#I was going almost completely from memory

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.1 – huntrix]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s): some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative

request: here ! this is part 1 – i loved it so much i had to make 2 parts hehe ,,, part 2 is here !

your family worked with the demon hunters for generations – mortals who studied the demons, found their strengths and weaknesses, worked as field researcher on demonology alongside the hunter to keep the honmoon safe.

unfortunately, your ancestors were unpowerful beyond their intellect and aura vision. physically, they were weak – protected only by the hunters. becayse of this, there was .. an accident. the demons found the weaknesses of the hunters – their darling researchers, so they did what demons would do.

thousands of years of pages and books and studies were lost in their attack. most information was mentally stored by hunters, but a substantial amount was still lost in physical ink. in modern times, these researchers are almost myths to hunters – legends. however, mythology tales say that the descendents of the researchers have all knowledge of the honmoon and the demons sealed away by it. of course, it remained apart of the stories celine told rumi, mira, and zoey growing up ... all until they met you.

they met you at a hidden pastry shop in seoul, hidden in an alleyway around the same area as that wack doctor zoey had so much faith in

it was the only place open after practice and rumi, as tired as she was, guided the girls in to enjoy the warm lighting and atmosphere

after declining the offers to go to the bathhouse for the 100th time, she thought this could be the perfect way to make it up to them

she ordered a few treats – mochi for herself, a little apple pie for zoey, steamed red bean buns for mira, and matcha for them all

the girls talked quietly, waiting for their order, until you called rumi up to retrieve the neatly wrapped box of sweets

when she came up to you, your fingers wrapped around her wrist, cold and startling

"i'm not sure how you got in here..", her eyes met yours, now void of the warmth you once held when she walked in, "but if a demon is ordering pastries from me, times must have changed." she shuttered under your hushed voice.

"d-demon...?" her skin was fully covered. even though her markings hadn't spread too far yet, she took precautions regardless, worried of the news that might ruin her relationships.

"i noticed your aura when you sat down. though, you don't seem that threatening... and the honmoon is completely intact aroun–"

"how do you..?" her eyes shook, almost pure horror behind them. there's tension between you two, fueled by her anxiety of being seen, of being exposed when her members were just right by the door. you studied her, her friends, and their auras alike, before you half smiled at her.

"my ancestors and yours were... very close." your voice rose, catching the attention of the pink and black haired girls. "do hunters not teach about researchers anymore?"

the three of them surrounded you quickly, eyes bright and curious

things like "we thought they were myths!!" and "you know about the honmoon!?" were thrown at you immediately

you debunked their mythology left and right, spending an hour after closing chatting with them

they felt.. seen? YOU felt seen!

you could finally talk to others about your aura vision and they could FINALLY get their hunter secrets off their chest

maybe it wasn't the best idea to spill it all in such a public place but who else would listen ?

celine got a very chaotic phone call later that night

and you? you got an invite to a luxurious penthouse and a few new friends

since then, you've helped them immensely

your memory was working like an endless library of information

you'd show them old diagrams your greatest great great great great grandparents had tucked away

discuss old journals that survived the attacks that became family heirlooms

told them fun facts about demons

especially to zoey, who seemed very intrigued by the fact that all demons had a weak spot in their chests due to their lack of personal souls

even, eventually, helped rumi tell the girls about her marks

zoey and mira were stunned in silence. rumi's arms were exposed, hands shaking in anxious terror, but you were right by her side. celine told her to always hide them but .. you understood. you accepted her mere minutes after meeting her. maybe the girls would do the same.

"rumi is.. something fascinating." you admitted. it sounded blunt, but you expressed it with a look of soft excitement. "she has mixed blood – the marks of a demon, the voice, soul, and heart of a hunter. she's never once lied about the kindness of her heart... the traits of hunters overpower any demon urges." you spoke for rumi as she stood there, feeling naked and scared under the judging eyes of her closest friends. "she's a pure experiment – but she's no less rumi. her aura proves that."

it took a few hours of conversations, explanations from both you, the expert, and her, the secret holder, but eventually, zoey and mira engulfed her in a hug – promising to keep the secret contained between the four of you. not even telling celine, in case she got them all in trouble. the golden honmoon was so close.. they'd be able to do this together, especially now that they have you.

during the events of the movie, they needed you a lot

but the last thing they wanted was a repeat of the accident

so they kept you their secret weapon ! working with you behind the scenes and away from the actual action

when the saja boys grabbed everyone's attention with their beautiful bodies and alluring voices, you were staring at their markings, especially at the joint fansigning they held

jinu noticed you about as much as he noticed bobby – just another person on staff

that is until he noticed how you stared at him

not ogling, but studying,, writing things down in the notebook you carried, covered in huntrix stickers

be lucky he noticed you over baby or mystery, otherwise you may have been targeted by their powers to throw you and huntrix off

he asked about you to rumi once .. the "mysterious person" on their staff that "always wrote in that notebook"

she was more worried about your safety than opening up to him but .. she thought..

if you helped her reveal herself to huntrix, maybe you could help jinu and the saja boys ?

they never expressed wanting help but she couldn't help but think about it

you hopped on board with her plan in secret, working on ways out of their servitude to gwima

it took a while but you figured that if you could channel your aura vision and hold them above the honmoon when it sealed, they could be healed of their marks too, human disguises left in tact.

it was only a matter of time before you tried it out.

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

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You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[sapphicstrawcore]

ᰔ MotherSevika!au: headcanons pt1

masterlist ᰔ pt1, pt2

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ When they’re still a baby :

Sevika never imagined herself as a mother. The thought of having a child—her child—felt impossible. Her life had been all violence, survival, smoke, and war. Nothing gentle. Nothing lasting.

It’s not like Sevika suddenly becomes soft. She doesn’t forget the back-alley fights, the broken jaws, the blood on her boots. She doesn’t regret every bruise she gave or every cigar she lit with a smirk after a win. That was her. And in a way, it always will be.

But when the baby is born, something shifts in her. Completely.

She’s still stoic, still quiet, still built like she could crush steel with her bare hands—but around her baby? She’s soft. Not loud or overly emotional, but present. Attentive in a way that surprises even her.

She holds them like they’re the most precious thing in the world. And to her, they are.

She’s not naturally patient, and some nights are harder than others. Crying at 3 AM, spit-up on her shirt, tiny fists tugging at her hair—it pushes her limits. But she never walks away. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and tries again.

It’s not easy for her to express love in words but she shows it in actions. A hand resting protectively on the crib. A bottle already warm before the baby wakes. A lullaby hummed so low it’s barely there, but always in tune.

She swore she wouldn’t pass down the violence of her world—but if anyone ever tried to hurt her baby? Let’s just say they’d disappear quietly. Permanently.

The first time the baby cries, Sevika freezes. Not because she doesn’t know what to do—she’s read the books, asked the nurses, watched carefully—but because the sound hits her like a punch to the chest. It’s raw. Fragile. Real. And for a moment, she’s paralyzed by the weight of it. “Oh, this is mine. And I can’t go back.” This tiny, helpless human is depending on her—and Sevika, the woman who once left blood in her wake, doesn’t know if she deserves it.

The first laugh hits her like a bullet straight through the heart.

It’s sudden—just a breathy giggle when Sevika makes a dumb face she didn’t even mean to make—but it stops her cold. She stares for a second, like she can’t believe what she just heard. Then she smiles. Not one of her rare, tired smirks—an actual smile. Wide. Uncontrolled. Kind. She never knew something so small could shake her so hard.

At night, when the baby’s asleep on her chest, Sevika stays alert. Hyper-alert. Every creak, every shadow outside the window, every memory crawling back from her past—it all plays in her head. She knows exactly what monsters look like. She’s been one. But she never lets it show. The baby only sees warmth. The quiet safety of her heartbeat. The rise and fall of her breathing. Sevika never lets the fear in her eyes reach her arms.

Her mechanical arm had always been a symbol. Of survival. Of violence. Of who she had to become to stay alive. But when her baby first reaches out for her and hesitates—fingers curling away from the cold, metallic limb—something in Sevika breaks.

She says nothing at first. Just quietly lowers her hand, tries not to show it stings. But that night, long after the baby’s asleep, she stares at her reflection. At the wires, the plating, the hum of Zaunite tech that used to feel like power. Now, it just feels like a reminder.

A few weeks later, the new arm arrives. Softer design. Skin-tone casing. Less sharp edges. Less war. She doesn’t tell anyone why she changed it. Most people assume it’s about public image—Zaun’s councilwoman trying to look “cleaner” now that peace is fragile after the war. But that’s not it. It’s for her kid. So they’ll never flinch when she reaches out. So her touch feels more like a mother’s, less like a weapon.

