#they just did things and acted like that. unspoken affection | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

illou-sainte · 7 months ago

Text

LADS Men as cigarettes after sex songs.

Angst/comfort

Zayne - cry

"It's making you cry every time

You give your love to me this way

Saying you'd wait for me to stay"

Zayne sat in his car, staring at the apartment building in front of him, his chest heavy with guilt. The night had been long at the hospital, and his mind was tired, but his heart... his heart was exhausted from the same endless cycle.

Every time he came home late, he’d find you there, waiting-- sitting alone in the living room, curled up on the couch, your eyes closed, as if you were trying to force yourself to sleep and forget that he wasn’t there.

You didn’t say anything. You never did. But he could see the emptiness in your eyes, feel the distance growing between both of you, even if you never voiced it.

You had stopped asking where he was or why he couldn’t make time for you. You understood, you always did-- he knew that. But what hurt was that, despite understanding, you were still hurting.

Still feeling like he was slipping away, like he couldn’t be the man you wanted him to be.

And the worst part was, he does love you. He loved you more than he could ever express, but he didn’t know how to say it. He didn’t know how to show you the depth of what he felt without feeling vulnerable, without feeling like he might mess it all up.

He knew you thought he didn’t trust you, that he didn’t love you the way you deserved. You overthought everything-- every silence, every moment when he pulled away, when he couldn’t find the words to express what he felt.

It made you question yourself, made you wonder if you were enough. And that broke him. He could see it in your face, the way your eyes would flicker with doubt whenever he didn’t say the right thing, whenever he didn’t act the way you thought he would.

He could hear you crying softly in your shared bedroom, and it twisted something inside him, because he knew why you were crying.

It was because of him.

It was because he couldn’t find a way to be what you deserve, to give you the affection you craved.

He walked inside quietly, trying not to disturb you as he found you, once again, asleep on the couch. Your face was peaceful in sleep, but the emptiness lingered in the room.

You were waiting for him. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, knowing that he was the cause of your pain, knowing that despite everything he did for you, he still couldn’t be the man who could open up fully.

He wanted to tell you. He wanted to show you how much he loved you, how deep his feelings ran. But every time he tried, the words got stuck in his throat, and the walls he had built around himself grew higher.

He hated himself for it, for making you feel like you weren't enough when all you ever did was love him with everything you had.

Zayne crouched beside the couch and watched you sleep, his fingers brushing the soft strands of your hair. You looked so peaceful, so trusting, and it tore him apart knowing he was the one breaking your heart. But he didn’t know how to fix it.

He didn’t know how to be the man who could open up without fear, who could say the words that seemed to be trapped inside.

As he sat there, watching you sleep, the quiet ache in his chest only deepened. He didn’t want you to feel empty. He didn’t want you to feel like you aren't loved. He just didn’t know how to show you the love he carried for you.

Because it was there, always there, buried under layers of fear, of old scars, of unspoken words.

And he knew it was eating you alive.

It's fine, you understand him.

Maybe in another life you would be the girl that is worth it to change his self for....

But not this lifetime.

Sylus - sunsetz

"And when you go away

I still see you

The sunlight on your face in my rearview

When you go away

I still see you"

Sylus sat in the quiet, the absence of yours is like a weight pressing on his chest. It wasn’t just the empty space beside him-- it was the space in his heart that felt hollow now, because you were gone.

He had pushed you away, again and again, every time you tried to show him love. It wasn’t that he didn’t love you, he did, more than he could even express, but he was afraid. Afraid that if he let you in completely, if he allowed himself to be vulnerable, he’d end up hurting you.

The memories kept flooding in-- the "sweet days" when everything felt right. Your laugh, the way you’d reach for him like you didn’t want to let go. Your touch, your quiet support, your warmth.

Every time you’d try to get close, to show him affection, he’d pull away, convincing himself that it was for your own good.

But now, with you gone, he realized how wrong he’d been.

Every time he pushed you away, a little part of him died inside.

He told himself it was to protect you, but all he’d done was shut you out when you just wanted to love him.

Now, the memories felt like a cruel reminder. Visions of your face, your smile, your gentle hands in his. He could still feel your presence in his mind, but it wasn’t enough. He would never get those moments back.

He was left with nothing but the regret of not opening up, not letting himself love you the way you deserved.

He could still hear your voice in his head, the softness of your words, the quiet moments both of you shared. But now it was too late.

He had lost you.

He had been too scared to let you in, and now, without you, everything felt like it was falling apart.

Sylus closed his eyes, swallowing the pain. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things could’ve been if he had just let go of his fear. If he had been brave enough to love you without holding back. But now, all he had were these memories, these “visions” of a life he pushed away.

And he wasn’t sure if he’d ever forgive himself for it.

Maybe in another lifetime, he can love you freely without fear.

Rafayel - sweet

"It's so sweet, knowing that you love me

Though we don't need to say it to each other, sweet

Knowing that I love you, and running my fingers through your hair

It's so sweet"

Rafayel lay awake at night, the soft rhythm of your breathing beside him the only thing grounding him in the moment. Everything about you was so pure, so effortless. You loved him. He could feel it in the way you looked at him, in the gentle touch of your hand on his arm, in the way you laughed at his stupid jokes.

There was no guessing, no overthinking-- just your love, simple and constant. He didn’t have to question it, didn’t have to wonder if you really meant it. It was just there, woven into every moment you both shared.

But as sweet as it was, it also hurt. He had never known love like this before-- uncomplicated, unwavering, and real. And for all the beauty of it, there was a part of him that couldn’t believe it. He didn’t deserve it. Not after everything he’d been through, all the mistakes he’d made, the ways he felt like he wasn’t enough.

How could someone as incredible as you love him so deeply, so completely, without hesitation?

He watched you sleep, your face soft and peaceful, and a pang of guilt hit him in his chest. You deserved someone who could give you everything, someone who was certain, someone who didn’t doubt himself at every turn.

But here he was, holding your hand, feeling your love surround him-- and all he could think was, I don’t deserve this.

It was almost too good to be true. He would lie in bed next to you, fingers intertwined, and feel his heart swell with love, but also with this ache, this nagging voice in his head telling him that he was going to mess it up.

He didn’t know how to accept your love fully, because the part of him that had been bruised too many times couldn’t believe that something so pure could really be his.

And yet, there you was, always patient, always kind, showing him that love wasn’t about perfection-- it was about trust, about giving without expecting anything in return. You loved him without asking for anything more than what he could give. And that was both the sweetest and the most terrifying thing he had ever known.

It was beautiful. It was everything he had ever wanted. But it was also a quiet storm inside him, because every day he had to remind himself that you aren’t going to leave, that your love wasn’t just a fleeting thing, and that you wanted him-- exactly as he was. That you didn’t want him to be anyone else.

But sometimes, in the stillness of the night, Rafayel would lie there and wonder if you really knew what you were giving him, how much he could never repay you for, how much he didn’t deserve.

And yet, every time he saw the love in your eyes, he couldn’t help but wish that he could be the man who could finally believe in his own worth, if only to truly deserve you.

Every lifetime, Rafayel always doubts his worth for your love.

But always remember, he will always love you no matter what.

Xavier - heavenly

"Tell me it's love, tell me it's real

Touch me with a kiss, feel me on your lips

Because this is where I want to be

Where it's so sweet and heavenly"

Xavier stood by the window, staring out at the night, but his thoughts were consumed by you. He feels your presence, your warmth lingering in the air even when you weren't around.

The love he had for you was unlike anything he had ever known. It was overwhelming, a beauty that both filled him with a sense of heaven and yet made his chest ache. You were everything-- everything he had ever dreamed of, and more than he ever thought he deserved.

When you came into his life, it was like the world shifted. It was like the weight of his past, all the scars and mistakes, had melted away, replaced by a lightness, a peace he hadn’t known before.

You made him feel seen, made him feel worthy in ways he never thought possible. You loved him without question, without hesitation, and in return, all he wanted was to give you everything.

To show you that he was capable of loving you the way you deserved. To give you a love that was as pure and as beautiful as you are.

But as much as he loves you, he was afraid. Afraid that he wasn’t enough. Afraid that his flaws, his insecurities, would eventually push you away.

He wanted to be the man who could make your dreams come true, who could hold you, cherish you, and give you all that you deserved. But sometimes, when he sees you smile, when he felt the depth of what you gave him, he wondered if he was capable of giving it all back.

He wasn’t perfect, and the fear of not being enough for you crept in, making his love feel like a bittersweet thing.

He watched you, sometimes, lost in the way you existed so beautifully in his world, and it made him feel both the highest of highs and the heaviest of lows. He wanted to be your everything, to be the one you turned to, the one who could make you feel as cherished as you made him feel.

But deep down, Xavier couldn’t shake the thought that maybe-- just maybe-- he wasn’t worthy of such an overwhelming, perfect love.

And that, more than anything, hurt the most.

It might be like that, but he always finds a way to give you love in every lifetime.

Caleb - nothing's gonna hurt you baby

"Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby

As long as you're with me, you'll be just fine

Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby

Nothing's gonna take you from my side"

Caleb sat by the bed, his gaze distant, lost in the memories of years spent with you. The promise he made to you as a child-- those words, those promises-- still echoed in his heart.

“I’ll always protect you. I’ll be the one who loves you, and no one else will.”

He had been so sure of it back then, a child’s innocent certainty, but now as an adult, the weight of that promise felt heavier than ever.

He had always been there for you, standing beside you through every phase of life-- through the good days, through the hard ones. Both of you had shared so many sweet times together, laughter and love woven into the fabric of your relationship.

He had watched you grow, seen your strength, your beauty, and yet, no matter how much you blossomed, he couldn’t shake the fierce need to protect you.

He loved you deeply-- more deeply than he could ever explain. It was the kind of love that wasn’t just about the happy moments; it was about the quiet ones too. The ones where he would sit beside you, knowing that just being there was enough.

But the more he loved you, the more he feared. Life had a way of throwing storms at you, and he wasn’t sure he could always shield you from them. He couldn’t control everything-- couldn’t stop every pain from reaching you.

But he swore, as he had all those years ago, that he would try. He would do whatever it took to make sure you are safe.

The thought of you being hurt, in any way, made his heart ache.

It wasn’t just about physical protection-- it was the emotional pain too, the world that could sometimes feel so cruel. He had promised to be the one to love you, the one who would guard your heart, but the truth was, he was afraid.

Afraid that one day, he wouldn’t be enough. That his love and his promise wouldn’t be enough to protect you from everything life might throw your way.

But as long as you are there, he would keep fighting, keep standing by your side, and keep loving you with everything he had. He knew it wasn’t enough to erase the pain you might face, but it was all he had.

And as long as you would let him, he would be the one to love you, to protect you, to fight for you in every way possible-- because you deserved nothing less.

And deep down, Caleb knew he couldn’t live with the thought of anything bad happening to you.

He had promised as a child, and now, as a man, he would keep that promise--no matter what.

He will always fight for your love in every lifetime.

I was actually listening to these songs listed here while writing this. And yes, I did cry.

++first time writing angst, be nice >:(((

masterlist

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lymtw · 1 year ago

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All Is Forgiven

Thinking of an argument with Toji that leaves you mute by choice towards him. He still talks to you and asks you questions, and while you don't turn away from him, you don't respond to him either. He ends up having to figure out whatever he needs on his own because after a minute or so you huff and walk away from the conversation.

"Mama," Toji calls from the bedroom, rummaging through his clothing drawers. "Have you seen my gym shorts?"

If he was able to get a word out of you, he would know that you washed them for him. Though you were still sizzling with anger towards him, you pulled them out of the dryer and walked them over to the room. He could hear your little footsteps as you approached the room, and when he turned to look at you, he noticed you were holding his shorts in your hand.

Your eyes were vacant towards him. You didn't want them to be because it sucks when you can't look at him with the endless amount of love you have in store for him. It's still there, but it's being masked by a poker face.

You toss the shorts onto the bed and leave. Toji sighs, irked by the fact that it's actually starting to sting now. Your disregard for him because you're ruled by your emotions and he lets things go too easily because he can't hold a grudge towards you, even if he feels you're in the wrong.

Toji never knew how much he depended on your voice until you wouldn't let him hear it. He depends on you to tell him where things are because without you they would be scattered all over the place. He doesn't know your method of organization, but somehow when he needs something and looks to you in order to find it, you pull it out from right under his nose. He depends on you to tell him he's doing a good job, and to tell him you love him, and just reassure him in general. It makes him feel good to know that someone thinks he's good enough, but recently the one person who feeds him affection like it's as important as food and water, has left him to starve. You haven't said a word to him in almost two days, and he feels like he's starting to go crazy. The sound of his own voice is driving him insane. It's gotten so bad that he had to make a mental note of how he's going to get you back that same night.

Toji leaves for the gym and texts you during his time there. He includes some images because it's now an unspoken rule that he always has to send you gym pics.

[ Attachment: 3 Images]

... 😳🤐

Yeah, I know you like those. I'll be home soon.

You take the time to doll yourself up while he's still out. It's for him, but you won't tell him that until you come back from your "night out". Really, you're just gonna go get dinner for both of you from his favorite little restaurant. You just want to see how far he's willing to let this go, because you're caving. You're ready to apologize even when you know he's not upset at all. You're ready to spoil him in order to make up for those severe feelings you held towards him. You're ready to hear about how stubborn and unbelievable you are for this little act you pulled.

You spray on some perfume and walk out of the bathroom, just in time to catch Toji walking through the door.

"Woof, where're you going, ma?" He asks, setting down his gym bag before absorbing everything you were gracing him with. His eyes flit up and down your body, lingering on the very bare skin of the legs that come out from under your skirt. He can smell your perfume from where he stands, its elegant scent masking even the smell of his own potent sweat.

You didn't answer his question, and left him to wonder why you're all dressed up at seven o'clock at night. Was it a girl's night or were you openly showing him that you have options? Did he miss a message or a call from you?

You grabbed your wallet and scooted past him. You walked halfway down the corridor of your apartment building before realizing that maybe this was a bit much. You would make him worry over you going on a five minute walk to grab some food? All so you can show him you're mad? You cracked.

🥟🥡🍜.

Toji was staring at his screen, waiting for anything from you. The screen flashes like some sort of miracle and your message is seen by him. He chuckles, feeling a sense of relief wash over him at the sight of your little emoticons.

You came back home as fast as possible, bags of food in hand as you patiently waited for the elevator to bring you up to your floor. You took your time walking through the corridor, this time, not knowing how you would react once you saw Toji or if you would immediately say something to him. You're ready to talk to him, you want to talk to him. You miss him, you love him, and you hate the passiveness you threw yourself into around him as an act of retaliation.

There you were, standing in front of the door, nervous beyond belief for what was behind it. You collected yourself and twisted the doorknob, ready to face anything that came to you.

Toji stood from the couch and walked over to you to take the bags from your hands. The smell of his body wash wafted into your nose. There was an imaginary white flag hanging out of your pocket, and it was about to fall out to signal your surrender to Toji.

He pecks your cheek and watches in real time as get all flustered. It's one of the most adorable things he's ever seen—you standing there so rigidly afterwards. He gives you a soft smile and resists the urge to coo at you for being so cute. Instead, he heads to the table to put the bags of food down.

You shut the door, and within a split second, Toji was in front of you again. "Ma," he says, sounding a little more desperate than he thought he would. "Say something." You stand there like a statue—unmoving, but unlike a statue, you are easily moveable. Especially, by Toji. "Anything, mama, please." He crouches down at your feet, his warm hands resting on the backs of your knees and his cheek resting on one of your thighs. This position made it look like you were being worshipped by him, and anyone who ever saw him do this would know that it was true, because he worshipped everything about you. From the top of your head, to the ground your feet stood on.

"Don't you miss having my hands on you?" They glide up and down the backs of your thighs. He looks up at your stunned expression. You won't look down at him, so he gets to see the way you swallow the words dying to leave your mouth, and the slight widening of your eyes as he lets his hands roam your lower body. "I know I do. I've been in hell these past couple days." He presses a soft kiss to your knee, then one more on your thigh. "I didn't mean what I said. I don't think you're selfish, baby. Maybe i'm just a greedy asshole," he says, rekindling the subject of what led to your silence towards him. His hand maneuvers around your leg so that his palm is on your thigh, making its way up towards the inner part of it. "But, I know something," his lips trail further up your thigh, softly kissing your skin. "I'm greedy about you. That can't and won't be changed, even when we argue like idiots."

You put your hand on his head as he starts kissing up your inner thighs, making his way even further up beneath your skirt.

"Come on, my sweet girl," he murmurs, his lips meeting the front of your underwear. "Tell me you want me to stop. Tell me you hate that my filthy paws are on you, right now."

Your legs tremble at the lightness of his touch, and you internally cringe at how sensitive you've always been for him.

"Toji..." you gasp. You feel his warm tongue flatten between your legs, a slow upwards drag of the muscle makes your thighs quiver before him. You whimper at the damp warmth his saliva leaves on your panties. "Fuck..." you moan, breathily. "Don't stop. Stay there, please."

The first word you reintroduced yourself with being a moaned out rendition of his name was heaven reaching down to pat him on the back for knowing exactly what to do to get you to talk again.

"Open wider for me, baby. Let me see," Toji says, your skirt still veiled over his head. You take a step back so that your back is against the door and widen your stance a little more. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and you shudder when his tongue returns to slide through your clothed folds. He doesn't even need to produce that much saliva to drench the fabric of your underwear because you've done that for him already with your leaking arousal.

You shut your eyes and rest your head against the door as Toji continues his act of filth between your thighs. You can hear him panting below you, your taste pleasantly coating his tongue every time he sucks on the garment that clings to you.

You cry out his name with sharp breaths following, your fingers tangling into his locks, gripping and tugging as his lips catch onto your cunt. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," you grit out, whimpering at the contrast between his mouth and his hands. His hands offer a gentle massage to your thighs, softly kneading the plush between his fingers. His mouth moves purposefully because he knows exactly what it takes to make you fall apart with it. He coats his tongue with your essence every time he laps at the wet patch on your underwear, sticky webs of arousal connecting him to you.

"T-Toji!" You squeal, your cunt throbbing with every brush of his tongue. "I'm gonna cum... Fuck, i'm gonna cum..." you whine.

Toji pushes your underwear to the side, and glides his tongue through your generously slicked folds once and you're instantly arching your back off the door, squirming in his hold and moaning carelessly as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. He desperately chases the sound of your pleasure-ridden voice, wanting to hear the way it raises in pitch when he strokes you just right. He doesn't want it to stop, it's been too long. Two days way too long. You tug at his hair with one hand, dragging the nails of your other hand down the door. You breathe heavily as Toji manipulates your pleasure until your thighs are trembling.

Toji pulls away and lifts your skirt off his head. He lowers your leg back down and stands up from his crouched position. He faces you with glossy lips that shine with all the juices he collected from you, some of it drooling down his chin to give him an even more messy appearance. He presses his lips to yours, making slow movements to allow you to realize what is happening while your eyes are closed. You can taste yourself on his lips as you catch the rhythm.

There's a loud smack in the last kiss before he releases you, a feral look in his green eyes as he dotes on your blissed out appearance. You look too pure for someone who's just experienced something so sinful. "Hey, look at me," he coos, cupping your cheeks in his hands. "Look at me," he repeats, staring at you as you try to catch your breath with closed eyes.

You hum, rolling your eyes open to lazily stare back at him. Your eyelids felt so heavy as you looked at him, but you liked how vigilant he was being. It made you crack a grin, a small gesture that had Toji's heart thudding a little quicker, now.

"I wanna fuck you so bad, ma." His eyes trail yours as they look away from his gaze. "If this is your reaction to my mouth, I don't even know what to expect for when I'm inside you."

You look down to see what's been poking your thigh for the past minute or so, and it's the monster in his pants, outlined for your eyes to quickly spot and everything.

"Come on," you say, reaching your hand out to him. He takes it and allows you to lead him to the bedroom.

Toji shuts the door and locks it to give the situation a deeper level of intimacy. There's no one there but the two of you and yet you feel even more secluded by the gesture.

He wasn't aggressive in the way he bared you for his eyes. He pulled you close to him by the waist, your body against his as he peeled your layers of clothes off.

"Stay," he says, when you take a step back. He takes that step towards you again, placing his hands on your hips, and snaking them around to your back to locate the zipper for your skirt. He exhales through his nose, lidded eyes watching the longing expression on your face closely as he pulls down the zipper and allows the article to fall on the floor. His fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt before he fully slides his hands beneath it, and raises it up your torso higher and higher. You put your arms up and allow him to slip it off your head.

