#((this felt like the right universe to answer such an ask

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ father johnny 'soap' mactavish - 02

cw : angst, comfort, can be read in the same universe as this.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  collection

The house was quiet.

It was a rare moment of peace in the Mactavish home. Seven kids, it hadn’t been easy, but there was nothing Johnny would change about his life. He loved the noise, the mess, the laughter, the tears… all of it. If anything, he would’ve had even more kids. But that hadn’t been possible.

The last pregnancy had taken a heavy toll on you. After six deliveries, anyone would’ve thought your body was used to it. And with modern medicine, it should’ve gone smoothly.

But it didn’t.

You lost a dangerous amount of blood. The baby had nearly died, choking on his umbilical cord.

It had been a nightmare, for you, and for Johnny. It changed everything. Any desire for another child vanished overnight. He went as far as getting a vasectomy. He wasn’t going back to condoms, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to put you through any contraception that might mess with your body.

So, a vasectomy it was.

Now Johnny was enjoying a cigarette, sitting with a cup of tea in the middle of his kitchen. The night was winding down. His babies were safe in their beds, his wife sound asleep, warm, soft, waiting for him.

Only one was missing.

Callum had gone to a party tonight. He was due back in ten minutes, so Johnny waited. He always waited. He needed to know where all his bairns were before he could close his eyes. That nagging feeling never went away when one of them was out for the night—sleepovers, school trips, didn’t matter.

He couldn’t help it. It was just in him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door, right on time. He’d raised them well, his babies.

Johnny smiled softly, but the smile vanished the second his fifteen-year-old son stepped into the kitchen. Callum looked devastated, tired and scared. Johnny’s heart cracked at the sight.

He stood up quickly, hurrying over to him, eyes scanning from head to toe, searching for anything, an injury, a burn, a scratch, anything that might explain why his boy looked like that. His hands landed gently on Callum’s shoulders as he met his son’s tear-filled blue eyes.

It happened in an instant, Callum burst into tears and threw himself into his father’s arms.

If there was one thing Johnny had always been good at, aside from demolition, it was being a dad. He never raised his voice, never laid a hand on his bairns. He hugged them, kissed them, made sure they knew they were loved. Even his teenage boys weren’t ashamed to ask for a hug now and then. That’s how Johnny knew he was doing something right. His was his kids' safe place. 

He held Callum tight, steady and strong, the way he always had.

“What’s going on?” Johnny whispered, anxiety chewing through him like acid. He’d take a bullet to the head a second time if it meant keeping his babies safe. “Are ye hurt, baby?”

Callum shook his head between sobs, his whole body trembling. He clung to Johnny like a drowning boy clutching a lifeboat, desperate and terrified. Johnny could feel the panic radiating off him, could hear it in every broken breath.

Something had happened. Something bad. And Johnny’s gut twisted with a fear he hadn’t felt since his days on the battlefield.

That’s how they stayed for a few minutes, standing in the kitchen, the clock ticking toward midnight, while the youngest cried heavy, aching tears into his father’s shirt.

It was a sight Johnny never wanted to see, one of his grown bairns breaking like that, crying their heart out. To him, they were sacred. Precious. Pure souls who shouldn't have to carry pain of any kind.

Not his kids. Not ever.

“Tell me what happened,” Johnny asked gently, his voice low and steady. “Ye ken you can tell me anything.” He whispered again, softer this time, trying to soothe his boy. 

One hand moved slowly up and down Callum’s back, the other gently stroking his hair, reassurance in every touch.

“It’s Ethan…” came the answer, barely louder than a breath. If Johnny hadn’t been listening so closely, he might’ve missed it.

Ethan. Simon’s son. Callum’s best friend.

“Is he hurt?” It was the first thought that hit Johnny like a punch to the chest.

Those boys were tied together like true brothers. He couldn’t imagine Ethan ever doing anything to harm Callum. And he couldn’t imagine Callum breaking like this unless something serious had happened.

Johnny trusted Simon, he knew the kind of father he was. A bit more stern than Johnny himself, maybe, but firm in love and always ready to listen. Their sons had grown up in that shared foundation.

If something had happened to Ethan, Johnny needed to know. He had to.

“No,” Callum whimpered, barely above a whisper, looking up at his father.

There was something in his eyes. Something Johnny hadn’t expected. Fear.

Johnny’s chest tightened. It wasn’t fear for something, it was fear of him. And that shattered him.

For a moment, he just stared, eyebrows furrowed deep, trying to understand. Hadn’t he always been gentle? Hadn’t he held them through every scrape and heartbreak, never raising his voice, never judging? Hadn’t he proven, time and again, that he would protect them from anything?

How could his boy—his boy—be afraid of him?

“Tell me, baby,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick as he pulled Callum’s head back against his chest. He wasn’t ready for his son to see the tears gathering in his own eyes. That look, that fear,had cut deeper than anything else ever had. “Ye dinnae have to be scared, Cal. Not with me. Never.”

After those words, Johnny felt his son’s arms tighten around him, so tight it was almost suffocating. Callum clung to him like he was the last safe place in the world, and the tears didn’t stop. His sweet boy, always the pleaser, was trying to stifle his sobs, biting them back so he wouldn’t wake his siblings or his mum. Even in his own pain, he was thinking of others.

That only broke Johnny’s heart more.

“I’m scared to tell you, Dad,” Callum murmured into his father’s chest, his voice shaky and muffled. He still couldn’t bring himself to lift his head from the comfort Johnny gave him. “I don’t want you to think different of me.”

Johnny sighed softly, shaking his head against his son’s hair. “What are ye on about?” he whispered. “Ye could kill someone and ye'd still be my sweet son, Callum.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his boy’s head, slow and steady, hoping it would soothe him enough to speak.

“I need to ken, son,” he added quietly, not wanting to push, but aching for answers. “It’s killing me to see ye like this. Ye can tell me anything. Me and yer mum, we’re never gonna judge ye. Never.”

Callum took a deep breath, sniffing one last time before finally pulling back from the embrace. He looked up at his father, eyes wide and glassy, big tears threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red from all the crying and rubbing.

“Ethan, he…” he started, voice barely a murmur. Johnny could see how much it cost him to even begin. “Me and Ethan… we, um…”

Callum closed his eyes, gathering the last of his courage. His chest rose with another breath, this one deeper, shakier.

“I’m gay, Dad.”

The words slipped out in a whisper, hanging in the stillness of the kitchen like a secret finally set free. The clock ticked quietly past fifteen minutes past midnight.

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny let out a long, relieved sigh.

“That’s it?” he asked, brows lifting slightly.

“What?” Callum opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

Johnny frowned, but this time not out of confusion, this time, it hurt. Deeply. That his boy could think he’d be angry, or worse, disgusted just for loving someone. There was nothing his kids could say that would ever make him stop loving them. And certainly not who they loved.

“Baby,” Johnny murmured, shaking his head. He reached for Callum again and pulled him into his arms without hesitation.“I dinnae know what I did, or didnae do, that made ye think I’d be angry because ye like boys,” he said gently. “And I mean this in the kindest way, I truly dinnae care who ye love, Callum. As long as they’re good to ye, good people… that’s all that matters to me.”

He pressed another soft kiss to the top of his son’s head, holding him close like he had when Callum was little, like he always would.

“I was so scared, Dad,” Callum whispered, another heavy tear sliding down his cheek. “And Ethan said he didn’t want to hide anymore, but I didn’t know what to do… so he left, so angry. And he hasn’t been answering my texts…”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Johnny cooed softly. “Everything’s going to be fine, Cal. If Ethan’s anything like his dad, he gets angry fast… but then the guilt eats him alive.”

Johnny chuckled, remembering all too well how Simon’s temper could flare.

“You really think so?” Callum looked up at his dad, eyes wide with hope and trust.

Johnny brushed a stray tear from his son’s cheek and nodded slowly, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I ken so.”

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny gently guided his son to sit at the kitchen table. He filled a small cup with the still-warm tea, adding just the right amount of milk and sugar—just how Callum liked it.

The moment the cup was set in front of him, Callum’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Messages. From Ethan.

“Told ye,” Johnny smirked, pressing one last kiss to his boy’s head. “Don’t forget to turn the light off. I love ye.”

And with that, Johnny headed upstairs, feet quiet against the floor. He crept into bed, careful not to startle you as he slid in beside your warmth. Slipping an arm around your waist, he pulled you close, breathing you in. He had longed for this all evening, the comfort of your presence.

But even as he lay there, wrapped in everything he loved, one thought refused to leave him. Callum had been scared to tell them he was gay. And that, that would sit with Johnny for a long while.

“You alright?” you murmured against his neck, your hand slowly caressing his chest, feeling how damp it was with the remnants of your son's tears.

“I dinnae think so,” Johnny sighed, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Callum was scared to tell me something… and it broke my heart a little.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and tightened your hold around him.

“They’re kids, Johnny. They’ve got a whole world outside this house. So many voices in their heads, telling them horrible things. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Your voice was thick with sleep, but still steady, still sure. “Society’s just pure shit, my love.”

Your words made sense. Johnny could shelter them all he wanted, but the outside world would always be vicious. All he could truly do was be their safe place, their comfort, their reassurance. Just like tonight. That was what really mattered.

Because in the end, Callum had come to him. Scared, vulnerable, but trusting. He’d still sought out his father’s arms, his love, his words.

And that meant everything.

“Yeah… yeah,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick with sleep. “Ye're right, my darling.”

happy pride month !

[strnilolover]

new step brother matt request (pretty sure i sent like 3 other's already😭)

anyways since he doesn't like sharing things maybe you could do reader sneaking around his room and then trying on his rings (she wants to borrow one or something) and then walking out with it on and he catches her

⌗ . . . DID I TELL YOU, YOU COULD?

WARNINGS : JUST MATT BEING MEAN.

you knew Matt hated when people touched his stuff. he was territorial to a fault—about his shoes, his hoodies, his food in the fridge. but you don’t blame him really, you’d hate for people to touch things that weren’t theirs.

so you knew that sneaking into his room felt a little like walking into a lion’s den. you didn’t even bother turning on the light when you got in there—just let the sun bleed in through the little slits in the blinds as your eyes adjusted to the semi dark room.

you weren’t here to snoop around in his things—though you’d really love to. you were just here to borrow something. something small and something he probably wouldn’t even notice.

you wanted to borrow one of his rings. you always loved how they looked on his hands, making them stand out more and look more hot than they normally did. but you almost admired how cool they were, and you just wanted to wear one yourself for a little.

you promised yourself you’d give it right back to him at the end of the day.

your eyes scanned his room until a silver ring sitting on the corner of his dresser caught your eye. chunky. minimalist. very Matt. and so you walked over to it, your fingers ghosting over it for just a second before reaching for it and sliding it over your middle finger. it was heavy and smooth, and just loose enough that it could slip off if you weren’t careful.

it looked good on you, better than you initially expected it to be. but it’s matt—he’s got really good taste.

you were admiring it in his mirror and didn’t notice when matt started to come in until you heard his door creak behind you, his voice soon following. “seriously sweetheart?” his voice barely concealing that smug little smirk he always wore when he caught you doing something you shouldn’t.

you stiffened slightly, turning around as casually as you could—hand still half-raised to show the ring you were admiring on your finger. you didn’t want to get caught but obviously the universe had other plans.

you stood there for a moment, trying ti find the right words to say. your mouth opening and closing like a fish before you started to speak. but the words were cut short. “i was just—”

“breaking into my room?” he cut in, his arms crossed over his chest now, leaning against his doorway. “you know i don’t like people touching my things baby.” he stated, raising a brow at you now. you knew that. you both knew that.

“i wasn’t, I was uh..” you trailed off, watching the way his eyes dropped to your hand. to his ring on your finger. “okay, fine. I wanted to borrow it.” you say quickly. matt tsked before pushing himself off the doorframe, taking a slow step forward. “that’s not how borrowing works. usually people ask you know.”

you groaned, rolling your eyes just slightly at him. “and would you have said yes?” you retorted back to him. he just shook his head. “nope.” and he stopped right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “but now that i think about it, maybe i would’ve just put it on you myself.”

that made your brows furrow. you weren’t expecting him to say that. you felt your heart pound, but you ignored it. instead you decided to just be a bit of a brat.

“you gonna take it back?” you asked, smirking just slightly at him as if it were a game. but he didn’t answer right away. he just stared at it—your hand, his ring—then brought one of his fingers up to graze your knuckles.

he shook his head. “nah,” he murmured. “kinda looks better on you anyway.” and you blinked, caught off guard. so you decided to push your luck just a little.

“can keep it?” and you hoped he’d say yes, considering the mood he seems to be in. he laughed. “no. but you can for now.” he said, voice low. “long as you don’t lose it. or let someone else take it. that ring’s still mine.”

“and if i do?” you asked curiously. wondering what he would do if you were to do either. and matt smirked. “than I’ll come and take it myself.” his gaze dipped to your lips for a moment before backing up with a shrug. “and maybe a little more while I’m at it.”

a/n : matt isn’t always an asshole. and this is the last of the requests in my drafts, i’ll get the newer ones done soon i promise 🥰

[certaimromance]

✶⋆.˚ Blue Moon.

“Traditionally, something that happens (to you) rarely or never.”

Spencer Reid x Mystical!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spending time with your new partner on the road can reveal surprising things about him that you didn't know before.

Words: 2k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of serial killers, victims, religion, high school trauma. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I want to say thank you all for the love you give to the first chapter! I didn’t expect it, and I hope you like this and all the chapters that are coming. I’m putting all of myself into making this funny, deep, and romantic at the same damn time.

You’d been in worse cars.

There was the beat-up stakeout sedan where an agent chewed gum like he was waging war on his own mouth, jaw snapping and smacking with such ferocity it sounded like a percussion section gone rogue. There was the suffocating silence in Hotch’s car, where the weight of his presence felt like ten extra pounds of gravity pressing down on your chest, making every breath a conscious effort. And who could forget that cursed van with Morgan’s playlist—Hits to Impress Women Who Know Better—on an endless loop, like a bad joke without a punchline.

But this?

This was an entirely new flavor of hell, and it came with the soft symphony of rustling paper and nervous energy. It was a punishment that your boss had refused to lift until he deemed it necessary.

Dr. Spencer Reid sat beside you in the passenger seat, knees folded awkwardly like some twitchy origami sculpture, his long legs seemingly too big for the cramped space beneath the dashboard. His worn messenger bag rested between his thighs, overstuffed and fraying at the edges, the faded fabric begging for retirement after countless semesters of academic battles.

He was fully engrossed in the case file.

Correction: completely obsessed.

His thumb was constantly wet with saliva, delicately licking the paper before flipping to the next page with the precision of a surgeon handling a scalpel. Each turn made a faint, incessant shhhk, a tiny but relentless soundtrack to the drive. He scribbled quick, neat annotations in the margins, little hieroglyphics of his own devising, before resuming his careful reading.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles whitening under your gloves, and forced your gaze back to the stretch of highway unwinding through the cold gray afternoon. Outside, the landscape was blurred by a thin mist that clung to the bare branches like ghosts, and your breath still fogged up the inside of the windshield despite the heater’s best efforts.

The heater’s warmth was a pale consolation, fighting a losing battle against the creeping chill that seeped in around the edges of the window.

“Okay,” you said, without looking away from the road, “I’m pretty sure it’s a federal offense to make that much paper noise before noon.”

Spencer didn’t even glance up, his eyes scanning the pages like they held the secrets of the universe. “It’s 12:07,” he answered matter-of-factly, voice soft but precise.

You shot him a flat, accusing look. “So you’ve chosen violence.”

Another shhhk, another scribble, then a pause long enough for you to seriously consider pulling over and asking him to finish his entire dissertation before you hit the school parking lot.

“Seriously,” you sighed, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel as you flicked on the turn signal, “do you need to read it right now? We’re already on the way to the crime scene. The school isn’t going anywhere. You’ll have plenty of time to wow the locals with your encyclopedic recall of obscure footwear tread patterns and locker combinations once we get there.”

“I’m reviewing the psychological profiles of the victims,” he replied calmly, barely lifting his gaze. “Also, none of them wore shoes with particularly distinguishable treads. One pair of Vans, two Converse, and one generic off-brand sneaker. Very common.”

You blinked, incredulous.

“You actually remembered that?”

He finally looked up at you with a blink of confusion, like the question itself was weird. “Yes?”

Damn it, you knew he was a smart guy, but you never paid enough attention to notice that he was that smart.

You stared back at the road ahead, exasperated beyond words. “I swear to God, if you weren’t so painfully smart, I’d accuse you of being a sleep-deprived alien wearing a human skin suit.”

A long silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

Then, faintly, his voice cut through: “That’s…surprisingly specific.”

“It’s been a long week,” you muttered.

A brief pause.

Then, shhhk, the relentless rustle of paper again.

You finally slammed your hand down on the radio dial, cutting off the academic soundtrack with decisive force.

Classic rock burst through the speakers, slicing through the car like a warm knife through frostbitten silence.

Spencer blinked, momentarily scandalized.

“Do you mind if we keep it off?” he asked, voice small and defensive, like you’d just interrupted his morning meditation.

You gave him a long, slow look, one eyebrow arching in skeptical disbelief. “Right. God forbid Stevie Nicks interrupts the pure sanctity of your brain chemistry.”

He blinked again, clearly unsure whether you were teasing or serious.

“Music with lyrics,” he elaborated carefully, “engages the language centers of the brain. It splits attention.”

You slowly withdrew your hand from the dial as if you were putting away a weapon. “Right. No music then.”

He stared at you.

You stared at the road.

The heater wheezed.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you added a brand-new note to your mental dossier titled How to Annoy Spencer Reid in Confined Spaces. You wrote:

— Play Fleetwood Mac.

— Songs with lyrics.

— Breathe.

You exhaled loudly through your nose, an exaggerated sigh of suffering, and beside you, Spencer’s pen paused mid-scribble. The scratch of it against paper stopped cold. Blessed silence.

For five whole miles, you drove in relative peace. The faint wail of a guitar solo played in your mind, like a nostalgic classic rock station providing a soundtrack that gave you some peace of mind. Outside, the winter light hung low over the highway, flat and silver, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Your knuckles were stiff on the steering wheel, fingers flexing every now and then to keep the blood flowing in the chill.

You didn’t know if it was the heater trying its best against the December air or the sheer absurdity of the last few days, but something in you finally began to unclench. Even your irritation with Reid—the fidgeting, the rustle of case notes, the muttering to himself like he was solving three crimes at once—had started to burn itself out. The silence between you wasn’t friendly yet, but it wasn’t hostile either. It settled around you like an old coat. Slightly itchy.

You glanced at the GPS, then at the man beside you: bookish and serious, perched stiffly in the passenger seat like someone who wasn’t sure how chairs worked. His profile was sharp in the afternoon light—cheekbone, nose, brow—a study in concentration and underlying tension.

Well. If you were going to be stuck with him for this case, you might as well entertain yourself.

“So,” you said casually, not looking away from the road, “we’re going to a high school. Want to talk about it?”

Spencer blinked, visibly startled. “Talk about what?”

“High school,” you said, waving one gloved hand vaguely through the air. “You know. Puberty. Locker drama. Tragic cafeteria food. Crying in the bathroom between third and fourth period.”

He shifted in his seat, his spine somehow growing straighter. “I didn’t go to high school in the traditional sense.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Meaning…?”

“I was enrolled in college by the time I was twelve,” he said, like he was just listing a fact about the weather.

Oh, another thing you didn't know.

You blinked at him. “Twelve.”

He nodded, clearly used to this reaction.

“You mean to tell me you skipped the universal rite of passage known as failing a math test and lying to your parents about it?”

“I taught linear algebra to undergrads when I was fourteen,” he offered, as if that cleared things up.

You made a wounded, borderline scandalized sound. “Oh my God. No wonder you’re like this.”

He tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like someone who thinks emotional trauma is best solved with a bibliography.”

His lips twitched. Just barely. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or mild offense. Probably both. That was kind of his thing.

“Did you at least go to prom?” You asked, half-mocking, half-genuinely curious.

He stared ahead for a moment, eyes scanning the horizon like it held the right answer. “No prom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

There was a pause, and when he finally spoke, it was softer than you expected. “No one wanted to go with the weird kid.”

You blinked.

It hit you, not like a dramatic gut-punch, but something quieter. Smaller. The kind of thing that slipped under the armor before you even realized you’d let it in. Like a pebble in your shoe you hadn’t noticed until it started to sting.

Your eyes flicked back to the road. Asphalt stretched ahead in clean, empty lines, the midafternoon sky cold and overcast. The trees blurred past the windows, all brittle branches and leftover frost. Inside the car, it was warm, but not warm enough. You could still feel the chill in your sleeves.

You glanced at him again. He didn’t look wounded, just…far. Like he was watching a memory flicker across some old reel behind his eyes. Like he could still remember the way it felt to be on the outside of everything, like he still could feel it sometimes.

“Everyone was weird in high school, Reid,” you said, voice lighter now, threading warmth through it on purpose. “I think they were just too stupid to realize it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, barely, his mouth tugged upward. A small, reluctant smile. Not the showy kind. The kind you had to look for. The kind that meant something but not really.

And for the first time since the case started, the air in the car felt a little less cold.

He folded his arms, hunching a bit like he was trying not to look too pleased. “Alright, your turn. What were you like in school?”

You grinned, a little too proudly. “Oh, I was a total cynic. Textbook nihilist. Black hoodie, eyeliner, permanent scowl. Sat in the back row like I was contractually obligated to hate everything.”

“That…” Spencer’s brow lifted slightly, a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth, “explains a lot.”

You laughed—actual, surprised laughter that cracked open your chest for a second. “I didn’t believe in anything, okay? Not God, not fate, definitely not authority. I was a walking eye roll.”

Spencer turned his head toward you slightly, curiosity glinting in his eyes beneath the slow wash of gray light through the windshield. “So…what changed?”

You hesitated.

Outside, the sun flickered through bare branches like something was moving just behind the clouds. You focused on the road, your fingers tightening on the wheel.

“I think I just hit the wall,” you said after a beat. “Emotionally, spiritually, whatever. I couldn’t keep believing in nothing. It was like…I needed something. A reason to keep moving. So I started looking.”

He was silent, but you could feel him listening. Not just hearing, really listening. You glanced over. His brow was furrowed slightly, not in doubt, just in effort.

“And…did you find it?” He asked, his voice softer now.

You nodded once, eyes still forward. “Yeah. A pull. A pattern. A whisper, maybe. Something that told me there’s more happening than what we see. I don’t know. Some people call it energy or fate. I just call it necessary.”