The first time they grab the new hand without fear, giggling as they chew on her fingers like teething babies do, Sevika almost cries. She doesn’t. Of course. She doesn’t allow herself that. But her throat tightens, and she holds them just a little closer.

She still drinks sometimes. Still smokes—less, but the craving never really leaves. She still curses when she stubs her toe and still throws a mean left hook if someone touches what’s hers. But the difference now? She doesn’t need to prove anything. Doesn’t need to be scary and a soldier now, even if she’ll always be. The war’s over. She didn’t win, she survived. And for the first time, she has something worth living for that is not Zaun’s freedom.

She still has a bad temper. Still glares a little too hard. Still walks like a storm in a hallway. But when her kid’s in the room, she watches herself. Not because she’s pretending—but because she knows what fear looks like in a child’s eyes. She’s put it there before. And she’ll never be the reason her kid feels it.

Sevika doesn’t do high-pitched voices. No sing-song tones or silly baby talk. You do it perfectly for her. She speaks in that deep, gravelly tone—just a little softer, like her words were dipped in velvet but never sugar.

“You hungry, kid?” or “C’mon, we’re not crying over that.” “Look at you. Walkin’ like you own the place.”

Her voice is low calm and steadying. The kind of voice that makes a baby feel safe, even if it doesn’t come with coos or rhymes.

She carries the baby everywhere in one arm like it’s second nature. On her hip, against her chest, over her shoulder. Doesn’t matter if she’s got paperwork in the other hand or a cigar tucked behind her ear—she moves through life one-handed like it’s no big deal.

She’s not overly expressive, but her baby becomes an expert at reading her little tells: the way her mouth twitches when they do something funny, or how she raises one brow when they try to lie. Her love is in the tiny things—hand on the back, tucking them in without a word, brushing hair out of their face before sleep.

Maybe her smile lines shows more, and not out of exhaustion or frustration this time. It’s from joy and love.

When the baby starts crawling, Sevika follows quietly—not panicking, not hovering, just… watching. Ready. Always within reach. She lets them take risks, but never alone.

When they start talking, Sevika listens like every word is sacred—even the nonsense ones. She doesn’t laugh at them, never makes them feel small. Instead, she nods seriously and says things like: “Yeah? That so?” “You gonna tell me more, or is that it?” And her baby talks more because they know she’s listening.

One day, her child might ask about the scars. The fights. The stories people whisper about her in Zaun. And she’ll tell them the truth. “I was good at hurting people,” she’ll say. “But I’m better at loving you.”

dividers: @/cursed-carmine

taglist: @lonerslug

[blooddlusts]

MANCHILD ⋆｡°✩ lee heeseung

( WHY YOU ALWAYS COME RUNNING TO ME ) ── ex boyfriend!! lee heeseung x fem! reader

synopsis: in which you awkwardly cross paths with your ex-boyfriend. and for him to pick up a desperate phone call when you needed it the most (read part one here)

fic notes: ex boyfriend! lee heeseung x fem! reader, suggestive language, cursing, angst, a little bit of reconciliation, very slowburn interactions

kiara's notes: due to popular demand, y'all asked for a part two. y'all can thank my bestie @nocturnebite for actually helping me come up with a happy segway into this story because i was prolly gonna make it more angsty lmao. if this needs a part three —feel free to yell at me (it prolly does)

word count: 2.7k

his phone number blocked, the pictures of you both ripped in two and thrown in the trash. every memory of his face, of his lips kissing your skin, his laughter ringing in your ear —erased, deleted, gone. that was the end of the chapter between you and lee heeseung. and perhaps it was better off that way.

it had been months since you had last spoken to him. while you promised yourself that it was't a big deal, the hole in your heart was begging to be filled, replaced with someone else. it took some motivation to get yourself out of bed, to try going out to clubs, to put makeup on and make yourself presentable in public. he had made you an emotional train wreck, which meant dragging your shaky feet out on the ground to find the confidence that had seemingly left your body the day that he shattered your heart into a million pieces.

and while the confidence returned —your luck with finding a better boy to date seemed physically impossible. no literally. the saying "there are other fish in the sea," must have been a lie. because the men on your dating apps, the men that approached you at clubs, were absolutely horrendous in every way possible. that's not to say that they weren't attractive (in fact, many of them were drop dead gorgeous) but you could spot their imperfections from the first date.

if heeseung had done one thing right, it was for your eyes to be open to the men that would sit in front of you. from the way they ate their pasta to the way they would snake an arm around your waist. the attention to detail made it so easy for you to reject another date, you didn't want to pursue another romantic relationship if they were going to be the same as your ex-boyfriend. but the one thing that lee heeseung had cursed you with was the magnetization. no matter where you went, you were always attracting the same type of men. the "man child" and it was fucking annoying.

they were the ones that played hard to get, the ones that like to linger and make you squirm in your seat wondering if you were going to be given the chance to go on a second date. the ones who promised to pick you up for dinner at seven only for you to be sitting in your living room almost an hour later, wondering when they would show up. the ones who talked passionately about their own hobbies without even batting an eye when you spoke on your success. you don't know what you did to attract such a form of men —but it was completely exhausting.

you prayed that they would be different. so maybe that's why you found yourself getting ready for another date. another dude from another dating app you were on. he didn't seem like a "man child" (but that was just your optimism speaking). and yet, you found yourself waiting in the lobby of your apartment, looking at the hands on your watch tick forward. he was late —of course he was.

"you look nice,"

his voice was unexpected. like a random bolt of lightning striking a clear summer day. it immediately took you out of your bored dazed as you looked up to see him staring at you. how many months had it been since you'd see his face? how many times had you spent trying to block him out of your head? surely, this was a figment of your imagination —but the tiny smile that touched his lips professed that the man standing in front of you was real.

"um thanks," you awkwardly replied, feeling your cheeks turn pink as you politely accepted his compliment.

the silence that between the two of you was as thick as a slice of texas toast. after all, what was there to say? how could you casually strike up a conversation with someone who casually threw your heart to the side?

"are you going on a date?"

"something like that, if he's planning on showing up," you scoffed as you looked down at your phone. no new messages, brilliant.

"how are things with your going with your girlfriend?" you asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject. you were mentally begging that your date could show up any minute now to save you from the jaws of the awkward conversation you were forced to be in.

"we broke up,"

great, so much for making the conversation less awkward.

what were you supposed to say? "i'm sorry that you two broke up?" you weren't. in fact, there was some form of satisfaction knowing that things with his ex-girlfriend didn't work out again. and yet, you found yourself awkwardly shifting in your chair praying that some sort of words could slip out of your lips to answer heeseung.

"oh..."

"...yeah,"

as much as you were curious to know why the relationship had ended. you had no choice but to plant a tiny smile on your lips and let out a sigh of relief as your phone screen lit up. saved by the bell-ish. the likelihood of this date being better than your previous ones seemed unlikely but it was better than spending any more time with heeseung. those were minutes you were never going to get back.

"well, that's my date," you said as you got up from your seat and smoothed out your dress. for a minute, you could have sworn that there was a tiny grimace on his face when he heard those words slip out of your lips. but it was almost immediately replaced with a faint smile. it had to be your imagination.

"it was nice seeing you heeseung,"

and with a polite smile, you walked out of the lobby with confidence in your footsteps, masking the sinking pit of anxious feelings that swirled in your stomach. you had a date to worry about and yet, he was there crawling his way back into your mind like a parasite.

it had been so long since you'd last seen him. so why out of all places did you have to see him now? more importantly, what was he doing in the lobby of your apartment building?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

your date was going horribly. not much of a surprise there. after being picked up forty minutes late, your date reeked of cologne. not that his cologne smelt bad, but it was like the man practically bathed in it. he was chivalrous enough to open the car door for you —that was about it. he chewed with his mouth open, he would constantly interrupt you when you had anything to say, and let's not forget how his phone wasn't silenced so you could hear the tinder notification constantly beeping on his phone.

you couldn't even keep track of what he was talking about. you were just waiting for the bill at this point. you were already planning on calling an uber instead of letting him drop you back at your place. the last thing you needed was his lips covered in pasta sauce trying to kiss you —ew.

"well, this has been a fun date but i should probably go home now," you started to say as you watched the waiter place the bill down in front of you. your date didn't even pay attention to what you had said, he took one glance at the bill and looked back up at you.

"aren't you going to pay?" he asked.

