#without doing it… i can’t remember…
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“just the tip.”
rin itoshi - “just the tip,” he murmured against your throat, already nudging the thick head of his cock against your soaked folds. “just wanna feel you, that’s all.” but rin was a liar. a gorgeous, cold-eyed, focused liar. because the second you gasped, slightly parted for him, his hips rolled forward deeper, deeper, deeper until he bottomed out with a grunt against your pussy.“rin—!” he shushed you down. “shh.” his voice rasped at your ear, hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. “feels too good. can’t stop now. you knew i wouldn’t stop, didn’t you?”
shoei barou - “don’t look at me like that,” barou snarled, already shoving down his sweats with one hand while the other pinned your wrists to the mattress. “just the tip. that’s all. gotta save my strength for training.” but barou doesn’t do anything halfway. his cock was thick, hot, already drooling precum as he rubbed the swollen head between your folds like it was a threat. the moment you whimpered and arched your hips up to him? he slammed in one brutal, perfect stroke until you were moaning and trembling underneath him. “fuck saving strength,” he growled into your skin. “you’re gonna take it all.”
yoichi isagi - “just the tip,” he panted, breathless, desperate. “swear—just wanna feel how warm you are inside.” and for a moment, it was just the tip. isagi was shaking, biting his lip as he held back, the flushed head of his cock stretching you open slow. but then you moaned, soft and needy, and he fucking snapped. “shit, shit—i need it—” he buried himself in one deep thrust, hips stuttering, nearly sobbing into your neck as your walls fluttered around him. “m’sorry,” he gasped. “i tried—i really tried—”
ryusei shidou - “just the tip?” he grinned filthy. “yeah? you wanna play that game with me, princess?” shidou lined himself up and pushed in just barely. enough to make you bite your lip and whimper. enough to get you desperate. then, without warning, he grabbed your hips and slammed in, inch after inch, until you were stuffed full and breathless. clawing at his arms and didn’t know if you should slap him. “oops,” he cooed, mocking and smug. “would ya look at that? slipped. guess i better keep going now.”
michael kaiser - “just the tip, schatz,” he whispered, one hand sliding down to grip your ass as he smiled against your lips. “don’t make that face—what, you don’t trust me?” he said it’d be just the tip. he said he’d be gentle. but the second his fat cockhead slid inside kaiser let out a low groan, pulled your hips in, and slammed the rest of his cock in to the hilt. the stretch was way too much. way too good. “scheiße! you were made for me,” he hissed, hips grinding, voice downright giddy. “oh no, baby… i lied. i’m not stopping. not until you’re crying for me.”
oliver aiku - “c’mon, baby. just the tip. i’m tired. can’t go all in tonight,” he yawned. that smug, sleepy voice laced with the cockiest grin you’d ever heard. but oliver had already lined himself up, brushing the swollen head against your slick folds like he knew how weak it made you. the second you gave the tiniest nod, his hips rolled forward and didn’t stop. “ahh, shit, you’re tighter than i remembered.” you gasped as he bottomed out, hips locked to yours. “guess i’m not that tired, huh?” he chuckled, tongue flicking over his lip. “hope you weren’t tryna sleep, baby.”
hyoma chigiri - “just the tip, okay?” chigiri’s voice was barely a whisper, his flushed face hovering over yours, pink hair brushing your cheek. “i’ll stop. i promise.” he eased in too slow until the head of his cock was inside, his jaw trembling from the effort to hold back. but then you whimpered. one single sound and he lost it. “f-fuck, i can’t—” he slid the rest in with a desperate moan, burying himself deep and shaking above you, his breath ragged. “you feel too good,” he gasped, wrecked and desperate. “please… let me keep going. i need to.”
hiori yo - “just the tip,” he mumbled, eyes locked to yours, his voice soft but so dangerous. “i just wanna see what it feels like.” hiori was always quiet, sweet until his cock was inside you. then he was someone else. your cute boyfriend turned into a freakish maniac with a soft voice and a mean cock. he slid the head in, breath hitching. “oh… oh my god…” and then? he pulled your thighs up, held them tight, and thrust all the way in, his moan echoing in your ears. “i’m sorry—i lied,” he whispered, mouth at your neck. “i need to ruin you now.”
seishiro nagi - “m’too lazy for the whole thing,” he mumbled, already nudging the head of his cock into your folds, thick and hot and heavy. “just the tip. that’s chill, right?” you nodded. he yawned. and then? he bottomed out in one lazy, devastating thrust. “ahh… guess you sucked me in,” he murmured, smirking against your shoulder. “not my fault. your pussy’s the one that wants it so bad.” his hips moved slow, but his cock hit every perfect spot like it was programmed to break you. “feels too good to stop now. let me nap here. while i fuck you.”
sae itoshi - “just the tip,” he said like it was an afterthought. a bored, distracted little promise. he kissed your neck like he couldn’t care less if he fucked you or not. but then his cock pressed in. and sae’s breath hitched, rough and ragged, like you had surprised him. like your pussy felt so good he couldn’t even pretend anymore.“shit,” he muttered. and just like that, he sank the rest in, slow but relentless. “this was a mistake,” he whispered, hand gripping your thigh. “i’m not stopping now. not when you feel like this. you’re mine now. you know that, right?”
jingo raichi - “just the fuckin’ tip,” raichi growled, already panting like a beast as he tore your shorts down. “can’t even take the full thing anyway, right? you’re too fuckin’ soft.” he said it like a taunt, but the second he shoved the head of his cock in? his head fell back, eyes rolling, a guttural groan tearing from his throat.“fuck—fuck that—” he slammed his full cock into you with a grunt, balls slapping against you, already rutting like a madman. “takin’ all of it now, babe. you started this. take every inch. fuckin’ take it.”
tabito karasu - “just the tip, sweetheart,” he crooned, that wicked smirk stretched across his face. his cock was already thick and twitching against your pussy, teasing you with slow, lazy strokes. “you’ll barely feel it.” the moment you opened your mouth to moan he shoved in deep, all at once. “ohh, what’s that? that not the tip?” he mocked, voice soaked in condescension. his grip on your throat tightened, eyes dark and gleaming. “cry about it. you’re the one who spread your legs for me. so now you get it all. every time. over and over. til you forget your own name.”
eita otoya - “i’ll behave, princess,” he whispered, his lips ghosting your ear as he guided the head of his cock between your soaked folds. “just the tip… unless you beg for more.” you nodded. but otoya wasn’t waiting for that. the second your hips lifted to meet him, he slid all the way in, slow but filthy, his mouth breaking into a grin as you gasped. “ohhh, you feel that?” he started to move. grinding, fucking deep, watching you come undone beneath him. “guess you were begging for it, after all. even if you didn’t say a word.”
alexis ness - “just the tip,” he said so innocently, cock twitching in his fist as he gazed at you like you were porcelain. “i wouldn’t do more than that, angel.” he kissed your stomach sweetly. then your thighs. then he sank the thick head in, trembling with how tight you were. “oh…” he tried to stop. he really did. but when your walls clenched around him? “i-i’m sorry,” he whimpered, thrusting all the way in with a cry. “i c-can’t stop. it’s too much. you feel too good—” and then he was fucking you hard, eyes glassy and wet, apologizing even as his hips slapped yours. “i’m sorry—i lied—i need you.”
reo mikage - “we don’t have time, baby,” he said, breathy, his hair a mess from how fast he’d pulled you into his arms. “just the tip, okay? just enough to take the edge off.” but the second he pushed inside, only the tip and inch more, he saw your back arch, your mouth fall open. “oh, fuck,” he groaned. “you can’t do that—” and then his hips snapped forward, burying himself to the base with a gasp. “you make me crazy,” he moaned, thrusting deep, frantic. “you always fucking do this to me. just let me finish. let me fuck you til i break.”
rensuke kunigami - “i’ll be gentle,” he said, sweet and sincere. his cock was already twitching, flushed dark and thick against your thigh. “just the tip. that’s it.” he guided himself in so slow—m, his breath catching in his throat. but your moan? the way your walls sucked him in, tight and needy? kunigami’s restraint snapped. “oh, fuck—sorry—” he growled, gripping your hips and slamming in to the hilt. “couldn’t help it. you feel too damn good,” he grunted, already pounding into you with powerful, hungry thrusts. “just the tip? nah. you’re getting all of it.”
#🥀 sinful bllk boys#blue lock#bllk x reader#blue lock x reader#bllk x you#blue lock x you#bllk smut#blue lock smut#bllk#rin itoshi#sae itoshi#rensuke kunigami#isagi yoichi#barou shoei#shidou ryusei#alexis ness#michael kaiser
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The Crimson Pact | Part 14
Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13
SoulBond!AU
Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader
Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.
Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.
They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.
And now that you’ve returned?
They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.
Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning, emotional manipulation, hurt/comfort, angst, fight scenes, moral dilemmas.
A/N: It's me, hi, I might be the problem, it's me. Turns out I had more of this chapter done than I realized today haha. Got so in the zone I ended up finishing it. I hope you guys have your tissues at the ready, as this is quite an intense chapter. I stayed up late tonight to make sure I wrote it all out! Trust me tho when I say things will get better! But this chapter is very much necessary for the plot building. So I hope you guys are ready for the (necessary) emotional rollercoaster. I hope you guys enjoy!
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The Saja boys are all demons.
They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.
And yet, before her, they kneel.
Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.
They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.
Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.
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Names (For those who get confused): Haneul (Abby), Seoha (Romance), Hwimori/Hwi (Mystery), Seungho (Baby)
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Part 14:
A Heaven Built on Hell
The rehearsal hall throbbed with the pounding bass of the pre-show mix, every light calibrated, every move rehearsed down to the millisecond. A perfect illusion. The boys stood center stage, surrounded by stylists, choreographers, and managers fine-tuning the Idol Awards showcase.
But their minds weren't in it.
Haneul adjusted his mic pack, jaw tight, gaze distant. The lyrics of their opening number echoed around him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He could still see your face from that morning—the way your smile faltered, the flash of disappointment when you asked, "Don’t you want me there?"
He clenched his fists. That look had haunted him all day.
"She looked crushed," Hwimori murmured beside him, stretching out his arms half-heartedly. "Like we were shutting a door in her face."
Seungho scoffed under his breath. "It’s for her safety. You know that."
"Yeah? Then why do I feel like the villain?" Hwimori asked.
Jinu approached, voice calm but eyes hard. "We can’t risk her getting involved. Not with what’s going to happen. Not with what we have to do."
They gathered in the corner near the equipment crates, voices low. "Thousands," Seoha muttered, arms crossed. "Gwi Ma wants thousands of souls tomorrow. The awards give us everything he needs—chaos, energy, desire."
"And Huntrix won’t see it coming," Seungho added. "We’ll collapse their stage. Sabotage their performance. Cut their frequency. Make sure they’re too busy scrambling to even breathe."
"She can’t see that," Jinu said flatly. "She can’t see what we’ll do."
Silence. Heavy and suffocating. The tension spiraled inward. Hwimori sat on a speaker, eyes fixed on his hands. "Do you think Gwi Ma will really keep his promise? That he’ll leave her untouched?"
Jinu didn’t answer at first.
"He better," Seoha said through gritted teeth. "Because if he doesn’t, there won’t be a realm left standing."
And then came the moment. That aching, silent moment where their justifications cracked open and their truths spilled through. Haneul muttered, almost to himself. "We’re really going through with this. Selling souls to save one."
"She’s not just one," Seungho said, his voice edged with heat. "She’s everything."
Jinu’s voice was cold steel. "If this is what it takes to keep her safe, then we sacrifice whoever we need to."
A hush. They all stood in it—hearing the weight of that sentence. And yet, guilt flickered. Hwimori trembled as he spoke. "She’s kind. Good. She’d never want this. Never agree to this."
"That’s why she can’t know," Seoha said, eyes dark. "Because she’d beg us to stop. Even if it meant dying."
Jinu finally broke his silence. "She’s our heart, our soul. But she was born in light. We weren’t. We never were."
And now came the reckoning. Their silent, collective decision. That they would become monsters for you. If they had to be cruel so you could be kind, then so be it. If they had to stain their hands so yours could stay clean, they would. If they had to wade through hell just to keep you smiling, then hell would burn beneath their feet.
They would sacrifice their morality, their souls, their humanity. They would become the darkness to preserve your light. Because you were the only thing left worth saving.
Jinu pressed a hand to his chest, where he still felt the echo of your heartbeat through the bond. "We’ll bear the guilt," he said. "So she never has to."
Jinu stepped off the stage and walked a few paces away, far from the crew, from the world. He closed his eyes. For a moment, he just breathed. In his mind, he saw you. Laughing in the kitchen, dancing to their song. They loved you. That was never the question.
But love wasn't enough. Love demanded price. And they would pay it.
He felt the guilt bloom again in his chest, thick and black. They were monsters already. What was one more sin on their hands if it meant you stayed safe?
He thought of the souls that would be torn from screaming bodies tomorrow. He thought of your hands, the way they held theirs so gently. The way you said their names like a blessing. He thought of how you’d look at them if you ever found out.
Would you scream? Would you run? Would you hate them? He knew somehow that you would. Because that meant you still had your goodness. They’d lost theirs long ago.
Just then, there was sharp tapping. The loud flap of wings. Derpy bounded onto the stage in an awkward blur of blue fur, eyes rolling like he was mid-panic. And right behind him, the little magpie with the tiny hat swooped low, landing with erratic chirps on a speaker stack.
Everyone froze. “…What are you doing here?” Jinu asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’re supposed to be with—"
The magpie interrupted with a burst of squawks, hopping rapidly. Derpy paced in a tight anxious circle, tail twitching. Haneul took a step forward. “They’re agitated.”
Something was wrong. And then it hit.
Hwimori gasped— like something had pierced his lungs. He staggered, hand gripping a lighting rig to stay upright, chest heaving.
“Hwi?!” Seungho rushed forward.
“She’s scared,” Hwimori choked. “So scared—I don’t know why—something’s hurting her—!”
His voice cracked into a whimper. His knees nearly buckled. Then the bond surged. A ripple of dread so pure it howled through their souls. Seoha stiffened, hands curling. “This isn’t ordinary distress. She’s terrified.” He was already thinking—calculating every possibility, his mind racing with dark scenarios.
Jinu’s mouth went dry. He could feel it too—your panic. A flood. A scream. Like you were lost in darkness and reaching for them.
Seungho’s jaw clenched so tightly it looked like his teeth might crack. His chest burned. “She’s in danger,” he growled, already moving.
Haneul was right behind him. “Where is she?!”
Hwimori’s hand flew to his chest, fingers spread across the pull of the soulbond like it might help him track you. “I can feel her. I’ll find her.”
“You’re not going alone,” Seungho said. “Let’s go.”
“No one’s stopping me,” Haneul barked, already halfway to the exit.
They didn’t wait for approval. They didn’t look back. The three of them bolted—past the stage lights, the managers, the startled crew.
One of the managers turned, frantic. “Wait, where are you guys going—!”
Security shouted, managers moved to chase after—but it was too late. Seoha stepped forward to intercept. “Let them go,” he said coolly, voice like a blade. “It’s a family emergency.”
“What kind of emergency—?”
“Do you want your face broken?” Jinu growled. “Then stay out of the way.”
He turned back to the stage, hands trembling, fury bubbling beneath his skin. He couldn’t go. Even when every bone in his body screamed at him to bolt after them to get to you. Not now. Not when Gwi Ma’s eyes were already watching their every move. They’d be risking everything if they abandoned the awards. He had to stay. To keep up their stupid appearances. Or Gwi Ma would be at their necks.
But every part of him screamed to run.
Please… be safe.
His eyes flicked to the magpie and Derpy, who still twitched nervously on the edge of the stage. Seoha’s knuckles were white on the railing. He wanted to bolt too at the first sign of your distress. But Jinu had to stay. He couldn’t leave hyung to deal with the pain of not being able to go alone. He trusted that the three would get to you on time. They were creatures of instinct, afterall.
Jinu whispered, like a curse, like a prayer—
“Find her. Now.”
────────── ⚘ ──────────
Fear.
It consumed you. Flooded your chest like a rising tide, choking out your breath as the massive demon lumbered closer. Your back hit the wall of the train with a hollow thud as you scrambled away from him, fingers clawing uselessly at the slick glass behind you. He was a nightmare come to life—every line of his body radiated malice. Nothing like the boys. Nothing like the beautiful demons who had kissed your cheeks and whispered their love into your skin.
He stopped in front of you, and when his eyes drank you in, a grin split across his jagged, horned face. “Well, you’re a lot smaller than I expected,” he drawled. His voice was rough, guttural. Mocking. “And here I thought the one bonded to them would be… bigger. Meaner. Stronger.”
Your lips trembled as you shook your head, unable to form a single word.
“Where are they, little thing?” he crooned, crouching in front of you with a bone-chilling smile. “Where are your little demon knights? I heard they follow you everywhere. Watch your every step. Guard you like a prized possession.”
He laughed, deep and low, like a predator toying with its food. Then, without warning, his clawed hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. You screamed and thrashed, desperately trying to break free from his harsh grip. He yanked you forward with frightening ease, pulling your face mere inches from his own. His breath was rancid, metallic. His grin widened as he inhaled the scent of your fear.
“Smell as sweet as they said you would,” he whispered, eyes glowing red-hot. “You’ve been quite the curiosity in the Under. Everyone talks about the girl who tamed the Five. The soulbonded one. The anomaly. And now I get to see it for myself.”
His clawed fingers tilted your chin upward. “Tell me… what would they do if I cracked you open like a shell and made you cry for me? Would they burn the world? I think they would. I think that’s why I have to see it.”
Your body was trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears formed in your eyes.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he sneered. “So many demons admired them. Worshipped them. But some of us? Some of us envied their strength. Envied their power. And you… you were the source of it? You pathetic, shaking little—”
A blinding flash.
The demon’s body jerked mid-sentence. A sickening crack echoed through the train as a blade pierced clean through his back. His eyes widened in shock before his entire form began to disintegrate—black smoke sizzling away into the air like acid mist.
He vanished and you collapsed. The floor of the train felt cold and distant beneath your knees, but it was the weight of your own heartbeat that truly brought you down. You were crying—you didn’t even remember starting. Your breath came in shallow gasps.
“Y/N?” a voice said. Familiar, but not. Sharp with disbelief. You looked up.
A girl stood in front of you, weapon drawn. Her stance was rigid with fury, but her face—her face was shock, and recognition. Tall, almost looming. Her hot pink hair was long behind her shoulders. Her Moon Blade dripped with dark ichor where she’d just ended your attacker. She was breathing hard.
You stared at her. This was Mira. She was terrifying… but also your savior. Behind her, two more girls approached cautiously. Rumi and Zoey.
“Y/N!” Zoey gasped, kneeling immediately at your side. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
You flinched when she reached toward you, scooting back instinctively. Your limbs wouldn’t stop shaking.
“She’s in shock,” Rumi said quietly, kneeling beside Zoey, her face soft and apologetic.
Mira’s jaw was tight. Her eyes darted around the train car, scanning the empty seats. Her hands gripped her weapon tightly. So many souls. Gone.
You heard footsteps. You felt hands. But you were frozen in your own panic, your own confusion. Why had no one else seen them? Why had it only been you?
“Hey, Y/N,” Zoey said softly, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Safe?
You looked up slowly. Doubt filled your eyes as you stared at the girls. They were hunters. The very people the boys had warned you about. And yet… They had saved you. From those monsters.
“What…” your voice cracked. It sounded foreign. “What were those things?”
All three girls stilled. You asked a question you already knew the answer to, but refused to believe. Please don’t say it.
“Demons,” Mira said flatly. You blinked at her. Your head shook before you even realized it was shaking.
No. No, no, no. They weren’t— They couldn’t be— They weren’t like your boys. They were monsters. Faceless horrors. Your demons were nothing like that. Looked nothing like that. Did nothing like that…
The train jolted gently to a stop. Rumi offered her hand. “Here. Can you stand?”
You stared at her hand, heart pounding in your ears. They had just saved your life. Your body moved on its own. You reached up and took her hand. The moment your skin met hers, something hummed beneath your feet.
A soft pulse.
All four of you froze as the Honmoon shimmered faintly—like the veil between you had briefly flickered open. Your eyes locked. No one said anything, but there was confusion for a breath of a moment.
Rumi helped you up carefully. The train doors hissed open, and Zoey reached to steady you as you all stepped out onto the platform. The station was eerily quiet.
“Are you okay?” Zoey asked. “Are you hurt?”
Your body tensed again. Her touch had been gentle, but still, your walls shot back up. You flinched away from their hold. The girls looked pained.
“What were those things?” you repeated. “They can’t be demons. They weren’t— They can’t be—”
“They were demons,” Mira said again, harder this time. “And they sucked the souls out of every single person on that train.”
“No…” you whispered. “No, that can’t be true.”
They can’t be the same. They can’t be like them. The boys were gentle. Loving. Protective. You had seen them cry. Laugh. Hold you close at night. You had felt their hearts. They were monsters, but that was then. When they had lost you. Now… they were devoted. Caring. They didn’t suck souls and kill innocent people without reason…
The monsters on the train… They had no hearts.
“That’s what demons do,” Mira said, stepping forward, voice firm with certainty. “They suck the souls of humans and channel them back to their king. To Gwi Ma.”
The name hit you like a slap. You recoiled, eyes wide. “No. No, that’s— Those are different demons! They must be— They’re not the same, they’re not—!”
“That’s what all demons do, Y/N,” Mira snapped. “And the ones you’re with? They’re responsible for all of this.”
“Mira,” Rumi hissed, reaching to stop her. She saw your expression—saw your entire soul begin to crumble. Mira shrugged her off. “No, she has to know. If she’s soulbonded to them, if she’s—”
“How do you know that?” you asked, your voice barely audible.
Rumi and Zoey froze. “So it’s true,” Zoey whispered. “You are soulbonded to them?”
You said nothing. Just stared. Torn between panic and betrayal. “They’re nothing like those demons,” you finally said, voice shaking. “They wouldn’t… they wouldn’t do something like that.”
“They’re the whole reason this is happening!” Mira snapped. “That’s why they formed that boyband in the first place!”
Your heart clenched. No. No, no, no— That��s not true. They said it was for protection. For you.
“The Honmoon,” Mira continued, fury rising. “It’s powered by us. By our voices. It keeps the demons at bay. But the Saja Boys? They’ve been weakening it. Disrupting it. Performing to undo it. They’re feeding Gwi Ma the souls of every person in their audience.”
“No—” you gasped. “You’re lying— They wouldn’t— They’d never—”
“Really?” Mira barked. “Then why haven’t they told you anything? Why haven’t they ever taken you to their shows and performances? Why do they keep you isolated?”