There was a long pause. When you looked over, he was watching you, incredibly not judging, just…trying to get it.

“I don’t understand it,” Spencer said eventually, careful and honest.

“I know,” you said, glancing over with a crooked smile. “And I don’t get how your brain works either. I’ve literally seen you argue with statistics. Like, out loud. Passionately.”

“They were being misused,” he muttered, stiffly.

You nudged his elbow. “See? Look at us. We’re bonding.”

“I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

Outside, the scenery passed by in small-town stillness. Red brick schools. Chain-link fences. Yellowed grass and quiet sidewalks. The kind of place where people shove secrets behind front doors.

You reached out and adjusted the heater again. The hum grew louder, the vents huffing out warm air in tired bursts. Beside you, Spencer was shifting slightly, reaching down toward his bag.

You glanced at him, brow raised. “If I hear one more shhhk of paper, I will start singing witchy manifestation songs at full volume.”

His hand froze. Then slowly, very slowly, he retreated back to his lap.

Progress.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @withloverosse @jisungchan

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[sxuma]

When tomorrow never comes -- michael kaiser x fem!reader

notes: You manage to love michael kaiser, but is the universe on your side? cw: terminal illness, fluff-angst -3k words-

Michael Kaiser was good at a lot of things.

Scoring goals. Stealing headlines. Making defenders crumble under pressure and walking away with a smirk that lit up half the continent. He was all teeth and ego and impossible brilliance, so fast he outran gravity, so sharp he left wounds behind.

He was dazzling. He was chaos. He was built for glory.

And he was nearly impossible to love.

But you did.

You loved him the way people love the stars. Quietly, from a distance, with awe and a touch of fear. Even when he was too much, too loud, too golden for your quiet corners. Even when the world wanted pieces of him, clawing at the edges. You still loved him.

And somehow, somehow, he loved you too.

Your demeanor is what made him fall in love with you after all.

“I should buy you a necklace shaped like my face,” he said one morning, shirtless on the bed, arms stretched and legs spread. “So you never forget I’m a national treasure.”

You rolled your eyes. Laughed. Flicked his forehead like you always did. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he grinned, wrapping an arm around you, dragging you into his orbit like gravity, “here you are. Suffering in silence beside me. Again.”

No one else got to see him like this.

Not his teammates. Not his fans. Not the cameras that worshipped his shadow.

But you?

You saw Michael Kaiser in mismatched socks and wrinkled shirts. You saw him whining for five more minutes of sleep into your shoulder. You saw him curled up on the floor after long flights, eyes fluttering shut before the interviews even aired. You saw him through his mental breakdowns as he remembered his past. You saw the version of him no one else believed existed.

You saw him.

And he saw you.

Bright. Gentle. Steady in a way that calmed his storm. You were his quiet in a world that only ever asked him to be louder.

-

He never questioned why your smile sometimes didn’t reach your eyes. Why you were always “just tired.” Why your hands trembled when you poured tea.

He never asked.

And you never told him.

You didn’t mean to lie. Not at first.

But the season picked up: flights, fans, goals, cities; and you became background noise to a roaring world. He was thriving. You were unraveling.

It started with bruises that didn’t fade. Fevers that clung too long. Fatigue that soaked into your bones. You tried to hide it. You smiled through hospital visits. You tucked away words like “metastatic” and “terminal” behind texts that said “I’m just tired, love.”

“You need to start thinking about palliative care,” the doctor said gently.

You nodded. You didn’t cry.

You were too busy making a plan.

Not for recovery...but for silence.

For how to keep Michael Kaiser from knowing that the love of his life was slipping away. How she is dying.

He bought you matching jackets after a match in Madrid.

“It reminded me of you,” he said. “Because it’s flashy and ridiculous.”

You laughed. Wore it every day after that. Because every time he saw it, he smiled. Every time you wore it, he pulled you in by the zipper and kissed your forehead like it gave him permission to be soft in a world that demanded he be anything but.

-

“Promise you’ll still be here after the World Cup?” he asked one night, breath warm against your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

You didn’t answer right away.

You smiled.

“Of course I will.”

-

But you got worse in October.

The coughs deepened. Your hands shook too hard to hold a pen. Some mornings, just walking to the bathroom felt like climbing a mountain.

Still, you sent him photos. Sent him jokes. Blamed your pale face on bad coffee, your shaking voice on poor Wi-Fi.

And he believed you.

He wanted to believe you.

That made it easier to keep lying.

“I’m coming home next week,” he said over the phone, his voice bright and buzzing with excitement. “They moved the interview. I want to see your stupid face.”

You laughed. Quiet. “You just want to steal my fries again.”

“I miss you, you idiot.”

He did.

God, he did.

He bought something for you. A tiny gold necklace. Your initials engraved on the back. He planned to hide it in your favorite chocolate box. He pictured you rolling your eyes, calling it “tacky,” and wearing it anyway.

But when he got back—

There was a voicemail.

Your voice. Breathy. Soft.

“Hey, Micha. Just in case I miss you, I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving me the way you do.”

He called you five times.

No answer.

He called your bestfriend.

Nothing.

He drove straight to your shared apartment. The lights were off. The sink was dry. Your jacket, the bright, flashy one, still hung untouched by the door.

He couldn’t breathe.

He went to the hospital next.

They didn’t let him in.

Not until someone recognized him.

“The boyfriend,” someone whispered.

"The superstar?"

He ran.

But the room was empty.

Not just of you.

Of everything.

Stripped bare.

Your best friend found him outside, sitting on the bench where you used to wait for your rides.

Her eyes were red. Her voice was shaking.

“I’m so sorry,”

“She just texted me. She said she was fine,"

“She didn’t want you to worry.”

His voice broke. “She’s… gone?”

She nodded. Then reached into her pocket and handed him something small. Folded. Tidy.

“She wrote you something.”

He didn’t read it. Not at first. He held it like it might burn him. Like opening it might mean accepting you were really, truly gone.

-

He went to your funeral in silence. No cameras. No sunglasses. Just him, a boy made of gold and grief, sitting in the back pew like he didn’t belong in a world without you in it.

He read your letter that night.

It was dated two weeks before you passed. The ink wavered in places, like your hand had started to give out. It was short. Honest. And quietly devastating.

My Micha, I don’t know how to start this. I’ve rewritten the first line a dozen times, but nothing feels right. Maybe because no part of this is right. None of this should be real. But it is. If you’re reading this… then I didn’t get to say goodbye. And I’m so, so sorry for that. I wanted to. I really did. I tried to hold on. I tried to stay longer. For you. For the future we kept half-joking about. I kept telling myself I'd wait until after your next match, your next flight, your next win. But my body stopped listening to my promises. I never wanted to become your grief. I wanted to be the person you came home to after the stadium lights went dark. I wanted to grow old beside you, argue about stupid things, steal your food, kiss you when your ego got too big. I wanted the boring stuff; grocery shopping, tangled sheets, shared playlists. I wanted every second this life had to offer if it meant I could spend them with you. But life had other plans. And I couldn’t bring myself to ruin your season with the truth. I know that’s not fair. I know I took your choice away. But I saw how happy you were. How alive you looked under those lights. I couldn’t bear to dim that. Not with something as cruel and final as this. You made me feel like I was more than what was happening to me. Like I was someone worth loving even when I didn’t feel real anymore. You never knew it, but you saved me, every day, with your ridiculous laugh, your god-awful flirting, your loud, infuriating, perfect love. You gave me joy in the middle of sorrow. And I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that. I need you to do something for me now, even if it’s hard. Keep living. Win every match. Chase every dream. Be loud and selfish and brave the way only you know how to be. And when you miss me, because I know you will, close your eyes. Breathe. I’ll be there. Always. In the crowd, in the silence, in the spaces between goals and dreams. Love with your whole heart. Laugh like I’m still in the room. And when you wear that stupid jacket, pretend it still smells like me, even when it doesn’t. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Kaiser. My love for you was the easiest truth I ever knew. And I carried it with me until the very last breath. Always yours, —[Name]

He read it five times.

He didn’t cry until the sun rose.

He wore the jacket the next day.

Even though it didn’t smell like you anymore.

He kept playing.

But he stopped celebrating the same way. He pointed to the sky after every goal. Kissed his wrist before every penalty, right over the ink where your initials were tattooed, above his crown tattoo.

The press called it superstition.

He never corrected them.

Because the truth was harder to say out loud:

You weren’t there when he came home.

And tomorrow never came.

[cycat-carisi]

Invisible

Pairing: Steve Harrington x shy!reader

Summary: A longing to be noticed finally fulfilled.

Tags/warnings: mention of partying, Steve finally went to college, shy MC, no use y/n, angst with a sprinkle of hope

Words: 922

A/N: This one's dedicated to all the peeps out there who have ever felt invisible. For those who others disregard just because they're not outgoing. You will the center of the universe for the right person <3

Also, this one was sitting in my drafts so I decided to throw it out there into the interwebs. It's a short little idea I had one day and is the original start to a different fic idea I had. That one is still in the drafts though lol.

Fic below the cut or on AO3

He was just a boy at the opposite end of a dark room. A sea of people between you. Never knowing you existed. With perfectly styled hair and a charming smile, he drew others in like a magnet. Solo cup in hand, he engaged with everyone around him. So many faces, how could he possibly have known them all?

But he is Steve Harrington. Everyone knew him and wanted to bask in his aura, even for just a moment. It was as though his mere presence would elevate theirs in the social circles of Hawkins High.

That is, except for you. You were always the shy one that flew under the radar. The one who no one knew until they would lean over, whispering for answers during class. And out of politeness, and perhaps a hidden longing, you would always concede.

Maybe that was what you were hoping for that night too. Some piece of recognition, however small. Acceptance from the popular boy and his friends. Yet, invisibility was once again your only identity, having failed to be noticed amongst the fray.

And then years passed, high school a mere checkpoint along your path to success. You often fantasized that the popular crowd now spent their days floundering in academics that they wished they had paid attention to in high school.

You sometimes even imagined Steve Harrington, with his perfect hair and charming smile, lost in a crowd of college students who don’t really care who he is. The same as you had felt during all those years of high school. A revenge of sorts for the unrequited crush you harbored for a boy who didn’t even know your name.

Fantasies, however, sometimes have a way of becoming reality.

You don’t know why you had agreed to come to this awful dorm party, with its drunken crowds and loud music. But perhaps a craving for a sense of belonging you still had not achieved was an underlying, driving force. Yet, just like during your Hawkins High days, the house party was filled with gorgeous cheerleaders and handsome jocks, each flaunting their money and popularity to one another, with you still very much out of place.

Except, as you look across the dark room, with a sea of people between you, you notice a familiar face. Perfectly styled hair is still his signature feature, but the charming smile he once wore is now tired and sad. People flow around him, like a boulder in a stream. He is no longer a magnetic force. And, while you should feel vindicated that Hawkins’ hotshot no longer sits atop a pedestal, your stomach instead twists with sympathy.

Lost in your thoughts, that is when his gaze finds yours. A flicker of recognition ignites in his eyes. A slight pinch of a smile edges the corner of his mouth. And then he’s moving. The crowd seemingly falls away as you realize that Steve Harrington is making his way over to you.

Perfect hair, honey eyes, and the overwhelming scent of his expensive aftershave confront your senses.

“Hi,” he mouths through the pulsing bass of a nearby stereo.

You take in his smart blazer and slick jeans, trying to bring yourself back to reality. Surely, he must only recognize your face from his senior yearbook.

“Hi,” you utter timidly in return.

Then, he speaks your name.

It takes you by surprise.

You have never spoken to him beyond necessary classroom interactions or when he, too, would lean over to ask you for answers.

“I always knew you’d end up in college,” he compliments when you only respond with a nod. “I never thanked you for all those times you helped me out in class, but I hope you know that I appreciated it even if I didn’t seem grateful at the time.”

Hawkins’ most popular boy knows your name and remembers you well enough to thank you for something as insignificant as homework answers given years ago.

Shock still paralyzes your system.

You watch his kind eyes blink once, twice, waiting for you to respond.

“You know my name?” is all you manage.

The boy’s brows knit with confusion. He nods affirmatively. “Yeah,” he speaks gently, despite the deafening music. “I’m Steve. Steve Harrington,” he adds innocently as if you genuinely wouldn’t remember him. “We went to Hawkins High together.”

“I—I know who you are; I just didn’t think you would remember me.”

Hurt flashes across Steve’s face. There is a disappointment embedded in his features that existed long before this moment.

He glances at the ground. “I’m sorry.” His words hold the weight of a thousand years. “I know I was a colossal jerk in high school, but a lot has changed since. And despite how I acted, I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t exist.”

The smooth words and cocky demeanor that Steve had back in Hawkins simply aren’t there. That persona has been replaced by someone who carries a heavy burden in their heart and their mind.

“Do you think we could start over?” Those honey irises flick up towards yours once again.

Your stomach lurches, an old flame reignited.

Despite the past, despite the logical reasoning of your brain, you finally allow yourself to smile. “Yeah,” you speak, almost in a whisper. “I’d like that.”

The boy with the perfect hair and charming smile is now back in front of you, except this time you are no longer invisible. This time, as he offers you his hand, you are seen.

Fin

Feedback is loved ♥

[omniphilic]

ahem* hi hope you’re having a great day! Here are some concepts I thought of because there’s so much potential for angst in the Milf reader universe. Also the amber for this concept is show amber , I’ll wake one for comic amber later (if you want me too hehe)

Some people age like milk, some people age like fine wine but Ambers Mom?, she ages like ambrosia. That’s the local inside joke in the neighborhood, some moms envy her, some men love her, sons can’t go a day without staring at her. Does that mean she’s promiscuous? Oh no not at all, she’s kind, with a smile that can run a city, cooks like she was taught in the womb and always makes everyone’s day a but better, she also loves her daughter fiercely, VERY. FIERCELY. And would insult and/or beat the ever loving shit out of you if you mess with her family.

That’s why when Amber brought her first boyfriend home and he started making some berry suggestive passes at her mom, she did the best thing she could do, leave the room. Soon after he left, she called her daughter fi a chat and told her how her boyfriend made her uncomfortable and would want him at the house anymore, keeping the true story to herself so as to not sabotage her relationship with her daughter. Amber knew that there was still some truth yet to be told but trusted her mother either way, her relationship with her first boyfriend went smoothly (aside from her mother’s obvious distaste for him) that was until one day she caught him pants down jerking to a photo of her mom that he got from facebooking. She broke up with him instantly.

Now, you said in one of your answers to an als that this has been a recurring problem with amber and her boyfriends and I just think that’s why she avoids bringing them home to meet Milf reader , partially because she doesn’t trust them and part because she doesn’t want any of them to try to get too handsy with her mom (I feel like this may have happened before) and the other part is because she doesn’t want her mom to feel bad about it any time she breaks up with her boyfriends because of it. But when amber met mark, she felt he was different than the others, that he wouldn’t even dare do such a thing (how wrong she was).

It starts slow but she starts suspecting and soon she finds out and she is DONE, she comes back home angry and tear faced, MILF reader asks her what’s wrong and she EXPLODES and eventually saying a few words she can’t quite take back. Reader is mortified and immensely guilty, she begins to drift away, not out of spite or anger but fear that her presence will mess up the possibility of Amber finding true love, she can’t even look her own daughter in the eye and hovers around like she’s lost her spark and she has, her lovely daughter hates her (she doesn’t and feels guilty about what she said but doesn’t know how to apologize) so now everything just doesn’t seem right anymore.

Do they make up? Maybe idk but the whole concept gave me brain worms and I don’t know how to get rid of them , what do you think?

I LOOOOOOOOOOVE THIS BECAUSE YOU ARE LITERALLY LIVING IN MY MIND!!! you are in my cell dude, because from top to bottom, yes yes yes all over this. just. yes.

tw: inappropriate advances + touching. onesided, background reader x amber's boyfriends (mark's in too deep). slutshaming of reader, accusations of cheating and homewrecking towards reader. Mostly examining Amber and Readers relationship.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀18+ content below / MDNI

Amber has a great mom. You've been her number one fan ever since she could draw breath, you'd lose an arm and a leg for her, die, if it would make her dreams multiply. You already give her the world and have begun plotting on the moon.

So... you have a bit of a problem on your hands when that new boy she brings home sauntered up to you.

Your daughter is beautiful, so it's not very surprising she's bringing home boys. You want her to live her life to the fullest so you've no interest in cramping her style, eager to meet her little friends, even the ones you don't like that much. This one, you think has a bit of a problem.

He has that stupid smirk twisting his lips. You are quite familiar with that kind of boy--he's got something loaded in the chamber and an itchy trigger finger; whether it'd be cool or cruel, you think, naturally, it's some dumb one liner you'll find a way to one up.

As simple as boys can be though, you always forget how unpredictable kids these days are. Bold. Audacious.

He's all puffed chest and pomp, walking past the threshold of the kitchen island. You're smiling because it's your default, head tilted towards, face curious. You make an inquisitive noise, put on to his approach. He doesn't falter for a second, rosy cheeks bunching up with his smile. He's sweet just standing there, but then he opens his mouth, and things get sour.

"Hey, Mrs. Bennett!"

He exchanges pleasantries while standing watch hawkish, waiting for the right time to dip down with talons and catch you up.

He can manage normalcy for at most four minutes.

"Hey, bud! Anything you need from me?" He says 'no', but doesn't stand any less imposing or bothersome, blathering on about nothing for a few moments. The weather, the pool him and Amber are heading to, what kind of swimsuits 'look the best'.

You're half listening, hands busy and mind scoring over the itinerary for the day, so you almost don't hear him.

"I think you'd look really good in a bikini!" His eyes glance down at your breasts in your low-cut shirt, then flick back up. "Or in any swimsuit really. I see where Amber gets her beauty from, you know." Your head arches back, the corners of your eyes wrinkling as your expression expands, lips pursed as you nod, fixing your face as your mind recovers from that white flash. "I guess I'm just sorta surprised Amber doesn't dress like you do..." He sticks up his hand to cradle his chin between thumb and forefinger. "She doesn't really like to be all... showy."

Your body is shot, state of shock so strong you don't notice you cut your finger until it stings under the cool water. You grunt and glance down at the sink, look at the rivulets of blood tinting the water red, and think. He keeps going.

"I guess I'm just lucky she has a beautiful ma—looking at you is sorta like looking at her. Just a... bigger version."

You want to clean out your ears with the dish soap because you couldn't--can't--have heard him right. Disbelief makes you snort as you finish the last of the dishes and wash out your cut. You turn off the water and turn your head up, just to see him standing there, lingering effluvia, looking every part bitch and bastard.

He's staring at you because you never turn your back on a big cat and he's wishing the cougar would pounce. For the other shoe to drop, where you fulfill his fantasy and go belly up for him, claws sheathed, tail aside. Maybe he's imagining you'd be flattered, shy, meek, the take-it-like-a-good-girl type.

"I thought you were gonna tell me a joke or say something funny when you walked up like that. I mean, I guess I wasn't entirely wrong. But this isn't the place for whatever the fuck you got going on." You dry off your hands, wring them in a towel that you ditch on the counter. "Back up."

"What? "

You don't falter.

"I didn't stutter. Behind the counter, now." You don't ask nicely and he realizes he's forgotten himself, cowed, less enthusiastic as tries to back pedal. "I hope you don't speak to Amber like that—never mind your mother." You sneer at him, poised viper-like.

"Amber!" You call out, sing-songy. "Can you come here, please?"

Sunshine ducks her head in and the kitchen becomes very bright, alive despite the blight stood beside with you. "You good mom? Did something happ—Oh! You're in here?" She is immediately distracted by her boy-thing, and you wave him away. "Your boyfriend here was telling me you two are going to the pool?"

You watch him walk and stand beside her, plant a kiss on her cheek.

"Yup! You ready to go, babe?"

She looks up at him but is unable to meet his eye as he quickly brushes past, then back at you. Her face isn't mad, but not happy either, just confused. You smile with no teeth.

"I just hope you two have lots of fun out there, okay? Don't forget to take your sunscreen. Oh! And pictures."

You'll need to have a talk with her when she gets back.

She has very little patience for these kinds of things now but you try to settle the matter as delicately as you can each time.

"Your boyfriend... I think he's gotten a little too, comfortable, don't you think?" It's a delicate matter to discuss over meatloaf but the discussion is most certainly had, with you explaining as sweetly as you can manage how it’d probably be best if you two started meeting at his place is all.

They didn’t stay together for much longer after that, though Amber never exactly told you how it all shook out.

She doesn’t really need to.

Every boy seems to get it in their mind at least once, when they come over. It's always something. Brushing up against you in places with space for ten people, off color comments, backhanded compliments aimed at putting Amber down to big you up.

It's not only sick, but sad.

You could leave the room all you like, put on different clothes, say something, or say nothing. But nothing would change.

They all act the same.

It always ends the same way, too. Your tear-damp shoulder and more time wasted, mounting resentment hidden behind her trembling lip all coming to a head when the apple of her eye falls far from the tree.

This past one was a real shame, too.

That Mark Grayson. An adonis in a modern age, armed with a charm befitting of a boy and a smile you're not surprised wormed it's way into your daughters heart. He wears his interests on his sleeve, if the Seance Dog shirt he wore to dinner one time is anything to go by.

She was afraid to show him off to you. Called him her ‘friend’ whenever he came up in conversation, forgetting how her smile turns up whenever his name comes from betwixt her lips.

You had no problem not knowing. Though it would be better to stagger the arrival of this one, as she’s done times before. To lessen exposure, delay the inevitable.

But eventually, you will meet.

He's sweet enough, you'd reckon, if a little shy when you come 'round. Always head down, light blush as if he's always a little sunburnt.

"Hey Mark, could you pass me the—" Salt. It's in your hands before you can even finish the sentence, as if he knows what you want before you yourself. You found it sweet, if a little too attentive. Mark certainly knew how to make someone feel seen, special, though his affections should've been reserved for his girlfriend, not you.

Starts small. Hugs that last too long, odd looks across the couch, room, dinner table. An arm around the small of your back instead of around your shoulders. A heat simmering on your chest, though when you look up, it’s gone.

She watches you more carefully than him and maybe that’s what stings—that she doesn’t feel entirely assured that you’re batting for her team, that you’re not just trying to secretly whittle her down, because what really are the chances?

The chances she’ll catch Mark with your name on the tip of his tongue, chances she’ll catch him with your panties slip-sliding out his pocket?

Higher than zero.