"excuse me?"

that was a quick slap to the face. now he was really racking up the points for being the worst date you've had. picking a fancy ass restaurant and expecting you to pay? of course, you should have picked up the sign sooner. there was a card on the dashboard of the car he picked you up in that was from some car rental business. he decided to pay for the most expensive bottle of wine and gorge himself on an expensive plate of food. great, another man child.

"i asked you out on the date, the least you can do is pay for the food," he replied casually while wiping the pasta sauce off of his chin.

"you've got to be fucking kidding me. is this what you do to all women that you take out on a date? order the most expensive meal and expect them to pay for it?" you snapped as you glared daggers at you date.

the fact that he didn't say anything made things even more upsetting. all he did was blink at you, as if you should have known this was how the date was supposed to go. "look, it's not that big of a deal. besides, i promise i'll make it up to you once we head back to your place," he said as he tried to place his hand on top of yours.

"oh really? is that what you think is going to happen? that i'm invite you back to back to my place and i'm gonna let you fuck with that tiny thing you call a penis?" you grit your teeth before getting up from your seat.

"go call your parents and ask them to help pay for your meal," you said as you opened your purse and threw some cash down in front of him. "here's my half of the bill," you added on before walking out of the restaurant, leaving behind your date jaw dropped and confused.

you stepped out of the restaurant into the darkened sky. the only thing lighting up the world in front of you were the city lights and the billboards that illuminated advertisements of happy smiling faces beaming in fluorescent colours in front of you.

while you should have felt relieved that you called it quits with that dude that just wanted to get in the sheets, there was something about this date that was the last straw. they were all the same, all of the dates that you had been on were just stupid men seeing you as another way to get their body count up. it was fucking disgusting. you craved the romantic life, you begged to be loved again, you wanted—

—and in that moment, your impulsiveness took over. you found yourself fishing your phone out of your purse, your hand going to the settings, clicking on a blocked phone number that you had memorized by heart, and pressing the call button.

you paced around in circles. a thousand thoughts accumulating in your head as you continued to hear the phone ring in your ear. until you heard his voice on the other line.

"hey, do you think you can pick me up?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the car ride was completely silent. no questions asked, no small talk to be made, just you two sitting with the radio as ambience to fill the void that was between the two of you. you didn't think he was going to answer, let alone pick you up. yet, you found yourself in the same car with your ex-boyfriend, with lee heeseung, the man you swore you never wanted to see in a million years —all because some stupid date went horribly wrong.

for the first time in a while, you felt like you could actually breathe. like you could sit back and pause in a world that was constantly moving. or maybe it was because you were in a car with someone that you had once been vulnerable with, someone that you had completely poured your heart and soul to. whatever the reason, you were able to rest your head on the side of the window and relax in the passenger seat.

"so, do you want to talk about what happened?" there it was. the moment that you weren't necessarily dreading, but knew that was going to happen. it was only a matter of time before he was going to confront you about the situation. or why you decided to call him up out of all people.

"not really," you muttered. you refused to make eye contact with him. one look into those doe-like eyes and hating him was a lost cause. you couldn't give in to him that easily.

"it's just, all of these dates that i've been going on are awful," you started as you finally moved your head away from the window and turned to look at him. "i mean, every guy i've been going out with these past couple of months have been the same. i'm so sick of attracting men that act like children!" you groaned as you threw your hands up into the air.

heeseung only chuckled as you finally started opening up to him again. there was something about seeing your face getting all red and flustered that made his heart skip a beat. he wanted to tell you, he needed to tell you—

"—he asked me to pay for the meal, hee. the dude literally ordered the most expensive meal on the menu and expected that i was going to pay—"

"—you called just me hee,"

you paused and turned to look at heeseung who was staring directly at you. thankfully you two were at a red light, so it wasn't like any car was going to come crashing into you but still. the nickname had slipped out of your tongue so casually that you didn't even notice yourself say it. but he did.

you didn't say anything to him after that. it was an instant "keep your lips" quiet moment after that. he caught you slipping once, you weren't going to let it happen again. so when he drove into the parking garage of your apartment complex you couldn't help but eagerly take off your seatbelt.

"well, thanks for the ride," you said already moving to open the car door. but before you could make a swift exit, heeseung was already out of the car, outside opening the door for you.

what was this feeling that was swelling up in your chest? you should be hating him right now. yet, you didn't shoo him away when he started to walk with you up to your apartment. he didn't say anything, just had his hands in his pockets, keeping his eye out for anyone that seemed suspicious. it was the tiny things that made your heart continue to skip a beat, even when you knew that you shouldn't.

"you know you didn't need to walk me to my door," you said as you fished your keys out of your purse.

"i know, i just figured that maybe it would save you from any other creeps trying to hit on you," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

"i appreciate it, heeseung. thanks for picking me up tonight. i honestly didn't think that you were going to pick up the phone,"

"well i'm glad i did. i've missed talking to you,"

you could only nod and smile at his comment. and then came the awkwardness that you two were so familiar with. it's not like you could give him a hug, or the usual kiss on the cheek when you first started dating. you two were just strangers, exes that picked up the phone for one small favour. nothing more nothing less.

"have a good night, heeseung,"

"sweet dreams,"

and while you watched him walk down the hallway as you stepped into your apartment, your stomach was greeted with the same pit of butterflies fluttering around. you shook your head, you couldn't fall for him again, that would mean neglecting everything that he had done. the way that he had taken your heart, smashed it into a million pieces and left you lying trying to fix everything he had broken.

but he answered your phone call.

you watched him turn the corner, a sigh escaping your lips before you closed the door behind you. now was not the time to catch feelings for the man that had cursed you to find every "man child" in the city. now was not the time to fill the hole in your heart with the same man who inflicted the damage you were trying to fix.

but everything about that night had brought back the tiny spark that you had put out so long. the wave of emotions coming back like a tide the more you played them over in your head. and so you went to bed with a confused head and a stomach swirling with butterflies.

he had left you once before. but he came back.

if only he never answered your phone call at all.

taglist: @keehoes @daisyintherainsposts @evxnsbae @douqhnxtss @mimimovv @sunooqvrlsx

reblogs, likes, comments & feedback are appreciated!

[runningracingdancingchasing]

She'd imagined sitting him down on the couch, maybe with some alcohol to make it all easier, imagined the lighting and how it would play on his features. But now they were in the kitchen, and the lighting was completely different, harsh and bright in comparison to her imagination. Well, that was on her. She was the one who'd started the conversation now instead of later.

Clearing her throat again, she found it hard to find her words, and even harder to look at him.

"I've been rehearsing this all day," she confessed with a little smile that didn't reach haunted eyes, toying with her own fingers while wishing she had Abraçinhos to hug. But he was in the living room, on the couch, where she'd meant to have this conversation. "But I can't seem to remember how it was going to go. Sorry if I'm about to ramble..."

Taking a deep breath, she thought through all of the myriad of rehearsals she'd gone through, then picked a place and started. Managing to look at him for a moment, she iterated, "Just know that I'm telling you this because you're my best friend and I trust you." That was very important. It was easy for Rapunzel to love. She loved her friends almost right away. But trusting people wasn't so simple. That probably had something to do with what she was about to tell him...

Okay, here we go. Just breathe and... start. "Okay, so the thing is... I can't remember anything about my past up until a few years ago," she explained softly, "and that's by design. Something... happened when I was little. I'm not sure exactly what, but I know it was traumatic. My therapist thought -- and I agree -- that if I want to function as an adult, I had to lock it all away. It was really the only way to move forward. But that's why there are things that basically everyone knows that I don't know anything about. Which is so frustrating and embarrassing, because I'm usually so smart!"

Even talking about it now, she could feel that locked closet of memories getting banged on from the inside, and her shame from not knowing how schools worked. Her focus started turning inward, a slippery slope to a bad night, even if he decided she was worth hanging onto. Without thinking, she got a glass of cold water and sat down at the table again, pressing the cool glass against her face and neck to keep herself in the here and now and with him.

"There are things I don't remember so much as feel. Echoes of a voice I can't identify or- or thinking someone's going to react negatively to something when no one with half a heart would. Sometimes... it's like a part of my brain is trying to remember the stuff I've deliberately forgotten, and the rest of my brain is trying to keep me from remembering. When that happens I just kind of... go away. Like, I'm there, physically, but my mind..." She paused to sip some water and ran her fingers idly over the place mat in front of her, taking in the texture as the cool drink soothed her throat, keeping her grounded. She surprised herself by the fact that she didn't feel like she was going to cry. Not yet. If he decided this was it, yeah, she'd spend the rest of the night crying. But not yet.

