emma23

[emma23]

Our little corner of the world :

Llewyn davis x reader

The muffled hum of traffic floated in through the cracks of the window, blending with the soft strums of a guitar from the corner of the room. The tiny Greenwich Village apartment was dimly lit, the yellow glow of a single lamp giving it a cozy, almost melancholic charm. The smell of burnt coffee lingered faintly in the air—Llewyn had once again forgotten to turn off the percolator.

“Y’know, for someone who’s supposed to be so in tune with rhythm, you’ve got the timing of a brick when it comes to coffee,” Y/N teased, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, her lips twitching into a smile she tried to suppress.

Llewyn didn’t look up from his guitar, his fingers plucking lazily at the strings, but the corner of his mouth quirked. “Says the woman who can burn water.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and pushed off the doorframe, walking over to the small kitchenette. “I don’t burn water. I’ve scorched it. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, sure,” Llewyn replied dryly, finally looking up to meet her gaze, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “One’s a felony; the other’s just gross negligence.”

She flicked a dish towel at him, laughing when he ducked, the guitar letting out a discordant twang as he fumbled to shield himself. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her words.

“Only on Tuesdays,” he shot back, setting the guitar down gently against the couch.

It had always been like this between them. Years of friendship had built a foundation of playful bickering and quiet understanding. They knew each other’s worst habits and had a habit of magnifying them just for fun. But beneath the banter was something unspoken, something neither had dared to name for a long time.

Dinner that evening was simple: grilled cheese sandwiches and a half-empty bottle of cheap wine. Llewyn had complained about the bread being stale, but he still ate every bite, especially since Y/N had charred the sandwiches “just how he liked them.”

“So,” Llewyn began, leaning back in his chair and swirling the wine in his glass, “what was the worst decision of the day?”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to think deeply. “Oh, probably letting you be in charge of the grocery list. Who buys six cans of sardines and no bread?”

“Survival instincts,” he deadpanned.

“More like cat food instincts,” she countered, raising an eyebrow.

Llewyn chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint sounds of the city outside. It was moments like these that reminded them both why they gravitated toward each other—why, after all these years, they always seemed to end up back here. Together.

“Do you ever feel like we’re just… stuck?” Y/N asked suddenly, her voice softer now.

Llewyn’s brow furrowed. “Stuck how?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her fingers tracing patterns on the edge of her glass. “Like we’re spinning our wheels, doing the same thing every day, but it’s not really going anywhere.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his dark curls. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The vulnerability in his tone caught her off guard. Llewyn was a man of walls—tall, unyielding walls that only ever cracked in the quietest of moments.

“But,” he continued, his voice firmer now, “I think that’s just life, y’know? It’s not about where we’re going. It’s about…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “This. Eating burnt sandwiches and talking about our day.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the simplicity—and truth—of his words.

“You’re such a poet,” she teased, though her voice was softer now, her smile more genuine.

Llewyn smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my image.”

Later that night, they lay tangled together on the worn-out couch, the world outside fading into a distant hum. Llewyn’s guitar leaned against the wall, forgotten for now, as his fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on Y/N’s arm.

“You ever think about what it’d be like if we hadn’t ended up here?” she asked quietly, her head resting on his chest.

“Here as in New York, or here as in… this?” He gestured vaguely to the two of them.

“Both.”

He was silent for a moment, his hand pausing its movements. Then he kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering against her hair.

“I don’t think it matters,” he said finally. “We’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Y/N tilted her head up to look at him, her gaze searching his. “You mean that?”

“Every word.” His voice was soft but steady, his dark eyes holding hers.

She smiled, leaning up to kiss him, slow and tender, the weight of unspoken years finally falling away.

[emma23]

Perfect match :

Peter Parker x reader

Peter Parker was leaning against the lockers, fiddling with the strap of his backpack as he waited for you outside your biology class. His soft brown eyes lit up the second you stepped into the hallway.

"Hey!" he greeted with his signature boyish enthusiasm. "How was class?"

"Terrible," you replied with a dramatic groan, holding up a notebook. "I accidentally wrote the wrong answers in the group quiz, and now our team officially hates me."

Peter gave you a sympathetic smile. "Come on, Y/N. They're probably over it already. You're too likable to hate."

"Tell that to Mia. She said, and I quote, ‘you’re banned from ever leading anything again.’"

He laughed, a warm sound that always made your stomach flip. "Well, lucky for me, you’re great at picking best friends," he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly with his.

The two of you fell into step, heading toward the cafeteria. It had been years since Peter stumbled into your life with his awkward, nerdy charm. Somewhere along the way, the boy who used to sneak Star Wars jokes into every conversation became the guy who made your heart race every time he smiled.

When you walked into the cafeteria, it didn’t take long for the teasing to start.

“Oh my God!” Ned practically shouted, drawing everyone’s attention.

“What now?” Peter asked, confused as he sat down across from him.

“Look at you two!” Ned gestured wildly between the both of you.

That’s when you noticed it.

You were wearing an oversized dark green hoodie with a subtle design on the sleeve, paired with black jeans and your beat-up Converse. Peter, sitting right across from you, was wearing the exact same outfit.

"Wow." You blinked, staring at him. "We’re—matching?"

Peter followed your gaze to his hoodie and then back to yours. His cheeks immediately turned pink. "Uh—oh. I swear, I didn’t mean to copy you—"

“Sure, sure," you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully. "Did you sneak into my room and plan this or something?"

"No!" he protested, flustered. "It’s just…a coincidence."

"Right," Ned chimed in with a smirk. "Totally innocent coincidence."

Despite your friends’ relentless teasing, you couldn’t help but smile at how perfectly in sync you and Peter seemed to be.

Later that day, you were both sprawled on his bed at Aunt May's apartment, working on a physics assignment. The hoodie coincidence hadn’t stopped being funny, and every time you caught him glancing at your outfit, you burst into giggles.

"Stop laughing!" Peter groaned, throwing a pillow at you.

"I can't help it!" you replied, dodging the pillow. "It’s just—it’s cute, okay?"

Peter stopped mid-throw, his cheeks flushing. "You…think it’s cute?"

You shrugged casually, hiding your own embarrassment by pretending to focus on your notes. "I mean, yeah. It’s kind of adorable that we’re so in sync without even trying."

"Well, I think you look good in green," Peter said softly, his voice a little quieter.

Your heart skipped a beat. "You’re just saying that because you’re wearing the same thing."

He smirked. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m saying it because it’s true."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

The teasing and banter continued all evening. Eventually, the physics assignment was abandoned in favor of binge-watching your favorite show. The matching hoodies became less of a joke and more of a comforting reminder of how close you were—two people perfectly aligned, even without trying.

Somewhere between the second and third episode, Peter leaned over, his hand brushing yours. It wasn’t a grand, dramatic moment—just a quiet, accidental touch that sent sparks up your arm.

"You know," he began, his voice low and uncertain. "I think today was one of my favorite days."

"Because we got to match?" you teased, though your heart was pounding.

"Because I got to spend it with you," he said simply.

Your teasing smile faltered as his words sank in. For once, you didn’t have a sarcastic comeback. Instead, you turned toward him, closing the space between you.

"Peter Parker, you’re such a dork," you murmured before pressing your lips to his.

The kiss was sweet and tentative at first, like testing the waters, but it quickly deepened. His hands hesitated before resting on your waist, pulling you closer.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, his brown eyes searching yours.

"That was…" he trailed off, unable to find the words.

"Perfect," you supplied, grinning.

Peter chuckled softly, leaning his forehead against yours. "We should match more often."

[emma23]

More than he bargained for :

Santiago garica x reader

Santiago couldn’t believe he was standing here, watching her laugh as she carelessly tossed popcorn at him. She’d always had that effect on him—making his steady, calculated composure feel like a thin, fragile veneer.

It was supposed to be a casual evening. Just a simple hangout between old friends. Her dad's best friend and his favorite troublemaker. But there was a glint in her eye tonight that had his senses on high alert.

“Why do you look so tense?” she teased, reaching for the bowl again. “It’s just popcorn.”

He shook his head, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. “You’re aiming to get that popcorn everywhere but your mouth. You know that, right?”

“Oh, don’t be such a grump,” she laughed, tossing another piece in his direction, which bounced off his shoulder. “Loosen up, Pope.”

He grunted, catching her wrist mid-throw, feeling her warmth seep into his skin. “I am relaxed,” he countered, eyes meeting hers with a smirk. “It’s you that needs reigning in.”