After a point, you have to see how easy it is for her to concede that some of this is likely your fault.

The fault of a whore. A hoe, housemaker and home wrecker in equal measure, and while you aren’t surprised at the words she slurs and spits at you, it doesn’t make the disrespect hurt any less. You would think your bond paramount to that of any she could’ve forged with those boys—you wouldn’t sacrifice your relationship with the light of your life just to fuck about with pieces of meat, those stupid little men.

You thought your daughter would think so much higher of you.

You were mistaken.

In reality Amber is a young person dealing with complex emotions regarding inadequacy, having not felt like enough for a very long time.

You guys would talk very little in the following weeks, only when she needed, if she wanted. It’s lonely but you’ve your own friends to keep you company, to rave and rant to until Amber has worked through her emotions and chooses circle back around—discuss the things she’d said to you that night.

I think you and her would ultimately resolve your issues. Her new man, is it Kyle? The picture perfect gentleman, wouldn’t look at you sideways cause he’s too busy kissing the ground Amber walks on, treating her with tenderness, care.

You can find it in yourself to be happy for her, simultaneously breathing a sigh of relief. At least it’s over now.

[unabashegirl]

Heavy hands — part I

A sheltered university student falls into the dark world of underground fighting—and into the orbit of undefeated fighter Harry Styles.

Author’s Note: I debated for weeks whether or not to share this, but… here we are. This is just a taste of what’s been brewing behind the scenes — the first part of a new ten-part Harry Styles fanfic I’ve been quietly building: gritty, slow-burn, and filled with everything I love in a story. For now, it’s a Patreon exclusive, but I couldn’t resist giving you a glimpse of what’s coming in a few weeks. If you’re curious, or if you just can’t wait… You can join my Patreon and read the full first chapter (and the rest as it comes) for only $2 USD. 🖤 Thank you for always being here, and for letting me tell the kind of stories that linger. I really hope this one does.

📌 here is the link to the tier to get access to heavy hands -> select the tier quick fix -> patreon

📌 word count: 5.1K

Y/N kept her head down as she walked the edge of campus, her breath turning pale in the morning air. She liked the quiet before her lectures started—the way her boots sounded against the cobblestones, the hush in the trees before the day filled in with people and noise and everything she didn’t quite know how to handle yet.

She held her notebook tight to her chest, fingers curled around the edges like it was armor.

The philosophy building loomed ahead, old stone and ivy creeping up the sides. Inside, it was dim, echoey. Smelled like dust and paper. The lecture hall had tall windows and creaky floors and more students than she’d ever been around at once. She took her usual seat—third row from the back, end of the bench—and opened her notebook with quiet care.

No one looked at her. They never did.

She preferred it that way, mostly. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be noticed. It was just… she didn’t know what she’d say if someone did.

Everything about university still felt sharp-edged and overwhelming. The people. The freedom. The way no one asked where she was going or what time she’d be back. After nineteen years of homeschooling, of morning devotions and polite conversation and being taught how to fold napkins the right way, it was like being dropped into another universe.

Her mother still called every night. Still reminded her not to talk to strangers. Still warned her, half-joking and half-serious, that London would eat her alive.

Y/N didn’t argue. She didn’t argue about anything, really. She was the quiet one. The good one. The girl who followed rules because they made her feel safe. And maybe because she didn’t know how not to.

A chair scraped beside her and she flinched, just slightly.

“Hi,” a voice said. “You’re in this class, right?”

Y/N turned her head. A girl with messy blonde hair and black eyeliner was dropping into the seat next to her, unbothered, smiling like they’d done this before. She wore a denim jacket over a black hoodie, silver rings stacked on her fingers. Her boots looked like they’d seen every corner of the city.

Y/N blinked. “I—yes.”

“I’ve seen you in here,” the girl said. “You always sit alone.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned. “I just like this row.”

“You’re new.”

It wasn’t a question, but Y/N nodded anyway.

“Thought so. I’m Liv.” She held out a hand, bangles jangling against her wrist.

Y/N shook it. “Y/N.”

“Pretty name.” Liv looked her over, head tilted. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Y/N managed a tight smile. “I listen more than I speak.”

“Right.” Liv grinned, wide and unapologetic. “One of those. Cute.”

The professor arrived, setting down her briefcase with a thud, and the room shifted into a loose hush. Liv leaned in just a little as the lecture started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You doing anything tonight?”

The question caught her off guard. She shook her head slowly. “No. Why?”

Liv’s smile curved like she already knew the answer. “There’s this thing I’m going to. Bit off the map. It’s kind of… exclusive.”

Y/N blinked. “What kind of thing?”

Liv shrugged. “You’ll see.”

That made Y/N nervous. “I’m not really—”

“It’s nothing crazy,” Liv said quickly, but her grin said otherwise. “Just come. You can leave whenever. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”

Y/N hesitated. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears: Don’t follow people you barely know. Don’t go out late. Don’t be stupid.

“I shouldn’t—”

“It’s one night,” Liv cut in, soft but insistent. “And you look like you need one.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She stared down at the lines in her notebook, heart knocking against her ribs. Liv didn’t press her after that, just passed a torn scrap of paper across the desk with a time and a station scribbled in smudged ink.

“Text me if you decide to go” Liv whispered.

Y/N hadn’t told her parents she’d moved into student housing.

They still believed she was commuting from her aunt’s flat in Clapham. That she took the Tube each morning and was back home by dinner, curled under a blanket, phone fully charged, doors locked.

It wasn’t a lie exactly. Not the worst kind. Her aunt did live in Clapham, and she had stayed with her for the first week. But she’d craved the silence, the independence. Craved something she didn’t have a name for yet.

So she’d moved.

Her parents didn’t know. They wouldn’t understand.

Growing up, her world had been small. Safe. Her father was a strict man with soft eyes who believed in structure, who said that routines kept a family together. Her mother homeschooled her from the age of five, and her education had been rich in detail, precise and thorough—but narrow. Everything outside their four walls felt like a warning. She was never allowed sleepovers. No television past nine. No unchaperoned visits to the shops. No boys.

“Too much of the world too soon can rot the mind,” her mother once told her.

So Y/N stayed soft. Careful. She read obsessively—books about people who lived wildly, recklessly, freely. She filled journals with lines from poetry she didn’t always understand. She baked bread from scratch. She studied the Psalms. She knew the difference between a pressed pleat and a bias cut. She still folded her underwear into neat little rows.

Her rebellion, if she could even call it that, was quiet. Choosing to study philosophy when her parents had pushed for English. Sitting alone in the lecture hall instead of trying to fit in. Saying nothing when her mother asked for a tour of the uni halls and changing the subject instead.

She wasn’t brave. Not really.

But she was curious.

Sometimes, late at night, she’d sit on the floor of her room with the curtains drawn and scroll through photos other girls at uni posted. Loud nights. Flashing lights. Smudged mascara. Arms slung around boys’ necks. Kisses stolen in club bathrooms. Glitter stuck in collarbones. She didn’t want all of it. But she wanted something.

She didn’t know what.

And now there was a scrap of paper in her notebook. A time. A name. A chance

Later that night, Y/N sat on the edge of her dorm bed, the crumpled scrap of paper warming in her palm. Outside, the hallway was silent except for the faint hum of the building settling into the night. Her roommate’s light was off. No one was supposed to be out this late.

The note had a time and a name — Liv — and a vague meeting place: just outside the dorm’s main entrance.

That was all she knew.

She didn’t know where Liv was taking her. She didn’t even know what she was walking into.

Her parents’ warnings echoed loud in her mind — Don’t go out late. Don’t trust people you barely know.

But Liv’s words floated beneath it all, soft and tempting. You look like you need one.

Y/N folded the note carefully, tracing the ink with her thumb. She felt the familiar pull of nervousness tightening in her chest — the same nervousness she’d felt all her life, at the edge of something new and scary.

Her fingers shook slightly as she mapped out a plan to leave the dorm unnoticed.

Wait until the hall is empty.

Keep my phone silent but with location tracking on.

Wear something dark.

Take the quickest route.

If anything feels wrong, leave.

She exhaled slowly. Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was a mistake.

But maybe it was also exactly what she needed.

The hallway outside Y/N’s room was empty when she slipped out, every step measured and quiet. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, loud enough to drown out the creak of the old wooden floor beneath her feet.

She hugged her jacket tighter around her, breath forming small clouds in the cold night air as she pushed open the dorm’s heavy front door.

There, waiting just beyond the flickering streetlamp, was Liv. Her silhouette looked sharper than ever—hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, black boots tapping impatiently against the pavement.

Liv’s head turned, and her dark eyes caught Y/N’s instantly. A slow smile curved across her lips.

“Thought you’d chicken out,” Liv said softly, voice low, like sharing a secret.

Y/N shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m here.”

“Good.” Liv stepped closer. “You ready to have fun?”

Y/N hesitated, cold fingers curling into a fist inside her pocket. She had no idea what she was about to walk into. But the night already felt different—charged. Dangerous. And thrilling in a way she’d never imagined.

“Let’s go,” Liv said, grabbing Y/N’s hand and pulling her toward the dark streets of London.

The city breathed around them—damp, restless, alive. And somewhere in the distance, a low roar rose through the night.

Liv led Y/N down the street, her grip firm but gentle, pulling her into the night that thrummed with a restless energy.

Around the corner, two figures waited by a battered black taxi.

The first was a tall, lean man with dark hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His leather jacket was scuffed, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos—snakes coiled around his wrists and numbers inked like a secret code. He gave Y/N a brief, assessing look before flicking the smoke away.

The second was a girl with a shock of bright red hair tied messily in a ponytail. She wore a patched denim vest over a hoodie and carried an easy, knowing grin, like the city had whispered its secrets just to her.

“This is Tom,” Liv said smoothly, nodding at the man. “And Jess.”

Tom gave Y/N a slow nod — a silent greeting or perhaps a challenge — while Jess winked, playful and mysterious.

Liv’s eyes flicked back to Y/N. “They’re part of the crew. You’ll like them.”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation and uncertainty, but Liv’s steady presence was a comfort she didn’t expect.

“Do you guys… go to uni with Liv?”

It came out a little too hopeful. A little too desperate for connection.

Jess’s head snapped toward her, and she burst out laughing. Loud and sudden.

Tom smirked. “Us? Nah, sweetheart.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes glinting. “We’re in a different kind of education.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh… like what?”

Jess leaned in, chewing gum like it was part of her attitude. “The kind they don’t put in brochures.”

They both exchanged a look that made Y/N’s skin prickle—like they shared a joke she would never be let in on.

Liv, beside her, just grinned. “Don’t worry about them. They’re harmless.”

But somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better.

They walked toward the Tube station together, the streetlights casting long shadows behind them.

On the platform, Liv’s voice dropped to a low, teasing murmur. “So. What do you think you’re coming to see tonight?”

Y/N shrugged, voice barely above a whisper. “I… don’t really know.”

“That’s the point,” Liv said with a grin. “Not everything in life needs to be spelled out, you know.”

The train screeched into the station, and the four of them squeezed into a carriage, the city blurring past outside.

“Is it dangerous?” Y/N asked, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

Liv looked at her sideways, eyes gleaming. “Depends on how you handle it.”

Tom and Jess exchanged a glance but stayed silent.

Y/N stared out the window, heart pounding. She didn’t know what was waiting for her at the end of this ride — but somehow, she felt she was about to find out.

The train rattled and groaned beneath the city as Y/N stared out the window, the familiar London skyline replaced by grimy brick walls and flickering neon signs.

They were in East London now. The air felt heavier here, colder, sharper. It carried a bite that made Y/N pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

Outside the station, the streets were quieter, narrower, and shadows gathered thick between the dim streetlights. The usual hum of nightlife was replaced by something rougher — the distant clatter of footsteps, the low murmur of voices, the sharp edge of something unspoken.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She felt exposed, like a small animal caught in the open. Every instinct whispered warning.

Liv’s footsteps were steady beside her, calm and confident.

They stopped in front of a squat, weathered building with no sign out front. A heavy metal door stood closed, cold and unwelcoming.

But from behind it came the thump of music — deep, pulsing bass that vibrated through the concrete beneath Y/N’s feet.

“It’s just a club,” Liv said, sensing Y/N’s tension. “Wait till you get inside.”

The door creaked open before Y/N could answer, and a rush of heat and smoke spilled out, swirling colored lights slicing through the haze.

The room beyond was dark, crowded, and alive — thick with bodies moving to the rhythm, faces barely visible through the smoke and flashing strobes.

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed. This was nothing like the neat, quiet world she knew.

She clutched Liv’s arm, heart pounding louder than the music.

“Just breathe,” Liv whispered. “You’re okay.”

But Y/N wasn’t sure she was.

Inside, the heat hit Y/N like a wave. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of sweat and something sweet—maybe alcohol or perfume—mixing together into a haze she wasn’t used to. Colored lights sliced through the fog, casting strange shadows on faces she couldn’t quite see.

The bass throbbed in her chest, each beat a punch that made the room feel alive and dangerous.

Tom and Jess flanked her like guards or guides. Jess grinned and nudged Y/N gently. “You want a drink? Something to calm the nerves?”

Y/N shook her head quickly. “No, thank you.” Her voice barely carried over the music.

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Come on, just one. You’ve got to loosen up a little.”

Y/N smiled politely but pulled back. Her throat felt tight, and the loud music made it impossible to hear clearly unless someone spoke right in her ear. She felt like a fish out of water, lost in the current of movement and noise swirling around her.

Jess laughed and tossed her head. “She’s shy, huh?”

Tom’s dark eyes flicked to Y/N, a teasing spark lighting up his gaze. “I like that,” he murmured, stepping a bit closer, his voice low and smooth.

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but her attention wasn’t on him. She scanned the crowd, feeling small and exposed under the flashing lights.

Liv caught her eye and gave her a quick nod—a silent promise that she had her back.

Still, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

The pounding music pressed against Y/N’s chest like a living heartbeat as she swayed slightly to the rhythm, her arms loose at her sides. She wasn’t a dancer—never had been—but somehow, in the heat of the room and the rush of it all, she’d let herself move, just a little.

A couple of drinks had found their way into her hands over the night—mostly from Jess’s insistent prodding—and though she wasn’t drunk, a gentle warmth bloomed beneath her skin. It loosened her tongue just enough to make the endless chatter around her seem less intimidating, less like a wall she couldn’t climb.

Still, the bass hammered in her ears and her pulse thrummed in her temples, making her glance down at her phone more than once.

She found the screen dimly glowing in her pocket and pulled it out, squinting at the time. Almost midnight.

Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her first night out would go—or maybe it was, but not like this.

She edged closer to Liv, who was leaning against the bar with that calm, unreadable expression that had been a lifeline all evening.

“I should go,” Y/N said, voice just audible over the music. She glanced at her phone again, then around the room. “It’s getting late. I have a class early tomorrow and… I think I’ve had enough.”

Liv’s eyes flicked to Y/N, sharp and calculating. Then she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

“You can’t leave yet,” Liv said softly, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

Y/N frowned, taking a step back. “Why not?”

Liv leaned closer, the noise swallowing her words but the meaning clear. “Because the main event hasn’t started.”

Y/N blinked, confusion pooling in her chest. “Main event?”

Liv’s smile deepened, but she didn’t answer. Liv tugged Y/N’s hand firmly, steering her away from the pulsing center of the room where bodies had been dancing, lost in the pounding music. The crowd thickened, pressing in around them, but Liv led her toward a narrow space against the far wall, where the air was cooler and the chaos dimmed to a dull roar.

Suddenly, the music cut sharply, replaced by an expectant silence that rippled through the crowd like a wave.

Two blinding lights snapped on, slicing through the smoke and darkness, illuminating the middle of the room with harsh white beams.

A man appeared, gripping a microphone like a weapon. His voice boomed out, amplified and commanding:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the real show.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles.

Liv’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened.

The man paced slowly across the floor, eyes shining with excitement.

“Tonight’s fighters are ready to put it all on the line. Only one will walk away the victor. And remember there’s only one rule in here,” he shouted. “No fuckin’ rules.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The announcer’s voice lowered, but carried over the noise like a knife.

“ In the red corner…” he called, drawing out the pause like a showman feeding blood to wolves, “you know him, you hate him, you can’t kill him—Marcus ‘The Butcher’ Dale!”

A wave of chaos surged through the room. Screams, whistles, fists pounding against walls and floors.

A man stepped into the light from the opposite side—tall, with broad shoulders, with thick arms covered in brutal, angry tattoos. His face was twisted into a cocky smirk, blood already dried across one knuckle.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t some theatrical show. This was real.

“And in the blue corner, five-time underground champ. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t lose.” He grinned. “The King of the Cut — Harry fuckin’ Styles.”

A roar exploded around them. People were shouting his name, clapping, stomping.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto a figure stepping into the light—tall, solid, tattooed arms gleaming under the harsh glare. His buzz-cut hair caught the white light, and those cold, piercing eyes swept the room like a predator.

Everything inside Y/N froze.

This wasn’t a club. It wasn’t a party.

This was an underground fight.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mix of disbelief and awe swirling in her chest. The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder, and yet all she could focus on was him.

He stood in the center of the ring, a living storm of controlled power. His buzz-cut scalp gleamed under the harsh lights, every sharp line of his jaw set like stone.

Tattooed arms flexed as he shifted his weight, muscles coiled beneath the skin like a panther ready to pounce. Silver rings glinted on thick fingers, catching the light with every movement.

His eyes—cold, calculating, fierce—scanned the crowd before settling briefly on the entrance.

Y/N felt those eyes slice through the haze and land on her, just for a fraction of a second, but enough to make her heart leap.

There was something raw and dangerous in him, an intensity that seemed to pulse from his very bones. But beneath it all, she sensed a quiet hardness—a man who had been through fire and come out harder.

She had never seen anyone like him.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and for a moment, the heat blossoming in her skin wasn’t from the room or the drinks—it was from something far more electric.

As the announcer continued, the crowd’s cheers surged again, but Y/N’s world had narrowed to that single figure standing tall and unyielding before her.

The announcer raised his free hand, waiting for the crowd to settle—just enough to be heard again.

Y/N’s hand shot out and found Liv’s without thinking, her fingers closing tight.

Liv looked over, eyes dark and steady, and gave her a single, reassuring squeeze.

“You okay?” she asked, her mouth close to Y/N’s ear.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her heart was in her throat. The reality was setting in like ice water.

This was violence.

And Harry—Harry, with the cold eyes and the inked skin and the motionless stance—was about to step into it without flinching.

Y/N’s grip on Liv’s hand tightened until her knuckles ached.

The announcer had vanished into the crowd, swallowed whole by the heat and noise, and the two men stood face-to-face beneath the harsh white lights. No gloves. No headgear. No rules.

Harry hadn’t moved. His expression was unreadable—stone, carved from the coldest parts of him. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, muscles tense and still. The other man—Marcus—was pacing, shaking out his arms, smirking like he’d already won.

Y/N’s voice cracked as she leaned toward Liv. “Why did you bring me here?”

Liv didn’t answer at first. She was watching the ring like it mattered more than the air in her lungs.

Y/N tugged on her sleeve, voice rising, urgent now. “Liv.”

Liv finally turned, her eyes shining in the dim light, something wild flickering there. “Because I wanted you to see what real looks like.”

Before Y/N could process it, the bell rang.

Not a clean boxing bell—an actual iron bell slammed by someone’s fist.

The crowd erupted, bodies surging forward, a roar rising up around them so loud Y/N could feel it in her chest.

Marcus lunged first—fast for his size, all brute force and rage. He threw a heavy right hook aimed straight at Harry’s jaw.

But Harry didn’t flinch.

He ducked cleanly, silent and sharp, then answered with a lightning-fast jab to Marcus’s ribs. The sound of it cracked through the air—flesh meeting flesh, knuckle meeting bone.

Marcus stumbled back, face twisted. He hadn’t expected the counter.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

Harry moved like a shadow—fluid, controlled, terrifying in how calm he was. No showboating. No wasted steps. Just raw precision.

Blood sprayed from Marcus’s nose as another punch landed, and the crowd screamed louder. Someone near Y/N shouted Harry’s name again and again like a prayer or a curse.

She couldn’t look away.

The lights overhead flickered slightly, the smoke rising from the crowd curling around the ring like steam over a fire.

It was chaos—pure, unfiltered violence—but somehow… there was beauty in the way Harry moved. Not just strength. Discipline. Intention.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

He was terrifying. And he was magnificent.

Her heart pounded louder than the crowd.

And she had no idea what kind of world she’d just stepped into.

The fight escalated fast.

After the first few blows, Marcus no longer looked amused. The smirk had vanished, replaced by something far uglier—frustration. Maybe fear.

He rushed forward again with a roar, throwing a savage combination—left, right, then another right meant to break someone’s jaw.

Harry blocked the first two, absorbed the third with a subtle turn of his shoulder, then answered with a brutal uppercut to the gut. Marcus doubled over, gasping, and Harry didn’t wait.

He stepped in. One. Two. Three hits. Clean, fast, calculated.

Each punch echoed like thunder.

The crowd around Y/N was a blur of motion—screaming, fists pumping in the air, bodies jumping and shoving. Some were chanting Harry’s name. Others were yelling for blood.

Y/N stood frozen, her back to the wall, eyes locked on the ring. Her ears rang, not just from the noise but from the sickening, wet thuds of fists colliding with flesh.

Marcus tried to land a knee, wild and desperate. But Harry caught him mid-motion, wrapped an arm around his neck, and slammed him hard into the floor with a move so fast Y/N barely registered it.

Gasps. Cheers.

Marcus writhed, cursing, trying to rise—blood spilling from his nose, his lip split wide. But Harry didn’t let him.

He straddled him in a controlled mount, knees planted firm, and drove a single punch—straight to Marcus’s jaw.

And then another.

And another.

The crowd counted aloud. “One! Two! Three!”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Marcus’s head lolled slightly, dazed, mouth open, eyes unfocused.

The bell rang again.

Loud. Final.

Harry stopped. Immediately.

He rose slowly, blood streaking his knuckles, chest heaving, but his expression unchanged—calm, cold, unreadable.

The room exploded around him.

People surged toward the ring, some climbing over barriers, others throwing money, coats, and drinks into the air. The lights strobed wildly.

Y/N stared at him—this man who had just dismantled another human being without blinking. Not out of cruelty. Not for spectacle.

But because that’s what he came to do.

He didn’t look proud. He didn’t look relieved. He looked exactly the same as he had when he walked in—haunted, sharp, and terrifyingly composed.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears. Her skin felt too tight for her body. Her mouth was dry.