The more she thought about it, the more guilty she felt for being this way and subjecting him to her. Had she trapped him by asking him out before she told him this? But she was telling him now, and giving him an out, right? That was good of her, wasn't it? She liked him so much that she's was putting her biggest flaw right out there in the open and shining a light on it. If he couldn't handle it, well... she could just leave Rio after all.

God, she didn't want to leave Rio. Didn't want to leave him.

A sad, scared sigh escaped her. "I'm broken, Rai. I'm broken, and I don't know if I can ever be fixed all the way. I know I should have told you this before I asked you out, because you deserve to have an informed choice, to know what you're getting into, and I totally get it if... if it's too much. If it's a deal-breaker. I can be a lot as it is, and this is just... it's a lot more. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

And she really hoped he'd stay, despite it. And she was terrified he wouldn't. Her head and stomach swam unpleasantly, pizza and wine suddenly not seeming like such a good idea.

He'd busied himself washing out their wine glasses. Washing dishes was his least favourite of all chores - which he despised in general - but she'd gone through the effort to make dinner, and the least he could do was to help clean up.

He felt his shoulders tense a little as she spoke. Serious and important... Her tone and the entire vibe changed, and he tilted his head at her, a little furrow between his brows.

"Sure, girl." He set the glasses down and dried off his hands, leaning his hips back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms loosely. "What's, uh... what's up?" He deliberately kept his mind as blank as possible, refusing to jump to scary conclusions.

[skyracha]

Our Girl

[3RACHA x Bsf!Reader]

No warnings- just fluff

Word Count: ~ 1.4K

500 Follower Event- Part 2

Synopsis: After not seeing your three best friends- Bangchan, Han and Changbin- in almost 2 years, you score barricade tickets to their show. One by one they spot you in the crowd, leading to staff bringing you backstage for a long overdue reunion.

__________________________

It had been six hundred and eighty-four days since you’d last seen them.

Since you’d sat across from Bang Chan in that little café in Hongdae, his hands warm around his coffee but his smile just a little tired. Since you’d hugged Han Jisung outside the dorms after a late-night snack run, his laughter echoing in the street. Since Changbin had wrapped you in one of those rib-crushing hugs, the kind only he could give, before boarding a van for tour rehearsals.

And then they were gone. Schedules. Time zones. Fame. Life.

You didn’t blame them—never could. But it had left a hollow ache where their laughter used to be.

So when you scored barricade tickets to their show—Stray Kids World Tour, final night in Seoul—you didn’t even hesitate. You’d screamed. Cried, even. Not because you expected anything. Not because you thought they’d remember you after two years of world tours and award shows.

But because this was as close as you’d been to them in so long.

Close enough to see them under the lights.

Close enough to whisper: I missed you.

⸻

You arrive early, hours before gates open, your heart racing as you grip your ticket. You feel ridiculous—dressed in their tour merch, eyes scanning the stadium floor like a fangirl, not a girl who once knew the way to their studio better than her own apartment.

But when the lights go down and the intro VCR starts, you forget everything.

Then they appear.

And suddenly you’re eighteen again, sitting on the dorm floor eating convenience store ramen, their laughter surrounding you. But now, they’re towering on stage—stars in every sense of the word.

And then it happens.

Chan spots you first.

You don’t even mean to make eye contact—it just happens. You’re singing along, arms raised, when his gaze sweeps the crowd, freezes, and locks on yours. His mouth parts. He fumbles a lyric. His brow creases in disbelief. You smile—soft and unsure. He blinks, then smiles so wide you think his face might split open.

Next is Jisung.

He’s bouncing across the stage during his rap in “Topline” when he skids to a stop mid-line, nearly crashing into Felix. He squints into the lights, then grips Chan’s shoulder, gesturing frantically. His whole face lights up when he sees you—eyes wide, mouth curled into that signature grin. He does a ridiculous little hop in place, mouthing, No way—NO WAY.

Finally, Changbin.

He’s mid-verse, all intensity, until he sees his hyungs losing it. He follows their gaze—and his jaw drops. A laugh bursts out of him right there on stage. He holds his mic out to the crowd and just stares at you for a moment, completely off-beat.

Chan leans into his mic and says, “Sorry, everyone—we just spotted a really important friend in the crowd.”

The cheers rise, but you barely hear them.

Because minutes later, a staff member is weaving through the crowd, heading straight for you.

⸻

Backstage smells like hairspray, sweat, and something electric—like memory. You’re guided through corridors, your steps faltering as the noise of the crowd fades behind you.

Then the door opens. And they’re all there.

Chan crosses the room in four long strides. No words. Just wraps his arms around you and pulls. His chin tucks over your shoulder. You feel his heart racing—faster than yours.

“You’re real,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You’re actually here.”

You nod, tears burning behind your eyes. “I had to see you. One more time.”

Jisung crashes into you next, arms looping tight around your waist. “You’re still short,” he teases, voice thick. “Thank God.”

Then Changbin, who just stares at you for a second too long before pulling you in, squeezing so hard you wheeze. “You idiot. You should’ve told us. We’d have flown you out to the first show.”

You laugh wetly. “Didn’t think you’d remember me.”

They all step back at once. Offended. Insulted.

Chan’s voice drops. “Don’t ever say that.”

“We talked about you all the time,” Jisung adds.

“You think we could just forget our best friend?” Changbin shakes his head. “Hell no.”

You’re led to their dressing area, and somehow, they all manage to circle around you like you’re a secret they’ve kept safe for years. The makeup team scolds them for crying off their touch-ups, but no one cares.

“Why didn’t you text?” Chan asks quietly.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your lives. Everything changed.”

He frowns. “It didn’t change how we feel about you.”

Jisung reaches for your hand. “You were with us before the stage. You never had to earn your place here.”

“Yeah,” Changbin grins. “You’re not just part of the crowd. You’re part of us.”

⸻

They pull you out to the wings for the encore.

You watch from just offstage, tears slipping freely as the ocean of lights sway. The boys glance back every few minutes, sending winks and smiles just for you.

And then Chan lifts his mic again.

“There’s someone really special here tonight,” he says, voice cracking. “Someone we haven’t seen in a long time. And even though we’ve been apart, they were always with us. In every lyric, every late-night recording session, every hard moment.”

Jisung grabs the mic. “She believed in us before anyone else did.”

“She’s the reason I didn’t quit,” Changbin adds.

Chan looks toward the wing—toward you. “This one’s for you.”

The lights dim. A soft melody begins—an unreleased song, one you heard once in the studio but never thought would see the light.

The lyrics? They’re yours.

Every word.

You cry. Openly. The staff tries not to stare, but the boys don’t hide it. They point to you, tears in their own eyes, and sing like they’re pouring two years of silence into the music.

When it ends, the applause is deafening.

And you know something deep in your bones.

You were never just part of the past.

You were part of their story all along.

[bambiens]

LIKE A TATTOO .☘︎ ݁˖ – 00 PROLOGUE

─────────────────────

profiles I | profiles II | next chapter | masterlist

SYNOPSIS ⟢ after suffering a gruelling break-up, y/n vowed to start doing all the things her ex-boyfriend had never let her do before; partying, having fun, and making reckless decisions. during a usual night out, y/n spontaneously decides to try to get inked – which ultimately led her to meet lee heeseung, an independent tattoo artist. meeting heeseung was an embarrassing memory that y/n would like to forget (which she had forgotten by the next morning anyways considering she was completely hammered), however, after encountering each other again by chance – or luck if you call it that – heeseung decides he’s found the perfect canvas for his art; his next muse.

A WEEK AGO...

[word count: ~900, 3 screenshots] ignore timestamps!

it was safe to say that everyone had one, two, many drinks. after leaving the club, you had all been roaming the streets of nyc with no set destination – your glossy eyes made it hard to see all the fluorescent lights around you, and it wasn't helping that the intoxication was still settling in. all that filled the air was laughter of you and your friends – and the occasional whiff of underground sewage.

abruptly stopping her tracks, giselle suddenly gasped aloud, startling everyone – it wasn't until then that you, yunjin, and beomgyu noticed you were all parked in front of a tattoo shop.

giselle turns to face everyone, already grinning from ear-to-ear, "does anyone want to get a tattoo right now?"

"can we do that another time, i think i might throw up if we don't call a cab right now," beomgyu replied, waving his arms around flamboyantly in defiance.

deciding to ignore beomgyu, giselle rolls her eyes turning to look at you and yunjin, where the silence became almost deafening.

honestly, you wouldn't say you were opposed to the idea of spontaneously getting a tattoo at this moment, but what really turned you off was the idea of getting it alone. you thought to yourself that it wouldn't be much fun if it was only you experiencing getting a drunken tattoo – but then, you suddenly started to begin thinking otherwise.

your two feet began dragging themselves towards the entrance to the tattoo shop where you loudly blurted, "whatever, momma didn't raise no fuckin' pussy."

