#barely even rain let alone thunder or lightning

[juceys]

lemonade jey uso

— he shouldn’t be here. you know that, he knows that. but he shows anyways. the question is, are you gonna stand for yourself or let him back in?

pairing jey uso x fem!reader wc 1.7k+ genre angst warnings explicit language not proofread (when is it ever LMAO) note crashed out monday night and whipped this up… i actually fw this one so bad ugh </3

listened to vanish by givēon, when it hurts so bad by lauryn hill, session 32 by summer walker, all night by beyoncé (lowkey beyoncé’s whole lemonade album)

it’s been a week since you last saw him.

six days since the last time he called.

and five since you blocked a number you thought you never would.

you look out the window from your couch. it’s raining hard. the skies painted dark hues of gray, with the occasional purple flash from lightning.

it’s the kind of rain that makes the city feel like it’s falling apart. thunder cracks throughout your apartment like bones. you sit in the dark, wrapped in a blanket watching the storm brew outside.

you refuse to cry. you’ve done enough of that. you’re fed up with the thought of him. even more fed up at the thought of him controlling your mood.

you’re done.

you’re done with the late night phone calls that end in harsh words and strained silence.

you’re done with his half-assed apologies and gifts that he thinks will make it up to you.

you’re done with hearing “i’m sorry baby, i’ll be better.”

at least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

you’re so deep in your thoughts that you barely register the knock at the door.

but then you hear it again. and this time you can’t ignore it. not when you know who’s at the door.

you get up, slowly. like if you move too fast, you’ll break the silence you’ve worked so hard to build.

you open the door, and there he is.

joshua.

drenched. rain clinging to his hair and weighing down the white tee that outlines his broad chest and muscles. his zip-ups halfway zipped, barely even on his body anymore.

and his eyes — those damn eyes — don’t look cocky or confident.

they look wrecked. devastated.

normally, the sight of him alone would’ve brought you to your knees. but not today. today, your brain tells you to slam the door. to tell him to fuck off. but your feet stay planted. and your chest? it aches, hard.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you breathe.

“i know,” his voice gentle, but cracking. “but i can’t do this anymore.”

you grip the door knob tighter. your pulse is loud. loud like when he’d come home and pin you to the wall with nothing but his stare. loud like when he asked for time, distance, space — and you gave it, even when it felt like your heart being ripped out of your chest.

you steady yourself. “you shouldn’t be here,” you say again, voice harsher this time.

“i know,” he steps closer, voice breaking. “but i miss you.”

you’d laugh if those words alone didn’t sting so bad. last time he told you he missed you? he left two days after.

but funnily enough, that’s all it takes. not him standing here in the rain. not the look in his eyes. not the fact his chest is rising and falling like he’s the one whose been putting up with his bullshit the past year.

it’s just those three words.

i miss you.

and you know what’s worse?

you miss him too.

“please,” he says gently. “i just need to talk to you. just give me 5 minutes. if you still hate me and want me out of here, then i’ll go. all i ask is 5 minutes, please baby.”

you scoff.

but you look at him. like, really look at him.

he isn’t jey uso — mr. main event, the larger-than-life name that sells out arenas and shows.

he looks like josh. your josh.

the man who’d fall asleep in your lap, muttering nonsense as you’d run your fingers through his scalp. the man who’d call you every night when he was on the road, because he couldn’t sleep without you. the man who’d look for you first in every crowd. the man who acted like he hated everyone — except you.

you swallow the lump forming in your throat. and you find yourself moving aside and letting him in, just like you always do.

he quietly thanks you as he walks in, leaving wet footprints leading to the living room. his shoulders feel heavy, the weight of the conversation about to happen getting to him.

you grab a towel from your room and throw it over to him. he catches it, pressing it to his face before scrunching his soaked curls.

you stand with your arms crossed. “your 5 minutes have already started so i’d suggest you start soon,” you say sternly, ignoring the way you already feel your resolve melting.

he looks at you. you can tell he’s searching for the right words. you can tell whatever he’ll say next is honest. raw.

“i messed up.”

you blink. okay… or maybe you just can’t tell anything that goes on in his head.

“i know i messed up,” he corrects himself. “i was being stubborn. sayin’ shit i don’t even mean. i asked for space and now that i’ve had it, i’ve never regretted something more. i thought i wanted to be free, or some shit like that. i just didn’t realize that it’s with you when i feel free. without you it just feels… empty.”

he sighs. “without you, it felt like i’m alive, but i just ain’t breathing. felt like i have no purpose. no drive. no reason.”

your breath hitches.

you don’t say anything. you can’t say anything. you know that if you say something, the walls you’ve tried so hard to build up the past week… will come crashing down.

he takes a step closer to you.

“i’ve never been good at shit like this. relationships. vulnerability. feelings. being honest with myself about my feelings. figured that if i push them away first, they’d realize i’m no good for them. that they can find someone better.”

he pauses.

“i thought i could do the same with you.”

well that felt like a slap to the face.

“but i can’t. i can’t fucking act like i can sleep without your head on my chest. i can’t act like i can get up every morning without you pushing me off the bed. i can’t act like i don’t need you.”

then he gets quieter. “because i do. every damn day.”

you feel your heart sink. it aches, blooming like something you swore you buried. your stomach is in knots, you feel nauseous.

“don’t do that,” you whisper, voice somewhat strained. “don’t come in here, this late, saying everything i wanted you to say when i was crying alone in this apartment. saying everything you should have said before deciding to go. you don’t get to hurt me, then miss me.”

your throat swells at the next sentence that comes out of your mouth.

“you don’t get to spend a week without me, and yearn for me the way i yearned for you every single day of our relationship.”

his heart shatters.

his voice dips. “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“well, guess what? you did joshua. congratulations.”

he looks down. “fuck, i know i hurt you. and i’m sorry. i hate myself for it. but if there’s any part of you that still wants this… us… me…”

you don’t know if you should scoff and turn him away, or if you should hold him in your arms and forgive him.

probably the first — but you’re not listening to your rational side right now.

“i’m not asking for a clean slate,” he says, looking up at you. “i just need a crack in the door, an opening — anything, and i’ll fight for the rest.”

you look into his eyes.

they’re red. from the rain, you tell yourself. from something else, like crying maybe, is what you wish and hope.

you hate him. you hate that he’s here. you hate that it only took three words to let him back in. you hate that it didn’t take long for him to make you miss him again. you hate that he smells like your favorite hoodie of his that you’ve cuddled every night since. you hate how your voice trembles and shakes as you say —

“you broke me.”

he breathes out, “i know.”

you don’t look at him.

“i don’t trust you,” your voice small.

“i’ll earn it back.”

“and what if you don’t?”

“i’ll still try.”

you look back up at him, tears welling in your eyes. the sight alone makes josh want to run to you, hold you and wipe your tears away.

he hates himself for being the reason you’re so heartbroken. for being the reason of the full trash of used tissues. for being the reason you’re crying.

“why?”

“because.”

he moves closer to you. slowly. cautiously. giving you time to move back if you don’t want him close. you don’t.

“you the only woman on this earth that’ll ever be enough for me. the only one i’d fight for. the only one i’d every burn the world for.”

your stomach twists even further. your jaw unclenched. your arms drop from your chest to your sides. your lips turn into a deep frown.

his hand lifts tentatively, and brushes your cheek. not in a lustful way, not rushed either. just… him longing. yearning.

“can i kiss you?” he whispers.

you shouldn’t.

your mind is telling you no. the little angel and devil on your shoulders finally in agreement for once, telling you to push him off.

but your heart and body betray you.

you nod.

he leans in slowly, almost afraid that you’ll vanish. or push him away at the last second. but when his lips finally press against yours, it’s nothing like the heat — the desire that you’re used to.

it’s soft. sad. desperate. full of longing. like he’s trying to memorize the feeling in case it’s his last.

and when he pulls away, forehead resting against yours, you whisper —

“you still shouldn’t be here.”

“i know,” he breathes. “but that was a crack in the door. and i’m not gonna give up until i have you again.”

[polishwoman]

That night.

Warnings: smut, swearing uh idk

Summary:

You're the group's mechanic—a no-nonsense woman who keeps the vehicles running, stays out of the drama, and avoids forming attachments. Daryl’s the same way. You've barely spoken more than a few words to each other despite being in the same camp for months. You both prefer solitude, hunting, working�� staying distant.

But everything changes when a storm rolls in during a scavenging run.

You and Daryl take shelter in an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, miles from camp. Rain hammers the roof, thunder shakes the walls, and lightning cuts across the sky. You’re stuck—wet, cold, and alone with a man who smells like leather and pine, and who watches you like he’s been biting his tongue for too long.

As the storm builds, so does the tension.

The heat between you doesn’t come from the fire.

Note from ele: I actually proof read this time 😉

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The wind howled like a dying thing, rattling the loose windows of the rotting cabin. Rain came down in sheets, pounding the tin roof so hard it sounded like gunfire. You stood by the fire you barely managed to get going, shivering in your soaked shirt, arms wrapped tight around yourself.

Daryl sat on the other side of the room, kneeling by his crossbow, adjusting the string like it was the only thing holding him together. He hadn’t said much since the storm trapped you both in here. He never said much, really.

You glanced at him. His hair was dripping. His shirt clung to his chest, every line of muscle visible in the flickering firelight. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking to you and away like he didn’t want to look too long.

“What?” you snapped, half from nerves, half from cold.

“Nothin’,” he muttered.

You turned back to the fire, teeth chattering. “We’re gonna be here all night, might as well say something.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then:

“You always got that attitude, or just with me?”

You turned slowly. “You barely talk to me.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, standing now, brushing his wet hair from his face. “Ain’t easy talkin’ when you look at me like you wanna kill me half the damn time.”

You stepped forward without thinking. “Better than you ignoring me like I’m not even here.”

He stopped two feet from you, something sharp behind his eyes.

“I see you,” he said.

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I see you fixin’ them engines. See you patchin’ up that Jeep even when your hands are bleedin’. See you sittin’ alone at the fire, like you wanna disappear.”

You swallowed. “Then why not say something?”

He took another step forward. “'Cause when I do, I think I might do more than talk.”

The silence cracked louder than the thunder.

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe both of you—but then his hands were in your hair, your fingers clawing at his soaked shirt. Your mouths crashed together, teeth and heat and hunger. He tasted like rain and sweat and something wild.

He pressed you against the wall, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and his hands slid under your shirt, gripping your ribs, dragging groans from your throat.

“Say stop,” he growled into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

He carried you to the floor near the fire, laying you down like you were something breakable. But there was nothing soft in the way he kissed you next—rough, claiming, desperate.

Clothes came off fast. Your shirt hit the floor. His followed. You reached between you, fingers finding him hard and ready, and the look he gave you—feral and full of restraint—made you ache.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

“Show me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He slid inside you slowly, letting you feel every inch, forehead pressed to yours. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He started to move, and it was a rhythm built from tension, from weeks—months—of glances, of almosts, of biting things back that neither of you could say.

Your nails raked down his back. He grunted, hips snapping harder. The sound of skin, the fire crackling, the storm raging outside—it was chaos, but inside the cabin it was heat and movement and need.

When you came, it was with a cry that didn’t sound like your own. He followed with a low groan, burying his face in your neck like he was hiding from the world.

The storm still raged outside, but inside, it was quiet.

His hand found yours without a word.

You didn’t let go.

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More note: So bassically I got some words from..cough cough GOOGLE cuz I'm not a smart person with adjectives. Or stuff like that. So sorry...HEHE LOVE U BYEEEE :>>

[alltheprettyplaces]

that "storm" was more disappointing than when they build up a snowstorm for days

[boyfiechan]

[21 Questions]

...or the one where your hot one-night stand gets trapped inside with you during a storm.

Notes: Romantic comedy brainrot meets “what if your one-night stand accidentally had boyfriend energy” vibes but dirty, I guess? Pretty much porn that pretends to have a plot. Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, face riding, dry humping, dirty talk, question-based escalation, creampie. [8.1k words]

The rain is already loud when you wake up, but it’s the thunder that makes you sit up too fast—your body protesting with a dull ache and a rush of confusion and for a moment, you forget where you are, blinking against the soft light that filters through pale curtains stirred by wind. Then you remember the man lying next to you. The one with the tousled brown hair and the silver chain still clinging to his throat, half-buried beneath the white sheet he’d stolen most of in the night. Chris. His name floats up through the haze of sleep and lingering heat and half-faded memory, the syllables settling heavy in your chest and you’d meant for last night to be a clean break, something fleeting, something fun—but now it’s morning and the world outside is a mess of lightning and rising water and all exits, apparently, are blocked.

You shift carefully, pulling the sheet with you like it might shield you from the awkwardness of waking up next to someone you barely know, but Chris doesn’t look awkward at all. He looks like he belongs there, face still soft with sleep, lips parted just slightly like he’s caught in a dream he doesn’t want to leave, his hair is a disaster and his arm is slung over your pillow like he’d meant to hold you and missed. And maybe you’re still drunk on the way he’d touched you last night—like he already knew how you wanted to be handled, like he’d been reading your mind with every slow drag of his mouth over your skin, but now the tension is different, the air is heavy with the storm and something else you can’t quite name. Something not-so-temporary.

Chris groans softly when the thunder cracks again, brow creasing as he stretches, and you get a front row seat to the slow reveal of muscle and skin and that faint trail of ink on his ribs. He blinks up at you, eyes half-lidded and pretty brown in the gray light. What time is it? he asks, rough and warm and entirely too familiar for someone you just met. You shrug, reaching for your phone with fingers that are still trembling a little, not from fear, just the residual adrenaline of being alone in a house with a man who kissed you like he could rewrite your whole damn story if you let him. Does it matter? you murmur, holding up the screen. Storm’s not letting up. Roads are flooded. There’s a beat of silence, then Chris hums like it’s not the worst news he’s ever heard. Guess I’m staying for breakfast.

And it should be awkward, it should be that fumbling, clothes-on-backwards, this was fun kind of goodbye you’d practiced in your head but instead, Chris rolls out of bed like it’s his own room, scratching the back of his neck and scanning the floor for his shirt with a sleepy smirk. You got anything edible? Or are we on a strictly coffee-and-regret diet this morning? he asks, and you laugh, the sound surprising even you. There’s eggs. Maybe toast if the bread survived the humidity. You’re already pulling on one of your old t-shirts—something oversized and faded and absolutely not cute, but Chris gives you this once-over that makes you feel like you’re in silk as he follows you into the kitchen barefoot, steps quiet, and there’s still a weight to him that makes the room feel fuller somehow, like his presence bends the space around him just a little.

You move around each other clumsily at first, two strangers pretending you haven’t already seen each other naked, but it settles quickly into something easy, comfortable. You hand him a pan without thinking, and he flips it in one hand like he’s done this a hundred times. So what do you do, he asks, cracking eggs like a professional, when you’re not picking up mysterious men at bars and rescuing them from natural disasters? You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but your smile betrays you. I’m an illustrator, you admit. Freelance. Mostly book covers and concept stuff. He raises a brow, looking impressed. That explains the art on your walls. I thought you were just trying to seem deep. You bump your hip into his and he laughs—really laughs, head thrown back for a second, the sound warm enough to cut through the storm still howling outside.

Breakfast takes longer than it should, between the burnt toast and the failed attempt at pancakes and the way Chris keeps trying to juggle eggs when he thinks you’re not looking, the kitchen becomes a little world of its own—bright with laughter and low teasing and the kind of unspoken intimacy that feels like it’s been there longer than a single night. He sits at the table while you pour the coffee, fingers drumming on the wood like he can’t quite sit still. You know, he says, eyeing you over the rim of his mug, I was supposed to fly out today. Back to Seoul. Meetings, rehearsals. All that glamorous idol life crap. You glance out the window, as rain streaks down the glass in frantic patterns, wind battering the trees sideways. Storm says no, you offer, and he grins, like that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You end up on the couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, the empty plates abandoned somewhere behind you. The power flickers once, twice, and then holds and at some point, Chris had ducked into the other room to make a quiet call—checking on someone, just to make sure they were safe in the storm. It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it still made something in your chest ache a little and now, as he shifts beside you, arm grazing yours, it’s quieter—the kind of quiet that feels like waiting, like choosing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in, but when he looks at you it’s soft and curious and a little cautious, like he’s wondering what this could be if it wasn’t just a one-night stand and a thunderstorm, and you don’t know either. But you like the way he watches the lightning like it’s a show, the way he turns toward you with that slow smile that’s more promise than performance. You don’t know if the roads will be clear tomorrow, yu don’t know if this will last past the rain but for now, there’s warmth, and coffee, and a very content Chris beside you like he’s meant to stay.

He eats like someone who hasn’t had a real meal in days, half-sleepy and quietly appreciative, the kind of silence that says more than any compliment could. Every so often he hums, low and pleased, like even the mediocre toast is some kind of hidden delicacy. I think... he mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, this might be the best breakfast I’ve had all year. You glance at him, one brow raised. That’s a low bar. He shrugs, grinning around his coffee mug. Yeah, well, my standards are shot. I live off protein bars and takeout most days. He says it casually, like it’s a joke, but something in his eyes dims around the edges and you file that away somewhere quiet in your chest.

Then he sniffs at the mug and makes a face, setting it down with a quiet sigh. Full disclosure? I don’t even like coffee. You blink at him, mid-bite. Then why drink it? He shrugs, sheepish and a little guilty, like a kid caught faking his homework. Felt like the kind of morning where I should be holding something warm. Thought maybe it’d make me look normal. He hesitates, then adds, Tea’s not any better, by the way. Tastes like regret. You laugh and offer, There’s juice in the fridge, but he just shoots you a slow smile and leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. Think I’ve had enough sweet stuff for one morning, and the line hangs there between you, light but deliberate, and when you arch a brow, he doesn’t take it back, just lifts his mug again like he didn’t say anything at all, even though you’re both still smiling into the silence.

The wind picks up again, another sharp gust rattling the windows, and the lights flicker like they’re considering betraying you. You look over your shoulder, half-expecting a blackout, but they steady as Chris catches your gaze, leaning forward on his elbows, bare forearms braced against the table. Scared? he teases, but it’s soft, more curious than mocking. Of the storm? you ask, tipping your head. Not really. I like it. Makes everything feel... slower. Like the world’s taking a breath. Chris watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful in the way his eyes trace over your face like he’s committing it to memory. That’s a nice way to put it, he murmurs. I think I forget how to slow down.

You end up back on the couch with two mugs of reheated coffee and a blanket that still smells faintly like clean laundry and the detergent your mom insists on mailing you in bulk as he lets you pick the movie, something old and a little ridiculous, more comfort than content, and by the time the opening credits roll, he’s already slid a little closer, his thigh pressed lightly against yours beneath the blanket. I haven’t watched a movie on an actual home couch in months, he admits, almost sheepish. Hotel beds don’t count. Too sterile, always feels like I’m trespassing. You look at him, really look, and for all the easy smiles and casual confidence, there’s something in the way he curls slightly inward, like he’s still waiting to be asked to leave.

So… what’s it like? you ask, tilting your head against the back cushion. Being you. Idol life. Cameras. Fans. Endless protein bars. He laughs, but it’s quieter now. It’s loud, he says after a pause. Even when it’s quiet. There’s always something. A performance, a deadline, someone waiting for you to screw up so they can clip it and post it out of context. His voice is calm, but you feel the weight of it, heavy and real between you. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. Music saved me, still does. But sometimes it feels like I forget who I am when the lights go off.

You nudge his knee with yours. And who are you right now? He glances at you, then away, like he’s not used to being seen like this—barefoot on someone else’s couch, coffee he doesn't even pretent to drink anymore in hand, weathered by rain and time and the strange intimacy of survival. Right now? he echoes, a little surprised. I’m… just Chris. I think. His mouth twitches, like he’s almost amused by the sound of his own name out loud in that context. Not Bang Chan, not leader, not hyung. Just… a guy who ate eggs in someone’s kitchen. You nod like that’s enough. Like it means more than it should. Well, you say, lifting your mug in a mock toast, cheers to Just Chris.

He bumps his mug against yours, eyes warm with something that looks a lot like gratitude as the movie plays on in the background, half-forgotten, and you both settle into the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—it’s tentative, sure, but there’s an unspoken agreement not to break the spell just yet. His arm ends up behind you on the backrest, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the quiet hum of presence that anchors you in place and when your shoulders brush, neither of you pulls away.

You know, he says eventually, eyes still on the screen, I didn’t expect to like you this much. You blink, caught off guard by the blunt honesty. I mean, he adds quickly, the tips of his ears slighly pink, not that I thought I wouldn’t like you. But last night… it wasn’t supposed to turn into this. He gestures vaguely, encompassing the coffee, the couch, the storm still raging outside like a protective barrier between this moment and the rest of the world. It was just supposed to be one night. A good distraction. You swallow, unsure whether to laugh or let the weight of it settle. Yeah, you say. Me too.

But the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re not just a chapter break but maybe a plot twist—it makes something shift in your chest. Something dangerous and soft and utterly unplanned. So what happens, you ask quietly, if the storm doesn’t let up? He smirks, eyes flicking toward the window before turning back to you. Guess we'll keep distracting each other, he says, and his hand finally brushes yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling slightly like a question, and you don’t hesitate when you answer. You let him.