She had never seen anything like him.

And she had never wanted answers more than she did now.

Harry disappeared into the crowd like smoke.

One second, he was there—standing over a broken man, chest rising slow and even, blood splattered across his skin like war paint. The next, he was gone. Swallowed whole by bodies pushing inward, cheering, chanting, desperate to touch something that felt untouchable.

Y/N stayed frozen in place, still gripping the edge of the wall like it might keep her upright.

Around her, the atmosphere had shifted. The violence was over, but the energy in the room hadn’t calmed—it had sharpened. Louder music kicked in, harder and heavier than before. Drinks were passed hand to hand. People laughed and shoved and screamed like it was a party.

A celebration.

But Y/N couldn’t celebrate.

She couldn’t drink.

She couldn’t breathe.

The image was stuck in her mind—Marcus lying there, dazed and bleeding, struggling to sit up, the skin of his face swollen and cracked. His mouth had opened like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out. Just blood. Just pain.

And Harry’s fists, silent and cold and exact.

Y/N blinked hard. Her eyes stung.

She turned quickly, pushing through the crowd, her hands trembling as she passed a group of people laughing and rewatching a recording of the fight on someone’s phone like it was a highlight reel.

Her throat closed.

She didn’t know what door she was looking for—just that she needed out. Needed air. Needed to get the sound of bone hitting flesh out of her head.

The first door she reached wasn’t marked. She shoved it open anyway.

The noise cut off like a switch had flipped.

She stumbled into a narrow alleyway. Dimly lit. Quiet. Concrete walls slick with condensation. She could hear the dull hum of the bass behind her, but here, it was muffled. Like it belonged to a different world.

Y/N leaned back against the cold wall, her hands gripping the edge of her jacket, pulling it tight around her chest. Her eyes welled, unblinking.

She didn’t know why she was crying.

She hadn’t been the one hurt. She hadn’t even known Marcus. She didn’t know the rules of this world, didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, if anything.

But it didn’t matter.

She’d seen pain. Real pain. Up close. And everyone else had clapped for it.

“You okay?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Harry was only a few feet away. Still shirtless, the blood on his torso now dried to rust. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, lit at the tip, the smoke curling lazily in the cold night air. His other hand rested low on his hip, relaxed.

He hadn’t looked at her yet, not fully. His gaze was angled down, watching the cigarette burn.

She hadn’t heard him come out.

Had no idea how long he’d been there.

Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. “You scared me.”

Harry glanced at her then, his eyes shadowed but sharp—cut from something darker than the rest of him.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember lighting the edge of his cheekbone, his expression unreadable.

Y/N’s back pressed tighter against the wall, her voice soft and shaking. “Why would anyone cheer for something like that?”

Harry exhaled the smoke through his nose. A pause. Then, finally:

“Because they’re not the ones bleeding.”

[asgardian--angels]

things I wish I could relive for the first time again:

that magical window where you finish a new piece of media, having watched/read it all by yourself with no fandom contact whatsoever, and you are just so happy about it, and full of interesting theories and takeaways, and just in love with it as a gorgeous piece of art.

because I swear to god as soon as you join the fandom for anything, you're bombarded with how you're supposed to view characters and their arcs, how you're supposed to morally and ethically judge the plot and the ways it apparently failed to present the right message, and if you don't you'll either be shunned for not sharing the popular headcanons or you'll be harassed for not criticizing the source material enough.

like how is it that the fans of a piece of media are also the ones being the most negative about it? If I like a show or a movie or a book, well, I liked it. That's kind of the point. I'm actually not here to tear it apart and talk about how it didn't live up to standards other people had! I enjoyed it for what it was, and forcing myself to find negative things to say about it doesn't actually bring me more enjoyment of it or reap any benefit to me. Fandom's a double-edged sword; you want to join a community to share your love for a piece of art, and the price you pay for a modicum of joy is a mountain of negativity. that's one main reason that I never engage with fandom until I'm completely done with a show, because if I was plugged into all of that commentary and discourse during the process, I'd be completely colored by how I'm expected to interpret everything this piece of art is presenting to me without being able to even form my own opinions.

[raiiny-bay]

thinking about. dusty.

[thevalicemultiverse]

The main thing that I learned about conspiracy theory, is that conspiracy theorists believe in a conspiracy because that is more comforting. The truth of the world is that it is actually chaotic. The truth is that it is not The Iluminati, or The Jewish Banking Conspiracy, or the Gray Alien Theory.

The truth is far more frightening - Nobody is in control.

The world is rudderless.

Londerland Bloodlines

Alice: I can think of some elders among the Kindred who would protest that they're in control -- but given some of the nonsense I've lived through since coming to California and getting embroiled in the world of darkness, I'm more inclined to believe you about the world being rudderless. Those old ones may think they're in control, but in reality all their schemes just slam up against each other and add to the chaotic nature of the world. All you can do is carve out a little piece for you and yours and try to keep it at least somewhat tidy.

[jaeyuniversal]

you broke me first - l.hs

pairing: virgin!lee heeseung x experienced fem!reader

synopsis: you and heeseung are the school’s golden pair — popular, admired, and constantly shipped. the only problem? you can’t stand him. from competing on exams to gym class, you’re always neck and neck, and no one gets under your skin like he does. but while you see a rival, he sees the love of his life. when you overhear a hushed conversation that breaks you, will heeseung be able to win you back?

featuring: all of enha, winter from aespa, yuqi from (g)i-dle, and keeho from p1h

genre: angst... slow burn, some fluff, kissing, skinship, SMUTTTT, college au, first love trope?? sorta? one sided enemies to lovers

warnings: smut so mdni (18+), alcohol consumption, vandalizing property, Sexual Tension, everyone is around the same age (21-23), lowercase intended <3

playlist: you broke me first by tate mcrae & what was i made for — billie eilish

(smut warnings under cut!)

wc: 13.271k

a/n: first fic is here! plsplspls leave feedback as anything helps!! was listening to you broke me first and got inspo for a kinda angsty fic pls bare with me :3 anyways! enjoy the read <3<3

smut content: mention of toys (but no use), fingering, squirting, unprotected sex (not for you), dry humping, switch! hee and reader, riding, mating press, too much kissing, masturbation (m.), breeding kink, slight dacryphilia, oral (m. & f.), deepthroating, belly bulge, creampie, size kinkish, big dick! hee, not much aftercare but it's like fluffy, y/n has a “reputation” that she gets around, VIRGIN HEESEUNG (but no one knows…) i think thats it? lmk if i missed anything ◡̈

not proofread!

lee. fucking. heeseung. you hate him. you can't stand him. he always knows what to say just to piss you off. you might be wondering, "why don't you just try to avoid him?" the issue is... you do. you try with ALL your power but to no avail, he's in the same friend group as you.

your friends, knowing you hate him, decided to combine friend groups to see if you and him could mend things. spoiler alert: it failed miserably.

you felt safe in your small circle with keeho (the man you deemed to be your biological older brother — you aren't related), yuqi (your junior high best friend), and winter (your literal wife).

you guys were well known around the entire city of seoul for being the "it group" — always partying, hooking up, and somehow still acing every class (while nursing massive hangovers).

however, heeseung's friend group consisted of the golden boys in decelis university: park jongseong (known as jay, he hates his given name), sim jaeyun (known as the australian transfer student, jake), park sunghoon (the insanely hot figure skater), kim sunoo (the bubbliest person you've ever met), yang jungwon (the boy with feline features, however you've made a special note to never piss him off cause he has a black belt), and nishimura riki (known as ni-ki because he wanted to be different).

you loved riki. he was like your younger brother — chaotic, blunt, and always three steps ahead of everyone. you’d even joked once that if you had to suffer heeseung’s presence, at least you got riki out of it.

unfortunately, riki had the worst habit of instigating chaos.

“truth or dare?” he asked one friday night, grinning like he already had your life planned out. everyone was crammed into jay’s ridiculously large basement, music low, snacks half eaten, and bodies sprawled on beanbags and plush carpet.

you should’ve said “truth.” you knew you should’ve. but you weren’t a coward.

“dare,” you answered, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

the group erupted in ooooh's in perfect synchronicity.

riki’s grin only widened. “i dare you to sit on heeseung’s lap for five minutes.”

you almost lunged across the room.

“riki,” you hissed, “you are so dead.”

he just wiggled his brows suggestively. “i’m a baby. you wouldn’t hurt me.”

the worst part? he was right.

you looked over at heeseung, who was watching you like a cat watching a cornered mouse — lazy smirk, fingers casually drumming against his knee. “scared, sweetheart?”

“i’ll kill you in your sleep,” you said sweetly as you stalked over and dropped yourself into his lap like he was made of cardboard and air.

he oofed, not because you were heavy, but because he wasn’t expecting you to actually do it.

“wow,” he murmured, lips near your ear. “you smell like citrus and bad decisions.”

you resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

five minutes. you just had to survive five minutes.

but then his hands casually settled on your waist, and you felt it — the spark. the electric, traitorous, goddamn spark that told you this was a very, very bad idea.

because maybe, just maybe, your hatred wasn’t as pure as you thought- no. what are you thinking??? you immediately shook the feeling that was buzzing inside you and blamed it on the alcohol swimming in your blood.

you definitely. hated heeseung. yup, yeah, you really did.

heeseung on the other hand? he was just praying to every god he could think of that you couldn't feel how sweaty his palms were getting.

because he was panicking. full blown, internal screaming, oh-no-she’s-sitting-on-me-and-she’s-warm kind of panicking. he hadn't expected you to actually follow through on your usual threats, much less practically straddle him in front of your mutual friends.

but now? now he was just trying to not pass out from the sheer force of your perfume and presence and the weight of years of unresolved tension that sat heavier than you ever could.

"you're sweating," you said flatly, side eyeing him with that expression that usually meant murder or mockery — or both. "you good?"

"totally," he croaked. "i always nearly die when beautiful people threaten me. it's, like, my thing."

you blinked once. twice.

"did you just call me beautiful?"

"i said what i said," he muttered, then immediately regretted everything.

your brows lifted in slow, dangerous amusement. "you feeling okay, heeseung? you hitting on me while i’m threatening you?”

“wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, almost too quiet for you to hear.

and there it was again. the spark. like a lighter flicked too close to your frayed nerves.

you looked away, choosing to focus on literally anything else, but his grip on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you, almost daring you to acknowledge it.

“how much longer do i have to sit on this assholes lap?” you questioned under your breath, reminding yourself, reminding him, that this was temporary.

"4 minutes!" jake sang back as his accented voice rang in your ears. fuck, it's only been one minute? you thought to yourself... until he spoke.

“i could ruin us in three,” he whispered, warm breath tickling your ear. he was so close you could practically feel his labored breathing against your back. you craned your neck to the side so you could look him in the eyes, "what did you just say???" heeseung was at a loss for words — his brain only drawing blanks.

did he say what he thought he said in his head out loud? impossible. he's hidden it so well, no one in your guys' shared friend group had even suspected his overbearing attraction towards you.

so heeseung did the only thing he could think of. he gulped.

just as your gaze dropped to his adams apple, sunghoon cleared his throat, reducing the fiery tension between you two to reduce to a simmer. "time's up" he stated. and just like that, the warmth you once shared was gone.

as the game progressed, the most interesting things to occur were jake kissing sunghoon on the cheek, riki vandalizing an old alley way that never saw the sun, and winter lady-and-the-tramping a twizzler with keeho.

you and heeseung never dared to even spare a glance in each other's direction for the rest of the night.

───

you laid awake, staring at the ceiling in jay's basement while trying to get comfy on the leather couch that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. you couldn't sleep. and the reason? none other than your self-proclaimed arch nemesis: lee heeseung.

your friend groups slept on different floors to prevent you and heeseung arguing and waking up the entire house. you slowly got up, attempting and (barely) succeeding to not step on a sleeping figure sprawled on the floor.

as you walk up the stairs from the basement, you hear two people whisper shouting at each other.

you glance at the time displayed on your phone.

a measly 3:16 am stared brightly at you. who's awake at this hour?? as you step closer to the hushed voices, you think you can make out the unmistakeable deepness of riki's voice and heeseung's annoying(ly hot) whispers, tinged with sleep.

"why the fuck would you dare HER of all people to sit on MY lap????" heeseung shouts quietly, clearly frustrated. riki bursts into a fit of giggles. "dude, don't tell me you feel something for her, don't you guys like hate each other?" he says between snide little chuckles.

heeseung freezes. there's no way riki really caught on to what he was supposed to never let slip through the cracks... right?! so he musters up all the dignity he has left and defensively grunts a series of defenses "nowhywouldieverseeherlikethatsheisn'tmytypeandithinkshe'sgross"

riki blankly stares back at heeseung's panicking eyes, "okayyy," he drags the word out, "you don't need to put her down like that, she's like my older sister, dude" riki spits back.

your lips twitch in a small smile, just for a second. just long enough for riki to catch your eyes peeking behind the corner. he nods once, subtle and solid. always in your corner.

but the comfort dies as soon as heeseung opens his mouth.

"i could never love someone like her."

and the world stops.

he says it so casually. almost like it’s a joke. like it's just another throwaway comment tossed between drinks and half-meant insults. but it lands with the weight of something cruelly true — or at least, something you believe he means.

you feel the breath hitch in your throat. just once.

riki's gaze is drawn to your frozen frame. and that's when everything freezes. heeseung whips around to see you standing there. eyes blown and glossy.

riki shifts, but he doesn’t move to try and console you — he knows better. knows this is something that'll bruise. something you need time to process, alone.

you bite back tears. “right,” you say, quietly. “of course.”

heeseung’s expression flickers — confusion, regret, something else — but you’ve already masked the pain. emotion draining from your face like you’ve trained for it. like it’s a sport. like if you stop moving, the hurt will catch up.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says, a little too late, a little too soft.

you readjust your posture, fixing your shirt.

“you meant it exactly like that,” you reply, and it’s not even bitter. it’s worse. numb.

riki’s there before heeseung can say anything else. standing between you like a wall. like a shield.

“walk away,” he tells you gently, and you do.

because if you stay, you might ask him why not. and you’re not sure your heart could take the answer.

riki turns back to heeseung, flames he's never seen before burning in the younger boys irises that are normally filled with mischief and teasing glints. but all of a sudden none of that is there anymore. it's pure, unfiltered anger. raw emotion.

heeseung wants him to yell at him. say something, anything. but nothing comes. riki just walks upstairs like he doesn't even know who heeseung is anymore.

and maybe he doesn't.

───

the next morning, when heeseung wakes up, it's almost peaceful. until rain begins to tip tap on the roof and everything comes crashing down. his chest is tight and immediately swells with regret. so much he thinks it'll spill out of him just like the rain outside.

he needs to talk to you. make sure you're okay. but he knows he's the last person you want to see right now. still, he has to try

as he descends down the stairs, he doesn't smell the usual feast jay would prepare them: eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and cereal for jake since he claims, "it doesn't hurt his tummy," (his words).

he actually doesn't see jake. nor sunghoon, sunoo, jungwon, jay, winter, yuqi, or keeho.

after last nights events, he expected not to see riki as he was probably with you.

how did he go from having the girl of his dreams sitting on his lap, to making her hate him even more?

it's simple, really: he fucked up.

he moves through the house like a ghost — rooms too quiet, air too still. no laughter, no music playing off someone’s phone. just him and the rain.

the basement still has the blanket you’d curled up with last night. your mug — half full. he picks it up, and it’s cold. like him.

he tries to call riki. no answer.

he tries to call you.

it goes straight to voicemail.

he types out a text. deletes it. tries again.

“i didn’t mean what i said. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i'm sorry, y/n”

he stares at it. sends it.

and immediately regrets it. because what if you never answer?

as he packs up all his belongings, ready for the uncomfortable drive home, someone enters the house.

heeseung's heart rate picks up. what if it's you? he bolts down the stairs and is ultimately disappointed when he's met with a very disapproving jay.

they stand across from one another, staring into each others eyes.

heeseung's the first to break. he collapses on the bar stool at the counter and drops his head into his hands like it weighs a ton.

jay just sighs and sits down next to his friend.

"is she okay?" heeseung mumbles, his face buried in his hands.

jay’s jaw tightens. "why do you care?" he snaps. "you sure as hell didn’t last night when you said you could never love someone like her."

the words hit hard — harder than jay intended — and heeseung shatters.

the sobs break out of him like a dam giving way, loud and raw. tears stream down his face, and the sound of it makes jay flinch, caught off guard by how real the pain is. how broken heeseung suddenly looks.

still, jay moves without thinking, reaching out and rubbing slow circles on his friend’s back. it doesn’t fix anything, but it softens the edges of the moment.

they sit there in silence, the storm outside echoing the one inside, as heeseung cries himself hoarse.

by the time he’s able to breathe steadily again, nearly an hour has passed. his eyes are red, his voice barely there. he lifts his head and meets jay’s gaze; tired looking into just as tired.

neither of them says much. there’s no need.

finally, jay sighs and stands. “go grab your stuff,” he says quietly. “you’re in no shape to drive. i’ll take you home.”

heeseung doesn’t argue.

because for once, he knows jay’s right.

───

your phone dings.

dni: i didn't mean what i said. i didn't mean to hurt you. i'm sorry, y/n

you stare at your phone. gaze void of emotion. you've cried out everything you could muster.

you don't even know why heeseung's words echo in your head.

were you really that intolerable to be around? surely you weren't. all of heeseung's friends enjoyed hanging out with you and same with your little group.

so why did hearing your supposed enemy say he could never love someone like you hurt so bad?

you suppose you need to distract yourself from thinking that heeseung's words have any sort of impact on you. and that's when your door swings open. riki, yuqi, winter, keeho, sunghoon, jake, sunoo, and jungwon walk into your apartment with food, video games, board games, coloring books, skincare — everything you needed at the moment.

a break.

a break from your spiraling thoughts and endless questions you didn't want answered.

there's a knock at the door, jay comes in after he dropped heeseung off, with a freshly made cake, red velvet. your favorite.

you don’t move at first.

the warmth of your friends floods the apartment — laughter, chatter, the familiar rustle of takeout bags and the buzz of game controllers syncing. but it feels distant, like you’re underwater, watching from behind a thick pane of glass.

yuqi wraps her arms around you from behind, cheek resting on your shoulder. “we got your favorite pork buns,” she says softly.

you nod. you don’t trust your voice.

riki’s the one who notices your phone still clutched in your hand. screen glowing. that message. his message.

he doesn’t say anything, but he takes the phone from you gently, pressing the lock button, letting the screen fade to black. and you’re grateful. because if you kept staring at it, you might’ve started crying again, and you didn’t think you had anything left in you.

“movie?” sunghoon offers, holding up a stack of dvd's none of you ever returned to the library.

“coloring?” sunoo chirps, already spreading out gel pens across your coffee table.

“face masks?” winter insists, already tearing them open.

you let them distract you. you let them love you in the only way they know how — loudly, messily, unconditionally.

there’s a moment, in the middle of the chaos, when keeho makes a stupid joke and jungwon snorts soda out of his nose, that you laugh. actually laugh.

and then it hits you like whiplash — how easily heeseung could’ve been here. how almost close you came to letting yourself believe there was something soft behind his smirks and eye rolls. how you’d dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, the tension between you wasn’t just one-sided delusion.

but then he said it. “i could never love someone like her.”

and even with the people you love surrounding you, something in your chest hurts. like a bruise that won’t stop blooming.

later, after everyone’s settled into pillows and half-finished coloring pages, riki sits beside you. he doesn’t speak for a long time.

then, quietly, “you don’t have to pretend around me.”

and that’s when your lip trembles. just slightly.

“i don’t know why it hurts this much,” you whisper. “i knew he hated me. i knew. so why do i feel so broken?"

“he didn’t have to say it like that,” riki replies, voice firm. “he didn’t have to break something just because he couldn’t admit he wanted to hold it.”

you nod, finally letting a single tear trail down your cheek. riki wipes it away before it can fall too far.

he squeezes your hand.

“he messed up,” he says. “that’s on him. not you.”

you hold onto that — his words, their presence, the comfort of being chosen and cared for.

and for the first time since last night, you breathe. not easily. not painlessly. but it’s a start.

───

heeseung didn't know how hard it would be to try and get any information about you.

how you were doing, if you were okay. anything

your mutual friends? after hearing how massive he fucked up, they sided with you.

sure, jay, jake, sunghoon, sunoo, and jungwon would text him and hang out with him occasionally, but they wouldn't utter a word about you. most of the time heeseung saw them, it would be for awkward movie nights or when they would game together when none of them could sleep.

when he was alone, his mind ached, his chest twisted in pain, but mostly... his body ached.

he tried to stop it, he knew it was wrong.

but when you sat on his lap, something in him shifted.

sure he knew you were pretty (breathtakingly stunning), but he never imagined something he thought about constantly would ever become reality.

he thought back to those 5 minutes. the tension. surely it couldn't have just been made up in his head, right?

the way your entire body tensed when his hands rested on your hips. normally he wouldn't have touched you, but you were shifting and he needed to stop his growing problem before you noticed.

and thankfully it worked.

however, he was already hard as a brick.

his breath hitched as he remembered the look in your eyes — uncertain, but not scared. curious, maybe? or was he projecting again?

he swallowed hard, his hands now clenched at his sides like if he let them loose, they’d betray him again.

five minutes. that’s all it was. but it looped in his head like a damn broken record.

you hadn’t said a word. but your thighs had tensed. and when he shifted, trying to regain his composure, you hadn't moved away — not immediately, anyway.

maybe it meant nothing. maybe you hadn’t even noticed the way his breath had gone shallow or the way he was holding back like his life depended on it.

but god, his body remembered.

he shifted in his bed now, alone, frustrated, angry at himself. this wasn’t who he was supposed to be. he wasn’t supposed to want this — to want you — not like this. not in silence, not in secrecy, not in pain.

but the damage was already done.

and the worst part?

he wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop anymore.

as he stared at his chase atlantic posters, he thought to himself. any guy would get hard when a pretty girl sits on his lap, right? surely it isn't just because he's a pathetic virgin who's had to lie to his entire friend group about how he "gets around."

soon enough, his thoughts were interrupted by the rapidly increasing ache between his legs.

his hands trembled slightly as they hovered over the tent in his shorts. his breathing was shallow, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as if he were caught in some fever dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

he hated how much he needed this.

how much he needed you.

with a low, strangled groan, he finally gave in, palming himself over the thin fabric. the relief was immediate, but it wasn’t enough — it never was. not when the ache ran deeper than just skin. not when every nerve in his body was screaming for more.

he slipped his hand beneath his waistband, hissing through clenched teeth as his fingers wrapped around his thick length, already twitching with need. he was so hard it hurt, painfully stiff and dripping at the tip, slicking his palm almost instantly.

your name burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it back.

he couldn’t say it. shouldn’t say it.

but in his head, it echoed over and over again. your laugh. your voice. the way you looked at him — or didn’t. the way you moved. god, he remembered everything. he was haunted by it.

he shut his eyes tight and let his hand move — slow at first, starting at his base and dragging his fingers up each vein decorating the sides. his patience wore out quicker than he'd ever admit, starting to move up his length, then down with just enough pressure to make his thighs twitch. he bit his lip, hard, trying to hold in the sounds. but as the memory of you shifting in his lap played behind his eyelids like a cruel fantasy, a soft whimper escaped.

he was losing it.

desperation clawed at him with every stroke, every flex of his hand. his hips lifted off the mattress as his muscles tensed. he imagined your fingers replacing his, your body hovering over his, your breath against his neck.