.☘︎ ݁˖

upon entering the shop, the four of you guys tried to lock-in (in other words, seem sober). however, this strategy didn't help at all considering heeseung could already smell the liquor coming from you guys as soon as you all stepped in. plus, you're all still wearing club attire – it doesn't take much to put two and two together.

you clear your throat as heeseung walks towards the reception desk, "how's your night been?" he asks you with a grin on his face.

"good, good... you know same old, same old," you can hear giselle, yunjin, and beomgyu all giggling in the back.

"actually..." you begin batting your eyes at him, "i was wondering if you'd be a kind fella and be able to, um, give me a tattoo... right now?" at this point, you become aware of how off-putting you probably seem to this man.

while speaking, you were unaware that heeseung had been smirking at you the entire time.

"you know, i'd love to, but," his eyes dart to the clock then back to you, "one, we're about to close, two, you are very visibly drunk and therefore cannot give proper consent, and three, it's by appointment only."

looking back at it now, you don't really know why you kept going at it.

you pouted your lips, intertwining your hands together begging, "c'mon, please, no one has to know. it'll be our little secret."

to be honest, you put on quite a convincing act that it almost tempted him. but instead, heeseung squints his eyes at your words, biting his lip back from laughing.

before heeseung responds, he softens his voice – almost as if he's gentle parenting you, "listen, you're really drunk right now and i wouldn't be a very good artist if i tattooed you under the influence, wouldn't i?"

all you do is simply nod at his words.

"but..." he drags out, "how about this, if you somehow remember this encounter when you're all sobered up, i'll give you whatever tattoo you want, no appointment needed, free of charge, just walk in whenever."

somewhere in the middle of his tiny spiel you start smiling.

he starts to speak again, "just ask whoever's at this desk for 'heeseung.'"

you couldn't tell if this was his way of flirting with you, but you begin to play along, "and what if you're not here?"

"i'm here everyday baby, it's my shop," he replied playfully.

you smile at his words, already slowly walking back towards the door, "we'll see, goodnight heedong," heeseung doesn't bother to correct you since you're already hammered, he just lets out a small snicker.

when you turn on your heels to exit, you find that all your friends had left you. you pause for a second, confused as to where they went and how they left unnoticed by you. were you really that enamoured by some random tattoo guy that you couldn't even tell what was happening around you?

while stuck in thought, heeseung lets you know, "they're just outside. i think one of them is throwing up."

you slightly turn your body to look back at him where you give him a tight-lipped, "thanks," before finally making your way out the door.

heeseung watches you leave with a grin on his face, looking at your back profile up and down just before your tattoo catches his eye.

in bold, the words, "lucky you" are etched onto your lower back.

"huh, lucky..." he mutters, looking down at his own knuckles on the counter that read "luck" and "fate."

if you were to ask heeseung now why he did what he did that night, he probably couldn't even tell you why himself – and in all honesty, he was never expecting to see you ever again, he just wanted to entertain himself that night.

─────────────────────

author's note: heeseung watching yn leave his store (REAL)!!!! also chapter one out NEOW❤️‍🔥

TAGLIST [OPEN] — comment or dm to be tagged!

⟢ @primroselover @deobitifull @sourkiki @heesexual74 @enhxlvr @jaysguitarstring @smlbch @likeafeverrr @lisamrrth @all4moi @itzbangchan333 @ddolleri @mheretoreadff @tbyangel @beomgyus11 @httpenhoon @jellymiki @juliejulesjule @luvnaomixo @lalalalawon @cripplinghooman @pandoraskisses @galbiyun @jjongsha @enhanoa @makeme1cream

copyright © bambiens 2025.

[fanged-fanfics]

Wait !! I just thought now.... How about a golden cheese cookie x reader but when Burning Spice Cookie was about to crush her the reader take the hit instead of her, and pass out (but not die), how will Golden Cheese Cookie react ?? Will she regain her strength ??

☆ Even Gold Can Crumble — Golden Cheese x Reader Fic ☆

Genre: Angst || They/them pronouns for reader || Light warnings for descriptions of injury/Burning Spice disabling Reader

A/N: I think this is referencing the fight where her wings got torn so that's what I based it off of, sorry if that's not what you meant! I hope it's enjoyable either way

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

It all fell so fast. You remember only fragments of it, flickering visions of what had transpired. A strong, imposing figure— that Beast. The way he gleefully cut through your land, his loud bark of laughter echoing through your memories. But it had been going so well... with Golden and Smoked Cheese on the rise, they finally had something. But the army proved much too intense

Blindsided by the Great Destroyer, it was over before it could even really begin. A noble act, a mercy— it's all the golden queen strived for. But that same kindness was due to be her downfall. Stopping the boulder to save a creature gave the Beast enough time to sprint ahead. Just as quickly as the boulder had shattered into pebbles, Golden Cheese was sent into the air. Pushed aside, she watched in horror as you'd taken her place in being swept away by Burning Spice Cookie. You remember a hand on your throat, caverns below as you dangled off the edge. There was screaming, and a grip on your arm.. and...

You suddenly woke up. With a choked out gasp, you lunged forward, seeing nothing but the vision of the Spice Army. "Oh dear-! Darling, please-" A familiar voice came. It was faint, almost as if coming through a fog. A hand touched your shoulder, and your head snapped to the direction it came from. Wild eyes met soft gold. Your mind raced, slowly forming together as that same hand rubbed your arm. "My dear, please... it's me. Your Radiance, remember?"

You looked around at the surroundings. A bed, four walls, and... and her. Golden Cheese Cookie. "Golden..? What- what happened?" You asked, voice raw from the lack of use. With a relieved sigh, she cupped your cheeks in her hands "Oh, my treasure... my brave, brave little gem. You saved me" she said. "I- huh?" You repeated. It was as if your brain itself felt numb. You could see the flashes of memories, feel every sensation you did then. But it only came through a little bit at a time into your conscious

"It's okay, take your time" Golden Cheese said. Her voice was soft, soothing to your aching head. She scooted closer to hold you, tugging you in a bit "You poor dear. I'm so, so sorry". "No, no-" you began "I wanted to help. I couldn't let him... I couldn't let him hurt you". "But now you're hurt" Golden Cheese countered, her expression a little more serious "This was my battle. I shouldn't have let you have my fate"

"Please, don't blame yourself" you said, leaning your head on her shoulder "I acted because I wanted to. I just... the thought of his hands on you... it makes me sick". She leaned her head against yours, gently nuzzling you "I should have been stronger. He's my enemy, not yours. And now you've lost..." she began, trailing off

Lost... what? You furrowed your brow in confusion, leaning back. Her eyes were glistening, moisture gathered at the bottom of them. A memory entered your mind. Your arm. It was the last thing the Beast had grabbed of you before you lost consciousness. You quickly looked over, only to have your heart drop. There was nothing. Everything below the shoulder was completely gone. All at once, the pain struck you like a hot iron. It was gone. So much was gone. That Beast had taken everything— and now this. He almost took her too

Grief, rage, pain, all of it swirled in your system like a sickening slurry of emotions. A wave overtook you, your breath coming out short, and nausea settled into you. Golden Cheese immediately wrapped you in her arms, pulling you into her chest. You broke down into sobbing, and she rubbed your back. "I know, I know" she whispered, voice cracking with emotion "I'm so sorry. I should've- I- I'm so, so sorry"

You didn't ease up, tears falling in an endless stream to vent out all the pain. Her arms were your only refuge, her wings wrapping around you for further comfort. She held back tears of her own, walls firmly in place. It wasn't right for her to break down now, not when you're hurting worse than she could've ever feared for you. She kept holding you close, as you cried out all you could physically give. You pulled away eventually, eyes burning as your throat felt raw. Everything was blurry, and you felt lightheaded. Golden Cheese's hand cupped your chin

"My beloved... I won't let this go by unpunished" She began, kissing your forehead "He will pay for this. Every crumb of dough you lost will be repaid in that Destroyer's jam" she promised. Her hands still held you up, letting you lean on her for support as she spoke. "This will not be in vain. I'll make him regret the day he even thought about harming you"

You sniffled, simply letting her hold you. Her words brought comfort, soothing you just enough to give you a flicker of hope. Not a single Cookie could get away with harming Golden Cheese's treasures, especially not you. "Thank you" you said hoarsely "Please, just... be careful. I can't handle if you get hurt too". "Don't spare it another thought" Golden Cheese said, kissing the top of your head yet again "I will avenge you, darling. Just you wait"

[midnightquips]

That Old Feeling

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: It's been years since you've seen Bucky Barnes. You didn't plan to see him, but he definitely didn't look surprised to see you. Something's different, though. The looks. The heat. Maybe it's always been there. Maybe... you've just been too blind to see it before.

