#( check my pulse for a second time – reflection. )

[aleksatia]

"Good Girl" — fanfic teaser

Guys, I honestly can’t believe I’m finally in the final stages of something that’s been such a huge, long-term project for me — and I’m so excited to share a little teaser of what’s coming.

I haven’t been gone without reason. I’ve been quietly and stubbornly working on a story that’s lived in my head for a long time now.

This is a deep psychological angst piece with a love triangle — but not the one you’re used to. This is about Caleb — no, Colonel Caleb — and that means it’s going to be sharp, painful, brutal, and quiet all at once. That I can promise you.

Very, very soon I’ll start posting the first chapters. But for now, here’s a small piece — just enough to give you a feel for the atmosphere.

And yes, this story won’t be for everyone. But I wrote it first and foremost for my own soul — for the grief and heartbreak I’ve lived through when you love someone desperately, hopelessly, and it doesn’t save you.

So bring tissues. There will be tears.

The antiseptic tang of the medbay clings to your skin like a second uniform. After a year aboard the Valiant, you no longer smell it unless you’ve been dreaming. It seeps under your skin, into your bones, until it becomes the only scent you associate with yourself. With safety. With restraint.

Doctor. Medic. Healer.

Words that shape you more than the name on your file.

You move through the holographic files hovering above the desk—vitals, injury reports, ghost-notes left by the one who came before you. The ship’s lighting shifts into evening cycle, casting the medbay in a subdued blue that makes everything feel drowned. Submerged. As if you're working on the ocean floor, and the surface world is a myth.

The door hisses open.

You know the rhythm of the steps before you look up. Measured. Intentional. Possessive in the way only those with absolute command can be. The kind of stride that bends silence around it like gravity.

Your fingers still.

He doesn’t need introduction. He never has.

“Doctor."

His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be. It lands heavy, with the pull of collapsing stars.

“Colonel,” you answer, standing automatically. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He doesn’t smile. He rarely does. But there’s something in the way his eyes—those unnatural, violet eyes—settle on you. As if the sight of you is... permitted. Familiar. He approaches the examination table with military elegance, each step planned, not stiff but exact.

“Routine check-up,” he says. “I’m due.”

A lie. His file is scheduled for tomorrow.

But some lies aren’t meant to be corrected. Some lies are invitations.

“Of course,” you say, dismissing the files with a flick of your fingers. “Please, have a seat.”

The dark fabric of his jacket rustles as he shrugs it off. It slips from his shoulders like shadow. The prosthetic arm moves with the same ease as the real one—fluid, flawless. You track the seam where synthetic meets skin. You’ve calibrated that connection too many times to count.

“How’s the arm?” you ask, activating the scanner, letting it sweep across his shoulder. “Any numbness or changes in sensitivity?”

“None.”

Another lie.

The readouts tell a different story. Nerve interference. Distorted feedback loops. Pain compressed into silence.

You catch your reflection in his gaze—small, white-cloaked, still. And you wonder if he sees you at all, or just a function. A tool.

“The pain’s worse,” you say.

Not a question. A fact.

His lips press into a thinner line. That’s as much of a confession as you’ll get.

“Do your job, Doctor.”

You’ve learned to navigate his economy of words. To hear what isn’t said. You work in silence, adjusting the micro-links, smoothing the feedback arrays. His skin is hot beneath your fingers. His pulse is steady, hammer-strong.

“You know,” you murmur, without looking at him, “you’d get better results if you let me replace the nerve bundle. Skyhaven’s got the upgraded interface. You’d be back in three days.”

“And leave the fleet without a commander?” His voice is dry. Mocking. “No.”

“Three days,” you repeat.

“Still no.”

You sigh, hand pausing at the edge of flesh and alloy. “Keep ignoring me, and it’s going to fail when you need it most. Then it won’t be three days. It’ll be three months.”

“Your job is to fix me, not parent me.”

“My job,” you reply evenly, injecting the stabilizer, “is to keep you functional. Kind of hard to do when the patient has a death wish.”

A beat. Then his real hand closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not warning. Just inevitable.

Your pulse spikes.

“You’re the only one on this ship who talks to me like that,” he says, voice quieter now, but denser.

There’s something under the words. You could call it affection, if you were foolish.

“You need someone who tells you the truth,” you answer, keeping your tone flat, professional. But the heat of his fingers is traveling up your arm like it’s mapped to your bloodstream. “Because you don’t seem capable of hearing it from yourself.”

He looks at you. Really looks.

And then something in him moves. A quiet, internal tilt. A shift in gravity.

His hands are on your waist. You don’t remember when he stood.

He lifts you onto the table like you weigh nothing. Steps between your thighs with the same precision he uses in combat. Every inch of him is control—until he isn’t.

“Exam’s over,” he murmurs.

Then his mouth claims yours—demanding, searing, too much, too fast. Your hands betray you, knotting into his hair, dragging him closer. Logic dies in the heat of his breath.

Clothes stay mostly on. His efficiency doesn’t vanish; it simply redirects. His control is a storm, and you are the nearest point of contact.

Every breath he takes is inside your mouth. Every movement calculated. Designed. Even his prosthetic knows exactly how hard to grip your thigh, calibrated to the tremble in your muscles.

You dig your nails into his back through the thin fabric. You need something to hold on to. Something that will stay.

He moves harder now. Not faster—harder. And you know, in the stillness before you break, that his eyes are closed. That whatever’s in his head, it’s not you.

You reach the edge together, hands gripping, bodies straining. A single suspended breath where it almost feels like he’s yours.

Then it’s over.

He steps back. Clothes, perfect. Expression, unreadable.

The mask is back in place.

He glances at you, and there’s almost a smile. So faint, you could have imagined it.

“Good girl, Doctor.”

No name. Never your name. Just that word, sharp and polite. Boundary and reminder.

He leaves without looking back.

You stay in the silence he leaves behind, skin burning with his fingerprints...

[wandanatsub]

At least once more, as always

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda finds a new spell in the Darkhold and wants to try it out.

Tags: Somnophilia, dub con (is reader there voluntarily? I don't know), magic (cock), stretching, overstimulation, breeding kink, pet names for reader (sweetheart, baby, angel), mommy kink, slight dacryphilia, no pronouns used for reader

Words: 3k

Find it on AO3 or others like it

I was thinking about how Wanda would wake you with morning sex and then my brain just did its thing at 2am. This took way longer to edit than I thought, but I'm happy with this for now so posting before it stays in my draft for another month..

The bed was warm when Wanda finally joined you, but sleep was the last thing on her mind.

She pulled the sheet off the bed and was rewarded with the sight of your naked body. Even asleep, Wanda knew you were always ready and waiting for her, whether you were aware of it or not.

She began with lightly brushing her fingers over your naked body, making sure you were still fast asleep. Then she pressed a bit harder, especially around your thighs and hips. Her hand snaked around your throat and massaged your pulse points. She teased your nipples and pulled on them.

Your breathing changed, but you were still sleeping. She checked, loving that her treatment was reflected in your dream.

After a while, she let her fingers drift down to your folds and pushed through them, feeling the wetness seep out of you. You were wet enough for her to put her plans into action.

And now for the second part of her plan. Wanda spoke another short incantation and started to slowly thrust into you. She wondered at what point you would wake and shiver of excitement ran down her back, making her thrusts a little deeper. Would the continued stretch of your hole would wake you up before her cock became thicker than her fist?

Before she pulled you close, she spoke the incantation and rubbed her clit. With the last word, a cock appeared between her legs. Her hand easily fit around it, as planned.

She turned you on your back. Your face was beautifully calm, a small smile on her lips if Wanda saw it correctly. Her fingers slid down to your thighs, grabbing hold at your knees and pulled them apart to slide closer towards you. She settled your legs over her hips, her cock right at your seeping entrance. She pushed in easily, groaning as she could feel her cock inside your warm and soft pussy.

Every passing second made her cock expand, slow enough to not be recognizable at the moment, but soon you'd notice the stretch. The slow process also gave her the chance to fuck you for a while before you'd wake up.

Wanda started with easy slow thrusts. You were so wet that she felt no resistance at all., though she could feel it starting to build. She fingered your clit to keep the abundance of wetness coming, not wanting to hurt you. Yet. She kept thrusting, checking in on your dream to find her dream-self lazily fucking into dream-you, your blissed-out face mirroring reality.

Wanda kept fucking into you. Once her cock had grown enough, the resistance was noticeable, your walls gripping onto her.  Gods, she loved the way you felt around her, the pressure gradually increasing, turning her on more every second.

She had to put more strength into her thrusts, holding onto your hips to push into you. Your dream-self had started to moan her name, slowly bleeding into reality, as she could hear you trying to form words. On a particular powerful thrust, going as deep as she could, your eyes suddenly popped open with you screaming out her name.

Wanda kept thrusting into you with all her power, relishing in the squeeze of her cock while pushing your hips into the mattress. Your hands came up to claw at her. To make her stop or will her to keep going, you weren’t sure.

Waking up to Wanda pushing into you with her thick cock had left you reeling, barely comprehending what was happening. But Wanda gave you no time to catch up. The squelching sound of Wanda forcing herself into your pussy filled the air.

"I've been fucking you for a while, but I’m glad you've finally decided to join the show."

"Yes, take me, pet."

She leaned down to pull your wrists above your head, brushing her nose up your throat to whisper in your ear.

"Gotta get you so wet for me, baby, more than ever before. I'm trying this little spell. Can you figure it out?"

Shivers ran through your whole body. Your hips tried to press up into the witch above you, desperately looking for more friction but Wanda slowed her thrusts, though only because she struggled to push into you all the way.

Her hand flew back to your clit, feeling your pussy give way to her. You squeezed your eyes shut, there were too many sensations. You needed to cum, because you needed this to be over. It was torture, lighting your body on fire, raw pleasure coursing through your veins.

And she kept thrusting into you, your brain nearly exploding while trying to make sense of her words and not pass out from the heavenly pressure between your legs.

You felt your orgasm creeping up on you. It hadn't been the first time Wanda had stretched you out, and it always felt great. But her waking you up already inside you felt intense. You wanted to cum so badly. Cum for her. Stretched around her cock.

"Please, more. I need-"

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart, more is what this is all about. I'm gonna stretch you out until all you can do is cum on my cock."

You were glad Wanda had let you come so easily, not even making you ask for permission. Your hands let go of the headboard and found her hips, trying to push her off of you. The orgasm hat felt amazing but you needed a break.

The thought, paired with Wanda's hard thrusts, sent you over the edge easily, squeezing her cock like a vice. She moaned, her hips temporarily thrusting out of rhythm.

She slowed down until you stopped clenching around her, not wanting to cum until she had you at your breaking point. It helped you catch your breath. Though you could still feel the stretch, you felt relaxed, the pleasure-high fogging up your thoughts.

Wanda took hold of your wrists again and kept pushing into you.

“What makes you think I’m done with you, baby?” Her overly sweet voice made you realize you might be in trouble.

Wanda quickened her thrusts again, pleasure filled your body without your permission though you knew better than to fight it or her.  You would enjoy her treatment so much more when you gave into her fully. If Wanda’s thrusts kept coming, so would you. Might as well enjoy it.

Something felt different though. Like she had gotten bigger, stretching you more and-

Oh.

Now her words made sense.

A loud whine escaped your lips.

"Yes, more, please, more, Wanda. Please, please, make me stretch for you."

Wanda knew you had finally understood.

By now, she was almost as thick as her fist. Her thoughts drifted back to a week ago, when you had asked her to fist you. Wanda pushed the image and feeling of you squeezing her hand, only her wrist visible between your legs, covered in cum and lube to the elbow, into your thoughts.

The mental image and the pressure of her thick cock pushed you over the edge again. Your whole body went rigid, muscle tension pulling your body away from the mattress, pushing into the pleasure and overstimulation.

Wanda kept up her rhythm this time, pounding into you, holding onto your hips, pushing herself as deep as possible. You didn't know when your second orgasm turned into the third, but you wouldn’t care if you lost all feeling in your physical body as long as the fireworks of pure ecstasy kept exploding.

"One more, baby, give me one more." The words pushed through the haze in your mind. And you felt yourself nod. One more orgasm and you could rest.

Wanda blew hot air on your clit, not wanting to overstimulate you, but you writhed underneath her anyway.

Wanda had paused her thrusts, waiting for you to return to reality, but her cock had gotten thicker again.

Your orgasm had spread your wetness over your thighs, her thighs and the bedspread, but neither of you cared.

"More, Wan, please." Your words were slurred, but Wanda understood them anyway.

"I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. You are doing so well. Just give me one more. Can you do that for me, baby?"

You nodded again, moving your hips against hers, pushing yourself onto her thick cock.

Wanda was in awe. She had trained you so well.

"That's it, baby, keep going, fuck yourself on my cock. You can't get enough of it, can you? You're so wet and open for me, made to be stretched by my thick cock."

You whined, not able to push yourself all the way onto Wanda's cock anymore, resulting in quick, shallow frustrating thrusts. You were stretched beyond anything you had ever experienced. You wanted more, needed more. Needed Wanda, her help, needed her to push deeper into you. All thoughts had left your head. All you could think about was Wanda. The witch liked it that way.

"Aww, my pretty baby can't do it without my help? Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll show you how to fuck a precious little angel like you."

You winced at the first deep thrust. Wanda's thumb found your clit and swept over it again and again. The stretch became easier to handle but it couldn't quench the frustrated arousal sweeping through your whole body. With all your strength, you wrapped your legs around Wanda's back and pulled her as close as you could.

"Harder. Please, Wan. Please, mommy, fuck me."

Hearing that title from your lips nearly pushed Wanda over the edge.

Nails dug into your hips, making you cry out. Wanda pushed into you as hard as she could, slamming her pelvis into yours with every thrust, but you didn't care. The pleasure exploded in your body, reaching every tiny nerve ending.

"Come for me, baby. Come on mommy’s cock."

Your orgasm ripped through you, only increasing once you felt Wanda's cock erupt in thick spurts of cum, stretching you even more. Your breathing stopped while your body tried to contain all the pleasure. All your nerve endings were fired up, sending ecstasy back to your center, the sensations concentrated on the stretch of your walls around Wanda's cock, pulling you into another orgasm.

It took a while to free yourself from the haze in your brain. You barely registered Wanda speaking words in another language, then the continued stretch stopped.

Wanda waited until your eyes fluttered open again, finding hers.

"Good morning, baby. Sleep well?"

Her lips pulled into a grin. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, if at all possible. But as soon as your brain found words, her thumb swiped over your clit, circling it, shooting pleasure through your abused nerves. You whined, your hands shooting out to grip her wrist. Wanda was still inside you, stretching your pussy to its limits.

"Ah ah ah, baby, hands to yourself. I just want to make this easier for you."

Your grip on her wrist didn't lessen, but you didn't have the strength to stop her anyway. Wanda brushed quick little circles over your clit, making your eyes roll back. Your hips lifted of their own volition, still chasing her touch, but she chose that moment to slowly pull out of you.

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. Stretching you out had been ecstatic, but this feeling was agonizing. Her thumb pressed over your clit, your walls releasing her cock, bit by bit. Using magic could’ve definitely make this process easier for you, but Wanda wasn’t really looking to make it easier for you.

She pulled out slowly, slower really than she had to, but she loved seeing your walls all stretched around her, your clit fluttering under her thumb.

"You're doing so well for me, sweetheart. Be good, and don't fight it, baby."

Your body couldn’t decide between whines, cries and moans, letting it all out. Wanda basked in the display of pleasure and pain. She loved how your body writhed underneath her, constantly switching between pulling her closer and pushing her away.

Wanda was in total control of your body, just the way she liked it. Her fingers slid up your stomach to your breast and started to toy with your nipples, squeezing and pulling on them. All the painful sensations combined into a pleasure wave, slowly drifting over you.

She paused the movement of her hips for a few seconds, cruelly tracing your thin walls around her cock. Your whines turned into sobs, your body practically vibrating with all the sensations, until she finally took pity on you. Her thumb returned to your clit, the other hand held onto your squirming hips. Her lips found your ear, praising you in hushed tones as she finally pulled out of you.

A final small orgasm pulled out of you, relief flooding your whole body.

Without her cock inside you, your combined cum started flooding out of you, soaking the sheets underneath you.

Wanda's finger swirled through it and pushed some of it back into your stretched entrance. You whined and tried to pull away from her.

"Stay still, baby. I can't have all of this sweetness go to waste. Have to plug you up next time, to make sure to keep all of my cum inside."

Your struggle quickly faded. Your body was overwhelmed, unable, and unwilling to fight Wanda. After all, she knew what was best for you.

Four wet fingers easily pushed the cum back into you, her thumb finding your clit, overstimulation sending you into another quick orgasm, squeezing weakly around her fingers.

"Good job, baby, let me fill you up."

Wanda pulled you closer by your hips, propping your ass up onto her thighs. Your legs fell open, exposing your wide entrance to Wanda's hungry gaze. Your body felt heavy, too heavy to really move, but you knew Wanda would handle your body into any position she wanted it. You didn’t have to think about moving or anything besides breathing, though your body mostly managed that on its own.

"You're perfect like this, sweetheart, all open and ready for me."

Even though you were still incredibly overstimulated, Wanda's praise could easily push you into compliance.

"Wanna be good for you, mommy." Your whispers were barely loud enough to be heard, but Wanda would've caught them over the sounds of bombs raining from the sky.

"Then just lay still and let me fill you up, baby. Gotta make sure my seed takes root."

Your eyes fluttered, and it became difficult to keep them open. You caught glimpses of Wanda stroking her cock eagerly, staring at your freshly fucked pussy.

"Fill me up, mommy, want you to breed me."

Wanda loved you. She really did. Especially when you were fucked-out exhausted but still so incredibly horny. She was glad she hadn't managed to fuck that out of you yet.

She stroked herself while slowly circling your clit, delighted to see your pussy quivering, trying and failing to squeeze around anything. You couldn’t move a muscle even if you wanted to. Wanda would fuck you for as long as she wanted to, so there was no reason for you to move anyway.

The sight in front of her and the thought of breeding you finally pushed her into her second orgasm of the morning. The first ropes of cum landed over your stomach and hips. She kept fisting her cock and aimed at your still gaping entrance, the rest of her cum dripped into you.

Her thumb brushed your clit, making you squeeze around her cum.

Another short but intense orgasm made sure her cum stayed where it should and brought silent tears to your eyes.

"So good for me baby, you did so well. I love how hungry your pussy is for my cum. Love to see my little angel clench around nothing but my cum."

A smile bloomed on your face, and Wanda brushed away the tears from your cheek, mixing with the cum still on her thumb.

"Such a pretty angel. Cry for me, baby."

Crying after an intense orgasm wasn't new for you. And this had been the most intense experience of your life, so Wanda wasn't surprised by your reaction. The fact that it turned her on even more was also a benefit. The tears kept falling, and Wanda kept brushing them away, smiling down at you.

"Getting my thumb all wet, baby, and wet fingers are only good for one thing."

Her featherlight touch had barely left your face when you felt it once again on your clit. You stiffened. You couldn't. Not again. It was too much.

"Can you give me one more, angel? Just one more, and then you can sleep, I promise. Just have to make sure that you take mommy's cum as deep as you can."

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were sure this wasn't necessary to get you pregnant, whether she had cum inside you, tip pushed against your cervix, or masturbating over your gaping hole.

Your body fought against overstimulation. You wanted to be good for Wanda. To give her what she wanted. She was relentless, brushing over your clit. Quietly praising you. Telling you about all the other ways she wanted to breed you until you were finally pregnant and maybe even after that.

Your body slowly came alive again, pleasure reaching out its fingertips.

"Look at me, baby."

Wanda waited until your eyes fluttered open and anchored onto her own. She smiled at you, then looked down at your abused pussy and let her spit drip onto your clit. Your eyes rolled back, and your body quivered under her presence.

With the last vestiges of her sanity intact, Wanda pulled up your hips until her tongue could reach your clit. It barely took a few licks to catapult you into one last orgasm, long and intense, Wanda sucking on your clit throughout until you finally lost all strength in your body.

She carefully lowered you, pulled a pillow under your hips to keep them inclined, and finally laid down next to you, pulling you into her arms.

"Sleep, baby. You did so well for mommy, I’m so proud of you."

You barely registered the praise before you lost consciousness and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Keep You close

Synopsis: If you don’t belong with him, why do you always end up back with him?

A/N: since this idea got the popular vote, here it is!!

London wasn’t home. Not yet, at least.

The city pulsed around you—rain-slicked streets reflecting neon lights, the hum of traffic in the distance, the scent of cigarette smoke and damp concrete clinging to the air. It was supposed to be a fresh start. A chance to leave everything behind.

And yet, here you were. Caught up in something dangerous. Caught up in him.

Nick Leister wasn’t the kind of trouble you stumbled into by accident. He was the kind you should’ve seen coming from a mile away—the kind that sucked you in, chewed you up, and left you with nothing but regrets. But no matter how many times you told yourself to stay away, it never stuck.

Because every time you tried, he found his way back to you.

Tonight was no different.

You could feel him before you even saw him.

The club was packed—bodies moving under flashing lights, the bass vibrating through the floorboards. You were at the bar, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass, doing your best to pretend you weren’t waiting for him.

But then—

A shadow fell over you.

“Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Nick’s voice was smooth, dark, with that ever-present edge of amusement. He smelled like whiskey and smoke and something else entirely—something unmistakably him.

You exhaled slowly, bracing yourself. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

Nick stepped closer, his presence suffocating in the best and worst way. “I don’t,” he said, but the way his eyes dragged over you told a different story.

Liar.

Your fingers tightened around your drink. “Then why are you here?”

He smirked, tilting his head. “You tell me, sweetheart. You’re the one running around my city.”

His city.

You hated how right he was. You hated that no matter where you went, it always felt like Nick was there—lurking in the shadows, watching from across the room, reminding you that no matter how much distance you tried to put between you, it was never enough.

You turned to face him fully, your pulse kicking up a notch. “I moved here for a fresh start, Nick.”

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. “That what you tell yourself?”

You swallowed hard. “That’s the truth.”

He hummed, stepping closer, so close that the scent of him curled around you. “Then why is it every time I see you, you’re looking for trouble?”

You stiffened. “I’m not—”

“You are.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “You don’t belong in my world, but you keep walking straight into it.”

You hated the way your heart reacted to his words, the way your stomach twisted painfully. Because he was right.

And yet…

“You’re the one who keeps showing up, Nick,” you shot back. “Maybe you’re the one who can’t let me go.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The music throbbed around you, the air charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.

Then, Nick exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You should go home.”

You swallowed. “Is that what you want?”

Nick didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his fingers brushed against your wrist, just for a second—barely a touch, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. Enough to make your resolve crack.

His jaw tightened. “Go home”

You wanted to fight him on it. Wanted to call him out for the way he always did this—pushed you away, only to pull you back in. But you didn’t.

Instead, you walked past him, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin.

And Nick?

He let you go.

For now.

But of course, it didn’t last.

It never did.

You weren’t sure if you were dreaming when you heard the knock at your door. It was late—past one in the morning—and you had almost convinced yourself to ignore it.