“Oh, I’m the one who needs reigning in?” she asked, her tone lilting with mischief. She tugged her wrist back, stepping in close enough that her perfume wrapped around him. She tilted her head, a grin playing on her lips. “You look at me like I’m some kind of loose cannon.”

He chuckled. “That’s because you are. And you know it.”

Her grin only grew wider as she leaned closer. “You know, you’re way too serious for your own good, Santiago,” she whispered. Her breath was warm against his neck, and he felt his pulse quicken.

“Keep playing, and you’re going to find out just how serious I can get,” he warned, his grip tightening on her wrist. His voice was low, a quiet promise.

“Oh, don’t tease me,” she replied, eyes sparkling as her free hand ran down his chest, her fingers tracing over the lines of his muscles.

He clenched his jaw, watching her carefully. “You like testing limits, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said, her voice soft but challenging. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, taunting. “But you’re just as bad. Acting all possessive, trying to hide it.”

She was toeing a line, and they both knew it.

He growled softly, slipping his hand to the nape of her neck, fingers twisting in her hair. “You have no idea what I’d do if you pushed me too far.”

A sly smile curved her lips as she leaned back, just enough for their eyes to lock. “Then do it,” she dared, her voice a taunting whisper. “I like it when you get jealous.”

A dark glint sparked in his eyes as he pulled her flush against him, his grip firm. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that, querida,” he murmured before crashing his lips to hers.

They found their rhythm, her back arching as he gripped her hips possessively. She laughed, breathless, pressing against him. “I don’t think I’ve done this since high school,” she murmured, voice light, teasing.

He raised an eyebrow, pausing to give her a mock glare. “Don’t talk about other guys when I’m with you,” he growled, his voice rough with possessiveness.

She chuckled, running her fingers through his hair. “Relax, Santiago. You’re the only one I see.” She tilted her head, a coy grin on her face. “Besides, I kinda like it when you get all possessive.”

He let out a low chuckle, eyes darkening as he held her close. “You have no idea,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her neck.

She leaned back to look him in the eyes, her own glinting with playful challenge. “You love it,” she said simply.

He smirked, pulling her in closer, his fingers firm on her hips. “I freaking do.”

By the time they lay tangled together, his arm wrapped protectively around her, she let out a soft laugh, glancing up at him. “You know,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes, “I’m not sure who enjoyed that more.”

He chuckled, pulling her closer. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” she grinned, tracing circles on his chest. “I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Brat.”

She beamed, snuggling into him, clearly pleased with herself. “You love it.”

He let out a long, amused sigh, kissing her forehead. “Against my better judgment, yeah,” he admitted.

And with that, they both drifted off to sleep, her soft laughter echoing in his ears, a warm reminder of the woman who never ceased to push his limits—and how much he secretly enjoyed it.

[emma23]

Bad for you :

Marc Spector x reader

Marc Spector was convinced he was ruining you.

He had been sure of it since the first time he woke up to find you tangled in his sheets, your lips swollen from his kisses, your body marked by his touch, and your smile lazy with satisfaction. That was the first time he’d thought: She deserves better.

But that wasn’t what scared him.

What scared him was that you didn’t care.

"You're smiling," Marc murmured, watching you from across the small apartment you both barely managed to keep in one piece.

You were perched on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs, dressed in nothing but his shirt. The soft morning light caught in your hair, making you look ethereal—too good for this world, too good for him.

"Am I?" you teased, taking a sip of coffee.

Marc folded his arms. "You always do after..." He gestured vaguely, his voice trailing off as his eyes raked over you.

"Sex?" you filled in, grinning at his discomfort.

"Jesus, Y/N," he groaned, running a hand through his dark curls.

You laughed, sliding off the counter to close the distance between you. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging him forward. "Relax, soldier. You act like I'm some innocent little thing you've corrupted."

Marc stiffened at that.

"Maybe you are."

You frowned. "What?"

His jaw tightened. "Maybe I am corrupting you."

You pulled back slightly, blinking up at him in disbelief. Then, you laughed—loud and full, like this was the most ridiculous thing you had ever heard.

Marc did not laugh.

"You’re serious?" you asked, tilting your head.

"Look at me, Y/N," he said, voice low. "You know what I’ve done. You know who I am. And I just—" He sighed, his hands gripping your hips as if he was afraid you’d disappear. "I don’t want you to wake up one day and regret this. Regret me."

You stared at him for a long moment before sighing, exasperated. "Marc, we’ve been together for years."

"Doesn’t mean I’m good for you," he muttered.

"Oh my god," you groaned, stepping back. "You’re unbelievable."

Marc frowned. "Excuse me?"

You crossed your arms. "Let me get this straight—you think I don’t see you? That I don’t know exactly who you are? You think I’ve been here this whole time because I don’t understand the kind of life you’ve lived?" You scoffed. "Marc, I’m not stupid. And I’m definitely not a victim."

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off.

"If I was some delicate little thing, do you really think I’d still be here?" You shook your head. "I like this life. I like you. And I don’t need you deciding for me what’s good or bad."

Marc clenched his jaw. "Y/N—"

"No." You poked his chest. "If anyone is bad for anyone here, it's me."

He blinked. "What?"

You grinned. "Who’s the one who convinced you to sneak into that fancy hotel pool last month?"

"...You."

"And who was the one who bet Steven he couldn’t drink an entire bottle of wine in under five minutes?"

Marc pinched the bridge of his nose. "You."

"And who—" You leaned in, voice lowering— "was the one who just dragged you into bed and did unspeakable things to you for three straight hours?"

Marc swallowed. "Y/N."

You smirked. "Exactly."

His eyes darkened, and suddenly, his hands were on you again, pulling you flush against him. "So what you’re saying is… you’re bad for me."

"The worst," you confirmed.

His lips curled, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Guess that makes us even."

"Guess it does," you murmured before crashing your lips onto his.

Hours later, Marc lay beside you, his fingers trailing lazily over your bare back.

"You're still smiling," he murmured.

You nuzzled closer, sighing in contentment. "Told you. I’m having the time of my life."

Marc exhaled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah… I can tell."

You smirked, eyes still closed. "Hey, Marc?"

"Hm?"

"Next time you have an existential crisis, could you at least wait until I’ve had my coffee?"

Marc groaned, burying his face in the pillow.

You laughed.

[emma23]

Endless night, endless love :

Moon knight boys x reader

The living room was dimly lit by the soft, golden glow of fairy lights strung across the ceiling. On the coffee table, a half-empty bowl of popcorn sat between a collection of scattered movie cases and Y/N’s oversized sweatshirt that she had discarded earlier in a fit of warmth.

“You know, you could’ve just said no to ‘Sharknado,’ love,” Steven’s soft British lilt filled the room as he settled back onto the couch. His boyish grin tugged at his lips, eyes sparkling with mischief as he looked over at Y/N.

“I didn’t say no because I like it,” Y/N retorted, stuffing another handful of popcorn into her mouth. “It’s a classic.”

“Classic rubbish,” Marc interjected dryly from the armchair in the corner. He had his arms crossed, one brow raised in his usual skeptical fashion.

“Yeah, well, not everything has to be a serious military documentary, Spector,” Y/N shot back, smirking.

A low chuckle escaped from Jake, who was leaning against the kitchen counter behind them, his signature leather jacket slung over the back of a chair. “She’s got you there, hermano.”

Marc groaned, leaning forward to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Why do I even bother?”

“Because you love me,” Y/N quipped, grinning widely as she leaned back against the cushions.

Steven laughed, the sound warm and infectious, as he reached for the popcorn bowl. “She’s got us all wrapped ‘round her finger, doesn’t she?”

“Si,” Jake muttered, his dark eyes narrowing playfully as he walked over and snatched the bowl from Steven. “But don’t let it go to your head, muñeca.”

Y/N tilted her head back to look at him, batting her lashes in exaggerated innocence. “Oh, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

The night dragged on like this—teasing banter, poorly picked movies, and laughter that filled the room like a melody. They had been together for what felt like forever now, and yet, these quiet moments still felt special. Each of them brought something different to the table: Steven’s sweetness, Marc’s quiet intensity, and Jake’s unpredictable charm.

But tonight wasn’t just about movies.

As the credits of the third film rolled, Steven looked over at Y/N, who was stretched out with her feet in his lap. “You’re falling asleep again, love.”

“M’not,” she murmured, though her eyelids fluttered dangerously close to shutting.