You froze. A sliver of doubt slid under your skin like a knife. That… was true. They hadn’t shown you much. Had always brushed off questions. Had kept you hidden, protected, surrounded. To keep you safe. They said.
Your stomach churned. You knew how protective they were. How precious you were to them. If they were really doing this… you knew it was within bounds for them to hide this from you so you never see it. They always did that. Hide things from you, choose things for you.
To keep you safe.
“Mira, that’s enough,” Rumi warned, stepping between her and you.
“Why don’t you want to tell her?” Mira growled. “What are you so scared of?”
“JUST LOOK AT HER!”
Rumi’s voice cracked. All three girls turned to face you. You weren’t crying. But you looked destroyed. Utterly shattered. Your lips parted like you might say something—but nothing came out. Zoey stepped toward you again, heart aching at the sight.
Rumi felt her own chest clench. Why hadn’t you known? Had Jinu not told you because he feared losing you? Had the boys hidden the truth to protect you… or to keep you? And now—now the truth was out. Could this break the bond? What would happen to you? How would you ever look at them the same?
You wanted to deny it. Wanted to scream that they were wrong. That your boys would never—
But a quiet, rational voice inside you whispered the one thing you couldn’t ignore. It made sense. The secrecy. The lies. The way their eyes always clouded when you brought up Huntrix, their songs, their performances. The desperation. The sacrifices. Their silence.
“That… can’t be true,” you whispered. But your voice cracked. And the pain in your eyes said you already believed it.
Zoey tried to reach you again. But you stepped back. “You’re just saying this to get to them,” you said, trembling. “They wouldn’t— They couldn’t— You’re just—”
You stopped.
Their faces weren’t twisted with hatred. They didn’t look victorious. They looked… Sorry. So sorry. And in that moment, you realized—
Maybe you didn’t even believe your own words anymore.
You had to hear it from them. Demand the truth. Because you had already given them your heart and soul. You knew of their pain, their misery. How they’d do anything and everything for you. But you needed to know everything. And it had to come from them.
And then suddenly, the air rippled, reality bending for just a moment as three figures appeared, sharp and sudden—Haneul, Seungho, and Hwimori. Their eyes, wild and searching, landed on you instantly. You stood trembling beside Huntrix—Zoey’s arm still half-extended toward you, Mira holding her Moon Blade loosely at her side, and Rumi… Rumi just staring.
Haneul’s shoulders were heaving, chest rising and falling with barely leashed fury as his gaze locked onto you—disheveled, tear-stained, flinching beside three women who wanted him dead. His heart stopped.
Seungho’s hands clenched at his sides, jaw tightening, eyes raking over your form to make sure you were still breathing, still standing. But when they found your expression—fearful, confused—his stomach dropped.
Hwimori staggered a step, still trembling from the soulbond's echo of your terror. But as soon as he saw you flinch away from the others, something snapped.
“Y/N!” Haneul’s voice was a guttural shout, more beast than man. His amber eyes scanned every inch of your form, landing on the way your body leaned slightly away from the girls. “What the fuck did they do to you?!”
Before you could speak, before anyone could, Seungho had already lunged. “They touched her.” His voice was cold. Wrathful. “I felt her panic. I felt her scream.”
Mira immediately stepped in front of you, Moon Blade gleaming in her hands.
“Wait—” Zoey began, stepping forward, but Hwimori was already between her and you, fangs bared, his body tense with barely held rage. She raised her arms defensively, throwing blades at the ready to defend herself.
“You did this to her!” Hwimori growled at Rumi, voice trembling with emotion. Rumi’s sword flared into existence in her hand, her stance lowering protectively in front of you. This made him growl in anger. “She was terrified—I felt it like it was my own body—! What the hell did you do?!”
“They saved me,” you tried to say. Your voice came out hoarse and too quiet. No one heard.
Mira scoffed, stepping forward now, blade at the ready. “Typical. You show up after the damage is done and think you’re the saviors. You’re the reason she was in danger in the first place!”
Haneul snarled, his hand already crackling with violet heat. “I’ll kill you.”
“Try it,” Mira spat.
You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. The three girls who had saved you were now on the defensive—your boys advancing like predators. “No—stop,” you whispered. But no one heard you.
“Move,” Seungho growled. “Now.”
“She was crying when we found her,” Zoey shot back, eyes blazing. “Because of your kind.”
“She’s our soulbond,” Haneul snarled, taking another step forward. The air warped with heat and fury. “And you’re standing too close.”
Your heart thundered in your chest. You stared at your boys—at the rage in their eyes, the shadows curling around their limbs, the way their talons pulsed with barely contained violence. You’d never seen them like this. Not even when angry. This was feral. Defensive. Terrified.
They think the girls hurt you. Your stomach twisted. But they didn’t hurt you. They saved you. They were protecting you. But now your protectors were attacking your rescuers.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mira yelled, lunging forward.
Haneul met her blade with his own crackling fist, a burst of force slamming into her as they collided. Sparks flew. Moonlight danced off steel. The fight had begun.
Hwimori was already clashing with Zoey—her enchanted blades flying through the air as he dodged, ducked, flipped, and retaliated with soundwaves that cracked windows down the block. He roared, a growl in his throat like an animal defending its mate.
Seungho charged at Rumi, her blade immediately meeting his arms—his skin hardening on impact, stone-like. He didn’t even flinch. His own dark energy lashed out, a swipe of his hand sending shockwaves into the pavement. The ground split between them.
“No– No— Don’t fight–!” you gasped, clutching your chest. Your body trembled, still too weak from earlier. Your head was spinning. You tried to scream for them to stop, but your voice caught in your throat.
Inside, a storm brewed.
You couldn’t process it all fast enough. The girls had saved you. But the boys had come for you, eyes wild with desperation. You could feel Haneul’s rage like a wildfire. Hwimori’s anguish in every movement. Seungho’s fury barely contained behind his deadened eyes. But the girls—they were right too, weren’t they?
They told you the truth. Or at least, a version of it that made your chest cave in and your breath feel shallow. They said the boys were behind the souls being taken, that they were destroying the Honmoon, all to feed Gwi Ma. You didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t. But now here they were, fighting like animals—no, demons.
Just like those creatures on the train. Were they any different?
You staggered back as the station lit up with magic and rage. Fear gripped you. They’re going to kill each other. They don’t even see you anymore. They only see enemies.
Mira shouted something at Haneul, and he struck her blade with a fist of molten energy.
Zoey hurled two more blades. One grazed Hwimori’s arm, and he howled like a beast, his eyes glowing gold with power.
Seungho surged forward, knocking Rumi back against a pillar.
Your voice finally broke through your panic, and it came out cracked and desperate.
“STOP—!!”
Your scream ripped through the air like thunder. The sound was raw. Shaking. Wounded. The Honmoon shimmered. The soulbond screamed. Magic still littered in the air like lightning trapped in a cage. You stood in the center, eyes wide, chest heaving, tears falling down your face.
They froze—mid-attack, mid-motion. Mira’s blade hung inches from Haneul’s throat. Hwimori stood with his hand pressed against Zoey’s forearm. Seungho, face spattered with sparks from the clash, was breathing hard, knuckles red.
Your legs buckled. Tears streamed down your face. “Please… just—take me home.”
The boys turned to you instantly, their expressions shattering. Haneul reached you first, eyes wide, fury replaced by guilt.
Mira stepped forward. “Wait—Y/N—please, don’t just leave with them—”
You flinched, recoiling from her words. “They’re my—” your voice caught again. You didn’t even know what they were. Your protectors? Your monsters? Your bondmates? “They’re mine. Please. Just let me go.”
Zoey’s brows furrowed, her eyes soft with heartbreak. “Y/N—”
But you didn’t look back. The boys were around you in seconds. Haneul touched your wrist gently. Seungho gritted his jaw, eyes flicking toward Huntrix with restrained menace. Hwimori’s voice shook as he whispered, “We’ve got you, baby. You’re safe.”
The three of them vanished with you in a pulse of light.
Huntrix was left on the platform, chests heaving from the encounter. Rumi stared at the space you’d disappeared from, her heart pounding in dread. “She didn’t know,” she whispered.
Mira kicked at the wall, furious. “She still chose them.”
“No,” Zoey said softly, blinking back tears. “She chose… love. Even if it breaks her.”
────────── ⚘ ──────────
There was a crack in the air, warped magenta light, a pulse of pressure. The world spun. You gasped, and then you weren’t at the train station anymore. You were in the apartment. The air was too still. Too silent. Too safe.
Strong arms were around you—Haneul. You could feel the heat of his chest, his heartbeat pounding like war drums beneath skin. He didn’t speak at first. None of them did. Only the low hiss of displaced magic, the soft creak of floorboards, the echo of your own pulse thrumming inside your skull. He set you down like you were made of glass. Like touching you too long might shatter you.
Your knees barely held. The floor felt unfamiliar beneath your feet. Seungho’s eyes flicked over you, frantic. Cold rage buried under silent panic. He hovered beside you, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to hold you or destroy something else entirely.
Hwimori dropped to his knees in front of you without hesitation, eyes glassy and wide, his voice cracking before it even fully formed. “You’re shaking… baby, are you hurt? What did they—what happened before we got there? Please–”
“Talk to us,” Haneul said, crouching beside you, his hand hovering near your back but not daring to touch. “Please. What happened?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t even blink. You just… shook your head. Back and forth, shaking side to side as if it would erase what knowledge you now knew. The soulbond pulsed faintly in your chest. Not warm. Not comforting. It throbbed like a bruise. Like something fractured. Like a string pulled too taut, starting to tear.
The apartment was… wrong. The usual warmth, the laughter, the music and bickering and background hum of domestic life—it was all absent. And inside you, it was worse.
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel the way you used to. Your mind echoed only with what the girls had said, with the image of people’s souls leaving their bodies on the train, of hollowed, empty eyes. Of that terrifying demon.
They take souls. They perform for Gwi Ma. You’re the only thing they’re not using.
Your heart twisted violently in your chest. The boys were still speaking—softly, pleadingly—but their words barely registered. The only thing you could feel was the silence between the soulbond pulses. That unbearable emptiness.
You stood on shaky knees and stared at the counter. Your desserts sat there, untouched. You’d made them with so much love. You couldn’t even remember what they tasted like now. And still, none of them moved closer. As if they could feel it—that wall, that distance growing inside you. Your silence was worse than a scream. You tried to inhale and tasted ash.
What if it’s true? What if it’s all been a lie?
They were so worried. They looked like they’d rip the world apart just to keep you safe. And yet, they could also be the reason so many were dead.
“Where’s Seoha and Jinu?” you asked, your voice small. Fragile.
They all froze. Seungho’s head jerked up, jaw tight. “They’re on their way,” Haneul said softly, carefully. Then he reached forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. His thumbs hovered over your cheeks like he wanted to wipe tears that hadn’t fallen yet. “Baby, look at me. Please.”
You didn’t. Not right away. But then your gaze lifted, slowly. And the look in your eyes shattered them.
Your eyes—normally filled with warmth, trust, affection—were glassy and storm-swept. Distant. Like you were still on that train. Like you were looking at strangers. Strangers who might hurt you. Strangers who already had.
A new pulse of displaced air. The magic cracked again— and Jinu and Seoha appeared. Everything moved at once.
“Y/N!” Jinu’s voice rang like thunder. They rushed to you, no hesitation. You were enveloped in arms, pulled against chests, hands cradling your head, their voices thick with desperation.
“What happened?”
“Are you okay? Baby—talk to us—please—”
Their love was overwhelming. Suffocating. Because it wasn’t fake. And that made it worse. You didn’t move. Your body was stiff between them, your head angled slightly away. It was too much. Their concern, their affection—it only twisted the knife in your gut.
How can they love me like this… if they’re the reason so many died?
Seungho stepped back first. His jaw was clenched, his face pulled into a snarl, not at you—but at the unbearable tension building in the room. “She hasn’t said anything,” he growled.
Jinu turned to you, and you felt the question in his eyes like a scream. Seoha beside him, stiffening. “Y/N…”
Seungho’s voice cut again, more agitated now, sharp with his own guilt. “She was with Huntrix when we got there. All three of them. Protecting her. She looked… different. Like she didn’t trust us.”
Silence. Then Seoha’s entire body stiffened, rage sparking behind his eyes. “They what?”
“You let them near her?” Jinu snarled, teeth bared.
“They saved me.” Your voice sliced through the room. All five froze. You turned your gaze on them—and what they saw unraveled every one of them. Betrayal. Hurt. Disbelief. Your hands were trembling. Your lips parted, eyes wide and glimmering.
“Tell me the truth,” you whispered. Your voice was broken. Like your throat had cracked open just to let the words out. “Tell me what they said wasn’t true—”
Seoha moved fast, too fast. “Whatever they told you—it was—”
“Tell me you didn’t do this!” You were yelling now. Tears spilling down your face as your fists clenched tight at your sides. “Tell me you aren’t the reason everyone I was with on that train is dead! Tell me you aren’t the reason their souls were sucked out of them!”
Their expressions broke in real time. Eyes wide. Faces pale. Their masks—whatever calm they’d held—shattered.
“Tell me,” you sobbed, “you aren’t harvesting souls for Gwi Ma. Tell me you aren’t in that goddamn boyband because you’ve been sacrificing people this whole time. Tell me!”
Silence. Your voice cracked on that last word. And all that came after was the sound of your sobs, and the cracking of five hearts breaking in perfect synchrony. Then—
“…You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” Hwimori whispered. His voice was hollow. Distant.
And just like that, your knees gave out. You dropped onto the couch like your body had no strength left. “Oh god…” Your hand flew to your mouth. You were trembling violently now, chest heaving as you sobbed uncontrollably.
“No,” you whispered through broken cries. “No no no—”
Seungho reached out—but the second his fingers brushed your shoulder, you flinched like he’d burned you. He recoiled instantly, like he’d touched fire.
“You were hiding this from me,” you choked out. “This whole time—!”
Voices clamored, layered on top of each other, a storm of explanations:
“We were going to tell you,” Haneul swore.
“We were protecting you—” Seungho snapped.
“We had a plan, the Idol Awards—” Seoha began.
Then—Jinu. His voice was the calmest. And somehow the heaviest. “We never wanted to lie. But we knew… if we told you… we might lose you.”
You looked up. And what they saw in your eyes destroyed them. It was Jinu’s worst fear made flesh. You were looking at them like they were monsters.
Because maybe they were. Because maybe they’d always been. And you had just never seen it before.
Your heart throbbed violently. You couldn’t breathe. Their words spun in your head, colliding with every smile they’d given you, every sweet nickname, every soft hand brushing your cheek.
How much of that was real?
They’d always brushed off your questions. Always distracted you. Made you feel safe. Loved. Like you were the center of their world. And maybe you were. But that didn’t mean they weren’t lying. Didn’t mean they weren’t killing. Didn’t mean they weren’t monsters.
You shut your eyes tight. Tears still flowed. You were shaking. Then slowly… you looked up again. And your voice was cold. “Tell me everything.”
Their breath caught. You didn’t stop. “No more lying. No more half-truths. No more pretty words or distractions or soft kisses when you don’t want to answer. Because if you hide even one more thing from me…”
Your eyes burned now. Not with anger. With heartbreak.
“…I will start to question everything about this bond.”
Your words were a blade, and it cut them deep. Not all of them showed fear the same way.
Hwimori looked like a kicked animal. Eyes wide and shimmering, lips parted as if he was about to cry too. His fingers curled into his sleeves like they were the only thing anchoring him to the room, to you. He felt it the most—your withdrawal. And it terrified him.
Seungho was stone. His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles had gone white. His jaw was locked tight, mouth a hard line. But the tremble in his chest betrayed him. His need to reach you. To fix this. His control was slipping, and beneath it, rage was building—but it wasn’t directed at you. It was at himself.
Haneul stood still as a mountain, but his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding back an earthquake. His eyes tracked every twitch of your face, every breath, searching for a sign you’d come back to him. To them. The panic behind his calm exterior was cracking, slow and brutal.
Seoha was quiet. Too quiet. His brow furrowed, lips tight in a way that had nothing of his usual smirk or smugness. He looked… human. Almost small. The carefully crafted illusion of control he always wore had shattered, and now he just looked like someone terrified of losing the one thing that made life worth bearing.
And Jinu— Jinu looked like he was in mourning. His face was pale, drawn tight with sorrow, and for once, the leader, the one who always knew what to say, seemed utterly lost. He let out a slow, pained breath. Then he knelt. He didn’t ease himself down like someone making a gesture. He fell to his knees like the weight of your words had knocked the ground out from beneath him.
“Four hundred years ago,” he began softly. His voice was like velvet torn at the seams. “You already know what I did. I made the pact with Gwi Ma.”
He kept his hands on his thighs, like if he reached for you and you pulled away, he might never recover. “But that was just the beginning,” he continued, eyes not leaving yours. The apartment had gone deathly still. The only sound was the buzz of distant city traffic and your own breath, shallow and trembling.
“We’ve been searching for you,” Jinu said. “Lifetime after lifetime. Across kingdoms, dynasties, wars… through blood, fire, ruin. Always searching. Always too late.”
He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they glistened. “You’d be born. And by the time we found you—” His voice broke. “You’d be gone.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Every time we saw you die… it killed something inside us. But we couldn’t let go. We couldn’t stop.” His voice grew lower, heavier. “So I went back to Gwi Ma.” The name curled like smoke in the air, bitter and thick. “I gave him a plan.”
He looked up at you, eyes hollowed out by centuries of desperation. “If the hunters succeeded in turning the Honmoon gold, it would seal the boundary between the demon world and the human one. Forever. We would never be able to reach you again.”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t known that. Jinu nodded, seeing the realization in your face. “We couldn’t let that happen. We couldn’t let them lock us away. Not when we hadn’t found you yet. So I told Gwi Ma… we’d become a boyband.”
He said it like it tasted foreign in his mouth. Strange. Absurd. And yet, it had worked. “We’d gather adoration. Souls. Worship. We’d become idols, perfect vessels for harvesting. As long as we gave him what he wanted, Gwi Ma would let us roam the human world. He’d let us keep looking for you.”
He pressed a fist to his chest. “I sold what was left of my soul to him. And the others followed.”
You could feel the weight of their silence behind him. All of them had made the pact. All of them had chosen this. And then— Jinu’s voice softened. A light trembled in his expression, nostalgic and gentle. “And then one day… we found you.”
His tone shifted like he was remembering a dream. “You were standing in the crowd, trolley in hand. Watching us during our debut performance. You didn’t know who we were. Not really. But you looked at us—looked at me—and…”
He smiled faintly, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “It felt like every lifetime had led to that one moment.”
The others shifted behind him. Seoha’s hand had clenched over his heart. Haneul was staring at the floor, breath uneven. Hwimori sniffled softly. Seungho didn’t move at all—but his chest rose like he was holding back a scream.
But then, Jinu’s face hardened. “Gwi Ma noticed, too.”
You tensed. “He asked if you were a distraction…” Jinu’s voice cracked, shaking at the edges now. “And when he saw the answer in our eyes… he threatened to rip you from the cycle.”
You stared at him, frozen.
“He said if we didn’t fulfill the mission, he would erase you. No reincarnation. No afterlife. Just nothing. We’d never see you again. Ever. He used you as leverage.” He spat the last word out like it was poison on his tongue.
The room tilted. Your stomach lurched. You could barely process it.
“But…” Jinu choked, reaching for you now. Carefully, gently. His hands brushing yours like they were sacred. “Then he said something else.”
He blinked, voice barely holding together. “He said… if we succeeded…If we completed the mission, you’d be free. No more deaths. No more waiting. Your soul would be unbound. You’d be with us. Forever.”
His eyes were pleading now. Raw. “You wouldn’t have to die anymore,” he whispered. “We wouldn’t have to lose you again.”
His voice cracked. “So we kept going. We harvested. We became what he wanted us to be. Because we’d do anything. Anything, just for that chance.”
Seungho’s voice came next, dark and sharp. “We’d burn in hell a thousand times if it meant keeping you out of it.”
“You don’t understand,” Seoha murmured, stepping closer. “We chose to sin so you wouldn’t have to. We lied, we killed, we performed. But it was all for you.”
Hwimori was crying now, silent tears streaking down his cheeks. “We were tired of watching you die…”
Haneul’s voice was low, heavy. “So we made sure you wouldn’t have to again. Even if it meant damning ourselves.”
Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled in Jinu’s grasp. And then the question came out—without thought, without breath. “…Then was any of this real?”
They froze. You looked at Jinu through a blur of tears. “Or am I just your reward for doing Gwi Ma’s dirty work?”
Silence. Then— Jinu squeezed your hand so tightly it hurt. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “No, baby—you’re not a reward. You’re everything. You are the reason we breathe. You are the only thing we ever wanted.”
His hands trembled. “If there was even the slightest chance to free you—to keep you—I took it. I’ll always take it. Even if I become the worst kind of monster, I’ll still reach for you.”
He leaned in, eyes locked with yours, voice breaking. “This bond…it’s real. It’s not a spell. It’s not a scheme. It’s the only thing that ever made any of this worth it.”
Your tears spilled down freely now, dropping into your open palms—hands still interlocked with his. You looked down at them. At the warmth, the trembling desperation. And you whispered, voice hollow: “Then… what about the Idol Awards? Why is it so important? What’s your plan?”
Jinu hesitated. And the others, they froze again. They looked at each other.
You saw it.
The silent debate. The second wave of hesitation. And it gutted you. Your voice cracked again, wounded and sharp: “You say you love me. But you lie. And you keep lying.”
The blow landed. Haneul exhaled sharply, head shaking from side to side. “…It’s Gwi Ma,” he said finally. “The Idol Awards. It’s a feast for him. He wants to collect as many souls as possible at once. All at once. Through the performance.”
Hwimori wiped his face with a sleeve, voice barely audible. “He’s going to feed on thousands. While the world cheers.”
You couldn’t breathe. You felt your lungs pull tight in your chest. A whimper broke past your lips as you squeezed your eyes shut. And you cried. You didn’t stop the sobs this time. Your entire body shook, your hand still clasped in Jinu’s, tears falling freely onto your skin like rain.
The apartment blurred. Their faces blurred. The bond was still there, still humming… but it didn’t soothe you anymore. It pulsed like a wound.
You looked up at them.
Jinu was still kneeling, his hands clasped in yours like prayer. The others stood behind him, broken shadows in the silence. Not one of them looked away from you. Not even now. And somehow, that made it worse.
They would never look away from you. Even if you ran. Even if you bled.
And wasn’t that the point? Your throat burned as more sobs clawed their way out, and in the fragments of silence that followed, the thoughts began to spiral. They wrapped around each other like thorns.
Maybe they never stopped being monsters. Maybe they just learned how to look like love.