But something told you to check.

And when you did, there he was.

Nick leaned against the doorframe, looking like sin wrapped in leather, cigarette between his fingers, his knuckles bruised.

Your stomach flipped. “You’re bleeding.”

He smirked. “You gonna invite me in, or you just gonna stand there?”

You hesitated, but you already knew the answer.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing your fate.

Nick exhaled slowly, flicking the cigarette out the open window before turning to you, his gaze darker than usual.

“Got into some shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair.

You frowned, stepping closer despite yourself. “Again?”

He let out a breathless chuckle. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” You exhaled sharply, grabbing the first-aid kit from your bathroom. “Sit down.”

Nick didn’t argue. He just watched you as you crouched in front of him, dabbing at the cut near his brow. His eyes traced over your face, something flickering beneath the surface.

“You know,” he murmured, “You don’t belong in my world, but I can’t seem to let you go.”

You froze for a fraction of a second before forcing yourself to keep going. “And yet, here we are.”

Nick’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Here we are.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and charged. You focused on the task at hand, ignoring the way your hands trembled slightly.

But Nick wasn’t letting it go.

“You should leave me alone,” he muttered.

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His smirk faltered.

“I’m serious,” you pressed, setting the bandage aside. “You tell me I don’t belong in your world, but you keep dragging me into it.”

Nick’s jaw tightened. “You could still walk away.”

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze. “Could you?”

The air shifted.

Nick didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at you said it all—like he wanted to pull you closer and push you away at the same time.

Like maybe he couldn’t walk away, no matter how much he told himself he should.

Your chest ached.

“Nick,” you whispered.

His breathing was uneven. His fingers twitched at his sides.

And then—

He reached for you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, his lips crashing against yours like he was trying to prove something, like he was trying to claim something.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers curling into his jacket as you let yourself fall.

Because no matter how much he warned you, no matter how many times he told you this was a mistake—

Nick Leister wasn’t letting you go. If you didn’t belong in his world well,

then he didn’t want it.

[pukefactory]

Hey there! If you're comfortable with it, could you please make Coral Glasses x reader (preferably fem, but gn is alright too), who's pretty loud and active, and swoons over her very openly? Like, showering her with compliments, offering their help immediately whenever she needs something, stuff like that. I'd be grateful! Love your works a lot <3

.・゜✧ CRYSTALLINE SURF ✧゜・．

╰► Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Coral Glasses X Reader Who Swoons Over Her

╰► Character(s): Coral Glasses (Ena: Dream BBQ)

╰► Genre: Headcanons, SFW

╰► Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

╰► Image Credits: @JoelG

›› She tries to avoid you—but you’re literally everywhere. Coral Glasses has a sixth sense for chaos, and unfortunately (for her), you are its epicenter. Every time she tries to quietly slip into work, you’re already there—waving like a maniac and complimenting her hair or the way she blinks. “Y-you’re loud,” she stammers as her coral eye pulses like a warning beacon. “Why are you always around when I’m… trying to do literally anything?” She says it like she’s exasperated, but she still never walks away.

›› She has no idea how to handle compliments. You tell her she looks “ethereal today” and she just stands there, blinking. Sweating. Her coral twitches. “Are you… mocking me?” she whispers, absolutely scandalized. The worst part is, you’re not. You think she’s genuinely beautiful and weird and cool. Coral Glasses doesn’t know whether to file a complaint or cry into her tie.

›› You offer to help her with every single task—and she hates it. Kind of. “I have to file these blood samples into the anomaly drawer.” You, already holding a labeled container, “I’ll do it for you, gorgeous!” “I—no—this is government-grade biological chaos. This is not ‘cute.’” Still, she never actually stops you. She just hovers nervously and mumbles things like “Don’t die, please. It’d really complicate my week.”

›› She acts annoyed when you flirt, but secretly braces for it. You wink at her over the copier machine, and she makes this little strangled noise and trips over her own foot. “Why are you like this?” she mutters while simultaneously checking her reflection in the copier glass. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Is that the goal here?”

›› The only time she compliments you is under extreme stress. Coral doesn’t mean to blurt things out—but during high-pressure jobs, she panics. Once, she turned to you mid-crisis and screamed, “If we don’t make it out alive, I just want you to know your hair smells amazing and your face makes my job worse in a good way!” Then she immediately choked on her own words and pretended she blacked out.

›› You bring her little gifts and she keeps all of them. You once gave her a coffee mug that says ‘Don’t talk to me unless you’re a coral reef’ and she uses it every day. Another time, you drew a cartoon of her on a sticky note with the caption “My little suit-wearing heartthrob” and she pretends she threw it out—but you caught her staring at it in her desk drawer, blushing furiously.

›› She complains about your enthusiasm like it’s a virus. “I think you might be an emotional contagion,” she says once while you’re spinning in a chair near her. “Your energy levels are… violently disruptive.” You call her your “pretty little hater” and she goes rigid like a startled cat. “D-don’t say things like that out loud! People might think I’m involved with you!”

›› She talks to herself about you constantly. “I swear, if they wink at me one more time I’m going to combust. That’s a medical thing, right? People combust? Internally?” Coral mutters to herself in the hallway. “Did you say something, cutie?” “NO I DID NOT I WAS RECITING… UM… A WORK PRAYER!”

›› She develops an elaborate system of ‘casual avoidance’. She changes her walking routes. She pretends to take calls when she sees you. She even hides behind office plants. But the second you smile at her and say, “There you are, my favorite coral-colored cryptid!” she forgets all her escape tactics and just freezes like a Windows 95 error message. Her coral lens rotates nervously.

›› One day, after you’ve overwhelmed her with compliments and offers to hold her clipboard and brush her bangs out of her face, she just sighs. “…I don’t get paid enough to emotionally process you,” she says, completely defeated. “But if I… hypothetically… wanted to ask you on a date that would include minimal noise and zero touching, would you scream? Or faint?” You do both. She needs a cold drink and five minutes in a server room to recover.

[santaasi]

bitter

pairing: rafe cameron x ex!fem!reader

summary: what do you do when the fire you escaped keeps calling you home?

warnings: mdni 18+, toxic dynamics, cursing, emotional manipulation, jealousy, rough sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, marking, light dom/sub elements, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i’ve never written for rafe before, but I needed a change to get back into writing. so I figured trying something with him would be a good way to switch things up. hope you like it!

ᯓ★ now playing…

fletcher, kito - bitter

YOU SPOT HIM BEFORE HE SEES YOU. Not that you meant to. You didn’t show up tonight hoping to collide with the past — you’re done setting fire to yourself just to feel something. You came because your friends wouldn’t stop texting, because the mirror said you looked too good to waste on silence, because it’s easier to be bitter in a backless dress than broken beneath your bedsheets.

But there he is. Red solo cup in hand, lounging against the balcony railing like he owns the view. Maybe he does. Maybe he bought this place just to prove he could. That lean of his, all effortless arrogance and crooked charm, hits you like déjà vu wrapped in barbed wire. He’s got some girl curled into his side, her smile smug and secretive, like she’s read the last page of a story you barely survived. You know that look. You used to wear it like perfume.

Your drink tastes like diluted regret. The music pulses through the floorboards, but it can’t quite drown the static in your chest — the roar of memory, the sting of what-if. It’s that feeling when the restaurant only has Pepsi and all you wanted was Coke — a small betrayal, but one that ruins the whole meal.

You should leave. You know that. You could walk out right now and call it growth. But you stay. You stay, because bitterness is a kind of armor too.

Instead, you slip down the hallway, find the bathroom with the broken lock you once warned him about, and close the door behind you like a secret. You stare at your reflection in the mirror — not checking your makeup, not adjusting your hair — just looking. As if you could summon the version of yourself that never loved him. The girl from before. The girl he didn’t ruin.

There’s a knock. Then another. Then–

“Didn’t think you were the type to hide.”

His voice. Low and careless, just the way it always is. Like everything is a joke and you’re the punchline.

You take a breath, cold and sharp as glass, then pull the door open without giving yourself time to hesitate.

Rafe looks the same. Infuriatingly gorgeous, like he walked out of a dream that turned into a nightmare. Tousled blond hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and those eyes — all storm and smirk, eyes that always seem two seconds away from destroying you. He’s alone now. No girl draped across his side. But you can still smell her on him — citrus and vanilla, cloying and artificial. It clings to his shirt like a memory he hasn’t bothered to forget.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Cameron,” you mutter, brushing past him.

But of course he follows. Of course he does.

You feel him at your back like a haunting, like unfinished business breathing down your neck. He doesn’t speak, just shadows you through the house like gravity, staying too close as you walk into the kitchen, as you pour yourself another drink you don’t need — something strong and bitter, just like you.

“She’s not you,” he says simply, like that’s supposed to mean something. Like it’s a compliment.

You scoff. “Yeah, I figured. I didn’t puke after sleeping with you.”

His mouth twitches, that infuriating almost-smile. He loves it when you’re mean. Always did. Like he thinks the venom in your voice is just another kind of flirtation.

“I know she thinkin’ that she found herself a winner…” he drawls, like the line’s a lyric and he’s still the main character in a story he doesn’t know how to end.

“What’s her name again?” you ask, tilting your head. “Or do you just call her ‘baby’ so you don’t get confused?”

Without a word, Rafe takes the cup from your hand and sets it behind you on the counter. Then he steps into your space like a memory you can’t scrub out, corners you the way he used to, when he still knew the geography of your body by heart. When his hands knew where to hold and where to hurt.

“You’re mad,” he murmurs.

You laugh, sharp and joyless. “You’re delusional.”

He studies you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again — your mouth, your throat, the way the necklace he gave you still rests against your collarbone like a mark you forgot to remove.

“If you didn’t want me thinking about you,” he says, voice low and threading heat through your spine, “you probably shouldn’t have worn that dress.”

Your throat tightens. It’s not fair — how easily he unravels you. Not after everything. Not after he tossed your stuff onto the porch like garbage, after he ghosted you and said to everyone you were dramatic, after he reduced you to a cautionary tale in someone else’s bed. You were a war, and he walked away like he didn’t even flinch.

“Did you fucked her on the counter,” you say — quietly, bitterly, more to yourself than to him. “Right before you cooked her dinner, too?”

You didn’t mean to say it. But it’s out there now, curling between you like smoke. 

His jaw ticks.

“Jealous?” he asks, too casually, like the answer won’t ruin him.

You don’t answer. You just stare at him — the boy who broke you, the boy you still dream about when the nights get too quiet. The one who made you feel like everything and nothing at the same time. And you hate yourself — god, you hate yourself — for the part of you that still aches to be touched by the same hands that let you go without looking back.

But you don’t have to say a word.

Because your fingers are already fisting the fabric of his shirt, dragging him in like gravity, like surrender. His hands are on your waist, rough and familiar, and then you’re stumbling — breathless, reckless — into some room upstairs, one neither of you bothered to check for witnesses. The door slams behind you. Your mouths crash together like thunder.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a grudge match.

Years of resentment, betrayal, unsaid apologies — all of it burning between your teeth. You hate him. You hate how much you want him. And you want him like a bruise wants pressure.

He throws you onto the bed with a growl in his throat, dragging your dress up in a single, greedy motion. His eyes darken when he sees there’s nothing underneath. His fingers spread your thighs like it’s second nature, like you’re still his to open.

“Fuck,” he breathes, biting his lip, eyes locked between your legs. “You came to this party like this? Hoping I’d see you?”

You glare up at him, breath hitching. “You’re not that special, Rafe.”

He smirks. “Nah, baby. I am.”

And then his mouth is on you before you can throw another insult. Hot. Devouring. Merciless.

He licks into you like punishment, like prayer. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he let you go and realized too late what he lost. His grip on your hips is bruising, his tongue cruel in its precision — a man who knows exactly where to hurt you and how to make it feel like heaven.

You writhe under him, your hands clutching the sheets, his hair, anything solid enough to tether you while everything inside you unravels. Logic is gone. Self-respect is slipping. All that’s left is the sound of your own shattered moans and the unbearable truth:

He’s so fucking good at being bad. And he knows it.

“God, I missed this pussy,” he groans into you, voice hoarse and muffled, thick with hunger. “Missed the way you taste. No one else even comes close.”

You yank his hair hard, and he groans against your cunt like he loves the sting. Like your hate turns him on. Maybe it does. You arch off the bed, cursing his name, your name, the whole goddamn universe for giving you a heart soft enough to still open for him.

He doesn’t stop. Not until your thighs tremble, until your chest heaves, until you’re gasping his name like it’s the only language you remember. And even then, he doesn’t give you space to recover.

He crawls up your body, slow and smug, kissing you with your own taste still warm on his lips.

And you hate how much you missed that, too. Hate it. Almost as much as you still love him.

“Can she make you feel like this?” you whisper, voice ragged with spite and need.

He shakes his head, slow and certain, eyes locked on yours. “No one can.”

Then he’s inside you again, slow at first — deliberate, almost reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. Like he’s pretending this isn’t a mistake.

Your legs wrap tight around his waist. Your nails leave half-moons in his back. His forehead presses to yours, breath shallow, lips parted. The kind of closeness that once meant something. The kind that makes your chest cave in.

It’s too intimate. Too much. Too close to what it used to be.

So he flips you.

Your chest hits the mattress. His hand anchors at the small of your back, and then he takes you hard — rough, possessive, like he’s angry at the way you still fit him so perfectly. Like he’s punishing himself for still wanting you this bad.

“Still so fucking tight,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Like you were made for me.”

You bite your lip until you taste copper, eyes burning, throat tight with shame and want and something deeper, older — the kind of ache you never really got over.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back just enough to make you gasp.

“Say it,” he demands.

You don’t. You won’t. But he knows how to make you bend.

He slaps your ass once — sharp, stinging — and you yelp. Again, and you whimper. Again, and your body betrays you, pushing back against him.

“Say it, angel. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You want to lie. Want to say no one. Want to say you’ve moved on, that you’re stronger now. But he’s splitting you open and fucking the truth out of you, and your voice cracks as you give him what he came for.

“You,” you choke. “Fuck– Rafe, it’s you.”

He groans like he’s the one unraveling, like your surrender undoes something sacred in him. And maybe it does. Maybe you both lose something in the giving.

You fall apart. Together. It’s not tender. It’s not clean. It’s just ruin — beautiful, aching, inevitable ruin.

After, there’s silence.

The kind that feels louder than any fight you ever had.

You lie on your side, sweaty and sore, muscles trembling, his cum drying on your thighs, your heart pounding like a warning bell.

You stare at the wall, hoping it might explain how the hell you got here again — how you always find your way back to him, even when it wrecks you. Especially when it wrecks you.

The bed creaks as he shifts beside you. Somewhere between guilt and satisfaction, he lights a cigarette with the same hands that just touched you like you still belonged to him. He doesn't ask — just offers it with a look.

You take it. Bitter smoke clings to your tongue like the taste of him still thick in your mouth.

“You’re still in my head,” he says eventually, voice low and half-lost in the dark. “But you’re not in my bed now.”

You glance over, mouth dry. “You just fucked me into the mattress.”

He exhales smoke like a laugh, smirks around the filter. “Yeah,” he says. “But you’ll leave.”

You don’t answer. Because he’s right.

You always leave. Or he does. Or one of you breaks something so violently, neither of you knows how to piece it back together.

And still– God, still — you want him to kiss you again.

Instead, he ashes the cigarette into a dented beer can, eyes on the ceiling like he's searching for something to blame.

“She doesn’t taste like you,” he mutters.

You swallow the hurt like poison, slow and burning. Then you rise.

You pull your dress down with shaking hands, gather your heels like fragile regrets, and walk barefoot down the stairs as if your silence might still mean something. Each step feels like penance. Like absolution you’ll never quite earn.

You don’t cry until you’re in the Uber, mascara smudged, his scent still on your skin. You’re not sad. Not really. 

Just bitter.

The kind of bitter that settles in your bones and stays there. The kind that tastes like smoke and sex and the ghost of a boy who never knew how to love you right. 

The kind that feels almost like love — if love had teeth.

thankx for reading <3

I’d appreciate any feedback, whether in the comments or my inbox. :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[scoupsakakitty]

Close Enough to Burn | idol!Wooyoung x idol!Reader | angst, fluff, slightly seductive

The beat was pulsing low in the walls of the KQ practice studio the kind of beat that stayed in your bones even after the song stopped. Y/N let her hand fall from her ponytail as she checked her reflection in the wall-length mirror. The new hairstylist, Minjae, had just tied it up for her again after dance practice, fixing the flyaways that kept slipping out.

“I swear,” Minjae said with a teasing grin, “this hair of yours has a mind of its own.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. “Maybe it just doesn’t like you touching it so much.”

“Oh?” he grinned, mock-offended. “Now that hurts.”

From the corner of the room, someone else was watching.

Wooyoung stood by the door, arms crossed, his black hoodie half unzipped over his tank top. His eyes were sharp, locked on Y/N’s reflection. He hadn’t said a word since walking in ten minutes ago. Not even when she greeted him.

Y/N’s gaze met his in the mirror. Her smile flickered for a second - just long enough for Minjae to notice.

“You okay?” Minjae asked, following her line of sight. “Oh. Wooyoung-ssi.”

Wooyoung pushed off the wall and walked into the studio like he owned it - like the floor belonged to him and the air needed his permission to stay still.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly, turning to him.

He didn’t answer her. His eyes lingered on her hair - freshly fixed - then flicked to Minjae. “You always this touchy with everyone’s hair, or is it just her?”

Minjae blinked. “It’s kind of my job, Wooyoung-ssi. Styling hair.”

“I noticed,” he said flatly. “You seem to really enjoy it.”

Y/N’s mouth parted slightly. “Wooyoung—”

But he wasn’t done. “You’re new, right? Minjae, was it?”

“Yes,” Minjae said cautiously. “First month here.”

“Interesting,” Wooyoung muttered. “You got comfortable fast.”

“Wooyoung,” Y/N said sharply this time. “Can we talk? Alone.”

Minjae, reading the air instantly, gave a tight smile. “I’ll go prep things for tomorrow’s schedule. Y/N, I’ll see you later?”

She nodded. “Thanks for today.”

Once the door shut behind him, silence stretched like a blade between them.

Y/N turned back to Wooyoung, arms crossed now, matching his stance. “What the hell was that?”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “That was me watching my girlfriend get her hair played with for twenty minutes while she giggled like he was auditioning for her attention.”

She stepped closer. “So you’re jealous.”

“Damn right I am,” he snapped. “Are you even surprised?”

“Jealousy doesn’t look great when it makes you rude to staff,” she shot back, voice tight.

“And letting some guy half your group age play with your hair like you’re in a drama does look great?”

“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice softening. “He’s nice. That’s all.”

Wooyoung gave a bitter laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, nice. With really friendly hands.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she walked to the speaker and pressed play. The music filled the room again - soft, mid-tempo, the song they had both once danced to together during her trainee days.

He frowned. “What are you doing?”

She walked back to him slowly, deliberately, step by step. “If you have something to say, say it. But don’t stand there like you’re some broken-hearted second lead in a drama.”

Wooyoung scoffed. “I’m not broken-hearted.”

“You’re acting like it.”

She stopped right in front of him, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath.

“I’m with you, Wooyoung,” she said, firm and low. “You. Not him.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Then why does it look like you’re enjoying his attention?”

“Because I’m friendly,” she said, stepping even closer. “But I never look at him the way I look at you. And you know it.”

He looked at her now - really looked. And damn it, she was right. Her eyes didn’t wander. Her smile was still only his. And even when she was mad, her heart didn’t move.

Still, his voice came out hoarse. “I hate the way he looks at you.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Then remind me who I belong to.”

He didn’t need another invitation.

Wooyoung didn’t say anything for a second.

His eyes were locked on hers, stormy and unreadable. The music thumped low in the background, and every breath between them felt thick - like the air had to squeeze through the heat building in the room.

“You want me to remind you?” he said slowly, voice deeper now, lower.

Y/N didn’t back away. “I want you to stop acting like I’m going to run the second someone looks at me.”

His jaw clenched. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s everyone else I don’t trust.”

She raised a brow. “So what? Every time I talk to a guy, this is how it’s gonna be? You barge into the studio, glare at him like he committed a crime, and then throw shade because he touched my hair?”

He moved before she finished the sentence.

Not harsh. Not angry. Just urgent. Needy.

Wooyoung closed the space between them in a second, hand sliding around her waist, the other coming up to cup the side of her neck. His forehead touched hers.

“You don’t get it,” he breathed.

“Then help me understand,” she whispered back, chest rising and falling.

“I’ve waited for someone like you for years, Y/N,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “And now that I have you, every time I see someone else trying to get close, it’s like… it’s like I can’t breathe.”

Her hands moved up to his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric. “I don’t want anyone else to get close.”

“But they do, don’t they?” His voice dropped again. “He was standing close enough to you earlier that I couldn’t tell where you ended and he started.”

Y/N’s heart thudded hard, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she reached up and ran a hand through his hair - the same way Minjae had brushed hers. Soft. Close.

“You think I’d let anyone near me like this if I didn’t feel safe?” she said.

Wooyoung closed his eyes for a moment. Her touch melted something in him.

“Then why do I feel like I’m constantly competing for something that’s already mine?”

She pulled him even closer. “Because you’re scared. Just like me.”

His eyes opened. Dark, sharp, vulnerable.

“I’m not scared of you leaving,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Then what?”

“I’m scared of losing myself in you,” he admitted. “Because when I see you laugh like that, or when you walk past me with your hair tied back and your skin glowing from practice… I forget everything else.”

Y/N blinked. That was the kind of confession no one expected from a guy like him. Not on stage, not off stage. But that was what made it real.

“You already lost yourself in me, Wooyoung,” she said softly. “And I’m right there with you.”

His lips parted slightly.

She took a step back, slow and teasing, fingers slipping from his hoodie. “If you really want to remind me who I belong to…”

She nodded toward the mirror. Toward the floor. Toward the studio.

“Then show me.”

His smirk came back - slow, crooked, dangerous.

“You want me to dance it out?” he asked.

Y/N grinned. “I want you to fight for me.”

He didn’t hesitate.

The song changed. He walked to the speaker, tapped through the playlist, and picked something darker. A sharp beat. Closer to the kind of song they both trained with - something that made the air feel electric.

And then: he turned around and moved.

Each step was precise. Confident. Fluid like water but dangerous like fire.

Y/N watched - mesmerized - as Wooyoung poured his feelings into every hit, every body roll, every snap of his head. He danced like she was the only one watching. Like the jealousy, the tension, the claiming was all being told with movement.

And then he reached for her hand.

“Come here,” he said.

She stepped forward, matching his rhythm instantly. It wasn’t choreographed - but it was instinct. Their bodies remembered each other. The push, the pull, the unspoken language between them.

His hand slid around her waist. She turned into him, chest to chest. They danced like tension - fast and close, almost too close. When she spun out, his hand caught hers, pulling her right back.

At one point, he backed her up slowly toward the mirror. Her spine hit the glass.

His palm rested flat next to her head.

“Still feel like talking about Minjae?” he whispered, eyes burning.

She smirked. “Minjae who?”