The movie drifts on in the background—some half-forgotten rom-com playing at half volume, all overly dramatic meet-cutes and orchestral swells that feel far too on-the-nose given the weight in the air, and the storm hasn’t eased. If anything, the wind howls louder now, rattling through the eaves of the house like it’s trying to crawl inside, but you’re warm, not just because of the blanket or the coffee or the body beside you—but because something is building. Slowly, unspoken, the kind of tension that hums under the skin like an electrical current, soft but insistent, curling into the spaces between breath and glance and word.

Chris shifts beside you, his arm still draped casually along the back of the couch, but you can feel the subtle change in his posture, how he’s turned slightly more toward you, how his knee now presses firmly into yours instead of just brushing. His fingers are close enough to yours that you can feel the heat from them, the faint tremble of restraint in the way he hasn’t closed that last inch of distance as you risk a glance, and he’s already watching you—not smiling, not teasing, just looking, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing again. Like he’s debating something he already knows the answer to.

You’re kind of hard to read, you know that? you murmur, letting your voice drop just a little, the edge of a smile curling at your lips. His brow lifts, intrigued. Yeah? Most people say I’m too easy to read. His voice is quieter now too, dipping into something husky, a little rough. Too open. You tilt your head, feigning thought. No… you give people just enough to make them think they’ve got you figured out. You feel bold now, watching his expression shift—curious, then interested, then something more primal flickering just under the surface. But there’s always something you’re holding back.

He leans in a fraction, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheek, and when he speaks again it’s low and deliberate. What do you think I’m holding back? And you want to be coy, want to toss back some flirty quip and pretend like your heart isn’t beating faster with every syllable that falls from his mouth—but the air between you is too heavy now, charged with something that feels inevitable as you shift to face him more fully, knees drawn up beneath the blanket, and he mirrors you, his hand finally brushing yours beneath the fabric—just a soft drag of knuckles, but it’s enough to send a little shock up your spine.

I think you want to touch me again, you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. But you’re trying to be good. Chris huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just tension, tightly wound and dangerously close to snapping. Yeah, he says, voice rougher now, throat working as he swallows. I’ve been trying real hard not to. And that admission, that little crack in his carefully controlled exterior, does something to you. You shift closer, just slightly, enough that your knees press between his, enough that the blanket slips a little off your shoulder and his eyes follow the movement like he’s been starving.

But you’re not that good, are you? you tease, soft and breathy, like you’re testing the line just to see if he’ll cross it. And then his hand is on your thigh beneath the blanket—slow and deliberate, fingers curling against bare skin where your oversized t-shirt rides up, he doesn’t rush, just drags his palm upward with agonizing patience, his eyes never leaving yours. Not even close, he says, and it’s more confession than warning. You shift into his touch, lips parting on a quiet breath, and the way he looks at you now it’s like the storm has moved inside the room, all pressure and heat and the dangerous thrill of surrender.

Still, he waits. That last sliver of distance remains, his lips close but not touching, his fingers warm but not daring yet, you can see it in his eyes—the way he’s giving you the choice, the way he’s already halfway gone if you want to meet him there and something about that restraint, that aching pause, makes your skin burn. Come here, you whisper, and that’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all morning, all night, maybe longer, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t do it now, he might never get to again, his hand slides up further, anchoring at your waist, pulling you into his lap with a fluid kind of urgency that still manages to feel careful. His lips are warm, a little chapped, but he moves like he knows exactly what you need, tongue teasing at the seam of your mouth until you let him in, until the taste of him floods your senses and you forget everything else. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groans softly against your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your whole body.

The blanket falls away, and the storm outside rages louder but inside, the world narrows to the press of his body against yours, the slow grind of hips, the heat rising fast and thick between you like it’s trying to suffocate the space where words used to live. You don’t know where this is going, don’t know what happens after the rain. But you know how he kisses, you know the way his hand slides up the back of your shirt with reverence and hunger, how he breathes your name like a promise he hasn’t figured out how to keep yet. And right now, that’s enough.

His mouth breaks from yours with a reluctant drag, breath heavy against your cheek as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. The storm batters the world outside, wind clawing at the glass, but here, on this couch, wrapped in each other and the remnants of a morning that wasn't supposed to last, everything feels slow, thick with a new kind of tension. His hand has slipped beneath your shirt now, not urgent, but reverent, fingers tracing up your spine in slow, deliberate lines that make you shiver, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, but he stops there, teasing, waiting.

You know… he murmurs against your neck, punctuating the words with a lazy kiss just below your ear, ...we barely know anything about each other. You huff a breath that could almost be a laugh, tipping your head back to give him more access. Funny time to bring that up. His teeth graze your throat, the gentlest bite, and he smirks when you gasp. Just trying to be a gentleman, he says, all faux innocence while his other hand slides up the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles where your skin is most sensitive. Maybe we should get to know each other first. You know, before we really do this.

You glance down at him, raising a brow even as your hips shift against his lap, finding the heat of him through thin layers of cotton. What, you want to play 20 Questions while you’ve got your hand up my shirt? His eyes glitter with mischief. Twenty-one. Gotta keep it spicy. You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips as you settle more fully against him, legs straddling his hips now, thighs bracketing his as the blanket slips off entirely. Fine, you say, voice a little breathless as his hands find their way to your waist, thumbs dragging slow along your ribs. But I go first. He leans back slightly, arms resting along the couch, a picture of casual sin. Hit me.

What’s your biggest red flag? you ask, grinning as you slowly grind down just enough to watch his expression falter and Chris groans, head tipping back briefly before he looks at you from beneath heavy lashes. You’re evil. You just shrug, hips rocking against him, slow and tempting. Answer the question.

He exhales a laugh that curls low in his chest, fingers tightening at your waist. Okay… red flag? His tongue flicks across his bottom lip as he thinks, and your eyes follow the motion helplessly. I work too much. Like… too much. I disappear into it sometimes. Not great for relationships. There’s honesty in it, even as he slides one hand back under your shirt, thumb grazing the curve of your breast again, still not touching you fully, just circling around it like he’s trying to drive you crazy. Your turn. You shift, barely resisting the urge to lean into his hand. Hmm… what’s your question?

Chris hums, considering. Biggest turn-on.

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him twitch before you answer, Confidence. Teasing. Someone who can make me laugh and lose my mind. You roll your hips again, slow and purposeful, and he curses under his breath. Your turn, he growls, hands sliding lower now, gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. Better make it a good one.

What do you think I taste like? you whisper it near his ear, just to watch him shudder. His hands still on your body, eyes snapping to yours, suddenly darker as he swallows hard, fingers digging in just a bit. You want the honest answer? he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. Obviously.

Chris leans in, lips brushing yours without kissing, like he’s tasting the air between you. Like trouble. Like something I shouldn’t get addicted to but already am. His hand drags back up your thigh, higher now, brushing between your legs over your underwear, just enough pressure to make you gasp, but still maddeningly light. Like heaven with a little hell in it.

You clench your hands in the fabric of his shirt, breath catching as he rocks up against you, heat meeting heat through frustrating layers. Fuck, you whisper, hips stuttering. That’s not fair. He smirks again. I said I was bad at being good. You dip your head to his neck, biting lightly at the skin just below his jaw as you murmur, Then stop pretending and show me just how bad you can be. But Chris just chuckles, fingers hooking under the waistband of your underwear before he stops again, teasing, waiting, torturing. Only if you answer the next one.

You groan. You’re the worst. He grins. Next question. What are you most afraid of right now?

And it’s unfair, how he can drop that kind of weight right when his fingers are slipping beneath your panties, how he can make you feel completely exposed even before he touches you properly as you blink, breathless, caught in the twist of sensation and honesty. Getting too close, you admit quietly. Wanting more than I should. He stills, his hand resting gently between your thighs now, no pressure, just presence as his gaze softens, searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden beneath all your teasing. Me too, he says. And then—finally, finally—his fingers move with purpose, and you stop thinking altogether.

His fingers move with an ease that makes you curse your own memory, like your body already remembers him, already trusts the rhythm, the pressure, the subtle curl of his touch. He’s slow with it, maddeningly so, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slick just to feel how wet you are before he even really does anything. Jesus, he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes dropping to where you’re straddled in his lap, shirt rumpled, underwear pushed aside, heat pressed tight to the bulge in his sweatpants. And you’re telling me we’re just getting to know each other? You roll your hips down against his hand and smirk. Exactly. I’m an open book, remember? But your voice catches at the end when one of his fingers slides inside you, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours as you clench around him with a broken little sound you wish you could play off as cooler than it is. Chris just grins, lazy and pleased, like he’s won something. Sure you are, sweetheart.

And then he fucking pauses again.

Just holds there, buried in you up to the knuckle like he’s content to keep you right on the edge of madness as you glare at him, lips parted, already shifting your hips for friction, but his free hand comes up to steady you at the waist. Nuh-uh, he warns, teasing. You’re the one who agreed to twenty-one questions. You’re not getting out of it just because your legs are shaking. You blink at him, somewhere between aroused and outraged. Are you seriously going to edge me over a quiz game?

Chris has the audacity to laugh, pressing another finger inside you with a slow, cruel twist that makes you forget what planet you’re on for a second. That’s question twenty-two, he says, voice all wicked sweetness. But I’ll allow it. You swear under your breath, grinding down again because two can play at this game. Fine, you bite out. Truth or dare. He raises a brow, interested. We’re switching formats?

Answer it. Chris smirks, lips dragging over your jaw as he pumps his fingers in a slow rhythm that’s almost enough, but not quite. Truth. You narrow your eyes at him. Who’s your embarrassing celebrity crush?

He laughs, really laughs, breathless and boyish and warm in a way that makes your chest ache through the haze of want. Jesus, okay, he says, eyes scrunched, still slowly fucking you with the kind of patience that feels like punishment. This is going to haunt me, but… it’s the girl from Scooby-Doo. The live-action one. Velma. You blink at him. You mean Linda Cardellini? He groans. Yes. The sweater, the glasses, the sass—don’t judge me. You’re laughing too hard to speak for a second, which becomes very inconvenient when his thumb brushes against your clit in a lazy circle that makes your laugh crack into a moan. Okay, you breathe. That’s fair. Honestly? Valid.

He leans in like he’s about to kiss you, but instead he whispers, Your turn, and curls his fingers just right, making your hips jolt forward against his palm. Would you rather, he says, clearly enjoying your ruined expression, have sex in a public place and get caught, or accidentally send your mom a sext? You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a wheeze. Oh my God, what kind of demon are you? He just grins, smug. Answer carefully. You’re half-laughing, half-dying as you try to think through the haze of building pressure between your legs, his thumb not letting up for a second. Okay, okay, public sex.

Getting caught. Bold, he says, watching your face tighten when his fingers thrust a little faster. That says something about you. You gasp, breath hitching hard in your throat as you press your hips forward again, unable to stop yourself. Shut up, you gasp, helpless. You knew I wouldn’t say mom sext. You set me up.

Guilty, he murmurs, kissing along your neck now, open-mouthed and warm. Next question. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever masturbated to? You freeze against him, eyes going wide. Oh my God.

C’mon, he coaxes, mouth curved into a devilish smile. I told you about Velma. Don’t leave me hanging. You hide your face in his shoulder, but he doesn’t let up with his fingers, still moving inside you, still making you gasp even through your mortification. Fine, you groan. There was this audio clip, some guy reading from a tax fraud legal deposition with a deep voice and—don’t look at me like that. It was weirdly hot, okay?

Chris actually chokes laughing, full-body shaking, but his hand never stops, and now it’s infuriatingly good, rhythmic and deep and filthy enough that you start to lose the ability to laugh along. Oh my God, he wheezes, still grinning. That’s incredible. That’s like, top-tier trivia material. He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, watching you with heat and fondness in equal measure. You’re insane. I think I’m obsessed with you.

You open your mouth to answer, but your words melt into a strangled moan when he presses just right and your body clenches down around him, thighs trembling on either side of his hips as he watches you unravel with greedy eyes, his mouth hovering just over yours, breath mixing with yours as your orgasm shudders through you, sharp and wet and aching. Fuck, you whisper. You're the insane one.

You’re welcome, he whispers back, then kisses you like a man who plans on earning another twenty-one answers. Your breath is still shaky, ribs rising too fast under your shirt, your thighs quivering where they’re slung over his lap, and he hasn’t even pulled his hand away yet. His fingers are still inside you, slow and wet and fucking obscene, curling lazily like he’s not done teasing your body just yet, like he wants to feel every aftershock and memorize the way your walls flutter around him, greedy and overstimulated. And the worst part if you don’t want him to stop, not even a little.

Chris watches you with that smug curve to his mouth, but there’s something darker in his eyes now, hotter, hungrier, like the teasing has started to backfire on him too. You’re so easy to mess with, he murmurs, like it’s a compliment, like he’s impressed, his free hand comes up to brush the damp hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match the filth of his other hand. And you still owe me another question.

You laugh, breathless, hoarse, but defiant. You’re still playing the game?

Chris grins, slow and wicked. Don’t act like you’re not into it. Come on, next one. Or I stop. His fingers shift inside you, one last teasing thrust before he slides out completely, leaving you empty and aching. You glare at him, hips twitching forward on instinct. Okay, okay. You pause, breath catching as you readjust your weight in his lap, only now realizing how hard he is beneath you, thick and straining against his sweats, twitching under the press of your soaked panties.

Your brain short-circuits a little, but you recover fast. If you could only use your mouth or your hands during sex, never both again, which would you pick? Chris whistles low, eyes flicking down to your lips like he’s imagining either option in vivid, detailed color. Cruel one, he mutters, shifting beneath you just to feel more of your heat. But I’m gonna say mouth. There’s something about making a mess of someone with just my tongue. Something about control, seems like. His hands tighten at your hips as he leans up, lips grazing yours without committing to the kiss. And I think you like being teased too much for me to give that up.

You open your mouth to argue, or moan, but he silences you with a single, filthy swipe of his thumb over your clit, barely there, just enough to remind you who’s in charge of your pulse. You grip his shoulders to steady yourself, blinking down at him like you hate how much he knows you already. My turn, he says, voice low, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your ruined underwear and he doesn’t touch, just hovers there. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve ever had about me? You stare at him, startled. We’ve only known each other, like, twelve hours. Chris raises an eyebrow. You’ve definitely had thoughts.

You look away, cheeks flushed, your body still warm from the orgasm and the press of his cock trapped beneath you. Fine, you mutter. It’s from this morning. When you were standing in the kitchen, still sleepy, shirtless… stretching like that. He smirks, already smug. And I thought about getting on my knees, you continue, forcing the words past your throat, and just pulling your sweats down while you were mid-yawn. Making you lean back against the counter and letting me suck you off before you even woke up properly. His jaw flexes, hands gripping your hips so tight it makes you whimper. Fuck, he breathes, almost like a warning. You trying to kill me?

You smile, dragging your hips slowly against his, grinding the slick heat of your core over the length of his cock through the fabric. I dunno. You said we’re getting to know each other. He groans, deep and broken, eyes fluttering closed for a second. Okay, he says. New rule. Every time you don’t answer a question honestly, I get to put my mouth somewhere new. You blink. That’s the punishment?

Chris slides his hands up your shirt in one slow motion, finally lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze drops to your chest, hungry and reverent as he leans forward, brushing his mouth against the swell of one breast before licking a slow stripe over your nipple. It’ll feel like a punishment soon, he says, dragging his teeth gently across the skin until you arch into him. Now ask me something hard. Your voice is trembling now. What’s your biggest kink?

Chris looks up at you, mouth still warm and wet against your skin, his eyes dark with intent. Praise, he says. Control. Watching you fall apart because you want to, not because I’m forcing you. He licks again, sucks a little now, and your fingers sink into his hair like you need to anchor yourself. And right now? he murmurs, pulling back with a soft pop. Hearing you beg. That might top the list. You swallow, completely undone, grinding harder now just to feel more of him, leaking through your panties onto the front of his sweats. Next question, he says, voice wrecked now. How many orgasms do you think I could pull out of you if we stopped playing and really got started? And suddenly, you don’t feel like teasing anymore.

You can’t even remember what number you’re on, somewhere past twenty-one and deep into uncharted territory, half the questions aren’t even questions anymore, just confessions and dares passed between kisses and breathless moans, your body curled around his like you’ve forgotten it wasn’t always yours to hold. Chris still got that look in his eyes, wild and focused, like he’s reading every flicker of reaction off your face, adjusting his touch with surgical precision and the game—if it can even be called that anymore—is just another way to keep you strung out on tension, anticipation, the high of not knowing what he’ll ask or do next. Okay, he says, voice low and almost tender as he kisses your thigh, lips trailing dangerously close to where you’re soaked through and twitching. Would you rather have me use my mouth and take my time, or let you sit on my face and lose control? You laugh, wrecked, hoarse, practically vibrating with need. Is that even a real question?

Answer it, he says, lips brushing the edge of your underwear like a threat. Or I’ll pick for you. You glance down at him, his face between your thighs, his eyes bright and dark at once and something about the way he looks like he wants to be overwhelmed by you makes the answer easy. Your face, you whisper. I wanna ride your face.

He hums, low, approving, and pulls your underwear down so slowly it’s practically cruel, dragging them down your legs like he wants to savor every inch of bare skin. You’re lucky I like the sound of that, he murmurs, kissing up your inner thigh, hands gripping your hips as you shift to straddle his face, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the storm still raging outside. He settles back against the couch cushions, eyes fixed on you, and his voice is husky when he says, Don’t hold back.

And then his mouth is on you, devouring you with a hunger so intense it makes you cry out, your fingers flying to his hair for balance as your thighs tremble on either side of his head. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and circling your clit with a precision that has you shaking, gasping his name before the first full minute is up. He moans into you like he can’t get enough, like the taste of you is something he’s needed all fucking day, and when you grind down harder, chasing the heat, he just grips your hips tighter and lets you.

You lose yourself in it, completely. Your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as you rock against his mouth, every muscle in your body pulled tight with tension. Fuck, I—I can’t, you gasp, already close again, already ruined. You can, he growls against your cunt, the vibration of his voice shooting straight through your spine. You’re gonna come in my mouth, baby? I've got you. And when you do,it's shameless and desperate, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes over you, mouth open in a broken moan that echoes off the walls, raw and frantic as you ride it out against his tongue. He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until you’re whimpering, until your body slumps forward with every nerve alight and his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

When you finally slide off his face, your legs barely work, and he’s panting beneath you, flushed, hair messy, lips glistening with you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he just won the fucking lottery. Still counting the questions? he teases, voice rough and hoarse and yu laugh weakly, collapsing into his lap with your chest still heaving. I think we passed twenty-one a long time ago. Chris leans in, kissing you deep, messy, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before pulling back just enough to whisper, Then maybe it’s time we stop pretending it’s still a game.

It’s not a game anymore, but neither of you stops playing, even as he lifts you into his lap again, even as his hands drag across your waist and down your spine with a hunger that makes your skin burn, you’re still trading words, still throwing questions like gasoline on a fire that’s already too big to contain. What do you want me to do to you? he asks, voice low and rough as he kisses the edge of your jaw, lips dragging down your throat, chest, teeth grazing over the mark he left earlierl you breathe out something between a laugh and a whimper, fingers curling in the waistband of his sweatpants. Want you inside me. Deep. Slow. Until I can’t even remember what I was supposed to ask next.

Chris groans, like the words knock the wind out of him, and you barely get the chance to tug his pants down before he’s helping you, lifting his hips, cock springing free, thick and flushed and so hard it makes your breath catch in your throat. He wraps a hand around himself just to tease you, dragging his palm slowly along the length, the tip smearing precum across his skin, eyes locked on yours. You sure? he murmurs, voice tight with restraint. 'Cause I want you, but I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.

You nod, almost dizzy with need, sinking your hips until the head of his cock catches at your entrance, slick and warm and perfect as you lower yourself onto him in one slow, devastating slide that punches a moan from both of you. Fuck, he hisses, head dropping back against the couch. You feel—holy shit—so tight. You clench around him on purpose, just to hear him swear again, and he thrusts up into you shallowly, hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear. Next question, you breathe, rocking your hips gently, letting him get used to the rhythm of you. If I told you to come inside me, would you?

Chris blinks at you like he can’t believe you said that, like the words physically affect him as his jaw flexes hard, and he thrusts up deeper, rougher, like you just snapped the last thread of his restraint. Don’t say that unless you mean it, he growls, voice raw. Because if you tell me to, I will. I’ll fill you up so deep you feel it for days. Your next breath stutters as he hits that spot again, as your walls flutter around him, your body already trying to pull him deeper. You’re insane, you gasp. And I might be worse.

Another question, he says, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts again, slower now but harder, making your whole body jolt with every movement. If I told you I wanted to fuck you on every surface in this house before the storm ends, what would you say?

You laugh—moan, really—your fingers digging into his shoulders for balance. I’d say you’d better start with the kitchen counter and work your way through the rooms alphabetically. He groans, the sound almost broken, and his hands slide down to your ass, guiding your hips as you bounce on his cock with slow, grinding rolls, the kind that drag every inch of him through you with a rhythm that borders on cruel. Fuck, he mutters again, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, your mouth. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.

Maybe it’s the storm, maybe it’s the heat between your bodies or the way your souls feel too close already, but the words don’t scare you, they anchor you, drive you forward. Then show me, you whisper, lips brushing his. No more holding back.

And he doesn’t. He flips you onto your back on the couch with a roughness that makes you gasp, cock slipping free for only a second before he’s guiding himself back inside you in one hard, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back and he fucks you, slow, deep, rhythmic, his body pressed tight to yours as his hands roam everywhere at once. What’s the first thing you’re gonna do after this? he pants into your ear and you laugh, legs wrapped tight around his waist. Probably pass out.