Your fingers twitched in Jinu’s grip. He didn’t loosen. His touch was gentle, like he thought he was holding something holy. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most. They loved you. God, they loved you. Not in some surface-level way, not in flings or flattery or fleeting affection. But in the way demons love: eternal, consuming, possessive. As if you were the sun and they’d burn everything else to orbit you.
But what had they burned already? You blinked hard, tears falling fresh, and looked at Seungho. He looked like a stone god in mourning. His mouth drawn in pain. His eyes, red-rimmed, still hard—never left your face.
Do they love me? Or do they love the idea of saving what they lost?
Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?
A mission to reclaim what they’d failed to protect. A centuries-long obsession. A crusade. And you, the living relic of all that suffering. Were you really you to them? Or were you just the wound they couldn’t stop reopening?
Your chest cracked as you looked next at Hwimori. His face soaked in silent tears, lips trembling, arms hugging himself like he didn’t know where to put all his grief. He always looked at you like you were the answer to every question he’d ever asked.
Is my body their comfort? My heart their trophy?
Your heart screamed in your chest, and still, you wanted to hold him. To comfort him. To wipe those tears away. Why does it still hurt to think about leaving them?
Because you love them. You do. That’s what made all of this so unlivable. You love them like breath. Like instinct. Like your body was made to fit in their arms, and your soul keeps reaching for theirs, even now that you know the truth, even after everything.
It’s still there. The bond. I feel them—every emotion, every heartbreak. Like it’s my own.
You shut your eyes, chest rising and falling too fast. The pain in your throat was sharp. And that’s the most terrifying part. Even now, after everything, I ache for them.
And how could you not? When they’ve bled for you? When they’ve clawed their way through centuries of death and fire just to reach you? But that love was wrapped in horror. They built a cathedral of corpses to reach me. And now they ask me to kneel in it with them.
You looked at Haneul next. His gaze was glass. Shining, unreadable. So much devotion. So much quiet, desperate hope. You wanted to throw up.
Because no matter how gently they spoke, no matter how desperately they shook as they confessed, the truth was still bloodstained.
They made themselves monsters to keep me safe. I see that now. I believe it. But when did protecting someone turn into sacrificing others?
They think this is devotion. But I don’t want to be worshipped like a god. I just wanted to be loved like a person.
You could still remember how soft Haneul had been that night he made you tea. How his hand cupped your jaw like you were fragile. How his voice broke when he thought you were hurt.
They gave up everything… and I don’t know whether to feel honored or horrified.
You looked away, only for your eyes to land on Seoha. Beautiful, manipulative Seoha. The liar. The sweet-talker. The boy who had whispered fantasy in your ear and never quite told you where the dreams ended and the lies began. And yet—
He had knelt with the others. Begged with the others. Loved with the others. And still, he had lied.
I don’t know how to bear this. I was just trying to live a normal life. I didn’t ask to be someone’s reason for slaughter.
Can love justify this much death?
What does it say about me… that some part of me still wants to protect them?
Another sob ripped from your throat. You bent forward, your hands tangled in your lap, and felt Jinu’s still holding one, solid, shaking.
‘I believe in forgiveness,’ you thought, chest hollowing. ‘In healing. In second chances. But what do you do when the people you love are proud of the sins they carry?’
Because they were. They didn’t deny them. They wore them like scars. Like medals.
I don’t want to be someone you kill for. I want to be someone you live for.
But they didn’t see the difference. To them, love meant sacrifice. To them, love was the war.
And you? You were the altar.
You lift your eyes. Your face is soaked, your lips tremble, your throat tastes like ash. They’re all still watching you. Their eyes full of love and dread. As if your next words will either break the curse or finish the story. You exhale, voice shaking as you speak.
“Do you even hear yourselves?” you whisper. They’re silent. Your voice trembles harder. “You’re planning a massacre… in my name.”
Seungho’s jaw clenches. Hwimori chokes on a breath. Jinu flinches like the words physically hit him. You swallow, the bond pulsing between your ribs like a bruise that won’t stop throbbing. “Thousands of souls. Families. Children. People who have no idea what’s waiting for them.”
Your hands shake in your lap. “And you’re going to take it all away. Smile while the lights flash. Dance while the world dies.”
Your gaze flickers to Jinu—kneeling, breath shallow. “I know you love me,” you whisper. “God, I know. I can feel it. But this…” Your voice cracks. “…this isn’t the kind of love I want. Do you honestly believe that I, or even who I was lifetimes ago, would ever be okay with this?”
Something ripples down the bond. Guilt. Shame. Grief. Their emotions tangle with yours, intensify. And suddenly it’s all too much. Your pain mirrored fivefold, bouncing back through the crimson thread and digging its claws into your chest. Your heart twists violently. They feel it. You can feel them feeling it. The ache in your soul like an echo chamber of agony.
You stand, trembling. “You say you’re protecting me. But you’re killing for me. Hiding it. Justifying it. As if loving me makes the blood on your hands… righteous.”
No one moves. You look at Jinu again. “You say you did it to stop me from dying. To give us forever. But what’s the point of forever… if I can’t live with myself?” you choke a sob.
Jinu’s eyes close. His jaw tenses. The bond pulses again—hot with their panic. Their sorrow. Their desperation. You can barely keep your voice steady. “I feel everything you feel. And that’s the cruelest part. Because even after everything… I still love you.”
The room doesn’t breathe.
“I still want to run to you. I still want to pretend this isn’t happening. That I didn’t hear what I just heard.”
You look at Haneul. “I still feel safe with you.”
At Seungho. “I still crave your touch.”
At Seoha. “I still hear your voice when I sleep.”
At Hwimori. “I still want to hold you when you cry.”
And then, your voice breaks. “But I hate that I still feel that way. Because I shouldn’t.”
No one dares speak. You wipe your tears as you stand, even as your knees buckle beneath the weight of what you know. “I’m not your prize. I’m not your goddess. I’m not the reason you get to do these things and sleep at night.”
You stare straight at them. “If you truly love me… you’ll stop this. You’ll find another way.”
They don’t answer. The silence says everything. Jinu finally breathes. “This is the only way.”
You flinch. “No—” You step forward. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to tell me that thousands have to die so I can live with you.”
“It’s not just for you—” Haneul starts.
“You just said it was!”
The bond is frantic now. They feel your anger. Your heartbreak. Their own shame cracks against your ribs. Seungho looks away. Seoha clenches his fists. Hwimori’s lip trembles.
Jinu doesn’t move. “It’s the only way to finish it,” he says quietly. “To free you. To make it stop.”
“No,” you whisper. “You’re doing this because you can’t bear to lose me. Not again. You’re not saving me. You’re clinging to me.”
Jinu looks up, broken. “Is that so wrong?”
You freeze. And it hits you all at once: They’re not going to stop. They can’t. Because to them, this is love. Love shaped like sacrifice. Like fire. Like ruin. They would rather burn the world than risk being without you.
And you love them. You love them still. That’s the worst part.
Your knees buckle again and you fall to the couch, a sob ripping from your chest. Jinu tries to move toward you, but the look on your face stops him. “I can’t watch you do this,” you whisper. “I can’t watch you become something I can’t forgive.”
The bond pulses with pain. You shove yourself to your feet. “Don’t follow me.”
“Y/N—” Seoha starts.
“Don’t.”
You walk away from them. Each step like dragging chains. You pass the desserts you’d made just hours ago—sweet, stupid little things that feel like a lie now. You reach for the guest room door– one with a lock. Your fingers tremble on the knob.
And then you shut it. Lock it. The sound echoes like a final breath.
You collapse onto the bed and sob until your throat burns. You hate them for what they’re going to do. And you hate that you still love them through it.
And worst of all… some part of you still wants to forgive them.
Even if it means losing yourself in the process.
TO BE CONTINUED
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A/N: I am so sooo sorry this had to be done! But let's be real, I have been building up for this big reveal for chapters now- so I always knew this was going to happen. It was a necessary ouchie, I hope you forgive me. Things will roll out now. I can't promise a happier chapter for the next, but it will be exciting and suspenseful, trust! Things will get better eventually, but we'll have to go through some waves and punches for now.
I wanted to highlight in this chapter how the bond is more complicated than it looks. Issues on morality, sacrifice, love, and betrayal are the reality in this situation, so I wanted to highlight the complicated thoughts any normal person would have in this scenario.
I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, though!
Willa x.
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#saja boys x reader#saja boys#kpop demon hunters#kpdh x reader#jinu x reader#abby x reader#mystery x reader#romance x reader#baby x reader#yandere#yandere saja boys#kpdh#jinu kpdh#kpdh x you#reverse harem#kdh#fic#The Crimson Pact#poly!saja boys x you#poly!saja boys x reader#poly!saja boys
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summary: in which there is never enough time to be in love but jungkook is a 24/7 lover (part two).
idol!jk x afab!reader / fluffy fluff with a dash of angst / word count: 4.4k
warnings/content: making out (uhm one of my fav making out scenes prolly), allusion to car s^x, mature language, jk missed oc sososomuch >:(, oc is a sunshine as always, new family member 👀, they’re so domestic!! i cried
-> part one (both can be stand alone)
-> in which masterlist!
note: hahah hi? :D art is here. if u remember me i love u. also pls comment down if u want to added to the taglist bc uhm it’s been so long so i need to make a new one :''(
—
the kitchen counter divides you and jungkook. he sits there patiently. hunger is the last thing in his mind. his everything is right here with him, within an arm’s reach. your phone faintly vibrates with soft music. you hum along, feet gliding on the smooth floor as you gather what you need for the preparation of brunch. the sunlight sneaks past the gaps of the curtains, and he cannot help but to admire when it paints your skin a sparkling golden. it dances gracefully with your every move.
every moment spent with you is worth reliving a million lives.
“how have you been, my love?” he goes the extra mile of adding curiosity to the tone of his voice, because it could be that the intensity of his yearning drowns it. it sure does in the depths of his heart.
how is it that he’s closest to you than he’s ever been when going away for work but this is also the farthest he has ever felt from you? it’s a stupid joke. it’s torture.
he could say that it’s almost as if he never left, but there are things that have happened and changed. he doesn’t know where the remote control of the air conditioner in the living room is kept. you rearranged your side of the closet. you bought new books, bottles of alcohol, and ceramics. time passes by excruciatingly slower in the base. he thinks about you all the time. when he can’t sleep, he writes love songs in his head and records them when he finally gets a hold of his phone. and sometimes he catches himself wondering: soon, army will be there to listen to the songs, right?
“great… i got my first paycheck yesterday since i got promoted! this is the first time in my life that i feel rich.” you pop a piece of bacon in your mouth before pointing the tongs at him. “do you know the first thing i did?”
“what?” he asks, now intrigued.
“buy a new laptop— because i broke mine.” you wince, but the ironic amusement is evident. “it still works… uh, how do i even say it without feeling embarrassed?”
“what happened?” he begins to be infected by your positivity, a smile growing on his face. “come on, baby. you can just tell me.”
“you see, i can’t fold it anymore.” you hold up a piece of bacon, ripping it until only a quarter of an inch connects the two halves. “i dropped it on accident and the monitor broke apart from the keyboard! it’s hanging on by a thread, jungkook!”
you make a sound that is between a laugh and a wail. “i almost cried! how did that even happen?!”
he cackles, palms slapping the kitchen counter as he listens to your narration.
“so i’ve been using it like that for over a week now and i think it feels worse than having it completely break because then…” you pause, filling the silence with a giggle, to admire jungkook for a moment. you don’t seem him laugh often these days. “because then i’m thinking ‘guess i’m stuck with this abomination’ instead of ‘guess i’m getting a brand new one.’ you get what i mean?”
he sniffles. “yes, yes-” he reaches for your hand to bring the bacon into his mouth.
“it’s like when you’re holding on to something that is hurting you and makes you angry because it still kind of works and it has sentimental value. and you feel stuck.“
he chews, blinking at you. “now where did that come from?”
“sorry, i’m the friend people go to for relationship advice these days. it’s weird… they ask me ‘how have you been in a healthy relationship for the past six years?’ well, i didn’t stay in relationships that weren’t. maybe that’s how. yeah, it’s easier said than done, but no matter how difficult, you have to get it done!”
you place the final batch of bacon on the napkin covering the plate before setting them aside. you move around the kitchen to gather the ingredients you need, placing them all on the kitchen counter.
“have i told you that i won a waffle maker at the supermarket raffle?”
you expectantly watch jungkook’s expression, but you’re the one bewildered when you’re met with sparkling eyes and a fond smile. he fakes a frown and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “what?! as a matter of fact, you haven’t told me.”
“here it is!“ you reveal the box, raising it to proudly sit on the top of your head. “it was insane. i only had one entry but by some miracle from heaven, i won, jungkook!”
yes, that is actually fucking amazing, yet jungkook doesn’t find the information very surprising. good things naturally gravitate towards you because you are a good person. “oh, it was the same one we had!”
his brother borrowed it and was never returned to your kitchen again.
“it is?” your eyes comically widen, which then become out of sight when you squint at the image on the box.
“yeah,” he confirms. you flip the box and it’s his turn to look. “but this one’s white. oh! wait no- it’s a newer model.”
he takes the box from your hands for a closer inspection. “oing?” he shakes it. “is it empty?”
you bend down, disappearing for a second, and then the next, presenting to him the actual waffle maker. “sorry, the box was just for the element of surprise.”
he scratches his head. you smile at him, sighing, as if to say you also find your own antics ridiculous. and then he laughs, the kind that makes his tummy hurt and forces his eyes closed.
he missed you so dearly.
—
“we’re out of eggs.” you note in the middle of brunch.
he hasn’t been around and yet you still say ‘we.’ he abandons his utensils to wrap his arms around your waist in a bone-crushing hug. he wants nothing but to have your skin against his for the entirety of his stay, but he also craves spending time with you doing simple things.
“let’s go grocery shopping then.”
—
“i can finally shop all i want.” you almost skip out of joy beside jungkook, who is pushing the shopping cart. you hold on to his arm like you always do. “i have my big, strong boyfriend who will carry the bags with me.”
said boyfriend puffs up his chest in pride, even makes sure that you feel him flexing his arms underneath his sweatshirt. “that’s what i do it for.”
as usual, you stay the longest at the produce section. you both complain about the prices. when did it become this expensive? you dig for the best onions; him the garlic. he gasps when he takes a bundle and almost everything comes rolling on the floor. you don’t notice and he pretends it never happened. bell pepper. tomatoes. cabbage. carrots. cucumber. potatoes.
“what do you need that many potatoes for?”
“i’ll figure it out.” you shrug. “it’s cheap so maybe i’ll eat it for like a week.”
“huh? eat what you want, baby.” he insists. you tell him not to buy you too much expensive material things? fine. but god forbid he works himself to the bone for a decade and not be able to spoil his live-in partner with this type of luxury at the very least. “you don’t have to worry about that.”
“i know, babe! but i just ordered a laptop, so…” you kiss his cheek with a giggle. “besides, i do want them. you can cook them in many ways.”
“okay, that’s true.” your hand on his waist makes him a little weak on the knees. he reciprocates the kiss. “i love you.”
—
“anything you want? i’ve been preparing a package to send you.”
you pull out the baby seat of the shopping cart for your one liter of body wash. you like buying the biggest portion of things so you can save money and not have to keep going back for more. on the other hand, you think it’s comforting to be prepared for an apocalypse. it’s silly, but then you remember the pandemic.
jungkook moves your bottle a little to make space for a smaller version of it. you look at him in question and he simply says, “it’s mine.” but you both know he uses a different brand and scent.
“i want chocolates.”
“choccyyy?”
“mhmm…”
he rests his chin on your shoulder as he hugs you from behind, sandwiching you between him and the cart. the usual. a bit heavy, could be more comfortable. but this is the type of inconvenience that makes the trip to the sweets aisle more exciting, or mornings worth waking up to. the extra weight clinging to you is love that lightens the burden of being.
“what’s this?” he points to a fancy looking white chocolate at the top shelf. “have you tried it?”
“my friend gave me one before. tasted like nothing.”
“awww…” he pouts.
“take whatever you want, then let’s check out, baby.”
he grins, deviously rubbing his hands together like a mastermind orchestrating. “well, in that case!”
—
you and jungkook wait at the long grocery line. it’s saturday afternoon. this has become some sort of a peaceful harmony–the chatter of strangers, the speakers blasting the latest pop hits, and the occasional customer service intercom announcements—that supplies you with the patience to stand for an extended period of time. you shift your weight to the other foot. you ask yourself if there’s anything you forgot. you play with the strings of your boyfriend’s hoodie. he smells your hair not so subtly.
“ohh, pop rocks!” you quietly squeal once you become close enough to see the products displayed near the cashier.
he smiles in endearment. “want some?”
“yes, please!”
—
as soon as jungkook opens the car door for you, you attempt to open the bag of pop rocks, but you miserably fail on both corners. tear here? do you actually have to cry before you manage to eat your candy?
“babe, your seatbelt,” jungkook chimes while he fastens his.
“okay, wait-” you mutter, distracted and increasingly annoyed.
he starts the engine and turns up the air conditioner. “babe, come on,”
“wait…”
your phone is immediately connected to the car. he turns off the bluetooth without removing it from your lap so he can connect his phone without a problem. he misses listening to music in the car too. his playlist is already playing and you still don’t have your seatbelt on. damn, you really refuse to ask for help.
“just give it to me,” he chuckles, offering his hand.
“nope!”
you don’t even spare him a glance. you try ripping the plastic open with your teeth once more. it works this time. the force sends a small portion of the rocks falling on your lap; some in the space between your thighs.
“what a waste,” you frown.
while you lament, jungkook undoes his seatbelt so he can finally fasten yours for you. however, he continues to invade your space even after that.
“it’s fine. i’ll eat them.”
with his fingers, he patiently picks up the pop rocks caught by your skirt before putting them on his tongue. you’d be sent straight to hell if you lied and said that didn’t make you a little hot and flustered, but he did take your food without permission.
“i didn’t say i won’t eat them.” you whine. “there’s not a lot of this, you know?”
“oh, sorry, i thought-” his wince borders on a mischievous grin. “there’s still some here.” he lightly pushes your thigh to the side to show.
“ugh, no,” you dust them off the leather seat. “that’s dirty.”
“such a brat,” he mutters as he presses his lips against yours.
six years worth of kisses. six. and your head is still spinning, heart swelling with so much love that your lungs are being crushed. you sigh into the kiss and hold his face tenderly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. in those six years, you’ve spent more time waiting for jungkook than actually being with him. maybe that’s the price you have to pay for being loved by your perfect match. you can’t possibly have something too good. you need to refresh your inbox a million times, memorize time differences, get used to cancelled plans, relearn how to sleep alone, cry on call like a stupid whiny baby because you miss your boyfriend a little too much on some days. you need to be patient. you need to be understanding. you need to console him when he’s also crying because he painfully waits as much as you.
he pulls away for a moment to take more pop rocks straight from the source. you bought this for yourself, but you can’t exactly complain with sweet fireworks going off between your tongues. it’s been too long. this morning barely satiated your yearning for the physical intimacy you only want from jungkook, and only he could give in a way that feels good and right. you squeeze your thighs together. his hand is on your neck, and your collarbone, and the loose sleeve of your blouse. you’re breathing in his perfume and the strawberry flavor all over your mouths. you didn’t know that you waited six years to experience this. how ridiculous is that?
you pause to gasp for air, and then jungkook gives you a look.
“what?”
you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. sticky.
“backseat,” he demands, and when he senses your hesitation, he adds. “we’ll just make out.”
“no, we won’t just make out.” you eye his very obvious boner.
“i just kissed the most beautiful person in the world!” he puts his hands up in defense— doe eyes caught in the headlights. “can you really blame me?”
—
“okay, stop!”
jungkook closes the driver’s window and turns off the engine after successfully parking. with your help, of course. he goes straight to the trunk to unload the groceries and you follow suit. did you go overboard…? the most bags you check out on your own is three. how the hell did you end up with eight? you might not come back to the supermarket in a month or two.
“do you hear that…?”
“huh, hear what?” you mumble absentmindedly, too busy taking a peek at the items you bought.
“i think it’s a cat.” jungkook whips his head around like it’s a compass. “the sound is coming from there.”
“cat?” the mention of the adorable animal piques your curiosity. your eyes train the direction he is pointing to. “oh, i hear it too… i’ll look for it.”
and you’re gone from his side. just like that. you strut in the middle of the parking lot in your high-heeled boots, searching left and right for any sign of the cat. the meowing continues. he scrambles to gather all the bags because he is as curious as you are.
“babe, i found it!” your voice echoes.
he finds you crouching on the ground between a red and black cars. the space is wide enough for you to stretch out your arms halfway, but definitely not for him who is carrying four heavy bags in each hand.
“it’s a calico.” you sigh, utterly enamored. you use that sweet and high-toned voice he often hears for bam, and him, most especially when you’re lying in bed and pinching his cheeks and kissing his skin. “it’s still small. it’s so cute… hello, little one— pspsps.”
he laughs fondly when you move aside, smiling wide as you present to him the kitten. “it’s so cute!” it is small. only a few months old. it’s mostly white, with orange ears and spots mixed with black along its body. it looks like one of its paws has a black sock. it looks up to, meows, and puts the said paw on top of your shoe gently.
“awww,” you jut out your bottom lip, carefully petting its soft head. the cat purrs in appreciation and inches closer to your hand. “babe, it loves me!”
“of course it does— okay, you can take it.” he says before you even ask.
“what?” your eyes light up.
“i said you can bring it home with us.”
you’re pulling off your (his) sweater in no time, using it to scoop up the precious creature in your arms.
“oh my god, i love you.” you kiss his cheek. “let me help you with that, baby.”
“i love you more.”
you try to take all four bags from his right hand, but he only gives you three. for i love you, apparently.
—
bam greets you when you open the door. with a wagging tail, he hugs you as best as a dog can. unsurprisingly, he begins sniffing around because of the unfamiliar scent.
“i’m scared.” you wince and raise the new bundle of joy you found from his reach. bam is usually excited and friendly, except to some men. your only concern would be that he’d perceive the kitten as a chew toy. this dog loves playing most in the world. spoiled.
you and jungkook set down the grocery bags at the kitchen. bam follows you around; fueled by his love for his parents and his curiosity for the furry thing that looked down on him once and never again. you expected it to be scared, but it’s oddly calm for a kitten who’s been wandering around most likely since birth.
“bamie, we have a new family member. you have a sibling now. be good, got it?” jungkook lectures him face-to-face after he barked and drove the kitten to hiss and hide its face. “you shouldn’t bark at them. cats’ ears are really sensitive.”
while he does that, you tiptoe to the bathroom so you can give the kitten a much needed bath. you leave it in the sink for a moment while you fill a basin with warm water from the shower.