Themes: AU Thunderbolts, teasing officemates, possessive Bucky, friend's ex, Thunderbolts chaos (a consistent theme), friends-to-lovers, college crush so pining

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex

💫 That Old Feeling Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 2

Part III – What Are We Doing? 

You’re relieved that you managed to avoid Bucky for most of the day. You were almost successful. Until now.

You’re walking across the nearly empty parking lot, tote bag slung over one shoulder, head full of numbers from a late client call, when you spot him. Leaning against your car. Because of course he is.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath.

He hears you, then straightens up like he’s been waiting. Which, judging by the look on his face, he absolutely has.

“You stalking me now?” you call as you approach.

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Saw you forgot your charger at your desk. Figured I’d bring it out. Do the chivalrous thing.”

You had been looking for your charger before you left and wondered where it was. How suspicious it was with him. You had a feeling he did this on purpose. But what bothered you more was how it actually didn’t bother you. 

You reach for it, but he doesn’t hand it over. He simply holds it up between two fingers like bait.

You narrow your eyes. “What do you want, Barnes?”

He pauses. Then: “Dinner.”

Your brain stutters. “What?”

He softens, the smile less cocky now. “Dinner. As in, let me take you to one.”

You blink. “Like… a date?”

“I mean, you kissed me like you might want to sit across from me for an hour and eat pasta.”

“That was…” You trail off, then try again. “That was just—”

“Tequila and nostalgia?”

You frown.

He grins. “I know what you’re gonna say. I just figured I’d ask politely instead of begging on my knees.”

You sigh and cross your arms. “Why?”

“Because I want to,” he says simply. “Because I think we missed something back then. And I’d like to see if we can get it right now.”

It’s annoyingly sincere. You hate how your stomach flips. “I don’t date coworkers.”

“You don’t date ex-roommates’ exes either,” he points out. “And yet...”

You scowl. “You’re really not gonna let that go, huh?”

“Not when I finally have a shot.”

The silence stretches. You shift your weight, glance at your car and finally back at him.

“Fine,” you say eventually. “Dinner. As colleagues. Reconnecting.”

His eyes sparkle. “Sure. Totally professional.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

He smirks. “No promises.”

He hands you the charger and walks you to the driver’s side, like he’s worried the car might disappear if he looks away. You pause before unlocking it.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Not really.” He shrugs smugly

You shake your head, not able to keep the small smile from appearing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

You stare at him. His words catching you off-guard. 

His expression shifts and slows. “Can I say that?”

You swallow. “You just did.”

Suddenly, he steps in closer. It was just a few inches but you can feel the heat between you, the memory of his hands on your skin already creeping up your spine.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about last night,” he says, voice low. “The way you tasted. The way you moved.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky…”

“I know,” he says, raising his hands. “Not the time. Not the place. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I want more of it.”

You try to keep your voice steady. “We said it was just a moment.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But I want another one.”

You’re quiet. Too quiet. Because your brain is busy screaming danger and your body is saying please.

And then, before you can change your mind, before you can throw logic back in his face, he leans in. You think he’s going to kiss your cheek again. Polite. Safe. But his mouth lands right beside yours again. Like it did yesterday but this time on purpose. 

The kiss is on the edge of your lips. You shift just slightly. Just enough that suddenly it’s a kiss again.

This one’s different this time. Not frenzied. Not wild. Just slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that builds heat in your chest and travels down your spine like a fuse. 

He groans into it, low and quiet, like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. You part your lips, let him in, just once. He brings his hand to hold your face, sliding his tongue into your mouth. 

It makes your gasp. Then, you step back. Because if you don’t, you’re going to let him fuck you in the backseat of your car.

He’s breathing harder than before. Eyes hooded.

You lick your lips, but regret it instantly.

“Text me,” you say, unlocking the door. “If you still want to have dinner when your brain’s back online.”

He opens your door for you, still dazed. “I already do.”

You slide in. “Try not to camp out by my bumper tomorrow.”

“No promises.” 

You close the door before you can smile too much. But you see it in the mirror as you drive off. Bucky is standing there, watching you go, looking like he’s already planning what to wear.

Taglist: @enchantingwitchballoon @emilyswortwellen @tellybearryyyy @kiatjuddae @Luannastylinsonlupin @OtterlyCanadian @winchestert101 @bxtchboy69 @biggestfangirl @luannastylinsonlupin @Sebastians-love @fveapplestall @snhoe @ruexj283 @avengersfan25 @in-omn1a-paratus @avengemepercy

[gulliblelemon]

Chapter 10 - penultimate chapter

Some moments he forgot. That just meant it felt ten times worse as it came crashing back down over him, but he assumed it was a step forward to not have his grief consume his every waking moment.

Erik no longer occupied his mind in sleep either. That was only because now his dreams seemed to be almost completely taken over by someone else. He shook the memories of some particularly vivid ones away and continued. “I mean… I’m not saying it’s not hard. It really is. But… I’m doing okay. Thanks for checking up on me.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Was it Wille’s imagination or did Simon put too much emphasis on the word ‘friend’? They should probably talk about it. They really needed to talk about it. Should Wille be the one to start? Or was it down to Simon now? Perhaps—

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Simon interrupted Wille’s spiralling thoughts. “There’s this new one Ayub keeps begging me to watch and it sounds boring. But maybe it’ll be fun if you watch it with me?”

Okay. Maybe they weren’t going to talk about it. 

… 

Not yet anyway.

Read now on AO3 (M, 71k/77k). Or start from the beginning.

[munipe]

helloo!! gosh im actually really new to the fandom and i have been enjoying your fics they're sooo well written!!

what about saiki and reader baking together?

and there's just these little moments where they accidentally brush fingers/hips, caught each other's eyes, or stare at the other a little bit too long that they messed up the batter they were stirring

just those little moments because i loveee the tension haha!! and maybe in the end the big moment would be saiki and the reader enjoying the sweet they made and then the reader casually wipes off a smudge of cream from the corners of saiki's mouth saying that he got something there before licking the cream themself and went right back to eating hahah!! and maybe then would saiki realise the gravity of his growing feelings for the reader

sorry this is so lengthy!! i just like to yap a little bit!!

Thank yoj so much, it’s so motivating to hear that people do enjoy my writing even if it’s something I do free-lanced-ly. 😭💜

My eyelash literally poked my lower lid at the right angle to prick me while I was writing this

Also yes, I did search up a strawberry cake recipe for this

Home ec. was already such a pain. His friends always pestered him; they were never good at baking. In hindsight, just agreeing to them probably would’ve let him avoid what he felt for you a little more—an undeniable ‘tolerance’ for one of the few people he’s accepted as part of his life. Your parents were friends, so clearly you two had to be friends by extension, tradition, if you will. Agreeing to your oh so gracious request to bake with you because your friend was absent, was a grave mistake.

The task was simple—a simple damned strawberry cake with four layers.

1.PREPARE THE CAKE(S)

“Can you pass me the butter milk and separate the egg yolks from the white?” You asked him as you opened and measured out some cake flour on a scale and measuring cup. Once it was measured, you grab another bowl while he hands you the butter milk. Your fingers brush momentarily—barely. You sift the flour in gently. As you do, he separates the yolks.

Truthfully, he doesn’t mind you running the ship. You seemed in your element— baking and murmuring gentle commands, it was almost cute. As you fold the flour in, he finally slips the egg yolks in.

“Mix it for me?” Though it was a statement, you proposed it like a question. He wouldn’t mind. He took the bowl and gently mixed it. He had to be careful, his strength could accidentally whip it too fast and god knows what could happen. As he mixes, you reach for the egg whites in another bowl that was to his right, arm dipping under his. He watches you, carefully. He’d be sure to erase your memory of this if you found out he was watching.

He watches as you whisk the egg whites into peaks, before adding in sugar. He wanted to point out that some of the puffy whites got on the corner of your mouth when you taste tested it after the sugar, but he didn’t—it was oddly endearing.