He makes haste of getting his own clothes off, a sly smirk decorating his face when he sees you admiring him from where you sit on the end of the bed as you take off your bra and underwear. You're forced further up the bed by Toji as he inches closer and closer to you. You reach a dead end and welcome the suffocating warmth of his body as he cages you onto the bed.

"Don't do that to me again, mama," he murmurs, before leaning down to peck your lips. "Don't let me talk to myself for that long when you have such a pretty voice to respond with."

You laugh, pulling a small grin from him. "I didn't think you'd care, to be honest. I thought you'd tell me i'm being childish or ridiculous."

"Nah, princess. I thought I was gonna die."

You giggle, pulling him close again. "You're exaggerating."

"You wouldn't let me touch you. Not even when we went to bed, so it was like we were friends instead of lovers sleeping together. Especially with how far on your side you slept."

"Oh, baby," you coo, pressing multiple quick apologetic kisses to his lips. He chuckles at the affection, and his eyes close instinctively as your kisses become more widespread on his face. He missed this more than anything. "What can I do for your forgiveness, my love?"

"Just let me fuck you, ma. That's all. Give me my privilege to all of this, again." His hand slowly trails from your chest to your stomach, a touch you longed for dearly during those two days that you verbally ignored him.

"It's yours," you whisper to him. You peer up at him with your constellation eyes, silently begging him to realize how much you need him. "I'm yours, so show me the use you have for the privilege over my body, baby."

He leans down to kiss you, softly. He's desperate for you, but his lips don't falter their delicate synchrony because of it. He guides the tip of his cock through your folds, rubbing up and down the slickness a couple times before slowly sinking into you. Your ability to tangle with Toji's lips slowly deteriorates, and your focus strays to the stretching happening lower down your body, so Toji picks up the slack and feeds you his kisses.

"Come on," he groans out. Not even he is immune to the rebirth of sex with you. You're warm and inviting, and you embrace the pain and comfort he offers every time he craves you or you crave him. This time is no exception. "Kiss me back, sweetheart. Give them all to me," he mutters, before attempting to connect his lips to yours again. You dig your heels into the mattress and your toes curl as you feel his girth continue to submerge inside you.

Toji cups your chin and uses his fingers to squish your cheeks together into a makeshift pout for him to kiss. He can hear your hummed little whimpers in response to him sheathing himself further into you. He was being gentle, because hurting you is a crime in his world.

"Fuck, I missed this, mama," he says, goosebumps rising on his torso as he drags himself out of you halfway and pushes himself back in again. "So warm..." he says over the sound of your pleasured moan. He sighs, a grunt following as he starts a careful rocking rhythm into you. "I could stay inside you forever."

"I could keep you here forever," you rephrase, gazing up at him with those eyes he unequivocally loves. They've reverted back to the default loving expression you hold for him, the vacancy of your previous gaze now filled with love, excitement, lust, and overall enchantment. It's a beautiful thing to see your hurricanes subside.

He leans down to kiss you again, distributing the kisses on your face and leading them towards your neck. You could feel his abs dragging up and down your stomach with every roll of his hips against yours.

"Mmm... Toji," you moan, bringing your hands to his back. One of them moves up to the nape of his neck, threading through the dampened locks of his hair, the other traces his spine to distract you from how badly you want to dig your nails into him.

"I know," he coos, kissing the spot beneath your ear. "I know, doll. It's always this good with you."

You gasp at the feeling of his cock prodding the more sensitive area within you. "Right there, right there... Oh..." you moan out, inevitably digging your nails into his shoulder blades while Toji directs his kisses back up your neck and towards your face again so he can see the honest expression on it. You're lost in pleasure, vibrating as another orgasm rushes through you.

"Fuck, mama.. let me-" he groans, outwardly losing it at the overflow of your juices. "Let me see those pretty eyes," he pants, gripping your waist a little more harshly as he feels his cock on the brink of expelling into you. "Need you to watch me," he says, taking in the way your lips part to release your sounds of utter satisfaction. Your eyes flutter open to center on his greedy eyes. You mirror his lustful, lidded gaze, the look enough to make him spill inside you, making your cunt even sloppier. "You're gorgeous, ma," he says, mindlessly, as he fucks into you with a little more fervor. "Fucking stunning," he mutters through pants, to which you respond with a sly smirk. The gesture lured a groan out of him and made his cock twitch as he finished releasing into you.

You giggle when he stills his hips. Your combined attempts to regulate your breathing fills the silence that follows. "What're you laughing at?" He asks, massaging your hip with his thumb.

"You tell me that all the time like you're obsessed with me or something."

"And if I am?" he says with a voice so deep you have to blink to see that it's still your gentle giant of a man. "Is it too much for you? Can you handle it? Am I suffocating you, baby?" he purrs, cupping your cheeks while leaning in close to emphasize his points. All it does is allow you to closely admire how handsome he is and really think about what's happening in this moment. This green-eyed, raven-haired man, with the prettiest pointed nose and the most attractive scarred lips, is bedding you, and doing it so well.

"Never. Come closer and bite," you murmur.

He takes your lips in his again, a little more aggressive than before. You asked him to bite, and that's exactly what he's doing. The make out has him rocking both of you a little faster, working you towards yet another orgasm. You nip at his bottom lip and run your tongue over it when hisses. You hum out a little giggle, and moan into his mouth when he jolts into you.

"God, i'll bust again if you keep doing that. I'm serious, mama" he groans, swiping his tongue over his stinging bottom lip. You think he's being dramatic so when he leans down to kiss you again, you bite his bottom lip and suck on it. You gasp, releasing his lip and stare at him with wide eyes as his excessive warmth spurts into your cunt, filling it to the brim and beyond, to the point of leakage.

"F-Fuck... you're terrible," he groans, shuddering with tense abdominal muscles as he lures the entirety of his orgasm out. "Cum," he says, panting as he picks up the pace of his rutting to get you to follow his orgasm. "I can feel you clenching around me like hell. I know you want to," he says, reaching a hand between you and him to stimulate your clit.

Your already labored breathing picks up and your heart is pounding in your ears aggressively as you roll your hips back against his. You whimper as you feel your peak get closer and closer, a cried out and breathy "fuck!" leaving you when it arrives, followed by high pitched moans that make Toji's heart race. You arched your back off the mattress as you reached the zenith of your orgasm with the help of Toji's finger rapidly rubbing your clit while he maintained his satisfying pace inside you.

You whimper, slapping a hand onto Toji's wrist to stop his movements on you. He smirks at the sight of your trembling thighs, your heaving chest, and the sound of your dazed hums. You always were such a delicate thing. So fragile that even with just enough of his attention, he could break you.

"Tired yet?" He asks, admiring your relaxed facial features. You nod with your eyes closed, your lips parted to release little puffs of air. "Thought you'd be. I'll go grab some towels for us to shower." He pulls out of you, taking a moment to admire your collaborative masterpiece.

"Baby..." you whine, sitting up when you feel his weight lift off the bed. "I can't get up." You dramatically let yourself fall back on the bed and stick your tongue out to portray your exhaustion.

"Get up, you faker. That's all you have to do and i'll take care of the rest."

"Too tired to wash myself right now..." you say, waking up for a second before closing your eyes again. Toji can see the sly grin on your face and the little shake of your stomach as you stifle your giggles.

"Guess you're too tired to eat, too, huh? You know i've got a huge appetite, and I could eat all that food you brought by myself."

"You wouldn't," you say, abruptly sitting up on the bed and squinting at him. "There's enough to feed three people in those bags."

"I've got the stomach of three people in one, so you better catch up before you're left with my seconds."

You sigh, too tired to move, but you get up anyway and trail behind Toji. "Baby, can you pleeease clean me up? I'm beat."

He puts his hands on your shoulders as he now walks behind you. "Sure, but don't complain when I take longer on certain areas."

4K notes · View notes

promptedwordsmith · 6 months ago

Note

I love your headcannons so I gotta put an ask in here. As we all know, MC can act a bit childish and is quick to push touch/affection away.

It makes me think of the quote, "If you touch me without violence, you'll be the first". Would love a writing about it.

Aw thank you! I hope this is what you meant <3

Caleb

The first time Caleb touched you, you flinched.

It was barely anything—a fleeting brush of his fingers against yours as he handed you something, an innocent, meaningless gesture—but your entire body stiffened, your breath hitched, and before you even realized it, you had yanked your hand back.

The warmth of his skin lingered, and you hated it.

Caleb noticed. Of course, he did. His sharp violet eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t say anything. Not then.

But he never stopped touching you.

Not in a way that was forceful or overwhelming. Never in a way that felt like he was trying to push you past your boundaries. But it was there—the careful way his shoulder would bump into yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d place his hand on your lower back as he guided you through a crowd, the way his fingers would brush against your wrist when he passed you something.

Each time, your reaction was the same. A flinch. A step back. A refusal.

At first, he gave you space. He didn’t push, didn’t question. Caleb wasn’t the type to force someone into anything they weren’t ready for. But he wasn’t blind either. He saw the way your guard never dropped, the way your muscles tensed at even the gentlest touch.

And then, one night, he finally asked.

You were both standing outside, the city lights stretching far into the distance, stars barely visible beyond the haze. It was quiet between you, peaceful, until he broke it with a simple question.

“Why do you hate being touched?”

You froze.

Your fingers curled into fists, your heart hammering against your ribs. You wanted to ignore him, wanted to pretend you hadn’t heard, but Caleb wasn’t the kind of person who let things slide.

When you didn’t answer, he turned to face you fully, his voice steady but softer than usual. “It’s not just me, is it?” His eyes searched yours. “You don’t let anyone touch you.”

You swallowed hard.

And then you said it. The words that had been sitting on your tongue for years, unspoken, buried beneath layers of defense and survival.

“If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”

The weight of those words crushed the space between you.

Caleb didn’t react right away. He didn’t wince, didn’t gasp, didn’t give you that pitying look you dreaded seeing. Instead, he just stood there, his violet gaze locked onto yours, taking in everything you weren’t saying.

You braced yourself for rejection, for discomfort, for him to leave—but he didn’t.

Instead, after a long pause, he let out a slow breath and said, “…Then I guess I’ll have to be first.”

Your stomach twisted. “Caleb—”

“I won’t push you.” His voice was firm but patient. “I won’t touch you until you let me.”

That should’ve been the end of it. It should’ve been the part where you turned away and let him go, where he accepted your boundaries and never tried again.

But the problem was Caleb never stopped caring about you.

And worse? You had let yourself care about him too.

Caleb never tried to force his way into your space, never laid a hand on you without permission. But he stayed.

He stayed through the silence, through the bad days, through the moments when you wanted to push everyone away but couldn’t bring yourself to do it with him.

He made himself a constant.

And that was dangerous.

Because the longer he stayed, the more you caught yourself wanting to reach for him.

The more you caught yourself watching his hands—the same hands that had held weapons, that had taken lives, that had commanded entire fleets—and wondering how they would feel if they touched you gently.

The more you caught yourself leaning in just a little when he stood beside you, like some part of you was trying to unlearn a lifetime of flinching.

You weren’t used to it.

You weren’t used to someone treating you like you were something precious instead of something hardened. You weren’t used to someone looking at you like you were worth waiting for.

And it scared you.

Because if you let yourself have this, if you let him in—what then?

It happened one night when you weren’t thinking.

You had both been caught in a battle, pushed to your limits, and despite everything—despite all the odds—you had both made it out alive.

Caleb was covered in cuts and bruises, exhaustion heavy in his limbs, but the moment he saw you stumble, he reached for you instinctively—just like he always did.

And this time, for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

His hands found your arms, steadying you, grounding you. You felt his warmth, his strength—and you let him hold you.

It was so small. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Just his hands on your arms, steady and reassuring. But to you, it felt like something shattered.

Caleb stilled, his grip light, as if he half-expected you to come to your senses and shove him away. His eyes searched yours, cautious, waiting.

But you didn��t move.

For the first time, you let yourself be touched without bracing for pain.

Without expecting violence.

Without fear.

And the look Caleb gave you in that moment—soft, careful, like he knew exactly how much this meant even if you hadn’t said a word—was enough to make something inside you break.

You swallowed hard, pulse racing.

“You’re the first.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but Caleb heard them.

He exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of your sleeve in the gentlest motion imaginable.

“Then I’ll make sure I’m never the last.”

And you believed him.

For the first time in your life, you actually believed someone.

Because Caleb had never broken a promise to you before.

And deep down, you knew he never would.

Rafayel

Rafayel had always been affectionate—too affectionate, if you were being honest. It wasn’t just the teasing smirks or the casual way he draped himself over you like a cat seeking warmth. It was the way his hands would linger, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the way he spoke your name like it was something precious.

But you weren’t used to it.

So, when he leaned in too close, when his fingers brushed against yours absentmindedly, when his warmth wrapped around you in unspoken promises of safety, you pushed him away. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firm enough to make the message clear.

He didn’t take offense, at least not outwardly. Rafayel always bounced back with a lopsided grin, a lazy roll of his shoulders, as if to say, Fine, I’ll wait. But there was something in his eyes—something quieter, something more knowing.

And you hated that.

Because deep down, you knew what he saw.

He saw the way you flinched, even when his touch was gentle. He saw the way your shoulders tensed whenever he got too close, the way you shrank away from affection like it was a foreign language you never learned to speak.

Most people didn’t notice. Most people assumed you were just distant, that maybe you simply weren’t the affectionate type.

Rafayel knew better.

And that made him dangerous.

It started one evening, after one of his exhibitions. The gallery had emptied out, the patrons long gone, and yet he lingered, still basking in the afterglow of another successful night. You had stayed behind too, for reasons you weren’t entirely sure of. Maybe because he had asked. Maybe because it was easier than saying no to him.

He had pulled you into the back room where his latest painting was covered with a cloth. With a dramatic flourish, he yanked it away, revealing the canvas beneath.

It was you.

Not a perfect replica, not a stiff, lifeless portrait. It was you in motion, caught mid-laugh, the golden glow of light flickering behind you as if you were something divine.

It took your breath away.

You swallowed hard, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “You painted this?”

“No, it painted itself.” Rafayel smirked, stepping closer. “Of course I painted it.”

You didn’t have words. You didn’t know how to process something so raw, so intimate. It was one thing for someone to look at you, but it was another thing entirely for someone to see you. And Rafayel had always seen you.

That was the problem.

“I—” The words stuck to your throat. You weren’t good at this. At accepting things. At being loved without conditions, without expectations.

And then, just like always, Rafayel reached for you.

His fingers, long and paint-stained, brushed against your wrist—light, hesitant, careful. No force, no demand, just warmth.

And just like always, you flinched.

You stepped back so fast you almost knocked over the easel. “Don’t.” The word escaped before you could stop it, sharp and unsteady.

Rafayel’s hand froze midair before he slowly pulled it back. His expression didn’t falter, but there was something—something—in his eyes. He tilted his head, studying you with that same knowing look that had always unsettled you.

“Why?” His voice was soft. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just curious.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to tell him to drop it. You wanted him to go back to making jokes, to fill the silence with something light, something meaningless.

But he didn’t.

Because Rafayel never let things go.

You swallowed. “Because… if you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”

The words hung between you, heavy and raw.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Rafayel exhaled, slow and careful, as if he were afraid of shattering you. “Oh.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t apologize, didn’t pity you. He just stood there, watching you with those piercing blue-pink eyes of his, like he was unraveling all the pieces of you you’d kept hidden for so long.

It made you want to run.

And maybe he saw that too, because he took a step back. Gave you space.

“Okay,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Okay?”

He nodded. “I won’t touch you. Not unless you want me to.”

The simplicity of it made something inside you ache.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

For the first time in your life, someone didn’t demand. Someone didn’t take.

Someone just waited.

Days passed, and true to his word, Rafayel never touched you. He still leaned into your space, still gave you that infuriatingly charming grin, but his hands never reached for you again. Not once.

And you hated that you noticed.

You noticed the absence of his touch. You noticed the way his fingers twitched when he was excited, the way his hands curled into fists like he had to remind himself not to reach for you. You noticed how much you wanted him to.

It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

And one night, when he was sitting beside you, lazily sketching something while you both watched the waves crash against the shore, you made the first move.

It was small. Barely anything.

Just your pinky brushing against his.

But Rafayel noticed.

His breath hitched, and his gaze flickered to you, cautious, questioning.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt electric, buzzing with something unspoken, something fragile.

Then Rafayel, ever patient, ever waiting, turned his hand palm-up beneath yours.

An invitation.

Not a demand.

You hesitated, your heart pounding, before slowly—so slowly—you let your fingers slip into his.

Warmth. Solid, steady warmth.

No violence.

No pain.

Just him.

Rafayel said nothing, didn’t make a big deal of it. He just held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had been waiting lifetimes for it.

And maybe, just maybe, you had been waiting too.

Sylus

The first time Sylus touched you, you flinched.

It was subtle—just a stiffening of your shoulders, a flicker of tension in your stance. But for someone as dangerously observant as Sylus, it was enough. His fingers had barely brushed your wrist—light, almost teasing—as he leaned in to whisper something low in your ear.

And yet, you recoiled.

He didn’t comment on it then, only let a smirk curl at the corner of his lips as if he hadn’t noticed.

But he had.

Of course, he had.

Sylus never missed anything.

Sylus was nothing if not patient.

He had seen resistance before. He had encountered people who feared him, people who worshipped him, people who wanted something from him. But you?

You were different.

You didn’t fear him—you feared being touched.

And that… was fascinating.

So, he tested it.

Little things, at first. A hand at the small of your back as he guided you through a door. A knuckle brushing over your cheek under the excuse of tucking away a stray strand of hair. A moment where he let his fingers graze yours when he passed you something.

Every time, your body tensed—just slightly—but you didn’t pull away.

Not right away.

You always let it happen for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if waiting for something.

And that was when he knew.

You weren’t just unused to affection.

You were waiting for it to turn into something else.

Something harsher. Something cruel.

Something violent.

And that realization—that truth about you—made his blood burn with something he couldn’t quite name.

The night it finally broke, Sylus hadn’t meant to push too far.

It had been a long evening, tension thrumming beneath the surface between you both like an electric current. You had been irritatingly stubborn during negotiations, as always, challenging him, testing him, making him bite back a smirk as you stood your ground.

But the moment that lingered with him was after, when the night had settled and you had found yourself alone in his office.

He approached you like he always did—without hesitation.

This time, he touched your face, his thumb grazing over your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. It wasn’t just teasing.

It wasn’t just a test.

It was real.

And you panicked.

You slapped his hand away, hard. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and startling, but Sylus didn’t react. He barely blinked, only watching as you took a step back, breath uneven, eyes wild.

His fingers flexed once before he let them drop to his side.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, quietly—

"If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first."

It wasn’t said with anger. It wasn’t a warning or a threat.

It was just… the truth.

And Sylus, for once in his life, didn’t have a response.

Something Unspoken

After that, he changed tactics.

He didn’t stop touching you entirely—no, never that. But he let you decide.

He let you approach him.

He gave you space but stayed close enough that you could always reach him if you wanted to.

And, for a while, you didn’t.

But then—

One night, after an exhausting mission, you sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his. You didn’t move away.

Another time, when exhaustion weighed on you, you let him take your wrist to check your pulse, your fingers trembling slightly—but not from fear.

And then, the night that changed everything—

You let him touch your face again.

This time, when his hand cradled your cheek, you leaned into it.

Not much. Just a fraction. Just enough that he could feel the shift.

Just enough for him to know.

And that was all the permission he needed.

Slowly, deliberately, his thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his voice low when he finally spoke:

"I would never hurt you."

Your breath hitched.

He felt it.

He didn’t ask why it was so hard for you to believe him. He didn’t ask who had left you expecting pain from every touch, from every lingering moment.

He only let his hand remain where it was, grounding, steady—yours, if you wanted it.

And finally, you did.

You didn’t say anything that night. You didn’t have to.

But after that, something changed.

Sylus, perceptive as always, noticed immediately.

The way your body no longer tensed at his presence. The way you lingered just a little closer when you stood beside him. The way your fingers, hesitant at first, brushed against the sleeve of his coat as if testing a boundary you weren’t sure you were allowed to cross.

And the way, eventually, you did.

It happened late one evening, when the city outside was silent, the only sounds in the room the distant hum of a record player spinning on low and the soft shuffle of papers on his desk.