Wrong answer. He pulls almost all the way out, waits for you to open your eyes again, then slams back in. Try again. Your head spins. Shower, you choke out. With you. Maybe round two against the wall if you're strong enough. Chris grins, breathless, sweat dripping from his brow as he picks up the pace. Better. He kisses you hard, messy, tongues tangling, and he swallows your next moan when he grinds in deeper, just to feel the way your body clenches around him. Your turn. Ask me something, he says. Hurry. Before I make you come so hard you forget how to speak. You’re already close again, body arching, nails dragging down his back, but you manage to gasp, What’s your favorite part of me?

He thrusts deep and stills, buried to the hilt, his cock twitching inside you, his voice shaking when he answers. Right now? This. His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing slow, tight circles. But if you mean really... he leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice going soft even as his thrusts turn sharp again. It’s the way you look at me, like I’m already yours.

And then he makes you come again, loud and trembling, your body clenching so hard around him that he groans and follows you seconds later, spilling into you with a long, broken sound that feels like surrender. You cling to each other through it, hips still twitching, mouths still searching, and somewhere between the kisses and the breathless laughter, you realize you stopped counting the questions a long time ago.

The world is soft when it settles, like the storm outside finally gave up, like the air around you folded into something warm and quiet and real. Your bodies are tangled on the couch, skin damp and flushed, still pressed together in the kind of closeness that feels more like a conversation than anything you’ve said out loud and he hasn’t moved much, still half on top of you, head buried in the crook of your neck, one arm slung heavy over your waist. His breathing is slow now, steady, like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your heart with his cheek against your chest as you trail your fingers lazily through his hair, feeling the way his curls cling to your skin with sweat and time, and somewhere in the mess of it, you smile.

Hey, you whisper, voice raw, your throat a little ruined from all the gasping and laughing and moaning. If you had to rank that on a scale from one to ten— Chris groans, shifting just enough to lift his head and glare at you, but the edge doesn’t stick, he’s too blissed-out for sarcasm. Don’t make me throw you over this couch and do it again just to prove a point.

You snort, brushing a kiss against his temple. So… eleven? He sighs dramatically, flopping back beside you, arm still wrapped tight around your middle as he turns his head to look at you. His eyes are soft now, still playful, still glowing with that dangerous charm, but slower, gentler. I stopped counting, he says. Somewhere around the time you said you wanted to ride my face. Everything after that was just… instinct.

You laugh, a real one, breathless and a little unhinged, your hand sliding across his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. So what happens now? you ask, and you don’t mean for it to sound so honest, but there it is, naked between you. Storm’s still going, you’re still technically trapped here. Chris glances toward the window as the rain still lashes against the glass, wind howling down the alley like it’s not done being dramatic. He hums softly. Guess we’re stuck with each other.

Tragic.

Devastating. He nudges your thigh with his knee, smirking. We could watch something. Recharge. Maybe eat something that doesn’t involve my head between your legs. You fake a groan, tossing an arm over your eyes. Boring.

Okay, fine. He laughs, twisting to kiss your bare shoulder. But only if you ask me another question. You peek at him from beneath your arm, grinning. Why are you still here? He goes still for a second, the quiet between you deepening, thick with something unspoken and his voice lowers, more serious than you expect. Because this didn’t feel like a one-night thing.

Your breath catches, soft and small but he hears it, because of course he does. You roll onto your side to face him, his arm adjusting to keep you close. Yeah, you say, quieter now, eyes searching his. It didn't. For a while, neither of you says anything as the storm rolls on outside, wind still battering the windows, but it feels far away now, like the noise can’t touch this, can’t reach whatever this bubble is you’ve both fallen into. Chris shifts, brushing hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek with the same tenderness he used hours ago, when everything was still new and charged and uncertain.

And then he smilesl soft, a little shy. New rule, he says. Every time we see each other… we have to play twenty-one questions.

You raise an eyebrow. We suck at keeping count.

Exactly, he murmurs, kissing your forehead like a promise. That’s how I’ll know it’s working.

[pixiefelixie]

10:43

fem!reader x changbin | fluff, suggestive, car makeout!! ~1k

it’s loud outside. but with him, you’re safe. his.

“changbin, we can’t see a thing.”

your voice is tight, fingers clutching the edge of your seat like the fabric personally wronged you. outside is a blur of rain—windshield wipers doing their best but basically just smudging water back and forth while the storm rages.

like, rages. lightning flashes every other second. thunder cracks so loud you flinch without meaning to. water’s drumming against the roof like someone’s trying to break in from above. you can barely make out the lines on the road, let alone the car in front of you.

“we’re fine,” changbin says calmly, both hands steady on the wheel. “i’ve got it.”

you nod. you trust him. you do. but you also don’t trust the sky currently throwing a tantrum.

you try not to show it, but your body betrays you—legs bouncing slightly, thumb rubbing over your opposite knuckles, chewing at the inside of your cheek. you’re quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that hums with nerves.

changbin glances over.

he sees it. you know he does, because something shifts in his face. without saying anything, he flicks on the turn signal and pulls into what looks like a small roadside rest stop. a little parking lot, half-empty, lit only by the dull glow of flickering streetlamps blurred by the rain.

“where are you going?” you ask, eyes wide.

he puts the car in park, turning to look at you. “we’re gonna stay here for a bit,” he says simply. “until it calms down.”

your shoulders drop the tiniest bit, tension easing before you even realize it.

changbin leans back in his seat with a quiet sigh, stretching his arms above his head. his fingers brush the car ceiling, and then he lets them drop with a thud onto his thighs, palms up, completely relaxed like you aren’t in the middle of a sky meltdown.

“you okay?” he asks, turning his head to look at you again. 

you nod a little, not fully trusting your voice yet.

he hums like he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. instead, he rolls his neck a bit, then stretches again—this time leaning to the side until his shoulder lightly bumps yours.

“storms suck,” he says casually. “you can say it. i won’t tell the weather channel.”

you huff a small laugh, glancing over at him. he’s sitting there in the driver’s seat like it’s his own personal couch, one leg bent slightly, arm draped on the car door. completely unfazed.

you, meanwhile, are still curled tight like an afraid house cat.

“come here,” he says.

you blink. “i’m right here.”

he pats his shoulder. “closer.”

you hesitate. the rain thunders harder. a branch outside snaps and skitters across the pavement.

he lets his arm fall around your shoulders easily. and then you scoot over, just a little. enough for your side to press into his. 

he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “we’ll stay here as long as you need, darling girl,” he murmurs against your temple.

you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed in the best way. because only changbin could say something like that and make it feel like a promise instead of just words.

“besides,” he adds, tapping the center console, “if the storm tries anything, we’ll just drown it out.”

and then—he cranks up the volume.

the speakers burst to life with some ridiculously dramatic ballad he’s definitely obsessed with right now, the kind with a string section and a high note that could cause structural damage. it’s way too emotional for the inside of a parked car, but somehow, it’s perfect.

“is this... lee hi?” 

“don’t judge.”

you chuckle, the sound barely heard over the music flooding the car. you feel his hand slide gently down, settling on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.

you glance up at him, heart still beating faster than you'd like, but for a completely different reason now.

he meets your eyes, and there's a softness there that makes your chest ache a little. the music swells, the thunder rumbles distantly, but it all feels backgrounded by the way he's looking at you—like you're the only thing he's trying to focus on.

you don’t overthink it.

you just lean in.

and he meets you halfway.

his lips find yours like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for this moment even longer than you have. it starts soft but the second you tilt your head and press in closer, he deepens it. his hand on your thigh tightens just slightly, anchoring you there, while the one around your shoulders pulls you closer, gently but firmly.

your fingers find the fabric of his shirt, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

the kiss turns hungrier, slower, but no less full of feeling. his lips part, and so do yours, and everything else fades: the storm, the car, the song playing like it’s trying to win an oscar in the background.

all you can feel is changbin—his hand on your skin, the steady rhythm of his breath, the quiet hum he makes against your mouth like he can’t help it.

you don’t even realize you’re reaching for the seatbelt until you hear the soft click. your body shifts instinctively, climbing over the center console as the rain hammers around you.

changbin’s hands are already there, steady on your waist, guiding you into his lap. his grip is firm, grounding, warm through the fabric of your clothes. he exhales a soft, amused laugh against your lips, but it melts away the moment you kiss him again.

absentmindedly, he reaches beside him and pulls a lever, seat clicking back as it reclines. this time, there’s no hesitation. just heat and urgency and that deep, humming kind of closeness that makes your skin buzz. your fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt, his hands sliding up your back, holding you like he’s scared to let go.

you shift slightly, your knees bracketing his hips, and the feeling of being this close—this wrapped up in him—is almost dizzying. you look down at him, hair falling slightly into your face, and he reaches up to tuck it behind your ear without breaking eye contact.

his smile is small. real. “hi,” he whispers, like you’re not already pressed up against him.

you let out a quiet laugh. “hi.”

and then you kiss him again.

slower this time. less heat, more heart.

you pour everything into it—the comfort, the quiet relief, the feeling that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. his arms wrap tighter around your waist, like he can feel it too. like he wants to say i love you without saying anything at all.

you don’t need him to.

because it’s there—in the way he kisses you, in the way he holds you, in the way he never once looked away when you were scared.

you love changbin.

and from the way he keeps whispering your name between kisses, like it’s his favorite thing in the world— you know he loves you too.

outside, the rain still falls. but in here, you’re warm. safe. his. and that’s enough.

[rynwritesstuff]

Nosferatu - Kylo Ren x Reader

Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader

Warnings: NSFW, PIV sex, blood-sucking, brief mention of death, and a deep eternal bond between Reader and Kylo (duh)

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: You and a mysterious man - or creature - from beyond share a passionate, lustful evening together. (Heavily inspired by Nosferatu)

“Come to me.”

Thunder claps and booms outside. The rain falls, heavy as hooves against a paved road. Midnight approaches, a massive and dark blanket falling over the town. The window of your bedroom is open, your arms outstretched as if to say: I am here. I am open. I am ready.

Ready, you are, for whatever he may give you tonight. You ache for it, long for it like a man starved and thirsty. Many a time you have gotten drunk off of his touch, and you picture him now, above you with wide eyes like a beast in the night who has caught his prey. His hair, long and dark and wavy – like a black halo around his pale face. His eyes, brown and unshining as they stare into yours. His nose, his cheeks, his forehead – unflushed and white yet still so touchable, so easy to need. 

He is not always nude when he comes to you, but whenever he seems to be, it is something that you savor. You remember the taste of him and bring two of your own fingers to your mouth. You rest them on your tongue. They are heavy when you press down, and your lips close around them. You hunger for him, for the way he makes you feel. What you wouldn’t give, now, to feel those large, cold hands on your breasts, on your cheeks, around your throat . . .

The lawn in the back of the home is well-manicured, trimmed to perfection, but the wind blows leaves and flowers to and fro across it. There is a fountain in the center of the green grass. Rose bushes surround it on both sides, and as you open your eyes and stare out into the wet night, you feel it – you feel him. 

His presence washes over you suddenly, so suddenly that you gasp for breath and pull your fingers from your mouth. Sweet air rushes into your lungs, and a chill runs down your back. However cold it may be, though, it does not diminish the heat between your thighs. The knowledge that he is here, that he sees you . . . It is enough to make your core flood. 

Tree branches scrape against the side of the house angrily, but you pay them no mind. He is here. Here. 

Your Kylo Ren.

The ground is wet and cold beneath you. How you got here, you aren’t sure. Your nightgown sticks to you as rain pours from the Heavens. He is coming. You press your hands against the grass as rain water soaks into your clothing from the ground. Your hand moves down your body; over your throat, over your breasts, down your stomach–

He is on you. You gasp, eyes wide with terror and arousal. Kylo Ren’s bare, cold body straddles yours, and when you try to move your hand, you realize that he has you in his grasp. 

“You are not for the living,” comes his deep voice. Your breath hitches as Kylo presses his hands against your thighs. He slides his hands up, up, up, and with his movement, your nightgown slides up as well. “You are not for humankind.”

Your bottom lip trembles. 

What an endeavor this is. What sin, what joy. What luck it is that you have this at all. You hardly feel the rain against your face, now. It seems to no longer touch you now that Kylo has thrust himself upon you. You bring your hands up to touch his cheeks. He lets you. 

“Kylo,” you breathe, voice barely audible above the thunder and lightning in the sky. If someone in the house were to look out into the yard, they would hardly see you. The rainfall is too persistent and steadfast for much to be visible through it. You are alone with Kylo Ren, alone amongst the dirt and grass and flowers. 

His tip presses against your core – when did you spread your legs? – and you gasp again, head falling back. His hand comes to rest on your jaw. He holds you there as he presses in. You groan in pleasure, nipples hard from the freezing rain and the pleasure of it all. This is filthy, you know it. You are hardly sure if it’s real or if it’s simply a fantasy you’ve made up for yourself to lessen the pain of being alone, but God, if this is what gets you sent down to the Devil, then perhaps you’ll die pleased. Why see Heaven if erotic pleasures such as this cannot take place?  This is worth it. This is worth everything. 

“Kylo . . .” you moan as his body rocks above you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat. He squeezes, and hazily, you groan again. Never have you ever felt so full, so complete. The Earth falls away from you. Are you floating, or just imagining it? Is Kylo real, or just a manifestation of all the dirty things you yearn for? 

Oh, what silly questions. None of it matters. Not really. Not now, when his cock is deep inside of you. Dirt stains you – your nightgown, your skin, your hair – But no part of you cares. Perhaps this is what it is like to be buried, you think between thrusts. Heavy. Wet. Cold. Suffocating. Delicious.

Life, powerful and strange, seems to find a way. You hope that when you die, it will not be frightening. You reach up and cling to Kylo, taking handfuls of his dark curls as he grunts above you. 

“Please,” you sob. “Please . . .”

“You shall be one with me ever-eternally,” Kylo tells you. Your heart swells. He needs you. You are his affliction. What good is a man without a woman? What needs are met? What joys are felt? What is the meaning of anything if Kylo Ren doesn’t have you? “Do you swear it?”

You pull at his hair. You need him. Whatever he will give tonight, you need it now. White hot pleasure fills you. You scream, but the thunder swallows it. He fills you, and the feeling of it makes your body lurch. His hands grip your breasts as you push your chest up. 

“Do you swear it?” Kylo demands again. You feel as if your eyes have opened. Was there a time before him? Does any other man exist? You offer up your chest even further, and he rips open the front of your nightgown. 

“I swear it,” you sigh. Kylo presses his face against the center of your chest, mouth open, and deep down you must know what is coming, because you run your fingers through his hair and pull him closer. 

“My dearest love . . . I swear it.”

Teeth sink into your skin, and you gasp sharply as tears fill your eyes. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Your head is light, your body is numb. You moan softly as he pulls away and looks down at you. His hand goes to your cheek and wipes away the tears and raindrops. 

“You cannot love,” you breathe. A realization, a prayer. Kylo’s mouth presses against yours firmly. You can taste your blood, metallic and warm against the coldness of him. Perhaps this is not a dream . . . 

“I cannot,” he says. “Yet, I cannot be sated without you.”

You look into his eyes and hold his cheek. You believe him. A scar runs down the side of his face, and you wonder just how long it has been since this scar was fresh. Somehow, you cannot bring yourself to care about whatever the answer may be. 

“I am yours, just as you are mine,” you say, nodding. Kylo kisses you once more. You close your eyes. The rain is falling against your face again, sharp and chilled. You feel as if you sink against the ground, falling further into the grass. You open your eyes and see nothing but the fountain, the rose bushes, the leaf-strewn lawn. You sit up, soaked from the storm, your heart pounding against your chest. 

Your chest. You look down. Yes, your nightgown is still torn open. Yes, your skin has been punctured by teeth that must have been hungry and ready. 

Oh, yes, it was real.

Tagging a few vampire-loving friends: @safarigirlsp @babbushka @mrs-gucci

Divider by saradika-graphics

rynwritesstuff, 2025

[cumironi]

WOMAN, YOU ARE NOT A GODDAMN SNOW WHITE : GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU.

thunderstorm, and you are nowhere to be found. your boyfriends is worried sick, wondering your whereabouts, until you come home a fat raccoon.

warning. established relationship au, fluff, crack.

> m.list

the sound of the storm outside was deafening, rain pelting down against the windows in sheets, lightning flickering through the darkened living room. the atmosphere inside felt as tense as the weather outside. gojo was pacing relentlessly, his usually bright and relaxed demeanor clouded over with worry. every now and then, he would glance at his phone, checking for messages or missed calls. but there was nothing—no response, no sign of where you were.

geto sat on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands, frustration and anxiety etched across his usually calm face. he let out a heavy sigh, his fingers rubbing his temples as if trying to ease the headache that had been brewing since they’d realized you weren’t home. “she should’ve been back ages ago,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the relentless rain. “she always lets us know where she is… this isn’t like her.”

“i know,” gojo replied, his voice unusually tense. he stopped pacing for a moment, gripping the back of the couch so hard his knuckles turned white. “she promised she’d be home before the rain started. she said she was on her way,” his tone cracked slightly, the worry seeping through.

another flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed closely by a rumble of thunder that shook the windows. gojo flinched, the uncharacteristic gesture revealing just how frayed his nerves were. “if only we’d left work sooner. we could’ve went home with her,” he muttered, more to himself than to geto.

the storm outside continued to pound against the windows, the relentless rain and booming thunder doing nothing to ease the growing tension in the room. gojo watched as geto tried calling you once again, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing second of silence.

when the call went straight to voicemail again, geto’s frustration hit a breaking point. “where the fuck are you?” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a sharp edge of worry and anger. his hand clenched around his phone before he threw it onto the couch with a frustrated sigh, running his fingers through his hair.

gojo halted his pacing and looked at geto, his own worry mirrored in his friend's expression. “it’s not like her to just go silent,” he said, a nervous energy in his voice that was so out of character for him. his usual confident, carefree attitude was completely gone, replaced by an anxiety that he couldn’t shake. “she always lets us know when she’s going somewhere or if she’s late.”

geto nodded, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure. “i know. and the fact that it’s her out there in this storm, alone…” he trailed off, unable to finish the thought. his hands fisted at his sides, the helplessness gnawing at him.

“satoru, do you think…” geto trailed off, the worst-case scenarios that had been racing through his mind too painful to put into words.

“don’t even go there, suguru,” gojo interrupted, his voice fierce, though his eyes betrayed the same fears. “she’s strong. she’s probably just waiting for the storm to calm down somewhere.”

his words were cut off by another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder that shook the house, causing both of them to stiffen momentarily. it was as if the storm outside was mirroring the turmoil inside, an added layer of anxiety in the already tense atmosphere.

geto took a deep, calming breath, trying to keep hold of his emotions. he straightened up and looked at gojo, determination in his eyes. “you’re right. she’s strong. she can handle herself. we can’t just sit here and worry ourselves sick.”

another loud crash of thunder shook the house, causing geto to flinch. he hated feeling this helpless, hated the tight knot of fear twisting in dis chest. he glanced at gojo, who was biting his thumb, lost in his thoughts. despite their differences, they were both on the same page now—both terrified of the possibility of losing you.

just then, they heard a faint noise—a car door slamming shut. both of them sprang to their feet, their hearts pounding in unison as they rushed to the window. through the heavy rain, they could make out your figure, drenched but alive, struggling to carry what looked like a a big box. relief washed over them, but it was quickly replaced by a mix of irritation and concern.

geto and gojo exchanged a glance, their expressions mirroring each other. “what the hell is she carrying?” geto muttered, his annoyance evident as he made his way toward the door.

gojo followed close behind. “and why the hell did she come home in this weather?”

they both stepped outside, the cold rain lashing at their faces, as they hurried towards your figure. their eyes narrowed, taking in the sight of you struggling with the heavy box in your arms.

geto reached you first, the rain soaking through his clothes as he approached. “are you insane?” his voice was sharp, laced with a mixture of relief and anger. “what the hell were you thinking coming home in this storm—and what is that?"”

gojo joined him, looking equally worried and frustrated. gojo caught up, his arms crossed as he took in the scene. “and what’s in the box? you better have a damn good explanation for all of this.” they grip your shoulder, pulling you into the house.

you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of both geto and gojo’s faces as they stood dripping wet, eyes wide in shock and mouths slightly agape. you adjusted the heavy box in your arms, a fucking fat raccoon inside peeking out with curious eyes. “look what i found!” you exclaimed excitedly, completely oblivious to the scratches on your face and the mud staining your clothes. “it was just wandering, isn’t it cute?”

the rain continued its relentless assault, soaking through geto and gojo's clothes and causing their hair to stick to their faces as they looked at you in disbelief. their initial relief was quickly replaced by a mixture of annoyance and worry, their brows furrowed as they took in your soaked appearance and the scratches on your face.

geto’s expression darkened, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at your face. “cute?” he sputtered incredulously. “you went out in this storm for a raccoon? you’re bleeding and muddy as hell!”

gojo, less composed, stared at you with a mix of shock and anger. “and didn’t you think to call or text us, genius? we’ve been going out of our minds worried!”

your smile faltered slightly as you looked down at your muddy shoes, realizing just how much trouble you might’ve caused. “i couldn’t just leave it there,” you mumbled, glancing up at them through your wet lashes. “it was all alone, and I thought… i thought i could bring it here until it’s safe to release it.”

geto ran a hand through his wet hair, exasperated. “did you even think about the possible danger? bringing a wild animal into our home—”

“not just any animal,” gojo interrupted, “a damn raccoon. it could have diseases, or rabies. jesus, you’re smarter than this—”

geto shot him a look, but gojo ignored it, his eyes fixated on you.