“Saiki, I think thats enough mixing,” you smile sheepishly at him, glancing at the batter he’s definitely been mixing too long. It wasn’t like it’d mess up the cake completely, but he didn’t want to be that guy in a group project. Wordlessly, he hands the batter over and watches you fold the whites in. For a moment, he finds himself seeing things. He sees you in the kitchen, bowl in hand, maybe a baby to your hip with maybe a dog barking—whatever you wanted. For a moment, he thinks he’s insane.

He is insane when he sees you make eye contact with him. “Something on my mouth?” You murmur. He points to the corner of your mouth. You huff and lick it away quickly before pouring the batter into a lined cake pan. Three more to go. So you both mixed and mixed away before putting the four cake batters into the ovens.

2.PREPARE THE FROSTING AND STRAWBERRIES

He was near death, he thinks. He had been tasked with cutting the strawberries, and sugaring them, while you were making the frosting—buttercream. You mixed it softly as he gently sliced strawberries. Soon, your hands were buttery, and his, full of strawberry juice.

“Opinions?” You offer him some of the buttercream on your finger. He wasn’t sure what to do—how to react. Yes, you two have been friends for years. Yes, you two have gotten comfortable enough to casually offer each other food. Yes, you two have fed each other out of boredom. No, he’s never licked butter cream off your finger.

Tentatively, he tastes the buttercream off of your finger. He tilts his head with thought.

‘Add another drop of vanilla extract’

He still doesn’t think he’ll reveal his powers to you—not yet. You nod and go back to making the butter cream. He stands, staring down at the strawberries. They were sliced, laid on a plate, sugar dusted over them. He looks back to you.

Wordlessly, he holds a strawberry slice to your lips. He watches as you bite down on it and take it in between your lips.

You hum as you chew. “Sweet.”

3.ASSEMBLE THE CAKE

After letting the cakes cool down properly, it was finally time to assemble the monstrosity. You layered the four, short cakes, with a layer of frosting in between. He had been tasked with spinning the cake table while you frosted. He hadn’t realized how close you’d be. He could smell the remaining sugar on you—the sweetness of domesticity. How gentle it was, when you laughed and told him to spin it a little faster. It was possibly the most rewarding moment of this little adventure. The cake was a product of your efforts. As you scrape down the frosting with a spreader, you hum.

He begins to lay the strawberry slices as you pipe dollops of frosting on the edges. Gently, your creation came to be. You huff softly and look up at him in satisfaction. Yet, as he looks back down, he sees your eyes focused on his cheek.

“Y’got somethin’ there, Sai…” You mumble as you smudge some frosting off of his pale skin with your thumb, only to gently lick it off your fingertip. He had thought he heard every nickname he could from his mother, but Sai, was something you made, and it held.

Other than the insane beating of his heart, and the absolute fight of using cryokinesis to cool his body but also not to freeze everything in the room—he was totally fine. He was normal about what you did—most definitely. He wasn’t. He wasn’t sure what he would do with his head. He wasn’t sure on what to do with the idea of you two baking in twenty years time.

He was whipped.

Did you guys see the pun at the end. hahahah

Ik its unrealistic to make a 4 layer cake in a single home ec period—but pretend, okay

[inexorablyinsecure]

Sinclair... Didn't mind, listening, and being held. In a way, it was... Affirming. That no matter how inhuman she became, she would still be... 'Wanted'; she would still be 'human', in a sense. Her mind was still a mess, her memories were still jumbled-- Who even knew, how much of 'her' was 'Sinclair'? But she was still...

A friend.

That thought, may have been the only thing that allowed her to keep her composure, as the topic shifted from Baoyu, to... Demian. It was only a small change, a slight frown, on Sinclair's face as she had managed to reign herself in, and yet it took her a long time to reply. She opened her mouth, to reply, many times. But the answer didn't come out.

Not at first.

And yet, she found her words.

"...It seems... He's the same in every world, huh?" she replied, her voice... Somber, almost, as she spoke, eyes nestled on the floor in front of them. There was a heaviness to her words. A weight, as she spoke, like she had been trying to avoid it; but also knew that... She couldn't any longer. "...Demian was..." she trailed off, closing her eyes.

Her memories swirled in a complicated nexus of thoughts and experiences, and yet she couldn't afford to be wrong. Kromer was... Well, she wasn't sure if she was 'in danger', anymore than she herself was, but... She needed to reach in, to grasp those memories, and focus. Not for herself, but for Kromer.

So it was that she felt herself reach deep inside her own mind, and take hold of 'herself'. So it was that her head began to ache, and from deep within her heart, her chest, something like a motor began to whirr. To spin and make noise, as she fought to separate the memories, at least for a moment. Her head ached, and for a moment her vision blurred--

But as red eyes seemed to, for a moment, destabilize into a glittering gold, he took a deep breath-- And even as the red set back in, it was able to focus, on the floor ahead of them. Focus, on the pain in its head, and in his hand, as she began to speak.

"...In my world. Back in the academy, Demian was..." her voice was low. Almost completely mechanical, in nature, and yet it shared a candor that couldn't be anyone but Sinclair's. "...Potentially, a student at our school; though, um, some... Sometimes I wonder if even that was true," she murmured, eyes glossing over for a moment.

"...But... He was odd. He always had people around him, but he didn't seem to care about them. Like... Like he was in his own little world. And then, one day, during an engineering class... I saw him, outside. Walking with his friends, only..." she frowned, letting out a concerted little huff. "...As he moved his hair, I saw something on his forehead. A mark. It confused me, and... And he knew that. He- He had seen me staring, and knew I could see it, when no one else could, and that..." she trailed off.

"...That's what led to him taking an interest in me," she spat, the words almost venomous, as they came from her mouth. "...He... When- When I gave my world's Kromer the key, he... He knew what was coming. Like he could see it, like- Like he knew it was going to happen, and..." she trailed off, hands balling up into a fist. "...He didn't stop you. He didn't stop me, either. He knew, and yet... And yet..." she trailed off, voice growing quieter.

"...Its... Its hard to remember, what happened directly after Calw, of course. But..." Sinclair swallowed, uncomfortably, as she grit her teeth. "...He came to me. He spoke to me, as I was lying in the ashes trying to stay hidden from the inquisition. He... He didn't care, that he almost gave me away. He knew what had happened- What had happened to my friends, my family, and... And..." her voice seemed to hitch, for a moment, before continuing. "...He said he wanted to see my soul laid completely bare. To see exactly what type of person I'd be, once the mark was complete."

She didn't need to continue, anymore. Anything else, what came next-- Verbatim, Kromer would know from her own experiences. Demian had killed his world's version of her. Split her completely in two, bisected. He had said that he had removed Kromer for him; so that he would no longer have one 'domineering' over him. He had never considered, that perhaps, Sinclair had still had hope. That perhaps, Sinclair wanted something better, for his friend.

Or perhaps, he had.

And perhaps, Demian simply didn't care what Sinclair wanted; and instead, simply wanted to complete the 'sign' no matter the cost. Perhaps, Demian wanted to shape Sinclair in the same way Kromer had; and had simply waited until it was too late to show it, unlike the young girl who, even at a young age, had been ready to try and push Sinclair into doing things others saw as 'wrong'... So as to help her break free, from the shell she had been raised in.

That was what had frustrated her, so much about the situation.

Kromer... For all of her faults. For all of her misdeeds, she... Had wanted what was best for Sinclair. Even if it was to make Sinclair, into something more appealing to her, she... Had wanted to protect him, one way or another. To harden him for the world, and then, if that should fail, to take him under her wing... And she had never minced words about this. No matter what she did, she had never lied to him, or implied that she might do nothing.

She had never warned him about an oncoming storm, knowing full and well she could have prevented it; for in her eyes, the only storm she had ever known was coming, was one of liberation.

...A slight frown, was positioned on Sinclair's face, at that thought. That stinging feeling of betrayal, as her mind ached worse than aught else she had felt, and... As her hand, ached with the phantoms of a broken limb, even as it had begun to heal. Her skull rung with every thought, and yet...

No matter how much it hurt, she had to keep her mind clear. She had... To focus, on the conversation at hand; for there was no doubt in her mind, that Kromer would have questions for her.

Sinclair, Do you need help? I'm hearing.... Noises from the changing room.

- @dreamsoftheredchamber

Sinclair swallowed uncomfortably. She felt the foreign, mechanical musculature move, swallowing her spit, and yet it still felt foreign. Like there was a piece of phlegm, or mucus stuck that she couldn't remove as she tried to open her mouth. Her chest ached and her eyes were... Sore, in a way. They ached, from tearing up, and yet she knew that it wasn't right. It felt different. It felt foreign. It was a mimicry.

It was false.

Still, as the knock rang out, she set her PDA down, and shifted her hand, towards her wrist. She opened her mouth, and pushed past the oddity of the new form, and allowed her voice to echo out.

