#seconding everything Lock said once again!

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. Alpha/Omega verse.

Imagine the Skyheaven Academy was filled with steel towers and crystalline skies. A sanctuary for the elite, soldiers, empaths, and psychics. It was a place for ascension, both in rank and social standing.

Imagine, somewhere among these floating island and shining uniforms, you found love in the most unexpected place. One of the academy's strongest Alpha, Caleb.

Imagine, Caleb wasn't just admired, he was respected. His psychic resonance cut through space like gravity, his instincts honed with near animalistic precision. He was a living symbol of dominance and control.

Imagine and yet he chose you. You, with no second gender. No heat. No scent. No place in the primal biological dance of Alpha and Omega.

Imagine you always thought his love would be enough to silence the whispers behind your back. That it would shield you from the subtle rejections at formal events, the way professors avoided eye contact when grading your reports, the way other Omegas stared at you with sympathy or worse, disdain.

but Imagine the one you could never win over was Caleb's mother. She never raised her voice. She didn't need to. Her disdain was precise, venom hidden beneath the silk. She once told you with a smile that your love was "Admirable" like a child playing dress-up in the clothes of something sacred.

Imagine you kept it together. You always did. For Caleb. But the night you asked him.

"If I were an Omega, would things be different?" His silence spoke louder than any betrayal. He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either. That's when the crack in your heart began.

Imagine it happened during Skyheaven's lunar convergence. When psychic storms made it dangerous to suppress instincts. The Academy called it "Resonance Week." For most Alphas and Omegas, it was treated with caution. For you and Caleb, it was a test.

Imagine walking in, and the person you love doesn't see you.

Imagine it wasn't because he forgot you.But because instinct buried everything else.

Imagine the door wasn't locked. That should've been the first sign. You stepped into his quarters, fresh from drills, still half in uniform. You thought he might be resting. Maybe already asleep. You thought he might smile when he saw you. But he didn’t.

Imagine the air was thick. Too warm. Mixed with something unfamiliar. And then you saw her. The Omega. Not just any Omega. Perfect. Engineered. Glowing with heat and pheromones like honey and wildfire. And in front of her was Caleb.

Imagine his eyes were dilated. Chest rising and falling like he couldn't breathe. Shoulders shaking under the weight of instincts barely held back.

Imagine you call out his name once. Soft. He didn't hear it. You said it again, louder this time. And then again, a crack in your voice could be heard this time. Still nothing.

Imagine his whole body was just facing the Omega. Tension in every line of muscle. His hands clenched, then flexed, then reached forward.

"Caleb." You snapped. "Don't." That got his attention. But not like you hoped. He turned toward you. And for a second. Just for a second his eyes flashed with something animal. Not recognition. Not love. Threat. Then he lunged.

Imagine the moment he did that, you didn't think. You moved. You threw yourself between them. And it all happened too fast.

Imagine he hit you. Not a punch, not violent. But a shove so forceful it knocked the air from your lungs and sent your back into the wall. Your shoulder cracked against it. Pain spread down your arm.

Imagine Omega flinched behind you. Their scent flared. You stood again anyway, shaking and gasping. "Caleb. Look at me." Your voice broke. "It's me." And finally... Finally his eyes focused. Just a little.

Imagine could see the war inside him. Recognition crawling its way up through instinct. Through scent. Through everything screaming in his blood to claim the person behind you instead.

Imagine his body was trembling. He took a step forward again and you braced yourself. Not because you thought he'd hurt you. But because the truth already had. He wanted you gone. Not Caleb. The Caleb you knew wouldn't. But this thing inside him.

Imagine reaching out, hand against his chest, just over his heart. "Don't do this." You whispered, almost crying.

Imagine the way he twitched like it burned him. But just then was when the security team burst in. It happened do fast. The suppressants hitting him like ice water and he collapsed to his knees. Gasping. Clawing at the floor. His breath caught on sobs he wasn't fully conscious of.

Imagine all you could do was watch. You didn't go to him. You couldn't. Because it hurt. It hurts to see the person you trusted more than anything fall apart like that. Not because he stopped loving you. But because he couldn't even see you through the fog of what he was born to be.

Imagine as you stood still as they carried him away. The Omega too. Quiet. Unshaken. But no one looked at you. After all you weren't the one he tried to touch.

Imagine later on as you sat by his unconscious figure at the infirmary, they would call it an unfortunate misunderstanding. They'd tell you it wasn't his fault. That it was just biology. Stress. Poor timing.

Imagine you understand but none of that really mattered. Because for those few minutes... You were invisible. And love, the thing you built together so carefully broke under instincts weight. Not with a scream. Not with a goodbye. Just a shove. And silence.

Imagine wanting to scream. You wanting to stay. But more than anything, you wanted to believe that what you had could survive biology, tradition, and the crushing weight of instinct.

but Imagine, love doesn't erase the truth. It just delays it.

My love, Caleb,

I loved you fiercely and I never wanted to leave. But I saw it, what lives in you. What wakes when you're vulnerable. What you were built to be.

It's not your fault. This world was made for Alphas and Omegas, and I was foolish enough to think we could rewrite it.

You once told me I was your anchor. But I think I was just a rope tied to a storm.

When you wake up, please don’t come looking for me. Let this be mercy, not abandonment.

Yours, once.

Imagine, you left that night. Going through Skyheaven Academy gates unnoticed. Behind you, the sky burned with silver, and the man you loved slept alone, still dreaming of you. But dreams like love are fragile things in a world built on instinct.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[izzih22]

u should write a fic abt a post practice/ post game pazzi facetime call

Yours No Matter the Distance

Note: I promised yall I would post today so here you go. Also this is not based off a real game or anything just an fyi

Azzi Fudd had the Wings game pulled up on her laptop the second tip-off happened.

It didn’t matter that she had training at eight the next morning. Didn’t matter that she had weights, film, and a whole to-do list of team responsibilities. It didn’t even matter that Paige had told her not to stress about it, to “get sleep, baby,” and “catch the highlights in the morning.”

Azzi wasn’t missing a second.

Not of Paige.

Not of her girl.

Not for the world.

She sat cross-legged in bed, oversized UConn hoodie on Paige’s, obviously and her phone on Do Not Disturb as she watched #5 lead Dallas with a kind of control and intensity that gave Azzi goosebumps. There were flashes of that same old swagger, that glimmer Paige always got when she locked in. Her jumper was clean, her dimes even cleaner. Azzi swore she could watch her play for hours and never get tired of it.

Even the commentators were gushing, talking about her vision, her IQ, how the Wings were starting to feel like Paige’s team.

Azzi just smiled and whispered under her breath, “Damn right it is.”

By the time the game ended, Dallas had won by twelve. Paige had finished with 17 points, 9 assists, and a couple of defensive stops that had Azzi actually yelling at her laptop like she was courtside. And now, with the post-game interview wrapped up, Azzi was waiting, phone in hand, the FaceTime already set to Paige’s name.

It rang once.

Twice.

And then—

The screen lit up with a familiar face, damp hair slicked back under a towel, cheeks flushed from the game.

“Hey you,” Paige said, voice a little hoarse but still teasing, that grin pulling wide as soon as she saw Azzi.

Azzi melted. “Hi. You look hot.”

Paige raised a brow and tugged at the towel draped over her neck. “I’m literally sweating through my shirt right now.”

“Exactly.” Azzi leaned her cheek into her palm and gave her a soft smile. “You were so good tonight, P. Like—really good. I’m so proud of you.”

Paige’s expression softened, her shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the game had finally let go. “Thanks baby. Felt like I finally found my rhythm tonight. Took me long enough.”

“You’ve been so good, though. The stats are crazy. But more than that? The way you lead out there?” Azzi shook her head in awe. “It’s like you were born for this.”

Paige snorted, but it came out shy, like she couldn’t quite take the compliment. “Coming from you? That means everything.”

“Damn right it should.”

They shared a smile, the kind that lingered, the kind that said I miss you even if neither of them had said it yet.

Paige broke the silence first, shifting the phone to show more of the locker room behind her. “I’ve got like twenty minutes before they kick me out. I should shower but…I kinda just wanted to see your face first.”

Azzi curled tighter into the hoodie, which still smelled like Paige even after a few washes. “I was waiting the second the buzzer went off. Had my phone in my hand like a clingy girlfriend.”

“You are a clingy girlfriend.” Paige grinned wider. “Thank God.”

“Shut up,” Azzi laughed. “Like you’re not the one who texts me every two hours on game day for good luck.”

“That’s…different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m obsessed with you. Duh.”

Azzi buried her face in her hands, giggling like she was sixteen again and falling for Paige for the first time. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, but I’m your worst.”

They paused again, both smiling too hard to speak. Paige leaned back in her chair, towel still hanging around her neck, and gave Azzi a look so full of love it almost hurt.

“Wish you were here,” she murmured, quieter now. “It’s not the same when you’re not on the bench or waiting for me in the tunnel.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I know. I wish I was, too.”

“I swear, every time I make a big play, I look over like I’m gonna see you there. And then I remember…” Paige trailed off with a shrug.

“Paige…”

“I know, I know. It’s just hard. I miss you.”

Azzi blinked hard. “I miss you more.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying to keep her voice steady. “I watched the whole game in your hoodie. Had it on the second I got home.”

Paige smiled so wide it nearly broke her. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”

“You deserve it.”

They both laughed softly, and for a moment, the distance didn’t feel so heavy.

Paige tilted her head. “You doing okay, though? Like, really okay?”

Azzi hesitated, then nodded. “I am. It just…sucks, not being there. I wanna be the one running into your arms after games, not sitting here on my bed pretending like FaceTime is enough.”

“It’s not enough,” Paige agreed. “But it’s something. And you’re still the last person I see before I fall asleep. Even if it’s through a screen.”

Azzi smiled again, sad and full all at once. “You know I watch every game, right? Every single one.”

“I know.” Paige’s voice got quieter. “It means everything.”

“I mean, I’d watch you do anything. Basketball just happens to be the sexiest option.”

Paige choked on a laugh. “Oh my god, Azzi.”

“What? You want me to lie?”

“You’re unreal.”

Azzi smirked. “And you’re lucky.”

“So lucky.”

They sat like that for a while Paige in the dim locker room, Azzi curled up in bed, their connection as strong as ever despite the miles between them.

Eventually, Paige let out a sigh. “Okay. I gotta shower. They’re giving me the side-eye already.”

Azzi pouted. “Fine. But FaceTime me again before bed?”

“You already know.” Paige looked right into the camera. “Love you, Az.”

Azzi felt her whole chest swell. “Love you more, P.”

“Not possible.”

“Wanna bet?”

Paige laughed, that raspy, tired sound that still somehow made Azzi’s heart skip. “I’ll call you in twenty, babe.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

They hung up.

Azzi leaned back in bed, still in Paige’s hoodie, screen dark, heart full. It wasn’t the same as being there in person. But it was theirs. And that was enough for now.

Because no matter how far apart they were, Azzi knew one thing for sure:

Paige was hers.

And she’d be watching every game until they were in the same place again.

Side by side. Where they belonged.

[freakmcnastyy]

"Angel"

Warnings: bullying, non-consensual touching, power imbalance, manipulation, toxic dynamic, suggestive content

Summary: You ran into your bully at the convenience store.

Note: Anon requestt

⸻

The rain was falling like a thin curtain from the sky.

When you caught the glow of a small convenience store sign on a side street, you quickened your pace—just to find somewhere warm, somewhere to hide for a little while. The door jingled with a tired chime as you pushed it open. The warmth inside was jarring compared to the cold outside. You ran your fingers through your wet hair as you wandered between the aisles. After grabbing your favorite brand of instant noodles, you approached the counter. The boy behind it glanced at you from the corner of his eye and gave a small nod. No words exchanged. You paid, grabbed a pair of plastic chopsticks, and headed for the small kitchen corner near the register.

Once the food was ready, you sank into the chair and let out a quiet sigh. Setting the plastic bowl on the desk, you leaned forward and took your first bite. The heat, the salt, the spice—they filled your mouth and spread through your chest. The sound of rain outside and the soft hum of music from a speaker somewhere in the ceiling wrapped around you.

Until—

A shadow moved in front of the window.

You looked up and saw someone staring in from the other side of the glass. A boy, head tilted slightly forward, breath fogging up the window.

Han Soo-gang.

He raised a finger and drew a small heart in the center of the foggy glass. His eyes locked on yours. Then, grinning, he exaggeratedly mouthed, “What are you eating?” He added a tiny arrow beneath the heart and started laughing.

You slowly set down your chopsticks, your body freezing mid-motion. Was it dread tightening your chest, or just unease? You couldn’t tell.

The door jingled again.

Han Soo-gang walked in, followed by Lee Moon-gi and two girls. One of them flipped her hair over her shoulder as she entered, while the other linked her arm through Soo-gang’s and looked around the store. Laughter, footsteps, the squeak of wet sneakers on linoleum—

Moon-gi’s eyes went straight to you. He didn’t hesitate to slide into the chair right next to yours.

“Well, well, Yn-ssi… You here too?” he said, curling his lips in a fake smile. “What a coincidence, right? The way our paths cross in this world… it’s practically romantic.”

You started to get up. Your hand pushed your bowl aside, chair legs scraping slightly on the floor. But before you could rise, an arm slid around your waist, and in one smooth motion, everything shifted.

