#(shocking. never happens. /sarcasm)

[matteoberrettini]

Cuando estás enfrente de 10.000 personas y ves que no puedes dar tu mejor nivel por los calambres... duele. Te jode que te vean de esa manera.

Carlos Alcaraz: A mi manera (2025)

[mountain-lion-gremlin]

me sitting here realizing since I've been in the nonhuman community I have held very very dearly to the idea that my stuff can and WILL be saved for some stranger to dig up and be horrible to me later ;-;

Like this has stopped me from saying some really dumb shit and getting incredibly offended when i was younger over whatever. Thank you imaginary future haters that have saved my furry tail from making a fool out of myself 🤝🤝🤝

[lay-z]

Simon Riley signs his death sentence.

cw: cheating/infidelity; angst/hurt; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

Simon glances up when he hears the shrill doorbell, frowning a bit. He knows he’s not expecting anyone, never is. It’s a Monday evening, and he’s spent the day working on the broken bike in his garage, trying to drown his thoughts and feelings with working on machines.

His eyes travel to the clock on the wall, noting the late hour, and he sighs. It better not be some bloody salesman trying to sell some shite to him. He makes his way to the front door, pulling it open unceremoniously. What he sees makes his blood run cold.

“What are you doing here?” he asks brusquely, his gaze hard, expression closed off.

“I need to talk to you,” you answer curtly, yet there’s a hint of mystery to your words. “It’s important.”

You’re dead to me. To Tommy. Your words from months ago ring in his ears again.

He eyes you suspiciously for a moment, and then steps aside to make space, gesturing you inside with a wordless invitation. “Olright. Come in,” he mutters, closing the door behind you.

Clutching the black folder to your chest, you give a small nod of thanks as you walk past him, further inside his small flat—surroundings that used to be so warm and familiar to you.

Simon glances at you in passing, noting the tight grip you have on the folder in your arms. He motions to the sofa in the middle of the living room, gesturing for you to take a seat while he drops into the armchair across from you with a rough exhale.

He drums his calloused fingers restlessly on the armrest, tawny eyes drinking you in vigilantly as he waits for you to speak.

Taking a seat on the couch reluctantly, you force yourself not to let your eyes roam around his flat nor let it linger on him for too long. It took everything in you to find the courage to come here in the first place; to bottle up your emotions enough to keep a level head. Clearing your throat, you take out a pen from the inside pocket of your coat and open the folder before sliding the documents over to him on the coffee table.

“I’m getting married,” you announce eventually, right when the light catches on the delicate diamond ring on your finger.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

There’s a ringing sound in his ears, and the room seems to spin for a second, like he’s been thrown off an edge and is falling fast. He almost can’t breathe, and his knuckles go white as he clenches his grip on the armchair, trying to keep control of his body as he glares at the expensive looking engagement ring on your finger, the reality slowly sinking in. It’s mocking him.

“You’re gettin’ married,” he repeats hoarsely, his voice betraying the pain that’s churning inside him. He snorts humourlessly. “Congratulations.”

“Yes,” you answer slowly, ignoring the biting sarcasm in his words as you avoid his gaze; keeping your focus on the documents, on my future—rather than your painful past with him.

The room feels tense all of a sudden, and you force yourself to stay calm, to stay seated.

“So... these are–” You clear your throat again. “These are adoption papers for Tommy, but I need approval from his biological father before my–my future husband can adopt him officially.”

Simon looks at you for a long time, his expression hidden behind a stone-cold façade. He’s trying to hold it together, but every word you speak feels like a jab, hitting his gut and stabbing deep into his heart.

“You’re–” he repeats again, his voice almost a whisper, “you’re getting married.” His mind is racing, trying to wrap his head around the idea of you marrying another man, of another man being a father to his son.

You inhale a slow breath when he repeats it for a second time, and you can read the shock and desperation in his eyes despite him trying to hide it behind his cold façade. “Yes, Simon,” you repeat once more, feeling like you’re explaining something to your toddler son, who happens to be the spitting image of his father at nearly two years old.

“I’m getting married.”

His jaw clenches like he’s preventing himself from saying something—anything—and his body goes tense. He looks at the documents spread across the old coffee table, his eyes scanning the information on the pages. He understands what and why you’re asking, and he knows he has no right to refuse. He’s lost that right months ago, and now he's facing the cost of his own actions. Choices have consequences—his own bloody words that he foolishly refused to live by.

“And... and the bloke, the bloke you’re marrying. He’s... He wants to adopt Tommy?” he asks through gritted teeth.

You nod slowly but firmly, blinking slowly as you hold his gaze bravely.

“He’s been a great step dad to him for –” You stop yourself, kissing your teeth as if you almost spilled a secret before speaking up again: “He wants to marry me and he wants to adopt Tommy officially.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. The thought of another man, a bloody stranger, being a father to his son, taking his place in his family, is like a sledgehammer to his already shattered heart.

It feels like he can’t breathe as the reality of the situation fully sinks in, and the weight of it threatens to swallow him whole. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands, the effort of holding back the words—these feelings—almost physically hurts. He can feel the familiar anger rising up in his chest, blending effortlessly with all the pain and desperation and regret.

His eyes are glued to the diamond ring on your finger, the symbol glaring back at him, adding insult to injury. His emotions are like a storm raging inside him, tearing him apart, but he grits his crooked teeth and forces himself to look away, tearing his gaze from your hand.

“And... he’s a good lad, aye? Treats you right?” The words taste like acid on his tongue.

“He is a good man, Simon,” you answer truthfully, heaving a sigh as you bite back the harsher words on the tip of your tongue; telling him that it’s none of his business anymore.

“He’s good, and kind, and generous, and above all... he’s loyal.”

Simon goes quiet at that, the stinging comment hitting him hard. He knows he has no right to feel hurt, to feel betrayed. He has no right to feel anything at all. He was the one who screwed up, the one who caused this entire mess. He cheated on you, destroyed your trust, ripped your relationship apart, broke your heart, and left you alone when you’d sent him away instead of fighting to pick up the pieces. He messed up.

But knowing that you found someone better now, someone who’s going to take his place—it feels like someone is tearing his wretched heart out.

When he goes silent again, you push the documents towards him with more urgency.

“Please... don’t make this harder than it already is,” you whisper eventually, feeling your chest tighten as the bottled up emotions threaten to break free. “I just want Tommy to have a chance at a normal life... to have a father and for me to finally have some safety.”

He can sense the suppressed emotions radiating from you, and it breaks his heart even more. Simon picks up the documents slowly, his hands betraying the turmoil inside, the tremors he can’t control no matter how much he tries. His voice is barely a rough whisper when he speaks again, thick with emotion: “I... I know I don’t have a right to even say this, but–

Can I ask a favour?” he presses out, trying to keep up the mask of numbness but failing miserably. He’s crumbling.

“No, you can’t,” you reply gently yet firmly. It hurts. God, it hurts so much, but he did this. It’s his fault. He’s a bloody cheater.

The sharp, flat answer hits him like a bucket of ice water. It doesn’t surprise him though, but it still stings. He clenches his jaw, forces himself to keep his expression under control, knows he has no right to expect anything from you after what he did.

He stares at the documents in his hands for a moment longer, before nodding slowly. “Olright,” he says eventually, his voice rough and strained. “I’ll... I’ll sign the bloody papers.”

You expected him to rip the papers to shreds, but now you’re watching with bated breath as he puts his signature right above the necessary line with an uncharacteristic unsteady hand and your heart clenches suddenly, your vision going blurry.

He’s signing away his son’s life, and it’s tearing him apart on the spot while his face betrays nothing. He’s signing away the right to be Tommy’s father, the right to be in his life, to hold him, to watch him grow up, to be there for him. He’s signing away the future he’d secretly dreamed of, of a family with you, the only thing that ever really mattered to him.

It feels like he’s signing his own bloody death sentence.

He feels like he’s drowning in guilt and shame. All the while, his eyes stay trained on you, taking in every small movement, every blink, and every shaky breath.

“So... uhm... How’s–” You swallow thickly, bile rising in your throat as you wipe at your glossy eyes frantically to try and keep your composure. “How’s Emma?” you manage to ask, trying to change the subject, to remind yourself why this happened in the first place.

Just when he thought the knife couldn’t dig any deeper, you ask about her, and he’s hit with an even more intense wave of shame.

The memory of her—the way she looked, the way she felt, the way she tasted—flashes through his mind, and he has to swallow to keep himself from gagging.

He looks away, avoiding eye contact as he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Fine.” He croaks, his voice betraying his discomfort.

“Oh.”  You nod slowly, processing his curt answer as you kiss your teeth again. “Good... that’s... good.” He's lying. You can tell that he’s lying, and yet you can’t stop. You’re too bitter.

“I’m glad to know that you–you found happiness with her. That you’re–” You exhale through your nose. “That you can–” You feel another wave of nauseous overcome you, and you’re forced to take another deep breath. “That you’re faithful to her.”

Your words hit him like a kick to the gut, and he’s left gasping as his heart constricts painfully. He can hear the pain in your voice, the bitterness in your tone, the pain that still runs deep.

The truth.

The truth is, he’s not happy. He’s not faithful.

If there’s one person he belongs with, it’s you—you, with your quiet bravery, your stubborn determination, your endless loyalty.

You, with the eyes he could lose himself in.

“I’m not,” he finally rasps, voice hoarse with emotion as he finally finds the courage to look you in the eye again. “I’m not happy.”

He takes a shaky breath, his voice cracking with raw honesty. “I’m not happy, and I’m not faithful. Not to her, because I–I think about you and I think about Tommy... every fuckin' day for the past seven months.”

His words are like a confession, a desperate plea for your understanding.

“I made a mistake,” he continues, “I made the wrong choice, and every day... every god damn day I’ve regretted it, baby.” He’s tearing up again, the guilt and shame and pain overcoming him, and his vision swims before he pushes his palms against his eyes harshly, exhaling a ragged breath.

“Simon,” you say firmly, hoping he truly listens this time. Your spine goes rigid with tension and restraint. You want to yell, to lash out, to curse him, but you won’t. Not again.

“You cheated on me twice... and I was stupid enough to give you another chance after the first time. We have a son together, but that didn’t stop you from fucking Emma. This is your own goddamn fault, so–”

“I know it’s my own goddamn fault!” he snaps, his emotions getting the better of him. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see that every day?” His eyes are burning with unshed tears, his chest heaving with barely controlled fury.

“I know I screwed up, I know I... I destroyed us! I destroyed our family! I destroyed you! But–But you have no fuckin’ idea what I’d give to take it back, you have no bloody idea!”

“That may be, but there is no taking back,” you reply coolly, not even flinching at his outburst as you keep a level head.

Finally, you take the signed adoption papers from him and put them back into the black folder; snapping it shut with finality. “Just know that–” You let out another deep, shaky sigh, fighting tears. “Know that Tommy will be fine. He’ll be happy and very loved, and he’ll be a decent man someday–” Your voice cracks at the end, and you stand up from the couch at once, still trying your best not to fall apart in front of him.

His heart breaks all over again, and it’s like a combat knife twisting in his chest as he watches you put the documents back into the folder.

Simon stands up too; his body tense as he fights the urge to reach for you, to pull you close and hold you tightly. He doesn’t deserve to hold you. He doesn’t deserve to touch you. He should’ve never touched you in the first place.

He takes a step towards you, a last attempt, his gravelly voice barely a whisper: “I don’t know how to live without you.” The words spill out of him, raw and unfiltered, his voice shaking with emotion.

And he takes another slow, heavy step closer. “I tried, fuckin’ hell, I tried to forget you, but I can’t. I can’t move on. I can’t let go. You’re under my skin, you’re in my bloody head, you’re in my heart, you’re in every goddamn dream I have. And the idea of losing you, of not having you and Tommy in my life... it’s killing me–”

“Then why did you cheat on me?”

The question comes out involuntarily, spilling over your lips for the first time in nearly three years since it happened the first time.

“If you love me and Tommy so bloody much, then why the fuck did you cheat on me, Simon?” you ask, voice rising in volume and pitch, taking on an edge of desperation as you glare at him with the protective strength and fury only a mother can muster.

“Why?!”

He’s reeling, the memories of his betrayal slapping him with brutal force. His broad shoulders sag, defeated, as the weight of his actions crashes down on him. He can’t look at you, tawny eyes filled with shame like a little boy who’s been scolded, his gaze fixated on the floor as he tries to put his thoughts into words.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds hollow, devoid of any emotion: “I can’t explain it,” he whispers, the words barely leaving his lips. “I wish I could, but I don’t even know my damn self.”

You allow yourself to look at him for another moment; deep down expecting more, expecting a better explanation, but nothing comes and your face twists into a pained grimace as you glance down at the folder in your hands. At a brighter future for you and your son.

“That’s not good enough, Simon,” you rasp out before forcing yourself to gather the last shred of strength you have left, straightening your shoulders.

“Take care.”

“You too.” He feels hollow, empty.

All the fight and anger drain out of him in a split second, leaving him feeling cold and lifeless.

He should grab you, hold you, and plead for forgiveness, but he stands rooted to the spot in his living room, unable to move, too damn scared to reach out for you.

As the door of his flat falls shut behind you, you clutch the folder to your chest with one hand as you rush down the staircase, slowly falling apart at the seams as you stumble forward.

Outside the apartment building, you swiftly seek out your fiancées sleek black Mercedes car in the parking lot, swallowing down a sob as you pull open the passenger seat before slipping inside and closing the door—mindful of your toddler son still napping in his car seat in the back.

“Everything okay, darling?” John glances over at you from the driver's seat as you clench your teeth, trying to keep it together. He can tell that it’s not okay, that something went wrong. The look on your face telling him all he needs to know.

“Are you... alright?” He asks as gently as his gruff voice allows, looking at you once again, concern filling his steel blue eyes.

“I–I think so,” you answer shakily, clutching the folder to your chest like a lifeline as you tremble in the leather seat. Then, you feel the heavy, warm weight of his hand come to rest on your thigh.

John Price.

Simon's captain and superior, who has been there for you even through your pregnancy after your first breakup with Simon.

John Price, who's swept you off your feet with ease, when you’d sent Simon away for cheating again barely seven months ago.

Glancing over at him, you cup your own icy hand over his on your thigh while your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage.

“Can you–Can you please take me home?”

Hiii and sorry about this :) Anyway—

[pixiefelixie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ MY VALENTINE KIM SEUNGMIN

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ synopsis your 17-year-old dog, who had survived chocolate poisoning, a bicycle accident, and a raccoon fight, finally passed away peacefully—proving that even the most legendary warriors must one day retire. in your grief, you completely fell apart, only to realize your usually sarcastic boyfriend might actually be capable of being soft and supportive—something even more shocking than your dog’s immortality finally running out.

pairings: menace!seungmin x menace!reader warnings: death of a pet, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, seungmin is a sweetheart i need a seungmin for valentines day thank you very much, they're in love your honour

before seungmin was your boyfriend, he was your best friend. there was no messy talking stage, no drawn-out situationship—just years of friendship that seamlessly shifted into something more. it happened on prom night, after one unexpectedly deep conversation that peeled back layers neither of you had ever touched before. from that moment on, everything changed.

your friends had seen it coming long before you did. they used to roll their eyes and exchange knowing glances whenever you and seungmin bickered, convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of you caved. it wasn’t hard to see why. your friendship with seungmin was filled with smacking, bullying, and calling each other mean names. naturally, that dynamic carried over into your relationship as well. 

but sometimes, you wondered if seungmin ever really took you seriously. saying serious things—things that mattered—never came easy for either of you. the words always got tangled in sarcasm, deflected by jokes. even kissing was often a game, a teasing challenge where he’d lean in just to pull away at the last second, smirking as you huffed in frustration. it wasn’t that he didn’t care. it wasn’t that you didn’t care. it was just easier to dance around the depth of your feelings than to dive straight in.

one evening, after seungmin had spent nearly an hour tormenting you with relentless tickles, leaving you breathless from laughter and weak from squirming, you huffed in exasperation.

