#and then for that to fade into something softer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

makingfanfictionstosleep · 2 days ago

Text

riding his waves

The soft, cool sand was a stark contrast to the angry churn of the sea that had tossed you both like rag dolls just hours before. Now, only a gentle lapping sound broke the stillness, the waves themselves seeming to whisper apologies under the vast, moonlit sky.

You shivered, pulling the damp fabric of your clothes tighter, and glanced at Rafayel beside you. His usually vibrant purple hair was slick with seawater, clinging to his face, but his eyes, bluish-pink and iridescent even in the dim light, held a quiet intensity as he stared out at the ocean.

"Crazy night, huh?" you murmured, a half-laugh escaping your lips, still tasting of salt and adrenaline.

He turned to you then, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, his gaze calm as he assessed you.

"Looks like we made it out relatively unscathed," he commented, his voice a low, smooth cadence that could calm any storm. He leaned back slightly on his hands, his posture relaxed despite the recent ordeal. "Not exactly how I pictured a beach trip, but... interesting."

"You too," you responded, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the fading chill. Stranded on this isolated shore, under a sky ablaze with stars, felt strangely intimate. The usual playful banter and his often teasing demeanor had fallen away, replaced by a shared vulnerability that felt strangely comfortable.

You found yourselves talking, the conversation flowing easily between the ebb and flow of the quiet waves. He listened with an attentiveness that was rare, his eyes never leaving yours as you spoke of little things, then bigger ones, until a long-buried secret found its way to your tongue.

"You know," you began, tracing patterns in the sand with your finger, feeling a sudden rush of shyness. "I have these dreams sometimes. They're always the same, or variations of it."

You hesitated, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "I'm deep in the sea, surrounded by glowing plankton, and there's... a silhouette. A beautiful, powerful figure, definitely male, with a tail. A merman."

You paused, a wistful sigh escaping. "I can never quite make out his face, just the strong, graceful outline."

Rafayel was silent, his gaze fixed on you, unblinkingly. The usual playful glint in his bluish-pink eyes was replaced by a profound, almost ancient knowing. There was a depth in his stare you hadn't seen before, an understanding that made your heart skip. When you finished, he finally shifted, turning his body slightly more towards the sea, but his attention remained acutely on you.

"There's an old legend," he said, his voice softer than usual, imbued with a strange, melancholic echo. His gaze seemed to unfocus for a moment, as if seeing something beyond the visible horizon.

"They say a long, long time ago, a powerful sea god was tricked. Trapped and chained in the deepest abysses of the ocean, waiting." He paused, and you could feel the weight of his words, even though you didn't quite grasp their full meaning. "Waiting for his bride to find him, to break the curse."

You tilted your head, a faint, incredulous smile touching your lips. "A god? Needing a bride to save him? What kind of god is that?" You meant it as a lighthearted joke, a way to lighten the sudden seriousness of his tone, which was so unlike his usual easygoing self.

Rafayel turned his head slowly, his profile illuminated by the moon, making the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his lips seem impossibly perfect. His gaze drifted over the vast expanse of the now-gentle sea, the same waters that had raged so fiercely earlier. A profound sadness seemed to settle over his features, a shadow you had never witnessed before, a silent lament woven into the moonlight.

"They say," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, carried on the soft sea breeze, "that the sea god needed his heart. And his heart... his heart was with his bride."

The words hung in the air, imbued with such a longing, such an age-old sorrow, that your breath caught. It wasn't just a story; it felt like a confession, a distant, aching memory.

You found yourself leaning in, captivated by the raw emotion that briefly flickered in his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw. The legend, intertwined with your dreams, began to weave a strange, unsettling tapestry in your mind, pulling you deeper into a mystery you couldn't quite comprehend.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the melancholic facade vanished. He blinked, a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head, and his signature chill, playful vibe snapped back into place like a well-practiced illusion.

He gave a soft, almost dismissive chuckle. "Yeah, something like that. Just an old story." He shrugged, his gaze now casual as he looked at the waves, though you caught the briefest flicker of something guarded, a quick retreat behind his usual easygoing mask.

You nodded slowly, still half-lost in the story, before you finally registered the proximity. You were sitting incredibly close, your knees almost brushing, the warmth emanating from him a comforting presence in the cool night. And as you shifted, your eyes met his.

The playfulness was gone. His gaze was no longer distant or casual; it was intensely focused, locked onto your lips. The soft moonlight painted them in silver, and you felt a sudden, inexplicable heat spread through you, a slow burn that mirrored the moon's glow on the water.

The silence stretched, charged with an unspoken desire, deep and consuming. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that mimicked the gentle lapping of the waves.

He leaned in, slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question in their depths. There was no demand, only a profound, quiet longing. You didn't pull away.

Your breath hitched, your gaze fixed on his, and you leaned in too, meeting him halfway. The first touch of his lips was soft, hesitant, a feather-light brush, then it deepened, becoming possessive, seeking, yet infused with an unspoken tenderness. The salt of the sea was on his skin, a taste that mingled with the sweet, intoxicating flavor of his kiss.

"Rafayel," you breathed against his lips, the question a whisper, "what... what are we doing?"

He responded by deepening the kiss further, his other hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you impossibly closer. His lips moved expertly against yours, coaxing, demanding, tasting. The kiss grew more urgent, a frantic dance of desire as his tongue sought yours, eliciting a soft moan that vibrated deep in your chest.

His fingers, cool initially from the dampness, began to roam, tracing the curve of your spine, then dipping lower, deftly finding the hem of your damp shirt. A shiver, not of cold but of intense pleasure, ran through you as he slowly, tantalizingly, began to pull the fabric away from your skin. In turn, your own hands, fueled by an undeniable hunger, fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, eager to shed the damp layers that separated you. The soft moonlight bore witness as fabric was discarded, revealing glimpses of warm skin beneath.

He broke the kiss for a moment, pulling back just enough to press his lips against the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of searing heat.

"Sharing body heat," he murmured against your collarbone, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent goosebumps across your skin. "It's cold out here, isn't it?" The playful nonchalance was back, but the underlying intensity was unmistakable.

"You could have easily reignited the bonfire," you managed, your voice breathless, your fingers now grappling with the last button on his shirt, his warm skin a delicious revelation as you finally pulled it open.

He gave a low grunt, a sound of pure male satisfaction as his shirt joined your own on the sand. He then pulled you completely onto his lap, your bare legs tangling with his, your chest now pressed flush against the smooth, firm expanse of his, the warmth radiating from him an intoxicating furnace.

"This is more effective," he rasped, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you so close there was no space left between you.

He pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, his bluish-pink gaze intense and unwavering under the moonlight. His thumb stroked gently along your jawline.

"Should we continue?" he asked, his voice low, a silent question that held immense weight. There was no demand, only a clear invitation, a tender request for your permission.

Your heart throbbed, a wild drumbeat against his chest. Your breath hitched, and you simply nodded, unable to form words, your eyes locked with his. The quiet acceptance in your gaze was all the answer he needed.

Then, his mouth crashed onto yours, a sudden, hungry plunge that consumed your every thought. His tongue, no longer merely seeking, now dominated, intertwining with yours in a passionate dance that left you dizzy and breathless. You could taste him fully now, the lingering salt from the sea mixed with the intoxicating flavor of his desire.

His hands, no longer just roaming, were swift and purposeful, discarding the last remnants of your clothes, cool air momentarily caressing your bare skin before his warm, knowing touch returned.

His fingers splayed across your flesh, stroking, cupping, exploring, eliciting gasps that were swallowed by his fervent kisses. A thrill, sharp and exhilarating, shot through you at the thought of being so utterly exposed, so intimately vulnerable beneath the vast, open sky, where anyone could stumble upon you.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came, drowned in the overwhelming tide of sensations, leaving not a care in the world.

He shifted, aligning the tip of his hard cock against your throbbing, wet entrance. A breathless moment of anticipation, then he moved, slowly, sheathing himself within you, stretching you, filling you with his size.

You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, a delicious ache blooming deep inside.

Your forehead fell onto his shoulder, the soft curve of your neck exposed, your nails digging gently into the taut muscles of his back. He began to move, a steady, rhythmic pace that built with each powerful thrust.

The silence of the beach was now filled only by the ragged sound of your combined panting, the rhythmic whisper of skin colliding, and his low grunts and growls vibrating against your ear.

"Rafayel," you uttered, a raw, desperate prayer torn from your throat with each movement, begging for him to do more, to take you deeper into the intoxicating oblivion he offered.

He answered your plea by abandoning your mouth, his lips descending to capture one of your nipples, drawing it in with a hungry suckling motion that sent a jolt of pure fire through your veins. He covered it with his tongue, then teeth, pulling, nipping, as he continued to drive his cock inside your pussy.

Each thrust found that exquisite spot, making your toes curl, a delicious torment that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Just as the waves of sensation threatened to consume you entirely, his voice, a low, husky command, reached your ear. "Look at me," he whispered, breaking contact from your breast to gaze into your eyes, his bluish-pink irises blazing with an intense, raw desire.

And you did. As the first wave of climax seized you, you met his gaze, clinging to his arms for dear life, riding the overwhelming sensation, your vision blurring with pleasure.

But Rafayel did not stop. He used the very force of your release, the sudden clenching around him, to drive even harder, deeper, hitting that very same spot. Wave after wave of intense sensation crashed over you, making you lose yourself completely in the oversensitivity, until you climaxed for the nth time, each one more intense than the last.

Only then did Rafayel slowed down, his powerful thrusts becoming languid, a gentle rocking motion. He pulled your naked body fully against his, pressing you flush, as if this rhythm, this slow dance, was his way of memorizing every curve, every gasp, every scent of you.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. He continued that intimate rhythm, a soft, hypnotic sway, until gradually, it began to quicken, becoming faster, then frantic. You felt the raw power building in him, knew he was close.

"Milk me dry, beautiful," he rasped against your ear, his voice strained with impending release, a final, fervent request.

And you did. With a final surge of strength, you rode him, milking his cock dry, until with a shared, desperate cry, you both came together, a violent, beautiful explosion under the moonlit sky.

You remained that way for a long moment, collapsed against each other, the only sounds the pounding of your hearts and the gentle lapping of the waves. Basking in each other's embrace, you savored the shared ecstasy, the profound intimacy of the moment. Rafayel's chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your ear, his ragged pants gradually evening out.

He stirred, pulling back just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then your jaw, before nuzzling into your neck once more. "Next time," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rumble against your skin, a playful edge returning to his tone, "it'll be in a proper bed. Where I can fuck you into my mattress without the sand."

#love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace rafayel #lads rafayel #rafayel #love and deepspace fanfic #rafayel fanfic #lads x you #rafayel x you #love and deepspace rafayel x you #love and deepspace rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #love and deepspace rafayel smut #lads smut

119 notes · View notes

hancorys · 3 days ago

Text

k.wh — small girl fantasy, pt.2

genre: FLUFF, pookie bear lovers, pairing: crush!woonhak x afab!reader wc: 690 warning: might be too sweet!! lmk if i forgot any !! you asked for it and i delivered (jk) listen: so let's go see the stars — boynextdoor

the summer heat settled over the small convenience store, the air thick with the familiar scent of instant ramen and cold soda. the hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, broken only by the occasional rustling of snack bags as you carefully restocked the shelves—by color, just the way woonhak used to.

it had become a habit now, one of the small ways you kept him close despite the miles stretching between you.

your phone, propped up on the counter, lit up with a message.

woonhak: just got out of class. my professor hates me i swear

you smiled, wiping your hands on your apron before typing back.

you: it’s because you talk too much

almost immediately, your phone buzzed again.

woonhak: wow. so mean. do you want me to suffer??woonhak: actually, don’t answer that.

you laughed, shaking your head. this was your routine now—him texting you the second he was free, sending you blurry selfies of him looking exhausted, random pictures of his university, or even just ranting about how unfair life was. and in return, you’d do the same—long messages about customers who annoyed you, the exact number of items you restocked that day, or how the store’s cat had finally let you pet it.

no one had ever said the words out loud, but it was there. in the way he made sure to call you before bed, even when he was exhausted. in the way you caught yourself waiting for his messages. in the way you both existed in each other’s worlds despite the distance.

today was the first day of summer.

you sighed, stretching your arms before grabbing a rag to wipe down the tables. just as you reached the last one, the glass door chimed—a sound you’d heard a thousand times before.

“welcome in,” you called out automatically, too focused on scrubbing away a stubborn stain to look up.

then, a familiar voice.

“you missed a spot.”

you froze.

your heart stuttered in your chest, your grip tightening around the rag. for a moment, you thought you had imagined it. that maybe, just maybe, the distance was finally making you hear things.

but then you turned.

and there he was.

woonhak. standing in the doorway, grinning like an idiot, his arms spread wide like he was waiting for you to launch yourself at him.

and you did.

the rag dropped to the floor as you ran straight into him, arms wrapping around his waist, burying your face into his shoulder. he smelled familiar—like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of his cologne, like home.

woonhak laughed, the sound vibrating against your cheek as he hugged you even tighter, lifting you slightly off the ground.

“missed me?” he teased, voice warm.

you hit his shoulder lightly, but didn’t let go. “obviously, you idiot.”

he chuckled, rocking you slightly. “good. because i was starting to think you replaced me with the store cat.”

“the cat hates me.”

“fair. but you still like me, right?”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, and the way he was smiling at you made your heart ache in the best way.

you rolled your eyes. “unfortunately.”

woonhak laughed again, his forehead bumping against yours. “guess i’ll have to make it up to you then.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.” he grinned, eyes twinkling. “so, let’s go see the stars.”

you blinked. “what?”

“come on.” he grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the door. “close up early. let’s go somewhere.”

“woonhak, i can’t just leave—”

“sure you can.” he shot you a look, mischievous and familiar. “you’ve been working too much. i’m back, it’s summer, and i’m kidnapping you for the night. no arguments.”

you stared at him, the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the way he looked at you like he had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had.

and then you smiled.

the laughter between you faded into something quieter, something softer. the weight of the moment settled in the air between you—unspoken, but undeniably there.

woonhak was still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin. a touch so light, so fleeting, yet it sent warmth curling through your chest.

“let’s go,” he said again, gentler this time.

you hesitated, glancing toward the counter, the shelves, the quiet hum of the store that had become your second home. “but—”

“no buts.” he took a step closer, tilting his head slightly. “when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?”

the question caught you off guard.

because the truth was, you couldn’t remember.

you sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused. “you’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

woonhak smirked. “nope.”

you rolled your eyes, but there was no real fight left in you. because the truth was, you wanted to go. you wanted to steal this night, to press pause on reality just for a little while.

“fine,” you mumbled, reaching behind the counter to grab your bag. “but if i get fired—”

“i’ll hire you at my dad’s store.”

you gave him a deadpan look. “woonhak, i already work at your dad’s store.”

he laughed, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the door. “then i’ll pay you in snacks.”

the two of you stepped out into the warm night air, the world stretching wide before you. woonhak’s car was parked just outside, and he opened the passenger door for you with a teasing bow. “your chariot awaits.”

you snorted, shoving him lightly before sliding in. he ran around to the driver’s side, and as soon as he started the car, the soft hum of music filled the space.

the city lights blurred past as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against his thigh. you watched him out of the corner of your eye—the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, the way his lips curled at the edges whenever he focused.

“where are we even going?” you asked eventually.

woonhak grinned, eyes still on the road. “you’ll see.”

the drive stretched on, the city giving way to quieter roads, open fields, the sky stretching endlessly above. the stars were beginning to appear, scattered like freckles against the darkening blue.

after what felt like forever, woonhak pulled over onto a small hill, the kind of place you only knew about if you spent your childhood sneaking out at night. he turned off the engine, the sudden quiet wrapping around you like a blanket.

“come on,” he said, already climbing out.

you followed, stepping onto the cool grass, the scent of summer thick in the air.

woonhak flopped onto the ground, patting the space beside him. “best seats in the house.”

you huffed but sat down anyway, stretching your legs out in front of you.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the sky above was endless, the stars flickering like tiny promises.

“i used to come here all the time,” woonhak said suddenly. “whenever things felt too big. too much.”

you turned to look at him. his gaze was fixed on the sky, something wistful in his expression.

“and now?” you asked.

he finally met your eyes, something unreadable flickering in his own. “now i think i’d rather be here with you.”

your breath caught.

the words were simple, unembellished, but they settled deep in your chest.

you swallowed, trying to ignore the way your heart was practically throwing itself against your ribs. “you’re so dramatic.”

woonhak laughed, nudging your shoulder. “maybe. but i mean it.”

silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. it was warm, comforting.

then, he reached over, pinky brushing against yours. not quite holding your hand, but close enough to set your skin on fire.

you could have moved. could have pulled away, could have closed the space completely.

but you didn’t.

instead, you let your fingers curl just slightly, just enough for them to hook together.

and woonhak smiled.

and under the stars, with the summer air wrapping around you, you realized something—

this wasn’t just a fleeting moment.

this was something real. something yours. something you had been waiting for all along.

119 notes · View notes

jikookncity · 3 days ago

Text

BestFriend!Mark x Reader

WC: 4.7k, no warnings, just a heated makeout session

Best friends to lovers

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

Y/N was good at hiding it.

The way her heart clenched every time Mark laughed, the way her stomach twisted when he leaned his head on her shoulder during movie nights. She laughed with him. Teased him like a best friend should. Nudged his arm, stole his fries, wore his hoodies when she was cold. And she did it all without letting on that every moment around him chipped a little more at her composure.

No one suspected a thing. Not even Mark.

They were inseparable—Mark and Y/N. Everyone just assumed they were either already dating or completely platonic. “You sure you guys aren’t together?” people asked all the time.

Mark always laughed, wide and easy. “Nah, we’re just best friends.”

Y/N would echo it with a smile. “Yeah, just friends.”

It was easier that way.

But Haechan saw through her. Not all at once. But in the little things.

