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insomniac-dot-ink · 2 days ago

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There is a Doorway

My first memory about the door isn’t really a memory. My mother leans over my crib and her curls fall like unspooling yarn. I reach for a hunk of hair and she pulls back. Listen, she says, mouth moving and the words coming out stilted like an old movie—that’s what makes me think it wasn’t real. Her crooning tone, like you might use for a bedtime story in, doesn’t match the words.

You can’t go through the doorway, she says, that’s the first rule—the only rule, in truth. You’ll have to be careful, because you’ll know the door, but you won’t always know it. Her gaze hardens at this point, the point where the memory is all goo and haze, it’ll try to trick you.

She kisses my forehead and her hair tickles my cheeks. Be smart. Be good. Be brave. She holds my shoulder so hard it hurts. Don’t go through the doorway.

One: I am six years old and unhappy at my own birthday party. My father and his friend Gary have hired a pony and fake cowboy and a caterer. I am more of a dragon kid than a horse kid but I got a pony. Noise fills the house like an expanding balloon: pop-y music and chattering adults and screaming kids who mostly came for the pony. There is enough noise to fill up your sinuses like a head cold and if I stayed outside a second longer, I was going to bite.

I sprint into the house and up the stairs, skirts performing flippery in all directions, and bang my knees on the stairs hard enough to see stars. I scramble the rest of the way up like a dog, looking for my dad or Gary and one of the nicer-looking caterers who used to be friends with my mom. There is a doorway. It is pink, like my bedroom, and the knob is golden. Pink, pink, pink against the white walls and half-sized, just big enough for hobbits or fairies or kids—a place adults would only hit their heads.

I wipe away the pinpricks of tears and am at the door before I remember myself. This part, this stands out: the flush of my chubby child’s hand against the gold. A voice comes from the other side and that is the first thing that stops me.

I press my ear to the door and close my eyes. The voices on the other side cease, like they know, and the wood is warm, sunbaked like a long summer day. Her voice comes to me.

The door will be warm, she says, but not hot.

I open my eyes, peaking down, and long white tendrils creep out from under the gap. I leap back, blinking rapidly, and turn on my heels to go find Gary or my dad or one of the nicest caterers.

Two: Ten years old and I am searching for a bathroom. My palms are sweaty, gripping a pack of stick-on earrings in one hand and passing rows of cubies. I’ll be late for Mrs. Henderson’s class, but today is the day is the day. It has to be. My dad bought me a collection of stick-on earrings covered in butterflies and gems and smiley faces. He smiled so wide: these were the ones, right? I feigned indifference, already paranoid at this age, and his face fell and my heart with it. Sure. Thanks, I say, and shove them into the secret compartment of my backpack.

When I was seven, a girl in my class had her ears pierced and they got horribly infected. The green-black pus-y memory stopped me in your tracks every time before I could get mine. She whimpers, in those memories, like they might fall off.

But stick-ons wouldn’t hurt. Who would notice? I didn’t want my dad to see me put them on, though. I didn’t want the other girls to see me. I want to arrive, already made-up, already done.

I flick down the lower school hallways, sojourning to the girl’s bathroom by the library. Heart in my throat, I push past the library and practically throw myself at the grubby bathroom door. It sticks. I push and push and my throat tightens. They might've finally shut down the broken-down bathroom on this level. I turn, ready to stomp to the other end of the school again. And there is a door.

Squeezed between the cubbies and bright turquoise, it’s not even trying to hide. The edges have swirling accents and the handle is pure glass. I glare at the door, because I know enough then. I am already late to class and it’s not even trying to hide and I cross the way. I draw close enough to smell the wood-y scent and brush my fingertips against the warm-bread surface. Wind whips against the door from the other side and carries the scent of pine trees and snow. I had never seen snow. I wonder if there’s a mirror on the other side I could use. Or a nicer bathroom.

A shadow moves under the doorway—a bulky, shuffling gate that crosses toward me. And my coward’s heart is good for one thing: I run.

Three: Of all the grades, seventh is the most like a story book, a fairy tale. Midnight clangs and everyone transforms like a magic trick. Some of the boys you were friends with grow hair and height and tempers. Some of the girls are cursed to weeping and blood. Some of your friends grow into towers you can’t climb.

Terra is like this. My friend, I always had friends from one club or sport or activity or another, just none with doorways, but she must have been seeing something I was sure.

I couldn’t really understand Terra since she wasn’t quiet like me, but prone to outside thoughts. You always knew where you stood with Terra. She told you how she felt about the smelly art teacher and bratty classmates and how unfair lunch periods were to the younger students. It was a relief to always know—or, it used to be. We got bigger and stranger and more cursed and maybe you didn’t want to know anymore. People stopped sitting with us at lunch.

Everyone was invited to the last sleepover of the year held by Bethany Brown. Bethany was a proper kind of a girl that was raised with enough wealth to make minor royalty sneeze and enough propriety to make it count. She had a pauper’s heart though, generous if not cold. Maybe it was the large birthmark across her face that curved like a wave. Fairy tales are like that too: when you are given a wave across your two-toned face, you invite everyone to sleepovers.

We are early, like always, and my dad ferries me down an endless driveway. He shields his eyes from the sun and drives with a sense of duty that is common in my family. My grandma and aunts and cousins attended everything from carnivals to baby showers to waterparks with a grim determination, sparklers and ice cream cones in hand. I clutch my sleepover bag in hand and muscle through my own trepidation. There is a doorway.

Before I even reach the house, there it is. It is a simple door, brown and battered at the very bottom and splintering. The only way I know it is the door is because it stands in the middle of Bethany’s vast yard, all by itself. I am seasick, windswept, and I want to toss myself over my dad’s lap. Wait! This is no good. No one makes sense anymore. There is a door. I need to go home.

But we reached the front of the house, which is more of a manor, and my family would never miss a baby shower, however painfully pink and cheerful. Besides, the door is gone by the time I look back.

I jerk my gaze ahead, at the brilliant white doors of the manor, and right my clothes. I have my own fairy tale to account for: motherless girl, cursed with lack, and I have to be just the right amount of whimsical or sweet or okay.

“This place gets bigger every year,” my dad jokes, shepherding me to the front of the manor and looking ill. Has he seen it? We had never spoken about the door. But there was a lot we didn’t talk about. A few years ago Gary moved into the guest room even though we didn’t have a guest room. Five years and we were happy. That summer, Gary moved out again, kissing me on the forehead like I thought my mom did when she left.

Gary was the one that signed me up for everything: girl scouts and rafting and after school dance classes. I missed him, I missed him, I missed him and I couldn’t ask why he left.

We wait. The door, there is a door, sits at the corner of my vision all by itself. Bethany’s mom answers without Bethany, standing so tall she could be a minor god.

“Stuart, don’t you look so smart. Oh, Darlene, just like your dad, aren’t you? So sweet.” She’s probably referring to my oxford shoes and my round glasses which match his, but I haven’t minded that I am so much like my dad. He’s a professor of math and logic at the university and I would rather be a daughter of math and logic than doors.

My mom was a caterer for weddings and banquets and anything fancy enough to have name brands. She was well-put together, people said, so on top of things it made you self-conscious. My father was a lot like me in that he was easy to invite to things, well-liked and grimly prepared to attend any evening. He had a year where all his colleagues got married and he went to enough weddings to fall in love with the caterer. It was a wonderful story.

"Come in, come in, you're the first ones." She steps aside, a bit like a Greek goddess to the land of marble stairs and velvet curtains.

I say goodbye to my dad, one tight squeeze, and then take my oxfords off at the door despite the fact the journey to Bethany’s party has just begun. We go up and then sideways and then down a little ways and up again and Bethany gives me a hug at the door to her bedroom. I liked that everyone grew a little quieter by this age and I put my paltry present with the others.

It’s a nice party. We split off into groups and come back together for cake and ice cream and games. Terra is there but she likes games more than I do. I sit with the girls reading magazines and filling out quizzes about their love lives. There’s a round of fortune telling that I enjoy more than anything else. “You’re going to marry well,” I tell Olivia, reading her palm, “but it will end poorly before the year is up.”

She frowns at this and I shrug. “And you’ll own fifty cats and live in a shack.” They laugh and that’s enough.

Terra comes over about halfway through the night and I smile at her. I like Terra like you like a glass of cold water in the heat. She kicks her legs up and the other girls settle a little farther away. “Let’s go get snacks,” one of the girls says to me before I open my mouth and Terra crosses her arms over her chest like she doesn’t want to talk.

We open presents Bethany seems utterly bored by. Terra doesn’t join us. We put our pajamas on and curl each other’s hair and Terra doesn’t join us. I ask Honey, her real name and a very knowing girl, if something happened. She shrugs. “She lost one of the games,” she says and her eyes have grown sharp, nostrils flaring. “I can’t believe she’s still throwing tantrums.” I go to Terra all by myself and I ask her about Mr. Sanchez’s class—a favorite topic of anyone who struggles in school.

Terra makes a face and explodes into one of her rants and I kind of like listening for as long as I can listen. I leave her to go find my sleeping bag around midnight. It’s late and I’m tired and distractable. There are more girls and more rooms, it’s a Bethany party after all, and Mandy is talking about a crush from summer camp that started writing her love letters. This was my favorite kind of talk—fortunes and secrets and future-talk.

It must be past midnight when I get back. The talk of crushes had circled around to me and I didn’t have anything to contribute except that it sounded nice. I leave, go back to the den, clutch my sleeping bag to my chest and nearly step into a puddle. I let out a squeak. I’m in the den room and there’s a puddle where Terra used to be and Olivia is laughing with Honey and maybe she isn’t so knowing.

“Where is Terra?” I ask, trying to smother how alarmed I am. Honey shakes her head and I hear it: crying, close to wailing. “What happened?”

“Just an accident,” Olivia says, sharp-eyed. I throw my sleeping bag to the floor and go to the stairs. If I was braver maybe I would have yelled at Olivia and Honey or told someone else. I enter a long narrow space and the crying carries through the hallway, piercing and miserable.

“Terra?” I call. “I’m sure they didn’t mean it.” I wish, later, I’d said something else. The hallway is unlit, sloping upward, and I bump into a sidetable that nearly falls over. Crying, so miserable it fills me up too, carries through the space and I have to force myself toward the noise. “Are you there?” I knock on the first door and my knuckles come away warm. “Don’t do that!” I scold the door, angry.

I keep my eyes on it so it doesn’t move, a plain brown door, and go to the next one over. Wailing comes from the other side and I draw a deep breath. The door always disappears quickly, especially when someone else was there too. “Terra?” I knock and the door knocks back.

My heart jams in my throat. Wind whips against the door from the other side and I don’t scold it this time. I keep walking, hairs on my arm standing on end. Pitiful weeping drenches the air and I go from door to door, pressing my ear to each one. Someone is crying on the other side. I feel like crying myself. I had never seen so many before. Did I already walk through, somehow? Is this what was on the other side of the doorway? More doorways, forever.

Long, white tendrils peak out from under one of them, reaching.

“Darlene?” It’s Bethany, which is kind of her, but the other girl looks cross. “This wing isn’t set-up for the party.”

I take deep breaths and the room rights itself. “I’m looking for Terra.”

“Well, she isn’t up here.” Bethany shoos me with both hands, but I cock my head to the side. The other girl studies me. “What is it?”

“Do you hear that?” I say and the crying is so fine and thin and hard against the ear.

We find Terra eventually, down in the kitchen breaking glasses one by one, and the other girls begin to talk. Mostly about Terra, then about Darlene up near the attic, listening to voices.

Four: I apply to five colleges on the east coast and one down the street. I don't accept any of the ones with different area codes. It would save on gas, wouldn’t it? To go to my father's university. He asks me if I am excited and I shrug. “I don’t know what I’m going to study,” I reply, like a mantra, and it’s true.

I’d go to my father’s college but I wasn’t going to study math. Or computers. Or history. Or theatre, god help me. I was going to go to college and attend everything and meet no one and see doorways.

I am leaving, I am always leaving things, and my bag tugs at my shoulder. I had played tennis all throughout high school and it gave me a bad shoulder. It’s late and the library will be closing in just an hour. The study group is three girls and two boys and we spread out across a long wooden table covered in crumbs despite the fact there’s no food allowed.

I stop to rub my shoulder and one of the boys jumps up.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Craig, or something, asks, all sparkle in his eyes.,

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s no trouble, really. Plus, it’s dark out.”

I wave a hand through the air. Truthfully, I wanted to study more. I had a test the next day but the study group had strayed so far from basic chemistry problems that I might as well be on my own.

“I don’t want you—” Craig, or something, continues, but I smile and retreat with a few pleasantries.

“I wasn’t planning on going to the dorms anyway, I wouldn’t want to keep you,” I say, making up plans on the spot. “My dad’s house is close.” I fast-walk toward the elevators, waving and smiling. The study door swings open followed by Craig’s mild, shuffling steps. Irritation flares in my core.

I duck behind one of the stacks of books and into a spare room. He meant well, I know, but I was emptied-out. I got that way sometimes, with the barest self inside myself, and college had been pushing that. I was tired of signing up for things. My father wasn’t even there to ask how they went.

The spare study room was like our last one: one long wooden table, a white board, and padded square seats. I cross the room to the window and stare out, pretending to be watching the moon. The only difference between this room and the last is that the lights are off and you have a view of the manmade lake in the center of the quad.

I watch the moon over the water and don’t know what happens to Craig, maybe he keeps looking for me, maybe he goes home. I wait until he must decide to do something else and feel myself aging in place.

When I turn, my breath catches in my throat. There are two doorways. One plain, practical door is on the left and the other on the right. They look exactly the same, a light-brown wood with a square window in the center. I knew this would happen one day, of course. It wasn’t even the first time. But I didn’t know this room—I hadn’t memorized the layout, the exits, the original door.

I wipe my palms on my jeans and go to them. Both the windows show the same scene: empty library stacks and rows of study rooms. I lift my hand up to touch the front of the door and then stop myself. I hadn’t closed it all the way when I came in. A tiny crack between me and the other side, and if I touched the door, would that count as going through? I take a step back.

Each door is slightly ajar, showing the same scene of plain white walls and thin carpets on the other side. I close my eyes and listen to the stillness. Sometimes, I let my mind wander to what was on the other side. Snow, I thought, and wind. Other people, other places.

But my mother would have told me if it was someplace worth visiting, right? Someplace you could come back from. When I open my eyes, I know which doorway is the real one. Pay attention to the shadows, I hear my mother say, if there is something to see. And the shadows on the room on the left don’t seem to overlap.

I’ll go home tonight, I think, to my dad’s house, and I’ll sleep in our hammock in the backyard. Sometimes I do that, when the weather is nice, and sleep somewhere without doors.

I look up and a face stares back at me. I force myself to stay put. She is smiling with all of her teeth and her eyes crinkle at the corner. And it’s me. I am on the other side, smiling, plain and pale and bespeckled. The other me smiles so wide it looks like it hurts and me, the me on this side, gulps down one breath after the next. I go for the right door, diving for the knob and nearly trip over my own feet . The last thing I see is the whites of her eyes, and the fog of her breath pushed up against the glass.

Five: My boss is not a bad person. Maybe she didn’t get to learn a lot of emotional regulation growing up. Maybe she needs a hug. I stand in front of her desk and hum the Star Trek theme in my head—not out loud, of course, she wouldn’t like that.

“Fucking incompetants, can’t find the right side of their butt cheeks from the left . . .” She faces the wall, the back of her tall bun reaching for the ceiling, and I feel the burn of my resignation letter in my back pocket. I had carried it on you for the last two weeks, waiting for the right time to hand it over. “Fucking lunatics. Who raised them?”

I turned down two university research grants for this, I think. But the private sector had muscle behind it. Something other than my father’s desk and my father’s students and round glasses which I also still wore. I didn’t study math, and I had to tell myself chemistry was altogether different. And this was supposed to be a good pharmacy company, a different kind. We were supposed to help people—maybe one that could have helped my mother.

“And you,” my boss snaps, turning like a military general to her troops, “where were those emails? The communication you said you were so good at when things were falling off the ugly end of bad?” I purse my lips and Mrs. Cambrie's eyes narrow. “Nothing? No explanation for where my emails went? No defense? Begging?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She waves a hand in the air. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you for the next few days.”

My heart drops. I recognized that look. And I hadn’t even gotten the chance to give her my resignation letter. I go over the numbers in my head and maybe there wouldn’t be a company to come back to.

Fuck you, I think over and over again in my head and the words sour on the end of my tongue. Fuck you! I turn, and exit the room. There will be another company. I think of all my credentials piling up. Hell, there might be a grant still available from the university.

I am walking, I am walking, I am walking. There is somewhere to go after this, I think. My breath catches and catches again and a pain surges through my bad shoulder like I’m struck by lightning. I nearly drop to the floor but I have to at least get out of the damn building. I manage to soldier my way to the elevators, it’s the weekend and we’re nearly empty.

“You okay?” The building is nearly empty. “Hey, you, are you okay? I think you dropped something.” One of the interns, too young to know any better, is at the other end of the hallway. She has the young, pinched face of a bunny rabbit, and holds my bag, my jacket, one shoe in her hand. I hadn’t even noticed taking them off.

“I’m fine.” The elevator dings and I walk out of my other shoe. I hunch into myself, the door closes and the pain on my left side feels like a heart attack. Clutching my chest, I let my breaths come out as sharp and painful as they please. I’m tired of making them better.

The elevator dings and I know what’s on the other side. I know how the metal doors will slide open, and the shadows on the other side won’t overlap. “Please,” I say and close my eyes. “Enough.”

The doors blessedly close and open on another empty office space. I drop to the floor and feel the cold wind blow on my face. I watch the numbers on the elevator go up and down. Eleventy, says one of the numbers, zero says the other, and purple is at the end. The zero is perfectly round, and I think of my father and then Gary. Gary stopped by a few more times over the years. The last time was when I graduated college and he toasted me with tears in his eyes. I was so flustered by this that I had to leave the room.

Later, alone, just the two of us for once, I was so flustered I asked him where he had been. He apologized to me about the way he left. Why did you do it then? I said and Gary’s mouth turned into a squiggly line.

“I loved you both.” I didn't like how he said this. “But it wasn’t working. Not with everything your father wasn’t,” he gulped, “well, it wasn’t working.”

My father came back in then, and we stopped talking about anything that circled around “love” and I left knowing what I wanted for once in my life. The private sector had might behind it, something beyond my father’s shrinking. Maybe we’d find her, I think, maybe I’d make a drug that helped her stay. My mother suffered, they said, and she was so well put-together until she wasn’t.

The elevator door dings and music plays, soft and lyrical and I smell snow in the air. I still hadn’t seen snow—I barely left California. We get to the bottom level of the elevator and the doors slide open. The air smells musty with the dank of the garage. Dark and cool, I can make out the last few cars in the lot. Someone sits in their black shiny corolla and I recognize the sheer height of her bun. My boss sits in her car, unmoving, looking straight ahead and I can only imagine what she tells herself when she’s alone.

The shadows are normal on this level. The metal of the door is cool.

I let the doors close, I stand, and push the button for the first floor. I don’t own a car. I get out on the next level and the front desk person tells me to have a nice Saturday. I smile at him and there is a door in the middle of the lobby, standing all by itself. The door is golden and red like a hotel door at the best place you’ve ever stayed. It opens, so easily, hot against my palm, and I walk through.

Snow lands on my cheeks and I walk through the door. Shadows pool at my heels and I walk through the door. I begin to laugh, a raucous joy building in my center and spilling out. I smile and smile and go through the door. Wind scrapes against my cheeks, spraying me with snow and dirt and I walk through the door. I don’t know where I am. I am not anywhere. Mold grows under my fingernails. Tears stream down my face. White roots grow from my knuckles and trail behind me in dirty clumps. I go through the doorway. I make it to a pink, pink door, half my size, and crawl through a tunnel made of earth.

There is a crib. She’s awake, what a beautiful thing, and her hair curls soft on her small head. I kiss her forehead, smiling and speaking in my unused voice. “Don’t go through the doorway.”

FIN

#short story #fiction #campfire story #scary story #original story #horror story #my work #4k

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swiftjay23 · 2 days ago

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𝓜ɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ: 𝓓ᴏɴ'ᴛ 𝓕ᴀʟʟ 𝓘ɴ 𝓛ᴏᴠᴇ

SUMMARY: Two assassins forced into a joint mission were never supposed to want each other. You’ve built your life on precision, control, and silence. Jake thrives on chaos, recklessness, and infuriating smirks. But when a mission turns sideways and one of you is taken, the line between survival and obsession blurs. Every fight, every kiss, every near-death escape pulls you deeper into a love you swore would ruin you, and maybe already has.

PAIRING: Assassin!Jake × Assassin!Reader

GENRE: Romance Thriller, Enemies-to-Lovers, Action, Smut, Angst

WARNINGS: Graphic violence, gunfights, blood, knives, language, kidnapping, semi-public sex (car/safehouse), rough sex, possessiveness, obsession, enemies-to-lovers bickering, unsafe workplace relationships, slight aftercare, minor injury mentions

WORD COUNT: 14,272 words (ACTUALLY TAKE AWAY MY INTERNET)

For: @rosepetals09, your request was so enjoyable to write, I hope you like it

You’d been in this life long enough that you stopped counting the years. Long enough that the blood on your hands didn’t always scrub off, no matter how hard you dug your nails into your skin. Long enough that you forgot what a normal life was supposed to look like.

Wake. Train. Kill. Repeat. That was it. That was all you had.

There was a strange peace in it sometimes, the order of things, the efficiency. You had been sharpened into a weapon, honed and perfected, and the agency was more than happy to keep using you until there was nothing left. Fine. That’s what you were good at. That’s all you were good at.