Jake, now perched on the couch’s armrest, smirked. “Liar. You’ve got that ‘just five more minutes’ face.”

Y/N’s lips twitched, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she stretched her arms above her head with a yawn. “Maybe...but only because you guys pick the worst movies.”

“That was your choice!” Marc exclaimed, exasperated.

“Details,” she muttered, waving a hand dismissively.

Eventually, Steven maneuvered Y/N so that her head rested on his lap. His fingers absentmindedly brushed through her hair, lulling her into a soft, contented haze. Marc had moved to sit on her other side, his hand resting protectively on her hip, while Jake loomed close, pretending to inspect the DVD cases but stealing glances her way.

“What would we even do without her?” Steven asked quietly, almost to himself.

Marc glanced over, his expression softening. “We’d be a hell of a lot quieter.”

Jake leaned in, his lips curving into a smirk. “And a hell of a lot more bored.”

Y/N, half-asleep but still coherent enough to catch their words, smiled faintly. “Good to know I’m appreciated.”

“You’re not appreciated,” Marc grumbled. “You’re spoiled.”

“Endlessly,” Steven added with a chuckle.

Their quiet banter carried on, the night slipping by in a haze of warmth and soft touches. Y/N was surrounded, cocooned in their love, and though the chaos of their lives often pulled them in different directions, nights like these reminded them all of the one thing they shared: her.

“Let’s just stay like this forever,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible.

Jake smirked, his hand brushing her cheek. “Forever’s a long time, muñeca.”

“And you’ve got nothing better to do,” she teased, cracking one eye open to look at him.

Marc rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him. “She’s not wrong.”

“Shh,” Steven said, pressing a finger to her lips. “The movie’s starting again.”

Y/N squinted at the screen. “Is that Sharknado 2?”

Marc groaned. Jake laughed. Steven shrugged. And Y/N, surrounded by all the chaos she loved, couldn’t have been happier.

“Did you seriously just rewind to the beginning because I fell asleep?!”

[emma23]

Shadow of deception :

Santiago garica x reader

The jungle was unforgiving, dense with vegetation and the sounds of unseen creatures echoing through the thick air. The group moved in calculated silence, their eyes scanning every shadow, every movement. Santiago led the way, his sharp gaze focused on the terrain ahead. Behind him, the team he had meticulously assembled followed, trusting in his leadership and the plan he had devised.

Among them was Y/N, a recent addition to the group, brought in for their unique skills in surveillance and intelligence gathering. Unlike the seasoned soldiers Pope was used to working with, Y/N was an enigma. She was quiet, seemingly aloof, yet her insights had proven invaluable more than once. Pope had found himself intrigued by her, drawn to the mystery she embodied.

But tonight, something felt off. They had been tracking their target, a high-ranking cartel member with ties to the infamous drug lord Lorea, through the jungle for hours. The plan was simple: capture the target, extract information, and leave no trace. But as they reached the edge of a small clearing, Pope couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

"Hold up," Pope whispered, raising his hand to signal the group to stop. The team froze, blending into the darkness. Y/N moved closer to Pope, her breath warm against his ear as they spoke.

"What is it?" She asked, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the jungle.

"I don't know," Pope replied, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. "But something's not right."

Before Y/N could respond, a shot rang out, followed by a second. The team dropped to the ground, weapons ready, but it was too late. Their target was already dead, his body slumped over in the clearing.

"What the hell?" Frankie muttered, his eyes wide with shock. "Who shot him?"

"Everyone stay low," Pope ordered, his mind racing. How could this have happened? They were the only ones in the area, and no one had fired a shot.

[Y/N] eyes meets Pope's. "No. But we should move. If there's someone else out here, we can't stay in one place for too long."

Pope hesitated, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong. But there was no time to question it. They needed to get out of the jungle before whoever was out there found them.

"Let's move," Pope finally said, signaling the team to follow him. As they made their way deeper into the jungle, Pope couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was missing something important—something that could change everything.

Back at the safe house, tensions were running high. The team had made it out of the jungle unscathed, but the mission was a failure. Their target was dead, and they had no idea who was responsible. Pope paced the room, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what had happened.

"Whoever it was, they were damn good," Tom said, breaking the silence. "We didn't even hear them coming."

"Yeah, but who the hell are they?" Ben added, his voice tinged with frustration. "And how did they know we were out there?"

Pope didn't answer, his eyes focused on Y/N, who was sitting in the corner of the room, her expression calm. Too calm, Pope thought. It was almost as if she knew something the rest of the team didn't.

"You got something to say, Y/N?" Pope asked, his tone sharp.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. "No. Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?" Pope pressed, his patience wearing thin.

Y/N hesitated "I'm saying that it's possible someone on the inside tipped them off," Y/N continued, her gaze unwavering. "Someone who knew exactly where we would be and when."

Pope's heart sank. The thought had crossed his mind, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. Not with his team. But now, hearing Y/N say it out loud, the possibility seemed all too real.

"That's a serious accusation," Redfly said, his tone defensive. "Do you have any proof?"

Y/N shook her head. "No proof. Just a feeling."

Pope stared at Y/N "We need to figure this out," Pope finally said, his voice firm. "No one leaves this room until we do."

As the team began to discuss their next steps, Pope couldn't help but notice the way Y/N was watching him. There was something in her eyes—something that made him uneasy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew he needed to keep a close eye on her.

Over the next few days, tensions continued to rise within the team. Trust was eroding, and everyone was on edge. Pope found himself questioning everyone, even his closest friends. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that Y/N was hiding something.

One night, after the others had gone to bed, Pope found Y/N sitting alone outside the safe house, staring up at the stars. He approached her cautiously, his hand resting on the handle of his gun.

"What are you doing out here?" Pope asked, his voice low.

Y/N didn't look at him, her eyes still fixed on the sky. "Just thinking."

"About what?" Pope pressed, his suspicion growing.

"About everything," Y/N replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "About how we got here. About what's going to happen next."

Pope studied her, his eyes narrowing. There was something in her tone—something that sent a chill down his spine. "What are you really doing out here?" he asked, his voice sharp.

Y/N finally turned to look at him, her expression unreadable. "Do you trust me, Santiago?"

The question caught Pope off guard. He hesitated, then finally nodded. "Yeah. I do."

Y/N smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Good. Because you're going to need me."

Before Pope could respond, Y/N stood up and walked back into the safe house, leaving him standing there, his mind racing with questions.

The next morning, everything came crashing down.

Pope woke up to the sound of gunfire. He grabbed his gun and rushed out of his room, only to find chaos. The team was under attack, but it wasn't an outside force—it was one of their own.

In the midst of the chaos, Pope spotted Y/N standing in the doorway, a gun in their hand. Her eyes locked, and in that moment, Pope knew the truth.

"You," Pope breathed, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. "It was you all along."

Y/N didn't deny it. She simply smiled, a cold, calculating smile that sent a shiver down Pope's spine.

"Why?" Pope demanded, his voice shaking with anger and betrayal.

Y/N shrugged. "Because it was the only way. You wouldn't understand."

Before Pope could react, Y/N raised her gun and fired. The shot missed, but it was enough to send Pope diving for cover.

The room erupted into chaos once again, but this time, Pope was focused on one thing and one thing only—taking down the person who had betrayed him.

The two of them clashed, their fight brutal and relentless. Y/N was quick and cunning, but Pope was fueled by a mixture of anger and hurt. They grappled, exchanging blows, until finally, Pope managed to disarm them.

He stood over Y/N, his chest heaving with exertion, his gun trained on them. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger," Pope growled, his voice laced with fury.

Y/N looked up at him, their eyes cold and unfeeling. "Because you loved me."

The words hit Pope like a punch to the gut. He hesitated, his finger trembling on the trigger. For a moment, he considered it—considered letting her go, considered forgiving her.

But then he remembered the betrayal, the lies, the people who had died because of her. And in that moment, he made his decision.

The gunshot echoed through the room, and Y/N fell to the ground, lifeless.

Pope stood there, staring down at the body of the person he had once trusted, once cared for. He felt nothing—no relief, no satisfaction. Just an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

As the rest of the team regrouped, Pope knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The mission was over, but the scars it left behind would never heal.

Months later, Pope sat alone in a dimly lit bar, nursing a drink. The mission was over, the money long gone, and the team had gone their separate ways.