“why do you always have to be such a menace?” you asked, still catching your breath.

he grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned back. “because i only act like this with you.” his voice was quieter now, softer, like a secret he was finally ready to share. “you’re special to me.”

for once, you didn’t have a comeback.

the city lights blurred outside the bus window, distorted by the tears welling in your eyes. you blinked rapidly, willing them away, but the tightness in your throat only grew stronger. with every stop, every jerk of the bus, your composure cracked a little more. you clenched your jaw, staring hard at your reflection in the dark glass. just a little longer. just until you got home.

finally, your stop came. you shuffled off the bus, stepping into the cool night air. the walk to your apartment felt longer than usual, each step heavier than the last. your breaths were shallow, uneven, as you swallowed back the lump in your throat. the world around you moved as if nothing had changed—cars rushing by, a couple laughing in the distance, a stray cat darting across the sidewalk—but inside, you were unraveling.

by the time you reached your door, your hands were trembling. you fumbled with the keys, cursing under your breath when they slipped from your fingers. picking them up, you took a shaky inhale and forced yourself to steady your grip. just get inside.

the lock clicked. the door swung open. and the moment it shut behind you, the weight of it all crashed down.

a broken sob slipped from your lips before you could stop it. your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor, pressing your back against the door. tears spilled over, hot and relentless, as you buried your face in your knees. your shoulders shook with every quiet sob, the sound muffled in the empty apartment.

you had held it together for so long. but now, there was no one to see. no one to hear.

you had known this day would come. you had prepared yourself for it—at least, you thought you had. but no amount of knowing could have made it hurt any less.

seventeen years. that was how long he had been by your side. longer than some of your friendships, longer than any relationship you'd ever had. he had been there for every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every lonely night you spent crying into his fur. you had practically grown up with him—your childhood, your teenage years.

he was ancient. seventeen, as a reminder. practically immortal by dog standards. he had outlived all expectations, defied every vet’s cautious prognosis. he was ancient, crusty, and had the worst breath imaginable—like a mix of old socks and something you didn’t even want to identify. his teeth were a disaster, barely hanging on in his later years, and he had been blind in one eye for the past three birthdays. and yet, somehow, he had powered through everything.

there had been that one time he ate an entire bag of chocolate chips when he was seven and walked it off like it was nothing. then, at twelve, he somehow got hit by a bicycle and bounced back as if he had merely tripped. at fourteen, he got into a fight with a raccoon over a slice of pizza (and won). he had survived stomach bugs, a tumble down the stairs, and countless other incidents that should have been his undoing. but no—he had refused to go out in some dramatic, action-packed way. 

instead, he had peacefully fallen asleep like the stubborn little shit he was.

he was gone.

you let out a shaky breath, a tear-streaked chuckle slipping past your lips. of course, that’s how he would go. no theatrics, no grand exit. just quietly, in his sleep.

it wasn’t fair, though. he had survived so much—how was he not invincible?

you wiped at your face, but the tears kept coming. you had always known this day would come, but losing him felt like losing a piece of your childhood. 

you hadn’t been there for his last moments. that was what made it worse.

moving out for university had meant leaving him behind, but at the time, it hadn’t felt like a real goodbye. it never even crossed your mind that one day, you’d walk out that door and never see him again. it was impossible to imagine a world where he wasn’t waiting by the door when you came home, tail thumping lazily against the floor, his cloudy old-man eyes lighting up at the sound of your voice.

but time had finally caught up with him, and instead of being there to hold him one last time, instead of pressing your forehead to his like you always did, whispering, you stink, you had gotten the news over the phone.

you hadn’t heard the footsteps. hadn’t noticed the faint creak of the floorboards or the quiet rustle of movement in the room. you had been too lost in your own wreckage, sobs wracking your body as you sat crumpled against the door, drowning in the weight of it all.

but then—something made you look up.

seungmin was standing there, just a few feet away. his eyes were wide, his expression frozen somewhere between confusion and alarm. his lips were parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out where to start.

you hadn’t expected him to be here. but of course, he had a spare key. and from the way he was standing there, it was obvious—he had been in the apartment the whole time, long before you walked through the door and completely fell apart.

the realization sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over you. you weren’t sure how much he had seen, but judging by the way he was looking at you—like he was seeing you for the first time—you knew it was enough.

seungmin had never seen you like this before.

he had seen you annoyed, frustrated, even stressed to the point of snapping. but never this. never crumpled and shaking on the floor, barely able to catch your breath between sobs. never so completely wrecked that you couldn’t even find it in yourself to throw out a sarcastic remark or tell him to get lost.

and you knew what was about to come.

like the absolute asshole he was, he was going to crack a joke. probably something about how ugly you looked when you cried, or how your face was so red it could stop traffic. any second now, he was going to open his mouth and say the exact wrong thing, because that was just who he was. that was how he dealt with anything remotely emotional—sarcasm first, actual feelings second.

you almost wished he wasn’t there. right now, you had nothing in you to deal with a seungmin-style remark. not today. not when everything already felt like too much.

you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, but nothing came.

no snarky comment. no teasing jab.

but instead, seungmin walked over to you and he sank to the floor.

he didn’t fidget, didn’t sigh like he was uncomfortable. he just sat there, his body close but not overwhelming, his presence solid and steady. his eyes never left you, his usual sharp, mischievous gaze replaced with something softer, something that made your throat tighten even more.

another sob tore through you, and you curled in on yourself, burying your face in your knees. you felt exposed, raw in a way you had never been before. you weren’t used to this—falling apart in front of someone, letting yourself be seen like this. and seungmin… he wasn’t used to it either.

to him, you were always either a ray of sunshine or a little menace who pinched his cheeks just to annoy him. you were the one who smacked his arm when he teased you, who gave as good as you got. but now? now you were shaking, struggling to catch your breath between broken sobs, completely undone in a way he had never witnessed before.

seungmin hesitated for only a second before reaching out, his hand barely brushing against your back at first—like he was testing the waters, making sure you wouldn’t flinch away. when you didn’t, his touch grew firmer, his palm pressing against the fabric of your shirt as he slowly rubbed circles between your shoulder blades.

your sobs didn’t stop right away. they came in waves—some stronger, some weaker, but always there, shaking through you, making it impossible to catch a steady breath. you tried to quiet them, tried to swallow them down, but your body refused to cooperate.

at some point, you lifted your head, your cheeks damp, your lashes clumped together from tears. seungmin’s hand stilled, but he didn’t pull away.

and then—his eyes met yours.

there was no teasing glint, no smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. just seungmin, staring at you like he was seeing every crack, every broken piece, and accepting them without hesitation.

he didn’t say anything. he didn’t need to.

instead, he gave you the smallest smile—soft, quiet, a silent i’m here.

seungmin let out a slow breath, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against your back, grounding you. his other hand hovered for a second before he reached up, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. his touch was warm, deliberate—like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, trying to let you know in the only way he could that you weren’t alone in this.

“you know,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, “boyfriends are supposed to help with things like this.”

you blinked at him, your chest still rising and falling unevenly, your throat tight.

“this whole… carrying everything by yourself thing?” he shook his head slightly, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone. “yeah, i’m not letting you do that.”

your lip trembled.

as if reading your mind, seungmin exhaled, his thumb brushing against your cheek again, slower this time. “you’re allowed to let me be here for you. you know that, right?”

something in you cracked at that.

a fresh wave of tears welled up, and seungmin didn’t even flinch. he just shifted closer, his hand finding yours, threading his fingers through yours, squeezing lightly.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “so cry, tell me to shut up—whatever you need. but don’t shut me out.”

seungmin’s fingers tightened around yours, firm but careful, like he was anchoring you to him without holding on too tight. his eyes never left your face, searching, waiting—until finally, he spoke again.

“come here?”

it wasn’t a command. it wasn’t even a suggestion. just a question, soft and open, giving you the choice.

your breath hitched.

you weren’t used to this. him, like this. and maybe that was what made your throat tighten even more.

you nodded, barely a movement, barely a breath. but it was all he needed.

seungmin let go of your hand only to wrap his arms around you, pulling you in like it was second nature. you barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his shoulder, the warmth of his hoodie soft against your cheek. his arms settled around your back, firm and unyielding, his fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt.

your hands hovered for a second before you clutched at the fabric of his hoodie, gripping tightly, your body still shaking with uneven breaths. seungmin only held you closer, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

seungmin didn’t say anything for a long time. he just held you, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your back, like he was letting you take your time, like he wasn’t in any rush to hear whatever was weighing you down.

but eventually, he shifted slightly, just enough to glance down at you. his voice was quieter now, softer, like he was trying not to break whatever fragile thread was holding you together.

“do you… wanna tell me what happened?”

your throat was tight with the weight of it, and when you swallowed, it felt like trying to force down something solid. you wanted to tell him. you had to tell him. but how were you supposed to say it? how were you supposed to explain why you had completely fallen apart, why your entire body had given out the second you walked through that door?

your heart pounded, your throat burned, and for a moment, you considered lying. saying it was stress, a fight with a friend, anything that made more sense than the truth. you were afraid that he would find it stupid that you were sobbing over your dog who was always on the brink of death.

but you couldn’t keep it in.

your vision blurred again, fresh tears rising as you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.

“my mom called,” you said, barely above a whisper. “after my lecture.”

seungmin said nothing, but you could feel the way his grip on you tightened ever so slightly. he was listening. he was bracing. his jaw tensed. you could see it, the quiet dread settling behind his eyes.

and then, with everything in you screaming to keep it in, you let it out.

“my dog.”

two words. that was all you could get out.

but seungmin understood right away.

his breath hitched—so slight, so subtle, but you caught it. his fingers stopped moving against your back, and when he blinked, it was slow, like the weight of what you had just said was pressing into him, too.

“oh.” his voice was quieter now. 

you knew what he was thinking.

this was stupid. it was just a dog. people lost pets all the time. you weren’t supposed to cry like this, to feel like something inside you had been ripped away.

frustration bubbled up through the grief, your throat tightening even more. you pulled back slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve as you forced out, “i know it’s dumb.” your voice was thick, shaking. “but i grew up with him, seungmin. what am i supposed to do—just smile and move on?”

his brows furrowed instantly. “no—”

“i mean, it’s just a dog, right?” you let out a bitter, shaky laugh, but it barely even sounded like you. “that’s what you think. that i’m being dramatic, that it shouldn’t hurt this bad—”

“no, no, no—what?” his hands tightened around yours, his voice firm now, almost urgent. “y/n, don’t even—”

you froze.

his expression had shifted completely—no teasing, no softness diluted by hesitation. just pure, unwavering certainty.

“you have every right to feel like this,” he said, his voice steady, his grip grounding. “this isn’t stupid. you aren’t stupid.” his brows pulled together slightly, and for a second, he looked almost upset—not at you, but for you. “you loved him. of course it hurts.”

your breath hitched.

seungmin was looking at you like your grief mattered, like it was valid.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

a fresh wave of emotion crashed over you, tangled and overwhelming, pressing into your ribs until you could barely breathe. your fingers curled against his wrist, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.

“i don’t know, seungmin,” you whispered, your voice barely holding together. “i just—” your throat tightened. “i don’t know.”

his face softened, but he didn’t rush to fill the silence. he just waited, his presence steady, unwavering.

your chest ached. everything ached.

your next breath came out shakier than the last. “i’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice breaking. “i—”

“hey.” his hands shifted, firm but gentle, like he could hold you together if he just held on tight enough. “none of that.”

you swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat refused to go away.

“don’t be sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

you sniffled, shaking your head as you wiped at your face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “i don’t even know why i’m crying so much,” you mumbled, voice thick and uneven. “it’s just—he was so old, you know? like, ancient. i should’ve been ready for this.”

seungmin didn’t say anything right away. he just watched you, his expression unreadable but steady.

“i mean, seventeen years? that’s… that’s insane for a dog,” you continued, half-laughing through your tears. “he was supposed to go out dramatically—choking on something stupid or picking a fight with another raccoon, not just…” your breath hitched. “not just fall asleep and never wake up.”

“i used to joke about this all the time.” you sniffled, rubbing at your nose. “like, literally all the time. i’d always say ‘on my dog’s life’ like it wasn’t a big deal, and now—” your voice wavered, and you took a shaky breath. “now i can’t say that anymore.”

seungmin exhaled sharply and nodded. “yeah. you did say that a lot.”

you groaned, leaning back against the door and covering your face with your hands. “god, that’s so messed up.” you exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. “i don’t know, seungmin. i don’t even know why i’m crying this much. i really really knew this was coming.”

seungmin tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read between the lines. “so what?”

you blinked at him. “what?”

“so what if you knew it was coming?” he shrugged, shifting so that he was leaning a little closer. “that doesn’t mean it’s supposed to hurt any less.”

you let out another wobbly breath, staring down at your hands. your fingers still trembled slightly, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest.

seungmin sighed and reached out, hesitating for just a second before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “you don’t have to justify why you’re sad,” he said quietly. “you loved him. of course this sucks.”

you swallowed, your throat tight again. “yeah, but it’s not like he was—” you paused, exhaling. “it’s not like he was a person.”

seungmin’s lips pressed together, and for a second, he just looked at you. then, shaking his head slightly, he said, “so what?”

you huffed. “you keep saying that.”

“because you keep acting like you need a reason to be upset.” he gave you a pointed look. “you don’t. he was family. that’s all the reason you need.”

your breath caught.

family.

you hadn’t said it yourself, but hearing seungmin say it so plainly—like it wasn’t even up for debate—made your chest ache even more.

you bit your lip, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat, but it was useless. your vision blurred again, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying all over again.

“gosh, i hate this,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. “i hate crying this much.”

seungmin exhaled through his nose, then—before you could react—he reached out and flicked your forehead.

you yelped, your hands flying up to rub the spot where he’d hit you. “ow! what the hell, seungmin?”

he just raised an eyebrow at you. “you hate crying, but you’re crying anyway. so what’s the point of hating it?”

you glared at him through your tears. “what kind of messed-up logic is that?”

“the kind that makes you stop talking nonsense.” he leaned back against the wall, stretching his arms behind his head. “look, if you’re gonna cry, then cry. don’t fight it.”

you sniffled, pouting. “easy for you to say. you don’t cry.”

seungmin scoffed. “that’s not true. you think just ‘cause i’m a boy, i don’t cry?” he shot you a fake offended look, crossing his arms. “that’s kinda sexist, don’t you think?”

you rolled your eyes, sniffling. “no, that’s not i meant. you’re just… seungmin. that’s why”

seungmin tilted his head, lips pressing together. for a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. “well, i’ll tell you right now… looking at you like this is making me kinda—”

but he stopped.

your breath hitched. “what?”

“nothing.”

“seungmin.”

“drop it.” he huffed, looking away so fast it was almost comical.

and that’s when you saw it—the telltale redness creeping up his ears, the way his eyes looked just a little too glossy, like he was barely holding it together.

your mouth parted slightly. “wait, seriously?”

seungmin exhaled sharply through his nose. “don’t push it.”

but you weren’t even teasing anymore. you just stared at him, chest tightening, because somehow, knowing that he was feeling this with you—that this was hurting him, too—made the grief just a little more bearable.

you exhaled softly, the last of your resistance slipping away as you leaned against him, your head resting against his shoulder. seungmin didn’t move at first, but then—slowly, almost hesitantly—he turned back to look at you.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. you just sat there, breathing, the weight of everything settling between you. then, without a word, he shifted slightly and rested his head against yours, his warmth pressing into you in a way that made your throat tighten all over again.

you felt him move, just barely, and when you glanced up, you caught the way he wiped at his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie—like he was trying to be discreet about it. like he wasn’t supposed to be feeling this much either.

the realization hit you all at once: you and seungmin, two of the world’s most unserious people, were sitting here—silent, exhausted, crying into each other.

and somehow… it didn’t feel sad. at least, not just sad.

it felt real.

it felt like something deeper than grief, something bigger than just missing your dog.

it felt like you weren’t alone.

"please never leave me," you whispered, your voice barely a thread, fragile, like you're afraid if you speak too loudly it might shatter something between you two.

he tilted his head, his expression gentle, but there’s an edge of confusion in his eyes. “why would you ever think i’d leave you?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

but you couldn’t stop the words that rush out next. they spilled from you in a torrent, raw and vulnerable, as if you were confessing something you’ve been holding inside for too long. "it’s only a matter of time before you die too. everyone is going to leave. i don’t want—” your voice cracked. “i don’t want anyone to leave.”

seungmin didn’t say anything. his silence wasn’t empty—it was heavy, filled with something unspoken, something that lingered between you like the last notes of a song fading into quiet.

“can i just… go first? like—die.”

seungmin stilled beside you. his head turned, his gaze sharp, his expression unreadable. for a second, he didn’t say anything—just studied you, like he was trying to figure out if you were joking.

then, he scoffed. “no.”

you blinked, startled by how immediate and certain he sounded. “what do you mean, ‘no’?”

“i mean no. that’s dumb. don’t say stuff like that.”

your chest tightened, and your fingers curled harder into the fabric of your sleeves. “but i wouldn’t be able to handle it if i didn’t,” you murmured. “if i had to be the one left behind. i just—” you took a shaky breath. “i don’t want to be the one who has to keep going without everyone else.”

seungmin’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. he just sat there, letting your words settle in the quiet between you.

then, with a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “do you think i would?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

you hesitated. “…what?”

he turned his head slightly, glancing at you. “do you think i’d be fine if you went first?”

the question caught you off guard. you stared at him, struggling to process the idea, the weight of it pressing against your ribs.

seungmin let out a soft, humorless laugh. “you’re not special, you know.” his voice wasn’t harsh, but there was something sharp underneath it. “you think you’re the only one who’d be wrecked? you think i’d just—what, move on?”

your breath caught.

“don’t be stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “i’d be pissed. and sad. and probably really, really pissed at everyone around me.” he huffed. “so no, you can’t go first. because i don’t want to deal with that.”

you stared at him, your throat tight. “seungmin—”

“too bad,” he interrupted, like that was the end of the discussion. then, softer, “you’re not leaving me either.”

you let out a small, breathy laugh against his hoodie. “god,” you mumbled, voice still thick with the remnants of your crying. “how are you so bad at comforting, ” you sniffled, shifting slightly against him. “but… somehow, i feel better anyway.”

there was a beat of silence before you felt his chest rise with a quiet sigh. “sounds like a you problem.”

your lips parted in disbelief. “are you serious right now?”

he hummed, completely unfazed. “you’ve just got bad taste in comfort.”

you pulled back slightly, just enough to glare up at him. “that’s not a thing, you ass.”

he raised an eyebrow. “then explain why you’re still clinging to me.”

your face heated, but you refused to let him win. “because i need it. and you just—” you swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around the fabric of his hoodie. “happen to be here.”

you exhaled softly and, without thinking, slumped forward, resting your head against seungmin’s chest. his hoodie was warm, the fabric slightly worn, and beneath it, you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in. his chin rested lightly on top of your head, and his hand found the small of your back.

seungmin blinked at you, then—without warning—let out a quiet laugh. it wasn’t mocking, not really, just a small, breathy chuckle. “why are we like this?” he asked, shaking his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes.

you frowned. “like what?”

“like…” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “this. one second, we’re crying, and the next, you’re calling me an ass. it’s weird.”

you huffed. “it’s not weird.”

seungmin gave you a pointed look.