“and look at you,” gojo continued, his voice stern. “do you know how worried we were? how much trouble you could have gotten in? or, even worse, how dangerous it could have been?”

geto nodded in agreement, his arms crossed over his chest. “you’re not a little girl anymore, baby,” he added quietly. “you have to start thinking things through.”

you glanced back and forth between your two concerned boyfriends, feeling like a child caught doing something they knew was wrong. their genuine worry and concern were evident, but so was their frustration. the raccoon in the box seemed to sense the tension, letting out a small squeak as it shifted uncomfortably.

you took a step backward, clutching the box tightly, feeling the weight of the heavy creature inside. “i know it was reckless,” you admitted, your voice quiet. “i just... i didn’t think. i saw it and...” you trailed off, your gaze lowering.

geto let out a heavy sigh, the tension in his shoulders softening just a bit. gojo scrubbed a hand over his face, his anger slowly giving way to worry and relief.

geto crossed his arms again, a small frown still on his lips. “well, you thought wrong,” he said firmly. “there’s a reason we keep telling you not to do things like this.” a moment of silence passed before gojo cleared his throat. “where the hell did you find it, anyway?” he asked.

you looked up at them through your lashes, swallowing nervously as their combined stares bore into you. you knew they’d be upset—more than upset. biting your lip, you hesitated, the weight of their worry settling heavily on your shoulders.

in your arms, the raccoon blinked up at them with wide, innocent eyes, seemingly oblivious to the tension filling the room. you glanced down at the little creature, which gave a tiny squeak, as if in solidarity, and you almost felt braver because of it.

“where did you find it?” gojo repeated, his tone softer but his eyes still sharp.

you mumbled, “... at school,” barely loud enough for them to hear.

“at school?” geto repeated, his arms crossing even tighter as he took a step closer. his voice was calm, but you could sense the frustration simmering beneath it. “we told you to come home right after class. and instead, you went off chasing… a raccoon?”

“it was stranded and soaking wet in the woods,” you explained, clutching the raccoon a little tighter, trying to make your point. “it didn’t have anyone else.”

gojo stared down at you, his eyes flashing. “so you were out there by yourself, in the storm, all because of a wild animal that could have had a million diseases? or attacked you?” his fists tightened as he spoke, his concern evident in his tone.

geto’s jaw tightened, his frown deepening as he listened to your explanation. gojo’s expression was a mix of concern and anger, his eyes never leaving your face.

“and you decided that it was your responsibility to play hero and bring it home? do you have any idea what could have happened to you?” geto asked, his voice quiet but laced with concern.

geto watched you with a mix of worry and resignation. he understood your soft heart, your need to help and care for others, but the recklessness of your actions was weighing on him. “we’ve always told you not to just run off without telling us,” he said finally, his hands on his hips.

you felt yourself shrink under their intense stares, their frustration washing over you in waves. still, you couldn’t let go of the raccoon in your arms, the tiny creature nestled against you as if it understood your need for comfort.

“i… i couldn’t just leave it out there,” you mumbled, voice growing quieter with each word as their gazes bore into you. “what if it got hurt?”

you looked down at the raccoon, still struggling to hold the box with its fat body, your fingers gently stroking its damp fur, remembering how helpless it looked huddled outside in the storm. “it was like… like it was asking me to take it home,” you added in a small voice, hoping they’d understand.

gojo let out a frustrated huff, crossing his arms tightly. “woman, you’re not a goddamn snow white,” he shot back, his tone sharp. “you can’t just waltz around talking to animals, thinking they’ll magically be safe with you.” his words stung a little, but you knew his anger was coming from a place of deep concern.

you felt the sting of their words as you stood there, drenched and feeling smaller by the second. your excitement quickly dwindled, replaced by the heavy weight of guilt. you couldn’t bring yourself to meet their eyes, instead focusing on the raccoon in the box. it looked up at you with its big, confused eyes, almost like it was wondering why everyone was so upset.

gojo noticed your silence and the way your shoulders slumped forward, and a flicker of remorse crossed his face. geto, too, softened slightly at the sight of you looking so small and vulnerable.

but the worry and anger in their hearts only grew.

“how could you be so careless?” geto finally spoke up, his tone still frustrated, but quieter than before. “we’ve trusted you to make responsible decisions, and you go and do something like this...”

gojo sighed, running a hand through his wet hair again. “you need to understand the gravity of your actions,” he said, his voice firm. “not just for your safety, but for ours too. we care about you, goddamn it. we worry about you—”

geto chimed in, cutting gojo off mid-sentence. “you scared us,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “we thought something had happened to you. and then we found you, soaked and bleeding, with a damn raccoon in your arms.”

the room grew heavy with silence for a few moments as your boyfriends took a moment to collect themselves. the raccoon let out another squeak from the box, almost as if it sensed the tension in the room, and you reached a hand down to pet it gently. it nuzzled closer to your fingers, seeking comfort in its own way.

the weight of gojo’s words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that had settled between you all. as you reached down to soothe the frightened raccoon, gojo’s hand shot out, gently but firmly smacking yours away. “don’t pet it,” he said, his voice harsher than he likely intended, a frown deepening on his face. “it could be carrying diseases, rabies—who knows what. why are you acting so careless?”

his words stung, each one landing with a sting that made you shrink back a little. “you’re a grown woman,” he added, his tone hard. “you should act like it.” the reprimand, though unintentional, echoed in the room, making you feel smaller under his stern gaze. you could see the frustration in his eyes, the fear that had fueled his reaction, but it didn’t make the words hurt any less.

geto noticed the look on your face and gently placed a hand on gojo’s shoulder, urging him to take a deep breath. “satoru,” he said quietly, his tone calm but firm, and gojo’s expression softened, a flicker of regret crossing his face.

gojo looked at geto, then back at you, the frustration in his face slowly melting away. he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping a bit. “i’m sorry, baby,” he said, his voice less sharp now. “i didn’t mean to snap. i was just… scared. worried sick.”

their voices were starting to blur together, and you could feel a flicker of annoyance growing inside you. you knew they were worried, but the way they were going on and on, like you were some reckless child, started to rub you the wrong way.

without another word, you turned on your heel, your grip tightening on the box. you didn’t bother looking up, your eyes fixed stubbornly on the raccoon who seemed to be your only ally in that moment. you could feel both of their eyes on you as you brushed past them, your shoulder knocking against one of them—honestly, you didn’t even care which one.

they fell silent, stunned as you stormed off towards the bathroom near the living room. you slammed the door behind you, the loud bang echoing through the house. for a moment, you just stood there, your heart racing as you leaned against the door, staring down at the raccoon who was now peeking up at you from the box, almost like it was asking if you were okay.

“great,” you mumbled to the little creature, your voice shaky with frustration. “now we’re both in trouble.”

you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself as you heard the faint murmur of geto and gojo’s voices from the other side of the door, still clearly upset. you knew they meant well, but right now, you just needed a moment to yourself, away from their scolding and the overwhelming mix of guilt and annoyance swirling inside you.

you glanced at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, the scratches and dirt on your face standing out starkly under the harsh light. “looks like we’re both a mess, huh?” you said softly to the raccoon, who just blinked at you with those big, innocent eyes, as if it didn’t have a care in the world. you let out a bitter laugh, feeling a tiny bit of your frustration melt away, though the sting of their words still lingered.

the bathroom was cold and bright, and you shivered a little as the wet fabric of your clothes clung to your skin. the raccoon, seemingly more interested in exploration than the tension, poked its head over the edge of the box, its wet fur matted down and its dark, beady eyes looking up at you.

gojo and geto’s voices could be heard from the living room, their murmurs audible through the door. you could make out bits and pieces of the conversation, the words “careless” and “thoughtless” reaching your ears.

gojo and geto stood in the hallway, the sound of the bathroom door slamming echoed through the silent house. they exchanged looks, both equally frustrated. gojo ran a hand through his hair again, sighing loudly.

“great,” he muttered, his tone sarcastic. “she’s mad at us now.”

geto scowled, leaning against the wall. “can you blame her?” he snapped. “we just went on and on about her actions. she probably feels like a damn kid getting scolded.”

gojo shot him a glare. “she acted like a damn kid. what was she even thinking, going out in the storm for a raccoon?”

geto’s jaw clenched. “but she brought the damn thing back here. it’s not like she was careless with its life. just ours.” gojo cursed under his breath, looking in the direction of the bathroom where you were. the sound of your voice, talking to the raccoon, was clear even through the closed door.

gojo crossed his arms, leaning against the wall as he tried to ignore the twinge of guilt building in his chest. he looked up at geto, who was still looking in the direction of the bathroom, a frown on to his face.

gojo sighed, his expression softening slightly. “i know, i just...” he ran a hand through his hair again, a nervous habit he couldn’t quite shake. “i can’t help but worry about her. it’s like, the second she’s out of my sight, i start imagining all the ways something could go wrong.”

gojo and geto stood there, tension thick between them as they listened to the faint sound of water running from the bathroom. through the door, they could hear your muffled voice, and it didn’t take long to realize you were talking to the raccoon.

“you know, those two idiots think they know everything,” your voice drifted out, laced with annoyance and frustration. “like, seriously? they don’t get it. it’s just a little rain, and they’re acting like i brought a lion home or something.”

gojo let out a dry scoff, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “she’s really in there talking shit about us to a raccoon,” he said, rolling his eyes. “unbelievable.”

geto couldn’t help but smirk a little, despite the lingering irritation. “yeah, well, at least she’s not yelling at us directly,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “guess the raccoon’s a better listener than we are.”

gojo huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “yeah, maybe we should start taking advice from the damn raccoon. at least it can’t talk back.”

geto laughed at that, shaking his head. “you have a point there. might be easier to deal with than a stubborn girl, huh?”

gojo looked at geto, a small smile playing at his lips despite his mood. “yeah, well, that stubborn girl is one of ours. and, as annoying as she can be...” his expression softened, his voice trailing off.

as gojo and geto leaned against the wall, their frustration slowly ebbing away. the tension in the air had noticeably lightened, the sound of your voice still drifting out from the bathroom, now with a different tone, softer and more soothing.

gojo’s shoulders relaxed, his scowl softening slightly into a half-smile as he glanced back towards the bathroom. “you know,” he said, looking over at geto, “she always tries to see the best in everything, even if she’s being an idiot about it sometimes.”

sitting on the cold of the bathtub, you hugged your knees close, letting out a sigh that rippled through the quiet bathroom. the soft warmth of the water surrounding you barely eased the sting of gojo’s words or geto’s exasperated looks, and you couldn’t help but vent a little. glancing down, you saw the raccoon sitting by the pool of warm water, eyeing you with a strange, almost sympathetic curiosity.

“can you believe them?” you muttered, resting your chin on your knees as you looked at the little creature. “they’re acting like i’m some kind of helpless kid. like i don’t know what i’m doing.” the raccoon cocked its head as if considering your words, and you couldn’t help but smile at its curious, wide-eyed gaze.

“i mean, yeah, i got caught in the rain,” you continued, your voice softer, almost pouting. “but it’s not like i was trying to make them worry. i just couldn’t leave you out there.” the raccoon gave a soft chitter, and you reached down to stroke its damp fur gently, finding a bit of comfort in its small warmth.

“they act like i’m clueless,” you went on, feeling the need to get it all out, even if your only audience was a stray animal. “i get it—they were scared, i know. but i’m not some dumb kid. i know what i was doing.”

another huff escaped you, your cheeks warming slightly as you remembered gojo’s frustrated sigh, his tone that was harsher than usual. it had hit deep, despite knowing he hadn’t really meant to be that way. maybe it was their worry, tangled up in anger, but it was hard to shake off.

you let out a long sigh and leaned back, mumbling under your breath to the raccoon. “maybe it’s their problem if they’re gonna worry so much over every little thing. it’s not like i’d do something reckless…” you trailed off, a small, rueful smile pulling at your lips as you glanced at your dripping clothes in a heap beside you.

just as you were about to continue your quiet rant, you heard a soft knock on the door, followed by gojo’s voice, a bit softer than before, “hey, you okay in there? the raccoon giving you better advice than us?”

you rolled your eyes, letting out a low sigh and glancing back down at the raccoon, who seemed perfectly content in its cozy little spot by the warm water. “can you believe these guys?“ you muttered, ignoring gojo’s voice from the other side of the door. “like i really need their advice on what to do. i’ve got this all under control.”

the raccoon looked up at you with those round, trusting eyes, as if it were your little confidante in this moment. a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. “exactly. they just don’t get it,” you whispered to the animal, reaching out to stroke its damp fur.

gojo leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, as he listened to you talking to the raccoon. A conflicted expression crossed his face as he listened to you, your words a mix of hurt, frustration, and something else he couldn't quite place.

he shifted on his feet, a frown on his face, and knocked again, a little louder this time. “are you going to come out of there? or are you going to keep talking to the raccoon? it might start charging you for therapy at this rate.”

geto let out a snort, his annoyance quickly replaced by laughter. “oh yeah, i wonder how the raccoon is reacting to that little rant.”

gojo bit back a smile. “bet it’s just sitting there nodding, pretending to be a good listener,” he responded, trying to keep his composure. “probably thinking ‘this girl is crazier than them.’”

geto couldn’t help but grin at the mental image of you talking to the raccoon like it was your therapist. “i can already see it,” he joked. “the raccoon’s probably giving her better advice than we ever will.”

you glanced down at the raccoon, who blinked back at you with wide, curious eyes, and muttered under your breath, “can you believe those two? who do they think they are, acting like my dad and trying to scold me?” your voice was soft but laced with annoyance, and you could’ve sworn the raccoon tilted its head, almost as if agreeing.

“if they didn’t get on my nerves so much…” you paused, a sly smirk creeping onto your lips as you muttered, “i’d probably kiss them. especially that albino guy.” you rolled your eyes, thinking of gojo’s pale hair and smug face. he was always half a second away from annoying you into oblivion, but somehow, that just made him all the more irresistible.

the raccoon, as if it understood your dilemma, gave a tiny squeak and nuzzled closer. “exactly,” you whispered to it. “they’re the ones who keep acting like they run my life, and then wonder why i get frustrated.”

you could hear faint laughter from the other side of the door, geto and gojo clearly amused at whatever mental image they had of you venting to a raccoon. “they’re having way too much fun out there,” you grumbled, casting a sideways look at the door. but part of you couldn’t shake the warmth in your chest. as much as they annoyed you, their concern was something you couldn’t ignore—even if they were the world’s most overprotective idiots.

gojo stood outside the door, his expression shifting between amusement and slight concern. he knew your frustration was justified, but he also couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the situation. you, venting to a damn raccoon, while they were stuck out here, waiting for you to come out and talk to them.

as he leaned against the door, he glanced back at geto, who was also having a hard time keeping a straight face. gojo’s voice was a low murmur as he spoke, his tone a mix of amusement and understanding. “she’s really not taking this well, is she?”

geto let out a soft chuckle, his purple eyes gleaming with warmth as he looked over at gojo, clearly amused but also filled with affection. “you know how she is,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “everything’s gotta be some grand, dramatic moment. it’s like living with a walking soap opera.” his voice held a gentle fondness that softened his words, showing he loved every bit of your theatrical tendencies.

he leaned on his side against the wall, crossing his arms with a small smile tugging at his lips. “she’s probably in there, giving the raccoon the speech of the century, like it’s her co-star in some tragic, misunderstood romance.”

gojo snorted, though a faint smile played on his lips as well. “wouldn’t put it past her to actually start acting out a scene,” he replied, his tone both teasing and fond. “and of course, we’re the villains in her story.”

geto rolled his eyes, nudging gojo with his elbow. “yeah, but we’re her villains,” he said, his voice softening as he gazed at the bathroom door. “and if she wants us to sit here and play along with her soap opera, then… well, i guess we’re in for the whole show.”

the two of them shared a quiet, knowing look. they might tease you endlessly about your dramatic antics, but they wouldn’t trade any part of you—mood swings, raccoon rescues, or frustrated rants—for the world.

the sound of water sloshing softly in the tub as you shifted in the water broke the momentary silence between you and the raccoon. another sigh escaped your lips, this one even quieter than the last.

you looked down at the raccoon, who seemed to be listening intently, its wide, beady eyes fixed on yours. “maybe they’re right, though,” you mused, your tone a mix of frustration and resignation. “maybe i really am just being reckless, not thinking things through. i can be a lot sometimes.”

the raccoon chittered quietly, almost as if in response. as they stood there, the faint sound of your frustrated groan came from inside the bathroom, followed by the soft splash of water.

“ugh, you’re useless,” they heard you mutter to the raccoon, your voice edged with irritation. “can’t even help me with this mess. just sitting there, looking cute, while i’m stuck with those two idiots.”

gojo’s lip quirked into a wry smile at the sound of your frustrated comment, though it was tinged with affection. “sounds like the raccoon didn’t give the advice she was hoping for,” he said to geto, amusement in his voice.

geto chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “maybe he’s just good at listening without offering solutions,” he replied, his tone light. “she’s probably just projecting because she didn’t get the grand epiphany she was hoping for.”

gojo chuckled, shaking his head as he called through the door. “baby, i’m coming in.” without waiting for a response, he opened the door and stepped inside. his gaze softened when he saw you in the bathtub. the sight made his heart ache just a bit—there you were, knees hugged to your chest, your face half-hidden, looking all small and defiant with the raccoon settled in front of you. despite the warm water around your legs, you shivered lightly, and his frown deepened, especially when he noticed you absentmindedly petting the raccoon’s back.

“hey,” he said, voice soft but firm as he stepped closer. “i told you—don’t pet that thing. who knows what it’s carrying.” he eyed the raccoon with a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation. But the creature simply stared back at him with round, black eyes, like little boba pearls, almost innocently.

gojo’s frown intensified as he took in the raccoon’s round shape. “why is it so… fat?” he muttered, utterly baffled. “isn’t this supposed to be a wild animal? how’s it getting so chubby?”

he glanced at you, suspicious but amused, his arms crossing over his chest. “you sure you didn’t find this thing at someone’s house instead of the wild? it looks like it’s been eating better than me.”

you shot gojo a glare, your lips drawn into a tight line. “i did not steal someone’s pet raccoon,” you retorted, your tone bristling with annoyance. “it’s a wild animal. i found it outside during the storm, cold and wet. it was shivering—it needed help.”

geto appeared in the doorway, peeking over gojo’s shoulder, and when he saw the round little raccoon, he couldn’t help but laugh. “looks like you picked the laziest scavenger out there,” he teased, nudging gojo with his elbow. “maybe it’s been making the rounds in the trash, or maybe it found someone as soft-hearted as you to sneak it snacks.”

gojo raised an eyebrow at you, his expression a blend of suspicion and affection. “you haven’t been feeding it, right?” he asked, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. “i’m just saying—this guy’s looking way too well-fed to be surviving on his own.”

you shot gojo a glare, your frown deepening as you turned your attention back to the raccoon. its big, shiny eyes stared up at you, and in your heart, you felt like it understood every word of gojo’s harsh critique. gojo’s insulted it, calling it fat, and now it looked at you with what you imagined was a pleading, almost wounded expression.