Pope had drifted from one place to another since that night, haunted by the memories of what had transpired. The betrayal, the bloodshed, the sense of loss—it all lingered like a shadow that refused to fade. He downed the last of his drink, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb the pain that had taken root deep inside him.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a tired expression, approached to refill his glass, but Pope waved him off. "I'm good," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

The bartender nodded, moving on to another patron. Pope stared at the amber liquid in his glass, his mind wandering back to that final moment with Y/N. Their words echoed in his mind, "Because you loved me." He hated how true those words had been, how they still held power over him.

He had tried to justify what he had done, telling himself that it was necessary, that Y/N had deserved it for what she had done. But no matter how many times he repeated it in his head, the guilt never fully subsided. It gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the line he had crossed.

The door to the bar creaked open, and Pope glanced up out of habit. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the figure standing in the doorway. For a split second, he thought it was Y/N, back from the dead to haunt him. But as the figure stepped into the light, he realized it was just a stranger—a young woman with a worn-out look in her eyes.

Pope sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was losing it, seeing ghosts where there were none. He needed to get a grip, needed to find some way to move on. But how did you move on from something like that? How did you let go of the weight of betrayal and the guilt of pulling the trigger on someone you once cared about?

The woman approached the bar, ordering a drink before glancing at Pope. "Rough night?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with curiosity.

Pope managed a faint smile. "You could say that."

She nodded, taking a sip of her drink. "Sometimes it helps to talk about it."

Pope chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "I'm not sure it would help."

"Maybe not," she replied, "but it's better than letting it eat you alive."

There was a sincerity in her words that caught Pope off guard. He studied her for a moment, wondering what had brought her to this place, what demons she was trying to drown in her drink. But he didn't ask. They were both here to forget, not to remember.

"What's your story?" Pope asked, changing the subject.

She shrugged. "Just trying to get by. Made some bad choices, ended up here."

Pope nodded, understanding all too well. "Yeah. I know how that goes."

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. The bar around them buzzed with the low hum of conversations, but it all felt distant to Pope. He was trapped in his own head, replaying that night over and over, searching for some way to make sense of it all.

"What's your name?" the woman asked, breaking the silence.

Pope hesitated. For a moment, he considered lying, giving her a fake name to keep his distance. But then he realized it didn't matter. Nothing did anymore.

"Santiago," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled faintly. "Nice to meet you, Santiago. I'm Maria."

Pope nodded, not sure what else to say. They fell into silence again, but this time it was more comfortable, less heavy. Maybe it was because Maria seemed to understand, without needing to ask a hundred questions. She was just another lost soul, drifting through life like he was.

"Do you ever wonder if it was worth it?" Maria asked suddenly, her voice laced with sadness.

Pope glanced at her, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Everything we go through," she explained, staring into her drink. "All the pain, the loss, the mistakes. Do you ever wonder if any of it was worth it in the end?"

Pope thought about it, his mind flashing back to the mission, to Y/N, to the moment he had pulled the trigger. He had wondered that very thing countless times. And every time, he came up with the same answer.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "But I like to think it meant something, that it wasn't all for nothing."

Maria nodded, as if she understood. "Yeah. Me too."

They sat there for a while longer, two strangers in a sea of people, each trying to find some semblance of peace. For Pope, it was a fleeting moment of calm in the midst of the storm that had become his life. And for the first time in a long while, he felt a sliver of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to live with the choices he had made.

As the night wore on, Pope found himself opening up to Maria, sharing bits and pieces of his story, careful not to reveal too much. She listened without judgment, her own experiences giving her a unique perspective on the darkness that haunted him.

By the time the bar was closing, Pope felt lighter, as if talking to Maria had lifted some of the weight off his shoulders. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him going, to give him a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

"Thanks for the talk," Pope said as they left the bar, the cool night air hitting his face.

Maria smiled, a genuine smile this time. "Anytime, Santiago."

They parted ways, each heading off into the night, but as Pope walked away, he felt a strange sense of closure. He knew the scars would never fully heal, and the memories would always haunt him, but maybe that was okay. Maybe, in the end, it was those very scars that made him who he was.

And as he disappeared into the darkness, Pope made a silent vow to himself—to keep moving forward, to live with the choices he had made, and to never forget the lessons he had learned. Because in a world full of shadows and deception, sometimes the only way to survive was to embrace the darkness within.

[emma23]

Falling into you part-2 :

Shiv x reader

You spent days in that hospital room, staring at the ceiling, willing your memories to return. Some things came back in flashes—your dog’s excited bark, the flicker of neon lights at a carnival, the weight of a leather jacket draped over your shoulders on a cold night. But whenever you tried to focus on the man from your bedside—Shiv—your mind drew a frustrating blank.

The nurses told you he never left while you were unconscious. That he barely ate, barely slept, and only stepped out when the doctors forced him to.

And yet, now that you were awake, he was gone.

You had questions. So many questions.

And only one person to answer them.

Tracking him down wasn’t hard.

Shiv wasn’t exactly subtle. He had a reputation—smart-mouthed, too clever for his own good, always in the wrong place at the wrong time. And apparently, he played guitar at a hole-in-the-wall bar on the east side of the city.

You found him there, hunched over a drink, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the counter. He looked…tired. Not just in the way of someone who hadn’t slept, but in the way of someone who had been carrying something too heavy for too long.

When he finally noticed you, his eyes darkened. "You shouldn’t be here."

You ignored that. "You knew me."

"Still do," he muttered into his glass.

"Then tell me." You slid onto the barstool beside him, heart pounding. "Tell me who we were."

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out something small. When he placed it on the bar between you, your breath hitched.

It was a worn-out carnival ticket.

"First date," Shiv said quietly. "You kept it, called it ‘a reminder of terrible aim.’” He exhaled a sharp laugh. “Said it was proof that I sucked at rigged games."

Your fingers brushed over the paper. A memory sparked—your own voice teasing him, his mock-offended expression, the way his hand lingered at your back.

Your stomach flipped.

Shiv was watching you closely. "Anything?"

You swallowed hard. "Pieces."

He nodded like he expected that. "It’s a start."

Shiv didn’t push.

He didn’t demand you remember everything at once. Instead, he showed up. He walked you home. He told you stories—about your dog, about the time you made him sing karaoke (badly), about how you used to steal his jacket when you were cold.

Some stories felt like echoes, half-familiar. Others were like hearing them for the first time.

But him?

Being around Shiv felt natural, like slipping into a song you didn’t know you loved until the chorus hit.

Then, one night, it happened.

You were standing outside your apartment, Shiv leaning against the doorway, watching you with that unreadable expression. Something about the way he looked at you made your chest ache—like you were important. Like you were his.

And then, just like that, the words slipped out.

"I think I loved you."

Shiv froze.

Your breath caught. "I—I mean, I must have, right? If we were together?"

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, finally, he stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper.

"You still do."

And before you could respond, before you could overthink, he kissed you.

And this time, everything came rushing back.

[emma23]

A night in jazz & snow :

Peter Parker x reader

The snow drifted lazily outside the window, thick flakes swirling in the glow of the streetlights. The city was muffled, quiet, as if the world had slowed just for this evening. You sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, absentmindedly flipping through a book. The warm light of the apartment softened everything—the wooden floors, the framed photos on the shelves, the small Christmas lights Peter had insisted on putting up even though it wasn’t December yet.

Then, you felt it—a presence before the familiar touch. Warm fingers traced lightly over your shoulder, and then, a pair of lips pressed against the top of your head, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

"Hi, sweetheart," Peter murmured, his voice deep and soft.

You turned your head slightly, catching the way his brown eyes flickered with something—excitement, maybe. His hair was a little damp from the snow, and his cheeks were pink from the cold.

"You’re home early," you noted, shifting to make room for him on the couch.

He smirked and pulled something from behind his back—a small velvet box. Your eyes narrowed.

"Peter," you started, suspicion creeping into your tone.

"Just open it," he said, practically vibrating with eagerness.

You took the box, feeling the weight of it in your palm. When you popped it open, the dim light reflected off a pair of delicate diamond earrings. Your breath hitched. They were small but elegant, sparkling as if they held tiny galaxies within them.

"Peter," you whispered, unable to look away from them.

"I know what you’re thinking," he interrupted before you could protest. "But before you ask—no, I didn’t spend that much. And yes, I know you don’t need fancy things, but…" He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "You deserve them. And I wanted to get you something beautiful."

Your chest felt impossibly warm. Peter had always been like this—thoughtful, even in his chaos. He didn’t just buy things for you. He chose them, considered them, made sure they meant something.