You didn’t complain. Not really. Except maybe when the higher-ups got smug about it, like they were the ones who had to pull the trigger, like they were the ones who had to go to bed with the image of someone’s face still in their scope. But you’d gotten used to swallowing that down, too.

What you hadn’t gotten used to was him. Sim Jaeyun. Your partner in hell, if hell had a leather jacket and a smile sharp enough to slit throats. The spy with the perfect hair, the irritatingly charming grin, and the goddamn audacity to think he was better than you.

Jake. The bane of your existence.

From the moment he was transferred into your unit, he’d been nothing but a pain in your ass. Always one step ahead, always finding a way to turn your clean, efficient plans into a spectacle just so he could take the credit. Always smirking when he caught you glaring at him across the room, like he lived to get under your skin.

And he did. God, did he.

The worst part wasn’t that he was good, he was. Too good, maybe. Too clever by half, slipping in and out of roles like second skins, talking his way through checkpoints you would’ve just eliminated. It wasn’t even that he was reckless, though he was that, too, grinning when the bullets flew, improvising when you wanted precision, never, ever doing things your way. No, the worst part was that he was hot. Infuriatingly, gut-twistingly hot.

The kind of hot that made you clench your jaw when he leaned over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. The kind of hot that made your stomach drop when he smiled at a target like he was in love with them, just to get what he wanted. The kind of hot that made you hate yourself for noticing the cut of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched across his chest, the veins that flexed when he gripped his gun.

You hated him. You hated how much you wanted him. And maybe that was the real problem.

History had a way of repeating itself, and with Sim Jaeyun, history always ended with blood—or with clothes torn off in the dark.

You’d lost track of how many times you’d crossed paths on the field. Different assignments, different cities, same outcome: him standing in your way, smirk plastered across his face like he’d been waiting for you all along. He’d stolen targets right out from under your scope. You’d almost slit his throat once, only to have him grin as if you’d just kissed him. The two of you had danced on the edge of killing each other more times than you could count.

And then there was the night neither of you ever spoke about.

It was supposed to be a truce, temporary, uneasy, a survival necessity when you were both cornered. Instead it turned into something else. Into hands gripping too tight, nails dragging across skin, teeth sinking into shoulders. Into his mouth against yours like you hated each other enough to bruise, like you needed to spit every curse into each other’s lungs just to breathe.

The sex had been nothing short of war. A different kind of violence. You hated him then, you hated him after, and you hated how vividly you remembered the way he’d sounded when he came. Neither of you ever mentioned it again. But you both remembered. Which was why the announcement hit like a bullet to the gut.

“Effective immediately, Assassin Y/N and Agent Sim Jaeyun will be assigned as partners for the duration of Operation Ghost Orchid.”

The briefing room was cold, sterile, filled with the quiet scratch of pens and the hum of the projector. But you didn’t hear any of it. Your focus zeroed in on the smug bastard sitting across the table, leaning back in his chair like he’d just won the lottery.

You shot up instantly. “Absolutely not.”

He echoed you in perfect unison. “No fucking way.”

The room went silent. The handler didn’t even flinch. “This is not a request. It’s an order.”

You felt heat crawl up your spine, a bitter taste in your mouth. A long-term operation. Deep cover. You and him, side by side, living as a pair for weeks, months, maybe. Pretending to be something you weren’t, while fighting the urge to kill him every time he opened his mouth.

Jake tilted his head, lips curling in that infuriating smirk. “Guess you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.” You wanted to strangle him. You wanted to fuck him. He was the problem.

The safehouse was quiet except for the low hum of the single lamp on the desk. You sat across from him, dossiers and surveillance photos spread between you like the board of a twisted game neither of you wanted to play.

“Operation Ghost Orchid,” Jake muttered, tapping the edge of a photo with his pen. “The cover is clean, but the trafficking ring is deeper than the agency thinks. They’re not just importing weapons, they’re importing people.”

You didn’t even blink. You’d seen worse. You were worse. Instead, you leaned forward, scanning the blueprint he was so casually scribbling over. “Your entry point is suicide.”

His brows shot up. “My entry point?”

“Climbing the east wall?” You jabbed the map with your finger. “They’ve got motion sensors up the side. You’ll set off every alarm in a two-block radius before you even get your foot on the ledge.”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, lips tugging into that smug little smirk that made your blood boil. “That’s why you disable them before I get there.”

Your laugh came out sharp, humorless. “You assume I’ll risk my cover just to babysit your sorry ass?”

“No,” he said easily, eyes glittering. “I assume you’ll do it because you want the mission to succeed. Unless you’d rather watch the whole thing go up in flames. Again.”

The word again hit like a gunshot. You clenched your jaw, refusing to rise to it, but the memory burned fresh anyway, one of your last missions colliding, both of you chasing the same intel, both refusing to back down. The job had turned into a bloodbath. You still had the scar.

Jake leaned forward, elbows on the table, and for one stupid second your eyes dragged down to the veins flexing along his forearms, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders. Heat licked low in your belly. You forced it down, gritting your teeth.

“We’re not doing it your way,” you bit out. “We go in from the ground. Blend in. The less attention, the better. We need to watch, gather, think before we charge in guns blazing.”

He gave you a long, slow look, like he was trying to peel back your skin and see what made you tick. Then he laughed, soft and disbelieving. “Blend in? Sweetheart, you stand out like a knife in a kindergarten class.”

Your chair screeched against the floor as you shoved it back, fury boiling over. “Say that again.”

Jake tilted his head, unconcerned. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You hated how calm he was, how steady his voice stayed even when yours cracked with venom. You hated the way his lips curved around every insult, how the sound of his voice curled down your spine like smoke. And God help you, you hated how hot he was when he did it.

You crossed your arms, spine stiff. “At least I don’t rely on cheap tricks and dumb luck.”

“Cheap tricks?” His grin sharpened. “You mean strategy. Charisma. Adaptability. Things you wouldn’t recognize if they stared you in the face.”

“Strategy doesn’t involve blowing your cover to flirt with every contact that has a pulse.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

The worst part was that it did. You’d watched him slip through checkpoints, sweet-talk guards, charm his way into places you’d only get into by breaking bones. He could be anyone, wear anyone’s skin, and no one questioned it. That was what scared you.

“Your arrogance is going to get us both killed,” you snapped.

“And your control issues are going to keep us from ever finishing the job.” His gaze dropped to your mouth for one infinitesimal second, so quick you almost thought you imagined it. “We both know it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The hum of the lamp. The tick of the clock on the wall. His eyes locked on yours, steady, unreadable, and suddenly the space between you felt too small. You remembered the truce. The heat of his mouth, the way he’d shoved you against a wall with the same fire burning in his eyes now. The way you’d clawed down his back, hating him, needing him, both of you using each other like weapons.

Your thighs pressed together under the table before you realized what you were doing. You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady. “We’ll do it my way.”

Jake’s smile returned, infuriatingly calm. “We’ll see.”

You slammed the file shut, shoving it toward him. “You can’t keep treating this like some game.”

“It’s not a game,” he said softly. His tone dropped, almost too low, and you hated the way it curled around your ribs. “It’s survival. And survival means doing whatever it takes. Even if it means working with you.”

The way he said you, low, rough, like it was both a curse and something he couldn’t stop tasting, made your chest tighten. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to do anything that would wipe that smug, dangerous look off his face.

Instead, you pushed away from the table, pacing to the window, needing distance. The city lights burned cold in the dark. “This partnership is going to fail.”

Behind you, his chair creaked as he leaned back. “Not if you learn how to play nice.”

You turned, eyes narrowing. “I don’t play.”

Jake’s grin widened, slow and lethal. “No. You don’t. But you break real pretty.”

Heat flooded your cheeks before you could stop it. You hated him more than you’d ever hated anyone. You hated the way he got under your skin. You hated the way your body betrayed you, remembering too much, wanting too much.

“We set out at five tomorrow, don’t be late,” Jake whistled, grabbing his jacket as he got up to leave. “The agency issued a car.”

Your jaw ticked, “I’m never late, Sim Jaeyun.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards into a wicked curve, “We’ll see.”

And the worst part? You knew this was only the beginning.

The morning was cruel.

Gray skies pressed low against the horizon, and the streets were slick with last night’s rain when you dragged your duffel out to the curb. The agency-issued sedan sat idling, exhaust curling white in the cold air, and leaning against the hood like he owned it, like he owned everything, was Sim Jaeyun.

Of course he looked good. Even at five in the goddamn morning. Black jeans, plain white tee under his leather jacket, hair pushed back like he’d just run a hand through it and called it a day. He looked casual, like he wasn’t about to embark on a three-day drive into enemy territory. Like this was just a road trip with an old friend.

You hated him. “You’re late,” he said, smirk curling lazy across his mouth.

You glanced at your watch. “It’s five-oh-three.”

“Which is three minutes late.” He pushed off the hood, circling around to the driver’s side. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. I forgive you.”

You clenched your jaw, throwing your bag into the backseat with more force than necessary before sliding into the passenger seat. “Don’t call me that.”

The car smelled faintly of leather and his cologne, clean, sharp, a hint of wood, irritatingly good, and you already knew this was going to be hell.

Jake slid behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over it, the other adjusting the radio before you could even protest. Some easy, low-tempo playlist filled the silence as he pulled onto the empty road.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The world outside was still half-asleep, gas stations dark, fields slick with dew. You watched it pass by, the hum of the tires beneath you, and told yourself you could survive this. Three days. That was it. You’d survived worse.

Then he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth curved again.

“What?” you snapped.

“Nothing.” He kept his gaze on the road, but you could see the amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “Just… didn’t peg you as the type to put in this much effort for a road trip.”

Your brows knit. “Effort?”

He gestured loosely at you. “Hair, makeup. That shirt. You look like you’re about to walk into a magazine shoot, not an op briefing.”

Heat prickled under your skin, though you shoved it down. Of course you looked put together, discipline was everything, and you weren’t about to let him see you sweat. Not even on a three-day stakeout drive. “It’s called professionalism. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

He huffed a laugh. “Professionalism, huh? That why your lipstick’s smudged? Or is that for my benefit?”

You whipped toward him. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe. But I’m observant.”

You crossed your arms, nails digging into your sleeves, and focused hard on the blurred lines of the highway instead of the man beside you. But he made it impossible, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music, jaw tight as he chewed on a stick of gum, veins flexing under the sleeve of his jacket. You hated how pretty he looked in profile. You hated that he knew you were looking.

“So what’s the plan, oh great professional?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence again.

You shot him a glare. “We already went over this last night.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear it again. In case you’ve changed your mind about doing it the wrong way.”

“Wrong way?” you scoffed. “I’m not the one who thinks climbing walls lined with sensors is smart.”

“It’s called improvising.”

“It’s called reckless.”

He shot you a grin, eyes flicking from the road to you for just a second too long. “Admit it, you like when I’m reckless.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “I’d like it better if you drove into the nearest ditch.”

“Harsh,” he said, feigning a wince. “I thought we were bonding.”

You barked a laugh. “We are not bonding. We’re tolerating.”

Jake leaned back in his seat, clearly enjoying himself. “You keep telling yourself that.”

The miles stretched on. By midday, you’d stopped at a gas station, the kind with flickering fluorescent lights and stale coffee, and he had the nerve to buy you one without asking. Just slid it across the counter toward you with that same infuriating grin.

“Don’t read into it,” he said when you narrowed your eyes. “If you’re cranky, the drive’s going to be hell for me.”

You took it anyway. Out of spite. Out of need. Out of the fact that you couldn’t stop your pulse from jumping every time his fingers brushed too close to yours.

Back on the road, the tension didn’t ease. If anything, it thickened, stretched, pulled taut. You argued over the route. Over the cover story. Over whether the radio should stay on.

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever worked with,” you muttered after the third disagreement.

“Funny,” he said easily, glancing at you with that damnable smile. “You’re the best I’ve ever worked with. Keeps me on my toes.”

You stared at him, thrown for just a second, and in that beat of silence the world outside seemed to slow. His eyes caught yours, steady, unreadable, and your chest tightened in a way you didn’t want to name. You broke the gaze first, turning back to the window, biting down hard on your lip.

Three days. You could survive three days. Couldn’t you?

By the time you pulled into the motel lot, you were ready to kill him.

Four hours of endless highway, cheap coffee, and his voice filling every possible silence with arguments and smug little quips. You’d fought over navigation, over music, over the definition of “shortest route.” He’d made snide comments about your driving. You’d threatened to dump him on the side of the road. At one point, he even had the audacity to sing along to the radio, loudly, off-key, just to see the vein in your temple twitch. You’d never hated anyone more in your life.

The motel itself wasn’t much to look at, neon sign buzzing faintly in the dusk, paint peeling from the siding, a row of doors lined up like soldiers waiting to collapse. But to you, it looked like salvation. A chance to put a wall between you and him.

You shoved the car door open, slinging your duffel over your shoulder, muttering under your breath, “Finally. Peace.”

Jake trailed after you into the lobby, whistling low, hands shoved in his pockets. The woman behind the desk barely looked up as you gave your names, sliding an envelope across the counter with a keycard inside.

“Reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Park,” she said with a polite smile.

You froze. “Excuse me?”

Jake leaned in, plucking the envelope from the counter before you could react. His grin was devastating. “That’s us, darling.”

You turned on him, heat rushing up your neck. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He held up the keycard like a magician revealing a trick. “I wish I were.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Honeymoon suite.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, already heading toward the stairs. “It’s on the agency’s dime. Take it up with them if you want, but something tells me they’re not gonna spring for a second room.”

You stormed after him, heart pounding with fury, or maybe panic, maybe both. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Who said anything about sharing? I can take the couch. Unless…” His eyes flicked down, slow, deliberate, and the air between you sparked. “…you want to share.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re mad,” he said without missing a beat, pushing open the door to your “suite.” The room hit you like a punchline.

Pink walls. Heart-shaped mirror. A bed big enough to fit four people, covered in silky red sheets. There were rose petals scattered across the comforter, for God’s sake. A bottle of cheap champagne sweating in an ice bucket by the nightstand.

You stared. Jake laughed.

“This is a joke,” you muttered.

“Best one the agency’s ever pulled.” He tossed his bag onto the bed, flopping back onto it with a groan of exaggerated satisfaction. “Ahhh, finally. Home sweet home.”

You resisted the urge to lob your duffel at his head. “Get off.”

“Make me.”

You swore under your breath, pacing toward the window, shoving the curtains open just to give your hands something to do. Outside, the neon motel sign blinked lazily, casting pink light across the room. You caught your reflection in the glass, flushed, tense, eyes too bright. You looked… dangerous.

And behind you, sprawled across red silk like he belonged there, Jake looked even worse.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “This is hell.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, voice low, lazy, curling around you like smoke.

You hated him. You hated him more than ever. And you hated how badly you wanted to strangle him, or climb on top of him, both at once.

The argument lasted forty minutes. Forty minutes of raised voices, threats to call the agency, Jake sprawled smugly across the mattress like he owned it, you pacing like a caged animal.

“Couch,” you said firmly, pointing.

“Nope.” He tucked his hands behind his head. “My back’s worth more than a busted spring.”

“Then sleep on the floor.”

“Princess, this is a honeymoon suite. The floor’s for rose petals, not my spine.”

You wanted to strangle him. You really, really did. But the motel clerk had already given you that knowing, oh, newlyweds look when you’d passed by with Jake’s arm draped across your shoulders in mock affection. Raising hell now would only draw more attention.

So, with the kind of reluctant defeat that tasted like acid, you grabbed every extra useless pillow the room had to offer, six in total, and stacked them in a fortress down the middle of the bed.

“There,” you declared, climbing onto your side. “Cross this wall and you die.”

Jake whistled low. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

The sheets were slippery under your skin, satin clinging to the heat of your body. You turned onto your side, facing him out of sheer defiance. He was doing the same, propped up on an elbow, hair messy from travel, still wearing that stupid grin. Between you, the pillow wall loomed like a monument to your mutual stubbornness.

“Fine,” he said after a beat, voice softer. “Let’s go over the plan, then.”

You blinked. “…Now?”

He shrugged. “Might as well. You’ll sleep better once you stop worrying about it.”

So you did. Half-whispered strategy across a barricade of pillows, trading intel and contingencies in the dim pink glow bleeding through the curtains. His tone shifted, less cocky, more clipped, professional, but now and then, the real Jake slipped through. A dry joke about your handwriting. A quiet snort when you mimicked the agency director’s voice. The little things that made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to examine.

By the time the plan was ironclad, you were both sinking into your respective halves of the mattress, words slurring at the edges.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” you murmured.

Jake’s eyes were half-lidded, lashes brushing his cheeks. “Mm. At least we’ll look well-rested for our honeymoon photos.”

You groaned, grabbing a pillow and lobbing it at him. It bounced off his shoulder, collapsing the “wall” you’d built.

He smirked. “Guess the barrier’s down.”

You shoved the pillow back into place, cheeks warm. “Sleep, Mr. Park.”

His gaze lingered on you, softer than it had any right to be. “Goodnight, darling.” And despite every ounce of resentment simmering in your veins, you almost smiled before you closed your eyes.

Hours later, the world outside had quieted into near-perfect silence. The neon glow had dimmed, replaced by the steady hum of the air conditioner, and the motel room smelled faintly of fabric softener and him.

You’d long since accepted that you weren’t moving the pillows again. They were flattened under the weight of your tired limbs, no longer a proper barricade, more of a symbolic wall at this point.

Half-asleep, you felt the edge of the blanket shift. You frowned, lifting your head slightly. Jake had pulled it over you, careful, almost imperceptibly, but still. You froze, chest tightening, because the gesture had a softness that he didn’t usually allow.

“Hey,” you mumbled, voice rough with sleep and irritation. “Don’t… don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured back, eyes closed, but the corner of his lips tugged up anyway. “Just… making sure you’re not freezing.”

You huffed quietly, flopping back onto your side, arms crossed. “I don’t need your help.”

“No,” he said softly. “You just… look cold.”

And God, he had a point. You were half-shivering under the silk, heart beating a little faster than it should. You glared at him, knowing he couldn’t see it. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

He chuckled quietly, low, warm, and something about the sound made your body tighten in a way you refused to acknowledge. “Mm. Yeah. But apparently, I’m also nice in my sleep.”

You froze, blinked, then rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re ridiculous.”

He made a soft noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I just… like this. Being near you. Even like this. Doesn’t happen often.”

Your heart thudded and you wished it didn’t. “Mm-hmm.” You turned back toward the wall of pillows, hoping he wouldn’t notice how tense your fingers had gotten, how hot your cheeks felt.

Minutes stretched into the quiet rhythm of breathing, his even, yours shallow and uneven. Every now and then, your hand brushed against the edge of a pillow he was holding too close to the “wall,” and your chest jumped. He never moved his hand away.

Eventually, your half-lidded eyes met his. He was staring, not with the smugness that usually made your blood boil, but softly, almost tenderly. You looked away, heart thudding.

“You’re going to hate me if I say this,” he whispered, “but… I could get used to this.”

You swallowed, chest tight, because part of you wanted to argue, part of you wanted to tell him to shut up, and part of you wanted to lean closer, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his arm against the pillow wall.

“I won’t,” you said instead, flat, stubborn.

He smirked just a little, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Good. Neither will I.”

The rest of the night passed in near silence, words reduced to murmurs over mission details, each of you half-asleep, half-alert. Occasionally, your fingers brushed when adjusting pillows or blankets, and neither of you moved away.

By the time sleep fully claimed you, the room felt less like a trap and more like… this could be tolerable. Almost domestic. Almost safe. Almost… something dangerously close to… peace.

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. You stirred first, groaning as your body stretched, muscles still tight from travel and the mental exhaustion of yesterday’s arguments. The pillows between you and him were flattened remnants of a fortress, barely a barrier now, but you didn’t care, yet.

Quietly, carefully, you eased yourself from the bed. Jake was still, seemingly asleep, one arm draped lazily across the pillows, phone tucked in the other hand. You thought you were safe. Thought you could slip out, grab your clothes, and disappear into the bathroom without incident.

The shower was warm, steam curling around you, washing away the stiffness and tension. For a moment, you almost relaxed, letting the sound of running water fill the room. But when you stepped out and reached for your clothes, you froze. They weren’t there.

“Oh, fuck,” you muttered, realizing you’d left them by the bed, where he was… supposedly asleep.

Assuming he was still knocked out, you wrapped the towel tight around your chest and tiptoed out, ignoring the way the silk sheet pooled around his side of the bed. Just a few steps, grab the clothes, and back to the shower. Easy. Except… he wasn’t asleep.

Jake’s eyes snapped up from his phone, dark and wide and entirely shameless. And suddenly, it wasn’t just your towel you were acutely aware of, it was your entire body. He was raking his gaze down you slowly, deliberately, taking in every curve, every inch that wasn’t hidden by the thin fabric of your towel.

Heat flooded your cheeks, gut twisting in a mix of fury, embarrassment, and something far worse. “I—uh—I—”

“Forgot something?” he drawled, voice low and teasing, without even looking away from the screen for a second. His eyes flicked up, smirk curling, then back down, slow and deliberate.

You yanked the towel tighter around you, cheeks burning hotter than the shower you’d just left. “Yes. I—get out of my way.”

He laughed softly, the sound smooth and dangerous, and leaned back against the headboard like he owned the moment. “Or what?”

“Or I—just…” You grabbed your clothes as quickly as you could, fumbling them in your hands, avoiding eye contact like a good little assassin. Every step toward the bathroom was torture; you could feel his stare burning holes into your back.