You had been sitting across from him, absentmindedly twirling a pen between your fingers when, out of nowhere—you reached for him.

Your hand, small but steady, settled against his.

No hesitation. No flinching. No fear.

Sylus, always composed, almost stopped breathing.

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

But his fingers curled over yours, slow, deliberate—a silent promise.

A promise that, for the first time in your life, someone’s touch wouldn’t bring pain.

And that was enough.

For now.

Xavier

The first time Xavier reached for you, you flinched.

It was instinct, sharp and immediate. His fingers had barely brushed your sleeve before you jerked away, stepping out of reach so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet. His hand hung in the air for a moment before he slowly lowered it, tilting his head as if trying to decipher something unsaid.

You weren’t looking at him, though. You were staring at your own hands, fingers curled into fists at your sides, knuckles tight. Get it together.

"You okay?" His voice was light, easy, like he hadn’t just watched you recoil from his touch as if it burned.

You forced yourself to nod. "Yeah. Just—" You hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "You shouldn’t do that."

Xavier raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with something colder than you really felt. "Touch me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before his expression shifted back to something more familiar—a smirk, teasing but careful. "Alright," he said, as if it didn’t matter. "No touching."

Except it did matter. Because Xavier wasn’t someone who kept his hands to himself—not in an intrusive way, but in a way that made him feel real. He was the kind of person who nudged you with his elbow when he made a joke, who ruffled your hair just to annoy you, who tugged at your sleeve when he wanted your attention.

But he listened.

For the next few weeks, he was careful. He kept his distance, kept his hands in his pockets, kept a respectable space between the two of you even when it was just the two of you on a mission, walking side by side.

And for some reason, it made your chest ache.

You wanted him close.

You just didn’t know how to let him be.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. If anything, that was the problem.

Xavier had wormed his way into your life in a way no one else had before. He was constant—too constant, maybe. There was no hesitation in the way he cared, no moment of doubt in his affection. He liked you, so he showed it. He wanted to be around you, so he was. There was no second-guessing, no caution.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Because affection had always come with conditions. Because touches had always been accompanied by something sharp—by expectation, by control, by violence.

So the idea of Xavier touching you with nothing but warmth?

It scared you more than any fight ever had.

"You ever gonna tell me why?"

You blinked up from where you sat at the edge of a rooftop, staring out at the cityscape below. Xavier was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

"Why what?"

"Why you don’t like me touching you." His voice wasn’t accusing, wasn’t pushing—it was just curious.

You swallowed. "I just don’t."

Xavier hummed, as if considering that. "You sure about that?"

You tensed. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, stepping forward—not close, but closer. "I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes."

Your heart skipped. "I don’t—"

"You do," he interrupted, voice softer now. "Like you want me to reach for you, but you don’t know if you should let me."

You exhaled sharply. "It’s not that simple."

"Then explain it to me."

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your sleeves, gripping tightly. You should have expected this—Xavier wasn’t the type to let things go so easily. He was patient, sure, but he wasn’t blind. He noticed things, noticed you.

And now, he was waiting.

You stared at your hands. "If you touch me without violence," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "you’ll be the first."

Silence.

For a moment, you thought he might not have heard you. But then, after a long pause, Xavier let out a quiet breath.

"That’s a damn shame," he said. His voice was soft, but not pitying. "Because you deserve better than that."

You didn’t look at him. "Maybe."

"You do," he said, firmer this time. "And I want to prove it to you."

Your breath hitched. "Xavier—"

"I won’t touch you until you want me to," he promised. "But when you do?" His gaze was steady, unwavering. "I’ll make sure you never have to doubt it."

It took time.

Xavier kept his promise. He didn’t touch you—not even accidentally. He was careful, patient in a way that made your chest ache. But he never pulled away emotionally. He was still there, still unwavering, still him.

And slowly, slowly, you started to realize something.

You wanted to close that distance.

You wanted him.

It started small—lingering closer when you walked together, sitting next to him instead of across the room, letting your shoulders brush just slightly before pulling away. And Xavier noticed. He always did.

But he didn’t push.

He let you take your time, let you move at your own pace.

Until one night, after a mission, when you were exhausted and sore and tired of your own fear, you turned to him and—hesitantly, carefully—reached for his hand.

His fingers twitched in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. He let you take his hand in yours, let you squeeze it lightly before letting go just as quickly.

You expected him to say something—maybe tease you, maybe push for more. But he didn’t. He just smiled, warm and real.

"Was that so bad?" he asked, amusement lacing his tone.

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."

Xavier chuckled, but there was something softer in his gaze. "Alright. No teasing. Not today, anyway."

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. "I hate you."

He grinned. "You love me."

You paused.

Then, quietly, you admitted, "Yeah."

Xavier stilled. His smile faltered—just for a second—before it softened into something genuine. Something real.

"Good," he murmured.

And for the first time, when he reached for you, you didn’t pull away.

Zayne

Zayne had always been patient. It was in his nature, woven into the fabric of his being just as much as his steady hands and level-headed presence. As a surgeon, patience was a necessity—an unwavering calm in the face of pressure, a stillness when chaos reigned.

But this was different.

This was you.

You, with your guarded eyes and the walls you built around yourself so high that even he, with all his skill, couldn’t navigate them easily. He had known from the start that you were different—not because you were difficult, not because you weren’t capable of love, but because the world had been cruel to you in ways it hadn’t been to him.

And still, he wanted you.

It started slow. The quiet companionship, the moments where neither of you needed to speak but simply existed together. A shared cup of tea in the morning. The warmth of his coat draped over your shoulders on a cold night. He never pushed, never asked for more than you could give, and yet…

Even he had limits to his patience.

Zayne had always been affectionate. Not in a way that was overwhelming, nor in grand declarations. No, his love was in the small things—in the way his fingers would brush against yours when passing you something, in the way his voice would soften when speaking your name, in the way he would lean in, close enough that you could feel his warmth but never quite touching.

And so, when he reached for you one evening—just a simple touch, the lightest brush of his fingertips against your wrist—he hadn’t expected you to recoil the way you did.

You flinched, your entire body going rigid, as if his touch had burned you.

Zayne froze. His hazel-green eyes flickered with something unreadable before he slowly withdrew his hand, watching you carefully. He wasn’t offended, nor was he hurt, but there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice quieter than you intended.

His brows furrowed slightly. “I—”

“If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and sharp. The room felt heavier in their wake, like the air had been sucked from it.

Zayne didn’t speak for a moment. He simply looked at you, studying you in that careful way he always did—like he was dissecting a puzzle, trying to understand without breaking it further.

You hated the silence. Hated the way it stretched between you like an open wound.

Then, finally, he exhaled softly.

“I see.”

And just like that, he shifted back, putting a comfortable distance between you. Not out of rejection, not out of frustration, but because he understood. He always understood.

You expected him to ask. To pry. To demand to know what had led you to this—why you had flinched, why you had spoken those words with such bitterness. But he didn’t.

He simply nodded, accepting it as fact, and changed the subject.

It should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

Because Zayne, for all his patience and for all his understanding, was not one to simply forget.

Days passed. Then weeks.

Zayne hadn’t touched you since.

Not in the way he used to. No fleeting brushes of his fingertips, no teasing nudges, no quiet, lingering moments where his warmth bled into yours. It was as if he had drawn a line in the sand and refused to cross it.

You told yourself it was for the best.

So why did it feel so much worse?

You had never needed touch. Never craved it, never longed for it. But now, in the absence of it, you felt its loss like a phantom pain. You missed it.

You missed him.

And so, when you found yourself standing outside his apartment one evening, your fingers curled into fists at your sides, you knew you had to do something.

The door opened before you could even knock.

Zayne blinked at you, surprised but not displeased. He stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in.

You hesitated.

And then, taking a deep breath, you walked past him, into the familiar warmth of his home.

He didn’t ask why you were there.

He simply poured you tea, as he always did, and waited.

You stared at the cup in your hands, fingers tightening around the ceramic.

“I don’t…” You hesitated. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet patience. “Stop what?”

You swallowed. “Touching me.”

For the first time in a long while, he seemed genuinely surprised. Not in a dramatic way—Zayne was never dramatic—but in the way his fingers stilled against his cup, in the way his gaze softened ever so slightly.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said, his voice as steady as ever.

“I did.” Your throat felt tight. “I do. But I also… I don’t know.” You exhaled sharply. “I just… don’t want you to stop trying.”

Something in his expression shifted.

He set his cup down carefully before looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. Not with judgment, not with pity—just understanding.

“I never stopped,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

“I just adjusted,” he continued. “To what you needed.”

And you realized, with startling clarity, that he had been touching you. Just not in the way you had expected.

It was in the way he always made you tea, the way he listened so intently, the way he never pushed, never pried, but always made sure you knew he was there.

He had been touching you in the only way you would allow.

And now? Now, you wanted more.

Tentatively, hesitantly, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed against the back of his hand, and you felt him still beneath your touch.

It was light. Barely there. But it was enough.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t push for more.

He simply let you choose.

And, for the first time in your life, you did.

You let yourself be touched—gently, without violence, without fear.

Zayne, patient as ever, simply held still and let you set the pace.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid.

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aventurineswife · 3 months ago

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Meow :D

what if the reader found a cat that acts like their lover? Like they have the same kind of attitude! Reader takes the cat home to take care of it with their lover! Imagine you just see you’re lover and cat staring each other down for you’re attention lol

you can do this with any honkai star rail (I’m bad with names) characters! (I prefer male but you can add female if you want) and you can do as many as you want! I just like telling my ideas :)

Two of a Kind

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Blade x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Romance, Humor, Fluff, Jealousy, Rivalry, Comfort, Lighthearted, Domestic.

Warnings: Mild Jealousy (between the characters and the cat), Slightly suggestive interactions (implied, but nothing explicit), Fluff overload, OOC 😔💔.

The moment you found the small, snow-white cat in the alleyway near the Cloud Knights’ barracks, you knew something was strange. It lounged on a pile of silk scraps like a dignified ruler, eyes half-lidded in serene boredom. When you crouched down to offer a hand, it yawned leisurely before rubbing its head against your palm.

"Lazy little thing, aren’t you?" You chuckled, scooping it up. It was oddly… familiar. The way it melted into your touch, stretching lazily, as if it had all the time in the world.

Bringing it home was inevitable.

Jing Yuan was reclining in his study when you arrived, eyes flickering open as you placed the cat in your lap. He raised a brow, immediately sitting up.

“…You brought home another one?” His voice held a mix of amusement and suspicion.

"This one’s different," you grinned. "Look at it."

The cat blinked at Jing Yuan, slow and deliberate.

Jing Yuan blinked back.

Then, as if recognizing a rival, the cat turned its head with a haughty sigh and curled up in your lap, looking every bit like a miniature version of your lover when he feigned sleep to avoid meetings.

Your laughter made Jing Yuan frown. "Don’t tell me… it acts like me?"

"It really does! Look at the way it lounges!"

Jing Yuan rubbed his temple. "I’m being replaced by a cat."

For the next few days, the battle for your attention escalated. Whenever you pet the cat, Jing Yuan would pull you onto the couch beside him, draping an arm over your shoulder. If you scratched behind the cat’s ears, Jing Yuan would hum pointedly until you did the same for him. You even caught them staring each other down one evening—one with feline eyes, the other with his usual patient amusement, both vying for your affection.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. "You do realize you’re jealous of a cat, right?"

Jing Yuan huffed, crossing his arms. "I’m not jealous. I’m simply… asserting my rightful place."

The cat, as if mocking him, promptly stretched across your lap.

Jing Yuan sighed in defeat, then reached over, stroking the cat’s head with surprising gentleness. "Hmph. I suppose we can share."

And so, the rivalry ended in an unspoken truce—one where you were adored by both the lazy general and his equally lazy feline counterpart.

You weren’t sure what it was about the midnight-furred cat that made you stop in the middle of the street. Maybe it was the sharp red eyes, eerily intense for a feline. Or maybe it was the way it sat in the shadows, unmoving, its aura both captivating and unsettling.

Regardless, you brought it home.

Blade was polishing his sword when you arrived, and his first reaction upon seeing the cat was a deadpan stare.

“…You’re joking."

The cat, sitting by your feet, glared at him with the same unnerving stillness.

You tilted your head. "What?"

Blade sighed, setting his sword aside. "It looks like me."

You blinked. Then you looked at the cat again—black fur, red eyes, an almost unnatural stillness to the way it held itself. Then, you burst out laughing.

"Oh no," you wheezed. "You’re right."

Blade scowled, rubbing his temple as the cat leapt onto your lap, curling into a tight ball like it had no interest in anything else.

"You brought home a brooding, quiet stray," Blade muttered, arms crossed. "Sound familiar?"

You grinned. "I have a type."

For days, the cat shadowed you, always quiet, always intense. Blade would sit in the corner, watching as you absentmindedly pet the feline while reading. At some point, you noticed the two of them mirroring each other—both staring at you, both exuding the same quiet, brooding energy.

It was unnerving.

"Are you two competing or something?" you finally asked.

Blade scoffed. "Tch. I don’t need to compete with a cat."

The cat, in perfect synchronization, flicked its tail as if scoffing right back.

You buried your face in your hands. "I can’t believe this."

Still, one night, you woke up to find Blade sitting on the floor beside the couch, absently petting the cat with an almost thoughtful expression.

"...You like it," you whispered.

Blade's hand paused, his expression unreadable. "It’s quiet. Doesn’t ask for anything."

You smiled. "Like you?"

Blade clicked his tongue, but he didn’t deny it.

And so, the brooding warrior and his feline doppelgänger coexisted in an eerie, wordless understanding—both bound to you, both unwilling to admit that, maybe, they had found comfort in something they never expected.

The cat you found had fur as soft as clouds and an uncanny, almost celestial presence. With golden eyes, and an air of quiet authority, it reminded you of someone.

Taking it home, however, proved to be the real challenge.

Sunday was seated in his grand study, calmly flipping through a book when you entered with the cat in your arms. The moment his eyes met the feline’s, an odd silence settled over the room.

The cat blinked.

Sunday blinked.

You swore you could feel the tension.

Finally, Sunday exhaled, closing his book. "...My dear, why does this creature look like it stepped out of my reflection?"

You grinned. "I was thinking the same thing."

Sunday reached out, gently brushing his fingers over the cat’s fur. The cat, rather than lean into the touch, simply tilted its head with a regal, knowing gaze.

Then, as if dismissing him, it turned its attention back to you, purring contentedly as it nestled in your arms.

Sunday raised an elegant brow. "I see. A competitor has appeared."

You chuckled. "You’re not actually jealous, are you?"

Sunday didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder. "You wouldn’t abandon me for a mere feline, would you?" His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was a quiet possessiveness beneath it.

You rolled your eyes. "It’s just a cat, Sunday."

"Yet it looks at me as if I am the intruder here," he mused, golden eyes glinting. "Fascinating."

For the next few days, you often caught Sunday and the cat watching each other in eerie silence, as if locked in an unspoken battle for dominance. Whenever Sunday pulled you onto his lap, the cat would jump onto your shoulder. Whenever the cat nestled against your chest, Sunday would wrap an arm around your waist, subtly claiming you back.

It was absurd.

"Sunday," you sighed. "You’re not actually fighting a cat for my attention."

He simply smiled, pressing a kiss to your hand. "My dear, I always win."

The cat, unimpressed, flicked its tail.

And so, the celestial rivalry continued—an eternal battle between a regal dream-weaver and his equally dignified feline reflection.

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malfoysanctuary · 5 months ago

Text

Draped in Devotion

Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: Theo always acts like it’s an inconvenience. The way his sweaters disappear into the abyss of your wardrobe, but when you walk into a crowded room wearing something that still carries his scent, his patience stretches thin, because everyone can see what he already knows. You’re his, and you always will be.

Theodore Nott had never been one for loud proclamations of affection. His love was quiet—woven into fleeting touches, stolen glances, the way he always positioned himself between you and potential danger, even if that “danger” was just Malfoy’s sharp tongue or an overeager Ravenclaw looking at you for a bit too long.

His love was also threaded into the fabric of every sweater and shirt that you stole from him.

Or, rather, that he let you steal.

Theo liked to pretend it annoyed him—huffing when you walked into his dorm wearing one of his favorite jumpers, grumbling under his breath about how he’d never see it again. But deep down, he liked it.

No, he loved it.

He loved seeing you wrapped in something that smelled like him, the sleeves always too long, the collar slightly stretched because you’d tug at it absentmindedly. He loved how his clothes clung to you in ways that were so entirely different from how they fit him, how they told the world in a thousand unspoken ways that you belonged to him.

And yet, he still put up the act—because it made you smirk, made you tease him, made you kiss him sweetly as if you were thanking him for something he hadn’t even protested in the first place.

It started on a cold winter evening in the Slytherin dorms.

Snow had blanketed the castle grounds, and the fire in the common room was flickering lazily, casting warm golden light against the emerald-draped walls. You were curled up on Theo’s bed, wearing your own uniform, shivering slightly despite the thick blankets.

Theo, who had been reading beside you, let out a long, exasperated sigh before tugging off the sweater he was wearing. He tossed it at you, expression flat but eyes gleaming with something warmer than the firelight.

"Take it," he muttered, feigning reluctance. "If you’re going to steal my things, you might as well do it while I’m watching."

You had grinned, tugging it over your head, inhaling deeply at the scent of him. "Oh, I’m definitely keeping this one."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled you into his side, fingers playing with the hem of the sweater as if memorizing the sight of it on you.

It became a habit after that.

Every time you stayed in his dorm after late-night study sessions, every time you dragged him away from his potions homework just to lie on his bed and talk, every time you snuck into his room under the guise of “forgetting something”—you left with something of his.

It was almost a game, at first.

Until it wasn’t.

Until Theo realized that he looked forward to it. That on mornings when he walked into the Great Hall and saw you sitting there, sipping your tea, wearing his sweater, something settled in his chest.

Possessiveness wasn’t the right word for it. It was something deeper than that.

It was his. You were his.

And no one could miss it when you walked through the halls wrapped in pieces of him.

One morning, after a particularly long night spent in his dormitory, you slid into your usual seat at the Slytherin table, still half-asleep.

You were wearing his deep emerald sweater again—the same one he had given you weeks ago, the same one you’d never returned.

The moment you entered, eyes flickered toward you, lingering for a beat too long. The realization hit slowly, like a flame catching onto parchment—the Slytherins knew exactly whose sweater that was.

And so did Theo.

He had been pouring himself tea when you sat down beside him, but the moment his gaze landed on you, his hand stilled. His jaw tensed, lips pressing together as he let his eyes drag over the familiar fabric draped over your frame.

You could see it—the way his grip tightened around the handle of his cup, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Draco, who had been lounging across from you, smirked. "You’re doing it on purpose now, aren’t you?"

You feigned innocence, tearing off a piece of toast. "Doing what?"

"Parading around in his clothes like a bloody banner," Blaise chimed in, sipping his coffee. "You do realize half the idiots in this school were holding onto the delusion that they had a shot with you, right?"

Theo still hadn’t said anything. He was watching you, waiting.

So you turned to him, tilting your head slightly. "Is there a problem, Nott?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his tea down with a little more force than necessary. Then, he leaned in close, voice dropping just for you.

"You don’t ask for them anymore," he murmured.

Your lips twitched. "Do I need to?"

His fingers brushed against the hem of the sweater where it rested against your thigh. His touch was light, barely there, but you felt it like a brand.

"You could at least pretend to give them back."

You grinned, reaching for your own tea. "And deprive you of the pleasure of seeing me in them? I wouldn’t dream of it."

Theo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. But when he sat back, his arm stretched out behind you, his fingers resting lightly against the curve of your hip.

And that was it. No grand declarations. No loud possessiveness.

Just a touch. Just a look.

But it was enough.

Later that evening, you found yourself back in his dormitory, curled up against his chest as the winter wind howled outside the window. The sweater was still draped over you, and Theo’s fingers traced along the hem absentmindedly, his touch warm against your skin.

"You never actually get mad when I take them," you mused, shifting slightly so you could look up at him.

Theo sighed, carding a hand through his hair. "You do take them often."

"You give them to me," you corrected.

He didn’t argue. Instead, his fingers slid under the fabric, ghosting along your bare skin.

"You could just ask me for them," he murmured. "I’d give you anything you wanted."

Your breath hitched. He always said things like that—effortless, unguarded truths that made your heart stutter.