You couldn’t breathe properly—because the next second, you were in Han Soo-gang’s lap.

“Don’t get up,” he said, voice soft but firm. “We just got comfortable.”

His arms tightened around you. The more you struggled to stand, the more he pulled you back into him, adjusting your position so your hips rested right against his thighs. When you looked up, his gaze burned into you. He didn’t need to speak to tell you exactly what he was thinking.

“Let me go,” you said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing, Soo-gang? Let me go.”

You squirmed, but his grip didn’t budge. If anything, it became gentler—more deliberate. He leaned his head to the side, reached up, and gently tucked your damp hair behind your ear. His fingertips brushed your skin, trailing from your hairline down the curve of your neck.

“Angel…” he whispered. The word dripped with a sweetness that felt wrong. “I heard… you snitched on us. To the teachers. Hmm?”

A familiar grin crept across his face—equal parts amused, mocking, and dangerous.

“I… I didn’t,” you stammered. “Someone got it wrong—”

“Sure they did,” he breathed, his mouth close to your cheek now. “But you know… if you do report us…”

His laugh was low, vibrating against your skin. Then he looked directly into your eyes.

“…they’ll tear us apart, won’t they? You wouldn’t want that. You wouldn’t want to be separated from me… would you, angel?”

And then his hands moved.

They slid from your waist, down to your hips, then between your thighs. Your breath hitched. Panic? Anger? Something else entirely? You couldn’t tell anymore. But his touch wasn’t hurried. It was slow, calculated—like he was reminding you who was in control.

Soo-gang leaned closer, brushing his mouth along your cheek before planting a soft, lingering kiss right on the center of it.

He smirked.

Then leaned back casually, like nothing had happened.

You were still in his lap when Moon-gi suddenly said, “You two look so cute right now. Wait—don’t move! Lemme get a photo.”

He was already pulling out his phone. “Can’t miss moments like this. We all need something to talk about tomorrow, right?”

You couldn’t even speak. Soo-gang tilted his head and pressed his cheek against yours again, casually, intimately. You hated the way your body was frozen, like all the fight in you had drained out somewhere along the way.

One of the girls laughed loudly. “Omg, you guys actually look like a couple. Moon-gi, take it! Quick!”

Moon-gi lifted the camera. “Three… two… say kimchi, Yn!”

Your face was burning. You stayed silent.

“Kimchi!” he said again, rolling his eyes.

Click.

The flash went off. The photo was taken. And in the faint glow of the phone screen, Soo-gang’s stare was as clear as ever—he was enjoying this. Enjoying you. Enjoying the way he’d boxed you in.

When it was over, Soo-gang shifted. He pulled out a cigarette from inside his coat, lit it without hesitation. The no-smoking sign meant nothing to him. The first drag lit up his features again, glowing amber.

He held it out to you.

“Wanna smoke, angel?”

You shook your head, your voice coming out quiet. “No.”

He pouted. Overdramatically. “Aw…”

Then he looked down at you again, smoke curling between his lips.

“You know,” he murmured, “we actually make a really cute couple, don’t we?” He chuckled, then added, “Maybe you should date me.”

He took another drag, and this time, exhaled directly into your face. The smoke stung your eyes. Your lungs tightened.

His hand moved again.

From your waist, it crept upward. Then his palm pressed against your chest. He didn’t move it away.

“Damn,” he muttered. “These are pretty big, huh?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Stop it! What are you—!”

You pushed at his chest with both hands, but his body was a cage around yours. He just smiled lazily, like he hadn’t heard you. He took one last look at you, then slowly loosened his hold.

You slid off his lap. Your legs felt unsteady.

He stood.

“Alright, angel… I’ll see you at school tomorrow, okay?”

He took one final drag, then reached over, dropped the cigarette straight into your ramen bowl.

“I love you,” he said, almost cheerfully.

He winked.

Then turned and walked out, Moon-gi and the girls trailing behind him.

The door jingled one last time.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

But somehow, it felt quieter than the noise still ringing inside your chest.

[sirenontheloose]

Please Don't Clip This

Crushes are just little heart attacks you enjoy

The livestream wasn’t planned. No announcement, no fancy setup. Just Y/N in her studio, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled into a loose bun, a mug sitting beside her laptop as Rosé’s new album played quietly in the background. She leaned forward to adjust the screen, face lit softly by the glow of the monitor.

"Hi," she started. "Was gonna listen to this alone, but figured I might as well have a little listening party with you guys."

The chat lit up instantly. Some fans welcomed her back, others teased her for ghosting them again. She skimmed the comments, eyes flicking left to right as a small smile tugged at her lips.

"Water," she said, lifting her mug. "No snacks sadly. This wasn’t planned," she pouted.

She let a few tracks play without interruption, swaying slightly to the beat, reading comments here and there while the music filled the room.Then someone asked about LA.

"When am I going back? Next week, actually. For about two weeks." She paused, then lowered her voice. "I don’t know if I can say this but... I’ll start working on my solo."

The comments instantly exploded. She didn’t elaborate, just smirked a little and took a sip like she hadn’t just dropped major news.

Then the tone of the chat shifted. Some fans asked what the solo would sound like, while others started suggesting people she should hang out with in LA. At first, it was casual. But then one name kept popping up.

KATSEYE.

And more specifically, Lara.

"Lara?" Y/N leaned forward again, squinting slightly to keep up with the flood of messages. "From KATSEYE?"

The comments answered immediately.

"Yeah, she’s in LA." "She said you’re her bias." "She mentioned she likes your tone and stage presence." "@lararaj, just look."

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just grabbed her phone and started typing.

A few seconds of silence passed. Her eyes locked onto the screen. Then she started scrolling, slowly.

For a good five minutes, there was nothing. No commentary. Just Y/N, completely locked in, quietly staring at her phone.

Her lips parted slightly. She blinked once. Then a quiet, almost breathless whisper escaped before she could stop it.

"Wow. She’s gorgeous."

The chat instantly lost it.

"She’s gone." "We’re watching her fall in real time." "HELLO???" "Down bad but respectfully." "This is the softest spiral ever." "She forgot we’re here."

Her mouth curved into a small, helpless smile. She tapped into a video post, watched it more than once probably, and only then did it seem to hit her that she wasn’t alone.

She set her phone down on the desk, screen facing down, and leaned back in her chair with a quiet, guilty sigh. One glance at the chat told her it was already too late.

"I hate you guys," she mumbled, tugging the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and dragging it across her mouth like she could erase the past five minutes.

The teasing came fast.

"You’ve been quiet for three whole songs." "Are you okay? Blink twice if you’re in love." "Would you DM her?" "You’re smiling again."

Y/N laughed softly, sinking lower in her seat.

"I was just... looking."

More comments scrolled past.

"What if she sees this?" "Someone tag her." "It’s over for you, girl."

"Y’all..." she started, then stopped mid-sentence.

Her eyes froze on one comment.

hey?

The username next to it is @lararaj

She blinked. Once. Then again.

Silence.

The chat exploded.

"OH MY GOD." "NO WAY." "LARA ENTERED THE CHAT." "SHE’S HERE." "EVERYBODY STAY CALM." "SHE SAW EVERYTHING."

Y/N didn’t move. Her hands flew up to her face as she let out a soft, horrified laugh. Then she hunched forward over her desk like she could disappear into it, muttering,

"Nope. Nope. I’m ending this. I’m ending this right now."

She fumbled for her mouse, keeping her head low as her other hand stayed half-covering her face. Her ears were visibly pink. Her embarrassment was so real, it radiated through the screen.

"Thanks for hanging out," she said quickly. "Please don’t clip this. And Lara..." she hesitated, groaning softly, "if you’re here, I promise I’m not weird."

Then the screen cuts to black.

And the next morning, #ynra was trending in eight countries.

Pt.2

divider - @v6que

a/n - can you tell I'm obsessed with Rosé?, can't wait for "On My Mind" this Friday OMG. I’ve also been working on a few other one-shots, but none of them feel "fun" enough imo. Sooo if there’s anything you’d love to read or maybe tropes you’re into right now, let me know!

[rainrot4me]

praying for how proxies react to a girlfriend with nipple piercings. casually flashing Jeff because he's trying to start shit

✦ . jeff the killer

You’re both arguing—bickering, really. Something stupid that won’t matter in an hour. Jeff’s sprawled on the couch, flipping a knife between his fingers like it’s the only thing in the world worth his attention. Then—just as he’s about to get another snide comment in—you tug up your shirt and flash him those pretty barbells.

The knife slips. Clatters to the floor.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” His voice drops, low and sharp, eyes locked on the metal gleam. “How is this even fair?”

You roll your eyes, tugging you shirt back down. “Finally, you’ve shut up.”

Jeff is up in a second, crossing the room like he’s hunting something down. His hand is gripped tight around your jaw, dragging your attention solely on him as he pushes your shirt back up.

“You think flashing those pretty little things is gonna save you?” He grins, wicked and baring his teeth. “Don’t start crying here in a minute. This is your fault.”

✦ . ticci toby

Toby’s tinkering with his gear, muttering to himself, hoodie sleeves pushed up and goggles on. He’s left you alone all afternoon, too busy making sure his goggles are screwed in tightly. This will get his attention. You step into the room, casually peel your top up, and wait.

His stimming fingers pause. He blinks once, twice.

“O-Oh—What the hell, babe?” He sputters, heat creeping up his neck. “Je-Jesus Christ.” His eyes can’t focus on one, gaze flipping from jewel to jewel.

You shrug, biting your lip. “Thought you liked shiny things.”

He makes a garbled sound in his throat, like his brain just bluescreened. He drops the tools he had in his hands, the objects clattering into the desk and he stumbles from his seat. You start giggling, turning to the door to start running down the hall.

“Ah-ah. Come ba-back, sweet thing. You don’t get to just do that and leave.”

✦ . eyeless jack

You’re perched on the counter while Jack organizes surgical tools—always meticulous, always taking forever. You keep grumbling about being bored, and Jack keeps telling you he’s almost finished. He’s said it five times now. You say nothing back, just lift your shirt slowly and let the light catch the steel.

He stops mid-motion. Silent.

He schools his expression, gaze lingering only for a second, but the subtle shift in his stance says everything.

“…You enjoy tempting me, don’t you?” His voice is deep, almost hoarse.

You smirk. “Guess I wanted to see if the doctor could keep his hands to himself.”

He steps forward, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he lowers your shirt back down. Smirking in response when you gawk.

“I told you I was almost done, didn’t I? Sit still, pet, you’ll get yours eventually.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim’s stressed. You can feel it in the way he paces, muttering under his breath, tension thick in the air. He’s prepping for a mission tomorrow, but he’s supposed to be spending time with you. So, naturally, you break the mood by pulling your hoodie up with a nonchalant yawn.

He freezes, steps faltering until he plants his feet and glares at you.

“What the fuck—are you serious?”

He stares like you just slapped him. Then he drags a hand down his face, groaning.

“You got any idea how hard you’re making this for me right now?”

You smile sweetly. “Oh, I’ve got ideas. Especially ones about making you hard.”

“Get over here. Now.”

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Brian’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, silent as always. You just had an argument, something stupid about not throwing yourself in front of a bullet, it didn’t matter. You approach him slowly, then, with a smirk, lift your shirt just enough to let him see the piercings before dropping it again.

Nothing. No change in posture. No reaction. You roll your eyes, then turn to leave.

Until he steps behind you, lips brushing your ear.

“You don’t get to tease and walk away, sweetheart.”

The quiet threat in his voice makes your skin burn. He takes your hand and guides it to his lips.

“You just volunteered to spend the rest of the night making up for that.”

✦ . kate the chaser

You’re training in the woods, sweat slicking your skin. She’s being so uptight, barking at you to get your steps right and plant your heels when she’s moving toward you. You just can’t seem to catch up, and when you’re sure she’s looking—you tug your shirt up and flash her with a wink.

She stops mid-step. Blinks.

“Seriously? You trying to get your ass kicked or kissed right now?”

You smirk. “Whichever comes first.”

She tackles you to the ground with a grin.

“You’ll get both. Don’t beg me to stop later.”

✦ . ben drowned

He’s halfway through a game, headset on, trash-talking some poor teenager. You know Ben loves to sit and do nothing for hours, but this is getting a little ridiculous. He barely notices you come into his room when you sneak into frame, lift your shirt, and smile.

His jaw drops. The controller falls.

“YO—what the hell! Babe, I’m streaming!”

You snicker. “And now your viewers know how good you’ve got it.”

He rips off the headset, face red and wild.

“You better run. No one’s gonna save you now.”

✦ . clockwork

You’re chatting in the kitchen, all innocent smiles and soft steps, and then bam—shirt goes up. Piercings out. Nat can barely finish another bite of her sandwich before it’s falling onto the plate.

Natalie goes dead silent.

“…You little brat.”

She’s on you in a second, pushing you back against the fridge, her smile feral.

“You know exactly what that does to me. You want attention that bad? Say please.”

✦ . laughing jack

You flash him mid-sentence—he’s rambling about a new prank idea, barely paying attention to you when you had already asked him to spend time together. You were beginning to feel a little invisible. His eyes go wide, mouth dropping open comically.

“WELL. Aren’t you full of surprises!”

He grabs your hand, spinning you in a little circle like he’s on stage.

“If this is your way of flirting, please never stop. I adore it.”