He chuckled - low and breathy. And then he kissed her.

Not sweet. Not careful. Possessive. The kind of kiss that said I see you, I know you, you’re mine.

When they finally pulled apart, he pressed his forehead to hers again.

“You’re not allowed to laugh like that around other guys anymore,” he said.

“And you’re not allowed to ignore me for ten minutes when you’re jealous,” she shot back.

“Deal,” he muttered. “Now come here.”

His lips ghosted against hers again, softer this time. Less anger, more want. The kind of want that lingered even when the fight was over - slow, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

Y/N breathed in against his mouth. “So this is what jealousy tastes like?”

He smirked. “No. This is what you taste like.”

His fingers slid down her arms - deliberately slow - until they found her hips. His thumbs pressed into her waist, firm but never forceful, like he was grounding himself there.

Her hands settled on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the black hoodie. “You know we’re in a studio, right? With glass windows.”

“Let them watch,” he muttered, leaning down again. “I’m not hiding how much I want you anymore.”

His lips brushed her jawline, trailing lower. Not rushed - deliberate. The kind of touch that spoke louder than anything he said earlier. His hands moved behind her, sliding under her oversized practice tee just enough to rest against the warm skin of her lower back.

Y/N inhaled sharply. “Wooyoung—”

“You’re mine,” he whispered against her neck. “And if someone forgets that… I’ll remind them.”

Her breath hitched, pulse wild. She tilted her head just enough to whisper near his ear, “Then do it properly.”

That snapped something in him.

He turned her gently - but firmly - pressing her back against the mirror once more. His hands braced on either side of her head as he leaned in, nose brushing hers.

“You always challenge me like this,” he said, breath hot, lips barely touching.

“Only because I know you can handle it,” she said, voice steady.

He smiled. “You’re dangerous.”

“And you’re obsessed,” she whispered.

He kissed her again - slower this time. With more depth, more emotion. Less fire, more want. The kind of kiss that didn’t just claim - it promised.

By the time they finally pulled apart, their foreheads were pressed together again, their breaths tangled like threads.

“Come back with me,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. “To your dorm?”

“No,” he said. “To mine. My room.”

She raised a brow. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “I’ll order ramen. You’ll steal my hoodie. We’ll lie on the couch, and you’ll tell me about every scene that plays in your head when you smile at nothing.”

Y/N bit her lip, touched. “You want the soft version of me after all that?”

Wooyoung smiled - and this time, it wasn’t cocky or jealous or teasing.

It was warm. Real.

“I want every version of you.”

⸻

Later That Night…

She curled up next to him on the couch, in his hoodie — exactly like he said. Her makeup was wiped off. Her hair was down. No mirrors, no tension, no stage. Just her. Just him.

He pulled the blanket over them, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

“You’re so much more than I deserve,” he whispered.

She looked up at him. “You’re exactly what I needed.”

Silence fell. The good kind. The kind that felt like peace.

“I’ll fight the whole staff team if I have to,” he said suddenly.

She laughed, hitting his chest. “You idiot.”

His arms tightened around her. “But I’d still let them do your hair. As long as I get to do this.”

He kissed her temple. Her jaw. Her nose. And finally, her lips.

This time, it wasn’t fire.

It was home.

[cup1drul3z]

★ — That's MY girl | CH 2

5.5ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ | ᴄᴇᴏ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

CW : Age gap if you squint, PLUS SIZED READER, power kink, cheating, modern au, new york, assistant reader, readers a little awkward but we love her anyway, sugar mommy, SMUT, fingering, cunninglings, strap, bondage, lingerie

A/N : guys im working on the stalker fic trust

The train ride home feels longer than it should.

You sit near the back, the car mostly empty, lights flickering overhead like they can’t decide whether to stay on or just give up. Your reflection stares back at you in the darkened window—smudged lipstick, swollen lips, collar slightly crooked, and that unmistakable shadow just below your jawline.

You touch it.

The spot Sevika’s mouth lingered.

Your stomach twists.

You shouldn’t have done it. You knew that the second you left the bar. But it doesn’t erase the memory of her hands on your body. The way your name sounded in her mouth. The way you wanted it. Craved it.

You close your eyes and grip the subway pole tighter. It doesn't help. The shame is thick and sour, crawling over your skin like something alive.

By the time you get to your stop, the guilt is louder than your footsteps.

Your apartment is dark when you unlock the door. One flickering lamp lights the living room, the faint buzz of the TV still running. Your boyfriend is half-asleep on the couch, blanket around his legs, a takeout box resting on the armrest beside him.

He stirs when the door clicks shut.

“Where the hell were you?” he mumbles, rubbing his face. “You said you were going for drinks. That was, like, four hours ago.”

Your heart skips. “Sorry. I lost track of time. First day stuff... they wanted to celebrate.”

He stares at you for a second too long, and your pulse races. You shift your hair slightly, trying to angle it over the mark Sevika left.

But he doesn’t notice.

Instead, he sits up, arms outstretched with a sleepy groan. “Come here.”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then you cross the room and let him pull you into his arms, the warmth of his chest unfamiliar tonight. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips. It’s slow. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that used to feel like love.

But now?

Now it just feels like lying.

“You smell good,” he mumbles into your hair. “Glad you had fun.”

You force a small laugh. “Yeah... me too.”

You close your eyes and let him hold you like nothing’s changed.

But everything has.

And deep down, you know it’s only a matter of time before this cracks wide open.

You woke up early.

Too early.

The kind of early where the light coming in through your blinds made everything look soft and blue, and the guilt still sat heavy in your chest like you'd swallowed a stone. But instead of spiraling, you did something else—rummaged through your closet.

You wanted to feel like you today.

So you slipped into a soft grey vest, something a little snug across the chest but not suffocating. The short-sleeved collared shirt underneath is crisp, clean. Paired with your flowy black maxi skirt, it moves with you—comfortable, confident, a little vintage librarian if you squint.

You check the mirror once, twice. It doesn’t scream “corporate,” but you don’t care.

For once, you feel good. Or at least better.

The train is less crowded this morning. You grab a seat near the back, setting your bag down beside you. You're flipping through your phone when someone plops down across from you with zero warning.

“Damn, girl. You look adorable.”

You glance up—Jinx.

Same wild blue braids, oversized bomber jacket, mismatched socks in loafers. She’s sipping an iced coffee the size of her head and looks like she hasn’t slept but somehow still radiates energy.

You smile. “Thanks. Closet panic. I didn’t want to pop a button again.”

Jinx snorts. “Honestly? Respect. You survived a boardroom and Sevika’s death stare. You deserve a little wardrobe crisis.”

You laugh, and she leans in like she’s about to let you in on a secret.

“Okay, so—there’s this cocktail thing in a few days. Fancy company event. Everyone’s invited, assistants too.”

You nod, eyebrows raised. “That sounds... terrifying.”

“Oh, it is.” she grins. “Dress code, open bar, people trying to pretend they’re more important than they are—it’s a blast. You coming?”

“I guess I have to now,” you say with a smile, then add, “Do we bring plus-ones?”

Jinx nods. “Yeah. They want it to feel ‘socially enriched’ or whatever PR bullshit they said in the email. You bringing your guy?”

Your stomach flips.

You hesitate just long enough for her to notice, but not long enough for her to comment.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Probably.”

Jinx sips her coffee, watching you. “Cool. We’ll all be there, and a few other people aswell”

You nod slowly 

She leans back. “And Sevika usually shows up late. Quiet. Broody. Like Batman if Batman was hotter and more emotionally repressed.”

You choke on your breath a little, but cover it with a laugh.

Jinx just grins at you.

“See you in the office, cutie.”

She gets off at the next stop, waving as she goes. 

You sit back in your seat, suddenly very aware of what this cocktail party could mean.

And how complicated things are about to get.

You spend most of the morning pretending to work while actively avoiding eye contact with Sevika’s closed office door.

Every time you glance that way, your stomach flips. You’re sure she’s stewing in there—probably plotting your firing or worse, treating you like you’re invisible. That would almost be easier.

So when your desk phone buzzes with a message: “Come in.” —your blood turns to ice.

You stand, straighten your vest, and try to breathe like a normal human as you push open the door.

Sevika’s at her desk, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show that same stretch of ink. She’s leaning back in her chair, boots crossed at the ankle, like nothing in the world could touch her.

Except her eyes are locked on you the second you step inside.

You swallow. “You wanted to see me?”

She nods toward the door behind you. “Close it.”

Your hand hovers on the knob for a second too long, but you do it.

The soft click feels like a trap.

“I figured you’d be crawling out of your skin all day,” she says, tone casual, almost amused. “Relax. I’m not mad.”

You blink. “You’re not?”

A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Why would I be mad? You practically came all over my hand last night.”

You flinch. “Sevika—”

“No one made you moan my name,” she continues, rising from her chair. “Don’t act like it wasn’t the best part of your week.”

She’s in front of you now, close again—too close. You take a step back, but she follows, always one breath away from pinning you to the wall.

“I told you I shouldn’t have,” you say, voice tight. “It was a mistake. I was drunk.”

“You were wet,” she counters, low and dangerous. “There’s a difference.”

Your mouth opens—no words. Just heat crawling up your throat.

“I can give you better,” she murmurs, eyes dark and slow-burning. “You don’t owe him loyalty just because you’re scared of being alone.”

You shake your head. “It’s not like that.”

Sevika scoffs. “You keep saying that. But you don’t look convinced.”

Then, before you can stop her, she drops to her knees.

Right there.

Her hands find your hips, grip firm and sure through the fabric of your skirt. She looks up at you, and something in your chest stutters.

“Tell me to stop,” she says, voice husky, lips inches from your waistband. “Mean it.”

You should. You really should.

But your hands stay at your sides, frozen.

You don’t push her away.

You don’t even move.

Then—

“Sevika, do you—”

The door opens.

Mel freezes in the doorway, one brow raised, her perfect blazer catching the light. Her eyes flick from Sevika on her knees to you, cheeks flushed, mouth parted.

Sevika doesn’t flinch.

Mel slowly, slowly shuts the door behind her without looking away.

The second Mel shuts the door, Sevika finally rises to her feet—slowly, deliberately, like she’s still not embarrassed. You’re the one left trembling.

But you don’t stay.

You don’t even think. You just move.

You throw open the office door and bolt into the hallway, nearly running over someone from accounting. Your skirt swishes around your ankles as you spot Mel turning the corner toward the elevators.

“Mel! Mel, wait—”

She doesn’t stop immediately, but you catch up, heels clicking against the tile in rapid panic.

“Please,” you gasp, breath catching as you reach her. “Please don’t tell anyone. It wasn’t—nothing even happened—”

Mel finally stops and turns, folding her arms across her chest. Her expression isn’t cold. It isn’t angry either. It’s… tired. Complicated.

“I won’t say anything,” she says, voice soft. “You have my word.”

You breathe out a shaky sigh, your shoulders sagging with relief.

“But,” she continues, “you should know... people already talk.”

Your blood chills. “What do you mean?”

Mel looks at you with something like pity. “This office? It's a glass box. Everyone sees everything. You think they didn’t notice Sevika acting different yesterday? You leaving early? That mark on your neck?”

Your hand instinctively rises to cover it.

“I didn’t mean for anything to happen—” you start, voice cracking.

“I know,” Mel cuts in gently. “But it doesn’t matter. In a place like this, rumors grow faster than promotions. All it takes is one glance. One smirk. One flushed face in the hallway.”

You look down, shame crawling up your spine.

Mel sighs and softens, placing a hand on your arm. “You’re not the first. And you’re not stupid. But Sevika… she’s not simple. Being close to her never is.”

You swallow hard. “So what do I do?”

Mel lets her hand fall back to her side.

“Be careful,” she says. “With her. With you. Because whether you meant to or not… you're in it now.”

Then the elevator dings, and she steps inside, leaving you standing in the hallway alone, the weight of your choices settling in your bones like concrete.

And for the first time, you’re not sure if you’re more afraid of losing your job—

—or losing yourself to Sevika again.

You wait outside her office for a long time.

Long enough that your nerves start to feel less like panic and more like a low, buzzing ache under your skin. The adrenaline is gone. All that’s left is the shame. The guilt. And the heat of her touch still ghosting your hips.

You finally knock, just once.

“Come in.”

Sevika’s voice is calm. Cool. Like nothing happened.

You step in slowly, shutting the door behind you. She’s at her desk, one arm resting lazily on the surface, the other tapping a pen against a manila folder. Her eyes flick up when you enter but don’t linger.

“I talked to Mel.”

“Obviously,” she mutters.

You take a few steps closer, but not too close.

“I’m serious this time,” you say, voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “You have to stop. No more flirting. No more… whatever that was. I made a mistake, and I’m staying with my boyfriend. I’m not doing this again.”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. She just leans back in her chair, gaze unreadable. “Fine.”

You blink. “...Seriously?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “You’re not the first girl to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

Your stomach sinks. “That’s not what I—”

She cuts you off by opening a drawer and sliding a white envelope across the desk toward you.

You eye it like it might bite you.

“What’s that?”

“For the tights,” she says dryly. “You ripped them last night. And your blouse looked like it was about to quit during the meeting.”

You don’t move. “I don’t need pity money.”

Sevika sighs through her nose, annoyed. “It’s not pity, sweetheart. It’s compensation. You work for me. You’re supposed to look like you belong here.”

You hesitate. Then pick up the envelope and peek inside.

Cash.

Too much. Way too much.

This is not “replace your tights” money. This is “rent for two months” money. Or “disappear into another city and start over” money.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “This is insane.”

Sevika stands slowly, pushing her chair back as she walks around the desk—measured, controlled, still a storm beneath her skin.

“I don’t give people what they deserve,” she says, voice low, “I give them what I want to give. And I want you dressed like someone who knows her worth.”

You meet her eyes, and for a split second, you almost say something.

But you just nod. “Thanks.”

She nods back, then gestures toward the door. “You should get back to your desk.”

You turn to leave—but her voice stops you just before you open the door.

“You looked good today,” she murmurs, softer this time. “Comfort suits you.”

You don’t look back.

You just walk out, envelope clutched in your hand like a secret you’re not sure what to do with.

It’s your day off.

For once, you’re not rushing to get dressed or worrying about whether your shirt will survive a full workday. You're in comfy leggings, a tank top and a black jacket, your hair is messy and you look like you just rolled out of bed even if you did try to brush it a little. No makeup, no heels, just you and a half-empty shopping cart that doesn’t squeak when you push it.

For the first time in a long time, grocery shopping feels... nice.

You grab the name-brand mac and cheese without flinching. The good almond milk. Even a little candle from the home aisle, because screw it—you deserve soft lighting and lavender.

You’re halfway through comparing peanut butter prices when you feel it.

That shift in the air. That weird, subtle gravity that tugs at you, makes the back of your neck prickle.

You glance up.

And there she is.

Sevika.

In Target.

Wearing a long, wool coat that probably costs more than everything in your cart. Her hair’s tied back again, sunglasses pushed up onto her head, dark slacks and a fitted top that absolutely do not belong between rows of laundry detergent and Pop-Tarts. She’s pushing a red basket like it personally offended her.

You blink. Once. Twice.

She spots you.

And smirks.

You panic and pretend to read the back of a Nutella jar. Real smooth.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she drawls as she approaches, voice low and vaguely amused.

You force a smile, pushing your cart an inch forward. “I could say the same. You don’t really strike me as the ‘bullseye deals’ type.”

She glances into your cart. “Treating yourself?”

You shrug. “Using my pity money wisely.”

That earns a sharp laugh from her—short, real.

“Still mad?”

“No,” you admit. “Just trying to feel normal for a minute.”

Sevika’s eyes linger on you. The oversized hoodie. The way your hair’s all loose and soft and you. Not Corporate You. Just You.

“I like this version,” she says, voice softer now. “You’re real like this.”

You hesitate, cart between you like a shield. “You stalking me?”

“Coincidence,” she shrugs. “Or fate, if you're feeling dramatic.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half a smile. “You here for snacks or a personality transplant?”

“Neither,” she says, grabbing a box of granola bars and tossing them into her basket like it’s a power move. “Just needed trash bags.”

You stare at her.

“You’re too rich to take out your own trash.”

“I didn’t say they were for me,” she says, already turning toward the next aisle. “See you Friday, sweetheart.”

She disappears between frozen pizzas and Lean Cuisines, and you’re left standing there, heart weirdly fast, fingers gripping the handle of your cart a little too tight.

You sigh.

Of course Sevika looks good at Target.

You drop your groceries off at the apartment, still feeling Sevika’s smirk lingering somewhere in your ribs. Your boyfriend’s out—left a note about going to a friend’s place. You don’t think twice about it. You text Caitlyn.

You still down for coffee? I need your face and your moral compass. Bad.

She texts back almost immediately.

On my way. My treat. You’re getting the giant muffin too.

The café is cozy, tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore that’s always closed for “inventory.” The barista already knows your order—large iced caramel something, extra whipped cream—and Caitlyn’s sipping black coffee like her soul depends on it.

You take the first sip and finally exhale like you haven’t all day.

“So,” Caitlyn says, crossing her legs. “What’s this about a moral crisis?”

You bite your straw, unsure how to even begin.

“I… did something stupid.”

Her brows lift just slightly. “Define ‘stupid.’ Like, crash-your-ex’s-wedding stupid, or get-back-with-your-ex stupid?”

You look down at your drink.

Then say it.

“I slept with my boss.”

Caitlyn blinks. Slowly. Then takes the most dramatic sip of coffee you’ve ever seen.

You brace for it. The judgment. The disappointment. Anything.

But all she says is, “Well. That’s very ‘HBO original series’ of you.”

You stare. “Caitlyn—”

“I mean, I knew your life was messy,” she adds, leaning back. “But this is next level. I’m impressed.”

“Caitlyn.”

She softens immediately, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

“Hey. I’m on your side, remember? Always.”

Your throat tightens. “Even if I’m a home-wrecking, morally compromised disaster?”

“Especially then,” she says, giving you that rare smile—the real one, not the sarcastic smirk she gives annoying people at parties. “You needed something. You got it. And now we figure out what you’re gonna do next.”

“I’m staying with him,” you say quietly. “My boyfriend. I told her it was a mistake.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flick down. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say what you already know she’s thinking.

Instead: “Do you want to stay with him?”

You don’t answer right away.

She doesn’t push.

She just leans back, sipping her coffee again, eyes soft.

“Whatever you decide,” she says, “I’ll be here. To support you.”

You laugh—sharp and real and just a little broken.

She clinks her coffee cup against your plastic lid. “You’re not alone in this.”

The boutique Caitlyn drags you to is one of those clean, Pinterest-board-looking places with neutral walls, racks spaced perfectly apart, and a woman at the front desk who gives you complimentary cucumber water just for walking in.

You’re overwhelmed within five seconds.

Caitlyn, of course, is thriving.

“Okay,” she says, already flipping through hangers like a pro. “We want business casual, but comfy. Professional, but still you. So no more button-downs that look like they’re losing a fight with your chest, got it?”

You laugh. “Okay, okay. Deal.”

She hands you a soft sage green blouse with fluttery sleeves and a pair of black wide-leg pants that feel like pajamas but somehow look expensive.

You try them on.

You twirl a little in the mirror.

You look… good.

“You look hot,” Caitlyn says from outside the changing room, leaning dramatically against the door. “Hot and employed.”

You snort. “High praise.”

You walk out and grab another outfit—a soft cream cardigan, a fitted tank underneath, and a midi skirt with a tiny floral pattern. Comfortable. Confident. Something you can actually breathe in.

“Perfect,” Caitlyn says, nodding like a fashion judge. “Now…”

She pulls a black dress from the rack like a magician revealing her final trick.

It’s sleek. Short. A body-con that hugs all the right places with subtle ruching at the waist and a square neckline that’s flirty but still tasteful.

“This,” she says, “is the dress. Cocktail party. Show up. Make Your mark on that place..i mean if you haven't already for disappearing into the bathroom with the ceo”

You take it from her carefully, the fabric silky between your fingers.

“Cait,” you say, holding it up. “It’s… tight.”

She smirks. “And you’ve got a body worth showing off. Let her choke on it.”

You laugh, pressing the dress to your chest. “Okay, fine. This is the one.”

You don’t tell her how your heart races imagining Sevika seeing you in it.

You don’t have to.

Caitlyn sees the look in your eyes and just nods.

“You’ve got this.”

The suit hangs on the back of the bedroom door, still in its garment bag, untouched.

You’d picked it out yesterday. A simple black two-piece, nothing too flashy. Just… clean. Respectable. It felt like the least you could do—if you were dragging him into this cocktail party, you might as well make sure he looked like he belonged.

He didn’t even say thank you.

Now it’s the morning before the event. You’re moving around the apartment, folding laundry, fixing your hair into a loose ponytail, pretending everything is fine.

He leans in the doorway, yawning. Shirtless. Watching you with that sleepy grin he used to wear back when things felt simple.

“You know,” he says, walking over and sliding his hands around your waist, “we’ve got a little time before you head out for that pre-party work stuff…”

His lips brush your neck, warm and familiar. One hand starts to slip beneath your shirt.

Your stomach drops.

The familiar twist of guilt and disinterest coils tight in your gut. His touch feels wrong now—not cruel, not mean… just wrong.

You grab his hand gently and pull it away. “Not right now. I’m—uh—cramping.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing for a second. Then he sighs and steps back, not pushing, but clearly annoyed.

“Figures,” he mutters. “You’ve been weird lately.”

You force a tight smile. “I’ve just been tired. Work's been a lot.”

He shrugs and grabs his phone off the nightstand. “Alright, whatever. Just don’t forget we’ve got that thing tonight.”

“I won’t,” you say, already turning back to fold the same T-shirt you’ve touched three times.

He leaves the room.

You exhale slowly, your hands trembling just slightly.

The suit still hangs untouched.

And the black dress waits folded in tissue paper inside a boutique bag.

The venue is stunning—soft golden lighting, live jazz humming in the background, servers floating past with sparkling flutes and tiny hors d'oeuvres that look like food for rich fairies.

You walk in on your boyfriend’s arm, your black body-con dress hugging you just right. You feel the eyes on you as you enter—and for once, you don’t shrink under them.

You own it.

Your boyfriend doesn’t comment on the way heads turn. Doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy adjusting his tie and checking his reflection in every polished surface like he invented being mediocre in a suit.

You’re halfway into your second awkward sip of chardonnay when you feel her.

Sevika.

She walks in like the floor was laid out for her—broad shoulders in a dark tailored suit, black dress shirt unbuttoned just low enough to border indecent, no tie. Her hair’s slicked back, jaw set, eyes already scanning the room.

And then they land on you.

Her gaze lingers, intense and unreadable, before sliding to your boyfriend.

You swear the temperature drops.

She stares at him like she’s already picked out the weakest spot to punch first. Her mouth presses into a line. Her jaw ticks.

Your boyfriend, completely oblivious, is in the middle of bragging to Ekko about how he hit diamond rank in some online shooter. Ekko’s politely nodding, clearly dying inside.

You’re barely hearing them. Your attention is locked on Sevika, and she’s watching you right back.

You quickly look away and take a bigger sip of wine than intended.