"Where’s the fun in that?" you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He made a low noise of amusement, his lips brushing against your temple. "Just promise me one thing."

You hummed, nuzzling against him. "What’s that?"

His hand splayed against your back, holding you closer. "If you’re going to keep stealing my sweaters," he murmured, "just make sure I get to see you in them."

Your lips curled as you tangled your fingers with his. "Always."

Theo sighed, but there was no exasperation in it this time—just quiet, content surrender.

Because you weren’t just wearing his sweaters.

You were wearing him.

#theodore nott #theo nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #shifting to hogwarts #hogwarts houses #hogwarts oc #x reader #female reader #reader insert #fem reader

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gay-dorito-dust · 4 months ago

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Hello, can I have a separate hcs of Dante and Vergil with a gn reader? (angst with a fluff in the end)

The twins fall for the reader. But the reader pushed them for some reason not getting attached. The reader just didn't receive the love they deserve in the past and thinks they're not worthy of the twins' love. How can the twins handle this situation?

Dante

is confused.

he thought you guys had a good thing going, he was flirting and you were reciprocating his advances, laughing at his jokes and genuinely showing interest in him overall, leading to an easy and seemless transition into a romantic relationship.

only for one day you go cold, your eyes distant and conflicted, no longer reciprocating his fliting like usual but instead you looked...like you were ashamed or conflicted with yourself that you were no longer...well yourself anymore.

your thoughts and past had won over as the fear of never being enough for love began to sour your views on being with Dante, you felt as though he deserved more then you, better then you.

why should he settle for someone who will never amount to his needs nor wants in a partner, not when there was always better options just at his fingertips. there was no point in trying when you were fighting an battle you'd never win. so why bother.

meanwhile Dante was worried that he might've come off too strong, which doesn't make sense seeing as how it semed that you were interested, but that doens't stop his worry that he might've crossed an unspoken line for you.

He was recalling all the interactions and trying to see where he went wrong, only to find nothing wich left him even more confused at your sudden distance.

His worries only grew the more you seemed to avoid him, barely looking his way or acting how you usually did towards him and it made him wonder the worst of all things, something he didn’t often do as he liked to keep his mind away from certain things in his life, cracking jokes and making light of situations were his methods of coping with everything.

He may act like a wise ass, when in reality he was a very deep and introspective man who would go through hell or high water just to see that you were safe and not under any threat at all. He’s protective and so was his demon half, if not more so as it wanted to look after its future mate.

So needless to say Dante is asking advice from the people most closest to him and you, all in hopes of understanding you a little better than he already does, however luck wasn’t on his side during this as they were just as stumped as he was, if not more.

‘Strange, they talk so highly of you that I was certain that they reciprocated your affections.’ One of your friend says, furrowing their brows.

‘None stop talks about you and has this look in their eyes that just screams smitten.’ Another friend of yours adds as they tries to recall whether you had said something or did something that would make the answer known to them, but nothing came up other then the fact you had entrusted them with the fact that you weren’t so keen on love so much anymore in due to past experiences.

That’s when it hits your friend that the reason you might not be as reciprocal of Dante’s advances anymore was in due to past fears resurfacing, obviously they wouldn’t betray your trust and tell Dante, so they only looks at him sympathetically as they remembers and tells him to ask you himself when he began pestering them for the why.

After all it was your past experience, not theirs.

So when Dante does finally get the truth out of you after some time, he’s heartbroken that you would think that he would ever treat you like that, but even more so at the fact that people in your past have hurt you to the point of being unable to make that deep connection anymore without fearing that past scars will be reopened.

He doesn’t exactly have the best view of himself either, not that he would say anything like that aloud, he’s got a reputation to uphold but it’s obvious that this man has struggles and continues to struggle with some parts of himself. Given how Vergil was more inclined to favour his demon side, Dante favoured his human one, he had a heart of the purest gold but to him it looked like rust, like copper.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been through that sweetheart.’ He would say softly as he brought you into his arms, gently coddling you to his chest as he allowed you to get comfortable in his embraced, tired from all the aversion you’ve been doing as of late and sighing when you felt yourself become whole in his strong embrace as you smiled in the familiar safe haven that was Dante.

‘They all sound like a bunch of dicks who didn’t know they struck gold with you, not even once but it’s their loss, not yours becuase they’ll soon regret what they’ve done but you will be finding a new way of keep being yourself, hopefully with me by your side…only if you want that is I’m not trying to pressure you or anything-‘

You’d have to cut him off by hugging him just as tightly back, knowing that his heart was in the right place but you feared that patience and time weren’t exactly on your side.

‘I do Dante, oh I do, but I’m scared that it’ll be far too late when I am ready and that you would’ve found someone else, someone better.’ You confide in him as he hushed you when he felt yourself become whole getting riled up and anxious, kissing your forehead as his grip on you tightened.

‘I’m not going anywhere sweetheart, I’m right where I need to belong and if I have to wait, then I’ll wait because you’re worth every last second, minutes, hour of my life and don’t your ever forget it.’ Dante replies, kissing your forehead once more before resting his own there as he is once again at ease within your presence.

‘I promise.’ You murmur.

‘Good, I’ll hold you to it.’ He says barely above a whisper. ‘You’re in safe hands sweetheart, nothing will hurt you, ever.’ He adds and for once you knew that wasn’t a lie he made, he was determined to make you see that his words were very much true.

Vergil

can sense that something was holding you back, he could see it within your rigid body language, witholding any and all interactions with him as though you were realising soemthing he might not be appreciative of.

he's no stranger to pulling away from others, but he didn't like it when it felt as though you were slipping from his grasp.

distancing yourself from him as though his touch alone would make you into ice.

no longer were there soft, quiet in his makeshift study as you both read in silence, enjoying each others company, no moments at night where you or him couldn't sleep and decided to have long and deep conversations that ended in you falling asleep against him, no more would there be knowing glances shared between one another whenever Dante said something silly.

no more.

not anymore becuase you were hellbent on avoiding him for reasons unseen by him, and it left him frustraighted at how helpless it made him feel, how human it made him feel to know that you were suffering but didn't want to speak upon it out of fear of judgement or just stuborness.

At first Vergil did leave you alone but still watched you from afar, reading any signs that could prove valuable to him, yet found nothing and it only frustraighted him even more at being met with another dead end in his endeavours to understand where your mind was at.

for as far as he was aware, you don't show interest in someone and suddenly do everything in your power to cuase a rift between the two of you the next. it made no logical sense for Vergil. you either like someone or you don't, no need to lead someone on just to give them nothing but trust issues and betrayal.

so when he finally took advantage in having you alone, followed by a rather heated confrontation, one where you confesses the reason why you were so cold and distant now; you didn't think that you were worthy of his love, got scared and decided on his behalf that you weren't enough for him as a romantic partner.

Vergil doesn't like it when people make descions on his behalf, he had a voice and could use it as well as anyone else could. so upon learning your reasoning why, he couldn't help but scoff and say;

'you allowed fear to win, allowed the past to continue to dictate your actions and who you let in your life, allowed for the idea that love somehow has a requirment to be met each and every time or else you aren't truly in love, which is not true at all. the people of your past have poisioned your future endevours in love on all aspects and it's slowly killing you.'

he's not happy that there were people who had done wrong by you, but he also wasn't happy how you were fearing something that could prove a learning lesson for you both.

he could learn from you in how to love his human side and he could have taught you in how to step into your power, demand your wants and needs to be met or else. there was so many things you could acomplish together, but the all too human emotion known as fear has to ruin it all by filling your head with flasehoods and self sabotage.

Vergil couldn't blame you, he was just as uneasey with taking things further once until he was willing to admit aloud that the risk of lossing you -his dove- without trying to at least let you know of his feelings, was far worse then anything.

He often had thoughts on how his mother and father would've loved you, imagining your relationship like the pure one he saw within his own parents as a child, seeing the love in their eyes that he secretly hoped would reflect in your own one day. but you pushed him away not even a week later, leaving him a little hurt but more or less under the impression that there was more to this then the surface level excuses you've given him before.

'i maybe the last person you expect to hear this from, or at all, but let me help you step out of the shadows of the past to embrace the possibilities of a brighter future.' he says softly as he holds out a hand. 'allow me to help you move forward as you have helped me move forward for lossing the one person who taught me thst being human is the greatest power ever given is a dark future i don't wish to see come to light.'

he rested his forhead against your own, a little stiff but the intention behind the action was loud and clear, this was him trying to be human, reconnect to his human side. 'allow me to rid the posion from your system and forge it into something as beautiful as you.'

Vergil might not be great in terms of comfort, but when he tries, he's actually quite easily waxing poetry, weaving it into words that left you feeling like you were worth it all.

and you were, very much so in Vergil's eyes.

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uzurakis · 1 year ago

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brainrotting so hard rn thinking of megumi who absolutely refuses to admit his feelings for his best friend but okay so hear me out shikigamis are often reflections of their owner, right?

his shikigami – his demon dogs, nue, escape rabbit etc etc are ALL attached to reader, constantly begging for their attention and being so protective towards reader whenever he brings them out. and reader can't help but feel loved and safe whenever they're around.

because the affection his shikigami has for you is a reflection of megumi's feelings for you <3

n. THIS IS SOOO GOOD and i just HAD to make a drabble out of it. i also feel megs will sometimes be jealous but.. hey.. isn’t that just an extension of HIMSELF? thank you nonnie cause i had fun brainrotting this wit chu <3

under the dappled shade of a tree, you and your bestfriend sat nestled amidst nature's embrace. the gentle rustle of leaves provided a soothing soundtrack to the lazy hour after school as the cool breeze swayed in between. you leaned against the sturdy trunk, the rough bark a comforting support against your back, whilst fushiguro reclined nearby, never not a book on hand, his presence a familiar comfort in the tranquil surroundings. he looked too focused, way too focused right now.

“fushiguro,” you called out whilst biting back a smile, holding up your index finger in a playful gesture. “one favor.”

“no.” came his immediate response, closing off any opportunities as he remain engrossed in his book.

it was a usual thing for you to do, pester him for fun with many favors. you knew that despite his protests, he would always give in to your whims. it was one of the things you adore about him actually, the lengths he’d go to make you feel better.

undeterred, you continued, pouting slightly. "but fushiguroo..."

“no.” he repeated firmly. “your one favor usually turns into a two favor, and a three—“

“i promise it’s only a favor this time!”

a wind brushed his black locks as he peered up from his book, letting out a slight forced sigh as he finally locked his eyes with yours. “just one favor.” he conceded, unable to resist your asks.

the smile of yours finally burst out, and the favor rolled off of your tongue. it was simple this time; you didn't have to use your pleading looks or other tricks to get him agreeing.

“can you summon some of your shikigamis? just wanna play with them.”

fushiguro's expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite his initial resistance. he closed his book gently and set it aside, his attention fully on you now.

"alright," he relented, his tone warmer now. "i can do that, only for a short while."

you nodded eagerly, grateful for his concession. fushiguro had a way of understanding your needs even when you were being particularly bothersome. so you wasted no time in joining in the play, laughing and running around with his divine dogs. fushiguro watched with a fondness in his eyes, silently grateful for moments like these.

well, he too had other ideas. he certainly seems to have a knack for stirring up trouble and was definitely intentional. while you were distracted by the dogs swarming about you, he summoned an army of his rabbits—a large number of them—and they all jumped at you at once.

“do you want me to get killed from your rabbits?!” the shout was muffled as his rabbits covered quite every inch of your body. “did you tell them to come at me?!”

no, your bestfriend never ask his shikigamis to come at you the moment he summoned them. fushiguro megumi's shikigamis, his loyal companions, had a mind of their own. he never trained the dogs to nozzle around you, the rabbits to bounce over you, or nue to sit on your shoulder. for that they didn't heed the conventional rules of summoning or obedience; instead, they acted on their instincts, driven by an unspoken directive to protect and be close at all times—fushiguro megumi’s instincts to protect you and be close at all times.

“dunno,” picking up where he left off and submerging back to his pages. “maybe.”

“you’re such a prick!” the words burst forth as you try to get the rabbits off of you.

he watched you from a distance, his heart swelling with affection as you kept playing around with his shikigamis. but he still tried to held back his own smile, a silent observer in the background, content to bask in the warmth of your presence.

yet, as if on cue, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, he could not hide it any longer.

@uzurakis — requests are open! <3

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arabella0001 · 29 days ago

Text

cn: fluff. slow burn. avoidant attachment style. explicit sexual content [nsfw / 18+].angst & comfort. dirty talk, 7.4 k+ words.

⟡ fandom: naruto | pairing: kakashi x reader

part 1 part 2 part 3

a/n: I'm not the most reliable writer. It looks like it's going to be three parts of @hoohamaru request, since, once again, I ended up writing way too much.

“The hole in one’s heart gets filled by others around you. To know what is right and choose to ignore it is the act of a coward.”

Kakashi hadn’t forgotten your last interaction. The one where things seemed to blur the line of friendship, considering the way he looked at you. A friendship that you recently couldn’t even picture as plausible, given that he’s the Hokage. At least until Tsunade knocked some sense into you.

He’s just a man at the end of the day. A man you unfortunately can’t see only as a friend.

“So what? It’s Kakashi. The problem’s not that he’s the Hokage, it’s that he’s Kakashi.”

Tsunade was right. Kakashi never cared about someone’s title, only about the kind of person they were. Receiving attention just for his position? That means nothing to him. He’s being pushed into a role that doesn’t represent him, so the mask he already wears on his face now also reflects both his imposed persona and the soul he unconsciously shields.

That’s why he’s the one who couldn’t sleep now, thinking about you and the improbable possibilities that might unfold if he stopped protecting himself with that wall.

Your warm voice that eased his stress about the enemies hunting him and harming the villagers pulled him out of his thoughts as he was coming down the stairs toward the kitchen.

“Morning, Kakashi.”

Well, that’s an impressive escalation. From those exaggerated formalities you used before to now saying his name directly without bowing for a simple morning greeting.

“Good morning, Y/N.”

The redness on your cheeks could be blamed on the heat from the lit stove, resulting in a perfect start to the morning. A coffee made by you.

“Coffee, right?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Thank you.”

Kakashi’s gaze was heavy as it lingered on you, already dressed in uniform for work, your hair pulled into a bun to stay out of your way, with two strands framing your face symmetrically.

You looked lovely.

He dissociated from his own body for a moment, feeling his mouth go dry, adjusting his voice as he sat down on the couch.

“I won’t be staying here much longer. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

A heavy heartbeat.

You focused on your voice so it wouldn’t sound affected while your body heating up from within, from the emotions stirring. You returned with the coffee cups in hand, still saying nothing yet.

Your eyes betrayed you first when you looked at Kakashi. Something unspoken in them. Hard even for him to ignore. Hard to interpret.

“Did something happen?”

“Thank you.” He thanked you again for the coffee, crossing one leg over the other, resting the flowery saucer on his knee as he steadied the cup above it. “They need me at the office. Naruto and Shikamaru managed to find a trail. Especially with Kazekage’s help.”

You sat down beside him, glancing at him briefly before looking away from that inexplicable feeling building up.

“Gaara managed to help you? I’m glad.” You paused for a moment, biting your lip, and Kakashi felt a lump in his throat. “Is it too curious of me to ask what he found?”

He felt a smile tug at his lips under his mask, but surprisingly, the wall surrounding Kakashi’s soul cracked open slightly, letting in a wave of disappointment? Disappointment about what?

It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway. Why would someone like you ever get involved with someone like him?

“At least you can’t ask for help again, right?” A little joke to ease the tension heavy with unspoken things, your cheeks turning red. Fuck. You forgot you’re technically still a village traitor. Maybe it’s better that he’s leaving. Hearing his laugh again at your embarrassed face brought that hollow feeling in your stomach. “Have you heard of the Kurama clan?”

The way you frown when you’re thinking is adorable.

“I don’t think so?”

“Yakumo Kurama is a shinobi from Konohagakure, our village. She is one of the last of her clan. Kurama possess a very powerful kekkei genkai that allows her to create illusions capable of manifesting real physical harm. Her genjutsu is so potent that damage experienced within the illusion becomes real in the body of the victim.”

You paused for a moment, contemplating the situation.

“You think she trapped the others in a genjutsu?”

You stood up, shocked, gesturing as you spoke.

“That many? Why would someone do that?”

Kakashi could see how much you cared about people, how your heart broke right in front of him. An uncomfortable feeling settled in his body. He didn’t know how to respond.

“Well, there’s one thing about Kurama… It’s not entirely her fault.” Kakashi looked at you from head to toe. “Y/N, please sit.”

“Right, sorry.”

As you sat down, Kakashi shook his head slightly in protest at your apology.

“They discovered she has a monstrous alter ego, called Ido, which she struggles to control, and which leads her to destructive behavior. She even hurt her parents unintentionally.”

“What? Monstrous alter ego?”

“Yes, some people are born with incredibly strong abilities. Without proper guidance, you can lose yourself or lose control.”

“So she needed someone to be there for her, to guide her? So she wouldn’t be afraid of losing control anymore?”

The question caught Kakashi off guard. But only after your curious and upset gaze landed on him.

Your question made him reflect on himself.

And you realized from his hesitation that something was wrong in his behavior.

“Kakashi?”

He avoided your gaze.

“Yes, that’s right.” He distracted himself with another sip of coffee.

“Then why would she want to attack people with Sharingan?”

“She… felt powerless because of Konoha’s society. Because no one in the leadership paid enough attention to her, and her monstrous side concluded that no one else deserved it either. Why should we be different? A kind of… jealousy, that others had a better life and she didn’t.”

It made no sense.

“Are you saying you or Sasuke had a good life?”

“Maybe I did.”

“I doubt it.”

Your voice had a passive-aggressive edge, and he lifted his head from the ground to look at you. Remembering all these weeks. All the stress in the village. All because of the system of the village before. So many victims.

“It’s not her fault what happened to her, but it’s not justified to want to hurt so many people. I think it’s—”

Your voice trembled, and Kakashi almost froze, but somehow his mouth didn’t. His hand glitched, as if it wanted to move, but didn’t know how.

“Y/N, I know. It’s not, you’re right. But don’t let it consume you. Fortunately, no one died.”

Aftwe you saw how he try to comfort him even if it’s not necessarily, your hand slipped into his.

Do i look so weak? I feel so weak.

“I’m sorry. I really am. And I’m sorry you had to go through this. It’s not normal—” You felt a tear in your eye. “I can imagine the kind of pressure you’re under and we should all thank you for what you’re doing. I fucking hope this world will finally change somehow—” Your voice faded toward the end, and you could no longer see clearly.

Kakashi’s eyes widened. The surrounding sounds blurred to him now.

Your hand was so warm, but his was cold as ice.

Yet the other hand reached toward your shoulder cautiously, retreating a few times before finally resting on you.

“Y/N… I don’t know what to—”

He didn’t finish, because you stood up. Embarrassed by your own reaction, and by the fact that you touched him. Maybe he didn’t want that.

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t make you feel—” You wiped your tears with your hand and Kakashi stood up too, instinctively stepping toward you.

“It’s fine, I just don’t…I should thank you! And you also, you don’t need to thank me, considering how much you’re helping others, and we’re all doing our part and…”

Kakashi hadn’t spoken that fast or anxiously in a long time, and you tried to hide your tear-stained face, moving side to side awkwardly.

He pulled you into his arms.

Your breath stopped.

Your wide eyes mirrored his, though you couldn’t see them, because his head rested gently against yours, one hand cradling the back of your head protectively.

Kakashi stared into the void. He didn’t know if it was your heartbeat pounding so loud or his own. You froze for a few long seconds before returning the embrace.

“I’m sorry, it’s embarrassing, I shouldn’t—”

“Shh.”

Kakashi gave you comfort and yet he felt so tense. It didn’t feel natural, and at the same time, it did. What was wrong with him?

He felt like suffocating eventually, so he let go.

He gave you one last look. Your tear-filled eyes, sad but confused and… something else he couldn’t quite understand that he knew would haunt him with even more regret, for not being able to do more.

He turned toward the place where he now knew his Hokage robes were. His body felt heavy, each step weighed down.

Before leaving through the door, Kakashi looked back at you once more.

“If you ever need anything, please tell me. And… good luck with the Mono-Thunder Train Project.”

He gave you a small nod and left, not waiting for you to answer, expecially after the shocked look you gave him.

You knew who i was from the beginning, didn’t you?

———

Iruka offered you a genuine smile as he stopped by your tent, his eyes softening as they closed briefly.

“Hey, Y/N.”