Then he dips you, dramatic as always.

“Encore, darling. Encore!”

✦ . slenderman

You wait until he’s in his study—quiet, composed, perfectly poised—and simply step in, lift your shirt, and stand there without a word. He knows you’re there, he’s just not giving you the satisfaction of acknowledgment until he’s done filing some news articles.

He doesn’t move. He just finally looks up.

But the air shifts. Thickens. Warps.

“That is not wise,” his voice says, low and heavy in your skull.

You smile. “Isn’t it?”

A tendril wanes from his back, reaching across the room, brushes your cheek. Another traces your spine. Then they’re wrapping around you and pulling you toward him.

“Then allow me to show you the consequences of such… audacity.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

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───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

[lvl109]

“so what i'm hearing is that you hate me and you want me dead.”

a noncommittal hum sounds through the speakers of your phone. “i said no such thing. is there a reason why the dramatics are pertinent even more tonight?”

your eyes narrow. “you haven't called in two days. two days. clearly you hate me.”

a laugh now, tinged with fondness. you try your best to fight off the smile threatening to spread across your lips. “my most sincere apologies, my love. how can i begin to grovel for your forgiveness?”

“you're not getting a lick of forgiveness from me. two days! i was worried.” your brows furrow, amping up the act. “i keep forgetting my stupid boyfriend loves to put himself in harm’s way.”

sylus’ expression softens in the face of your exaggerated complaints, going quiet in the way he does when he realizes his actions have upset you even if just a little bit. it makes your heart sink a little.

“i really was worried,” you finally relent, cracking first underneath the silence. “i know you have to do these things, but. it's not just you anymore. you have people who care about you.”

he looks away for a moment, his gaze downcast. when his gaze returns to the screen, he offers an apologetic smile. “i'm sorry, sweetheart. i didn't mean to frighten you. i'm alright. i promise.”

“you can show you're sorry by getting on the earliest flight home.” your joke slips past in an attempt to divert attention from your growing sadness from being apart for so long. his expression knowing, he agrees without hesitation. “i mean it. i want to see the wine glass when you're on board.”

it's not long before the two of you are engrossed in a recount of your day—from grueling paperwork to wanderer attacks to discounted groceries (a steal) and so on. he listens with rapt attention, adding little comments either to stoke your dramatized frustration or make you laugh between words. in turn, sylus fills you in on what he's able to share on his end, ensuring you that while things were hectic, he'd run into little to no trouble in the two days you hadn't heard from him.

opening your mouth to grill him once again—really, it was that serious—your attention is caught by the sound of keys entering a lock at the front door. sylus pauses when you stop talking, letting out a confused sound at your silence.

“sweetheart? is everything alright?”

muffled footsteps sound from the living room followed by the faint sound of a bag dropping on the couch. the drag of socked feet against the floor is heard for a few more seconds until the bedroom door is pushed open a bit wider, revealing none other than a tired mass of limbs in slight rumpled work clothes.

still, the sight of him makes you smile. “zayne is home,” you say quietly, partly in response to sylus’ question, partly in greeting to your other boyfriend.

too tired for words at the moment, he sheds his jacket and falls forward on to the bed, letting out a tired sigh as he worms his way between your legs much to your vocal surprise. his cheek rests against your thigh, your legs folded over his shoulders.

“long day?” you ask softly, threading a hand through his hair. his lashes rest above his cheeks, casting shadows as he nods after a long beat.

“missed you.” he noses against your bare skin, pressing kisses from your knee to just shy of where your sleep shorts just barely cover your pussy. the sudden mood switch makes you inhale sharply, the hand in his hair tightening a fraction in surprise. “can i?”

you nod immediately, momentarily forgetting about your phone when zayne lifts your legs up and gently tugs your shorts off. two fingers trace against your heat over the thin cotton of your panties, watching through a steadily darkening gaze when your hips shift towards his touch. “you know that doesn't mean anything to me. i need words.”

“yes,” you whimper quietly, spreading your legs on your own. the slight raise of his brows in approval is enough to make you bite your lower lip as large hands grip your thighs. “please touch me. i want you to touch me.”

“and i’m supposed to sit here alone while the two of you ravage each other like animals? how cruel.”

zayne’s eyes narrow when he hears the other voice, pulling at the band of your underwear and soothing over the skin when the fabric snaps back in place. “good to know you're alive,” he mutters dryly. “nobody was worried about you. you can go back to fighting criminals and the like.”

hazel green eyes narrow a bit in faint mirth when you giggle at sylus’ answering scoff. “not true. i was just getting an earful about how incredibly inconsiderate i was concerning the lack of hearing my voice.”

“i cussed him out,” you pipe up cheerfully, earning a kiss to your skin once more.

“good girl.” if you had feathers, they would be fanned out as you preened from the praise. at your boyfriend’s detriment, but it was a little deserved.

sylus sighs, the sound crackling through the tiny speakers. “rewarding bad behavior, doctor? that's a first for you. color me surprised.”

“some rules can be bent within reason.” zayne’s hands slip your panties off, cold fingers spreading your lips open before ghosting over your hole. you muffle your squeak of surprise with a gasp that doesn't go unnoticed by the silver hired man. “watch, will you? keep the phone in view of your face.”

it takes a beat for you to realize the last part was addressed to you. a shaky okay is all you can muster up before his thumb presses against your clit in slow circles. immediately your eyes close against the slowly building pleasure, letting out a sweet sigh. but zayne stops, eliciting a confused sound.

“keep your eyes open for me.” after you let out a quiet sound of affirmation, zayne continues his movements between your legs. “and don't touch yourself.

sylus’ barely stifled sound of surprise makes your heart skip a beat. he lets out a slightly peeved sigh, grumbling incoherently, but when you glance back at your screen you catch a glimpse of his reddening ears. “i wasn't—”

“lying will only make your punishment worse when you come back home.” his sharp rebuttal silences him immediately, making you twitch in anticipation. zayne resumes toying with your clit, his pace increasing with his slowly building impatience. “i told you to watch. how do you expect someone to give you what you want when you can't follow simple instructions?”

your hand grip the phone as pleasure zips up your spine, letting out small gasps and whines—but you force yourself to keep your eyes open despite wanting to close them so desperately. zayne rewards your compliance with two fingers inside of you, a pleased hum going barely unheard over your sharp cry.

“see what happens when you behave? you get what you deserve. isn't that right?” his hand moves to cup the side of your face. “see how good she is? texts me her location even before i ask. so kind. so considerate.”

you just barely hear the sound of muffled curses coming from your phone through the heightened haze of desire, your hips rutting down against his fingers as your bleary gaze focuses on the man before you. the tips of his ears flushed pink being the only giveaway that he, too, was becoming just as affected.

pulling out his fingers, he doesn't have to utter a word before your lips part and wrap around them. “just perfect,” he praises quietly. your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to stave off an impending orgasm.

the sound of zayne’s belt zipping through his belt loops makes the both you groan in tandem, sylus’ immediately beginning to complain about the angle. “let me see her. don't be cruel.”

wordlessly, your phone is picked up and the view is switched to the back camera, letting the other man see through zayne’s perspective. his fingers wet with your spit, your shirt pulled up just under your chest from your squirming, and your pussy wet from his teasing. a little further down is the sight of zayne straining against his slacks. his wet hand leaves your mouth and splays over your navel, his thumb toying with your clit again.

zayne laughs a bit when your hips jerk to chase your orgasm, putting the camera in view of your petulant expression. “you know what you have to do if you want to cum.”

you don't waste a single second. “can i?” your eyes widen with unshed tears, already at your limit with zayne’s teasing. “please, sylus? i've b-been so—aah—good, fuck!”

you can't see his expression from where your spread out, but the sight of you on his screen, pleading with him for your orgasm makes his pupils dilate. the hunger in his voice is near tangible when his voice grits out, shared greed for your pleasure palpable even through the phone. “give her what she wants and more.”

everything is a blur soon after. zayne’s barely suppressed groan of relief when he pushes inside of you, hips smacking the back of your thighs as his hand remains pressed against your stomach. praise crackling through the phone followed by slick noises and low curses. the headboard hitting against the wall over and over again. the intense feeling of being watched.

half completed begging turns into a repeated mantra of the same three words that affects them both. tears streaming down your face, hair askew across your pillow as your hands scramble for anything to hold on to. “i wanna cum—i wanna cum, i wanna—i—”

“let go, sweetheart, do it—”

“show us how good you can take it—”

your orgasm feels like an explosion of light behind your eyes, squeezed shut as your body curls in on itself. you cry out and grip zayne’s arm as he shudders through the sudden grip around his cock, spitting out filth that makes your heart skip. 

“fucking—take it—take it all—” his voice is shot, frantic movements jostling you up the mattress as he chases his own orgasm. the phone drops from his hand when yours find his hair and tug sharply, one final moan leaving his lips before his hips stutter and his cock pulses inside of you. 

as he catches his breath, your shaky hand pats around for your phone and angles right at the mess of cum and sweat between your bodies, the sight enough for sylus to choke on his next inhale and finish with a muffle grunt into his fist.

quiet panting fills the air. zayne’s forehead rests against your shoulder, his eyes closed as your other hand strokes through his hair. exhaustion catches to him quick, just barely having enough energy to pull out and clean the two of you up before he slumps back down into the sheets and passes out.

you and sylus share a look of faint amusement before you turn a press a kiss to zayne’s forehead. “he definitely needed that.” 

[heestruck]

Bad Desire ; Lee Heeseung [TEASER]

synopsis ; It was never meant to be more than a secret. But between late night kisses, and everything they never said, she fell harder than she should have. And he let her. Now they’re both left chasing something that was never built to last.

In which y/n and heeseung's paths probably shouldn't have collided. with his raging addiction, and her undying love for him, they navigate their way through a love that was never meant to last... or was it?

pairing ; student!fem reader x addict!heeseung

genre ; smut, angst

warnings ; drug use, and lots of it, emotional abuse, lying, kinda cheating if you squint, gaslighting, p in v smut, slight drug glorification, heeseung and reader kinda don't like each other at first, arguing, heeseungs kinda a dick, they yell at each other sometimes, let me know if i'm missing anything

do not read if any of this makes you uncomfortable. minors do not interact. there is a lot of heavy themes in this fic, so please read the warnings carefully before reading.

wc ; tbd

release date ; july 4th, 2025

teaser under the cut !

The bathroom reeks of bleach, stale smoke, and whatever cheap cologne the guy before them doused himself in. Heeseung wipes his nose with the back of his hand, sniffing once, slow and deep. The burn is already fading, replaced with the familiar clarity and a weightless buzz under his skin.

Outside the door, the music thrums like a second heartbeat. Sunghoon leans against the wall, arms crossed, a lazy smirk on his lips. “You know one day your brain’s gonna just leak out your nose, right?” Heeseung shrugs, eyes half-lidded. “Better out than rotting in there.” Jay laughs, pulling the door open to let the sound of the party spill in again. “You two sound like you’ve had this conversation before.” There’s a pause as the two exchange a glance. “We have,” Sunghoon says. “Every time he does something dumb.” His words accompanied by an eye-roll that comes to him naturally, “Which is often,” Heeseung adds with a grin, snagging the cigarette tucked behind Sunghoon’s ear and lighting it like it’s his.

They step out, smoke trailing behind them, the heat and noise of the party rushing in all at once. Heeseung’s eyes flick lazily over the crowd, bodies pressed too close, red cups in every hand, neon lights catching on sequins and sweat. Sunghoon elbows him. “You gonna dance tonight, or just brood in the corner like Batman again?” “I’ll dance when hell freezes and you get laid,” Heeseung mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Ouch,” Sunghoon says with a mock wince. “Low blow. Even for you.”

Jay doesn’t laugh.

He’s staring at something, no, someone. Eyes locked across the room, jaw slightly slack, like he forgot how to act. Heeseung catches it immediately. “Dude,” he says flatly. “You good?” Jay doesn’t respond, causing Heeseung to follow his gaze. She’s standing with a group of girls near the kitchen, laughing at something, her drink cradled in one hand. Her hair catches the light, eyes wide and sparkling in that way that’s too fucking pure for this place. Black jeans. Black top. Sweet face, too clean for the party grit.

Heeseung rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, stop staring at her like a fucking perv.” Jay finally snaps out of it. “She’s just… I don’t know, man. She’s got—”

“What?” Heeseung cuts in, tone biting. “That good girl trying to be bad energy? The innocent preppy type who probably says ‘sorry’ when she bumps into furniture?” Sunghoon snorts. Jay shrugs, unfazed. “She’s cute.”

“She’s boring,” Heeseung says immediately, taking another drag. “Can already tell. Probably straight-A’s, runs on caffeine and validation, thinks this party is some edgy detour in her perfect little life plan.”

“You got all that from one look?” Sunghoon raises a brow. “I’ve seen that type before,” Heeseung mutters. “They don’t stay.” Jay watches her again. “Still wouldn’t mind finding out.” Heeseung doesn’t reply, but his eyes linger just a little too long this time. Something about her smile makes him twitch. Like she doesn’t belong here, and for some reason, that pisses him off more than anything else.

[gabseyoo]

ESPECIALLY — SAKUSA KIYOOMI

content: best friends to lovers, fluff, mutual pining. word count: 0.9k.