“Careful,” he said suddenly, mock-serious, “don’t trip. Wouldn’t want me to see… anything more than I already have.”

You spun, threw him a glare sharp enough to pierce steel, and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind you with a final, muttered, asshole.

Inside, you sank against the door, letting the heat from the shower mix with the heat rising in your chest. Heart hammering, pulse racing. He hadn’t even touched you, hadn’t said a word about moving the towel, but the way he looked… the way he had seen you… left a mark deeper than any bruise could.

And the worst part? You knew this was just the beginning of your three-day hell with him.

The road stretched ahead like a promise of trouble. You’d barely eaten, barely slept, and the air in the car was thick with the kind of tension that made your stomach tighten in ways unrelated to fear.

Jake was behind the wheel, hair falling slightly over his forehead, eyes sharp and scanning every turn. You sat in the passenger seat, rifle across your lap, heart hammering, mind calculating exits and angles with cold precision.

“Cover that window,” you snapped, catching movement on the side of the road. “We’ve got company.”

He smirked without taking his eyes off the road. “Relax, darling. I’ve got this.”

You growled. “You never just ‘got it.’ You improvise. You ruin the mission.”

“And you always overthink. Too clean. Too careful. Too boring.”

You turned, ready to argue, when the shadow of a black SUV appeared in the rearview mirror. Heart leaping, you felt the old familiar surge of fear, and something worse: the fear that this time, your strategy would collide violently with his.

“They’re on us,” you hissed, voice tight. “They’re tailing us, definitely trying to copy our route.”

Jake’s smirk faded. His eyes darkened, calculating. Then, just as you were about to object, the car swerved, sharp, almost violent, hugging a curve at impossible speed.

“Jake! Slow down!” you shouted, gripping the edge of the seat.

He glanced at you, one eyebrow quirked, and something in his eyes softened, not mocking, not teasing, but real. He reached across, fingers lacing with yours. The grip was firm, grounding. You stiffened, chest tight, the adrenaline spiking.

“Shhh,” he murmured, voice low, calm, almost intimate. “I’ve got you. Don’t look at them. Don’t think about them. Just hold on.”

Your heart thudded, rapid and uneven, but you let yourself be guided, even as the tires screamed over asphalt and the SUV struggled to follow. The wind whipped past the windows, the world a blur of motion and danger.

Every instinct in your body screamed to act alone, to take the perfect shot, to plan the perfect kill, but the warmth of his hand, the certainty in his grip, grounded you in a way nothing else ever had.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, voice tight, partly from fear, partly from disbelief.

“And you love it,” he said, glance flicking to you for the briefest second, smile teasing but tinged with something unspoken.

Your jaw tightened. “I hate you.”

He only laughed, low and dark, fingers squeezing yours harder, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And yet, here you are.”

The chase twisted through narrow streets, alleys, and open highways. He swerved, ducked, pressed the accelerator past limits you’d thought impossible. The SUV in your rearview mirror faltered, unable to match his audacity.

Somewhere between the adrenaline and the terror, you realized you weren’t just scared of the tail, they’d forced you and Jake together in a way that made you hyperaware of every inch of him. The curve of his jaw, the flex of his fingers around yours, the way his shoulder brushed against yours when he leaned into a turn.

He glanced at you, eyes sharp but warm. “See? We’re fine. You and me.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to remind him that he was reckless, that he could’ve killed both of you a dozen times already. But the words stuck in your throat. You let him pull you along for the ride, hand in his, gripping tight.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel alone.

The safehouse, or whatever you were calling this crumbling cabin in the woods, was small, dark, and reeked faintly of mildew and old pine. Perfect for lying low. Or so you thought. The second the door slammed behind you, adrenaline still crackling from the drive, neither of you had the patience to breathe, let alone speak politely.

You spun on him, chest heaving, fingers trembling with rage, and maybe a little need, and he caught your glare with a smirk so sharp it could cut glass. “You really pushed me today,” he growled, stepping forward, hips brushing yours.

“Yeah? Well, maybe if you’d followed the damn plan instead of racing like a lunatic, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” you snapped.

“Mess?” His laugh was low, dark, vibrating in your chest. “I call it fun.”

You whirled on him, chest heaving, adrenaline still burning through your veins. “Fun? You call nearly getting us killed fun?”

He shrugged, smirk unwavering. “You were gripping my hand like your life depended on it.”

“You shouldn’t have been driving like a maniac!” You jabbed a finger at him, every syllable laced with fury. “Improvising at every turn, ignoring the plan, almost hitting that SUV three times, and—”

“And you were taking shots from the car! Half my plan shot to hell because you refused to let me handle the extraction silently!” His voice was sharp, harsh, dangerous.

You froze for a second, chest tightening, because… he was right. Half the plan was ruined, yes, but it had been because he couldn’t just follow protocol. And yet, staring at him now, flushed, chest heaving, the way his hair fell over his forehead, the wildness in his dark eyes… every ounce of anger you felt twisted into something else. Something hotter.

“Do you ever listen?” you spat, stepping closer, fists clenched at your sides.

“I do listen!” His voice was rising now, matching yours, but every time his gaze flicked to your mouth, every time his hand twitched like he wanted to touch you, it was chaos. Pure chaos.

Before you could reply, his mouth crashed onto yours, teeth clashing, lips bruising. You shoved at him, nails scraping down his shoulders, back, clawing, desperate, hot, trembling. He kissed like a war, teeth, tongue, teeth again, rough and demanding, and your own response was pure instinct: hands tangled in his hair, ripping at the collar of his jacket, dragging him impossibly close.

“Fuck, I hate you,” you hissed, pushing at him, but your body pressed against his anyway, trembling with want.

“I hate how good this feels,” he growled back, sliding a hand down your side, gripping your ass hard, thumbs digging into muscle. “Hate it. Fuck, hate it so much I could drown in it.”

You gasped, nails digging into the leather of his jacket as he pushed you backward, pressing you against the wall. “You think I’m gonna make it easy for you?” you spat, panting, hips grinding on instinct against him.

“Oh, no, darling,” he said, voice low, guttural, dripping with heat. “I don’t want easy. I want messy. I want you screaming my name while I—” His fingers slipped under the waistband of your pants, dragging you flush against him, teasing, probing, and your breath hitched instantly.

“Jake—fuck!” You clawed at his shoulders as his tongue found yours again, teeth nipping, dragging, dominating. He kissed like he owned you, every greedy bite, every press of his body against yours, a claim, a war, and you responded in kind, arching against him, grinding, shoving, biting, scratching, everything feral and desperate inside you screaming for release.

He pressed against you harder, fingers sliding deeper, and the combination of him, the heat, the anger, made your knees buckle. “F-Fuck! You’re—so… so… impossible!” you gasped, nails digging into his back as he gripped your ass and slammed into you, hard.

“I know, darling,” he snarled, voice low, filthy, and then, he plunged his fingers deep, curling, dragging you closer to the edge. “You feel so good, God, I hate it, hate it, hate it, but I can’t stop.”

Your back arched, moans ripped out of you, and every curse you spat felt like fuel to the fire between you. “Jake! Fuck! Don’t stop!”

“Oh, I won’t stop,” he growled, pressing you harder against the wall, tongue in your mouth, teeth biting your lip, hands dragging over every inch of you. “I’ll ruin you, yeah… right here, right now… hate it, love it, all of it, every damn inch of you belongs to me while I make you scream.”

Your fingers fisted in his hair, tugging, scratching, desperate for more, as his hand slid inside your slick folds, curling, thrusting, dragging heat and fire out of you in ragged, feral waves. Every groan, every cry, every curse he dragged out of you made his grin widen, filthy, triumphant, possessive.

“I hate how wet you are for me,” he growled, voice rough, teeth scraping your shoulder, “hate it so much I want to fuck you stupid right here against this wall, and you’re gonna love it. You’re gonna take me, take it all, scream my name while you beg me to stop, and I won’t. Not until you can’t anymore.”

You shivered, knees weak, breath stuttering, body trembling. “Yes, fuck, yes, Jake! Please, God! don’t stop!”

He pressed harder, nails raking down your sides, his fingers thrusting into you, hitting that one spot that made you see stars, hips grinding against yours, teeth, tongue, voice, and hands all claiming you like a battlefield. “That’s it, that’s it, you’re mine, every inch, every whimper, every moan. You feel so damn good I—God, I hate it! Hate it so much I could, fuck!”

The world shrank to you, him, the fire in your veins, the heat, the hunger. Every touch, every thrust, every bite, every growl was war, was lust, was fire and need and domination all at once. You screamed, arching, pulling him impossibly close, dragging him down into the chaos of your rage and want.

And when it finally broke over you, every shred of control, every ounce of hate-lust, every inch of feral, raw need spilling into delirious, screaming release, you clung to him, teeth bared, nails digging, body shaking, and he held you through it, still groaning filthy, hands claiming you, lips biting, teeth scraping, voice low and ragged:

“God, I love ruining you like this,” he whispered, chest heaving against yours.

You gasped, chest heaving, body trembling, nails still digging into him. “I… hate you… but I…”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, low, hard, messy, and you didn’t finish the sentence, because you didn’t need to. The war of want and hate had claimed you both completely.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was pressing you back against the wall again, chest flush to yours, teeth bared in that impossible, feral grin.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice low, rough, dangerous. “Every inch, every sound, every whimper, you don’t get a say anymore.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he backed you up, hips grinding hard against you, teasing, desperate, feral. “Jake—please!” you gasped, voice breaking, body on fire.

“Please? You think I’m gonna stop because you say please?” he hissed, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding down, dragging you flush against him. “No. You’re gonna take me, all of me, and you’re gonna scream, you little brat.”

He unfastened his belt at an animalistic pace, pulling down his briefs just enough to free himself. His cock was flushed red, dripping at the tip, a prominent vein running down his shaft. He caged you against the wall, hooking one leg over his waist. The blunt tip teased your folds as you bit back a moan.

Then, impossibly, he was inside you, slow at first, teasing, filling you completely, and you moaned, nails raking down his back, arching into him, shoving your body against his.

“Fuck, shit, you’re so tight,” he groaned, eyes dark, teeth nipping your shoulder as he pressed harder. “So fucking wet for me, even though you hate me. You hate me, and you take me like this anyway, God, I love it.”

You couldn’t form words, only screams and curses spilling out as he thrust, slow, deliberate, every movement dragging you closer to the edge, every thrust igniting fire down to your core.

“Mine. All mine,” he growled, hand sliding down your thigh, pressing impossibly close, dragging you against him with each stroke. “You feel too good, you hear me? Too good, and I’m gonna ruin you. Fuck, I love this, I hate this, and I don’t give a fuck, take it, take it, take me!”

You grabbed his shoulders, shoving, clawing, dragging him impossibly closer, hips meeting, grinding, desperate for every inch. “Jake, fuck! I’m gonna—”

“Yes!” he snapped, teeth grazing your neck, lips biting, voice low, guttural, filthy. “Yes, scream for me! Beg for me! Take it all, take me like the brat you are!”

Every thrust was a war, teeth, nails, lips, hands, bodies colliding, and you didn’t care about anything but the fire in your veins, the way he filled you, the raw, obscene heat. “God, harder! Faster!” you shrieked, arching, nails digging into him, moans breaking into screams.

“Fuck! You’re so tight, so hot for me, even when you hate me!” he growled, slamming into you with feral force, hands gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him. “I’m gonna make you scream my name until it’s all you can do to breathe, yeah? You hear me? All you can do is take me!”

You screamed, body shuddering, nails raking down his back, toes curling, chest heaving, voice raw, every nerve ending on fire as he drove into you with relentless, feral precision.

“God, I hate how good this is!” he hissed, low, guttural, voice rough with need. “Hate it, love it, fucking take it, take me, come for me, now!”

And with one final, impossible thrust, your world exploded. Screams tore from your chest, body trembling, shaking, quaking under the feral, filthy rhythm of him filling you, taking you, claiming you completely.

He groaned low, voice ragged, lips brushing yours as he followed, body shuddering, thrusting through his own release, holding you tight against him, teeth grazing your shoulder, murmuring filth and claims in between harsh, ragged breaths.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice low, hoarse. “All mine. You can scream, you can curse, you can hate me all you want, you’re mine.”

You clung to him, shaking, nails dug into his back, chest heaving, mind melting into the feral heat of what had just happened, hate, lust, need, and fire all colliding in one messy, obscene, perfect storm.

The sun had barely risen when you were back on the road, the safehouse already a distant memory, but its lingering heat still clung to your skin, to your thoughts. You and Jake had been partnered officially for less than twenty-four hours, and already the cracks were showing.

He insisted on improvising the approach to the target, weaving through side streets, taking risks that made your stomach knot. “You’ll thank me later,” he said, voice low, smug, eyes glinting with that dangerous certainty.

“You’re insane,” you spat, adjusting your grip on the scoped rifle across your lap. “Do you see the cameras? Do you see the guards? Your way is reckless. We do this clean, or we don’t do it at all.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” He swerved sharply, narrowly missing a parked truck, and you yelped, slamming your hands against the dashboard.

“I swear to god, if you do anything stupid, we’ll be dead before we even reach the building!”

Jake’s laugh was low, dangerous, vibrating in your chest. “Relax, darling. I’ve got this.”

No. No you didn’t. He never did. And yet every reckless word, every sharp retort, scraped against your nerves like steel, sparking heat in places you refused to acknowledge. Your mind screamed for focus, for clean kills, precision, control, but your body… your body remembered the night before. Remembered the weight of him, the way he filled you, the fire, and it betrayed you at every turn.

By the time you reached the outskirts of the target area, silence pressed down like a physical weight. Not peace, silence before a storm. The ground was wrong, too still, too neat. And then you saw it.

“Trap,” you muttered, stopping him with a hand on his chest.

Jake’s gaze flicked down to where your palm pressed against him, then back to the faint wire glinting in the dirt. The smirk that usually followed, the one that always made you want to punch him square in the jaw, was absent. His expression was all sharp edges, eyes narrowing as he crouched low.

“Good eye,” he murmured, defusing the line with quick, steady hands. His voice was low, a whisper meant only for you, and it sent shivers down your spine despite yourself.

You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve kept distance. But your hand stayed there, lingering against the heat of his chest even after he shifted closer, closer, until you felt his breath ghost against your cheek.

“Don’t freeze up on me now,” he whispered.

“I don’t freeze,” you shot back, jaw tight, forcing your hand away as if his touch burned.

He straightened, towering just slightly, close enough to make your pulse hammer. Close enough that if you leaned a fraction forward, if you gave in, you’d be kissing him. Biting him. Losing yourself again.

“Good,” Jake said finally, brushing past you, his arm deliberately grazing yours as he moved ahead, voice laced with something darker than simple approval. “Because I need you sharp. Not distracted.”

But as you followed, you couldn’t shake the weight of his words. Not when you were the one fighting distraction hardest. Not when the memory of him, skin, heat, teeth, throbbed like another trap lying in wait.

“I hate how… calm you are,” you muttered, voice rough, fingernails still digging into your palms from gripping the dash.

“I hate how your body reacts to me when you think I’m reckless,” he countered, eyes dark, sharp, unreadable, but you knew he meant every filthy, dangerous word.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Instead, you checked the mission parameters again, rifle in hand, strategy racing through your mind, but underneath it all, you felt it: the heat of him, the tension, the chaos that always followed when it was just the two of you.

And deep down, you knew that no matter how much you fought it, no matter how many times you argued, the chaos wasn’t just in the mission, it was in both of you, and it was only getting worse.

The car was supposed to be safe. Supposed to be just a way to get closer to the next point in the mission. But the moment Jake’s fingers brushed yours while reaching for the gear shift, the tension, thick, simmering, impossible, snapped.

“Don’t even think about it,” you spat, gripping the wheel tightly, pretending you didn’t feel the pull of him, the way his thigh pressed against yours under the seat.

“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” he murmured, low and dangerous, eyes dark, smirk curling like he knew he had you. “And I know you are, too.”

Your glare was sharp, teeth bared. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” he countered instantly, shifting closer, hand brushing the inside of your thigh. “God, you’re so wet for me even when you hate me.”

Something snapped in you. One second you were fuming, the next you had crossed over your seat and were straddling him, nails raking down his chest, hair tangling in your fists, lips crashing onto his in a kiss that was pure fire. Teeth clashed, tongues battled, growls mixing with curses as your bodies collided, hands exploring, dragging, claiming.

“Fuck, you’re impossible!” you hissed, grinding against him with every ounce of frustration and need you’d been holding back.

“And you’re irresistible,” he groaned, one hand gripping your hip, pulling you flush against him, the other sliding under your jacket, fingertips brushing over the swell of your breast. “God, I hate you… I love this… hate it, love it, all of it, and you’re mine.”

Your nails dug into his back as he thrust upward beneath you, hard, deliberate, and the car groaned in protest beneath the weight of your frantic, heated motions. You gasped, arching, breath ragged, and he pressed even harder, hips snapping against yours.

“You think I’m gonna make it easy for you?” he snarled, teeth grazing your shoulder, pulling a gasp from your chest. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, take you like you’ve been begging for all day, and you’re not gonna get a choice but to scream.”

“Jake—fuck!” you shrieked, grinding against him, nails clawing at his arms, teeth biting his shoulder, breathless, desperate. “I’m not… I—shit!”

“You’re mine,” he growled, thrusting again, every motion sharp, feral, punishing, and pleasurable at once. “Every moan, every curse, every whimper, mine! You take it. Take me.”

The car rocked beneath the rhythm of your bodies, fast, rough, messy. Every motion, every gasp, every moan was a battle and a surrender at the same time. Teeth clashed against lips, nails raked down backs, hands gripped, tugged, pulled. You screamed curses, shouted his name, begged, spat insults, all tangled in a storm of raw need and furious lust.

“Fuck! You feel so good!” he growled, fingers clutching your hips, dragging you against him with each thrust, lips pressing against yours, teeth nipping, claiming, marking. “God, I hate this… hate you… love it… love you! Take me, brat! Take me like you mean it!”

Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, hips snapping back in time with his, grinding, clinging, moaning, screaming, lost in a tangle of heat, anger, and desire. “Yes! Fuck, yes, Jake!”

The world outside the car didn’t exist. The mission didn’t exist. Only the sharp, feral pleasure, the biting, the scratches, the heat of him, the fire, the lust that neither of you could deny.

By the time the climax hit, it was explosive, raw, messy, utterly consuming. He groaned your name into your mouth, hips snapping hard, hands gripping, dragging, claiming, while you screamed, shivered, and collapsed against him, nails still dug into his back, teeth bared, trembling from every angle.

And when it was over, panting, sweat-slicked, messy, you both froze for a moment, breathless, stubborn, unwilling to admit what had just happened. Eyes met, and all that was said was a silent, dangerous acknowledgment: this was just how it was between you, hate, fury, lust, domination, and fire.

You were still straddling him, chest flush against his, skin slick with sweat, breaths ragged, hearts hammering like war drums. His hands were still pressed against your hips, thumbs tracing lazy, possessive circles, and even though the car smelled of sex and heat, the world outside was calling.

“We… we need to scout the perimeter,” you muttered between ragged breaths, trying to steady your voice, trying not to let the tremor in your limbs betray how badly the night, or morning, had burned through you both.

Jake groaned, head tilting back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, still smirking that feral grin. “Do we have to? We could… you know…”

“No,” you said firmly, though your fingers clutched his shoulders for support. “We have to. Mission’s live. And you, don’t even think about arguing.”

He let out a low, resigned growl, finally sliding you off his lap, though not without a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist. “But you’re already mine, remember?”

“Not the point,” you snapped, rolling your eyes, even as the fire lingering between you made your pulse race.

Clothes were hastily pulled on, shirts wrinkled, pants half-zipped, laces tangling, but efficiency won over appearance. You both knew stealth came first, pride and propriety second, even if the ache of desire still clung to your bodies like a second skin.

You moved toward the door first, Jake following the movement right behind you, still brushing against you in ways that were maddening, subtle, but impossible to ignore.

The forest greeted you like a quiet, waiting predator. Cool morning air brushed over your skin, doing little to cool the fire that still radiated from every nerve ending. You crouched low, rifle ready, senses heightened, the sexual tension simmering underneath every movement, silent but palpable. Every step was charged with the heat of what had just happened, sweaty skin, ragged breaths, lips still tingling from bruising kisses, and the memory of him buried inside you making your pulse spike again.

Jake mirrored your movements, shadowed you perfectly, eyes sharp, muscles tense, but you caught him glancing at you more than once, dark, heated looks that made your chest flutter with both irritation and desire. You shook your head, forcing yourself to focus. “Perimeter first,” you muttered. “Focus.”

“Mm,” he replied, voice low, rough, a growl of agreement, or maybe amusement. Either way, the air between you crackled, a dangerous blend of heat and vigilance.

You and Jake slipped back into the woods, the shadows wrapping around you like a protective shroud. The forest was alive with the muted sounds of nocturnal life, but it felt almost sacred compared to the chaos that followed you both all day. Every snap of a twig, every distant rustle, made your senses twitch, alert and hungry, ready for the fight, but also for each other. The forest around you was quiet, deceptively peaceful.

“I don’t like this,” you muttered under your breath, voice low. “Something’s… off. Too quiet.”

Jake smirked, eyes glinting in the dappled sunlight. “You always say that. Usually, it’s fine. Calm down, darling.”

You rolled your eyes, tightening your grip on the rifle. “Not this time. I feel it.”

And then, there was the trap.