You matched his infectious smile while you continued packing your belongings into your bag before the organization team arrived to clean up and rearrange the site. Your assignment here was finished.

“Hello, Iruka. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too. Last day, huh?”

You shot him a sidelong glance while hoisting your bag over your shoulder by the straps.

“Exactly.”

He held the tent flap aside for you as you stepped out, trailing after you and helping you with the weighted baggage. Shinya greeted the two of you before circling around to walk ahead. From that moment on, your presence felt distant from the rest of the world—just the two of them remained, exchanging quiet smiles.

Iruka caught your arm just before you walked away.

“Oh, wait. The Hokage asked me to give you this.”

Your heart dropped. It had been a week since the last time.

“What is it?”

“Some kind of… compensation? For letting him stay at your place? I think. I’m not entirely sure.” Iruka turned the envelope over in his hands, uncertain.

“I don’t want it.”

And you left. Behind you, Iruka stood confused, but your friend threw him a sly smirk, looping her arm around his neck. Something mischievous was already blooming in her mind.

“I’ll fill you in,” Shinya whispered against his ear.

———

You couldn’t lie. You’d missed the office. Not because of the conditions; that would be a shallow reason. You’d fallen behind on your projects and genuinely needed the stillness. And, if you were honest, the distraction.

A knock at the door broke the quiet.

“Come in?”

You rarely had visitors. Maybe Tsunade, but she never bothered to knock.

A man stepped into your room, his hair tied in a spiky ponytail, narrow brown eyes familiar and sharp. He wore the expression of someone who hadn’t come by choice, as though he were following orders.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Shikamaru bowed slightly in front of you, prompting you to rise from your chair and bow back. Oh. Right. I know him. A pause. Wait—what?

“Ah—no problem. Did something happen?”

Shikamaru wasn’t one for unnecessary words. He lazily extended a document across your desk, already turning toward the door. His gaze flicked over you, brief and calculating, before he let go of the paper.

“Best of luck.”

He left you standing in the quiet room, puzzled, until your eyes dropped to the page.

You felt your hand tremble against the paper. A tangled knot of emotions churned in your chest. You were so happy that someone believed in your ideas. You knew Shikamaru wouldn’t have signed off unless he was certain the project was a sound investment. But still… a part of you felt uneasy. Was this preferential treatment? Or was it something else?

Had your efforts during the crisis earned you this recognition?

Or was there a chance that… No. Impossible.

What is this man’s business?

———

Iruka brought the envelope back to the Hokage’s office, placing it on the desk in front of Kakashi, who blinked a few times at the sight of it. Iruka lingered, waiting to see if he would say anything. Eventually, under the weight of the silence, Kakashi asked,

“You didn’t find Y/N?”

The familiarity in his tone unsettled Iruka. And after what your friend had told him, too many questions were beginning to take root in his mind. Far too many.

“She didn’t want it, Kakashi.”

A faint tension slipped from Kakashi’s shoulders. Iruka wasn’t naïve. He picked up the cup of tea resting on the desk, stirring the honey within as he tried to keep his voice even, almost casual.

“How did the two of you get along? She seemed a little upset.”

He had expected you to refuse, but your anger confused him.

“She’s kind. Soft-hearted.”

“That’s all?” Iruka’s voice carried a sharper edge as he lifted his head. Kakashi looked up, caught off guard.

“Is there something you want to say, Iruka?”

Iruka didn’t press the matter. He turned to leave but paused at the door, offering one final, quiet piece of advice.

“Don’t let life pass you by, Kakashi. We all deserve good things, especially when they come knocking first.”

He left Kakashi alone in the room, disoriented, with a heart that suddenly felt too heavy in his chest.

———

After that, you were so caught up with the project that even the pang in your chest didn’t feel that bad anymore. Weeks passed, but you didn’t cross paths with Kakashi.

Well, until today.

While your protective goggles shielded your eyes from the mini-grinder in your hand, you were working on a component from the massive blueprint—well-drawn and architecturally sound. You silently thanked Sai. You hadn’t even known he existed until Sakura mentioned him. Though strange on the surface, he seemed like a decent guy.

You nearly dropped the running grinder on your hand, throwing your arms up as your heart almost leapt out of your chest.

“Oi!” Tsunade burst in, as volcanic as always. Her perpetually annoyed expression was right in place.

“What the fuck, Tsuna! Are you crazy??”

She rolled her eyes as she walked toward you.

“Have you deactivated your shinobi instincts since becoming a teacher?” Tsunade gave you a smug grin.

“I’m not a teach—! Ugh. Just say what you want.”

She leaned over your worktable, eyeing the project with a rare glint of admiration. That was the best she could offer right now, considering her condition.

“I really need a drink.”

You frowned slightly.

“Are you okay?”

She let out a low sigh, shaking her head as she turned her back, moving with an almost childlike huff.

“Yes, yes. Calm down. I’m just sick of work, work, and more work.” Tsunade was already making her way to the door. “You in?”

You thought for a second before deciding quickly.

“Sure.”

You needed it—after all the work, but also…

“Oh, by the way.”

You gave her a confused look.

“I called the others too. I’m sure you care who—but you’ll find out soon enough.”

You yelled after her for answers, but she had already slammed the door shut.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, but it made no sense. It was just your longing. The one that shouldn’t exist anymore.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, at the black floral kimono cinched gently at your waist covering the slightly tighter dress underneath, you took a deep breath, calming yourself. Your lips were just a touch rosier—just enough not to draw too much attention. The same went for the soft black under your eyes, paired with mascara. By the time you reached Shushu-ya. The Shushu-ya is known for its sake and charcoal-grilled yakitori. But tonight, it was definitely going to be all about the sake.

Unlucky for you, everyone was already there. Asuma along with Kurenai (your new favorite couple). A flushed Tsunade, probably from the three shots she’d already taken with Shizune, who didn’t seem far behind her. Genma and Koteshu, whom you didn’t interact with often, but were always decent company at a drinking table. Sakura wasn’t there, probably home with Sasuke, who didn’t like to drink much. Shinya was already all over Iruka. And… you two made eye contact first, as if he already knew you were coming. Your eyes widened slightly, though you hoped he hadn’t noticed. Your heart leapt strangely, making you quickly look away as you approached the table.

Tsunade smirked when she saw you, placing a hand near her mouth for dramatic effect.

“Oooh! Look who decided to show up.”

You rolled your eyes at her, smiling. But your legs were shaking as you sat down—since the only seat available was next to Kakashi.

“You said 8 PM, darling.”

She furrowed her brows, faking contemplation with a pouty expression.

“Yeah, maybe?” A glint sparkled in her eye that you didn’t see coming. Had this mean woman planned it?! “Anyway, how about we play poker and I take all your money?”

Asuma flicked the toothpick from his mouth, smiling at Kurenai before speaking.

“As if you’d ever pass up the chance to clean out our pockets.”

The conversation began to blur into background noise, your skin burning until you mustered the courage to look at Kakashi—who was already looking at you.

“Hi, Kakashi.”

He gave you that soft, familiar smile. The one you could always see in his eyes.

“Hello, Y/N.” His hand was relaxed on the back of his chair, body slightly turned toward you. “How have you been?”

You hadn’t expected to feel like this after so long. But you also hadn’t expected him to look that obscenely good.

His spiky hair was no longer tucked beneath the metal headband, a few strands falling onto his forehead. The scar over his eye was no longer hidden, and you hadn’t known it could make him look even more handsome—somehow sharpening his features in a new way. His dark eyes were softer now, and even his posture seemed relaxed. He was wearing all black, a tank top that hugged his torso and showed off his defined muscles and that tattoo you couldn’t help but stare at when your gaze instinctively wandered there. The tight shirt even had a section that covered his mouth.

Fuck, I need a drink.

After a few painfully awkward minutes of disassociating, Kakashi was still waiting for you to answer. He seemed to be lost in his own head too, trying not to let his gaze drop to the curves outlined by what you were wearing—or to your lips, which looked fuller than usual.

“Y/N?”

You blinked twice before letting out a soft, forced laugh.

“Sorry, sorry. Zoned out for a second.” In a way, you told him the truth. “Ahm, I’ve been okay. Haven’t had time for much lately, to be honest.” When the waiter came, you downed your shot so quickly that everyone at the table looked at you—either impressed or amused, depending on who it was. You felt your cheeks redden under the sudden attention.

Kakashi’s mind was flooded with questions. Does she even want to talk to me? She doesn’t seem comfortable. His self-sabotaging thoughts made him want to withdraw from the conversation.

“I know what you mean.” He smiled again before glancing somewhere random across the bar.

You immediately felt guilty. You were being distant, too embarrassed.

“Oh, right!” Kakashi’s gaze returned to you. “Thank you for the budget you allocated to the project. I really didn’t expect it. I… didn’t get a chance to thank you directly. I guess being Hokage is a lot more demanding than what I do.” You corrected yourself, stuttering slightly. “Definitely more demanding, actually.”

Kakashi was a bit surprised by your behavior—he didn’t understand your reactions. He remembered you differently, and now you either seemed shy in social settings… or shy with him.

“All work is demanding. You don’t need to thank me, your mind is innovative and we need people like you. Thank you for your contribution.”

You chuckled a little, your mouth speaking ahead of your brain.

“You’re so formal.”

Kakashi’s eyes widened, hearing your laugh again after so long.

“Yeah… I guess I’m still in Hokage mode. Forgive me.”

Now it was Kakashi’s turn to take a shot, turning his head slightly to hide the hint of blush on his cheeks.

The conversation eventually smoothed into something more natural. Somehow, Kakashi’s respectful demeanor helped you try to view him as just a friend. Maybe you’d imagined certain things. Maybe that was all it was. You had to let it go.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself by the tenth shot, watching him walk toward the bathroom before turning back to a very tipsy Genma, grinning.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Your lover boy left?”

You shoved him playfully on the shoulder.

“Genma!!”

“What? Everyone at the table knows. Seems like it’s just you two who don’t.”

Looking around and seeing everyone giving you the same look, you were left speechless, mouth slightly open in surprise.

You laughed along with him.

“I think you’re crazier than I am.”

“Oh, without question, darling.”

Kakashi had returned to the table just in time to catch that final darling and Genma far too close to your face while you were laughing. Kakashi averted his gaze, feeling a hard-to-control impulse to either leave the table or interrupt—even though he had no right. But of course, he stayed silent.

You turned toward him, a little shyly, but Kakashi was already ignoring you, talking to Shizune.

A ridiculous question popped into your head. Of course he doesn’t like her, you answered yourself.

And again, Tsunade’s words echoed in your head.

By the end of the night, you were tipsy enough that walking straight was a challenge. But at least you weren’t alone. Kakashi had hung back, hands in his pockets, watching as you all said your goodbyes. After waving everyone off, you started walking alone.

It didn’t take long before Kakashi suddenly appeared beside you. You flinched, looking up at him. The height difference was intimidating—especially with him looking at you like that.

“Kakashi?”

“I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk home alone like this.”

You smiled playfully before replying.

“Like this? D-drunk? Pfft, I’ve been worse.”

“Then I’m glad nothing bad’s happened to you so far.” He was just as irresponsible once—he couldn’t judge.

“So you’re walking me home because it’s on your way?”

You were a little unfiltered, not really caring what you let slip.

“No. I’m just walking you.”

You stopped walking, eyeing him suspiciously before starting again. Okay, calm down, he’s just being friendly.

“T-thanks.” You wanted to believe the stutter was only from the alcohol, but your flushed cheeks betrayed you. Kakashi noticed—and his heart clenched at your adorable expression.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry for crying.”

Kakashi turned to you abruptly. You’d meant to say it for a while but never had the chance.

“I don’t know what came over me. I really was sorry. I guess being around you made me want to understand you more, empathize more… and then, with the village situation and all the stress, I just… felt safe. And only after did I realize how awful it was to invade your personal space like that. You clearly didn’t want it, you were tense, and then you left and I felt ridiculous. But I was also mad when you tried to give me that ‘compensation’ and—”

Only after did you realize you’d talked way too much. Your heart pounded wildly until you looked up and saw Kakashi, stunned. He had stopped walking.

“Y/N.”

“Y-yes?”

His eyes scanned your entire face, then locked onto yours—gentle, but troubled.

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t invade anything. I just… wasn’t used to it. If you felt safe, then I must’ve felt the same. I’m sorry about the ‘compensation’ idea. I just… didn’t know how else to communicate with you. Or how to thank you again.”

Did he just open up to me?

You both started walking again and you tried to process what he said.

“Why didn’t you talk to me if you didn’t know how to reach me?”

Now Kakashi was silent. Because I don’t know how to talk to you. Because I don’t deserve to. Because getting to know me would be a waste of your time.

“Okay, I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything! I just meant that I wanted to—sorry, I don’t want to force anything—Fuck, I’m so weird—” You tripped slightly, but he caught you by the hand and waist. His firm grip and warm hands froze time. “I’m sorry—”

He hadn’t let go yet. Kakashi was stunned—he had thoughts he didn’t dare voice, and here you were saying them out loud.

“I wanted to talk too.” You looked at your still-intertwined hands, and Kakashi released his grip slowly, awkwardly.

You were still looking at him—somehow unashamed. Alcohol really is a dangerous drug. Kakashi felt your gaze rake over him entirely, leaving his thoughts in chaos. Is it just the alcohol?

“So why didn’t you talk to me then?”

You reached your street—your house in sight—but stopped a few steps before. Looking at him.

Kakashi looked back at you, his tongue stiff with silence, unable to form a single safe sentence.

“O-ok, I get it. Well—” You turned to leave, but Kakashi instinctively caught your hand. Your eyes widened as your heart pounded harder.

“Could you stay a bit longer?”

You took a sip from your water bottle, the little that was left, and nodded.

You leaned against some unfinished brick walls, and he followed.

“I think I didn’t talk because I felt like I shouldn’t.”

Your head turned instantly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I think… I’d like to get to know you better. Not just in one way.”

Those last words were dragged out. Kakashi repeating Iruka’s words in his head like a mantra. His voice felt foreign—he couldn’t believe he’d actually said that aloud.

Even though his eyes tried to avoid yours, you didn’t say anything for a few minutes, which made Kakashi anxious—until he looked at you again. You looked shocked.

“Y/N?”

“What do you mean by ‘not just in one way’?” You stepped closer, both of your thighs brushing. You didn’t know why, but you kept feeling the urge to get closer to him—even if he didn’t seem like the type.

“In whatever way… you want.”

You’d changed your opinion about alcohol three times tonight. But right now, in this moment—if it weren’t for the alcohol—you never would’ve had the guts to do this.

“In whatever way I want?” You stepped forward, now right in front of Kakashi.

Kakashi saw the glint in your eyes—and it confirmed for him: it was no longer just in his head. It was desire. He was already in deep; there was no point backing out now.

“Yes.”

Your eyes dropped to his lips, still hidden under the mask—and an idea struck you.

Kakashi saw it. And it was hard to judge the situation. You’re drunk. You’re not reliable.

“Y/N, I think we should talk tomorrow. When you’re sober.”

He regretted saying it the moment your sad expression fell across your face.

“Don’t you want this too?” You stepped even closer. “Is it really just in my head?”

Kakashi gulped, his eyes finally settling on your lips—not ignoring them anymore. But he hated that it was another irresponsible choice—one you might regret in the morning. (You wouldn’t.)

“It’s not.”

That was all the confirmation you needed before Kakashi felt your wet lips press through the fabric. His right hand instinctively went to your back, gently touching you as your lips moved softly, testing what it felt like to kiss him. You deepened the half-kiss, letting out a hum at the sensation—and Kakashi felt himself twitch in his pants. Your hands reached behind his neck, threading into his hair, and your body pressed into his.

You opened your mouth more, and when he felt your tongue trace along the fabric over his mouth, he groaned.

You pulled back briefly to meet his half-lidded gaze, then leaned in again, cupping his cheek and kissing him once more. When you moaned, shifting slightly against him, Kakashi gripped you tighter—letting you know he liked the sound.

Your fingers went under the mask, tugging it down quickly. Kakashi, already anticipating the moment, didn’t care.

It began as a gentle exploration—your tongue grazing his, softly touching the tip. Then your tongue slid along his lips and Kakashi opened wider in return, the kiss escalating into something hungry. Kakashi swirled his tongue around yours, then sucked on it—and your knees almost gave out. He kissed incredibly .

You moaned into his mouth as his hands found your jaw, angling your face toward him. He dragged your lips and bit down gently, making you hiss before kissing you again—slower now, but more sensual. Like he was fucking your mouth. You thought you might go insane wondering what he was like in bed.

So turned on you were searching for any release, you started grinding slightly against him. Kakashi grabbed your hips, stopping you. He paused—his lips barely brushing yours, breathing your breath. His grey eyes darkened, and a shiver ran down your spine. His hand was still on your chin as he looked at you.

“Y/N, we should stop.”

You leaned in again, brushing your lips over his, and he responded—gently—before gripping your cheek to stop you.

“Y/N, we’re both intoxicated. It’s the middle of the night. We’re in the street.”

Your eyes widened. Fuck, I’m with the Hokage.

“Come to my place.”

Kakashi tried to calm down, still not fully processing that you just kissed. And you had no idea what you’d awakened in him with your taste. But still—his respect for you was stronger than that.

“Y/N, I promise we’ll talk tomorrow—”

“I won’t do anything, I swear! Just… sleep.”

Kakashi looked you over, sensing sincerity. It took a few seconds before he sighed and replied. He… missed you, somehow. Even if “missing” was a foreign feeling for him.

“Okay.”

You tugged on his hand, and Kakashi was stunned by your lack of inhibition—though he shamelessly admired your body from behind, a sin he wasn’t proud of.

You struggled a bit to walk, and Kakashi supported you by the arm until you reached your bed.

“You’ll sleep here with me, right?”

Kakashi felt his heart hammering. He wanted to leave. He should leave. But he couldn’t. Your eyes haunted him.

“Yes.”

Kicking off his shoes, Kakashi lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. You slowly turned toward him, as if asking silent permission. He reached out, pulled you to his chest. You kissed his cheek before settling in.

“Good night, Kakashi.”

Kakashi stared blankly ahead, already sabotaging himself. But his voice came naturally.

“Sleep well, Y/N.”

⸻

When you awoke, disoriented and heavy-lidded, your eyes fluttered open slowly. Lying on your side, you noticed the pillow beside you—neatly arranged, untouched. As if no one had ever slept there. The memories from last night only deepened the pounding in your head. Sitting up abruptly, you swallowed hard, a hollow ache in your stomach knocking the air from your lungs. What had last night meant?

Shame gnawed at you—for your persistence, your behavior, everything you’d done. You couldn’t help but believe he hadn’t needed any of it, that maybe he’d only gone along for your sake. That thought was only confirmed as you stepped downstairs and saw no sign of him. Still wrapped in the fog of regret, you caught a glimpse of steam rising from a freshly brewed coffee and a folded scrap of paper left beside it, torn at the edges as if it had been ripped hastily.

Your heart thudded harder in your chest. Somehow, his short, almost detached note brought a sliver of calm. But not enough.

Meanwhile, Kakashi was at the training grounds. He hadn’t lied. No, he would never stoop so low as to flee from his own emotions behind a convenient excuse. He genuinely had to investigate an unresolved budget issue—minor, but enough to affect the farmers grappling with the drought during rice cultivation. Could it have waited? Absolutely. But he convinced himself a Hokage should act swiftly—that doing so was for the best. The truth, however, was simpler: he couldn’t bear to stay. Frustration churned in him, spilling out through more aggressive strikes during his training, as if the effort might silence the storm in his mind.

What had happened last night was on him. He knew better than to seek you out, but his heart had revolted against discipline—against rules etched into his psyche since childhood. What frightened him most was that what he felt was real, unforced. And because of that, his actions no longer belonged entirely to him. Who knows what he might have done if he’d stayed in that room with you this morning? So, he did what he always did best—retreated into himself, where it was safer.

The distance Kakashi imposed on you felt unbearable, convincing you he wanted nothing more to do with you—especially after what happened. But you were different. You couldn’t just sit with silence. You didn’t want him to hate you. You didn’t want to be remembered as something regrettable. So you did what you knew best—you confronted him.

Perhaps Tsunade’s intervention also played a part, watching you drain yourself emotionally, your job neglected, your spirit dimmed.

“I told you how Kakashi is. All you can do is talk to him instead of spinning scenarios you can’t even confirm.”