"You’re ridiculous," you murmured, though you were already reaching to take the earrings out.

His grin widened. "Put them on."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, nudging your knee with his, "I’m taking you out."

You raised a brow. "Out? In this weather?"

"You love the jazz club on 5th," he reminded you. "You always say winter makes it feel more romantic."

Your heart did a very embarrassing little flip at that.

"You remembered that?"

"Of course I did," he scoffed, as if the idea of forgetting anything you said was impossible.

You shook your head, fighting back a smile. "Alright. Let me change."

Peter watched you as you stood, his eyes filled with something quiet and fond. "Take your time. I’ll be right here."

The club was exactly how you remembered it—dimly lit, filled with the hum of conversation and the soft strains of a jazz band playing in the corner. The scent of aged whiskey and warm leather filled the air. Peter led you to a booth near the back, where the light was low and the music curled around you like a secret.

The moment you sat down, Peter leaned in. Not a lot, just enough that his knee brushed yours, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him, despite the cold that still clung to his jacket.

"You look beautiful," he said simply.

You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the candle flickering on the table. "Shut up."

He chuckled, low and affectionate. "What? I can’t compliment my wife?"

The word sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. You looked back at him, meeting his gaze properly this time. His brown eyes were dark in the low light, intense in a way that made your heart stutter.

"You’re staring," you pointed out.

He didn’t even flinch. "I like looking at you."

The warmth in your chest spread, slow and molten. You weren’t sure if it was the ambiance or the weight of his attention, but suddenly, the sound of the music faded. The chatter of the club dissolved. All that existed was Peter, his knee against yours, his fingers inching towards your hand on the table.

And then—one simple touch.

His pinky brushed yours, deliberate and slow, before curling around it. It was small, insignificant in theory, but it unraveled something inside you.

You turned your hand over, palm up. Peter’s fingers slid against yours naturally, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"You’re doing it again," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music.

His lips quirked up. "What?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you’re in love with me."

He laughed, quiet and warm. "That’s because I am."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was thundering. "Gross."

Peter smirked. "You love it."

And—okay, maybe you did. Just a little.

Later that night, when you were tangled in the sheets, Peter’s fingers tracing patterns on your bare back, you sighed contentedly. His chest was warm against yours, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

"You never stop looking at me like that, do you?" you murmured sleepily.

He hummed, half-awake. "Nope."

A pause.

"Even when I’m eating messy foods?"

"Especially then," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You snorted. "You’re ridiculous."

"You married me."

"...Shit, you’re right."

His sleepy chuckle was the last thing you heard before drifting off.

[emma23]

No signal, no exit:

Nathan bateman x reader

The silence in the car wasn't awkward. Not really. It was familiar. Comfortable, even, in the way two people who've known each other too long can sit in it without needing to fill the gaps.

You were parked in the far corner of an empty lot, the kind of place that probably only saw life during business hours. Now, at nearly midnight, it was deserted. The only illumination came from a couple of dim overhead lights, flickering gently in that eerie way you hated. Nathan didn’t seem to mind. He just leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lazily against his thigh.

"You know," he said eventually, voice low like the night might shatter if he spoke too loud, "if you’re gonna keep sighing like that, I’m gonna start thinking you’re bored of me."

You glanced at him, pulling your legs up onto the seat. “I’m not bored of you. I’m bored of your music.”

Nathan raised a brow. “This is Miles Davis.”

“This is depressing.”

He scoffed and changed the track without a word. Something softer, more ambient, filtered through the speakers. You looked at him in profile — sharp jaw, messy curls, the way his mouth twitched when he was trying not to smirk. He looked tired, but in that permanent way he always did. Like rest had never quite been on his calendar.

“Why’d we come here?” you asked, eyes flicking toward the shadows outside.

He shrugged. “Needed to get away. This was away.” Then, quieter, “With you.”

You paused. That part he said like it mattered. Like it wasn’t just an add-on.

“You could’ve picked somewhere more romantic,” you teased. “You know, a cliff. A lake. A bench that doesn’t smell like piss.”

“Don’t need any of that,” he said simply, eyes fixed ahead. “I just need you to stop always trying to ruin a good thing.”

Your breath caught a little. Not because he said it to hurt you — it didn’t feel cruel — but because it felt true. And because he’d said it with such clarity, like he’d been holding it for a while.

You shifted, hugging your knees. “I don’t ruin everything.”

“You don’t mean to,” he admitted. “But you have a way of choosing the wrong thing at the exact wrong time. I should’ve known it would drive me nuts.”

“Oh?” You gave him a crooked smile. “And yet here you are, stuck in a parking lot with me.”

Nathan tilted his head finally, looking at you fully. “Yeah,” he murmured, “here I am.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It wasn’t new — this feeling — but it still hit you like a surprise every time. He wasn’t easy to love. Neither were you. Maybe that was the point.

The air between you grew thick. And then, gently, his hand came up to the side of your face. Callused fingers brushing your cheek. Thumb resting near your jaw. You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

His voice was lower now, almost gravelly. “Look at me.”

You already were.

“You never make it easy, you know that?”

“Neither do you,” you whispered.

There was a pause. A heavy one. Then he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, like he was thinking through every inch of it, testing how far he could push before you pulled away. But you didn’t. You leaned into it. Warm, soft, his lips against yours tasting faintly of beer and something metallic — maybe blood, maybe a memory.

His fingers tightened at your jaw, the kiss deepening as he angled closer. You could feel the heat of him, the pull. When his tongue brushed yours, you made a quiet sound in your throat, something desperate and surprised all at once.

You shifted, climbing over the console until you were in his lap, knees bracketing his thighs. His hands slipped under your hoodie, finding bare skin, drawing slow lines against your waist.

“You always wear too many layers,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You always say that right before you help me take them off.”

“You want me to stop?”

You bit his lower lip, not hard, just enough. “Don’t be stupid.”

He grinned, that cocky kind of smirk that always made you roll your eyes and kiss him harder. In seconds, your hoodie was pulled over your head, your shirt after it. Nathan’s hands roamed with purpose, pausing at the soft curves he knew too well by now. There was no shyness anymore — you’d known each other too long. But there was still wonder. Still that silent awe he carried when he touched you, like he was both studying and worshiping.

“You smell like my soap,” he said, dragging his mouth along your neck. “Used my shower again?”

“You were in it when I got there,” you gasped as he sucked at your collarbone. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t. I do mind you leaving your wet towel on my bed, though.”

You tugged his shirt up and off. “You love when I leave a mess.”

Nathan chuckled, then flipped you — smooth, practiced — so your back hit the passenger seat. The gear shift dug into your hip, but you didn’t care. His weight pressed into you, all heat and muscle and that quiet hunger he didn’t always let show.

Fingers tangled in his hair, you pulled him closer. He kissed you like he meant it, like he needed it — teeth, tongue, lips. You gasped again as his hand slid down your jeans, impatient and familiar. He didn’t need to ask anymore. He already knew the answer.

You arched into him, breath stuttering as he made you lose track of everything — the parking lot, the lights, the fact that you probably looked completely insane to anyone passing by. But you didn’t care. It was just you and Nathan and the low hum of the engine still idling like it was watching.

Much later — hair messy, clothes scattered across the floor mats, your leg still slung lazily across his lap — Nathan looked at you through half-lidded eyes and muttered, “So… did this count as our romantic date?”

You laughed, burying your face into his shoulder. “You’re lucky I’m easy.”

“You’re lucky I like complicated women,” he shot back.

You smirked. “That’s because you are one.”

[emma23]

Risky lesson :

Poe dameron x reader

You were standing in the Resistance's hangar, arms crossed, staring at Poe as he tinkered with his X-wing. The mechanical sounds and occasional muttering from Poe filled the space. You knew he was avoiding something—avoiding you—but this time, you were determined to make him talk.

“Poe,” you called out, your voice cutting through the air like a laser blast.

He didn’t turn around, continuing to adjust something inside the cockpit. “What’s up?” he asked casually, though you could sense the tension in his voice.

You rolled your eyes and walked closer, stopping right behind him. “We need to talk,” you said firmly, leaning against the edge of his X-wing.

He sighed heavily and finally turned to face you, wiping grease from his hands. His brown eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you felt your heart skip a beat. Damn him for being so effortlessly charming, even when he was avoiding you.

“About what?” he asked, leaning against the X-wing now, trying to seem cool and unaffected.