Kiyoomi was slouched in the passenger seat, head tilted against the window, hair falling over the side of his face that isn’t swelling. You were standing by the open door, a half-used first aid kit you just bought resting over the dashboard, your heart somewhere in your throat.

Still, your hands were steady—imbued with a tenderness that defied your inner turmoil—as you dabbed antiseptic onto the split skin above his eye.

“Shit.” He muttered under his breath, flinching slightly. “That stings.”

“Someone punched you in the face.” You said flatly, biting back the waver in your voice. “You’re lucky it’s just stinging.”

Kiyoomi huffed out a small laugh through his nose. “That’s a point.”

You glanced up at him, a quiet beat of silence hanging in the car park air. The pharmacy glowed behind you, too bright against the night. Everything felt suspended in this moment—the party, the fight, the adrenaline, the look in your best friend’s eyes when that guy grabbed your wrist too hard.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You said softly, fingers trembling just slightly as you smooth a gauze pad over his brow.

He turned his head slowly, carefully, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your throat feel dry. “He put his hands on you.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.” He replied, just as quiet. “But I’m not gonna stand there and watch some drunk asshole talk to you like that. Grab you like that. I’d never let anyone disrespect you.”

Your hand stilled against his skin as you looked at the floor, trying to clear your thoughts. The words didn’t feel light. They felt like something that’s been sitting between you two for a long time. 

You have been friends since high school, when you were still figuring yourselves out and somehow kept ending up side by side. He became one of the few people you could rely on without question. He’s seen you at your best and worst, and you’ve seen him just the same. What you had was easy. Solid. The kind of friendship that feels like home. 

But lately, it had started to feel like more than that.

After a few seconds, you lifted your gaze again, your eyes tracing the damage on his face. The split lip, the bleeding brow, the faint redness blooming on his cheekbone. His eye was already beginning to swell. God, you wanted to cry. He’s never been in a fight in his life—but he threw a punch for you.

“Even if it gets you this?” You whispered, your thumb gently brushing just below the cut on his lip. His skin was warm beneath your touch, a stark contrast to the cool night air.

“Especially.”

The silence that fell between you after his response was thick. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

“You’re such an idiot.” You breathed, the words trembling at the edges.

A faint smile touched his lips at the familiarity of your words. You’ve been calling him an idiot probably every day in every tone imaginable since you were teens. 

“I couldn’t help it.” He murmured, gently wrapping his hand around your wrist, the same one that the guy at the party had grabbed so tightly an hour ago. “Seeing someone treat you like that—I don’t think I’ve ever been that angry in my life.”

Your breath caught, fingers still resting lightly on the side of his face.

“I care about you.” He said quietly, but not like it was casual. He said it like it meant something. Like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for longer than he’d admit. “More than you think.”

The beat of your heart quickened. You knew what he meant, and it felt like thousands of emotions running over you at the same time in a second, because you cared about him too. 

More than he thought.

It hit you all at once—how close he was. How long he’s been here. How your hand was still on his face, cupping his cheek, the gauze pad now somewhere on the floor. 

The next thing that came out of his lips, in a low, almost scared tone, caused you to stop breathing for a few seconds.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you right now?”

Something inside you tipped, like stepping to the edge of something with no way back. A fleeting fear pressed against your ribs. If you did this, everything would change. If you didn’t, you might regret it forever—and you were not the kind of person who liked to live with regrets.

“That depends.” You whisper, a soft grin making its way to your face. “Are you only saying that because you’re concussed?”

He chuckled at your words. “I’m not.” He said. “I’ve been wanting to for a while.”

You lean in first.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss was soft, careful, like a breath caught between years of friendship and something finally shifting into place. His hand came up, slow and warm, settling gently at the back of your neck, like he’s been waiting for this permission. Like he’s been waiting for you.

When you pull back, it’s only just enough to breathe. You’re still so close, foreheads nearly touching, his eyes searching yours like he’s still trying to believe this really happened.

Then he smiled—a small, bruised, beautiful thing. You loved his smile. It was one of those rare, unguarded expressions he only ever showed you. 

“Totally worth the punch.” He said before joining your lips again.

And this time, there’s no hesitation at all.

[yuwritesstuff]

🏎️ Sukuna x fem reader — F1 Driver Modern AU Headcanons 🏁

He’s the most aggressive driver on the grid. Sukuna doesn’t play safe — he drives like he owns the track, like rules are merely suggestions. Fans either worship him or call him reckless. But he's terrifyingly good. You know he calculates every risky move to perfection, even if your heart stops every time he overtakes on a blind curve.

You met during the off-season at a pretentious afterparty. Your friend brought you there, though you didn't really want to come. Sukuna was cocky, confident, and surrounded by admirers — but his eyes locked onto you like a target. You didn’t care who he was, and that only made him more intrigued. You called him an “asshole in a jumpsuit.” He laughed and brought you a drink.

He doesn’t do “soft” with anyone — except you. Sukuna is sharp-tongued and brutal in interviews, but when you’re alone, he pulls you into his lap, traces lazy patterns on your skin, and grumbles about how you’re the only one who ever calms him down. He is comfortable in your company, even forgetting to tease you sometimes. You appreciate such moments of peace and quiet.

You travel to every race. Sukuna pretends not to care, but the way his eyes search the crowd for you says otherwise. He drives harder when you’re watching. You wear a discreet charm bracelet he gave you for good luck — his initials engraved in red. This is a small but significant ritual of support, and your very presence energizes him.

He’s scarily possessive. Paparazzi caught a photo of another driver getting too friendly with you. Sukuna didn’t say anything. He just beat that guy’s qualifying time by nearly a full second the next day and shot him a look that said “Try me again.” For him, everything in life is a competition and a challenge, and he's not going to lose you. No one is going to take his girl away from him.

He lets you touch his car. No one else is allowed near it unless they're engineers. But you? He’ll smirk and say, “Want to sit in it, princess?” while lifting you into the cockpit, allowing you to feel the smell and energy of the salon in which he fights for the most impossible victories. He's crazy about his car. And he's crazy about his girlfriend. This combination makes his heart beat faster, even though he keeps a smug smile on his face.

He watches your reactions from the cockpit cameras. His team caught him once grinning during a race while watching a clip of you cheering in the paddock. He denied it, obviously. “I don’t smile. That was wind distortion.” It's a tiny weakness that he allows himself, staying focused on the track the rest of the time.

You worry constantly. No matter how confident he is, you hold your breath during every lap. After one especially bad crash, you ran to the pit lane in tears. Sukuna stumbled out of the wreckage, grinning, blood on his face, and said, “Relax. I’ve had worse hangovers.” After that, he fainted and then spent a few more days in the hospital, and you thought you would kill him with your own hands as soon as he woke up. But when he did, you just kept wiping the endless tears from your cheeks and kissed his face while he grunted back, pretending to be annoyed.

He teases you for being soft. “You get all nervous, and for what? I’m invincible, babe.” You know he's the craziest man you've ever met. Brave, strong, unstoppable. But still a man. A human being. You’ve heard the quiet way he exhales when you tuck his hair back and kiss his temple. He needs your softness more than he admits.

You anchor him. He’s chaos and ego and speed, but you’re the one who reminds him to breathe. You’re the only person who can say, “Please come back to me safe,” and make him pause before a race. He remembers that he has something else to hold on to besides the steering wheel, and although “safety” is not the word that goes with his career, he smiles at you a little softer than usual and says, “I will.”

He loves it when you wear his team colors. Once you wore a branded hoodie with his number on it, and he couldn’t stop staring. Later that night, he whispered, “That’s hot. Keep it on,” as he pushed you against the hotel wall, lifting you up with his strong arms. You were sure that the neighboring rooms complained about the noise that night. In the morning, you were so hoarse and exhausted that he made fun of you and even bought you some medicine for your sore throat. “And how are you gonna cheer me on at the race now?” he teased. “It's all your fault,” you pouted, dying inside from both embarrassment and happiness.

He’s actually proud of you. He brags to the team about your career, your achievements, and how “his girl is smarter than any PR manager here.” It gets to the point where they are completely annoyed by his stories, but they can't say anything, knowing his hot-tempered nature. He loves not only your body, but also your amazing brain. You blushed when you found out he once punched a guy in Monaco for saying “she’s just a pretty face.”

He’s got your initials tattooed somewhere only you can see. It's reckless and permanent and very Sukuna. He doesn’t tell anyone. This is for you only. You know his body, you know how to give him goosebumps and a passion as powerful as the roar of a sports car engine. He likes it when you touch this tattoo while fucking, and then lets you trace it when he’s falling asleep next to you after a long day.

He plans to win the championship for you. He says it’s for himself, for legacy, for glory. And so it is, of course, because he is made of these things. He belongs in a world of paparazzi cameras and front pages, a world of speed and money and risk. But when he crosses that finish line and raises his helmet to blow you a kiss, the world can see who he’s really doing it for.

[orellazalonia]

Slow to Forgive

Summary: Bucky reports back to the team as he copes with what has happened among her, you, and everything else that has occurred. Meanwhile, a few people gradually start visiting you, trying to reconnect in their own different ways.

Word Count: 2.7k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The others were already gathered when Bucky returned.

He stepped through the door with that same steady walk, but something about his posture was tighter now. Like tension had settled into his spine and hadn’t left. Steve noticed it first. Natasha second. Sam leaned off the wall, catching the subtle difference in Bucky’s expression.

No one said anything at first.

Just waited.

“She’s not panicked,” Bucky said finally, his voice low as he moved to the table. “She’s calm. Like she’s already made peace with what happens next.”

Steve crossed his arms. “Did she give you anything?”

“No intel,” Bucky replied, shaking his head. “No locations, no contacts, nothing we can use right away.”

“But?” Bruce prompted, reading between the lines.

“But she believes she’s right.” Bucky leaned on the table now, both hands braced against the edge. “Every word out of her mouth was confident. She doesn’t think she betrayed us, she thinks she exposed us.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Did she admit to leaking the access codes?”

“She didn’t need to. She didn’t deny it either.” He exhaled. “She didn’t even sound angry. Just… disappointed.”

Sam muttered something under his breath and paced to the other side of the room.

Wanda looked up quietly from where she sat near the terminal. “She hurt you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to hers, and for a second the mask cracked. A flicker of something raw passed through his eyes before it disappeared again.

“She was good at pretending,” He admitted. “And maybe I was good at letting her.”

Steve’s brows drew in, thoughtful but firm. “You think she’s still playing us?”

“I think,” Bucky began carefully, “That she meant everything she said. And that’s what makes her dangerous.”

“Conviction,” Natasha murmured.

“Yeah.” Bucky straightened. “She’s not waiting to be rescued. She’s not scared of the consequences. She really believes she did the right thing.”

Clint let out a long sigh. “So… what now? We sit on our hands while she philosophizes us into another blind spot?”

“We keep her locked down,” Natasha said firmly. “And we dig. Every file, every trace, every soft point in the system she could’ve used.”

Steve nodded slowly. “We can’t take any chances.”

Wanda looked toward the far hallway, where the containment wing lay silent behind reinforced doors. “She was always so kind,” She whispered. “It’s strange how kindness can be used like a blade.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He didn’t move.

He just stared at the map projected on the center table, a faint blinking cursor where the organization’s last known base used to be.

“I don’t think she regrets it,” He said. “And that’s the part that scares me the most.”

The new room they’d put you in wasn’t a cell. But it wasn’t anything cozy either.

It had walls. A bed, a bench, and a chair. There was even a sink, a screen, and a light that never fully shut off. Just bright enough to make sleeping feel unnatural. Just soft enough to keep you awake wondering when someone would knock and say it was time for another “talk.”

You sat curled up in the corner of the narrow bed, legs tucked to your chest, back pressed against the wall. You weren’t restrained, but the silence weighed heavier than metal.

Nobody had said much since the breach. No one told you anything. And so, you didn’t ask.

You were used to being forgotten, even here, even now.

So when the door slid open, you didn’t look up right away. Not until you heard his voice.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, stepping just inside the room. “Mind some company?”

You blinked. Then nodded once.

He didn’t sit right away. Just glanced around, eyes scanning the room and then you. Not with suspicion. Just quiet concern. His expression was gentle, like someone walking into a room where grief still lingered and not wanting to stir it too hard.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low.

You shrugged. “Define okay.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch. Something close to a smile.

“Fair.”

He finally stepped over and took the chair, spinning it once before settling in backward, with his arms resting on the back like he always had a way of making everything feel casual. Even this.

“They told me you were still here,” He said. “Didn’t feel right that no one came to check in.”

You said nothing.

“I figured… after all this, you probably didn’t want another interrogation.”

That got a small, huffed sound from you, something resembling a laugh, or the ghost of one.

He glanced around, then leaned in slightly. “So I thought I’d do something crazy.”

You tilted your head.

“Just come in here and talk to you like a person.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softer, he added, “Or sit here in case you didn’t want to talk at all. I’m good at both.”

You swallowed. The words felt stuck in your throat. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him. At the kindness in his eyes. The warmth. Not pity or duty. Simply kindness.

It undid something small in your chest.

“Why?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

Sam didn’t pretend. He sighed and leaned back a little.

“Because no one did before,” He said. “Not enough.”

You looked away.

“It’s not your job.”

“Nope,” He agreed. “Doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Silence stretched between you. But it wasn’t sharp or cold. It settled softly.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” He replied gently. “That’s why I did.”