Even Tsunade seemed puzzled by it all, unsure whether Kakashi was serious or not. She knew he occasionally had one-night encounters when necessary, always respectful, never exploitative—but with you, she wasn’t sure whether you were the exception.

Your steps trembled toward the office door just as Tsunade exited suddenly, nearly bumping into you. Her eyes widened, and she looked visibly agitated. You only hoped she hadn’t said anything about… that.

But the truth was different. She hadn’t betrayed your confidence by telling him she knew about the kiss. And that kiss—you still felt it every time your fingertips grazed your lips absentmindedly, lost in thought. She didn’t say a word. Just let you walk in.

Kakashi had already been scolded by her, warned with veiled sharpness:

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but don’t mess around. She’s my friend. And I don’t think you want me to resort to violence.”

Kakashi had nearly dropped his pen when you walked in, your gaze timid, lingering at the doorway as if unsure you were even allowed inside.

“Hokage-sama, may I have a minute, if you’re not too busy?”

He gave you a quick once-over, noting how pale and drained you looked. It only added to the guilt gnawing at him, though he wasn’t sure if he was to blame.

“S-sure, Y/N. Please, have a seat. And just call me by my name.”

You sat down with a sigh, biting your lip until you found the courage to lift your gaze and meet his inscrutable eyes.

“I’m sorry for… last week.”

“Sorry for what exactly?” Kakashi looked genuinely confused.

“I pushed things. I shouldn’t have let it happen like that. Not under those circumstances.”

“Y/N, I don’t think you understand. You didn’t do anything wrong. I did.”

Your eyes widened, as if you’d been struck in the chest.

“Why? Y-you didn’t want it, did you?”

Kakashi furrowed his brow.

“When I kissed you, did it look like I didn’t want to?” A flush spread across your cheeks as you shifted in your seat, and he noticed. He couldn’t lie—the desire you’d sparked in him had haunted his nights, keeping sleep just out of reach as he thought about your lips. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your intoxicated state.”

You cut him off quickly.

“Taken advantage? If anything, I was the one who took advantage of you!”

He shook his head firmly.

You gathered your courage, breathing unevenly, fidgeting with the armrests of the chair to avoid his eyes.

“What do you feel for me?”

The question hit him with such force that he fell silent, hearing only the pounding of his own heart, though his voice stayed measured.

“What do you mean?”

Another blow to your chest. You wanted to run. Instead, you stayed.

“So it meant nothing to you. It was just… a moment.”

The hurt in your eyes made Kakashi feel like he was unraveling. Your expression said more than words ever could. The silence around you grew thick—only the birds outside filled the void.

“It wasn’t just a moment.”

You looked up at him again, wide-eyed, while he broke eye contact, unsettled by the charged air between you.

“Look, Y/N. I’m not the right man for you. You deserve more than I can give.”

That final blow stirred irritation, your eyes misting in frustration, your voice trembling with emotion.

“So it didn’t mean anything. Just another excuse all men use. It’s not you, it’s me.”

Kakashi was taken aback by how wounded you sounded.

“It did mean something. And it’s true—you’re too good for me. You don’t deserve the chaos I carry.”

Your voice shifted to something sharper, defensive.

“And who are you to decide what I deserve? You think I’m perfect? That I don’t have my own flaws? Then why did you even try to get to know me? Am I insane for thinking this was real?”

Kakashi’s throat was dry, panic rising in him.

“You’re not. I wanted to know you, and I still do—but it’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not… capable of a relationship.”

“Why?”

This part of you—relentless, unafraid—shook him. It scraped against every defense he’d built. But his respect for you outweighed the discomfort, so he let the conversation unfold.

“Because I don’t know what a relationship is supposed to be.”

“Would you ever hurt me on purpose?”

Kakashi stared at you, stunned by the question.

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Then you are capable of a relationship.” Silence. “If you don’t want one with me, that’s something else entirely.”

You stood up, prompting him to rise too. He motioned for you to stop, to not let that thought take root.

“No, no. It’s not about you. Really.” He stepped closer, and you lifted your eyes to his face, haloed by the sun behind him.

“Then I’ll ask again. What do you feel for me?”

The way you looked at each other made the air feel thick. Your body burned, heart pounding. Kakashi felt entranced, his gaze falling to your lips. The distance between you shrank, almost unknowingly. His hand moved hesitantly to your cheek, brushing your skin with his thumb. Your eyes shimmered—uncertain, hungry. You couldn’t move, caught in the spell of his touch. When your lips parted with a shallow breath, Kakashi leaned in, brushing your lips with his own. He gave you one last searching look before he kissed you—slowly, gently, as though you might break. You trembled, your eyes closing instinctively, brows knitting together. The kiss ended before you were ready, allowing you just one reply before he pulled away. His hand slipped from your cheek.

“Don’t run.” you whispered, grabbing the fabric of his kimono under his chin, pulling him back into you and kissing him deeper. He didn’t resist. He had already tasted you, and now his heart refused to obey his mind. You gasped into his mouth as he met you with equal fervor, his hand sliding behind your neck, pulling you flush against him. He was no longer in control when he swallowed your moans, his tongue claiming yours, gripping your back with both hands, drawing you in until you jumped, clinging to him.

Kakashi caught you effortlessly, impressing you once more with his speed as he lifted your legs to his back and carried you in a flash onto his desk. You whined when he left your mouth, only for him to descend to your neck, kissing it hungrily, making your body shiver. You arched back, trying to melt into his warmth. Reason returned for just a second.

“K-kakashi, the door’s not locked—”

“Mhm.” he murmured, his large, firm hand cupping your breast softly before giving it a gentle squeeze, tugging at the nipple hidden beneath your shirt, your missing bra only fueling his groan. His other hand hooked one of your legs around his waist, leaning into you and grinding instinctively, driven by something primal.

Your lips trembled, barely forming words between panting breaths.

“K-kakashi—The door!”

Only when you repeated yourself did Kakashi register the situation. He kissed you again, and again, until you felt his warm breath linger on your face. You gulped at the sight of his now darkened eyes. You tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear, and he offered you one last glance before helping you slide gently off the desk. He stepped back, running his hand over his mouth and eyes, staring into nothing, shaken by what he’d done.

“I’m sorry.”

He turned to close the door.

“Don’t apologize… I just… didn’t want—”

You blushed, and Kakashi sighed.

“I know. That was irresponsible.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose in stress, then looked back at you. “That’s what I feel for you.” Your heart practically burst from your chest. You could only stare at him as he approached, stepping into your space, lowering his head to meet your eyes.

“I feel so much that I don’t know how to contain it.”

You swallowed, your whole body burning, your nerves charged.

“Then don’t contain it.”

Kakashi studied your face, every detail, before releasing a heavy breath.

“I’ll try… to learn what it means to be in a relationship.” A spark of joy surged through you, blood pounding in your veins. “With you.”

You locked eyes, breathless—until a knock on the door broke the spell.

“Hokage-sama, just a reminder, your meeting with the Elder Council starts in fifteen minutes.”

Kakashi felt the handle blocked by the lock, so he cracked the door open, offering Shizune a forced smile.

“Thank you, Shizune. I’ll be on my way shortly.”

“Oh! Of course, just a reminder.” Shizune’s eyes landed behind him, widening in surprise when she spotted you, before she gave Kakashi a warm smile that brought a flush to his cheeks beneath the mask.

“Have a great day!”

“You too.” Kakashi nodded, closing the door. He turned back to find your flustered expression, feeling unusually warm inside. He moved stiffly, his motions awkward as he placed the Hokage hat on his head and looked at you.

Your smile was genuine, your eyes dancing.

“You look like a different person with that on, you know?”

“Yeah? In a good way or bad?”

“I don’t know. But the first time I saw you during my presentation, I froze a little.” Your cheeks flushed deeper as you looked away, tucking your hair behind your ear.

Kakashi had a sudden flash of that very moment.

As he moved to the door, opening it and waiting for you to exit first, his voice came low, almost a whisper before shutting it behind him.

“You weren’t alone.”

You hope he’s not lying. God, you hope he’s not lying. Because from that moment on, you felt something anchor between you—something real, something terrifying. And his confession made it all feel just a little more possible.

@strangergraphics for the divider

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meadowfics · 6 months ago

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Namgyu headcannons with grumpy pessimistic Reader?

misery loves company

namgyu x f!reader headcannons

one evening, you slam your door after another rough day, muttering, “fuck off, everything’s screwed,”

you’re roommates with thanos, semi, minsu, and unfortunately namgyu.

namgyu leans against the kitchen wall with a half-smirk,

“you know, even when you piss me off, i can’t help but think you’re damn attractive.”

“what the fuck namgyu?”

you turn around, wondering what the fuck he is talking about.

“don’t get all pissed off over a damn compliment, fuck is wrong with you?”

namgyu scoffs.

after over a late-night coffee run, you got into a mini debate with a girl on the street.

honestly, it was just the girl accidentally knocking into you and you were close to cussing her out.

fortunately, namgyu, who had to come with you on this coffee run, looks at you with wonder after pulling you away,

“why do you always expect the worst? what did they do to you?”

you shrug, eyes downcast.

“people always have bad intentions, i’m just used to disappointment,”

even as his concerned gaze lingers.

the next day, he shows up with your favorite pastry from that hole-in-the-wall bakery.

as you’re sleeping, he leaves it on your bedside table with a note that reads,

“i’m not here to terrorize you, just eat this. it is safe and not poisoned i swear.”

namgyu’s actions speak louder than any grand promise.

even if you don’t say it, his care is undeniable.

as roomates, all of you have chores.

as you’re arguing over something trivial, namgyu quips,

“you’re a walking storm, you know that? you’re lucky that storms are beautiful because i would’ve asked thanos to throw your ass out already,”

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch.

a silent admission that his words hit home.

of course you caught feelings for your roommate, but you would never ever say it out loud.

one rainy evening, after a particularly bitter outburst on the phone with someone, namgyu sits beside you afterwards on the couch.

“i gotta be honest, i used to think your pessimism is just arrogance.”

“fuck off, namgyu.”

“you know that we aren’t stupid, right? thanos mentioned how you just act like this to not get hurt by people and now i see it. we seen the way you cared for semi whenever she got high off of her ass that one night... now I see that your 'hate' for the world is just armor. i will break that armor someday, y/n.”

you barely meet his eyes, but the unspoken understanding deepens the space between anger and affection.

as your relationship grows, neither of you are one for flowery declarations.

instead, namgyu starts doing little things, fixing the leaky sink you’ve been complaining about, saving you a seat at your favorite spot in the dining room.

each action is a quiet testament to his commitment.

when you hold his hand underneath the table while eating dinner with your roommates, namgyu does not make it a big deal.

he’ll tease you for it later, but for right now, he is glad that you’re starting to catch feelings for him the same way that he loves you.

masterlist

#namgyu x y/n #namgyu x you #namgyu x reader #nam gyu #player 124 #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game s2 #meadowfics #squid game fanfic #squid game #squid game x you #squid game x y/n #player 230

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 3 months ago

Note

Could you do more poly!141 and administrator reader please?! I really love the way you write. Have a great day :))

Behind Closed Doors

Pairing: Poly!141 x Administrator!Reader

Warnings: Emotional tension, workplace dynamics, soft romantic buildup, tension between professionalism and affection, swearing

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the love on Part 1. This slow-burn poly dynamic is starting to become one of my favorite kinds to write. Let me know if you'd like a Part 3!

Summary: After the confessions, the line between professionalism and affection begins to blur. The reader and the 141 team navigate the tension of their new relationship, caught between duty and desire.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The aftermath of your confessions left a strange, quiet intimacy hanging in the air. The four men had stood there, their expressions soft and full of understanding, their hands still brushing against your skin as if you might vanish if they let go. It was a weightless moment, the kind where time seemed to slow, and the world outside your office ceased to exist.

John was the first to speak, his voice low, steady. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, his gaze never leaving yours. There was no hesitation in his words, only the raw truth of what lay ahead. “But we’re in this. All of us.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of the decision settle in your chest. You’d allowed yourself to believe that keeping a professional distance was the only way to survive in this job, to keep your world structured and controlled. But now, with the four of them standing there, claiming pieces of your heart, that world felt impossibly small.

The next few days passed in a haze of quiet moments and stolen glances. It was a balancing act—juggling the demands of your role with the new, delicate threads of your relationship with them. The team was careful, respectful. John was his usual stoic self, but there was a softness in his touch now, a tenderness that made your heart flutter when he brushed past you. Simon, always the enigma, was no less distant to the rest of the world, but you caught the briefest glimmer of something more whenever he glanced at you—something unspoken, yet intimate. Johnny was… Johnny. Relentless, teasing, always pushing, but now with a warmth in his eyes that made your stomach twist in a way you hadn’t expected. And Kyle—oh, Kyle. His quiet support was almost overwhelming, as if he was constantly watching over you, noticing the little things, like when you rubbed your temples after a long day or when you let out a quiet sigh in the middle of paperwork. He didn’t need to say much. His presence alone was a balm to your soul.

But despite the care they showed, you couldn’t ignore the undercurrent of tension that had shifted between you all. You were still the lead administrative liaison—the one who kept everything running smoothly. But now, it felt like there was a layer beneath everything you did, a constant hum of awareness that made it impossible to go back to the way things were.

One afternoon, as the team filed in for the daily briefing, you felt that familiar weight settle back into your chest. You weren’t sure how to act anymore. You weren’t sure how to be the unflappable administrator you once were, knowing that the four of them were no longer just your colleagues. They were your something more.

“Bonnie, you look like you could use a drink,” Johnny teased, his grin easy, like nothing had changed. But you noticed the way his eyes flickered over you, the way his voice dropped lower when he spoke your name.

“Don’t start, Johnny,” you shot back, trying to maintain your usual sharpness. But there was a warmth in your chest, a soft smile you couldn’t quite hide.

Kyle, who had been sitting quietly off to the side, caught your eye and offered you a small, knowing smile. He leaned forward slightly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “How about a break after the debrief? Could use some air, yeah?”

You nodded, grateful for the suggestion. It was one of the many ways Kyle had shown you that he noticed you—no words needed, just subtle gestures and quiet understanding.

John cleared his throat, pulling you back into the professional mode you’d worn so long. “Alright, team. We’ve got a debrief to get through. Admin, you ready?” His gaze was steady, serious, but there was something else—something softer—beneath the surface.

You nodded, gathering your papers, trying to pull your focus back to work. “Ready as ever.”

The debrief was, as always, intense—missions discussed in detail, updates passed along, and plans for future operations laid out. But there was a different energy in the room this time, an undercurrent that you couldn’t ignore. It was there in the way the men sat just a little closer to you than they had before. In the way their eyes kept flickering toward you when they thought you weren’t looking. In the way John’s voice softened when he spoke your name, or how Simon’s normally sharp gaze seemed a little less guarded.

As the meeting wound down, you cleared your throat, standing to gather your things. “Alright, everything’s settled for now. I’ll finalize the rest of the details, and we’ll—”

“Stay a bit longer?” Johnny interrupted, his voice casual but his eyes betraying a hint of something more. “We’ve got some time before the next operation. What do you say, luvie?”

You hesitated for a moment, looking at each of them—John, his brow furrowed in that signature look of quiet determination; Simon, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, the faintest hint of something unspoken in his gaze; Kyle, watching you with a soft, unwavering gaze that made your heart skip; and Johnny, who was already standing, a grin plastered on his face as if he already knew the answer.

You glanced at your watch, feeling the pressure of the ticking minutes, the weight of your responsibilities. But when you saw the way they were all looking at you—eyes warm, filled with something deeper—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

“Alright,” you said, the word slipping out before you could second-guess yourself. “I’ll stay. For a bit.”

Johnny’s grin widened, and he winked. “Knew you’d cave eventually.”

The four of them slowly surrounded you, not in a rush, not demanding, but each of them offering a quiet space for you to just be. It wasn’t about the mission anymore, or the job. It was about them—about you, with them, as a team in a way you’d never allowed yourself to be before. A part of something bigger than your role, than the logistics, than the rules you’d always lived by.

As you all moved toward the break room, the laughter started again—this time, it was easy. Comfortable. You had stepped out from the professional mask you’d worn for so long, allowing yourself to be just you with them. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of peace.

Maybe it wouldn’t be perfect. Maybe there would be challenges ahead—doubts, struggles, complications. But in that moment, with them by your side, it felt like it could be enough. Enough to make this chaos, this beautiful, uncontrollable thing, worth it.

——

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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connorsui · 11 months ago

Text

In the Quiet Afterhours

Zayne x reader

Synopsis: In the quiet of afterhours, you and zayne find solace in the intimacy of simple acts of care, your love unspoken yet deeply felt through the tenderness of shared moments.

Genre/warnings: pure fluff, silence of intimacy, zayne wanting to drown himself in your warmth, you are the light in this manz life, no warnings tho …zayne has suffered enough

note: I just wanna take care of him...like plz let me give my man his needed care..

w.: 1,180

There was, perhaps, no greater feeling than the quietude of love that existed in those moments where words fell away, leaving only the hum of companionship to bind two souls together. Zayne had always been a man of few words—practical in his pursuits, level-headed in his judgments, and ever the picture of self-possession. Yet, beneath that stern exterior, there was a tenderness reserved solely for you, a tenderness that revealed itself not in grand gestures or fervent declarations, but in the subtleties of shared moments, and the warmth of a gaze lingering far longer than propriety might allow.

This evening was no different, save for the weariness etched into his fine features, the faint shadows under his hazel-green eyes telling the tale of a long day spent in service to duty. He returned home as he always did—quietly, with little fanfare, his shoulders still squared despite the obvious weight that pressed upon him. And yet, when his eyes found yours, there was a softening in his expression, the firm lines of his brow relaxing as though the sight of you alone was enough to ease the burdens he carried.

"Welcome home," you murmured, the warmth of your voice drawing him nearer.

"Hello, love"

Zayne, ever pragmatic, offered a small nod, but it was the way his hand rose to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek that spoke volumes more than any pleasantry could. There was an intimacy in that touch, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin as though reluctant to part, as though you alone were the balm to his tired soul.

He said little as you coaxed him toward the shower, his resistance nonexistent, for he had learned, in these quiet moments, to let you care for him. It was a remarkable thing, this unspoken understanding between you—a partnership built on the most delicate threads of love, trust, and respect. You, in turn, had come to know that behind Zayne’s pragmatic exterior was a man who cherished the simplicity of your presence, a man who allowed himself to be vulnerable only when the world outside had no claim on him.

The warm cascade of water was a gentle relief, steam curling in the air as you worked the soap into your hands, your fingers gliding over his tense shoulders. The muscles beneath your touch, though firm, betrayed a quiet exhaustion, and as you began to wash him, you could feel the faint tremor of relief in his body, the tension slowly unraveling.

He closed his eyes, his lips parting in a near inaudible sigh, and for a moment, he was not the stoic officer, nor the pragmatic strategist. He was simply Zayne, a man who found comfort in your touch, in the way your hands moved with careful precision over his skin, tracing the curves and lines that you had come to know so intimately.

In another’s eyes, this scene might have seemed mundane, but there was an indescribable beauty in the familiarity of it all—a beauty that lay not in grandiose acts of affection but in the quiet devotion with which you attended to one another. It was a love that needed no embellishment, no flowery language to justify its existence, for it was rooted in something far more profound.

When your hands drifted lower, the soap lathering between your fingers, Zayne’s eyes fluttered open, and there it was again—that look of quiet reverence that always seemed to accompany his gaze when it fell upon you. It was not the gaze of a man merely admiring your physical form, but the gaze of a man rediscovering you anew each time, as though the sight of you was enough to set his soul alight in ways words could never adequately express.

He said nothing, but the faintest upward curve of his lips betrayed him. “Spoiling me again?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing in a way that would have seemed foreign to anyone but you.

“And why shouldn’t I?” you replied softly, smiling as your hands worked the soap along the lines of his body. “You work so hard... At least let me take care of you.”

There was a moment, brief yet timeless, where Zayne’s eyes softened even further, the weight of his exhaustion giving way to something deeper, something far more tender. It was in these moments that you truly understood the depth of his affections. He would never speak them outright, for it was not his nature to indulge in the overt declarations that many sought in love. Yet, in the way he stood before you, allowing you to see him in his most vulnerable state, you knew. You knew that his heart, so often guarded, was entirely yours.

When it came time to wash his hair, Zayne bent forward with practiced ease, his dark hair falling over his brow as you lathered the shampoo into his scalp. You laughed, as you always did, at the way his hair fluffed beneath the suds, your amusement drawing a faint smile from him.