The way her gaze always found Mark in a room, like a compass. How she subtly inched closer on the couch, seeking warmth she pretended not to crave. How she smiled brighter when Mark looked at her. How her face fell when he didn’t.

So one late afternoon, as the three of them sat in Mark’s living room half-watching a rerun of some comedy show, Haechan asked Mark to grab snacks from the kitchen. Mark groaned but got up with a lazy stretch.

As soon as Mark disappeared behind the kitchen door, Haechan turned to Y/N.

“Hey.”

She looked over, expression neutral. “What’s up?”

He studied her, voice quiet. “You love him, don’t you?”

Y/N blinked, a little too hard. “What—what are you talking about?”

“Mark.” Haechan tilted his head, not unkind. “You’re in love with him.”

Her laugh was too quick, too loud. “What? No. We’re just—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Her throat tightened. “Haechan—”

“I’ve seen how you look at him,” he said, softer now. “You think no one notices, but I do. It’s not just friendship, Y/N.”

Her hands were fists in her lap, and she blinked again, too fast. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

So Haechan waited.

And after a long pause, Y/N exhaled—shaky, broken—and finally nodded. “I love him.”

Her voice cracked.

“I’ve loved him for so long, and he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see me that way. And I—” Her shoulders trembled. “I don’t know what to do.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and unrelenting.

“I’m scared if I tell him, I’ll ruin everything. He’s my best friend. What if he pulls away? What if he starts acting different? I’d rather stay quiet than lose him.”

She covered her face with her hands, chest heaving with quiet sobs.

Without a word, Haechan scooted closer and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a warm, steady hug. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

“You’re not going to lose him,” he whispered. “And even if you don’t say a thing, I promise I’ll be here. You don’t have to go through this alone, okay?”

She nodded into his hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline.

He held her as the sound of the TV faded behind them and Mark’s voice called out from the kitchen, oblivious.

“Everything’s gonna be alright,” Haechan said again, firmer now. “You’ve got me.”

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

The change was gradual—like the quiet dimming of a light.

Y/N stopped showing up to movie nights. She left texts unread, dodged plans with vague excuses. In the group chat, she was still there, just… less. Less chatty. Less present. Less her.

The others noticed. Of course they did.

“Has she said anything to you?” Mark asked one evening, scrolling through his phone with a frown.

Haechan, stretched out on the couch next to him, shrugged without looking up. “She’s probably just tired. Burned out.”

“She’s never too tired for us.”

Haechan hesitated. Then gently added, “Maybe she’s got stuff on her mind. She’ll come around.”

Mark didn’t answer. But he didn’t like it. The silence from her felt… wrong.

So he drove to her place.

He didn’t text first. Just grabbed his keys and went. Because if she wasn’t okay, he needed to see for himself.

When she opened the door, he blinked.

She was dressed up. Hair done, subtle makeup, a soft perfume he recognized from the nights they used to sit shoulder to shoulder at concerts. A short, black dress hugged her body, and her lips were glossy. She looked beautiful. Elegant.

Mark had to swallow.

“You look good,” he said, before he could think better of it.

Y/N smiled, warm but slightly tired. “Thanks.”

He nodded slowly, taking in the heels by the door, the little clutch in her hand. “You going somewhere?”

She glanced down like she forgot what she was wearing. “Yeah. Uh. I have a date.”

Mark’s stomach did something strange.

He cleared his throat. “Can I… talk to you for a second?”

She hesitated, then stepped aside.

He walked in, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, looking around her familiar living room. It was clean. Candles lit. Dim. Quiet.

“You’ve been distant,” he said, voice low. “Everyone feels it.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“I just… I want to know what’s going on. Did something happen?”

Y/N walked past him, picking at the strap of her purse. “Nothing happened. I’ve just been… emotionally drained lately. Confused.”

Mark turned to face her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She looked up, lips pressed tight. “Because when I feel like this, I shut down. I go quiet. I didn’t want to bring you down with me.”

“You wouldn’t.” His voice was soft. “You never bring me down.”

She looked away.

Mark stepped closer. “Please don’t shut me out, Y/N. I’m always here for you. No matter what.”

Her throat tightened. That was the problem.

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

They hugged—tight and long. Y/N leaned into him, breathing in the warmth of his sweatshirt, the clean scent she always found comfort in. She didn’t realize how much she’d needed that.

Mark pulled back, looking at her carefully.

“We all miss you,” he murmured. “Me especially.”

Her heart twisted, but she nodded. “I’ll try to come around more.”

There was a pause.

“So this date…” Mark said, a little too casually. “Who’s the guy?”

Y/N tilted her head, smirking a little. “Just someone I met through a friend. Nothing serious.”

He nodded, tongue pressing against his cheek. “Right. Well… text me when you get home safe, okay?”

Her smile faltered. Just slightly. “You got it.”

Mark lingered at the door.

“Have fun,” he added, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Y/N watched him go, heart aching in ways she couldn’t name. But she pulled on her coat and left for her date anyway.

Even if, for the first time, someone else’s attention didn’t feel quite as exciting as it should’ve.

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

The next day, Y/N showed up to brunch with the group, hair up in a loose clip, sunglasses perched on her head, and that soft, glowing energy she hadn’t carried in weeks.

She looked lighter.

Mark noticed it immediately. The way her laugh came easier. The way she leaned into Haechan’s shoulder and teased Renjun like old times. Her eyes were brighter, her smile effortless.

He hated how much he noticed.

“You good?” she asked him during a lull, nudging his arm.

“Yeah,” he smiled, tight-lipped. “Glad you’re here.”

And he meant it.

But also… he didn’t.

Because now she was back, and he still felt like something was off. Like she’d found the light on her own—and he hadn’t been the one to bring her back.

And maybe that shouldn’t matter. But it did.

After brunch, when everyone started splitting off, Mark waited until he caught Haechan walking to his car.

“Hey.”

Haechan turned. “Sup?”

Mark looked around—then grabbed his arm, tugging him out of earshot.

“Okay, I need you to stop setting her up with people.”

Haechan blinked. “What?”

“Taejoon. Whoever else you’re thinking of. Just… don’t.”

Haechan raised a brow. “Why?”

Mark opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Because he didn’t know what the hell he was trying to say.

“I just—she was feeling down and vulnerable, and now she’s putting herself out there, and—what if he hurts her?”

Haechan stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Dude. She’s not a porcelain doll. She liked the date. She said she had a good time. Taejoon’s a good guy.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

Mark clamped his jaw shut. Frustration coiled in his chest like barbed wire.

Haechan crossed his arms. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Mark exhaled sharply. “She’s my best friend.”

“And yet you’re acting like she just cheated on you.”

“I care about her, Haechan!”

“Yeah? Then maybe it’s time you figure out how you care about her, because the way you’re looking at her lately? The way you looked when she said she had a date? That’s not how friends look at each other.”

Mark’s jaw worked, silent.

Haechan softened—just a little. “Look, I love both of you. But if you don’t know what you want, you don’t get to interfere just because someone else is finally showing her attention. You need to check your jealousy, man.”

Mark swallowed. Hard.

Because Haechan was right.

And he hated it.

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

The party was buzzing—warm lights, music spilling from the speakers, and their usual group scattered between the backyard and kitchen. Mark was mid-conversation when Haechan nudged him subtly.

“Mark,” he said, voice low, “he’s here.”

Mark turned—and there he was. Taejoon.

Tall, clean-cut, good posture, easy smile. Laughing politely at something Yuta said. Wearing a denim jacket and holding two drinks—one of which he handed to Y/N, who had just come back from the dance floor, cheeks flushed and glowing.

She smiled at him. Soft, genuine.

And Mark’s stomach twisted in a way he didn’t know how to handle.

It wasn’t fair. Taejoon was nice. Respectful. He didn’t hover over Y/N, didn’t try too hard to fit in. He seemed… decent.

Which, for some reason, made Mark dislike him even more.

He wasn’t used to that. Mark got along with everyone. Everyone liked him. So why did his jaw feel tight watching them?

He made his way to the kitchen, under the pretense of refilling his drink. But really, he was trying to breathe.

Later, when the group settled down in scattered clumps around the backyard bonfire, Mark spotted Y/N sitting on the edge of the porch steps, sipping something from a red cup, looking up at the stars.

Alone.

His chest ached.

He walked over, quietly. “Hey.”

She turned, surprised. “Hey. You disappeared earlier.”

Mark sat beside her, knee brushing hers. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”

She nodded. “It’s a bit loud in there.”

He hesitated—then glanced back toward the house, where Taejoon was deep in conversation.

“So…” Mark started carefully, “do you really like him?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback.

“Taejoon,” Mark clarified, avoiding her gaze. “Do you… see this going somewhere?”

She looked down at her drink, rolling the cup between her palms. “He’s nice. Easy to talk to. I like being around him.”

Mark nodded, slow. “And are you… happy?”

There was a long pause. And then—softly:

“I haven’t been happy in a while.”

Mark turned to look at her fully.

She kept her eyes ahead. “I mean, I’ve smiled, laughed, gone out. But something always feels like it’s missing. I don’t know what it is. I wish I did.”

Mark’s voice was low, vulnerable. “Me too.”

She turned to him then.

Their eyes met in the dim porch light, the party noise muffled behind them, the firelight flickering in the distance.

“What are we doing, Y/N?” he asked. It wasn’t accusing. Just honest. Heavy.

She swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Mark didn’t push. He couldn’t. The truth was tangled up in the spaces between them—the touches that lingered too long, the late-night calls, the glances they thought no one noticed. The ache of maybe.

“I miss when everything made sense,” she whispered.

Mark nodded, eyes still on hers. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sat there in the quiet, just breathing next to each other. Not saying anything more. Not needing to. Because something had shifted—and now they both knew it.

Y/n slowly rested her head on his shoulder, seeking comfort and touch that she hasn't gotten from Mark in so long.

Mark deeply sighed and leaned his head on hers, both of them pausing for a moment in silence, nothing else to be said just yet.

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

The night was quiet.

A breeze moved gently over the water, rippling across the Han River, lights from the city reflecting in soft, scattered patterns. Mark stood near the railing, hands in his pockets, the glow from the nearby path casting warm shadows across his face.

Y/N walked toward him, bundled in a hoodie, her hair pulled back, and something soft and unreadable in her eyes.

“You called for a late-night walk,” she teased gently. “Kind of dramatic.”

Mark gave a nervous smile. “Yeah, well… I’ve been feeling a little dramatic lately.”

They walked slowly, side by side, their footsteps syncing on instinct. Neither of them spoke at first. They didn’t need to. The air was heavy with unspoken things.

Eventually, they sat on a quiet bench overlooking the river. The breeze tugged at Y/N’s sleeves, and Mark shrugged off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders without a word.

She didn’t protest.

Mark leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking out over the water.

“I don’t really know when it shifted,” he said finally, voice low. “When it stopped being just friendship for me.”

Y/N turned toward him, her heart thudding.

“I think I was scared to admit it,” he continued. “Because… you’ve always meant so much to me. Like, everything. You’re my safe place. And I didn’t want to mess that up by feeling… more.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “But lately, it’s unbearable. Pretending I don’t notice how my heart races when you smile at me. Or how I can’t stand the idea of you falling for someone who isn’t me.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“I can’t live in silence anymore, Y/N. Not when every part of me wants you.”

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, wide-eyed and frozen.

Then she let out a choked laugh and smacked his shoulder.

“Mark Lee. Are you kidding me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been torturing yourself over this?”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah?”

She stared at him like he was the biggest idiot in Seoul.

“I’ve been in love with you for months, Mark.”

His jaw dropped. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose you either. I thought… maybe I was imagining things. That I’d misread it. I mean—how did we both miss this?”

Mark laughed, light and breathless. “We’re such idiots.”

She smiled at him, the kind of smile that made his chest ache.

“Hey,” he said softly, turning toward her fully. “Can I take you on a date?”

Her eyes sparkled.

“God, yes.”

They both laughed, hearts pounding.

When he walked her to her cab later, Mark watched her climb in with the dopiest grin on his face. She turned to wave at him through the window, cheeks flushed, happiness written all over her.

And as the car pulled away, both of them sat back, smiling like fools—hands over their chests like maybe, just maybe, they’d been waiting for this forever.

-----------

Y/N was still floating when she got home.

She dropped onto her bed, kicked off her shoes, and reached for her phone without even thinking. The first name she typed in:

Haechan 🧸

It rang once.

“Y/N,” he answered, suspicious. “Why are you calling me so late—”

“Mark and I talked.”

He froze. “...Wait. What?”

“He asked me out on a date.”

Haechan practically screamed through the phone. “FINALLY!”

Y/N burst out laughing. “I knew you'd be supportive!”

“Y/N, I’ve been watching you pine over him for a year. Do you know how hard it was not to lock you two in a closet and force it out of you?” he ranted. “This is the best day of my life. I’m gonna light a candle and say a prayer to the universe.”

She giggled. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious. This is like my parents finally getting back together. I knew you were soulmates. What happened?!”

“We talked by the river,” she said softly. “He told me he couldn’t keep it in anymore. That he thinks about me all the time.”

“And you said?”

“I smacked his shoulder and told him I felt the same.”

Haechan gasped. “That’s so you.”

“Then he asked me on our first official date.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’M PICKING YOUR OUTFIT. No arguments.”

Y/N met Mark at a little ramen place he loved—warm, cozy, tucked into a quiet street. He wore a pale blue button-down, hair perfectly messy, and when she stepped out of her cab, his eyes lit up like the sun.

“You look…” He paused, blinking. “Wow.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Lee.”

They sat across from each other, knees brushing under the small table. They ordered way too much food, laughed until they couldn’t breathe, and shared bites like they hadn’t done that exact thing as friends a hundred times before—but tonight, it felt new. Different. Sparked.

They walked afterward, hands barely brushing until Mark reached over, heart pounding, and took hers in his. He was smiling like he couldn’t stop.

They passed a little record shop, and he pulled her in. “I’ve always wanted to slow dance in a record store,” he murmured, and she raised a brow.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “You bring out the cheesy in me.”

They picked a soft old ballad, just them and the low hum of music, and he gently swayed with her in the aisle, his hand on her waist, her cheek resting near his shoulder.

He smelled like mint and clean laundry and Mark.

Afterward, he drove her home in his beat-up car, soft music playing as the city lights blurred past the windows. Neither of them wanted the night to end.

When they got to her building, he walked her to the door.

She turned, smiling up at him. “Thank you. That was… perfect.”

Mark took a breath, fingers brushing her hair back. “Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

He stepped in close, voice barely above a whisper. “Can I kiss you?”

Her heart did somersaults.

She nodded.

His lips were soft and slow, careful at first—then lingering. Like he’d been holding back for far too long and now that he had her, he didn’t want to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, she was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, eyes twinkling.

“Goodnight, Mark.”

She didn’t sleep that night.

And judging by the text he sent five minutes later—“I still can’t believe I get to kiss you now.”—neither did he.

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

The sun was dipping low when they arrived at the community tennis courts, casting long shadows across the court and painting everything in soft gold.

Mark handed Y/N a racket and gave her a cheeky grin. “Alright. Time for your first lesson, rookie.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You sure you’re up for this, Coach?”

“Oh, I’ve got all the patience in the world for you,” he said with a wink, tossing her a ball. “Step one: ready stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.”

She mimicked him, overly exaggerated. “Like this?”

He laughed, walking behind her and adjusting her grip, his hands wrapping around hers. “Like this.”

His chest brushed her back slightly. She tried not to shiver.

“Now swing.”

She did—and the ball sailed smoothly over the net.

Mark blinked. “...Wait.”

Y/N casually flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What?”

“You hit it. Like—well.”

She shrugged. “I had lessons when I was like, ten.”

Mark narrowed his eyes, squinting at her dramatically. “You tricked me.”

“You were being cocky,” she smirked. “You deserved it.”

He burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Okay. It’s on now.”

They played for nearly an hour—Mark slowly getting competitive, Y/N matching him shot for shot. They were both sweaty, breathless, and laughing so hard by the end that Mark collapsed on the grass outside the court.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, grinning up at her.

“You love it.”

“I do.”

Dinner came next. A small diner with warm lighting, faded booths, and the smell of fries and milkshakes in the air.

They slid into a booth, and Mark immediately pulled her closer beside him, his arm resting naturally around her shoulders.

Y/N leaned into him without thinking, cheek brushing his shoulder.

“You know,” he said quietly, thumb rubbing soft circles on her arm, “I didn’t know how badly I needed to be with you until we finally were. I feel like…”

He paused.

“Like I can finally just be. With you, I don’t have to be anything but myself. And that’s… rare.”

Y/N turned to look at him, eyes soft. “I’ve been dreaming of this. Us. For so long.”

She touched his jaw, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, and leaned in to kiss him—slow, unhurried, full of quiet affection. When they pulled apart, she was smiling.

“Mark, I don’t think you realize how loved you are,” she said softly. “Everyone likes you. Respects you. You walk into a room and people just gravitate to you. I always felt lucky just being your friend. I didn’t want to be greedy by… wanting more.”

Mark’s brows knit, something emotional flickering in his eyes.

“That’s nonsense,” he said quietly. “You’re the one who’s special. Kind. Thoughtful. Funny. You’ve seen all the sides of me—messy, stressed, weird—and you still choose to be here. That’s rare, Y/N.”

He tilted her chin up gently, voice low and certain. “You’re not greedy. You’re the only person I’ve really seen in a long time.”

Her heart fluttered so violently she thought it might burst.

She leaned into his chest, tucking herself into his side, eyes closed with a soft smile on her lips.

Mark kissed her temple. “You wanna come to mine after this? Watch that movie we never finished?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Only if we get milkshakes to go.”

Mark grinned. “You’re perfect.”

And as they walked out—hands clasped, matching smiles, milkshakes in hand—they didn’t even realize they were glowing.

Because sometimes love doesn’t feel like fireworks.