“please,” he gasped into the dark — not even sure what he was begging for. forgiveness? permission? you?

he pumped harder now, faster, chasing that high like it would save him. his other hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white. he was right on the edge, falling apart with nothing but the echo of your presence and the throb of need coiled deep in his belly.

“i need — fuck, i need you,” he moaned, broken and breathless. his body was hot, slick with sweat, twitching under his own touch.

he could feel it. the band threatening to snap at any moment.

he swirled his fingers around his tip, hitting that spot that made his vision go white. he was close.

all it took to unravel him was an image of you, mouth replacing his hand. trying to fit as much of him into your mouth while he just laid there and took it.

eventually the thought was too much, his seed spilled over his stomach in thick, messy ropes, his fist slowing only when the aftershocks wracked his frame like a wave of guilt and pleasure colliding all at once.

he laid there for a moment, chest heaving, skin flushed and sticky.

and then it hit him.

he still wasn’t satisfied.

because it wasn’t your touch. it wasn’t your voice, your kiss, your heat. it was just his hand and a fantasy he couldn't let go of.

and no matter how many times he did this, no matter how many times he used the memory of you…

it was never going to be enough.

───

you’ve held it together for as long as you could — smiled through movie nights, laughed at keeho’s stupid impressions, even ate something other than ramen yesterday. but it’s all surface level. the moment you're alone again, the cracks split wide open.

there you are, sitting on your couch, drowning in your thoughts. 

the faint glow of the streetlamp filters through the windows, further highlighting the text message staring back at you

“i didn’t mean it.” 

it replays in your head over and over like a broken record until your vision starts to blur. tears flood your waterline but you make no effort to stop them. 

you don’t sob. you just sit there, hurting so quietly it’s almost peaceful.

until it isn’t. 

your lip trembles slightly, then it all comes pouring out. 

“why? why did you say that? what the fuck. did i do to deserve those words?” 

riki hears your quiet words from the bathroom. he comes rushing out, empathy and sadness twirling in his eyes. 

“hey, hey, hey, talk to me y/n. yell at me if you need to, yeah?” he says. voice barely above a whisper. all you can choke out is a tiny “no, none of this is your fault.” 

riki sits next to you, holding you, trying to piece you back together as if he were the one who broke you.

disrupting the mellow silence lingering in your apartment, there’s a knock at the door.

not wanting the worst case scenario, you answering the door to heeseung, riki gets up and makes his way to where the sound came from. 

to both of your dismay, a tired heeseung stands in the doorway. 

his hair is messy, dark bags under his usually teasing eyes, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

he freezes when he sees you. your puffy eyes, shaking hands, the way you curl in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear. 

riki steps in front of you, but you give him the signal to back down. you and heeseung can handle this alone. what’s another argument anyways? 

as riki walks away, heeseung starts slowly “yn…” 

you look at him. and no matter how hard you could have tried, nothing could have stopped you from snapping at him.

“why are you here?”  “i had to see you. i had to say–”  “you already said enough, heeseung.” 

god. the way you say his name. all he’s thought about since you last saw each other was you saying his name. and now, he doesn’t wanna hear it ever again. 

he opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it. 

“do you know what it felt like to hear you say i wasn’t lovable? that someone like me could never be enough for you?” 

as if you could read his mind, you shake your head, dismissing whatever he was about to spit out. 

with every last ounce of energy you can gather, you scream. “you don’t get to feel sorry now. you made your choice the other night. i knew we had a mutual hatred, or at least some twisted distaste, but i never even thought about saying something like that to you.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just stands there, frozen. then you hear it. soft sniffles. ragged breathing. sobs.

he breaks.

because this is the first time he gets it. really, truly understands what he did. what he said. what it cost you.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice cracked and barely audible. “truly. what i said last week… i didn’t mean it. even thinking it broke me.”

you stare at him for a long, quiet second. and then you say it — flat, but shaking.

“you broke me first, heeseung.”

his breath catches. your words land like a punch to the gut, because they’re the truth. maybe the first truth spoken between you in a long time.

heeseung, who’s always so calm. so composed. the one who rolls his eyes at everything and makes everything feel like a joke. he’s crumbling in front of you now. not fighting. not defending. just falling apart.

and then it hits you. maybe he’s always been like this.

watching you. listening. never the first to strike, only ever the one to react. maybe he was never the villain in this story.

your breath hitches. maybe, just maybe, you were wrong.

you don’t know why the realization crashes down now. maybe it’s the sound of his sobs. maybe it’s the way the silence has more weight than anything he’s ever said. but something inside you shifts.

and for the first time, you see him — not as the enemy. but as the boy who let you hate him, because he didn’t know how to ask for anything else.

you replay every argument like a tape stuck on rewind. you were always the one who started it.

the snide comments. the sideways glances. the venom you dressed up as jokes.

heeseung never really fought back. he always matched your energy, sure, but he never escalated it. never crossed a line. not until that night.

your chest tightens. you realize you don’t even remember what the first fight was about. some hallway bump? a misunderstood glance? maybe it was never about anything. maybe it was just you, projecting every piece of your brokenness onto the only person who saw through it and stayed.

god, had he always stayed?

you remember in elementary school, how he used to bring you extra snacks when you forgot lunch. how he gave you his hoodie that one time you were shivering during morning assembly, even after you’d spent the entire week roasting him in front of your friends.

you remember the way his gaze always lingered—not in a way that felt invasive, but like he was always checking. watching over you without saying a word.

and now here he is. slumped into his knees. back pressed against the wall, crying over you.

you were so busy building walls with your bitterness that you didn’t notice it was slowly breaking him. 

the quiet way he tried to reach over them.

you sink to the floor across from him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the weight of everything between you.

for a long moment, you don’t speak. neither does he. you just breathe in the silence together — like it’s the only language you both understand.

“i didn’t know how to stop hating you,” you whisper, voice catching. “because if i stopped… i think i would’ve started needing you.”

heeseung lifts his head. eyes red, lashes wet.

“i already did,” he says. “i never stopped.”

your heart fractures in a way that doesn’t feel sharp, just tired. heavy.

“i don’t know what to do with that,” you admit.

“you don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “not tonight.”

you nod. once. then you help him get up. both your legs feel numb, but you walk him towards the door. your hand rests on the handle, taking a second to look up at him. really look at him, and you’re tempted to say something. 

but instead, you give him the quietest thing you can offer: a small, broken sort of smile. not quite forgiveness. not quite goodbye.

then, he steps out into the night. and just like that, the quietness of everything settling in takes over. no more lies. just the truth.

as you’re deep in thought, riki walks in with two mugs of hot chocolate — extra marshmallows, your favorite. 

-ˏˋ⋆ 3 years ago ⋆ˊˎ-  

it’s a chilly summer night. you and riki are sprawled out on the roof of his parents' house, the shingles warm beneath your backs from the day’s lingering sun. crickets hum below. the stars blink overhead, careless and constant.

you shift slightly, seeking warmth, and without a word, riki lifts his arm. you curl into the space beside him, head on his shoulder, fingers tucked into the sleeve of his hoodie. his arm settles around you like it belongs there.

“do you think we’ll ever feel like this again?” you murmur. “peaceful. like nothing’s wrong.”

he hums low in his chest. “you mean without chaos or boys who don’t deserve you?”

you let out a breath, half a laugh. “exactly.”

there’s a pause, the kind that feels thick with unspoken things.

riki’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “i think… the people who make you feel heavy, like you're constantly questioning yourself, that’s not love, y/n. that’s something else.”

you turn your face slightly to look up at him. he’s gazing at the stars like he’s afraid of admitting he craves the one thing he’s always sworn to never care about. 

“love should never hurt,” he says, quieter this time. “not the kind that stays.”

you don’t say anything right away. you’re too busy memorizing the way the night folds around his words. the way he’s always been a comfort for you, the one to pick you up when you’re falling. 

and in that moment, you believe him. you really do.

you nod once. “then i hope… when it’s my turn, it feels like this. safe.”

riki swallows. “me too.”

-ˏˋ⋆ present time ⋆ˊˎ- 

and now, back in your bedroom, the silence left in heeseung’s absence is deafening.

your gaze flicks toward the window, rain still threading down the glass like tear tracks. your mind lingers on that rooftop — the stars, the safety, the version of you who still believed in soft things.

before all the hook-ups, parties, and one-sided confessions. 

you pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders and whisper. either to riki or yourself, you don’t know.

“you said love should never hurt. i think heeseung missed that memo.”

and god, how you wish you could go back to that night — before the spiral, before the ache.

before the boy who made you feel like an afterthought.

before you let yourself fall over someone you thought you didn’t care about. 

riki leaves after making sure you’re alright, mumbling something about dance practice. 

and again, it’s just you. in the quiet. 

then, almost without thinking, you rip a blank piece of paper out of your journal.

you don’t plan it. it’s just instinct — fingers gripping your pen, waiting for permission your heart hasn’t quite given. but then you start writing.

dear heeseung,

i hated you before i knew how badly i could want you. maybe that’s where it all went wrong. because at some point, i stopped seeing you as the boy who annoyed me and started seeing you as someone i wanted to understand. as someone i wanted to look at me and see me. and for a while, i thought maybe you did. i thought maybe the way you pulled me into your lap, the way you whispered near my ear, the way your hand rested on my waist — i thought maybe it meant something. i thought i was stupid for hating you. turns out i was just stupid for hoping. you said you could never love someone like me. and god, that broke something in me i didn’t know was still whole. because even when i told myself i hated you, there was always that small, traitorous part of me that wondered: what if he doesn’t hate me back? what if it’s more? but it wasn’t. and now i can’t unhear it. you probably didn’t even mean it — not in the way it came out. maybe it was fear, or pressure, or ego. but it doesn’t matter, does it? words don’t get erased just because we didn’t mean them. they echo. and yours… yours are still echoing inside me like a song i can’t shut off. i don’t think i’m mad at you anymore. i think i’m mad at myself. for letting you get close. for not guarding the parts of me i only let out in small doses. for thinking i was different to you. i wish you hadn’t said it. but mostly, i wish it hadn’t mattered so much to me that you did. – y/n

you take out an envelope, neatly fold the paper and stuff it inside, writing a neat ‘heeseung’ on the front of it. 

some truths aren’t meant to be sent. some confessions are only meant for the rain to witness.

and tonight, that’s enough.

───

the second the door shuts behind him, the silence hits like a punch to the ribs.

heeseung stands there for a second too long, staring at the wood grain of your door like it might open again. like maybe you’ll come running after him. like maybe that small, broken smile you gave him wasn’t the end.

but it doesn’t open.

and it was the end.

he starts walking. he doesn’t even remember moving his feet, just that suddenly he’s outside, and the rain greets him like an old friend. cold, sharp, unforgiving. it soaks through his hoodie in seconds, but he doesn’t flinch.

he deserves it. every drop. every chill. every echo of your voice in his head.

“not quite forgiveness. not quite goodbye.”

god, what did he do?

how did he take someone who was literally sitting in his lap, trusting him with the fragile thread of something real — and turn that into this? this mess of silence and space and words he can’t take back?

“i could never love someone like her.”

he had said it so carelessly. so cruelly. trying to deflect the attention off himself in front of your friends, like a coward. like a boy who still thinks protecting his ego is worth more than protecting a heart.

especially your heart.

he wipes his face with the back of his hand, unsure if it’s tears or rain. it’s probably both.

he thinks back to your eyes right before he left. the way you looked at him like he was someone you used to know. like whatever thread was between you had finally snapped.

and the worst part?

he couldn’t even beg you to stay.

because he knows — he knows — he doesn’t deserve it.

he walks home in silence, the city around him buzzing and breathing like it doesn’t care at all about the wreckage inside his chest. his phone buzzes a few times in his pocket, probably jay or jungwon checking if he made it back safely.

but none of it matters.

because there’s only one person he wants to hear from.

and you’ve already said everything you needed to say. in the way you didn’t ask him to stay. in the way you didn’t cry. in the way you simply closed the door.

so when heeseung finally steps into his apartment, soaked to the bone, trembling from more than just the cold, he collapses on his bed, stares at the ceiling, and whispers:

“i didn’t mean it. i swear i didn’t mean it.”

but there’s no one left to listen.

not tonight.

───

heeseung isn’t the center of your world anymore.

not in the way he used to be.

in the weeks that follow, your friends become your anchor. riki never leaves your side. winter brings over matcha lattes and blankets. sunoo paints your nails while jake tells bad jokes. you laugh again. slowly, but surely.

you start writing more letters.

some are angry. some are soft. some are nothing more than wordless scratches of ink on paper.

but one night, you write a letter that feels different.

you don’t even realize what you’re saying until it’s already down:

i wanted you. for a long time. maybe even when i said i hated you. maybe that was the only way i knew how to say it without crumbling. i masked want with rage. affection with sarcasm. love with loathing. you made it easier to run. but i wanted to stay. god, i wanted to stay.

you fold that letter gently. tuck it into your drawer. it doesn’t matter if he reads it. not now.

because healing isn’t about him.

it’s about you.

and you’re getting there.

lately, the weekends have felt lighter. your apartment has become a familiar gathering place again, only now, it’s just the people who stayed. who showed up. who chose you. heeseung hasn’t come around in weeks, and no one really talks about it. not in a cruel way, just in the quiet, understanding way that friendships shift when someone slips out of the picture.

you used to dread saturday nights, used to flinch every time the group chat lit up with plans. used to wonder if he’d show up, if you’d have to spend the night pretending not to notice the weight of his silence, the way your laughter dulled around him. but somewhere along the way, those nights started to feel easier. not because you stopped missing him — but because you started remembering how to miss him without hurting yourself in the process.

your living room is alive with warmth and laughter. the scent of popcorn and mango smoothies drifts through the air. blankets are piled high on the couch, soft pillows strewn across the floor where riki is dramatically throwing himself down after losing yet another round of mario kart to sunghoon, who’s grinning like he just won the olympics.

“cheater,” riki groans, pointing an accusing finger without lifting his head.

“just admit i’m better,” sunghoon replies smugly, stretching his legs across the coffee table like he owns the place.

in the corner, winter and yuqi are dancing barefoot to a chaotic mix of early 2000s pop and indie throwbacks — somehow still synced up to choreography you’d all made up back in sophomore year. their laughter is contagious, unfiltered and bright, and it tugs a smile onto your face before you even realize it.

keeho is halfway through teaching jungwon and sunoo a tiktok dance in the kitchen doorway, voice loud and arms flailing with exaggerated energy. they’re laughing too hard to get the moves right, collapsing into each other every time they mess up. jake, unfazed by the chaos, is blending something suspiciously green in the kitchen, wearing a headband that reads “chef vibes only.”

you’re curled up on the loveseat, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a half-finished smoothie in your hands. and for once, you’re not scanning the room for him. you’re not wondering what he’d say or how he’d look at you or if tonight would be the night he pulled you aside and finally said something real.

you’re just… here. and it’s enough.

someone throws a pillow at your head, probably riki, based on the cackling, and you lunge to retaliate, laughing as the pillow war erupts across the living room. it’s messy, loud, ridiculous. and it’s yours. this little world you’re rebuilding, one laugh, one night, one breath at a time.

there’s still a part of you that misses him. maybe there always will be. but tonight, that part is small. quiet.

outnumbered by joy.

meanwhile, heeseung is alone in his apartment.

the place is dim. quiet. it hasn’t felt like home in a long time. he's been staring at his phone for an hour now, hoping for a text that doesn’t come.

he thinks about the group chat. the silence from everyone. he thinks about the night he ruined everything. and how, somehow, he still wants to fix it.

he knows an apology isn’t enough. not this time.

he needs to show you, all of you, that he’s not the same guy who let his fear speak louder than his heart.

he just doesn’t know how yet.

but he will. he has to.

because he doesn’t just want forgiveness.

he wants to deserve it.

───

somewhere in the chaos, one of your unsent letters goes missing.

riki finds it by accident. tucked under a cushion, edges worn. he doesn't mean to read it, but your handwriting draws him in, and before he knows it, he's holding your heartbreak in his hands.

he doesn't say a word. just slips it into his pocket and walks away.

a day later, heeseung finds the letter folded on the seat of his car.

he doesn’t recognize the paper at first. but the second he sees your handwriting, his heart drops.

his hands shake as he unfolds it. the silence around him is so loud, he can hear his pulse in his ears.

and then he reads it.

every word. every line. every raw, aching truth you never meant for him to see.

i thought maybe the way you pulled me into your lap, the way you whispered near my ear, the way your hand rested on my waist — i thought maybe it meant something. turns out i was just stupid for hoping. you said you could never love someone like me. and god, that broke something in me i didn’t know was still whole.

heeseung sits there, completely still. letter trembling in his grip.

"fuck," he whispers. "fuck."

he shows up to the next group hangout like his life depends on it.

he doesn’t talk to anyone. not really. not until you walk in.

you freeze when you see him. part of you wants to turn around and leave.

but he doesn’t let you.

he stands. crosses the room.

"can we talk?" he asks, voice low, not demanding, but pleading.

you don’t say anything.

"please. just five minutes. if you still hate me after, i’ll leave you alone. forever."

there’s a long pause.

you nod.

he takes you outside, away from the noise, into the quiet night.

"i read it," he says.

you blink. "read what?"

he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the letter. your letter.

your stomach drops.

"i wasn’t supposed to see it, i know. but... i’m glad i did."

"heeseung—"

"no. let me say this. please."

his eyes are desperate. glassy. his words shaky.

"i lied. that night. i said that because i was scared. because i felt too much, too fast, and didn’t know what to do with it. i thought if i pushed you away, i could kill whatever it was before it killed me."

he takes a step closer.

"but you weren’t just someone i hated. not really. you were someone i couldn’t stop thinking about. you were the highlight of every party, every night, every moment. i was an idiot. but i never stopped wanting you."

your throat is tight.

"you broke me," you whisper.

he nods.

"i know. and i’ll spend every second proving to you that i’m sorry. not with words — with time. with actions. with everything you’ll let me give."

there’s silence.

then you take a breath.

"you’ve got a lot to prove, lee heeseung."

he gives the smallest, hopeful smile.

"then let me start now."

and he does.

not with fireworks. not with promises he can’t keep. but with the small things. the consistent things.

the next morning, there’s a text from him. simple. 

“did you sleep okay?”

you stare at it for a while before replying. 

“yeah. you?” 

“not really. kept thinking about you.”

you don’t answer that. but your heart stirs anyway.

a few days later, he’s waiting outside your class with a drink in his hand, the one he used to make fun of you for ordering (“that’s basically sugar and foam, y/n”), but now buys without hesitation. he doesn’t try to walk you home. doesn’t push. just hands you the drink, offers a soft “you looked tired,” and walks away before you can respond.

he lets you come to him.

at the next hangout, he doesn’t hover. doesn’t sulk. he helps jake in the kitchen, jokes with jungwon, lets the others tease him without biting back. when you walk in, his eyes find you — but he doesn’t pull you aside. just offers a quiet, careful smile. like he’s waiting. like he’s learning how to stay.

one night, you’re struggling with your laundry, balancing way too many bags and a basket of unfolded clothes, and he appears without a word, grabbing half the load from your arms. you glare at him, but you don’t tell him to stop.

he walks with you to the laundry room, helps you separate colors, folds your towels when you’re too tired to finish. “i owe you way more than this,” he says softly. you don’t look at him. “yeah,” you murmur. “you do.”

he doesn’t reply. just keeps folding.

you start to notice it more after that. the way he lingers behind after group dinners to help clean. the way he listens, really listens, when you talk, even if it’s just about the books you’re reading or the music you’ve been into lately. the way he starts learning your rhythms again, not to manipulate them, but to respect them.

one night, you find a note slipped into your bag.

“this isn’t about getting you back. it’s about being someone who deserves to stand beside you. i don’t expect anything from you. just… thanks for letting me try.”

you don’t know what to do with that. but you keep the note anyway.

and maybe the biggest moment doesn’t feel big at all. it’s late. you’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, overwhelmed with everything—assignments, memories, feelings you’ve tried to ignore—and he shows up.

he doesn’t say anything. just sits beside you. close, but not too close. his shoulder brushes yours. your hand trembles. and without looking at you, he says, “you don’t have to talk. just let me sit here.”

and you do.

because he’s not trying to fix you. he’s just showing up. and maybe that’s what love looks like now.

quiet. patient. real.

you don’t forgive him all at once.

but some nights, it’s harder to pretend you don’t want to.

like the night it rains, and you forget your umbrella. you’re standing under the campus archway, clutching your books to your chest, half-considering just running for it, when a quiet voice says, “hey.”

you turn. heeseung’s holding out his umbrella, expression unreadable, hair already wet from the walk over.

“you’ll get soaked,” you mumble, surprised. “i don’t mind,” he says. “but you hate the rain.”

you want to tell him to leave. want to remind him that knowing those things doesn’t mean he’s forgiven.

but instead, you step under the umbrella. shoulder to shoulder. hearts too close. you don’t say a word the whole walk home. but you remember how he always matched his pace to yours. he still does.

───

there’s another time. movie night.

everyone’s over again, sprawled across the living room. you end up between yuqi and jungwon on the couch, but at some point, someone moves, and when you shift, you realize you’re next to him. again.

the movie plays. people whisper and pass snacks and argue over the plot twist. but all you feel is the space between your knee and his. the ghost of warmth where your arms nearly brush.

you don’t move away. neither does he.

and at one point, you laugh at a stupid scene. without thinking, you glance at him, wanting to see if he found it funny too. he’s already looking at you. and for a second, everything stills.

you look away first. but your heart doesn't stop racing for a long, long time.