“About us,” you replied, your gaze never wavering.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Pretty sure we’ve got that figured out, sweetheart. You’re my fiancée, and we’re going to take down the First Order together. What’s there to talk about?”

You folded your arms tighter, not letting his teasing get to you. “No, Poe. I mean… about us privately.” The emphasis on the last word made his smirk falter.

“Privately?” His tone shifted, and now he looked a bit more serious.

“Yes, privately,” you repeated. “I’ve been thinking… I want you to teach me.”

Poe blinked, his expression shifting into something more unreadable. “Teach you what, exactly?”

You took a deep breath, knowing this was going to get awkward fast. “You know what I mean,” you said softly, biting your lip.

He ran a hand through his tousled hair, looking at the floor as if it would give him answers. “Y/N… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” you pressed, stepping closer. “You’re my fiancée. We should be able to explore things together, right?”

Poe’s jaw clenched, and he finally looked back up at you, his gaze intense. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered. “My tastes… they might be a little too dark for you.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the way he said “dark.” But instead of backing down, you pushed forward. “If you won’t, I’ll ask someone else,” you said, voice challenging.

Poe’s expression darkened immediately, his charming façade dropping as his eyes narrowed. In an instant, he stepped forward, his presence overwhelming. “You’re my fiancée,” he growled, his hand gripping your arm with just enough force to make you take notice. “You’re not asking another man to do a thing to you.”

His voice was low and dangerous, and for a moment, you almost regretted teasing him. Almost.

“I’m your fiancée, right,” you repeated with a smirk, “so I won’t be seen with anyone else. But if we want to do stuff privately—”

His grip on your arm became bruising, and you could feel the tension radiating off of him. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin as he gritted his teeth. “You do anything, privately or publicly, with another man, and I’ll make it my sole purpose in life to obliterate him.”

You blinked, heart racing at the intensity of his words. But instead of being scared, you found it exhilarating. “That’s… kind of hot,” you said with a nervous laugh.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, his lips crashed onto yours, the kiss fierce and possessive, leaving no room for doubt about who you belonged to. You kissed him back, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands roamed over your body, possessive and demanding.

“Still want me to teach you?” he asked, his voice rough as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Without another word, he lifted you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you to a secluded corner of the hangar. Your back pressed against the cool metal wall, and his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time, hands wandering with a sense of purpose.

“I’ll teach you,” he muttered against your lips, “but don’t think for a second I’ll go easy on you.”

“I wasn’t asking for easy,” you breathed, eyes half-closed as you clung to him, the feel of his body against yours driving you wild.

What followed was a whirlwind of intense passion, Poe showing you exactly what he meant by “dark.” His touches were demanding, his lips and hands exploring every inch of you as if he was trying to memorize your body by heart. And as much as he tried to hold back, you could feel the possessiveness in every touch, in every kiss, in every word.

He was relentless, leaving no room for anyone else in your thoughts or in your life. By the time it was over, you were left breathless, staring up at him with wide eyes, wondering just how far he would go to keep you.

As you both caught your breath, he smirked, that familiar playful glint returning to his eyes. “So… still planning on asking someone else for lessons?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Nope. I think I’ve learned plenty.”

Poe grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Good. Because if you did…” He leaned in, whispering teasingly, “I’d have to teach you all over again.”

You groaned, pushing him away playfully. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “That’s why you love me.”

As you both stood there, trying to regain some semblance of composure, you couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, if I’d known you were this intense, I would’ve asked BB-8 to teach me instead.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “BB-8, huh? Pretty sure that little droid would give you a shockingly different experience.”

You groaned again. “Please don’t ever make droid jokes after this.”

He chuckled, pulling you into a soft kiss. “I’ll try… but no promises”

[emma23]

Noticed :

Steven grant x reader

The soft hum of the London evening settled into the apartment as Y/N leaned against the kitchen counter, absentmindedly stirring her tea. The warmth of the ceramic mug seeped into her palms, grounding her in the moment. Behind her, Steven shuffled around, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting, as if searching for something to do.

"You alright, love?" he asked, voice gentle, laced with concern.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, giving him a small smile. "Yeah. Just… thinking."

Steven nodded slowly, coming up beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Thinking about anything in particular? Or just thinking, thinking?"

She chuckled at that. "Just thinking, thinking."

He mirrored her smile, though his eyes lingered on her face, scanning her expression like he was trying to decipher some hidden message. It was a habit of his—one that always made her feel a little too seen, a little too vulnerable.

"You’re always in your head, Y/N," he murmured. "Wish I could see what goes on in there."

Y/N shrugged, sipping her tea. "It’s mostly chaos. You wouldn't like it."

"Oh, I dunno," Steven teased, nudging her playfully. "I’m quite fond of a bit of chaos."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. After all, Steven’s entire life was chaos wrapped in uncertainty, a constant battle between who he was and who he was supposed to be. Yet, despite everything, he remained the gentlest person she’d ever met.

And that, more than anything, terrified her.

Because if there was one thing Y/N knew about herself, it was that she had a habit of making the wrong choices.

She had never been the type to get things right—the kind of person who naturally gravitated toward what was good for her. Relationships, friendships, jobs… She was always a step behind, always fumbling, always choosing the thing that would eventually hurt.

But then, somehow, she had chosen Steven.

And that felt like the only right thing she had ever done.

The evening continued with the two of them making their way to a small dinner gathering with a few of Steven’s friends. They weren’t people Y/N knew well, but they were friendly, and more importantly, they adored Steven.

Dinner was lively, filled with animated discussions about Egyptian mythology, awkward moments of Steven correcting historical inaccuracies, and the occasional shared glance between him and Y/N. It was nice. Comfortable.

Then the food arrived.

Y/N smiled politely as a steaming plate of pasta was set in front of her, the rich aroma filling the air. But the moment she glanced down, her stomach twisted.

Cheese.

Thick, melted, golden cheese layered on top.

She swallowed hard.

"Everything alright, love?" Steven’s voice was quiet beside her.

Y/N plastered on a smile. "Yeah! Of course."

She could feel it—the weight of his gaze, the way he saw through her so easily. But she didn’t want to be difficult. Didn’t want to make a fuss.

So she picked up her fork.

She had barely taken a breath before Steven, without a word, reached across the table and switched their plates.

It was seamless, like he had done it a thousand times before.

Like it was instinct.

Y/N froze, blinking at her now cheese-free meal, then at Steven, who had already dug into his plate like nothing had happened.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t make a show of it.

He just… noticed.

Warmth spread through her chest, slow and unexpected.

"You—" She stopped, unsure how to phrase what she was feeling.

Steven looked up, mid-bite. "Hmm?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing. Just—thank you."

He gave her a small, sheepish smile. "Course, love."

And just like that, the conversation moved on. But Y/N barely heard a word of it.

Because, in that moment, she realized something.

Steven paid attention.

To the little things. To her.

And that scared her more than anything.

The night continued, and by the time they got home, Y/N felt like she was buzzing with something unspoken.

Steven had always been thoughtful, always kind, but this felt different. More intimate. More deliberate.

And she had no idea what to do with that.

Steven kicked off his shoes, stretching with a soft groan. "Well, that was nice, yeah?"

Y/N nodded, watching him from across the room.

He turned to her, tilting his head. "You alright?"

There it was again. That quiet, careful concern.

"Why did you switch our plates?" she blurted.

Steven blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. Well, you don’t like cheese."

Her throat felt tight. "I never told you that."

His brow furrowed, like he was confused by the question. "No, but… I noticed."

Her breath hitched.

Steven rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure. "I mean, you always push it to the side if it’s on anything. And that one time we got chips, you left the cheesy ones in the box, so—"

"Steven," she cut him off, stepping closer. "You notice things like that?"

He shifted awkwardly, shrugging. "’Course I do, love. It’s you."

Her heart stuttered.

It’s you.

The words settled into her chest, warm and terrifying.

Before she could stop herself, she was in front of him, reaching up to cup his face.

Steven’s breath caught, his hands instinctively finding her waist.

"Y/N?" His voice was barely a whisper.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have the words.

Instead, she kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was slow. Steady. A quiet confession in the way her lips moved against his, in the way he melted into her, like he had been waiting for this.

And maybe he had.

His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss, soft and reverent. When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Y/N let out a shaky breath.

Steven chuckled softly. "What was that for?"

She smiled, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "For noticing."

He grinned, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Always, love."