“wait, baby!” you call out while it meows and stands by the edge of the sink, looking around like its sizing up the height of the jump. you turn off the shower and speedwalk to the sink to stop it. “i’ll clean you up, okay? i’m so sorry. please work with me.”
you carry it in your hands and you slowly submerge it in the water. it struggles against you at first, but eventually, it allows you to do your thing. as long as you let it lie down on your palm. you spend about half an hour trying to get the task done with only one hand.
“this is bam’s shampoo and conditioner. if you smell like him, maybe he’d be nicer?” you joke. it meows twice. “did you just ‘haha’?”
—
bam is currently banned from the bedroom. anyway, he doesn’t really care because he got distracted by the new toy you got him today.
“yo, we need to trim your nails too.” jungkook talks to the kitten. “okay, let’s finish cleaning your ears first.”
“i think it’s a boy.” you mention in the middle of your coos and meows while you scratch his chin. “we need to go to the vet tomorrow.”
“huh, are you sure?”
“yeah, look for yourself.”
“aren’t male calicos very rare, though?” jungkook does take a look to confirm it himself. “wow, he really is one. wow, what are the chances?”
“really? i don’t know much about cats.” you tilt your head innocently. “all i know is that i love this one already.”
“you’re so cute.” he kisses you and you beam. “we should’ve adopted a cat a long time ago if i knew it would make you this happy.”
“i was this happy when we got bam.” you remind him.
“but that was quite a long time ago already, right?” he heaves a sigh. he acts like he’s a ninety-year old who combs his white long beard when he talks about past memories. “time sure flies by so quickly. bam used to be small too. we carried him like a baby.”
“he still wants me to carry him like that.”
“that’s right!” he bursts into a fit of giggles.
you missed laughing with him until you become tearful. this is the point. this has to be the point. you lived through each day it felt like you were dying because there would come a time when you have a stable job, a beautiful home, a loving partner, and a dog and a cat that match your adoration for them.
“he really loves you.” jungkook comments, watching the kitten fawn for your attention. it plays with your hair, jumps up to reach you, and tries to climb your arm. “have you thought of a name?”
you grin, pressing your cheek against the kitten’s face. “isn’t he such a gem?”
—
“gem won’t let me cut his nails!” jungkook whines before he even steps out of the bathroom. gem walks over to your lap the second his paws touch the bed again. “there’s eight and a half left!”
“and a half?!” you laugh so hard that you have to hit your boyfriend’s arm. “it’s fine. leave them alone for now. come here…” you pat your lower torso and gem forms a loaf there. “i’ll have the vet do it tomorrow. we don’t want him scared of you.”
“that’s why i just gave up. it’s his first day with us.” jungkook finally lies down beside you. “but if you get scratched, you need to get shots, alright?”
you swallow nervously. just the thought makes you lightheaded. needles aren’t your favorite thing in the world. and with the way gem can’t stop pawing at you, there is a high likelihood that you will meet a terrible fate tomorrow morning.
“give me the nail clipper and gloves.” you snort at your own pun before you manage to spit it out. “i’ll give it a shot.”
—
you exit the bathroom drained of the determination you had fifteen minutes earlier. gem clings to your shoulder, his nails digging into the fabric of your shirt. no more treats left for him.
“yeah, it’s not happening tonight.”
jungkook opens his arms and you accept the warm invitation. warm. you cuddle his side and leave no space between the two of you. you feel his body vibrating with laughter as he caresses your hair. “it’s okay, baby. you tried your best.”
the sound of nails scratching the bedroom door makes gem perks up from his spot on your pillow.
you and jungkook glance at the door before your eyes meet. “oh no…”
—
“this isn’t how i imagined this day would go.” your boyfriend mutters, assessing the current situation of your bed. you lie on your side facing each other, but there is a bam-playing-with-a-toy-shaped space between the two of you. gem also refuses to sleep on one of bam’s old bed because he wants to be close to you. “not that i’m complaining…”
“uh, looks like you are.”
“i’m really not, but maybe we should’ve cuddled in the car for at least another hour.”
“babe, we’re on our bed!” you giggle at his neediness.
gem wakes up from his slumber when you carefully move him from your arm to your pillow, but he closes his eyes again without a care in the world. bam observes him curiously but remains well-behaved, not making any move to touch or disturb the kitten. on the other hand, you climb over him and jungkook to transfer to the other side of the bed.
“hi,” you grin at your boyfriend when he turns around to face you. “this better?”
he scoots closer until your arm is his pillow and his face is squished against your chest. “this is better.”
“hey, jeon jungkook,”
“what?” he raises an eyebrow at the tone. “what?”
you plant a soft kiss on his forehead. “want to drink beer by the han river?”
—
“of course, we needed to get chicken too!”
yes, your bad for forgetting chicken. you’re not that hungry, but you won’t let him eat alone. besides, you felt so loved when he gave you the first drumstick he saw in the box. you lean back on the tree after finishing your first piece, admiring the flowers and the street lamps and their lights reflecting on the water. bam is exhausted after running around. he’s drinking water from a plastic cup. you learn that gem is affectionate but rarely cares about what happens in his surroundings. he’s not very interested in moving around either. he’s currently situated on your lap like a fine distinguished gentleman. jungkook asks for a kiss every two minutes in between eating and taking a swig at his canned beer. you’re wearing pajamas and slippers. it’s almost eleven in the evening. you can’t ask for anything more. this is always worth the waiting and pining. when did you get so lucky in life?
“baby, thank you. i’m so happy.” jungkook hugs you so tight— you almost stop breathing.
“heh, i’m glad. next time you come home, let’s do something more special.”
“more special?” he kisses your lips before pulling away. “okay. but this is perfect.”
“you’re perfect.” the words slip out without thought.
“you’re perfect.”
you shake your head with a laugh. “this is why everyone thinks we’re corny.”
“so what?!” he exclaims, smiling.
“yeah!” you agree. “so what?”
“beer?”
you give it a disgusted look. “nope.”
“you’re the one who invited me for this!”
“i asked if you wanted to drink beer.” you reason.
“then what do you want to drink?” he subconsciously pats his pocket to check if his wallet is still there. “i’ll buy you some.”
“your cum again.”
his… what? that catches him completely off guard.
he chokes on his beer. he totally fucking forgot his partner’s mouth has no filter. shameless. just shameless. he coughs uncontrollably, patting the picnic blanket in search of a napkin. feeling a little bad for him, you hand it over, but not without laughing at his blushing face.
“so you’re embarrassed now but not when we were in the car?”
“our children can hear you!”
“babe,” you humorously stare at the animals chilling in their own bubbles. “our children speak in bowwow and meow.”
jungkook tilts your chin to his direction. you glare at his playful smirk. “so you want to make one that speaks our language?”
“jungkook,” you slap his face. lightly. “no!”
#jungkook#jungkook drabble#jungkook imagine#jungkook scenario#jungkook one shot#jungkook au#jungkook fanfic#jungkook fic#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#jungkook smut#jungkook x reader#jungkook x you#bts fluff#bts reaction
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Can you please write one where reader accidentally gets pregnant with landos baby, she doesn’t know anything about f1 or who Lando is , after a one night stand and she has no way to contact him about the baby so she goes to her best friend (one of Oscar’s sisters), thank you!
little did you know - LN4

Masterlist
summary: A one-night stand. No names. No numbers. Just one night of tequila and tangled limbs with a guy whose face you still can’t stop thinking about. Three months later, you’re pregnant - and the only person you can turn to is your best friend, Edie. The problem? The man you slept with is Edie’s brother’s best friend. And one of the most famous F1 drivers on the planet.
warnings: accidental pregnancy, one-night stand, reader has no idea who Lando is, best friend’s sibling connection, emotional overwhelm, mild nausea, soft panic, supportive female friendship, background: Oscar Piastri, soft but chaotic energy, protective best friend, slow build to confrontation and reveal (no smut in this part), tension, lots of internal spiralling
You really should’ve asked his name. That was the thought that kept haunting you. In the middle of the night, during your third trip to the bathroom to throw up. At the pharmacy counter when you bought three tests just to be sure. On your kitchen floor with your knees pulled to your chest, staring at a little pink plus sign.
Three of them, actually. All lined up like soldiers. All screaming the same thing. You were pregnant. And you didn’t even know the father’s fucking name.
You knew some things. British accent. Tall-ish. Brown curls. Warm hands. Big mouth. Had kissed your neck like he needed it to live. Had laughed at your jokes like you were the funniest girl in the world. Had moaned your name like he meant it.
And that was all.
Because it had been a tequila-soaked night in Ibiza. One of those “fuck it” evenings where everything felt electric and temporary and too golden to question. You hadn’t asked questions. Neither had he.
You’d left his hotel room at 5 a.m., heels in hand, heartbeat still thudding in your chest. And now here you were. Eleven weeks later. Pregnant. Alone. And spiralling. So you did the only thing you could. You called your best friend.
“Hey Babe, you okay?”
“Edie,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “I really need you.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes later, she was bursting through your apartment door with a bag of snacks, three hair ties, and that look on her face. The one she always gave you when she knew you were two seconds away from losing it.
You didn’t say anything. Just pointed to the counter. To the tests. To the three screaming pink plus signs. She blinked. “Holy shit.”
You nodded.
“Okay,” she said slowly, pulling you into a hug. “It’s okay. We’re going to be okay. You’re not alone.”
“I don’t even know who he is,” you whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“I met him in Ibiza. One night. Didn’t even get his name. We didn’t exchange numbers. He was staying in a hotel and I left before sunrise.”
Edie blinked again. “Okay,” she said. “Breathe. Tell me everything you remember.”
So you did. You told her about the bar. The tequila. The easy conversation. His laugh. The way he’d kissed you like he was starving. The way he’d pulled you into his lap like he didn’t care who was watching. The hotel key he’d slipped you without a word. And how you’d stupidly, stupidly, gone.
Edie’s face shifted about halfway through your story.
“What?” you asked nervously.
She was quiet. Too quiet.
Then, “Did he have curly hair?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Kinda messy. Really good jawline.”
“Accent?”
“British. Definitely British.”
“Freckles?”
“Only a few.”
Edie closed her eyes. “Oh fuck.”
“What? What is it?”
She pulled out her phone, scrolled fast, then shoved it in your face. Lando Norris spotted partying in Ibiza last night with friends ahead of the F1 summer break…
The photo hit you like a freight train. Him. The man. Your man. Staring into the camera, laughing, curls messy, wearing the same black button-down shirt he’d unbuttoned in front of you.
You stared. “Who the fuck is Lando Norris?” you asked.
Edie just blinked, “My brother’s best friend.”
You choked. “What?”
“And one of the most famous F1 drivers in the world.”
You stared at the screen. Your baby’s father. Fucking Lando Norris. You sat down. Hard. Edie crouched in front of you.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “You’ve got me. You’ve got this baby. And we will tell him. I swear.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak. So you just nodded. And let the wave hit.
You didn’t want to go. You told Edie that. More than once. In fact, you’d pretty much made it your entire personality for the hour after taking your third pregnancy test and realising your one-night stand with Mr. Curls and Dimples had officially ended in a tiny pink plus sign and a looming mental breakdown.
Edie, however, was on a mission. “He’s going to find out eventually,” she said, throwing your hoodie at you as you sat curled on the sofa. “Would you rather he hear it from you or from Lando in three months with a ‘surprise, it’s your sister's best friend’s baby mama’ tag line?”
“Okay, but I’d prefer neither.”
“Put your shoes on.”
That’s how you ended up standing in the doorway of Oscar Piastri’s Monaco apartment, trying not to vomit all over his shoes. He was as casual as ever. Hoodie, socks, cereal bowl in hand. He opened the door with a grin, then blinked at the look on your face. “Uh… is this an intervention?”
“Yes,” Edie said. “Of sorts.”
Oscar stepped back. “Alright, come in. But if it’s about me never replacing the Brita filter, I swear I was going to do it this week.”
You didn’t laugh.
He blinked again. “Okay. Now I’m actually scared.”
You both sat. Edie leaned forward, hands clasped. “Oscar,” she said gently, “we need to tell you something, and you have to promise to stay calm.”
“Cool, love that as an opener,” he said, setting his cereal aside. “Really sets the tone.”
“I’m serious.”
Oscar looked at you. Then back to her. “What happened?”
“She’s pregnant.”
Oscar’s soul visibly left his body. “I- what?”
“She’s pregnant.”
He blinked hard. Looked at you like he was trying to solve a math equation using only vibes.
“I didn’t know,” you whispered. “I only just found out.”
“Okay. Okay. Okay.” Oscar stood. Paced. Sat again. Laughed, just once, a short, terrified heh. “Okay. You’re pregnant. I can work with that. That’s fine. Babies exist. That’s fine.”
Edie exchanged a look with you.
“But who’s the-”
“It was a one-night stand,” you said softly. “Ibiza. A few months ago. I didn’t know who he was. No name, no number.”
Oscar blinked. “That… is concerning but on-brand.”
You glared. Edie sighed. “She told me everything this morning. And, uh. I figured it out.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Figured what out?”
“The guy. From Ibiza.”
He stared. “Edie.”
She looked up at him. “It was Lando.”
Oscar physically flinched. “WHAT?!”
You winced.
Oscar leapt to his feet, hands already in his hair. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out. Goodbye.” He paced again. “No, no, no. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is some psychotic, hormonal prank and she’s actually just bloated from ice cream.”
“She’s not.”
Oscar looked at you. “You had sex with Lando?”
“I didn’t know he was Lando!”
“He has one of the most recognisable faces in motorsport!”
“I don’t watch motorsport!”
Oscar looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. “Jesus Christ, this is so bad. This is so fucking bad. Zak’s going to kill me.”
Edie frowned. “Why would Zak kill you?”
“Because he’s going to blame me! I’m the teammate! I’m the mutual! I’m the brother of the best friend! You think he’s not going to give me a fucking PowerPoint on conduct clauses and NDAs and media fallout?”
You whimpered. Oscar spun around again. “Andrea. Oh my God. Andrea’s going to find out. He’s going to nod slowly in that terrifying silent way and then send me a 17-paragraph text about unity and brand strategy.”
“Oscar-”
“I’m going to be in meetings.”
“Oscar.”
“I’m going to be in presentations.”
“Oscar.”
“I’m going to be in therapy.”
Edie threw a pillow at his head. “Breathe.”
He caught it mid-air. Collapsed onto the arm of the sofa. “Okay,” he mumbled into the fabric. “I’m fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.” Then he sat up. Blinked at you. “Why weren’t you on the pill?”
You threw a second pillow at him. Edie shoved him. “Don’t talk to her like that!”
“I’m panicking!”
“Well, stop!”
“You stop!”
You burst into tears. They both froze. Oscar slid off the armrest and sat beside you in a flash. “No, no, hey, don’t cry. Fuck. Sorry. I’m a dick. I’m an emotional dick. A well-meaning dick. But still a dick.”
Edie rubbed your back. “He’s just being dramatic. As always.”
“I’m sorry,” Oscar said. “I didn’t mean to be a tool. I’m just freaking out slightly. But you’re still my best friend. You always will be.”
“And I’ll help with everything,” Edie added. “We both will.”
Oscar nodded. “Even if Lando turns out to be a flight risk.”
You laughed through your tears.
Oscar smiled. “Still your not really related but still brother, alright? Even if this whole situation makes me want to drink bleach.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder. And for the first time all day, you felt the panic melt. A little.
#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#formula 1 fanfic#f1 x reader#f1 grid x reader#f1 fic#f1 imagine#LN4#LN4 mclaren#LN4 x reader#LN4 fic#LN4 imagine#mclaren#lando norris#lando norris x reader#lando norris x you#lando norris imagine#lando norris fanfic#accidental pregnancy#reader x lando norris#pregnancy fic#one night stand fic#oscar piastri#edie piastri
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text messages between you and clark kent part two!


summary: second part to the first one linked here! these are so much fun to do! a varies of concepts and sneak peeks into you and clark’s messages, mwah! ❤️💙💛
tags and warnings: mentions of y/n, mild cursing, jealous clark, and flirty talks
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my superman 🦸🏻♂️
Guess what I was just told by Jimmy
⤷ you: oh gosh, what did he say now????
Apparently on social media there’s a trending name for me
⤷ you: i think i might know 😅😅
#Supershit
Makes me feel like #shit
⤷ you: clark you and i both know you’ve made such a difference and keep the world safe, they’re #shit for making posts like that.
I’m not even upset, It’s quite funny 🙂🙂
⤷ you: ok #supershit ❤️
Don’t start
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my superman 🦸🏻♂️
Where are you?
⤷ you: me and lois went to brunch :))
⤷ you: why??
Because your house key is finally not under the mat and I wanted to visit you
⤷ you: did you check under my plant??
⤷ you: i got a new key design ☺️☺️
I can’t even lie, I look so good
⤷ you: you always do 😉😉
⤷ you: especially when you’re in your suit and saving the world
⤷ you: my #supershit ❤️
Woman 😐
──────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
⤷ you: remember that exclusive interview you did last week? where they attached the go-pro on you?
Yes?
The one that broke mid mission? 😅
⤷ you: this is about to become my favorite picture of you :))
Delete that right now.
WHERE DID YOU EVEN FIND THAT?
HOW ARE PEOPLE GETTING THIS?
⤷ you: it’s trending on social media 😂😂
⤷ you: you’re quite literally a meme now, i fear
⤷ you: i wonder what clark kent will write about in his next article 🤔🤔
He’s speechless and won’t be writing one
──────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
Just got asked if I was single at this interview I am at
⤷ you: ???
⤷ you: and what did you say???
Nothing.
I just showed them my lockscreen and she walked off 😊
⤷ you: this is giving #supermanaura 🤭🤭
⤷ you: what’s your lockscreen??
Well it’s like a slideshow
These are a few that are included



⤷ you: 😏😏😏
⤷ you: what would have you done if that didn’t work?
Show them my wallet where I have a bunch of our polaroids
Or yell “I HAVE A HOT AND BADASS GIRLFRIEND”
⤷ you: you’re getting the best head ever tonight
Say less 🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻
──────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
Tell him to step away from you
⤷ you: what are you talking about?
He’s standing wayyyyyy to close to you
Way to close for my liking
Why is he smiling at you??
Y/n
If he shakes your hand 😐😐
⤷ you: you can’t be serious??
⤷ you: i barely met him today
I am so serious
Fuck this, i’m coming over to you
Gonna show him you’re mine and mine only.
──────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
⤷ you: took these pictures of you last night
⤷ you: love your eyes and dimples sooo much


Be honest you like it when I wear a suit
⤷ you: like?
⤷ you: like is an insult.
⤷ you: i love it when you wear one.
With my glasses or without?
⤷ you: both.
⤷ you: this is turning you on right…
Yes
Very much so
⤷ you: and my intentions were pure sweet and innocent
There’s nothing innocent about you sweetheart 😘
──────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
one missed call from my superman 🦸🏻♂️
two missed calls from my superman 🦸🏻♂️
three missed calls from my superman 🦸🏻♂️
Call me.
Krypto escaped
⤷ you: AGAIN?
⤷ you: this dog never listens to you 😂
Nevermind.
I just found him hidden under your pile of clothes
⤷ you: awww
──────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
Just remembered how you kept ignoring me my first month at The Daily Planet and got so sad
Why would you do that to me?
⤷ you: because i felt intimidated by you
⤷ you: because i loved you from the first glance
⤷ you: and because i knew you were superman and didn’t want to endanger you or me
⤷ you: and because of jimmy’s loudy mouth
Let’s just blame it on Jimmy
Can’t believe he made us suffer so much 💔💔
─────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
⤷ you: clark, come back home
What? Why?
⤷ you: because you forgot to give me a goodbye kiss
I literally gave you five
⤷ you: exactly my point.
⤷ you: you always give me ten
Open your door
─────────
my superman 🦸🏻♂️
I think you should just move in with me now
⤷ you: huh??
⤷ you: what do you mean??
You’re here everyday, wear my clothes, krypto loves you, you have your own desk to work, your scent is on my bed, and most importantly your books are lying around.
⤷ you: but what if i get annoying or you hate it after a week :((
Could never get annoyed or even mad at you sweetheart
I want you here.
I want you next to me for the rest of my life.
⤷ you: i love you so much ❤️❤️
⤷ you: we can talk more about it later tonight
⤷ you: i’ll pick some of my stuff up on my way to your place
No need to
I already did it
⤷ you: really clark? 😐
─────────
#superman#superman 2025#david corenswet#david!superman#david!clark kent#clark kent#clark kent x y/n#clark kent blurb#clark kent fluff#clark kent x you#clark kent smut#clark kent imagine#clark kent fanfiction#clark kent x reader#clark kent x female reader
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FEVER DREAM ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader


summary: you don’t get sick. you don’t let coworkers into your apartment. and you definitely don’t have vivid, full-body sex dreams about spencer reid. except today, apparently, you do all three.
genre: smut, fluff, hurt/comfort
tags/warnings: reader is elle’s sister, reader has the flu, fever dream but make it a sex dream (p in v, yapper!spencer bc it is canon to me he cant shut up in bed, orgasm denial but not intentional lol), caretaker sweetheart spencer, spencer brushes reader’s hair RAHHH, one bed trope (ig?) but he sleeps in a chair, coffee (+ tea) as a love language, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI
a/n: I was itchinggg to write smut for them and had to find a way to make it work lmao so here’s how that ended up. & check out greenaway!reader’s apartment moodboard to further immerse yourself in the story. hope you enjoy! xo | GIF credit to @reidgif !
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
You never call out of work.
Not for migraines. Not for hangovers. Not even that time you got a black eye on a case and still showed up the next day like you hadn’t been slammed into a brick wall behind a warehouse in Albany.
And you never get sick.
But today? Today, your body mutinies.
You wake with your mouth dry, your throat raw, and your head stuffed with what feels like cotton soaked in battery acid. For a second you think it must be a hangover — but you haven’t had a drink in three days and you’re sweating through your sheets.
You fumble for your phone, knock it to the floor, and groan like someone twice your age as you reach down to grab it. The screen nearly blinds you. 9:17am — over an hour late for work. Six missed calls from Garcia. Three texts from Prentiss. One from Hotch, which you don’t open because if you have to look directly at his disappointment, you might actually die.
You unlock your phone, dial the general BAU line, and hold it to your ear with the back of your hand pressed to your forehead.
“Hey,” you croak into the voicemail box. “It’s Greenaway. I’m—” You cough so hard it short-circuits the sentence. “—dying, I think. I have the plague. Tell Hotch I’m not ditching work on purpose. Actually don’t tell him, I don’t care. I’m going back to sleep. Don’t call me unless someone’s dead.”