"A...A... U-Um... I'm, not sure?"

Her voice was worried. Shifting. Unsteady and... A little higher, than she remembered it. It was afraid. Scared. And most of all, there was a slight tinge. A slightly, mechanical tinge, the perhaps only she could hear, and yet it was there, all the same. It was hideously panicked.

"Th... The, um... Anon-- Th... They changed me and I... My head hurts, and these memories, they're...!"

She tried to explain. Explaining would... Make it easier, and yet she knew she sounded insane. Her head hurt. It ached, and everything was wrong. Her hands gripped at her arms, and her 'breathing'... No, the simulacrum of a breath stifled itself in her chest, as she tightened her grip. It hurt. It hurt so much. But it didn't feel right.

It felt... Like it had back / t h e n . When she had f / a / l / l / e / n .

When she had f a i l e d .

When even Glass Slippers had been unable to save her. To save Abe, or... Anyone.

Her head hurt.

[xsunbirdx]

I think Fugitive Telemetry is pretty funny from Indah's perspective. There's a murder on the station. You alert your government leader, and they bring their bodyguard/corporate-spy-and-murder-construct with them to the scene of the crime. Turns out it's also Sherlock Holmes. It alternates talking like it's in a TV show, and making various ominous statements, including things like "if I killed them, you'd never find the bodies." It refuses to elaborate on that one. Well that's comforting. It does go on to show that it couldn't have done the murder. But did it just confess to murder? Why did it just confess to murder? It goes on to save your officers lives (wait, did it just hack the system it promised not to hack? Eh, we'll let it slide this time.) and then mount a solo rescue mission (extremely successful, except for being shot by the people it's saving), and still hasn't killed anyone. So far. It already forgot that someone got murdered and that you were actually trying to solve a crime. Anyway, once you give it full access to your security system, it solves the crime within an hour or so. Turns out it was your coworker of 43 years. Who was actually a corporate-spy-and-murder-robot this whole time.

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

do you think it's weird or unfounded to not want to use chat gpt due to the environmental cost? i feel really strongly that i want to completely avoid it (and, like, recreational/work related ai in general) for that reason, but people seem to think this is really weird when i express that as a reason. but i feel like i should be able to make this call if i want to and that's a good reason to not use it. i don't know?!?!?! i don't get anything anymore?!?!?!

[hancfubuki]

caleb's eyes stay on the musician for a moment, like a moth to a flame. the melodic strum of the strings and the soft voice that weaves into the air, wrapping the entire market in a joyous embrace. it makes him forget about the chatter of vendors and the laughter of children. he starts noticing something... indescribable. nostalgia perhaps, an odd yearning, even though he never really had a home. there's something about the simplicity of the scene, the way the bard plays, tugging at his heart. not only the music, but also the power which holds over the crowd. it reminds him of those limited moments of peace in his tumultuous life, moments in which the world's chaos seems to fade away. his gaze shifts to rafayel, and a soft smile touches his lips. strange. he rarely takes the time to pause like this, to admire the little details of life that bring joy into it, the music whispering him to stay a while, to feel this.

and who is he to refuse?

his breath catches as rafayel pulls him in, hand feeling warm from the touch as the world around them blurs. nothing else matters. all caleb could feel was the steady tempo of rafayel's heartbeat, matching the music's one. "oh. i'm not a good dancer." he says as he stares into the sea god's eyes, his voice low, yet full of confidence, obviously trying not to bluff. lies. he is obviously pretty good at everything he does. he follows rafayel's lead, taking a step forward, then another. slow movements, swaying to the gentle melody. and even though he allows the lemurian to lead first, as their bodies start moving in perfect synchrony, his confidence grows. he spins rafayel gently, hands still clasping, pulling him back into an easy embrace as their steps interlace a dance of unspoken promises. caleb's hand finds rafayel's waist, his favorite spot. a touch firm and tender as always, almost afraid to let go. his gaze softens, filled with overwhelming love and reverence as he watches rafayel following his lead. a special perk. and he notices how in every movement and every steps rafayel takes, are a gift. a quiet testament to their connection.

it feels almost as if his heart is swelling, his chest tightening with the weight of his emotions. "raf...", he whispers, his voice trembling as they sway. "if only this could be everyday. just us, like this..." the words hang in the air as he leans in closer, his forehead resting briefly against the other's. the music shifting into a slower tune, and caleb takes the opportunity to still their movements, holding rafauel in place as his eyes roam over his face, etching every detail of it into his memory.

he finds his cheeks flushed, pupils dilated like a devoted puppy, completely captivated. and he doesn't care about the curious eyes that might be around them. with a soft, almost desperate exhale, caleb closes the gap. a deep kiss, passionate even. his hands moving instinctively, one staying firm on his waist while the other slides to cradle the back of his neck as his fingertips thread through soft hair. the kiss speaking all the emotions that are too vast to even try to articulate. when he pulls back, his breath is ragged and his flushed cheeks match the pink hue of the setting sun. his hand remains possessive, refusing to release rafayel completely. his gaze lock with rafayel's, his eyes shimmering with affection and a hint of something deeper. as usual.

"i love you." he murmurs, his voice full of devotion. "and i'll make sure the world knows it too, no matter where we are."

The story was meant to be a complaint about how badly he was treated during his first time on land. He just wanted to iterate how weird hot water baths were to Lemurians, because the waters they bathed in were freezing to the human touch. He expects the story to pass the conversation without much fuss, moving on to another topic. Yet he's met with a ticklish touch on his neck, eyes glancing towards the owner of those pesky little fingers that kept drawing on his skin, warming him in the presence of many to share. Rafayel raises a hand to pat the top of his head when he lies on his shoulder, fingertips tickling the shorter strands near his ear, baby hairs the same color as his nails curled absentmindedly as he speaks, oh so slowly as if dedicating a vow. She didn't know me like you do, he wanted to reassure with a soft tease, but he didn't even need to try. Caleb himself had already affirmed it as fact verbally, a thumb brushing his jaw in a way that had Rafayel move with his touch, pinkish blue eyes following his movements.

Maybe he needn't worry about the temperature of his water ever again with the other by his side. But this compressing moment of obsession, that darkness which crept from the depths of truths within this man to possess him. It could become a danger to him one day. A liability. He was aware the other had moments, slip of a tongue, a glimpse of his hidden desires that wrapped dark tendrils around Rafayel when he let go of inhibitions or jealousy took over. Yet the young God finds himself intrigued by the way he forms them into promises, unwavering worship, and sweet affection in the very end.

How curious the young Lemurian is, to throw him over the edge and see just how dark this little puddle could go.

Out in the open, Rafayel doesn't hesitate to walk towards the markets they saw before, leading the way with a confidence a stranger shouldn't have. But he's always been like this, hasn't he? He sees something that catches his eye, and he is already moving to retrieve it. Halfway down the street, he feels a light brush on his hand. Too shy, he tilts his head curiously and doesn't respond, curious to see what comes out of that mouth of his. He chuckles when he gets his answer, endearments ringing in his mind as he squeezes his hand back and guides him through the busy street. "Well, you promised to take care of me so I'm not kidnapped, so you better hold on tight." He would rather they laced their fingers together more, weave them together so they couldn't possibly part-- but for now, he accepts this version of hand-holding, heart pulsating with happiness settling deep.

If only this simple love could be their daily forever.

There is a musician sitting on a stool in the middle of the wide open-area of the market, some gaudy odd decoration of worship carved with stone, a few smaller sellers passing by the dancers and children with drinks in hand. Then there were the dancers, ones who listened to the music and decided to let their feet guide them as they weaved each step and twirled with the notes of the music. "I do play when I'm in the mood," he says softly, listening to the gentle tune that had everyone lulled to a sense of security, soft smiles on their lips, and some even closed their eyes. "Not bad, they know what they're doing. It's calming to hear, and it makes the people happy." Although he tells Caleb that, he looks up and sees his eyes, gazing down at him curiously... and it sparks something in him. "My performances, however, aren't so easy to come by," he teases, then takes a step away as if he would part. But instead, with their intertwined hands, Rafayel pulls him in facing forward, grasped hands between their chests as he holds his shoulder with the other, a pretty smile as he guides him into the first step. "But you could show me your dancing skills in compensation. A special perk, for my Sunset only."

[random-autie-fangirl]

Chara: I'm wanting everything to end instantly

Asriel: And I'm wanting to go on unchanging forever

🔥🔥🔥THE BEEF WITH LINEAR TIME SIBLINGS🔥🔥🔥