“no, satoru, i didn’t feed him... yet,” you retorted with so much sassy, leaning down and gently covering the raccoon’s ears with your hands, as if to protect it from any further slander. “and he’s not fat. you’re fat,” you shot back, eyebrows knit together.

gojo and geto exchanged a quick look, both of them fighting back laughter at your defense of the raccoon. you were so fiercely protective, even of a little, pudgy animal you’d just met. it was both endearing and utterly ridiculous.

gojo cleared his throat, trying to hide his amusement behind an exaggerated scowl. “okay, alright, we didn’t mean to insult his pride. but seriously, baby. that raccoon’s been living the good life, if it’s not a pet.”

geto chuckled, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. gojo’s arms, too, crossed over his chest as he watches you with a soft smile on his face, “and for the record, my love, i’m in peak physical condition. unlike this round, fluffy little raccoon who's been living it up on your good nature.”

he leaned against the bathroom wall, watching as you continued to defend the raccoon. “and sure,” he said dryly, “tell me it’s not getting fat when it can barely fit through that window over there. look at it—it's like a furry little bowling ball.”

you gasped, eyes widening in mock offense as you turned to gojo. “satoruuu!” you whined, drawing out his name with a pout, clutching the raccoon a little closer as if to shield it from gojo’s unrelenting insults.

then, without missing a beat, you shot a look over to geto, silently begging him to step in and say something in defense of your newfound friend. your eyes held a mixture of frustration and that playful helplessness, almost like you were saying, “do something.”

geto moved in closer, his chuckle soft and warm, creating an inviting atmosphere as he crouched down beside the tub, his eyes lighting up as he looked at the pudgy raccoon nestled in your arms. his fingers gently stroked the animal’s fluffy back, a gentle caress that seemed to soothe both the raccoon and you. you watched the interaction, your heart melting slightly at the sight of your boyfriends bonding over this unexpected guest.

turning back to gojo, geto’s amused smile widened. “you do know not all raccoons are the same, don’t you?” he teased, his tone light and filled with mirth. “some just happen to be a bit more round than others.” his eyes sparkled with humor, and gojo rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

then, geto’s attention shifted back to you. he noticed the pout on your lips, the way your eyebrows knitted together in defiance, and it brought a fondness to his expression. a soft smile crept onto his face as he reached up to pat the top of your head, his hand warm and comforting against your damp hair. “hey, you know we care about you, right?” he asked, his voice dropping to a tender whisper.

his gaze lingered on your face, taking in the pink flush on your cheeks from the cold water and the storm outside. “we got mad earlier because we worry. we care so much about you that we can’t stand seeing you hurt.” his tone was serious, but the gentleness in his voice wrapped around you like a warm blanket, easing some of your stubbornness.

he glanced briefly at the raccoon before turning back to you, his expression softening even further. “i know you care about this little thing,” he continued, a hint of concern entering his voice. “but it’s not a pet. it could be dangerous for you, and we don’t want that. we don’t want you catching any diseases from wild animals.” his words hung in the air, a mixture of concern and protectiveness that resonated deeply within you.

as you processed what he said, geto’s gaze remained fixed on you, watching for your reaction. he could see the reluctance in your eyes, the internal struggle between your affection for the raccoon and the logical reasoning behind his words. with a gentle firmness, he added, “we will call animal control, and that’s the end of the discussion.”

the way he said it was calm yet resolute, showing he wouldn’t waver on this point, but the kindness in his eyes made it clear that he wasn’t trying to dismiss your feelings. instead, he was looking out for you, and you could feel that deep down.

you sighed, the weight of the situation pressing on you as you glanced at the raccoon, then back at geto, feeling the warmth of his hand still resting on your head, grounding you.

you opened your mouth, eyes wide and pleading as you looked up at geto, grasping for one last solution. “we could take it to the vet first, y’know,” you suggested, your voice laced with a mixture of hope and determination.

but before geto could even consider your request, gojo’s voice cut in sharply. “no.” his tone was firm, all traces of his usual playfulness replaced with a serious edge that made you pause. his arms remained crossed, his posture resolute as he looked down at you, his expression softened but unyielding. “this is the end of the discussion.”

you frowned, surprised by his uncharacteristic firmness, and a small pout formed on your lips as you tried to hold your ground. but gojo didn’t budge, his gaze steady and unwavering, showing you that he wasn’t going to compromise on this, even if he usually gave in to your whims.

you looked up at geto, your eyes filled with a silent, pleading look that you knew he couldn’t usually resist. you gave him your best hopeful expression, the one that always seemed to melt his resolve just a little. but this time, instead of caving, he let out a soft sigh, his gaze steady yet sympathetic.

“no,” he said gently, his tone unwavering. he gave your head a soft pat, his fingers brushing through your hair as if to soften the blow. “as much as i’d like to give in to that look, it’s still a no. it’s just not safe to keep him here.”

gojo, who had been watching the entire exchange with his arms still crossed, let out an approving hum, clearly glad to see geto sticking to his stance. he offered you a small, sympathetic smile, but there was no give in his expression either. “he’s right, love. we’re just looking out for you,” he said, his tone softening just a little.

you sighed, glancing back at the raccoon who looked up at you with those big, round eyes, almost as if he understood the situation. you muttered a quiet, disappointed “fine,” though it was clear the decision still stung a bit. geto gave your head another comforting pat.

the three of you settled into the cozy warmth of the bedroom, geto sat on the edge of the couch, carefully drying your hair with a hair dryer, his touch gentle yet thorough. you sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, a fresh set of warm clothes now covering you, and across from you, the raccoon was nestled in a towel, its round body snug as you softly dabbed at its fur to help keep it warm.

gojo, lying on his side in front of you, had his head propped up on one hand, his other arm stretched lazily across the carpet. his gaze was locked onto you, a trace of amusement lingering in his expression as he watched you tend to your unlikely new friend with such fierce dedication.

you let out a small huff, still pouting from earlier. looking down at the raccoon with a sympathetic frown, you muttered, “i’m sorry, little guy, you had to meet someone with a heart as black as… the blackest black.” you gave gojo a pointed look, clearly directing the comment at him.

gojo snickered in response to your comment, his eyes glinting with amusement as he arched an eyebrow. “hey, i just care about you,” he retorted, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “and you have to admit, that raccoon is a real tubby one.”

he reached out and gave the raccoon's round body a subtle poke, earning another disapproving look from you. sighing, you shook your head.

you sighed, rolling your eyes as you tried to ignore the teasing glint in gojo’s eyes. “shut up,” you muttered, giving him an exasperated look. “you’re not funny.”

gojo’s grin only widened, clearly enjoying the fact that he was getting under your skin. “oh, come on, admit it—just a little funny?” he poked the raccoon’s round belly again, as if proving his point, and it looked up at you with what could only be described as mild raccoon annoyance.

you placed a protective hand over the raccoon, shielding it from gojo’s prodding fingers as you glared at him. “leave him alone, satoru,” you said firmly. “you’re just jealous because he’s way cuter than you.”

at that, geto let out a chuckle from behind you, and gojo feigned a look of betrayal, his hand coming to his chest in mock offense. “jealous of a raccoon?” he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “not a chance.” but the playful spark in his eyes gave him away, and you knew he was just trying to rile you up.

but you simply huffed, holding your ground. “whatever helps you sleep at night,” you replied, still shielding your furry friend from any more of gojo’s antics.

gojo chuckled, his expression amused as he observed you fussing over the raccoon. he rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcastic sympathy as he teased you further. “oh, woe is me. how will i ever match the cuteness of a fat little raccoon, eh?”

he playfully feigned distress, dramatically flinging his arm over his forehead, clearly enjoying this little back-and-forth. “i guess i'll just have to resort to using my charming personality and undeniable wit to win your heart, then,” he said with a dramatic sigh, giving you a playful wink.

you gave gojo a look of exaggerated disgust, wrinkling your nose at him. “freak,” you muttered, shaking your head with mock disdain.

gojo's dramatic pout only deepened, clearly playing along as he clutched his chest, pretending to be wounded. “oh, the cruelty,” he groaned. “my love, betrayed by her affection for a chubby raccoon!”

rolling your eyes, you turned away from him and focused on the raccoon instead. gently touching its tiny paw, you leaned in and murmured, “ignore that guy, he’s just… weird.” the raccoon looked up at you with those big, round eyes, and you could’ve sworn it seemed to understand, its tiny hand clasping around your finger as if in agreement.

behind you, geto snickered, but you kept your attention on your new furry friend, tuning out his playful antics.

as you showered the raccoon with affection, stroking his soft fur and giving him little scratches, gojo couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy—not for the attention the raccoon was getting (though that was definitely a factor), but for the way you were so effortlessly affectionate. he had a knack for being playful and teasing, and he loved bantering with you, but there was something about your soft, gentle side that he secretly adored.

he watched you with your new friend, genuinely admiring the way you interacted with the little guy. but there was no way he’d admit it. as you continued to shower the raccoon with gentle scratches and murmurs of affection, you couldn’t help but whisper, just loud enough for both geto and gojo to hear, “they’re so cruel… separating me from you.”

you sighed dramatically, running your fingers along the raccoon’s fur as it leaned into your touch, seeming perfectly content. without even looking at them, you could sense gojo and geto exchanging looks, probably fighting back smiles.

“you’re my only friend in this cold, heartless world,” you continued in a soft, woeful tone, earning a snicker from gojo as he nudged you with his foot.

gojo chuckled, teasingly scooting closer to you and poking your cheek. “oh, the drama queen strikes again,” he chimed in, his tone light and playful. he couldn’t help but relish this lighter side of your banter, appreciating the little moments of silliness you shared.

geto grinned warmly, his playful demeanor never far beneath the surface, even in these quieter moments. “i swear, one day you’ll realize that we are actually quite lovable, you know,” he mused, a hint of challenge in his voice, goading you to argue against that statement.

the three of you stood by the door, you felt a heavy wave of disappointment wash over you, watching the raccoon being carried off by animal control. your shoulders slumped, and your lips tugged downward into a deep pout as you raised a hand to give one last, pitiful wave.

“goodbye, my fluffy friend,” you called out dramatically, voice filled with exaggerated sadness. “i’ll never forget you!” gojo tightened his hold on your waist, his hand firm as he gently but decisively kept you in place, rolling his eyes. “alright, alright,” he muttered, unable to hide a faint smile. “you’re acting like you just lost a lifelong pet.”

your pout deepened as you looked up at him, sighing dramatically. “he could’ve been my lifelong pet, if it weren’t for you two.”

geto, standing on your other side with his hands in his pockets, simply shook his head, his gaze warm but resolute. “it’s for the best, you know that,” he said softly, his calm tone filled with an affection that softened the blow. “we just don’t want you getting hurt, alright?”

you let out a long, exaggerated sigh, leaning back slightly into gojo’s hold as you gave one last forlorn look toward the raccoon being taken away. “i hope you find a home as wonderful as the one we could’ve shared,” you whispered wistfully.

gojo chuckled, shaking his head as he gently nudged you. “come on, drama queen, let's get you inside before you make us adopt a whole zoo.”

you pouted, but didn’t protest further, leaning into gojo’s arms in defeat. “i just hope he finds someone who loves him as much as i could have,” you muttered, your voice soft and sad as you watched the raccoon disappear from view.

geto put an arm around your shoulder, gently nudging you towards the warmth of the house. “oh, you'll find another one to dote on soon enough,” he teased, his tone light but filled with affection. “but for now, let's get you back to the real world.”

you sighed, shoulders slumping as you murmured a soft, “alright,” letting go of the last thread of resistance. with a defeated pout still on your face, you allowed geto and gojo to guide you back inside, their warmth a silent comfort.

leaning into gojo’s chest, you felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting protectively on your back. the affection behind his gesture made you feel both comforted and exhausted, a soft wave of tiredness settling over you now that the raccoon had gone.

gojo’s hand rubbed slow circles on your back, sensing the way your energy had drained, and he whispered softly, “are you tired?” his voice held a tinge of guilt, as if he regretted making you let go of your little friend.

you nodded, your eyes half-lidded as you sank further into his chest. “yeah… just a little,” you admitted, voice barely above a murmur.

gojo hummed in acknowledgment, a soft smile spreading across his face as he processed your tired response. leaning down, he pressed another gentle kiss to your forehead before murmuring, “let’s get you to bed.”

with that, he effortlessly scooped you up into his arm, wrapping one strong arm around your thighs, holding you securely against him. instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, seeking comfort as you nestled your head against his warm shoulder.

the familiar scent of him—like fresh linen and something uniquely gojo—wrapped around you, making your heart flutter. as he carried you through the house, you felt the warmth radiating from his body, easing some of the lingering sadness from earlier.

“you know,” he said playfully, glancing down at you as he walked, “if that raccoon had stayed, he wouldn’t have gotten this kind of treatment. you’re too spoiled for your own good.”

you leaned against him, humming in mild protest, though your weariness quickly won out over any desire to argue. your voice came out soft and quiet, an exhaustion tinged with affection. “am not...” you murmured, your words almost lost to a delicate yawn that followed.

gojo's arms tightened around you as he settled you comfortably against his chest, his gaze warm as he glanced down at your sleepy expression, a soft smile on his lips. “oh, but you are,” he teased, his tone light and affectionate.

“you just can't resist being spoiled,” he whispered, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your cheek, a soft reassurance that his teasing was nothing more than lighthearted affection. as he carried you, his steps were slow and steady, a gentle dance that seemed to rock you closer and closer to the land of dreams.

the warmth of his embrace, the rhythm of his heartbeat against your own, it all lulled you into a state of tranquil comfort, your eyelids heavy. with a murmured hum of contentment, you let yourself sink further into him, his presence becoming a soothing anchor amidst the growing drowsiness.

[swirledyouintoallmypoems]

rainstorms | stiles stilinski x fem!reader

summary: it’s the middle of the night and you wake up due to the heavy rainstorm outside, and after you get up, your boyfriend can’t really sleep on his own.

warnings: none, just sleepy stiles

☾

you were woken up in the early hours of the morning by the sound of rain pattering against the window.

a few moments of lying awake made you shiver (that was because stiles was hogging the blanket) and realize how thirsty you were.

so, with a sigh, you slipped out from under the little amount of blanket you had (thanks, stiles) and let your legs drop over the side of his bed.

one leg of your grey sweatpants had hiked up your leg so it was rolled up to your shin and you fixed that before standing up.

the floor was cold against your bare feet as you slowly and quietly exited stiles' bedroom, careful not to disturb your sleeping boyfriend and his adorable snores.

you made it through the dark house and to the kitchen, where you got yourself a glass of water.

it was still raining heavily outside and you smiled at the sound as you headed back to stiles' room with your cup.

you opened the bedroom door and your eyes drifted over to the bed immediately. stiles was lying on his stomach, eyes closed, mouth open and one arm draped across the bed where you were lying before.

you smiled to yourself. he was so adorable.

you watched as more rain drops hit his window and it started thundering. you saw a flash of lightning and immediately walked over to the window and staring out at the dark night outside.

it was calming. watching as the rain stormed outside as you sipped your water at 3 in the morning.

you were so distracted that you didn't even hear the creak of the bed as stiles got up and walked up behind you.

"what're you doing up?" he mumbled, his arms finding their way around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder, his face buried into your neck from behind.

"the rain woke me up." you answered, leaning your head against his ever-so slightly. "and i was thirsty."

"what time is it?"

"it's 3 am."

he pulled his head up to look at you. "you're a psychopath to be up at this time, i swear."

his voice was raspy and all a big mumble. he was clearly still half asleep.

"sure, buddy."

"crazy woman." he shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning against your shoulder again. "look at you, just watching the rain."

"it's nice, stiles."

"sleep is also nice." one of his hands moved from its place on your stomach and connected with yours. he tugged lightly. "please sleep."

"in a minute." you sipped your water again.

"it's so cold."

"then go back to bed."

"i'm not gonna go without you." he whispered, kissing the back of your neck. "i hate sleeping alone, you know that."

you took one last long sip of your water until it was all gone. you turned your body and walked back towards the bed with stiles, placing the cup on his nightstand.

stiles practically dropped onto his bed before rolling back into his place. he pulled the blankets over himself and patted the spot on the bed next to him for you.

you did lie down, except horizontally across the bed, rather than vertically. your head found its place, using stiles' chest as a pillow and he chuckled softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

"what are you doing?"

"sleeping."

"stop being a dork and lie down properly," he wrapped one arm across your chest. "dork."

"stiles, don't complain because you're a good pillow."

"yeah, but how am i supposed to cuddle you — or move for that matter — if i'm stuck like this?" he asked, his words still a jumble of nonsense.

"okay, fine, you win." you sighed playfully. you were already going to move, you didn't like the feeling of your legs hanging over the side of the bed.

you adjusted your position so you were lying next to him properly. he gave you a dumb smile in return.

"i love you." he whispered, still smiling, just now with his eyes shut again.

"i know."

his eyes shot open quickly.

"you didn't—"

"good night, stiles."

"hey." he glared slightly. "you gotta say it back."

"why?"

"because i need validation. tell me you love me."

you chuckled softly, pulling the blanket over yourself and moving closer to stiles, placing a light kiss on his lips.

"i love you too, you big nerd."

"thank you." he closed his eyes and held you as close to him as humanly possible. "now i'll see you in about... seven hours when i decide to wake up."

"good night, stiles."

"wait, what if—"

"good night, stiles."

"yep, good night." he peeked his eyes open. "going back to sleep now."

you chuckled and shook your head, lying down and closing your own eyes.

"what if i can't go back to sleep?" he asked after about a minute of silence and you groaned. "okay, well you woke me up."

"and you're the one who dragged me back to bed to sleep, stiles, not talk."

"touché."

a/n: just a little one shot from my wattpad that i felt like putting on here

[yvaineseleneposts]

Lightning strikes twice

Requested: no

Pairing: Nico Hischier x reader

Words: 2k

Warning(s): mentions of a storm, mentions of sexual acts

The rain had started with a whisper—soft taps against your window as you unpacked another box in your new flat. You’d only moved in two days ago, still surrounded by cardboard, bubble wrap, and the overwhelming scent of fresh paint.

You didn’t know much about your neighbours yet. Just that your unit shared a wall with a very tall, very good-looking guy who seemed to come and go at odd hours. You’d bumped into him once at the mailbox. He’d smiled politely, introduced himself as Nico, and you’d been too flustered to even register his last name.

Now, the whisper of rain had grown into a full-blown tantrum. Thunder cracked so loudly you jumped, knocking over a half-filled mug of tea. You swore, darted for a towel, and froze as the lights flickered once—twice—and then died completely.

Great.

A blackout, alone, in a place that didn’t yet feel like home.

You groped for your phone when you heard it—three solid knocks at the front door. You paused, unsure, then heard his voice through the wood:

“Hey! It’s Nico, from next door. Are you okay?”

You blinked, already halfway to the door. When you opened it, there he stood, dark curls damp from the rain, hoodie zipped halfway, torch in hand. Behind him, the storm raged—lightning fracturing the sky like broken glass.

“I saw your lights go out,” he said, slightly breathless. “Well, everyone’s did, but you just moved in, right? Didn’t know if you had candles or… I don’t know. Just figured I’d check.”

The warmth of the gesture cut through the chill in your chest. You stepped back.

“Come in?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Only if you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Unless you’re a serial killer.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “No promises.”

Inside, the two of you huddled near your kitchen island, illuminated by the soft glow of his torch and your phone. You rummaged around for candles while Nico peeled off his hoodie, revealing a worn Swiss hockey t-shirt that stuck slightly to his rain-damp skin.

“So,” you said, striking a match, “does this kind of thing happen often?”

“Not really. But when it does, it’s a good excuse to talk to your new neighbour.” His smile was disarming, his accent subtle but warm. “I’m glad you answered the door.”

You lit another candle, then caught his gaze holding yours. Thunder boomed again, closer this time, and your shoulders jumped.

“Not a fan of storms?” he asked gently.

“Not when I’m alone.”

“You’re not alone now.”

The words lingered in the space between you. Another flicker of lightning flashed across the room, illuminating Nico’s face—soft eyes, strong jaw, the barest hint of concern and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Do you want me to stay until it passes?” he asked. “I don’t mind. I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight.”

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

So the two of you sat on the floor, backs against the couch, swapping stories by candlelight. He told you about Switzerland, about playing hockey in front of thousands, about the pressure and the joy and the homesickness. You told him about your new job, your leap of faith, and how you were still trying to figure it all out.

At some point, your shoulders brushed. Then stayed that way.

When the power returned hours later, neither of you moved. You were warm now—not just from the candlelight, but from the presence of the boy next door, who turned out to be exactly the storm shelter you needed.

The lights blinked back on with a sudden hum, casting soft yellow over your living room. Nico’s eyes adjusted before yours did, but he didn’t move. Neither did you.

He looked down at you, where your arms barely brushed, and your knees were touching in a way that could no longer be blamed on casual comfort. The candles still flickered gently on the coffee table, their glow adding a warmth to the room that felt almost intimate.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“To do what?” he asked, voice low.

You glanced at him. His eyes searched yours—not impatient, not pushy, but present. Focused entirely on you.

“Guess you don’t have to stay anymore,” you said, softly.

“I want to stay.”

Your breath caught. “Yeah?”

He nodded once, slow and sure. “You looked like you needed a distraction. Still do.”

You hesitated, pulse quickening. “What kind of distraction are we talking about?”

That grin again—mischievous this time. “Do you trust me?”

A shiver—not from the storm, not from the cold—rippled through you. You nodded, and Nico shifted closer. He reached for your hand, slow and deliberate, intertwining your fingers.

"Let me help you forget the storm," he murmured.

You swallowed hard as he leaned in—not quite kissing you yet, just close enough to feel his breath on your skin. His fingers brushed a stray hair from your cheek, then lingered at your jaw. Every move was gentle, intentional, like he was giving you every chance to pull away.

But you didn’t.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, the question barely audible over the fading thunder.

“It’s better than okay,” you whispered back.

His lips brushed yours—tentative, searching—before deepening, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. You melted into him, the tension of the storm, the new flat, the unfamiliar city—all of it dissolving under the weight of his touch.

You broke apart only when breathlessness demanded it, foreheads resting together as you tried to steady yourself.

“Still scared of storms?” he asked with a crooked smile.

“Not when you’re here.”

That earned you another kiss—slower this time, exploratory, and filled with a quiet kind of promise.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Instead, Nico helped you settle on the couch, pulling the blanket around both of you as you curled into his side, the rhythm of his heartbeat replacing the sound of thunder in your ears.

His arm wrapped around you, warm and strong, and his thumb traced lazy circles against your hip. You tilted your face toward his again, your hand resting against his chest. The air between you felt charged—not with fear, but something electric. Wanting. Waiting.

“I still feel a little unsettled,” you said, voice low and teasing.

Nico looked down at you, eyes dark. “Yeah?”

“Think you could help me… relax a little more?”

He didn’t answer—not with words. Just with the way his lips found yours again, deeper this time. The way his hands mapped your sides, your back, your thighs with reverence and restraint. And the way he made sure, over and over, that you felt safe.

The storm had dulled to a lazy drizzle, barely tapping the windows now—but inside your apartment, everything was electric.

Nico’s hand cradled your cheek as he kissed you again, slower this time. He tasted like mint and rain, his touch firm but careful, like he was memorizing every reaction you gave. You melted into him, fingers clutching his shirt, your pulse racing.

“Still doing okay?” he murmured against your lips, his nose brushing yours.