You hang up before you can overthink it. You’re not even sure what you just said.
You drop the phone somewhere in the blankets and cocoon yourself back into the twisted mess of sheets. You’re wearing only an old t-shirt — a faded Nirvana logo stretched across the chest, neckline loose and exposing one shoulder — with underwear and nothing else, which is standard sick-day protocol. If you’re going to suffer, you’re going to suffer without pants.
The heat in your body surges and dips like a tide. One second you’re freezing, the next you’re sweating again. You vaguely consider dragging yourself to the kitchen for water, or maybe finding something resembling medicine, but your bones feel like wet concrete.
So instead you close your eyes, and the world slides sideways.
—
You don’t know where you are.
The room doesn’t have walls. Or maybe it does, but they’re soft and golden and out of focus, like lamplight through gauze. You don’t remember how you got here, but none of that matters — not when there’s a body pressed over yours, warm and slow and careful.
He’s already inside you.
That much is clear. You’re full — blissfully, unbearably full — in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut and your throat catch on a moan you can’t quite voice. You arch into the sensation before you even think to name it.
There’s a hand on your hip, gentle but firm, calloused fingers curling like he’s anchoring himself with you. Another brushes up your ribcage and cups your jaw, tilting your face with reverence. His mouth lands on your neck. Your shoulder. Every kiss feels like possession.
You gasp.
His hips move in a steady, delicious rhythm. Deep. Dragging. Each thrust winds tighter around the point of tension buried low in your stomach, and you can feel everything — the stretch, the weight, the friction. The unbearable closeness of him. The way you clench around his cock when he pulls back just enough to make you chase it.
Your mind is moving through molasses, every thought slow and syrupy around the edges. The only thing you can process is the feeling. The sound of his breath. The warmth of his mouth trailing up to your ear.
“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers.
Your heart lurches at the voice. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in briefing rooms, across café tables, in hotel lobbies, on planes. But never like this. Not soaked in heat and hunger. Not vibrating against your throat like he’s memorizing your breathing patterns.
“I’ve thought about how you’d sound,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s tracing every goosebump. “How you’d taste.”
Your fingers curl in his hair before you even realize they’re moving. It’s soft. Messy. And familiar, because you’ve ruffled it before.
You still haven’t opened your eyes, and you’re not sure you want to.
Because if you do, you’ll see it. You’ll see that it’s him — Spencer Reid, exactly how you’ve never seen him before.
This is ridiculous. You don’t think about him like this. You’ve spent months not thinking about him like this. But little by little — and much to your annoyance — he’s dismantled your armor without even trying. And when your hand touched his a few weeks ago and lingered for a moment too long, something shifted.
So you roll your hips up into him anyway. Your fingers dig in. And you let yourself drown.
“You always smell like cinnamon gum and coffee,” he says, breath hot against your cheek. “And like the record aisle in an old music store. And like your spicy floral perfume. Like something I want to memorize.”
His hips thrust deeper, and your back bows.
You moan — shameless, aching — and he swallows the sound with a kiss that feels nothing like the way you’ve been kissed before. It’s open-mouthed and wet and claiming, but all the while still achingly tender.
You gasp against his lips.
“You don’t ever have to pretend,” he whispers. “Not with me.”
His words slide under your skin, familiar and foreign all at once. He adjusts the angle, shifts his weight and— fuck. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, chasing that unbearable friction.
His hand slides up your body and holds you steady as he fucks into you harder, edged with something needier. He’s groaning now, breath ragged in your ear.
“Spencer,” you hear yourself moan. The weight of it slams into you, but you don’t wake.
His name is everywhere. It’s written into your pulse. Into the way your body breaks open for him. Into the way you’re trembling now, close, too close, the whole world narrowing to the ache between your legs and the velvet rasp of his voice.
“I notice things about you,” he breathes. “I know which coffee shop is your favorite. I know when you’re pretending not to be cold. I know how you press your nails into your palm when you’re trying to keep your composure.”
You bite your lip, breath shuddering. Your orgasm is right there — clawing up your spine, hot and overwhelming, threatening to rip you in half.
“I know you think no one sees you,” he says, thrusting once, twice — “but I do. I see all of you.”
You cry out. Nails digging into his shoulder. Hips trembling. Right on the edge, and then—
Knock, knock.
Your eyes slam open. Your body jolts.
And suddenly, you’re alone. Drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles clenching around nothing. Your chest is still heaving like he was really here — like his hands are still on your body.
Knock, knock, knock.
You sit up in bed, disoriented and flushed, the dream still clinging to your skin. You press your palms to your face, breath shaking.
You don’t know who the hell is at your door. But you know exactly who you just came this close to coming in your sleep for.
Why the fuck would you dream of him like that? Spencer Reid, of all people — with his stupid facts and his twitchy hands and his painfully earnest everything. That is not how you think of him. That’s not what you want.
Or is it?
You groan, dragging your hand down your cheek. You feel like you’re made of wet paper towels and static electricity — shaky, overheated, slick with sweat in places you really don’t want to think about right now. You glance toward the clock. Somehow, it’s already evening. You’ve slept through most of the day. Maybe most of the week; it’s hard to tell.
Another fucking knock.
You roll out of bed with a grunt, legs wobbling. Your t-shirt clings to your damp back, and your panties are—
Nope. Not something you want to think about right now.
You spot the silk lounge shorts you peeled off the night before crumpled near your laundry basket and tug them on with trembling hands.
The knocking doesn’t stop.
“Hold ON,” you rasp, voice raw and barely there.
You nearly trip over your own feet as you stumble down the short hallway towards your door. You’re too disoriented to check the peephole. You just unlock it with clumsy fingers and swing it open.
The man of the hour, Spencer Reid, is standing in the hall holding a crumpled brown paper bag in one hand and a reusable grocery tote in the other. There’s a slightly panicked expression on his face, as if he half-expected you to answer the door with a loaded gun but is somehow more jarred by your current state instead.
“Hey,” he says.
You blink at him. “Am I hallucinating?”
His eyes dart over you — oversized t-shirt hanging off your bare shoulder, zero makeup, flushed skin, hair in a tangled, chaotic knot on top of your head. He visibly swallows.
“You look… comfortable.”
You squint. “Ouch?”
He ducks, stepping inside. “You know what I mean.”
You don’t even try to stop him. That’s how you know you’re sick — really sick. Any other day, you’d have slammed the door in his face after cursing him out just for finding out where you live.
“How the hell did you get my address?”
“I bribed Garcia to pull it from your file for me,” he says without shame. “Cake pop and a plushy for her office. She folded in under ten seconds.”
You groan and walk towards the couch, swaying slightly as the world tilts. “You woke me up,” you mutter, voice rough and thick with sleep. “From a dream.”
He winces. “Sorry,” he says earnestly. “What was it about?”
You freeze.
You should lie. Say something believable about falling, or flying, or your teeth falling out. Anything. But before you can scramble for a cover story, he’s already rambling.
“You know, dreams are often more about emotional state than content,” he says. “I don’t really believe in dream analysis or strict Freudian symbolism, but a lot of people interpret dreams as reflections of unresolved subconscious tension or desires. Wish fulfillment, repressed emotions, that kind of thing. And Jung wrote about—”
“Spencer,” you grumble into the couch cushions.
He pauses mid-sentence. Whether it’s from the interruption or the rare slip of his first name from your lips, you aren’t quite sure.
You blink. “I’m too sick for a lecture right now.”
“Right. Sorry,” he says again sheepishly, stepping further inside. “Occupational hazard,” he adds with a quirk of a smile.
He sets the bags down on your counter and begins unloading items with surgeon-level focus: two different kinds of soup, a sleeve of saltine crackers, an assortment of teabags, ginger ale, cherry cough drops, a small jar of Vicks, extra strength cold & flu medicine, and a pack of those fancy tissues with lotion in them that you secretly really like but would never spend the extra dollar on.
You watch from the couch, arms folded tightly across your stomach. “You do realize I’m contagious, don’t you Dr. Germaphobe?”
“I got my flu shot,” he replies with a shrug. “And I’ve been loading up on electrolytes and immunity-boosting supplements all season.”
You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t make you invincible.”
“No,” he admits, meeting your gaze with a little half-smile. “I’ll be fine, though. I don’t want you worrying about that.”
That smile. Your heart lurches again — not like in the dream, but close enough to make you nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the fever.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur quietly.
“Probably not,” he agrees, rummaging through your cabinets. “But here I am. Besides, I owe you.”
You drop your head back against the cushions and close your eyes. You can still feel the dream burning through your bloodstream, the weight of his body on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear.
And now he’s here. In your apartment. Standing in your kitchen and looking like he stepped straight out of your subconscious, only realer. And worse, because he’s not touching you.
“I made your favorite tea,” he says, eventually placing a mug down on the table in front of you.
You crack one eye open. “You don’t know my favorite.”
He lifts one brow. “Orange blossom with honey. One ice cube so you don’t burn your tongue. Right?”
You stare at him.
“Right,” you mumble. “That’s… mildly disturbing.”
“I told you, I notice things.”
Those words sizzle with memories — both real and imagined.
He hands you the mug and your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. Suddenly, the dream flashes in the back of your mind like lightning. Ignore, ignore, ignore.
You sip slowly, and after he brings you the soup and crackers, he sits beside you — not too close, not too far. You eat quietly, and he doesn’t talk. Just lets the low hum of a Cranberries record fill the room. You’re not sure when he put it on, or why he put it on, but it makes everything feel… softer.
Eventually, once your bowl is empty, he takes it without a word and rinses it in your sink. You watch, dazed, as he wipes down your cluttered coffee table, carefully scoops your wilted tissue pile into the trash, and folds the fuzzy blanket you’d kicked onto the floor during a hot flash. He doesn’t say a word about any of it — just does it, and you’re too weak to protest. Too bewildered to stop him. And maybe too grateful, also.
When he finishes tidying, he rummages in your purse (which normally you’d slap him for, but again… too weak) and pulls out a battered deck of playing cards. You blink at him.
“Go Fish?” he offers, holding them up like a peace treaty.
You snort, then cough. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” he says, already shuffling. “You’re not in any shape for something more mentally complex.”
You laugh, which turns into another cough, which turns into another laugh, cough, laugh. He smiles again — small, but real — as he deals the cards out between you.
It’s silly. Mindless. Totally ridiculous. You’re losing horribly because you keep zoning out and losing track of your cards mid-turn, and you think he’s trying to let you win anyway. You accuse him of cheating at least twice, and at one point, he slides a tissue toward you without breaking eye contact and says, “You need this.” You throw a pillow at him in embarrassed rage and immediately regret the exertion.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, it stops feeling weird that he’s here. It just feels like Spencer.
Time blurs again. You’re not sure how long it’s been. Long enough that his tea’s gone cold and the sun’s long since disappeared beneath the horizon. Your sentences stopped making sense about three sneezes ago — you’d exhausted all of your remaining capacity for coherence on the card game.
He glances toward the darkened window and clears his throat.
“Do you need anything else?” he asks — quiet now, a little more hesitant. The question hovers, and it’s clear he’s about to stand up and the spell’s about to break.
You stare at him for a second. You could —should — say no and just let him go.
But your head is pounding, and your skin feels wrong, and your hair— your hair is a fucking nightmare.
And… you’re not quite ready for him to leave.
You blink once. Then again. And say, voice cracking, “Brush.”
He tilts his head. “What?”
You nod toward the bedroom weakly. “Hairbrush. Vanity drawer.”
His brow furrows. “You want me to—?”
You nod again, weaker this time. “Please. Hurts. Too tangled.”
There’s a long pause. You think maybe he’s going to say no, make an excuse to leave.
But instead, you zone back into reality when you hear the faint creak of your bedroom door opening. The sound of a drawer. A rustle.
Soft footsteps approach again and you feel the couch cushions dipping with his weight beside you once more. You turn so your back is facing him and let your shoulders slump.
When his fingers slide into your hair to take out the bun on top of your head, you shiver.
He works gently. Carefully. Letting your tresses fall loose, starting at the ends and slowly detangling. It’s the kind of physical tenderness you’re not used to — not from yourself, not from anyone, and most definitely not from him.
You pretend you’re too feverish to notice how good it feels. But the truth is, you notice. God, do you notice.
You lean back slightly into the touch without meaning to. Your arm brushes his leg next to you on the couch. And then — for just a second — his hand rests on the crook of your neck.
Right there.
Right where his mouth — his lips, his tongue, his teeth — had been in the dream.
Your whole body goes still. Your breath catches.
The touch is innocent. Innocuous. Nothing about it is deliberate.
But still, it makes something snap behind your ribs.
You pull away, standing so quickly it makes you dizzy. “I should go lie back down.”
He blinks up at you, brush still in hand. “Right. Of course.”
You don’t look at him — you can’t. You shuffle down the hall, crawl back into bed, and bury yourself in blankets that feel a little too hot now. You expect to hear the front door click shut any second.
But he doesn’t leave. And a few minutes later, you hear the soft creak of the armchair in your room.
You lift your head and see Spencer curled up in it, long legs folded awkwardly. Watching you. Guarding, maybe. Or just refusing to go.
“I won’t stay much longer,” he promises, half-apologetic. “Just… until you fall asleep.”
Your throat is thick. You’re too tired to protest. “Okay.”
You close your eyes.
And when you wake sometime in the middle of the night, your fever a few degrees lower and the dream faded just enough to dull the ache, you realize he’s still there.
Asleep. Slouched in the chair. Mouth slightly open. One hand twitching faintly, as if he’s dreaming too.
Something about the sight presses warm against your ribs and bubbles up in your chest. You make a failed attempt to push that feeling back down before you get up and grab a blanket from your closet, draping it gently over his body.
You don’t say a word, but you do watch him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you crawl back into bed and let yourself sleep.
—
You’re back at work the next morning.
You’re still pale, still a little unsteady, but the fever finally broke sometime around dawn, and that’s good enough.
Your Doc Martens echo against the floor in the quiet corridor as you push through the glass doors of the BAU. You nod at an agent you don’t know in the bullpen, ignore the slight burn behind your eyes, and keep your pace steady.
It’s only when you reach your desk that you falter.
There’s a coffee cup waiting there.
Not the usual office brew. This one’s from your favorite place — the overpriced café three blocks away. There’s a sleeve around the cup as always, with a doodle scrawled in ink across the cardboard: a fish with Xs for eyes and a crooked crown. A half-assed tribute to the Go Fish massacre of the night before.
A pair of initials are scribbled beneath it, as if you didn’t already know who’d left it there:
-S.R.
Your throat goes tight.
You glance across the bullpen and find him already watching you. Spencer looks away fast, like he hadn’t meant to be caught. Like he hadn’t just pulled your subconscious apart twelve hours ago and stitched it back together with soup and cherry cough drops. Like he hadn’t slept in a chair in your bedroom and disappeared silently before your alarm went off.
You pick up the cup and walk over before you can overthink it.
He pretends not to notice you approaching until you’re close enough for him to smell the faint trace of your shampoo.
You lean your hip against his desk as you hold up the coffee and tap the sleeve with your finger. “This some kind of warning? Sleep with one eye open, the Go Fish King rises again?”
His mouth twitches into a grin. “You’re the one who stole all my jacks.”
“Stole? Please. I don’t cheat at children’s card games.”
“You cheat at everything,” he says, bemused.
You don’t argue. You just look at him — really look — and for a second, the room tilts. Or maybe you do.
The echo of his imaginary mouth on your skin hums through your nerves like static. You see the flash of his hand on your neck. The dream crashing over you again in a strange, hot wave.
You clear your throat and take a long sip of coffee, trying to shake the memory.
“I needed this,” you say finally. “Thanks.”
His expression shifts, surprised to hear that word from your lips. “You’re welcome.”
You pause and let your gaze flick up to his — steady and too soft — then back to the cup in your hand.
“That whole Florence Nightingale act yesterday…” You hesitate, words sticking. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I figured it was my turn, after the bandaid thing.”
You glance at him again. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying not to spook you.
“I’m glad you did,” you admit quietly.
Something flashes in his eyes — not surprise, not quite. More like relief and gratitude and something else that makes your stomach twist.
You look away before it can settle.
“But don’t go getting any ideas about me being some helpless damsel in distress,” you add, deflecting. “I had a 101 degree fever and wasn’t myself. I don’t even remember most of it—”
That’s a lie. You remember all of it.
“—so if I said or did anything weird, you legally can’t hold it against me.”
Then you turn, raise the coffee cup a little in a half-assed sarcastic cheers motion, and head back to your desk before he can respond.
You don’t look back.
But you can feel him watching you, just like in the dream. Only this time, you’re awake. This time, it’s real. And that might be the most disorienting part of all.
You settle in, fingers curling around the cup as you slip off the cardboard sleeve and slide it discreetly into your desk drawer.
The coffee is still hot, the dream is still lodged under your skin, and your body remembers his far too well.
It never happened. It wasn’t real. But you think about his voice, low and wrecked, whispering little things into your neck.
You think about the real parts, too. The way he ran your brush through your tangled hair. The way he stayed all night. The way he looked at you like you were something worth noticing. The way you can’t seem to scare him off.
And for a moment — just one — you wonder what it would feel like to stop pretending you don’t want him.
Wait. What?
Nope. Must be the fever talking again.
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
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clark kent finding out you read superman fanfic fem!reader. just fluff, 0.8k words really hope this hasn't been done. I'll off myself if it has
it was late, very late, and you were doing your mandatory read in bed — a step in your night routine you couldn’t possibly go without. but tonight you were compelled to read something else, to turn a blind eye to the book on your nightstand.
a couple hours prior, you stumbled upon something online, something you had no idea existed. and for those said couple hours, you got sucked into a wormhole of different pages and accounts, all of them posting writings of your boyfriend. initially, it was odd. very odd. almost uncomfortable to read fantasised encounters of the man that currently resides beside you, about the man sleeping in your bed. but the more you begin to read, the harder it became to put your phone down.
you feel clark stir beside you, inhaling deeply as he adjusts against the mattress. you hold yourself still and turn your phone to face down, essentially shielding the illuminated white light.
“I thought you were asleep,” clark murmurs, voice tired and low — barely awake.
“I was,” you fake a yawn. “you must've woke me up.”
he drapes an arm around your waist, pulling you back into him so he can cuddle into your behind. “liar.”
“no, I don’t think so.”
clark presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder and his eyes flutter closed against your skin, breathing growing heavier, though his brain is still capable of thought. “you were giggling.”
you shift abruptly and roll over, your back now flat to the mattress. “I was not.”
“I think so,” he presses a kiss to your cheek. With your sudden repositioning, you’ve seemingly woke him up, though his voice has yet to part with that groggy, sleepy tone. “what were you reading?” he asks, the tip of his nose nuzzling against your cheek.
“I wasn’t reading anything,” you lie, and his head playfully cocks against you.
“what were you reading?” he repeats.
you fake a snore to avoid the question — not so keen on admitting the fact you were reading fanfiction of the man that lays beside you.
he litters a cluster of kisses to your face in an attempt to pry the answer out of you and it results in a small fit of squeals and you pushing his face away. “okay, okay,” you even yourself out. “okay, gosh, alright fine.”
“thank you,” he presses a final kiss to your cheek and pulls away slightly as he adjusts, the side of his head now resting on his fist — face still close.
“so— I can’t believe you're making me say this… so have you heard of fanfiction?” you ask and pause, waiting for his response, and when he shakes his head, you resume. “they’re these little fan-made stories that people write and post online.”
“I know what it is,” he chuckles. “I was just teasing you.”
You lightly slap his arm, and shake your head with faux disapproval. “that’s mean.”
“I know,” he pouts jovially and kisses you once more to make up for it. “anyway, please continue.”
“right okay, so it seems people have more to say than just criticise you…”
his head cocks again and his brows scrunch, facial expressions like that of intrigue — like he’s wordlessly asking you to elaborate.
“I found some pages that write that of you.”
“what, uh, what do they say?” he asks, voice nonchalant, but really he was quite keen. he couldn’t show how genuinely compelled he was.
“they’re uhm…” you clear your throat. “uh, pretty horny,” you chuckle.
“are they…” he pauses, adjusting his tone to pretend he’s not so interested. “Are they any good?”
you nod bashfully and your face scrunches coltishly, almost like you were ashamed of yourself for how much you seem to enjoy them. “I know I’ve got the real thing,” you place a hand to his face and give his cheeks a quick smoosh between your thumb and forefinger. “but they’re so fun— like this one I’m reading now, y/n— that’s me by the way, she was just saved by superman and they have a connection. he remembers her and they have a little moment— it’s really cute.”
clark has very little response and you begin to worry if you’ve said too much — reading fan-made stories is totally fine in itself, but to admit to your boyfriend that you read freaky little fiction about him that was made by freaky little people on the internet is another thing. but this is clark, a man so trusting and pure of heart, he would never think any less of you because of it. plus they were about him, how could he possibly disapprove?
“do they compare to the real thing?” he asks humorously, dimpled smile growing dorky at the thought.
“to you? not a chance.”
⎯ ☆ ⎯
how I felt writing this..

#clark kent#clark kent fluff#clark kent fanfiction#clark kent fic#clark kent x reader#clark kent x fem!reader#clark kent x female reader#clark kent blurb#clark kent drabble#clark kent imagine#clark kent thoughts#superman 2025#superman fanfiction#superman fluff
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something familiar
alexia putellas x reader part 2 of serás mi amiga?
you didn't realise how difficult it would be.
tw - abuse, imprisonment (very light - less than the previous chapter)
5.7k words
hope you all enjoy! thank you all for your messages and thoughts on the first part. I appreciate it so much
~~~~~~
You didn’t fly home the next morning like you had planned. You didn’t tell Eli or Alba that you would stay but you had woken up early and not one part of you wanted to leave.
Alba had been confused, initially, but she quickly became emotional. Her hug had been just as ferocious as her mother’s, but you didn’t fall apart in her arms like you did in her Eli’s.
While your interactions with Alba were short, the words she said had been like missiles, tearing through you in quiet, contained explosions that continued to detonate long after the silence returned.
“She still keeps your birthday in her calendar,” she had told you, blissfully unaware of the trigger she had just pulled.
Guilt piled on your shoulders. You would have to search her name on google to remember hers. You imagine her opening a new calender each year and writing your name in. Does she do it with excitement? Is it longing?
Or is it just an old habit that just hasn’t died yet?
She told you that Alexia had gone on a long run, as she does every Sunday. She explained how her sister would run for miles. She would run until her legs wouldn’t take her any further, arriving back home with not an ounce of energy left. Alba shrugged when you mentioned she never used to run on Sundays, dismissing your words because to her, they were meaningless. Alexia didn’t used to be a professional athlete either, she used to be a child.