“…okay, maybe a little,” you admitted, sniffling. “but i don’t know. it just works.” you hesitated for a moment, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his hoodie. then, softer this time, you murmured, “and i don’t want that to change.”

seungmin stilled slightly, his head tilting just enough for him to look down at you. his expression wasn’t teasing anymore—just calm, steady. “it won’t.” then, without any hesitation, seungmin added, “as long as you know i love you.”

your breath caught, warmth spreading through your chest. you looked up at him, surprised but not really, because of course he’d say it like that—so casual, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

and maybe it was.

you exhaled softly smiling slightly, then leaned up just enough to bump your forehead lightly against his. “i love you too.”

then, before you could process it, he leaned in and kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed or urgent—just slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. like this was something he’d thought about before but never quite let himself do until now. his hand found your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, tilting your face just enough to deepen the kiss.

you melted into him without thinking, your hands gripping the front of his hoodie to keep yourself grounded. the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness of the moment—it made your chest ache.

when he finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you let out a soft, shaky breath.

“i’m glad you found me like this,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

seungmin didn’t hesitate. “i’ll always find you.”

your chest tightened, something deep and aching curling in your ribs. you opened your eyes to meet his, and for once, there was no teasing, no playful sarcasm—just him, just seungmin, looking at you like you were something worth holding onto.

“i mean it,” he continued, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “no matter what. no matter where. i’ll always be with you.”

you let out a quiet breath before he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. then, he pulled you in again, arms wrapping around you like he could shield you from the world, like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.

epilogue.

the scent of vanilla lingered in seungmin’s room at the dorm, mingling with the faint chill of february air slipping in through the window. the soft glow of fairy lights bathed everything in a golden hue, casting flickering shadows against the walls. it should’ve felt like any other night. but it didn’t.

because you were here with him.

seungmin turned the baseball cap over in his hands, his fingers tracing the stitching of a little heart next to his name. it was his present for valentine’s day, simple and classic—just his style. you’d been nervous about whether he’d actually like it, but judging by the way he kept admiring it, you had nothing to worry about.

“this is so nice,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. his thumb brushed over the small embroidered heart hidden on the inside, and a slow, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. “really nice.”

your stomach did an embarrassing little flip. “you like it?”

seungmin scoffed, glancing up at you with a look that made your breath catch. “obviously.”

and then, with that effortless ease of his, he slipped it onto his head—backwards, of course. like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. like he knew that the casual way he ran a hand through his dark hair, adjusting the fit, was going to make your heart trip over itself.

you swallowed. hard.

“that’s not how you’re supposed to wear it,” you muttered, if only to distract yourself.

seungmin let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cap one more time before pushing off his desk.

you barely had time to process the way he closed the space between you before he was kissing you—soft, sure, like it was second nature. his hands found your waist, tugging you just a little closer, and you barely managed to catch your breath before melting into him.

when he pulled back, his lips still ghosting over yours, he murmured, “thank you, y/n.”

your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. you met his gaze, your hands still gripping the fabric of his sweater. “of course,” you whispered.

his lips curled into a smile. “you ready for yours?” seungmin took a step back, tilting his head toward the door. “come on,” he said, nodding for you to follow.

you frowned. “where are we going?”

he didn’t answer, just grabbed your wrist gently and tugged you along. his grip was warm, steady, and despite your confusion, you let him lead you out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

before you could ask again, from felix’s room, you heard a hushed, “shh.”

you blinked, confused, and turned to seungmin. without a word, he nudged the door open, and the sight inside made your breath catch. felix was crouched on the floor, his hands cradling the tiniest, cutest puppy you had ever seen. 

a soft golden ball of fur with round eyes blinked up at felix, its tiny nose twitching as it snuggled closer into him. the moment it spotted movement, its little tail wagged.

your heart squeezed, and you gasped, stepping forward on instinct. “oh my goodness.”

felix grinned while walking over to you, then carefully—almost reverently—placed the tiny puppy in your arms. you barely processed the movement, too busy marveling at the warmth and softness of the small body now curled against your chest.

“oh my goodness,” you whispered again, cradling the little thing like it was made of glass. the puppy let out a tiny sigh, its nose nudging your sweater, already settling into you like it belonged there. you tore your gaze away just long enough to look up at him. “he’s perfect. he looks just like—”

felix nodded. “seungmin made sure of that.” he glanced over at seungmin, who was standing beside you with his hands in his pockets, watching your reaction with a satisfied smirk. “i don’t think you realize how picky he was about this whole thing.”

you blinked, looking at seungmin in surprise. “really?”

felix scoffed. “oh, absolutely. he made me visit like five different places with him just to find one that looked exactly like your old dog.”

your heart squeezed. you looked back down at the puppy, feeling an overwhelming rush of emotion. you turned to him, eyes soft. “you did that?”

seungmin rolled his eyes, like he was trying to play it off, but his ears were tinged pink. “well, yeah. i wasn’t gonna get you just any dog.”

you let out a soft laugh, still in awe. “i can’t believe you.”

felix then chimed in. “he’s got a ton of energy, you’re gonna have your hands full.”

you glanced down at the puppy, who was now settled in your arms, and smiled. “i don’t mind.”

felix grinned. “didn’t think you would.” he patted seungmin on the shoulder before stepping toward the door. “alright, i’ll leave you to it.”

you looked up. “felix, seriously. thank you.”

felix waved a hand. “yeah, yeah, just make sure seungmin doesn’t pretend he did all the work.” he shot seungmin a pointed look before slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with him—and your new puppy.

overwhelmed, you looked up at seungmin, your heart racing. he was watching you with that familiar, amused expression, lips twitching before he rolled his eyes.

“happy valentine’s day, you freak.”

you made a sound that wasn’t quite human, still in shock. “thank you, thank you, thank you! i love him!”

seungmin barely had time to react before you surged forward, wrapping your arm around him—careful not to squish the tiny dog between you. you pressed a quick, eager kiss to his lips, catching him slightly off guard, but he recovered fast, letting out a small laugh against your mouth.

“you’re so welcome,” he murmured, his hands finding your waist.

still buzzing with excitement, you pulled back just enough to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. he smelled warm and familiar—like fresh laundry and something unmistakably him.

“i can’t believe you did this,” you whispered against his skin, voice thick with emotion. “you’re actually the best.”

seungmin scoffed, though his grip on you tightened. “obviously.”

“i don’t know how to thank you,” you murmured.

he shrugged, his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater, just barely grazing your skin. “just don’t forget who your favorite is.”

you blinked, then smirked. “between you and the dog?” seungmin gave you a warning look, but you only hummed playfully, tapping your chin like you were seriously debating it. “i mean… he’s really cute, seungmin.”

seungmin narrowed his eyes, pulling back slightly. “alright, that’s it. i’m returning him.”

your jaw dropped. “what? no!” you clutched the tiny puppy closer to your chest protectively, like seungmin was actually about to pry him from your arms.

“take it back,” he demanded, arms crossing over his chest.

you blinked at him, tilting your head slightly, all wide eyes and innocence. “take what back?”

seungmin inhaled sharply, as if willing himself to be patient. “don’t play with me, y/n.”

you barely held back a grin, feigning confusion. “i’m sorry minnie, i really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were doing this. “last chance,” he muttered, stepping closer.

you bit your lip, letting the anticipation build. then, just to push your luck a little further, you whispered, “never.” you giggled, reaching out to poke his cheek.

seungmin swatted your hand away. “i surprised you with the cutest valentine’s day gift ever, and you’re over here debating whether the dog is better than me.”

still cradling the sleepy puppy, you tilted your head, grinning. “you’re really worked up over this, huh?”

“i am not—” seungmin cut himself off, exhaling sharply before dragging a hand down his face. then, quieter, he muttered, “i just want to hear you say it.”

your heart clenched at how utterly serious he sounded, despite the dramatic display.

softening, you reached out, wrapping your free arm around his beck and pulling him close. “you are, you idiot,” you murmured against his chest.

seungmin stilled against you for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at you, his expression unreadable. “i’m what?”

you blinked up at him, already biting back a smile. “my favorite.”

his eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decide whether you were messing with him again. “say it again.”

you rolled your eyes but indulged him anyway, pressing a hand against his chest. “you’re my favorite, seungmin.”

a slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. “damn right, i am.”

you huffed, laughing softly. “god, you’re so annoying.”

seungmin rolled his eyes like you were being slow on purpose. “i love you too, idiot.”

you opened your mouth to argue—just out of sheer principle—but he kissed you before you could, effectively shutting you up.

and, really, you weren’t complaining

[gabseyoo]

A WEDDING NIGHT — SAKUSA KIYOOMI (1)

content: female reader, pro volleyball player!kiyoomi, brother’s best friend!kiyoomi. word count: 1,3k.

links: masterlist | part two | part three

note: i giggled like a teenager writing this <3

You twisted your arm behind your back for the third time, fingers blindly clawing at the zipper of your dress. No luck. Again.

Today was your brother’s wedding—honestly, you were still trying to figure out how that weirdo managed to land someone that lovely and sane—and you were supposed to be downstairs in fifteen minutes to take pictures with the bridesmaids for the wedding album. Which was, of course, the perfect time for your dress to stage a personal attack.

You sighed and dropped your arm, stepping back from the mirror. The dress really was beautiful. It fit like a dream, skimming your waist and hugging your hips like it was made for you. The color made your skin glow, and with your makeup and hair done, you almost felt like a different person. Someone elegant. Grown-up. Pulled together.

Too bad your zipper disagreed.

And the worst part? You knew this would happen. You’d tried the dress on last week, remembered how impossible it was to zip it up on your own and still chose it anyway because your mom had waved a hand and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll help you put it on.”

Naturally, Ms. I’ll Help You Put It On had vanished twenty minutes ago to “check on the bouquet” and was now, according to the family group chat, sipping wine at the hotel bar with one of your cousins. Classic.

After taking a few breaths, you tried one more time, clearly without success. God, you’re desperate at this point, maybe you should just go downstairs with your dress unzipped and tell one of the girls to help you. Who cared if half the hotel caught a glimpse of your bare back and—well, let’s be honest—half your underwear? Nobody. Or well, maybe you could throw a coat on, or a…

At that moment, the door opened. 

You spun around fast, startled, the back of your dress still gaping open. You almost froze in shock at the sight of him. 

Your brother’s best friend. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi.

In a black suit that looked ridiculously good on him. The jacket sharp, the collar open just enough to show the edge of his throat. His tie was loose like he’d just undone it, or maybe never tightened it properly to begin with. His dark hair just a little tousled like he’d run a hand through it out of habit.

His eyes widened the second he registered the scene. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I thought your brother was here.”

“He’s in the room across the hall.” You said quickly, arms instinctively wrapping across your torso.

“Right. Sorry.” He backed up a step, already half-turning like he was going to leave.

Impulsively, before he could close the door, out of your mouth came a “Wait!” that definitely sounded more desperate than you would have liked. 

He paused with one hand still on the doorframe. “Tell me?”

You almost laughed at how formal that sounded. What was he? A butler? Well, he looked like one with that suit.

But today you decided better to swallow the comment and save the sarcasm for later because now you needed to blurt out a question before you regretted it. 

“Can you help me with my zipper?” 

Kiyoomi was silent for a few seconds before slightly leaning his head out of the door opening, revealing his confused face. “What?” 

“My mom was supposed to help, but she ditched me for a drink.” You said quickly. “And I need to go take photos with the bridesmaids. I’m out of time.” You rubbed your hands together to distract from your nervous energy. “Can you help me?”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough to make you shift your weight.

Kiyoomi’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes swept down your frame and then back up. Too slowly. Not in a disrespectful way—he’d never been that kind of guy. It was more like he was thinking deeply if he wanted to help you or not. 

He pressed his lips together. You thought he was about to say no. 

But then, he stepped forward. Quietly closed the door behind him with a soft click. “Okay.” 

You turned around slowly, eyes on the floor, brushing with your fingers your collarbone as if to distract yourself. Behind you, the room shifted with his presence, quiet but undeniable. You didn’t need to look to know he’d taken a step closer. You felt him, the same way you always had.

He didn’t speak.

You could feel his gaze on your back, on the half-zipped dress exposing your spine. The air felt warmer. Tighter. Your eyes flicked to the mirror in front of you, catching his reflection standing just behind you. Close. Closer than you expected.

He moved carefully, reaching for the zipper with steady hands.

His fingers brushed the fabric. A flicker of contact that made your skin hum beneath it. He caught the zipper between his fingers and paused— like he was giving you one last chance to change your mind.

Then he started to pull.

Slow. Smooth. Deliberate. The zipper glided upward, the dress cinching to your body with every inch, until the exposed skin of your back disappeared beneath the fabric. But it wasn’t just the pressure of the dress that made your heart race.

It was the heat of him behind you.

The closeness. The silence. The way your eyes met in the mirror.

He didn’t look away.

And just when you were about to, you heard his voice, quiet enough to wonder if he even meant for you to hear it.

“You look beautiful.”

Your breath caught.

The words didn’t sound like they were meant to flatter. There was no teasing edge, no smirk. Just quiet honesty, soft and low—almost reverent.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, lips parted, heartbeat a little too loud that you worried that in the silence of the room he could hear it.

Kiyoomi was already looking at you. Not at your dress. Not at your reflection.

At you.

And then—slowly, without speaking—he lifted one hand, brushing a knuckle gently against your cheek. It was a delicate touch, tentative, as if asking for permission. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The moment hovered between you, weightless and fragile, like a held breath.

Your gaze dropped to his mouth just as he leaned forward, just enough that you could feel it… the possibility. The electricity in the air. The way your stomach flipped like something long buried had just surfaced.

But then—

Knock knock knock.

“Sweetie? You ready?” Your mom’s voice called through the door, followed by your cousin’s laughter.

You both froze.

Like the world snapped back into focus and the lights had come on all at once.

Kiyoomi stepped back immediately, hand falling from your face like the contact had never happened. His expression shuttered. He ran a hand through his hair, like brushing off whatever had just almost happened.

“All set.” He said, voice calm— too calm. “See you at the wedding.”

Then he turned, walked to the door, and opened it.

Your mom and cousin were standing there, both of them with a glass of wine in their hands. He gave them a polite nod and a faint smile.

“Ladies.” He said simply, before slipping past them and disappearing down the hall.

They turned to you like wolves scenting blood.

“Was Sakusa Kiyoomi stepping out—” Your younger cousin whispered, eyes wide, “or did I just dream of him and his beautiful curls?”

Your stomach flipped with nervousness at her words. 

“Yeah, he just— helped me with the dress.” You said, still staring at the now-closed door. “Since someone did not.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Your mom said, distracted as she straightened the necklace around your neck. “But I mean... he helped you? Like, with his hands?” She asked with disbelief in her voice.

You didn’t answer.

Because honestly?

You weren’t sure it had really happened either.

tagging: @anonymity-222

[bitchlessdino]

Reckless (m)

Pairing: adult actor!mingyu x pervert afab!reader Genre: smut Word count: 4.8k tags: camboy!mingyu, established friendship, banter, brat!reader, glass toys, invasion of privacy, rough play, anal, double penetration, degradation (pervert, slut), choking, spanking, spitting, oral (giving and receiving), swallowing, hair pulling, deep throating Summary: Mingyu is a camboy and proud of it, as he should. Finally, he's getting the applause he deserves for his work and will be attending one of the biggest adult industry events to date. He just needs you to watch over while his house while he's gone. Easy enough, right? Unbeknownst to him, you happened to be a fan. A big one. One so big that you cant help but take advantage what Mingyu fans have only ever dreamed of. author note: finally the awaited winner, camboy!mingyu! still so crazy he won over multiple reverse harems on the poll. tagging my wife @wongyuseokie because it's her birthday and deserves to wake up with some NASTY mingyu smut. thank you @highvern for beta-reading to better this fic and like both of us are saying, mingyu is a fucking freakkk in this so enjoy my babies.

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @cottoncheol @embrace-themagic @onlymingyus

You have only seen the room in passing personally, but countless times over video. You’re not even shocked by the dozens of expensive toys he’s put in those glass displays, so used to seeing them enter a human orifice one way or the other. The burly man bashfully guides you away from the scandalous room, skillfully diverting your attention to the lush foliage he's entrusted you to tend to, a gentle blush adorning his warm-toned cheeks.

How you keep the fact that you have been secretly watching your friend’s cam shows–including the charity stream of him doing push ups in a singular pair of skintight briefs–was a mystery, even to you. 

It’s not like you meant to get addicted to porn. But Mingyu, unapologetic about his line of work, practically served it up on a silver platter for you. He says he could use all the help he could get, but frankly, he couldn’t have it more easy. 

With that body, that hair, that face, that smile, there’s no doubt in your mind he’d be a fan favorite and you were right. He’s now one of the rising adult content creators in his line of work, heavily acclaimed in the cam category and recently in independent film. That’s what his trip is about, awarding him for his hard work that he never thought he’d accomplish.

It fills you with pride, yet piques your curiosity; fusing platonic and sensual feelings that blur the lines between friendship and desire for Mingyu, actualizing this full fledged crush. But you’d never let him find that out. Not unless it was against your will.

“And that’s pretty much it. Everything else is pretty self-explanatory. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday, hmm?” Your eyebrows bounce in place suggestively. “Thinking of pursuing personal projects while working?”

He shrugs like a timid schoolboy, cheekbones pigmented and perky like bright ripe cherries. “No promises—Now, repeat back to me everything I’ve told you to do.”

You playfully roll your eyes, offended he had the gall to doubt you. “Water each green buddy once a day; keep crumbs off tables, counters, furniture, etc; put everything back where it should be; and,” you start to grin, “no sex parties, even though this is the perfect place for it.”

“Okay, that last one was obviously a joke but very much serious. Although tempting, under any circumstances, do not fuck anyone in this house while I’m gone.”

“So circumstances would be different if you were home?”

Getting a shade brighter in red, he points a demanding finger at you like a stern mother, “I mean it.”

“Yes, mom,” sarcasm coating your tongue.

“Good.”

Mingyu, armed with a suitcase containing all his essentials, casually waves you off. There's a playful authority in the final point of his finger, a silent reminder to behave before he disappears behind the imposing door.

You promise him you’ll do your due diligence in taking care of his home, and that would be an easy enough task, the real problem stems from the temptation of one specific room. Mingyu’s cam room.