“Damn, babe, slow down,” your boyfriend says, laughing as he slings an arm around your waist.

You flinch, just slightly.

He doesn’t notice that, either.

You glance across the room again. Sevika’s talking to Mel now—but her eyes keep drifting back to you.

Watching.

Measuring.

Waiting.

You adjust the neckline of your dress, trying not to think about her hands. About her mouth. About the last time you were alone together.

You drain the rest of your chardonnay.

A few hours later and the music’s too loud. The lights are too warm. The voices blur together like you’re underwater.

You laugh when you’re supposed to, nod when your boyfriend talks, sip your wine just to keep your mouth busy—but your chest is tight, your throat’s dry, and your ears are ringing.

And then he says something.

You don’t even catch it, really—some offhand comment about calories or how much you’re drinking.

It hits the same nerve anyway.

You excuse yourself without thinking, barely muttering something about needing air.

The balcony is massive, lined with plants that have no business looking that elegant. The night air is cool, crisp against your skin, and the city glows below like a reflection of the stars. No one’s out here. Just silence, finally.

You dig into your purse and pull out the cigarette you swore you weren’t keeping anymore.

You light it with shaking hands.

The first inhale hits hard. Not smooth, not pleasant—but grounding.

You breathe out slowly, leaning back in one of the sleek patio chairs, staring at the skyline like it might give you answers.

The door clicks behind you.

You don’t need to look.

You know it’s her.

Sevika steps out onto the balcony like she owns it—of course she does. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over and nods toward your cigarette.

“Got another?”

You pause. Then reach into your bag and hand one over.

She lights it from yours, the flame flickering between you. Her fingers brush yours, just barely.

You don’t say anything.

She exhales, then glances over. “Didn’t think you smoked.”

“I don’t,” you say quietly. “Not really.”

She nods once. Like she gets it.

The silence hangs there, warm with shared breath, smoke curling between you.

“I didn’t hit him,” she says eventually.

You laugh—just a small, exhausted huff. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“He deserves worse,” she adds, taking another drag. “You looked miserable.”

You look at her. The city lights reflect in her eyes.

“I was.”

She turns to face you fully now, stepping closer, close enough that you can smell the smoke on her lips, the soft scent of whatever expensive cologne clings to her collar.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night,” she admits, voice low, dangerous with honesty.

You swallow. “I said it was a mistake.”

“Then why’d you light that cigarette like you were waiting for me?”

Your lips part, but no words come.

She reaches out, fingers brushing the side of your face, then trailing down your arm. Her hand rests gently on your waist, not demanding—just there. Her cigarette burns low between her fingers, forgotten.

You don’t pull away.

When she leans in, you meet her halfway.

The kiss is soft at first—surprisingly so. All breath and hesitation, like she’s asking for permission with her mouth. But then it deepens. Her hand grips your waist tighter. Your fingers curl in the lapel of her suit jacket.

The smoke, the night air, the tension—it all wraps around you, blurring out everything else.

Until—

“Are you serious?”

You both freeze.

Mel’s voice cuts through the quiet like a knife.

You turn your head slowly, lips still kiss-swollen, Sevika’s hand still on your waist.

Mel’s standing in the open balcony door, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but her eyebrow is doing the absolute most.

“Is this, like, a kink?” she says flatly. “You two only hook up when I’m about to walk in?”

You pull away from Sevika like you’ve just woken up mid-dream, breath still shaky, heart thudding in your ears. Her hand lingers on your waist for half a second before you step out of her reach completely.

You don’t meet her eyes.

You just walk.

Your heels click softly against the stone balcony floor as you move past the potted plants and melting ashtray, toward the glowing doorway where Mel’s still standing—expression unreadable, lips pursed, arms crossed like she’s both exhausted and waiting for a good reason not to slap someone.

You reach her side.

You pause.

Your lips part.

“Um—”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she says, eyes still on the skyline. Not unkind. Just resigned.

You nod. You don't say thank you. You don't have it in you.

You slip past her into the party, leaving the smell of smoke and regret behind you.

Back on the balcony, Sevika exhales hard through her nose, turning away from the city like she could punch the moon if she tried hard enough.

“You have the worst timing,” she mutters.

Mel doesn’t flinch. She finally steps out onto the balcony, letting the door close gently behind her.

“No,” she says. “You have the worst impulse control.”

Sevika shoots her a glare, sharp and tired. “Do you enjoy walking in every time I’m with her?”

“You’re not supposed to be ‘with her’ at all,” Mel snaps, lowering her voice. “She’s your employee. This is your job. You're not supposed to be sneaking off to make out with the assistant like you're in some—some corporate fanfiction!”

Sevika scoffs. “This isn’t just some fling.”

“Then it’s worse.”

Mel’s voice softens just slightly.

“She doesn’t know what she wants yet. And you're not helping.”

Sevika doesn’t respond at first. Her jaw flexes. She crushes the stub of her cigarette into the stone railing, the ember dying with a hiss.

“She was happy with me,” Sevika mutters. “For a second. She looked at me like—like I meant something.”

“And then she walked away,” Mel says gently. “Again.”

That one lands.

Mel sighs, placing a hand on the railing. “You can’t be the person she runs to and the reason she has to run from at the same time.”

Sevika doesn’t say anything.

Mel doesn’t press.

They just stand there—two tired women on a balcony full of secondhand smoke, watching the city sparkle like it’s mocking them.

The night hums quietly around them now, all the chaos and chatter muffled behind thick glass. The city blinks below like it’s listening in.

Mel doesn’t leave.

She just exhales slowly, watching Sevika’s clenched fists, the way her knuckles stay white even though the cigarette’s long dead.

“I thought you said you were fine,” Mel says, her voice not accusatory—just... tired. Familiar.

Sevika doesn’t answer right away. Just stares straight ahead, jaw tight.

Mel turns slightly, eyes narrowing. “Is this about her or is this about samantha?”

A beat.

Two.

Then Sevika scoffs, low and bitter. “Dont say her name like that.”

Mel sighs.  “You’ve been a wreck since she left.” she tried to say as gently as possible 

Sevika’s shoulders tense. “She didn’t leave. She traded up. Found someone who could give her the picture-perfect shit she wanted. I was just... temporary.”

Mel’s face softens.

“And then you met someone who looked at you like you were more than temporary,” she says, quietly. “And now you’re trying to make that mean something.”

Sevika doesn’t deny it.

She leans on the railing, both arms braced like she’s holding herself up.

“I didn’t even get time to be angry,” she mutters. “It was like—one minute we were fighting, and the next she was engaged. Just done. Like I was some phase.”

Mel tilts her head. “You weren’t.”

Sevika laughs bitterly. “Sure as hell felt like I was.”

She looks up at the sky—like maybe it’ll swallow the lump forming in her throat.

“I’m not used to being the one left behind.”

Mel watches her carefully. Then steps closer, just enough to be beside her, not in front of her.

“You don’t have to bury yourself in someone new to prove you still matter.”

“I’m not,” Sevika says automatically.

“You are,” Mel says gently. “And it’s not fair to either of you.”

Silence falls between them again—heavy, but not hostile. The kind of silence that only happens between people who’ve known each other too long, seen too much.

After a minute, Sevika mutters, “She makes it so fucking hard not to care.”

Mel nods slowly.

“I know.”

You’re standing near the hallway now, away from the main buzz of the party, one hand still loosely cradling your wine glass, the other clutching your little clutch bag like it’s going to keep you grounded.

But you never stopped watching the balcony doors.

And then, there they are.

Sevika and Mel walk in together, side by side.

They aren’t touching.

They aren’t even smiling.

But they’re… close. In that quiet, easy kind of way that doesn’t need words. The kind that says they’ve been through some things. That they know each other.

You notice the way Sevika looks at her. Not intense like how she looked at you on the balcony. But steady. Familiar. Like maybe she’s looked at Mel like that before. Like maybe she still does.

Mel leans in to say something low near Sevika’s ear, and Sevika gives her a tired smirk in return.

It guts you.

You feel ridiculous. And stupid. And young. Like this was never anything to her. Just a new game. A project. Maybe it was never about you at all.

Maybe you were just a stand-in.

Just the next girl who would look at her like she meant something.

Your throat tightens, the party sounds warping around you, distant and unimportant.

You set your wine glass on a table you pass and slip out the side entrance with your boyfriend without saying goodbye. Not to Caitlyn. Not to Ekko. Not to anyone.

You don’t look back.

And Sevika?

She doesn’t see you leave.

comment to be added to the taglist!

@gaptoothedlesbo @magnificentmilkshakearbiter @half-of-a-gay

[nujeskz]

Orphic - Hwang Hyunjin

Pairing: Hyunjin x designer!reader

Genre: Friends to lovers, mutual pining.

Synopsis: You and Hyunjin have always been inseparable—best friends, confidants, and, unknowingly, each other’s greatest longing. As a designer, he’s your muse, the canvas for every stitch, every fabric choice, every creation filled with the words you’re too afraid to say. But when years of silent yearning come to a breaking point one late night in your studio, a single kiss threatens to unravel everything—fear, hesitation, and the love that’s been woven between you all along.

warnings: no proofread, mutual pining, emotional tension, slight angst, hyunjin is reader's muse, kisses, let me know if I should add anything else! wc: 1.5k

Author's note: in honor of hyunjin's day! this is something i had in mind for a while, I hope you all like it ! And happy birthday to my bubu♡

Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated!

The steady hum of your sewing machine fills the room, a rhythmic pulse that mirrors the quiet thrum of your heartbeat. Fabric scraps litter the floor, colorful remnants of your relentless creativity, while stray threads tangled around your ankles like whispers of unfinished ideas. You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, exhaustion creeping into your muscles. When your gaze flickers to the clock, it’s nearly midnight.

But that doesn’t stop you.

Without hesitation, you grab your phone, fingers moving with a familiar ease as you type out a message. You don't need to think about the number—you know by heart.

You’re threading a needle when your phone buzzes on the desk, vibrating against the sketchbooks piled high with unfinished designs. The soft glow of the screen reflects the name you’ve come to associate with both comfort and chaos: Hyunjin.

You don’t need to check the message. You already know what it says. He’s on his way, because you called him — like you always do. And he’ll come, because he always does.

A flutter stirs in your chest, one you've tried to suppress more times than you can count and you scold yourself for it. Hyunjin is your best friend, your canvas, your muse. He’s not yours to keep, no matter how much you wish otherwise.

The door swings open without a knock, and there he is, standing in your dimly lit space like he belongs here. His freshly buzzed hair is still damp from a shower, tiny droplets clinging to his skin. He’s wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowing his hands, paired with cargo jeans that sag lazily around his waist. He looks nothing like the sleek figure he becomes when draped in your creations—nothing like the version of him the world gets to see.

“What disaster am I modeling today?” he teases, collapsing onto your worn-out couch with a dramatic sigh, legs sprawled like he owns the place. You don’t mind; he’s been a fixture in your space for as long as you can remember, the living canvas to your creations.

You roll your eyes, tossing a cushion at him. “It’s not a disaster. And if you hate my designs so much, stop coming over.”

“I never said I hated them,” he grins, effortlessly catching the pillow. “I just like giving you a hard time.”

Your fingers curl against your sleeve as warmth creeps up your neck. You gesture to the clothing rack, where tonight's creation awaits. The piece you’ve made is bolder than usual — a fitted, asymmetrical jacket, intricate embroidery trailing along the back like poetry, paired with tailored trousers that hug the body just right.

Hyunjin whistles low, standing up to examine the outfit. He stretches, and for a fleeting second, the hem of his oversized hoodie lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. Your pulse stutters.

“You made this for me?” he asks, voice laced with something unreadable.

“Of course,” you murmur, forcing yourself to look away, feigning interest in a stray thread on your sleeve. “Who else would I make it for?”

He disappears into the bathroom to change, and when he steps out, you forget how to breathe.

The sharp angles of his jawline stand out more with the buzzcut, and the clean lines of the outfit mold against him like it was meant for no one else. He’s like a living sculpture, every angle carefully carved, every movement fluid and precise. You’ve memorized his form over the years—his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone, the length of his limbs. But now, standing before you like this, he’s something more.

“Well?” he prompts, spinning around with a smug grin. “Do I look good, or do I look amazing?”

He looks stunning, as always, but it’s not just the clothes. It’s him — the way he carries himself, the way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room, even when you’re silently stitching for hours.

You swallow hard. “You look… perfect.”

⭑.ᐟ

It wasn’t always like this.

Hyunjin used to live in oversized shirts and beat-up sneakers, his hair long enough to tie back. He had no interest in fashion, claiming it was “too much effort” to care about what he wore. But then you started designing, and he started modeling, and bit by bit, you transformed him.

He let you mold him, shape him, change him.

His closet shifted from basic streetwear to an eclectic collection of pieces that screamed you. And somewhere along the way, your designs changed, too. The pieces you made for him became more daring, more intimate. Low-cut necklines, snug fits, fabrics that clung to his skin like a second layer of you. And not once did he refused.

You taught him how to carry himself differently, how the right clothes could alter his presence. You buzzed his hair on a whim one night, your fingers trembling as they skimmed his scalp. He trusted you completely, letting you shape him like clay, never once questioning why he was always your first call.

And now, when Hyunjin walks into a room, people notice. His presence is magnetic, drawing others in with effortless ease. You pretended it didn’t bother you when he came back with stories of girls slipping their numbers into his pockets. You smiled and nodded, ignoring the ache in your chest.

He never knew the truth — that every stitch, every fabric choice, every outfit was a love letter you were too afraid to write with words.

⭑.ᐟ

“Stand still,” you mutter, adjusting the sleeve of the jacket.

Hyunjin obeys, but you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense. You try to ignore it, focusing on the garment instead, but your hands are trembling, fingers brushing against his skin more than necessary.

“Why do I feel like a doll?” Hyunjin murmurs, voice softer now, laced with something unspoken.

“You are,” you reply absentmindedly, fingers brushing against his skin as you adjust the lapel. “My muse.”

His breath hitches, but you don’t notice — or you pretend not to.

Silence settles between you, thick and unyielding. You step into his space again, fingers smoothing down the fabric against his chest. Your brow furrowing in concentration. But Hyunjin… Hyunjin is watching you with something fragile, something raw.

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, breaking the silence.

Your heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting slightly. “I don’t know. You get all quiet when I get close to you. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you whisper, throat tight. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop, watching you with a softness that makes your chest ache.

You finish pinning the last adjustment, stepping back to admire your work. But Hyunjin doesn’t move.

He just looks at you. He watches the way your teeth graze your lower lip, the way your brow furrows when you’re deep in thought. And suddenly, he can’t do this anymore.

He’s loved you for years, silently, hopelessly. But standing here, with you so close, your hands on him, your voice calling him your muse like he’s something precious — it breaks him.

And then—

He moves.

His hands find your waist, tentative yet urgent, and before you can react, before you can stop this, he pulls you in and kisses you.

It’s sudden, messy, his lips pressing against yours with a desperation that steals the air from your lungs. Your eyes widen, body frozen in shock, and as quickly as it happens, Hyunjin pulls away, panic flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, stepping away like he’s been burned. “I—I don’t know why I did that. I’ll go.”

He turns to leave, but you grab his wrist, heart pounding.

And without thinking—without hesitation—you pull him back. And this time, you kiss him.

This time, it’s slower, more certain. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, holding him close, grounding yourself in him. Hyunjin exhales against your lips, his hands tentative as they find your waist.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the quiet.

“I thought you’d be mad,” Hyunjin whispers.

A shakly laugh bubbles from your throat. “I’ve been in love with you forever, Hyun.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“That’s why you’re my muse,” you confess, voice breaking. “I needed an excuse to keep you close.”

Hyunjin lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head as he pulls you into his arms. “I thought it was one-sided.”

You shake your head, burying your face in his chest. “You idiot.”

And when he kisses you again, there’s no hesitation, no fear. Just love, stitched between the seams of every design, woven into every thread, waiting—patiently—to be unraveled.

That night, you don’t finish your adjustments. The blazer lies forgotten on the floor as Hyunjin pulls you onto the couch, cradling your face like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

And maybe you are — but so is he.

Your muse. Your best friend. Your love.

Yours. Finally.

© 2025 all rights reserved to user nujeskz

[izzyhandsdeservedbetter]

The Weight of Silence

Summary: A professor keeps acting weird around Aaron, he takes it too far, this is the aftermath.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Aaron Minyard had always been good at enduring things.  

It was a skill honed through years of survival—first in the Nest, then in the Foxhole Court, and now here, in this prestigious university where he was supposed to be safe. Where he was supposed to be just another student, excelling quietly at the top of every class, unnoticed.  

But Professor Calloway had noticed.  

At first, it had been small things—a hand lingering on his shoulder when he stayed after class to ask a question, fingers brushing against his when handing back papers. Aaron had stiffened, had stepped back, had even—once—said, "I don’t like that."  

Calloway had smiled, unbothered. "You’re just tense. High-achieving students always are."  

Aaron had gone to the department office the first time it happened. He had sat across from a bored-looking administrator, had explained—calmly, clinically—that his professor was touching him in ways that made him uncomfortable.  

The woman had sighed, typed something into her computer, and said, "Professor Calloway is a respected faculty member. I’m sure it’s just his way of being encouraging."  

Aaron had left without another word.  

Dropping the class wasn’t an option. Not when it was a prerequisite for his degree, not when he was so close to finishing. So he endured. He told himself it wouldn’t escalate. That Calloway was just testing boundaries, that nothing serious would happen.  

He was wrong.  

 _______________________

Calloway had a reputation.  

Not the kind written in official complaints or whispered in faculty meetings—no, those never stuck. It was the kind that lived in the glances exchanged between interns, the way the younger ones always seemed to find reasons to pair up when he was around. The hospital’s unofficial buddy system wasn’t perfect, but it was something.  

Aaron knew better than to walk into Calloway’s shadowing hour alone.  

So before his shift, he’d pulled Daniel aside—a third-year med student with a sharp tongue and sharper instincts. "Hey, I’m shadowing Calloway until the end of my shift. Just a heads-up."  

Daniel’s expression had darkened. He’d nodded once, then texted his classmate, Mira, within seconds.  

Two people knew.  

Two people were supposed to check in.  

---  

Not many people knew Aaron volunteered at the university hospital.  

It wasn’t something he advertised. Most of his classmates assumed he spent his free time buried in textbooks or at the gym. But twice a week, Aaron shadowed doctors and nurses, assisting where he could—fetching supplies, observing procedures, learning in a way that lectures alone couldn’t teach him.  

Tonight, the hospital was quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows down the empty hallways. Aaron had just finished his shift, his muscles aching from hours of standing, his mind dull with exhaustion. He stepped into the staff washroom, the door clicking shut behind him.  

The mirror showed a face he barely recognized—pale, dark circles under his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. He turned on the tap, letting the cold water rush over his hands, the shock of it grounding him for just a second.  

Then—movement.  

A flicker in the reflection.  

Aaron’s breath hitched. His hands stilled under the water. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.  

Calloway stood behind him.  

The professor was watching him with an expression Aaron couldn’t decipher—something between curiosity and hunger.  

Aaron’s pulse spiked. His body went rigid, every muscle locking in place.  

"Professor," he said, voice flat. Neutral.  

Calloway smiled. "Aaron. I didn’t know you volunteered here."  

The water was still running, splashing against the sink, dripping over Aaron’s fingers. He forced himself to move, reaching back to shut it off. His hands were steady—outwardly, at least. Inside, his thoughts were racing.  

Get out. Get out now.  

"Yeah," Aaron said. "I should go."  

He stepped to the side, angling toward the door.  

Calloway shifted, just enough to block him.  

Aaron’s stomach dropped.  

Then—slowly, deliberately—Calloway reached past him and pushed the bathroom door shut.  

The click of the lock was deafening.  

---  

Aaron didn’t think. He moved.  

He lunged for the nearest stall, slamming the door shut behind him, fingers fumbling with the lock. His breath came too fast, too shallow. His hands shook as he yanked his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping frantically through his contacts.  

Andrew. Andrew. Where—  

A fist pounded against the stall door.  

"Aaron," Calloway said, voice low. "Come out."  

Aaron’s fingers hovered over Andrew’s name. His thumb pressed call.  

One ring. Two.  

Voicemail.  

"You’ve reached Andrew Minyard. Leave a message."  

Aaron’s throat tightened.  

Then—  

A hand closed around his ankle.  

Aaron jerked back, but it was too late—Calloway yanked, hard, and Aaron’s head cracked against the side of the toilet. Pain exploded behind his eyes, white and dizzying. His phone clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach.  

He barely had time to gasp before Calloway was climbing over the partition, dropping into the stall with him.  

Aaron lashed out on instinct—kicked, twisted, shoved—and for a second, he was free. He scrambled for the door, fingers slipping on the lock—  

Calloway grabbed him again.  

Aaron hit the floor face-first, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Then hands were at his throat, squeezing just enough to make his vision pulse black at the edges.  

"Stop fighting," Calloway hissed.  

Aaron clawed at his wrists, but the grip tightened. His lungs burned. Spots danced in his vision. Then—  

He saw the syringe.  

Panic surged, sharp and electric. Aaron bucked, twisted, hooked his legs over Calloway’s shoulders and wrenched his hips up, throwing his weight back with everything he had.  

Something cracked. Calloway snarled—but instead of anger, there was something else in his face. Amusement.  

"You’re fun," he murmured, and his hands tightened around Aaron’s throat again.  

The world blurred.  

Aaron barely felt the needle.  

_____________

He woke up alone.  

The bathroom was empty. The lights were too bright. His head throbbed, his body ached, and his mouth tasted like copper and chemicals.  

Aaron dragged himself upright. His clothes were—  

He didn’t let himself think about it.   

Aaron didn’t remember much between the bathroom stall and the locker room.  

Just fractured impressions—cold tile under his knees, Daniel’s voice saying his name like a question, Mira’s hands steadying him when his legs gave out. He remembered her pressing a plastic bag into his grip, her voice low and firm. "Put everything in here. Everything."  

He remembered Daniel hovering at the door, his jaw clenched, his phone recording the time, the date, the way Aaron’s hands shook as he stripped out of his scrubs.  

Mira didn’t let him look at himself in the mirror.  

She worked in silence, gloved hands gentle as she swabbed the bite mark on his nape, the bruises on his thighs, the split skin he hadn’t even felt. She took pictures with clinical precision, her voice never wavering as she narrated each injury for the camera.  

"Ligature marks on the neck, approximately four inches in length—"  

Aaron dissociated through most of it.  

By the time they were done, there was no blood on his skin, no scent of sweat or fear clinging to him. Just antiseptic and the sterile, impersonal cleanliness of the hospital.  

Daniel handed him fresh clothes.  

Mira squeezed his hand once before letting go.  

Neither of them said a word about what came next.  

---  

His phone was still in the bathroom.  

Aaron knew he should go back for it. Knew he should check if the call had gone through. If Andrew had heard anything.  

But he couldn’t make himself move.  

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, his hands clenched into fists.  

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice whispered:  

This isn’t over.  

And for the first time in years, Aaron Minyard was afraid.  