It feels like laughter on a tennis court, a booth seat that’s a little too snug, and someone saying you’re the only one I see—and meaning it.

----------

The drive back to her place was quiet—but charged.

Mark’s hand stayed on her thigh the entire time, thumb brushing gently over the denim of her jeans, like he couldn’t stop touching her. Y/N’s heart hadn’t stopped racing since they left the diner. Not from nerves. From want. From knowing.

From how he looked at her now like he was seeing her all over again.

When they reached her building, Mark parked, cut the engine, and turned toward her.

She leaned in first.

He met her halfway.

The kiss started soft. Warm. Familiar. But it grew quickly—his hand sliding to the back of her neck, deepening it, pulling her in like he couldn’t get enough. Y/N climbed out of the passenger seat and they barely made it a few feet before she was pressed against her apartment door, lips locked with his.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned against her mouth—low and wrecked. His hands slid up beneath her shirt, palms warm and greedy on her skin, thumbs brushing over the sides of her ribcage.

Y/N gasped into the kiss, leg curling up instinctively around his hip.

Mark pushed into her, one hand gripping her thigh to hold her there, the other still sliding higher under her shirt. They kissed like they’d been waiting for years. Like they had time to make up for.

He finally pulled back, just barely, foreheads pressed together.

His cheeks were flushed, lips red, breath uneven. His hands stayed right where they were—one on her hip, the other still against her bare waist.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice low and slightly unsteady. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to ask, but...”

She blinked at him, breathless. “Yeah?”

Mark’s lips brushed hers again, soft and slow.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

Her heart did something violent in her chest.

She broke into a grin, kissing him again with a smile.

“Yes,” she whispered against his mouth. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He smiled too—boyish and giddy and a little stunned—before kissing her again, messier this time, her hands tightening around his neck as if she couldn’t possibly get close enough.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he mumbled against her jaw, lips dragging down to her neck. “To be yours.”

“You’ve always been mine,” she whispered.

And when he finally pulled away, breath ragged and fingers still tangled in her shirt, he looked at her like he was falling all over again.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and warm. “Or I’ll just stay here thinking about this all night.”

Y/N kissed him one last time, lips lingering.

“I’ll text you,” she promised.

He walked backward down her hallway, lips red and hoodie crooked, grinning like an idiot.

She closed the door behind her and pressed her back to it, chest rising and falling fast, smile spreading wide.

Boyfriend.

Her boyfriend.

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

The house was already buzzing when Mark and Y/N arrived, fingers laced tightly together.

Everyone in the gang was scattered across all the rooms, music bumping, drinks in hand, laughter echoing from every corner.

Y/N glanced up at Mark. “You ready?”

He looked down at her, beaming. “With you? Always.”

They walked in together, and immediately—

“NO FREAKING WAY.”

Haechan nearly dropped his cup when he saw their joined hands. “Is this—are we soft-launching? Hard-launching? WHAT IS THIS?”

Mark just grinned, proudly tugging Y/N closer by the waist. “We’re official.”

Y/N leaned into his side, eyes glowing. “Hi.”

“Oh my god,” Johnny said from across the room, pausing mid-beer-pour. “It finally happened.”

Doyoung clapped once. “It was only a matter of time. I’m just mad I lost the bet.”

“Wait, there were bets?” Mark raised an eyebrow.

Jaehyun nodded, sipping from his glass. “I said you’d get together by summer. Haechan said spring.”

“I said Valentine’s Day,” Haechan muttered dramatically. “You guys owe me.”

“But seriously,” Taeyong said, pulling them both in for a group hug. “We’re so happy for you. You’ve always been each other’s person.” Yuta smiled and ruffled Mark's hair.

Y/N blinked, heart full.

Mark reached down and twined their fingers again, thumb brushing gently over hers. “They’re right,” he murmured, only for her. “You’ve always been it for me.”

She smiled so wide she thought her cheeks might stay that way forever.

As the night went on, Mark—popular and magnetic as always—was pulled into conversation after conversation. But his hand never left hers. Not once.

Everywhere he went, she was tucked under his arm, his thumb rubbing little circles on her back. And person after person came up to them with the same sentiment:

“It’s nice to see you like this.”

“You look really happy, Mark.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much.”

And he was smiling��nonstop, radiant, like someone who’d finally found the thing he didn’t realize he’d been searching for this whole time.

Whenever she laughed, his eyes followed her.

Whenever she looked at him, his shoulders softened.

At one point, they were leaning against the kitchen counter together, sharing a slice of cake from the same plate, when Y/N said quietly, “You don’t have to keep holding my hand, you know.”

Mark turned to her, smile tugging at his lips. “I know.”

“But you are.”

“I am,” he said, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, voice full of affection. “Because I still can’t believe you’re mine.”

Y/N melted.

In a room full of people, noise, celebration, and years of friendship… Mark only saw her. Not just his girlfriend but his life partner. And he couldn't be happier.

-----------

Want early access to stories and bonus scenes on previous + future stories? Subscribe to my patreon here! Or leave a tip here!

#nct imagines #nct x reader #nct 127 #nct dream #mark x reader #mark lee imagines #mark fluff #mark imagines #mark lee #mark x y/n #mark x you #mark lee x you #mark lee x y/n #mark lee x reader #nct mark #mark nct

72 notes · View notes

followingthebutterflies7 · 23 hours ago

Text

Still With You

Spencer Agnew x Ghost!Reader

Word count: 9.5k

Summary: After dying on the land that now hosts the Smosh office, you haunt the space quietly. That is until Spencer Agnew arrives and slowly, unknowingly, becomes the one person you can't help but love... even from the other side.

Warnings: Themes of death and grief, brief medical emergency, and supernatural elements.

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

You’ve been dead for so long that time no longer makes sense.

Seasons drift like smoke through your memories, fading and reappearing in strange ways. Your name had long since faded from records, your story from memory. The world outside had changed shapes and colors, but the walls of this building have always remembered you.

You are bound to them. Not cursed. Not angry. Just… tethered.

You’re tethered to the Smosh office, though it wasn’t Smosh when you were alive. Back then, it was something quieter. A small plot of land, tenderly taken care of by an elderly man. Then the land was sold, and built on top was a studio. It was small, private, a dusty dream filled with morning light and handwritten notes. Now, a giant building lived on top of the land with its noise and laughter and ringing phones. And yet, somehow, it still feels like home.

You don’t remember how you died. Only that one day, you stopped. Breathing. Moving. Speaking. But you stayed on this mortal plane.

So you would watch. You watched the world rotate through the windows. You watched the building change hands, colors, seasons.

In the beginning that was all you could do. Watch as new people came and went, carrying mugs and laptops and bits of their lives into the space that once held yours. You didn’t mind them. You didn’t feel much, really, just vague flickers of memory, like the echo of warmth in a long-abandoned blanket.

Then he walked in.

Spencer Agnew.

You noticed him the moment he stepped into the room. He didn’t move like the others, he didn’t demand attention. He didn’t take up space loudly. He wasn’t always making jokes or trying to be heard. He was quieter. Softer. His eyes were thoughtful, quiet in a way you understood. Something about him stirred something in you.

And so you began to watch him.

At first, it was simple. You’d hover near the ceiling when he stayed late, watching the soft blue light from his laptop paint shadows under his eyes as he worked in silence. He always looked a little tired. A little lonely. You recognized the shape of it in him.

One night, he left a mug on the counter of the kitchen, too focused on finishing editing a video to know he missed the sink entirely. It was stained, forgotten, probably destined to be left there for days.

You stared at it. You’d never moved something on purpose before. But you wanted to.

You reached for it, focusing everything you were on the smooth ceramic. It took all your strength. But slowly, slowly, it slid across the counter and settled right next to the sink.

He didn’t notice the next day. But it didn’t matter.

You felt a rush. A flicker of something that hadn’t stirred in decades: purpose.

So you did more. You began to help, just little things, gestures so small he might think he was imagining them.

You straightened a stack of papers that had scattered across his desk, organizing them subtly. You gently nudged his chair back under the table after he left, knowing he would’ve tripped on it when he came back. You tucked his forgotten hoodie, soft and crumpled, onto the arm of the couch for him to find later.

When no one was watching, you’d float close and tidy the notes on his whiteboard, straightening them and placing the schedules in chronological order. Turning off his monitor when he forgot. Plugging in his phone before it was about to die.

It took a lot of your ghostly energy, so your little things to help happened sporadically and would go unnoticed. You told yourself it didn’t matter whether he noticed or not. That doing it for him was enough.

But when he paused one day, just paused, and glanced around the break room after finding his favorite snack already laying out on top of the counter? You felt like sunlight cracked through your chest.

He didn’t say anything. But he smiled. Soft. Confused.

It made you want to do more.

Weeks passed.

You figured out how to move light things without exhausting yourself. You got better at it, more subtle and more careful. You learned the hum of his routine: when he came in, when he needed quiet, when he needed comfort. You adjusted the thermostat on cold days. Nudged his chair into the beam of sunlight in the late afternoon.

You noticed he liked Mountain Dew Kickstart, but with all his late nights he would keep forgetting to buy more. So you pushed the last can to the front of the mini fridge. He drank it the next day and murmured, “Huh. Thought I was out.”

You nearly burst.

You had never been able to help someone like this before, not even when you were alive. And now? Now you were part of his life in little ways. Hidden ways.

And it made you happy.

Eventually, you got bolder.

You pushed his keyboard back when he started dozing off at his desk. You lowered the lights when he had a headache. You turned on a calming playlist, some lo-fi and soft piano, when he seemed overwhelmed.

You started caring. Not in some abstract, ghostly way.

You tried to take care of him. Because it was the only way you could. You worried about him. About how late he stayed, about the knots in his shoulders, about how often he put others first and forgot himself entirely.

You wondered if he was lonely.

Because you were.

But you didn’t feel so alone anymore when he was here.

And sometimes, just sometimes, you let yourself think: Maybe I’m not just helping him. Maybe he’s helping me too.

Months passed.

Spencer paused more, noticing the little things you did for him around the office. No one noticed but him. And even then, he never said anything. But he saw.

The way his hoodie never ended up on the floor, even when it was completely hanging off the back of his chair. The way his spilled pens on his desk always found their way back to their cup. The way the room was always just a little more comfortable than it had been a moment before.

He started to pause longer. Smile wider.

Spencer came into work one morning to find his desk completely clean and organized. He had swore he left a mess the night before, having an extremely long day of meetings and editing. He thought he hadn't bothered to clean, just wanting to go to bed and whispering under this breath that he would deal with it in the morning on his way out the door.

He now stared at his spotless desk, tilted his head and muttered, “Weird.”

But he wasn’t scared.

He was curious.

That night, you sat by his desk long after he left. You hovered just above the surface, fingers ghosting over the place where his hand had been.

You ached. Not painfully. Not tragically. But in that quiet, hollow way you ached for something just out of reach.

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

The moment it changed forever was so simple.

Spencer was in the kitchen by the microwave, heating something up. Leftovers, maybe, you weren’t sure. You were just happy he remembered to eat. He looked tired. His hair was a mess, one shoelace undone, wearing that old sweatshirt he loved so much it was practically unraveling.

He turned toward the sink. The plate and fork he needed was already there, clean and waiting.

He hesitated.

Looked around.

No one else was in the office.

He stood there for a second, his brow furrowed. And then, so softly, like it might break something-

“…Thanks.”

Just one word.

But it shattered through you like thunder.

He didn’t even know what he was thanking. Maybe he thought it was a coincidence. Maybe he was humoring himself. But it didn’t matter.

Because he said it.

He felt you.

And you, a ghost lost to time and memory, smiled for the first time in years.

You weren’t just echoes anymore.

You were real.

To him.

After he says thank you, you don’t move for a long time.

You hover in the corner of the kitchen, soaking in the sound of his voice. You play it back in your head again and again. How he said it without sarcasm, without fear. Just softly. Like it came from somewhere quiet and sincere.

Like he meant it.

For months, you’d done things in secret. Left no proof, no trail. You’d given yourself a hundred small joys watching him smile at the results without ever asking why.

But now? Now he knows someone is here.

And you want more.

That thought terrifies you.

You don’t know if it’s allowed, ghosts wanting more. Longing for something beyond flickering lights, clean dishes, and folded sweatshirts. But it’s too late. The want is already there, blooming like ivy in the corners of your soul.

You start to leave signs. Small, gentle things. A tiny paper heart on his desk made from the corner of a Post-it note. A thumbprint in the dust that spells a crooked hi.

You think he’ll laugh. Maybe roll his eyes. Pretend it’s someone messing with him.

But he doesn’t.

He pauses. He stares. His lips curve, but not in mockery. In awe.

“Okay,” he murmurs one night. “So you’re real.”

Your breath, if you could take one, would catch.

You’ve never felt so seen.

You get braver after that.

You leave little notes. Tiny, careful things. Never too much, never enough to frighten him. A single word here. A short phrase there.

Rest.

Eat something.

You’re doing great.

He starts talking back.

Not every day. But when the office is empty, and the lights are low, and the moonlight spills through the only two windows in the office, you hear his voice.

“You’ve got good timing.”

“Are you watching over me?”

One night, he leans against the doorway, cradling a tea you left him, and says, “You’re the best coworker I’ve ever had.”

You laugh. Not out loud. But the kind that ripples through your whole being like a warm wind.

Because you are more than a ghost now. You are company. You are comfort. You are someone.

The next note you leave him next takes all your energy. You pour everything into it, into forming the words on a sheet of printer paper you drag slowly into place. Just a simple sentence in your old, looping script:

I see you too.

It sits on his keyboard when he arrives the next day.

He freezes when he sees it. You watch the color drain from his face. He picks up the note like it might vanish. His thumb traces the edge of the paper. For a moment, you think he might cry.

Then, softly, reverently, he whispers, “I believe you’re real.”

You want to reach for him. To touch his hand. To tell him that you’ve never felt more real than you do right now, standing unseen beside him in this strange little office that somehow became your shared home.

He folds the note gently and presses it to his chest.

You stay with him the rest of the night.

Not just in spirit. In feeling. In presence. In love.

Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it?

It’s love.

It’s gentle, impossible, bittersweet love. And you would stay in these walls a thousand years more if it means being near him.

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

You don’t remember what death felt like. But you’re starting to wonder if it felt like this-

The moment Spencer falls.

He’s alone again, editing late. You’ve settled in your usual corner, watching the glow of the screen cast soft halos over his tired face. You’re learning to read his expressions; the little lines of stress, the way his eyes dim when he’s too tired, the way his fingers pause when he forgets he hasn’t eaten.

But this time… his hand falters.

One second he’s typing, half-lidded with exhaustion, a sandwich uneaten beside him. The next, his hand seizes up. His posture wavers. You see it before he even knows something’s wrong. That subtle drop in energy. The sharp breath. The way his fingers fumble over the keys.

You float forward, immediate and desperate.

He breathes sharply and leans forward, gripping the edge of the desk. A sound escapes his throat, tight and strained.

“Spencer,” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you.

He tries to stand from his chair. Doesn’t make it.

His knees buckle. He crumples.

You scream. No one hears. You reach for him out of instinct, but your hand passes through his arm as he collapses hard onto the carpet.

Spencer slams against the floor, his head missing the edge of the desk by inches.

You’re at his side in an instant, panic coursing through every particle of you. You can’t touch him, can’t feel his skin or press your hands against his chest or scream into the void loud enough to make anyone hear.

He’s not okay.

His breath is shallow. Quick and weak. His face, flushed minutes ago, is now pale and clammy.

You hover over him, trembling. Your edges begin to blur.

You don’t know what’s happening, only that it’s urgent. Only that if someone doesn’t come, you’ll lose him.

You can’t lose him.

You just got him.

You scan the room wildly. There has to be something. Some way to reach someone.

His phone’s too far. You can’t move anything heavy. You can’t scream loud enough for the walls to echo.

But then-

His laptop.

Open.

Slack window still up.

Angela’s name glows green in the corner.

Your energy is limited, condensed and fleeting, but desperation changes things. You hover above the trackpad and pull yourself together into a single point of energy.

This isn’t like pushing a chair or flickering a light. This is control. This is direct.

You’ve never tried anything like this before.

But love has made you bold.

The mouse jerks once. Unnatural. But it moves.

You almost lose yourself.

Then again.

Your vision flickers. The edges of your world tremble.

You focus. Channel everything you are.

Click.

Message box open.

You slam yourself into the keys.

come now

spencer need help

please

It looks garbled. The grammar is wrong. The punctuation disappears midway. But it’s enough.

You hit enter.

You see Angela type back almost instantly.

who is this???

is this a joke?

what’s happening??

Your response is rushed. Broken.

help now

office

please

And then the light beside her name disappears.

She’s gone.

Running.

You collapse next to Spencer’s body, your energy flickering dangerously. You feel your connection to the room beginning to slip. That took everything you had, and you were fading.

But Spencer’s breathing.

Barely.

Enough.

You whisper to him, though your voice has no weight.

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

The paramedics arrive five minutes later.

Angela bursts into the office first, crying and frantic, stumbling when she sees him on the floor. Shayne is with her, shouting directions and keeping her out of the way. The ambulance’s lights reflect in the windows, painting red streaks across your vision.

Angela is sobbing. “I don’t even know who sent it,” she says to Shayne, shaking her head.

They watch with you as paramedics lift Spencer gently, strapping him onto the gurney. Words are called out that you don’t understand. Vitals. Stabilization. Glucose levels. Dehydration. Stress.

“Geez,” someone mutters. “If we’d been just two minutes later-”

But you don’t let them finish the sentence.

Because he wasn’t two minutes too late.

You saved him.

You did.

Even when you shouldn’t have been able to. Even when death told you there was nothing more to do.

You reached across the veil. And he’s alive.

He’s alive.

You don’t have a body to cry with. No hands to wipe your face. No breath to shudder out in relief. But when they roll him past the reception desk, you follow, your essence weak and fading.