You know Alexia is running with a purpose. You just can’t figure out whether she is running as far away as possible from something or if she is trying desperately to run towards it.
The Alexia you knew would never even move on Sundays. Not without a reason.
But you realise you don’t know her anymore, you don’t know her birthday, her routines, her friends. You don’t know anything about her life, what makes her happy, if she has a girlfriend.
Maybe Alexia now would run on Sundays. You wonder, now, what else would have changed. Sometimes, you struggle to remember the little things, the mannerisms and the quirks that you once could recognise like your own hand.
You can remember how she used to smile at you differently. That lopsided, toothy smile that made your heart flutter every time you saw it because you knew it was just for you. It was different to her other smile, less contained and less formal. You remember the way the palms of her hands would come to rest on her forehead when she was stressed, her fingertips combing her hair back in frustration.
But you don’t remember everything. You don’t remember if she waved with her hand open or closed. You don’t remember if she used to hug you every time you said goodbye and you don’t remember if she wrote with her left or her right hand.
But more than anything else, you can remember the sound of her voice, soft and poetic like a melody that you wanted to capture and scribble down on the page. You wanted it to be tangible, something you could grasp with your own hands and keep forever, to listen to whenever you wanted. You spent a long time trying, piecing flowy passages together on your cello, stringing complicated sequences on the piano. You had never been able to create a piece of music as meaningful as her voice.
You can remember that sound so well that it aches, all of it. The cobwebs and dust that have inhabited the gaping hole that was inside of you since you were torn away from your life have been roused by your memory after being left dormant for so long. Untouched and forgotten in the depths of your past.
“Alexia doesn’t know you're here,” Alba had stated, the certainty in her voice almost embarrassing, “she would have said.”
Your heart thuds, wanting nothing more than to know exactly what she would have said to her younger sister. Would she have called her up in anger, in excitement. Would it have been indifference or such intimate and powerful care that tears would have been shed.
You shake your head. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
My lack of response is an answer in itself, the silence lingering uncomfortably around the room, hooking onto anything it can. While the silence can be broken by Eli, the tension hangs around, unbreakable.
You are still lost on the never-ending train tracks of your thoughts when there is a knock on your door. You know exactly who it is without even seeing her.
Eline had messaged you yesterday, asking if you were ok. You were not, really, but you had replied with a simple yes and left it at that.
“Are you ready to go?” Her voice was unclear, the hotel door muffling it, “we have to leave in five minutes.”
You sigh, running your hands over your face and rolling over in bed. From the moment you woke up this morning, you knew that going home was not something you would be doing today.
You weren’t entirely sure why. You know that Barcelona holds a part of you, a huge chunk of your life that you cling so tightly onto, knuckles white as you refuse to let it go from your iron grip.
But you also know that this idea of Barcelona that you have grasped onto is completely different to the Barcelona you exist in now. The city has changed, its inhabitants have changed. You have changed.
You don’t know why you want to exist in this unfamiliar place. All the bits you remembered, all the bits you loved. Everything has changed. They are all gone.
The only things that are the same are the tortured and painful memories. The elephant that sits in your Mamma’s house back home was born here, this was its first home. Those things are still lurking in dark corners of the city, in places you will never return to.
You don’t want to bring all those memories to the front of your mind, you don’t want them hitting you so abruptly with force you know is strong enough to knock you down to the floor. You know they are capable of that, you know exactly how easily they can blow over the precariously built house of cards that is you.
But something is holding you here.
It could be those memories, now that they finally have a hold over you again they want to hold you captive and give you no way of escape until they find you, knock you down and leave you as a shell of who you become. Leave you as the ghost of who you once were.
It could be the unreasonable hope. The idea of seeing her again, of immediately falling back into that easy and comforting relationship. But even the nostalgia has worn off now. You don’t know if any of that relationship is even left in the far corners of yourself or Alexia.
“Eline,” you mumble, finally pulling yourself out of bed and to the door, “I’m staying here.”
You pull the door open, revealing a neat and put together Eline, suitcase in her hand and the sunglasses on her head pulling her crisply straightened hair out of her face.
Her face falls when she sees the state of you and you realise it would have been a good idea to look at yourself in the mirror before revealing your morning appearance to someone who respects you as a leading film composer.
“You have work though,” she whispers.
You shake your head.
“I can do it here.”
“y/n,” she looks you dead in the eyes, as if she is trying to rip you open and read the thousands of thoughts that flow through your mind. She would be unsuccessful, the river of thought is emotional, quick. She would be too overwhelmed to even be able to grasp at the water, let alone read what it says. “Are you ok?”
You take in a deep breath, forcing yourself to nod, forcing yourself to smile.
“I am good, Eline.” It’s a lie, but you don’t know if she can tell. You are not terrible, you suppose. You are not good either.
You are confused by your surroundings, by your emotions. You feel disorientated even within your hotel room, like you’re trapped within a fever dream. Even if you tried for hours, you wouldn’t be able to put it into words.
“I will see you soon, but I have to stay for now.”
She pulls you in for a hug, although it feels empty compared to the warmth and ferocity of Eli’s yesterday.
“I am here to talk if you need me to.”
You nod again.
“Promise to tell me if you need me?”
You can’t bring yourself to promise her something that you know you will not do, so you nod, a soft smile on your face.
You close the door after she leaves, and it’s then that you let yourself exhale.
You’re not sure if it is a breath of relief or regret.
~~~~~~
Wieke was confused when you called her late in the morning, having expected you to be at her game that same evening. She is on track to make her home debut in the league, a game that your Mamma was going to as well.
“What do you mean you’re staying longer, Mozart?” you had told her that nickname was silly once, but she had never dropped it. “You said they only needed you on set for three days and you’ve already been there for five! I really wanted you to be here.”
You could hear the disappointment in her voice. Maybe it was frustration. You knew how excited Wieke was for the game and it pulls at strings in your heart that you had been trying to ignore all day.
Your sister had always been attached to you, since the moment you first held her in your arms. But that attachment went both ways, just for different reasons.
You wanted to protect her from it all, you wanted her to be happy and safe and blissfully unaware of what you were so blatantly aware of. You used to tell her that you were an ordinary girl, just another boring teenager but the life you got to live was extraordinary.
It was extraordinary because you had your sister.
Once she had passed the newborn stage, you were with her at any possible moment. You took her with you when you went to Alexia’s and the two of you would sit on the floor just playing with Wieke like she was a real life baby doll, wide eyed and ready to be played with.
When you moved back to the Netherlands, the only thing that changed was Alexia’s presence. Wieke grew up, she grew into her personality and into her lanky legs that used to be too uncontrollable to kick a football.
Alexia, you are sure, is the reason she plays. Unknowingly, of course, but your best friend had planted those ideas into her head at such a young age, shoving small balls in front of her face, manipulating her small and pliable body to kick them around the room and into targets.
But while Wieke idolised the football superstar that was Alexia Putellas, she was absolutely obsessed with you. She looked at you like you hung the stars, like you moved the clouds away from the sky to allow the sun to shine.
“I wanted to be there too, Wieke,” you respond eventually, sitting down on your bed, “but there will be more games. Lots more games.”
She groans like a petulant child.
“I only make my home debut once though. You can fly back to Spain tomorrow.”
“Wieke, I can’t!”
She’s quiet. You know she’s upset, but there is no way for her to understand why you are staying, why you even want to stay in Spain.
“I grew up here, Wieks,” your voice lowers. It’s softer now, quieter. “I want to catch up with some people.”
“I mean, I get that you lived there for a long time, but that was ages ago,” she sighs loudly, trying to prove a point. “You haven’t been back in 14 years but now a bunch of childhood friends are more important than the biggest game of my club career so far?”
It’s difficult to bite your tongue in these situations. Wieke will never understand the depth of your emotional attachment to Barcelona. Not without understanding the fear that you carried every day, the places you sought safety and how you and your Mamma just barely got through it.
But her words tug at your heart, a painful reminder of what you left behind, of how abruptly it all ended.
“I know and I’m sorry, Wieke. They’re not more important than you or your career, alright?”
It is important that she knows that. It’s not a white lie you need to say, nor a piece of honesty that you resent.
“Just-” she hesitates, sighing quietly into the speaker of her phone, “are you ok?”
You smile, the kind of smile that slips in unexpectedly as you feel the warmth that radiates from your little sister through the phone, engulfing you in a familiar hug.
“Yeah, Wieke. I’m good,” it’s a little white lie this time, but one that is necessary to not confuse her. To not make her upset. You can’t, not before a big game. “I’ll come over to London when I get back and we can have a few days. I’ll come to a game that Mamma isn’t already going to and I’ll be the loudest person in the crowd.”
“I want you to meet my friends,” she continues, “I want to show you around here.”
She is proud of herself, that you already knew. She is still young, only 18. You remember your Mamma’s reluctancy to let her go, how she would cry in the kitchen late at night when she thought nobody could hear her. She had her struggles, homesickness and sadness, exhaustion and stress. But she is resilient in a way that has always stunned you.
“I think you will be proud of me, Mozart.”
Your heart cracks. “I’ll be there.”
“You promise?”
Her voice is almost pleading in a way that so beautifully illustrates who she is as a person. Forgiving, but loving. Fiercely loyal and connected to the people she loves.
You close your eyes, letting a wave of guilt and shame wash over you.
“I promise, Wieke. I will be there.”
~~~~~~
The coffee shop is small. A little hole-in-the-wall place that would hold less than 10 customers at any one time.
You think that it is safe, that nobody would find you here.
If you’d have known that was a naive thought, you would have avoided the little coffee shop entirely.
But it is too late, when you are sitting by the window, your coffee still hot to touch on the table in front of you.
You hear her before you see her.
She always was a whirlwind, a flurry of movement, chaotic and energised. It brings you comfort to know that nothing has changed.
The door is loud when she opens it, a contrast to the soft creaking that it had made when the previous customer entered. She walks in, sunglasses covering her face, a cap sitting on her head.
14 years ago you would have teased her, pulled fun, told her she wasn’t a celebrity so why was she dressing up like one? But now, you can’t.
You hold back your smile.
You don’t take off your glasses.
Your hands shake slightly, you think it is because of the proximity. She is so close to you, that you could almost reach out and touch her. Hug her. Grab her by the collar and shake her, scream that it was you, that you are sorry.
That you miss her. That you have never stopped missing her.
But you can’t. The sunglasses hide who you are. The so easily protect your identity from the world that spins around you. From Alexia.
You think she would recognise you if she could see your eyes, if brown met green. A lot about you has changed, but the green of your eyes is still the same.
You don’t take off your glasses.
But when she turns and faces you, her eyes passing over yours, not a flicker of recognition passes her face. And she is gone.
She is a whirlwind. She always has been.
But now, she is a whirlwind who doesn’t remember you. A whirlwind who does not even recognise you.
You feel your heart sink into the depths of your stomach. The rhythm slows down again and you slump back into your chair.
Alexia was the first person you ever loved.
You think she is the only person you have ever loved.
And you are still right there, in the corner of the coffee shop. Light flooding through the window, everything just a bit too bright.
You feel yourself break. Quietly.
~~~~~~
The music shop you stumble across as you walk through the streets comes as a pleasant surprise, warmth hitting you immediately as you open the door, bells ringing above to tell the owner that someone has entered.
You feel disorientated as you enter, your head still spinning at a million miles an hour.
It was so close, but so unreachable.
You walk towards the row of cellos in the back of the store, their beauty still drawing you in despite your confusion, despite your distraction. They draw you in the same way they had when you were picking out your first instrument when you were eight years old.
The owner of the shop, you assume, comes and stands beside you. He’s an older man, glasses on the tip of his nose, his hat placed carefully on his greying hair.
“You can play one,” he says, “if you would like. They are beautiful cellos.”
You nod, moving towards one and pulling it towards you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, nodding again as he passes you a bow.
You don’t know why he was so eager to lend you one of his instruments, or if just by looking at you, he realised you desperately needed to get your hands on a cello. You thought your sunglasses would hide the exhaustion on your face enough, but even after a full night’s sleep in a soft hotel bed, your body feels heavy, slackened by something deeper than fatigue.
He walks away again, back to his office that he came from, and you feel your body relax.
“A cello?” Your Mamma looked at you with an amused smile as you pointed at the large instrument on the wall of the music shop. “What about a violin? It’s smaller and easier to carry!”
You shake your head. Even at seven years old you were stubborn.
“The violin is too scratchy,” you mumble, “the cello is nicer, Mamma. Do you really want to have to listen to me learn to play such a high instrument?”
She looks at you, her forehead creasing like she is thinking. She shakes her head, realising you’re right.
“The cellos are nice, schatje. I think you’ll be great at it.”
~~~~~~
You sit on the chair in your room, the cello now uncomfortable against your shoulder. Your teacher says you’re good, especially since you have only been playing for a year. But she also tells you that you need to practice as much as you can if you want to be great.
So that is what you do. Your fingers are calloused from the metal strings, which are beginning to rust from your sweat.
The music sits in front of you, the cello beneath you and the bow in your hand. It’s all there, right there.
You don’t know why you can’t put it all together. You can’t figure out why this one passage is giving you so much grief.
Your head is slumped backwards in your chair when your door opens, your cello resting on the floor beside you and the bow sitting on your music stand.
“Your Mamma says you are frustrated,” Alexia’s voice is teasing, amused. “You can’t play the cello.”
You groan again, standing up and moving to pack away the instrument.
“I can’t play the cello,” you repeat, emphasising the word can’t. “It’s hard, Ale and I don’t think it will ever get easier.”
You’ll realise, later, that you’re being dramatic. That the 45 minutes of practice you have done is nothing compared to a lifetime of playing.
In a years time, this one song will be like a lullaby, simple rhythms, easy hand placement.
“I used to say that,” Alexia replies, “about football. But look at me now.” She smirks. “I am the best on my team. Better than the boys.”
You snap your case closed, moving it to the corner of your room.
“I have only been playing for a year, Ale. You have played football for longer!”
She laughs, flopping down on your bed.
“I was joking, cami. You are great at the cello,” she rolls over to look at you, “I wish I could listen to you play all day long.”
~~~~~~
“Sometimes I want to quit the cello,” it’s a whisper that comes out late at night, so quiet that Alexia wasn’t even sure you’d said it out loud.
It was a statement that came as a surprise. She thought you were brilliant at the cello, she could listen to the rich and mellow sound for hours without getting bored. She often did, sitting at her desk to finish off her homework as you worked away on the instrument.
“I don’t think you should,” she sounds unsure, but she turns in bed to meet your eyes, “I think it’s a part of you now, Cami.”
She’s right, you’re sure. You have been playing for seven years now and not a day has gone by that you haven’t played, thought about or spoken about your cello.
The wood feels like home, somewhere that you can relax, get lost in the sounds of your own music travelling from the strings to your ears and then around the room. It hides you away from the outside, lets you forget about everything else.
At fourteen years old, you think you have found the thing you love. You like the piano. You’re great at the piano too. But nothing compares to the way you feel about your cello.
“It’s hard, Ale,” you murmur, although you know you’re being petulant. You know you will wake up and wonder why you even considered quitting, “and I will never be good enough to make it. I don’t even want to go to the royal college, which is where my teacher wants me to go.”
“You don’t have to go there,” she replied simply, “you don’t have to pursue music. You can just… play it.”
You shrug, rolling back over to face the ceiling.
“I don’t know what I want to do,” you sigh, “I just know that I want to be with you.”
Alexia chuckled.
“That rhymed, Cami. Maybe you should become a rapper.”
~~~~~~
She sat beside you on her bed as you played, trying to distract you from the wooden instrument you were focused on.
“I’m bored, cami,” she had laughed, “you’ve been at this song for like, an hour!”
You try and hold back your own smile, your right arm never ceasing it’s movements, “I need it to be perfect, Ale. The recital is tomorrow and my teacher will murder me if I am not outstanding.”
You’re 15 now, almost 16. Your teacher told you that you were finally ready for the senior recital, the one that only the adults could play in.
Everyone was coming, you Mamma, your grandparents from the Netherlands. Wieke was even coming and your aunt was on babysitting duty in case she got restless. Alexia was going, of course, with her parents and her sister.
You were beyond nervous, but with those nerves also came immense excitement.
She rolls her eyes playfully and you don’t even need to look at her to see it. “We already know you’re perfect. The song is outstanding.”
“Of course you will say that,” you smirk, “you are a tone-deaf football player who couldn’t tell me the difference between a cello and a violin. And you are obsessed with me.”
“I am not just obsessed with you,” she counters playfully, “I love you. And you love me.”
This makes you chuckle, but your fingers do not stop moving, “yes, Ale. I know.”
“And a cello is like a violin but bigger, and instead of holding it up you get to sit down and play. You chose it because you are lazy.”
You don’t respond this time, moving towards a more difficult passage. You stare more intently at the page and Ale slumps backwards on her bed, defeated.
Eventually, you finish practice and you think Alexia might start jumping up and down in excitement.
Instead, she pulls you backwards into the bed, placing a well thought kiss on your lips.
“I want you to play the cello to me for our whole lives, Cami,” she whispers, “I will never stop listening to the words you don’t know how to say.”
“You promise?”
She kisses you again, looking at you like it’s crazy that you would even question that.
“I promise.”
Neither of you knew that you would be the one to break that promise, not two weeks later.
~~~~~~
It’s been a month since you got back to the Netherlands. Your cello case has sat in the corner of your new room, dust collecting on the plastic.
You didn’t understand how the dust could build on one item in your room, yet the rest of your belongings and furniture were pristine.
But it sits there, staring at you. When you go to sleep, when you wake up. Every time you enter your room it catches your eye, screaming out for attention, for care.
It misses you, it misses the way your hands fly over the strings, how your head sometimes rests on the neck when you are tired. It even misses when you get frustrated, when you abuse the strings with hard and fast strikes with the bow.
You miss your cello too, you think. You miss the feeling that would rush through you whenever you took it out of the case, you miss the way the wood feels on your legs, how the strings feel beneath your fingers.
You miss the sound it makes, the way the notes stir something inside of you. They cheer you up sometimes, they make you sad. They can make you angry or bring tears to your eyes.
It stares at you, but you roll over in your bed to face the door.
You hadn’t played your cello in your own room for a long time. You hadn’t played it alone for even longer.
~~~~~~
It had been just you, your Mamma and your sister since you got back to the Netherlands. You had expected to feel relief when your father left, but you didn’t think he would be held back at the airport.
You could tell your Mamma didn’t know how to feel when she found out he was going to prison. She didn’t want to feel grateful that the money he had spent on the gambling and the alcohol wasn’t from their shared account. She wasn’t surprised that he had stolen it from his work.
But this letter is different. You can see that as soon as she reads the first line, dropping her bag of groceries to the floor and slumping down into a chair.
You wouldn’t find out for a few days what that letter said, but it was that night that you finally pulled your cello out of its case, sitting down on your bed and holding it between your legs.
It felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar, yet it was the most calming thing you had felt since you found out you were leaving Spain.
You had expected to feel like a stranger in your own skin, like trying to speak through a voice that was not yours. You thought you would lose track of where your fingers were supposed to sit on the strings, the vibrations of a pulse you no longer recognised.
But it only took a couple of long and slow notes to finally recognise what you was feeling.
It was something you hadn’t felt in a while. Something that had been overshadowed by the confusion, the whirlwind and the dust building high on your cello case.
It felt like home.
The same feeling washes over you as the first notes sing through the small music shop. You don’t realise how much your hands are shaking until they touch the fingerboard, tremors ceasing completely. It’s only been a few days since you last played, but you are instantly comforted by the familiarity the strung instrument brings.
It’s deep and rich, mellow sounds reverberating from the strings to your ears to the walls around the shop.
You hear the quiet hinges of the office door creeping open, but you don’t bother to turn around and look at the owner who you know is now leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smile on his face and tears creeping into the corners of his eyes.
He waits for you to stop before he says anything. He waits for the last sound to fizzle out, your body lighter as all of the pain and stress that has built up is released.
He says your name. With clarity, with confidence. He says your full name, loud and clear.
You only blink.
“You play like her,” he continues. You let out a small sigh of relief, although you are not sure what it is that you are relieved about. “A beautiful tone, but heartbroken. Your music is emotional.”
You turn around and look at him, your sunglasses still covering your eyes. They are a disguise, a mask. They give you something to hide behind as tears well up in your eyes.
You are not used to feedback on your cello playing. It is something you have kept to yourself for a while now, so it is a surprise that this old man in the music shop can even pick it out. People talk about you. They talk about your ear, how you can compose masterpieces that hit just the right emotions.
But they don’t often know that the cello was your first instrument. That when they hear those beautiful sounds in the backgrounds of your movie it is actually you playing. You are being recorded as you lay your heart out, sing in the only way you know how.
“It’s a natural and rare talent,” he continues, his voice almost at a whisper.
“She grew up here, you know.”
This is what causes your eyes to widen. You thought that people didn’t know that. When your surname changed, so did your childhood. When you became successful, people only recognised your mother’s surname.
You associated your father’s surname with Barcelona, with heartbreak and with attachment.
With Alexia. With sadness.
Maybe it is better if she doesn’t remember you.
But still, people never connected the dots.
“She changed her name, but she once played at a recital. My son was playing at the same one.”
Your heart hammers in your chest.
“She was only 15, five years younger than anybody else,” he continued, “but she outshone everyone. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone was in awe.”
For the first time in a while, you genuinely have no idea how to respond.
You feel your heart cracking, you think. Your eyes have filled with tears. This man was right there, so long ago.
You remember that night with the clarity you wish you had for all of your memories from Barcelona. You don’t think you will ever forget it.
Everyone came for you. Your family, friends. From up the road, from the Netherlands.
You had put your heart into that performance. Your soul, your energy. It was a piece of music that you still love, something that you will never lose feelings for.
You had tears in your eyes on that stage. At fifteen years old. You cried as soon as you were backstage.
You think it was that night, on that stage, that you began to really use your music to express yourself.
“I will never stop listening to the words you don’t know how to say.”
You won’t forget being that little girl in a new country, having no idea how to communicate with anyone. You won’t forget how an equally little Alexia chose to listen to you in that first week.
Expression was never easy. You eventually were fluent in the language, but so much of your life, things that constantly plagued your mind, was held back. Hidden. Silent. Not expressed.
But it raged. It screamed inside of you, fighting desperately hard for a way out, a way to finally tell everyone that it was there, that it was big and loud and scary.
And that night on stage, it finally came out.
“She thinks nobody knows, that nobody made that connection,” his eyes sparkle like they hold a rich and meaningful secret, “but I do. I knew as soon as I heard the sound of her cello at the beginning of her first movie.”
You take off your sunglasses, finally meeting the man’s eyes.
His next statement comes with recognition.