---  

Aaron didn’t go back for his phone that night.  

He couldn’t.  

The thought of stepping back into that bathroom, of seeing the stall where—  

No.  

He left it there.  

It wasn’t until the next morning, when the hospital called to inform him that a staff member had found his phone in the staff washroom and turned it in to lost and found, that he even considered retrieving it. His hands shook as he took it back, his fingers brushing over the cracked screen.  

There were notifications.  

Missed calls.  

Voicemails.  

All from Andrew.  

Aaron’s stomach twisted. He didn’t listen to them. He couldn’t. Not yet.  

---  

Andrew had been pacing for hours.  

Nicky had given up trying to calm him down after the first thirty minutes, retreating to the kitchen to make coffee he wouldn’t drink. The apartment was too quiet, the only sound the relentless click of Andrew’s boots against the hardwood, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal.  

Aaron never called him.  

Not unless it was an emergency.  

And then—nothing. No answer. No callback. No text.  

Andrew had tried calling again. And again. And again.  

Straight to voicemail.  

His fingers curled into fists.  

Relapse.  

The word hissed in the back of his mind, ugly and familiar.  

Aaron had been clean for years. But Andrew knew better than anyone how thin that line was. How easy it was to slip.  

And if Aaron had called him—if he had been close to the edge—  

And Andrew hadn’t answered.  

His jaw clenched.  

Nicky glanced at him from the kitchen, his expression tight with worry. “He’s probably just asleep, Andrew. You know he keeps his phone on silent.”  

Andrew didn’t answer.  

---  

Aaron walked into the apartment just after noon.  

He looked like hell. Pale, shadows under his eyes, his movements slow, deliberate, like every step took effort.  

Andrew was on him before the door had even shut.  

"Where the fuck were you?"  

Aaron flinched. Just slightly. Just enough for Andrew to see it.  

"Hospital," Aaron muttered, sidestepping him.  

Andrew grabbed his arm, yanking him back. "You called me."  

Aaron’s expression didn’t change. "Yeah."  

"And then you didn’t answer when I called back."  

Aaron pulled his arm free. "I lost my phone."  

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. "Bullshit."  

Aaron exhaled, slow, like he was bracing himself. "I’m not doing this right now."  

"You’re high."  

The words were flat. Certain.  

Aaron stilled. Then—"No."  

Andrew’s laugh was sharp, humorless. "You expect me to believe that? You call me in the middle of the night, don’t answer when I call back, and now you’re walking around like a fucking ghost. You relapsed."  

Aaron’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "I didn’t."  

"Stop lying."  

"I’m not—"  

"You think I don’t know what it looks like?" Andrew’s voice was low, dangerous. "You think I don’t know you?"  

Aaron’s throat worked. For a second, it looked like he was going to say something else. Then—  

"Whatever."  

He turned away.  

Andrew’s patience snapped.  

"That’s it? You’re just going to walk away?"  

Aaron didn’t stop.  

Andrew grabbed him again, spinning him around. "Look at me."  

Aaron’s eyes were empty. "Let go."  

"Not until you admit it."  

"There’s nothing to admit."  

Andrew’s grip tightened. "You’re a fucking liar."  

Aaron didn’t react. Didn’t fight back. Just stood there, taking it, like he always did.  

It made Andrew angrier.  

"You called me because you were close to using," he hissed. "And then you did it anyway. And now you’re standing here pretending it didn’t happen. How long this time? A week? A month? Or did you just finally give up?"  

Aaron’s breath hitched. Just once.  

Andrew didn’t miss it.  

"Yeah," he said, voice dripping with disgust. "That’s what I thought."  

He shoved Aaron back, hard enough to make him stumble.  

"I’m done."  

Andrew stormed past him, grabbing his keys from the counter. The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.  

Silence.  

Nicky stood in the kitchen doorway, his expression torn between disappointment and something softer, sadder.  

"Aaron…"  

Aaron didn’t look at him.  

Nicky sighed. "You know we just want to help you, right?"  

Aaron’s voice was hollow. "I didn’t relapse."  

Nicky’s lips pressed into a thin line. "You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Or to us."  

Aaron didn’t answer.  

Nicky shook his head and walked away.  

The apartment was quiet again.  

Andrew hadn’t looked in Aaron’s eyes.  

Not when he accused him of relapsing, not when he spat liar like it was a verdict. He stared at a spot just above Aaron’s brow, where his own reflection wouldn’t catch in the glassy, hollowed-out gaze he was too afraid to recognize.  

Aaron noticed.  

Of course he fucking noticed.  

It was worse than the yelling, worse than the doubt—the way Andrew couldn’t even lookat him. Like he wasn’t worth seeing at all.  

---  

The moment the bedroom door closed behind Nicky, Aaron’s legs gave out.  

He sank to the floor, his back against the wall, his hands shaking.  

Why won’t you believe me?  

The words stuck in his throat, choking him.  

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the burn, but it was too late.  

The first sob ripped out of him like a punch to the gut.  

Then another.  

And another.  

He cried silently, his shoulders shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.  

No one heard him.  

No one came.  

---  

Kevin didn’t know why he went to Aaron’s room.  

Maybe it was because he recognized the look in Andrew’s eyes when he stormed out—the same furious helplessness Kevin had seen in the mirror too many times to count. Maybe it was because he knew the suffocating weight of disappointment that followed a relapse, the way it clung to your ribs like a second skin. Or maybe it was just because Aaron had always been the quiet one, the one who never asked for anything, and that alone was reason enough to check on him.  

He knocked once. No answer.  

He pushed the door open slowly.  

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Aaron was sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to the door, shoulders hunched like he was carrying something too heavy.  

Kevin hesitated.  

Then he saw the way Aaron’s hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the mattress.  

He stepped inside.  

---  

“Aaron.”  

Aaron didn’t turn. Didn’t react at all.  

Kevin moved closer, his footsteps deliberately loud, giving him every chance to tell him to leave.  

Silence.  

He sat down on the bed beside him, close but not touching.  

“Andrew’s an asshole,” Kevin said, because it was easier than saying I know how it feels.  

Aaron’s breath hitched.  

Kevin hesitated, then reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder—  

Aaron flinched.  

Violently.  

His whole body jerked away like he’d been burned, his breath catching in a sharp, panicked gasp.  

Kevin froze.  

That wasn’t the reaction of someone who’d relapsed.  

That was the reaction of someone who’d been hurt.  

His stomach dropped.  

Aaron was staring at him now, his eyes wide, wet, his face streaked with tears Kevin hadn’t noticed before.  

For a long moment, neither of them moved.  

Then, slowly, Kevin lifted his hand again, palm up, waiting.  

Aaron didn’t pull away this time.  

Kevin wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.  

Aaron stiffened—then collapsed against him like his strings had been cut.  

---  

The moment Kevin pulled Aaron into his arms, the dam shattered.  

Aaron didn't just cry—he broke.  

A raw, wounded sound tore from his throat as he collapsed against Kevin's chest, fingers twisting desperately in the fabric of his shirt. His entire body shook with the force of his sobs, each one ripping through him like a physical blow.  

"P-please—you have to believe me, I didn't—I didn't want—"  

His words dissolved into gasping, hysterical pleas, his voice cracking under the weight of his own terror.  

"I tried to call—I couldn't find my phone—it was so cold—"  

Kevin tightened his hold, one hand cradling the back of Aaron's head as he pressed his lips to his sweat-damp hairline.  

"I believe you," he murmured, over and over, his voice steady despite the way his own chest ached. "I believe you, mon coeur, I'm here."  

But Aaron wasn't listening. His breaths came in sharp, panicked hitches, his fingers scrambling against Kevin's back like he was afraid he'd disappear.  

"It hurts—Kev, it hurts—"  

Kevin shifted them carefully, pulling Aaron fully into his lap as he began to rock them back and forth, slow and steady. His free hand carded gently through Aaron's hair, his touch feather-light as he traced soothing patterns against his scalp.  

"Shhh, I know," he whispered, pressing another kiss to his temple. "I've got you. You're safe now."  

Aaron's nails dug into his shoulders, his cries growing louder, more desperate.  

"I hate him—I hate him, I hate him—"  

Kevin swallowed hard, his own vision blurring as he tucked Aaron's head under his chin.  

"I know," he said again, his voice thick. "I know, mon amour. Let it out."  

And Aaron did.  

He screamed. He sobbed. He clung to Kevin like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning, his entire body wracked with the force of his grief.  

Time lost all meaning.  

He carded his fingers through Aaron’s hair, careful to avoid the tender, swollen bump near his crown—the one from the fall, the one Kevin had felt the moment Aaron had sagged against him. His stomach twisted.  

Then he saw them.  

Dark, mottled bruises peeking above the collar of Aaron’s shirt, the shape of fingers pressed into his skin like a grotesque brand.  

Kevin’s vision went red at the edges.  

But Aaron was still gasping, still pleading between sobs, so Kevin swallowed the fury and pressed his lips to Aaron’s hairline instead, murmuring nonsense—reassurances, promises, anything to anchor him.  

Minutes bled into hours as Kevin held him through it all—through the hysterical pleas, the gut-wrenching sobs, the way Aaron's voice eventually gave out, leaving him trembling in silence.  

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Aaron's breathing evened out, his death-grip on Kevin's shirt loosening as exhaustion finally pulled him under.  

Kevin didn't move.  

Not when Aaron's weight grew heavy against his chest. Not when his own back began to protest the awkward angle. Not when his legs went numb beneath him, pins and needles shooting up his calves.  

He stayed perfectly still, his arms locked around Aaron's sleeping form, his fingers still tangled in his hair.  

The room grew darker as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the bed. Kevin's muscles screamed in protest, his neck stiff and aching, but he ignored it all.  

Aaron needed this. Needed him.  

So he would stay.  

He would stay until Aaron woke on his own—until he was ready to face the world again.  

And when that time came, Kevin would be there.  

No matter what.  

“You have to believe me.”  

Aaron’s voice was raw, broken in a way Kevin had never heard before.  

“I didn’t relapse. It wasn’t me. That’s not what happened.”  

His fingers twisted in Kevin’s shirt, clinging like he was afraid he’d disappear.  

“Why won’t they believe me? I don’t know what to do.”  

Kevin’s chest ached.  

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t press. Just tightened his grip, one hand cradling the back of Aaron’s head like he was something fragile.  

“I believe you,” he said, quiet but firm.  

Aaron shuddered against him.  

---  

Kevin didn’t leave.  

He stayed even when Aaron’s sobs quieted, even when his breathing evened out, even when the tension finally bled from his body, leaving him limp with exhaustion.  

He stayed when Aaron’s grip on his shirt loosened, when his head slumped against Kevin’s shoulder, when his tears dried tacky against his cheeks.  

He stayed when Aaron finally fell asleep, his face still pinched with pain even in unconsciousness.  

And he stayed long after, watching the slow rise and fall of Aaron’s chest, counting each breath like it was a promise.  

You’re not alone.  

The room was dark. The apartment was quiet.  

Outside, the world kept moving.  

But here, in this moment, Kevin held on.  

------

Andrew found Kevin in the kitchen, methodically steeping two mugs of tea. The scent of chamomile and honey curled through the air, too gentle for the tension tightening Andrew’s shoulders. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and waited.  

Kevin didn’t look up.  

“What are you trying to do with Aaron?” Andrew’s voice was low, deliberate.  

Kevin stirred the tea slowly. “I’m not trying to do anything.”  

Andrew’s jaw twitched. “Bullshit. You’ve been glued to him since—”  

“Since you decided yelling at him was more helpful than listening?” Kevin cut in, finally meeting his gaze.  

Andrew’s expression darkened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

“I know he needed someone,” Kevin said, voice steady. “And all I’m doing is giving him a friend when he needs one. Because clearly you haven’t done much to help him besides blaming him.”  

A beat of silence. Andrew’s fingers flexed against his sleeves.  

Kevin turned away, picking up the mugs. “He’s not who you think he is right now,” he added quietly. “And if you cared half as much as you pretend to, you’d stop assuming the worst of him.”  

Andrew didn’t move to stop him as Kevin walked past, the steam from the tea curling between them like a ghost of something neither of them would name.  

TO BE CONTINUED

PART 2

[starset21]

I Know Love Pt.2

Pairing: Lando Norris x Piastri!sister reader

Summery: After a restless night haunted by Lando’s words and Oscar’s look, she throws herself into work, determined to push aside the growing tension. But a simple text from Lando—asking her to meet him before the driver briefing—shatters her fragile resolve. Against her better judgment, she goes. Before anything can happen, Oscar walks in.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships.

Looking for more? I know Love Masterlist 

She barely slept. After the way last night unfolded—the elevator, the weight of Lando’s words, the knowing look Oscar gave her—her mind refused to shut off. It was stupid. So stupid. Because this wasn’t supposed to be a thing. She wasn’t supposed to feel her pulse quicken every time she thought about the way Lando had looked at her in that cramped elevator. She wasn’t supposed to replay his voice in her head, the way he had said, You know I see you watching me too, right? And yet, despite every effort to push it out of her mind, the thoughts followed her into the next morning. 

She had a job to do today. That was all that mattered. She repeated that over and over as she got ready, as she made her way to the paddock, as she checked her emails and reviewed data for race strategy in the garage. But all of that resolve cracked the moment she got a text. 

Lando: Come to my driver’s room before the briefing?

Her stomach flipped. She stared at the message for a few seconds longer than necessary before locking her phone and shoving it into her pocket. She could ignore it. She should ignore it.

Instead, twenty minutes later, she found herself standing outside his driver’s room, inhaling sharply before knocking twice. A beat of silence. Then— “Come in.”

The room was dimly lit, quiet. A stark contrast to the chaos of the paddock outside. Lando was sitting on the couch, dressed in his race suit but not fully zipped up, the fireproofs underneath slightly exposed. His curls were damp, probably from the pre-race warm-up, and his foot bounced slightly against the floor, like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it. She hesitated at the door. “You needed something?” His eyes met hers, and just like that, the air shifted. It wasn’t immediate, but slow—like a ripple of tension spreading between them. For a second, he didn’t answer. He just looked at her, like he was debating something in his head. Then, finally— “You okay?” The question caught her off guard. Her brows furrowed. “What?” 

“Last night,” he clarified. “You jumped back as soon as the door opened.” She exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes as she folded her arms. “You’re really asking me about that now? On race day?” He leaned back against the couch, smirking slightly. “Just checking.”

“Jesus, Lando.” She let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “It was nothing. Can we drop it?” His smirk faltered just slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Was it?” He asked and her stomach twisted. She hated how easily he saw through her. How he managed to slip past every carefully constructed defense she put up like it was effortless. She swallowed, forcing herself to stay steady. “It doesn’t matter.” Lando hummed, unconvinced, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he patted the empty spot next to him on the couch. “Sit.” She hesitated. Her brain screamed at her to walk away. To focus. To not get distracted.

But then she sat down.

She didn’t know why—maybe curiosity, maybe stupidity, maybe the simple fact that she was already in too deep to pretend she wasn’t affected by all of this. Lando turned slightly toward her, draping one arm across the back of the couch, fingers idly tapping against the cushion behind her. “Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “You do know I was serious last night, right?” Her breath caught in her throat. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral. “Serious about what?” He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like she was being impossible. “About you watching me.” Her jaw clenched. “Lando.”

“What?” His lips quirked, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were sharp, searching. “You are watching me.” She exhaled slowly, willing herself to keep it together. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re avoiding answering,” he countered easily. She turned to glare at him, expecting him to look smug, but when she met his gaze, there was something different there. Something serious. His voice softened. “I’m not trying to mess with you.” She swallowed hard. “Then what are you doing?” Lando hesitated. For the first time, he looked conflicted. Then, after a long pause— “I don’t know.” It was the honesty in his voice that did her in. Because suddenly, she felt it.

The shift. The weight of everything that had been building between them. The thing they had both been pretending wasn’t real for well over a year now, when it was so clearly real. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breathing unsteady. And for a second—a single, reckless second—she thought he was going to kiss her. The way he was looking at her, the way his eyes flickered down to her lips, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the cushion behind her— It was right there. 

But then— A knock at the door.

Before she could move, before either of them could even process what was happening, the door swung open. Oscar. Her stomach dropped. Lando shot back like he’d been burned, his arm jerking away from her. His whole posture went stiff, a fraction of a second too late to be subtle. Oscar just stood there. Silent. Expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes—flicked between them, taking in the scene. Her, too close to Lando. Lando, looking like he’d just been caught red-handed. The tension was suffocating.

“What the fuck is going on?” Oscar’s voice was sharp, controlled—too controlled. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Lando cleared his throat. “Nothing.” Oscar’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and cutting. “Nothing?” Oscar echoed, his voice deadly calm. His gaze flickered back to her, and she felt the weight of it pressing down on her chest. “Didn’t look like nothing.” Her stomach twisted. She needed to say something, to fix this before it spiraled into something worse. “We were just talking,” she said quickly, forcing her voice to stay steady. Oscar let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He shook his head, exhaling harshly before locking eyes with Lando again. “Didn’t take you long, did it?” Lando’s expression flickered, a brief moment of something unreadable crossing his face before he schooled it into something neutral. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Oscar scoffed, folding his arms. “You know exactly what it means.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “Mate—”

“Don’t.” Oscar’s voice was razor-sharp. “Don’t fucking mate me right now.” A beat of silence. Thick. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She hated this. Hated the way the energy in the room shifted into something ugly, something dangerous. Hated the way Oscar looked at Lando like he was the enemy. And most of all, she hated the way she didn’t know how to make it stop. Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls before sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.” Oscar’s eyes darkened. She knew that look. The one that meant he was one second away from saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. So she stepped in before he could. “Oscar.” Her voice was firm, cutting through the tension. He didn’t look at her. She reached out, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before grabbing his arm. “Oscar.” That got his attention. His gaze snapped to hers, and for the first time, she saw it—

Not just anger. Not just frustration. But something else. Something that hurt. Her chest tightened. Oscar wasn’t just pissed off. He was worried. That realization made her throat tighten. She softened her voice. “It’s not what you think.” Oscar let out a slow, measured breath, like he was trying to keep himself in check. “Then what is it?” Silence. The kind that stretched too long. Because she didn’t have a good answer. His jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.” And just like that— he turned and left. 

She didn’t think. Didn’t pause, didn’t glance back at Lando, didn’t give herself time to consider what the hell she was doing. She just followed. “Oscar—” He kept walking. Quick, purposeful strides, tension radiating off of him like a storm she couldn’t escape. She picked up her pace, weaving past a few mechanics as they moved through the paddock. The garage was just ahead, but she wasn’t letting him disappear into work, not when she could feel the weight of whatever just happened pressing down on both of them. She reached out, grabbing his wrist. “Oscar.” 

He stopped. Didn’t turn, didn’t look at her, just stood there for a beat, shoulders rising and falling with a sharp inhale. Then, finally, he faced her. The anger had dulled slightly, but it hadn’t disappeared. Instead, it simmered beneath the surface, coiled too tightly alongside something else—something heavier. “I’m not doing this with you right now.” Her jaw clenched. “Too bad.” Oscar exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips into a thin line before dragging a hand through his hair. “Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?” She straightened. “There’s nothing to get into.” Oscar laughed. Short. Sharp. Disbelieving. “You really expect me to believe that?” His gaze burned into hers. “After what I just walked in on?” Her stomach twisted. She shook her head. “It wasn’t—” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Oscar snapped, voice low but firm. “Not me.” Her breath caught. She exhaled slowly, running a hand down her face. “I’m not lying.” Oscar’s jaw tensed. “Then tell me the truth.” Silence. Because she didn’t know what to say. She barely knew what this thing with Lando was. And if she didn’t know, how the hell was she supposed to explain it to Oscar? Oscar must’ve seen the hesitation, because he shook his head, stepping back like he needed the extra space. “You need to stay away from him.” 

Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?” His expression was set. Serious. Unmovable. “Lando,” he said, voice steady. “He’s bad news.” She scoffed. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not.” Oscar’s voice was sharp, cutting through any attempt to brush it off. ���You know what he’s like.” Her stomach churned. She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that Lando wasn’t some reckless playboy looking for the next thing to entertain him. But the problem was— She didn’t know if she could. Because had she ever seen Lando in something real? Had he ever been the guy who stayed? Had he ever wanted to be? Oscar’s expression softened, just a fraction. “I know you think this is different.” She swallowed hard. “You don’t know what I think.”

“I do.” He let out a slow breath, gaze steady. “And I know you. I know you don’t do things halfway. You get invested.” She looked away, hating how easily he saw through her. Oscar sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before continuing. “I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. I like him. He’s my teammate. But he’s not—” He hesitated, like he was searching for the right words. “He’s not what you need.” Her chest tightened. “And what do I need?” she challenged. Oscar didn’t even hesitate. “Someone who’s all in.” The words landed harder than she expected. She exhaled sharply. “Oscar—” His jaw clenched, but his voice softened slightly. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

The honesty in his words made her throat tighten. Because no matter how frustrated she was—no matter how much she wanted to snap back and tell him to stay out of it— She knew this wasn’t about control. It was about protecting her. Because Oscar knew what it was like to get burned. And he didn’t want that for her. She took a slow breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“I hear you,” she said quietly. His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. But it wasn’t a win. Because she didn’t say she agreed. And they both knew it. Oscar exhaled, nodding slightly before stepping back. “I have to get ready.” She nodded. And just like that, he turned and walked away. Leaving her standing there— Alone with the weight of everything he’d just said. And the terrifying realization that she didn’t know if he was wrong.

[stargirl-ae]

Anything for my Wife: L. Howlett

Pairing: Logan x Female Reader

Summary: Reader has a formal work gala she needs to attend and she's spoken to her colleagues that's she's newly married and they wish to meet her husband. Push comes to shove Logan attends the work gala with Reader and the night ends with an exploration of each other.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Unprotected schmex (wrap it before ya tap it, gents), Oral (F! Receiving), Fake marriage.

Word count: 2.4k

MDNI

a/n: okay, hi! i legit haven't written in SO LONG ! buut, this has been in my notes for like three weeks and I wrote this after watching Deadpool and Wolverine for the second time and i legit was half drunk off of six raspberry twisted teas, but when i say i had an entire h o r n y episode about logan, gnawing on the iron bars (or whatever brittany broski said) plus i don't know how to do summarys and warnings and correctly.

this is not spell checked / grammar checked don’t come for me

anyway, enjoy yall 𝜗𝜚

⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆

“Please Logan, for the love of God, can you please just get dressed? I will leave alone.” you shouted more at yourself than at Logan, you were still getting ready in the mirror, with a large white light surrounding your reflection. The bathroom counter was scattered with your makeup, your straighter, and possible perfume options. “This is stupid, I don’t look right in a goddamn suit,” You could hear him mumble in the hallway outside of the bathroom. “Look, a lot of important people are going to be there, I just want to see like it’s like I have my life together, with a good job and a husband, please !” at this point you're gritting these words through my teeth. 