Distinct from the usual rooms such as the bathroom, Mingyu's kitchen, and his primary bedroom, this space stands alone, akin to an office. Mingyu himself has shared its origin story: starting from the sweetest of riddances of a god-awful roommate, followed by many desperate nights to cover the remaining monthly rent, ultimately giving birth to this room that many of his fans like to call ‘Sinner’s Safehaven.’ So rightfully acclaimed.

You’re a fan of yourself, able to outline the bedroom from memory and recollect every toy from every live stream he’s ever posted. Unable to resist the temptation, your feet instinctively embark on a self-guided tour. Your eyes are bewitched by the intricacies of every weapon of pleasure, every scent of his array of miscellaneous liquids, every phallic-shaped object that stands tall and mighty like a national monument.

It’d be a lie to say you weren’t tempted to take advantage of the opportunity, maybe just to get the sick idea out of the way. Your hands manage to find a mind of their own, reaching over to unlock one of the glass displays, wrapping your hand around the object’s girth, and taking it out from its confinement for a closer view.

A stunning crystal toy that reflects off the lights of the room, looking in pristine condition as if fresh from packaging. If Mingyu is good at one thing it’s maintaining his tools, and he does not let anyone forget.

Ever since he showcased it on screen, you've desired to covet one just like it, inducing a late-night web surf to discover the outrageous out-of-reach prices for a product of such exceptional quality and aesthetic appeal. It does not look to be in the cards for you to own one, but borrowing wouldn’t be a problem. He did say everything only needed to be put back in place and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Following the devilish voice whispering in your ear, you slip into something more comfortable, letting the well-conditioned air blow a draft against your bare legs. You hold the toy excitedly before dipping your weight in the bed, the silk sheets and pillowy cushion embracing you at all sides.

The knowledge that the infamous crystal dildo is in your hand makes your heart pound and pussy throb. You can count all the videos of it being featured with one hand, and despite it all, you know it had to be Mingyu's favorite. 

One particular video comes to mind as you hold the tip against your inner thigh, moving it identical to the way Mingyu held it against him, realizing they are coincidentally the same length, same girth, and same tantalizing presence. You practically dreamed of having him and this toy inside of you for months after that show and now half of that dream would be possible.

Your fingers didn’t have to be inside you to know you’re wet, practically soaked through your panties the moment you laid eyes of Mingyu and his sex room. Fuck, if you aren’t so damn ashamed of the truth of your feelings, you’d never let him out of your sight. 

A long note of your moan exhales as you insert the tip between your wet folds, introducing the strangest yet arousing thing to be done to you. It’s certainly big as you expect it to be, maybe even more as you plunge it in deeper. Affirmations exit your lips in short bursts, your other hand up your shirt as they tease your nipples through your bra.

Your legs crutch in reaction to its ridged shape massaging your walls, then the cool hard surface finds that familiar hotspot, unfortunately only halfway down its length. Your cheeks flush imagining Mingyu’s face, imagining the words to come out of those lips if it were his cock.

‘Already? I haven’t even put it all in yet.’

It fuels your determination, deadset in taking all of it—all of him.

‘You can do it, can't you? You can take my cock for me?’

Somewhere, lost in the contagious air of sex and starvation, your mind runs rampant. Your hips buck into the crystal, letting it settle inside you all the way before you thrust it harder. You hiss at its size, expelling a moan once you no longer feel its shaft around your fingers and just take it, take it as if it a canine smile were on the other end.

‘So good…so good at taking all of my cock.’

“I am being good,” you mumble under your breath. “So good...”

Your whimpers go unnoticed by you, only worried of the dildo carrying on its mission. Sensation running down your legs and arms, and your hips hover over the mattress. Your back arches and you spell his name out in the only way the body fully intends you to: in longing breaths, “Mingyu…please…”

‘What? What is it?’

You groan at the image of his smile. “Let me cum please…”

‘Do you deserve it?’

“Yes, Gyu, please…” You thrust faster. “Oh my god—“

‘Yes, that’s it. That pretty pussy should cum all over my hard fucking cock.’

“Yes, yes!” Your arousal seeps all around you, a visible stain beneath your thighs and you don’t care. “God, right there! Right there—“

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Then it becomes no longer your imagination. The voice you’ve created in your mind had an echo, lingering in the depths of your filth rotted head, but the one you just heard had to be the original.

You scramble to hide under the sheets, eyes as big as saucers as the man of your fantasy stands clear in your reality at the foot of his bedroom. “M-Mingyu. The train.”

“I forgot some things. Couldn’t leave without them, so I told the driver to turn back.” He peers over your situation, intrigued by your legs folded on top of one another beneath the covers, the proof trepidation of your forehead, and your lips swollen from instinctive biting. “What do we have here?”

You laugh nervously, unprepared for the shitshow soon to arise. “I see how this looks—“

“Looks like you’ve had a bit of fun.” He huffs with his arms crossed as he approaches, the human made stain plain in sight on his bed sheets which you’ve fail to cover up. “Too much maybe. And all by yourself.”

“Well, you see—“

“And the mess you made.” His hand pushes against the mattress, leaning over to your side and drinking in your view. “All over my bed. All over my Crystal dildo.”

You avoid his gaze, wishing to disappear in a cloud of smoke right about now. “Okay. You can understand how this would bother you.”

“Oh I’m not bothered by it—not in the slightest—but…you could’ve at least waited until I came back.”

Mingyu pulls the sheets off of you and he exposes your guilt, seeing it in its raw, glistening glory. His eyes scan over you, swallowing at that scent revealed, and a fire lights up in his stomach. “Dirty little pervert can’t stop saying my name while using my toy, hmm? Don’t you know better to touch things that don’t belong to you?”

“I…I…I’m sorry,” You squeak.

“Well, I can’t just let this go now, can I?”

You shake your head, breathing through your nose. You’re scared of him hearing how fast your heart has decided to pound, how wet you’ve become well after your orgasm, and how dry your throat is after you heard him call you a pervert. 

Wordlessly, he takes the glass dildo from your fingertips, claiming what’s rightfully his, and plunging between his lips halfway down its shaft. Your eyes capture it in full color, reveling in the moan that slips past his lips. Your chest rises and falls watching him take it deeper almost effortlessly as his slack cladded knees dip into the mattress. 

“Mmh…who knew a pervert’s pussy could taste so sweet,” he mumbles, smiling into the toy. It leaves his mouth with a pop before it aims back at you. “Taste it. Taste how sweet your dirty pussy is all over my cock.”

Your stomach coils, reluctantly obliging to crack open your mouth. Mingyu hums, content with what he sees as he eases the toy towards your mouth. “Don’t be shy. Take my crystal cock, perv.”

Your lips wrap around the head, tasting the salty, faintly sweet, flavor lingering on the glass before it travels past your lips.You look back at him, almost as if waiting for his instruction, and receive a stroke on the back of your head as a response. 

“That’s it. Let it go deep down your throat. Have to make up for ruining my bed, right?”

You nod, unable to speak as you bob down, licking up what you can and collecting every inch of the toy. His eyes become a dark pit that stares back at you, dominance taking over his entire presence. He doesn’t speak, only watches and for what feels like forever, pushing the toy in and out of your mouth.

Your muffle around its girth, tears starting to brim your eyes as it hits the back of your throat, but it doesn’t falter Mingyu in the slightest.

"You're crying. Does it hurt?" Mingyu asks in a domineering tone, to which you nod. "Do you want me to stop?" he inquires, to which you shake your head.

His lips graze your ear, and you sense his charming smile whispering against your skin as he replaces the imaginary devilish voice with his very real and alluring one. “Then deep throat it like you mean it, you fucking slut.”

Your lips parted wider, a shattered moan aches out, only to have the toy stuck down your throat long enough for your tears to sting. Gasping for air, Mingyu finally shows mercy and unplug your airways. Coughing uncontrollably, salvia dribbles down your chin as you retrieve your stolen oxygen. His hand tenderly caresses at the back of your head, threading through the tangles of your hair.

“Good job,” he says in a hushed voice, picking your face up by your chin. “Now. Do you think that was an appropriate punishment?”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, lethally silent as he anticipates your response.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are, who you're with, and what this all meant for you. Mingyu’s cam persona has haunted your inner thoughts, degrading you as if you were scum, tossing your body like a rag doll, marking and bruising your skin only he would find, and you relished in every earth-shattering, mind-blowing orgasm it’s caused. You’d be a fool to say otherwise.

“N-no. It’s not enough.”

“Is that so,” He questions amused. Slowly, his hand travels from your hair to your face, tracing your jaw in a languid movement and coming across your neck to size it in his large hand. “What will be enough for you exactly?”

The pad of his fingers presses the slightest amount of pressure on the column of your neck, emerging a gasp so soft Mingyu almost doesn't register it. He grins, hot breath fanning your face as he watches your legs squirm. It comes as a surprise to you when he single-handedly pins your body against the bed frame, leveraging you against it before he comes down and faces your pussy drowning its own cum. 

“I should at least have compensation done for the damage you’ve made, don’t you think?”

He grips your neck a fraction tighter before you feel his mouth make contact with your core. Physically vibrating, you feel the sensation of his tongue flicking at your clit, and visibly melt before he explores down. “You’re so fucking wet,” he chuckles condescendingly through your arousal. “If I knew any better I’d think you’re wet because of me, as if the screaming of my name wasn’t proof enough.”

“Mingyu...” you whine through your ceased breath.

“And you sound so pretty when you say my name too,” He groans as inhales your scent that blurs his surroundings, devouring you inside and out. “Fucking tease…taste so damn good.”

Mingyu’s chokehold loosens to cascade down your body, fingers moving like ribbons tracing your shape and memorizing every bump and curve through the thin layer of your shirt. Your voice gives out, clenching your fists as he explores you in swirls, moisture seeping out of your cunt but never ending and leaving you in an endless loop of pleasure.

He holds you up by your legs, your thighs crushing either side of his face as he buries himself in your insatiable pussy while its dripping down his chin and neck. He groans inside you, mustering every impish sound possible as he eats you clean, not minding how you’re at the end of your wits locking his head in place.

“G-gyu, shit,” you sputter. “I’m c-close.”

He simply scoffs, “Good,” plunging his tongue deeper, nose pushing against your swollen clit. Words stay lodged down your throat, trapped from escaping as you writhe in his grip and he swallows the taste of you succumbing to his control. You aren’t aware of the eyes watching every second of you give in, how they beam with pride and greed as he goes for more. The notes of fruit and musk only makes Mingyu’s craving intensify, unwilling to surrender the sweet nectar once he’s gotten his taste. 

With a yelp, he drops your legs and tugs you toward him, rendering you defenseless as he's clamped either of your side. You drink in his body towering over you as he swiftly pulls his shirt over his head and off his body, bestowing you a deific image that you never grow tired of.

“Shall I help you undress?” He offers, kindly for once.

You drop your head in a reluctant nod and your heart swells at the sight of his smile before they capture your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Mingyu’s movement isn’t needy, it’s efficient and effective. Salty peppermint kisses and hands that move gingerly with ease culminate proof of a man that has countless amounts of partners and endless experience. Almost as if he’s ready for any and every given opportunity and you more than believe it.

Seeing as he knows how to handle himself, undoubtedly that meant he’d know how to handle you. That rouses you, anticipation resonating in the pit of your stomach, and like that, you’ve embraced your nudity just as Mingyu has in the safety of his firm arms.

He manages to kick off his pants, freeing him of the restraint of fabric and his hips dip into yours. And again and again. And again and again. Just to show you what you’ve created in your messy experiment. 

If you weren’t already hot under his touch, you swear the room was hotter than any vast desert. Perspiration sprayed against your back, your forehead, your chest, but strangely you’re obsessed with his and the incidentally salty taste of his skin as you kiss. “You feel huge,” you mutter in a flustered breath. 

His cock pulsates through his briefs against your thigh, screaming to join the party and make himself known in ways he hasn’t shown yet. Not yet with you. He smiles against your lips, grasping your hips more firmly. More definitely. “It’s too soon to be saying that.”

“Then…” Your fingers, tantalized by the appearance of his styled hair, didn’t resist the urge to comb through it, pleasantly surprised with the silky, pliable sensation. “I hope I get to soon.”

“Pervert,” he repeats with a grin. His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it away from his head and landing on the hem of his underwear. Mingyu is good at getting back on track as he immediately pulls his waistband away from torso, springing his cock that stands in your direction in determination. A familiar yet foreign sight that you never expected to be on the other end of. “By the way, don’t forget. You’re making it up to me. Not the other way around.”

Naturally, your hand finds the ridged texture of his shaft. “Yes, of course.” You feel it twitch under his touch, growing as a nail trails up a singular vein. “But I never said I’d make that easy.”

“Really? A sentence where ‘you’ and ‘easy’ just seems to fit.”

You sneer at him, calming down after seeing an amicable jab you’re used to. “You’re one to talk.”

“And I won’t be done talking. On your knees,” He demands.

“Or what?”

Mingyu isn’t new to your taunting but he can't help the steam coming out of his ears this time around. Gathering your weight, he swiftly turns you on your stomach and props you up as his cock settles between the cheeks of your ass. “I’ll do things like that. I’m patient until I’m not. Not when it comes to perverted brats like you.”

You voluntarily moan as you back into him, allowing the cock to slide up and down. “I’d like to see it. Unless you’re all talk.”

A familiar coolness of glass finds itself home in your sopping cunt. You mewl at the sensation, rolling your eyes to the back of your head. The side of your head braces for the bed and letting the toy suction your pussy, buzzing . “Fuck…”

“Spoke to soon, didn’t you?”

“Have—fuck—mercy…” Your words speak like pleads but your body could not be more delightful in taking every inch, adjusting from the backside in record time.

“See? Look at you take all that cock,” he spits in the smack center, rubbing around your rim and pussy thoroughly. “And knowing you and our conversations, I know you can take it well somewhere else. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-you wouldn’t…”

“I can. Unless…that’s not what you want. Unless you want me to leave this room without putting my cock in you and not fuck you like the dirty fucking slut you are.”

“Fuck…you…” The glass vanished through you, reappearing at Mingyu's will, muffling your protests, and swallowing the glass dildo satisfyingly from your cunt. The bedsheets become balls in your hand, wrinkled and worn, just as you planned to be after Mingyu is through with you.

“That’s not an answer.” He teases, thrusting faster.

“Shit…fuck…Yes please fuck, I want it. I want more. Please…”

“Excited are you, pervert?” He inquires, managing to grab the lube from a nearby drawer and squirt it on the ring of your hole. The bite of the cool gel stings in a way that’s familiar, but does not grow any easier as it physically and mentally preparing you.

“You…suck…Kim Mingyu…”

“I’ve already done that already, perv.”

Taking the crystal dildo out of your pussy, he carefully sets it aside, prepping your untouched hole for entry and feeling you clenched around his fingers. “So tight. What? Did you lie and you’re actually an anal virgin.”

“I’m not,” you moan in defense, hearing the erotic squelching burns your ears and makes your already hot skin scorching to the touch. His fingers are tolerable, but still bigger you’re used to and it’s more apparent as he inserts another finger. “I just never had anything that big. Nothing your size.”

“I’m honored.”

You hope that his cock could fuck you the way his fingers does, if not then better, already buzzing at the pace they move inside you, stretching you wider and wider.

“F-fuck off.”

“Not yet. It’s coming.” You feel the head of the dildo perk up your rim as it eases in you, the drip of lube between your cheeks drowning your hole and all the moisture it could ask for. Still, Mingyu is careful to adjust to your preference, opening you up and seeing how the toy slowly destroys you inside and out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your hands slam against the bed, allowing the gradual introduction to take over all your senses. 

“You’re taking the cock so well up your ass, fuck. I haven’t seen anyone do that yet. Remember you talking about it, made curious if you actually could.”

“I don’t lie…about stuff…like that…” you spread your ass, offering the perfectly lewd view for Mingyu, practically dripping all for him.

“Shit, I need to be inside you.”

He rolls a condom on his length, tossing the wrapper where he doesn’t see it and teases your slit moist in your cum. In the midst of it, you feel the tip of his cock rubbing your clit, and your whine ensue as you wait for more, not properly being used to the full advantage. Mingyu laughs to himself, seeing how desperate you look, reveling in the sounds that leave your body as it fuels his cock before he plunges inside you.It's an indescribable sensation, almost sacrilegious in its intensity, yet it leaves you convinced that Heaven must reside wherever Mingyu is.

You thought you knew the meaning of being spit open until it’s Mingyu reintroducing the idea. His cock and toy planted  so deep inside you, fucking both of your holes until you’re rendered into like what he calls you, a perverted little slut. You don't mind in the slightest; in fact, when the thoughts swirling through your mind are nothing but incoherent, you're utterly indifferent to anything else. Your state of matter was to be fucked, double fucked, and fucked to ruin until you’ve come over and over again.

“Stupid slut…stupid…perverted…fucking slut…Look at you…you like getting fucked in the pussy and ass, hmm?”

“Yes god yes,” you confirm, devoid of words otherwise.

He smacks you full against the cheek, groaning into the sex thicken air as he melts into your body like butter. “Yeah? How does it make you feel?”

“Full…”

“You like that?” Another smack to your ass. “Fucking pervert likes being fucked full. Big fucking surprise.”

His thrusts grow rough, already annoyed by the toy in his hands when he’s eager to plant both on your body and fill the full extent of your body. “God you’re hot,” he mumbles, “Why does a pervert like you get to be so hot, hmm?” He rams into you, feeling you jump back against him.

“Makes me want to fucking drain my cock in you, but no, I have—“ he slams again, a burst of ache living your lips, “—Work! God, I fucking needed this. I needed you and every inch before I needed to leave.”

You’d respond if you weren’t so occupied. He drowns your thoughts out every second he’s inside you, to the point nothing else exists.