A faint click, too subtle to catch unless you were already keyed in to danger, and a sharp sting in Jake’s shoulder. He staggered, curse ripping from his throat, hand flying to the wound. Blood welled almost immediately, dark and alarming against his skin.

“Shit!” he hissed, teeth gritted, trying to stay upright.

“Jake!” you barked, dropping to your knees beside him. Heart racing, hands already moving as you shoved the rifle aside. “Show me! Show me where it is!”

He winced, jaw tight, then lifted his arm just enough for you to see the bullet grazing his shoulder, dark blood blooming across his jacket. Your fingers worked fast, peeling back fabric, assessing the wound, adrenaline surging.

“You’re bleeding too much for a damn smirk,” you snapped, voice low, sharp, but your hands were steady, precise. “Sit still.”

He obeyed, almost grudgingly, gritting his teeth as you ripped open the first aid kit from the car pack. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze, your fingers moved with trained efficiency, cleaning the wound, pressing, wrapping, immobilizing as best you could in the field.

“You’re… really good at this,” he murmured, a low, rough note in his voice. Pain laced through it, but so did something else, something softer, vulnerable, rare.

“Yeah? Well, someone has to keep you alive when you’re being reckless,” you shot back, tone sharp, fingers working without hesitation. “Hold still, Jake. Don’t move.”

His arm twitched against you, muscle clenching, but your grip on him kept him steady. The smell of pine and sweat and blood mixed around you, tight space, hearts hammering. His eyes met yours, dark, intense, a flicker of something unspoken, admiration? Gratitude? Desire? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t want to think about it.

“Almost done,” you muttered, wrapping the last layer of gauze, pressing gently, securing it. “There. You’ll live, but if you ever pull a stunt like that again…”

He caught your wrist before you could pull away, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Don’t lecture me,” he growled, voice low, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest tighten. “Just… keep doing that. Keep patching me up.”

You swallowed hard, mind racing, heart hammering, not just from the adrenaline, but from the heat lingering under the surface of every glance, every touch, every small, intimate movement you’d shared. “Don’t get used to it,” you snapped, voice tight.

He smirked, lips brushing near yours, almost teasing, almost dangerous. “Too late, darling. Too late.”

And even as you stood, checking the perimeter again, heart still hammering, nerves on edge, you couldn’t shake the memory of his weight against your hands, the pulse beneath your fingers, the heat of his body, reminding you that danger wasn’t just in the mission anymore.

The warehouse was close. Too close for comfort. Every trap you’d tripped, every misstep, had only confirmed it: the operation was a heartbeat away, and the enemies you were hunting were careful, cruel, and clever. You’d scouted what you could for now. Morning would bring action. Tonight was waiting. Watching. Planning.

You found a small clearing near a stream and started setting up a makeshift camp. Jake moved with silent precision, every motion sharp, measured, his presence behind you warm and watchful. He didn’t speak much, but the air between you was heavy, alive, and dangerous.

You kicked off your boots first, then peeled off the rest of your gear slowly, deliberately, though your hands trembled with exhaustion and lingering adrenaline. Every muscle still hummed from the drive, the scouting, and the tension between you, the ache from earlier in the day refusing to let go.

Jake sat close, not touching, but close enough that the heat radiating off him made your skin prickle. You wanted to curse him, push him away, tell him to stop looking at you like that, but he didn’t even have to. Just the way he shifted, dark eyes glinting in the firelight, shoulders relaxed but ready to spring at a moment’s notice, made your pulse race all over again.

“Stay awake,” he muttered low, voice rough, just above the rustle of the leaves. “We need to be ready in case—”

“I know,” you cut him off sharply, though your voice was softer than you intended. You didn’t need to hear his worry. You didn’t need to admit it, but the tension of being near him, that heat lingering from your earlier encounter, made it impossible to be completely focused.

The night stretched on, slow and deliberate. You huddled close to the fire he’d helped you start, the warmth doing little to temper the heat still simmering under your skin. You watched him check the perimeter from time to time, every motion precise, calculated, impossibly beautiful, and your chest tightened as your hands itched to reach out.

You didn’t. Not yet. Not while your mind was still trying to separate the mission from the chaos between you. But your body remembered. Your body remembered every touch, every thrust, every groan, every argument turned moan. And as Jake leaned back against a tree, gaze scanning the shadows, you couldn’t help but shift closer, almost instinctively, the brush of his shoulder enough to make your stomach twist.

“Don’t even think about it,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

He smirked, just a twitch of the lips, low and dark, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Mm,” he murmured, voice rough, teasing. “Doesn’t stop me from thinking about it either.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing, though you couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine. Mission first. Always mission first.

But as the fire flickered, shadows dancing across his face, and the forest whispered around you, you couldn’t ignore it: waiting for morning wasn’t just about the operation. It was about the tension, the heat, the unspoken, untamed chemistry that neither of you would ever admit, but that both of you knew was far from over.

The fire had finally died down to embers, the forest quiet except for the occasional whisper of wind and the soft murmur of the stream. You and Jake had somehow, impossibly, fallen asleep against each other, his arm slung over your torso, yours curled around his waist, bodies still warm, sweat-slick from earlier chaos.

You were drifting, mind half-lost in the haze of exhaustion and lingering heat, heart still racing from the night before, when something in the shadows shifted. At first, you thought it was a dream, a fragment of adrenaline still thrumming through your veins. But then your eyes flicked open, and panic coiled in your stomach like a live thing.

The clearing was no longer empty. Figures moved too quickly, too deliberately, glinting in the moonlight. Before you could even call out, before your breath could escape in a scream, a sharp strike hit the back of your head. Pain blossomed instantly, cold, jagged, radiating through your skull.

“Jake!” you tried to scream, but it caught in your throat, strangled, swallowed by darkness creeping into the edges of your vision.

You kicked, flailed, but strong hands gripped you, fingers digging into your arms, waist, legs, with an efficiency born of training. You struggled, heart hammering, claws of fear raking through your chest, but it was no use. The world tilted violently, your body lifted from the ground, weightless and suspended as the cold fire of adrenaline surged through you.

Pain spread, sharp at first, then dull, insidious, creeping from your head down through your neck, shoulders, spine, limbs. It was disorienting, paralyzing, and you couldn’t form coherent thoughts, couldn’t focus on anything except the terror that gripped you, the knowledge that Jake was behind you, or should have been.

“Jake!” you tried again, voice hoarse, panicked, raw. But a cloth pressed against your mouth, stifling the scream before it even left your lips. Struggling only made the pressure tighter, the hands stronger, and a dizzying darkness began to blur your vision.

All you could remember was the cold, relentless ache crawling through your body, the sickening tilt of being lifted off the ground, and the pounding of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears. Panic and frustration warred with helplessness, every fiber of your body screaming to fight, to resist, to survive.

And then the last thing that touched you before oblivion claimed you completely was a fleeting, impossible thought: Jake.

Your fingers itched to reach out, to feel his strength, to find him. But there was nothing, just the creeping darkness, the cold, the pain, and the sensation of being carried into the unknown, powerless and terrified.

The sun had barely broken through the canopy when Jake stirred, muscles stiff, senses still buzzing from the night’s tension. His eyes blinked open, landing on the remnants of your shared warmth beside him, and then… nothing.

You weren’t there.

A slow, creeping panic clawed up his spine. “Y/N?” he called softly at first, throat tight, voice raw from sleep, but even that small whisper made his chest tighten. “Hey… you awake?”

No response.

His pulse accelerated. Fingers clenched into fists as he scrambled upright, scanning the clearing with sharp, precise movements, trained instincts screaming. The firelight cast shadows, but there was nothing. You weren’t behind a tree, you weren’t crouched by the stream, there was nothing except the eerie quiet of the forest.

“Y/N!” His voice rose, rough, hoarse, cracking with panic he refused to acknowledge. “This isn’t funny! Stop it! Stop hiding!”

Still nothing. Jake’s jaw clenched, hands running through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. He sprinted through the underbrush, every muscle coiled, every sense on edge. Branches tore at his jacket, thorns scratched his skin, but he didn’t care. He didn’t think. His only thought, the only thing anchoring him to some semblance of reason, was finding you.

“Y/N!” He screamed again, voice raw, breaking, echoing through the trees, bouncing off rocks and trunks like some desperate, jagged prayer. “I swear, if this is some stupid game, I will—I will find you, I swear!”

He stumbled, cursed, breath ragged, heart hammering like a war drum. Every second that passed without you made his chest ache, made his stomach twist into knots of fear and anger he couldn’t contain. His voice went hoarse, throat raw from screaming your name, and still, no answer. Then it hit him. It wasn’t a joke. You weren’t here.

The reality struck like a blade, you were gone. Panic twisted into pure, jagged terror. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. The familiar smirk, the teasing arrogance, it was gone, replaced by a raw, almost feral desperation.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Not here. Not when he needed every ounce of him to track you down. He ran, harder now, senses sharp, mind racing through possibilities, traps, every route you could have been taken. He felt every heartbeat of the forest as though it were a drum signaling danger.

“Y/N!” he screamed again, voice breaking, raw, shaking. “I know you can hear me! Stop this! Stop hiding! This isn’t funny!”

Branches tore at him. Roots snagged his boots. He didn’t care. Every instinct, every cell in his body, screamed for you. Fear, rage, need, blended into one jagged, unbearable, all-consuming force.

He stopped only briefly to scan for tracks, to notice small disturbances in the soil, the way the leaves were trampled. And then he followed them, relentless, single-minded. His mind shut out everything else, he couldn’t process hunger, exhaustion, pain. Only you. Only finding you. Only making sure you were safe.

Tears finally threatened to spill over as he traced the path deeper into the forest, each step frantic, breath ragged, voice breaking as he called your name over and over. Rage mixed with desperation. Panic laced with fear. “Y/N… please… come back… please…”

Every muscle in him screamed, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Not until he found you. Not until you were back in his arms. Not until you were safe. The feral, obsessive fire that burned between you in bed now consumed him in an entirely different way, protective, desperate, dangerous.

And somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew that whoever had taken you was about to find out exactly what happened when they crossed him.

The world had narrowed to a single, maddening point: you were missing. Every breath Jake drew over the past few days had been shallow, jagged, tinged with panic and rage. Sleep had become a luxury he couldn’t afford; food a mechanical afterthought. The world outside the hunt, everything, everyone, ceased to exist.

From sunrise to deep into the night, he drove, patrolled, interrogated, and tracked. Every lead, every whisper, every scrap of evidence became his lifeline. His knuckles were perpetually white on the steering wheel, nails digging into leather, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. Every road, alley, and back street blurred together into one endless, frantic pursuit.

“Y/N,” he muttered to himself constantly, voice low and rough from yelling into the wind on forested roads and empty streets. “Where the fuck are you?”

Maps, satellite feeds, phone intercepts, all became part of a single obsession. He didn’t eat properly. Didn’t sleep properly. Didn’t care about anything but you. Every thought was you. Every heartbeat screamed your name.

Hours turned into days. The forest, the city, the country roads, they all bled together. His voice was hoarse from screaming into the night air, calling your name, the desperation in it raw, jagged, almost unbearable.

He had thought he knew patience. He had thought he could control his rage. But that was before you were ripped away from him. Before he realized how fragile life could be. Before he understood how terrifyingly alone he felt without you.

Every failed lead, every shadow he chased, was another spike of panic in his chest. Every time he thought he might be too late, adrenaline surged, and he pushed harder. Faster. Further. Nothing mattered but tracking you, finding you, bringing you back.

The third night, driving along a desolate backroad, Jake paused for the first time. Sweat slicked his hair, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight. He had been chasing ghosts and hunches for two days straight, but something in the signals, in the subtle digital traces he had painstakingly pieced together, finally clicked.

The warehouse. The warehouse. The same one you had been planning to infiltrate with him. The one you’d scoped days ago. His mind exploded with relief, fear, and a feral, protective rage so hot it felt like fire in his chest.

“You son of a—” he muttered, voice low and vicious. “They didn’t… they couldn’t…”

The car roared back to life beneath him as he slammed the accelerator, tires screaming, engine growling in tandem with the storm of adrenaline in his veins. Every red light, every sharp turn, every curve was a blur. He didn’t care about caution, rules, or consequences. He only cared about you. The forest, the roads, and the city outskirts, they all dissolved around him. Nothing existed except the warehouse, the knowledge of where you were, and the feral, burning need to tear the world apart if it meant getting to you.

By the time he reached the perimeter of the warehouse, night had fully descended, thick and suffocating, a velvet darkness that mirrored his mood. Every instinct screamed at him: there would be traps, guards, surveillance. He didn’t care.

“You don’t get to hurt her,” he muttered under his breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel until the leather creaked. “You don’t get to touch her. Not a scratch. Not a word. Not a breath. You touch her, I swear—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t have to. The rage was enough to fuel the impossible, to make him move with inhuman speed and precision. Climbing out of the car, he moved with a predator’s grace, dark eyes scanning, every sense hyper-alert. The air smelled of oil, concrete, and something fouler beneath it, fear, threat, human malevolence. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, not from exertion, but from pure, frantic terror that someone had hurt you. Or worse.

Every step toward the warehouse ramped the intensity, muscles coiled, ready to strike. Every shadow could be a trap, every sound a threat. And yet, there was nothing else on his mind except finding you, holding you, making sure you were alive.

Inside the warehouse perimeter, his training kicked in automatically. He knew how to move silently, how to read patterns, how to bypass cameras, how to anticipate human behavior, but every decision was sharpened to a razor by panic.

He paused near a vantage point overlooking the main compound. Guards patrolled with methodical precision, unaware of the storm that was about to descend. His eyes scanned for any sign of you, and then, there.

A small, restrained figure, tied and bruised, shifting slightly, hair falling across a familiar face.

“Y/N…” The sound escaped his throat before he could stop it, low, ragged, and laced with every emotion he refused to admit. Rage. Terror. Love. Desire. Protection. Everything.

You flinched at the sound, looking up toward the source, eyes wide, fear-stricken. And then, recognition. Relief. Confusion.

“Jake?” Your voice trembled.

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to. His whole body screamed, vibrating with feral energy. Every step he took was predatory, calculated, but with the overwhelming singular goal of reaching you.

He vaulted barriers, neutralized a single guard with precise, silent fury, moving faster than the human eye could track. By the time he reached you, his chest heaving, sweat-slick, dark eyes wild with emotion, he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands gripping the restraints around your wrists. “Don’t. Ever. Get taken from me again,” he growled, voice low, dangerous, vibrating with barely-contained rage. “Do you hear me?”

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t lower his guard, didn’t allow himself the relief just yet. Not while you were still restrained, not while he still needed to ensure you were safe. His fingers dug into the chain until the metal creaked, precise and controlled despite the feral energy radiating off him.

You shivered, partially from cold, partially from the ferocity of his presence. “I—I’m fine,” you whispered, voice shaky. “Jake… it’s okay.”

“Not okay!” His hands tightened, enough to make you flinch. “Not okay doesn’t even begin to cover it! You could’ve died! You could’ve! Do you understand how insane I went trying to track you down? How every second without you felt like—like the world was ending?!”

You flinched at the raw intensity, chest tight, breath caught in your throat. And yet, a shiver of something else, a mixture of fear, awe, and the residual fire between you, spiked through you.

One arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling your head, holding you close. His face buried in your hair, hot, desperate, trembling, but still impossibly controlled.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he muttered, low, each word a growl, a promise, a threat. “Not ever. You hear me? Not ever.”

Your fingers clutched at his jacket, heart pounding, still shaking from adrenaline, fear, and relief. “I—I’m here,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the storm of his heartbeat against yours.

He lifted his head slightly, eyes dark, wild, glinting like a predator about to strike, but not at you. At anyone who would dare harm you. And yet… there was another fire burning in his gaze too. That familiar, messy, feral heat that had always existed between you, igniting instantly at skin-on-skin contact.

“Do you understand what I would’ve done if I hadn’t found you?” he growled, lips brushing your temple, teeth gritted, arms still tight around you. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, chest tight, mind spinning from the sheer intensity of his proximity, his desperation, and the fire radiating off him.

He exhaled sharply, pressing a rough kiss to your temple, then against your lips, one hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. “Good,” he muttered, voice low, dark, but soft for just a heartbeat before the edge of his feral intensity returned. “Because if anyone ever tries to take you from me again… I swear…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The promise, the threat, the fire, and the possessive, consuming obsession were all in the way he held you. Breathless, shivering, adrenaline still surging, you realized the hunt wasn’t just over. It would never be over, not for him, not for you, not while the fire between you burned this hot, this messy, this uncontrollable.

And as he finally allowed himself a heartbeat to exhale, still wild, still feral, still impossibly, achingly protective, you knew, nothing in the world could separate you two again.

You didn’t get a chance to catch your breath. The chains bit into your wrists, cold and heavy, and panic surged through you again as the warehouse’s shadows pressed in. Jake crouched beside you, eyes blazing, dark and feral, every muscle coiled like a predator.

“You’re not staying here,” he growled, voice low, dangerous, trembling with rage. “Not for a second. Not ever.”

Before you could protest, he pulled a small saw from the side of his belt, eyes never leaving yours, jaw tight. “Stay still,” he ordered, voice clipped, though every word vibrated with barely-contained fury. “I’m getting you out.”

You could barely keep your heart from hammering in your throat, the mix of fear, relief, and the overwhelming presence of him too much to process. The sound of metal grinding against metal echoed in the cavernous warehouse, sparks flying as he worked. Every motion was precise, controlled, yet fueled by the storm of emotions surging through him.

“Almost there,” he muttered, voice rough, eyes dark with fire. One last scrape, one last flex of the saw, and the chains clattered to the floor.

Free.

Without a word, he lifted you in his arms, brutal, yet tender in a way that made your chest ache, and cradled you bridal style. Your head rested against his shoulder, and the lingering scent of sweat, wood, and his skin enveloped you. You could feel the pulse of his rage, the fire in his veins, the desperate protective need that made his grip firm, unyielding, impossible to escape from.

“Don’t even think about moving,” he muttered, voice low, dangerous. “I’ll carry you out of here whether you like it or not, and if anyone tries to stop me… I swear—”

His words trailed off into a growl as he stormed through the warehouse, each step pounding against the concrete floor, his boots echoing in the cavernous space. You clutched at him instinctively, arms around his neck, legs lightly wrapped for balance, adrenaline making every nerve scream.

Outside, the cold night air hit you like a shock, but Jake didn’t slow. He moved with a terrifying, almost supernatural speed, muscles taut, every sense alert, every glance sweeping the perimeter for threats. His lips brushed the top of your head briefly, a silent promise, a reminder that he was here, and no one would take you from him again.

“Almost there,” he growled, voice tight, raw. “Hold on, Y/N. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, carried against him, adrenaline and exhaustion crashing over you both, you realized something terrifying and undeniable: the feral, obsessive, dangerous heat between you two was far from over.

The drive to the target’s compound was silent, but the air between you was taut, like a drawn bow ready to snap. Jake’s jaw was tight, knuckles white on the wheel, dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. You sat beside him, gear strapped in, weapon in hand, nerves coiled so tight you could feel them in your teeth. Every inch of your body still hummed with the memory of the last few days, kidnapping, fear, his feral desperation, the weight of him carrying you out like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“Y/N,” he muttered, voice low, rough, dangerous, as though speaking aloud would keep the tension at bay. “When we go in… don’t hesitate. Don’t stop. Nothing. Nothing in there matters except getting him.”

“I won’t,” you replied, voice steady, but adrenaline prickling your skin like fire. “You focus on the exit. I’ll handle the target.”

He glanced at you, and that familiar, messy heat flickered in his dark gaze, the mix of professional respect, raw desire, and feral need. “Don’t get hurt,” he growled, almost a whisper, but your chest tightened because you knew he wasn’t just talking about the mission.

The compound loomed ahead, a fortress of concrete, steel, and shadows. You could see guards patrolling, lights swinging in mechanical arcs. Every step, every motion, every breath had to be perfect. One slip could mean failure, or worse.

Jake slipped out first, silent as a shadow, crouching low as he scouted the perimeter. You followed, muscles coiled, senses screaming, heart hammering. Every instinct, honed over years of missions, screamed alert. Yet beneath it all, there was that lingering tension, that edge of heat and rage between you that had never left.

Inside, chaos unfolded in slow, controlled bursts. Guards moved too close, unaware of the predator duo in their midst. Jake neutralized threats with precise strikes, silent, lethal, muscles tensed and efficient. You moved like a ghost, blade glinting, every motion precise, eyes locked on the target.

And then you saw him, the man behind everything. The kidnapping. The illegal operation. The oppression. Sitting smugly in his office, unaware that the storm had arrived.

Jake’s voice, low and feral, hissed into your ear. “Get him. Don’t hesitate.”

You didn’t. The blade in your hand moved fast, clean, controlled. Heart hammering, adrenaline roaring, you struck with lethal precision. Every second stretched into eternity as the man fell, and a dark satisfaction, mixed with the lingering fire of what you’d endured together, surged through you.

Jake moved to your side immediately, eyes scanning the room, muscles taut, hand brushing yours in a fleeting, feral reassurance. You didn’t need to speak. He knew. You both knew.

But as the adrenaline ebbed, the tension between you flared again, familiar, dangerous, untamed. Every touch, every glance, every breath between you was electric. He pressed close as you made your exit, a low growl escaping him. “You’re mine,” he murmured, voice rough, dark, carrying the weight of everything, the fear, the desperation, the heat that had never cooled.

You shivered, heart racing, pulse hammering in sync with his. “I know,” you whispered back, knowing the war between you, the mission, the obsession, the fire, was far from over.