───

the third moment is softest of all.

it’s late. everyone’s left. you’re cleaning up alone, stacking plates in the kitchen.

you don’t hear him come back until he’s beside you, rolling up his sleeves.

“thought i’d help,” he says gently. you nod. don’t speak.

you’re both quiet for a while, working in sync. something about it feels… familiar. domestic. like home.

then, as you’re drying the last cup, you glance over. he’s watching you, and there’s something in his eyes. something tender. careful. full of things he hasn’t said yet.

“i miss you,” he says softly. 

your breath catches.

you set the cup down.

“heeseung–”

“i’m not asking for anything,” he interrupts, voice thick. “just… i miss you. and i wanted you to know.”

you swallow hard. there’s so much you could say. but instead, you whisper, “i know.”

he nods once. and then he leaves. because he meant it — he wasn’t asking for anything. but that’s the moment you know: you don’t hate him anymore. you never did. 

───

it happens a week later.

a rooftop. stars overhead. winter’s birthday, most of your friends are tipsy on alcohol, sugar and too many karaoke songs. you haven’t had a drop of alcohol, wanting to truly feel everything.

heeseung finds you leaning against the railing, eyes on the sky.

“hey,” he says. you nod and let him stand beside you.

the silence isn’t awkward anymore. it’s soft. steady.

“can i ask you something?” he says, barely audible.

you hum.

“do you still feel it?” he asks. “whatever it was… whatever we had.”

you don’t answer for a long time.

and then, quietly… “i never really stopped.”

he turns. slowly.

your eyes meet. and in them is every apology he’s ever whispered with his actions. every moment he gave you space. every time he showed up when he didn’t have to.

you reach for him first.

your hand brushes his. his fingers curl around yours like a prayer.

and then, finally, he kisses you.

soft. aching. full of every unspoken word, every almost, every could’ve been. this isn’t the kind of kiss that demands anything. it’s a promise. a beginning.

you pull back first, just enough to whisper, “i don’t wanna do this while you’re intoxicated, i don’t want you to regret it.” 

he stares at you before mumbling into your lips.

“y/n, i haven’t had a drink, but it feels like i’m drunk when i kiss you.” 

your heart stops and everything fades into the background. “don’t break me again.” you plead, face inches away from his. 

he presses his forehead to yours.

“never again,” he breathes.

and this time, you believe him.

as he reconnects your lips, his hands tremble slightly where they find purchase on your waist. the night air is cool, but your skin is burning—flushed, alive, and aching in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in so long.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes flick between yours and your lips, like he’s still not sure this is real.

“we don’t have to,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “just say the word.”

but you don’t want him to stop. not tonight. not after everything.

so you slide your fingers into the collar of his jacket, tug him closer until your lips brush his again.

“take me home, heeseung.”

and he does.

his apartment is quiet when you get inside, the chaos of the earlier party gone, the night still humming with something electric. you barely have time to kick your shoes off before his mouth finds yours again. hungrier now, more desperate. like all the restraint he’s shown is unraveling, thread by thread.

his hands are everywhere — your hips, your waist, your jaw. like he’s relearning you. memorizing the weight of you against him.

you tug his jacket off, fingers fumbling with the zipper, and he lets out a low, breathless laugh against your neck.

“still impatient,” he teases.

“still hot when you shut up,” you shoot back, and he groans.

you barely make it to the couch.

he sits first, pulling you into his lap like it’s instinct, like he’s needed this for months. your knees straddle him, bodies pressed chest to chest, your hands tangled in his hair as he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

he tilts his head, deepens the kiss, and it’s filthy. slow. wet. your hips roll against his without thinking, and the noise he makes, low and guttural, goes straight to your core.

“fuck,” he groans. forehead against your collarbone. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you arch into him, tug his shirt over his head, and he follows suit, fingers slipping under the hem of yours, eyes flicking up for permission. you nod, and he peels it off slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something precious.

his hands trail over your skin like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to deserve you.

and then his mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, trailing down until you’re gasping his name, your back arching as he presses kisses across your collarbones.

“you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, like it hurts.

as you reach for his belt wanting to make him feel good, he puts his hand over yours. “there’s something i need to tell you.. before we take anything further.” he says like he doesn’t even want you to know. 

“what is it, hee?” 

god. that nickname. 

it’s what all his close friends call him, however when you say it. he wants to lay the world at your feet. 

“i’m.. uh– a vir-virgin…” he mumbles. you would have missed it had you not been paying close attention. 

you laugh. 

heeseung leans back into the couch, hoping, praying, wishing it to swallow him whole. 

as you observe heeseung, you realize he must be serious. “you’re a virgin? but you– you always used to talk about your hook-ups and how every week it was like you had someone new hanging off your arm??? what do you mean you’re a virgin?” 

he whimpers. he fucking whimpers. “i’m not proud of it, okay? i always came really close to hooking up with girls but i um. i couldn’t you know.. get it… up.” 

you sit there quietly, giving him time to compose himself and continue. 

“everytime i tried to lose my virginity, i couldn’t get hard unless i thought she was you,” he speaks, not gaining enough courage to look you in the eyes. 

you stare at heeseung for a moment, trying to process what he just said. the weight of it settles between you like a delicate secret, and suddenly the playful teasing tone you’d had before feels completely inappropriate.

you can see it in his doe eyes — how embarrassed he is, how much he wants to crawl out of his own skin. the corners of his lips are tugged in a tight line, as if holding in every emotion that threatens to spill out. but you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. it’s soft, gentle, but laced with a teasing warmth.

“you’re a virgin?” you ask, letting the words linger a little longer than they should, pretending to be surprised as if he hadn’t just told you, twice.

heeseung’s face reddens, and you see him shrink further into the couch. you could almost feel his desire to hide, to escape. but you don’t let him. instead, you move closer, shifting between his legs, and place your hand on his thigh. a gentle, reassuring pressure.

“god, heeseung,” you tease softly, your lips curling into a smile that isn’t cruel, but playful. “how could you keep that from me? you’ve been all… big talk and ‘i get all the girls,’ and here you are, this nervous little thing, blushing at the thought of being with me?”

his eyes flicker with uncertainty, but you lean in just enough to press your lips to his ear. you feel him tense under the touch, and the subtle shiver runs through his body, telling you everything you need to know. he’s not as confident as he makes it seem.

“you should’ve told me sooner, you know,” you whisper, your voice low, just enough to make his breath hitch. “i would’ve been patient. we could’ve taken it slow.”

heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping the fabric of the couch like he’s holding onto some semblance of control. you smile knowingly, watching the struggle on his face. but it’s not discomfort — it’s desire. you can feel it in the way his eyes refuse to leave yours, in the way his body reacts to the gentleness in your touch.

“i… i don’t want you to think less of me,” he mutters, barely audible, but you catch it anyway. “it’s just… with you, it’s always felt different.”

you gently trace your fingers up his chest, watching as his breath quickens. you’re giving him space to breathe, to process, and then you lean in, brushing your lips against his in a soft, teasing kiss.

“stop worrying about that,” you say quietly, your lips just barely touching his. “i don’t think less of you. if anything, you’re hotter right now than ever before.”

the vulnerability in his eyes shifts. he’s still nervous, but the weight is lifting. and for the first time in a while, you see him start to believe that he doesn’t need to hide anything from you.

then, you shift your focus, teasing him once more with a playful grin. “but you know, heeseung… i could help you with that. we could take this slow, maybe help you get comfortable with what it feels like to be with me. you trust me, don’t you?”

he nods, slowly, not trusting his voice. he’s ready. maybe more than he thought.

and you take that as your cue. you kiss him again, deeper this time, letting the heat between you grow. his body responds to you almost immediately. hands shifting from nervous to eager, pulling you closer as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.

“let me take care of you,” you murmur, your hands trailing down to his belt. this time, you don’t hesitate. you undo it slowly, giving him time to react, but he doesn’t stop you. instead, he leans back into the couch, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

heeseung’s eyes search yours one more time, a silent question in them. you nod gently, giving him permission to be vulnerable, to trust you fully.

and when your hands pull his pants down, you can feel the heat of him, see the evidence of his desire. you take your time, enjoying the way he reacts to each touch, savoring the way he trembles under your hands.

you start by rubbing over his bulge when your eyes widen. 

he just stares back at you, not blinking, but incredibly nervous. “is– is something wrong?” he stutters out. 

“wrong? no, heeseung. you’re huge.” 

he blushes and hides his face in his hands. his veiny hands. you’ll definitely need to put those to use later. 

you softly drag his hands away from his face and tell him to never hide from you. you think he’s beautiful like this. 

after he calms down, you look back into his eyes that resemble a deer, and he nods. signaling you to continue. 

you finally trail your eyes down to his raging hard on, you can almost see it pulse. 

his breath quickens the longer you take to begin touching him.

you start by teasing his swollen tip, arousal evident in the stain on his gray boxers. he sighs heavily, tipping his head back.

as you rub your hand down to his base, you get a feel for how thick he truly is. 

he’s hard. aching. even at the slightest touch, his eyebrows furrow and he holds back soft groans. 

you rip your hand off his clothed bulge. “if you want me to continue, you need to let me hear you, baby.” 

that was his breaking point, he quickly nods his head yes looking at you with pleading eyes, “c—can you please touch me? it hurts.” 

not wanting to tease him any longer, you rip his boxers off his thighs and his throbbing length slaps against his lower abdomen reaching just above his belly button. precum smears on his abs and you get the urge to lick it off.

so you do.

you gently move his dick away from his toned stomach, swiping your wet muscle along his abs, sucking to leave light marks. 

the noises he makes are downright pornographic, and you think you’ll never be able to hear them enough.

moving your attention back to the hardness in your grasp, you begin to lick up his shaft, tracing each vein with the tip of your tongue. his head is still tipped back, frustrating you a bit because you want his attention on you. 

so… in one swift motion, you take him down your throat until his tip hits the back. his head shoots up and he moans. loud. 

heeseung is in heaven. the feeling of your throat constricting around his cock, he never wants you to pull off of him. he gently pulls your hair into a ponytail, hands shaking when you start moving.

his apartment is filled with filthy noises: wet, loud, and obscene. 

he can hear and feel your gag reflexes kicking in but you don’t budge. you continue to move up and down, not wanting to stop until he cums. 

his tipping point was you somehow taking him even further down your throat, nose brushing his pelvis. he thought you were going to take a break for air but you didn't. 

you stay.

swallowing around him.

the pressure in your jaw is almost unbearable but when you feel his thighs shaking, you know he’s close. and you need to ruin him. 

hollowing your cheeks, you swirl your tongue around his engorged tip, hands coming up to play with his heavy balls. he can’t hold back anymore. the sensation of you taking his whole cock down your tiny throat and the stimulation of his balls in your hands. he groans. 

desperate. low. deep

and spills down your throat. warm, wet, and sticky ropes, pour out of his tip. taking up all the space you had left, some spilling out from the corners of your mouth.

you swallow all that you can, then pull off from his dick. 

heavy breathing is the only thing that can be heard. heeseung threw an arm over his eyes, chest heaving, trying to regain control of his senses.

meanwhile, you haven’t stopped clenching your thighs together. 

you didn’t even notice you were staring until he clears his throat. he just looks so gorgeous all fucked out.

“wow. did you– swallow.. it?” he asks through pants. 

you answer him like it was the most natural thing in the world, “yeah, because it was you” 

he moans, again. and that’s when you notice he’s still hard, still aching. 

as you move to straddle his lap, he grabs your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist. “not here, i want our first time to be special” he says softly, with a kiss to your temple. 

he carries you to his bedroom on wobbly legs and gently lays you down on his bed, hovering on top of you. he plants wet kisses all over your face, trailing down to your neck, collarbones, until he reaches your covered chest.

looking at you with big, lust filled eyes, he waits for your green light. you nod and he fumbles with your bra clasp, eventually tearing the fabric away. 

“you’re stunning,” he says completely awestruck by your half-naked form. 

as he continues staring, he licks his lips, slowly lowering his head wrapping his soft lips around one of your perky buds. 

you instinctively arch into his touch, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as his other hand gently kneads your other boob. soft gasps and whines slip from your lips as you try to grind up in search of any friction where you need it most. 

he senses your desperate pleas and starts moving his body to slot between your legs, face in front of your clothed core. you wiggle your hips trying to convince him to speed up and touch you where you need it the most. 

“can i…?” he practically begs, “yeah” you sigh as you relax into his plush sheets. he drags your sweats down your soft legs planting kisses along the inside of your thighs, all the way down to your calves. he makes his way to your panty clad pussy, pressing a soft kiss to your bundle of nerves aching for him. 

you don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on before.

he looks so good between your thighs, you want this image ingrained into your brain forever. 

he brings his thumb up to press on the wet spot that’s formed on your panties, groaning, “fuck, you’re so wet.” 

“all for you.” 

he replays those words in his head and his patience snaps. tearing your underwear in half, he wastes no time. tongue lapping and the wetness between your legs, like he’s been deprived of any liquid all his life.

you’ve never met someone this desperate to eat you out. or anyone for that matter.

he mumbles against your core, “guide me, please, wan’ you t’feel good, mmh.”

your hands take place in his silky soft roots, gently tugging on the strands. 

through whimpers, you tell him to focus on your clit, and surprisingly (for a virgin), he finds it fairly quickly. 

he briefly sucks on the nub, flicking it with his tongue to soothe it. “fuck, hee” you moan out into the space of his bedroom. 

he groans against your pussy, carefully bringing up his fingers so he can push his tongue into your awaiting hole. the moment he starts fucking you with his tongue, you arch your back and grind into his face, needing more. 

he heard his friends talking about “prep” and “stretching girls out,” so he wonders if you need to be stretched out to take him. you said he was huge, did you mean it? he has no idea, he’s a pathetic virgin who has only shoved his dick into his right hand. not even a pocket pussy or fleshlight. 

to your dismay, he pulls away for a brief second asking if he should use his fingers. “please, i need you to stretch me out, i can’t– take you without prep,” you rush out feeling your high not far away.

“shit, okay baby,” he mutters back before bringing his middle finger up to spread your juices around. 

your hips jerk up when he focuses on your clit, surprised by the stimulation. 

slowly, he pushes his finger in, getting used to the warm sensation of your walls. 

you clench around his thick digit, feeling fuller than when you finger yourself. as he pumps it in and out, you tell him to add another one and he does. 

moaning in relief, you arch into his touch as his tongue finds its way back to your sensitive clit. 

between him lapping like a dog and the feeling of two of his fingers pumping in and out of your tight hole, you feel a familiar band in your stomach building up.

your moans increase and heeseung feels dizzy, taking in all that you give.

he curves his fingers all while sucking on your bundle of nerves, causing you to tip over the edge and that band in your stomach to snap. 

you come crashing down, chanting his name like a mantra as heeseung helps you ride out your high. 

as you lift your head and meet his gaze, he looks more fucked out than you do. hooded eyes, tongue lolled out of his mouth, gaze consumed with lust. you pull him by the collar of his shirt until your lips collide in a mess of tongues and teeth. 

your makeout session unfortunately doesn’t last long as heeseung starts whining into your lips. 

that’s when you realize his cock found your bent knee, not so subtly grinding against it, trying to relieve some of the ache. 

“feeling needy, are we?” you tease, earning a playful roll of the eyes from heeseung. 

pulling back, you drink in his bare torso– he’s always been muscular as he was very popular with the ladies (until he got into bed with them). 

dragging your hand up his chiseled abs, his stomach tenses and his dick twitches. 

you found his second biggest weakness, besides you. his abs. 

deciding to end the teasing there, since you’re also becoming increasingly impatient, you flip him over so you land on top of him with a quiet, “oof.” 

as you settle your bare core on his rock solid cock, you start grinding, placing your hands on his chest for support. 

he can’t hold back the guttural groans spilling from his mouth. not believing you’re really on top of him right now. this isn’t just one of his wet dreams. 

he thought this couldn’t get any better, but when he struggles to get out a weak ask for a condom, you just respond with “no, i’m– on the pill. need to feel you. all of you.” 

and to that, he moans, not believing his ears. 

it’s his first time. and he’s about to have sex with YOU. raw. he thinks he’s dreaming. there’s no way you’re real.

you gently angle his dick towards your awaiting hole, sinking down until his fat tip is inside you.

instantly, you both sigh in relief, starting to feel the pressure ease up. 

if you feel a stretch at his tip entering you, you don’t know how you’re supposed to fit all of him inside you. he’s the biggest you’ve seen and he doesn’t even know it.

your attention is drawn back to the man consuming your brain when he whines. “m-more, please.” he’s becoming needier the longer you stay at just his tip but you don’t know how to tell him you’ve never taken a size like him before.

“hee-heeseung i need a sec, you’re– fuck. so thick,” you say between moans. 

his grip on your hips tightens, a silent way of telling you to take your time. 

when you finally deem yourself ready, you sink lower, wanting to speed it up, bracing the stretch to come. 

you feel him pulsing inside you and that’s all you need to sink all the way down, him bottoming out inside you. 

it’s his first time feeling anything other than his hand wrapped around him, and he whimpers, loud. it’s overstimulating in the best way possible and before he knows it you move up to his tip and bounce back down. his dick twitches and you feel it. every vein, every pulse, every movement, even his heavy breathing. 

heeseung, not in control of his movements, bucks his hips up, making another non-existent inch fit inside your stretched out core. 

you moan soft and loud, eyes rolling back, as the pain turned into pleasure. bouncing faster on his girthy cock, you uncontrollably clench around him, causing heeseung’s grip to tighten. you know it’ll bruise tomorrow, but at the moment, he feels too good for you to care. 

the room smells of sex, and the only sounds that can be heard are skin clapping and your shared noises. 

heeseung must notice your legs becoming tired because before you know it, you’re flat on your back with heeseung on top of you, cock never slipping out from your pussy. 

his large hands grab each of your thighs, pressing them to your chest.

his pace is slow at first, testing the waters, getting a feel for a rhythm. 

as his hands stay pressed to your thighs, he slowly drags out and pushes all of his dick inside you. 

you feel him deeper in this position, a bulge forming in your lower belly. 

when he notices, his eyes stay glued there.

you wonder what he’s looking at but the moment you look down, you’re met with his hand pressing slightly on the bulge causing the loudest moan to leave your lips. 

he signals you to hold your thighs as one of his hands holds himself up and the other focuses on how he can feel his dick inside your guts with every thrust. 

his pace suddenly quickens when you clench hard around him, making his hips stutter briefly. 

endless praises leave his pretty lips, telling you how good you feel, how hot you look laid underneath him, taking whatever he gives you. 

feeling a familiar, yet new sensation building rapidly, you try to warn him that you’re close but somehow, he already knows. “i know baby, let go whenever you want.” he mutters back, feeling just as close to his high.

“fuck– where do you want it?” he rushes out, not wanting to cum inside you if that isn’t what you want. 

but apparently, all the gods are smiling down on him as you release your thighs from the grip you had on them and wrap your legs around his waist. “inside,” you moan. 

and at that, he cums. hard. ropes of his hot, gooey, cum spill inside you. tipping you over the edge.

with a loud groan, clear liquid comes rushing out from you, spraying all over his sheets and lower abdomen. soaking his dick. 

heeseung moans. again. raw and unfiltered at the fact that you just squirted all over him (he’s seen enough porn and heard too many stories from your shared friend group to know what squirting is). 

as you come down from your high, heeseung is somehow still cumming. it spills out of you, creating an even stickier mess on his bed. but he doesn’t care. 

not when you’re beneath him, chest rising rapidly, trying to catch your breath. 

heeseung’s cock is still lodged inside you, holding half of his cum inside you, not wanting it to go to waste. 

as he collapses on top of you, he places a soft kiss on your forehead, holding your trembling body close to his.

you were the first to speak, “i didn’t even know i could do that,” talking about how you squirted all over him. “guess we both had firsts today,” he softly chuckles. 

his breath is warm against your skin, his arm tightening just a little around your waist as if anchoring himself in the moment. you don’t respond right away, too caught up in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat, the lingering warmth between you, the way his fingers begin tracing gentle, absent-minded shapes against your spine.

“i didn’t expect it to be like this,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the hush of the room.

“like what?” he asks, voice low, like he’s afraid to shatter the calm.

you shift slightly to face him, resting your head more comfortably on his chest. “soft. safe.”

Hheeseung lets out a breath that sounds like relief and something deeper, something reverent. “yeah,” he whispers. “me neither.”

for a while, neither of you say anything. he pulls the blanket higher over both of you, his other hand brushing your hair back with such tenderness that it makes your eyes sting. he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like he means it.

“you okay?” he asks, voice still rough from earlier, but softer now, like the edge of him has been smoothed by your touch.

you nod, then glance up at him. “are you?”

heeseung meets your gaze, and something in his expression shifts. vulnerability bleeding through the cracks he used to hide behind. “i am now.”

your heart squeezes.

he licks his lips, nervous. “i’ve been so stupid with you. all this time, i kept pushing and pulling, thinking maybe if i kept it messy, it’d be easier to walk away if i had to.” he pauses, his voice thinning. “but tonight just… made me realize i don’t want to walk away.”

your breath catches. “heeseung…”

“i don’t want this to be a one time thing,” he says, eyes searching yours. “not the sex, not the closeness. i want you. the fights, the tension, the way you drive me crazy and still somehow make me want to be better just by being around you. i’m so in love with you, it hurts.”

your lips part in surprise, and he laughs quietly, self-deprecating and shy. “too much?”

instead of answering, you lean up and kiss him, slow, deep, and full of all the things you couldn’t say until now. when you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, smiling as his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“i’m in love with you too, idiot.”

he grins, wide and a little teary-eyed, and pulls you closer like he’s never letting go.

and you know he won’t have to.

pls reblog & leave feedback <3 hope you enjoyed the read ◡̈

[ @jaeyuniversal ] prod. 250417

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Me, You, and Baby, Too

Summary: You and Joel have always wanted kids, but didn't want to rush into having them until you both were ready. After a surprise at his job, Joel realizes there's nothing more he wants to do than put a baby in you as soon as he gets home.