You stay in the doorway, unable to go any further but wishing you could. You watch until the ambulance turns the corner and disappears into the dark.

And then you collapse onto the floor, drained of everything you are, but relief warms you like sunlight through a dusty window.

Because he’s not gone.

Because he’ll come back.

Because Spencer is alive.

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

Three days pass before Spencer returns to the office.

He moves slower than before. He’s quiet. Each step is measured, careful. There’s still a faint shadow under his eyes, and his shoulders slump like they’re bearing the weight of something heavier than just recovery. But he’s here.

Breathing.

The air changes the moment he walks in.

Everyone gathers quickly, Shanye, Angela, Amanda, the crew from the bullpen. They welcome him back like sunlight breaking after a storm. There are jokes, half-hearted attempts at teasing, but they’re coated in a layer of concern that no one hides particularly well.

“I swear,” Shayne mutters, “when Angela called me, I thought- man, I thought we were gonna lose you.”

Angela wraps him in a hug a little too tight, eyes wet. “You scared the hell out of me.”

And then come the questions.

“How did you get a message out?” “Did you call her somehow?” “Was it a scheduled message or something?” “Did you crawl to the computer or…?”

Spencer just blinks. Tries to remember.

He frowns faintly, brow furrowed.

“I… don’t know,” he says honestly. “I barely remember. I just… I swear someone was there.”

His voice goes soft. Almost reverent.

He glances upward, looks down the hallway, and his eyes land directly on your corner.

The one near the old filing cabinet. The place you always hovered, where the sunlight painted quiet gold against the wall. The place he’d instinctively grown to glance toward when he needed peace.

And this time, he smiles.

Something in him settles.

When the others finally drift away, back to work and editing and noise, Spencer slips into his chair.

You’re already there. Waiting.Hovering in the corner of the room like you never left, watching with bated silence, terrified that maybe this will be the time he moves on. That the memory of that night, the miracle, has blurred like a dream.

But he turns his chair.

Not toward his screen. Not toward the door. Toward you. Right into that golden patch of afternoon light.

And he smiles again. Soft. Certain.

“I know it was you,” he says.

Not a question. A statement. A fact.

You blink the fairy lights above him. Just once. A slow, gentle pulse.

It’s the only way you know how to say: Yes.

Later that evening, when the office empties and dusk begins to settle into the corners, Spencer doesn’t touch his laptop. He just sits. Not editing. Not working. Just... being.

The lights are low. The room hums with the last warmth of the day. A soft breeze rustles a sheet of paper on his desk. You stay nearby, coiled in the silence.

“I don’t know how you did it,” he murmurs into the quiet. “But I’m still here.”

He reaches forward slowly. His hand, still pale with recovery, hesitates over the desk before he lays it palm-up against the wood.

“If you can… if you’re listening,” he says, “can you touch me?”

You don’t move at first. You're afraid.

But then you float closer. Closer still.

You hover just above his hand.

You know it won’t be like skin on skin. It never will be. But maybe, if you try hard enough. You gather everything you are; memories of sunlight on your skin, the warmth of a summer laugh, the feeling of his breath as he sleeps on the couch beneath you.

And you lower your hand.

The tips of your fingers brush his palm.

He gasps.

His breath stutters, sharp in the quiet.

“I felt that,” he whispers, stunned.

His fingers curl slightly, like he’s trying to hold the feeling in place. It’s not solid, but it’s there. Like static. Like the whisper of wind across skin. Like the warmth that lingers after someone’s hand has already let go.

He looks up and straight at you. Right through you.

But his gaze is clearer now. Sharper. Like he almost sees the shape of you.

“I don’t care what you are. Ghost, spirit, angel- I don’t care.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“You saved my life.”

And in that moment, you want to cry. You want to scream. You want to fold yourself into him and say everything you’ve held in silence. That you watched over him. That you listened to every word. That he brought you back to life in all the ways that mattered.

But you can’t say it.

So instead, you reach again. You let your hand hover just over his chest, where his heartbeat flutters beneath the fabric.

And he places his own hand there.

They pass through each other, flesh and air. But you swear, in that moment, the space between you shimmers. It’s not a pulse. Not exactly.

It’s a promise.

You’re not alone.

Not anymore.

And neither is he.

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

Spencer starts leaving the lights on when he leaves the office.

Just in case you want to see. Just in case you get lonely.

He knows it’s silly. There’s no switch in the afterlife. No bulbs to warm a ghost’s hands. But still, he can’t bring himself to leave you in the dark. Not after everything.

He brings two mugs of tea from the kitchen now. One filled with his favorite, and the other one with what he always imagines you’d choose. He sets yours down gently across from his laptop before settling in with his own. And even though he knows you can’t drink it, he still waits a beat before sipping, like he's toasting you in some invisible ritual.

It’s simple. Soft. Like he’s sharing something special with you.

He talks more now. Quiet, half-hushed confessions between midnight edits and the blue glow of his monitor. It starts with little things. Just how his day was. What he saw when he went out. How he's trying to cook more, write more, be more.

“I used to be scared of being alone,” he says one night, absentmindedly. “Not scared-scared. Just… aware of it. Too aware.”

He glances toward your corner, the one you always linger in and where the light hits gold across the carpet. And for the first time, he smiles at it without sadness.

“But I don’t feel alone anymore.”

Your energy shimmers, soft and warm, and the fairy lights in your corner flicker just slightly in response. The room sighs around him. You stay close.

You always do.

After a month of your quiet cohabitation, your shared silence, your rituals and rhythms, Spencer begins to research.

Not obsessively. Not out of fear.

But gently. Curiously.

Like he’s learning the language of someone he’s falling in love with.

You hover over his shoulder as he scrolls through pages titled things like residual hauntings and spiritual anchors. He takes notes on post-its in his quick, looping scrawl. He scribbles questions into a spiral-bound notebook:

Why this building?

Why me?

Why now?

Sometimes he types into the search bar and deletes the words before finishing. Sometimes the questions are too big, or too honest.

You ache to answer his questions. But you’re still bound to silence.

So you respond in the ways you know.

You flip his notebook to a page he skipped. You nudge his pen toward symbols he's overlooked. And one night, you spell the word DREAMS across his keyboard with old magnetic letters from the whiteboard wall.

He sees it.

Stops.

And whispers, “Okay.”

He dreams of you for the first time a week later.

He’s asleep at his desk again. Hishead tucked into the crook of his elbow, soft breaths shifting the papers beneath him. You hover close, heart aching with a love that has no voice.

And then-

You slip in like fog through a crack in the window.

The dream isn’t the office. Not exactly.

It’s an in-between version of it. An echo of what it used to be. Before the paint. Before the furniture. The air is gold and slow, drifting with dust like snowfall. The windows are tall and cracked. The floorboards creak under memory.

You’re already there. Standing in the warmest patch of sun.

Then Spencer appears.

Lighter. Softer. Dressed in one of those worn hoodies you always fold for him. His hair curls at his temples. He looks around-

And he sees you.

Really sees you.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.

He just smiles. A smile so full of wonder and warmth, it nearly breaks you.

Like you’re not just a ghost.

Like you’re a miracle.

You raise your hand.

And this time, in this dream, it connects.

He doesn’t hesitate. He laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says, softly.

You try to say it back. But the dream is already slipping. You feel it pulling. Fading. You hold on as tightly as you can, but the light stretches and bends. Your feet lift.

His voice chases you into the dark. “Don’t go.”

The next day, Spencer stares at his mug for a long time.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just runs a thumb around the rim, lost in thought. Then, so quietly you almost miss it-

“I saw you.”

Your energy brushes over his shoulder like wind through leaves.

“I felt you,” he says, eyes glassy with wonder. “In the dream. That was real, right? That was you.”

You answer the only way you can. You reach for the blinds and tilt them ever so slightly. Let the sunlight fall across his desk the way it had in the dream. The warmth touches his hands.

He nods. “Okay. Okay, good. I’m not losing it.”

He places both hands flat on the desk, grounding himself in something that isn't quite the real world anymore.

“You’re trying to reach me,” he says. “And I want to help you back.”

Over the next few days Spencer starts meditating.

He lights candles. Reads dog-eared library books about crossing veils and tethering souls. He whispers to you in languages older than cities. Draws quiet circles in chalk he wipes away before anyone else arrives.

You watch it all with quiet awe.

He’s not afraid. Not even a little. And when he opens a fresh notebook and titles it Ways to Communicate, you nudge it open to the first blank page before he can.

That night, he asks gently into the silence:

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate.

It’s been so long.

But you remember the shape of it in your mouth. The rhythm of it on paper. The way it used to sound when someone called for you in another life.

You gather your energy. Press your fingertip into the condensation on the window. And slowly, you write it.

Your name.

Old. Beautiful. Yours.

Spencer repeats your name under his breath. Like it’s sacred. Then again, softer:

“It suits you.”

Days pass like this.

Nights blur into mornings. He finds little ways to talk to you. You leave answers in signs and shadows. He answers with notes, whispers, the way he leaves half a sandwich on the desk just in case.

You start appearing in his dreams more often, and each time is a little longer, a little brighter. You never speak. But your hands always find his. And it feels like everything.

In one dream, he brushes your cheek with his thumb.

You cry. You didn’t know you still could.

He leans forward.

His lips almost meet yours.

But he wakes up before you can feel it.

You do too.

Both of you left aching with the same unspoken question.

What are we becoming?

One afternoon, he stays late just to read. Not scripts. Not edits. Just a thin book with silver foil lettering titled Crossing. The subtitle reads: When Spirits Choose to Stay.

You curl beside him on the couch, your energy sinking into the cushions like warmth into fabric. He doesn’t look at you, but he speaks.

“I don’t think you’re stuck,” he says. “I think you chose this.”

He sets the book aside and looks at the place where you always sit.

“You stayed for me.”

You don’t answer with light or movement. You don’t need to.

He hears it in the stillness.

He blinks once, slowly. Then smiles.

“I want to stay for you, too.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing the space beside him.

“Will you keep meeting me in dreams?” he asks. “Until we figure this out?”

You press your hand to the couch cushion next to his. It dips, just slightly. Enough for him to feel.

He exhales like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in years. And when he lays down, resting his head on the pillow you quietly fluffed behind him, his hand falls into the space where yours would be.

And when he drifts off, you go with him.

Hand in hand.

Step by step.

Somewhere between.

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

Spencer buys a candle shaped like a heart.

Not a soft, cutesy heart. A real one, grooved and raw, sculpted in red wax with ridges like veins, chambers twisted into shape. It’s grotesque and honest. Anatomical. Human.

When it arrives in a cardboard box stuffed with black crinkle paper, it feels more like an offering than a purchase. A typed card inside reads:

To bind what has already been bound. To reach what already reaches back. Burn with intention. Burn with belief.

You hover beside him as he opens it, watching the way his hands hold it like it might shatter.

That night, Spencer sets it in the center of the conference table after everyone else has left. No cameras. No lights but the overhead glow and the soft flicker of flame. No audience.

Just him.

And you.

Faint music hums from a speaker somewhere in the room, low, lilting, familiar. A song you once drifted to in his dreams. Something sad and warm.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper, knowing he can’t hear but hoping he feels the thought anyway.

He lights the candle. The flame curls up like a sigh.

Then he closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to just feel you in dreams,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know you.”

He takes a deep breath. His hands tremble.

“I don’t care how long it lasts. One hour. One minute. I just want to give you something back.”

Your energy wraps around him, warm and shimmering.

You can feel it. The magic hums like a heartbeat.

The veil is thinning.

And then the world begins to unravel.

Color stretches at the edges of your vision. Light blooms. The walls of the office blur and twist like smoke. You feel your essence folding inward, being woven together. Condensing. Sharpening. And then-

Your knees buckle.

You hit the floor.

You feel the floor.

You feel the scratch of the rug beneath your palms. The pulse of the candlelight is warm against your cheek. The weight of the air in your lungs. Breathless, dizzy, real.

You hear the hum of the fluorescent lights above, the creak of the old table, the sound of-

“Hey- hey!”

Spencer’s voice. Closer than you’ve ever heard it.

You lift your head. Slowly. Disoriented.

And there he is. Looking right at you.

Not through you. Not at your shimmer. At you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts, breath caught in his throat. He drops to his knees beside you like gravity has yanked him down.

“You’re real,” he whispers, the words crack as they leave him.

You blink. Try to move. Your fingers twitch, shaky and slow. You try to speak.

Your lips form the word. “You…”

Spencer reaches out, but stops. His hands hover just shy of your shoulders, as if afraid you’ll vanish the second he touches you.

“You brought me back?” you whisper.

He nods. Shaky. “Can I-?”

You nod before he even finishes the question.

And when his hands land on your arms, warm, solid, grounding, you both gasp at the contact.

It’s like touching something holy.

It’s not perfect. There’s a faint shimmer around your form. You feel fragile, like blown glass or like spun sugar. But you’re here.

He pulls you into a hug before he can think better of it. And for the first time since you died, you feel held.

You fold into him. Arms curling around his back. Your face presses into his neck, and you breathe him in. He smells like citrus shampoo and the worn sweatshirt you always fold. And something else.

Home.

His arms tighten around you like if he holds you hard enough, you won’t slip away.

“I don’t know how long this will last,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with disbelief.

“I know,” you whisper.

“I’m not going to waste a second of it.”

He helps you to the couch, half-guiding, half-carrying you as your legs remember how to be real. The world feels too big. Too solid. Too beautiful. You sink into the cushions together. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

“Tell me something about you,” he says. “Anything.”

You hesitate. You have so many lifetimes stored up. You think back to your first one, when you were actually alive.

“I used to write poems,” you say. “Bad ones.”

He laughs like you just told him his favorite secret.

“Tell me more.”

So you do.

You tell him about the building, about what it was before. The windows before they were replaced. The peeling wallpaper in the hallway, long painted over now. The way you used to dance barefoot on the floorboards when no one was watching, long before they were covered by concrete.

He listens with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for prayers.

And then it’s your turn.

You ask him questions. What he wanted to be when he was a kid. (A cartoonist.) What his favorite sound is. (The clink of ice in a glass.) What he thinks about when he’s editing at 3AM.

“…Mostly you,” he says, almost shy.

Your heart stutters.

“Me?”

Spencer nods and leans closer. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist.

“Always you.”

Your body feels like it’s glowing. You don’t know how to carry this kind of love- not with hands so newly real. Not with a body made from borrowed time. But you try.

You try to hold it all.

The candle’s flame starts to flicker.

You feel the shift. A tug at your edges. A soft unraveling.

Your vision fades around the borders. Your fingers blur. You’re slipping again.

“It’s ending,” you whisper, your voice barely holding.

Spencer shakes his head. “No. Not yet.”

You try not to cry. But tears spill anyway.

You look at him. At this beautiful, quiet boy who spoke to empty rooms and trusted there was something listening.

“I don’t want to go back to being a shadow,” you admit. “Not after this.”

“You won’t.” He grips your hands tighter. His forehead presses to yours. “I’m going to find another way. I swear it. This- this is only the beginning.”

But you both know.

The candle’s flame gutters low.

Your fingers begin to pass through his again. The grief in his eyes is sharp. Bare.

But just before you vanish completely-

He kisses you.

A trembling, desperate, perfect kiss.

And you kiss him back.

And then you’re gone.

The office is still. Dim. The candle extinguishes with a soft hiss.

Spencer doesn’t move for a long time. He sits in the dark, hand pressed to his lips.

And slowly, softly, he smiles.

“She was warm,” he whispers.

Then he leans back, eyes closed, and lets the last curl of smoke wrap around him like your arms once did. He doesn’t cry. Not because he’s not broken, but because he isn’t afraid.

You came to him.

You held him.

You let him hold you back.

And that means something has changed.

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

Spencer doesn’t treat the office like an office anymore.

He moves through it like it’s sacred ground. Like every scuff on the floor and groove in the desk might hold part of you. His footsteps are softer. His routines are slower. Reverent.

He starts whispering your name when he walks in. Not every time, but when it feels right. When the weight in his chest swells a little too much. When the air smells like dust and lilacs, like the dream where you laughed in the sun.

Sometimes, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just looks toward the corner where you always hover and nod. A quiet “I know you’re here.”

He leaves space for you everywhere. Extra room on the couch. A second chair pulled up to the desk. A mug waiting across from his, cooling slowly but lovingly untouched. Not out of hope now. Out of habit.

And you?

You haunt him. But not the way ghosts are supposed to. You don’t slam doors or rattle pipes. You don’t chill the air.

You haunt him gently.

You fog the mirror in the bathroom with your name when he brushes his teeth after late-night shoots. You flicker the hallway light twice when he’s spiraling in edits. You press your energy into the couch cushions beside him so they dip under your invisible weight, just enough for him to feel you there.

And sometimes, when he’s half-asleep, half-lost in thought, he reaches out. His hand finds the spot where your thigh would be. He leaves it there, steady, like he's grounding himself in your presence.

You stay as long as you can.

The haunting grows stronger.

Not louder. Not scarier.

Closer.

It’s not about a ghost and a boy anymore. It’s something else. Something in-between.

Spencer dreams of you more often now, and each dream is clearer than the last. Sometimes you speak. Sometimes you don’t need to. The two of you understand each other in ways that don’t require words.

In one dream, you lie on his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, both of you just listening.

“This is the sound I missed the most,” you whisper, your hand spread over his heart.

He kisses the crown of your head and says, “Then I’ll keep it beating for you.”

He always wakes up with his hand on his chest, right where you rested yours, like your ghost left a handprint behind.

Then, one night, Spencer does something new.

He brings a small book to the office. Leather-bound. Gold-trimmed pages. He sits at the desk and opens it carefully. On the first page, he writes in careful, deliberate ink:

Things I Know About You

He flips to the next page and writes:

You don’t like cold floors.You always nudge my chair toward the sunlight in the afternoons.You fold my hoodies the way my mom used to.You smell like lilacs when you’re close.You laugh without sound, but the air warms when you do. You saved me.You stayed.