The night outside the compound was cold, dark, and alive with tension. And as you both vanished into the shadows, side by side, weapons still ready, hearts still racing, it was clear: the world could throw anything at you, but together, feral, unstoppable, you were a storm.

The ride back to the agency was quiet, but nothing about the air between you two was calm. The mission was done, the target was dead, the operation dismantled, the threat erased, but the adrenaline still coursed through your veins, hot and electric, leaving your skin buzzing and your nerves raw.

Jake drove with a grim focus, eyes on the road, jaw tight. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to spring at a moment’s notice, and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the dim light in a way that made your stomach twist. You sat beside him, gear still strapped in, weapon resting across your lap, shoulders stiff, chest heaving, mind racing with everything that had happened, the kidnapping, the hunt, the adrenaline, the fire that had never cooled between you.

“You okay?” he finally muttered, voice low, rough, almost hesitant, though his eyes flicked to you like he couldn’t help it.

“I’m fine,” you replied, voice steady, though your pulse was still racing. “We got him. That’s what matters.”

He grunted, not convinced, but didn’t press. Instead, he flexed his fingers over the wheel, tension coiling through him, and the silence stretched, heavy, charged, dangerous. You could feel him, the heat of his body, the residual feral energy, lingering just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt again.

By the time the agency building came into view, the world had shifted back into its clinical, structured reality, the harsh fluorescent lights, the sterile hallways, the hum of computers. Everything was back to normal, and yet nothing was the same. Not for you. Not for him.

As you stepped inside, the agents glanced briefly, nodding, unaware of the storm that had passed through, unaware of the tension crackling between you like live wire. Jake moved beside you, silent, protective, every movement still sharp, precise, and impossibly tense.

You both knew you should debrief, should report, should return to protocol. But neither of you could ignore the heat, the feral connection, the raw, simmering energy between you. Every glance, every brush of skin, every shared breath was a reminder that the mission wasn’t over. Not really.

Jake’s hand brushed yours as you passed the elevator. Just a touch, light, fleeting, but enough to make your chest twist, to make every nerve flare. He didn’t comment. He didn’t have to. You felt it. You knew it.

The debriefing room was cold, sterile, and quiet, agents around you typing, reviewing, moving. You and Jake sat side by side, weapons down but eyes locked, the silence between you screaming louder than any words could.

“You handled him well,” he finally muttered, low, just for you. Not praise, not flirtation. But something sharper, acknowledgment, heat, warning.

“Same goes for you,” you shot back, voice smooth, but your pulse thrummed with the memory of him, the feral need that had carried him through the hunt, the way he had gone absolutely feral to save you.

He didn’t respond. Just a flicker of a smirk, dark and dangerous, brushing across his lips before he turned back to the debrief. But you saw it, the fire behind his eyes, the tension coiling, ready to ignite again the moment the rules allowed.

And in that moment, in the sterile halls of the agency, after bullets, chains, and hunts through forests and warehouses, one truth was clear: you were both unstoppable, feral, and chaotic, and no protocol, no mission, no walls of the agency could ever contain what burned between you.

The mission was over. The threat was gone. But the fire between you? That was far from extinguished.

~Fin

masterlist

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pitchsidestories · 1 day ago

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Shot on target II Leila Ouahabi x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1111

summary: Leila takes a hit, literally. But maybe it wasn’t the ball’s fault. Maybe it was Reader's. requested

author's note: Hey everyone, just a little story to brighten your day (or night), whenever this finds you. And as always, we’d love to hear from you!🫶🏻🫶🏻

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

The rarely seen Manchester sun made an appearance, slipping out from behind the clouds just in time for training to start.

The grass glinted invitingly and you couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across your face. This was your favourite weather to play football in, after all.

You enjoyed the crunch of every step as you walked onto the pitch, dropping your water bottle somewhere along the sideline. Some of your teammates were already on the pitch, talking animatedly.

“No way you did that!”, you caught Vivianne’s voice. Knowing the Dutch player wasn’t easily shocked, you walked over to see what was going on.

Alex seemed to have had the same idea as she appeared in their circle at the same time as you: “Who did what?”

Sydney, the recent transfer from Bayern, ignored all the curious eyes on her and shrugged: “I don’t know what’s so astonishing about that.”

“You know it exactly.”, Vivianne replied, shaking her head.

“Is it food related?”, Leila asked, appearing right beside you.

You raised an eyebrow at her. When was that girl not thinking about food?

Alex shot her a glance: “I fear this is football related.”

“And I fear we’ll never get any training done if we keep talking.”, you added, smiling innocently at the group of players.

“Don’t be boring.”, Sydney grinned at you. The German, of all people.

She clearly enjoyed her talk with Viv too much.

You let out a small, offended huff: “I’m not!”

“No, she’s got a point.”, Alex chimed in, coming to the rescue. You shared a silent nod of agreement.

“Ugh.”, Iman groaned as she arrived, disappointed she had missed the drama.

Alex clapped her hands: “Let’s go, children.”

Training passed by in a blur. You had so much fun. Passing, sprinting, finishing. You even tackled Sydney at one point. Everything was just better in the sun.

But just as you were waiting for a cross from Hempo, Leila appeared to block the ball. It seemed like a mix between a poorly timed defense and a ball that was hit too hard and too low. With a dull thud, it hit Leila right in the face.

She went down immediately. Your stomach dropped as fast as she did. It looked bad.

Before your brain had caught up with your legs, you were already sprinting halfway across the pitch. You knelt down, once you reached her.

“Leila, are you okay?!”

“Uhm… yeah, it’s fine, I’m fine.”, she tried to reassure both of you.

Lifting everyone’s mood was her superpower. Even on a rainy day, the Spaniard could make everyone smile.

Quietly, you observed her, trying to see if her words were actually true: “You were distracted.”

“I wasn’t.“, the defender insisted.

Unconvinced, you raised an eyebrow: “Are you sure?”

“No, you’re the reason I was distracted.“, Leila explained, pointing at you in frustration.

Amused, you let out a laugh. Oh dear, you thought to yourself, the knock must’ve been worse for her brain than I first thought. “What, so it’s my fault you got hit in the head?”

“No, it’s just… you’re really bonita and hard not to look at.” A blush crept onto her tanned cheeks as she avoided your gaze, the confession having slipped out before she could stop herself.

An amused smirk played on your lips: “Bonita, huh?”

“Yes. Would you—” Leila began.

“—bring you to the team doctor to check on you? Yes,” you finished the sentence for her, helping the taller woman up from the ground, one hand protectively placed on her back in case she stumbled again.

In response, your teammate let out an annoyed snort. Romantic comedy lines clearly didn’t translate well into real life. “I… no, that’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Girls, I’ll take her to the doc.“, you called over to the other players, deliberately ignoring her objection.

Smiling, Alex replied:“Yes, make sure her head’s okay!”

The moment you and Leila were out of earshot, your teammates started gossiping.

“Seems like something else is making her head ache, though.“, Laura teased.

Cheekily, Khiara grinned and asked: “Her head or her heart?”

“I think that depends on what happens… if you know what I mean.“, Kerolin said, wiggling her eyebrows.

Equally confused and innocent, Yui frowned: “Wait, what do you mean?”

“Oh, Yui. Even I get it.“, Jess sighed.

On the way to the team doctor’s office, you couldn’t help but notice: “You look pretty recovered from the hit already.”

“I told you it wasn’t that bad.”, Leila grimaced, though she secretly liked how you held onto her the whole way, not letting go for even a second.

Clearing your throat, you changed the topic: “What was it you wanted to say earlier?”

“Earlier?” , she echoed.

“Yes.”

Leila swallowed hard before the dark-haired woman confessed: “I, um… I actually wanted to ask if you’d like to go on a date sometime. But then you brought me here instead.”

You frowned at her and the slight accusatory tone in her voice: “Yes because I thought you might actually need medical care!”

Only then did her words start to register. “Wait, you wanted to go on a date with me?”, you asked, confused.

Leilas gaze dropped to the floor as she replied: “I told you I was distracted by you. So… yeah.”

Silence hung heavy in the air at the reveal.

“I’d like that…”, you finally replied after several agonising seconds in which your brain tried to process everything at once.

Leilas head snapped up, her eyes wide in surprise, almost beaming. You never got to see the full smile spread across her face before the sound of your teammates cut through the moment and the door to the doctors office swung open.

“Girls, they’re going on a date!”, Sydney called out to the others.

They must have been eavesdropping the whole time.

You closed your eyes for a moment, fighting of the embarrassment threatening to show up on your cheeks.

“Aw, so cute!”, Alex chimed in, clasping her hands together in excitement.

At least Leila seemed to find this hilarious.

Laughing, she tried to stop them: “Chicas, calm down!”

“Yes, it’s a date, nothing else.”, you added, biting your lip as you glanced at Leila.

She winked at you confidently: “But I’ll make sure there’ll be many more to come.”

You rolled your eyes playfully: “That’s just the head injury talking.”

“No!”, she protested and you both burst into laughter.

Who knew a concussion could make her even more charming?

image sources

#leila ouahabi x reader #leila ouahabi imagine #leila ouahabi #woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso oneshot #woso one shot #woso x y/n #woso appreciation #manchester city women #mcwfc #spain wnt #wlw writing #vivianne miedema #alex greenwood #sydney lohmann

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pisceanpharies · 2 days ago

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Gotta get our laughs in where we can amidst the horrors.

Source - Hannah Lykins

After considerable backlash following the release of the DSM-5, the DSM Task Force has decided that the DSM-6, slated for release in 2025, will add an array of new disorders, including the anticipated but controversial Just a Real Goddamn Piece of Shit. “I’m really excited to hear that we’ll be adding what I feel is a disorder that so many people suffer with, but remain without treatment for as a result of a lack of diagnosis,” said David Kupfer, chair of the DSM-5 task force. “I think people will really be comforted with the knowledge that if their friends or family members are hard to get along with, it’s not the end of the world; in the next few years, being a piece of shit may be treatable.” Though the DSM-5 was met with significant criticism for its diagnostic overexpansion and influence by the pharmaceutical industry, the DSM Task Force is confident that the DSM-6 will only add new disorders that they feel are necessary. “I’m really not sure what the problem is,” said Andrew Skodol, one of the chairs of the Personality Disorders task force. “The DSM has and will always be wrongly accused of selling out to Big Pharma. But I can confidently say that Just a Real Goddamn Piece of Shit is just as legitimate of a diagnosis as any other. I mean, no one thought Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder would make it in either, but that still got into the DSM-5.” Skodol would later add that “scientists would never prioritize money over integrity,” as he stepped into his 2018 Lamborghini Huracan. Others were less impressed with this decision, including the head of the DSM-III task force, Robert Spitzer. “You’re kidding me, right?” said Spitzer. “You know, it was Skodol’s idea to add this disorder because he and his wife have been having marriage problems, just like it was Kupfer’s idea to add PMDD because he said his sister was becoming a ‘real bitch’ on her period. I swear, in 20 years being a woman will be its own disorder.” Most impacted by this decision are local therapists and clinical practitioners, who will have to decide whether common problematic behaviors their clients may be exhibiting would qualify for diagnosis. “Personally, I don’t love the Task Force’s decision,” said Linda Johnest, LMFT. “Personality disorders are legitimate and diagnosable, but being an asshole shouldn’t be grounds for a mental disorder. Half the U.S. population would be at risk; we wouldn’t have anyone left to run the country. And don’t even get me started on PMDD.”

Individuals outside the professional community also look forward to the updates. “I don’t know much about mental health, but I’m relieved to hear that Just a Real Goddamn Piece of Shit will become legitimized in the next few years,” said mother of four Roxanne Hasper. “I always knew my ex-husband was a piece of shit, but now I can say for certain that it’s something we can diagnose him with. And if he ever tries to take the kids, it’ll definitely make custody battles a lot easier. Now if only I could diagnose my kids with being little assholes, that’d be great.” The hiring of new DSM Task Force members is already underway, in order to begin the proposed addition of over 30 new disorders. Some disorders slated to receive diagnostic standing in the DSM-6 include Internet Gaming Disorder, Suicidal Behavior Disorder, and the highly anticipated Being A Little Bit Racist.

There is a standard media depiction of a "healed" person. Someone who has Gone To Therapy. I've noticed this in a few works recently. We often see them at the end of a story, maybe in a "ten years later" epilogue. They speak in a soft, serene voice. They have Accepted what they cannot change. They have let go of a lot, including most of what we see them actually care about in the story itself. They are Happy, At Peace, in some non-descript way. They bare little resemble to the person we were actually shown. They bare little resemblance to any person. We were shown, as we usually are in stories, an agent, a desirer, someone becoming. Now they have Become. And they look back on all that silly becoming as something childish that they have moved past. Fire, you know, fire is for children who don't know any better. To be Healed is to have your fire rightly extinguished; to not even miss it.

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darling-flora · 2 days ago

Text

sienna

pedro pascal x yn!singer - social media au

fc: ariana grande

─── pedro masterlist !

note — i've been loving 'submarine' by 'the marinas' recently which this is heavily inspired by so go give it a listen 🤍 short little fic hope you like !! likes, reblog's and comments are always appreciated 🤍

Liked by user1, imsebastianstan and 2,510,944 others

yourinstagram recently 🤍

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user1 the face card is platinum

user2 no pedro pic or like??

user3 studio picture?? are we back?!?!??

user4 wait why is seb in the likes??

->user5 im wondering the same... ->user6 could be a music vid thing or he's just a fan 🤷‍♀️

user7 the puppies are so cute

user8 wheres pedro?? 😥

user9 so cute!!

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Liked by user1, user2 and 869,944 others

enews Separation rumors intensify after Y/n L/n was spotted on a flight from Los Angeles to New York after Pedro Pascal was seen arriving in Los Angeles.

The pair who've been dating for 3 years haven't been spotted together for over a month after rumors of L/n wanting to buy a house together, they've been absent from each others social media posts as well as likes.

Do you think they've called it quits?

view all comments

user1 this would be catastrophic please no

user2 leaving the state when he got there is crazy

user3 this would be worse than when my real parents got divorced

user4 i always thought the age difference was weird anyone else?

->user5 no. she's a 30+ year old woman, they are gown adults be normal 👍

user6 relationship drama while traveling for a press tour is wild

user7 i hope whatever it is they work it out

user8 i hope not, they talk about each other with so much love 😕

user9 i fear the rumors may be right..

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Liked by user1, imsebastianstan and 6,810,944 others

yourinstagram My EP 'Submarine" out May 23rd, i've been working on this for a few weeks... didn't really plan on making anything but sometimes music just spills out. I hope you all enjoy it 🤍

tracklist for you all 😚 echo, real life, love you anyway, if only, blur, sienna, no one noticed

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user1 YESSSSS THE QUEEN IS BACK

user2 im so excited but so nervous

oliviarodrigo IM SAT! liked by yourinstagram !

user3 the visuals are so good I CANTTT

user4 'love you anyway' is scaring me

billieeilish this is all that matters now liked by yourinstagram !

user5 I CANT WAIT I NEED IT NOW

user6 'sienna' if my intuition is right im gonna cry 💔

user7 THIS COVER 10/10

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Liked by user1, user2 and 1,869,944 others

YnLnNews Y/n goes into depth on the process of writing 'Submarine' and the meaning behind each song in a recent interview with Zane Lowe.

echo, is about knowing that the relationship should end, due to a number of reasons, but it's also hard to let go despite its flaws. And also acknowledging that im being a little dramatic but we both let it get to the point were we're not trying to fight for each other.

real life, talks about a relationship that at a certain point mainly exists in the virtual world, through Facetime, but really yearning for that real-life connection. And the desire to move beyond the superficiality of online interactions and confront the challenges of reality.

love you anyway, is about being in love but not knowing how to verbalized how much i love this person and being so in love that i when they have doubts or are unsure about the relationship i can't tell them how to feel because i love them, i have no doubts about that and that's what's important .

if only, even in dreams im longing for this person, im dreaming of them still there. Im questioning why I even left when I didn't want to, I don't want to let go of this but I know that if we aren't together they'll move on and i'll still dream of them.

blur, is about the feeling of nostalgia and longing for someone from the past. The regret and a desire to reconnect with a person, while also highlighting the internal struggle of wanting to move on but still feeling attached to memories.

sienna, this was written from the standpoint of a broken relationship and of what could have been: We could have had a child together and named her Sienna, and she would have looked like you… Sienna would have acted like you, she would have jumped in the pool just like you, and she would have sang to all her pets like I do… she would have done all these things like us. But because we broke up, Sienna will never exist. And so at the very end where I sing, “See her face in the forest, then it disappears,” it’s like seeing the future you wanted just completely vanish out of nowhere.

no one noticed, is about being torn up and feeling unnoticed and kind of “unravelling” as im left feeling kinda bitter. But deep down despite feeling all these things i still desperately want them back.

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user1 this album is gonna be so painful

user2 they she talked about the song 'sienna' with so much love is heartbreaking 💔

user3 her past relationships have been shitty dudes so i think she left before she could get hurt but she ended getting hurt because she still loves him

->user4 THIS!! she's been through some shit and when they started dating people were so happy and i think that she was waiting for the other shoe to drop and this happened 😕

user5 her being emotional throughout this entire interview made me so sad

user6 sienna is going to RUIN me

user7 she has so much love for this album ☹

user8 excruciating album about to drop. can't wait to sob to this 🔥

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Liked by user1, user2 and 1,869,944 others

enews Pedro Pascal just mentioned his Ex Y/n L/n in an interview in Mexico. When asked 'You obviously don't have to answer this, but have you listened to Y/n L/n's new EP?' he replied very somberly "Yeah, I have it was incredible. Not surprising when Y/n is the one writing and singing."

What do you think?

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user1 i would be surprised if he hadn't listened to it considering it's about him lol..

user2 weird to ask that knowing they broke up but his answer was sweet

user3 all this "split" talk is pr for her album..

->user4 she's going trough it on her album and this it's all just pr...? how dumb do you gotta be

user5 him still complmenting her even though they split

user6 not the point but they are so hot

user7 he listened to it which means there's a chance 🤞

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Liked by pascalispunk, imsebastianstan and 2,510,944 others

yourinstagram thank you snl for having me!! got to perform 'no one noticed' and 'sienna' live for the first time and i couldn't have asked for a better stage to perform on 🤍

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user1 you KILLED it on rewatch

user2 i would like to ask to never get emotional again while performing because i was having a great night and then sienna happened...

user3 so how was the car ride with pedro... 👀

user4 girl sienna was so beautiful im even more in love with that song

user5 pedro in the likes, girl who's going to be okay

user6 need you hear the live versions of every song now please 🙏

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Liked by pascalispunk, imsebastianstan and 2,510,944 others

yourinstagram love you always 🤍

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user1 the only post that matters

user2 face card crazy but the pedro pic my heart 😭

imsebastianstan happy for you 2

->user3 lol he's just a fan ->user4 not him rooting for them 🤭

user5 im so normal about this i promise

user6 'love you anyway' to 'love you always' y'all hear me crying

user7 PARENTS GOT BACK TOGETHER!!

user8 this is so important to me 😭💔

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

✎…… half asleep posting this so if there are any mistakes lets ignore them...

but i love these two!! hopefully we get a picture of them together this award season 🤞

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal smau #pedrohub #pedroispunk #pedro x reader #pedro pascal social media au #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal au #pedro pascal fanfiction

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saddesigirlnamedmaria · 2 days ago

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first of all, your writing is beautiful, thank you for your work! can we get the RE boys reacting to our cute aggression towards them? lol I just want to squeeze and bite Chris’ arms so bad 😂😍

HC Preferences: Resident Evil Boys x Reacting To Your Cuteness Aggression

♂️Male Characters:

Leon S. Kennedy

Chris Redfield

Albert Wesker

Carlos Oliveira

Piers Nivans

Jake Muller

Jack Krauser

Luis Sera

HUNK

Karl Heisenberg

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

Leon S. Kennedy

Leon is initially confused. You're holding onto him, pinching his cheeks or nipping at his shoulder, and he simply. freezes. His internal monologue is more or less: “Am I supposed to fight back? Am I in danger? …No, wait, they’re… calling me cute?” He blushes before laughing nervously.

Leon's never quite known what to do with real affection, so your cuteness aggression really makes him warm up inside. He'll stumble, crack self-deprecating jokes, but he secretly adores the fact you just can't help yourself around him.

Once he sees this isn't harmful, he begins intentionally provoking you. He'll lean in, grin, and mutter, "What, gonna bite me again? You sure you can handle that?" simply to see you fluster.

Leon attempts to play along as if he's shoving you away, but he's giggling too hard to keep it up. He'll squirm in your arms like a cat faking that it doesn't care about cuddles when in truth, he's softening.

After the ruckus dies down, Leon will gently pat your hair or bring you in for a hug. He secretly adores getting "attacked" by your love; it reminds him that he's more than a tool for the government.

Chris Redfield

Chris is rugged, battle-hardened, and not accustomed to being labeled "cute." When you squeeze his cheeks or hug his arms, he raises an eyebrow but laughs: “Cute? Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”

He has a protective instinct, so he won't push you away. He'll cross his arms and stand there like a big, warm wall while you dump all your aggression on him. Deep down, he's pleased you think he's irresistible.

He'll chuckle but say, "Careful, you're gonna hurt yourself biting me. These muscles aren't exactly soft." He craves the attention, but he fears you'll get a bruise from his tank-like physique.

Chris doesn't remain passive indefinitely. If you go in to squash his cheeks, he'll pick you up and pin you in a bear hug until you're wriggling and panting for air. "Cute aggression works both ways, you know.

It reaches deep within him. To be handled like something deserving of affection instead of something that is only a body of a soldier makes him human. You remind him that there is softness in his life as well.