Pairing: Husband!Joel Miller x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.1K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), unprotected p in v sex (it's baby making time, so hush), oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, big ole fat and nasty breeding kink (.... don't look at me it's bad), creampie, cum play, talks of starting a family, calling Joel "Daddy" (in the sense you want to have his babies, but also 🤷🏼‍♀️), Sweet soft Joel who loves his wife and would give her the universe if he could, honestly with just the way Joel is talking about makin' babies, I think I'm pregnant

A/N: It's that time of the month where Madeline ovulates and writes feral breeding kink smut!!! 🤪 Okay I am so nervous to post this because I have never written for Joel before and I'm worried it's trash with a capital T, but after re-watching TLOU, I need 2003 Joel Miller carnally, so here we are. This is also inspired by @mrsmando post about 2003 Joel Miller constantly keeping you barefoot and pregnant because it made me unwell, and no lies were told. (thanks for ruining my life mimi) 🤠 ANYWHO I hope you guys like it, and if not, I'll shut up and go back to writing Javi and Frankie and pretend like this didn't happen

There were a lot of stereotypical answers that you expected from your husband when you asked him how his day at work had been:  

“Good.” 

“Fine.” 

“Long.” 

“My knees are killin’ me.” 

“Tommy did somethin’ fuckin’ stupid again.” 

“Better now that I’m home with you.” 

So when Joel arrived home today after a new job he had started with Tommy on a bathroom renovation, there were few things that could have prepared you for the response your husband had when you asked him how his day had gone. 

“Hey, honey. How was your day today?” You smiled, watching Joel stroll in through your front door, kicking off his work boots at the entryway, beginning to put away his things before strolling into the kitchen to greet you. 

“Pretty good." He paused, leaning in for a quick kiss before making his way over to the closet before speaking again. "Saw a real cute baby today.” 

You could practically feel your heart skip a beat as you looked up from the vegetables you had been cutting up for dinner, tightening the grip you had around your knife to make sure you didn’t drop it in shock. 

Out of all the things for Joel to bring up on the first day at a new job, a cute baby had been at the top of the list.

Not floor plans. 

Not timelines for the project.

Not something stupid that Tommy did. 

Not even what he had done today on the job. 

The top news that Joel Miller had to report back to you about his day was the sighting of a cute baby. 

You and Joel had always agreed that you’d wanted kids, and your husband had been not only adamant, but genuinely excited at the prospect of becoming a dad. But only being a little less than a year into your marriage, the two of you had decided you didn’t want to rush into anything, and when the time felt right, you’d both know it. 

But one by one, as your friends began to announce their pregnancies, baby showers, and pictures of their adorable newborns, you couldn’t help but deny the baby fever starting to burn hotter and hotter inside you with every passing day. 

You’d brought it up in passing a few times with Joel, talking about your friends who had kids, or a cute mom and her children you saw walking around in your neighborhood, and while he had always had a positive response to what you had to say, you just had a feeling that now just wasn’t the time for the two of you yet, and that was okay.  

But here you were, standing in your kitchen, jaw practically scraping the ground at the notion that your husband had dropped just about the least subtle hint ever that babies weren’t just at the forefront of your mind- they were on his, too. 

“Awh, really?” You asked, shaking your head to snap out of your shocked state, returning back to dice the onion you had been working on before Joel could turn around to see you after finishing hanging up his things in the closet, trying to subtly coax more information out of him. 

“Yeah.” He smiled, joining you in the kitchen, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer to his chest for a soft kiss to greet you, “The family we’re startin’ the bathroom reno for just moved in. Had their first baby a few months ago and just hadn’t had time to work on fixin’ things.” 

“So they’re already putting the baby to work with you and Tommy?” You teased, raising an eyebrow at Joel playfully, giving him a quick peck back on the lips as he laughed at your sass. 

“Cheap labor.” Joel shrugged back, playing into the joke, “Nah, she woke up from her nap while Tommy and I were runnin’ through some measurements so her mom brought her out for the last lil bit we were there. She was damn cute, too. Just smilin’ and laughin’ at everything.” 

You were glad Joel’s arm was still wrapped around your hip, because you were convinced if it wasn’t, you were about to melt to the floor into a puddle, watching how soft and sweet Joel was talking about a cute, smiling baby. 

“Well a cute baby definitely sounds like a very nice perk of being on the job.” You smirked, trying to play it cool enough to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. 

“Yeah.” Joel replied softly, quietly pausing for a moment, watching the gears turning in his brain, carefully calculating his words before he spoke. 

“You okay?” You asked, looking up at Joel, knowing your husband well enough that he had something on his mind he was trying to work up the confidence to spit out. 

Joel looked back down at you, big brown eyes locking with yours as his grip around your waist tightened ever so slightly, tongue swiping against his plush bottom lip as he took a long, deep breath in and slow exhale out.  

“Honey, what is it?” You asked again, now slightly concerned with how nervous your husband looked in his stoic silence, reaching up to gently wrap your fingers around his arm, thumb stroking his skin. 

“I want one.” 

You froze, worried that your heart may have actually stopped as you looked at Joel, making sure that you had really just heard what he had said. 

“W-what?” 

“I want one. A baby. I- I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked about it, but I’ve been thinkin’ about it a lot, and seein’ that baby today, it just- shit, I just couldn’t stop picturin’ what it would be like to have one of our own I guess.” 

If you weren’t a puddle before, you sure as fuck were now.  

An overwhelming sensation of nerves and excitement began thrumming through your veins, your heart beat pounding in your ears as your face grew warm and a smile started to spread between your cheeks. You were almost certain you had to be dreaming, asking again to make sure that someone needed to come and wake you up and send you back to reality. 

“Joel… Really?” 

“Yeah, really. Nothin’ I want more. I know I ain’t gonna even be close to the perfect dad, but I know you’ll be sucha good mom, and I’ll be damned if I don’t want some tiny lil versions of us runnin’ around. Couldn’t think of anything that would make me happier than that. Like I said, I know that we ain’t talked about in a while, and if ya aren’t ready yet that’s okay but I-” 

Before Joel could even finish the rest of his thought, you were pressing up to plant your lips to his with passionate intensity, hands roaming up his chest before cupping his jaw and the scratchy stubble of his cheeks while your stomach flipped with arousal and want, already feeling a damp patch beginning to pool in the cotton of your underwear. 

You pulled away, kisses traveling along his jawline and up his neck until you were nipping at his ear, the hot breath of your words whispering against his skin. 

“You wanna make a baby, Joel Miller?” 

“Fuck-” Joel groaned, reaching his other arm around you grab at your ass, pulling you in tight enough to feel the bulge beginning to grow under the denim of his worn jeans, pressing against your thigh.

“‘Cause there’s nothing that I want more than to make you a daddy.” You smirked, looking up to watch Joel’s eyes darken with lust, jaw going slack as a low groan rumbled in his chest, his once half hard cock now fully erect and straining against his zipper, trying to keep from giggling watching your husband try to string together any sort of thoughts to speak. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ-” He moaned, running his hand over his face to try and regain his composure to keep from busting right then and there. “You- fuck, you sure, baby?” 

“Mhmmmm. Don’t think I’ve ever been so sure of anything in my whole life. So sure,” you paused, softly pressing your lips to his between words, “that I think we should go make one right now.” 

Your adamant confirmation was all it took to set off something almost animalistic in Joel, crashing his lips back into yours in a messy clash of tongues and teeth, gripping his hands under your thighs to hoist you up around his hips and lock your legs behind the small of his back. Without ever letting your mouths part, Joel was already halfway to the bedroom before you had even realized it, playfully giggling at how frantically he was carrying you down the hallway, your bodies bumping against the walls and door frames, too focused on desperate and needy kisses for any sort of spatial awareness. 

Finally reaching your bed, Joel carefully laid you down, letting your back fall into the mattress, leaving your lower half to hang off the edge before your husband was on his knees, settling himself between your parted thighs. 

You sat up on your elbows, watching as Joel tightened his grip around the meat of your legs, peppering kisses up the inside of each across your soft skin before coming face to face with your core, planting another soft kiss there before letting his fingers ghost over your heat, still covered by your jeans. 

He rapidly worked at the button of your pants, shuffling them down off your hips to reveal your underwear, now absolutely soaked with arousal from the prospect alone of Joel knocking you up and carrying his baby. 

“Jesus Christ, baby girl, look at ‘cha.” Joel tutted, admiring how the cotton of your underwear clung to the outline of your cunt, sticking to the puffy and swollen lips of your pussy from how wet you were. “Haven’t even touched ya yet. This all for me, darlin’?” 

Just as you began to try and answer, Joel took one of his fingers, barely dragging it over the damp fabric before beginning to rub soft circles over your covered clit, eliciting a pathetic whimper from you at the electric sensation.  

“F-fuck- It’s all for you, b-baby.” You stammered, moaning even louder as a second finger joined the first, pressing more pressure into you sensitive nub as he nudged each of your legs to drape over his shoulders, his free hand tugging at the waistband of your underwear, making you instinctually lift your hips as he yanked them off your legs to crumple in a messy pile with your pants. 

“Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.” Joel mewled, running his fingers up and down through the weeping seams of your folds, toying with your entrance while draping his arm across your hips to hold your squirming lower half in place. “Wants me to fuck her full of me and fill her up so bad, huh?” 

“P-please, Joel. Want you to fill me up so badly.” You whimpered, staring down at your husband, a devilish grin spread across his face, licking his lips as his eyes darted back and forth between your blissed out face and the glistening mess between your thighs. 

“I will sweetheart, promise. Gotta taste you first though, baby. Gotta make sure you’re nice n’ready for me. ‘Cause once we start, I ain’t lettin’ you outta this bed ‘till I knock you up.” 

With that, Joel was diving between your legs, lapping you up in long and firm strokes, pressing against your clit in the way he knew would make you fall apart under his tongue. While he would have loved to have spend hours just like this, making you writhe under his touch, drinking up your arousal like a wandering man parched in the heat of the desert, Joel had one thing on his mind, and one thing only- 

To get you pregnant.   

Joel began to intensify the pace of his tongue, swirling and sucking around your clit as two of his thick fingers pushed into your heat, sliding in and out of your entrance with ease from how wet and worked up you were. Curling his fingers ever so slightly, you cried out as Joel bumped against your g-spot, pushing against the soft, spongy spot as his tongue worked its magic. 

You could feel the arousal shooting through your veins, heat beginning to bloom in your stomach as Joel fucked you with his fingers and mouth, shooting your hand down to grab fistfulls of his thick, brown hair to brace yourself for your impending orgasm. 

“J-Joel, oh fuck- Fuck, baby, I’m c-close. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.” You whined, pussy beginning to flutter around Joel’s fingers, the tightening only egging him on further to get you to cross the finish line. 

With just a little more pressure of his tongue, Joel could feel your cunt clamping down around his digits, watching the pleasure shoot through your body as you came, your orgasm crashing through you like a tsunami. 

As you reached your high, Joel drank up your arousal, not faltering in his pace, too focused on your pretty cries of his name being chanted like a prayer to do anything but keep going and making you feel good. 

Truth be told, Joel had gotten so lost between your thighs, the only thing stopping him was the tensing feeling between his, so pussy drunk and determined to fuck you full of him that he was worried he was about to cum too if he didn’t stop. 

Pulling off you, Joel frantically stood up, racing to undo his belt and jeans, yanking them down his legs in tandem with his boxers as his cock slapped against his stomach, precum already pearling from his tip, desperate to be inside of you. His shirt quickly followed his pants, ripping it over his head as his broad body caged yours under him, helping you to scoot back on the bed until your head hit the pillows, trailing kisses up and down your body the whole way. 

As Joel kissed and nipped at your skin, you quickly shuffled off your top and bra, leaving you bare beneath him, moaning as his tongue flicked against each of your newly exposed pebbled nipples, grouping your breast and kneading the soft flesh in his palms. 

Even though you had just came, you could already feel your cunt starting to clench around nothing, desperate to feel Joel inside of you, to stretch you out with his thick cock and fuck you until you couldn’t think straight. But with the way your chest was heaving and breath shaking from your orgasm, you could barely muster out the words you wanted. 

“J-Joel, p-please, baby. P-please.” 

You snaked your hand between your bodies to reach for Joel’s cock, wrapping your fingers around his length and swiping your thumb over his leaking tip, a low groan rumbling in his chest as you stroked him, trying to guide him to slide between your legs and ease your ache. 

Lowering his hips, you moved your hand and let his replace it, Joel pumping himself a few times before guiding his tip between your folds, collecting your slick to coat his cock, using every last ounce of self-control he had as his eyes locked with yours, wanting to see your face as he pushed inside you. 

“Please, what, darlin’?” Joel teased, knowing damn well what you were begging for. 

“Need to feel you, Joel. Need you to put a baby in me.” You moaned, reaching up to grab his face, your palm rubbing against his stubble as your fingers tugged on the curls at the nape of his neck. 

With one more pump, Joel lined himself up with your entrance, sliding into your heat, the sweet stretch and sting of his length making the breath hitch in the back of your throat, filling you up inch by inch until he bottomed out inside you with his tip just kissing your cervix. 

Joel couldn’t help but smirk as he watched your mouth fall open, parted lips letting a soft moan escape while your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head at the newfound sensation, giving you another moment to adjust before he began to slowly roll his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your core. 

“Christ, baby girl, so wet and tight. Like this pussy was made just for me. Made for me to fuck ya full of me until it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ take.” Joel groaned, reaching down to grab your thighs, pinning your knees to your chest, stretching you open to take Joel even deeper, practically feeling him in your stomach with the position he had you in. 

“Joel, oh my god- fuck, you feel so good. Fuck, baby. Want you to fill me up so bad.” You whimpered, Joel now beginning to pick up his pace as he thrust in and out of you, continually punching in that perfect spot over and over again, leaving your brain bordering on short circuiting. 

Joel’s fingertips dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs, pushing your legs down just far enough to be chest to chest with you, the sweat dampened curls of his forehead brushing against yours as your mouths met in an electric kiss, catching each other’s muffled moans with each snap of Joel’s hips. 

“Yeah, sweetheart? Want me to fill you up? Fuck a baby into you? Let everyone see what a pretty momma you are, carryin’ our kid?” Joel grunted, picturing you, months from now, belly round and tits swollen, pregnant with your baby, wondering how many you’d let him give you, because fuck, he’d keep knocking you up until he had nothing left to give. 

Each push and pull of your bodies against each other felt more and more electric, an undeniable coil tightening in your stomach with the way Joel was pounding into you and the hairs at the base of his cock were brushing against your clit, already feeling yourself beginning to teeter on the brink of pleasure once again. 

“Yes, fuck, fuck- yes, Joel. I wanna have your baby. Want you to knock me up so I can make you a daddy. Please, baby, please.” You were all but sobbing at this point, your fingers digging into the tan and sweat sheened skin of Joel’s broad shoulders, overwhelmed by the lewd combinations of Joel’s heavy pants in your ear and wet squelching of your pussy as his pelvis flushed against yours repeatedly. 

Joel could feel you beginning to tighten around him, pussy sucking him in with its warmth and wetness, ready to clamp around his cock and milk him for all he was worth. 

“That’s it, darlin’, I know you’re close. Gotta cum for me first though, baby girl. Gotta feel ya soak me before I stuff ya so full of me, I swear t’god, you’ll be drippin’ outta me for days. So fuckin’ full that I’ll get you pregnant right now.” Joel groaned through gritted teeth, leaning back to reach and grab your leg, wrapping it around the small of his back before you lifted your other to join it, locking your ankles to keep him as close to you as possible. 

“Joel, oh my god, fuck baby, fuck, I’m gonna- fuckfuckfuck-” 

Suddenly, your orgasm was rushing through every inch of you, crying out as the pleasure hit you like a freight train, choking Joel’s cock with your pussy, unable to do anything but relish in the white hot bliss that had you nearly floating out of your own body. 

While Joel would have kept fucking you until the sun went down, the truth was he was relieved to feel you cum, spending every second since your agreement in the kitchen trying to keep from finishing until he was balls deep inside you and you were soaking his cock as you reached your high. The realization that now was his chance to make good on his promise, to fill you up and fuck a baby into you, ignited something primal, feral, in him, pounding into you at a punishing pace as he could feel himself teetering on the brink of collapse right with you. 

“That’s my girl. That’s it, cum all over my cock, baby. Shit, I’m gonna cum too, fuck- gonna fill this tight lil pussy up so goddamn much, give you a baby, make you a momma, oh fuck!” 

With one final stutter of his hips, Joel let out a strangled moan, flushing his hips against yours as he milked himself of every last drop, painting your warm, wet walls with hot ropes of his spend, making sure nothing went to waste. 

He couldn’t help but but press even further into you, plugging you with his length and fucking his cum as deep as he could into your cunt to make sure it took, collapsing on top of you with his cock still buried in your heat, letting your chests heave together in sync as you both caught your breath. 

Joel was convinced he had never cum so much in his entire life, afraid that if he pulled out, that somehow he’d have more left to give, and sure as fuck wasn’t going to risk letting anything coming out of him end up not inside of you. 

Well, not until your muffled grunt rumbled beneath him. 

 “Joel, baby, I love you but you’re kinda squishing me.” You huffed, giggling to yourself as you watched your husband come-to in real time out of his post-orgasmic state, immediately offering a half muttered apology as he rolled off you, sitting back on his knees to admire the shiny and slick mess between your legs. 

“Fuck me…” Joel murmured to himself, eyes wide as he stared at your pussy- wet, puffy and soaking with your arousal, bringing his fingers to your spent hole as he watched a dribble of his cum begin to leak out. Gently scooping it up, he collected everything he could, pressing it back into your cunt before pulling his hand out. Crawling up the bed to lay next to you, Joel wrapped you up in his arms as the little spoon, peppering ticklish kisses over your back and shoulders, making you burst into laughter. 

“Joel, stop! That tickles!” You squealed, squirming in his grasp, trying to defend yourself from his unrelenting attack of soft, plush lips and scratchy beard dancing across your skin. 

“Don’t laugh so damn hard, or all my hard work’s ‘bout to come out!” Joel teased, giving you a playful nudge, pulling you in even closer. 

“Stop making me laugh, then! Plus, I think you came enough to put quadruplets inside of me, so I think we’ll be okay.” You snorted, Joel joining in on the laughter. 

“Baby, I don’t think I’ve ever came that hard in my whole goddamn life.” Joel sighed, shrugging as you rolled your head up to look at him and that stupid goofy grin he got whenever he couldn’t contain his excitement about something. “God, I love you.” 

“I love you too, Joel.” 

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, Joel slowly bringing his arm to rest across your stomach, thumb slowly tracing careful circles on your skin. 

“You’re gonna make such a good mom. I’m the luckiest man alive that you wanna have a family with me. Still not really sure what I ever did to deserve it.” 

“Joel! You’re gonna make me cry! And this is before pregnancy hormones, ya jerk.” You tried to laugh, choking back the tears welling in your eyes. 

“Yeah, what a jerk, your husband tellin’ you how much he loves you.” He teased back, planting a long kiss on your temple, before pressing another one to your lips. Another wave of soft silence followed, watching Joel’s face scrunch in a calculated concentration. “How big of a crib you think I gotta make? I don’t know ‘bout a rockin’ chair, but a crib can’t be that hard. I gotta measure the guest room tomorrow.” 

“Honey, I don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet, you don’t need to have a crib built tomorrow.” You teased, laughing at Joel, despite the fact his mind was already thinking about a baby room and accessories had you melting. 

“Sweetheart, what did I say earlier? I ain’t lettin’ you outta this bed ‘till we know there’s a baby in there.” He smirked, nodding at his hand still splayed across your stomach, “So you better get comfortable, ‘cause if it’s up to me, there ain’t a chance in hell we’re gettin’ anything but a positive pregnancy test at the end of this month, and we'll sure need that crib nine months from now. Never hurts to get a head start."

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[cherrygirlfriend]

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or him seeing you with someone else.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ i might be posting another chapter in a few days hehe,,, i've been thinking about making a post about the kind of outfits this reader wears, lmk if you'd be interested!!

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

YOU: you there? sent at 10am YOU: i miss talking to you. sent at 1pm YOU: i'm booooreeeed :( sent at 4pm YOU: sorry if i'm bothering you :) sent at 6pm YOU: sry i'll stop now!!! sent at 8pm YOU: i miss you... sent two minutes ago YOU: sorryyy, im a bit tips. sent now

you frowned as you looked down at your phone. everything felt like shit. emilia was off to talk with rafe, and you could see vivian making out with topper, the boy's back pressed against the tree, everyone else having someone to talk to, or even be in the presence of. everyone except for you, and the pitiful plastic cup that consisted of 75% vodka, 10% of some random punch and 15% of diet coke in your hand.

"am i pathetic?" you asked the fire blazing in front of you, taking a long chug from your mug. you already knew the answer. the guy you possibly liked was ignoring you, meanwhile everyone else was shoving their tongues down each other's throats. it felt like you were the only person in the universe.

"probably." a voice appeared next to you, nearly making you choke on your drink. you looked to your left side as you coughed, trying to get rid of the itch in your throat, seeing that someone had pulled up a chair right next to yours, making your eyes widen.

"who-" you coughed, "are you?" you held your breath, hoping that it'd help, only for the boy to bend you forward slightly, slapping your back a few times, "breathe in." he commanded, and you did so, "breathe out."

after a few more times of doing that, you started to feel slightly better, able to finally speak without having to cough. "thanks..." you said softly, "uh, who are you?"

"i'm dodge." the dark-haired boy flashed you a smile, "can i ask you, what's your name, and why do you think you're pathetic?"

you told him your name, taking a moment to think of an answer to his second question, "well... all of my friends have someone they're with right now. one of my friends is with a guy she swears she hates but ends up getting with all the time, and another is with a guy who i'm pretty sure has a crush on her."

"then just go and mingle." the dark-haired boy shrugged, like talking to people was the easiest thing in the world. for a lot of people, it was. not you. "drunk people love socializing. someone would probably be willing to listen their ear off about… the history of cars, or something."

"i'm terrible at it. i swear, i'd accidentally end up offending them in some way." you shook your head, "i have pretty bad anxiety. i see a large group of people and it's like... i stop functioning." "you're in a large group of people right now. look around." you did as dodge said, chuckling as you looked around the clearing. you were surrounded by people. couples making out, people hanging out in groups, people by the fire... yet you didn't feel as anxious as you always do.

"i take beta blockers, and since alcohol is a depressant, it relieves my anxiety and lowers my inhibitions, meaning-" "-that you'll feel good after a few drinks but if you keep drinking more, you'll start to go down and eventually feel like crap." the boy finishes your sentence for you, and you cock your head to the side with a slight smile, "you're a lot smarter than most frat boys."