Then, after a beat, he added, "And also, I really hope you don’t notice I just stole your last biscuit."

Y/N pulled back, eyes wide. "You didn’t."

Steven held up the evidence—her last biscuit, half-eaten in his hand.

She gasped, smacking his arm. "You little thief!"

Steven yelped, laughing as she chased him around the apartment, her heart feeling a little lighter, a little fuller.

Maybe, just maybe, she had finally made the right choice.

[emma23]

Brick by brick :

Jonathan levy x reader

Jonathan Levy was pacing his living room, running a hand through his already messy hair. The box in question—a massive Galactic Command Base LEGO set—was sitting on his dining table, taunting him with its ridiculous price tag and the implications of what he had just done.

His friend Ethan leaned back on the couch, his arms crossed as he watched Jonathan with an incredulous expression.

"So let me get this straight," Ethan said, his tone bordering on disbelief. "You bought a seven-hundred-dollar LEGO set because Y/N mentioned—casually, I assume—that she used to love building them as a kid?"

Jonathan stopped pacing and frowned.

"She didn’t just mention it," he argued. "She said it was one of her favorite childhood memories, and I thought it’d be... thoughtful. Nostalgic, you know?"

Ethan let out a sharp laugh.

"Thoughtful? Sure. Romantic? Absolutely. But this is also the kind of thing you run by literally anyone else before spending that much money."

Jonathan shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

"Well, I wasn’t going to tell her it’s a date," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ethan’s jaw dropped.

"Oh my God. You’re planning a LEGO-building first date without calling it a date?"

Jonathan’s lips twitched as if he were trying to decide between being defensive and sheepish.

"I thought it’d be fun," he admitted quietly.

Y/N’s first thought when she stepped into Jonathan’s apartment was that he looked... nervous. More nervous than usual, anyway. His apartment was its usual mix of intellectual chaos—books stacked everywhere, a half-full coffee mug on the counter, and papers scattered on the coffee table—but his fidgeting caught her attention immediately.

"Okay, what’s going on?" she asked, narrowing her eyes as she pulled off her coat.

Jonathan hesitated, his lips parting as if he were about to explain, but instead, he gestured toward the dining table.

Her gaze followed his hand.

"...Is that... a LEGO set?" she asked, walking closer to inspect the box.

"The Galactic Command Base," Jonathan clarified, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual. "I thought it might be fun. To build it. Together."

She turned to him, eyebrows raised.

"You bought this... for me?"

"Well, for us," he corrected quickly. "You mentioned liking LEGO when we were talking about childhood hobbies, and—uh—yeah."

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without warning, she burst into laughter.

"You’re kidding," she said, though her voice was warm rather than mocking.

Jonathan’s face turned bright red.

"Okay, you don’t have to laugh at me," he mumbled, crossing his arms.

She reached out, placing a hand on his arm.

"I’m not laughing at you. I’m just... surprised. This is probably the most Jonathan Levy thing you’ve ever done. It’s thoughtful, a little awkward, and weirdly sweet."

Several Hours Later

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room, surrounded by hundreds of tiny plastic pieces. The instructions were spread out between them, and Y/N had taken over as the unofficial "builder-in-chief," while Jonathan handed her pieces.

"You’re really bad at this," she teased, reaching over to pluck the wrong piece from his hand.

"I’m excellent at this," he countered, though his tone was more defensive than confident.

She smirked.

"You’re excellent at philosophy. This? Not so much."

Jonathan leaned back, pretending to look offended.

"Remind me why I invited you over again?"

"Because you’re secretly in love with me," she replied without missing a beat, her voice light and teasing.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Y/N glanced up, suddenly aware of how still he had gone.

"Jonathan?"

He cleared his throat, looking down at the pile of bricks in his lap.

"Would it be... crazy if I said that’s not entirely untrue?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.

Somehow, one thing led to another. The tension that had been lingering between them for years finally snapped as they found themselves tangled together on the couch. His hands traced her sides with an almost reverent touch, and her laughter dissolved into soft sighs as his lips trailed along her jawline.

"You’re still the most confusing person I’ve ever met," he murmured against her skin.

"And you’re the most stubborn," she replied, her voice breathless.

He smiled, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes.

"Good thing we’re both terrible at making good choices."

She laughed softly, threading her fingers through his hair.

"Yeah, good thing."

Ethan barged into the apartment unannounced, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw the two of them sitting at the table, eating breakfast together like nothing had happened.

"...Is that the Galactic Command Base?" he asked, pointing to the half-finished LEGO structure.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. Why?"

Ethan groaned, shaking his head.

"I can’t believe it worked."

Y/N smirked, glancing at Jonathan.

"Neither can I."

Jonathan just shrugged, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

"I told you. LEGO is universal."

[emma23]

The fake jealousy of Jake lockley :

Jake Lockley x reader

It was a hot day at the beach, the kind where the sun’s rays made everything glisten in that perfect summer glow. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt, and the sound of waves crashing on the shore added a peaceful rhythm to the afternoon. You were lounging on a deck chair, dressed in a bright bikini that had Jake's attention all afternoon.

Jake Lockley, who had been playing the role of your "fake" boyfriend for the past few weeks, was sitting a few feet away. His eyes were glued to you, but something about his gaze seemed darker than usual—like a storm brewing.

You stretched your legs out, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin, when Jake suddenly stood up, grabbed a towel, and walked toward you. His expression was tight, jaw clenched, and muscles flexing with every step.

"Put this on," Jake commanded, holding out the towel in front of you.

You raised an eyebrow, confused. "What for?"

He let out a frustrated sigh, clearly trying to hold back his irritation. "Because every man out here has their eyes on you." His voice was low, but you could hear the tension behind it.

You blinked at him, glancing around the beach. No one seemed to be paying you any attention, aside from Jake. "Jake, no one is looking at me. And even if that were the case, who cares?"

Jake’s eyes darkened, and his lips curled into a sarcastic grin. "Who cares?" he repeated, almost incredulous. He crossed his arms, his muscles bulging in frustration. "Did you really just say 'who cares'?"

"Yeah, because it's not a big deal—"

"Are you kidding me right now?" he interrupted, his tone escalating. "I care. Me. Your boyfriend. You're mine, and I'm not here to show off every part of you to anyone else." He jabbed a thumb toward his chest, emphasizing his words.

You snorted, trying to hold back a laugh. "Boyfriend? Jake, you know this is all fake, right? Like... we’re pretending."

He narrowed his eyes at you, daring you to say more. "Say it. Say 'fake,' cariño. I dare you."

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying to brush off the intense look in his eyes. "But, Jake, this between us is—"

"Say it," he growled, his hand resting on the back of your chair as he leaned in closer. "Say 'fake' and see what happens."

You bit your lip, your heart pounding in your chest. There was something dangerous about the way he was acting, something that felt very real despite the "fake" label you both had agreed on. His possessiveness sent a strange shiver down your spine.

"Okay, maybe 'fake' isn't the right word..." you mumbled, trying to appease him.

"Exactly," he replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Because let me tell you something, sweetheart—when it comes to you, there's nothing 'fake' about how I feel. I don't care if it's pretend for everyone else. To me? It's real enough that I won't let some guy ogle you like you're a piece of meat."

Your face flushed, partly from the heat of the sun and partly from the intensity of his words. "Jake, you’re being ridiculous," you protested, though your voice came out weaker than you intended.

Jake didn’t back down. "Ridiculous? You’re sitting there, looking perfect in that bikini, and I’m supposed to just sit back and watch every guy on this beach stare at you like they’ve got a chance? Not happening."

He leaned in even closer, his lips just inches from yours. "Now put this on," he said again, voice softer this time but with the same determination. "Or I swear, I’ll make sure every single one of them knows exactly who you belong to."

You rolled your eyes, but there was something about his possessiveness that made your heart race. The line between "fake" and "real" was beginning to blur. You didn’t want to admit it, but maybe, just maybe, you liked the fact that Jake was jealous.

"You’re so over-the-top, you know that?" you said, finally grabbing the towel and wrapping it loosely around your waist.

He grinned, satisfied, and leaned back with a smug expression. "That's more like it."

As the afternoon wore on, you couldn't help but sneak glances at Jake, noticing how he seemed more at ease now that you were covered up. But the truth was, part of you missed the way he had been watching you before—possessive, protective... like you were more than just some girl playing pretend.

Finally, as the sun began to set, Jake stretched and stood up, pulling you with him. "Come on, cariño. Let’s get out of here. You’ve had enough attention for one day."