“Yes,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled—soft and a little wicked—before lifting you gently into his lap. You gasped at the motion, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders, straddling him on the couch now, heart pounding as your thighs settled on either side of his.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, “I came over to distract you.”

His hands slid up your back, slow and warm, bunching your shirt slightly as he pulled it up and over your head. He kissed along your collarbone, then lower, letting his lips linger against the skin with reverence. You whimpered softly, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer.

Nico groaned at the sound, tilting his head up to meet your eyes.

“Lie back for me,” he said, tone velvet and command in equal measure. “Let me take care of you.”

You obeyed without question, lying back on the couch, your chest rising and falling as he rose over you, tugging off his shirt and tossing it aside. He was all soft muscle and shadows in the candlelight, his body warm and solid above yours.

His mouth returned to you, starting at your neck, working his way down between kisses and gentle bites. His hands moved with aching precision—caressing, teasing, undoing the button on your pants with ease, sliding them down your legs like he was unwrapping a gift.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your hipbone. “Every bit of you.”

You reached for him, needing him closer, and he met your urgency with just enough patience to drive you wild. He kissed between your thighs, slow and reverent, coaxing soft gasps from your lips as his fingers traced over your most sensitive places—every touch measured, practiced, worshipful.

When his mouth replaced his hand, you cried out, hips lifting as he held you down with one strong arm. His tongue moved in deliberate strokes, teasing and tasting, building you higher with maddening control. He didn’t rush. He relished you—every shiver, every moan, every whispered “please.”

When your release finally crashed over you, it felt like the storm outside—raw, uncontrollable, beautiful.

He kissed his way back up your body, lips glistening, eyes locked with yours.

“Still scared?” he asked, teasing.

You pulled him down for a kiss, your answer clear. He groaned into your mouth as you helped him out of the rest of his clothes, the air between you thick with heat and trust. He lined himself up with you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’ll go slow,” he whispered. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you breathed. “I want this. I want you.”

With one slow, deep thrust, he filled you, stretching you perfectly. You clung to him, nails raking gently down his back as he began to move—measured and deep, each thrust a wordless vow.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re safe. You’re mine.”

His pace built with every kiss, every moan, every shared breath, until you were both tangled in each other completely—bodies slick, voices breaking, hearts racing in perfect time.

When you came again, it was with his name on your lips and his hands gripping yours. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a low groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

Afterward, Nico gathered you against his chest, pulling the blanket up over both of you. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back as your breathing slowed.

“Feel better?” he asked softly.

You smiled against his skin. “Definitely distracted.”

He laughed, low and warm. “Good. I’m not done taking care of you yet.”

And from the way he kissed your temple and held you like you were the most precious thing in the world—you believed him.

[wing-ed-thing]

Rainy Day (Crocodile x Reader)

Synopsis: You find yourself caught in the rain with a pirate.

Word Count: 1.5k

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, Fluff

Notes: *blub blub*

“I guess you don’t like the rain either?”

Crocodile wasn’t expecting you to speak, let alone with the light laugh you held in your voice. It threw him off acutely, causing him to raise a slight brow as he regarded you from his periphery. 

You pulled your thin sweater across your chest, still holding your light grocery shopping in one hand. Your sorry excuse for a jacket looked completely drenched through, which didn’t surprise Crocodile in the face of the downpour just a few feet before you. 

You sought refuge under the same storefront canopy, watching enviously as people ran by with umbrellas and sporting dry-looking rain boots. But the streets quickly vacated, leaving you and Crocodile stranded in the only spot of semi-dry cover. Water rushed the street, leaving a river about ankle-deep in its wake. The drains weren’t formidable enough to stop the backup, causing little whirlpools to swirl on the roads. Even where the both of you stood, rain rushed in a thin layer under your shoes. 

“I should have known I wouldn’t be able to make it back in time, but—” You glanced at Crocodile with a smile. —“You don’t look like you’re from around here, huh? No one probably told you about the downpours.”

It was the second time you’d regarded him so casually, and Crocodile wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him in such a blasé way. No one had ever tried to make inane chitchat about the weather with him before, especially not at his towering height and with the jagged facial scar he sported with menacing pride. He had a hook for a hand, and you were talking to him without an ounce of hesitation.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you not to talk to strangers?” Crocodile gruffed, avoiding your gaze as he scanned the environment outside your canopy. The rain was falling in sheets without sign of letting up anytime soon. You laughed again.

“Maybe when I was a kid, but as an adult, wouldn’t that make us both strangers?” 

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.” 

“No, I guess not.”

Crocodile barely listened as he dug into his jacket breast pocket to fish out a cigar. He placed one between his lips before toying with his lighter. It took a few strokes for it to ignite, but Crocodile was eventually able to take a long drag of his cigar. And as he released a massive cloud of smoke from his lungs, he hoped it would be enough of a deterrent for you to stop your chatter. 

There was a pause as the pitter-patter of raindrops hit the ground. 

“Is that Al Fakher—?”

—“Fucking hell—” Crocodile turned to face you fully, ripping his cigar from his lips as he threw his hook up in vexation. But even as he scowled at you, your expression didn’t change. “Do you not have any survival instinct? Any at all? For all you know, I could be a pirate here to pillage your village—”

“Oh, you most certainly are,” you hummed with a nod, and the singular action took Crocodile aback. 

His words stopped on his lips instantly as he scrutinized you, forehead knitted together as he took another drag of his cigar in contemplation. His weight shifted to his back leg, his scowl deepening by the second. 

“What makes you say that?” 

He noted your three-point glance. 

“You’re kidding, right?” 

Crocodile’s brows bounced on his forehead as he took another puff. He crossed his arms over his chest. He wore his usual heavy fur coat, which usually did the trick regarding light sprinkles. If it were any heavier, Crocodile might have braved the dismal downpour just a few feet ahead. 

The rain on this island came often, and when it rained, it poured. Although, the rain was typically unaccompanied by other characteristics of a storm. Lightning was absent from the grey clouds above, and thunder hardly rang out over the skies. It was all just rain.

“You’re an odd one, I’ll give you that,” Crocodile muttered. Smoke continued to take up the space under the canopy, dispersing into the muggy atmosphere. He had been weighing braving the downpour in the face of your talk, but the rushing water became less appealing as he puffed on his cigar. Crocodile eyed you from his peripheral. “You’re not scared or nothin’.”

It was equally a question as it was a musing.

“Oh… should I be?”

And just like that, the rain stopped. It dropped in one final sheet like someone switched off a lever. The pool of water on the ground slowly swirled into the sewer grates, and the clouds above remained grey and dark. 

“Yeah,” he answered, taking his cigar between his fingers. Crocodile’s hook glinted in the low light. “You should.” 

He turned to face you fully. His towering shadow engulfed you in the changing light. You stepped out onto the sidewalk, your head tilted upward and your palm extended as you checked for lingering sprinkles. And once the skies had been vetted for rain, you turned to look back at Crocodile with a cheeky smile.

“Why should I be scared when I have you to protect me?” 

The cigar nearly fell out of Crocodile’s mouth as you turned to walk down the road, your words only stalling him for a moment before he stormed after you. His long coat whipped in his wake. 

“Now, wait a goddamn minute,” he gruffed. You continued to make your way down the road. Crocodile walked closely, almost diagonally, behind you as he positioned himself in your peripheral. “I don’t play bodyguard, especially not to some random villager when my bounty—”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s very high,” you hummed, glancing at him briefly out of the corner of your eye. Crocodile scowled as he narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t like the way you said that…” His hand shot out to grab you by the back of your shirt, stopping you in your tracks with little resistance. Crocodile hasn’t expected to have to fight to still you, but you seemed to immediately stop the moment he grabbed you. That oddity alone was enough for him to recoil his touch slowly. 

You turned, pivoting slightly on your heel to meet his gaze.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic by any means. I can only imagine how powerful a pirate you must be,” you sighed, glancing off to the side in thought with a shrug before meeting his stare once more. “I don’t know anything about that kind of stuff, but even I can see that… But you don’t seem that bad.” 

And just like before, you began to walk off. Crocodile followed as you took a turn down a side street. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I suppose it means that I don’t think you seem like a, uh… bad guy, I guess?” You splashed through a puddle with your knee-high boots, paying no mind to the ankle, deep water as Crocodile stood on the significantly dryer sidewalk. He glowered as tiny droplets flew onto the ankle of his slacks. 

“You’d be wrong about that,” he huffed as you returned to the sidewalk, now walking next to him as you trailed water on the ground below. Your footsteps grew dryer as you went. 

“You’re gonna fight me about being a bad guy? Isn’t that a little cartoonish? Childish?” You walked up a flight of stairs with Crocodile following alongside you. For every two steps you had to make, Crocodile made one before you stopped at the landing.

Crocodile let out a boisterous laugh, paying little actual attention to you as he regarded you incredulously. 

“You’re one to talk!” 

“You can disagree, I guess. But I don’t think a bad guy would walk me all the way home,” you hummed, placing your key in the lock to your front door. 

You didn’t seem to bother even to catch Crocodile’s violent recoil. He jerked back, gaze immediately flying to the front of the building he found himself standing in front of. It was a modest stone front with identical ones sandwiched on either side. Each boasted a set of stone steps leading up to deep-green colored doors. Romantic street lamps illuminated the road below.

You opened the door, and before he knew it, you had one foot inside as you turned to Crocodile.

“Did you want to come in?”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

You turned back to the dark entrance hall, flicking on the light just inside the doorway with a shrug.

“Well, if you change your mind, just knock, I guess.” And before Crocodile could say a word, the door shut behind you, and the latch of the lock clicked firmly. 

Crocodile turned with a sigh, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened as he moved to take a step down the stone staircase. But in an ironic twist of fate, thunder cracked above, and the sheets of rain dropped from the clouds with force. No canopy could save him from the elements this time. Crocodile took one last puff of his cigar before the onslaught of raindrops put it out, leaving his hair soaked and water dropping off his nose. 

[horny-marbles]

Thunderstruck (Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader)

CW: angst with no comfort, yearning, explicit mentions of cannibalism, death. seriously, big tw for being cannibalized.

word count 3.6k

The storm rolled in like a sickness—low and humming, gravid with thunder, thick with the stench of ozone and rotting leaves. He felt it before it came, days before, like a pressure building behind his temples. The forest went still. Birds vanished. Even the wind held its breath. And when it hit, it hit all at once—sheets of rain so heavy it drowned the world, lightning splitting the sky like bone under blade, and the sound. God, the fucking sound.

To you, it was weather. A nuisance. Maybe something to watch from your porch, barefoot and alone, ash flicked from a cigarette with your mouth parted in thought.

To him, it was pain.

Eyeless Jack, they called him. A name like a warning. But in moments like this, when the storm screamed through the trees and every raindrop was a hammer on his skull, there was nothing monstrous in him—only a creature driven half-mad by sensation, caught between instinct and what was left of a man.

That night, he stumbled through the woods like an injured thing, soaked to the bone, shaking with a rage that wasn’t his. The noise—sharp and layered, the shriek of wind, the squelch of mud, the echo of thunder like teeth grinding—burrowed deep. He couldn’t outpace it. Couldn’t drown it. It clawed at his nerves until he was twitching, growling under his breath, digging claws into bark and wishing, for the thousandth time, that he could feel the peace of death instead of this.

He found your house the way animals find water. Not by sight, not even by smell—but by some pull. Something quiet and still nestled at the forest’s edge, distant enough that the trees thinned and the fields stretched out wide and yellow under a bruised sky. One window lit. The shape of you moving inside—soft, unaware.

He watched for a long time. Too long. Let the rain soak him, let the cold dig into what little patience he had left. You were nothing like the others—those he stalked, those he fed on. There was something wrong in your stillness. Something familiar.

So he knocked.

Once.

A soft rap. Not meant to scare. Just… be heard.

He saw you startle. Saw the way your eyes widened, hand jerking back from the curtain like it burned you. Fear. A healthy reaction. You didn’t open the door. Not at first. But you looked. You met him, through glass and shadow, and you didn’t run.

And when you finally cracked that door open, metal bat heavy in your arms and voice tight with suspicion, he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, rain dripping from his hood, tar diluted by the water trailing down the neck of his hoodie, and said nothing.

He didn’t need to. You let him in. You let him in.

The first time, it was survival.

The second time, you cursed under your breath but unlatched the door anyway.

The third, you asked if the thunder really bothered him that much. He didn’t answer, but he stayed a little longer.

By the fifth, you were already making tea when he knocked. Even if he always refused it.

It didn’t storm much after that.

Oh, the skies still wept now and then, sure—gentle drizzles that barely whispered against the windows, the kind of rain that came and went like a sigh—but the thunder stayed away. It was as if the sky had tired itself out, or maybe just lost interest. Maybe it was all a sign that once the clouds pulled back, Jack should have as well.

But he kept coming.

He never knocked loud. Never said a word. Just stood there, dripping and wordless, and waited. Sometimes you heard him before you saw him—boots slapping in puddles, the softest hum of breath muffled behind his mask. And every time, you opened the door without a word. It wasn’t ritual anymore. It was instinct.

He never touched you. Never got too close. But he’d sit in the same spots—crouched by the fireplace or half-curled in your beat down chairs like some feral dog with too much pride to rest easy—and he’d observe. Not in a hungry way. Not even curious. Just… present.

And you started talking.

Little things at first. Weather. Work. Whatever lonely scraps you could toss into the silence to fill it. He never replied. But you knew he was listening. You could feel it in the room, that sort of electric weight. The way he angled his head. The way he didn’t leave.

And maybe it was pathetic. Maybe it was reckless. But you started waiting for him.

The moment the sky turned gray, your breath caught. The moment wind picked up, your pulse tripped. You’d curse yourself, call yourself every brand of fool, but you still left the porch light on. Still left the kettle full. Still found yourself cleaning up before dusk, brushing your hair back like it mattered.

He wasn’t beautiful. He wasn’t even human. But he saw you. Without the gift of seeing, he knew you better than most. Better than any.

And somewhere between the fifth visit and the tenth, he started sitting a little closer.

He still never spoke. But he stayed longer. Sometimes past dawn, tucked in the far corner like he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to see the sky turn. And sometimes, when you slept, he watched you with something close to reverence. Not lust. Not appetite. Just an eerie, aching kind of silence that only the damned know. A silence shaped like want.

He hadn’t known comfort in years. Hadn’t known softness. You were neither safe nor foolish, but you were kind, and that was worse. That was a knife to the ribs.

Because you didn’t know what he was. Not really.

You hadn’t seen him feed. Hadn’t smelled blood baked into his claws, hadn’t heard the sounds he made in the dark when the hunger clawed up his throat. You saw him as a man—not the monster, not the rot under the mask. And that illusion was dangerous. Dangerous for you.

So one night, he didn’t come.

No knock. No shadow at the tree line. No rain, even.

You waited, pacing. Told yourself you weren’t, but you did. Told yourself you didn’t care, but you did. Every creak outside made your heart punch the back of your teeth. Every gust of wind made you hope.

But he never came back.

And the ache started slow. Like a bruise. Like something you could ignore if you stayed busy enough, kept the lights on, didn’t let yourself think. But it bloomed, as all wounds do. Grew teeth. You caught yourself setting two mugs out anyway. You flinched every time a shadow passed your window. You slept with the porch light on. For months.

And worst of all—you missed him.

Not just the shape of him, the physical presence. You missed the weight of him in your house. The comfort in that silence. The strange, awful calm that came from knowing someone else saw you and didn’t flinch.

And you hated yourself for it.

He was never yours. He was never anything. Just a feral thing seeking shelter. A ghost with a body. You were stupid to believe otherwise. Stupid to feel something.

But it didn’t stop you from aching. From longing in the quiet. From waking up in the middle of the night, sure that you’d heard a knock that never came.

You told yourself it was better this way.

Jack told himself the same.

He was in the woods again. Alone. Claws bloodied from something he didn’t want to think too hard of, crouched under blackened trees with wind howling like a dirge through dead leaves. He’d left because he had to. Because you didn’t deserve the kind of ruin he brought with him. He was not a man. He was hunger in a mask. A myth with meat. He was wrong.

And he’d stayed too long. Let the silence get too comfortable. Let you matter.

And now, it burned.

He'd curl in on himself as the sky turned again—gray, bloated, distant thunder pressing against the far horizon— and he wouldn't move.

Wouldn't knock. For years.

It had been years.

The ache dulled over time—not gone, just buried under new weight, packed down like wet soil. It was easier now. You didn’t check the window anymore. Didn’t linger by the door when the clouds rolled in. Your mind stopped rolling back like a broken record to the thought of the warmth a creature so cold could exude without even trying.

And maybe that was healing. Maybe that was love.

They were good to you, the one who came after. Soft where the last had been silent, warm where the other had been hollow. They laughed. They touched. They made space in their life for you, and you took it without guilt. Without shame. Because that chapter had ended, hadn’t it?

It rained that night, when your partner had kept you company for the hundredth time; but you didn’t flinch at the sound of it. You just watched them pull on their coat, kiss your temple, and slip out the door with a joke about driving safe in the wet. You shut the door behind them. Locked it.

The storm had muscle to it—fat thunderheads rolling in from the horizon like bruises, a downpour that hit the roof in rhythmic sheets. You lit a candle. Sat down. Let your mind drift.

Knock.

Your spine went rigid.

Not a bang. Not a pounding. Just a soft, deliberate knock. Three taps. Measured. Familiar.

Your heart stopped, then restarted in a panic.

You didn’t want to move. Every part of you screamed no. But your body knew better. Knew the rhythm. Knew the echo of it in your marrow. So you stood. One step. Another. Closer to the window with every breath tightening in your throat.

And there he was.

Shadowed by the rain, taller than you remember, broader, ruined. Not monstrous, no—still eerily still, still masked, but broken in a way you’d never seen before. He was hunched. Shaking. Bloodied at the edges like he’d been peeled open and barely stitched back together.

And it felt like the sky caved in. Like something ancient in you split. Not fresh pain—no, older, deeper. A scar ripped back open to reveal a wound that never really healed. Like time folded in on itself and all the years you spent forgetting never happened at all.

You opened the door.

Of course you did.

You were older now, smarter, not lonely in the way you were, but none of that fucking mattered. Because his name was still carved under your ribs in places love hadn’t touched.

He stepped inside like he didn’t want to. Like he hoped the rain would swallow him whole before you answered. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stood in the entryway with his head bowed, dripping, trembling, barely upright.

Then, “I didn’t want to come here.”

His voice was gravel, like it had been dragged over a road. Like it hadn’t been used in years. It cracked in the middle, low and foreign and heartbreakingly familiar.

“I hoped you wouldn’t open the door.”

You didn’t ask why. Not yet. You just stood there, watching him fall apart at the edges.

“I can’t... hunt right now. I—”

His breath hitched. Not dramatic. Not for show. Just a quiet little fracture.

“I’m starving.”

You swallowed. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just... I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your chest ached. Burned. Because this was so much worse than silence. Worse than the years of wondering, of aching, of trying to patch yourself up with someone else’s love. Because here he was—back, broken, bleeding, and you were still soft for him in places you thought were dead, in spots where the placeholder couldn't reach.

He was still hunger. Still horror. Still a thing that should’ve never had a place in your life. But he came back because he had no one else. And you let him in. You let him in. Because you never stopped being the fool who would.

He stood in your doorway, trembling, and you couldn’t tell if he was going to collapse or kill.

And outside, the rain came harder. The wind howled. The storm had found its teeth again.

And you... You stood still in its center, with a monster at your threshold and love cooling like ash in your hands, when you should’ve screamed.

When you should’ve fought. Should’ve begged. Should’ve called someone, anyone. But your phone stayed facedown on the counter. The front door stayed locked. And your mouth stayed shut.

You just turned, and started walking where your gut carried you.

Each step down the hallway felt like a toll. Your legs were rubber. Chest tight. Breaths shallow, high in your throat. It felt like you were floating outside yourself—watching someone else shuffle toward the end of the world, watched a body you used to call yours surrender without a word.

You didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. You could feel him behind you.

Not looming, no. Not hunting. He followed like a shadow that ached to detach itself. You heard the weight of his steps. The pause when you hesitated. The sick hush in the house, where even the storm seemed to stutter. He was shaking. Barely held together.

And still—still—it hurt more knowing he was here because he had no other choice, than it did to know he was going to kill you.

Your bedroom door creaked open like it knew what was coming.

You walked in. Climbed onto the mattress like it was a pyre. The sheets still warm from earlier, from love that tasted clean. And still, you laid back and opened yourself to death like a prayer.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You turned your face into the pillow, tucked it close like a secret, like a shield, and let your body go slack.

And he didn’t move.

He stood at the foot of your bed like he was staring at a crime scene. Like he was watching the shape of something holy unmake itself. You didn’t say take me. You didn’t have to.

He shook. Not with hunger. Not with desperation. With something deeper, something worse. Like grief. Like fury. Like he wanted to rip the meat off his own bones before he touched yours.

And still, he climbed onto the bed, pulled by his own instincts, his own curse.

Cautious. Slow. As if you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

He hovered over you—not touching. Breathing hard, a tremor in every exhale. He was shaking so violently now you could feel it in the mattress. Could feel the war he waged inside himself as he knelt at your altar. Famished. Dying. Mourning.

“I didn’t think—” he rasped, voice ruined, wet and breaking. “I didn’t think you’d just...”

He trailed off, because what was there to say?