“A husband !? You don’t even have a goddamn ring? How are people supposed to believe that!?” The temper in his voice only seems to get higher. “It doesn’t take a fucking genius to order one online.” You snap back at him. Letting out a breath and stare into you reflection, your dark hair perfectly straighten out, your eyes surrounded by the color of sage green eyeshadow, black satin dress clung to your figure perfectly hugging ever curve and contour out of your body. Turning around to look over your shoulder to see yourself from behind and in all honestly, you're happily with your results of your own talent with your hair and makeup.

You could hear Logan huffing, he can be so goddamn stubborn. “A fake marriage, how fucking cliche can y-“ his words were cut off, he stood in the doorframe of the bathroom and the energy changes in the room, the air stiff, no movement, no friction. Turning your head slightly to see Logan in black dress pants, no shirt, no shoes. His toned torso, rising and falling with every breath he took. “Shit, if I knew you cleaned up this good I would’ve made you my fake wife months ago.” His mouth slid into a smirk, his hazel eyes raking my body up and down. Suddenly in that moment you felt way too exposed, collarbones exposed, the way the low-cut satin hung between your tits. “Look, you need to tell me now if you’re going with me, I need to leave in like ten minutes.” You huff out at him, eyes would dart from his chest to his eyes, his lips. “If you weren’t so busy eye-fucking me, we could’ve left two minutes ago, bub.”

— *after the work gala* —

“A fake wife, what a fucking idea,” Logan buried his words into your neck, his lips slightly nicking at the sensitive skin. The work gala ended up being filled with tequila and champagne, seeing a fake three carat diamond ring on your left hand being left to pretend this perfect married life with Logan brought me to this very situation; slammed into his bedroom door here in the X-Mansion. “I could make you mine, bub.” His voice vibrates against the side of your neck. "Y-yes Logan, I’m yours, please.” the words came out more as a whine than they did words. His scruff tickled the sensitive skin near my pulse point, he snuck in a laugh against my skin. “Look at you, so desperate for me.” He trailed kisses down my neck and near my collarbone. My breath hitches in my throat. My thoughts were messily left all over my mind, this was so wrong, but fuck, everything felt so good, so fucking right. 

We were on the outside of Logan’s bedroom door, “Logan, someone could hear us, s-someone could see us.” Your eyes fluttered, his lips felt so good against the tender skin of my collarbone. “Shh, it’s two in the morning, nobody’s up.” Just fucking us. “Wait, wait, wait.” Grabbing on to his face, to pull him away from my skin. “Please, behind closed doors.” Your breath was heavy, and Logan's hazel eyes looked into mine with lust and need. “Do I need to pretend we’re fucking married? I can do that.” He raised an eyebrow at you, in mere seconds he crouches down and buries his arms behind your legs, with the sudden movement you squeal. “Shit! Logan!.” He manages to open the door and we head through the doorframe. 

There was no denying the way you felt about Logan, why would you think I would choose him as a husband. Well, a fake husband.  Logan kicked the door closed and took a few more steps until we reached his bed. The room smelled of whiskey, musk, and cigars. The smell was undeniably him, the definition of a man. “For the love of God, you look too fucking good in this dress,” He was gentle, placing you down on his bed. His eyes taking in every detail of your dress and your body. Your chest rising and falling with the amount of sheer intensity of what this was. “Too good to fuck me in?” The words left your mind before you could even process them. Your left hand flew to my mouth, not believing what you just said. “Oh my God.” 

You could see Logan’s eyes fall to the faux wedding ring, “Is that what my wife wants?” My wife, fuck that sounds so good. He snakes his way between my legs, his face meeting mine. He takes a deep breath in, a smirk curling upon his lips. “I can smell how fucking wet this cunt is for me.” he sneaks a hand between my thighs, playing over the delicate fabric of your lace panties. “Mmm, so fucking wet. Tell me how you want me bub, hmm ? My wife, how does she want me?” His pointer finger swirls little circles on your clit through the thin fabric. Logan may be over two hundred years old, he may know is way around a woman’s body but fuck this was heavenly. “Fuck, please Lo- fuck me please.” Your plea rung through his bedroom like a prayer. 

“That’s my girl.” He placed rough kisses on your shoulder, biting down on the strap of your dress, his finger still swirling circles on your sensitive bud. You could only manage to hum back positive hymns back to him. He pulled down a single strap until your chest was revealed. He managed to do the same with the other side until your entire chest was exposed, your nipples hardened under the feeling of the cold air in his room. “Fuck, look at you, so fucking beautiful.” He buried his head between your tits, his breath against your sensitive skin. Placing kisses across one of your breast, licking over your nipple, a ray of electricity struck through you. He places his warm mouth over your nipple, his teeth nicking lightly, sucking you in softly. Grabbing a pillow and placed it over your face to keep myself from sounding like a fool. Your nipple came from his mouth with a comical pop, he laughed to himself and moved to the other side. In a way you wanted to laugh at that sound, tossing aside the pillow off his bed.d “Do you know how hard I tried to control myself tonight? With you looking like this?” He looked up at you through his thick lashes. Again he places his warm mouth against your sensitive skin, in that same moment I could feel him push your panties to the side. Skin to skin, his index finger meet your clit, circling the sensitive bunch of nerves. 

“Oh my god,” everything felt like heaven. Logan let go out go of your nipple from his mouth to move to the part of your dress that had still been hugging my torso. He trailed kisses down your stomach, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, dragging you towards the edge of the bed. He lowered himself between your thighs, feeling his breath against your core. You could hear him breathing you in, his chest heaving. “Look at her bub, fucking soaking for me.” His voice hums against the walls of his bedroom. He inches closer to your clit, taking in small kitten-like licks. Even the slightest amount of friction was ecstasy. Your hands traveling into his brown hair, peppered with grey strands. He hums against you, he licks through you folds, leaving you a moaning mess “Fuck, yes Logan! Please baby!” Your back arches off his king sized bed. His tongue laps over your clit time and time again. He dives two fingers into your aching core while his tongue laps over your bud. “Fuck, fuck, yes, yes!” You praise him, your words linger in throughout the room. His fingers steady in your cunt, curling up to reach that sweet fucking spot, your mouth falls open like a goddamn fool. 

“Look at you bub, you wanna come for me?” He came up from in between my legs, his eyes meeting yours. “Yes, L-Logan, please, baby, let me come. Don’t stop.” God, you couldn’t have sounded anymore needy. His fingers pump into your cunt like his like his life depended on it. His thumb tracing over your clit. Your breathing was erratic. Your chest heavy with ecstasy. Your stomach was tight with emotion and warmth. Your chants echoed like a perfect prayer. The warm coil snapped in your stomach and your mouth fell open with the sound of Logan’s name. “Holy shit, fuck me.” You breathe out. 

You could feel the heat in your face flush, you swear you were seeing stars. Your eyes raked over Logan’s body, his chest, his stomach, your eyes meet where his waistline laid perfectly, the outline of his slightly hard cock. “You want me to fuck you huh? Anything for my wife.” With his words he undoes his belt to under his button on his black dress pants. He pulled down his pants slowly, leaving his cock to spring up. He’s not even fully hard and it’s fucking huge. “Oh my god,” Once again the words leave my mind before I could process. He palms himself, his head falling back with the smallest moan. “You gonna be my good girl? My good fucking wife taking my cock?” His words like velvet through your ears. Your voice was barely audible as a hum, you shook your head. He pulled down his boxer letting his cock spring free, coming up to nearly hit his stomach. His tip was this deep red leaking pre-cum. “L-Lo, I don’t know if you’re gonna fit baby,” In all honestly, you did process that thought. “Oh baby, you can take, you can tell me if you wanna stop okay?” His words were soft as he pumped himself. 

Logan wanted to learn your body as he went, and what he knew as of right now if that you’re just a sensitive bunch of nerves, he passes the head of his cock through my folds, playing against your clit, leaving you a whimpering mess. Moving your hips against his cock until he’s lined up against your cunt. “Look at her, begging me to fuck her,” His cock was at your sensitive entrance of the your cunt, “Please baby, fuck me.” Your brows furrowing together. Logan pushed into you ever so slowly, your cunt hugging around every inch of his cock. He groans out your name. “Goddamn it!” He cursed out. “You’re so fucking tight,” He pushed in another inch into your cunt. “Fuck, fuck, Lo, stretching out my fucking pussy, fuuuck.” The words fell out of your mouth. Logan’s hips moved ever so slighty, energy pulsing through your sensitive cunt. “Do you want me to stop.” The genuine concern brought you back to reality, looking down to find that he had inches to go into your cunt. Shaking your head no, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth. “Please, please, go deeper.” Fucking whines left your lips. He pushes deeper into your cunt, his thumb lapping over your clit. This was fucking ecstasy. 

Each movement was carefully done by Logan, his hips jerking slightly, every advancement into my care was heaven. “Fuck, baby. She’s takin’ me so fuckin’ well.” He gritted through his teeth. The delicate praises ring through my ears nearly take me over the edge. “Fuck, give me more, please Lo-“ a pathetic please, a beg, a whine. “As you wish, sweetheart.” He pushes his further into you, reaching that soft spongy center in your sex. He curses out, learning to tower over you. Snaking a hand underneath your thigh to cradle the soft skin, sneaking his lips to meet the crook in your neck. His tongue tracing a line up to your ear, taking your ear lobe between his teeth. Rocking his hips into you, setting a steady pace and leaving you to chant his name like. hymn. “So … fuckin’ … good.” Each thrust kept tightening the warm coil in your core, getting ready to snap. 

“Yes, fuck … Lo, please … don’t stop.” The pathetic plea left your lips barely audible. “I hear you baby, you wanna come on my cock?” He brings his head out from the crook of your neck. His forehead meeting yours, leaving your chest heaving, you hand snaking from the back of his neck to his messy chocolate brown hair. His pace quickens, causing your mouth to fall, Logan looks at you with those determined eyes. “Come on baby, come for me,” His cock was nearly hitting your cervix, your brain became foggy, he was fucking you stupid, you could see the stars, the coil in your stomach would grow tighter and tighter. “You can do it baby, go ahead.” Logan’s soft words fell into your ears. “Oh my god, fuck fuck, Logan! Fuck! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Your legs shook around Logan’s waist, your chest trying to find all the air to breathe in.

You tried to find any to say anything, but all of your words came out as mumbles, barely comprehensible. A smirk curled up amongst Logan’s lips. “Look at you baby, such a good girl.” His lips came very close to grazing yours. “So good for me." He places a kiss on the top of your forehead. Your legs fell on the bed, feeling more like jelly rather than bone and flesh. "You okay?" Logan asks, laying next to you, covering the both of your bodies' lower halves. Turning your head to look into his hazel-green eyes. Sighing out, "Yes."

"Let's get cleaned up for the night huh, bub? You should stay with me tonight." He began to sit up, your eyes tracing over every muscle along his back. "I am your wife after all, Lo." You sit up with him, going in to kiss him on the cheek. "Might just have to make your my real wife." The amount of oxytocin flowing through the both of your brains could wake up a tiny village but both you and Logan ended the night tangled in each other's bodies, fitting into each other perfectly.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

the end

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

[unabashegirl]

entangled 1 | one shot

Y/N, punished by her gang leader for a failed mission, meets Harry, a rival gang member, at a club. Their encounter turns intense and passionate.

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you are all doing well! Here is another one shot. This one was posted almost a month ago on Patreon. They've already gotten a chance to read it. The second part will be posted here and it contains smut.

warnings: violence, cursing, and more

check out my patreon and get full access to the second part (+4K words) and much more :) thank you beforehand!

if you would like to leave your request for the next one shot. do it here :)

masterlist

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The rain drummed steadily against the cobblestone streets of London, casting a sheen over the historic architecture. A heavy fog rolled through the city, shrouding the narrow alleyways and dimly lit corners in a ghostly haze. The occasional flash of neon signs reflected off the wet pavement, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that danced erratically in the puddles.

In the heart of this misty labyrinth lay a particularly desolate alley, where the rain seemed to fall harder, as if refusing to touch anything but the cold ground. Here, the sound of the downpour was a constant, rhythmic roar, drowning out the distant hum of traffic and the occasional wail of sirens. The alley was lined with old, weather-beaten buildings, their brick facades slick with rain and grime.

Y/N moved stealthily through the darkness, her footsteps muffled by the soggy pavement. Her breath formed small clouds in the chilly air, mingling with the fog that clung to the alley walls. The tension of the night was palpable, a sharp contrast to the usually vibrant London nightlife. She was deep within enemy territory, her senses heightened and her mind alert to every sound.

As she rounded a corner, the streetlamp’s flickering light revealed a shadowy figure ahead. Y/N’s pulse quickened, both from the adrenaline of being caught and the undeniable anticipation of their inevitable confrontation. The fog parted slightly, revealing Harry Styles, his silhouette a stark contrast against the faint glow of the lamp. He stood still, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the alley as if he could see right through the mist.

Harry stepped forward, the lamplight catching the glint in his eyes. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in Y/N's determined stance. "I knew you couldn't resist" he drawled, his voice low and mocking. "Slumming it in our territory again, are we?”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, refusing to show any sign of intimidation. "Keeping tabs on me, Styles? Didn’t know I was that important to you."

Harry chuckled darkly, taking another step closer. "Important? Hardly. But you're predictable. Meeting with our clients, trying to undercut our deals...it’s pathetic, really."

Before Y/N could retort, three figures emerged from the shadows behind Harry. His men, loyal and watchful, forming a semi-circle around them. Their presence was a silent threat, a reminder of the precariousness of her situation.

Y/N tilted her chin up defiantly. “You need back up to deal with little old me?”

One of Harry’s men, a burly guy with a scar running down his cheek, snorted. “Can’t have him wasting time on someone who’s not worth it.”

Harry raised a hand, silencing his man with a single gesture. "Don’t worry, I can handle her," he said, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s. "Besides, this is entertaining."

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to let her fear show. "Entertaining, huh? Look up," she said, pointing to the roof above her.

Harry's eyes flicked upward, his smirk faltering slightly as he saw a figure perched on the edge of the building. The sniper, a man with a confident grin, waved down at Harry and his men.

"A little insurance policy, I see." Harry muttered, his tone darkening as he turned his gaze back to Y/N.

Y/N shrugged, her expression cool. "Can't be too careful. Figured you might try something stupid."

The burly man with the scar took a step forward, but Harry raised a hand to stop him. "Stand down," he ordered, his eyes locked on Y/N. "So, this is your game? Bringing snipers to a knife fight?"

"Just leveling the playing field," Y/N replied. "Or maybe you’re not as confident as you pretend to be, Styles."

Harry's smirk returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, I'm confident enough. But I have to admit, you've surprised me tonight." Harry took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous.

"Glad to hear it," Y/N said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "But if you think a few threats and some muscle are going to scare me off, you’re in for a disappointment."

Harry's demeanor shifted, his eyes narrowing. "Cut the crap, Y/N. What are you really doing here territory? Who sent you?"

Y/N's smile didn't waver. "You think I'm here on someone else's orders? Please. I'm here because I choose to be."

Harry stepped closer, his voice low and menacing. "There’s a treaty, Y/N. Your gang stays in your territory, mine stays in ours. Or have you forgotten what it was like before we had that agreement? The bloodbath, the chaos?"

Y/N's expression hardened. "I remember. But treaties don't mean much when people are starving and desperate. Sometimes, you have to bend the rules to survive."

Harry’s eyes flashed with something between anger and grudging respect. "Survival. Is that what you call it? Sneaking into my territory, undercutting my deals?"

"Call it what you want," Y/N replied coolly. "But I’m not here to play by your rules, Harry. Not anymore."

Harry’s men shifted uneasily, sensing the rising tension. Harry glanced up at the sniper, then back at Y/N. "This ends now, Y/N. You tell your people to stay out of my territory, or next time, treaty or no treaty, there will be consequences."

Y/N stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m not backing down. Not for you, not for anyone.”

For a moment, they stood there, inches apart, the rain pouring down around them, the fog swirling at their feet. The memories of the bloodbath they both wanted to avoid loomed over their confrontation, a silent reminder of what was at stake.

Harry’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on hers. "I warned you. Next time, I won't be so lenient."

With that, he turned sharply, signaling his men to follow. They melted back into the shadows, leaving Y/N standing alone in the alley, her heart racing but her resolve stronger than ever. The rain continued to fall, washing away the tension but not the memory of their encounter. She knew this was just the beginning, and the next time they faced off, the stakes would be even higher.

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Y/N made her way through the rain-soaked streets, the adrenaline from her encounter with Harry still coursing through her veins. She navigated the labyrinthine alleyways of her territory until she reached a nondescript warehouse. Inside, the dim lighting and the smell of damp concrete provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

The warehouse was bustling with activity. Men and women moved purposefully, sorting through shipments, counting cash, and packaging drugs for distribution. The hum of machinery and the murmur of low conversations filled the air. Victor’s operation was large and well-organized, a testament to his cold, calculating leadership.

At the far end of the warehouse, a man sat behind a cluttered desk, his presence commanding despite his unassuming appearance. He was older than Y/N by nearly twenty years, with a cold, calculating demeanor that had earned him respect and fear alike. His name was Victor, and he had a reputation for being as ruthless as he was strategic.

As Y/N approached, Victor looked up from his paperwork, his piercing gaze settling on her. "You're late," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Y/N nodded, shaking off the rain. "I ran into some trouble, but it's handled."

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did you make the deal with Sean?"

Y/N took a deep breath, recounting the details of her encounter. "I met with Sean. He’s fed up with Harry's control and wants out. He's one of their biggest distributors, and he’s willing to work with us if we can offer better terms."

Victor leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "And what did Harry have to say about this?"

Y/N hesitated, knowing that the next part of her report would not please him. "Harry knew I was there. He confronted me, tried to intimidate me. But I held my ground. He has no idea about Sean's intentions."

Victor's fingers drummed lightly on the desk, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You took a risk, going into his territory without backup. You could have jeopardized everything."

Y/N met his gaze unflinchingly. "I had backup," she replied, thinking of the sniper. "And it was worth the risk. Sean is valuable. If we can secure his loyalty, we weaken Harry significantly."

Victor considered her words, his expression remaining stern. "And you believe Sean is trustworthy? He reached out to us, but that could be a ploy."

"I trust him," Y/N said firmly. "He’s desperate, and desperate people can be useful. Besides, we’re offering him a way out. He has no reason to betray us."

Victor was silent for a long moment, his eyes studying her intently. “I hope you haven’t misplaced your trust this time."

"I haven’t," Y/N replied confidently. "This is our chance to hit Harry where it hurts."

Victor nodded slowly, a cold smile creeping onto his lips. "Very well. Continue working with Sean. But be careful. Harry won’t take this lightly, and he’s not someone we can afford to underestimate."

Y/N nodded, feeling a sense of determination. "’ll handle it."

Victor leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Good. And Y/N?"

“Remember, loyalty is everything”.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression neutral. "I won’t."

Victor dismissed her with a curt nod, returning to his paperwork. As Y/N left the warehouse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the lines between duty and desire were becoming increasingly blurred. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, but the storm brewing was far from over.

They had met when they were just kids, newly initiated and eager to prove themselves. They hadn’t even turned eighteen yet, and the world of crime and rivalry was still new and intoxicating. The first time she saw Harry, he was standing in a grimy alley, his youthful face set with a determination that matched her own.

From the very first day, they were pinned against one another. Victor had always made sure to poison Y/N's mind, filling her with stories of Harry's ruthlessness and the cruelty of his gang. He painted Harry as the embodiment of their enemy, someone to be despised and defeated at all costs.

But despite the animosity Victor instilled in her, Y/N couldn’t help but notice the fire in Harry’s eyes. There was a spark there, a drive that mirrored her own. They clashed often, their encounters fierce and unyielding. But beneath the surface of their rivalry, there was an unspoken understanding, a recognition of kindred spirits.

Back then, Harry’s boss was a different man—cruel, ruthless, and feared by all. He ruled with an iron fist, and Harry was his protégé, learning the ways of their world under his harsh tutelage. The man was a constant presence in their lives, a looming shadow that dictated their every move.

Years passed, and the battles between their gangs grew bloodier. The streets were painted with the consequences of their rivalry. The turning point came when Harry's boss was killed in a brutal skirmish. In the chaos that followed, Harry emerged as the new leader, taking over with a resolve that was both feared and respected.

Victor had always kept Y/N close, grooming her to be one of his most trusted members. He continued to feed her a steady diet of distrust and hatred for Harry. "Never forget what he stands for," Victor would say. "He's our enemy. Always has been, always will be."

Despite the indoctrination, Y/N couldn’t shake the memories of their shared past. She remembered the way Harry had looked at her during their first encounter. It was a connection that neither of them could deny, even as they stood on opposite sides of a deadly divide.

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

Y/N made her way to the hospital, after securing her payment and leaving the warehouse. The familiar ache of longing and love filled her chest as she approached the sterile, imposing building. This visit, a ritual she never missed, was the one thing that brought light to her otherwise shadowed existence.

Y/N hadn’t joined a gang at sixteen out of a desire for power or excitement. It had been a desperate measure, a necessary evil to secure the funds needed for her sister’s treatment. Her sister, Emily, was just ten years old and battling a relentless illness. The money Y/N earned through her dangerous work was the only thing keeping Emily’s hope for a future alive.

As Y/N walked through the hospital corridors, the stark white walls and the scent of antiseptic did little to soothe her. She navigated her way to Emily's room, her footsteps quickening as she neared the door. She took a deep breath before pushing it open, her heart lifting at the sight of her little sister.

Emily lay in a bed surrounded by beeping monitors and IV drips. Her face lit up with a bright smile as soon as she saw Y/N. "Y/N!" she exclaimed, her voice weak but filled with joy.

Y/N forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside her. "Hey there, sunshine," she said, approaching the bed and gently brushing a strand of hair from Emily's forehead. "How are you feeling today?"

Emily shrugged, her smile never wavering. "A bit tired, but I’m okay. The doctors say I’m doing better."

"That’s great news," Y/N said, her voice soft. She sat down beside the bed, holding Emily’s small hand in hers. "I brought you something." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, wrapped package. "Open it."

Emily’s eyes widened with excitement as she unwrapped the gift. Inside was a sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. "These are perfect!"

Y/N’s heart warmed at her sister’s happiness. "I thought you might like them. You can draw all the things you are going to do when you leave the hospital”.

Emily nodded enthusiastically, already flipping through the pages of the sketchbook. "The beach, the park, maybe even you and me together."

Y/N’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of her choices pressing down on her. She quickly pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the present. "I can’t wait to see your drawings."

They spent the next hour talking and laughing, the bleakness of the hospital room fading away in the light of Emily’s joy. For a little while, Y/N could forget about the dangerous world she was entangled in, finding solace in her sister’s company.

As visiting hours came to an end, Y/N reluctantly stood up. "I have to go now, Em. But I’ll be back soon, okay?"

Emily nodded, her smile unwavering. "Promise?"

"Promise," Y/N said, leaning down to kiss her sister’s forehead. "You just keep getting better, and we’ll have all the time in the world."

With one last look at Emily, Y/N turned and left the room, the weight of her double life settling back onto her shoulders.