You blinked rapidly, jaw tightening as you tried not to feel too much. He noticed you didn’t feel like talking yet so he stood slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans.

“I’m not gonna push you,” He said. “But if you ever want to talk or sit or just complain about the food, I’m around.”

He paused at the door.

Then glanced back, his tone a little lighter.

“Oh. And I brought you something.”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled a granola bar and a pack of trail mix out, placing them both on the small ledge beside the sink.

“Not gourmet,” He said with a wink, “but better than those ration bricks.”

Then he left. No big goodbye. No expectation. Just a quiet kindness in the space where silence had taken root.

You stared at the snacks for a long time. And then, finally, you let yourself smile.

Just a little.

Even with Sam’s little visit, deep down, you really didn’t expect anyone to come back.

That was the rule, wasn’t it? People check in once, feel a little better about themselves, and then move on. Let the silence do the work. Let the person behind the glass fade back into being no one again.

But when the door opened again the next morning, you looked up; and this time, you blinked in quiet surprise.

Clint Barton stepped in, hands full of something that smelled like breakfast. His brow lifted when he saw you curled on the bed, alert.

“Morning,” He said, like this was normal. Like the awkwardness didn’t exist.

You sat up slowly, confused. “…Hi?”

He held up the bag. “Wanda said you liked blueberry muffins. I figured she wouldn’t say that unless it was true. So, uh… here.”

He crossed the room, setting the bag gently down beside you on the bed. Then, very deliberately, he stepped back. Giving you space and letting you decide what came next.

You looked at the bag. Then at him. “Why are you here?”

Clint scratched the back of his neck. “Sam told me you hadn’t really eaten. Thought maybe real food would help.” A beat. “And… to be honest, I feel like an ass.”

You blinked, surprised at the honesty.

He shrugged. “I was one of the people who got used to you always being quiet and efficient. Thought that meant you were fine. I should’ve known better.” His voice lowered. “That’s on me.”

You looked away. The muffin bag crinkled softly in your hand, “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I,” Clint said, half-smiling. “But we can sit in mutual awkward silence if that helps.”

You let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t much, but it cracked the shell a little.

He pulled the chair closer and sat without ceremony, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to talk about anything heavy,” He assured. “You want to tell me your least favorite cereal? We can do that.”

You studied him. Really got a good look at him. And for once, no part of his expression or demeanor was guarded. So you offered, quietly, “I think the off-brand fruit loops taste like sadness.”

He grinned. “Strong take. I respect that.”

A pause.

“Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know if I’m staying.”

He nodded, gaze soft. “That’s okay.”

You looked down at the muffin in your lap, hands curled around the warmth of the bag. “But I… don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be,” He said without hesitation.

And you believed him. For the first time in a long time, you really did.

The punching bag didn’t help Bucky.

He’d already changed it out twice that week, not because it tore, but because hitting it stopped giving him the quiet he needed.

Sleep hadn’t come easy either.

Not since that conversation. Not since her voice started echoing in his head again, so calm, so certain.

“You saw her breaking. You cared. But you didn’t reach out.”

He’d wanted to yell, to argue and push it away. But the worst part was… she was right.

He had seen it. The way you dimmed. The way you shrunk in rooms full of heroes and went unseen. And he'd noticed. He had meant to check in. Had meant to say something.

But he hadn’t.

Because other things always came first. Because you weren’t loud about needing help. Because he was focused on someone else.

And now? Now he kept hearing about how Clint stopped by. How Sam brought you snacks. How Bruce gave you books to read. And Wanda? Wanda just sat beside you in silence some days.

Like they all remembered you now, when it no longer counted the same.

He hadn’t visited yet. He just couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t know what he’d say.

Because when he finally looked you in the eye, he was afraid you’d see the truth. That it wasn’t the betrayal from her that cut the deepest. It was how he had let you slip through his fingers without ever reaching out.

And he didn’t know if there was still time to fix that.

The lights in the corridor were dimmer at night.

Maybe to soften the edge of your confinement. Maybe to make the long hours feel less sterile. Either way, the hum of the overhead bulbs filled the space like static.

You didn’t look up when the door opened. You’d gotten used to the rhythm of footsteps by now. Sam’s easy presence, Wanda’s almost soundless approach, the calm echo of Bruce’s shoes.

But this was different.

It was heavier. Slower. Familiar in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Your eyes lifted to find Bucky standing in the doorway. His hands were in his jacket pockets. Shoulders tense. His eyes flicked briefly to you before settling on a spot near the floor.

Neither of you spoke at first.

He crossed the room quietly, but didn’t sit. Just stood there, a little too close to the wall, like he didn’t trust himself to come closer.

You watched him for a moment then lowered your gaze. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

He exhaled, the sound rougher than he meant it to be. “I wasn’t.”

That surprised you.

“I didn’t know what I’d say,” He continued quietly. “Still don’t.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “I’ve been trying to figure out when I stopped noticing you. When I stopped saying more than hi in passing. When you became part of the backdrop.”

Your throat tightened.

His gaze looked at you then. “I think you used to smile. Maybe not often. But when you did, it was real. You looked like someone who could still hope.”

You didn’t answer.

“Then it faded,” He murmured. “And I noticed that, too. And I didn’t do anything.”

You pressed your nails lightly into your palms. Just to feel something.

“Why are you telling me this now?” You whispered.

“Because I think I liked you,” He said.

Your breath caught.

“Not like… falling-for-you liked. I mean, maybe. But mostly I saw you. And I let that mean nothing.”

Silence thickened between you.

Bucky stepped forward then, just one step, and crouched beside you.

“I thought I was good at spotting people on the edge,” He said. “After everything I’ve been through, I thought I’d know. But I missed it with you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, unable to speak. There was too much in your chest. Guilt. Anger. Longing. Sadness. A million things you didn’t have the right words for.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” He added gently. “Hell, you don’t have to say anything at all. I just needed you to know that… I should’ve been better.”

You didn’t look at him right away.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did, you were afraid you’d break all over again. And you’d done enough of that in private. Battling quiet grief. Handling silent disappointments. The kinds no one noticed, the kind no one had to.

Bucky stayed crouched by the chair, close enough to feel but not close enough to lean on. He gave you space. He always did, even when it was too much.

Your hands stayed in your lap, clenched lightly, fingers curled around the fabric of your sleeves.

“I used to…” Your voice wavered. You cleared your throat. “I used to imagine what it’d be like if you saw me.”

You could feel him shift slightly, not toward you, not away. Just enough to show he was listening.

“I don’t mean in some dramatic, love at first sight way,” You said quickly, eyes still locked on the floor. “I just… wondered what it would feel like to have your attention. Even for a minute, a full genuine minute.”

Silence.

Your hands trembled but you pressed on still.

“And then I stopped imagining,” You continued softly. “Because even when I was in the room, even when I worked, helped, covered for people; I was never someone worth looking at. Not to you. Not to any of you.”

That part cracked out sharper than you meant.

You finally looked at him. He looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

“I wasn’t waiting for a confession,” You said. “I wasn’t waiting for you or them. I’m not that naive.”

He opened his mouth, but you kept going.

“I just wanted to matter.” Your voice broke on the last word. “Not because I was loud, brilliant, or charming. Just because I was me.”

He closed his mouth again.

“I tried not to care,” You said. “When you talked to her, smiled at her, looked at her like she was the only one in the room.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

“And one of the worst parts?” You leaned back, blinking hard. “She was looking at me. Watching me disappear and she still let me go.”

A long silence stretched between you.

“I know I’m not innocent,” You said quietly. “I made my choice. But I didn’t do it because I hated you or anyone. I did it because I didn’t think anyone would come…”

He let out a shaky breath. “I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

You didn’t say it cruelly. You said it like it was the truth. Because it was.

He stood slowly, step by step, as if gravity had doubled. His eyes were full of something heavy, unreadable.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” He reiterated.

You nodded. “Good. Because I don’t know if I have it yet.”

Then he left, solemnly.

And when the door slid shut again, you finally let the tears fall, not because you were angry.

But because you still cared.

And that might’ve been the cruelest part of all.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan @saoirses-things @itsmejen @saucysasha2035 @smokescreen1000 @poiscntree

[wxsteriawishes]

the lads men finding you again in this life. . . but you're already with someone else (angst version) what who said that

post-writing clarity: written while listening to the Dear Hongrang OST, very much set the mood. i recommend! most songs are instrumental.

go back to masterlist

content: mentions of death, mentions of toxic behavior/abuse, use of indecent language/swearing, use of pet names (pips)

caleb

bonus points: imagine zayne is "the other guy" in caleb's story

he'd immediately try sabotaging the two of you. over and over again, using his status and evol to his benefit and that asshole's detriment. he'd play the perfect older brother, you'd come crying to him each time something went wrong. each time an issue popped up. caleb wouldn't let him enter the house, wouldn't let him explain or apologize. he'd let the miscommunications fester. when you find out how much caleb had been meddling, you're furious, you're outraged -- you feel betrayed. he had already lied about his death, now this?initially, he's firm and stubborn. he won't let go of you. "can't you see how much better i could treat you?" maybe if you were single, he'd let you be. but you acted as if you were in love with that other guy, like you might marry him. spend your whole life with him? he can't have that, now, can he? no, that wouldn't do. he locks you up, hides you away from the rest of the world. you didn't even get to say goodbye, you had screamed at him once. he didn't care. you missed your lover, you never quite had the courage to confess. he could tell anyway. he didn't relent. "i know you, pips! he'll never know you like i do." you don't know for sure what happened to your partner ex. you get hints. caleb tells you he took care of him. you didn't have to guess at what that meant. the important part was that you'd never be able to see him again. it broke you apart. you stopped speaking, ate less, never laughed. your smiles were only half-hearted. you had trouble sleeping. it takes a while, but he eventually takes a step back. he sees you fading away, missing the man you used to be with, the one you really loved. you're just a shell of the bright, loving, confident woman you used to be. you don't even look at him anymore. he'd broken your trust. he was too intense, too possessive, too much. he lets you go. you don't look back. instead of your partner's loving arms, you come home to a tombstone and a death certificate. even though you eventually forgive caleb, you can't find it within yourself to love him back the way he's always loved you. he's killed (backstabbed) by one of his colleagues a few years later, eternally distracted by thoughts of you. people think he died without a lover. but he loved you to his grave, even when you didn't love him back. even when you had another in your own heart.

rafayel

bonus points: imagine sylus is "the other guy" in rafayel's story

he ignores you. initially, he wants to shout at you. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake until you remember him again, remember what you did to him, what the two of you had. he sees your eyes scanning the crowd and missing him. you didn't recognize him, you weren't even looking for him. he watches your lover lean down and plant a kiss on your lips, startling you. rafayel watches you blush and turns to leave. fine. if you were happy without him, who was he to object? the second time you meet, it's at one of rafayel's art exhibitions. he's mingling with the other guests. he's charming, captivating, unforgettable, everything a world-renowned artist like him should be. he's startled when you suddenly appear behind him. you introduce yourself and he turns around with his usual flirtatious gaze. he meets your sparkling eyes and, for a moment, he can't speak. why were you here? maybe you had finally remembered something-- but you only ask him for a favor. he pretends to be skeptical, when he was truly curious. he thought you might ask about lemuria. or at the very least, just be a fan of his work, wanting to meet him. but when he hears your favor. . . he laughs. hard. it sounds bitter, even to him. oh, you were audacious. who did you think you were? he wanted to say no, to just walk away, so badly. he was one of the best, for god's sake. he could afford to be an asshole this far in his career. but that would be cruel and unfair to you. you did not remember him, for whatever reason, and he couldn't expect anything from you. and, perhaps, he also just couldn't refuse you, no matter how hard he tried. like he was under your spell. thomas was right behind you. please say yes, his eyes seemed to be screaming at rafayel. so he does. only a few months later, he's dressed in soft pastels, blending in with the venue. he's sitting in the very front, a little off to the side, brush in hand. he paints. the life, the weather, the people. part of him feels like he's wasting his pigment on this. he's finally done when he hears you, "i do," voice full of emotion. rafayel watches the ring get pushed on your finger. he looks away. packs up his stuff, waits at the back, leaves before the afterparties. drowns himself in his work. years pass and people notice something had changed in his work. like something was missing. his fame and wealth skyrocketed. he had everything he could want. and most of all, he was happy. he didn't need you.

sylus

bonus points: imagine xavier is "the other guy" in sylus' story

he stalks you. he'd never call it that though. he was simply keeping an eye on you, to make sure you were safe. he has cameras set near your apartment building. when you go out, he usually sends luke and kieran, not willing to trust any of his mindless lackeys to ensure your safety. he has mephisto on the job when you're on a mission and you're trying to lay low. that's how he finds out you're with someone, another hunter. someone he had seen you spending time with at home and at work. instead of backing away, he keeps an even closer eye on you. what exactly had you two done? how far had you let him go? he kept catching his evol out of control, ready to strangle the man who dared touch you. he wouldn't believe you were in love with another. not when his soul was tied to yours. when you go on a sort of solo mission to find the leader of Onychinus, he sees his chance. he tries to get you to remember, he tries to resonate with you, he tries near everything he can think of. nothing works. no, he's only made things worse. you leave to go back to linkon city and he felt himself going insane. how had you forgotten everything? when it was you that tied your fate to his and cursed him. you, who doomed him to only be yours, when you couldn't even remember who he was to you now. on his better days, he has hope. he trusts that you'll make your way back to him. but on his worse days, he pays you a visit. he appears in your vicinity, scares the living hell out of you, and he wants to demand answers. but you hated him. you could only see him as the murderer of your foster grandmother and brother. he disgusted you, how could you love him with that fear, that betrayal in your eyes? one time, he appeared in your room while you were in his arms, the two of you in your bed. he went crazy. he lunged, aiming to kill. he almost did, but he caught sight of your eyes again. horror. pleading. tears. you call him a monster. his gaze dropped to his hands, strangling an innocent throat, black and crimson tendrils of smoke clouding his vision. you were in the corner of the room, looking like you wanted to disappear. sylus' grip loosened. he wanted to disappear. he stands up. takes a step back. he vanishes from the room. you never see him again.