“Shit, I have work,” Mingyu repeats as if dawning the thought for the first time. He lets go of the toy and manages to direct it with his thrusts, moving him and the toy into you at the same pace. You scream at him, shattered breaths taking over you, and his name is the only consistent, as you spread yourself wider to take it, left with only the base of the toy and the end of Mingyu’s shaft.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you whine incessantly, shaking and bucking into him until you cum all over his cock, undoubtedly flooding and dripping down the side of your legs.

But Mingyu takes his time and it tastes sweeter than any candy, fucking your pussy and ass deeper, harder until his mind as gone as yours is. “Shit, shit, shit. Turn around and look at me.”

You do as told, dildo still in the pocket of your ass, as his cock is aimed at your lips, the condom abandoned just like its wrapper. His hands run in your hair, gripping from the root and he pushes you over the head of his cock, groaning as more pretty souvenir images appear for him to look back on. “Look at you. Good at taking cock there too?”

You nod, mumbling a confirmation before Mingyu penetrates deeper, noticing him lodged in you throat before bucking his hips in your mouth. “Then take it. Take all of my cum. Can’t leave another mess behind.”

Wide eyes of mischief look back at him, holding him by the back of his cock as you bob against him. He grips tighter to the back of his head, pulling and tugging as your hair become the size of his fists and you feel him hit the back of your throat. He now sees the white of your eyes, the flare of your nostrils, the quiver of jaw before it overwhelms him.

“Fuck, take it.” The load builds up to its full intensity, intoxicating him until theirs tears even in his eyes, the kind that supersedes one of joy. 

You hold his hips with both spread hands, welcoming his release with closed eyes. Your mouth gets flooded, blown up so full you’re close to choking, gagging from the contents dispersed in you.

“Take it,” Mingyu says fatigued. “You don’t have to swallow it, but take it.”

But you do swallow it, what you could anyway, and it’s inevitable that you’re a coughing mess when you unlatch from him, dribbling in a concoction of your bodily fluids and cum running along your torso, cunt, and legs.

“Okay,” Mingyu pants, “Now I really need to get to that train.”

You’re catching your breath as he cleans himself off with wet paper towels he had on hands, cleaning off the work of his cock but leaving the rest of him untouched. It’s fine, however, seeing as he glows with an air of lust, making him more charismatic than he normally did, and you’re brimming with pride knowing you’ve caused it. “I’m surprised you have that much energy off camera.”

“It helps, that it’s you.” He timidly admits, raising the temperature in your body. “And who said we’re off camera.” He points to the security camera at the corner of his room, reminding you too late that he’s used to using more than one camera to capture any and all angles. “I even forgot about it for a second.”

“Oh.”

“I can delete it if you want.”

“No it’s okay, but um….Send me a copy.”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment. 

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze. 

 König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others. 

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!” 

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect. 

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up. 

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child. 

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru. 

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes. 

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest. 

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!” 

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away. 

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!”  König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture. 

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you,  König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you. 

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt. 

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny. 

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone. 

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge. 

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.” 

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction. 

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl. 

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance. 

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.” 

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!” 

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience. 

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done. 

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling. 

Evolve, or die. 

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later. 

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.” 

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants. 

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA. 

The Lieutenant is one of them. 

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead. 

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t. 

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact. 

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself. 

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins. 

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.  

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was. 

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding. 

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed. 

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes. 

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide. 

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady. 

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire. 

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock. 

Your finger slams into the trigger. 

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself. 

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König. 

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary. 

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch. 

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later. 

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure. 

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König. 

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone. 

Anyone but you, that is. 

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter. 

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced. 

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down. 

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm. 

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?” 

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment. 

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour. 

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you. 

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence. 

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up. 

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh. 

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest. 

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.” 

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given. 

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly. 

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.” 

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?” 

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

 König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?” 

He freezes, muscles going taunt. 

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?” 

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away. 

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate. 

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit. 

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over. 

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side. 

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air. 

König kneeled to you and bared himself. 

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this. 

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood. 

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug. 

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning. 

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he. 

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame. 

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears. 

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him. 

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat. 

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English. 

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril. 

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust. 

You find none. 

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening. 

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words. 

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize. 

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized. 

For you to come back to him. His partner. 

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths. 

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

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[almostwisegalaxy]

PLEEEEASE DO MORE SEONGJE HEADCANONS IF YOU HAVE THEM

시발(Shibal)...

Geum Seongje x fem!reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

It wasn't that cold that night, but the asphalt smelled of rust. Geum Seong-je sat on a bench, looking vacant, a limp cigarette stuck between his teeth, almost completely burned out. He wasn't even really smoking it. His eyes followed the car headlights like flies around a bulb.

The screech of tires, the screams, the dull thud of a body being thrown, none of it made him move. It had happened right in front of him. He had turned his head, cast a lazy glance, seen a figure mowed down on the ground. He had cursed under his breath.

He hadn't snapped out of his torpor to help her. Not out of shock, not out of fear. He just didn't give a damn. But he had called the ambulance. Out of habit, maybe, or because he didn't want the hassle of a non-assistance investigation. He wasn't there to play the hero; he just wanted to be left alone.

But that face. Pale. Frozen. That face had disturbed him. Not because he found it beautiful or innocent. But because he hated seeing something broken, weak, fragile. And that girl, Y/N, was all of that, at that moment.

He found himself at the hospital, standing, leaning against the window of her room, watching her, unconscious, connected to tubes. He was going to leave, do what he always did: ignore the consequences. But as he was about to turn on his heel, the nurse called out to him.

"You're not going to leave her alone, not now. She talked about you in her sleep. 'My love,' that's what she said. It's you, isn't it?"

He had burst out laughing. Dry, humorless. He had wanted to deny it. But the police were already there, the rumors, the eyes fixed on him as if he were the reason for her accident. He had felt suffocated. So he had lied.

"Yeah. It's me .She's my girl..."

The following days were a punishment. For him. For her. He had to come back every day, bring things. Romantic crap: disgusting stuffed animals, candies, little notes folded into hearts. He had grabbed everything from the most cliché shops in town. And he called Y/N "jagiya," "yeobo," or even "my little bunny" with that drawling voice, twisted with sarcasm. But his gaze remained that of a madman, hungry, unstable.

He hid nothing. Neither his fights, nor his offenses, nor the scars on his fists. He even showed them, barely concealed under dirty bandages. He wanted her to be afraid. To understand who he was. To look at him with horror. He needed that fear to exist.

But what really haunted him was what it did to him. This feeling of being expected. Even if it was based on a damn misunderstanding. Even if she had never seen him before. He had started watching her sleep longer than necessary. He noticed the movements of her hands under the sheets, her lips that moved when she dreamed. He hated it. He hated feeling connected to someone.

A week after the accident, she had woken up.

"Who are you?" she had asked, her voice trembling.

He had dropped the water bottle he was handing her.

— Shibal... Are you serious? You sleep for eight days, moan my name like a lovelorn child, and now you're looking at me like a fucking stranger?

She had curled up. He had felt that fear. It ran through him. And it made him smile, a smile that was anything but tender. But inside, it turned his stomach. He felt dirty. Awkward. He didn't know how to get out of this mess.

He had kept coming. Every day. He brought the most ridiculous flowers, the most absurd declarations scribbled on Post-it notes, teen magazines, bags of cookies. He played the game. With an unhealthy intensity. Because he had never had this. Someone to see. Someone who looks at him, even with fear.

But it wasn't love. Not yet. It was need. Panic. As if she were the only thing that could keep the mess he was on a leash. He wasn't nice. He wasn't romantic. He was twisted. He was getting attached in the wrong way. He was becoming possessive before he even had the right to anything.

One day, she had said to him:

"I don't want you to come back."

He had replied, his teeth clenched:

"You don't get a say, jagi. They believe me, not you. You want me to leave? Then explain to them that I'm an asshole. Go on. Look them in the eyes and tell them you're all alone. You want that? Huh?"

She had said nothing. She couldn't. And he had clung to that silence like a rope.

Geum Seong-je didn't understand himself. He fought in the streets because he had never learned to talk. He lied because he had never trusted anything. He got angry with her because she was calm. Because she was gentle. Because everything about her reminded him of what he would never be.

But he was there. Every day. Sitting in the chair next to her bed. He ate her cookies, he sometimes fell asleep listening to the beeping of the machines. He expected nothing. Just for it to last a little longer.

The hospital had become his world. And Y/N, his fixation. It wasn't a fairy tale, it was a cell. And in his deranged mind, it was almost enough.

---

He refused to leave.

Y/N had asked him, even begged him, one morning when the pale sun filtered through the hospital blinds, but he had remained rooted there, staring at her with his split, distorted smile that never reached his eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You're the one who landed me here, jagiya. You're the one who got me into this mess. So now you deal with it."

She had turned her face away, trying to ignore him, as if that could make him disappear. But Seong-je wasn't a draft. He was a sticky, insistent presence, like an oil stain on a white tablecloth.

When the nurses passed by, he resumed his act. He laughed, offered her stuffed animals, strawberry chewing gum, little notes that he read aloud, punctuating them with saccharine nicknames.

"You remember when we stole that bike together, huh, yeobo? That was our first couple adventure, wasn't it?"

And when they moved away, his gaze changed. He leaned towards her, his sour breath on her cheek.

"Don't play smart with me. Say one more time that you want me to leave, and I swear you'll really know what it means to be alone."

He knew exactly when the staff changed shifts, which corridors were empty, which stolen moments he could use to whisper vile threats in her ear. He didn't need to shout. He inflicted pain with a few words, spoken softly.

"I have your first name. Your address. Your life, now, belongs to me. You wanted to put on a show by calling me in your sleep? You thought there would be no consequences? Well, here they are. You've earned yourself a monster, my dear."

Y/N tried to sit up in bed when she had the strength. Sometimes she struggled to reach the call button, but he would discreetly unplug it before anyone could see. Just to silence her.

"Come on, rest," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I don't want them to think you're hysterical, you know. It's not good for you."

He had to be careful. The cops kept coming by. Twice already, they had come to ask questions. First about the accident. Then about him. He played the desperate lover perfectly—a tear in the corner of his eye, stories of pseudo-memories with Y/N, a trembling voice when he spoke of his "fear of losing her."

"I'm just here for her, that's all," he had said to one of them, his hand placed over his heart. "We haven't always been an easy couple, but she's my world."

And it worked.

It worked because people preferred slightly dark love stories to disturbing truths. It worked because he knew how to manipulate silences, how to shed tears at will, how to create an illusion credible enough to be believed.

But with Y/N, he wasn't acting.

With her, he was what he truly was: unstable, violent, possessive. He swung between a distorted tenderness and an icy rage. One day, he brought macarons; the next, he smashed a bouquet against the wall when she wasn't looking.

He resented her. For what she had triggered. For the space she occupied in his head. For this obsession he couldn't control. He felt trapped, and his only way out was her.

"You can't push me away. You don't have the right. Not after what you made me believe. Now you put up with me. You endure me, just like I endure myself every damn day."

He sometimes slept in the armchair, his body tense, his arms crossed. Sometimes, he would get up in the middle of the night and stand, leaning over her, watching her. For a long time. Too long.

And in the morning, he would resume his act. Smile. Wink. Silly little nickname.

And when no one was watching:

"If you say one wrong word, I swear I'll make a scene. They think I'm the perfect boyfriend. You're just a fragile little girl. You know who they'll believe."

And the worst part was, he was right.

---

The days in the hospital dragged by with a devouring slowness, and Seong-je had had enough of every second spent in that sterile room, with Y/N lying on her bed, unconscious of everything happening around her. But it was even worse when she was awake. The heavy air of the room seemed strangely more oppressive. Every sigh he let out, every movement he made, seemed as desperate as it was useless. He felt suffocated, invisible in that overly silent room.

But a nightmare repeated itself every night. A nightmare that was gradually turning into an unbearable obsession.

Y/N was all he had. All he believed he had. And every night, he saw her leave. Not in an explosion of light or in a grand theatrical act. No. Y/N left in a much simpler, much more destructive way. She would look at him one last time, without emotion, then turn and disappear into the void. He couldn't hold her back, he couldn't even move. He was frozen, paralyzed in his own nightmare. And with each awakening, anguish washed over him, an irrepressible fear that dug even deeper into his twisted mind.

He was tired of feeling this way, of drowning in this inner void. So, he had hurt himself. Nothing serious, just enough to get Y/N's attention. It wasn't suffering he sought, but the moment when he would finally become real to her. He had slammed his fist against the bathroom wall until there was blood, and when he saw the red staining his skin, he had felt a little more alive. The taste of iron in his mouth, the burning pain, all of it had become almost… comforting. Then he had waited.

He had appeared in Y/N's room, a blank expression on his face, his wounds barely bandaged. He said nothing, he didn't move, just there, in the shadow of his own desire.

Y/N had woken up to muffled sounds. She had turned her head, her eyes blurry, and had seen him. He was there, sitting next to her, holding his arm where the blood had formed a small pool. He looked like nothing was wrong. But she… she couldn't ignore it.

He was looking at her. He had that look, both pleading and threatening, a mixture that no one else could understand. For a second, he had thought she would push him away again. For a second, he had thought he was too broken, too dirty for her to still pity him. But no, she had sat up, her face marked by fear and worry.

"Seong-je! What are you doing? You're hurt?!"

She had rushed towards him, panic in her movements. She had grabbed his arm, scrutinizing his wound as if the whole world depended on knowing he was safe. He could feel her fingers trembling on his skin. He could hear her short breaths. And he felt… loved. Not in a normal way, no. But it was enough.

"It's nothing," he had replied in a hoarse voice, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "Just a little accident."

Y/N hadn't replied immediately. She had lowered her eyes to his hand, still tightly gripping his arm. He could see her fingers closing a little tighter, as if to make sure he wouldn't disappear. She had slid up his shirt sleeve to get a better look at the wound. Her eyes were hard, focused, almost overwhelmed.

"But why did you do that? Why are you… Why are you still here, Seong-je? Why?"

The words had flowed from her lips, but he hadn't answered immediately. He felt almost trapped in the tenderness she was offering him without really meaning to. She was there, worried about him, touching his arm as if it were the most precious thing she had.

"Because you won't let me leave," he had murmured. "Because you gave me something. And I'm going to hold onto it."

He had seen the look she gave him, hesitant, confused, full of guilt. He wasn't sure she understood. But he knew. She was worried. And that was all he needed to feel that love could exist, even in this twisted version of himself.

But he didn't have time to think further. A nurse, a young trainee, entered the room. Her name was Joo-hyun ,made up like a failed idol, and she didn't seem to notice that Y/N was awake. She approached Seong-je, who was still standing in that strange position, and began to speak to him without paying attention.

"You're really stubborn, you know, aren't you? Not wanting anyone to touch you, and now you have another wound to take care of."

She spoke in a slightly casual, almost flirtatious tone, settling near him. Joo-hyun hadn't noticed that Y/N was awake, and she leaned a little too close to Seong-je, as if it were nothing special.

But Y/N had noticed. Every word Joo-hyun spoke, every movement she made towards him, all of it ignited an anger that Y/N didn't understand. She sat up slowly, her gaze hardening. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew it wasn't an innocent gesture. Not in this room.

Joo-hyun looked so carefree, too self-assured, too familiar with him. She had gently caressed Seong-je's shoulder, and her fingers had slipped a little too low, lingering on his skin. Y/N felt heat spread through her, but it wasn't the warmth of desire. It was a fever of anger, of frustration.

Without warning, Y/N stood up, looking tense, almost threatening.

"You… you should leave," she said, her voice louder, more authoritative than usual.

Joo-hyun jumped, raising her eyes to her, surprised by the coldness in her voice. Seong-je, for his part, watched silently, as if a strange smile was slowly spreading across his lips.

"What?" Joo-hyun asked, a little lost.

"I told you to leave. Right now," Y/N replied, her voice sharp.

Joo-hyun hesitated, then straightened up. A last furtive glance at Seong-je and she turned on her heel, leaving the room without a word.

Y/N sat back down on the edge of the bed. She didn't really understand why she had reacted that way. But what she had felt was something new. A feeling she had never had before. Jealousy. An emotion that was completely foreign to her.

She turned her gaze to Seong-je, who was still there, silent, his eyes fixed on her. It wasn't love. It wasn't even compassion. It was just… a need. A possession. She was afraid of it. And at the same time, something inside her tightened, a discomfort she couldn't identify.

Seong-je looked at her, then, as if nothing had happened, leaned towards her and whispered:

"Thank you. That's love, you know. The kind I can get. The kind you give me without meaning to."

She shivered at his words, but this time, she didn't react. She simply let herself be invaded by this strange sensation which, little by little, was making Seong-je someone more than he seemed. Someone essential.

And in Seong-je's tormented mind, this moment was just one small step further towards what he believed to be his own love. A love he would impose. A love she would never be able to get rid of again.

---

Seong-je no longer knew exactly when obsession had taken over everything else. When the anguish of losing her had become that black fire, that creeping thing that scratched at every corner of his mind. Maybe at the hospital, or even before. But one thing was certain: from the moment Y/N had placed her hands on him, worried, desperate to know if he was alright, something had broken for good within him.

It wasn't love. Not really. It was deeper, darker. A morbid need. He didn't want her to love him. He wanted her to need no one but him. To breathe only through him. For every beat of her heart to be linked to him. It was the only way he knew how to love. It had to hurt.

When Y/N finally left the hospital, she expected Seong-je to disappear. Maybe not immediately, but that he would understand, with time. But she saw him in the lobby, as if everything were perfectly normal. He was there, sitting calmly at a table, signing the discharge papers. As if he were her husband, her guarantor, her everything.

"What are you doing?" she asked, hesitant.

He turned to her with that small, split smile, the one she never knew how to interpret.

"I reassured them. I'm taking you home. You're my girlfriend, remember?"

He gently, almost tenderly, brought his hand to hers and intertwined their fingers. Like an ordinary scene between two lovers. But Y/N couldn't ignore that strange pressure in her chest. A suffocating sensation.