You hover over his shoulder, reading each line. And if your ghost-heart could beat, it would pound. You ache with a kind of love you didn’t know you could still feel, something that belongs not to memory or grief, but now.

You leave him a message that night, etched softly into the condensation of his water glass:

I will never leave you.

He sees it. Reads it. Smiles. He presses his palm to the glass, like he’s pressing it to you. And you stay there, with him, through the night.

From then on, the haunting becomes something shared.

You start to appear in photos. Only in the corners. Only when Spencer’s in frame. A shimmer of light. A shadow that doesn’t belong.

Once, Angela looks at a selfie and frowns. “Weird blur behind you.”

Spencer grins. “She’s camera shy.”

He never explains. But he doesn’t hide you either.

And you? You start to leave more of yourself behind. Not notes, not objects.

Moments.

A chair rocking gently when he’s anxious. The exact song he needs playing the moment he touches his phone. A soft breeze across his neck when he says something kind.

It’s not control. It’s companionship.

You are no longer the ghost of a girl who died here. You are the presence of someone who stayed. And Spencer treats you as such.

One night, when the office is hushed and full of moonlight, Spencer speaks into the quiet.

“I think we’re tethered together now,” he says. He looks at the corner where you float. “Not cursed. Not stuck. Just… chosen.”

You brush your energy over the back of his neck in response.

He shivers. Smiles.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

You pause.

Because it’s not about being seen anymore. It’s about being known.

And yes, you do.

You want more.

More dreams. More kisses that almost happen. More haunting that feels like coming home. You want to be part of his life in every way you still can.

So that night, when he finally sleeps deep and safe, you drift through the office.

You press yourself into its bones.

The floorboards. The drywall. The wires and frames and vents and baseboards. The lights. The doors. The couch that cradled your borrowed body. Spencer’s desk that holds your name.

You whisper into every inch of it:

Let me stay. Let me stay. Let me stay.

In the middle of the night, Spencer wakes up with a jolt. His heart is pounding. His skin prickles. He blinks in the dark.

You’re not in the dream anymore. You’re in the room.

The lights aren’t on.

But he sees you.

A shimmer of form. A girl in a soft shadow. You’re curled into the chair by the door, legs tucked under you and your chin resting on your knees.

You’re sitting the same way you used to sit when you were alive.

He stares.

You tilt your head.

And smile.

“Hi,” you whisper.

The word is faint. Barely there. Just a shape in the air.

But real.

Real enough to shatter something in him.

He crosses the room without thinking. Sinks to the floor at your feet like it’s a prayer.

“I missed your voice,” he says, hoarse.

You reach out.

Your hand doesn’t pass through him this time.

It lands gently in his hair. Fingers threading through the soft curls.

He leans into your touch like it’s instinct. Like he always knew what your hand would feel like. You don’t know how long it will last. Minutes. Seconds.

But it is lasting.

“You’re really haunting me now, huh?” he says, voice low.

You laugh, quiet and light and human.

“Yes,” you say. “And I always will.”

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

You try not to count the days.

The ones where Spencer touches your name in the condensation and murmurs good morning. The ones where he reads aloud from books just so you don’t feel alone. The ones where he falls asleep on the couch and your form curls up beside him, half-dream, half-memory, full heart.

But they start to blur.

And lately... they start to ache.

Not because anything is wrong. But because nothing ever really changes.

He lives in motion. And you are stillness wrapped in light.

It’s getting harder to pretend you don’t notice.

At first, it’s the little things.

He laughs less when he’s alone. He comes in a few minutes later. Leaves a few minutes earlier. Sometimes he stares at his phone for a long time before setting it down and whispering, “Later.”

It’s not distance. Not disinterest.

It’s life.

He’s alive. Still tethered to a thousand possibilities. He has improv shows, dinner plans, the occasional weekend trip to see his parents. Sometimes you watch the calendar notifications pop up on his screen, and you feel your energy pull thin.

He still comes back to the office. Still reaches for you. Still lights a candle on the desk and opens the notebook of Things I Know About You.

But you feel it.

The shift.

Time is moving.

And not for you.

Spencer tries.

Good heavens, he tries.

If anything, he leans in harder. Like he can hold time still by sheer devotion.

He starts consulting with mediums, quietly. Secretly. Not the showy kind. He finds the ones with old eyes and softer words, who talk about energy lines and rituals that respect what already exists.

You watch as he carries home books with brittle pages and ribbon bookmarks. He draws runes in chalk under the conference table. Reads aloud words older than the building itself. Always asking permission. Always looking to build, not break.

You ache as he reads aloud:

To anchor a spirit: bury an object of theirs beneath a shared threshold. To hold them here: offer them a part of your blood. To tie yourself in place: give your body to the space as they did.

And none of it works.

Your form flickers brighter when he tries. You feel the pull. But it never holds. Not for long. You never stay.

And you know why.

Because you didn’t die for him.

And he won’t die for you.

Not yet. Not for a long, long time.

One night, Spencer curls up on the couch. His hoodie is too big. His eyes are red. He looks younger and older all at once. He tucks his knees to his chest, face turned toward your corner.

“I don’t want to live in a world where you’re just… gone again,” he whispers.

You’re already beside him. You always are. Your form rests in the cushions, curled up like memory. You press your hand to his, soft and fading.

“I’m not gone,” you whisper.

He hears it.

Barely.

Like a song softly flowing through a wall. A hum against his ear.

But his chest shakes. He covers your hand with his, knowing where it is without seeing it.

“I don’t know how to let go of something I never really got to hold,” he says.

You press a kiss to his temple. Your lips don’t land. Not really.

But he closes his eyes like they do.

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

The realization comes one soft afternoon in early spring.

The window’s cracked open. A breeze rolls through, warm and sweet. Spencer’s desk is scattered with papers. He’s humming, absently, tunelessly, as he looks over something.

You hover nearby. You smile.

Until you see what he’s reading.

A job listing.

Head Writer - East Coast. Full Time. Relocation required.

You hover closer. Your energy dips cold for a second.

It’s not jealousy.

It’s knowing.

He will leave.

Not because he doesn’t love you.

Because he’s alive.

And the living are meant to go.

To grow.

To move.

To live.

You remember the sensation of it. You loved it, once. That sense of possibility. Of forward motion.

But your motion ended long ago.

You’re tethered here.

To these walls. To these floorboards. To the past. To this place.

No to him.

And Spencer-

He belongs to the world beyond it.

That night, you don’t show up. Not really.

You dim your energy. Stay hidden in the beams and corners. Drift like smoke through the rooms he isn’t in. You can’t bring yourself to look at him.

It hurts.

Not like dying.

Worse.

Because this time, you know exactly what you’re about to lose.

You know the smell of him. The sound of his laugh. The warmth of his voice when he says your name like it’s always belonged to him.

And you know he won’t stay.

Because he shouldn’t.

Spencer notices. Of course he does.

He walks in alone. The air is heavy, too quiet.

“Hey…” he calls gently. “You here?”

Nothing moves.

No light flickers. No gentle wind. He pauses. Sets down his bag. Runs a hand through his hair.

“Are you mad at me?”

Still silence. He sits at the edge of his desk, blinking at the glass.

“I saw the job listing had moved,” he murmurs. “That’s what this is, right?”

Still, you say nothing. Not yet.

“I haven’t applied,” he says quickly. “I don’t know if I will. I- I don’t know anything right now except that every time I think about leaving, my throat closes up like I’m walking away from something I can’t ever get back.”

You flicker, weak.

Then, you gather yourself. You solidify, just enough to show yourself in the glass reflection of the cabinet behind him.

He turns toward you instantly, relief cracking through his face.

“There you are.”

You drift closer.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper.

He swallows hard. “Then why are you hiding?”

You hesitate. Then say it.

“Because I know how this ends.”

His face crumples. “Don’t.”

You reach for his hand. Press yours into it. The contact is faint. But real.

“You’re going to grow up,” you say. “You’re going to fall in love again. You’re going to leave this job, this building. You should.”

His voice is hoarse. “Not if it means leaving you.”

“You will. You’ll have to.”

You look at him with everything you have left.

“But that doesn’t mean you didn’t love me.”

His breath breaks in his chest.

He grips your hand tighter, even as it flickers, even as your form starts to thin at the edges. You’re not dying. Not again. You’re just fading.

It’s time.

You stay with him for one last hour.

You sit together, side by side on the couch, your hand barely touching his, your presence flickering warm in his lap. He talks. You listen.

He tells you the things he never had time to say. That he liked you from the first time his chair tucked itself in. That your laugh in his dreams made his heart ache. That every time he drank tea, he pretended it was a date.

You smile through the blur of your form.

You tell him things, too. That you loved the sound of his typing. That you memorized the smell of his sweatshirts. That you will never haunt anyone else, not the way you haunted him.

That you don’t regret a single second of your forever if it meant spending part of it with him.

When it’s time, you press your lips to his cheek one last time.

It lands.

He gasps.

“Don’t forget me,” you say, even though you know he never will.

“Never,” he swears.

Your hand brushes his cheek. Your form shimmers in the glow of the dying desk lamp. You smile.

And then, like a final breath-

You’re gone.

Months pass.

The office changes. New shows. New desks. People come and go.

But Spencer never lets anyone take down the string of fairy lights you once flickered on for him.

He doesn’t talk about you often. But sometimes, just sometimes, he stops in the hallway and smiles at nothing.

And once, years later, when he brings someone new to visit, they swear they feel a warm breeze down their back. A faint whisper of laughter when they’re alone in the kitchen.

He doesn’t explain it. Just sets down two mugs of tea on the counter.

And says, softly:

“She’s still with us.”

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

Time passed.

As it always does.

Spencer lived a full, beautiful life.

He stayed at Smosh for years, longer than most expected. He created, laughed, grew. He made people smile even on the worst days. But he was never quite the same after you. Not in a broken way. In a changed way.

Then, he moved on; writing, performing, traveling, and living. He kept your memory quiet but never forgotten. You became the unseen rhythm of his life. A haunting, yes, but the gentle kind. A part of the melody that never played loudly but was always there, humming beneath the louder notes.

Spencer kept your memory quiet. Sacred. He never tried to replace you.

He loved again, yes, because you would’ve wanted him to. And he let himself be happy. He married. He raised a family. He said goodbye to people he loved, and found laughter again in their echoes. He was the kind of man who gave the world more than he ever asked for in return.

But even after all those years, every candle he lit, every quiet moment he sat alone with tea, it was always you he thought of.

And when the world finally grew quiet, when his hair was silver and his breath came slower, when his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote one last note in a shaky hand, he said your name aloud for the last time.

To no one.

To you.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

And then, with the kind of peace most people never get to earn, he let go.

The other side isn’t what he expected.

There are no gates. No trumpets. No crowds. No blinding light.

It’s quiet. Warm.

He finds himself in a hallway, lit by sunlight he can’t find the source of. Painted the same soft white as a memory. The air smells like lilacs and library pages. There’s music, but it’s distant and soft, like someone humming a lullaby in the next room. The floor feels cool and smooth beneath his feet, but somehow still familiar.

He walks.

No hurry. No fear.

Every step feels like coming home.

And then-

There you are.

Sitting on a wide window ledge, barefoot, legs swinging just a little, your chin resting on your knees. There’s light in your hair and starlight in your eyes. You look exactly the same and completely new, like a memory rewritten in clearer ink.

You’re just as he remembers.

But brighter. Realer.

You look up.

And you smile.

And it hits him in the chest like music. Like a favorite song he forgot he knew.

“You’re late,” you tease, your voice like sunlight on old wood, like the last soft breeze of summer.

Spencer chokes out a laugh. It breaks halfway through and turns into a sound closer to a sob. “I took the long way,” he says.

He moves toward you.

So do you.

And then you're in his arms.

For the first time in this life, or the last, or all the ones in between, fully and completely. There’s no flicker. No strain. No time limit. Just warm, solid, and perfect. Your hands on his back, his lips at your temple, the full weight of him folded around you like you were always meant to fit.

He buries his face in your neck, breath hitching.

“I missed you,” he says, voice thick.

You hold him tighter. “I never stopped waiting.”

There are no clocks here. No meetings. No deadlines.

Just the two of you.

You and Spencer walk through fields made of light, curled up under trees that hum with memory, fall asleep on cloudless hills and wake to laughter that doesn’t need a punchline.

You talk for hours. Or maybe years. Time bends in soft, lovely ways here.

Spencer tells you everything. The people he loved. The places he saw. The books. The friends. The way he sometimes smelled lilacs for no reason. How often he looked up at a flickering light and smiled.

You cry a little. He holds you through it.

You tell him about the in-between. The quiet. The waiting. The way you watched his life bloom, even when you couldn’t be a part of it. The way you never stopped loving him, not even for a second.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I never forgot you,” he whispers.

“You never had to,” you say. “I was always with you.”

Sometimes, you both visit that old office. Not as ghosts. As dreamers.

It’s always golden there, soft with late-afternoon sun. The couch has a permanent dip where Spencer always sat. The lights twinkle gently above, even though there’s no electricity. The two mugs are clean. The air smells like old memories and vanilla tea.

You sit together on the floor sometimes, shoulder to shoulder, just listening to the echoes of laughter through the walls.

No one’s afraid here. No one fades. No one has to let go.

You’re not a ghost anymore. You’re not a haunting.

You’re just you.

And Spencer, kind, complicated, loyal Spencer, is finally yours in full.

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

You once believed that death was the end of your story. That your chapter had closed while everyone else’s continued.

But then Spencer walked into your orbit with starlight in his eyes and made you believe in beginnings again. And suddenly, everything opened.

And now?

Now you have all of forever.

To kiss him without fading.

To hold him without breaking.

To sit beside him in the quiet, no longer waiting for the clock to run out.

To tell him, as many times as you want, that loving him was the best thing you ever did.

And the best part of eternity?

Was waiting just long enough for Spencer Agnew to walk through that door.

And you finally, finally, stay.

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh x reader #smosh #ghost #ghost x reader #youtuber x reader #ghost romance

67 notes · View notes

onlyyoucanhurtlikethis · 1 day ago

Text

Now we can talk like adults. - kylian mbappe, one shot

You’re still standing by the dresser, pulling your hair back loosely, skin warm from your nighttime routine. The overhead light is off; only the low amber glow from the bedside lamp hums in the room. He’s already in bed—one arm tucked under his head, the other stretched out like it’s waiting for you, like it always is.

You don’t look at him at first. You know that if you do, he’ll smirk.

“Were you serious earlier?”

His voice is unhurried, deep from the pillows.

“Serious about what?”

You twist the cap back on your moisturizer.

“About thinking I’m still deciding.”

There’s a pause. Not defensive—bemused.

“No. I’m not that delusional.”

You glance over. He’s watching you like you’re a slow-burn film. Not in a hurry to finish—just enjoying every second of it.

“You wear my ring when you shower,” he says. “You wear it when you type, when you argue, when you’re ignoring me. You hold onto it when you sleep. I know where your decision stands.”

“Then why say it like that?”

“Because sometimes I like watching your face when you correct me.”

You blink at him.

He adds, shamelessly,

“It’s a little erotic.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like it.”

You bite back a smile. It’s easier not to answer.

“I decided a long time ago,” you say, quieter now.

He just watches you for a moment, then shifts slightly, lifting the blanket and patting his lap without a word.

“Really?” you ask, dry. “You want to have a strategy meeting in bed?”

“I want to see your face while you give me updates on our lifelong union. You standing over there makes it feel like a press conference.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And you look well-rested. So get over here.”

You climb into bed, slow, deliberate. Like it’s a ceremony. He adjusts easily, pulling you across his lap until your knees settle on either side of him.

His hands rest on your thighs. Casual. Warm. Unmoving.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now we can talk like adults.”

“We are adults.”

“Debatable. You hide affection like it’s a contraband item.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you kiss my ankle when I’m asleep. Who’s the menace?”

“Me,” he says easily. “And you’re the one who said yes.”

“Twice,” you clarify.

“Just making sure you’re keeping score.”

You sigh dramatically. He grins.

“You never told me I was too much,” he says suddenly. The smirk fades into something softer. “Even when I knew I was.”

You look at him. Really look.

“You’re not too much,” you say. “You’re just full.”

That makes him blink.

“Full?”

“Of everything. Thought. Feeling. Want. It doesn’t scare me.”

His thumbs move slightly where they rest on your thighs. Like they needed something to do after that sentence.

“You used to,” you admit. “Before I knew what to do with all of it.”

“And now?”

“Now I want to memorize it.”

He doesn’t kiss you yet. Just looks.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“I’m the only person who isn’t.”

That one lands hard. You feel it in the way his jaw shifts, just a little. Like you hit a pressure point.

You soften your voice.

“You know… I used to think I was just boring. Quiet. Like I was made to be background noise.”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head before you even finish. “No, don’t say that.”

“I’m not,” you reassure. “I just mean—I wasn’t wrong. I am quiet. But maybe I’m the exact kind of quiet your life needed.”

“You are.”

“Turns out, I wasn’t too slow. I just hadn’t met anyone worth slowing down for.”

His voice cracks the silence like velvet:

“Why do you say shit like that when I’m already planning to propose again?”

You smile into his chest. Your voice is muffled when you reply,

“Because I like watching your face when you melt.”

He groans dramatically.

“You are so annoying. Sexy. But annoying.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m yours,” he says, low. “That’s what I am.”

And then finally, finally, he kisses you—soft and solid, a palm against your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours like he’s anchoring you both to the room.

You whisper,

“You don’t need to prove anything.”

He kisses your temple.

“I know. But I still want to.”

There’s no performance in the moment. Just presence. Familiar, loaded, sweet.

He holds you.

You stay.

And somewhere in the quiet between your heartbeat and his breath, the only truth that matters lands fully:

This love? It’s mutual madness.

But finally… finally, you both feel safe in it.