xavier

bonus points: rafayel is "the other guy" in xavier's story

he'd introduce himself. he'd make his presence known each time he walked past your desk at work, past your door at home. he'd bring you home-baked muffins, to welcome you to the neighborhood. you're shocked by the acidic taste in the dough, but his aloof nature is charming. he leaves quite the impression on you. you become friends -- going on missions together, hanging out at his place on the weekends sometimes, having a drink together after a particularly intense fight. he's happy. he's friendly, he's sweet, he's respectful. he's such a gentleman, and honestly, a little bit of a flirt. he knows you don't remember anything. but he doesn't mind. it was more than perfect like this. he didn't have enough time to be nitpicking over the finer details. then you decide you want him to meet your fiancé. he had recently come back from a five-month-long world tour, you were saying, and you just had to introduce him to xavier. of course. xavier never did ask if you were single. he thought his feelings were obvious. he thought you two were on the same page. he forgot you didn't remember the things he did. you didn't catch the little inside jokes he made in reference to your past. and now, he was about to come face-to-face with your lover. fine, he'll be the judge of it. and when they met in person, xavier was livid. it would've been easier if he were horrible. but he wasn't. your fiancé was the whole package: deathly handsome, world-famous, wealthier than one could imagine, and most of all, he had left quite the impression on you too. only he had gotten to you first. xavier didn't ever smile at him, never spoke directly to him, always seething beneath the surface. the worst part was he was so good to you. he was so kind to you. xavier couldn't ignore that, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. you invited xavier to your wedding. he still tried to make you see him as the better choice. he could fight, he could protect you, he would never forsake you. but you couldn't turn your head from your husband, your heart couldn't stop loving the passionate, flirtatious, loving man you were already tied to. he could feel how distant you were getting already. he could feel the friendship hanging on by a thread. he had a choice: he could try and save it, savor what little interactions he had with you, or go off the grid again. he never got to make the choice. his body was so tired and he already had such little time. he should've noticed the signs, without your love and comfort, all alone again, the stress, the solitude, it was all getting to him. then, one night, you found yourself dressed in black, hand-in-hand with your husband. you were told it was painless, in the middle of the night. you were grateful. you never knew how deep his feelings went for you.

zayne

bonus points: imagine caleb is "the other guy" in zayne's story

he'd keep his distance. at first, he couldn't believe it. it was you. you were the girl in his dreams. the woman formed from fragments of his mind. it had been years since you two had last spoke. but that was before the nightmares started, when he began to think there was something wrong with him. but like a fairytale come to life, he saw you. your eyes, your smile, your everything -- you were divine. his drink was untouched as he stared out the window, into the town square. he needed to speak to you. he thought he was crazy, having nightmares of killing a wife he never even met. but there you stood, laughing as you were grabbed by the waist, kissed until you ran out of breath. his heart dropped. you looked so happy. all hopes of talking to you vanished. he wouldn't cross that line. he got up and left the café immediately. it wasn't his place, to try to speak of such an intimate matter to a taken woman. how could he ruin that for you? he wouldn't. but, maybe. . . he'd make sure to be assigned to you as your primary physician. he'd get to know you in a professional setting, in a respectful manner. just for his own sake. when you had problems with your boyfriend, he'd comfort you. give you advice, sometimes as a doctor, sometimes as a friend. he kept his eye on you to make sure you were never hurt. he couldn't help himself, he couldn't completely stay away. how could he? but he never pushed it. he never flirted with you. even when he might've felt like you were attracted to him too. you had been in your relationship for years, why would you risk that for him? he never explicitly expressed his feelings to you, never wanting you to feel pressured to return them. there were boundaries he wouldn't cross. you weren't his, for god's sake, no matter how much he'd wished otherwise. but he kept telling himself if things didn't work out between you and that guy, he'd try his own luck. two years later, he was attending your wedding. he watched you exchange your vows, eyes sparkling, skin glowing, like you were made of gems. he was so happy for you. he moved towns. kept having nightmares of your lifeless body, dying at his scarred hands.

[rookamell]

So. Mind Ossuary. Walk with me.

I think Lucanis started coming out of there on his own before Weisshaupt. I think that the coffee date + saving Treviso + time spent with Rook and the others all made him start opening up a little bit. Relaxing a little bit. Of course there's not harmony with Spite, and he's still keeping himself awake with coffee BUT '[he] can still work' which is important. Lucanis connects a lot of his self worth with how good he is at his job. It's why it's so important to him and why he's so confident. He's a good assassin, he's a professional, everything else (Spite, Illario, Caterina, his mental state) doesn't really matter as long as he's good at killing things, which is part of the reason why him and Spite can work together and make a deal in the Ossuary.

I also think that's why him and Spite disagree once they're out of the Ossuary. Lucanis is free and Spite is not. Lucanis is letting himself talk to Rook and the others. Lucanis is letting himself cook for people. Lucanis is flirting a little bit.

But Spite is still in the Ossuary. Trying to get out.

I just don't think Lucanis is doing that on purpose. He's compartmentalizing. Spite is the 'bad' parts of himself (in brackets above).

Then. Weisshaupt.

He misses. Before, even though he's now a completely different person with a demon inside him and a year of physical and psychological torture under his belt, even though he's (probably, because he's not stupid, just in denial) been betrayed by his cousin, he could still kill things.

Then he misses Ghilan'nain.

And I think that it definitely hits harder with a romanced Rook, but I'll come back to that in a second.

He missed. It was the one thing he still had.

I think that's when he locks himself (and Spite) up in the mental Ossuary for real. Deliberately. And the reason I say that before that he wasn't doing it on ourpose imo is because of 1.) that banter with Davrin, and 2.) the specific locks that are in the mind ossuary.

1.) the banter with Davrin where he asks Lucanis how he survived and Lucanis basically tells him he shut down. Of course he could still be doing it at the time of the banter, but to me it sounds like someone describing a past action i.e. his time in the Lighthouse with the others has allowed him to move past this survival mode he put himself in, at least slightly.

2.) Neve and Harding. He didn't know Neve and Harding as of being taken to the Ossuary the first time, so it makes sense that they're 'newer additions'. To me them being there reads as they're people who he trusts to make sure the others don't get hurt because of them, and also people Rook trusts to tell them he's out of line, should something bad ever happen. (I think it was @/corvus-frugilegus I was talking with that said it would make more sense to have Teia there as a lock, and I actually really like that, but with what we were given, I think this explanation makes sense). They're also people he and Rook have in common, and people he feels guilty about ? Question mark?

Anyway all that to say I think he shuts down again after Weisshaupt.

Which is also incidentally when his flirting with Rook completely stops.

So the second time you can flirt with him is in coffee with crows, and honestly? He's receptive. He's very receptive. Anyone who says differently is huffing something tbh. I would go as far as to say he's flirting more than Rook is. The chemistry is so fucking insane too I love that scene at Cafe Pietra.

Which is very at odds with the first time you can 'flirt' with him in the Lighthouse, when you tell him you don't want to leave him alone with a demon, and he kicks everyone out of the dining room. It makes sense, because he's still in survival mode and his grandmother just died.

After that Cafe Pietra scene the game is fairly empty of Lucanis moments tho (which is a writing issue sorry. He just doesnt have content and it's lazy) until the Treviso/Minrathous choice.

After that is the scene where Spite is trying to get through the mirror, so Spite is definitely still stuck in the Ossuary, which makes sense, since Lucanis doesn't trust him and is trying to stay awake still.

BUT.

Why after this specific choice? Yes, it makes sense that we need to start getting clues as to what is going on and all the companions' quests continue to the next stage, but just listen to my hc real quick.

I think he relaxed slightly. I think this is when the 'Rook lock' he had on his mind prison disappeared. He can't imagine Rook doing anything other than helping him, and he relaxed, and it gave Spite just a slight opening to try and get out. Which doesn't work obviously.

But then Weisshaupt happens, and Lucanis shuts down completely. Actually, after Weisshaupt it's blow after blow. It makes sense that he's trying not to respond to flirts, and it makes sense that he tries to shut everyone out. I think there should have been more scenes. But that's beside the point.

Idk I was going somewhere with this but I can't remember where. Oops. Anyway. He shuts down post-Weisshaupt and that's why he suddenly isn't flirting anymore. Because I have to do something to try and fill in the gaps left by the writers.

[wrappedinpinklace]

Out of Bounds, Chapter Twelve.

(author’s note!! hii everyone, i kinda have the ending of the fic planned out in my head, and i don’t think we are much further from it, dw it’s a happy ending im not that mean </3, xoxo angel!!)

Your dorm was quiet.

Your roommate had gone off with her boyfriend for the night, again. “Don’t wait up!” she’d said, followed by a wink that made you roll your eyes—and you were left alone with nothing but a Transfiguration textbook, a flickering candle, and your own traitorous thoughts.

You were doing great. Amazing, actually. Your grades were top of the year, Professor Nygma had even praised your last essay, and the whispers that once followed you like a second shadow had finally died down. You had healed.

…Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But still—still—you thought of him.

Jason Todd.

You hated how easily his name still formed in your mind. You hated how your body remembered him even when you were trying so hard to forget. The way his hands felt on your skin, the way his breath tickled your neck when he murmured things he’d never say in the daylight. The way his voice rasped when he said your name like it was the only word that mattered.

You hated how much you missed him.

And Merlin help you, you hated how much you wanted him.

It started with a thought. Just a thought. A flash of him shirtless at practice, sweat glistening on his chest. His hair tousled, his smirk dangerous.

Your hand slipped under the waistband of your shorts before you could even talk yourself out of it.

This is stupid, you thought. Don’t do this. You’re fine. You don’t need him. You don’t—

But then your fingers moved and your back arched, and for one wild moment you imagined it was his hand instead of yours. His voice whispering dirty praise into your ear. His body over yours.

And all thoughts of guilt drowned beneath the sound of your own ragged breath.

⸻

Meanwhile, Jason?

Jason hadn’t slept properly in days.

He was tired, pissed off, and obsessed—utterly, pathetically obsessed—with you. Everything reminded him of you. Your perfume in the hallway. Your handwriting in the margins of a shared textbook. The stupid way your laugh echoed in his mind like a curse.

He needed to see you.

He needed to try.

It wasn’t like you gave him the chance. You avoided him like he was cursed. Wouldn’t look at him in class, wouldn’t speak to him in passing, wouldn’t even so much as glance his way unless Dick or Steph was around to intercept.

But tonight? Tonight the castle was quiet. Your roommate was gone—he saw her himself—and Jason had always been good at breaking rules.

He slipped through the dark like it was second nature, silent, a shadow. He murmured the password Steph always used (he knew it, of course he did), climbed the staircase with practiced ease, and stopped in front of your dorm door.

His heart beat louder than it had in weeks. He knocked once—soft, hesitant. No answer. He turned the knob. Unlocked. Jason stepped inside.

And what he saw—

What he saw made the world stop spinning.

You. In bed. Skin flushed, eyes closed, legs spread, hand between your thighs, head tilted back, mouth parted in a breathy moan of his name you didn’t even realize you said.

“…Jason.”

He froze.

His brain said leave. Turn around. Pretend you never saw this.

But his body—his traitorous, desperate, aching body—stayed rooted in place, watching you fall apart under your own touch like a prayer whispered in the dark.

You gasped, sitting up, eyes flying open. And when you saw him—really saw him—you nearly screamed.

“W-What—Jason?! What the hell are you doing here?!”

He should have left. He really should’ve.

But instead, he stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a soft click, locking it this time. And even though you were still flushed and panting, your eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Get out.”

Jason didn’t move.

“You said my name,” he said, voice low, somewhere between awe and agony. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you but—you said my name.”

“Old habit,” you snapped, pulling your blanket up, heart thundering. “Don’t let it go to your overinflated head.”

But you couldn’t ignore how dark his eyes had gone. How his chest rose and fell as he tried to keep himself together. How the room suddenly felt much too small for the two of you.

He took a step closer.

And you didn’t stop him.

Not yet.

You didn’t remember climbing into his lap.

You didn’t remember pulling his shirt over his head or kissing your way down his chest, but there you were—thighs wrapped around his waist, back against the pillows, skin pressed against skin like you’d die if there was even an inch between you.

“Still mad at me?” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling slow against yours. Torturously slow.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Furious.”

“Good,” he said, voice a low growl as he thrust forward—deep, hard, and deliberate. “You always fuck me better when you’re angry.”

You moaned—loud, uninhibited—as your fingers clawed at his back, grounding yourself in the only thing that made sense anymore: him.