Albert Wesker

Wesker is completely taken aback the first time you display cute aggression around him. Bite his shoulder? Squeeze his face? His reaction is a cold, deadpan: "…Are you out of your mind?"

He regards himself as superior, powerful, beyond such petty displays. He doesn't understand it at first, and it irritates his pride that you bring him down to something so "cute" as a kitten.

But the more you do, the more a corrupted side of him revels in it. He enjoys your fearlessness. Who else would take his cheeks and say he is cute? He lets it pass, interested in your audacity.

Deliberately will Wesker lean close, tilting his head in that smug way only to see if you'll actually give into your silly urge to cutely attack again. He enjoys having that kind of control over you, even if it comes in the form of playful “attacks.”

Eventually, he'll consent but on his own terms. "If you have to do this. foolishness, do it where no one else can see me. I won't have my reputation tarnished." Yet, there's a ghost of a grin he attempts to conceal.

Carlos Oliveira

Carlos will burst out laughing the first time you squeeze his face or bite him on the arm. "Aww, amor, you think I'm that cute, huh?" He thoroughly knows what you're doing and enjoys each moment of it.

He poses, flexes, leans down with puppy-dog eyes just to invite aggression. He craves your attention and becomes addicted to your playful attacks.

Carlos turns it into playful fighting. If you pin his cheeks, he'll hold you down with his body, laughing as you shriek. To him, your provocations are all just an excuse for the two of you to roll around together.

He'll imitate you in a goofy voice: "Oh no, Carlos is too adorable, I have to squish him!" before picking you up and smothering you with kisses. He never lets you forget.

Joking aside, he truly values the amount of love you bestow upon him. Amidst a sea of monsters and death, your anger is evidence that there is still love and light, and he values it.

Piers Nivans

Piers isn't accustomed to this. You take his face, squeeze him, or nibble playfully at his shoulder, and his whole body turns red alert blush mode. He stammers, "W-what are you doing?!"

Although flustered, he doesn't push you off. He bites his lip, fidgets, but in the end gives you your way. Somewhere deep inside, he secretly loves that you can't help yourself.

He attempts to argue sense into it: "I'm not… I mean, I'm not adorable. You're just hallucinating." But the more he protests, the more your cuteness aggression is triggered.

If he's bold enough, he'll attempt to turn the conversation around by leaning in close, touching his lips to your ear, and whispering: "Still find me cute?", all the while blushing just as hard as you are.

It pleases him on a deep level. Piers is inclined to doubt himself, feel overshadowed by Chris, or be concerned about his value. Your profuse endearments give him the assurance that he is valued for being himself, not merely for his ability.

Jake Muller

The moment you squeeze or bite him, Jake grins as if he's been waiting for you to do so. "Yeah, I know. Hard to resist, huh?" He doesn't mind one bit; actually, he thrives on your inability to leave him be.

Jake is a competitive person, so your cuteness aggression becomes a game of challenges. If you pinch his cheeks, he'll immediately defend himself by ruffling your hair or holding you down with a smile.

He always goads you: "What's the matter, sweetie? Gonna bite me again? You're beginning to sound like one of dad's experiments." He feeds off your flustered response.

Although he comes across as cocky, your anger secretly makes him feel desirable in a manner he is not accustomed. He was raised tough, with minimal affection, so your doting adorableness sort of cracks his shell.

Jack Krauser

Finally, he begins to seek it out. He'll bend in close, turn in his jaw, and tease: "Come on, take your best shot. Bet you can't resist me." He's addicted to the evidence someone finds him cute.

The first time you squash his cheeks or bite his arm, Krauser tenses up like you drew on him. His instincts yell "danger," but once he catches on that it's affection, he glares at you like you're crazy.

He's hardened and militant enough not to be able to make sense of it. "Cute? I'm a soldier-turned-mercenary. I kill for a livin'. Cute ain't in my dictionary." He attempts to brush it aside, but he's discombobulated by your affection.

With time, he begins to accept it; although he'll grumble under his breath. He'll roll his eyes but allow you to squeeze his biceps or hug him like a koala, enjoying the attention secretly.

One day, when you least expect it, Krauser surprise you by pinning you against the bed or any other surface, holding your wrists with a grin. "Havin' fun getting 'attacked'?" It's his attempt at play-joining.

Luis Sera

Your cute aggression at its core keeps him reminded he's still human under the scars and soldier mentality. He'll never acknowledge it, but your affection anchors him in a way nothing else can.

Luis lives for this. If you squeeze his cheeks or attempt to bite him the first time, he dramatically gasps and laughs: "Ay, mios dios! Am I that irresistible to you?" He's thrilled.

He'll lean in close, bat his lashes, and pout his lips until you give in. He wants you to unleash that aggression because it strokes his playful ego.

Every time you do it, Luis overdoes it; holding his chest as if you've killed him, or theatrically falling into your arms. "Mi vida! your love is too strong, I am a weak man!"

He'll begin pinching your cheeks or licking your ear right back. For Luis, cuteness aggression is simply another method of flirting, and he's going to best you at it.

HUNK

Underneath the theatrics, Luis senses an actual warmth from your affection. He has had a rough, risky life, and being treated as "cute" rather than shady or broken makes him perceive himself as seen in a soft way.

Completely unfazed. You pinch his cheeks or attempt to nip at his shoulder, and HUNK doesn't bat an eye. No response. Just that expressionless mask gazing up at you. It's creepy.

Underneath the mask, however, he is flustered. "Cute? Me? What the heck does that even constitute?" He has no idea why you'd feel the need to "attack" him in such a manner, but he doesn't deter you.

HUNK never pushes you off. He'll just stand there, holding still, while you cling, squeeze, or squish him, as if he's spoiling a child. But that he lets you do it at all says a lot.

If you notice, you may see it: the subtlest head tilt, the briefest exhale that almost sounds like laughter. His way of acknowledging your affection.

Karl Heisenberg

For one so shut down, your cuteness aggression is a special ritual that you share with yourself. He doesn't have to say anything, you can sense his acceptance in the way he never pushes you away.

The first time you pinch his face or nip his arm, Heisenberg erupts into boisterous, sarcastic laughter. "Oh ho! Look at you, little beast! You think I'm cute, huh?" He finds it absolutely hilarious.

Heisenberg is also a chaotic one himself, so your cuteness aggression is aptly matched with his vibe. He'll taunt you: "C'mon, doll, hit me with your best shot. Bite harder!" He enjoys seeing you all riled up.

If you attack him with hugs and squeezes, he'll fling himself back as if you've overpowered him, moaning: "Argh, too strong! My only weakness, affection!" He's as dramatic as Luis, but with a darker tone.

What begins as you squishing his cheeks leaves him flipping you over onto the couch and pinning you down with a crazed smile. For Heisenberg, it's half affection, half sport.

Under the sarcasm, your cuteness aggression lands him in a spot he doesn't acknowledge existing. Being treated like he's lovable rather than monstrous cracks his rough exterior in ways he hadn't realized were possible.

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veal-exe · 1 day ago

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I said I’d make a longer post about this, so here it is.

My number one advice to people, especially marginalized people, is this:

1. Learn the legalities of self-defense in your city and state. Know exactly what has to happen to make it legal for you to injure, maim, or kill in self-defense.

2. Get very willing, and very fast, to injure, maim, or kill someone in self-defense.

And I don’t say that to be edgy. I say that because I am alive right now only because I did.

Here’s what a lot of people don’t want to admit:

there are people walking around who want you dead.

Not in the abstract sense. Not in the “structural violence” sense. I mean real flesh-and-blood people who will queerbash you in an alley, try to stab you on the street, or corner you or your family members to force themselves on you or them.

I know this because these are all things that have actually happened to me. And none of those people would have cared about my nuanced Tumblr posts, or my clever arguments, or my carefully written essays about human rights.

They cared about going to the ER. They cared about losing the fight. They cared about not being able to come back for round two.

I know this because none of them ever fucking bothered me again. And one of them, the one who thought he could swing a knife at me, will never be bothering anyone again now that he has no fucking eyes.

And here’s where I get tired. Because online, I see this whole generation of what I’ll call nu-leftists, people who read the theory, argue online for hours, write dissertations about violence and morality, but who in real life wouldn’t raise their voice at a racist threatening a poc, let alone defend themselves when someone actually lays hands on them.

They’ve built a politics around fearing violence more than they fear what violence will do to them and their communities if they refuse to fight back.

The thing is, you don’t get to opt out. You don’t get to go, “Well, I’m against violence, and I don’t think anyone should be killed for any reason personally, so it won’t touch me.” That’s not how it works.

Fascists, abusers, and bigots don’t stop at the word “no.” They don’t stop because you’re principled. They don’t stop because you’ve got the moral high ground. They stop when they can’t keep going, because you’ve broken their nose, or put them in the hospital, or put them in the ground, or because you’ve made it very clear that trying you once was a mistake they won’t make twice.

Does it sound harsh? Good. It should.

I am not glorifying random cruelty, but I am glorifying survival.

Survival is violent.

Every revolution worth its salt knew that.

Every liberation struggle in history had to bleed for its freedom.

Do you think the people who fought in the streets, who held the line with bats and bottles and bricks, were wringing their hands about whether they were “stooping to the enemy’s level”? No. They knew their lives were worth more than their enemies lives.

Self-defense is not dirty. It’s not shameful. It is righteous. It is holy. It is the assertion that I will not die for your hatred.

The people who tried to queerbash me didn’t care about my humanity until they tasted what it looks like when that humanity fights back. The ones who tried to corner me didn’t care about my rights until those rights had teeth and they lost a few.

And every single one of them learned the hard way that my body is not theirs to harm.

So here’s my plea, especially to those of you who are younger, who are still figuring out your politics: stop letting these “nu-leftist” pacifists shame you into fragility. Stop letting them act like the noble thing is to let yourself be brutalized for optics.

Their politics will not save you in a parking lot.

Their discourse will not keep you alive at night.

But knowing the law will.

Being fast enough, mean enough, ruthless enough to take the shot when it comes? that will.

Because when the choice is “my life or a bigot’s health and safety,” I will pick my life every single time.

And I want you to pick yours too.

#pacifists disgust me #you just want an excuse to do nothing #to value your own comfort over your and other’s lives #pathetic frankly #txt

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lostlegendaerie · 2 days ago

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as someone who has been writing fanfic since 2009 (and who did read one of OP's replies on this post) I think the lists themselves isn't the true solution so much as having publicly accessible community + conversations about fanfiction and craft is the solution

I was a "big name fan" in a fandom back in 2013-2014 and my stuff ended up on rec lists, had fanart made of it, etc. and it was great! but I also got to see how other people felt having their works not included on those lists (or how it felt to watch something you found to be boring or problematic included on those lists because "well everyone talks about this so it has to be good, right?") - rec lists are not an accurate metric of what's going to be "up your alley" or fun to read. having friends in the fandom who know your tastes and recommend stuff to you is.

additionally, it's very hard to tell what's AI slop and what's a new writer (or an ESL writer using a machine to help translate their work) and I feel like it's very easy to slip from "I want to engage with other Real People who love the thing as much as I do (and not someone dispassionately having the plagiarism machine make something for them)" to "I refuse to engage with mid-tier or unfinished works"

no shade to OP, they themselves were more talking about a hypothetical world where it becomes genuinely difficult to find fics written by real people; I just wanted to highlight the issue should be less "I want Only The Best fics and to be able to spitefully weed out lackluster work" and more "I want to engage with fics made by people who are just as fascinated about The Character as I am and do the hard work unraveling them in 20k of handcrafted prose"

the answer to AI slop is rec lists... every fandom needs to bring back rec lists in a major way

#real saro fans will know. I hated Ghost Story and Wisteria so goddamn much #and sinelanguage never got the accolades they deserved with some of their pieces #popularity doesn't guarantee quality #the youths need not the rec lists they need to be on tumblr sending authors asks about their fics #anyway. genuinely only love to OP. this was just a point I wanted to make related to your post #if it causes friction I can delete it and make my own. just let me know

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stargazedwinchester · 3 days ago

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ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `picture of you, sam winchester ༘♡

summary: sam stares at your photo every time he thinks about saying yes to lucifer. you're the reason why he hasn't yet. word count: 713 pairing: sam winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

It was hard for him the first time.

The first time he said yes. The first time he thought about looking at you for the last time.

He holds a photo of you, worn at the edges and creased in the middle. A faint white line running through your smile where he’s folded it and unfolded it too many times. He keeps it in his jacket pocket, tucked safely against his chest like maybe proximity will help it work better. Like maybe you can anchor him without even knowing it.

He doesn’t remember the first time he reached for it. Probably after a nightmare, when the whispers got too loud and Lucifer’s voice curled through his skull like smoke. Sam had pulled the photo out with shaking hands, stared at it until the roaring in his head dulled, until his pulse slowed back to something human.

Now it’s a reflex.

The thought starts small. It would be easier if I just said yes. And before he can stop himself, his fingers are already in his pocket, brushing the familiar paper edges. He doesn’t even have to look anymore to feel the weight of you in it.

But today… today the voice is louder.

He’s alone in the war room, hunched over a mess of lore and books that won’t save him. Dean’s in the garage. Cas is off doing whatever angels do when they say they’ll be back “soon.” And Lucifer has been relentless.

You can’t win, Sam. Think about how much blood you could stop spilling if you just gave in. I could make it quick.

Sam closes his eyes. That’s when the image comes unbidden. Your face—but not just from the photo. From last night, when you’d leaned against the doorframe with that sleepy smile, telling him to come to bed before he passed out on his laptop. From the way you laughed at breakfast when Dean burned the toast. From the time your hand brushed his on a hunt and he swore he felt the pulse in your fingertips.

He pulls out the photo.

Your hair’s windblown in it. You’re not looking at the camera, but at him, lips caught mid-smile like you’d just said something that made him forget to breathe.

“Not today,” he murmurs. It’s not really to Lucifer. It’s to you.

He presses his thumb over your cheek in the picture. He knows exactly how it would feel under his touch—warm, soft, grounding. He remembers.

The thing is, Sam’s not stupid. He knows the odds. He knows that sooner or later, he might not be able to hold out. But every time that thought starts to take shape, you’re there, keeping him just far enough from the edge. You, without knowing, are the wall between him and the end of the world.

He tucks the photo back into his pocket, carefully this time, like it might shatter if he moves too quickly.

Dean’s footsteps echo down the hallway. “You good?” he asks, leaning into the room.

Sam swallows, nods. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Dean doesn’t push. He never pushes when Sam’s in this kind of mood. Just disappears again, leaving Sam alone with the faint warmth in his chest that’s nothing to do with whiskey or coffee.

That warmth is dangerous. He knows that too. Because it’s not just that you’re his anchor—you’re also his weakness. If Lucifer ever knew how much you meant to him…

No. Sam doesn’t let himself finish that thought.

Instead, he opens the lore book in front of him, the one with more dust than actual answers, and lets the words blur a little. In the back of his mind, you’re still there. Not the photo, but you, real and alive, somewhere in the bunker, maybe humming to yourself in the kitchen.

You have no idea how many times you’ve saved him. How many times he’s traced the shape of your smile with his eyes instead of giving in to the cold, perfect voice promising him an end to it all.

And he’s not going to tell you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But as long as you’re here… as long as he can reach into his pocket and feel that thin slip of paper, that little piece of you—he’s not saying yes.

Not today.

#spn #supernatural #supernatural imagines #spn imagines #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #sam winchester #sam winchester imagines #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester angst #supernatural angst #supernatural fluff #supernatural fic #sam winchester fic

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literallyidontwannadothis · 3 days ago

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FINAL PART I SWEAR

All Seasons: He has really good hand eye coordination. Don't know if it's from playing basketball, or what but he's always tossing something. (Flashlight, baseball, radio, scooper, bat, a lighter) It's so unnecessary

Season 1, Episode 3: Not to excuse the whole camera thing, but he looks genuinely guilty for an instant after he broke it, and then after barb cut herself as well

Season 3, Episode 6: Look how scared he is. Russian torture is no joke for sure, but I legitimately think this is the most scared he looks in the whole show. Joe even listed it as the most traumitizing thing he went through despite literally everything that has happened across all four seasons. for some reason, this is the worst.

He's clearly trying to lean away ^^ (also you can see the general just... patting him? in the background here? made me laugh when I noticed)

this video clip isn’t sped up at all. You can go find it in the show

This guy ^ is overall super creepy towards him in particular. why did you pet him my guy.

Season 2, Episode 6: Is it clear I'm insane yet? here's a cute moment where he was helping out the kids (he almost loses his barrel)

And with that, this is where I leave this post until I get enough from the notes/replies to make a part four lol.

In summary, Steve has always been a very interesting, well developed, and emotionally rounded out character thanks to the writing and (in a big part) Joe Keery's acting. There's a reason people latch on to them. This whole post sort of spiraled away from me, but I am an extreme perfectionist and started worrying that I was missing details so here we are.

rewatching so many parts of episodes here's what I picked up: he's actually pretty smart, or at least can be. don't get me wrong, he's always been a little dumb, and a loser (it's part of his charm trust), but he makes important connections on more than one occasion. people gravitate towards him to make decisions, especially when he's in his element.

also, he gets a lot more tense as the seasons go on. During any season you can usually watch him in the background and pick up on whatever he's feeling (kudos joe), but in season four there's a lot more stress going on (as opposed to confusion, or just pure judgement like in the earlier seasons), and he seems just overall more worn.

But like FOR REAL there is so much depth to this performance and character, and even though everything I listed isn't directly related to that idea, I wish we knew more about him. Across four seasons, we've learned virtually nothing about his family, his hobbies or interests, how he even feels about all of this, what his goals are, so little. But what is evident by reading (very deeply) in between the lines is that he cares so much about his friends, and he's also been very deeply affected by all of this. relationships are clearly important to him, which is why nancy and his break up hit so hard, he latched on to dustin so wholeheartedly, why he sticks with tommy and carol and does so much for them (see, the food) and why he talks about Robin's love life and his own (in the middle of the apocolypse) to such an exhaustive degree that even robin calls him out on how irrelevant it is to what's going on. I get the impression that he's very social because of the fact that he was a popular teenager during his formative years and now his social circle has shrunk so much and so he's sort of desperately grasping on to what he's still got. and they're always all in life threatening danger.

PLEASE add anything else you have in the notes and replies bc there's probably things that I missed. can you tell I love this character? I feel the absurd need to overjustify any interst or opinion I have so here's a definitive (but not exaustive) list of reasons why I love Steve

mwah thanks for reading ( if you made it this far through my ramblings )

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

#stranger things #steve harrington #dustin henderson #robin buckley #eddie munson #jim hopper #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #nancy wheeler #max mayfield #tofind #goodness that took me a while

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disillusioned-phantasma · 2 days ago

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It was a wonder how you didn’t draw blood with how harshly you clawed at his shoulders, fighting between wanting him closer or wanting to push him away. Mikey didn’t mind, though. On the contrary, he encouraged you to leave marks. As tempted as he was to leave his own, he figured beating up your insides would suffice.

Knowing you’ll struggle to walk tomorrow was all the reward he needed.

“God—fuuck,” he slurred, after a particularly hard thrust made you arch off the bed, forcing him to sink deeper. He gazed down at you with an all too pleased grin as you begged him for more. How could he deny you when you sounded so desperate? “Taking me so well, angel…always so good f’me…”

“J-Jiro..! Ahplease!” You sobbed, your knees practically knocking upside your temples as he increased momentum. Mikey snickered, angling his hips to continue ramming the spot that made your eyes cross, moans reaching octaves you didn’t even know you could hit.

“Mm, been feening for this dick, huh? Yeah? Maybe we should call up that smug bastard, let ‘em see how such good friends we are, right [______]? Bet he was real proud thinkin’ he got me to fuck off…but we both know who you really belong to. Don’t we?”

He wasn’t sorry. That’s the short end of it.

The moment Takeru decided to act all big and bad, breaking stuff in a place where he paid no bills, it was in DRAKEN’s right to set him straight; mama may not have raised him, but he still ain’t no bitch.

It took some coaxing on your end, but you were able to reel Draken back from turning your boyfriend inside out. But, after he forced him to pick up every broken piece of the lamp, he told Takeru to choose a number between one and ten.

“…Why?” Was his response. Draken raised a brow.

“That’s how many shards I’m gonna shove up your nose.”

“Ken!”

The look on the shorter male’s face was worth it, earning a threatening smirk from the mechanic as he slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Ahh, y’look like you were about to shit yourself, man! Nah, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

For a moment, there’s relief in your boyfriend’s eyes. It was short-lived, of course. Especially once Draken’s grip tightened around his shoulder. “But I will. Don’t ever let me catch you pop off on [_____] like that again. Would hate for you to have to pick yourself up off the floor next time. You feel me?”

With a gulp, he gave a shaky nod; now he really looked like he shat himself. “Y-Yes…”

“Hah? Yes, what?”

“Y-Yes, Draken, sir?”

He rewarded the poor sucker’s obedience with a couple taps to the cheek just to spite him before sending him on his way. It was met with little protest, Takeru scurrying out of the room with lamp pieces still in his palms, not even sparing you a passing glance.

“Text you later?” You called at his retreating form. When all you got was the sound of your front door slamming shut in response, you swiftly turned on your heel to aim a dejected frown at your other houseguest. Draken sardonically pouted back at you, reaching over to pinch your cheek until you swatted his hand away. “Why’d you do that, you totally freaked him out!”

He wasn’t sorry. Draken shrugged. “Good.”