He had accompanied her home. She had expected him to leave afterwards. He had even said goodbye, a kiss on her forehead. And she had believed, truly believed, that he would go.

But Seong-je had returned.

That same evening, he had come back, his arms full. A few personal belongings, a worn travel bag, and groceries. As if he planned to stay for a long time.

"I... I have nowhere to go. And with the storm approaching, it's dangerous outside. Just a few days, okay?"

She hadn't answered. He had already entered. He already knew where the kitchen was, where to put the dishes, where to place his clothes. As if he already lived there.

The storm broke that night. Howling winds, driving rain, lightning streaking across the sky. And Y/N found herself stuck with him. Alone. Trapped. The perfect closed-door setting for the emotional tension that had been building for days.

But Seong-je, for his part, was calm. Almost too calm. He prepared food, chopping vegetables with military precision. Y/N had never said she liked spicy tofu dishes. But she had confided in a nurse once, half-asleep, thinking no one was listening. He had listened. He always listened.

They ate in silence, their fingers occasionally brushing. Heavy silences, followed by glances that lingered too long. Sometimes their arms touched, and she didn't pull away. Sometimes her eyes lingered on his lips, and she turned her head. Until he kissed her.

A kiss that was initially soft, almost clumsy. Then more intense. As if he wanted to bite her, devour her. And she, lost between confusion and attraction, hadn't known how to react. She hadn't managed to say no. Not right away.

But the storm hadn't only carried away the rain. It had unleashed another tornado, far more dangerous.

They were in the living room, the lightning barely visible behind the curtains. Y/N wanted to talk, to set boundaries. But he had approached with a step that was too assured. And she had backed away.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"No... I just want some space, Seong-je. You're not supposed to be here."

He had laughed. A dry, slightly bitter laugh.

"You always say that when you feel like you might love someone. You're afraid of yourself, not me."

"That's not true."

"Oh no? Didn't you see yourself at the hospital, worried about me, as if your life depended on it? You kicked that nurse out just because she touched my arm."

He moved closer again.

"I need you, Y/N. And you know you need me too."

"This isn't... healthy."

"Maybe it's not healthy. But it's real. You can feel it."

He placed a hand on the back of her neck, gently. But there was strength in that touch.

"You think you can forget me? I'm in your apartment. In your head. You still breathe in my scent on your sheets. Every time you close your eyes, I'm there."

"You're manipulating me."

"No. I'm just revealing what you're hiding. You didn't reject me when I kissed you. You wanted it. You still do."

His words were like needles. And she had nothing to say. Because deep down, a part of her wanted to believe he was right. A tiny part, lost, wounded.

And that night, as the storm continued to beat against the walls of the apartment, they found themselves entwined on the sofa, between hatred and passion, between fear and desire. Prisoners of a love that wasn't supposed to exist, but that consumed them, slowly, dangerously.

..................................................................................

Okay... She has a Trespassers in her house. But maybe she has this kind of view in the morning.

(⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

[nadvs]

omg what if basketball!rafe takes reader out to dinner after a game or something, from sleeping with the enemy’s pleaseee

AHH SO CUTE YES OFC 🙂‍↕️

based on this fic

they keep hooking up after their first night together and rafe is in shock over how good the sex is and how much he enjoys her company. he’s a ‘hit it and quit it’ type of guy but he cannot get enough of her to the point where he can hardly wait for games against her college’s team because it’s a promise that he’ll see her.

one night a few weeks after they start being friends with benefits, his team suffers a loss by a few points against their worst rivals. he’s seething. the result of a game has a crazy effect on him. it always does.

he finds her courtside and while everyone around her is celebrating, she goes still once she notices him approaching her.

“close game,” she says, tilting her head while she looks up at him. at this point, she knows well enough how hard losses hit him.

eyes are on them. she can feel people judging how close she’s gotten to her side of the rivalry’s most hated athlete, but she doesn’t care.

rafe can tell she’s trying to make him feel better. underneath their usual harsh sarcasm and jokey insults, they’re two people who have a friendship built on sincere compatibility.

“your refs should be fired,” he mutters, pissed at how many calls against his opponents were missed. he’s sweaty and breathless from the game, his chest rising and falling at full tilt.

“oh, i’ll personally see to it,” she jokes. he scoffs, hating that he can’t stifle his smile.

“be ready in an hour,” rafe tells her. “i’ll pick you up from your dorm.”

“for what?”

“dinner,” he says assertively.

before he leaves, he pulls her in for a kiss. it’s a bonus that her ex sees. when she told him she wasn’t interested in max anymore, rafe couldn’t believe how relieved he was. he may have lost the game, but he won the girl.

rafe typically lays into his teammates after a bad loss. he’s a harsh captain but the guys respect him for it. but that night, he’s uncharacteristically quiet in the locker room. he’d never admit it to anyone, but knowing he’ll see her after this makes his anger lose its power.

she’s surprised that the restaurant he picked is as elegant as it is. she knows he came from money, but this place is nice. as they settle across from each other in a booth, she’s glad she dressed up.

“i didn’t say this,” she says, looking down at her menu, “but you’re right. the refs missed a lot of travelling on our side.”

“what?” rafe says, amused. “whatever happened to loyalty?”

“i told you i didn’t say anything,” she reiterates.

he taps his knuckles on the tabletop lightly, studying her.

“you don’t have to bullshit me,” he tells her.

“rafe,” she says seriously. “when do we ever bullshit each other?”

he meets her gaze, taking in how pretty she looks tonight. they’re just friends but on the outside, this looks like a date. he doesn’t mind.

“and you need to chill with the pushing,” she tells him. “you almost got fouled out.”

“did i?” he says with a laugh. he knows he did. he finds quite a lot of sick satisfaction in shoving his opponents.

“shut up,” she chuckles. “you won’t be laughing when you get benched.”

“don’t want that,” rafe mumbles. “who will you stare at then?”

“you stare at me,” she replies. “you said it yourself the first night we hooked up.”

“why are you thinking about hooking up right now?” he says, looking around the room. “this is a classy place.”

“you’re annoying as hell,” she laughs. “and for that, i’m ordering the most expensive thing. unless you’re not paying?”

“i’m paying,” he confirms. he doesn’t even want to joke about that. “and i’m coming over after.”

“depends on how this date goes,” she quips, looking back down at the menu.

rafe loves how laidback she is. how she can call it a date, but not expect him to be her boyfriend. it’s so easy with her. no expectations. just fun.

he never felt this good this fast after a loss. he doesn’t ever feel this relaxed with anyone. she may just be his best friend at this point.

she looks up, noticing his eyes on her.

“staring again?” she teases.

just a few seconds ago, she asked when they bullshit each other. they never do. he’d like to stick to that.

“yeah. you look good,” he tells her.

her skin flushes hot. she eyes him, the way the dim lighting washes over the planes of his face, the way he put an effort in tonight, dressing in a button-down instead of the usual t-shirt and sweats he wears whenever they meet for a booty call.

“at the risk of stroking your ego, so do you,” she replies.

“what else d’you wanna stroke?”

“jesus christ,” she laughs, nudging his knee under the table. he smirks.

whatever tense feelings were left over from tonight’s loss are gone now. he’s good. happy, even.

[revelboo]

Transformers x Reader Headcannons- problems

Pretty much how I write and overthink their personalities, actions, and motives. Soundwave, Starscream, Megatron, Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Jazz.

Starscream

• Can’t stop self sabotaging. As much as he hates Megatron, he’s his own worst enemy. Fueled by self-loathing, ambition, and spite. If every good thing is just going to be taken away, he might as well destroy it himself and take some petty satisfaction in watching it burn.

• You, though? He wants to protect this feeling you kindle in him. Even if he doesn’t truly trust that it’s real, he wants to pretend it is. Needs you to play along with him. Fiercely possessive because you’re his.

Megatron

• Exhausted all the time. With all that’s been lost, he can’t just stop at this point. There’s no peaceful end even if he almost wishes there was. The Decepticons look to him, believe that he’ll bring them home. To a better world. That guilt and responsibility fuels his hatred, keeping it going. If he fails, it’s all for nothing.

• They’re always watching. Looking for weakness to exploit. There’s always machinations among his officers, plots and schemes. You have no ulterior motives beyond survival and he can respect that. Even so, you’re willing to meet his optics even though you know who he is and what he’s capable of. Brave, foolish little thing.

Wheeljack

• Absentmindedly creating problems in the name of science. Is genuinely surprised when something blows right up in his face no matter how many times it happens. Forgets to refuel and recharge until someone says something or he just crashes. Generally avoided by everyone because of how often his experiments spectacularly fail.

• Even if he’s engrossed in an experiment, if you’re around, his attention is divided. You crash a lot faster than he does and guilt prompts him to take a break, because you definitely don’t look comfortable cheek propped up on a hand, sound asleep. He’s awful at taking care of himself, but surprisingly attentive toward you. Constantly worried because you’re just so fragile compared to Cybertronians.

Jazz

• Smiling through the stress. Seriously, he’s on a knife’s edge of anxiety all the time even as he plays it off. Everything’s a joke. Everything’s fine. Even if he wants to just scream, he keeps that easy going smile in place. It’s his armor and he needs it to convince himself as much as everyone else.

• Somehow you see right through him. You can lay a tiny hand on his plating and he just unravels. And you don’t expect him to just keep smiling through the pain. He doesn’t have to keep the act up, he can vent to you, bleed all the anger and frustration out instead of pretending it away. And he needs this more than you know.

Ratchet

• Gruff and caustic, that angry exasperation is all defense, pushing others away with sarcasm. No matter how quickly he works after a battle, the wounded just keep coming. Sometimes he’s not fast enough. A spark gutters out while his hands are wrist deep in another patient. He’s not enough. If he loses someone, it’s his fault. His burden and his blame to the point where sometimes his servos just won’t stop trembling.

• Somehow you understand that if you try to comfort him, he’ll fall apart. There’ll be time to grieve later, but right now the two of you work to save who you can, your little hands able to reach things he can’t. You don’t complain, just do what’s necessary. Later, he’ll cup you to his chassis, silent as you break.

Soundwave

• The worst part of being able to hear other’s thoughts? They never stop. It’s a constant sensory barrage threatening to overwhelm him unless he makes a conscious effort of block them out, so he’s always on guard. Can never relax or that tide of voices crashes over him. Finding out he can’t even block out human thoughts is a shock. You’re there in the back of his processor all the time.

• It’s why he needs you to sing for him. Doesn’t matter what it is, he just needs that one thing to focus on so everything else fades into background noise. The more you lose yourself in the song, the more he can relax, because you relax. Your thoughts calm.

[soulofapatrick]

Breathing for the First Time - Rhysand x female reader

Summary: Rhysand finally admits your mating bond after a heated argument with Nesta

Warnings: None really

Words: 2.4K

Y/N's POV

“I don’t care what you think, Nesta!” I snarl, the words tearing from me with a venom that shocks even myself. My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as the fury courses through me, a wildfire spreading through my veins.

Nesta stands across from me, her eyes blazing with cold fury, her chin lifted in that arrogant way she always does when she wants to get under my skin. And gods, it’s working.

“Of course, you don’t,” she bites back, her voice sharp, cutting. “Because you never think, do you? You act first and deal with the consequences later. It’s reckless. You’re reckless.”

I can feel the pressure building inside me, a low thrum in the air as my power ripples beneath my skin, begging to be released. The very walls of the House of Wind seem to vibrate with it, feeding off the energy that crackles between us. My heart is pounding in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears as every word she says fans the flames of my anger.

“Reckless?” I spit, taking a step toward her, my magic swirling around me now, the air thickening with it. “You think I’m reckless? You, of all people, who shuts out everyone who tries to get close to you? Who pushes and pushes until no one’s left? Maybe it’s not me who needs to rethink their choices.”

Nesta’s jaw tightens, and I can see the flicker of hurt behind her steel-like gaze, but she doesn’t back down. Of course, she doesn’t. She never does. “At least I think before I act. You’re a storm waiting to happen, and it’s only a matter of time before you destroy everything around you.”

The words hit harder than they should, slamming into my chest, but instead of backing down, the fury builds, rising like a tidal wave ready to crash. The floor beneath my feet seems to hum, the sheer force of my rage making the very air around us pulse.

“How dare you,” I snarl, my voice low, dangerous now. “You don’t know a damn thing about me, Nesta.”

“Oh, I know enough.” Her voice is sharp, like a blade cutting through the thick air between us. She steps closer, her face mere inches from mine now, her eyes daring me to do something. “I know that you’re not just a storm. You’re a disaster waiting to happen.”

My chest heaves with the effort to keep control, but I’m losing it—fast. My power flares around me, crackling with dark, untamed energy, and the room seems to pulse with it. The windows tremble, the floor beneath us groans as if it, too, is trying to hold together the volatile storm inside me. I can feel the magic bubbling just under the surface, wanting to tear free, to unleash the tempest that’s been building inside me for so long.

Before I can say anything else, the door opens, and a familiar presence fills the room. Rhysand.

His gaze sweeps over the scene before him, and for a moment, I swear I see amusement flash in his eyes as he takes in the tension radiating from me like a tangible force. His lips twitch, but he says nothing, simply leans against the doorframe, his violet eyes now solely focused on me.

“Perfect timing,” Nesta mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she steps back, her eyes flicking between Rhysand and me. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

But Rhys doesn’t seem interested in talking sense into anyone. His gaze never leaves mine, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at me now—something that makes the fire inside me burn hotter, but not with anger. There’s a dangerous kind of amusement in his eyes, like he finds my rage... enthralling. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Nesta huffs, clearly sensing that she’s lost whatever upper hand she thought she had. With a sharp, frustrated sigh, she turns on her heel and storms out, leaving me standing there, breathing hard, chest heaving with the effort to contain the swirling storm inside me.

But I don’t feel calm. Not even close.

Rhysand pushes away from the doorframe, his footsteps slow, measured, as he approaches me. His gaze is still locked on mine, his expression unreadable, but I can feel it—the shift in the air between us. The low hum of energy that vibrates in the space around us, electric and charged.

He stops just inches from me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, smell the intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine that clings to him. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head slightly, those violet eyes roaming over my face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.

“What?” I snap, though my voice falters slightly, my anger waning under the weight of his gaze. The fire inside me still burns, but it’s shifting now, turning into something else entirely. Something I’m not sure I’m ready for.

Rhysand’s lips curl into the faintest of smiles, but there’s no mockery in it. If anything, it’s... gentle. “You’re fascinating when you’re angry,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a purr.

I blink, taken aback by his words, but before I can respond, his hands come up to cup my face, his touch feather-light, yet it sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body. My breath hitches, my heart racing, and suddenly, everything around us seems to fade—the room, the argument, the entire world. All that exists is him.

And in that moment, something inside me snaps.

Rhysand’s fingers brush over my lips, light as a feather, and the world seems to still around us. The air is thick with tension, crackling with a different kind of energy now, no longer fuelled by the anger I had moments ago. It’s something new, something electric, thrumming between us like a tether I can’t escape. His thumb traces my lower lip, slow and deliberate, and my breath hitches as my gaze locks on his—those violet eyes, deep and endless, like the night sky.

Everything inside me shifts. The rage that had once pulsed through my veins now melts away, leaving only this. Only him.

Rhysand's eyes darken with something deeper, something raw and unspoken, and then, just as his thumb slides over my lips again, I feel it—a shift in my mind, in the very fabric of my being. His mental walls, the iron fortress he’s always kept up, fall. He lets me in. And it’s not gentle.

His thoughts, his emotions, his very essence floods into me all at once, and I stagger under the weight of it. His love, fierce and unwavering, surges through me like a wave crashing against the shore. I can feel it all—his longing, his desire, the way he’s been holding back for so long. The way he's seen me, wanted me, needed me, for longer than I could have ever imagined.

And then I see it.

I see myself through his eyes.

To him, I am not just a woman, not just someone standing before him with fire and rage in my veins. To Rhysand, I am everything. I see myself, bathed in starlight, fierce and beautiful, with power thrumming just beneath my skin. I see the way he watches me, not just now, but in every stolen glance, in every moment we’ve shared without me even realising it.

I am not just a person in his world. I am his world.

“You have no idea,” his voice whispers through the bond, soft and reverent, and his fingers trace along the curve of my jaw. How long I’ve waited for you.

It’s like I’ve hung the stars above Velaris, like every moment he’s spent in the dark has led him to this—to me. And I feel it now, the snap, the bond, settling into place. Not just in my mind, but in my very soul. The realisation of what we are to each other crashes into me with such clarity, it leaves me breathless. Mate.

His hands slide down, slow and sure, mapping every inch of me. As if this is the only time he’ll get to memorize every curve of my body, every dip and slope. His touch is gentle, reverent, yet filled with something that feels like desperation, like he can’t let go, like he’s afraid this moment will slip away if he moves too fast.

Through the bond, I feel it all—his awe, his desire, his absolute certainty. And underneath it, something more—something sacred, as if I am the one thing in this world he cannot live without. His hands rest on my hips now, firm but tender, pulling me closer, and I feel the heat of his body, the pull of him, like gravity itself has shifted around us. I can feel his love, strong and unyielding, wrapping around me like a cocoon, like I’m something precious—something he’s waited lifetimes for.

He looks at me again, his violet eyes burning into mine, and I swear, in that moment, I see galaxies. His thumbs trace slow, lazy circles on my skin, and it’s as if he’s trying to etch this moment into his memory forever. As if every breath I take, every movement, every tremble, is something sacred to him.

“I could spend eternity,” he whispers, his voice a low murmur, soft and reverent, “and it still wouldn’t be enough to know you.”

His forehead rests against mine, and for a moment, we just stand there, breathing each other in. I can feel the bond between us now, pulsing bright and fierce, a thread of power connecting us, binding us. There’s no going back. This is it—this is everything.