“You look cute like this,” you teased, the lightness in your voice a welcome contrast to the quiet of the room.

He glanced up at you, one eyebrow raised in mock indignation. “cute?...another word for you to describe me...” he echoed, his voice dry, though the glint in his hazel eyes betrayed his amusement. “If you could see how I invision you, the roles would be reversed"

Yet he made no protest, content to let you have your moment of playful teasing. For all his stoicism, Zayne had always had a soft spot for the way your laughter lit up the room, and though he would never admit it aloud, he found your teasing far more endearing than he let on.

When the roles reversed, and it was Zayne’s hands that worked the soap into your hair, he was as gentle as ever. His fingers moved with a precision that was unmistakably him, careful to ensure no soap slipped into your eyes. “I know you say I deserved to be spoiled but allow me to give that in return, ten times fold ” he murmured, his voice a quiet caress, his touch so tender it felt as though you might melt beneath it.

You didn't argue.

Once the water had washed away the last traces of soap, he reached for a towel, and in the same unhurried manner, began to dry you off with the utmost care, as though each motion was imbued with the love he so rarely spoke of. It was in these moments, in the quiet spaces between words, that you truly understood the depth of Zayne’s love for you—a love that, like the stars themselves, was constant, enduring, and far more profound than words could ever convey.

Even after the task was complete, he lingered, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close in an embrace that spoke of more than just comfort. It was connection, the unspoken promise that even in silence, his heart was yours.

His breath, soft against your neck, mingled with the warmth of your skin, and there, in the quiet afterhours of the day, there was no need for words.

Just the two of you alone.

Gimmie a tired zayne I would take care of him

#suiwrites🍒#love and deepspace x reader #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #lads x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds x reader #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #lnds zayne x reader #l&ds zayne x reader #lads zayne x reader

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alexlwrites · 4 months ago

Text

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬

✿𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: OT7 x Plus Size! Reader

✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: "What was so outrageous about someone like you, you asked yourself and the universe. You had tried your best to compensate for any shortcomings with everything else that was expected of you: femininity, understanding, a sense of humor. Never enough, those were never even the first thing that came to mind when people thought of you.

Why bother then? If nothing you did made any difference at all, why try? If people hated your body just for existing, why not give them a reason to hate your personality as well?"

The one where seven campus princes who are used to getting everything they wanted get enchanted by your distrust and brattiness, climbing over each other to get a smile from you who could not be bothered to give them a single second of your day.

✿ 𝑨/𝑵: I have no idea what actually goes in a carbonara, I only know that I enjoy eating it very much.

(Fanfic masterlist)

(support me on my ko-fi)

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐑𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

(<<< part one)

As a fat person, you’ve always had a complicated relationship with food.

Luckily, it had never evolved into something unhealthy, never leading up to anything like starvation. It always just hovered over your existence, always seemed to weight you (pun intended, but you were allowed to make those!) down with guilty, overbearing self-awareness. Food came with so many unspoken rules, it was hard to truly enjoy it.

You avoided eating in front of people. When forced to go to a restaurant, you let everyone order first to make sure your meal was the smallest of the group and you never ever asked for seconds, much less for dessert. You could only ever be seen with protein bars and green shakes, if that. You were not allowed to enjoy the act of eating and were forced to walk this earth as if that was not your primary source of sustenance. No, you survived out of Chloe Ting videos and photosynthesis, or so was expected of you.

But even so, you loved cooking.

It was not something you divulged, afterall how stereotypical that would be of you. And truly, it wasn’t even about eating your creations but instead the act of creating itself, the enjoyment of the very exact art leading to a beautiful result that at least others would get to enjoy, even if you wouldn’t sometimes.

But when you shed the shackles of caring and let go of giving fucks about what others had to say (and, Jesus, did they have things to say!), your first act of rebellion was signing up for cooking classes in a pretty bistro downtown. Still shaky and insecure, you arrived at the first class unsure of what to expect. But instead of judgemental looks and the evil critic from Ratatouille, you found yourself amongst other culinary enthusiasts who appreciated the therapeutic properties of a good meal. Instead of Gordon Ramseys and almond moms, you found yourself a community - you found friends.

You were with one of those friends a couple days after the library debacle, updating her of the whole ordeal with your cell phone on mute as Jungkook still tended to blow it up after you made the horrible mistake of unblocking him. Naomi was tall and built like a rugby player and you had quickly bonded over a shared love for bread.

“So he just… Brought you flowers?” she asked, leaning over your counter before the class started.

“Yes and now the whole campus thinks we’re together.” you rolled your eyes, still annoyed by Jungkook's unexpected display of affection “I had people coming up to me all week asking about him! Even professors!”

Naomi laughed “Sounds like you got yourself a little campus prince.”

“I got myself a headache, that’s what I got.” you sighed, turning towards the teacher who had just arrived. “At least I can get away from all of that here.”

“Hello, class!” the teacher, a middle-aged lady with dark hair named Robin, called “Today, continuing on our italian cuisine section, we’ll be preparing spaghetti carbonara. But before we start, let me introduce our new student!” she gestured towards a tall man standing in the back of the class, all dark hair and large shoulders with a million dollar smile “Mr. Kim will be joining us from now on. You can sit with Y/N for now, dear!”

Mr. Kim didn’t shuffle silently to his seat like people usually did when arriving in a room filled with unknown people - instead, he strutted towards you with the loud confidence of someone who had never once tripped on their own shoes or had something stuck to their teeth. “Hi” he said when sliding onto the stool next to you, still sporting an unnervingly beautiful grin “I’m Jin.”

You smiled politely “Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

Jin nodded slightly “You too.”

You thought that was it, silence following your introductions as the teacher called the class to pay attention to her instructions.

You tried to follow the steps quietly, focusing on the ingredients in front of you. Still, curiosity caused you to furtively steal glances sideways to the beautiful stranger next to you maneuvering spices and chopping slices with what seemed to be practiced ease. You stared at his hands almost unblinkingly, hypnotized by his long, pink knuckled fingers and their agility…

“Do you need help?”

You blinked, snapping out of your less than appropriate daydreams “I’m sorry?”

Jin shrugged, picture-perfect casualty with a pinch of arrogance hanging in his smile that had your defenses climbing up “You were kind of staring and I thought you needed help with the recipe or something.”

He was right, you were staring, but you’d be damned if you admitted to that. Instead, you stole a quick look at his pan and said “You should add more garlic into that.”

That had him pausing in confusion, as if no one corrected his cooking before “Excuse me?”

“There’s not enough garlic. You should add more, it will enhance the flavor.”

“No, it won’t.” he snapped back, strangely defensive over his creation.

“What are you, a vampire? Garlic makes everything better.”

“I think I know how to make carbonara with the appropriate amount of garlic, thank you very much.”

“I think you don’t, that’s why you’re a student and not the teacher up there. Mr. Cullen.”

You waited for him to come back with another anti-garlic remark, but he paused once more, lips curling in amusement “You’re funny” he said at last.

“I’m.. What?”

“You’re funny” he repeated and you watched in confusion as he added more garlic to his recipe “and in respect to that, I will follow your advice if only to prove you are wrong.”

“Well, then at least add some butter while you’re at it.”

“Now you’re just being sacrilegious”.

You raised your hands in fake surrender. “It’s your carbonara’s funeral, man.”

Jun huffed and turned away from you, seemingly offended with your suggestion, but once you looked back at your station he furtively added a square of butter to his mixture.

The rest of the class passed in relative silence as you made no other attempt to talk to him, focused on your own recipe. When the allotted time ended and the teacher called out the final instructions, you turned back to the handsome man next to you and extended a fork.

“Well” you said “truth time”.

He scoffed but accepted the cutlery anyway, blowing carefully at the portion he picked before tasting it. You watched with barely concealed satisfaction as his eyes widened and his cheeks puffed in a chipmunk-like manner.

“Oh my God” he moaned behind the hand covering his full mouth.

“Any good, Nosferato?”

“I bow to thee, this is amazing.” He reached for your plate “Do you mind?” he grabbed a forkful before you could answer “Jesus, this is even better! What’s your secret?”

“A magician never reveals their tricks.”

There were no tricks. You actually just followed the recipe, so you weren’t quite sure what you could’ve done that would invoke that sort of reaction, but you were not about to admit that.

“That’s fair” he took yet another bit of your carbonara, uncaringly ignoring your funny looks. “This is so good!”

In the end, Jin ate most of your carbonara while you watched him devour your plate with a pleasurable carefree abandon, humming in delight with his cheeks full.

You hadn’t been able to openly enjoy food like that since you were a kid, so in that moment you allowed yourself to live vicariously through him. There was so much joy in his eyes as he chewed your stolen food that it reminded you that this was what culinary was about: not a number on a package or a trigger, but an intrinsic part of society, of community building and cultural history. Food was made to be savored and shared.

And although you didn’t necessarily share your food with Jin, he seemed to be savoring it enough for the both of you.

As usual, the teacher went around the room trying out bites from each pan, delivering gentle feedback when needed. When she stopped by your table, reaching for the little piece left in your plate after Jin’s attack, she showered you with compliments and was promptly followed by Jin’s hearty applause, leaving you red and embarrassed while Naomi wiggle her eyebrows suggestively.

As soon as Robin dismissed the class, you ran for the door with your things awkwardly gathered in your arms, avoiding the praises of your peers. You still had a hard time dealing with attention and it did not matter if it was positive or not.

“Y/N!” someone called. You turned as Jin caught up with you, his unfairly long legs reaching you in only a couple strides.

“If you’re here to steal anymore of my food, you’re out of luck.”

Jin had the decency to look a bit embarrassed, but not at all regretful “Sorry about that!” he said, not at all sorry, with sauce still on the corners of his full lips “Let me make it up to you. What are you doing this friday?”

That Friday you had unchangeable plans to rot in bed until 12 and then yell at Jungkook in the afternoon until the phrase “leave me the fuck alone” was finally processed by what seemed to be a very tiny brain inside his head full of hair and stubborness. But Jin didn’t have to know that.

“Why?”

“Let me take you out. I swear I’ll let you eat your own food this time.”

You frowned in confusion. “You don’t have to buy me food just because you ate mine. I have food at home, you know.”

“Oh, it’s not because I feel bad. I don’t feel bad at all.” clearly, if his smile was anything to go by “But I like a woman who can cook, especially if she cooks just as well as I do. Let me take you on a date.”

I like a woman who cooks, I like a woman with an appetite…All sorts of bullshit you had heard before. What people meant is that they liked skinny girls who ate McDonalds and boasted about how they never seemed to gain weight, no matter how hard they tried. They meant they liked fast metabolism and fried chicken, not hormonal-based weight gain and complicated Italian cuisine.

You were not falling for that again.

“Not interested. Thank you.” you answered, before walking off.

Jin blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“No need to apologize. Have a good day” you replied already from a distance, before turning a corner and leaving a flabbergasted Jin behind.

***

Jin had never been rejected before.

Technically he did get rejected by the cheer squad in his high school for being as flexible as a ruler, but he looked so good in the uniform that they still asked him to be in the yearbook picture, so he didn’t really count that.

But rejected by a woman? Nope. Never. Nunca!

It was oddly unsettling, he thought later that day, haunted by the taste of the carbonara he ate that made every other meal seem bland. He didn’t quite know what to do with the information, other than to contemplate its possible reasons. Why would you reject him? Was it because of the garlic thing? He could think of no other reason!

Should he learn from it and become a better version of himself? Was there such a thing? He had no answers, only more questions.

He did really like you as well, not only your cooking. He enjoyed your quick responses and that tiny fire behind your pretty eyes, even if it seemed to be furiously directed at him. Actually, he kind of liked that even better.

“Jungkook” he called his youngest roomate, who had been playing video games on the living room console while stealing furtive glances at his phone. “You’ve been rejected before, right?”

Jungkook frowned. “No?”

“Aren’t you being rejected right now by that girl from your class?”

“What do you want, hyung?” the younger man growled.

“Jeez, I can see why that poor woman rejected you if that’s your attitude.” Jungkook seemed ready to throw his control at him “How does one deal with being rejected? I ask this for purely academic reasons. I have, as you know, never been rejected.”

“Right.” Jungkook rolled his eyes “I don’t know, hyung. I guess you just accept it and move on.”

“Did you accept it and move on?”

Another furtive glance at his silent phone. “No.”

“So what are you doing to change this girl’s mind? Besides annoying her, of course.”

This time, Jungkook did throw a pillow at him. “Fuck off, okay? We are meeting on Friday again and then you’ll see. I’ll change her mind. I got a whole thing planned.”

“What constitutes a whole thing?”

“You know… The stuff that girls like.”

Jin blinked.

So did Jungkook.

Silence reigned.

“You know, gifts.” Jungkook finished smartly.

“Gifts, of course!” Jin snapped his fingers “Maybe flowers! Women love flowers, don’t they?”

Jungkook smiled slightly, thinking of your reaction when receiving the bouquet he almost got hit by a car trying to acquire. “Yes, they do. Red daisies especially.”

“Yes, yes, red daisies, so creative! Thank you, my friend! I hope you have more luck with your lady and she stops dodging your calls like a collector.”

“Fuck off!” Jungkook said once more, but Jin had already floated out the room with a new plan.

Jin had never been rejected and he was not about to start now.

And so the next day when you arrived at the bistro, your station was waiting for you with a big bouquet of red daisies and no room to cook, only a new plate of carbonara and a smiling Jin.

°•. ✿ .•°

✿ The next chapter called "Cherries" is already available on my ko-fi to Calcifer Crew, my membership tier, and will be posted here soon! Click here if you want early access to all my updates :)

✿ My taglists are open! Click here to be added <3

#bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts #jungkook x reader #alexl red daisies #ot7 x reader #ot7 x you #bts x y/n #kim taehyung x reader #park jimin x reader #kim namjoon x reader #jung hoseok x reader #min yoongi x reader #kim seokjin x reader #ot7 fluff #bts romance #bts college au

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chefs-other-corner · 26 days ago

Text

Never Enough

☆Paring: Zoey x Rumi x Mira

☆Tags: hurt/comfort, past child neglect and Mental abuse

☆Sum Sum: Zoey never felt enough in her childhood, At least she feels enough with Mira and Rumi

☆Word count: 2.6k ☆Note: I forgor I have to post on Tumblr too T0T, hope y'all like it

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Zoey didn’t remember the last time her mother hugged her just because. Not out of obligation, not because company was over and appearances needed keeping—but a real hug, one that lingered like it meant something.

Maybe it was before the divorce. Maybe even before that.

Back then, she’d stayed with her mom without question. No back-and-forth visits, no court orders. Just two girls alone in a house too quiet after 7 p.m. Her mom would work late, then come home tired. Zoey would already be in her room, headphones on, writing verses no one ever asked to hear.

She wanted to believe her mom tried. That she wanted to try.

But God, it was like everything Zoey did was either too much or not enough. Her rap was too loud. Her writing was too emotional. Her clothes, her music, the way she spoke—you’re trying too hard, Zoey. Why can’t you just be yourself?

The thing was, Zoey was being herself. And somehow, that was the worst part.

Her mom would tell her to be honest, to express herself—but only if it was palatable. Only if it fit within whatever unspoken standard had been laid down. Otherwise, it was "backtalk" or "being dramatic." Otherwise, it was silence.

And so Zoey nodded. Smiled when appropriate. Shut her mouth when it wasn’t.

She hated how deeply she loved her mom. That kindness was there—real, sometimes. The way she used to braid Zoey’s hair before school, or make pancakes shaped like hearts when Zoey had a rough night. But affection started dying out somewhere along the way. Hugs came less. Praise disappeared completely. Even the jokes were always laced with something sharp now. Something tired.

Zoey told herself it wasn’t her mom’s fault. That her mom had been through worse. Her own mother—Zoey’s grandmother—was a cold woman, too. Had said things that left wounds. Maybe this was all her mom ever knew.

But it didn’t stop the ache in Zoey’s chest when she watched her mom look at her and see disappointment where pride should be.

Sometimes, Zoey wondered if her mom ever looked at her and wished she’d never had her.

She’d think about that while lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, her hands folded over her stomach like a corpse in a casket. She wasn’t crying. Not most nights. Crying stopped helping a long time ago.

But she thought. Thought about how much quieter things might be if she just...stopped trying. Stopped existing. How much easier it’d be for her mom if she didn’t have to worry about the daughter who never did anything right. The daughter who couldn’t be soft enough, obedient enough, invisible enough.

She didn’t want to die. Not really. Not most days.

But sometimes—when her mom stood in the kitchen and started another speech about how Zoey wasn't doing enough, wasn’t pulling her weight, wasn't acting right—she’d just stare. Silent. Still. Because there was nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Because she never knew how to defend herself. Not with her. Never with her.

Zoey hated that silence. But she hated being told she was wrong more. And in this house, love always came after correction. If it came at all.

All she ever wanted was to be good enough. Just once.

And maybe to feel a real hug again. One that didn’t feel like a reward she hadn’t earned.

There were nights Zoey wanted to disappear completely.

Not in a loud, bloody kind of way. Just… gone. Like smoke. Like something her mother could sweep off the counter with a rag and never notice was missing.

After every lecture, when her mother stood with folded arms and that tone that always cut deeper than shouting ever could, Zoey would sit in her room and imagine vanishing. Not dying. Not at first. Just gone. From the house. From the town. From the weight of never being enough.

But it crept in eventually—death.

She started to wish for it. Quietly, like a secret prayer. After the fifth time her mother told her she needed to “get her shit together” or “stop being so damn sensitive,” Zoey would crawl under her blanket and wrap her arms around herself so tightly her muscles burned. It was the only warmth she ever felt anymore.

Sometimes, she’d press her hands to her throat, not to choke herself—but to hold something. To stop the sobs from slipping out, like maybe if she could stop her body from trembling, her thoughts might settle too.

Her mother had told her once, “It’s okay to cry, Zoey. I cry sometimes too.”

But there was a time limit on grief in that house. Two days. That was the rule.

Day three? You were lazy. You were moping. You were just trying to get attention.

“Get off your lazy ass,” her mother snapped once, when Zoey hadn’t gotten out of bed after a week of being told she wasn’t doing enough. “You think the world’s gonna wait for you to catch up?”

She didn’t understand that Zoey wasn’t falling behind. She was already gone.

Lazy. That word clung to Zoey’s skin worse than any insult. Lazy when she stayed in bed, sure. But not when she dragged a razor across her thigh until it looked like it had been clawed at by something wild. Not when her fingernails left red, shaking trails behind on skin she couldn’t bear to be inside.

Her mom never noticed.

Never asked why Zoey wore long pants in the middle of July. Never asked why her laundry stayed folded and untouched in drawers because she didn’t even change anymore. Not unless it was something “unappealing,” of course. That, her mom would see.

“This looks trashy,” she’d say, eyes raking over Zoey’s outfit like it was something to be ashamed of. “You going out like that?”

There was always something. Something wrong. Something off. A reason to critique.

But never a reason to ask, “Are you okay?”

Zoey started answering that question on her own, in the dark. In her head.

No, I’m not okay. I want to die. I want to stop being a disappointment. I want to stop waking up to feel like a mistake in someone else’s house. I want someone—anyone—to see me and not flinch. To see me and not immediately start listing all the things I’m doing wrong.

But she never said that out loud. Because she knew how it would go.

Her mother would sigh. Maybe say, “You’re being dramatic.” Or worse—“You think you’re the only one struggling? Grow up.”

So she squeezed her body. Let her arms ache from holding herself together. And told herself the same thing her mother did.

Get up. Get over it. Stop crying. Don’t be lazy.

There was no help coming. Not for Zoey. Not really.

No one ever asked the right questions. And if they did, they only asked once.

Her mom stopped noticing the silence years ago. It was easier that way—for both of them, maybe. One of them didn’t have to feel guilty, and the other didn’t have to explain why it hurt just to exist.

So Zoey stayed quiet.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t lash out. She didn’t throw plates or break mirrors or slam doors like the kids on TV. Her pain didn’t come out loud.

It curled in on itself. Burrowed deep. Took root in her chest like something heavy and wet and permanent.

She learned how to cry without sound. Learned how to dig her nails into her arms until it snapped her out of the daze. Learned how to press the blade just deep enough to paint but not bleed out. Art, in its own horrible way.

