your body locked up, breath catching in your throat. She was curled up comfortably, her legs tucked beneath her as she laughed at something Bucky whispered in her ear. Steve sat relaxed beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch, so damn close, so damn easy, like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with them.

You forced yourself to speak, though your voice barely carried. “What is she doing here?”

Steve turned, smiling at you. That easy, oblivious smile that used to make your heart race.

Now?

It made you feel sick.

“She didn’t know it was just meant to be us,” he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t wanna be rude, so…”

You didn’t hear the rest, your ears were ringing.

They didn’t want to be rude to her. You stared at them. At her. And then you swallowed down every emotion clawing its way up your throat. “Enjoy the movie.”

That was all you said before turning on your heel and walking away.

They didn’t call after you.

Didn’t chase you.

Didn’t even notice the way your hands were trembling as you pushed open the door.

The tears came before you even reached the elevator, but you didn’t stop walking, didn’t wipe them away, didn’t care if anyone saw.

Not that they would. No one ever did.

You should have gone to your room. You should have buried yourself under the covers and let the ache consume you in silence.

But the walls were closing in too fast.

So instead, you climbed, up the emergency stairwell, up to the roof, where the air was sharp and cold, where the wind bit at your damp cheeks, where no one could see you break.

Your hands gripped the ledge as you sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

They had remembered and it still hadn’t mattered.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, bitter and broken. You should have known, you should have known it would end up like this.

You closed your eyes, head tilting back as the city lights blurred beneath the weight of your tears.

You had never felt more alone.

By the time you came down from the roof, your tears had dried, but the weight in your chest remained, suffocating and unrelenting.

You stepped into the hallway, head down, steps quick, just wanting to reach your room, just wanting to breathe without feeling like you were drowning.

But the moment you turned the corner, you froze.

Steve.

Bucky.

And her.

They were standing there, talking, laughing.

Cassidy’s hand was on Bucky’s arm, her body tilted toward him in that way she always did, like she was drawn to him. Steve stood beside them, relaxed, like the world wasn’t crumbling around you.

Like they hadn’t just broken your heart a little more.

Their laughter died down when they saw you.

You knew they noticed your red, swollen eyes. Knew they saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fists clenched at your sides.

But they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask where the hell you had gone.

No, Steve just frowned slightly, like he was trying to piece something together. Like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You didn’t give him the chance, you walked past them without a word, without a glance.

Without acknowledging them at all.

And still, still they didn’t stop you.

The compound doors slammed shut behind you as you ran, your feet pounded against the pavement, muscles burning, lungs heaving, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down, didn’t care where you were going, as long as it was away.

Away from the suffocating silence, away from them, away from her.

You pushed yourself harder, faster, as if you could outrun the pain clawing at your chest, the unbearable ache of being unseen by the two people who were supposed to know you best.

They had always seen you, hadn’t they? Then why did it feel like you were fading? Why did it feel like you were already gone?

You were so lost in your own head, so consumed by the roaring in your ears, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a firm hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.

“Enough.”

Natasha.

You blinked at her, breathing hard, vision blurring. But she didn’t let go. Didn’t loosen her grip. She just stared at you, her green eyes filled with something sharp, something dangerous.

Something like determination.

“I let this go on for too long,” she muttered. “That’s on me.”

You swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Nat…”

“No.” Her voice was steel. “You’re not doing this. You’re not running until your body gives out just because they’re too damn blind to see what’s happening.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what to do...”

She sighed, her hand loosening slightly but not letting go. “Then let me do something.”

Your breath hitched, but you believed in her.

Natasha had always been your anchor, your constant. You had survived hell together. She knew you better than anyone, sometimes even better than Steve and Bucky.

So when she said those words, when she looked at you like that, like she was done watching you suffer, something inside you cracked.

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper, “Okay.”

You hadn’t spoken much since that night, since the roof. Since Natasha found you and promised to do something.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected him.

You sat on the rooftop again, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your knees. The city stretched out before you, endless and glowing, but all you saw was the emptiness.

The way you had been fading, the way they had let you, the way it still hurt.

You exhaled shakily, trying to push it all down, trying to keep yourself from breaking again.

“Bub.”

Your breath caught, your heart stopped, that voice.

Rough. Low. Familiar.

A voice that belonged to only one person.

You turned slowly, the cold air biting at your tear-streaked face and there he was.

Logan.

Your brother.

Standing there, broad and tense, his sharp eyes scanning you with a fury you hadn’t seen in a long time, his jaw clenched.

SNIKT.

The sound of his claws unsheathing was sharp, deadly, cutting through the silence like a blade to the heart.

His eyes darkened, fists trembling, rage radiating from his very being.

“Who?”

It was just one word, just one syllable, but it carried the weight of a storm. You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze.

Logan stepped closer, his boots heavy against the rooftop, his presence overwhelming.

“Who did this to you, Bub?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll gut ‘em.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Logan...”

“Look at me.”

You did and the moment his eyes met yours, whatever restraint he had left snapped.

“Those sons of bitches!” he snarled, pacing now, breathing ragged. His claws flexed, his shoulders heaved, pure, unfiltered rage pouring from him. “You’re telling me those two idiots, our idiots did this? Made you feel like this?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t have to, because your silence was enough.

Logan let out a rough, guttural growl, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles went white despite the metal already tearing through his skin.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No, you won’t.” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering.

You turned just in time to see her step onto the rooftop, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Why the hell not?” Logan snapped. “They hurt her.”

“I know,” Natasha said evenly. “That’s why she’s leaving.”

Your breath hitched, “What?”

Natasha walked toward you, gaze softening as she reached out and brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “Pack a bag, Sweets. You’re going with Logan.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re actually letting me take her?”

“She needs to get away from here,” Natasha murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “From them.”

You stared at her, then at Logan, your throat tightening so painfully you thought it might close entirely.

“Tasha…”

“No arguments,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re not okay. And I won’t stand here and watch you disappear.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

You felt Logan’s heavy hand settle on your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.

“C’mon, Bub,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to leave.

But because leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant accepting that they had chosen her, that they had chosen everyone but you.

But maybe... maybe they had already made that choice a long time ago.

You inhaled sharply and nodded.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

Part 2

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