"and you're a lot smarter than most pathetic people." "i take it back," you nudge dodge to his side, "you're awful." "i think you like it." he grinned. "only because my inhibitions are lowered by alcohol." you rolled your eyes, "but tomorrow i'm gonna have the worst case of hangxiety and avoid you like the plague." "you're a cruel woman."

you laughed, shaking your head and looking to the fire, taking an absentminded sip of your drink, "y'know, people tell me that i'm smart, but for some reason, i've never really been able to figure out why i feel different than others." "well, how are you different?" "to the people around me… it seems to come so easily to just talk to people. to connect with someone. but i feel like i can't connect to people at all."

"i mean, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses." the boy shrugged, "you're bad at socializing but i bet you're good at other things." "well, there's one thing i can tell you're not good at, dodge." "oh yeah? what's that?" the boy raised his brows in amusement, "pep talks."

MEANWHILE...

emilia sat down onto the chair next to rafe's, handing him a beer while taking a sip of her own. she leaned back on her chair, tsk'ing, "so, uh, why'd you wanna talk to me?" "oh." rafe chuckled under his breath, turning to her, "you just seem like a cool girl. a cool person."

"oh. thanks." emilia said with a tight smile, taking a long swig of her beer, "so, what are you into?" "mostly football and partying." he chuckled, "i do read sometimes, but don't go around telling that to people 'cause i'm probably gonna get shit on."

"i wont." emilia chuckled softly, "but one of my friends recommended this one bookstore to me. i can send you the address if you give me your number or your snapchat or kildareuchats user."

rafe tsked, "i would, but... i pretty much fucked up my phone this morning." "what? how? you drop it into the toilet or something?" emilia chuckled. "no, no." rafe shook his head humorously, "i fell into the water and didn't even realize it was in my pocket... it was a whole thing. now my phone is sitting in a bowl of rice."

"let's hope for the best." emilia chuckled, stretching her arms over her head, and that was when rafe noticed the logo on emilia's shirt, narrowing his eyes as he thought back to the list of music AnnabelLee had recommended.

fleetwood mac - rhiannon

"fleetwood mac." rafe said quietly, "what?" emilia asked, "fleetwood mac. on your shirt." the boy gestured to the cut-up shirt she was wearing, making emilia laugh, "oh, yeah. i borrowed it from my friend who's a big fan of them. i like them too, but she's obsessed with them. especially stevie nicks."

"who's your friend...?"

"oh, she's here with us." emilia says, looking around, until she finally spots you. and then rafe spots you, talking to another guy, a smile on your face and your body practically pressed against his side. you threw your head back in laughter, before focusing back on the boy you were with, leaning close to him. rafe tries to focus on emilia; AnnabelLee, the girl he's somehow fallen for without seeing her face or talking to her in person... but for some reason, he feels his his gut twisting whenever he thinks about the girl he'd talked to twice, a girl who pretty much got him thrown into a lake talking to another guy. flirting with another guy.

"can i... can i ask you a question?" rafe cleared his throat, "it might be a weird." "yeah, go ahead." emilia smiled, "does your friend have a cat?"

rafe's question made emilia chuckle, "that is a weird question." she stated, "but yeah, she does." emilia smiled at rafe, "her name is angel. she's white, but she has heterochromia. one of her eyes is blue and the other is green."

rafe's face went pale. white cat with one blue eye and one green eye... his mind went back to the one night when he'd gotten drunk and he'd asked you what the cat you'd told him lives with you in your dorm looked like.

she's white, fluffy and has one blue eye and one green eye. she's also a pain in the ass, but i still love her. when the puzzle pieces finally fell into position, rafe's head turned to where you'd been in record time.

only to find that you were no longer there.

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[goldeunoias]

Tw:internalized racism? I guess?

[baby-yongbok]

Home By 10

Boyfriend!Bang Chan x afab!Reader

✦ Genre: Smut [MDNI] - dom!Bang chan x sub!Reader ✦ WC: 2k ✦ Summary: "I'll have her home by 10, sir" turns into "She isn't coming home tonight" ✦ CW: Unprotected sex, kind of rough sex, finger rimming (very light thumb in the ass action. very light), fingering, ass slaps, name used: Chan is referred to as Chris, baby/babygirl, my girl

✦Masterlist✦

Chris who meets your parents for the first time when you're staying at their place while your apartment gets some repairs done. 

Chris who your dad says has the firmest handshake he's ever felt and easily has him smiling seconds after meeting him. 

Chris who laughs when you nag at your dad to just let the two of you leave. He's still striking up conversation with Chris about his major and his plans for after university. Your boyfriend just smiles and answers, pushing up his glasses a bit while excitedly explaining all of the things that he has planned for after graduation in a few months. 

Chris who your mother keeps saying is so much better than your ex in looks and manners. You scold her for it when she mumbles it to you for a third time, hoping that your boyfriend didn't hear her but one glance at him tells you that he heard her loud and clear. 

Chris who smiles brightly when he shakes your father's hand and declares a soft “I'll have her home by 10, sir”. You almost believed it when he said it. Almost. But he's got your dad fooled. Hook, line, and sinker. 

Chris who opens his car door for you just as he always does. He guards the top of your head to make sure that you don't hit it and closes the door behind you. Just like he always does.

Chris who relaxes into the dark leather of his seat when your father closes the door. He sighs, smiling at you just as brightly as he did earlier. “Baby” He coos, rubbing his hand over your thigh. “Missed you.”

Chris who drives you all the way to his shared apartment for some alone time since his roommate is out tonight. He drops his keys onto his dresser and kicks his room door shut behind the two of you with ease. 

You sit on his bed, watching as he slips off his loose button up shirt, his hat and glasses. That's not the same man that was standing in your living room. “Well don't you look different?” You tease and he smiles, it's bright but his eyes are dark. “Do I?”

Chris who lays back on his bed and pulls you into his lap. “So what was it that your mom was saying?” He asks while playing with the lace at the hem of your mini skirt. “Something about me and your ex, right?” 

He smiles, enjoying the reaction he gets out of you. “You weren't supposed to hear that.” He leans up and kisses away your cute pout while lightly squeezing the plush of your thighs. 

Chris who only lets you deny answering him one more time before he stops asking and starts demanding an answer. “Baby, just tell me exactly what she said.” You huff a sigh, arguing that he knows exactly what she said. 

Chris tsks, tilting your chin up so that you can catch his dark gaze perfectly. “Ah ah ah, I wanna hear it come out of your mouth baby. Tell me what your mother said.” His hand slides up under your skirt, disappearing under the lace.

Chris who coos so sweetly when you finally comply “That's it, babygirl. So she thinks that I'm better than your ex. Better mannered, better looking, Is that right?” You pant in his lap, barely able to answer as his fingers work smoothly inside of you. He had his methods of getting you to talk.

“Words, sweetie, talk to me.” You moan out a broken 'yes', nodding with your eyes closed tight. “Do you agree, baby?” He scissors his fingers inside of you then presses up into that spot, that one fucking spot. “Do you think that I'm better?”

Chris who has you moaning 'yes' over and over again as he curls his fingers into your sweet spot. He's gripping your hip, guiding you to ride his fingers while he kisses deep red marks into your chest. “Yeah? My girl thinks I'm better? What am I better at, huh?” He whispers, nibbling on the shell of your ear. “Kissing you? Touching you? Fucking you? Tell me, baby.”

Chris who flips the two of you over and presses the side of your face into the mattress with a fist full of your hair. He scratches at your scalp with one hand while the other flips your skirt up. He groans at the view of your ass, landing a hard slap on each cheek. “You need me to show you that I'm better, baby? Need me to remind you who's been making you scream on their cock? You want it? Tell me you want it.”

Chris who pulls your panties down your legs and sniffs them before throwing them onto his nightstand. You aren't getting those back, you know that. He lands a harsh slap everytime you whine for him to fill you. He spreads your cheeks, spits down onto your tight asshole and spreads the slick down to your pussy with his thumb, cursing at the sight. 

Chris who teases your pussy with the head of his cock. He runs the leaky tip over your clit and up through your folds just to push against your entrance and repeat the process. You groan and moan his name, begging him with such a sweet tone that he nearly gives in. “Be patient, baby.”

Chris who sinks into you just a bit just to pull right back out with a distressed groan. He watches the way your cunt stretches around him, taking each inch smoother than the last. He teases you over and over again until he gives you everything in one smooth go. “Look at that pussy take my cock, fuck, baby.” 

He moans a sweet strangled sound, Something that you could listen to over and over if your own moans weren't so loud in your ears. He spreads your ass again, pressing his thumb over your tight hole and rimming it with the pad of his finger and pressing in just a bit. “So fucking tight.”

Chris who grabs your hips, fingers digging into the plush flesh while he thrusts into you. He watches the bounce of your ass when your skin meets his, he groans at the jiggle of your thighs and the arch of your back. He throws his head back, moaning profanities through gritted teeth. 

“Chris, Chris, baby, harder please please, more.” You're babbling, drooling into the bedding and your boyfriend smiles, it's fucked out and cocky. His tongue dips out of his mouth to lick at the corner of his lips and drives his cock into you at a harsh pace, one, two, three times before stopping and holding you against him. “You gotta earn that shit, baby. You want me to pound you? Want me to fucking ruin your cunt?” All you can do is moan and nod, exhaling shakily. He grabs a fist full of your hair, pulling your head back. “Fuck on me, baby. Ride my cock, lemme see you fuck yourself.”

Chris who holds your hair up into a ponytail while you fuck back onto him, you move your hips in smooth circles as you rise and drop your ass against him. He watches the way you move, the way your ass just keeps fucking bouncing. Your cunt clenches around him, your moans echo through his room and he convinces himself that you've earned a proper fucking.

Chris who lets your hair go, timing the drop of your head to the mattress with the snap of his hips so perfectly that it has you screaming into his comforter. He pulls you forward a bit, changing the angle just enough for his cock to bully your sweet spot. You're unraveling beneath him, moaning, drooling, fucked out and fucking pretty.

Chris is no better above you, he's moaning, grunting, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut in a nearly futile attempt to keep his composure. He takes each heavy moan of his name as a queue to give you more and more.

Chris who pulls you up so that your back is to his chest while he's still buried inside you. He smiles that cocky smile when you groan at the position change. His arm hooks around your stomach and his other hand finds purchase around your throat. “Feel that? Feel how deep I am, baby?”

He moves slowly, letting you really feel the way his cock drags along your walls before he resumes his previous pace. He feels like he's in your fucking stomach. It feels like his cock is splitting you open and your clit throbs at the pressure. “Louder, c'mon.” He grunts, squeezing the sides of your throat just enough to give you a head rush. “Don't hold back, baby, louder.”

Chris who can tell by the way your pussy flutters and squeezes him that you're getting close. “Shit, babygirl is gonna cum, yeah? Tell me how much better I am whIle you fall apart on my cock.” You whimper, babbling about how good he's fucks you but nothing you say makes sense. “Can't even fucking talk.” His hand goes from your throat to your chin to turn your head to the side. “Look at me”

Chris keeps his rhythm only faltering for a second when you clench around him. “Whose cock makes you cry like this?” He kisses away a tear as it falls then follows with a soft kiss on your lips. You swallow the spit thick in your mouth and whimper a pathetic ‘yours’. 

“Whose the best fuck you ever had?” He pounds an equally as pathetic ‘you’ from your spit slick lips and he smiles. “Whose cock are you gonna cum on? Hm?” 

Chris who doesn't even let you mumble another pathetic whine before he's bending you in half so that you're face down, ass up for him all over again. His hand stays on the side of your face, keeping you in place while his other hand grabs your hip. You're locked in. His thrusts are brutal, relentless. His black tee is between his teeth as he pounds you. Your screams echo and seep into the neighboring apartment but he doesn't fucking care. 

“C'mon, let me feel you, baby.” He reaches under you, strumming your clit like one of his guitars and you fucking sing like one. You cry out so beautifully that he can't help but harmonize with you. “Chris, Chris, Chris, b-baby m’ cumming.” You scream and he drinks it all up. 

Chris who can barely hold himself together while you tremble beneath him, gushing and creaming on his cock. “Holy shit, you're gonna make me fucking cum. This fucking cunts gonna make me cum.” He's messy, licking drool from the corner of his mouth and taking his turn at becoming a babbling mess. He grunts and thrusts and gets closer and closer to falling apart. 

“Don't you dare waste a fucking drop that I give you, you hear me? Take it all, take all my fucking - shit shit shit, I'm cumming.” He spills into you, eyes rolling back, bottom lip between his teeth and a groan so guttural it makes you moan. “You fucking emptied me, baby, fuck.” 

Chris who pulls out slowly and spreads your cheeks again to see your mixed arousal drip out of your messy cunt. He stuffs it back in with his fingers cooing a teasing warning. “I said don't fucking waste it.” He punctuates his sentence with an ass slap and you jolt at the sting. “I'll just have to keep filling this hole, huh? Gotta fuck you full until you follow the rules.”

He falls into a rhythm of fingering his cum back into you and ‘accidentally’ pulls another orgasm from you. He chuckles, low and seductive as he slips his fingers between his lips to taste the sweet mix. “That's my girl”

Chris who cleans you up. Changes his bedding then cuddles you against his chest. You're still hazy, breathing softly into him while he grabs his phone and unlocks it. “Babygirl” he calls as he holds his phone up and clicks a picture just as you look up. He checks the photo, smiling at how fucked out you look even after he's cleaned you up. 

“I'll send it to you.” He kisses your forehead, locking his phone. "You can show it to your dad when he asks why you didn't come home tonight.”

Divider credit to owners [unknown]

Thank You For Reading! Please Reblog or Comment to let me know how you liked it! It makes my day! 💕

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[shaiyasstuff]

glass half full | xavier | drabble

“It was always going to be her, wasn’t it?”

Your voice slipped through the stillness of the apartment, soft but sharp enough to slice through the air between you. It lingered in the hallway like smoke, unshakable.

Xavier stilled.

One foot forward, one hand still holding the edge of the wall. He didn’t turn at first—just stood there, his back to you, silent in a way that felt louder than any answer.

When he finally faced you, his expression was unreadable. Of course it was. He always was.

He parted his lips to speak, but no words came. Just a subtle shift in his jaw—a clench, a twitch. Hesitation.

So you stepped closer. “That’s why you’ve been leaving so often lately,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Another step.

“Why you’re willing to throw yourself into danger without hesitation.”

Another.

“Because you still love her.”

Now, you stood right in front of him. Inches away. Just close enough to feel the way he tensed.

“Then what am I?” you asked.

Your voice was calm, but your eyes betrayed you. You could feel the tears brimming, but you held them back. You wouldn’t let them fall. Not yet.

Xavier didn’t speak. Not even a breath of denial. His gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t soften either. Still clouds. Still distance.

You pressed again, a whisper cracking at the edge. “Why do you still keep me around, then?”

This time, he flinched.

It was the smallest movement—a flicker in those pale blue eyes.

But you saw it.

You always saw him, even when he tried so hard to be unseen.

You weren’t asking for him to change fate. You knew how cruelly and arbitrarily the universe worked. Knew that some ties were stitched into the soul long before choices ever mattered.

But still. It hurt.

Because you were here. With him.

The one who shared coffee with him at 6 a.m. The one who stitched him up, not from battle wounds, but from the quiet ones no one else saw.

Because you loved him first.

And she didn’t even know.

“…Tell me,” you breathed, and your voice trembled this time.

A final plea slipping through the cracks of you.

His hand lifted halfway, like he meant to reach for you—maybe your cheek, your hand, anything.

But it hung there, suspended in indecision.

Caught between instinct and guilt.

And that—that was what broke you.

Not the silence.

Not the truth.

But the almost.

“I haven’t said anything until now… because I loved you.”

Your voice broke on the last word, cracking like porcelain under too much weight.

It trembled in the quiet, echoing off the walls that had once known softer versions of the two of you.

“I kept hoping,” you whispered, breath catching on a sob, “that maybe… maybe you’d see it.”

Your hand curled into your palm.

“That she doesn’t want you.”

The truth sat heavy in the space between you, too brutal to deny, too cruel to change.

Because she didn’t.

The lady hunter he clung to in silence had already moved on—living out her days in sunlit contentment with your doctor friend, oblivious to the way Xavier watched her like she was a constellation he could never reach.

And you… you had been right here the entire time.

Waiting. Wanting.

Loving him in ways she never would.

His fists clenched at his sides, the knuckles paling as tension rippled through his frame. You had never seen him look smaller, despite the quiet strength he always carried.

“I know,” he said.

Barely audible.

But it landed like thunder.

You stared at him, stunned—not by the confession, but by the ache tucked behind those two simple words. Like he’d been carrying them for a long time. Like they were too heavy to hold, and too late to matter.

You wanted to scream. To ask then why?

Why let you drown in your silence while he chased after a ghost?

But you couldn’t.

Because there was grief in his voice too. Grief that didn’t belong to you.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of all.

He knew.

He chose it anyway.

“I see.”

It came out on a breath, a fragile exhale laced with quiet resignation. A sob followed, muffled as you bit it back, swallowing the rest of your heartbreak.

You stepped past him—slowly, deliberately—shoulder brushing his as you moved toward the door. Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I’ll come back for my things.”

That was all you could manage.

No accusations. No pleas.

Just an ending dressed in softness.

But before you reached the door, his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Y/N.”

Your name broke in his mouth—softer than you’d ever heard it. Almost reverent. Almost afraid.

You didn’t look back. Not yet.

You couldn’t trust yourself to.

Not when his grip was warm and trembling.

Not when it felt like he meant it, finally.

But meaning it now changed nothing.

His hand was firm around your wrist, but his voice wavered.

Like he was holding on not just to you, but to everything that might vanish the moment you took another step.

You stood there, your back to him, shoulders trembling.

He said your name again—quieter this time. “Y/N… please.”

Please.

The word sounded foreign on his tongue. As if he didn’t know how to ask for things he thought he’d already lost.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said, and for once, his tone cracked through the calm. “I didn’t—”

He let go of your wrist like it burned him.

“I kept telling myself… it wasn’t fair to you. That I should pull away. But every time I tried—” His breath hitched. “You made it impossible.”

You turned to him then, tears clinging to your lashes.

His eyes were the color of sorrow, clouded and storm-wrung. “You were always here,” he murmured. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You wanted him to say the words. To finally say what he truly felt.

But instead, all he gave you was this—

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

And somehow, that hurt more than if he had.

Because love was never the problem.

Choice was.

“That’s what they all say,” you whispered, voice thin and fraying.

Xavier stood frozen, breath shallow in his chest.

“That you didn’t mean for this to happen. That it just—got out of control.” Your voice began to rise, shaky and sharp. “There’s always a reason. A justification. A story that makes it hurt less—for you.”

The silence between you stretched, brittle and aching.

“She’s my friend, too.”

That part came softer. So soft he almost missed it.

But he didn’t. He heard it.

And it hit him harder than any accusation ever could.

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

Not like someone you loved.

Not like someone you were begging to stay.

You looked at him like someone you were done trying to understand.

“Do you know how stupid that makes me feel?” you asked, voice trembling at the edge of tears. “To be the one to see it? To sit across from both of you and smile like I didn’t feel the air thinning every time you looked at her?”

Xavier’s lips parted, but there was nothing behind them—no defense, no denial.

Just guilt. And grief.

And the realization that maybe the worst thing he ever did… was say nothing at all.

And still, you waited. Not for an apology.

Just for something real.

Something true.

“Say something…”

Your voice cracked—not out of anger, but desperation. A final plea, quiet and trembling, like a hand outstretched in the dark.

Xavier’s gaze flickered, faltered.

His mouth opened—closed—opened again.

But still, nothing came. Just silence.

Just the sound of rain starting to tap against the windows, soft and cruel.

He looked like he was unraveling from the inside out. Like the words were there, tangled somewhere deep in his throat, buried beneath everything he was too late to admit.

“I…” he finally breathed, barely audible. “I thought if I kept my distance, it would go away.”

He laughed, bitterly, at himself. “Not the feeling. Just… the choice. Like if I said nothing, I wasn’t choosing at all.”

His eyes met yours, raw and wrecked.

“But silence is a choice, isn’t it?”

And it was. The worst kind.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He saw the answer in your eyes. In the way your shoulders dropped.

In the way hope quietly slipped out of the room, one breath at a time.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered.

And maybe he didn’t. But he did.

He just didn’t love you enough not to.

“I have to see her,” you choked out between shallow breaths, the sobs rising faster than you could contain them. “Every day… at work.”

Your voice broke entirely then, cracking open like the rest of you. “She looks at me like nothing happened. Like I’m not falling apart every time she says your name.”

You wiped at your face with the back of your hand, but the tears kept falling, hot and relentless. “Do you know how cruel that feels?”

You laughed—a hollow, broken thing. “She doesn’t even know. She doesn’t even know what I’ve lost.”

Xavier took a half-step forward, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to hold you, to anchor you—but he didn’t move further.

Didn’t speak.

And that—again—was the problem.

“She gets to have everything,” you whispered. “She gets your loyalty, your heart, your silence… and she doesn’t even know.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, not in anger, but in helplessness.

“I loved you loudly, Xavier. I was here. I chose you. Every day. Every damn day.”

Your voice collapsed into a whisper.

“And you let me stand in the shadow of someone who wasn’t even looking.”

The door slammed behind you, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Rain tore through the sky in torrents, drenching you to the bone as you stumbled down the steps and out into the street.

You couldn’t feel the cold.

Couldn’t hear the storm over the sound of your own sobbing breath.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Not like this.

Your vision blurred—tears and rain indistinguishable. The world moved too fast, too loud, too bright.

You didn’t see the car. Not until it was too late.

The light turned red.

You stepped off the curb.

A horn blared.

Tires screamed.

“Y/N!”

His voice cut through everything.

You turned your head, just enough to see him.

Xavier, sprinting after you, drenched and terrified, hand reaching out like he could will time to stop.

But it didn’t.

The impact was thunderous. A sickening thud.

Your body hit the hood, then the pavement. Hard.

Time fractured. Sound vanished.

Rain fell. Somewhere, people screamed.

Xavier was already on his knees beside you.

“No, no, no—Y/N, stay with me,” he begged, his hands trembling as they hovered above your face, not knowing where to touch without causing more damage.

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused, lips parting with a breath he didn’t know if you could finish.

“Why did you…” you whispered, voice too faint, too broken.

And Xavier—he broke.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, I’ve got you, just—just keep your eyes on me, please—don’t do this.”

But your blood was on his hands now.

And for the first time, silence wasn’t a choice.

It was all that was left.

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