Her thighs became her canvas. Her knives—stolen from the kitchen, cleaned and returned before morning—were her brushes. And the blood was the only color she had left. It was the only time she felt real. The only time she didn’t feel invisible.

Because at least pain meant something. At least it meant she was still there. That something inside her could still react.

The depression was no longer just sadness. It was a fog that clung to her skin. Heavy. Greasy. It pressed against her ribs when she tried to breathe and sat behind her eyes when she looked in the mirror. There was no escape from it—not even in sleep.

Especially not in sleep.

That’s when the silence was the loudest. When her room, already too quiet, felt like a coffin.

No footsteps in the hall. No knock at the door. No late-night “You okay?” from her mother, even when Zoey’s sobs—those rare, cracked-open ones—slipped past her clenched throat.

She never asked.

She never looked.

Unless Zoey wore something too short and the faded scars peeked out. Then it was all judgment and disgust, never fear. Never concern.

“What the hell is that?”

She didn’t answer.

There was no point.

Nothing she said ever made her more understandable. More lovable. More enough.

So she lied.

Just a scratch. A fall. The cat.

And even if her mother didn’t believe her, she never pushed. She never wanted to know.

So Zoey learned to keep it clean. Learned to cut where fabric could hide it. Learned how to sit without wincing. Learned how to live like a ghost in a house that used to feel like home.

And maybe she was a ghost now.

Breathing. Bleeding. Smiling sometimes when she had to.

But dead, where it mattered.

Zoey was a master of survival.

You wouldn’t know it, looking at her. You’d think she was doing great. Always laughing, always joking, always bouncing from one chaotic thought to another like her brain was a skipping record.

She was the funny one. The light one. The one who turned anything into a bit.

And some of it wasn’t fake. Not entirely. She did love her friends. She did find them funny. They made her feel something, and that was rare enough to hold onto. But the feeling never stayed. Not really.

She could be laughing with them one second, eyes bright and mouth open, and the next her mind would float off like fog over a frozen lake. Everything behind her eyes would go still. Quiet. And she wouldn’t remember what they were even talking about.

Not truly.

It was like her memories came in flashes. Blurry and out of order. She remembered the noise, the lights, the jokes—but not the details. Not the feeling.

And no one ever noticed. Not really.

Because Zoey was loud. She was funny. And people don't usually question the girl who can make a room laugh even when her hands won’t stop shaking under the table.

Sometimes she felt high off it—off the performance of being okay. Like pretending hard enough could make it real.

She could walk into a room, laugh at every dumb joke, act like she wasn’t drowning, and leave feeling like a ghost.

The happiness was real. But there was never joy.

Joy was something that stayed. Joy made a home in your chest. Zoey’s joy always packed its bags before bedtime.

She’d lie in bed after those “good” days, headphones on, curled in a ball under a blanket too small to cover everything she felt, and wonder why nothing ever lasted. Why even the best moments faded so quickly. Like the light in her mother’s eyes when Zoey got an award in middle school—there and gone before the applause even stopped.

Her friends told her she was “so full of life.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell them she was just full of noise.

That when the noise died down, there was nothing left but the slow drip of thoughts she couldn’t push out anymore. Thoughts like:

You’re not good enough.

You’re faking it again.

They’d love someone else more.

Because even love—real love—felt like something she had to earn and re-earn constantly.

And God, was she tired of trying.

But she got up the next day. Every time. Somehow.

Make them laugh. Make it easier. Make yourself lighter so no one notices how heavy it all is.

Zoey survived like that.

Every. Single. Day.

The concert was over.

Zoey had peeled off her in-ears, wiped her face with a towel, and let the noise fall away. No more screaming fans. No more cameras. No more lights.

Just the hum of the venue’s back hallway and the way her legs still shook, faintly, from the adrenaline.

Mira was already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, hair still damp from the quick rinse she took after the encore. Rumi stood near the exit door, typing something out on her phone — maybe to the manager, maybe to press. Always tying up loose ends.

Zoey didn’t say anything. She sat on the bench outside the dressing room, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Trying to feel present. Trying not to float.

She could hear them talking — about food, maybe, or where they’d stashed their bags — but it was all background noise. Her ears rang.

They were done. A month-long hiatus. Just the three of them. She should’ve felt excited.

Instead, she just felt… heavy.

“Zo?” Mira’s voice broke through first. It was quiet. Not soft, but careful.

Zoey looked up. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

The answer was automatic. “Yeah, totally. Just wiped.” She added a smile, because she always did. “Crashin’ a little.”

Mira didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push either. Just tilted her head, watching her like she was trying to read something that wasn’t on the surface. Like she knew Zoey wasn’t telling the truth but was waiting to be let in.

Rumi finally put her phone away and came to crouch in front of her. “Hey,” she said gently. “That was your best show this whole tour. You know that, right?”

Zoey’s smile faltered just enough for her to realize it was fake.

“I guess,” she mumbled, picking at the edge of a bracelet. “Didn’t really feel like I was there.”

There was a beat. Not awkward. Just quiet.

And then Rumi sat beside her, their shoulders pressed together.

“I hate that part,” she said, out of nowhere. “When it ends. You give everything, and then it’s just... nothing. Quiet. You’re supposed to feel proud but all you feel is kind of... blank.”

Zoey blinked. Rumi wasn’t the type to name stuff like that unless she meant it.

Mira let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Like you’re still echoing but the room’s already empty.”

And suddenly Zoey felt like she could breathe a little again.

Not fixed. Not better. But not so alone in it.

She dropped her head into her hands. “I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and it’s all gone,” she admitted. “Like you’re both gonna realize I’m—like, too much. Or not enough. Or both. I dunno.”

“You're not dreaming,” Mira said. She wasn’t touchy, not usually, but she sat beside her now too, close but not crowding. “And we’re not going anywhere.”

Zoey let out a shaky laugh. “How the hell did I even end up with you two?”

“Terrible judgment,” Rumi said dryly. “Obviously.”

That got a real laugh out of her, even if it cracked halfway through. She wiped under her eyes quickly, even though she hadn’t cried. Not yet.

“I’m trying,” she said, quieter. “To actually be here. Not drift. Not fake it.”

“We know,” Mira said. “And you are. You’re doing it.”

Zoey looked at the floor again. Then at their shoes. Then at their hands. Then at the way she was still here, after everything.

For once, she didn’t feel like she had to smile to be worth loving.

And for now, that was enough.

#fanfic #polytrix #rumi x mira x zoey #kpdh #ao3 fanfic #kpop demon hunters #angst #hurt/comfort

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 3 months ago

Note

Hello!!! Hopefully I won’t bother you but i loved the 501 x reader where they all are crushing on her!!! Do you think there’s the possibility that we could get a part two? I just want them all to be happy together -but a little angsty moments are great too! Thank you and i love your writing! Best clone scenario page on tumblrrr 🥰🥰🥰

Of course! A part 2 for this fic has been requested nearly 10 times.

I may need to turn this into a series. There will definitely be a part 3 at least 🫶

⸻

“Hearts of the 501st” pt.2

501st x Reader

You were still reeling from the contact.

Rex’s hand, steady at your waist, had felt like it burned through your tunic. Not with heat, but with something more dangerous—something forbidden. And it had lingered just a second too long. Enough for you to realize he wanted to hold you there. Enough for him to realize that he couldn’t.

Now he wouldn’t meet your eyes. Not during the rest of the rotation. Not at the debrief. Not even in the mess later that night.

Hardcase had gone back to his usual boisterous self, none the wiser, but Kix glanced between you and Rex with the subtle awareness of someone too observant for his own good. You tried to brush it off. Smile. Pretend. But it was like breathing around broken glass.

Later that night, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling of your quarters, eyes wide open, body still.

And then the door chimed.

You sat up fast, heart racing. “Come in,” you called, voice steady despite the storm inside.

It was Rex.

He stepped in and the door hissed shut behind him. No armor—just blacks. He looked exhausted. And maybe something else. Haunted, almost.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you. And then he finally looked at you.

“I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said, voice low, gravelly. “Back in the training room.”

“You didn’t,” you lied.

Because the truth was worse. He didn’t cross it—you wanted him to. You still did.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not supposed to happen like this. You’re a Jedi. I’m… I’m a soldier.”

“You’re Rex.”

That made him pause.

You stood up, crossing the small space between you, pulse thundering.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t move. But the way he looked at you—like you were the last light in the galaxy—that was enough to break you.

“We’re not allowed this,” he said, finally.

“I know.”

But you also both knew something else, something unspoken: if the war didn’t kill you, this would.

⸻

You thought things might settle after that night with Rex. But they didn’t. If anything, the tension only thickened. Because it wasn’t just Rex watching you a little too long anymore.

It was Kix, catching your arm after a mission with fingers that lingered too long on your wrist as he checked for injuries.

“You push yourself too hard,” he murmured, voice low as his eyes searched yours. “Someday, you won’t come back. And I…” He trailed off before finishing, but the weight of what he didn’t say clung to the air between you.

It was Fives, who cracked jokes louder than usual when Rex entered the room, his laugh a little too sharp. When he caught you alone, he dropped the act.

“You know he’s not the only one who cares, right?” he said, eyes dark with something more serious than you were used to seeing in him. “He’s not the only one who notices.”

It was Jesse, who always sat beside you at the mess, quietly pushing your favorite ration pack your way without saying anything. You caught him watching you once, and when you met his gaze, he didn’t look away.

“You deserve better than this,” he said, voice tight. “Better than silence. Better than having to hide.”

Hardcase didn’t hide a damn thing. He wore his affection on his sleeve—laughing too loud, standing too close, finding excuses to spar. “You know I’d follow you anywhere, right?” he asked one evening, sweaty and bruised, grinning. “No questions asked.”

Tup was quieter, but it was there. In the way he always made sure you were covered. In the way he sat across from you during ship travel, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. You caught him once, and he blushed so hard he looked like he might combust.

Then there was Dogma, who clung to rules like they were life rafts—but his devotion to you bent those rules every damn day. He flinched when others got too close. Spoke up when he thought someone pushed you too hard. And when you called him out on it, he just said, “You matter. More than they think.”

They were a unit. Brothers. But when it came to you, that unity was starting to fray.

You could feel it in the silences.

In the way they hesitated to speak freely when Rex was in the room. In the way Jesse squared off subtly when Fives stood too close. In the tension crackling in every quiet corridor.

You were the Jedi they shouldn’t have fallen for. The light they wanted to protect. But you were also one person—and they all knew that.

And maybe the worst part?

You didn’t know who you were falling for.

⸻

The op on Vanqor should’ve been simple: recon the outpost, confirm Separatist movement, exfil. No drama. No losses.

But nothing was simple anymore.

You split the squad in two. Rex led one team, you led the other. Standard formation. Except the tension was anything but standard.

From the start, Fives was running his mouth.

“Oh, so Rex gets to babysit the high ground,” he said as he checked his rifle. “How convenient.”

“Because I’m the Captain,” Rex snapped without looking up. “And because someone needs to stay focused on the mission.”

“Focused?” Jesse muttered under his breath. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You glanced at them all sharply. “Cut the chatter.”

They did—sort of. Kix shot Jesse a look. Jesse shot Fives one back. Even Tup, usually calm, was twitchier than usual. And Dogma was walking like he was seconds away from snapping someone’s neck.

Still, the op moved forward.

You took Hardcase, Tup, and Jesse with you. Rex had the others. Two klicks into the canyon, comms lit up.

Rex: “General, got movement near the ridge. Confirmed clankers. Looks like a patrol.”

You: “Copy. Proceeding to secondary overlook.”

Then static. Followed by—

Fives: “We’ve got this, General. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him from throwing himself in front of a blaster for you.”

There was a sharp click before Rex cut him off: “Fives, stay off the channel unless it’s tactical.”

Back with your team, things weren’t much better.

Hardcase was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can’t believe I missed the team with the romantic tension. You should’ve seen Rex’s face, Tup—guy’s wound tighter than a wire.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “At least he’s not pretending he’s subtle. Unlike some.”

Tup sighed. “Please don’t start again.”

You stopped in your tracks, glaring at them. “You think this is a game? You want to bicker while droids are swarming a ridge less than a klick away?”

They fell silent, shame flickering in their eyes.

Then came the ambush.

Blasterfire erupted from the cliffs. Shouts, heat, chaos.

Rex’s voice came through the comm again—sharp, controlled. “Engaging hostiles. Kix is hit but stable.”

You snapped orders, leading your squad into flanking position, instincts taking over. You caught sight of Rex across the ridge, laying down cover, Fives behind him—but they were arguing even mid-fire.

“Cover me!” Rex shouted, moving up.

“Could’ve said please,” Fives muttered, though he did as told.

Jesse nearly got clipped trying to keep you shielded. “I said I’ve got you!” he snapped when you tried to redirect him.

After the skirmish, when the smoke cleared and the ridge was secure, the tension boiled over.

“Is this how it’s going to be now?” Rex growled, throwing his helmet down. “We can’t run a clean op because every one of you is too busy acting like kriffing teenagers.”

“Don’t pin this on us,” Jesse snapped. “You’re the one sneaking around with her after lights out.”

“Nothing happened,” Rex shot back.

Kix scoffed. “No, but something wants to.”

Tup looked between them, torn. “This isn’t what we’re supposed to be.”

And Dogma, silent until now, spoke with cold finality: “Feelings don’t belong on the battlefield. You’re all risking her life.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the blasterfire.

You stood there, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

This war was pulling you apart from the inside. Not from wounds or droids—but from love, jealousy, and every unspoken word between them.

The silence stretched long after Dogma’s words hit the ground like a blaster bolt.

You could see it—every line in their faces taut, wounded. The guilt. The fear. The ache.

And still, you stood tall.

Composed. Cold, maybe. But you had to be.

“I need every one of you to listen to me,” you said, voice even, sharp like a vibroblade. “And I need you to understand this the first time, because I will not say it again.”

No one spoke. Even Fives went still.

“I am a Jedi,” you continued. “And whether or not that means something to you anymore—it still means something to me. The Code forbids attachment. That isn’t a guideline. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a foundational truth of who I am and what I chose to be.”

Rex looked away. His jaw tightened.

“This war has blurred the lines between soldier and brother, between ally and… more. But that does not change the Code. It does not change the expectations I hold for myself.”

You took a breath, feeling the heat rise behind your ribs—but not letting it show.

“I am not your hope. I am not your escape. I am not something you can cling to in the middle of this chaos. I am your general. I will fight beside you. I will protect you. I care about you. But I will not—I cannot return these… feelings.”

Hardcase looked like you’d slapped him. Kix’s mouth parted, then closed again. Fives had nothing to say.

And then you said the thing none of them wanted to hear:

“If any of you truly respect me—if you truly believe in the Jedi you claim to admire—then let me go. Detach. Redirect whatever it is you feel into something that will not get one of us killed.”

Tup stepped forward, hesitant. “But you do care. We know you do.”

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t. But you answered with the quiet, unmoving weight of Jedi truth.

“Yes,” you said. “But caring is not the same as holding on.”

Another pause.

“I’m not your way out,” you finished. “I’m the one leading you into the fire. Don’t follow me with your heart. Follow me with your discipline. Or don’t follow me at all.”

And with that, you turned—cloak sweeping, boots hitting durasteel with finality.

You didn’t look back.

Because if you did… you weren’t sure the Jedi in you would win.

⸻

The moment she disappeared into the shadows of the canyon pass, the squad felt gutted. Not wounded—hollowed out.

The silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure. It built between them like a thermal detonator waiting for a trigger.

“She didn’t have to say it like that,” Hardcase muttered first, breaking the quiet. “She made it sound like we’re a liability.”

“She’s not wrong,” Dogma snapped, arms crossed tight over his chest. “We lost focus. We compromised the mission.”

Fives scoffed. “Oh, come off it, Dogma. You’re not exactly guilt-free just because you pout from a distance instead of making a move.”

“Don’t start,” Jesse growled. “We wouldn’t even be in this mess if you hadn’t made a scene during the damn firefight.”

“I wasn’t the one staring at her like a lovesick cadet while blaster bolts were flying!”

“You want to go?” Jesse stepped forward.

Kix shoved himself between them. “Enough. You’re all making this worse.”

“No,” Rex said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I’ll take it from here.”

Everyone turned. Rex’s helmet was still tucked under his arm, his face unreadable—controlled, cold, and deadly calm.

“She’s right,” he said, no hesitation. “Every word. We let our feelings get in the way. We made it personal. That’s not what we were bred for. That’s not what she needs.”

Fives shifted, jaw clenched. “So what—just pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Rex stepped closer, tone steely. “We have to. Because if we don’t, she dies. Or we do. Maybe all of us.”

Tup looked away. Jesse stared at the ground. Even Hardcase, for once, didn’t have a joke.

“You think I don’t feel it?” Rex said, quieter now. “You think I haven’t thought about what it would be like to give in? To tell her how I feel?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what love looks like. Love is discipline. Restraint. We follow her lead. We put her safety above what we want. That’s our job. That’s who we are.”

Nobody argued.

Because they all knew he was right.

⸻

They all handled it differently.

Dogma pulled back first.

He barely spoke during prep. Stood at parade rest with surgical stillness. Didn’t sit with the squad, didn’t meet your eyes. He obeyed, to the letter—but colder now, like retreating behind a regulation shield.

Fives, on the other hand, spiraled.

He picked fights. With Kix, with Jesse, even with Rex. His banter turned sour, jokes laced with venom.

“She doesn’t mean it,” he muttered to Jesse in the hangar. “You don’t just fight beside someone for years and feel nothing. She’s trying to protect us. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring.”

Jesse didn’t answer.

Because Jesse was the one pushing harder.

He wasn’t loud about it—but you noticed. He stayed closer during patrols. Walked you to your quarters even when you didn’t ask. Spoke softer. Asked if you’d eaten. You knew the intent behind it. And it terrified you.

You needed clarity. Solitude.

But the moment you stepped outside the command tent to breathe—Tup was already waiting.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just offered you a ration bar with a small, tentative smile. Like he didn’t expect you to take it, but needed you to know he’d tried.

You sat beside him anyway.

“It’s a lot,” he said after a beat, voice low. “Too much, sometimes.”

You didn’t speak.

He didn’t push.

“I’m not gonna say they’re wrong to feel it,” he added, eyes on the dirt. “But I get why you had to say what you did. It hurts. But I get it.”

You turned your head slowly. “Do you?”

He met your eyes. Soft. Steady. “Yeah. Because when you love someone… really love them… you don’t ask them to break themselves just to make you feel better.”

That quiet truth stuck in your chest like a blade.

Tup didn’t reach for your hand. He didn’t move closer. He just stayed there, beside you, letting you breathe.

And for the first time in days… you felt like maybe someone saw you—not as something to win. But as someone to understand.

You didn’t want to fall apart.

But with Tup sitting next to you, not expecting anything—not even an answer—it was hard to keep everything held together.

The ration bar stayed in your hand, unopened. You stared at it like it held answers you didn’t have the strength to look for.

“You know,” Tup said gently, “you don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

You gave him a dry look. “That’s rich, coming from a soldier bred to never break.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. We all crack different. Some of us just do it quieter.”

You laughed—soft and broken. “Is this you trying to cheer me up, Tup?”

“Maybe,” he said with a small shrug. “Maybe I just wanted to sit beside someone who makes the war feel a little less like war.”

You looked away. His words landed somewhere deep, somewhere dangerously tender.

There was a moment—just a moment—when you let your shoulders drop. When you leaned just barely toward him, not enough to cross a line, but enough to feel how close the edge really was.

And Tup’s voice, softer still: “You don’t have to be alone.”

Your breath caught. Eyes burning. Just a blink from letting it slip—just a few more seconds and you might have said something you couldn’t unsay.

But then—

“General?”

You turned sharply, straightening.

Kix.

He looked between the two of you. His gaze landed on Tup’s proximity, on your expression—cracked, vulnerable.

Too late.

“I—” He cleared his throat, eyes guarded now. “I was coming to check on you. Thought maybe you’d want to talk.”

Tup shifted, quietly rising to his feet. “She’s alright. Just needed some quiet.”

You could feel the tension coil between them—one of them arriving first, the other arriving just late enough to lose something that hadn’t even happened.

You stood too. “Thank you, Kix. I’m okay. Just tired.”

He gave a short nod, but the disappointment was unmistakable. He wasn’t angry. But he felt it.

And you knew that by tomorrow, the silence between some of them would stretch even deeper.

Because kindness had turned competitive. And comfort was starting to feel like a battlefield too.

⸻

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