He didn’t think you’d let him. Didn’t think you’d give your last breath to his lungs. Didn’t think you’d protect him even now—face buried, muffling the sounds he knew would come, sounds he knew would alert anyone in a 5 mile radius. The screams. The sobs. The end.

He reached out with hands that had carved countless bodies. Stained things. Steady, usually. Surgical. But they shook when they hovered over your spine. When he placed them, finally, onto your back—barely a touch. Barely there at all.

You flinched.

A breath caught in his throat. Not hunger. Not lust. Not instinct.

Grief. Rage. Self-hatred deep enough to drown in.

His mask was inches from your shoulder. The tar from its sockets dripped to your shirt like black blood, spreading like a plague into the cotton, tainting. He shook so hard it looked like seizures. Like his own body was rejecting the choice he was trying to make.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

But still, no explanation. No why, because he knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

You sobbed. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a sound like a child makes when no one’s there to hear. And he almost—almost—pulled away.

But he didn’t. He was starving. He's been starving. And the thing he hated most was that you were still warm beneath his hands, and that he was too fucking weak to stop.

You were already crying—quiet, gutted, shaking into the pillow like it could hide your shame, your grief, your fear—but the second his hands met your skin, something broke open deep and wide. Your shirt had ridden up on your back when you lay in your coffin like it wanted to give him room, like your body was betraying you too, baring the spine like an offering. A silent go on then.

And you shook. Not just because of the fear—not just because you knew what came next. Not just because you were preparing to die.

But because this—this—was the first time he had ever touched you.

The first time.

After all the nights. After all the storms. After all the quiet, after all the longing—he had never laid a hand on you.

Not until he came back to kill you.

The sob that dragged from your lungs sounded like something feral. Like a thing birthed in a place too old and deep to name. Like your soul cracked along the middle.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He took his mask off with trembling hands.

You didn’t see it—couldn't even if you wanted to, eyes blurred with tears soaking into the pillows—but you heard the shuffle of plastic being set down next to you, the breath he sucked in like a man about to drown.

And then, claws. A promise veiled by regret. They found your spine slow, reverent, wracked by tremors. Like he was still hoping the storm would reach through the windows and drag him out, or that maybe—maybe—you would change your mind. Tell him to stop. Tell him to go fuck himself.

You didn’t.

You stayed still.

And so he began.

The first puncture made you convulse—every nerve in your back lighting up with fire, with horror, with the kind of pain that doesn’t even feel real at first. The claws sank in, slow, hesitant, dragging heat and pressure and punishment down through your muscles, through fascia, through tissue that spasmed helplessly under his hands.

Then, he ripped. All of him, through you.

The scream that tore out of you was not a sound meant for the living. It was a godless thing. A wail fit for war. Fit for birth or death or something between. It didn’t sound human—it sounded like metal screaming. Like the sky splitting open. Like Hell remembering you by name.

Pain poured through your body like liquid metal. Fire licking your ribs, lightning clawing up your spine, agony blooming like red poppies behind your eyes. You bit the pillow, choked on it, muffled yourself because you still, still couldn’t bear to give him away. Still tried to protect him.

But your screams came anyway. Ripping your throat raw, because he had hit bone. And still he kept going.

Tearing muscle from sinew. Peeling you open like a fruit. You were ribbons. Strings. Wet sound and raw breath. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore—it was so much more than that. It was everything. It was teeth and nails and molten grief and centuries of guilt all poured into your back as he pulled you apart.

And all the while, he fucking sobbed.

Above you, over you, shaking so hard the flaps of flesh opening you up to death were recoiling. Retching around the meat he stuffed into his mouth like he couldn't survive this one last betrayal. Like he tasted you—like he tasted every storm, every silence, every stupid, aching kindness you ever showed him in every fiber he devoured.

He cried harder than you did.

Tearless howls of torment, breath a mess of spit and blood and sorrow. He gagged. He growled. He choked and chewed and begged some invisible thing to stop this. He hated it. Hated you for letting him. Hated himself for needing you. For coming back. For feeling.

You were dying. Your body was light. Gone. Pain turning to fog at the edges. Your limbs went numb. Your breath thinned. Your wails became groans. Croaks. Soft, pathetic little animal sounds.

The thunder mourned with you.

It roared like God had died too. Like the sky had slit its own throat in grief. Outside, the rain sobbed down the windows as if it could cover the wet squelch of meat and teeth, the slow suck of blood in sheets, the snap of ribs peeling away. The storm swallowed everything.

And still he fed.

Not fast. Not wild. But slow. Controlled. Sick. Like a priest taking communion he didn’t believe in anymore.

And in the end...

You died not knowing why he ever returned, time and time again.

Not knowing why he ever left.

Not knowing why, after all that time, he came back just to end you.

You died still not knowing if he ever felt anything at all.

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

The sins of our fathers

Warning ⚠️; Mention of child abuse, alcohol

Pairing; Billy/Male Reader (with an accent xD)

Summary; You were supposed to study with Billy for an upcoming test. You didn't expect finding the bully half-naked under the rain trying to stay warm.