Merely rolling your eyes, you headed for the small broom and dustpan in your closet to gather what little pieces Takeru left behind–Might as well busy yourself to delay addressing the elephant still in the room. Unfortunately, said elephant wasn’t about to let that happen. Before you could even think of sweeping anything, Draken gently grabbed your elbow, those same eyes that stared death into your boyfriend’s soul now filled with something else as they appraised you, melting through whatever cold exterior you tried to aim at him.

He leaned down closer, sporting a slanted grin that sent signals straight down to your core. Sometimes, you despised how easily he made your insides flutter by just existing.

“How much longer y’gonna entertain that fucking loser, huh? He wouldn’t know the first thing about handling someone like you.”

You hummed, fighting the giddy tremble in your body at the challenging air that surrounded you both. With the inkling of boldness you had, you took the bait. “What, like you would?”

He wasn’t sorry; you’d be though.

The way Draken split you in half would make Lucifer himself bite the pillow. Hovering over his gigantic frame, chest bare with your hands perched on each pec, he manhandled you to take every unforgiving inch of his dick, having you feeling downright discombobulated as your hips struggled to keep momentum.

Forget about seeing stars, at some point, you were certain you saw into the quantum realm; say hi to Ant-Man for me.

“K-Kenny...I can’t...t’s too much!”

He cooed up at you, though there wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in his tone. If anything, Draken enjoyed himself thoroughly, tongue-in-cheek as he watched you fall apart in his lap, just like he knew you would. With the way you tightened up around him like a vice, as if your own body was against the thought of him stopping, the former blonde chuckled breathlessly.

“Use the safe word then, doll.”

You glared down at him, to the best of your ability. With him practically jabbing you in the lung, it was more than difficult to say the rebuttal as smartly as you wanted to. “Y-you think…you’re so-oh! So f-funny…”

He did. Absolutely he did. By making your boyfriend’s name the safe word, nothing would soften his dick quicker. Plus, he knew you didn’t need it; just like you didn’t need Takeru.

“What? It’d be the only way you’d ever scream it anyways.”

“Welcome back.”

You paused mid-step upon entering your apartment, not expecting the ravenette to still be there. With a deep exhale, you paid him no mind as you kicked off your shoes, irritated after a tiresome process of checking your boyfriend into the hospital.

To say BAJI did a number on him would be an understatement…Man’s fucked him up. Sure, maybe Makoto could’ve watched his tone when talking to someone with such a short fuse, but Baji could’ve at least exercised a little restraint.

…Oh, who were you kidding? It’s Baji.

“What, ya not talkin’ to me?” Barely sparing him a glance, you set your bag on the coffee table before heading for the bedroom for a much-needed shower. Baji didn’t take kindly to being ignored. He huffed, standing to meet you halfway as he trailed behind you. Even when you attempted to close the door in his face, he shouldered his way in anyway; it was gonna take more than that to deter him.

“Quit being mad…said I was sorry, damn.”

“No you didn’t,” you replied, incredulously. You really tried it with the silent treatment, but knowing him, it was only a matter of seconds before he'd get you talking again. Taking off the sweats you threw on in haste earlier, you continued. “You said, and I quote, ‘Talk shit, get hit,’ then fell asleep on the couch while I had to haul Makoto to the emergency room!”

Baji shuffled his feet, “…Well, I meant to say it. Jus' forgot.”

You scoffed, walking into your bathroom. "What are you even still doing here? Don't you have someone else's day to shit on?”

“Y’kicking me out now?” He teased, raising a brow. What he didn't expect was for you to start throwing your toiletries at him. Although his reflexes saved him for the most part, Baji still got hit a few times as he attempted to dodge between a shampoo bottle and mouthwash. "Whoa! Hey-!"

“Maybe I should! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him in and out of my car with all that dead weight, let alone into the building? Not to mention, his emergency contacts were his uppity-ass parents, so after they chewed me out, I had to lie and say he saved me from getting mugged.”

“...They buy it?”

You tilted your head, exasperated. "Wow. And here I thought the next thing out of your mouth would be that apology you 'forgot' to say earlier…[Sigh] Whatever. You just better hope when Makoto wakes up he doesn't remember anything, or else we're both in deep shit."

“Tsk. The fuck’s he gonna do?”

“He could literally sue us.” You deadpanned.

“He’s a pussy, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try me again. And if he gives you any shit for it, you let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, you mean like how you did today? Pass.”

He groaned, “I said sorry!”

“No you didn’t! And still haven’t!”

At the moment, it felt like the conversation would just continue in circles. With Baji stubbornly claiming he was in the right, and you combating his warped logic with colorful language and more stuff thrown at him, it's a wonder how things ended up here–With your face pressed against the cold shower wall as he gave you his fucking apology.

Over, and over, and over again.

While one hand wrapped around the column of your throat, fingers shoved knuckle-deep into your mouth to pacify the excessive whines tumbling out, the other made use of gripping the meat of your thigh, giving you no chance of running from the punishing thwap of his hips ramming against your wet ass-cheeks. The water cascading over your bodies had long turned cold as Baji chased after orgasm number five, his muscles ached from the strain, but he'd be damned to stop until he was certain all was forgiven.

Even if it meant missing every single one of Makoto's phone calls.

“God, I am so, so sorry, Takashi. Can’t believe he just…I-I’ve never seen him act like that before. Does it hurt?”

MITSUYA, despite the sting in his split lip, gave you an easy grin. “Nah, y’know I’ve been through worse. Fucker hits like one of my younger sisters.”

You had brought him back to your place to ice the bruise forming on his jaw, still frazzled over what occurred in the last half hour. Back at the restaurant, everything seemed fine when you excused yourself to the bathroom, having a blast knowing that your two favorite people were actually getting along. Unbeknownst to you, there was a storm brewing in Hajime. And the second you were out of sight, he used this opportunity to set a record straight with Mitsuya.

Evidently, he allowed his fists to do the talking.

You groaned, rubbing down your face in distress. “We’ll probably never get to set foot in that restaurant again...’m so embarrassed.”

“Hey,” he softly reprimanded, “Don’t sweat it, t’s not your fault-”

“I’m the one who begged you to let him come with us in the first place. I mean, I know you two butt heads from time to time, but I didn’t think it’d ever turn that serious. Please, Taka, just tell me what happened.”

Mitsuya shook his head, about to lower the ice pack until you shot him a pointed look. With a small exhale through his nose, he kept it on his jaw while he spoke. “I told you, he was probably pissed he couldn’t get a free meal outta me-”

“Don’t bullshit me, Haji wouldn’t explode like that over a fucking chicken sandwich.” You huffed, frustrated at his evasive behavior. He was holding back information on purpose, you were certain. Ever since the fitting, he'd been acting weird all evening. And that fight only solidified your suspicions. “Just tell me what started it!”

"Doesn’t matter."

"Taka-"

"Let it go, [______]." He laid back on your couch and made himself comfortable, even so much as turning on your tv to fill over the dead conversation. Mitsuya trained his eyes on the lit-up screen, still icing his jaw as he subtly avoided eye contact.

You could just scream.

Childishly, you snatched the remote from his hand and switched it back off. The lavender haired threw his head back in defeat, the hand holding the ice pack slowly coming down as Mitsuya eyed you from his peripheral; so stubborn.

“Be honest. It was about me again, wasn’t it?” His silence spoke volumes. “So it was then. Ugh, okay listen, I get that you’re both really protective of me, I do, but that doesn’t excuse-”

“I’m in love with you.”

You choked. Though, only on your words.

With that now hanging up in the air, you gaped like a damn goldfish, the remote slipping out your grasp and clambering to the floor with a clack. Mitsuya exhaled; no turning back now. “You…huh?”

“Yep. Have been for a while, actually.” He placed his arms behind the couch, wry smirk on his face. “Planned to tell you over dinner tonight, but that backfired fast, no thanks to that walking steroid you call a boyfriend.”

“Y-…You’re messing with me. Right?” The designer offered a humorless laugh, gesturing to his split lip and bruised jaw.

“Didn’t get hit for saying what a great pal you were, [______].”

Now it was your turn to be silent. A lump began to form in your throat, overwhelmed with the newfound information, borderline confession.

“So then…what did you say to Haji to make him so angry?”

For a split second, you saw a glint within his pools of amethyst as they slowly rendered to a deep violet. Staring at you from beneath his pretty lashes, Mitsuya resembled that of a starved animal on the verge of cornering its prey, causing a sudden warmth to envelop you as you squirmed under his heady gaze.

Sitting up a little, he merely beckoned you to his empty lap. You blinked widely at him, sputtering as you tried to protest the idea. But, what he said next played into your curiosity.

“C’mere, and I’ll show you.”

You blinked at him, uncertain; he made no move to rush you. If you were against the idea, you were more than welcome to decline and tell him to shove it. However, when you eventually crawled into the awaiting throne, settling all your weight on top of him to the point he couldn’t keep from groaning shamelessly, Mitsuya was fucking elated.

You gripped his shirt at the shoulders, sporting that signature pout you’d do whenever you wanted something from him—The designer was more than ready to give it to you. All you had to do was say so.

“Hajime’s gonna kill you if he finds out, though. Don’t want you getting hurt again because of me…”

Mitsuya chuckled, hands slowly rubbing up your thighs until they settled on your hips. “Don’t worry about it, sweet thing. He may have gotten two hits on me today, but all I need is one tomorrow.”

“ hate your boyfriend ” || tokyo rev. pt. 2

one

synopsis: “ you can pick me or your little boy. ”

pairing: college!toman x gn!reader

warnings: mature language, sexual themes, MDI. toxic!toman, cheater!reader (pumpkin eater!!), enabling behavior, mild violence, vague descriptions of sex (cause i’m lazy), vulgar language, corny marvel joke, dirty-talk, moral compass is a roulette wheel in this one lol and i think that’s it :P

notes:did a little continuation of the first one before doing more characters lol i’m happy you guys liked the concept, lemme know who you’d like to see next :))) i don’t hate this one, but i don’t love it either (except maybe mikey’s) buuuut hope yall enjoy! <333

tagged:@fantasycantasy , @spacegirl05

A week had passed since the whole kick-back fiasco, and MIKEY had gone awol. Aki was over the moon about it, for obvious reasons; as far as he was concerned, he scared him off. Besides, the less you hung around the delinquent, the better for both of you.

“That guy’s just a nuisance, babe. Good riddance.”

Little did he know, this was a regular occurrence. Mikey always did this—Disappeared for days on end, only to pop right back up like he never left. Whether it be due to gang related issues, or because he felt like it, this frustrating habit was one of the reasons you invited him that night, despite knowing he’d pick a fight with Aki. You had missed him…in more ways than one. You knew it was only a matter of time before he came back to you.

And in the wee hours of the night, not far after said boyfriend left your place, you received a lone message from the former blonde himself.

from : bad influence ♡ 11:03pm “ omw. ”

Short, but effective. His timing was impeccable, how he always managed to text the second you were alone was beyond you, but it made your heart race all the same. It was wrong, you knew that, Aki deserved better than someone who snuck around. You didn’t mean for it to get this far, but that was a guilt you’d deal with later. Mikey was your drug of choice, and tonight you craved another fix.

to : bad influence ♡ 11:07pm “ okay. but just for a little while. ”

Even if you tried to play coy, to salvage whatever weak moral you had left, it didn’t matter—The only one you were fooling tonight was Aki.

from : bad influence ♡ 11:08pm “ mhm. sure, angel. ”

Keep reading

#anisespice #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #sano manjirou x reader #sano manjirou x reader 🔞#ryuuguuji ken x reader #ryuuguuji ken x reader 🔞#baji keisuke x reader #baji keisuke x reader 🔞#mitsuya takashi x reader #mitsuya takashi x reader 🔞

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marlynnofmany · 12 hours ago

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Normal Dogs

They were supposed to be dogs. They really were.

See, there’s this joke going around among the other civilized species of the galaxy about the way humans have domesticated this one animal into so many different types that it’s hard to tell which Earth animals are, and are not, dogs. So I really felt like someone must have been messing with me when I looked at the large crate of animal cargo that we were supposed to deliver.

“Captain,” I said slowly. “These aren’t dogs. Well, one is, and it’s not the one you’d think.”

Captain Sunlight looked up at me, concern on her lizardy face. I could see how reluctant she was to ask me, “Are you sure?”

“Very,” I said, pointing at the Chihuahua. “That one’s a dog, one of the smallest kinds. But that is a ferret, that is a capybara, and that is a bear cub, and none of these should be in the same cage. Please tell me they’re going somewhere with an accredited zoo?”

Captain Sunlight turned to look at the client who had brought us the crate. He flicked his antennae and flexed pincher arms, giving away nothing but annoyance. Which wasn’t unusual for a Mesmer. “I was told they were dogs,” he insisted.

“They are not,” I said, pointing at the bear cub. “When that one grows up, it will be bigger than you, and able to rip the door off this ship.”

Captain Sunlight looked up in alarm. “How fast does it grow?”

“Not that fast,” I reassured her. “But it’s a bear. One of the biggest land predators currently living on Earth. Not a dog.”

The Mesmer hissed in irritation. “Can’t you just take them anyway? My supervisor wanted this to be handled quickly, and they’re contained safely enough.”

I was a little skeptical of that, but the four unlikely bundles of fur were behaving for the moment. The ferret was zipping about in a normal ferrety way while the bear cub and Chihuahua snuggled up to the capybara like it was an adoptive parent. Which it could have been for all I knew. We hadn’t moved the crate into our cargo bay just yet, pausing on the busy spaceport between their ship and ours. I asked, “Can I talk to your supervisor real quick?”

This hiss sounded exceptionally put-out, like an aggravated teenager forced to clean his room. “We need to take off.”

I retorted, “And I need to make sure these aren’t being sold as companion animals to someone unprepared for getting their ship ripped open.”

Captain Sunlight nodded, tapping the tablet with the details of this particular delivery. “The destination is a hub world with many species cohabitating. That tells us nothing.”

“Ugh, fine. Wait here.” The Mesmer stalked off back to his own ship, where he rapped on the door with a folded pincher and had a hissing conversation with someone just inside.

We waited. The ferret’s antics caused the bear cub to tumble over onto the Chihuahua, and now the three of them were roughhousing while the capybara watched calmly. This was clearly not the first time they’d shared a cage. Now that I was looking, I noticed that all four had collar dents in their fur, though they weren’t wearing any at the moment. The bear cub even had dents at its little wrists, and I did not like the look of that.

Someone left the other ship. I relaxed a bit at the sight of another human: a no-nonsense middle-aged woman who hurried over for a quick word with me specifically. I obligingly stepped aside, curious about what she had to say.

Her whispered explanation made it all better.

“I stole them from a circus,” she said. “Terrible place. I have a contact waiting to take them back to a sanctuary on Earth.”

“Oh, good!” I said in immense relief. “I was worried someone actually thought they were all dogs.”

She shook her head once. “That’s just for the paperwork. The circus owners are still looking for them. Think you can get in the air soon?”

“Yes I do,” I told her, giving Captain Sunlight a thumbs-up. The captain saw it and moved to finalize things on the tablet with the Mesmer. I told the other human, “This is not too different from how I got my cat.”

“Glad to hear it,” the human said with a smile. “I’ll be leaving them in good hands, then.” She didn’t press for an explanation of the cat thing, because we were all in a hurry here, and the circus types could come by at any time, and who needed that? Not us. She gave me a nod and a wink, then hustled back to her own ship.

I glanced around in what I hoped was a casual way. Not that I would necessarily recognize a representative of this particular terrible circus, but I’d encountered enough in my time that I felt like I’d sense the callousness rolling off them. There were entertainment groups that incorporated animals in a respectful way, of course, but those tended to not be the kind described as “terrible,” which inspired random humans to stage a spontaneous rescue.

I could relate.

Captain Sunlight asked me, “All good?” The other human was disappearing back into her ship while the Mesmer activated a hover lift under the cage.

I nodded. “They’re dogs for today. Fido, Ursula, Cappy, and Fairy. We’ll want to leave quickly.”

“I trust I’ll get an explanation once we’re up?”

“Yeah. You remember where Telly came from.”

Her expression turned stern. “Understood. I’ll tell Eggskin to get out the medical scanner, and Kavlae to prepare to leave immediately.”

“Thank you. Maybe Telly can say hi through the bars once they’ve cleared the health check.”

Already walking towards the cargo bay, Captain Sunlight gave me an amused glance. “I thought dogs didn’t like cats.”

I shrugged. “Who can say, with these four? A sniff through the bars should be fine. They’ll probably have lots to talk about.”

Captain Sunlight just smiled and hurried ahead.

I hoped they were healthy, and as tame as they looked. I was planning to spend a significant part of this trip in the hold, keeping our animal cargo comforted and calm. It wasn’t every day I got to pet a bear cub, much less a capybara and a ferret as well.