Rhysand's lips hover just above mine, the space between us charged with the weight of everything unsaid. The bond hums in the air like a current, and when he finally closes the distance, it’s like the world shifts—everything in me snaps awake. His lips claim mine, firm yet tender, and it feels like a shock to my system, like I’m breathing for the first time. A slow, burning fire unfurls in my chest, spreading through every inch of me, and I can’t help the way I press closer, needing more, needing all of him.

The kiss deepens, and my head spins, my heart racing with the force of everything pouring through me. His lips are soft, but there’s an intensity to the way he kisses me—a hunger, a desperation, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as I have. His hands cup my face, his fingers threading through my hair, holding me as though I’m something precious, fragile, yet powerful all at once.

And gods, I feel it.

The world narrows down to the feel of his mouth on mine, the way his lips move with mine, slow but purposeful, like he’s savouring every second, every taste. My heart thunders in my chest, and I gasp into his kiss, my breath mixing with his. It feels like my body is burning from the inside out, a fire I’ve never known before, and my shields—the ones I’ve always kept so tightly wrapped around my mind—begin to crumble.

For him, I let them fall.

I lower them, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but him. His presence floods me, his emotions wrapping around my own in a way that leaves me breathless. It’s overwhelming—the intensity of his desire, the way he’s craved this, craved me, for so long. I can feel the depth of his love, his awe, the way he’s trying to pour every bit of himself into this kiss, into me.

And I give him the same.

The kiss is everything and more. It’s a claiming, a promise, a silent admission of all the things we’ve held back. Every touch of his lips against mine sends sparks racing through my veins, igniting parts of me I didn’t even know were there. His hands slide down, skimming the sides of my face, trailing over my neck, down my shoulders, until they settle on my hips, pulling me closer. The heat of his body seeps into mine, and I shudder at the way his fingers press into me, holding me like he’s afraid I might slip away.

But I won’t. I can’t. Not when everything in me screams for him.

His mouth moves against mine with more urgency now, more need, and my heart pounds in response. I feel weightless, like I could fly, like the bond between us is lifting me higher than I’ve ever been. Every part of him feels like it’s consuming me, and it’s not terrifying—it’s exhilarating. I melt into the kiss, my hands sliding up to grip the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, pulling him even closer.

This kiss, this moment, it feels like the world has finally clicked into place. Like I was always meant to be here, with him, like we’ve been moving toward this our entire lives. My body hums with energy, the bond between us thrumming with power, and I feel alive in a way I never have before.

Rhys kisses me like I’m the centre of his universe, like I’ve hung the stars in the sky, and the way he touches me… gods, the way he touches me makes me feel like I’m everything. His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, gentle but deliberate, and it’s like he’s trying to memorize every part of me, every curve, every breath. His touch is reverent, yet laced with longing, and it’s as though he’s holding me like I’m the one thing he can’t bear to lose.

And as the kiss deepens, as his lips move with mine in a perfect, intoxicating rhythm, I feel something click inside me—a realisation, a truth I can no longer deny.

This is more than just desire. It’s more than just a kiss.

It’s the bond. It’s us.

And for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

Tags:

@lilah-asteria

[roseandxanderfics]

"What Are You Even Doing Here?" - Stiles stilinski x Bimbo!Reader.

Summary: Stiles takes Y/N, a clueless supernatural girl, to Derek and Peter Hale for answers, but they get more distracted by her wandering curiosity than solving anything. Chaos and sarcasm ensue.

Stiles had always been used to chaos. After all, being friends with Scott McCall came with its fair share of supernatural mayhem. But nothing quite prepared him for the whirlwind that was her.

She was always lost in her thoughts, a dreamy expression on her face as she gazed at the sky, barely aware of the world around her. Stiles could never figure out if it was because she was genuinely that oblivious or if she just preferred to live in her head. Either way, he found it charming in an irritating way.

Today, they were walking through the woods behind the high school, the usual post-class ritual where Stiles and Scott would discuss the latest werewolf drama while she hummed to herself, a few steps behind them. Her mind was elsewhere, and Stiles could tell. Her eyes were fixed on the sky, following a cloud formation that was slowly drifting by.

“Y/N,” Stiles called, his voice laced with amusement as he looked over at her. “You might want to, I don’t know, look where you're going.”

She smiled brightly, still not really paying attention to anything around her. “Hmm? Oh, I’m fine, Stiles! Just thinking about clouds... They’re so fluffy today.”

He shook his head with a fond, exasperated sigh, but it wasn’t just her absent-mindedness that made him nervous. It was the other things. The things she didn’t seem to notice, but he did.

Like how, just last week, she’d tripped over a small rock in the parking lot. When she hit the ground, her palm had glowed faintly for a second, and the entire pile of leaves next to her had scattered as if pushed by a sudden gust of wind. Stiles had been so distracted by his own shock, he hadn’t even thought to ask her about it at the time. But he’d seen it. And it wasn’t the first time something weird had happened around her.

Today, as they walked, he caught a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye. She was still a few feet behind them, her attention now drawn to a colorful butterfly fluttering past. Stiles’ eyes widened as he watched—watched the ground beneath her shift.

The earth quivered briefly before a small crack appeared in the dirt, and from the corner of his eye, he saw a few stray branches snap upward, hovering just slightly off the ground. He quickly turned to Scott, who was already looking at him, his expression mirroring Stiles’ growing concern.

“Did you—?” Stiles started, but Scott was already nodding.

“Yeah, I saw that too,” Scott replied. He didn’t need to say more; they both knew something wasn’t right.

The crack in the earth had settled just as quickly as it appeared, and Y/N hadn’t noticed a thing. She was too busy reaching out toward the butterfly, utterly unaware of the subtle chaos she was causing.

Stiles felt his heart rate pick up, and without thinking, he jogged ahead to catch up to her.

“Y/N,” he called again, a little louder this time. She turned her head toward him, a bright smile on her face.

“What’s up, Stiles?” she asked, completely unfazed. She had no idea what had just happened—no clue that she'd just bent reality for a brief moment.

“You might want to keep an eye on your surroundings,” Stiles said with a nervous laugh, trying to cover up how rattled he was. “You’ve got some... weird stuff going on.”

She furrowed her brows in confusion. “Weird stuff? Like what?”

Stiles racked his brain for a good explanation that wouldn’t sound completely insane. “Like, uh... like you have this weird energy around you sometimes. Like, today—just now, the dirt cracked beneath your feet.” He was still trying to piece it together, still not entirely sure how to tell her that she was doing things she didn’t even realize. “You didn’t notice it, but the ground, it... moved.”

She blinked at him, her smile still unwavering. “Huh. That’s strange... Well, it is kind of windy today. Maybe the earth’s just really sensitive to all that air pressure?”

Stiles could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open in shock. “Air pressure? You... you’re seriously—” He shook his head. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. You’re fine. Totally fine.”

But his mind raced. There was no way that could’ve been just wind. Not unless there was a huge gust of supernatural energy following her everywhere.

And then it hit him—she wasn’t just some random girl lost in her thoughts. There was something about her. Something he hadn’t fully realized until now. She wasn’t just distracted—she was supernatural.

The realization hit him like a freight train.

"Y/N," he said, his voice now quieter, more serious. "Do you... have you ever noticed anything strange happening around you? Like, stuff... moving on its own, or feeling weird when you get emotional?"

She stared at him, blinking slowly as if processing what he was saying. But the blank look on her face made it clear that she wasn’t following him at all. She didn’t even realize what she was capable of.

“No...?” she answered with a small laugh. “I mean, I think I’m just really good at making things fall when I trip over them. Does that count?”

Stiles let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Maybe it was just like everything else—she had no idea, and she wasn’t going to figure it out anytime soon.

“Well, don’t go doing anything crazy, okay? Because, trust me, when weird stuff happens, it's usually not a good sign.”

She smiled at him, nodding absently, and Stiles could only sigh.

This was going to be complicated.

---------------

Stiles could feel the chaos brewing as soon as he pulled up to the Hale house. He’d never been particularly fond of this place—it had an eerie vibe that made him want to grab a garlic necklace and some holy water—but today, he wasn’t here to deal with creepy werewolf stuff. No, today he had a bigger problem: her.

“Alright,” Stiles said, rubbing his hands together as he glanced sideways at Y/N, who was blissfully staring out the window. “We’re gonna go in there, we’re gonna act like we have our lives together, and we’re gonna figure out what you are. Simple, right?”

She blinked at him, clearly not processing a single word he just said. “Oh, I really like the trees around here. They’re so big. Do you think they have, like, a lot of stories to tell?”

Stiles gave her a pointed look. “Focus. We’re going to see Derek and Peter Hale, two very serious people who deal with serious problems. They might help us figure out if you’re secretly a werewolf, a witch, or—God forbid—a hunter.”

“Hunter?” Y/N’s eyes widened as she turned to him. “Like, the people who hunt—?”

“No, not that kind of hunter,” Stiles cut her off, hoping to avoid a much larger tangent. “Just... follow me, okay?”

She nodded innocently, and Stiles could already feel his brain begin to short-circuit from the whirlwind that was her. She was like the human equivalent of a puppy running through a library—completely adorable, but impossible to focus on.

Inside the Hale house, Derek was already pacing in the living room, his brows furrowed. Peter sat on the couch, smirking at the whole situation, his usual vibe of “I know everything, but I’ll act like I don’t” in full effect. Stiles walked in, Y/N trailing behind him, looking far too fascinated by the dark wood paneling to pay attention to the werewolves. Derek gave Stiles a pointed look.

“Stiles, we’ve got things to do. If you’re bringing someone in here, they better be important.”

“Oh, she’s important, alright,” Stiles said, throwing his hands up. “I’ve got a feeling this one’s got supernatural written all over her, but the problem is, she’s got zero self-awareness. She could probably shoot lasers out of her eyes, and I wouldn’t even know it until she’s accidentally vaporized half of Beacon Hills.”

Derek narrowed his eyes as he looked Y/N over, clearly trying to gauge her, but Y/N was too busy tracing a picture frame on the wall with her finger, her head tilting in that curious way she did when she was lost in thought.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Peter interjected, leaning forward on the couch, studying Y/N with mild interest. “She doesn’t look like she could vaporize anything unless it was a snack.”

Stiles snorted, throwing an incredulous look at Peter. “You’re really gonna be a snack guy right now? Focus, Peter. We need help, not... whatever that is.” He gestured vaguely toward Peter, who looked entirely unbothered.

Peter chuckled, glancing back at Y/N, who was now admiring a lamp and completely oblivious to the werewolves' scrutiny. “Oh, don’t worry, Stiles. I’m sure we’ll figure her out. She’s... interesting.”

“You’re telling me,” Stiles muttered under his breath, his eyes darting between Peter and Derek. “We’re trying to figure out what she is, and all she’s doing is playing with furniture.”

“I’m not playing!” Y/N piped up suddenly, her head snapping toward him, her eyes wide with a mix of innocence and confusion. “I’m just looking at the patterns in the wood. It’s really interesting. Don’t you ever notice how trees have these little shapes in them? Like, this one looks like a swirl! How cool is that?”

Peter’s eyes twinkled as he leaned back on the couch, clearly entertained. “You know, it does look like a swirl,” he mused. “Maybe she’s some kind of wood witch.”

“Uh, no,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “That’s not it. No one’s a wood witch. We’re not in Harry Potter, okay?”

Y/N had already wandered over to the bookshelf, pulling down a random book that had probably not been touched in ages. She flipped it open, then looked up at Stiles with wide eyes. “Oh, this one’s about magic! Does it have spells in it? I love magic! It’s so cool, like—like Hogwarts, but real!”

Derek gave Stiles a long, hard look. “She’s... she’s not really aware of what she’s doing, is she?”

“No,” Stiles sighed, rubbing his temples. “I mean, she might be. But then again, she’s also the kind of person who thinks if you rub a lamp, a genie might pop out and grant you three wishes. So... we’ve got a bit of a situation.”

“She’s cute, though,” Peter added, his voice teasing, clearly amused by the situation.

“Oh yeah, very cute,” Stiles said, shooting Peter a pointed glare. “But she’s also completely unaware of whatever the hell she is, and that’s where things get tricky. Because, you know, werewolves and witches tend to get a little twitchy around people they can’t figure out.”

Y/N, still completely distracted, began flipping through the book, clearly losing herself in whatever she was reading. “Did you know there’s a spell that can make you change the weather? Can you guys do that? I bet that’s super fun! You could make it rain whenever you want! Oh, but I’d miss the sunshine. Wait, can you get rid of rain? Because that would be amazing...”

Derek was openly smirking now, completely unbothered by Y/N’s rambling. “Okay, I take it back. She’s harmless. She’s just... eccentric.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, eccentric is one way to put it.” He glanced at Scott, who had been quietly standing in the corner, trying to piece it all together. “I swear, Scott, we’re supposed to be getting answers, not... entertaining her with magic books and, I don’t know, woodland creatures.”

“She’s really cute, though,” Peter added again, clearly enjoying Stiles’ frustration.

Stiles threw his hands up. “Great! So we’ve got a cute, magical, clueless walking disaster on our hands, and all you guys can do is stare at her like she’s the latest Instagram trend.”

Y/N, of course, had no idea any of this was going on. She was too busy attempting to make the book she was holding float in the air, but instead, she managed to make the cup on the coffee table spin around in a circle.

“Okay, yeah, I’m calling it,” Stiles said, backing away slowly. “Whatever she is, we need help figuring it out, and right now it looks like it’s up to us to teach her how to control it. She’s too much for Derek and Peter to handle.” He paused, eyeing the two werewolves with mock seriousness. “What are you guys even good for if you can’t focus for five minutes? You’re supposed to be the experts.”

Derek didn’t even look fazed. “You’re welcome to take her elsewhere, Stiles. We’ll just enjoy watching the chaos unfold here.”

Peter, with his signature grin, added, “Yes, please, take her away, Stiles. It’s more fun watching you get flustered.”

And with that, Stiles did the only thing he could do in that situation: he sighed heavily and decided it was probably easier to get Y/N out of the Hale house before she accidentally blew it up. “Come on, Y/N,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders as she stared at another random piece of furniture. “Time to go before I start questioning my sanity. Again.”

“Okay!” she said cheerfully, completely oblivious to the destruction she was leaving behind.

Stiles could already feel the headache coming on.

[nikamuhlsrealwife777]

Anything Juju Watkins, she’s seriously underrated 🙏🏻

FOREVER YOURS - J.W.

First juju fic....kinda scared....but let me know if I should keep writing for her

"Juju...i already told you," I could feel my frustration bubbling up. Catching her in the act of kissing another girl was not on my bingo card of the year. "It's a no. I don't care what you have to say, we're done."

"baby....please...its not what it looked like," following like a lost puppy, Juju begged. I couldn't care less in the moment.

Her hand wraps around my wrist, trying to stop me from walking further away. I stopped, looking down at the contact. The calmness of her tone, it further the irritation that was brewing.

I ripped my arm from her grip, "I said I don't want to hear what you have to say. Leave me the f-"

"Y/n....calm down...okay."

"No! If you weren't sucking someone's else face...i wouldn't be acting like this!" I spun around, our eyes meeting. The hurt in her eyes made me want to calm down, but nothing was stopping the hurt that I felt. "I really thought I could trust you...and you walked all over me. My trust...my ego...my love for you. I just need some space...please."

Tears swelled in my eyes. Juju's seemed to mirror. "Okay. I can give you space," she looked down, wiping her eyes before looking back at me, "I love you."

I nod. I had nothing else to say. My legs turned me around, walking me out of the packed party. The party, that if I stayed would have burned something within me, was for the women's team defeating the undefeated UCLA. Maybe she got too cocky. But that cockiness just ruined our whole relationship.

2 weeks later....

It's been hard. I missed her more than I would like to admit. Her sarcasm used to fill the awkward moments with friends. Her jokes flowing in conversation resulting in fits of laughter. Then, her presence. It was grounding, calming, and I needed all of that in my life. But Juju was that....and she wasn't here.

I struggled to pull myself out of bed, groaning with the motion. Hating myself and the world had become a more common thing for me these days. I hated myself for not listening to the girl cause what if she really hadn't done anything. Maybe I jumped to conclusions, maybe I was a jerk, maybe I was the one who didn't deserve her. Not the other way around.

Throwing on whatever was near, I made my way out of the sloppy dorm room. Opening the door, to my surprise, I was welcomed with many holding flowers.

"uh...excuse me," he looked down at the small paper attached to the bouquet of roses, "Y/n? These are for you."

"I think you might have the wrong y/n. Nobody is gonna send me anything," I closed my door, locking before turning back around to face the guy.

"Y/n l/n....from Juju Watkins? Does that sound right?"

Shock washed over me. Why would Juju send me flowers? "Um...yeah...yeah that sounds right."

"well," he held them out, "here you go. Have a nice day, ma'am."

"than-thank you." I stood there, flowers in hand, dumbfounded. I couldn't piece together why, the woman I yelled at and refused to say 'i love you' back too, would send flowers to me.

Quickly, I read the small note attached to the stem. Hoping that it would tell me why she would.

'I know your probably not happy with me...but I wanted to send you flowers (even tho Valentine's day was a little while ago...) for V' day. I would never not get you something....but I figured it would have been stupid to send something right after everything went down. Just know, I'm sorry that what happened happened. I'm always ready to talk whenever you are. I love you too much to not wait. Love, Juju'

"it's not too much is it?" Her voice rang through my ears, my head snapping up to meet the girl I've been missing tremendously.

Juju.

Sniffling, I pulled her into a tight embrace, "I've missed you so much." The words mumbled into my shoulder. Her arms tighten their hold on around me, pulling me impossibly closer.

"I've missed you too," a broken chuckle fell from my lips, "even if I don't necessarily like you right now."

Juju's body tensed, "can we talk about...what happened, please?"

I nodded, escaping her hold to unlock the door. Opening it, I step in allowing Juju to follow.