#kylian mbappe imagine #kylian mbappe one shot #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe

80 notes · View notes

aureatescars · 3 days ago

Text

He lets out a pained grunt as Leon hoists him up, his back and legs protesting against the sudden movement, strength completely drained from every part of him. Even his mind feels hazy, still racing with images he isn't entirely sure were conjured up by his own thoughts. He's fighting nausea when he is lowered to the bed, his own face just as pale as Leon's. For a moment, he even fights against Leon pulling away from him, the need to keep as much of his skin against his own outweighing any rational thought. It's fortunate that Leon keeps a hold of his hand after they manage to prop Sasha up on the bed, otherwise he isn't sure what he'd done to rectify it.

His chest heaves with a panic that feels not entirely his own, shallow bursts of air escape him as he tries to calm himself down. He clutches Leon's hand tightly as he grits his teeth through waves of self inflicted pain. It was foolish to drag himself here, he should have known better. But God, if there isn't also a small part of him that's ecstatic about having done so. If only because he proved to himself that he somehow still could. A breathless, pained exhale somewhere between a hysterical laugh and a disbelieving gasp makes it past his lips. He really did it, but shit, does it hurt now.

"I just need— a moment." Another pained rasp and then Sasha can finally feel the muscles in his back unwind, his legs tremble from exertion, but for once he can actually feel them, although he struggles to move them even so much as an inch now. The whole situation is utterly confusing, even unsettling, and it's only made worse by the fact he can't concentrate on anything other than pain for a long moment.

The only thing soothing the throbbing pain is Leon's hand in his own, his eyes finding his, gaze full of concern. Sasha's grip turns to something softer when the worst of the dull ache slowly begins to fade and he feels in control of his own body again. He realizes with mounting concern that Leon is trembling, too, worse than he is even. Sasha searches his face, then notices the goosebumps painting his skin. It is chilly in here, but the fact that Leon is also damningly pale speaks volumes about the true cause of the state he is in.

"I'm going to be fine, Leon." He whispers, addressing his friend's worry first. But he can see the furrow of disbelief between Leon's brows more clearly now, as well as the doubt in his blue eyes. Sasha gently tugs at Leon to hold their joined hands up to his chest, surprised when Leon's hand immediately turns in his grasp to lay flat against his sternum. Sasha's hand remains resting atop of it for a moment, but he can still feel the cold of Leon's fingers beneath his own, swears he can feel it bleed through the fabric covering his chest.

"How about you?" He asks then, voice still a bit strained, but oh so gentle as he props himself up a bit more to really look at Leon. The half shadows cast across his face paired with his bangs falling into it, too make it hard to gauge his expression fully.

Sasha reaches up with his free hand without thinking, brushing the soft strands of hair away to reveal more of Leon's face. "You're cold." He says, his words barely above a whisper as his fingertips brush against Leon's forehead. His hand moves along the side of his face then, cupping his cheek. Sasha's lips part to ask Leon to lay down, or to assure him again that Sasha would be fine, he doesn't need to worry. He looks up from where his eyes followed the motion of his hand, and finds Leon's gaze wavering when their eyes meet. It's then that Sasha really sees the repercussions of whatever dream had Leon in such distress, and frankly, the stunt Sasha pulled and waking him up so harshly must have only added to the shock, despite his best intentions. He hides it well, but Sasha can basically see Leon's pulse jump erratically as his body works to calm itself down, can just about feel the echo of his distress in the back of his own mind.

... However, that's an issue to be addressed when neither of them is on the brink of a panic attack.

"It's okay." He whispers when Leon's fingers curl into his shirt. Sasha feels the tremble more clearly as he holds Leon's hand in his own. He watches as Leon tips his head forward, his bangs falling back into his face and Sasha doesn't fight them back this time, no matter how much he feels he wants to. Instead, he withdraws his hand from Leon's face to shift it down to his shoulder, finding the skin there equally chilled. It's an easy decision then, to let go of Leon's hand and struggle himself back into a sitting position, pain be damned, so he can move his arms around Leon instead.

"I'm here."

Leon's touch on his arm has Sasha's gaze stray there to watch as his fingers curl gently around his wrist. Without thinking, he turns his hand over as Leon pulls away, causing their palms and fingertips to align for the briefest of moments. He thinks he feels Leon linger there, feels his own fingers curl to prolong the contact, but at this point, he doesn't trust his own senses anymore and whether or not his imagination is running away from him. He isn't sure why he would imagine such a thing in the first place, but then again, there isn't much that he is sure of anymore.

"I'll believe it when I see it." He teases, his eyes a little brighter when he looks back up. "But yes, it's time you get to enjoy that vacation of yours." Sasha sees Leon is smiling, too, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes right now. His expression shutters and Sasha parts his lips to say something, to go back and ask him to stay after all, but Leon steps away from the bed and towards the door before he can, and somehow it doesn't feel right to stop him now.

They've been together the entire day with little space for themselves, and while Sasha doesn't mind it at all, he keeps having to remind himself that Leon is different, or so it seems at least. He doesn't even fully turn back around to bid Sasha good night before he slips into the hallway. Just one last glance and a few words that settle heavy in his mind and then he's gone. Sasha just manages to nod at the offer, and soon after the door shuts behind Leon with an unsettling sense of finality and without Sasha having said another word.

Sasha looks at the closed door for a good while before he settles deeper into the sheets. He looks up at the ceiling and it takes him some time to shake the feeling that he has done something wrong, or that he has somehow missed something important. A hand comes up to scratch absentmindedly at the scar beneath his sternum and his mind wanders back to the moment in the bathroom, with Leon on his knees infront of him, lips parted and eyes so blue he felt like he could drown in them—

Sasha pulls himself away from that thought, throwing an arm over his eyes in embarrassment when his mind starts going places it absolutely shouldn't. He's altogether too worn out to make sense of the fact that what he's feeling is unnervingly close to attraction, but he doesn't have the strength to pretend that it isn't there either. It's too much. He can't can't handle yet another revelation about himself, can't handle adjusting to that as well on top of everything else. So, he does his best to ignore the flutter in his chest and the prickle of what can only be called arousal shivering down his spine.

It's not like it would go anywhere anyway. Confusion aside, even if anyone were interested in him, he doesn't even know if he could still— The hand resting against his scar twitches, then slowly moves down his abdomen, fingers brushing over the fabric of his shirt before they catch on the hemline of his boxers. Sasha tenses and draws his hand away again, immediately turning onto his side, hands now tucking beneath his pillow. He scowls at the light on the nightstand when he finally manages to settle comfortably again, his legs heavy and numb, shame coloring his cheeks, eyes stinging with regret.

He reaches for the lamp to turn it off and scrunches his eyes shut, determined to go to sleep and not spend another moment thinking. Unsurprisingly, sleep doesn't find him easily, no matter how weary he is. He tosses and turns best he can for a while, before he eventually slips under and is embraced by a mercifully dreamless sleep. Although, it might just be that he wasn't asleep long enough to dream.

He startles awake a few hours later, disoriented and tense. He can't pinpoint what it was that woke him up, but his heart is pounding, his breathing comes in short bursts. A sense of foreboding overcomes him, worry settles deep inside him, protectiveness he can't explain flares within.

Leon.

Leon needs him.

Sasha doesn't know how he knows this, nor has he time to consider that there is nothing he can do to help if there really was something wrong. He pulls himself up before he can think about it. The sense of urgency within him causing him to completely disregard the fact his back immediately begins to throb with pain. In fact, he only realizes what he's doing when he has already taken a few unsteady steps, legs trembling and weak the moment his feet hit the ground. He can't even see much in the dark, can barely make out the edges of the furniture around him by the sliver of moonlight falling in from the window.

Sasha stumbles and blindly reaches for something to keep him upright. He just happens to grasp tightly onto wooden footboard of the bed, fingers digging into the grained surface. His body fights to keep himself upright. His ears start ringing and his brows furrow against the pain as he grits his teeth. It's almost familiar, the sharp noise in his ears, the sharp trill of power in the back of his mind. The room brightens up before his eyes, although the edges of his vision seem tinted red. It's almost as if—

The sense of distress sharpens and Sasha can pinpoint it's origins like a bloodhound catching a scent. His muscles tense as he breathes through the sharp pain that spreads into every inch of his body as he forces himself to walk from the bed to the nearest wall, keeping himself on his feet by sheer stubbornness as his legs threaten to give out. He can't feel anything beyond the overwhelming ache of his muscles as he drags himself to the door. He grasps the doorhandle, uncoordinated, unable to make sense of the fact that he is walking. He snarls in frustration at his body's weakness, but his only priority is getting to Leon, even if he has to crawl there.

Leon's door is across the hall, close enough Sasha barely has to take four steps to open it. The door swings open with a push of his hand against it after pressing the handle and it's then that Sasha's strength threatens to leave him. He holds himself up by the doorframe, fingers holding on to the wood tightly enough it makes his knuckles go white. Cold sweat clings to his forehead, runs down his back. The room is dark, but even so he can hear the strained noises from Leon's sleeping form, can barely make him out in the dark. He's having a nightmare.

"Leon? Leon!"

The other's name is barely more than a breathless rasp at first, his voice strained from exertion and rough from sleep, but growing stronger with the next attempt. He sees— he feels Leon startle. But only when light suddenly floods the room and he's met with bright blue does the ringing in Sasha's ears fade. His eyes must be playing tricks on him, though, or maybe the lighting is what causes it, but he could swear that Leon's eyes flickered red for a moment as Sasha's gaze meets his.

But before long, the edges of his vision ease back from a red haze to normal, the bedside table lamp hurting his eyes for a moment ere they adjust. He swallows thickly. He's still half asleep, he's just seeing things that aren't there. "You—" He breathes heavily as he takes in Leon's wideyed expression. "I thought—" More harsh gasps. Sasha scrunches up his face. "It felt— It felt like you needed me."

But now the foolishness of his endeavor overcomes him, his legs finally decide to give out on him for good, and Sasha feels himself slip down the doorframe he's still clinging to with both hands to keep himself upright, muscles tense and aching. "Shit..."

#petrokhelidon #post damnation verse

136 notes · View notes

fullsunstrawberry · 11 hours ago

Text

Teaser

pairings: Brother Best Friend Haechan x Virgin Reader (hints of Jeno x reader and Sungchan x reader)

summary: When you sets out to finally lose your virginity, your mission is simple—until your older brother’s best friend steps in, vowing to be your personal chastity belt. After a fight he makes it his mission to get his revenge... by blocking every hookup attempt you makes. But the more he interferes, the more complicated things get and suddenly, the line between rivalry and something more starts to blur.

content warning: It's okay to be a virgin this was just for the plot (im literally still a virgin), drinking, talks of cheating but no actual cheating, heavy make-outs, grinding, jealousy, haechan cockblocking twice, virgin reader, experienced haechan, reader being a brat, haechan being a brat “tamer”, smut warnings will be added to full fic

word count for teaser: 837

word count: Over 14k

authors note: This is long overdue...im backk! <3

“Why don’t we go and find a better place to talk.”

You tilted your head back slightly to meet Jeno’s intense gaze, your lips curling into a small smirk. “A better place to talk, huh? And where exactly did you have in mind?” you asked teasingly, though the butterflies in your stomach betrayed how nervous you were.

Jeno smirked, his fingers lightly touching your waist as he leaned in. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. Maybe a bedroom? Away from all this noise.”

The idea of some alone time with him was very tempting. The night had already taken a surprising turn, and you figured there was no harm in seeing where it would lead. “Alright,” you said, your voice softer now as you stepped back, giving him a playful tug on his hand.

“Lead the way.”

As Jeno guided you through the crowded room, you were starting to get nervous. Was this finally happening? And with a hot guy like Jeno too? The music and energy of the party seemed to fade into the background as you both stepped into a room that was unlocked.

Jeno shut the door and turned back to you. “I've been dying to kiss you all night.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” You teased back.

Without another word, Jeno closed the distance between you, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you in for a kiss. His lips were warm and soft against yours.

His touch was hot, every brush of his fingers against your skin sent shivers through you, and you found yourself getting lost in the moment with him.

He backed up so he could sit on the bed with your lips still chasing his. As the kiss deepened, Jeno’s hands began to explore your body. Pulling you onto his lap and running his fingers up your back to push you further into him.

Your body started to tense up, never getting this far with anyone before but you were so turned on. Jeno seemed to sense it too, his kisses growing more urgent as he trailed them down your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and you froze in place. Your heart leaped into your throat as you quickly pulled away from Jeno, your breath hitching. The startled look you exchanged with him was all too telling.

Haechan stood in the doorway, arms crossed and face unreadable. His eyes moved between you and Jeno, and for a moment, the room felt smaller.

Scrambling off Jeno’s lap, you felt a rush of heat rise to your cheeks. The embarrassment of being caught in such a compromising position burned in your chest. “Haechan, what—” you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

He didn’t let you finish. With a sharp motion, he raised a hand, his voice low and cutting. “Stop.”

His attention shifted to Jeno, his jaw tight as his eyes narrowed. The weight of his stare seemed to pin Jeno in place. After an intense moment of silence, Haechan spoke again, his voice controlled but icy.

“Leave.”

Jeno blinked, clearly misunderstanding what was happening. His face changed as he realized something—like he thought your boyfriend had caught him. Without saying anything, he stood up, avoided Haechan’s glare, and quickly left. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence.

You turned to Haechan, your pulse still racing, only to find him... smiling? No, grinning. The amusement in his eyes was unmistakable as he leaned casually against the doorframe.

“Wow,” he laughed. “Can’t believe how fast he ran off. I said just one word!” His laughter got louder. “Okay, two words but still!” He held his side like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

You stared at him, completely confused. “What the hell is going on?” you asked, your face full of disbelief. Your mind raced to keep up with how weird things had gotten.

Haechan straightened up, still chuckling, and said with a smug smile, “Relax, I’m just getting back at you.”

“Getting back at me?” you repeated, even more confused. “For what?”

“There’s no way I’m letting you lose your virginity while you’re living under my roof,” he said with a proud smirk, like he’d just won something.

You blinked, shocked. “What?”

“I heard you guys at your little sleepover,” Haechan said, his grin growing wider as he saw your reaction. “So here’s the deal: I’m watching you like a hawk. No chance of losing your virginity this year. Not on my watch.”

You stared, speechless, trying to wrap your head around how bold he was. “Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” he said casually, shrugging. “But you said I’m just Mark’s friend. Pretty sure he wouldn’t want his little sister making mistakes.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded, the weight of his words sinking in. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you finally said, shaking your head in disbelief.

Haechan just grinned, the smugness in his expression making your blood boil. “Nope. Dead serious. Consider me your personal chastity belt.”

comment or ask to be on the taglist <3 Will be posted this weekend!

#TEASER #nct haechan #haechan #haechan nct #haechan smut #nct dream #donghyuck #haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader #donghyuck smut

52 notes · View notes

ishestillapunk · 1 day ago

Text

Crashing on the rocks

part: 1 | 2 | 3

pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: Memories from the past. A hunger that Joel couldn't live with anymore.

tags: established relationship, age gap (30-50's), no use of y/n, kissing, violence(?

w/c: 1,2k.

notes: short and sweet like Sabrina Carpenter, yeehaw

The second you see a chance, you slap away the hand dragging you out of the bar by the collar of your coat. The metal door slams shut behind you two, echoing down the narrow alley, lit by a single sad streetlamp.

It reeks of damp trash, of old snow freezing andthawing over and over. Of anger. Your anger. boiling up because this man won't stop screwing with your life. He pulled you off patrols, stuck you cleaning horse shit in the stables, scared off every guywho tried to get close to you since you showed up three months ago. You're the butt of Jackson because Joel Miller won't let you do a damn thing, and you don't even know why.

He let his hands drop on his sides from your slap and just stands there. That corduroy jacket, that damn stoic face.

"What the fuck do you want now?!" you bark. "Stop getting in my damn way! What the hell did I ever do to you?!" Your fists pound against his chest.

All that rage has been piling up, turning into this mountain of resentment towards him.

"Say something! Stop lookin' at me like goddamn idiot—talk!" You shove him again, and he takes a few steps back.

Then, he lets out this heavy breath that means danger. His fists clench at his sides, brows pinched with something near pain. He takes a step towards you. Then another. You think he's about hit you back, so you retreat—two steps back.

"Ah—!" The sound cracks through the cold air.

His hand flies to his cheek, where your slap landed. He stares at you, jaw tight. Then he grabs your shoulders, firm.

"Wait... wait, I'm sor—"

His mouth crashes into yours, Clumsy. Pushed hard against your lower lip. Dry, rough. You don't even think about resisting. Your hands climb up his jacket, fists curling into the fabric like you're scared he'll pull away. What a stupid kiss. Teeth, noses, years of rusted affection grinding together.

But a clarity hits you. That desperation in him when the stative kiss becomes dynamic. It's genuine hunger. It drenches you.

He feels the hesitation in you, the inertia, the shaky first steps back into something like this. Just like him. And that's when he unravels you with experience. He's a natural. He shapes you to his desire. One hand slides up your chest and grabs your jaw gently, opening it to slide his tongue inside. Your brows lift up and melt again. The other hand sneakes around your waist and slides under your layers of clothing. Cold fingers against the heat that is forming by the kiss. Your hands slide under his jacket and splas over his back over the thick flannel.

It breaks suddenly. A rush of shivers and anxiety running through you, fading the haze. You pull back a bit, brows drawn tight, shaking your head, lips swollen.

"No..." There's no certainity in that word. Just war. Internal war. You stare at him again and slap him once more. Softer, a reflex.

"The first one was good, I'll give ya that..." He smirks taking your hand in his. Then he takes your hand in his back to his back, pulling you, his other hand on your lower back and kisses you again, making you arch a bit back as he hunches to kiss you deeper. Like a damsel in distress.

"I need you to stop throwin' yourself into danger like that..." Joel whispers against your wet mouth, his forehead resting against yours.

"Why the hell do you even care what I do..." You whisper back, still chasing his lips.