Jason didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

Your name left his lips like a prayer, over and over again, half-muttered between kisses, between curses, between moans that escaped despite himself. You were everywhere—wrapped around him, clinging to him, seared into his skin like a spell he couldn’t shake.

You dragged your lips along his jaw, biting lightly at the corner of his mouth, “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” he rasped, hand sliding beneath your thigh, lifting you to meet each thrust, “Just need to feel you again. That’s all I’ve wanted.”

You were soaking—slick, warm, tight—and every movement drew a new sound from the both of you. The room was thick with it, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the stifled moans you tried and failed to bite back.

“Jason,” you gasped as he hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

His grip on your hips tightened.

“I know, baby. I know.” He leaned in and kissed your temple, something softer layered beneath the hunger. “I’ve got you.”

You came hard, fingers digging into his back, mouth falling open as you cried out his name like it was the only word you knew. He didn’t stop, not until he was right behind you, shuddering through his own climax with a broken groan against your neck.

And for a second—just a second—the world was quiet.

No heartbreak. No rumors. No betrayal.

Just two people in a messy bed, hearts still racing, bodies tangled together, unwilling to let go.

⸻

Jason stayed longer than he should have.

His breathing had finally evened out, and for a moment, he looked like he might say something—something real. But instead, he just sat there at the edge of your bed, head bowed, fingers twitching slightly like he was debating reaching for you again. You didn’t speak, and neither did he. It was quieter that way, safer.

Eventually, he stood.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching, hesitating. Like he was waiting for you to ask him to stay—or to scream at him to go. You did neither.

“G’night,” he murmured, voice hoarse and low as he pulled on his shirt.

You just nodded, your face unreadable, your body still bare beneath the sheets. And when he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click, you stared at it for a long moment.

The second it latched shut, the silence hit.

You sank back into your pillows, limbs heavy and sated, every nerve still humming. Your body was still warm from him—your thighs sticky, your lips swollen, your skin littered with the ghost of his touch. He lingered in the air like cologne and trouble.

And god, it had been good. So good.

You hated how good it had been.

Your fingers grazed over your neck, over the little bruise blooming there from where he’d sucked too hard, and you couldn’t help the soft breath that left your lips—half frustration, half satisfaction. You hated him. You hated him for lying. For breaking you. For making you miss him. But mostly, you hated that your body still ached for him, even now.

There was no way this was a one-time thing.

You weren’t delusional enough to believe that. Not with the way you moved together like a match to a flame. There was something brewing now—something inevitable. Dangerous.

A situationship. That was the word for it, wasn’t it?

Not love. Not yet.

But not hate either. Not anymore.

And that? That was the most dangerous part of all.

⸻

You were doing so well at hiding it.

You’d avoided the common rooms, skipped breakfast in the Great Hall, even wore a scarf indoors like an idiot to cover your neck. But of course, Stephanie Brown was many things—and oblivious was not one of them.

It started with the scarf. “Okay, what is this? Fashion from the Ministry of Silly Walks?” she teased, tugging on the edge of the fabric.

You tried to deflect. “I was cold.”

“In ninety degree weather?” she deadpanned. And then she yanked the scarf down.

There was a pause.

Then, “Oh my god.”

Your heart dropped. “Stephanie, I swear—”

“You swore you were done with him.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but no words came out. What could you even say? It wasn’t supposed to happen? I was horny and lonely and he has really nice hands?

Stephanie’s eyes widened even more as it fully sank in. “Wait—was this last night? Oh my god. You had sex with Jason Todd. Again?!”

You dragged a hand down your face and sank onto the edge of your bed. “Please lower your voice.”

Stephanie slammed your door shut and leaned against it dramatically. “Girl. Why?”

You sighed. “I don’t know. It just… happened.”

She crossed her arms. “People don’t just accidentally fall onto Jason Todd’s—”

“Stephanie.”

“I’m just saying!” She threw her hands up. “I mean, part of me is mad at you because hello, heartbreak and betrayal, but also… I’m impressed. Proud, even. He’s hot. I get it. I do.”

You gave her a look, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

Stephanie softened a bit, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Okay, okay, real talk. Do you… still want him?”

You didn’t answer right away. You stared at the floor, fingers twisting in the hem of your jumper. “I don’t know. I mean—yes. But also no. I don’t trust him. I shouldn’t even like him. But my brain and my body are apparently no longer on speaking terms.”

Stephanie nodded slowly, tapping her fingers against her leg. “That’s fair. But… just promise me you’re not going to let this turn into a thing unless he earns it. Like, actually proves he’s not an emotionally constipated disaster.”

“I’m not planning anything,” you muttered. “It was just one night.”

Stephanie raised a brow.

You winced. “…Okay maybe not just one night.”

“Y/N.”

“I know! I know. I’m doomed.”

Stephanie sighed, bumping her shoulder into yours. “Maybe. But at least you’re doomed with good taste.”

You both laughed softly. The kind of laugh that came with too much history and not enough wisdom. But there was comfort in that.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

⸻

You hadn’t even been in the library for five minutes before the peace was disturbed.

Of course it was him.

Nathan.

You were halfway through annotating a Defense essay, quill tucked behind your ear, head down, when his voice slid into your space like an oil spill.

“Well, well,” he drawled, casually leaning on the edge of your table, “I didn’t expect to find you here alone. No bodyguard boyfriend shadowing your every move today?”

You didn’t even look up. “I’m trying to study.”

“And I’m trying to have a conversation. I’d say we’re both failing.” He smirked, eyes trailing lazily over your parchment. “Didn’t expect you to bounce back so quickly. Maybe heartbreak’s just a phase for you.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers tightening around your quill. “Walk away, Nathan.”

He grinned. “You know, since you’re available again, I might—”

“Try finishing that sentence,” came a familiar voice from behind him, “and I’ll make sure you don’t have enough teeth left to say another one.

Nathan turned slowly. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”

Jason stood with his arms crossed, still damp from Quidditch practice, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes hard as stone. You hated how good he looked angry.

Jason stepped forward, crowding Nathan slightly. “Don’t you have some Ravenclaw strategy meeting to be at? Or is losing all the time finally catching up to you?”

Nathan scoffed, standing his ground. “We’ll see who’s losing after the match next week.”

Jason smirked darkly. “Right. Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw. Maybe you’ll win this time.” His tone was all sarcasm, sharp and lethal.

Nathan straightened his collar and gave you one last look before sauntering off. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

Jason watched him go with murder in his eyes before turning to you. “You okay?”

You sighed and closed your book. “Yes. I was fine. I am fine. I don’t need saving.”

Jason tilted his head. “Didn’t look like you were enjoying the conversation.”

“I wasn’t. But I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.” He said it gently. “But I still wasn’t gonna let him talk to you like that.”

You looked at him, trying not to soften. Trying not to be grateful.

But you were.

You turned back to your parchment, pretending not to notice the way your heart was still hammering.

You watched Nathan disappear between the tall shelves, and only then did you finally exhale.

Jason lingered nearby, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, but you didn’t look at him. Not right away. You were still trying to catch your breath, still trying to ignore the stupid way your heart raced at the sight of him.

“Look,” you said after a moment, keeping your eyes on the parchment in front of you even though the words swam uselessly now, “you don’t have to do that.”

Jason tilted his head. “Do what?”

“Defend me. Show up. Intervene. We’re not…” You paused, tongue heavy with words you didn’t want to say. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore. So it’s none of your concern.”

There was a beat of silence before he finally said, “Right.”

You glanced up—and regretted it instantly.

He looked… disappointed. But not surprised.

You sighed. “But… thank you. For what you said. Even if you didn’t need to say it.”

That pulled the corner of his mouth into the beginnings of a smirk. “Yeah, well. He’s a prat.”

You huffed a soft laugh, eyes flicking back to your work, trying to pretend the tension wasn’t still thick between you.

Jason lingered a second longer, shifting his weight. Then, as if trying to change the subject—or maybe just change the moment—he cleared his throat.

“So… hypothetically, if someone was completely failing Arithmancy,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, “and maybe hypothetically had no idea how to interpret magical probability equations no matter how many times it was explained to him…”

You raised a brow. “Is this hypothetical person you?”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “Might be.”

“Didn’t you used to have a tutor?”

He gave you a look. “I did. She was brilliant, actually. Charming. Cute, too. Shame she quit.”

You stared at him flatly. “Jason.”

He grinned. “What? I’m just saying. I’ve been thinking maybe I need her back. You know, for academic purposes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling despite yourself. “This is your idea of asking for help?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly, “this is my idea of trying to spend time with you without pushing my luck.”

His voice had dipped lower now, the cocky edge softening just enough to leave you unsteady again. You hated that he still knew how to do that—how to knock the air out of you with a simple sentence.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either.

And Jason… well, he took your silence as a maybe.

And maybe was enough.

[alarwynnwhispers]

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 24: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴍᴇ 🧡

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ʙᴜᴍᴘ, ꜰᴇᴛᴀʟ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ)

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴘᴀᴘᴀʀᴀᴢᴢɪ, ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ)

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀɪᴅᴇ

ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴍᴏᴛᴏʀꜱᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ (ʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ)

ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏʀᴍᴏɴᴀʟ/ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʟ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ (ɪɴ-ʟᴀᴡꜱ, ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇꜱꜱ, ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ)

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴘᴇʀᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ (ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴇꜱ, ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇʟʟʏ)

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ/ꜰʟɪʀᴛɪɴɢ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇꜱ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴍᴇ, ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ/ᴛᴀʙʟᴏɪᴅ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ

Silverstone had always been special to Lando. But this time, the meaning ran deeper.

It wasn’t just the home crowd or the national anthem echoing over the starting grid. It was seeing (Y/n) step out of the paddock suite that morning, visibly pregnant, hand tucked beneath her small bump that had finally become undeniably noticeable, especially under the late morning sun.

She wore a tailored ivory midi dress that hugged her second-trimester silhouette, the soft structure flattering her new curves without hiding a thing. A papaya satin belt sat just above her bump, a quiet nod to McLaren. Her coat in muted slate blue fluttered behind her in the breeze, and her nude block heels clicked with confident calm as she made her way across the paddock.

And even from a distance, the photographers noticed. Long lenses peeked over barriers. Snaps came rapid, some capturing her brushing a hand over her stomach, others catching the moment Lando leaned in to whisper something only she could hear.

It was clear now. There wasn’t just smoke. There was proof.

She didn’t flinch. Not once.

Because after everything, she was done hiding.

The McLaren team already knew. They greeted her with respect, gentle gestures, and genuine affection. The team principal personally saw to it that she had a shaded suite, a padded chair, and water on hand throughout the day. A few mechanics made subtle jokes about keeping curious photographers away with pit tools.

"You alright?" one of the staff asked, smoothing down (Y/n)'s sleeve.

(Y/n) nodded. "Yeah. Just… trying to take it all in."

The engines roared. Lando's car zipped into position. The race began.

Every lap, she held her breath. She clutched the edge of the armrest, flinched every time a tire locked or a car clipped a kerb. It was thrilling and terrifying, and somehow still beautiful.

And around Lap 36, one of the babies kicked again. Firm, determined.

(Y/n) whispered, “You’re really watching him, aren’t you?”

By the final laps, Lando was leading. Fastest on track. Controlled. Relentless.

The crowd held their breath as he crossed the line.

P1. At home. In front of the people who raised him, and the woman carrying his future.

The cheers were deafening. McLaren’s pit wall erupted. Confetti rained down.

(Y/n) pressed a hand over her heart, the other over her bump. She couldn’t hold back the tears, relief, joy, and pride all mingled in her chest.

On the Podium

From below, (Y/n) watched as Lando stepped up to the top step, helmet off, curls damp with sweat. He lifted the trophy high as the British flag was raised and the anthem played.

And then, his eyes searched the crowd.

Found her.

He didn’t care about the cameras when he brought two fingers to his lips and blew a kiss downward, right at her. Then, with one hand flat over his chest, he pointed to her bump.

The crowd might’ve thought it was for the win. (Y/n) knew it was for them, the three of them.

Moments later, when the ceremony ended, and the podium started to clear, Lando rushed past security just for a second. The cameras snapped wildly as he reached her.

“You did it,” she whispered, stunned by the glow on his face.

He pulled her into the softest hug he could manage with the bump in between. “No, we did.”

She laughed tearfully, overwhelmed. “Don’t make me cry again.”

“You already are,” he said, thumbing away a tear and kissing her cheek. “They’re going to talk about this photo for years, you know.”

“Let them.”

Evening – Podium Dinner

The quiet garden room at the team’s private hotel was lit with soft bulbs and laughter. Champagne flutes clinked, voices buzzed low with pride, and the mood was relaxed.

(Y/n) had changed into something equally elegant: a deep emerald-green velvet wrap dress, ankle-length, its fabric rich and soft against her skin. The v-neckline framed her collarbone, and her bum, now prominent, rounded the dress’s silhouette like a gentle hill. She had swapped her heels for jeweled flats, her hair still in its graceful low bun.

Lando’s mother greeted her first, pulling her into a soft hug.

“You’re glowing,” she whispered with a teary smile. “And you look like you stepped out of a royal photo shoot.”

“She is royalty now,” Lando’s older sister Flo teased nearby. “You didn’t see the way Andrea Kimi Antonelli bowed earlier.”