PS; sorry for not posting in a while, I’m working on like 5 stories 😂

~~~~~~~~

Everyone knew what a problem magnet Billy Hargrove was. Violent, racist and always up for a beer, he wasn't the kind of person you kept around you. Yet, you couldn't help but notice chilling similarities between the two of you. Only a fool wouldn't see them.

The little flinch each time a door was slammed, the tension in Billy’s shoulder when something would pass close to his face during sport or how quick he was at ducking and protecting his face during a fight. Yes. Someone was abusing Billy Hargrove just like your father did.

The realization had been like a slap on your face. Painful and stunning. You couldn't see the bully the same way anymore, knowing he acted like that just to protect himself and gain some control over his own life. You still couldn't stand his actions, but you also couldn't just turn your back on him. No one deserved to go through what you did alone and unlike Billy, you were free from your father.

He wasn't.

So little by little you got closer to him. Like with a wounded animal, you won his trust with food and drinks. Contrary to your beliefs, Billy wasn't stupid and quickly caught on to what you were doing. Yet he said nothing when he saw you shirtless, showing the gifts your father had given you.

At first, things were awkward between you. No matter the similarities you were also drastically different. Billy was like a loud pomeranian while you were a discrete black cat. Yet, your friendship only grew and you found yourself spending a lot of time with Billy. Many evenings and nights that you shared in the car, at your place or even at some parties that Billy would force you to attend.

Then you became his safe place.

Each time something would happen with his father he would either call or come to you. Shaking, silent and sometimes bloody. You always kept a first-aid kit full and a big bottle of brandy for those cases. Each time you would see Billy’s beaten body you would have to fight the urge to give Billy’s father the same treatment you gave your own.

And slowly, you began to fall for Billy Hargrove. Never before did you question your sexuality until then. Your eyes had always been on the girls, but now your attention was only on Billy just like you could feel his eyes on you. You noticed how he barely went out with girls and women anymore and instead stayed around you more. His favourite, and yours, excuse was to study while drinking. It both allowed you to spend some time together and also kept Billy away from his father.

That night was supposed to be one of them, but oh Lord were you up for a terrible surprise.

The rain battered your car as you drove, lights barely illuminating a few feet in front of you. Outside you could hear the cold autumn wind howling angrily as brown leaves danced around. Somewhere in the distance, the thunder rolled, letting you know that the storm was getting closer.

You stared at the road, squinting your eyes as you tried to stay focused. If a cat or dog jumped in front of your car it would end badly for it. Thankfully you arrived at Billy’s house without hitting any animal or person. You frowned seeing the absence of any light, which was unusual. Normally Billy’s stepmother would be in the kitchen preparing the food, Neil’s would be in the living room watching TV and yet…

Stopping the car you stepped outside after lightning a cigarette. You had to cover it so the rain didn't extinguish it. You hurried toward the porch before frozing on place had you spotted something moving.

Pressed against the door, only in his underwear, Billy was shivering and shaking. He was soaked to the bones and even in the dark you could tell his skin and lips were changing colour. How long had he been outside?

- “Billy? What the…” Your cigarette fell from your mouth as you all but jumped on your friend.

Taking out your jacket, you wrapped it around Billy’s shoulder. You cursed as Billy pushed you away, hitting your jaw as he whimpered in fear.

- “Oi! Billy, it's me. Its me, ya safe mate. Ya father is such a cunt, I bet he’s the one who threw you out, right?” You sighed, watching Billy calm down and lean in your embrace as you helped him up. “Aye, c’mere. The car is hot and dried. Should have a blankie or something in the back for ya.”

It had never crossed your mind that Neil could take things this far and put Billy in so much danger. Under your hands, you could feel Billy’s cold shivering skin and hear his little sobs. He was clearly fighting the urge to cry, which broke your heart even more.

You helped Billy to the car and quickly got in, turning the engine on before raising the heat to the max. Your eyes lingered on Billy, taking in his state. Under the car’s light, you could see the bruises turning almost black all over his ribs and thighs. Billy’s lips were split and his nose was still slightly bleeding. Seeing that, you tried to push Billy to lean down, but your friend flinched and jerked away, his shoulder hitting the car’s window with a loud thud.

- “Oi! Easy dickhead, ya nose is pissing red you idiot. Lean down before you choke on your own blood. Forget about the car, a bit of red ain't going to make me mad.” You said, hand gentle on Billy’s shoulder.

You could feel how tense he was, but he did listen to you. After he leaned down, still a shaking mess. You turned to search the back seat for the blanket you kept there. You found it under an empty box of beer and grabbed it. You slowly wrapped it around Billy, keeping your friend in a tight embrace and resting your chin on his back.

- “It's okay Billy, ya can cry your heart out. I get it. Been there, done that and I ain't gonna think less of ya for it.”

And it doesn't take more for Billy to just break down. You feel him shake as ugly sobs leave his lips and he sinks his fingers into your arm. You can feel his nails digging in your flesh knowing it will leave some pretty nasty marks, yet you don't care. You just hold Billy tighter against you, nose buried in his soaked hair. There is nothing more to say, nothing more to do but wait.

You can't stop thinking about Neil Hargrove, about how you hate and despise the man. This time the fucker took it too damn far. If you hadn't come Billy might have passed due to exposure. God! He could still get sicker than a rabid dog. No. Neil Hargrove had crossed the line and you couldn't let him continue because next time he might just kill your friend.

You closed your eyes as you felt Billy press himself against you, sinking your warmth and comfort. You gently stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head, showing him the care he deserved. Letting Billy know he was loved, and wanted by at least one person and that you weren't going to just leave him there. After what seems like an eternity, Billy slowly calms down, yet you don't dare to let go until he does. You grimaced as you felt his nails unstuck from your arms, the feeling a bit weird. You gave Billy a few tissues and as he wipe his face to face just wrap the blanket tighter around him.

- “Sorry. It's my fault, I deserve…” Billy tried to say, but you stopped him, your hand gently grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at you.

- “No. Fucking not your fault, Billy. Whatever ya did, ya didn't deserve any of this. Fuck your father, fuck that bitch of his for letting him do all this.” You said, curses rolling on your tongue more than ever as you gesture, showing the bruises. “Swear I’m about to fuck him up good like I did my old man. Could bury him in the same hole too, trash should stay together after all.”

You heard Billy snort and you pressed your forehead together. You closed your eyes, breathing deeply as you tried to calm your own anger. Yeah, you really were serious about killing Neil Hargrove. No one would miss him but his wife. Fuck! Maybe the police wouldn't even be looking for him, who knew?

- “Please, I wanna leave. Take me the fuck away from here.”

Billy’s voice snapped you back to reality and as you opened your eyes, you saw the tears silently rolling down his cheek. Billy’s blue eyes were puffy and red but also filled with fear and so much despair. You nodded, moving away from him.

The drive back to your place was quiet except for the radio. You didn't even turn off the light, knowing it would help Billy to feel safer, almost like a child. For all the drive, Billy sat in a ball pressed against the door and fully wrapped in the blanket with only his hair and eyes coming out. He looked like a kid scared of the storm.

Thankfully your mother wasn't there for the night and you took Billy in. Since he was coming around so much you had a few of his clothes on hand and, after drying him, you helped Billy put them on before letting him rest with you in bed.

It took half a bottle of whiskey for him to stop shaking in your arms and by then you were both a bit tipsy. Billy was nuzzled against you, head under your chin as you had wrapped your arms around him. The covers were keeping you both warm, warming Billy up, but his skin still felt cold to the touch. You heard him mumbling something and rested your chin on his head.

- “Hush, I ain't letting ya back there. Fuck it, I think I'm gonna send him rest with my dad. Cunt can eat the flowers by the roots.” You said, closing your eyes as you felt Billy move to take a new gulp of whiskey. “That or I could tie the fucker to his car and send him flying down a cliff.”

- “You would really kill him?” Billy asked, resting the bottle on your chest as he sat and looked down on you, his blue eyes still puffy.

- “Ya. In a heartbeat. Fucker went too far, what if next time he fuck ya too bad and you die? I ain't letting him, ain't give him a chance. Ya going to stay with me and I won't let him touch ya ever again.”

For what felt like hours Billy just stared at you, judging if you were telling the truth or not. You never lied to him before and the alcohol always made you spill everything that you had on your mind and heart. His eyes were filled with so many emotions, that you could pinpoint every single one of them; surprise, sadness, doubt and then acceptance. You both knew you were serious and this went too far. You took the bottle and put it on your night table before Billy laid back down in your arms. You said nothing and just held him.

In the morning you will make a better plan and wait for the right time. Before the first snow, you would make sure that Billy was free from his own father. It would take time, but you knew that Billy would heal, you would make sure of it. But for now, you smiled as he felt Billy’s body relax before you heard his soft snores letting you know he had fallen asleep.

[theemporium]

https://www.tumblr.com/theemporium/732996365739819008/httpspbstwimgcommediaf-cfpsex0aa8a5hformat

PLEASEEE can we have the smallest of blurbs/thots on this, them cuddling into the reader because they’re wee pups after all

-🥀

I KNEW I HAD TO AS WELL

.

You were aware that the forecast said it would rain, but you didn’t realise it would be a full fucking thunderstorm.

You had been huddled in the Red Bull garage when the weather took a dramatic turn for the worse. First, there were just a few radios here and there about some rain hitting the track. Seconds later, a massive dark cloud was covering the track, the sun was gone and the conditions were far too dangerous to finish the end of qualifying. 

You were honestly just happy both your boys were safe as they made their way into the pits, even prouder when you realised this meant they would be starting on the front row together. But then the thunder started and a part of you froze. 

Thunderstorms were never a problem for you. If anything, you enjoyed them. The rain pattering against the window, the distant sound of thunder claps in the air with strikes of lightning as you played some calming music. Being cuddled up in bed, maybe even a book in hand with a warm drink by your side.

But your boys never thought the same. 

You had began moving before you could even process it, but the team wouldn’t let you leave the safety of the garages just yet, which left you watching the interview on one of the screens. You could see it on their faces, even if they tried to hide it. You could see them trying to laugh it off and continue with the questions. You could see the way their bodies flinched, the way they covered their ears, the way they gravitated towards each other for safety. It broke your heart to see because you knew exactly how they were during thunderstorms.

The second they were given the go ahead, the boys were heading straight back to their drivers’ rooms to leave for the hotel as soon as they could. But it was short-lived when both boys barreled into Max’s driver room, Charles rushing towards you before you could even blink. 

A low whine left him as he wound his arms around your waist, tugging you close and burying his face into the crook of your neck as another distant thunderclap echoed outside. 

“I know,” you murmured, holding onto him tightly as your eyes caught Max’s—who you knew was trying to put on a brave face. “Let’s head back to the hotel, okay? Everything is gonna be fine.” 

Both boys were twitchy the whole ride over. All three of you were sitting in the back of the car, with you pressed between both boys as they tried to distract themselves. You could feel the anxiety rolling off them, you could feel the way their bodies tensed and the way their hands tightened on your thighs. You knew they just wanted to be alone and far away from the thunder. 

The second the hotel room door locking sounded through the suite, you heard the distinct sound of clothes ripping before two massive, fluffy beasts were approaching you. Another clap of thunder rendered through the air and both boys let out pitiful whines, cowering slightly as they looked up at you with big eyes.

“My poor boys,” you cooed softly as you reached out to run your hands over the heads, scratching behind their ears until both wolves were nosing at your legs. “C’mon, we’ll do what we do when we’re home.”

And it was a little more squished than the bed you shared at home, but it did the job just fine. You had both wolves squashing you between them, their heads resting on your stomach with the duvet over them. It was a trick you read online with dogs and fireworks, but it seemed to work perfectly with your werewolf boyfriends.

“You both need to eat something soon,” you told them when you felt one of them—probably Charles, if you knew your boys well—pushing the fabric of your shirt up until he could rest his head on your bare stomach. “And I would rather not scare hotel staff with two massive dogs that are technically undisclosed.”

Max let out a huff against your thigh.

“Don’t be a puppy,” you snorted as your fingers threaded through his fur. “Just one meal and then you can transform back. I would like at least thirty minutes with my boys to tell you how proud I am of both of you for getting the front row.”

Charles let out a loving purr as he nuzzled himself further into you.

“Yeah, I love you too.”

.

[ironstrange1991]

You're The Only Good Thing In My Life

Pairing: Doctor!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It's Stephen and Y/n's last night of vacation and she decides to claim him as hers before give him back to the world.

Word Count: 4,2k

Warnings: SMUT: unprotected p n v sex, oral with male and female receiving, creampie and cum eating. There is also a bit of jealousy implied.

A/N: This fic was inspired entirely by the song of the same name by the band Cigarretes After Sex. For total immersion I highly recommend listening to it. It's absurdly romantic, a bit sad (?), but very smuty. Hope you like it and have a nice reading.

There were few things in the world that truly left you in awe. One of them was Stephen, of course. The Eifel Tower, the mountains of the Scottish Highlands and the beach at night.

You could stay all night watching the waves hitting the shore, the foam forming on the sand, the smell of the sea air. Of course, all this was very beautiful in daylight when the sea reflected the blue of the sky and the waters shone like liquid sapphire, but at night the sea was endless and mysterious. The blue turned into black crowned by layers of gray foam.

There was nothing more beautiful than that, unless there was a storm on the way. The night sky clear with storm clouds that brings lightning and the sound of thunder in the distance announcing the arrival of heavy rain. That was without a shadow of a doubt one of the most beautiful things you could imagine and it was also the scene in front of you as you sat on the steps in the backyard of the house that Stephen had rented for you to spend a few days on vacation.

After you fought with him because he wasn't paying attention to you, he surrendered and decided to redeem himself with the indecent proposal of taking you to the beach and obviously you accepted.

It was seven days where you barely left the house. That's when you got out of bed. Stephen made sure the house was stocked with everything you needed and even when you wanted something that wasn't there, he always made sure to get it for you within a minute. Of course, being a sorcerer and traveling through portals helped with the task.

But of course you couldn't complain. You had the man you loved by your side all the time and you didn't need to share him with Wong or those annoying spell books. You could spend the whole day curled up in bed or sprawled on the sofa, you could swim in the sea, make love whenever you wanted and as often as you wanted. There in that house you were sure you had experienced paradise and you never wanted to leave.

Yet there you were sitting on the stairs, your bare feet in the sand, listening to the sound of the waves and watching the storm brewing and the lightning cutting across the sky and your chest was heavy knowing that you would have to leave the next morning and return to the reality of your work, as well as sharing Stephen with all the tasks he needed to do for Wong, for the Avengers and for the world.

For a whole week Stephen was just yours and now you needed to give him back.

Of course he could see you were sad. You had been lively and talkative all week and particularly that night you were sitting there quietly alone. You wanted to shake that feeling away, but it wasn't exactly an easy thing. However, when you heard the sound of footsteps approaching and felt Stephen sitting on the step behind you and pulling you to lean against his chest, you sighed, letting yourself be comforted by the only person capable of comforting you.

You closed your eyes for a second, feeling him kiss the top of your head, but you remained silent.

"A storm is coming." He said in your ear, making a point of rubbing his goatee against the back of your neck and as expected, your entire body tingled and he let out a satisfied hum.

"This always works." He pointed out, running his hands through your hair and holding it in a ponytail and then brushing his chin against your skin again. You shivered at the sensation and let out a small chuckle.

"May I ask what you're thinking?" His voice sounded low.

"That I love the beach at night."

"Hmm."

"And that I don't want to leave."

He held you in his arms and something in that hug made you feel that he shared with you that desire to stay there, just the two of you together, free from all routine worries.

"You know we can come back whenever we want." He promised.

"But you can never take a vacation. There's always something you need to do."

He stroke your hair gently and brought his nose closer breathing in your scent. He continued stroking your hair, but didn't say anything.

"What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" You asked, genuinely curious as you watched the night sea.

"You naked in my bed." He teased making you giggle.

"I'm serious, Stephen."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

You chuckled "Okay. Besides that."

He thought for a minute and then hummed to himself as if remembering something.

"The first time I went to Kamar Taj the Ancient One showed me things I had no idea could exist. I was terrified, but those images never left my mind."

"Were they beautiful?"

"Scary, but very beautiful."

You nodded thinking for a second. "I think this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You pointed to the sea in front of you. "Like this."

"You mean it's not me?" He teased and you grabbed his hand that was firmly around your waist and brought it to your mouth and gave it a small kiss before leaning your face into his palm closing your eyes and confessing.

"You're the only good thing in my life."

He sighed, cupping your cheek and making you turn to look at him. When you did, his eyes were like fire, darkened by what you couldn't tell if it was desire, love, or a combination of the two.

"I promise I won't let work come between us again. I love you. I've never loved anyone but you and I never will."

"Hmm. That's lovely, but as much as I'd love to believe, you can't promise that, Stephen. You're Doctor Strange, the world needs you all the time."

He shook his head. "I don't care. You're the only one that really matters to me."

You smiled, knowing full well that things were more complicated than that, but you decided to let it that way even if just for the night.

You let yourself be pulled towards his lips, surrendering to his hungry kiss and as if the universe was conspiring with you, a thunder resounded louder than the others and the lights went out plunging you both into the gloom of the night lit only by the constant lightning.

Stephen chuckled on your lips and you felt your entire body tingle at the sound. That was the effect he had on you.

"We should go inside before it starts raining." He suggested nibbling your lip, but you shook your head getting up, hiking up your dress to straddle him, sitting back on his lap and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, kissing him again, much harder this time, while grinding yourself in him.

Stephen wrapped you in his arms, surrendering to the kiss with a hum.

"I want you to take me, Stephen. Make me yours."

He smirked glancing at you. "Here on these stairs? What if someone sees us?"

You hummed while giving small kisses on his neck and making his skin prickle.

"There's no one around and to be honest I don't care at all. I just want to be yours."

You lowered your lips to his bare chest, kissing and nibbling, sucking on the skin to mark him. Inhaling his delicious scent. Between your legs, you could feel him hardening. The delicate fabric of your panties and his shorts were the only thing stopping you.

Stephen lolled his head back, sighing, but his grip tightened on your waist. "Oh sweetheart" He moaned "You always get what you want from me, don't you?" He held your chin making you look at him.

"It must be because you think I'm adorable." You smiled proudly feeling his cock twitching beneath you. You were always surprised by how quickly you could get Stephen into that state.

"You have no idea." His lips searched for yours again and he started to move you harder on his lap. His kiss becoming more and more desperate as his desire increased, making him impatient.

"I need to be inside you." He asked between your lips.

You stood up, reluctant to separate from him for even a second. Stephen pulled down the shorts he was wearing and kicked them to the side. You pulled down your panties and let them fall and pool around your ankles, kicking them next to his shorts and Stephen grabbed your hand pulling you back closer to him.

You straddled him and raised your arms for him to take off your dress. The damp wind of the stormy night made your skin prickle and your nipples harden. Stephen grabbed one of them and twisted the other with his fingers, making you whimper and grab a handful of his hair. Your hips moving back and forth making his cock poke into your folds and giving you both just a glimpse of relief.

When he got tired of playing with your nipples, his lips moved up your collarbone, his beard scratching your skin deliciously. He stopped at a point just below your ear and sucked hard on the skin, marking you and making you let out a little moan. He brought one of his hands between you, finally touching you where you needed him the most. His heavy sigh showing his satisfaction at finding you absurdly wet for him.

You pulled him back to your lips as he entered you with two fingers. He moved them in and out slowly, teasing you and making you moan against his lips, feeling the familiar electricity course through your body as the desire increased.

You whimpered still between his lips and he hummed in response knowing full well what you wanted because it was exactly what he wanted too. He grabbed his cock and gave it a couple of jerks and patted your thigh. You raised your hips enough so he could direct his cock at your entrance, but first he ran the tip through your folds, smearing it with your abundant slick and only then placed it exactly where you wanted it.

When you let yourself sink into his dick you felt the delicious stretch that you craved so much. Stephen stretched you so perfectly, his cock felt like it was made especially for you and you never got tired of that feeling and never stopped being amazed at how he made you feel. As if making love to Stephen was the only thing in the world you were sure you were made for.

Stephen groaned at the sensation, grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling you back to his lips, kissing you with the characteristic desperation of when he gave himself over to his own pleasure. You had barely moved and he was already pulsing inside you, begging for his release. You leaned on his shoulders and began to slowly move up and down, gyrating your hips sensually and surrendering to your own pleasure. Stephen wrapped one arm around your waist and grabbed your ass cheek, squeezing it so hard you knew he would leave purple fingerprints on your skin.

"Fuck yes" He moaned making your whole body tingle. "You feel so good, sweetheart. You always feel so fucking good."

You let out a low hum, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling it lightly as the pleasure increased.

The thunder rumbled again and with it a fine rain began to fall, but you didn't care about it, in fact you received the cold drops with pleasure, as if they had some magical quality capable of making you even more eager for each other.

Stephen grabbed your ass cheeks with both hands and started helping you with the movements, thrusting up and moving you on top of him with more force and speed.

"Oh god, Stephen..." You moaned, lolling your head back and surrendering to the growing pleasure. Stephen took advantage of the fact that your breasts were on display for him and buried his face between them, nibbling and sucking on your skin. His groans and grunts getting louder and louder as he got closer to his release.

The rain intensified, washing you both with cold water and making you shiver and your hair stick to your back. Stephen's skin, however, was still as hot as before, he was always so warm, and the hot and cold sensation only added to your pleasure. Everything felt perfect, as if nature itself was blessing the love you were making. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the moment.

"Look at me, sweetheart." Stephen demanded. "I want to see when you cum on my cock. I know you're close. I can feel it."

You opened your eyes and bit your bottom lip. You loved knowing that Stephen had complete control over you. That he knew you so well to the point of recognizing each of the signs your body showed him.

"You're so fucking good, Stephen. Cock feels amazing." You praised feeling the knot tightening in your stomach.

Your movements became faster and equally clumsier, the sensuality giving way to the desperation of the search for the sweet release you craved so much. Stephen took complete control, moving you on top of him and thrusting up against your movements and you could both feel yourselves being dragged to the edge, and as the sensation grew dangerously close to unbearable, another sensation took hold of you with the same proportion, a love so great that it seemed like it would make your chest break in two. You doubted anyone could love someone more than you loved Stephen.

"Oh shit, sweetheart, I'm so close. Tell me you can feel it. Don't wanna finish before you."

You cupped his face between your hands, making him look at you and taking back control, putting more force on your hips and moving back and forth, letting the delicious contact of his pelvic bone and hair rubbing against your clit be the final trigger that would pull you into your ecstasy.

And without you needing to announce it, you came hard and the strong contraction of your walls squeezing his cock was enough to pull him along with you and when he finally got there he kissed you like never before, with a little desperation , but with a love so great that it didn't need to be verbalized, but he did it anyway, murmuring on your lips how much he loved you, how special you were, and how nothing in the world could take you away from him.

Your body was shaking on top of his and you didn't know if it was from the force of the orgasm, or the way you were feeling or simply because of the cold rain falling on you, but either way, Stephen wrapped you in his strong arms and carried you inside while outside the rain intensified.

The two of you ended up in the shower together, the hot water was welcomed by your cold skin and although you hated washing your hair at night, you didn't have much of a choice.

Stephen soaped himself quickly and took the lead, taking the opportunity to soap your back, being extra gentle while doing it and giving small kisses in the back of your neck.

"Do you think this will ever subside and we'll become a normal couple?" He asked surprising you. You turned to face him and let the hot water rinse the shampoo from your hair.

"And what would a normal couple be?" You asked, putting some shampoo in your hand and lathering his hair. You needed to stand on your tiptoes to reach his head and he could very well bend down, but instead he preferred to see you struggling because it was adorable. His words.

"You know, sex once a week, sometimes less. Good friends, but not so good lovers." He explained.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't ask yourself the same question sometimes, but you decided to be completely honest in your answer.

"I can't predict the future, but the way you made me feel out there..."

He waited for you to finish what you were saying, but you just pulled him forward, letting the water rinse his hair and dedicated yourself to applying conditioner to his hair and yours.

"What..." He insisted and you sighed cupping his cheek.

"I love you so much. Too much. Sometimes I feel this love crushing my chest or threatening to break it in two and it's a feeling so strong that I know I need to get it out of here and put it somewhere else otherwise I feel I'm going to explode. When we have sex it's like I'm putting my love in the right place. So, I don't see us having sex once a week because where would I put my love?"

You grimaced realizing the whole thing made much more sense in your head then when you said it out loud, but Stephen smiled.  "You're adorable indeed, you know that?" He said pulling you to his lips and kissing you softly.

"You know you can place your love on me whenever you want, don't you?" He teased and you slapped his shoulder.

"Shut up! You were the one who asked."

"And I liked the answer." He defended himself.

You pulled him to your lips, kissing him harder this time, letting the water rinse off what was left of the conditioner, wrapping your arms around his neck and jumping into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Stephen barely had time to turn off the shower and you were already grinding yourself in him. Maybe that was what made him so crazy about you, you were insatiable and he was the perfect match for you.

He threw you on the bed and filled the room with countless candles he conjured. He lit them with a complicated gesture of his fingers lighting up the room, and then crawled over to you with a beautiful smile on his lips that made your heart flutter.

"What do I do with you, Y/n? So much fire!"

He ran his lips over your breasts and your collarbone, moving them up your neck and stopping at your chin, leaving you with your mouth open, waiting for the kiss that he maliciously denied.

"Be my firefighter." You rasped and he giggled right in your ear, the baritone making your entire body tingle.

"No, I don't want to put out this fire." He said biting your earlobe and making you swallow thickly and squeeze your thighs together.

"Tell me you love me.” He asked, his eyes fixed on yours, his hands running down your body, his fingertips ghosting your skin.

"Again?"

"Yes, again and again and again." He traced your neck and collarbone with the tip of his tongue and moved up to your chin, biting it.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so much..." He interrupted you with a hungry kiss and his hand finally reached where you needed him most. Your legs spread scandalously for him and he dipped his fingers in your folds.

"Look at this! So fucking wet for me again."

You closed your eyes, delighting in the touch of his slender fingers. They penetrated you and you began to move your hips against his hand much to his delight.

"I want your mouth." You asked through gritted teeth, desire barely letting you think straight. "Please."

He nibbled on your lower lip and increased the movements of his fingers.

"Want me to eat you, uh?"

You swallowed thickly, “…and I want you in my mouth too.”

He hissed, putting his tongue in your mouth and sucking yours hard. "...So fucking dirty, sweetheart."

But you knew he loved everything about you, you both loved each other in equal measure.

He rolled to the side and turned so you had access to his cock and turned you on your side, putting his head between your legs and diving into your folds. You moaned loudly, but you were eager to take his cock in your hand and put it in your mouth, delighting in the sensation of sucking and being sucked. You doubted that there was anything better in the world.

One of Stephen's many qualities was that he, unlike many men, had no problem getting dirty between a woman's legs. On the contrary, he took pleasure in it. When he gave you oral, it wasn't just his mouth he used, he used his nose, his chin, his goatee. Everything he could use to give you maximum pleasure and that night it wasn’t different.

He sucked your entrance, licked your wet folds, nudged his nose to your clit and sucked your juices, spitting them back out, making a mess. He loved it as much as you did and when he finally started sucking your clit and penetrating you with his fingers, you felt your body becoming weak.

It was how Stephen made you feel most of the time, weak compared to the strength of the love you felt for him.

You used to be outrageously loud when Stephen was eating you, but all your moans were muffled by his cock in your mouth.

You loved Stephen’s cock and he knew it, he was very proud of it. The way you constantly sucked him made him lose control of his actions and you loved watching him get lost in his own pleasure knowing that you were responsible for making him feel so good.

You started by sucking his head and then ran your tongue down his entire length, leaving it completely wet with your saliva, just the way you liked it. Your hands gently massaged his balls, eliciting a muffled moan from him while you flicked your tongue in his frenulum, licking and sucking the special spot and making him squirm with pleasure, but at no point did he stop eating you, on the contrary, his pleasure only made him more eager to give you more pleasure and the thing worked perfectly.

When you finally started to actually suck him, the two of you were close and the wet sounds you made were so arousing combined with the sound of the rain that seemed to get heavier and heavier outside.

You took him out of your mouth to breathe and gave him a couple of jerks before going back to sucking him and this time you went all the way down letting him go to the back of your throat.

Stephen stopped the suction on your clit with a pop and moaned loudly.

"Fuck sweetheart, swallow my cock... gonna make me cum." He rasped giving your ass cheek a hard slap and resuming his work with even more desire.

His words only served to push you forward and even though your eyes were watering, you continued sucking him and fucking him with your mouth, feeling him pulse and start to spill into your mouth as his mouth made you see stars.

You came together in each other's mouths and you both rolled to the side, lying on your backs, trying to regulate your breathing and recover.

"I think we outdid ourselves tonight." He said impressed and you both giggled until you stopped and felt silent.

"I don't want to go home." You confessed, sitting down. Stephen had his head resting in his hands, the position leaving his biceps visible. He seemed like a god to you. You doubted that a man could be more beautiful than your boyfriend.

"I don't want to share you with the world. I want you to be mine alone."

He sat up and caressed your cheek, tucking a strand of your wet hair behind your ear gently.

"I'm yours. No matter how hard I work or what I have to do, at the end of the day all I want most is to come back to you."

"But it's not like being here." You pouted and he smiled reassuringly.

"Then we'll come back here as often as you want. I can arrange that. Ask Wong to take over some things for me, pass some tasks on to other masters."

"You promise?" You asked hopefully.

"I promise." He smiled and then remained silent for a minute, when he spoke again there was a certain emotion in his voice.

"You said something out there that made me think."

"What?"

He smiled "That I'm the only good thing in your life."

"You are."

He held your chin between his thumb and index finger. "You were the best thing that ever happened in my life, sweetheart."

He kissed you softly and continued "We were meant for each other, it just took us some time to find each other. But now that we're together, nothing will keep us apart. Definitely not my work."

You smiled "So you don't think we'll end up like those couples that only have sex once a week?" You teased making he chuckle.

"Never."

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing ;)

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[sorinbds]

Rain pounded against the bay windows of the lobby. The lamp light was dim and low, signifying the quiet of the night; the inhabitants of the astral express had long been asleep, but the warm bulbs provided a shelter for any stray soul that sought refuge in the silence.

You were one such soul, sat in the leather chair that was tucked into the corner with a blanket cocooning you tightly and mug of hot tea warming your palms.

But it didn’t mean much, with the way your eyes couldn’t leave the rattling window panes for even a second. It was hard to look away, no matter how hard you wanted to, but it almost felt that if you did, the rain would break the glass and sweep away the safety of your home with the power of a hurricane. You weren’t really sure why, exactly, but any time the weather became so furious, your entire being seized like a deer in headlights. You didn’t know what to do. If you didn’t move, maybe you would be safe. Maybe everyone would be safe, if only they stayed right where they were. Unmoving.

You remembered pulling yourself out of bed for some kind of remedy for sleeplessness caused by the sound of the rain, anything helpful; and then the loud crashing of thunder gave you such a fright that your subconscious refused to leave, any possible sleep leftover in your mind completely pushed down. Were you a child? It wasn’t really going to hurt you like this. If anything, the real Storm would be much more capable of doing so–

SNAP

–Lightning flashed before your eyes, and your muscles stiffened as thunder cracked through the sky mere seconds after. You could tell it was right above–you barely even had the chance to count to one before the sound pierced through your body, nearly making your tea spill all over your blanketed lap.

Yeah, okay. There was no going back to your room after all. You couldn’t even convince your knees to peel out of the bunched up position you held them in, let alone walking there by yourself.

Sleeping there on the chair… Didn’t really sound too bad. Honestly! It's not like it was completely uncomfortable… You thought. Even though your back already begged for a mattress to lay on, at least the chair was decently cushioned. Right? So…

“...Hm? My Lady?” came a sudden voice, from across the room, in the doorway that connected the lobby to the kitchen. “What are you doing up at such an unGodly hour?”

You looked over your knees and your cup of tea when you heard that warm tone, to see small wings swaying gently with each other's movements. Your heart jumped in your chest at being caught like this; It wasn't like it was something you'd be caught doing, though, you didn't think anyone else would be awake to see you the way you currently are, let alone someone so careful about their Sunday routine. "A-Ah, um... You know."

The man hummed curiously; There wasn't much to do in terms of expressions, so being close to the man required one to be really good at picking up on non-existent body language and voice cues, and quickly And at that moment you could tell that he hadn't really responded to her. ask. Somehow, it felt rude to keep someone like him in the dark.

You cleared your throat, your eyes peering back at the windows still drumming with rain. “I couldn’t sleep earlier, and came out here for a drink. I thought maybe it would help.”

It… Wasn’t that you didn’t like being around him for this reason, not at all. But there was something about him–the way he carried himself with such grace and poise, always quietly observing you–it made you feel much more see-through than he actually was. Ever since he’d been recruited into your group astral express , it’d been one thing after another with the way he dedicated himself to you. A Knight that was never not there, always ready to protect.

For some reason you couldn't understand, he was always by your side. Any attack that ever found you vulnerable, any near fall down the stairs in your room, any problem you had no one else to confess to... There, cape fluttering and gauntlets clenched tightly into a fist with some kind of chivalry you never thought you would have. Witness was a Knight willing to give his life for you.

You never really understood it. You thought you weren't particularly special. You had nothing to provide him other than a humble room to rest in. Was that really enough for him?

You came back from your thoughts when a hand grabbed his sword and that figure jumped towards you. Whatever he was considering, he had clearly made up his mind.

“Come on, lady. "Should someone escort you back to your room?"

When shaking fingers reached out to place your own atop it, it felt the way his voice sounded. Gentle, despite that seemingly hard shell, with a grip so firm it made you feel safe.

“...I-If you would be so kind, sunday. I think I would like that.”+

I'm about to go to sleep tomorrow I'll continue writing

At the moment I don't have my glasses, sorry if there are spelling errors

this was too oc

I have my requests open

[spirit-of-felagund]

Late Night Calls - Blane's version

A/N: happy 4-year anniversary to one of my fave IFs <3 this is my Blane POV version of A’s anniversary story Late Night Calls, hope you enjoy~

Blane blearily opened his eyes, silently glaring at the incessantly vibrating phone on his nightstand. A stroke of lightning lit up the room, followed shortly after by a rumbling clap of thunder. The steady sound of rain falling on the roof and hitting his window was almost enough to lull him back to sleep.

With a weary sigh, he reached out for his phone. Who would even call him this time of night? Noele? He hoped not – she deserved to get some proper rest after the hectic week they‘d had.

What the-? Blane had to do a double take at the caller ID on the screen. Greene. The last person he‘d ever expect and a treacherous part in him felt something akin to joy.

“Do you know how late it is, Greene?” he asked as he accepted the call, sounding more gruff than he‘d intended.

A beat of silence followed before his fellow hunter spoke up. “Sorry, I-” Kira hesitated, a stark contrast to her usual confident persona. “I didn‘t mean to wake you.”

“And yet you called. What is it?” Blane asked impatiently, torn between wanting to hang up and wanting to indulge in this rare time they got alone. Kira and Arion  were usually attached at the hip, and it was frustratingly hard to be nice to her when the infuriating blond was around.

Being nice to her. It was something that would have never crossed his mind just a few months ago, but somehow something had changed between them and Blane wasn‘t sure if he wanted to allow himself to like it.

“Please don‘t make fun of me,” Kira said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I‘m scared of thunderstorms,” she confessed, sounding more vulnerable than he‘d ever heard her, and his heart clenched in response.

He wasn‘t all that fond of physical contact but in that moment, he wondered if he could‘ve brought himself to make an exception for her and wrap a protective arm around her if she were here with him. Just this once.

“I see,” was all Blane could muster in response. “And what does that have to do with me? Wouldn‘t you rather call Devereux?” He hated how dismissive he sounded. He could never get his words out the right way when it came to Kira, and it made him hate himself even more.

A shaky laugh came from the other end of the line. “You‘d think so, right? I don‘t know. You were the first one on my mind. Sorry, if I‘m bothering you. We can hang up if you want.”

“No, it‘s just- I‘m not sure what you want me to do,” Blane admitted. Comforting others wasn‘t one of his strengths but he found that despite himself, he wanted to try.

“We could just … talk, if that‘s all right? How was your week? I didn‘t see you around the office much.”

Blane huffed, turning around to lie on his back. “Annoying. Noele and I were assigned a werewolf bounty. The guy led us on a wild goose chase all over the city for days. Always seemed to be one step ahead of us.”

“But you got him in the end.”

“Of course. We‘re second on the board, after all.” He didn‘t bother suppressing the smugness in his voice.

“Please don‘t bring up the board,” Kira groaned. “I was just about to compliment you.”

“Old habits die hard,” Blane replied in a tone that was only half apologetic, trying to ignore how pleasant the prospect of receiving compliments from her was.

“Whatever,” she grumbled and took a deep breath. “Thanks for humouring me, Blane. I actually feel better.” Her voice was notably lighter than when he‘d picked up the phone and a victorious smile subconsciously crept onto Blane‘s face.

“I‘ll let you get back to sleep. Thanks again.” There was something achingly tender in the way she said it and for a split-second Blane wished he could see her face.

“You‘re welcome. If you ever need to talk and Devereux isn‘t there-” I‘m here for you. He couldn‘t bring himself to say the words, but it seemed like he didn‘t need to.

“I know. Goodnight, Blane.”

“Sleep well, Kira,” Blane whispered and hung up reluctantly, staring at his barely visible reflection in the phone screen for a moment before putting the device back on his nightstand. Why did he wish the conversation would‘ve gone on longer? Maybe he should’ve asked about her week as well.

He ran a hand across his face and let out a deep sigh, pulling the blanket up to his chin and curling in on his side. Whatever was going on between them, Blane knew he was in way too deep.

And for some reason, that thought didn‘t scare him nearly as much as he would‘ve expected.