Pardon me, several dogs with absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about them. Even if one looked exceptionally cuddly, another had little ratty feet, and a third was long and lightning-fast. Totally normal dogs heading back to Earth where they belonged.

~~~

(The cat thing is a reference to this story: Bargains at the Space Market)

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#dog or not #tolja that other post would be relevant #definitely worth incorporating into a story just a little #humans are weird #The Token Human #my writing #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #dogs #and things that look like them

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hyster1caldreamer · 3 days ago

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maaaaybe nerd!zayne isn't that bad

"i thought we were studying together?" you sigh, "just us."

there was a new guy at the school that you hated. this guy was good at everything, school, curricular activities, literally everything. and it pissed you off. you used to be that person, but now you're not.

"yeah, but..zayne can help us. and i DEFINITELY need it." tara looked at you with pleading eyes.

"fine." you rolled your eyes, "i hate him tho'."

"why? because he's smarter than you?" she chuckled.

"everyone used to come to me for help, but now they don't. not even YOU."

"oh, shut up, you said you hated it." tara remarked, "he's really hot though, like damn i would looove to get with him."

tara wasn't wrong, you did hate it. but you miss the attention it came with, now all of that attention was to mr.nerdypants now. she also wasn't wrong with zayne being really really hot. because damn was he fine. but you weren't gonna admit that, not to anyone.

you always watched him help other students with their homework during break, thinking that that used to be you. except for the fact that zayne never got pissed when he had to repeat himself. he would just nod and explain how to solve the problem again, even if he had to explain it eight hundred times. you are impatient with people, always getting mad when you have to re-explain yourself. because, how hard can it be...right?

the doorbell rang, and tara got up to open the door to reveal zayne. he had his spectacles on and fuck it did things to you. you tried to hate him, but you weren't sure how that was working out. likeee he's just a guy...

he walked up and sat next to you, who sat next to tara.

"good afternoon." he said to you as he took off his glasses only to put it back on after he ran his fingers through his hair.

"w-well, hey" you were able to mutter.

he looked like the type to get real pissed easily, a bad boy. and he was handsome too, a playboy? um, but he's NOT. he's smart, sweet, talented, everything.

they took out their notes and textbooks and started to work on the exercises in the textbook.

"zaynieeee?" tara said, making him look up, "how do you solve this?" she pointed to a scientific question involving NO quadratic formulas. "law of sines." you answered for zayne, "you use the law of sines."

"that's correct." zayne smiled at you, giving you a pat on the head. tara chuckled at the sight of now flushed you. just as you were about to tell him off, he brought out a box of creamy cocoa chocolates. the ones...that were your favourite? seriously this guy is so weird.

"it's better to have some sweets when you're studying, would you guys like to have some?" he asked as he peeled off the wrapper from the chocolate box.

damn. he was really hard to hate.

tara quickly grabbed one, while you reluctantly grabbed one. you had a hard time trying to get the wrapper off, but finally zayne grabbed it from you opening it with ease.

"...thanks or whatever." you reluctantly said as you stuffed the chocolate in your mouth. "you're quite adorable." he smiled, which caused you to blush more.

tara’s laughter broke the silence.

“i’m sorry.” tara manages to say through her laughter, “you guys are so cuuuute.”

“too bad she hates me.” he looked at you for confirmation.

“w-what? where did you hear that..” you really don’t hate him. in fact, you might just like him. just a little bit.

“people talk, you know.” he shrugged, “is it true?”

zayne leaned in closer to your face. so close that they can feel each other’s breaths. you gulped at the sudden closeness of the other.

“do you really hate me?” he whispered, weirdly quite seductively. you nervously nodded in response.

“are you sure about that, sweetheart?” he was really close. like really close to your lips.

your instinct told you to close your eyes, and you did. you could feel his breaths on your lips. just as you thought zayne was gonna kiss you, a phone rang.

"FUCK. im sorry guys." tara quickly grabbed her phone, and turned it off. "i..umm..i'll go now. to the bathroom. see you." she ran off, leaving a smirking zayne and an embarrassed you.

"well, i think it's time for me to leave." his sudden movements caused you to jump, "too bad we hardly did any studying though."

he picked up his bag and stood up.

"tell tara i'll see her soon, and you, tomorrow at 9." he said any without hesitation.

"huh?" your eyes widened.

"see you tomorrow sweetheart. i'll pick you up." zayne left, not allowing you to answer.

you really did hate him.

#fatiii vomits ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #lads #lnds #love and deepspace #lads zayne #lnds zayne #love and deepspace zayne #lads crack #lnds crack #love and deepspace crack #lads fluff #lnds fluff #love and deepspace fluff #zayne fluff

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glowettee · 3 days ago

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✧･ﾟ: ✧ what i learned from rory about balancing too much at once ✧:･ﾟ✧

hi loves, sorry if i haven't been posting much lately!!

fall is coming up (finally 🍂✨) and i’ve been in that headspace of fresh starts, new notebooks, crisp mornings where you feel like you could handle everything at once if you just tried hard enough. you know? that back-to-school energy that makes you want to sign up for a million new things, read ten books at once, and basically attempt to become the perfect rory gilmore version of yourself overnight.

obviously, that's amazinggg, however, i’ve been thinking about how rory, as much as we all admire her studious vibe and ambition, also struggled with this exact thing. she was always balancing too much at once, classes, internships, reading lists, friendships, complicated family dinners, the whole yale energy! and sometimes she crushed it, but sometimes she cracked under the pressure. and honestly, that’s so real.

so i sat down with my journal (as usual lol) and started writing out all the little lessons i’ve picked up from watching her. here’s what i’ve learned about balancing too much, without completely losing yourself in the process.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ lesson one: ambition isn’t the enemy, but overextension is ･:ೃ.⋆

rory’s drive was inspiring, she always had a stack of books in her bag, was applying to internships before anyone else, and somehow still made time for movie marathons. but sometimes she stretched herself too thin.

what i’ve realized is: it’s really not the ambition that burns us out, it’s the overextension. fall feels like the perfect time to pile your plate high, but you need to ask yourself: do i actually have the energy for this?

→ tip: before committing to a new project, class, or plan, do a quick energy check. imagine your week with this new thing added in, does it excite you or overwhelm you? that little gut feeling is everything.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ lesson two: systems save you (planners, lists, rituals) ･:ೃ.⋆

rory thrived when she had her routines, like her color-coded notes, library study sessions, structured reading schedules. when she got messy, so did her life. i’ve noticed the same with myself.

when fall arrives, i always, ALWAYS re-set my planner and make a fresh weekly template. lists keep me sane, rituals keep me grounded.

→ tip: create one “non-negotiable” routine for fall. it could be journaling every morning, sunday night planning, or a weekly coffee shop study session.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ lesson three: protect your quiet moments ･:ೃ.⋆

the stars hollow side of rory? sitting at lukes with a book, walking through town with a coffee, or having cozy study nights in. she wasn’t always rushing, she valued those quieter moments.

when you’re balancing a lot, it feels like downtime is a waste. but honestly, that’s the secret. the slower moments are where your brain actually recovers and your creativity comes back.

→ tip: schedule breaks like appointments. literally block out “quiet hour” in your calendar. curl up with a book, go on a walk, or just drink coffee with no multitasking.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ lesson four: know when to step back ･:ೃ.⋆

rory had moments where she fully crashed, remember when she dropped out of yale after that internship spiral? dramatic, yes, but also a reminder. sometimes your body and mind will scream at you to step back.

→ tip: check in with yourself weekly. ask: am i actually enjoying this? am i keeping up without sacrificing sleep or sanity? if the answer is no, it’s okay to step back. quitting one thing doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it means you’ve chosen wisely.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ lesson five: you don’t have to do it alone ･:ೃ.⋆

one thing rory always had? a support system. lorelai, lane, paris (chaotic but still), her grandparents, even luke. she leaned on people, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

balancing too much feels heavier when you try to carry it by yourself. let people help, talk things out, or just study alongside a friend.

→ tip: this fall, create a “support ritual.” maybe it’s a weekly call with a bestie, study sessions with classmates, or coffee dates where you vent. being open about your stress keeps it from piling up inside you.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ my stars hollow-inspired fall checklist ･:ೃ.⋆

because i can’t resist making a list ✧ here’s what i’m focusing on this season:

choose 3 main priorities (not 12) for the season

keep one cozy ritual non-negotiable (like sunday night resets)

build “quiet hours” into my weekly schedule

remember it’s okay to step back before i burn out

reach out for support instead of bottling things up

as fall arrives, i want to challenge both of us to give ourselves permission to breathe. cozy sweaters, coffee cups, open books, and calm hearts. that’s the balance i want.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚

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thecuriousbeauty · 2 days ago

Text

Dread- Harry Styles x reader blurb

Word count: 3.7K

Warnings: Anxiety.

Author's note: Just a little blurb with reader dealing with an episode of anxiety, and Harry knows exactly what she needs. Nothing exaggerated, this is from my real experiences and I was just feeling a bit down from an incident a couple days ago, so I thought to write about it cause that helps me. To anyone who's struggling, you're gonna get through this. You're here, that's all that matters.

_________________________________________

There are some days when you feel like the earth is going to rise and swallow you whole. When you feel like there’s a burning hot, flaming fireball hurling towards you, and your brain is sending you all kinds of danger signals. You wish you could just tell your brain that you’re safe, that you’re not in danger, but that doesn’t work all the time. No matter how hard you try, how hard you try to ignore the feeling of dread, the thought overpowers your resilience and every fibre in your body has only one thought.

Run. Go home, get inside the covers of your comfortable, soft, bed.

And if you don’t? That invisible feeling that has a hold on you is challenging you to get through your task. Almost like it knows you’ll fail, and it’s laughing at you, watching you struggle.

“Baby?”

It sounded like his voice was caught in a storm. The thoughts in your head was louder. No, you couldn’t let this happen, not today. You take a breath and focus on the music that was playing on the radio. You blink, eyes a little blurry because you were staring out the window of the passenger’s seat for a long time. Harry’s hand cups your knee, his head turning towards you for a second as he continues driving. “You’re quiet, love.”

You push down the feelings that come up like it’s going to make you sick, and place your hand over your boyfriend’s resting on your knee, giving it a little squeeze. “Sorry, zoned out for a minute.”

Harry looks at you like he’s reading you, fingers curling around yours to hold your palm in his. Your fingers twitch in his, and gently run over his palm, feeling his skin.

“What’s on your mind, my little wanderer?”, he asks, and you take another breath, shaking your head. “A lot..just nervous, I guess.”

You probably sounded crazy saying that, as you both were on your way to celebrate one of your common friend’s birthday. Just a birthday party at a club. This party you were actually excited to attend too, many of your friends would be there, lots of great food and drinks. You also loved dressing up and just taking a pause from your hectic life sometimes.

You can’t remember when the anxiety started coming up, and it doesn’t make sense because you have been to parties before, you looked forward to this and it shouldn’t be triggering at all.

“Is it about Kristen? We’ll stay clear of her, babe, and I got you if she comes anywhere near you to start her nonsense.”, Harry says, thinking you might be nervous about encountering your once friend turned enemy. But it wasn’t about her, Kristen was barely on your mind. You didn’t care about her anymore.

From your lack of response, Harry’s other hand comes off the wheel as he stops at the signal and cups your chin, turning your face to him. “Is it something else?”, he asks, thumb stroking the side of your jaw as you slowly meet his gaze.

You felt like your heart was racing, a whole tornado of thoughts in your head that you were trying to control so hard. Harry’s touch, his soft eyes as he looked at you, you wanted to bury yourself in his arms and disappear.

“I…can you just talk to me about something? Anything?”, you ask, you needed him to distract you. Thinking about it was making it worse.

Harry leans towards you in his seat, hand cupping your cheek. “Darling, you were jumping and telling me to hurry up back home. What’s the matter, hm?”

Tears threaten to spill, and you remind yourself to take slower breaths. Harry has to turn back to the road as the signal turns green, but one hand still stays on your thigh now, gently rubbing up and down.

“I don’t know why this has to happen now. Fuck.” You turn your eyes back to the window.

“Hey, you’re alright, love, it’s okay, yeah?”, Harry knows by now that it’s your anxiety. Something you’ve always had, but sometimes it feels like it’s never there, and other times, you feel like you need someone around you or you’ll go insane.

“Just distract me Harry, please?”

Harry nods, squeezing your thigh gently. “Need me to pullover? We can relax for a bit, take a few deep breaths and then continue.”

“W-We’ll be late..”, you whisper.

“Doesn’t matter.”, Harry murmurs as he pulls over.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and yours, turning to you. “I’m sorry, it’s not that bad..I’m just frustrated and ugh..”

“Mhm. Did something happen at work today?”, Harry asks, reaching back for a water bottle.

“No..it was all good until I got in the car.”, you murmur, whispering a thanks as Harry holds the uncapped water bottle to your lips. He presses a kiss to your temple when you’re done, keeping the bottle away before giving you a side hug, and you lean into him, fingers feeling the material of his shirt, the texture, something to distract you.

“You know, Mitch tried to prank me at work today. But I didn’t fall for it.”, Harry starts talking, his hand rubbing your arm. You listen to Mitch’s failed attempt at pranking Harry, he usually falls for everything, so it was pretty surprising. And the way Harry narrated the incident made you laugh by the end.

“There’s that laugh.”, Harry presses a kiss to your forehead and you smile softly, lifting your face to look at him. “Did I mention you look absolutely gorgeous tonight?”

You giggle softly as he presses a kiss to your lips, without smudging your lipstick too much. “You did, a couple times.”

“Well I should a couple times more, it still won’t be enough.”

You take in the silence, focusing just on Harry. He’s solid, he’s the one that’s with you. Not your thoughts that are just in your head, messing with you. You listen to the sound of other cars driving by, the light from the street lamp making Harry’s face glow, enhancing his features.

He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Do you wanna go home?”

“No..I wanna go, I want to have fun. And going home would be giving up. I can’t let this take over things I want to do.”

Harry’s arm around you pulls you a bit closer, lips brushing your earlobe. “It isn’t always giving up. You can always take a pause if you need.”

“I’ll feel better when I’m with everyone, this’ll be good.”, you tell him, and convince yourself at the same time.

“You sure, bug? You’re feeling better now?”, Harry asks, and you nod, kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I got you.”, he smiles, reaching over to put on your seatbelt just like he took it off, and giving you another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You brush your hand against his cheek, appreciating how wonderful of a man he is. “Let’s change the radio. Connect your phone love, playlist time.”

“You’re gonna suffer through it until we get there?”, you ask, finding your playlist, that could help you relax.

“Sure, if it helps you. I can even sing along.”, Harry says, making you chuckle.

He sang along to some of the songs he doesn’t even like but knows by heart because of how often you listen to them. He also kept talking to you, making sure you don’t zone out again. The feeling wasn’t gone though. You could feel it, waiting for another quiet vulnerable moment to pounce.

As you pulled up near the entrance of the club and Harry rolled his window down to talk to the security, and about the valet parking, it all hit you again.

No, don’t get out of the car. You’re going to feel sick if you do. It’s not safe. There’s going to be a lot of people.

You shut your eyes, breathing in for four, holding it in for four, and letting it out for four, inhaling sharply after that, even though you tried to exhale for longer. Long exhales activate the parasympathetic system, that lets your body know that there’s no need to panic.

It’s your close friend’s birthday. You’re going to have fun. You just need to hold on until you get to your group.

“Come on, beautiful.” Harry had got the door for you already, holding his hand out.

You take it, slowly getting out of the car, and the familiar wooziness hits you.

Stop. You imagine a red stop sign, telling your brain to shut it off. That worked sometimes.

“You okay, love?”, Harry checks again, concerned now.

“Uh huh, let’s go in.” You hold his arm, pulling him along as you walk in. Sometimes you felt like staying still would make it worse. You had to keep moving.

“Hey!! There they are, my favorite couple. Bring it in, guys.”, the birthday boy finds you soon, hugging you both. “Sorry we got the party started already.”

“Looking sharp, mate, doesn’t seem like you’re getting old at all! Happy birthday.”, Harry says, and you put on a smile and wish him as well.

“y/n, babe! Finally!”, your friend calls out to you, coming to you with a big grin and two drinks. The flashy lights, the music, the familiar faces, you let it all take over. Your friend pulled you off to where the other girls were, handing you one of the drinks.

You don’t drink it yet, as it would only make your anxiety worse. You know from experience. You were looking forward to let lose but now you’re having to watch your breathing to make sure you don’t hyperventilate.

You talk with everyone, smiling, sharing jokes, putting on that mask that you so well know to put on. But you were not having fun inside. The minute the conversation died, or there was a switch up music, you felt the cold, uncomfortable feeling. You made sure you were in a corner, where there was a seat in case you needed it.

“Come on, let’s dance. Gotta show of that pretty dress.”, your friend says, and you go with her, thinking just throwing your arms around and moving to the beat would help, but there was just too many people on the dance floor. You’re not claustrophobic but anxiety makes you feel all kinds of things.

You’re going to feel breathless if you go in there. Back up!

You can hear your heart thudding like it’s beating right next to your ear. Your legs start to feel weak, and the wooziness returns, with a flutter in your stomach. You need to do something before it takes over completely. You try to focus on five things you can see, four things you can touch, but you can’t in this club setting.

And then before you know it, came the panic. The fear. Everything that you fear about flashes through your mind. The worst being the fear of failure.

What if this makes me faint? Everyone’s gonna see. What would I tell all of them?

Although you never fainted from anxiety attacks before, it has made you feel very dizzy, and like you will fall at any minute. So you’re always worried about fainting if it gets too out of control. It shouldn’t make sense medically, as the attacks tend to raise the blood pressure and the opposite of that makes people faint. Maybe it was just mind tricking you again, making sure the horror movie running through your mind is scary enough.

You take a step back, and look around, Harry’s eyes meeting yours. He was with a couple friends, talking, but also keeping an eye on you. He’s coming over when he sees your face.

“I-I can’t..”, you whisper to him, and he barely hears it, but he does, and quickly wraps his arm around you. He leads you out through the back door, and you gasp, relieved feeling the fresh air, but you’re breathing too fast to take it all in, and your vision was starting to blur as Harry steered you outside.

“Do you need to sit?”, Harry asks, holding on to you like he’s afraid you would collapse if he didn’t, and you nod. He looks around but there was no chair or bench, so he quickly shrugs off his jacket and lays it on the grass, and makes you sit on it, he sits on the grass right beside you.

You breathe deeply, leaning to his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “That’s it, deep breaths, baby. I’m here.”, he says, fingers running through your hair. “I’m here with you, just me and you.”

You were feeling better already, the blurriness going away and you no longer felt that extreme dread or danger. It’s always like this. Like it’s there just to keep you from doing something you want.

Your anxiety attacks always looked like this. Nothing dramatic from the outside, but inside, your system was reacting like you were walking into a trap. If anyone saw you now, they would probably think it’s just a couple having a picnic on the grass.

“Baby, talk to me? It’s getting better, right? You need me to help you with anything?”, Harry asks, and you hate making him worry so much, you could hear it in his voice.

“Yeah..i-it’s better.”, you reply, and he takes one of your hands, and you realize they’re trembling slightly when he presses a kiss to it. “You’re doing so good. Let’s stay here for another minute, yeah? Keep doing your breathing exercises like you practiced.”

You did, and after a few minutes, you were feeling like a weight lifted off of you. The familiar feeling you get when the worst that can happen that day has already happened. Now you were just left with sadness. You had once again ruined something that you looked forward too, and your boyfriend having to face it too because of you. It was supposed to be his night of fun too.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay now..”, Harry whispers, thumbing away a small tear from your cheek, even before you start to apologize.

“I-I’m sorry-”, you croak, blinking back tears, and Harry shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “No, don’t apologize for this, baby. You did good, you controlled it all by yourself, I just held you.”

“But I ruined everything, Harry..I-I don’t know if I can go back there.”, you admit, arms that were in your lap going around his torso.

“Then we don’t. You didn’t ruin anything, my love. You’re just having a bad night, okay? And that’s fine. You didn’t choose for the anxiety to turn up today of all days, it’s unexpected. You don’t have time to prepare for it. So it’s not your fault, alright?” You smile softly, and he cups your cheek, kissing you. “And the nights that I spend with you are my favorite ones. Let’s go home baby.”

“Okay.” You begin to stand, but before you can, he scoops you up, along with his jacket, carrying you.

“Don’t we have to tell him? We shouldn’t leave like this..”, you say.

“I’ll make up something later, love, I’ll call him, don’t worry.”

You hide your face in his chest, pulling his jacket around you closer, not wanting anyone to see you.

When the valet has got your car, Harry gets you in and then gets in himself. “Comfortable?”, he asks, stroking your cheek. You nod, putting your arms through the sleeves of his jacket and he pats your knee. “We’ll be home soon, darling. Just relax.”

“Can we roll down the windows, please?”, you ask, and he presses the button that does it. “Of course.”

You continued listening to the softer songs on your playlist, Harry’s hand never leaving your body, and although he tried not to show it, you could see his concerned glances at you every now and then.

You feel all the anxiety almost leave your body as you pull up to your house. You walk in with Harry’s hand on your lower back, and he bends down to take your heels off even before you can do it.

You sigh, hands on Harry’s arms as he comes up and he smiles as you put your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek in thanks. “You look better already, some color coming back to your cheeks.”, he says, putting his arms around your waist.

“I still feel bad about leaving though.”, you mumble, head resting on his shoulder. He starts swaying you on the spot.

“Don’t, it came out of nowhere. And you really tried. Don’t beat yourself about it, love. “

You nod slowly, going along with Harry’s slow pace as he swayed.. “You’re too good to me.”

He chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “You deserve the best.”

You kiss him, and he kisses you back slowly, passionately, but full of love like he wants you to feel how loved you are, and that you’re not alone. You close your eyes, letting yourself get lost in him.

You’re breathless when he pulls away and he grins, stroking your bottom lip with his thumb. “You have me, always, okay?”

“Okay.”, you whisper, smiling softly.

“I’m starving, you hungry?”, he asks, pulling away with a kiss on your cheek and going to the kitchen.

“My appetite’s not here anymore..”, you tell him, sitting on the couch.

“You always feel like that but after the first bite, you want to continue eating. Let’s order takeout. Here.”

He comes back with a bottle of cold water for you. He sits beside you, and you slip your arm around his, resting against him as he orders takeout on his phone. He also sends a text to your friends who were wondering why you both disappeared suddenly. You remain quiet, thinking of how everything escalated quickly, how helpless you were.

“Alright, that’s done. How you feeling now, love?”, Harry puts his phone away and asks you.

“Alright.”, you nod.

“Just alright? Let’s go change into comfy clothes and settle in. I’m on a mission to get you feeling better.”

You can’t help but smile as he pulls you towards the bedroom. You hold up your hair, turning around and he helps you with the zipper of your dress.

Harry changes too, and you get under the covers of your bed after washing all your makeup off, watching as Harry hangs up his jacket and folds his pants.

“You want me to make you some tea, love?”, he asks, walking up to you, finger gently poking your nose to make you smile.

“Mm no, just lay down with me?”, you grasp his wrist.

“Aw, does my baby just want cuddles?”, he coos, and you groan softly as he laughs and gets under the covers too, raising his arm as he lets you snuggle into his chest, and lay your head there. He pulls up the covers before his arms come to wrap around you, chin resting on your head. You close your eyes and relax completely. You finally felt safe.

“I-I hate it when I feel like this..”, you whisper to him, his thumb drawing patterns over your arm. “I get so scared, babe.”

“I know, bug, I hate it too. It feels too real, even if it’s not. All the endless possibilities of things that could go wrong laid out like a Sunday brunch buffet.”

You chuckle even through a little sob. “You never have to be scared though. I’ll be there to help you if you need. I won’t let you go through it alone, y/n.”

“W-What if this happens during a conference or something? You won’t be there, Harry. I’ll ruin things at work and get fired, or demoted, and be a failure-”

His finger comes up to your lips to silence your rant. “Shh, you’re no failure. You’ve already accomplished many huge things and I’m so proud of you for that. You chose a field that demands everything out of you, and you push your boundaries and comfort zones every day, despite your anxiety. You’re so brave for that!”

He kisses your temple. “And I don’t need to be there always. You’re my strong girl, you got this. You may think you’re weak, but you’re not. You’re amazing.”

You smile, looking up at him through your tears, cupping his cheeks. “And I know you didn’t want this, but maybe you could give meds a try? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, love. It would only help you.”

“Okay.”, you whisper, stroking some of his hair back from his forehead. “I love you. Thank you for being..you.”

“Don’t thank me. I love you and I mean it, so I’m not going to let you deal with it all alone and run away when it gets hard. I love every single part of you y/n, even this anxious little baby.”

“Yeah?”, you laugh, kissing him, admiring the man that he is. You really were lucky for being the one he loves.

“Yeah.”, he grins, touching his forehead to yours. The door bell rings. “There’s our food!”

You usually don’t eat in bed, but you didn’t feel like getting up so Harry brought it to you. The food looked great, but that fluttery feeling in your stomach hadn’t gone away completely.

“Just a little bit.”, Harry says, putting a fork in and swirling the noodles around it. You sit up as he brings it to your mouth, and he feeds it to you.

“Good right?”, he smiles, watching you eat.

It was. Just like he had said earlier, you wanted some more now. “Good.”, you agree, taking the box from him and he smiles, opening his own and settling back next to you. “If I’d listened to you when you said you weren’t hungry, you’d wake up with a rumbling stomach in the middle of the night.”

You smile as you eat, nudging his ribs playfully. “You know it all, Styles.”

“Not all. I know my girl though.”, he says as he ruffles your hair with his free hand.

You couldn’t argue with that. It wasn’t a great night but here you are, with your boyfriend, eating, finally smiling, feeling safe and loved. The world wouldn’t pause, you knew that, things like this would happen again. But as long as you didn’t give up, nothing could take you down.

______________________________

Please let me know if there are any changes to be made to the tag list.

Taglist: -@livypops12352568 @harrydeary, @harryswifee, @harrysbxtchh, @gracelovesethan, @kiwitsayedsugar, @angeldavis777,@madstyles3204, @youngpastafanmug, @fruity-harry, @wannaliveinparadise@hermionelove@mayalove014 @vikiii07@ell0ra-br3kk3r @thelooneytoon @charlesleclercwifey, @stylesftcher @mads3502 @somewiseguy @huhidontknowstuff @sincerely-yours-marsbar @p3ach-m1lk @daphnesutton @redalbumoftheyear

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