"I care too much. Too fucking much" Joel answers. "Y'think I don't deserve you... and don't worry, I think the same damn thing. But you don't even begin to imagine what I'd be willing to do to protect you. To keep you safe..." He says as his eyes soften. Goddamn brown cow like eyes. His lips melt right back into yours as he presses you against the damp alley wall.

There's no clothes coming off, no nudity. Not even close. But Joel's hands move over your hips, urges your thigh to lift over his. And you let him. Damn brat, you're burning, pressing into him even though ten minutes ago, you couldn't even stand the sight of him.

And just like that, the winding road begins. The one neither of you knows how to walk, but start anyway.

thanks for every reblog, like and comment. you gave me nothing but happiness with the support you've been giving to my work. really, thanks a lot.

"Crashing on the Rocks" is a short story made up of snippets of memories. The actual title in my Google Docs is "Tales of a Marriage Crashing on the Rocks." I was scared to let anyone read it, but here I am—and I’m so happy with the love these two are receiving!

kisses!

#joel miller #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #jackson!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #fanfic writing #fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel the last of us #jackson joel #joel miller fanfic #joel tlou #joel smut

34 notes · View notes

dendroseelie · 16 hours ago

Text

had a not-so-good day a couple days back, so this is something for me and for anybody else who isn't having a good day

alhaitham hears the sniffles before he sees you. there's an ache, deep in his chest, that awakens at the sound. his footsteps hurry as he makes his way through the seemingly endless bookshelves - something he usually wouldn't complain about - of the library.

he finds you, in the least visited corner full of accounting books. your back is turned to him, face buried in the shelves pretending to look for a very particular book.

“y/n,” alhaitham's voice is unbelievably soft. your name is called out with such tenderness that it immediately feels as though he's reaching out into your ribs to take your heart in his hands.

for a moment, you don't turn around - truly contemplating how terribly you'd break apart at the sight of the man you loved so much. you're sure you look terrible as you finally turn around, eyes already wet, nose pink and another sniffle making its way through.

you swallow deeply, as if willing to stomach all of the hurt, the disappointment and anxieties that kept spilling out of you.

you don't trust yourself with your words at the moment — a watery greeting is all you can manage. “hi.”

alhaitham steps closer, movements gentle even in the hurry to get to you. his hand reaches for the book in yours, fishing it out of your grip to place somewhere behind him on the grand oak table, he doesn't particularly take note. then he draws you towards him. you look away, afraid of what will become of you if you let him look at you at that.

but he knows you so well. his nimble fingers grab your chin, and ever-so-softly he raises it to meet your gaze. to most, alhaitham's gaze is sharp, calculating and detached - like an extremely smart scholar beyond one's intellect. but when alhaitham looks at you, his eyes are palpably softer - anyone could see it. you see it too, you'd be stupid not to.

that does it for you. a sob heaves its way through your lungs and alhaitham pulls you into his chest. his fingers are immediately in your hair.

“hey...” you can feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

your shoulders, previously taut and strained, sink. as you weep into alhaitham's chest, it feels like a weight lifting off of your ribs — as if the ship has reached its home and anchored.

“it'll be okay,” he whispers into your hair. “even if it feels insurmountable right now, it'll be alright. we'll figure it out, together.”

and though it doesn't immediately make all your anxieties fade to dust, you feel safe. protected. within his arms, no one could hurt you. and anything that went wrong, you knew that the man holding you would help you rebuild it even if your own hands shook.

i know that this man is the kindest and most patient with his partner, i know

#sushiwrites #soft hours w alhaitham <333 #alhaitham x you #genshin impact #alhaitham fluff #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham genshin #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #genshin fanfic

43 notes · View notes

romanczukowsky · 2 days ago

Text

🌾The Burrow Breathed With Us

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader (Y/N)

Setting: The Burrow, pre-relationship, wedding night, slow burn → first time

Summary: The Burrow is bursting with life — laughter, chaos, and quiet, hidden glances. You’re just a family friend helping out, tying Fred’s crooked tie before the wedding. But between the soft brush of fingers and the heat in his gaze, something unspoken begins to take shape. When the music fades and his hand drifts higher on your thigh… the line between friends and lovers disappears — with one whispered promise and one slow, breathtaking night.

Author's Note: This story is soft, poetic smut — written with more emotion than filth, more touch than thrust.

The Burrow was living by its own rhythm today. The Weasley house had always felt just a little too small for the number of feet, voices, laughter, and love that passed through it—but today? Today, it seemed like the very walls were trying to breathe with us, swollen with emotion, with the scent of baking bread, the sharp calls of Molly’s voice echoing down the halls, and the frantic clatter of shoes running up and down the stairs.

Downstairs, George was muttering to himself about missing cufflinks, Percy was arguing with his reflection in the mirror, and Fleur was close to tears over... something delicate and dramatic. Even the family cat looked agitated, darting in and out of rooms like a living streak of fur and annoyance, as if to remind us all that chaos was the natural order of things.

And me? I stood at the top of the stairs, just outside Fred’s room, holding his tie like it was some sacred object—fragile, significant, electric in my hands. He was waiting for me, wearing that crooked, shameless grin that made it impossible to think clearly.

"Come on," he called, voice playful. "Save me before I accidentally strangle myself with this thing."

I stepped into his room, trying not to look too long. He was only in a dress shirt, half-buttoned, the collar loose, his freckled chest peeking through just enough to make me feel flushed. His hair, that wild, familiar mess of ginger, fell over his forehead like he hadn’t even tried to tame it. And his eyes—those endlessly mischievous eyes—held something softer in them today. Or maybe it was just the light. Or maybe it was me.

"You still haven’t learned how to tie a tie?" I asked, standing in front of him and beginning to thread the fabric through my fingers.

"Nope," he replied, his tone casual, but softer than usual. "But it gives me an excuse to have you stand this close to me, so..."

I stepped in. Too close, really, for just ‘helping’. My fingers brushed against the hollow of his throat—his skin still cool from a morning shower. He didn’t move. He just looked at me, eyes a little too steady, too open.

And I felt it—barely there, but undeniable. That moment. The shift.

The point where something unspoken passed between us like a breeze that raises the hairs on your neck. The place where teasing ended and tension began.

"You look good in white," I murmured before I could stop myself. The words just... slipped out.

Fred raised a brow, smiling lazily. "Does that mean I shouldn’t look even better on my own wedding day?"

I laughed—nervous, breathy. "It’s not your wedding, Weasley."

"For now."

I didn’t answer. What could I have said? That I’d been thinking about him for weeks? That every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the echo of his laughter like a ghost against my skin? That somewhere between the jokes and the late-night talks, he’d gone from my favorite friend to my quietest ache?

No. I didn’t say any of it.

I just tied his tie. And I left.

The ceremony had been beautiful, of course. Laughter threaded through the vows, people weeping into handkerchiefs, and a blush on the bride’s cheeks that made even the sun look shy. I stood off to the side during the final cheers, my hands clasped in front of me, but my eyes? My eyes were on Fred.

He had been smiling—grinning, really—like he meant it, like something inside him had bloomed and refused to close again. I watched the light kiss the edges of his hair, watched the way he leaned in to whisper something to George that made them both laugh too loudly. And yet, even through the celebration, he looked at me.

Not always. Just enough. Like he didn’t need to search the room because he already knew where I’d be.

By the time the sun had softened and the music began, we were sitting at a long wooden table strung with wildflowers and flickering candles. Fred beside me. Too close.

I had laughed at something he said, something stupid and charming in that Fred Weasley way. And then I felt it—his hand. Beneath the table. Resting lightly on my knee.

My breath caught.

At first, I thought it was a joke. A tease. But he didn’t move it away. His fingers just stayed there. Warm, casual. Then they curled ever so slightly, as if testing the boundary of skin and cloth.

“Y’know,” he said softly, just near my ear, “I keep imagining this day... but with you in white. Me in a better-fitting tie. And everyone here to watch us.”

I turned to him—eyes wide, heart in my throat. He wasn’t smiling now. Not fully. There was something else behind his gaze. Want.

And then his fingers started to move.

Not fast. Not demanding. Just… exploring. A single fingertip tracing idle circles against the inside of my thigh. Slow, lazy shapes that made the skin beneath my dress feel suddenly too aware. My lips parted, but I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t.

His touch drifted upward, half an inch, maybe less.

And then again.

Higher.

I swallowed, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. The table was loud with clinking glasses and spinning stories. But in my world, there was only him.

Fred’s thumb stroked the soft part of my inner thigh—tender, uncharted skin. I bit the inside of my cheek. My hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. I could feel the heat blooming in my chest, spreading outward, rising to my cheeks.

I was blushing. Fiercely.

And I didn’t stop him.

His fingers slipped higher, brushing the edge of my underwear. So close to where I pulsed for him I thought I might lose my mind. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slipped just beneath the fabric, resting against the warm, bare skin of my inner thigh. The contrast between the coolness of the lace and the heat of my skin beneath made my breath hitch. His touch was featherlight at first, teasing the sensitive skin hidden from view, then growing firmer, more confident.

Every nerve in me awakened under his hand, a delicious shiver spreading through my body. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns, exploring the secret places where only he was allowed to go. The warmth of his palm pressed gently, grounding me even as it set me aflame.

He paused there, as if asking a silent question. I tilted my hips, just barely—an invitation.

I felt his smile against my temple.

“Merlin,” he whispered, “you’re wet…”

I shivered.

“Fred,” I murmured. Just his name. But it carried every unanswered want, every imagined kiss, every second I’d lain awake wondering what his touch might feel like.

He didn’t wait this time. He leaned in, lips ghosting over my ear. “Come with me.”

I nodded, already standing, already following.

The hallway blurred behind us as Fred took my hand, weaving me through the dim, quiet upper floor of the Burrow. Laughter still floated from downstairs like a distant memory, but it no longer belonged to us. Not now.

He opened the door to his room with one smooth motion and let me step inside first.

It was exactly as I remembered—chaotic, warm, a little too full of mismatched things. A half-made bed, a crooked poster on the wall, a sweater tossed carelessly over a chair. But it felt safe. Like him.

Fred closed the door behind us. The soft click of the latch made my skin prickle.

Neither of us spoke.

I turned to face him and found him already watching me, his tie slightly askew from earlier—my knot, still clumsy but real. He reached up, loosened it slowly, and let it fall to the floor between us.

"You’re quiet," he said gently.

"I’m…" I tried to find the word. But my breath was shallow. My heart, wild. "Thinking too much."

He stepped forward and lifted a hand to my face, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Then don’t," he whispered. "Let me think for you."

His kiss came soft at first—his lips brushing mine like he was still waiting for permission. But I leaned in. And when I did, something in him shifted.

Fred deepened the kiss, his hands coming to my waist, then sliding up my back with a care that made me feel cherished, not just wanted. His mouth was warm, slow, tasting. Like he wasn’t in a rush. Like he meant to memorize me.

When we finally parted, I was trembling.

He looked down at me, brushing his nose lightly against mine. “You’re shaking.”

"I know," I breathed.

"Is it too much?"

I shook my head. “It’s not enough.”

Fred exhaled, a low, reverent sound, and guided me gently backward until the backs of my knees touched the edge of his bed. He kissed me again, slower this time, while his hands moved down—over my ribs, over my hips—before slipping beneath the hem of my dress. His palms were warm and steady on my thighs as he knelt in front of me.

His lips found the inside of my knee first.

Then a little higher.

Then higher still.

Each kiss a question. Each breath against my skin, an answer.

By the time his mouth reached the softest part of me, I was already undone.

He looked up once—eyes burning, waiting for any sign of hesitation. But I reached for him, fingers in his hair, and he took that as his yes.

His tongue was gentle, patient, tasting every inch of me like he had all the time in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he did.

I moaned, soft and aching, the sound escaping before I could even try to hold it back. Fred’s grip on my thighs tightened just slightly, keeping me open for him. My body arched into his mouth, my hips restless against the unbearable sweetness of him.

Every circle of his tongue. Every stroke of his fingers. Every breath between kisses made me feel like I was glowing from the inside out.

He wasn’t teasing. He was worshipping.

And when I finally shattered—quietly, breathlessly, his name spilling from my lips like prayer—he kissed the inside of my thigh once more, as if sealing it there forever.

When he rose, I pulled him to me. My arms around his neck. His forehead rested against mine.

“Y/N,” he whispered, and nothing in the world had ever sounded more tender.

I kissed him again. Slower now. Certain.

There was no going back.

And neither of us wanted to.

His lips found mine again, and this time the kiss was deeper. More grounded. There was no rush — only the thrum of his heartbeat echoing through mine, and the quiet, sacred space between each breath.

Fred laid me gently back on his bed, his body covering mine with a kind of reverence I hadn’t known I needed. The sheets were a little messy, the lamp on the nightstand flickered softly, casting gold shadows over his face. But none of that mattered. It was him.

He hovered above me, one hand braced beside my head, the other stroking a line from my shoulder, down the curve of my waist, and over my hip. I felt him against me, hard and patient, pressed to my thigh — and every inch of my skin came alive beneath him.

He looked down at me. Eyes soft. Serious.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this?” he whispered, his breath warm against my lips. “Of you?”

I cupped his face with both hands, trembling. “Then stop dreaming,” I breathed. “Take me.”

And he did.

Fred leaned in and kissed me again as he gently slid his hand between my thighs, easing them apart. His fingers moved with the same care he had shown me before — learning, exploring, preparing. I gasped softly as he found me, still trembling from what he'd already given me.

When he finally positioned himself, his breath hitched — just slightly. Our foreheads touched. My legs wrapped around him on instinct, drawing him in. Welcoming him.

He pressed into me slowly. Inch by inch. The stretch was real — tender, intense — but never too much. He paused once, kissing my cheek, as if asking with his body: Is this okay?

“Yes,” I breathed, wrapping my arms around his back. “Fred, please…”

That was all he needed.

He began to move — slow, grounding thrusts that rocked through me like tides. His hands were everywhere: cupping my cheek, cradling my hip, brushing down my arm. Every roll of his body against mine made me feel more open, more wanted, more known.

We barely spoke — just small, sacred sounds between kisses and gasps. The occasional broken whisper:

“God, you feel—”

“Don’t stop—”

“I’ve wanted this… wanted you…”

His rhythm built gradually, the tension coiling and tightening deep inside me. I met him with every motion, hips rising to meet his, breath catching with every deep, aching thrust. He filled me completely — not just physically, but emotionally. His presence, his touch, the way his fingers threaded through mine as he moved within me — it was all too much and somehow never enough.

He kissed my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. His pace faltered — just slightly.

“Y/N,” he whispered. “I’m close—”

“So am I,” I gasped, wrapping myself tighter around him.

And when we finally tipped over the edge — together, shaking, mouths pressed in a silent cry — it felt like falling into something infinite. Something honest.

Afterward, he didn’t pull away. He stayed, his forehead resting against my collarbone, our breathing slow and tangled. His body heavy over mine in the most perfect way. I ran my fingers through his hair, and he kissed the center of my chest like he never wanted to leave.

“I don’t know what this means now,” I said quietly, barely trusting my voice.

Fred looked up, his lips still close to my skin.

“It means,” he said, “I’m completely yours, if you’ll have me.”

I smiled, heart pounding, lips brushing his.

“I already do.”

#fanfiction #fred weasly x reader #weasley twins #fred weasley #smutfic #weasleyxreader #james phelps x reader x oliver phelps #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley smut #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x fem!reader #weasley twins smut #smutfanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harrypotterfanfic #harry potter smut

28 notes · View notes

littlepinkbirdie · 2 days ago

Text

Eye of the Storm

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader Genre: Action-flavored Romance, Banter, Slow Burn Vibes: Rival energy ➝ reluctant partnership ➝ storm-soaked tension Summary: You’re the scientist. He’s the showman. When you're assigned to work together on a high-risk tornado chase, sparks fly—literally and emotionally.

You never liked Tyler Owens.

From the first time you saw him swagger out of a tricked-out chase truck wearing that smug grin and throwing around phrases like “F5 magnet,” you pegged him as exactly the kind of storm chaser who cared more about footage than data.

And now you're stuck with him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Tyler drawls, leaning on your hood like he owns it. “You and me, chasing storms and making magic.”

You cross your arms, not budging. “I’m here for science. You’re here for Instagram followers.”

He smirks. “You say that like those are mutually exclusive.”

The project lead pairs you two up after a funding shakeup — you, the rational meteorologist with field experience and actual storm models; him, the reckless rockstar with drone tech, charm, and no fear of dying.

By day two on the road, the tension between you and Tyler crackles harder than the sky before a touchdown. The banter is relentless. The eye rolls are constant. And somehow, beneath all of it, there's something else — respect… and curiosity.

Three Days Later — Tornado Warning Zone, Kansas

Rain pelts the windshield, radio crackling with NOAA alerts, the wind howling louder than your thoughts. You and Tyler are alone in his truck, chasing a rapidly rotating supercell.

“We shouldn’t be this close,” you mutter, gripping the dashboard.

“I got us,” Tyler says, calm as ever, eyes locked on the twister forming in the distance. “Trust me.”

You glare. “That’s the problem.”

But despite yourself, you do. Maybe it’s the way he always positions the truck just right, the way he risks everything with such terrifying grace. Or maybe it’s the way he looks at you — like he sees past the numbers and radar into the storm inside you.

Suddenly, the tornado touches down — massive, violent, and close.

“We need to move!” you shout.

Tyler doesn't flinch. “Hang on.”

The world tilts. Trees snap. Debris whips past the window. You reach out instinctively — and he grabs your hand, grounding you with one firm squeeze.

The storm is chaos. But inside that truck, it’s quiet. Electric.

And when it’s over — dust settling, sirens fading — he looks at you with windblown hair, muddy hands, and that same cocky smile... softer now.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “You?”

He leans in just slightly, eyes locked on yours. “Told you. You and me? Magic.”