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

The air was thick with anticipation as Y/N and her crew gathered in a dimly lit alleyway. Victor had received intel that Harry’s gang was making a move to reclaim and prevent Sean from selling for Y/N’s gang. Harry’s gang planned to kidnap Sean, ensuring he couldn’t betray them. Y/N’s orders were clear: protect Sean at all costs.

The clash began in the shadows, a chaotic melee of fists, knives, and gunfire. The alleyway turned into a battleground, the sound of fighting echoing off the walls. Y/N moved with practiced precision, taking down opponents with a cold efficiency. Her senses were heightened, every sound and movement sharp and clear in her mind.

In the midst of the chaos, she spotted Harry, his presence unmistakable even in the dim light. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world around them faded away. The fire in Harry’s eyes was as fierce as ever, matching the determination in Y/N’s.

“Y/N!” Harry shouted over the noise, his voice a mix of anger and something else she couldn’t quite place. “This ends now!”

Without another word, they lunged at each other. Their fight was intense, a blur of swift movements and exchanged blows. Harry’s strength was matched by Y/N’s agility, each anticipating the other’s moves with an almost instinctual familiarity.

Harry threw a punch that Y/N barely dodged, countering with a swift kick that caught him off guard. He stumbled back but quickly regained his footing, his eyes never leaving hers. The rain-soaked ground made their footing precarious, but neither wavered.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” Harry growled, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.

“Balls aren’t enough to survive in this world,” Y/N shot back, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

They continued to fight, each trying to gain the upper hand. Harry managed to pin Y/N against a wall, his grip strong and unyielding. “Why are you doing this, Y/N? Sean isn’t for you to take!”

Y/N glared at him, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “This has nothing to do about Sean. I was given orders and I have to obey”.

Their fight resumed with renewed intensity, neither willing to back down. Around them, the battle raged on, the sounds of struggle blending into a chaotic symphony. Y/N and Harry were locked in their own private war, each move a testament to their skills and their conflicting desires.

Y/N swiftly drew the small knife she always carried with her. Realizing that the only way to take him down was to stab him, she knew she had to act fast. He was much bigger than her. She was strong, but not strong enough to overpower him without the blade.

Before she could make her move, Harry’s reflexes kicked in. He drew his own knife in a flash, and before Y/N could react, he had nicked her arm. A sharp pain shot through her as blood began to seep from the wound, staining her sleeve.

“You think you can take me down that easily?” Harry sneered, his eyes cold and calculating. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Y/N gritted her teeth, refusing to show any sign of weakness. She adjusted her grip on the knife, her mind racing for a strategy. The pain in her arm was a stark reminder of the danger she faced, but it also fueled her determination.

They circled each other, both on high alert. The rain continued to fall, making the ground slippery and adding to the tension in the air. Harry lunged forward, aiming for another strike, but Y/N anticipated his move, sidestepping just in time and slashing at him with her own blade.

Y/N’s arm throbbed, but she pushed the pain to the back of her mind, focusing on the fight. She managed to land a shallow cut on Harry’s side, drawing blood. He hissed in pain, his eyes narrowing with fury.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” Something had changed within Harry, and Y/N couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He looked deadlier, his eyes colder and more ruthless than ever before.

Harry was quick to land a blow on Y/N, knocking her to the ground. He wasted no time in picking her up, his strong hand gripping her neck as he pressed his knife against her throat.

Y/N’s heart raced with a mixture of fear and something else entirely. The pressure of his massive hand around her neck sent a thrill through her, mingling with her worry. She stared into his eyes, defiance and a flicker of excitement burning within her.

“Styles! Stop!” yelled one of Y/N’s most trusted men, his hands raised in a gesture of mercy. He noticed that Y/N’s feet weren’t touching the floor, suspended by Harry’s grip on her throat. “We’ll leave. Don’t kill her.”

Y/N’s face turned red as she struggled for breath. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to give up, the pressure making her feel like her eyes were about to burst from their sockets.

Harry’s grip tightened momentarily before he loosened his hold just enough for Y/N to gasp for air. His eyes remained fixed on her, cold and unyielding.

“Don’t test me, darlin' "

Part 2

[angelnoe9]

The Third Time's the Charm

The cool night air surrounded you as you sat by the pool, your legs soaking in the water, lost in the quiet peace of the moment. Suddenly, an unseen force tugged at your ankles. Panic surged as you tried to fight it, but the pull only grew stronger, dragging you deeper into the pool. Your breath hitched, your vision blurred, and then everything went dark.

When you woke, there was no sound of water, no cool pool against your skin—just warmth and softness. Blinking slowly, you cleared the fuzziness from your mind and looked up. Above you, a galaxy swirled across a velvety blue ceiling, stars shimmering and their light reflecting off delicate glass panes. For a moment, you were mesmerized by the beauty before your senses fully returned.

You froze, sensing an intense stare beside you. Slowly turning your head, you saw him—Rafayel, watching you with an expression of awe.

His bluish-pink eyes were fixed on yours, wide with wonder. For a moment, you just stared back, your heart racing as the air around you seemed to crackle with electricity. It happened again, you thought, your mind struggling to process. Rafayel’s gaze deepened, his eyes pulling you in, and the room fell silent except for the sound of your heart thumping in sync with his.

Without thinking, your hand reached up and brushed across his cheek. The moment your fingers made contact with his skin, you felt a slight tremble beneath your touch. He looked as if he still couldn’t believe you were here, beside him.

Before you could say anything, he spoke, his voice laced with an amused surprise.

"Cutie, I can't believe I will see you passed out in my bathtub. Is my bathtub a portal connecting our worlds?" His teasing tone seemed so out of place in the situation, his carefree nature contrasting with the fact that you were here, in his world.

What you didn’t know was how unbelievable it had been for him. When he found you unconscious in his bathtub, his heart nearly stopped. He couldn’t believe his eyes—he had always thought you couldn’t come here. Confusion and panic flooded him as he checked your pulse, unsure if he was dreaming. Overwhelmed, he scooped you up in his arms, his grip both firm and gentle as he carried you to his bed. His heart pounded in disbelief, still struggling to understand how you had gotten here. He refused to leave you in the cold bathtub, and as he lay you down, he couldn’t help but stare at you in awe—here, in his world. It felt impossible.

Despite your confusion, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “I don’t think your bathtub is a portal,” you said, your voice still hoarse from the shock. "It’s not the first time I'm here, you know."

Rafayel’s expression shifted instantly. His lips curled into a perfect pout as he dramatically flopped onto his back, throwing his arms wide as if the universe itself had wronged him. “Not the first time?!” he whined, his voice dripping with playful jealousy. “Why am I always the one left out? I wanted to be the first to meet you, you know! And here I am, second in line again!” He crossed his arms over his chest, his face mock-sullen as he stared at you, clearly more upset by the fact that someone else had gotten to you first than by the situation itself.

You couldn’t help but smile at his dramatic reaction, but you decided to tease him a little more. “Well, it’s not the second time. It’s actually the third,” you said, a playful glint in your eyes.

Rafayel’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He froze for a moment, his mouth hanging open as if he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. Then, with an exaggerated gasp, he flung himself onto his side, clutching his chest like he’d been struck by some cosmic injustice. “The third?!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with mock horror. “I’m third?! I can’t believe this! Not even second?!” His pout deepened as he dramatically rolled onto your side, hugging a pillow to his chest. “Why am I always so far down the line?” he mumbled, the playful jealousy in his voice unmistakable.

It was hard to hold back a laugh after hearing his dramatic pouting. You could already tell that he wouldn’t stay upset for long—Rafayel’s playful nature never let him stay in a bad mood for too long. And yet, despite his theatrics, here you were, in a world that still felt so unreal. You weren’t as surprised as you had been the first time, but you couldn’t help but feel in awe of how you had ended up here again, pulled into this world in the most unexpected way.

𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚𓇼🐚

@beaconsxd I have to search how to tag since I don't know how haha o(*￣▽￣*)o

[messedchords]

A Dance in Shadows // azriel x reader

The stars twinkled brightly overhead, casting their cool glow over the Night Court. The crisp evening air felt like silk on your skin as you stood atop one of the many balconies of the Night Court's sprawling estate. You had grown accustomed to the serenity of Velaris, though tonight, your mind was far from peaceful.

The shadows were thick tonight, swirling around the trees below like living, breathing things. The Night Court was always alive with energy, but something had shifted recently. Every time you turned a corner or stood in a quiet corner, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching you.

You weren't alone for long before the soft sound of wings disturbed the silence, followed by a figure emerging from the darkened courtyard below.

Azriel.

He always did that—appearing like a wraith in the night, moving with such quiet grace that you never even heard him coming. His black leather suit fit him like a second skin, his long, dark hair pulled back into a low, loose tie. His shadows, like loyal companions, swirled at his feet, dark tendrils curling around his boots as they moved with him.

"Out here again?" Azriel's voice was low, hushed in the way only he could manage, carrying an undertone of concern. He had a way of making even the most casual words sound like they held deeper meaning.

You turned to face him, offering a smile that was more bittersweet than anything else. "I like it out here. The quiet helps clear my head."

Azriel’s gaze softened as he stepped closer, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken words. You knew that despite his usually stoic demeanor, Azriel was someone who understood the need for silence. His shadows reflected his every move, like they could feel the depth of his emotions even when he hid them behind that careful mask.

"I understand," he murmured, leaning against the stone railing beside you. His presence was a comfort, even if the weight of his own inner turmoil always seemed to linger in the air around him.

You glanced at him then, taking in the details of his features—the sharpness of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze, the subtle weariness that never seemed to leave him. "You're not here for the view, are you?" you teased softly, nudging him with your elbow.

He huffed a quiet laugh, though it lacked true mirth. "Not exactly." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I came to check on you."

You paused, taken aback. "Check on me?"

Azriel turned his head just slightly, his eyes searching yours. "You've been quiet lately. You've been distant... even for you."

You opened your mouth to brush it off, but the sincerity in his gaze made you falter. You didn’t know why you felt so... distant, but lately, your mind had been a chaotic mess of thoughts, none of which you wanted to share with him. Not when his own struggles were far more pressing.

"I'm fine, Azriel," you lied, though it tasted like ash on your tongue. "Just thinking."

His dark eyes softened, and for a moment, the shadows around him pulsed with a gentle, soothing rhythm, as though they were reacting to his mood. "You don't have to lie to me."

There was a long silence between the two of you, a silence that stretched until it was almost uncomfortable. Azriel leaned closer, his presence enveloping you like a warm shadow.

"You can talk to me, you know." His voice was so low, so quiet that it was almost drowned out by the sounds of the night. "I won't push you, but I’ll listen."

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. There were many things you could say, many truths you could share, but something held you back. You couldn't risk him seeing the weakness you felt building inside you. You weren't sure if you were strong enough to bear that weight—and you certainly didn't want to burden Azriel with it.

"I don't want to drag you into my mess," you finally whispered, your voice barely audible above the breeze.

Azriel reached out, his hand brushing yours, a simple gesture that spoke volumes. "You don’t drag me into anything. You allow me to help you. I want to help you."

His words broke through the barriers you had carefully constructed around yourself. You didn’t know what it was about him—his quiet understanding, his unspoken empathy—but in that moment, you felt the walls you’d built begin to crumble.

"Azriel, I..." you hesitated, looking down at your hands. "I’m scared."

The vulnerability in your voice was something you rarely allowed anyone to hear, but Azriel never faltered. He stood beside you, unyielding in his support.

"What are you scared of?" His voice was steady, grounding.

You met his gaze then, and for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to speak the truth.

"That I’m not strong enough to be here," you confessed, the weight of the words heavy on your chest. "That I’m not strong enough to be the person I want to be."

Azriel’s expression softened, and he took a step closer to you, his shadowed wings brushing the stone as he moved. "You are stronger than you know," he said, his voice firm with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "Strength isn’t always about what you can carry on your own. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to lean on others. And I’m here."

His words settled in your chest like a soothing balm, easing the ache that had been there for far too long. And as you stood there, bathed in the light of the stars and the comfort of Azriel’s presence, you felt, for the first time in ages, like maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

The night air hung thick with an electric tension, the kind that only existed in the presence of someone who truly understood the silent battles you fought. Azriel remained by your side, his steady presence like an anchor in the midst of your storm.

You wanted to say something more, but words failed you. Instead, you let the quiet linger, taking comfort in the rhythmic sound of his breathing and the faint hum of shadows dancing at his feet.

After a long while, Azriel spoke again, his voice low but filled with a quiet urgency. "I know it’s hard... to let others in," he began, the raw vulnerability in his words catching you off guard. "But sometimes, it’s the only way forward."

You turned to face him, your heart hammering a little faster than usual. There was something about the way he said it, something in his tone that made you feel like he wasn't just speaking to you—but to himself as well. Like he knew, all too well, the price of keeping things bottled up.

His gaze was intense, his shadows swarming restlessly around his boots, as if they could sense the tension in the air. "I’ve spent years hiding in the dark," he continued, his voice quiet but raw. "Pushing people away, thinking that if I kept everything inside, no one would get hurt. But the truth is..." He paused, his gaze searching yours. "The truth is, the darkness never stays hidden. It always finds a way out."

You swallowed, feeling a lump rise in your throat. "And what happens when it does?" you whispered, unable to tear your eyes away from his.

Azriel didn’t hesitate. "You face it. You face it with the people who care about you, the people who can help you carry the burden."

You took a slow, shaky breath. There was something so real in his words, something that made you question your own choices. Maybe you didn’t have to be alone in this fight. Maybe there was room for something more.

"But what if..." You hesitated, unsure of how to finish your thought. "What if I’m not worth helping? What if I can’t be the person everyone expects me to be?"

Azriel turned to you fully then, his wings shifting slightly, a protective shield of darkness around you both. His eyes were so intense, so focused, that it made your heart race.

"You're more than worth it," he said softly, his voice holding an unshakeable truth. "You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you."

The warmth in his words made something inside you stir. For the first time in so long, the heavy burden of your insecurities felt a little lighter. Azriel’s presence was grounding, his words a lifeline when you’d felt like you were drowning in your own doubts.

"I don’t know if I can be that person," you admitted, voice small and vulnerable. "But I want to try."

Azriel’s hand, so large and strong, reached out, gently cupping your cheek. His touch was electric, sending a ripple of warmth through you that cut through the cold night air. "You don’t have to be anything you’re not. You just have to be willing to try. That’s all I’m asking."

You closed your eyes at the contact, savoring the moment—the gentleness of his touch, the sincerity in his voice, and the comfort of knowing that for once, you didn’t have to carry your fears alone.

When you opened your eyes again, Azriel was still looking at you, his expression soft, almost tender. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at you like that. It made your chest ache in a way that felt both comforting and terrifying all at once.

The world around you seemed to slow as he leaned in just a fraction closer, the distance between you vanishing like the shadows that clung to him. There was a brief, quiet pause—one that felt infinite—before he spoke again.

"Do you trust me?" His question was quiet, sincere.

The weight of it hung in the air, the gravity of it making your heart skip a beat. You wanted to say yes, wanted to believe that you could trust him without hesitation. But you were afraid. Afraid of letting someone in, afraid of being vulnerable again.

But Azriel’s steady gaze, the sincerity in his eyes, made it impossible to ignore the pull inside you. You’d seen the darkness he carried, the weight of his own past, and still, he stood here beside you, offering you the same trust.

Slowly, you nodded. "I do."

Azriel's lips curled into the smallest of smiles—barely noticeable, but enough to make your heart flutter.

"Then let me help you," he murmured.

The words felt like a promise, a silent vow that things could change, that you didn’t have to face the darkness alone. In that moment, the shadows around him seemed to pulse in response to his words, as if they, too, were waiting for something—waiting for you to finally accept what he was offering.

You swallowed, fighting back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you, and took a step closer to him. His shadows parted to allow you to stand in front of him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel so alone.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of hope and fear. "I’ll try."

Azriel’s expression softened even more, and in that moment, you saw him—really saw him—beyond the shadows, beyond the wraith-like figure he so often portrayed. You saw the person who had, in his own way, fought his own battles and come out on the other side.

And maybe, just maybe, you could do the same.

---

[kaiso-woo]

A Fan of the Fiction

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-> Masterlist

BONUS #3 - This has connections to ‘Stay Series’! Let’s just say… ‘I don’t want to go to sleep now, I’ll be making a masterpiece now”… by which I mean the creation of Bahng Alexander Korain.

!Minors - istg, do not interact. Go away!

WC: 2.3k

Synopsis: Uh. You read smth unholy for the first time in a while, and holy guacamole you can actually fulfil this fic because your husband is legit Chris? Haha…

Notes: SMUT, Thigh Grinding, Multiple Orgasms, p in v - dear lord (don’t be an idiot, wrap it ffs), breeding (with results obviously T-T), Choking, Bulge… kink?, Degradation…? Dom-Sub-Switch-Who-What-When-Where-Why, Oral (F Receiving), Traffic Light System, Fluff?, Second Person Narration, Swearing, Idol!Chan, Fem!Reader

Here for a reading marathon? Head right back to the start!

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BONUS #3

!!Casual reminder this is entirely fictitious - Chris/Christopher in my work does not represent the actual Bang Chan - this is purely my imagination and nothing more - this goes for all other SKZ-Members too!!

--

You drop your phone down onto your chest, breathing heavily, your mind whizzing with sin. Tentatively, you sneak a hand into your pants and tap at your underwear, retracting it immediately with a groan when you realise how soaked you are.

You shouldn’t have read that fic. You shouldn’t have at all. All it did was place dirty thoughts in your mind because, you realise, you could recreate that scene right here, right now.

Chris is currently sitting on your bed in another room, working away on a song. You had just finished cleaning up the kitchen after he cooked dinner, and upon seeing him busy at work, decided to lie down on the couch and give him some peace.

Somehow, you had wandered onto Tumblr for the first time in years and you had forgotten just how atrocious your feed was. With a nervous bite of your lip, and a check to make sure that Chris was still in your room, you thread your hands back below your waistband and rub a slow line up your folds.

“Fuck,” you whisper, as you pulse around nothing, “Shit okay, am I doing this? Am I going to?” You say this even as you get off the couch and wander over to your room, where the only things illuminating the place is Chris’ computer, reflected eerily onto his face, and his bedside lamp.

“Chris…?” You squeak, words beginning to fail you already, “How busy are you honey?”

Chris looks up and rubs his eyes, peering at your cowering figure over by the door. “Relatively busy, why? You okay? Need me to do something?”

You swallow nervously and walk over, suffering even further at the sight of his dark eyes watching your every move. “No… no it’s okay, you just… stay there,” you breathe, hesitantly stripping yourself of your shorts and crawling onto the bed. “Yeobo…?” Chris asks, his voice dry.

“You can keep working babe, do you mind if I just… ride your thigh? Please?” You beg staring at him with wide eyes. Chris inhales sharply and his eyes flicker away from you. He blinks, in a daze, at his computer screen, and when he doesn’t reply you prompt him again. “Please baby? I need-”

He interrupts with a breathy “Yeah, yeah of course”, and shifts his computer to rest on one knee. Relief washes over you, and you crawl onto his lap, immediately beginning to grind into his thigh.

Chris breathes deeply and returns to his laptop, clicking here and there and apparently refocusing on his work. A sultry groan leaves your mouth as you slow the pace, but make your grinds longer, and Chris curses under his breath.

“I want more…” you moan and remove yourself from him to take off your underwear, “Keep working baby, please don’t let me distract you.”

Immediately, the friction of Chris’ jeans on your clit makes you whimper, and your pace quickens, your juices beginning to drench the fabric.

Chris’ thigh flexes underneath you, and you gasp at the action, your mind half wondering whether he’s doing it involuntarily or not, but too far gone already to properly consider it.

“Shit baby, how am I supposed to-” Chris chokes out, and you look down at him for the first time in a while. He’s not looking at his computer anymore but is fixating on your pussy grinding desperately on his thigh.

“How's it feel baby?” He whispers, glancing at you through his eyelashes. You whimper and grab his shoulders, his computer sliding off his knee sadly. Chris’ hands sneak around your waist, and as he helps to guide you and the slightly new angle works its wonders, you feel that knot beginning to pool tightly.

“Chris-” you groan, mouth hanging open in pleasure. “You like it, huh? Look how easy it is for you to get off on my thigh, baby. Oh fuck, you’re so wet.”

Chris has purposefully slowed your movements, returning you back to the long hard grazes, and his irises have blown out with desire. “Baby, Christopher, harder- please I need more-” you choke out, nails digging into his shoulders, and Chris’ head falls back in pure bliss.

“Jesus fuck. Are you gonna cum for me sweetheart? Cum all over my thigh?” You nod eagerly and he tilts his head questioningly, hands squeezing your hips sharply. “Words baby. I need to hear you. Speak for me.”

“Yes Chris… yes I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum, I’ll cum for you baby.” “Fff-huck,” he moans, pushing you down harder and flexing his thigh at random intervals. You lean down to kiss him, tongues immediately swirling, your pants mixing with his deepening breaths.

“Shit I’m gonna-” “Come on baby. Come on. Ruin your pussy on my favourite jeans, hm?” “Chris- Chris Chri-”

You convulse on his leg and your forehead crashes into his shoulder as your orgasm washes through you, cum leaking out everywhere and thoroughly soaking his jeans. “God you’re so good for me.” Chris gently pushes you off him and stares in awe at the stain you’ve left, but his attention returns to you soon enough.

“You can handle more right?” He asks, sitting up on his knees so he can hastily remove his soaked jeans. You laugh and shift over to help him, smiling at his hasty actions and flushed face.

“Of course I can. Who do you think I am?” “Mine,” he grins back, and at his words you push him back into a seated position, much to his surprise.

“Sure honey, but you’re also mine.” Steadily, you sink down onto him, eyes rolling to the back of your head at how quickly he fills you. “Sh-shit. How’re you still so-” he stutters, hands flying to your waist again, “You’re still so fucking ti-ight.”

You groan and grind down onto him, and he hisses at the action. “Come on darling, don’t play. You either ride me, or I’ll fuck you into the bed.”

You take a shuddering breath and start the agonising journey towards heaven, or maybe it’s hell, watching in satisfaction as Chris unravels beneath you, his hips thrusting up to meet yours erratically, chest rising and falling unevenly.

“Just like that baby- god you’re al-always so tight for me. So perfect,” he groans, and you clench around him at his words, a string of profanities escaping his mouth.

“Shit. Love if you keep doing that I’m not going to- I'm not going to last long,” he groans. You lean down and tenderly brush the hair off his sweaty forehead so you can plant a kiss there, still unrelenting with your pace. “It’s okay baby, come undone for me. I never said you had to last long.”

His head falls back and smacks against the headboard, but the impact apparently doesn’t bother him. “No- I need to- yeobo, I need to pull-” “It’s okay, I want it in me.”

Chris’ hips stutter to a slow stop, and you whine, trying to continue, but his hands tighten around your waist, preventing you from doing anything.

“You what?” He breathes, staring with wide eyes. “Fill me up. Please,” you beg, and his eyes cloud over.

“You want that huh? You want me to spill my seed in you? Soak your walls white? Does my baby want that? Does she want a fucking kid?” He growls, thrusting up into you harder, and you mewl at his sudden ferocity.