It was a feeling you didn’t realise you craved so deeply, but as the words came out of his mouth something settled within you. Something deep inside of you sang so loud that it could be heard even from surface level.
You had thought that recognition in Barcelona was impossible. From anyone.
“I knew it was you.”
~~~~~~ hope you liked it! please let me know what you think
this chapter was not particularly alexia-centric but it is important for character building and understanding of what has happened so the next chapter can be!
#woso fanfics#woso x reader#woso#woso imagine#alexia putellas x reader#alexia putellas#wieke kaptein#fcb femení
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I´m here, you can let go
pairing: wanda maximoff x reader
summary: you find yourself restless, overwhelmed and lost in your thoughts, until wanda finds you.
word count: 1.4k
warnings: insomnia, emotional vulnerability, soft D/s elements use of "mommy" like two times, light subspace, soft smut, fingering
an: i got a request similar to this one recently, so if that sweet anon is reading this, I hope this one brings you peace too<3
☀️ Summer with A masterlist ☀️

The clock on the microwave blinks 3:13 AM.
You’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding a cup of tea you’ve barely touched. The fan overhead is spinning, but the air still feels thick, too heavy to sleep in, too warm to relax.
You blame it on the heat. That’s the easiest excuse.
You tell yourself it’s the heat.
But really, it’s your thoughts. Again. The kind that stretch too long, too wide, where nothing feels particularly wrong, but you can’t make your body rest, can’t get your mind to hush.
You’re mid-sip when you hear soft footsteps padding down the hall.
And then she appears, Wanda, in one of your oversized shirts, her hair is a bit messy, eyes squinting gently in the dim light. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you.
"You okay?" she finally murmurs, her voice rasped by sleep.
You shrug, offering a weak smile, "can’t sleep."
"Hot?" she asks, even though she already knows the answer.
"Yeah," you lie.
Wanda walks to you slowly, like she knows better than to rush you. She brushes her fingers against your wrist as she passes to grab her own mug, but doesn’t let go. Doesn’t pull away.
You feel her thumb stroke softly along your skin. "Was it the dreams again?" she asks after a long pause, voice still soft, not pushing.
You shake your head, "no dreams. Just… couldn’t shut off." You don’t look at her when you say it, because you know she’ll see through everything.
But she steps in closer anyway.
You feel the front of her body meet yours, arms sliding up your sides like she’s reassembling you, piece by piece, with care. She rests her chin on your shoulder, her nose grazing your neck, and holds you like you’re not something to be fixed, just something to be held.
"You always do that," you whisper.
"Do what?"
"Make it better. Even when it’s just in my head."
She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, her expression unreadably gentle. "It’s not just in your head if it’s keeping you up," she says. "And I’m not here to fix it. I’m just… here."
That’s it. That’s all she has to say. No lecture. No suggestions. No trying to problem-solve the thoughts spinning like static in your skull.
Just here.
You press your forehead to hers. You breathe her in. She smells like skin and vanilla and the cotton softness of sleep. And you melt.
Like your bones remember her. Like your body only ever rests fully when it’s curled next to hers.
Wanda pulls you by the hand out of the kitchen, silent, patient and back toward your bedroom. The fan hums low, the sheets are rumpled, but her hand is steady.
She slides into bed with you like a ritual. Wraps herself around you. Her hands slip beneath your shirt, not with want, but with need, like she needs to hold you skin to skin. Like your warmth is hers.
You don’t speak.
Her fingers trail slow, grounding lines across your back, your shoulders, your arms. You press your face into her neck and exhale. Finally.
And in that quiet, right before you let go of the day, "I don’t know how I’d sleep without you," you whisper.
Wanda smiles into your hair, "good thing you don’t have to."
You melt into her without meaning to, your limbs giving in, your breath evening out in shallow waves.
Wanda presses a soft kiss to your neck and murmurs, "still thinking?" she asks gently.
You don’t answer right away. Your eyes are closed, but your mind’s still too loud. Nothing sharp. Just too much.
"I just…" you start, then stop. "I don’t want to be annoying."
Wanda’s hand stills on your stomach, "you’re not."
You pull in a breath, but it catches a little, "I know, I just… I don’t want to weigh you down. You already do so much."
Wanda doesn’t try to argue right away. She just touches you again, fingertips along your ribs, up your side, slow and steady.
Then she says, soft and warm, "how about you let all the big thoughts come to me tonight, hm?"
You tense, just a little, "I don’t know if I can."
"You can," she says, her voice wrapping around you like the blanket you never quite need in this heat but always want anyway. "You don’t have to hold it all by yourself. Not with me."
You want to believe her. You do. But it’s hard to unclench. Hard to let go.
So she keeps talking, barely above a whisper now. Like a lullaby. Like something safe.
"Let me take the worry," she murmurs. "Let me carry the weight for a little while. You’ve been so strong. So tense. So quiet. You don’t have to be tonight."
Her touch follows the shape of her words, up your chest, the softest brush along your collarbone, down your arm where you’re clutching the pillow.
You start to loosen, little by little. It doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like floating.
"Let yourself rest," Wanda says. "I’ll be here the whole time."
You move under her hand, pressing closer, your knees tucked slightly, like you’re trying to crawl inside her and live where the noise can’t reach.
Wanda shifts behind you, slow and unhurried, her legs tangling gently with yours beneath the covers. Her breath brushes the shell of your ear as her fingers begin to trace lazy, featherlight lines down your stomach, barely there. Just enough to pull a small sigh from your lips.
"Good girl," she whispers, not like a command, but a comfort. A quiet reward. "You’re doing so well, letting go like this."
Your breath hitches, your body pliant against hers. You feel her smile softly into your skin.
She continues speaking, "that’s it, baby. Just let me think for you tonight. Let me take it all."
Her hand moves again, warm and slow, sliding under your pants. Not rushing. Just touching. Reassuring. "You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to be anything," she breathes. "Just mine. Just like this."
You let out a soft whimper, not quite a sound you meant to make, but it’s all you can make.
Her lips graze the edge of your jaw as she murmurs, "doesn’t that feel better? Giving it all to mommy?"
Your body goes still for a moment. Then melts. It’s not about control. It never is with Wanda. It’s about safety. About knowing she wants everything you carry... every burden, every ache, every little thing you don’t know how to name.
"Yes, mommy," you whisper, barely audible.
She holds you tighter, her hand making you feel better, more calm, more relaxed, dipping low and then back up again, like she’s rocking your thoughts to sleep.
"That’s my girl," she hums. "So soft like this. So quiet. You don’t need to think anymore."
The way she speaks, slow, hypnotic, coats your brain in warmth. You feel floaty, like you’re in her arms and nowhere else exists.
You press your body closer to hers, a gentle shiver running through you as her voice curls in your ear like a spell.
"I’ll take care of you," she whispers. "Always. You don’t have to be strong right now. You just get to feel. You get to be mine."
She kisses your shoulder, "give it to me, darling," she whispers, almost like she’s casting a spell. "All of it. Every thought, every worry. I’ll hold it for you."
Your breath hitches, then releases. And with it, something deep and tight inside you lets go.
Your body softens. Your fingers unclench. Your mind quiets, not empty, but… surrendered. Like if she’s here, you don’t need to hold on anymore.
She feels it happen. The shift. The drop. You, in her arms, fully letting her in.
"There you are," she says, smiling into your skin. "I’ve got you now."
Her hand rests low on your belly again, palm flat, fingers spread. Claiming you in the gentlest way. The touch is gentle, grounding. The kind of touch that says you’re safe.
"Everything else can wait," she says. "Tonight is just for us. For you. For this soft little baby in my arms, doing so well…"
You exhale shakily, and she kisses the spot behind your ear. Her mouth lingers there.
"I’ve got you, baby. Mommy’s got you."
And that’s all it takes.
Your mind finally lets go completely, no more spinning, no more buzzing. Just her. Just Wanda. Your Wanda. Her touch, her voice, her warmth.
And the world goes quiet.
#adele writes#SummerWithA2025#marvel fanfiction#marvel fanfic#wanda maximoff fic#wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff x you#wanda maximoff x fem!reader#wanda maximoff x female reader#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda x you#wanda maximoff fanfiction#wanda maximoff smut#wanda maximoff fluff#wanda maximoff comfort
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౨ৎ brat tamer!matt handcuffing you . . .
it starts with you testing him, again. the smirk you give him from across the room is nothing short of daring. you’re stretched out on the bed in one of his shirts, texting on your phone, legs crossed and attitude dripping off you in waves.
he knows what you’re doing. he’s been watching you push all his buttons all evening. talking back, rolling your eyes, pretending not to hear him when he asked you something sweet. it’s deliberate. and you’re loving every second of it. matt walks over slow. calm. silent.
your fingers freeze over the screen when he says, “put the phone down.” you glance up at him, playful. “or what?” his jaw flexes. “you really wanna know?” you lean back on your elbows, all feigned innocence. “maybe.”
he disappears into the drawer by the bed, the one you both know holds a few of your more interesting secrets, and pulls out something you haven’t seen in a while. the purple fuzzy handcuffs. your stomach flips.
he doesn’t say anything, just holds them up with a little twirl of his fingers and cocks his head. his expression is unreadable, but the sharpness in his gaze makes your thighs press together without thinking. “get up,” he says, voice low and dangerous. you sit up slow. test him. “you’re not really mad.”
he steps closer, crowding into your space, lips brushing your ear. “no. but i’m about to make sure you remember what happens when you act like this.” his hands are on you before you can reply, grabbing your wrists and spinning you gently so your back faces him. your breath catches when he pushes your arms behind you, smooth and confident, and you feel the cold metal lock softly around one wrist.
then the other. your heartbeat kicks up fast. “that’s better,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down the curve of your back. “now maybe you’ll listen.” you let out a shaky breath, cheek brushing the sheets as he presses you forward over the bed, hands cuffed behind your back. you’re completely at his mercy, and he knows it.
he doesn’t rush. his touch is slow, maddening, dragging the shirt up over your hips, skimming warm palms across your thighs, squeezing where he knows it makes you twitch. and when he finally kneels behind you, lips ghosting over the back of your thigh, you’re already breathless.
“you were acting like a brat,” he says, voice rough now, hands spreading your legs just a little wider. “but i think you just wanted attention.” you nod quickly, already straining for more. “yes.” he laughs softly. “then you’re gonna get it.”
you feel his mouth first. soft, then hungry, tongue flicking between your legs, slow and deliberate. he holds you open, teasing you with little licks and long, deep strokes that leave you gasping and twitching beneath him. you try to push back, but with your hands bound, there’s nowhere to go. no way to control any of it. he eats you out like he’s punishing you and worshipping you at the same time, groaning against your skin, praising how sweet you taste, muttering how you knew exactly what you were doing to him earlier.
you’re already on edge when he finally pulls away and shifts behind you, gripping your hips hard as he lines himself up. “ready?” he asks, voice all gravel and heat. “matt,” you beg, “please—” he slides in slow and deep. you cry out, pressing your face into the sheets, fingers clenched inside the cuffs as he starts to move. hard, controlled thrusts that hit so deep they steal the air from your lungs.
“such a mess for me already,” he pants. “this what you wanted when you started running your mouth earlier?” you can’t even answer, just moan as he drives into you over and over, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip.
you’re gone, lost in it, every thrust making your knees shake, your wrists straining against the cuffs, your moans getting louder with every second. he notices. leans in close. “careful,” he warns, voice dark and teasing. “you want the whole house to hear how wrecked you sound?”
you whimper in response, thighs trembling. he groans behind you, hips stuttering, like he’s right there with you, body tight with restraint, whispering filthy things as you fall apart beneath him. and when he finally reaches around, fingers circling where you need them most, you lose it, clenching around him, body arching, crying out his name as everything snaps.
he finishes seconds after, still inside you, panting hard, head dropped to your shoulder. for a moment, there’s only silence. just the sound of heavy breathing, your skin flushed and damp, the metal of the cuffs cool and unmoving against your back. then matt reaches for the key and gently unlocks you, kissing your wrists after the cuffs fall away. “next time,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, “think twice before giving me attitude.”
you turn in his arms, breathless, smiling up at him. “no promises.”
© delilahsturniolo
#brat!tamer matt au ꪆৎ ⋆˙⟡#𝜗𝜚 brat!tamer matt prompts#sturniolo triplets#the sturniolo triplets#matt sturniolo#sturniolo#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo x reader#sturniolo triplets x you#sturniolo triplets x reader#matt sturniolo x reader#matthew sturniolo imagine#sturniolo imagine#sturniolo triplets imagines#matthew sturniolo smut#sturniolo triplets smut#matt sturniolo smut#sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo imagine#matthew sturniolo#matt sturniolo blurb#matt sturniolo x you#matt sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo triplets fanfic#matt sturniolo oneshot#matthew sturniolo au#matthew sturniolo x you#matthew bernard sturniolo#matthew sturniolo x reader#sturniolo triplets fandom
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cravings
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Smut - Porn with plot - oral (f! receiving) - Established relationship face-sitting - praise - thigh worship - needy!Bucky - overstimulation Word count: 1000 Summary: Bucky can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About your thighs. About what he hasn’t had the nerve to ask for yet
Bucky knew he was staring again. He’d been trying not to. Really, he had. But she was pacing around the apartment in those damn shorts. Those little cotton things with frayed edges that clung to her hips and barely covered your ass, and he was helpless. She wasn’t even trying to tease him. He was just looking for her book, totally unaware that her boyfriend was five seconds away from dropping to his knees behind her and begging.
The worst part? It wasn’t just today. He’d been having this thought. This constant, buzzing, can’t-look-away obsession. A desire so vivid that almost embarrassed him. He wanted her to sit on his face.
It’s not strange wanting the goddess in your life to sit on his face. Right?
Not just because the idea was sexy, though it was. It was filthy, and that alone made his cock twitch in his sweats every time he thought about it. But it was more than that. There was something intimate about it. Something worshipful. Needy. He wanted her weight on him. Wanted to drown in her. Looking up and watching her face twist in pleasure while your thighs squeezed around his head. But no matter how many times he played it out in his mind, he never said it. Not out loud. Not until tonight.
She walked past him again, muttering something about her missing bookmark, and Bucky reached out suddenly, fingers curling around her wrist. She stopped. Looked down at him on the couch. “Everything okay?” He swallowed. Nodded once. “Yeah. Just…” He tugged her a little closer, sliding his hand up her arm, to her waist, to the curve of her hip where skin peeked out under those shorts. His thumb pressed in. “What?” she asked softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. He tilted his head up at her, eyes glassy and dark. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“It’s… kinda filthy.” she blinked, but her smile was already blooming. “Buck, do you remember how many orgasms you gave me on the kitchen counter last week?” He huffed a quiet laugh, dropping his gaze to her bare thigh. “Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re past the ‘kinda filthy’ season.” He looked up again, this time steadily. Serious. His hand flexed against her waist. “I want you to sit on my face.” There was silence. Her lips parted, but no words came out yet. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he added. “For weeks. I watch you walk around in these tiny little shorts and all I can think about is how you taste. How you’d feel, sitting on me. Riding my tongue until your legs give out.” her breath caught. His voice became quieter. “I wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. I wanna be used. Let you fall apart while I hold you there and—fuck—I’ll keep going until you tell me to stop.” her thighs shifted instinctively. “Say something,” he whispered. She exhaled. A little stunned. “I… didn’t know you thought about that.”
“Every goddamn day,” he admitted. “I just didn’t know if it was… too much.” She straddled his lap without a word, cupping his jaw, her eyes dark and sweet all at once. “Nothing you want from me is too much, James.” He groaned, low and needy, and surged up to kiss her. Deep. Desperate. His hands dragged down her back, gripping her thighs like he already knew they’d be wrapped around his head in minutes. “C’mon,” she whispered, tugging his hand. “Bedroom.”
He laid back, pupils blown wide as she stripped out of her shorts and panties slowly, standing between his knees. “Take your shirt off too,” he murmured. “Wanna see all of you.” she obliged. And when she climbed onto the bed, onto him, she hesitated. Hovered. “Bucky-”
“Don’t worry about me, doll,” he murmured. “I want this. Please.” she sank down slowly, thighs braced around his face and fuck, the sound he made was inhuman. He buried himself in her like a man starved. Moaning into her pussy as his hands squeezed her ass and pulled her down harder. His tongue was firm and insistent, stroking through her folds, flicking at her clit until her hips bucked. “Bucky-shit-baby-”
He groaned at your voice, your taste, the wet heat of you dripping on his tongue. One hand snaked up your body to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple while he devoured you like it was the only thing that mattered. And you. God, you looked perfect. Knees shaking, head thrown back, one hand gripping the headboard while the other threaded into his hair.
“Fuck, Buck-you feel so good-oh my God-” He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Even when she started to tremble and cry out, even when her legs tensed and her thighs clamped around his head, he held her there. Let her ride it out. Let her ride him. When she came, he moaned like he’d come too. And then he kept going. Tongue slower now. Gentle licks, teasing, coaxing. Drawing it out. “Too much?” he asked into her cunt, voice hoarse and wrecked. “No,” she gasped. “Not yet. I want-wanna come again-” He smiled against her. “Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s it. Use me.” And she did. she came again with a scream, back arching, thighs shaking so hard he thought she might fall, but Bucky held her through it. Worshipped every second.
Only when she collapsed over him, boneless and dazed, did he ease his grip and kiss her inner thighs, her belly, her hips. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, lips soft and swollen, voice raw with adoration. she nodded against his chest. Then, “Why the hell did you wait so long to ask for that?” He chuckled, arms wrapping around her. “I was scared you’d say no.” she looked up at him, dazed and grinning. “Bucky Barnes, I will sit on your face anytime you ask.” He smirked, cock already hard again beneath her. “Then we might need to make this a regular thing.”
tag list -> @onlyjunisworld @moonlitmorgan if you wanna get tagged, let me know
#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x female reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky x oc#bucky barnes#bucky x y/n#bucky x reader#bucky barnes smut#sebastian stan smut#avengers smut#marvel smut#the winter soldier#bucky barnes angst#marvel#james bucky buchanan barnes
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can you do a lando x reader where they’re just starting to go out? Like normally she’s very sweet and quiet, doesn’t wear much makeup, and dresses more conservatively and all his friends are like dude are you sure you want to date her she’s like the opposite of you? He starts to doubt it, but they all go out to a popular club (that’s not in monaco) and he doesn’t remember it, but she had told him before that she was going to be there with some of her friends. they see her all baddie like and living her damn life. she’s made friends with everyone in there and everyone thinks she’s hot. she doesn’t even notice them until she’s somehow made her way up to the dj booth. meanwhile, lando and friends are like what the hell is going on. if you’re feeling like doing a bonus moment: they all end up at a popular edm festival and she’s like local icon and everyone is obsessed with her alt insta account where she posts her adventures.
she said she’d be there… - LN4 🔥

Masterlist
summary: you’ve been seeing lando for a few weeks. it’s sweet. soft. he texts first, he opens doors, he calls you “babe” without even thinking about it. but all his friends are confused. you’re quiet, lowkey, you dress like you own cardigans in six colours and listen to phoebe bridgers on purpose. lando starts wondering if they’re right — until one night, he walks into a packed nightclub and sees you holding court like a goddamn goddess.
warnings: light angst, clubbing, language, judgemental friends, reader glow-up, jealousy, implied smut, edm chaos, second person pov, fluff with a bit of edge, alt instagram baddie behaviour
It’s not that Lando doubts you. It’s just that everyone else seems to. And after a while, even the softest thoughts start to fray at the edges.
You’re… not what they expected. You’re polite. Shy. You wear light makeup, floral tops, and shoes that don’t try to grab attention. You say thank you to waiters. You don’t interrupt people. You tell Lando he’s clever when he opens a bottle of wine.
It’s all… very sweet. Too sweet, apparently.
“You’re sure you like her?” Max says one night over padel. “She’s kind of the opposite of what you usually go for.”
Oscar winces. “Yeah, she’s cute and all, but like- she doesn’t party.”
“She literally said she doesn’t drink that much,” Alex adds.
Even George fucking Russell has an opinion. “You’re kind of a… spotlight person. And she’s more… candlelight.”
Lando rolls his eyes. But later, alone, he thinks about it. Stares at his phone, your contact saved with a little purple heart. Thinks about how you’d blushed when he kissed your cheek in public. How you’d left his apartment in baggy sweatpants and a charity shop crewneck.
He doesn’t doubt you. He just… doesn’t know everything yet.
Maybe you’re not what he needs.
Then comes the club. It’s a popular spot just outside Barcelona. A driver-heavy afterparty, packed with too many flashing lights and overpriced drinks. Max has a table. Oscar has a headache. Lando has the beginnings of a bad mood and an even worse hangover waiting.
And then, “Wait,” Alex says. “Didn’t your girl say she’d be here?”
Lando blinks. “What?”
Alex grins. “I swear she mentioned it at dinner, right? Some of her uni friends booked this same club?”
Lando stiffens. He remembers. You’d said it, half-laughing, three nights ago over sushi. “I think we’re going to the same place on Saturday! Don’t worry- I won’t crash your boys' night.”
He’d laughed. And forgotten. Until now.
He sees you before anyone else does. Up on the platform near the DJ booth, arms in the air, black mini dress hugging every curve. Hair styled, makeup glowing, heels dangerous. You’re dancing like you own the place.
Correction: you do own the place.
Max gapes. “Wait. That’s her?”
Oscar chokes on his drink. “That’s not her.”
Alex stares. “Who is she with?”
The bouncer knows your name. The DJ fist-bumps you. Some girl from a reggaeton video is handing you a tequila shot.
Lando can’t breathe. You haven’t even seen him yet. Too busy laughing, hugging friends, chatting to strangers like you’ve known them for years. You move like you belong there, like the room was built for you. Not a single trace of shyness.
Not even a fucking cardigan in sight.
George mutters, “Holy shit.”
Lando’s mouth is dry. And then, you look up.
You spot him near the bar, surrounded by half the grid, jaw slack, expression stunned. He’s staring like he’s never seen you before. Like you’re some unreleased remix of a girl he thought he knew.
You smirk. Tilt your head. Hold his gaze. Then turn back to the crowd.
Lando nearly collapses.
Later that night, when you’re finally pressed against him in the back of the VIP section, your thigh draped over his lap and your lipstick smeared from all the kissing, he grips your hips and mutters, “You did that on purpose.”
You just grin. “I told you I was going out.”
“You didn’t tell me you were gonna look like that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He groans into your neck, fingers curling around your thigh. “I was about to break up with you, you know.”
You hum. “Why didn’t you?”
He kisses your collarbone. “Because I’m an idiot. But not that much of one.”
You raise an eyebrow. “No? Even when George compared us to a candle and a spotlight?”