#tyler owens #twisters #tyler owens x reader

25 notes · View notes

in1-nutshell · 1 day ago

Note

…tfa!Optimus Prime x Vespa?

Okay?!

Did not expect this to be a ship, but also I can see the vision!!!

Hope you enjoy!

3 times Vespa saw Optimus as a friend and the 1 time she saw him as something more

SFW, Platonic, Slight Angst, Romance, Cybertronian reader

TFA

Number 1. Pond watching

Optimus had been feeling the effects of burnout for a good couple of days.

He could relax, but he had a team to take care of and Cons to worry about.

Relaxing could wait.

An idea that didn’t sit well with Vespa.

She had been taking carefully observing the Prime’s activities and found it a bit alarming the limited amount of rest he was getting.

The smaller bot knew that if something didn’t happen soon, he would collapse.

So, an idea was made.

Vespa walks straight up to the Prime. Vespa: “You come with Vespa.” Optimus blinked. Optimus: “What?” Vespa just grabbed his servo and started leading him out. Vespa: “Come with Vespa.” Optimus, confused as ever, just follows.

He was a bit annoyed when they arrived at the ponds.

The only reason Optimus had left the Plant was because he thought Vespa needed him for something important.

Apparently pond watch was on that list.

He did try to go back to the Plant but was surprised when Vespa stopped him.

And by stopping him, Vespa had jumped onto his back and covered his optics, refusing to let go until he continued the pond watch with her.

She was going to make sure her friend relaxed!

Eventually Optimus decided to humor her for a bit and watch the ducks.

The planned 10 minutes turned into 3 hours of duck watching, petting and having long talks about life on Earth.

Mission Relax Prime was a success!

Number 2. Paint job

Vespa’s old color scheme had become faded and dull.

The last mission involving all that dust and dirt didn’t do any favors.

She had been going through every color pallet Sari had offered and had finally managed to land on one she liked.

Now the only question was who she could trust to get those hard-to-reach places.

Most of the team was out doing their own things… except Optimus.

Perfect!

One minute Optimus was planning on re-organizing some of his old datapads, the next, he was sitting down and carefully applying the first coat of paint on Vespa’s back.

Optimus: “Hey Vespa, why me?” Vespa hummed a bit confused. Optimus: “Why did you choose me to do this? I’m sure Bumblebee or Bulkhead could have done this for you. Not to mention they have a better knowledge of Earth paints than I do.” Vespa paused for a bit before speaking. Vespa: “Prime already here.” Optimus: “Ah…” But Vespa continues. Vespa: “And Vespa trust Prime with paint. Bumble bot can’t paint. Bulky servo too shaky. Prime servo steady. No mistakes.” Optimus just smiled at the compliment and the confession of trust. Trust that did not come easy for a bot like Vespa.

Number 3. Thunderstorms

A nasty thunderstorm had rolled in a couple of weeks since Vespa joined the team.

She didn’t even know that this planet could produce these kinds of things!?

It was the middle of the night when the first claps of thunder and lightning rang out.

The poor bot was petrified feeling how close they were.

She hated it.

It brought up to many memories of the stockades…

Vespa didn’t want to wake anyone up so she decided that maybe walking around the Plant would do her good.

It would at least take her mind off things.

And it worked for the first few softer thunderclaps.

Then a rather loud one startled her and immediately ran into the nearest room and hid under the closest thing she could find.

Vespa couldn’t stop shaking, keeping her servos over her helm and screwed her optics shut.

She nearly screamed when a much larger servo held her’s.

But the bot could recognize that soft hold anywhere.

Vespa slowly opened her optics to meet Optimus concerned ones. Optimus: “Vespa? What are you doing here? Is there something wrong?” Vespa was about to answer when another loud claps of thunder shook the ground. She made herself smaller under the berth, gripping the Prime’s servo tightly. He didn’t scream or say much. The larger bot just sat down near her and continued to let his servo be used as a stress ball. Optimus: “You’re safe Vespa. You’re safe here.” It took a bit for her to come out from under the berth and sit down next to him. There was no judgement or disgusting stares. Just silence. Vespa: “…sounds like in stockades… too loud…too much…” Optimus wordlessly allows the smaller bot to scoot closer to him as more claps came around. She was still shaking but lessened when he placed his arm around her. Vespa: “Vespa sorry for waking Prime bot up…” Optimus shook his helm. Optimus: “You have nothing to apologize for. We’re here for you, I’m here for you. And if you ever want to talk about what you went through or maybe about the ducks again, I’d be honored to be the shoulder you come for.” Vespa just looks at him in shock and looks back down at their now intertwined servos. The Prime notices her tighten grip on his arm. Vespa: “…Thank you… Optimus…”

Number 1. Con attack

The entire team was called out to the city.

The Cons were trying to attack a steel warehouse when they got there.

As much as the Cons scared the paint off Vespa, she managed to not run for the hills.

Besides, her job was to make sure all the humans had evacuated in time.

Soon enough it was just Sari and the Professor that needed to go.

Before she could shoo them away, the smaller bot was suddenly caught by the back of her neckcables and held up.

Vespa desperately clawed at the larger servo and tried to get out his grip.

Apparently Starscream thought it was a good idea to take this smaller bot hostage.

Keeping her in the base for a few days would surely give him enough time to think of the best exchange!

Vespa’s wide optics stared directly into Starscream’s. Starscream just smirked. Starscream: “Oh don’t give me that look. You’ll have a lovely cage once we leave for the Decepticon base.” The thrashing only increased after the word ‘cage’. Starscream just laughed at the smaller bots pitiful attempts to free herself. Starscream: “Look at you squirming! Do you really believe you can hit me?” Optimus spots Vespa dangling from Starscream’s hold. He doesn’t even register the yell before his pede came in contact with the back of the Con’s neck. The Seeker let out a loud squawk, releasing Vespa in the process. Vespa flipped onto her back and groggily sat up. Optimus was throwing punch after punch with a type of anger she had never seen before. Optimus: “Don’t! You! Ever! Touch! Her!” Vespa felt her frame grow warmer. Soon her vision of Prime was replaced with one of a concerned Bumblebee and Sari. Sari: “Vespa! Come on we gotta go!” Vespa just tried to look past them. Vespa: “But Optimus—” Bumblebee helped her up, hoisting her on his back piggy back style. Bumblebee: “Boss bot’s got this. But we need to go!” The warm feeling in her chassis didn’t go away, not even after the fight. A strange yet inviting feeling the smaller bot welcomed the second she saw the Prime’s relived face.

#maccadam #transformers x reader #bot buddy #tfa x reader #tfa x platonic reader #vespa

18 notes · View notes

still-breathing-au-p3r · 7 hours ago

Text

It’s honestly refreshing to have someone lay out all of Shinji’s good qualities. Akihiko had already known that Mitsuru gets it, that she understands Shinji, but god does it feel good to hear it said in true Mitsuru Kirijo style: elegantly stated and thoroughly cited.

For Mitsuru, specifically, to be the one presenting the evidence is also a good thing. If Akihiko had tried making the exact same points, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Shinji would refuse on principle to accept a single word of it.

And maybe it’s also nice to see Shinji be the one getting flustered for once. He rarely ever shows that side of himself, even to Akihiko. It’s been that way since they were kids.

The whole conversation so far has only been round one, though, hasn’t it? They already have another challenge waiting for them.

“So, we’ve, ah–” Akihiko clears his throat. Slowly, Shinji thumbs the edge of his hat up to uncover one eye. He and Mitsuru both peer curiously at him, and Akihiko quails under their attention even though he’d literally just asked for it. “So with that all hashed out… What do we do now? I mean– Do we just– ah–”

His face feels scorched. Is this really so difficult or is he just that bad at it? He knows what he wants to say, so why can’t he actually say it? “Just– start, um–”

Shinji laughs, because he’s an asshole (and god, Akihiko really is beyond help, because the thought is tinged with as much fondness as it is irritation). As if Shinji has any room to talk anyway, when getting nice things said about him was all it took to make him run and hide behind his hat.

“Pretty sure the word you’re lookin’ for is ‘dating’, Aki.”

“I– Yes, thank you, Shinji. I was getting there.“

He’d been hoping that once the question had actually been asked out loud (mostly out loud), it would feel easier.

It does not feel any easier.

He’s out of his depth here. Despite his ‘fans’ and all of the interest they supposedly have in him, he’s never even been on a date before, let alone had any experience with dating as a continuous, ongoing state of being. Other people make this seem so easy– to hear some of his boxing teammates talk, they navigate this obstacle course more than once per school year. How?

Shinji laughs again. Akihiko is half tempted to punch him, but the closest shoulder is the bad one, so that’s not happening. Then the laugh trails off into something warmer, softer, maybe even a little shy, and that impulse to slug him fades away entirely.

“I mean. If you’re really serious, then– I’m not gonna say no,” Shinji says. The look on his face is complicated and hard to put a name to. Something between a soft smile and almost a grimace.

It’s relief, maybe. And if Shinji’s really been wanting this at least since they were fifteen (how on earth had Akihiko never noticed?), then– relief would make sense.

“Yeah, of course I’m serious,” Akihiko nods. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t.”

They both turn to look at Mitsuru just in time to catch some kind of realization darken her gaze. Her summery smile wilts. Her mouth flattens into a tense line and she closes her eyes as though against pain– worse than pained, she looks guilty, somehow.

Something ices over in Akihiko’s stomach.

“Mitsuru?”

“I’m sorry, I…” Why would she think she needs to apologize to them? The chill slithers up into Akihiko’s chest and his heart spasms against it. “Nothing would make me happier, truly. But…”

Mitsuru trails off, as if searching for the correct words.

“But…?” Shinji urges quietly, leaning forward to prop his elbows against his knees. He’s using the same gentle cadence as he does with Yamagishi, and under nearly any other circumstance Akihiko would laugh about Shinji proving his and Mitsuru’s point so easily.

He’s never felt less like laughing. The sudden, careening nosedive the mood has taken leaves him nauseated.

“I’m afraid I may have gotten ahead of myself. I was so swept up in– in the excitement of it all, that I allowed a rather critical complication to slip my mind.”

Akihiko’s head bobs forward; it feels more like his body deciding to move on its own than him telling it to do so. Shinji nods too, prompting silently for Mitsuru to continue.

“Do you recall when I told you about– about my engagement?”

…Oh.

Akihiko does remember, now that she mentions it.

It had been during their first year, not long after the end of summer vacation. Mitsuru had come back to the dorms one afternoon after attending a business luncheon with her father, clearly off balance. By that time, he and Shinji both had become pretty adept at picking up when something was bothering her even when she made her best effort to hide it, and that day had been far from her best effort.

It had taken a lot of coercing (and a little bullying from Shinji) to finally get her to spill about what was wrong, but eventually she had confessed:

A match had been arranged for her with the scion of another powerful company, one of the Kirijo Group’s corporate allies. The luncheon had served as an introduction between her and her new fiancé.

Both he and Shinji had been aghast and incredulous about the whole thing, especially since by Akihiko’s recollection, this fiancé of Mitsuru’s is quite a bit older than her. Shinji’s view on the issue had been especially belligerent (Did he already have feelings for Mitsuru by that point? For Akihiko…?), but Mitsuru had eventually talked them into letting it drop. This kind of thing wasn’t unusual for families like hers, she’d said, and she had assured them again and again that she wasn’t upset, just caught off guard.

Shinji fidgets in his seat. He looks serious and somber rather than outraged like back then. “You ain’t married yet though, are you? Not for a while.”

“That was originally the case, but…” Mitsuru lowers her gaze. “The Kirijo Group is in a rather precarious position after my father’s passing, and it’s been decided that it would be in the company’s best interest to accelerate the timeline, somewhat. With regards to the– marriage.“

She bites the last word out like it tastes sour. Akihiko wants nothing more than to go over to her and hold her tightly, and to hell with manners, but he stays rooted in place.

“Accelerated it–” He swallows nervously. “By how much?”

“An exact date hasn’t been chosen as of yet, but the plan is for the wedding to take place soon after graduation. Within that same month, most likely.”

Shinji and Akihiko share a look, equally shocked. That’s so soon. That’s too soon. Forget anything to do with the two of them, Mitsuru won’t even have had the chance to live like a proper adult yet…

Would she still get the chance to attend university? To study abroad like she’s always wanted? What would it mean for her role in S.E.E.S. if they still haven’t gotten rid of the Dark Hour by then?

“I’m sorry.” Mitsuru lowers herself into an apologetic bow over her hands clasped in her lap, rendering the both of them speechless. “I realize now how terribly selfish it was of me to say all of this. I’m grateful that we had the chance to speak openly, but it was never my intent to– to bait you with the prospect of–”

Akihiko doubts she’s able to actually catch any of the individual words from his and Shinji’s overlapping protests, but she seems to get the gist at least. She sits up, looking mollified.

“Perhaps that was rather dramatic of me,” she murmurs, looking off to the side. “I suppose the truth is that– I feel as though I baited myself with the idea. I forgot myself, for a moment.”

Akihiko’s limbs finally seem ready to obey him again.

“Mitsuru, hey–” he says, reaching out one hand towards her. “Come over here, sit with us.”

For a moment she simply stares at him. Horror begins to creep up the back of his neck– that was way too forward, it had to be– but it’s quelled when she stands and crosses around the table. He and Shinji both shift a little to give her room to settle between them.

After a brief hesitation, Akihiko carefully (carefully) wraps an arm around her shoulders. To hell with manners, right? She’s trembling slightly, he realizes, but some of that tension drops away almost the instant he touches her.

Shinji seems to be having a hard time deciding what to do with himself (or maybe what he’s allowed to). Eventually he settles on lightly resting the back of his hand against her upper arm, which in Akihiko’s opinion is maybe one of the weirder, more awkward options he could have gone with. He’ll have to remind himself to laugh at Shinji later. Now’s not the time, though, because Mitsuru has started speaking again.

“I couldn’t be…faithful to you both. Any relationship with me would come with a predetermined expiration date. Neither of you deserve that, so, in that regard–” She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders under Akihiko’s arm. “I think it would be for the best if the two of you just–”

“I don’t wanna hear you say we should just leave you out of it,” Shinji cuts her off, quietly but quick as lightning. Thank god, honestly, because Akihiko isn’t sure if he could have gotten his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth in time.

“Maybe whatever this is can’t be forever, sure. But if that’s your reason to stay out of this, then I shouldn’t be a part of it either.” Shinji continues. “After all, we still don’t know how long I’m even gonna be here.”

“Shinji–”

Akihiko speaks before he even has a chance to think about it, and Mitsuru does at the same moment, their voices overlapping.

”Aragaki…”

"I’m not goin’ anywhere if I've got any say in it.” Shinji makes a placating sort of gesture with the hand that’s not still touching Mitsuru’s arm. “I can promise that at least. I'm just sayin’ it still might not be up to me.”

That’s… that is true. As much as Akihiko hates that Shinji brought it up to begin with, he hates even more that Shinji is completely correct.

“But I know that neither of you’d ever let me even try that argument, so I’m not lettin’ you get away with it either, Kirijo.”

He really wasn’t expecting something like that from Shinji, and clearly Mitsuru wasn’t either. She looks stunned.

“He’s got a point, Mitsuru,” Akihiko urges, hope blooming in his chest again. “Maybe the future isn’t certain, but if that’s a reason for Shinji to go for it, then it can't be a reason for you not to. Right?”

Slowly, her gaze becomes chastened, then contemplative, and then–

Then she smiles again.

“Yes…” Closing her eyes, she tucks a curl of hair behind her ear. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I– I can’t let this hold me back either. I won’t. I want to have this with you both, more than anything. Temporary or not.”

“Glad you’re listenin’ to sense.” Shinji’s clearly trying to sound nonchalant, but color has flushed back into his ears at Mitsuru’s proclamation. Honestly, hearing her say it so openly also has Akihiko’s head swimming with restless heat.

“But really…” Shinji trails off, then turns his attention to Akihiko. Akihiko blinks back in confusion. “You’re the only one out of us without something hangin’ over your head about this. We oughta be asking you if you’re sure you’re okay with that more than anything.”

Akihiko remains silent for a moment while he mulls over Shinji’s words. He’s really not used to being the somewhat ‘normal’ one in any group, even one as weird as his circle of friends. It seems insane to him– the fact that he doesn’t have any kind of illness or arranged marriage looming threateningly over his shoulder somehow increases the pressure on his decision.

But even knowing that there’s a time limit on this– this relationship, Akihiko feels more and more confident by the moment about what the right thing to do is.

They all want this, after all. They all know how it feels to nearly lose something vital because uncertainty made them hesitate.

But how does he say any of that?

How did they do it, seriously? If they’re experiencing anything even close to the absolute maelstrom that’s got Akihiko’s brain spinning in his skull, how did they ever manage to make something coherent out of it? He feels like he’s taking a test he hasn’t even tried studying for.

Akihiko takes a deep breath, leans forward on his knees, and lets the words come spilling out.

“...I'm– I've been stuck, for a long time, in this loop thinking 'if I had only done more' or 'if I had only worked harder' or 'if I'd only been better', then maybe I wouldn't have lost someone that mattered to me.

“But I've been getting a lot of second chances lately. I think I'd have to be an idiot to turn away from one of those chances because I'm afraid of what might go wrong, when I was…when I was lucky enough to get it at all."

He’s not sure where all that came from, but he hopes at least that he got his point across.“Akihiko…” Mitsuru murmurs. He lets his eyes dart up to meet hers only briefly. The expression on her face, and on Shinji’s for that matter, is too– just too much (hopeful, wounded, soothed, touched, warm...) for him to look at for longer than a moment.

#akihiko sanada #shinjiro aragaki #mitsuru kirijo #akishinjimitsu #akishinji #akimitsu #shinjimitsu #persona 3 #p3 #persona 3 reload #still breathing au #sbau canon #sbau main plot #sbau november #sbau november 21 #fic #akihiko pov

18 notes · View notes