(Y/n) laughed, but the teasing didn’t stop there.

Midway through dessert, the F1 rookies filtered in—Andrea Kimi Antonelli, Ollie Bearman, Isack Hadjar, Jack Doohan, Gabriel Bortoleto—like a group of honor students crashing prom.

“Ma’am,” Ollie said jokingly, bowing exaggeratedly as he passed her chair. “Permission to breathe the same air as Lando’s lady?”

Isack elbowed him. “Don’t get us banned from the paddock, man.”

Jack Doohan raised his glass toward her. “We’re terrified, in case it wasn’t obvious.”

Andrea just nodded solemnly. “She carries twin champions. We respect it.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” (Y/n) said, cheeks hurting from smiling.

“They’re not wrong,” Lando murmured at her side, lacing their fingers beneath the table.

As the dinner wound down, Lando slipped outside with her to a quiet corner of the garden terrace, where the stars flickered faintly above the trees and fairy lights strung overhead shimmered gold.

“Did today feel too much?” he asked gently, rubbing his thumb over her hand.

She leaned against his shoulder. “No. It felt… grounding.”

“You were brilliant,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “They’ve never seen someone walk in and own the place like that.”

She looked down at her belly, gently stroking the velvet fabric. “They’re gonna grow up in this world, huh?”

“Loved. Protected. And maybe a little spoiled.”

She laughed.

Behind them, one last camera flash caught their silhouettes through the garden gate. Another blurry tabloid photo would hit the internet by morning. But for now, it was just them, Lando, (Y/n), and the steady beat of twin heartbeats between them.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 25: ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Third post for today, and I have zero regrets. 😭💛 I had to get this chapter out, Silverstone magic, podiums, twin kicks, champagne, velvet dresses, and a garden terrace kiss?? I’m crying, you’re crying, we’re all crying.

This chapter was everything. Lando winning P1 at home, and pointing to (Y/n) and their bump on the podium??? That photo will go down in F1 history. The family support, the rookies being utter menaces, the quiet moment under the stars... I melted writing it all.

If this chapter made you feel like you were there, hand on your heart, please drop a 🏁 or 🧡 or 🤰🏽 down below. Let's talk about that papaya ribbon detail. Let’s talk about the garden terrace goodbye. Let's cry together.

Thank you for following, reading, screaming in the tags, and holding my hand through this fic. You're part of the story too. More soon.

With love, me (still recovering from Andrea Kimi bowing 😭)🧡

[mommy-mortis]

Irish Vampire Blues - 16

Notes/Warnings: Racism, Misogyny, Implied assault, delusion

Officer John Williams POV

When he had first saw her at the precinct he knew that she was the one, the beautiful exotic complexion of her skin, with an ass that sat nicely in her office slacks, so nice that he knew that her pussy could only be better.

He wanted her, so he would have her, this wasn't his first rodeo with a jungle bunny, he had dabbled with the pepper when was younger, and inexperienced. He had learned that they need a firm hand, guidance to make up for the father figure they lacked in childhood.

John’s almost too embarrassed to admit how his first black girl got away from him. Dumb slut had ran screaming to her family, with a dramatized story to get him in trouble when things hadn’t gone her way. ‘I mean how long did she think he was going to wait for her to get a clue.’ Her family wanted him charged with assault, among other things.

Yes, she had said no, but he knew what she really wanted, what she needed, and he was willing to give it to her. She could have been his, he could have saved her from that shitty hole in the wall she called home.

Though it hadn't really mattered in the end, no one believed that little porch monkey, or her tree dwelling family. When their house mysteriously set on fire, all the charges were dropped, and everything was swept under the rug. Nice and clean, his parents had made sure of it.

Unfortunately her and her family did end up moving away, so he never got to reprimand her for her bad behavior. But again he was young and inexperienced, he thought he deserved a little grace on the matter because of it. He would never make the same mistakes with you, like he did with her. Either way, it didn't matter anymore, not when you were standing there with that wet monkey mount.

Your pussy would have been worth the charges that other bitch had accused him of. You were smart for a black girl, well-educated, and well spoken. The kind of girl he wouldn't feel embarrassed to bring around his family, once you had been trained properly of course. He had waited for you to get in touch with him, but then you had just disappeared.

When he found out that your ex fiance had been cheating with some little bimbo from work, he had been insulted on your behalf. He thought planting some evidence on her, and getting her locked up might catch your eye. The fact that he would be the one to put the slut behind bars, would put him in your good graces, you’d fall right into his arms.

But her trial hadn't been a good enough reason to bring you back from wherever you were, So when he had promised to get her off if she got him off, it had been easy to pull the trigger as she ran towards him in anger. He just couldn't believe she was stupid enough to believe him, he wasn't even put on leave for emptying a clip into her. He just claimed she was running away, he even had witnesses to prove it

If he was honest with himself, your absence took a toll on him. He even started fucking some low-level prostitute, just because she looked enough like you from the back. She wouldn't have worked well as a true replacement, she was just something to play with.

She was also a good listener just like he knew you would be. He had thoughts of getting back out there in the dating pool, maybe finding a nice Christian girl who was obedient, who was aesthetically and socially superior to you.

But his heart just wouldn't let him move on, he was a gentleman and a hopeless romantic, someone who still believed in true love. When he saw you napping at that cafe, he knew it was fate, destiny had given him a second chance, and he wasn't going to lose it.

Ghetto girls like you were all the same though, you hadn't texted him or called him in all that time, and still hadn't now that you were back. He was going to have to take things into his own hands, and as you stood there in barely anything at all, he knew he had made the right decision.

That was until some wretched little foreign trash, had the gall to show itself behind you. Touching and pulling at what was his, ‘Is this what you liked, is this what you preferred? Foreign trash over American perfection?’ He knew it wasn't your fault, many women culturally superior to you had also fallen for the foreign Casanova.

As a red-blooded American he knew it was his duty, his purpose, to save you. He waited for you to come downstairs, which had taken a bit of time, but in the end you did. The plan was to help you into his car after you finished loading yours, with a suspicious amount of curtains (in his opinion).

But then you had shocked him, confided in him about your misgivings, your doubts about your foreign captor. You were screaming for him to help you. You had obviously been too prideful to ask for help, like most black women, so you had acted coy.

This was a step in the right direction for your relationship, you had talked about discretion and all that but he understood why.

If that foreign brute found out that you were on your way to something better, he might hit you, like all foreign men did to their women.

If he hurt you John would have to put him down, true he had already planned to kill him, but that was besides the point. The cherry on top of your parking lot date, was when you hugged him, almost pressing that hot mons against him, he had to hold himself back from groping your ass, just to get a little bit more pressure.

Instead he gave you a nudge with the old pecker-wood, just to show you what you could be looking forward to later. But just like before, later seemed to never come, a month went by and no call, not even a text. He understood discretion but this was borderline disrespect, he had been close to going back to your apartment, and setting up a murder suicide with you and your little foreign freak of a fiance.

But then you texted him, and his anger quickly dissipated. You wanted him to meet you the next day, at some hotel venue a couple hours away, again he understood discretion but it was kind of far, and on such short notice. He offered to let you come to his house but you declined, again with the bossy black bitch act, he'd train it out of you soon.

His dick got hard just thinking about it, and for a moment he kind of regretted killing that prostitute, if he had known it would take so long to get your lips wrapped around his dick, he would have let her live just a little while longer.

The day arrived and to be honest he was a little nervous, he had been planning this night so long. Usually he would take the company vehicle to save on gas money, but he didn't want to leave any footprints, even paid with cash at the gas station minimizing his paper trail.

John didn't want to hurt you, but if you were disagreeable, or simply couldn't be trained. Which he had no doubt that you could, but if you couldn't he had to be prepared. He couldn't afford to make rookie mistakes, not like with his first black beauty, and yes you could call him paranoid. What he really was was an overachiever, who had great preparation skills, ‘Plan for the best, prepare for the worst’. You would understand that as a working girl.

You and him were destined to be together, and once he got you to quit your job you could get married, he'd keep you plump and pregnant, you’d be the perfect picture of New America. Yes, he might keep a few girls on the side, but it would only be to spread his seed into genetically superior women, to pass on the right kind of genes.

But he would love you, and that's all that really mattered, and he knew you'd understand. He parks his car in the hotel parking lot, taking notice of how packed it was. 'There must be a big event happening nearby.'

He made his way to the front desk, with his overnight bag slumped over his shoulder, filled with a couple things that should come in handy, in case things went south. He had asked about you at the front desk.

“John Williams?”

“Yes?”

"Looks like your companion has already checked in, here's your keys, elevators to the left just take two down, and your room will be on the right, have a good night sir.” No wonder you picked this place, no questions asked, quick and easy, maybe in the future he’d utilize it’s services.

The first thing he hears as he enters the hotel room is the sound of water on flesh, you must be in the shower getting ready for him, ‘Such a good girl’.

He lays his things on one of the tables in the room, as the voice from the shower asks him if he wants to join her.

The voice doesn’t sound even remotely like you, uncertain of what to do he calls out, “Are you okay, your voice sounds a little off?.

It’s silent long enough for him to be worried that he may be in the wrong room, he reaches for his bag intent on leaving and chewing out the desk attendant when the lady in the shower speaks, “I’m sorry John, it’s my throat.” he can hear the sadness in her voice, “Remmick was a little angry when I told him I wouldn’t be home for the night.” He smirks at that, ‘Looks like the Foreign brute is showing his true colors.’

“My throat still has a few bruises, I hope that doesn't turn you off.” It didn't, in fact it had the opposite effect.

"Remmick? so that's his name?, look if you want I can deal with him, a man should never put his hands on a woman.” His hands go to unbuckle his belt, pulling his pants down until his dick springs from his underwear, excited to join her in the shower.

Pulling the curtain back, he sees the tight ass that he’d be sliding in tonight, he eagerly wraps his hands around her waist, rubbing his hands up and down her body.

”You do that for me?” kissing her neck, she was saying all the words he wanted to hear. “You wouldn't believe the things I'd do for you” His hands slowly descended making their way to her hot little pussy, he was going to let her come at least once tonight, he was a gentleman.

But before he could dig into her she turned around with a smile that felt almost uncanny. “Oh Johnny, I didn't know you cared so much!” Pulling back away from her, he falls out of the shower, head whacking against the tile floor, “h-How, I killed you” He doesn’t notice the blood dripping down his neck from his scalp. “It’s okay Johnny, I’m all better now.” He can feel himself losing consciousness, but fights to stay awake, ‘I can’t die here.’

"What's wrong Johnny you look like you've seen a ghost?” He could have believed she was really concerned, if She hadn’t smiled wide enough to show off her row of sharp teeth. Slowly crawling backwards he finally gets onto his feet, he doesn't think to grab his gun or even his pants, he just yanks the hotel door open, and runs out of the room.

John immediately noticed that something was deeply and truly wrong, the lights that had lit up the hallway on his way here, were now gone. Replaced with a darkness so deep, that the only thing he could make out in the hallway was an exit sign to the emergency staircase.

He quickly makes his way to the staircase, frustrated that it was pitch black inside, he'd have to be careful, he was growing dizzy and the last thing he needed, was to fall down the stairs. John just needed to get upstairs, there had been plenty of cars parked in the parking lot, if he could just get help, everything would be okay.

He makes his way up two flights of stairs, not stopping just in case she was behind him. when he broke through the emergency exit door, only to be met with more darkness he wasted no time sprinting to the hotel exit. He tried to push the door open but it was locked, becoming more frantic as he heard footsteps making their way towards him.

Slamming his shoulder against the hotel door, he tries to break it down, but it still doesn't budge, letting out a shrill shriek as a hand reaches out to get him to stop.

“Sir are you okay?” It’s the receptionist that had been at the front desk when he got here. “I'm sorry Sir but there's been an outage, so I have to ask you to go back to your room.” Feverishly shaking his head he refuses, “Please you have to help me, someone's trying to hurt me.” The receptionist doesn't look like they believe him at first, but as long as they took him somewhere safe he didn't care. “It's okay Sir, if you follow me we can get you cleaned up, with something comfortable to wear.”

Looking down at the state he was in, he suddenly becomes embarrassed, “I'm an Officer, Officer Williams." “Okay sir, we'll just stop by your room and grab any necessity.” “No, we can't.” “Sir?” “There's something, someone in my room.” Fear dripping off of every word he uttered, “This is serious.” The Receptionist pauses for a beat. “I’ll call security, and have them remove the problem.”

John is on the verge of pulling his hair out. “No you don't understand, this person should be dead, I killed them!” The Receptionist tenses, looking back at John with mistrust. “These things happen while on duty Sir, I'm sure it wasn't your fault.” They sound like they’re trying to calm John down, but it was only making him angry, ‘Of course it wasn’t my fault!’.

He was just doing a little street maintenance. ‘If anything she should be thanking me for saving her from a life of hardship, instead of coming back from the dead to bother me’. “It wasn't.” John says defensively. With that same air of disbelief as before, the Receptionist tries to calm John down again “Of course sir, we're almost there.”

When they finally arrive he expects to have been brought to an office or even another suite, but instead he was standing in the middle of the hotels kitchen. Looking around he turns to the hotel receptionist, to ask them what the fuck was going on. Before he can open his mouth, there’s a sharp sting to the back of his head. His vision fades to black.

Taglist

@avidreader73

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16