Lando pulls you closer.
Whispers, “You’re the fucking sun.”
Two weeks later, everyone ends up at an EDM festival in Lisbon. It’s chaos. The music’s loud. The outfits are wild. Max is somehow already drunk. And the crowd is buzzing about you, the alt insta girl with the 3am polaroids, the neon bucket hats, the thigh tattoos, the vintage rave looks.
You’ve got 200k followers and a highlight reel called “church 😈”
Every girl wants to be you. Every guy wants to talk to you. Lando just wants to fuck you in a tent.
Max watches in disbelief as three separate strangers ask to take pictures with you. “Bro. She’s like… a local legend.”
Oscar frowns. “Do I follow her account?”
George scrolls furiously. “How did I not know this?!”
Lando just shrugs, tugging you onto his lap. “I did.”
You grin. Then post a photo of him licking salt off your stomach with the caption “my soft launch 🧡”
#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#formula 1 fanfic#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#f1 fluff#lando norris#lando norris x reader#ln4 x reader#ln4 smut#ln4 fanfic#lando norris fanfiction#reader glow up fic#alt girl reader#club night fic#edm festival fic#f1 grid x reader#reader x lando
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kita shinsuke — “love me a little louder, please”
summary: you knew who he was from the start—gentle, kind, always careful with everyone’s heart. but that doesn’t stop you from wondering if yours is really the one he holds the tightest.
content: jealousy, soft hurt/comfort, romantic angst, fluff, established relationship
you fall for him slowly.
like the sun rising over sleepy fields, soft and quiet.
because that’s just how kita shinsuke is.
quiet.
the kind of boy who folds his emotions with the care of someone who knows how easily things can wrinkle. who says what he means, but never more than what’s needed. who shows you he loves you without ever saying it—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because to him, love is a verb, not a word.
and you do love that about him.
you really do.
but sometimes—sometimes it hurts.
it starts with the small things.
the way he carries someone else’s books without hesitation.
the way he adjusts a classmate’s collar with that same gentle touch he uses on you.
the way he speaks to everyone with a kindness that feels… intimate.
you know that’s just who he is.
you knew that when you fell for him.
you don’t want to be possessive, or childish, or that clingy partner who makes everything about themselves.
but still.
every time you watch someone else get even a sliver of the softness he gives you, your chest tightens.
he doesn’t even notice it, and maybe that’s the worst part.
because to him, it means nothing.
but to you, it feels like everything.
—
you especially remember one moment. you were all leaving class—everyone half-asleep, trudging through another wednesday—when one of the girls from student council “accidentally” dropped her pen in front of shinsuke.
he was already mid-sentence with you, but he immediately bent down, picked it up, and handed it to her with a soft “you dropped this.”
she smiled, all teeth and fluttering lashes. touched his wrist when she took it. leaned in, just slightly.
and he didn’t flinch away. didn’t even blink. just nodded and turned back to you like nothing happened. like she hadn’t just tried to steal a piece of him.
“she’s always dropping something near you,” you said flatly.
he blinked, confused. “is she?”
you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. because the ache in your chest was already settling in, bitter and slow, like morning fog that wouldn’t lift.
—
you start pulling away in small ways.
you answer his texts, but a little slower.
you wait for him to reach out first.
you smile when you’re supposed to, but you don’t really mean it anymore.
you still love him.
but you start wondering if you’re allowed to want more.
if you’re allowed to ask him to love you a little louder.
just for you.
just once.
you tell yourself you’re overreacting.
you shouldn’t be upset.
you have no right to be.
he hasn’t done anything wrong.
so you swallow it. again. and again.
and again.
—
until one afternoon, you're sitting behind the school building, picking at the threads of your sleeve, because the ache in your chest has started to feel heavier than your silence can carry.
you don’t even hear him approach.
you only feel it—his presence, calm and steady, as he sits beside you without a word.
“you’ve been distant.”
his voice is low, even. not accusing. just true.
you look down. “i’ve just been tired.”
“mm.” he hums, then pauses.
“are you mad at me?”
you shake your head too quickly. “no. no, shinsuke. i swear i’m not—”
but your voice wavers, betraying the tears you’ve been trying not to shed for days.
he waits.
of course he does.
you hate that it makes it worse. that he’s being so gentle when you’re the one who’s been pulling away, hiding, bottling up emotions you don’t even fully understand.
“i just…” you exhale shakily. “i’ve been feeling kind of… invisible, i guess.”
that gets his attention.
he turns his head slightly, brows knitting together.
“invisible?”
you finally look at him.
and god—it hurts, the way he’s looking at you. like you hung the damn stars and he can’t figure out why you don’t know that.
“you’re kind to everyone,” you say softly. “and i know that’s not a bad thing. but sometimes i wonder if you treat me differently. or if i’m just another person you’re nice to.”
the words hang in the air like smoke—bitter, rising.
he doesn’t speak right away.
you glance down at your hands. “it’s stupid. i know.”
“it’s not.”
his voice is firmer now. not sharp—but clearer.
“(y/n),” he says, turning fully to face you, “you’re the most important person in my life.”
your breath catches.
“i didn’t realize the way i act with others might make you feel like you’re not special,” he continues, his tone laced with regret. “but you are. more than anyone. you’re not just someone i’m kind to. you’re the person i love.”
your eyes widen.
you’ve heard him say that before.
but not like this.
not with this urgency. this need to make you believe it.
“i know i’m not always good at showing it the way you need me to,” he admits, eyes lowering for a moment. “but you can always tell me. you don’t have to keep it all inside.”
you nod slowly, tears gathering at the corners of your lashes.
“…i was scared that if i told you, you’d think i didn’t trust you. or that i wanted you to stop being yourself.”
he reaches out, takes your hand—thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding.
“i don’t want to stop being myself,” he says gently, “but i do want to be better for you.”
he lifts your hand to his chest, presses it flat over his heart.
“this is yours,” he says simply.
“no one else even comes close.”
then, he brings your hand to his lips. presses the lightest kiss to your fingertips. then another. and another. like he’s apologizing in a language only you understand.
“tell me when it gets too heavy,” he murmurs. “let me hold it with you.”
that’s what breaks you.
not the guilt, not the jealousy—
but him. always him. meeting your insecurity with love instead of shame. choosing to listen instead of shutting you down.
you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck, and finally let the tears fall.
he holds you close.
so close.
hand running along your back in slow, soothing lines, and for the first time in days, your heart unclenches.
neither of you says anything for a long while.
just two hearts, beating quietly in sync.
finally, he whispers, “you never have to fight for my attention. you already have it. always.”
and this time, you believe it.
#haikyuu#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu x reader#kita fluff#kita shinsuke#kita x reader#kita shinsuke x reader#kita x you#hq x reader#hq fluff#haikyuu x you
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less angsty request now! Your marriage proposal writing had been living right free in my head and maybe we could get a wedding day one? - the donut wizard 🍩
Thank you for the request! I had way to many ideas about this, that it got very overwhelming fast lol. Here you go!💌
🌙Saja Boys x Reader — Wedding Day and First Dance
-------------------
🧿 Jinu
The moment the processional began, Jinu’s entire body locked in place.
He stood straighter than you’d ever seen him—shoulders back, jaw tight, like he was bracing for impact. But then you turned the corner, stepped into view, and he broke.
His mouth dropped open just a little, like he’d been hit in the chest with a memory he never lived but always longed for.
His hand flew up instinctively—over his heart first, then briefly to his mouth, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold in a laugh or a cry.
The world dimmed around him. The guests, the flowers, the soft breeze against the trees—none of it mattered once he saw you.
He whispered something. You couldn’t hear it, but you read his lips: “How did I get this lucky?”
When you reached him, his hands were trembling. You steadied him without hesitation.
“I’m here,” you said softly.
Jinu blinked rapidly. “I can’t believe you actually came.”
First Dance: “Yours” – Russell Dickerson
Jinu held you close like he was worried someone might try to take you away.
You could feel his pulse at his throat, quick and thready. His fingers curled lightly against your back, keeping a respectful distance but also trembling slightly.
“You keep looking at me like I’m about to disappear,” you murmured.
“I just don’t trust reality anymore,” he whispered. “You stepped into frame and the rest of the world blurred out.”
You swayed together slowly to the rhythm of the song. The lyrics curled around you like a promise. Jinu’s head dipped down to brush against yours.
“Today was terrifying,” he admitted quietly.
“Why?”
“Because I want to remember everything. The second I woke up. The way you smiled at the officiant. The way your hand shook when you adjusted your veil.” He smiled. “And the way my name sounded when you said ‘I do.’”
You pulled him closer.
“Then don’t let go.”
“I won’t. Ever.”
-------------------
💪 Abby
Abby had told himself he wouldn’t cry until at least the vows.
He had plans. He was going to stand tall, flex slightly (discreetly), and beam like the proudest groom alive. And then he saw you—and the entire script in his brain went blank.
You turned the corner and time slowed to a crawl. You were radiant—glowing like the answer to every impossible question he’d ever asked the universe in silence.
He made a little gasp—like a squeaky hiccup. “That’s my wife,” he mumbled. “That’s my wife.”
He bounced once on the balls of his feet, then again, then tried to stop—but his grin only grew. His hands were shaking.
He glanced at Mystery, who nodded once in quiet approval. Romance gave him a wink.
But Abby? Abby was wrecked.
By the time you reached him, his smile looked painful.
“You made it,” he said softly, eyes misting. “You chose me.”
You squeezed his fingers. “Always.”
First Dance: “Can’t Help Falling In Love” – Kina Grannis version
Abby didn’t stop grinning once during the entire dance.
He held you like he was still stunned you were real. His hands were warm and large against your waist, fingers twitching as if memorizing the shape of you in his arms. He hummed along to the music, tone-deaf but blissfully unaware.
“I want to do this every night,” he whispered.
“You want to slow dance every night?”
“No,” he said softly. “I want to look at you in white every night. I want to keep waking up next to you until I’m old and slow and we forget each other's middle names.”
You let out a small laugh.
“I’ll remind you,” you promised.
Abby twirled you gently, caught you mid-spin, and tucked you into his chest again.
“Best decision I’ve ever made,” he said into your hair. “Marrying you. Telling you how I feel. All of it.”
You tilted your head back. “You sure?”
He beamed. “Positive.”
-------------------
📚 Mystery
Mystery didn’t even blink when you stepped into view. He just… stared.
Still. Unmoving. So much so that for a second, Romance actually checked to make sure he hadn’t passed out standing up.
But no. He was fully present—just overwhelmed in a way only he could be. The intensity in his eyes burned through you with every step you took toward him.
You could see his chest rise and fall—too fast for someone so calm.
His lips parted slightly. You knew him well enough to read the flicker of thought in his expression. He wasn’t thinking wow, you look good.
He was thinking: I didn’t know I was allowed to have this. And now that I do… how do I hold it without breaking it?
As you approached, he tilted his head just barely. Taking you in like a painting. A vision. A secret too big for daylight.
“Am I real?” you whispered when you reached him.
Mystery’s voice was steady but reverent: “You’re the only thing that is.”
First Dance: “Poetic” – Seinabo Sey
Your first dance with Mystery was quiet—less a performance, more a shared breath in motion.
He guided you gently, fingertips barely pressing into your side. His movements were fluid, rhythmic, but almost too careful, like he was afraid you might disappear if he held you too tightly.
“Talk to me,” you whispered, teasing.
He hesitated. “I don’t want to waste words tonight.”
“You think it’d waste them?”
“I think every word would fall short.”
You leaned into his chest. “Try anyway.”
Mystery tilted his head slightly, breath grazing your temple.
“If anyone had asked me what I wanted from this world… I don’t think I would’ve known how to answer,” he said slowly. “Not until I saw you walk toward me in that dress.”
You closed your eyes, pressing your cheek to his.
“And now?”
He smiled faintly. “Now I’d say this. This moment. This life. You.”
-------------------
💋 Romance
Romance had been a flirt all morning. Tossing compliments left and right. Cracking jokes. Blowing kisses to the mirror. He was calm, cool, in control.
Until he saw you.
And then everything—everything—collapsed into emotion.
You stepped into view and his mouth fell open in awe. He placed a hand over his heart like he was either about to pledge allegiance or faint.
The smirk he’d been wearing faded into something raw, unguarded. It wasn’t playful—it was pure.
He mouthed something: You’re going to ruin me.
And then louder, barely a whisper: “You’re gonna ruin me.”
As you walked, he visibly swallowed and took a half-step forward like he had to anchor himself to the moment.
When you finally reached him, he exhaled shakily. “You’re not a bride,” he said. “You’re a legend. A myth. Something they carve into marble.”
“And yet,” you murmured, “I’m marrying you.”
He grinned, eyes shimmering. “Plot twist of the century.”
First Dance: “Lover” – Taylor Swift
Romance definitely had the most dramatic dance planned. Lights dimmed, the room lit by fairy strands and candles, and he spun you into his arms with a fluid twirl.
You laughed into his shoulder. “How long did you rehearse this?”
“Long enough to look natural,” he whispered back.
You glided across the floor together, and everyone else faded. He tucked his chin over your shoulder and breathed you in like the scent would keep him alive.
“People always assume I fall in love easily,” he murmured. “That I flirt with everyone. That I’m too much.”
You smiled. “You are too much.”
“But you,” he said, pulling back enough to look you in the eye, “make too much feel like just right. You make me want to be as soft as I pretend to be bold.”
You pressed your forehead to his.
“Dance with me forever, then.”
Romance smiled. “Even in the afterlife.”
-------------------
🔥 Baby
Baby was already grinning before the music even changed.
But when you stepped into view—head held high, expression soft but radiant—he went still in a different way. Like something clicked into place. Like the world had just proven him right.
He didn't blink. Didn’t breathe. Just stared with that infuriatingly smug, tender look on his face, eyebrows lifted like see? Told you.
Then he said it again under his breath: “I win.”
You started walking, and he bit his lower lip to keep from yelling something ridiculous like “Look at her! Look at my girl!”
By the time you were halfway down the aisle, his usual bravado had melted into something quieter, more reverent. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the weight of all that joy.
“You okay?” you whispered once you reached him.
He nodded, voice low. “I’ve never been more okay in my life.”
First Dance: “Sweater Weather” – The Neighbourhood
Your dance started cheeky.
Baby was mouthing along to the lyrics like it was a music video, subtly dipping you, pretending to swing invisible shades off his face. Everyone laughed. But when the chorus dropped, he pulled you in with surprising gentleness.
His arms tightened. His expression softened into something less showy, more sincere.
“I thought weddings were cheesy,” he murmured. “But now I want to do this every year just to keep seeing you say ‘yes’ in a different outfit.”
“You planning on proposing again?” you teased.
“I’ll do it weekly. Bi-weekly if you smile like that.”
You nuzzled into his chest, the steady thrum of heat and heartbeat grounding you.
“Seriously, though,” he said softly, swaying.
“Yes?”
“I just want to be your forever.”
-------------------
M-List
#kpdh x reader#kpop demon hunters#saja boys x reader#jinu x reader#mystery x reader#abby x reader#romance x reader#baby x reader#kpdh
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Can you do Luke or Dante date everything headcanons? I really liked your Tony ones!!

i did luke because he’s my favourite out of the two and one of my favs ever,,, luv that guy also im a radiation nerd and you can kind of see that
luke nukem x m. reader hcs || NSFW UNDER THE CUT MINORS DNI || contains just a little scent stuff towards the end
he probably added to the whole nuclear fallout survival rp specifically to impress you. like, he had a preconceived idea beforehand, but as you enthusiastically went along with it, luke couldn’t help but build onto it with more grandiose details just to see adoration or something close on your face.
i hope you know in this relationship, whatever your name is, doesn’t actually matter anymore. you’re ranger, it’s a term of endearment and a replacement for your name the same.
he is a very passionate and… verbal lover. in terms of, you will never ever hear the end of i if luke has anything at all on his mind. whether it’s just how big your arms are, or how much he’d love living with you in a wasteland shelter and how domestic you would be, he’d cook for you and when you’re both back from scavenging, after throwing away the clothes you went outside in forever, he would scrub your back in the shower.
luke also loved physical intimacy, surprisingly or not. he puts his guard up, but when he relaxes around you, he’s so so so clingy. if you carry any foods on you that can melt, you NEED to remember to put them out before hanging out with Luke, because he’ll melt it in your clothes.
I also headcanon that he adores birds and all kinds of little critters, and when he learns that microwave waves can disrupt bird’s navigation, it breaks his heart and he asks you to not use him for some time until he processes.
on that note, you have to get used to your lover having a different working brain, and this includes Luke getting randomly upset or happy about some small or unexpected things. he probably also begged you to grow plants inside of him if you ever let him stumble across those NASA research. You bring up what implications would that have for his anatomy. He doesn’t bring up the plants after that.
If you’re an athletic type (or at least mildly), he loves loves looooves seeing you all sweaty after a workout, even better if there are any visible effects on your body over time, he can’t help but get excited about his handsome ranger’s limbs.
so, if you’re even mildly sweaty after some exercise, expect for Luke to be all over you placing gentle (or not so much) kisses all over whatever part of your body you were exercising.
if you’ll let him take it further, Luke will absolutely adore worshipping your limbs, he could go for hours on end, even without taking you in his mouth of grinding himself against your shoes or anything.
what are the health implications of sticking your dick into a microwave? well, hopefully it’s nothing deadly because you did it, a lot. and your microwave and yourself liked it.
we know his sensitive spot is in his cavity, but I don’t think Luke would make you fuck him there, because there’s not really… a way it could be done, at least without serious injury risk.
BUT if you would reach into his cavity while fucking him, it’s almost a 100% guarantee of getting your boyfriend to cum almost instantly. and very deliciously, too, his usually low voice raising to a barely perceived squeak as he clings onto you with shut eyes.
super vocal during sex, doesn’t even matter what position he’s in, or even if he has your hand or your cock down his throat, he will still blabber and moan and drool all over you. if his mouth is open, you’ll never hear the end of it.
“ranger! you’re doing so good, ranger! you feel sooo— go- eek! good!”; “don’t go easy on me, ranger… you know I like those limbs rough.”
please please please command him and tell him what to do, this gets him off almost as fast as you reaching in his cavity. you sternly order Luke to get on his knees? he’s there in a zeptosecond, hands along his sides. you tell him to take his clothes off? they were never on.
if you call him a good soldier afterwards, immediately nuts in his pants if they were on. Luke can’t hold back how much your praise means to him and gets him going even in a non sexual context, so be careful with where you use it.
a little bit of an embarrassing kink for him, but he gets off at your smell, specifically the smell of your sweat, that’s why the scenario of being in a sleeping back naked together is so appealing to Luke. he wants… no, needs to get a whiff. if you’re okay with that, however, he will probably be buried in your armpit for some time every day like clockwork.
he’s not really one for quickies, although sometimes it has to be like that on the account of him being so insanely turned on by his sexy boyfriend ranger, and finishing earlier. that’s just what isolation does to a man, not his fault the only person who’s willing to touch him in so long is so devastatingly hot.
#x male reader#x reader#gay#male reader#top male reader#dom male reader#mlm#fanfiction#mlm ns/fw#date everything fanfic#date everything x male reader#date everything x reader#luke nukem#date everything luke nukem#luke date everything
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And then, horrifically, Pangi is out in the wilderness training his anxiety away when he sees an uncomfortably-familiar black hood watching him from behind a dead tree
“Your Highness,” Newt politely says. “Congratulations on the engagement.”
He pauses. “Again.”
Pangi, frankly, sees red and fucking stabs him through the tree. Golden blood flows through the hole in the tree like sap; Newt, though, looks barely bothered at all
“I take it your memories have returned?” he guesses
“Fuck off,” Pangi sneers. “What do you want?”
He twists his blade as if it’ll do something. But Keepers, unfortunately, are just a bit more immortal than everyone else.
Calmly, Newt pulls himself off of the blade and brushes his robes free of wrinkles
Nonchalantly, he asks, “How are you?”
And then, more tentatively, “How is… he?”
Pangi’s eyes narrow. “And why should I tell you? He’s been looking for you for, what, almost four thousand years? You could’ve just asked him yourself, I’m not gonna lie.”
The hood turns away. “I… it’s improper for a Keeper to communicate with escaped prisoners.”
“Bullshit. I think you’re just pissed that we’re getting married and you’re not.”
It wasn’t hard to put that together. Newt vanished after revealing the old engagement, he hasn’t been seen so long as Lukey and Pangi have had wedding allegations thrown around. He probably saw them holding hands while searching the border and pissed himself out of jealousy.
Newt blushes as deeply as a creature without a face can. “Your relationship with him is hardly relevant. He and I are friends, nothing more.”
His skeletal hands clench into fists at his sides. Poor guy. Sucks that he’s no match for the literal Crown Prince of Hell.
Pangi kindly puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. There’s someone out there for you, I promise.”
Newt shrugs him off harshly. “Don’t flatter yourself to consider us acquaintances. I’m here to offer you a word of advice, your highness.”
“Advice? From you?”
“Lucas is… special. To myself and to many others. Should you hurt him again, your status won’t protect you from, hum, fair retribution.”
Pangi blinks in disbelief. “I’m sorry, are you giving me the shovel talk right now? Am I supposed to be-”
He cuts himself off as Newt’s words properly sink in.
“What do you mean,” he cautiously asks, “again?”
“Hm, so you don’t remember?” Newt cheekily not-answers. “That’s strange. And he hasn’t told you?”
“Told me? About what?”
“About how you ended up Falling in the first place. I’m sure he remembers.”
Newt sighs, head hanging slightly. “He… really cares about you, your highness. He’s a kind soul. He would bottle this pain up for eternity if he could.“
Suddenly, Lukey’s centuries-old note about Pangi not losing his skin ‘this time’ comes to mind.
“Oh,” Pangi croaks. He gulps. “I see.”
Newt nods, a bit sadly. “He spent all those years in the Null repeating your name to himself so he wouldn’t forget. But, by the time you arrived to save him, he was long gone. I… I can’t see him like that again. For both of our sakes, don’t do anything that stupid again. I fear he won’t be able to recover if he loses you again.”
Pangi nods solemnly. “I promise.”
If a Keeper could smile, Newt would be doing so. “Then perhaps you are more admirable than I thought.”
In which Pangi, the Crown Prince of Hell, is having a lovely stroll near his favorite lava river when some fucking guy falls out of the sky and lands right on him. He’s in all white, completely unconscious with a faint purple tinge to his skin
This dude is dead, which wouldn’t be as crazy as it is if it wasn’t for the fact that Pangi is like 99% sure that he’s a fallen fucking angel
With nothing better to do, Pangi hikes the angel over his shoulder and start bringing him to his place. Cause it’s either this or his, ew, j*b, so yeah
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