You followed him, trying to act casual, but your mind was racing. As you walked back to the car, Jake slid his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. His grip was firm, as if to remind you that, fake or not, you were his.

"You know," you teased, glancing up at him, "this whole possessive boyfriend thing is really working for you."

Jake smirked down at you, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Who said I was playing?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, cutting off any comeback you had. "Just keep that towel on next time, cariño. For your own good."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Whatever you say, Jake."

As you both climbed into the car, you couldn’t help but smile, the lines between pretend and reality completely blurred

[emma23]

The one where Peter get jealous :

Peter Parker x reader

It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. Well, as ordinary as it could get when Peter Parker was involved. Y/N sat at her desk, typing away on her phone, trying to ignore the constant buzzing of notifications from last night's party. Of course, Peter had been there too. He always had a way of popping up when you least expected him, and today was no different.

"Hey, Y/N, you got a minute?" Peter's voice rang out from behind, breaking her concentration. She turned to see him standing in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His usual mischievous grin was plastered across his face, but there was something different in his eyes. Something... possessive?

"Uh, sure, what’s up?" Y/N smiled, trying to act casual, but the way Peter was watching her made her feel a little more self-conscious than usual.

"Just wanted to borrow your phone for a sec," he said, stepping inside without waiting for a response. Before she could protest, he grabbed her phone off the desk, raising an eyebrow. "Who’s this guy you were texting last night?"

Y/N's eyes widened as she realized what Peter was referring to. A certain someone had been a little too eager to text her after they'd bumped into each other at the party the night before. A harmless flirtation—nothing serious. She quickly stood up, trying to snatch her phone back, but Peter was quicker.

"Wait, Peter, you can’t just—"

"Hold on," Peter cut her off, pressing a button and dialing the number without a second thought. "We’re gonna have a little chat with Mr. Flirty, huh?"

"Peter, no!" Y/N could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. This was so not happening. "You have no right to—"

But before she could finish her sentence, Peter put the phone to his ear. "Hey, man. Yeah, it’s Peter. You know, the guy who’s currently standing in front of the girl you can’t seem to stop texting. How about you stay away from her, yeah? Thanks."

Y/N froze, her eyes wide as she watched Peter casually hang up and then throw the phone back onto the desk. She was in complete shock. "You didn’t just do that," she whispered in disbelief.

Peter turned to face her, his expression mischievous yet oddly intense. "Oh, I did," he said with a grin. "Don’t think you’re getting away that easily."

Y/N glared at him, her frustration mounting. "You’re ridiculous, Peter! I don’t need you playing my personal bodyguard." She crossed her arms over her chest, determined not to back down.

Peter’s smile faltered just slightly, and for a split second, he looked like he was about to apologize. But instead, he leaned against her desk and gave her a look that was far too intense for comfort. "You really hate me that much, huh?"

"Excuse me?" Y/N’s jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

Peter stepped closer, his gaze narrowing slightly. "Say it. Say you hate me, just like you did last night when I interrupted your little texting session."

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to maintain control of the situation. "I don’t hate you, Peter. You’re being ridiculous," she muttered, but there was something in his voice that made her pause.

Peter smirked, his voice lowering as he stepped even closer. "You know, I really don’t like being told what to do. How about you try again? Say it... scream it if you have to."

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding in her chest. "I... I hate you, Peter," she said, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all. But then she saw the gleam in his eyes—the kind of gleam that made her second-guess her words.

Peter growled under his breath, leaning in so close that Y/N could feel his breath on her skin. "Say it again, Sweets," he murmured, a playful yet possessive tone in his voice.

Y/N’s pulse quickened, and she tried to push him away, but the way his arms locked around her waist told her this wasn’t going to be an easy escape. "I don’t want to play your games, Peter," she said, her voice shaky as her frustration mixed with something else—something that felt like tension.

Peter chuckled darkly, his grip tightening as he took another step closer, his lips grazing her ear. "Games? Oh, this isn’t a game. But you’ll get used to it." He gave her a wink before pulling away just enough to look her in the eyes. "You’ll be screaming my name before the night’s over."

Y/N’s eyes widened, her heart racing faster than she cared to admit. She was about to retort, but before she could, Peter pressed a kiss to her forehead, cutting her off.

"Let’s get one thing straight, though," Peter said, a grin tugging at his lips. "I hate it when other guys flirt with you. Just so we’re clear."

Y/N blinked, still processing what had just happened. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, she just shook her head, a mix of amusement and disbelief crossing her face.

And just as she thought she could finally breathe again, Peter gave her a sly grin.

"Too slow," he teased, turning to walk out of the room. "Better luck next time, Sweets."

Y/N could only stare after him, feeling both completely flustered and—dare she admit it—completely intrigued.

[emma23]

Falling into you :

Fluff: 🥰/ Romance: 🌹/ Angst: 😔/ Hurt: 💔/ Confort: 🤗/ Smut: 🔥/ Magic: 💫/ Dark: 🖤/ Mystery :🕵🏻‍♂️

- Falling into you part 1 🌹🥰💔

- Falling into you part 2 🌹🥰

[emma23]

Masterlist shiv :

Fluff: 🥰/ Romance: 🌹/ Angst: 😔/ Hurt: 💔/ Confort: 🤗/ Smut: 🔥/ Magic: 💫/ Dark: 🖤/ Mystery :🕵🏻‍♂️

Series :

- Falling into you 🌹🥰💔

One shot:

- Kiss and run 🥰

- A deal to personal 🔥

[emma23]

Falling into you part 1 :

Shiv x reader

The first time you met Shiv, your dog ran straight to him, tail wagging like he had just found his long-lost best friend. Shiv, standing in a threadbare leather jacket, hands deep in his pockets, gave your overly enthusiastic mutt a deadpan look before crouching down.

"Your dog has terrible taste," he muttered, scratching behind its ears.

"And you have terrible manners," you shot back, stepping forward. "Sorry about him. He has no sense of personal space."

Shiv looked up at you then, and for a moment, something flickered in his dark eyes. A smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

"He gets it from his owner, I see."

You had half a mind to drag your dog away, but something in the way Shiv held himself—like he was waiting for someone to challenge him, to prove him wrong—kept you rooted in place. You never walked away from a fight, and something told you he never did either.

And just like that, you and Shiv started orbiting around each other.

He was infuriating. Cocky, smooth-talking, and far too good at reading people. But he was also brilliant, funny, and had this ridiculous dream of becoming a musician—something that didn’t fit at all with his sharp edges and street-smart instincts.

You? You made bad decisions. Consistently. Like trusting the wrong people or convincing yourself you weren’t catching feelings for the most aggravating man in Moscow.

It took years for the push and pull to turn into something real. The carnival was his idea for your first date.

"You hate carnivals," you pointed out.

"I hate bad carnivals," he corrected. "This one has good beer."

You ended up staying long after the beer was gone, long after the neon lights dimmed. He won you a cheap stuffed bear at one of the rigged games and got irrationally offended when you laughed at his horrible aim. Somewhere between the rigged games and stolen kisses near the Ferris wheel, Shiv became your person.

His love language was time. He didn’t say things outright, but he showed up. When your landlord was being a nightmare? Shiv sorted it. When you got sick? He brought soup, then complained that he hated sick people. When he had a gig, you were always in the front row, and he always looked for you first.

You loved him, but you never told him. Maybe you thought you had time.

Then everything went to hell.

You woke up in a hospital bed, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights. Your head throbbed, and everything felt…wrong.

A man sat beside you, his hands gripping his knees. Dark curls, sharp cheekbones, deep brown eyes. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days.

You squinted at him. "Who…?"

His head snapped up. "You're awake." His voice cracked on the last word.

Your stomach twisted. There was something familiar about him, but the more you tried to grasp it, the more it slipped away.

"I'm sorry, do I… do I know you?"

For a second, his entire body went still.

"You’re joking," he said flatly.

You weren’t.

Panic flickered in his expression, but he masked it quickly. Shiv was good at that—hiding things. You didn’t know how you knew that, but you did.

"You don’t remember me at all?" he asked, voice measured.

You shook your head. "No."

Silence stretched between you. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.

"You don’t even remember the carnival?"

You hesitated. "Carnival?"

Shiv laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"Perfect," he muttered. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

You stared at him, uneasy. "Who are you?"

He looked at you for a long time before answering.

"I’m your bad decision."

And with that, he stood up and walked out the door.