Eagerly, you try to reposition yourself so you can help him, and in a daze grapple at whatever you can to ground yourself. Your hand tightens around his throat so you can hoist yourself up better and Chris splutters as his cock twitches inside you, his hand flying to your wrist in a panic.

“Well fuck that’s new,” he rasps, after you remove your hand swiftly, scared. “Sorry- I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“I said that’s new baby, not that I didn’t like it,” he glares, and with a gentle assertion and raised eyebrows, he drags your hand back to curl around his throat, cock twitching again as you squeeze a little tighter.

“I didn’t know you-” you begin, as he picks up his pace again, matching with you.

“Yeah? Well neither did I-” he chokes out, knuckles white on your wrist, holding your hand in place, “Shit. Fuck. Ah you bastard. That’s my girl- shit cum with me baby,” he cries in between gasps for air, and the sight of him struggling to breathe thanks to you causes that building heat to snap.

You collapse forward and bite desperately at his shoulder, trying to instinctively muffle your ludicrous sounds of pleasure. You can feel Chris ejaculating thoroughly into you, his warm semen flooding your insides while you milk him through his high, your own juices coating him.

When you pull away, you rub at his shoulder where you bit him apologetically, thumb carefully stroking his neck too to make sure he’s okay, but his eyes are wild, and it’s only after you refocus on yourself do you realise that he’s still hard, nestled safely inside of you.

“Oh wow… no way…” you chuckle in amazement, as Chris pins you down onto the bed a little haphazardly.

“Don’t you ever- fucking silence yourself,” he growls, thrusting roughly into you. You gasp at the overstimulation, walls clenching despite your writhing. You absolutely know everything is a mess down there, his cum mixing with yours down your legs and his.

“Now unless your colour changes, I’m going to fuck you until I make you scream. I’ll fuck you into the next week, you won’t be able to walk for days you fucking slut. What’s your colour?” He demands, thrusting harshly into you again.

“Green- it’s-” your voice dies in your throat as Chris slams into you, again and again, the tip of his cock finding its way back to all those places that make your insides feel gooey. You’re trembling underneath him, and when he pushes your legs up for better access, a drawn-out whimper escapes you.

“You want more of my cum in you sweetheart?” He whispers harshly, and you mumble incoherently in agreement, “Oh… you don’t know what you’re getting into. ” “I do. I do-”

Chris places hot kisses all down your leg, his adoring actions contradicting his relentless abuse of your cunt, his foul mouth.

“Do you really? Because I’m going to breed you baby. I’m going to pump you so full that you’ll be pregnant by the fucking end of this.” You whimper and grip desperately at the sheets in response, and Chris pays it every bit of attention.

“You want that, huh? Want me to fuck you with my fingers as well? Make sure it stays in? Look at yourself, darling. Look at your stomach,” he commands, and with a gulp you look down to see his bulge disappearing in and out of your gut.

“Shit- Chris- you’re so- you’re so deep fuck- I’m gonna-” “I didn’t say you could,” he growls, nipping slightly at your skin. “Chris- but I- please.” “Beg harder,” he demands and you break.

“You’re a fucking shit,” you snap. “Only for you~” he coos, and it’s this that reminds you that he’s still the teasing Chris, still the same sweet man who wanted to learn how to make coffee with you all those years ago.

This version of Chris disappears in seconds though, his deepened voice returning, “I’m a shit because someone’s a brat,” he spits, reaching between your legs to grab your hand and place it on your stomach so you can feel how far his cock is plunging inside of you. This immediately destroys any remaining sense of self-preservation and dignity, and you resort to begging and pleading for your life, the effort of restraining your orgasm getting to your head.

“Okay slut. Cum for me,” he orders breathily, panting sporadically, his shirt soaked through with sweat. You groan in pleasure and finally allow yourself release, twitching and gasping underneath him. Your high makes you press down on your stomach unknowingly, and Chris’ breath hitches at the increased sudden pressure.

“I said- I said cum for me. Not make me cum,” he chokes out, his second orgasm of the night crashing into him unwillingly, his voice dying into an almost silent whimper.

He curses his way through it, rutting shallowly into you a few more times before he completely stills, his hands squeezing your thighs, needlessly babbling dirty words of affirmation and praise. "Amazing baby... so good f'me... so warm... fuck stop clenching- god you're fucking beautiful, my beautiful... absolutely perfect."

He releases your legs and they flop back around him, sore. Chris crawls up your body, trying to control his breathing, and rests himself gently onto you, peppering your neck lovingly with kisses and soothingly caressing your thighs.

“You okay honey?” he asks, eyes wide with worry at your silence. You smile at him and wrap your hands around his neck for a passionate kiss, mind blank at the feeling of him buried comfortingly inside you still.

“What happened to fucking me with your fingers afterwards?” You hum, knotting your hand into his sweaty hair. “No way are you still up for that. Your colour hasn’t-” “It’s green, love. I’m okay. I’ve only orgasmed three times.” “Only three. Jesus Christ only three?”

“Your colour, Chris?” You ask, kissing him on the nose. He pauses, a little shocked at being asked the question. “I’m- what- I mean- that system was meant for you-” “What’s your colour baby? Just answer the question.”

“Green,” he eventually mumbles, slipping out of you and sliding back down your body to replace his dick with his mouth and fingers.

After about a minute of you squirming and moaning loudly for him, he stops, looking at you with concern. “Yeobo, are you sure about this? You know how bad I am with self-restraint when I’m eating you,” he asks, licking his lips nervously.

“Then I’ll be just as bad when you’re buried in my throat too,” you grin, spreading your legs wider for him. “Shit," he pauses, "I’m not going to need to go to the gym tomorrow, am I?” He groans, returning back to your folds and attacking your clit with renewed gusto, his tongue lapping eagerly, three fingers already pumping into you.

“What do you mean? You can still go-oHHhh!” Chris hums in acknowledgement (and you die just a bit) and extricates himself from you long enough to say, “This is a workout in itself,” before returning to his task at hand.

And this night, my friends, is the night that Bahng Alexander Korain was brought into this world.

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-> Bonus #4 -> Masterlist

A/N: If you don’t mf know who Alex is then you should be going back and reading the series smh. That’s why this is called a BONUS because if you read this after reading the series it is 10x better, trust.

Until next read! -Kaisowoo

[fuqnia]

Streetlamps

kenny mccormick x reader insert

(❁´◡`❁) | [A/N] hii, this is my sixth oneshot that's apart of my ficmas! this is also on ao3. ❤️❄️🎄

(❁´◡`❁) | Warning(s) : nothing

(❁´◡`❁) | Synopsis : [y/n] and Kenny share a simple yet magical Christmas Eve, with handmade gifts and a kiss under falling snow.

The knock on the door was familiar—three quick taps, the last one loud and cocky, like whoever was on the other side knew you’d be answering for them. You grinned despite yourself, already knowing who it was. You’d barely gotten the door open before Kenny McCormick leaned casually against the frame, looking up at you with that mischievous grin that always managed to turn your stomach to butterflies.

“Hey, babe,” Kenny said, his voice low and smooth, like he was letting you in on a secret no one else got to hear. “You ready for your Christmas surprise, or are you gonna leave me freezing my ass off out here?”

He looked like pure trouble—of course he did. Kenny always carried himself like he was halfway between starting a fight and finishing a drink. His signature orange parka was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a faded orange hoodie under a beaten-up black denim jacket, the seams frayed and the fabric worn soft. His jeans were ripped at the knees, and his boots were scuffed and caked with snow, evidence that he’d already walked halfway across town to get here. A few curls of blonde hair fell into his eyes, still damp from the snow that had started swirling outside.

You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling as you leaned against the doorframe, mirroring his energy. “You’re late.”

Kenny let out a soft, teasing laugh, the kind that always made your pulse do something weird. “You’re lucky I showed up at all,” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You know, some of us are in high demand this time of year.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the way his presence already had you feeling lighter. “Yeah, I’m sure every teen on your block is devastated.”

Kenny smirked, pushing himself off the doorframe and taking a step closer. “What can I say? I’m a man of the people.” He tilted his head, his blue eyes sharp and amused as they studied you. “But I’m here with you tonight, babe. That counts for something, right?”

It was ridiculous how easily he could do this—flirt like it was second nature, every word out of his mouth perfectly balanced between charm and teasing. He knew what he was doing, and yet it still worked every time.

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound unimpressed. You grabbed your gloves from the table and slipped them on. “But you’ve still got some convincing to do, McCormick.”

Kenny grinned, showing just the faintest hint of teeth, as if he relished the challenge. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. It’s nothing fancy, but I figured we’d check out the lights downtown. The little holiday shit they put up—window displays, all that crap. Thought it’d be nice.”

The way he said it—so offhanded, like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it—made your chest tighten in the best way. Kenny didn’t do extravagant gestures or over-the-top plans. He couldn’t afford to. But that wasn’t what made him special. He always made things feel bigger than they were just by being himself.

“That actually sounds perfect,” you admitted, your voice softer now.

Something flickered across his face—relief, maybe—but it was gone just as quickly as it came. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your entire night better. “Figured you’d say that. You’re easy to please, babe.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you followed him out onto the porch. The cold air hit immediately, biting at your cheeks, but it was worth it just to see Kenny standing there under the glow of the streetlamp. The light reflected off the falling snow, casting soft shadows on his face as he turned to look at you, the smirk still tugging at his lips.

“Cold already?” he teased as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “You’re gonna love it downtown. Half the stores still think ‘turning on some string lights’ counts as holiday cheer.”

“Better than nothing,” you replied, falling into step beside him as you started down the snowy sidewalk.

Kenny snickered under his breath. “Barely. South Park’s like the Walmart clearance rack of Christmas towns, but hey, it’s home, right?”

You laughed, and Kenny shot you a sideways glance, his blue eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. “You’ve got a nice laugh, you know that?” he said suddenly, his voice quieter. “That’s probably the real reason I dragged you out tonight. I figured someone’s gotta make me look less miserable walking around this dump.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours, pretending not to notice the way your heart flipped in your chest. “You’re a real charmer, Kenny. I don’t know how I resist you.”

He grinned, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice. “Spoiler alert: you don’t.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face as the two of you continued down the quiet street. Snowflakes drifted down lazily from the dark sky, collecting on your shoulders and sticking to the ends of Kenny’s hair, making him look... softer somehow. Less like the sarcastic, sharp-edged kid everyone thought he was and more like the boy you’d known for years—the boy who, even when he didn’t have much, always found a way to make you feel like the luckiest person alive just to know him.

And as you walked together, the distant glow of South Park’s downtown lights shining ahead of you, you realized that, as simple as this night might’ve been, it was already perfect.

Downtown South Park was quieter than usual, most people already huddled inside their homes or crowded around fireplaces. The snow fell lazily through the air, blanketing the streets and softening the noise of passing cars. The sidewalks were nearly empty, the two of you practically alone as you wandered past the rows of shops and cafés, all decked out in their half-assed attempts at holiday cheer.

“You gotta love how South Park tries to look festive but still manages to scream ‘we gave up halfway through,’” Kenny said, his voice laced with sarcasm as he gestured at the string lights tangled over a street sign. A few bulbs flickered weakly, while others had already burnt out entirely.

You laughed, shoving your gloved hands into your coat pockets. “It’s charming in its own pathetic way.”

“Charming,” Kenny echoed, smirking as he glanced at you. “That’s one way to put it. I’m pretty sure half the lights they put up were salvaged from someone’s garage sale.”

He wasn’t wrong. One of the nearby lampposts had a plastic candy cane duct-taped to its side, and a sad, lopsided wreath hung over the entrance to Tom’s Rhinoplasty. Despite the haphazard decorations, though, there was something warm about it all—the way the snow settled softly on the garlands, the way the light glowed against the dark streets.

The two of you paused in front of a toy shop, its window display glowing brightly with reds and greens. Mechanical elves jerked awkwardly back and forth, as if powered by some barely functioning motor, while a plastic Santa turned his head slowly from side to side. The effect was less magical and more unsettling, but it made Kenny snort with laughter.

“Jesus, this is straight out of a horror movie,” he said, pressing his face close to the glass with mock intensity. “You think Santa’s checking his list, or you think he’s looking for his next victim?”

You stepped up beside him, your reflection in the frosted window blending with his. “Probably both. I think that elf on the left is possessed.”

“Oh, definitely,” Kenny said, leaning back and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets again. “I’d watch that movie. Killer Christmas.”

“Not gonna lie, I would too,” you replied, grinning.

Kenny turned to you, his blue eyes catching the glow of the window display. The smirk on his face softened slightly, the sharp edges dulling as he watched you for a moment. “I knew you’d be into that. That’s why you’re my favorite.”

The words caught you off guard, even if Kenny said it so casually it almost sounded like a joke. “Oh, I’m your favorite now?” you teased, hoping the heat creeping up your neck wasn’t obvious.

“Always have been, babe,” he replied smoothly, his grin turning cocky.

You rolled your eyes to cover the way your heart stuttered, turning back toward the next window as Kenny fell into step beside you again.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a while, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. It felt surreal being out here with him, just the two of you, under the glow of flickering lights and neon shop signs. Kenny wasn’t the type to slow down often—he was always moving, always joking, always covering himself with layers of humor and bravado. But here, under the quiet fall of snow, he seemed calmer, more present.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow. “Check this out.”

You looked up to see him nodding toward another window display—this one a small bakery. Its front window was fogged from the warmth inside, but you could still see the carefully arranged gingerbread houses, sugar-dusted cookies, and little frosted cakes shaped like reindeer. Twinkle lights were strung along the edges of the display, the glow catching on the snow outside and making it look almost magical.

Kenny tilted his head, squinting at it. “Man, I’d kill for one of those cookies right now.”

“Didn’t you eat, like, two burgers earlier?” you teased.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t demolish a gingerbread man,” he replied, grinning. “You’d do the same. Don’t act innocent.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned back to the display. The warm glow from the bakery felt like a stark contrast to the freezing air outside, and for a moment, you almost suggested going in. But then you felt something cold hit your cheek—a single snowflake.

You tilted your head back slightly, blinking as more flakes drifted down from the sky, slow and steady. Kenny followed your gaze, his grin softening as he watched the snow fall around you both.

“It’s really coming down now,” you said quietly, almost to yourself.

“Yeah,” Kenny muttered, his voice low. “It’s nice, though. Peaceful.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the way his tone had shifted. Kenny rarely slowed down enough to just be. His grin was gone now, replaced by something quieter and more thoughtful as he looked up at the sky, the snowflakes catching in his hair and on his jacket.

“It’s kinda weird,” he said suddenly, his eyes still on the sky. “Sometimes I forget how... good this can look. You know, the whole Christmas shit. When you don’t have to worry about anything else—like money, or how you’re gonna keep the heat on. It’s nice to just... look at it for once.”

Your chest tightened at the honesty in his voice, a rare glimpse of the Kenny who lived beneath the jokes and smirks. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he turned back toward you, his grin returning like a reflex.

“Don’t get all teary on me, babe,” he said, nudging you again. “I’m just saying, snow’s pretty. Sue me.”

You smiled, bumping him back lightly. “No lawsuits this time, McCormick.”

Kenny snorted, shaking his head. “Good. I’m broke.”

The two of you continued walking, the snow falling more steadily now, swirling in the glow of the streetlamps lining the sidewalk. There was something dreamlike about it—the way the lights reflected off the snow, the quiet stillness of the empty streets, and the easy rhythm of Kenny walking beside you.

He paused suddenly, pulling his hands from his pockets as he stopped under one of the streetlamps. Its light flickered faintly, the bulb buzzing like it was struggling to keep up with the night. Kenny looked at you, a strange, mischievous look on his face that made your heart skip a beat.

“Wait here,” he said, before slipping his hand into his jacket.

“What are you doing?” you asked, watching him warily.

Kenny didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled something small and wrapped from his pocket, holding it out toward you. It was clumsily done—brown paper folded haphazardly, held together with a single piece of tape—but it was clearly something he’d put together himself.

“Merry Christmas,” Kenny said simply, his voice soft but steady. “It’s not much, but I wanted you to have it.”

You turned the small package over in your hands, a smile tugging at your lips as you took in just how bad the wrapping job was. The brown paper was creased and uneven, one corner bunched up as if Kenny had given up halfway through folding it. The single piece of tape holding it all together was barely doing its job, and part of the paper had already started to peel up at the edges.

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped you. “Kenny, what the hell is this? Did you wrap this with your eyes closed?”

Kenny let out a breathy laugh, the sound warm against the cold night. He scratched the back of his neck, his grin lopsided and sheepish. “Hey, wrapping paper’s a scam. You’re lucky I didn’t just hand it to you raw. I spent a whole five minutes on that.”

“Five minutes well spent,” you teased, holding the package up and pretending to examine it like it was a work of art. “It’s very... authentic. Minimalist chic.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Kenny said, but his voice was light, his blue eyes soft as they watched you. “Just open it before you hurt my feelings, babe.”

You shot him a teasing look before carefully peeling back the tape and unfolding the paper—at least what was still intact. Inside was a small, handmade bracelet, its simple black cord threaded with a mix of little wooden beads and a single, worn copper charm shaped like a star. It wasn’t perfect; the beads were slightly uneven, and the charm had a faint scratch along one side. But somehow, that made it even better. It looked like Kenny, through and through—rough around the edges, simple but full of heart.

Your teasing smile softened as you held it up, turning it over between your fingers to get a better look. The charm caught the faint glow of the streetlamp, its surface glinting against the snowy night.

“Kenny...” you said softly, your voice catching just a little.

Kenny shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking away from yours like he was suddenly nervous. “I, uh... made it a while ago. Just some stuff I found lying around, you know? The charm was on this old necklace my sister used to have—she didn’t want it anymore, so I, uh, repurposed it or whatever.”

You looked back at the bracelet, your heart twisting as you traced your thumb over the little star. You could tell he was trying to play it off like it was no big deal, but you knew better. Kenny didn’t do grand gestures; he didn’t have the means to buy shiny things or pull off big surprises. But he put himself into what he could do, and that made everything he did mean so much more.

“I know it’s not some fancy gift or anything,” Kenny continued, his voice low as he stared down at his boots, his shoulders stiff like he was bracing for something. “But I thought... I dunno, you might like it. If you don’t, it’s cool. I’m just—”

“Kenny, shut up,” you said gently, cutting him off as you smiled and slipped the bracelet onto your wrist. It fit snugly, the charm resting just above the pulse of your hand. “It’s perfect.”

Kenny blinked, looking up at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, holding out your arm so he could see it better. “I love it. Really.”

For a second, Kenny just stared at the bracelet on your wrist, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—softer than his usual cocky smirk, like this smile was just for you.

“Well, damn,” he said, his voice teasing but warm. “Look at you, making me feel all accomplished and shit.”

You laughed softly, your fingers brushing over the charm again as you looked at him. “You should. I mean it, Kenny. I love it.”

He watched you for a moment, his grin lingering, his blue eyes catching the flickering light from the streetlamp above. The snow fell softly around you both, collecting on his shoulders and sticking to the ends of his messy blonde hair.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Kenny said quietly, his tone softer now, like he’d forgotten to hide behind the jokes and the swagger.

You smiled, feeling your heart give that familiar, fluttering lurch in your chest. “Takes one to know one, McCormick.”

Kenny chuckled under his breath, but there was a gentleness in his expression that made your stomach flip. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The snow continued to drift lazily from the sky, and the flickering streetlamp above cast a golden glow over the two of you, like the whole world had stilled just for this.

You glanced down at the bracelet on your wrist, the little copper star catching the faint glow of the flickering streetlamp. You couldn’t help but smile as you turned your gaze back to Kenny. He was still looking at you, his grin softer now, almost nervous. Kenny McCormick—nervous. That alone was enough to make your chest ache.

“It’s snowing harder,” you said softly, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Kenny tilted his head back slightly, letting his gaze shift toward the sky. Snowflakes swirled lazily down from the dark, endless expanse above, catching in his messy blonde hair and clinging to his lashes. He stood still for a moment, his face tilted upward, his breath visible in soft bursts of white against the cold air.

“Guess it is,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost lost to the soft hum of the night. He lowered his head, looking at you again, and something about the way his eyes lingered on yours made the rest of the world feel distant, hazy—like you were the only two people here.

You shivered a little, though it wasn’t from the cold. Kenny noticed immediately, pulling his hands out of his jacket pockets and stepping closer. “You cold, babe?” he asked softly, the teasing lilt in his voice barely there now.

“A little,” you admitted, though you were barely thinking about the temperature. Not when he was standing this close, his face only a few inches from yours, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“C’mere,” Kenny said, his voice low and warm. He reached out and tugged you gently by the edge of your coat, pulling you just close enough that your breath mingled in the cold air.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could see the flecks of snow caught in his hair, the way the faint light of the streetlamp turned the edges of his face golden. His eyes searched yours, his expression unusually open, like he was waiting—waiting for you to make the call.

Your heart pounded as you lifted your hand, brushing a few stray snowflakes from his hair with your gloved fingers. Kenny’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch, just for a second, before they opened again—soft, vulnerable, there.

“Kenny,” you murmured, not even sure what you were about to say.

He smiled faintly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned in slowly, letting your eyes flutter shut as the distance between you disappeared. Kenny’s breath hitched softly, and then his lips met yours—delicate and hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him.

The kiss was soft and unhurried, the kind that made time feel like it had stopped. His lips were warm despite the cold, chapped from the winter air, but gentle against yours, like he was afraid to break something. Kenny’s hands came to rest on your coat, careful but steady, grounding you even as everything else seemed to spin.

Snowflakes landed lightly on your cheeks and melted instantly, the cold barely registering as you tilted your head, deepening the kiss just a little. Kenny’s lips moved with yours, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth against his. His thumb brushed your sleeve absentmindedly, sending a faint shiver down your spine, and you let yourself melt into him, into the moment.

When you finally pulled back, it was only by an inch, your foreheads almost touching as you caught your breath. Snowflakes floated lazily between you, clinging to Kenny’s lashes and dusting the tips of his hair like frost. He blinked slowly, his breath fogging the space between you both, his lips curling into the faintest smile.

“Well, shit,” Kenny said quietly, his voice soft and husky. “That was... pretty nice.”

You laughed softly, still breathless, your cheeks aching from smiling. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “It really was.”

Kenny tilted his head, his grin widening into something closer to his usual mischief but gentler now, softened by the moment. “Don’t go falling in love with me, babe,” he teased, though his voice was warm. “I’ll just disappoint you.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you nudged his shoulder lightly. “Too late, McCormick.”

Kenny blinked at you, like he hadn’t expected that answer. His grin faltered, just for a second, before he chuckled softly under his breath and shook his head. “God, you’re something else.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you teased.

“Not at all,” Kenny replied, his voice low as he watched you. “Not at all.”

The snow fell heavier now, swirling in glowing spirals under the flickering streetlamp, but neither of you moved. Kenny stayed close, his hands still resting lightly on your coat, his smile lingering as he leaned in again—just enough to brush his lips against yours once more.

And for that moment, under the soft blanket of snow and the dim golden glow of the streetlamp, the rest of the world disappeared.