"I'm so sorry you saw me kiss another girl....but I didn't kiss her. She kissed me. I was drunk...she was drunk....she thought I was into her....so she took her shot. I pushed her off of me, but she latched back on as you walked in. I wish I could've been able to stop you from seeing it. I would have told you what happened....i just wish everything would have went down another way. I'm sorry baby." Juju was almost begging for forgiveness. Her words sinking in, my brain deciding whether to trust her or not. Something in the way she let everything just crash through whatever dam was holding it in convinced me, convinced me that she was telling the truth.

"okay."

"okay?"

"I accept your apology and now I want kisses to make up for it," I held my arms out, hoping the girl would just go with it. To my liking, she did.

"God I've wanted to kiss you for weeks," a smirk settled on her lips, well, before her lips crashed onto mine.

My arms snaked around her neck as her hands fell to my waist. Her grip tight and dominant, almost like she would never let me go. Our lips moved against each other like they were made to be kissed by the other. A feeling of familiarity settled within me. Thoughts seemed to not form properly, other than one thought. We were meant to be, and nothing was going to get in the way of that again.

Once we were both on the verge of not breathing, we broke apart. Smiles stretched across both of our faces as the realization set in.

"I love you more than anything," I whispered, resting my head on her shoulder. Juju's arms pulling me into a hug, the warmth of her embrace calming me. The grounding feeling I had been missing not even an hour ago.

"I love you too, Y/n. More than my own life," the words seemed to effect me more than they had ever before. I felt like she truly meant it.

Nothing would ever break my trust in her again.

------------

A/n : ha...ha....if this is trash, let me know and I won't ever write for juju again.

But if y'all like....let me know and I'll definitely write for her again.

(I'm truly in love with this woman....shes another one of my wives.)

[seleneprince]

1 | The Sun will sing

m.list <prev

Duke remembers the day he met her like it was yesterday.

Well—to be fair—it wasn’t just because of her. He remembers the day he joined the Wayne household vividly for many reasons. It was quite a memorable event as it was.

He was nervous—how could he not be? He was about to join Batman’s team. Train under him. It wasn’t nothing. And on top of that, he had to keep up with all the others—people who already knew the rules, who had long since learned what to expect.

They were nice, sure. Welcomed him in with open arms, polite words, even smiles. But they were still strangers. Acquaintances at best.

And he wasn’t ready to call them family yet. Not with the memory of his parents’ "deaths" still fresh.

One day, while exploring the other wing of the manor—the one where Alfred slept, opposite to the main training side—he wandered down a hallway he hadn’t been to before. It was a part of the house he had avoided so far since all the training and important stuff happened in the other section. Besides, no one told him to go there nor mentioned the place, so it was to assume there was no reason to go. In the end, curiosity got the better of him.

He found himself regretting it quickly enough—wandering aimlessly, unfamiliar with the halls, and once again ending up walking in circles. This particular wing felt like something straight out of a horror movie: dim, too quiet, and just eerie enough to make him wonder if something else was lurking in the shadows.

He was about to give up entirely, until—

"Can I help you?"

He jumped so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Standing in the doorway of a room he hadn’t noticed before was a girl he’d never seen. Arms crossed, leaning casually against the frame, head tilted with barely concealed amusement—red headphones hanging around her neck.

He hadn’t even heard her approach. Where did she come from?

"Who the hell are you?"

She snorted, soft but sharp.

"Hasn't my beloved family told you about me?" she asked, voice dripping with dry sarcasm. Then came another snort. "I'm (Name). And I already know who you are."

"Wait—you do?"

"Of course. You're the new addition to the family, Bruce's latest stray. Duke Thomas. Alfred told us about you."

"Ah," he wasn't sure how to respond. "How come I haven't seen you around before?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well," she said, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. There was an odd edge in her voice. "I run on a different schedule than the rest of you."

Something in her tone made him pause. Like he was missing something, but couldn’t tell what.

She shifted her posture, never taking her eyes off him.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Her tone wasn’t rude exactly, but it was... curt. Like she was waiting for him to leave.

And then:

"So, want me to show the way around this place? You clearly need it." she chuckled.

"What?"

"C'mon, follow me."

She motioned for him to move. For a moment, he just stared, confused.

"Why should I? Where are you taking me?"

She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and to his chagrin, he was intrigued.

"You want to get out of here or not?"

He had more than enough reasons not to trust her. He didn’t know her. He hadn’t heard of her. For all he knew, she could’ve been an intruder.

But in the end… he followed her anyway.

She stopped in front of a large painting, pressing her fingers beneath the frame until a faint click echoes in the hallway. Duke’s jaw dropped as the painting swings open, revealing a hidden passageway behind it.

Duke could only mouth in shock as the painting opened up, showing a hidden passageway right behind it.

"What...how...What is this?"

She glanced at him, clearly amused by his reaction.

"It’s a shortcut. It leads straight to the library. If you need to go there, use this instead of getting lost wandering around."

Duke kept staring in shock.

"There are secret passageways in the manor?"

She chuckled again.

"Of course there are. This place is ancient. The staff used to rely on these passageways to do their jobs." she set a foot inside it. "I don’t use it much, so we might run into some rats. Don't worry, they're harmless...as long as you don't touch them."

He looked at her, then at the spot, then back at her.

"You're a weirdo, you know that?"

She smiled, an amused glint in her eyes.

"Thank you."

A rush of cold air sweept over him, but the girl stepped completely inside without hesitation. She glanced back at him, extending her hand as an invitation.

"Well?" She lifted her chin, her tone light but challenging. "Are you coming?"

A challenge. He saw it in her eyes, daring him. He grinned, unable to resist. Whover she was, he’s never known how to back down from a challenge.

He took her hand—a gesture that surprised her, even though she was the one who offered it.

"Lead the way, weirdo"

The space was just wide enough for them to walk side by side. The cool, damp air smelled faintly of dust and stone, and the occasional faint screech of rats echoed through the narrow hall. And yet, despite the gloomy environment, their conversation flowed easily, like they’ve known each other for years. They talked about school, hobbies, and Gotham City in general.

He found out she was Bruce’s daughter—that she lived in that far wing with her mother and two younger siblings, separated from the rest. The revelation shocked him. No one had mentioned them before. At least, not that he recalled.

But when he tried to ask more, he noticed how her body stiffened, the way her gaze hardened just slightly whenever her father—or any of them—came up. So, he didn’t push. And in return, she didn’t ask about his family either. An unspoken agreement between them they were both quietly relieved by.

Duke wasn’t ready to talk about his parents yet—not with the wound still raw—and it was clear she didn’t want to unpack her own family drama.

Despite the odd circumstances, he found himself enjoying her company. Her witty remarks. The way her eyes lit up when she made a joke that landed. That rare, almost shy smile she tried to hide when he actually managed to make her laugh.

They kept crossing paths in the following days. At the entrance—him returning from patrol, her heading out to practice at the ice-rink. At first, she was still guarded. Polite, but distant. Keeping a calculated space between them. It didn’t sit right with him. Especially when he started noticing the pattern.

The others hung out together, trained together, ate together. But her? She was always alone. Never part of their plans. That didn’t sit right either.

Eventually, things between them finally shifted, when he showed up unannounced at one of her rehearsals at the ice-rink, shortly after his patrol. She didn’t say anything at first, but she looked at him in a way he would never forget. Afterward, he invited her out—to a little café down the block, then to the arcade across the street.

And when he took her back to the manor, she hugged him before entering.

From that day on, they only grew closer. Day by day, Duke got to know her better. She wasn’t the uncaring, spoiled rich girl she sometimes pretended to be. She was smart, funny, and had a will made of pure iron.

There was no other way to describe it. He watched her move through life on a schedule packed so tightly with activities and responsibilities it made him dizzy just looking at it. And yet, she handled it all like it was second nature—barely breaking a sweat.

And somehow, she still found time to do house chores and take care of her real family—her mom and the twins. And God knows those last two didn’t make it easy sometimes.

The more he saw her, the more he realized: she’s just made different. She didn’t flaunt it, didn’t acknowledge it, but she was strong. So damn strong. Stronger—and far more capable—than anyone gave her credit for. And Duke? He admired her for it. Respected her like crazy.

She became his best friend in the manor. His confidant. The one person who made him feel normal again—away from the missions and the chaos and the pressure of being part of the Bat legacy.

Because she wasn’t like them. Not a vigilante. Not a hero. Not someone who spent her nights bleeding for a cause that would never end. No, she was a breeze of normalcy. Of peace. And that's what made her so good.

Just a normal girl living a normal life, minding her bussiness and staying out of trouble, of Gotham’s worst. Someone they didn't have to fret over for fear she got killed during a mission or anything.

Which is exactly why what he’s seeing right now doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Because the girl knows—the one with the level-headed nature and quiet smile—shouldn’t be lying motionless across the crushed hood of an abandoned car.

Not like this.

Not in a dark alley, blood soaking through her clothes, smoke still rising from her skin. Not with traces of a bomb all over her body.

He had a bad feeling when she didn't hear from her since leaving the house. Usually, she texted her about fifteen minutes before his patrol ended, to let him know if she was finishing already or would take a bit longer. He insisted on doing this so he could get ready to pick her up on time.

She’d rolled her eyes the first time he suggested it, said it was dumb—"I’m not a kid, Duke."—but he didn’t budge, claiming she wanted to pick her up personally. And that's how they normally do it since they started this silly tradition.

But this time, she didn't text him anything. No message. No call. No anything.

Worse—her profile stated last time she had been online was early that morning. Before she left the house. And he knew for a fact that she was always online. Always checking messages, posting, organizing notes, updating playlists, switching between apps like her brain ran in high-speed tabs.

The bad feeling intensified.

Then he tried to call her, but she didn't pick up. By his fourth attempt with only her voicemail answering, panic really started to settle in. Because he knew her, and knew that wasn't normal. She always picked his calls. Even during kidnappings—yes, plural, because that's how Gotham is—she always managed to pick up. Or at least, a text telling him she was fine and to give her a few more minutes to get out.

But nothing. There was nothing on her end. And Duke felt it in his bones: something was really, really wrong.

And just when he was about to rush to the ice rink to check for himself—maybe her phone had just died (unlikely, but not impossible)—his comm buzzed with a call for help. An explosion in a warehouse, too close to the Gotham City General Hospital. It was urgent, with injured hostages involved, and all hands were needed inmediately.

He froze.

Because like a switch flipping in his brain, he remembered her commenting in passing that she wanted to meet an old friend this week. Said they had a lot to talk about—something very important that couldn't wait. And the location she mentioned?

Around the same damn zone the explosion had been reported.

He stopped breathing for a few seconds. Stood in place, still like a statue, with the buzz of his comms as background noise. He threw a glance at the mountain of smoke already visible in the horizon. Then pulled out his phone and checked her profile again. Still offline. He glanced at the smoke again.

No. No, there had to be another explanation. There had to be. He just needed to rule his worst suspicions out. To make sure.

But now—staring down at the bloodied, sickly pale body of his best friend lying crumpled on the hood of a mangled car—he feels his knees threatening to give up. It looks way too real to be anything else. There's not another explanation. This is real.

He can't tear his eyes off her. He knows he should move—run to her, check her pulse, shake her, something—but his body won’t listen. It's like an invisible force has wrapped around him, forcing him to stay there. Rooted to the concrete, rigid and useless, as the world starts to fade around the edges. Sounds grow muffled. The air turns thick. And for a moment, it’s like he’s back there again.

The same helpless horror. The same brutal realization. The same crushing guilt.

But somehow, this is worse. Because his parents—damaged, scarred, forever changed as they are—they're still alive. They move. They speak. He can see signs of life in them. There's hope.

But she's not moving. Not even a twitch.

He's pretty sure her chest hasn't moved since he found her, so she's not even breathing.

Oh fuck. She's not breathing.

That’s what does it. That terrifying realisation rips through the fog and finally pulls himout of the gutter. He bolts forward, heart hammering. And God. Up close, the sight is even worse. So much worse.

Glass shards stabbed into her arms and face like cruel decorations. Her clothes soaked in blood—dark, sticky, and far too much of it.

"C'mon, weirdo, don't do this. Open your eyes. Please, just open them. Say something. Anything." Silence. Not a slight reaction. "No. No no, don't do this to me. Not you. Fuck's sake, why didn't you call me earlier? Why didn't you—?" He chokes on his words, a familiar and undesired warmth stinging his eyes already.

He holds her face, repressing a shiver when he feels her skin cold. His fingers trace for a pulse, and when he finds it—weak, thready, barely there—he nearly sobs in relief. She's not gone yet. He's not loosing anyone today...as long as she carries her to the hospital fast enough.

But his eyes zoom on the blood sticking to his hands and the hope crumbles again. Her words echo in his head, from a conversation he’ll never forget—

"It won’t do anything to you because you’re a meta... but if someone else comes in contact with it, well—"

His stomach twists.

Fuck.

His head pounds with a thousand calculations. He can save her. He has to. But if he takes her in without warning—without explaining—someone would touch her blood. It would drop somewhere it shouldn't.

And if that happens...holy shit.

He’ll have to explain—convince the staff not to touch her, not even brush against her without thick gloves and proper shielding. He’ll have to fight to make them listen. To make them understand without giving too much away.

But every second she lays here, still and unresponsive, the closer he is to losing her. He has to think fast.

"Thomas? What the fuck is going on?"

That gruff voice. He turns over his shoulder and there he is—Red Hood.

She has a better chance now. He just has to fight himself to explain the situation to him without breaking down and also quick enough to take her away.

But as soon as Duke fully turns and Jason catches sight of the body behind him, he goes rigid (he could've swear he heard the man make a choked sound under his helmet)—

And drops his guns.

They hit the ground with a weight that echoes far too loud in the silence. Even the pigeons stop making noise.

"Jason—"

"What. Is. That?"

It's like the whole city is holding its breath.

The words come out slow. Flat. And...trembling.

Duke stares, shocked.

He’s never heard Jason talk like that before. Not quiet. Not cautious. Not shaken.

Not like that.

Before he can say anything, Jason starts walking towards her. With heavy stomps at first—deliberate. But halfway there, he stops. Frozen in place for a minute. Then begins to move slower, like he doesn’t know how to approach her. The closer he gets, the more he sees, and it punches him.

He stops beside her, standing completely still as he stares down at her form. He raises a painstakingly slow hand towards his helmet and takes it off, gripping it with both hands. He doesn't blink. His face is neutral—cold—but his eyes? They look haunted.

"Duke," he says quietly. "What the fuck is this?"

"I don't know. I came because of the explosion and I just... found her like this. We were supposed to meet today, but she didn’t call or text me and I—I had a bad feeling and—"

"So, she's been disappeared the whole day, and you didn't think to inform anyone."

The words slam into him like a whip. Jason’s voice—low, simmering—carries that edge. That sharp, dangerous threat beneath the surface.

It only pisses him off.

"Look, I don't have time to explain it to you." he snaps. "I don't even know what happened. But if you haven't noticed, she's not fucking breathing—and if we don’t move now—"

He can't even finish. Everything in him recoils at the mere thought. No, he refuses. He won't let that happen. He won't.

Jason visibly flinches at his words. Of course, he doesn't need to hear the rest of the sentence either. He knows. His eyes haven't moved from her yet, taking in every detail. Every gash, every shard of glass, every drop of blood, desperately trying to make sense of the situation, of what he's seeing, but he can't.

His hand trembles slightly as he reaches out—brushing a strand of sticky hair from her face. His fingers linger, still as stone. His mind running through hundreds of possible explanations, and scenarios, and anything that could give him some sort of hint about whatever happened.

"What was she doing here?" he mutters.

"I don't know, and frankly, I don't give a shit now. We have to take her to the hospital."

Jason doesn't move.

"I'll do it. You stay and take care of the situation."

"Like hell I will." he replies coldly. "She's my sister, I'll do it. You stay here and deal with the shitshow instead."

That gets him.

Jason finally turns to face him, raw, blazing fury twisting his face.

"She's my sister too."

Duke doesn’t bother suppressing the scoff that escapes him.

"Oh, really? Is she now? Funny, because you've done a pretty shitty job at showing it."

Jason’s head jerks toward him.

"Excuse me?" oh, he's mad now. Too bad he doesn't care.

"Spare me, Hood." he spits. "You don't get to play the big brother card now. Not when this is the first time that I see you actually giving a damn—and it's when she's about to die. Fuck off."

Jason growls, his whole body tensing towards Duke. Fists clenched, as if he's ready to fight.

"You don't know shit about this, kid. Don't talk about stuff you don't understand."

But while he speaks, Duke's already moving. He lifts her into his arms as carefully as he can, securing her against his chest like she’s the most fragile thing in the world.

She feels too light. Too cold.

"What I understand," he grits out, adjusting her weight. "is that this family has a fucked-up way of showing their affection. And if any of us should carry her to the hospital is me."

He doesn’t wait for Jason’s reply. He's gone before he can even touch him.

Duke knows this converstation isn't over. Hell, he’s probably going to get chewed out—or decked—for this later.

But right now, there's only one thing in mind:

Save his sister.

"Oracle here. What's the situation, Red Hood?"

"I'm heading to the hospital."

"What? Why? What happened? Signal didn't tell me anything."

"He found someone and took her to receive urgent medical care."

"Her? Wait, what do you mean? Signal wouldn't leave the place like that. There's still people evacuating. Who's her?"

".........."

"...Jason, who did he found?"

"....Call B. Tell him his daughter is in the hospital."

"What? But Cass is nowhere near the zone. What are you—"?

"His other daughter, Barbara."

".........you're kidding"

"We found her bleeding out and mangled all over a crushed car in an alley, right behind the warehouse. She was—she wasn't breathing, Barbara."

"Good God. But—I don't understand, what was she doing there? How come we didn't hear about it."

"Maybe she was one of the hostages. Who knows how long she's been trapped there. Duke said she has been gone the whole morning."

"But...if she was kidnapped, we would've known, right?"

"....No. We wouldn't."

"Jason—"

"I'm leaving. Tell the others to handle it. Red Hood out."

The comms go silent.

As soon as he arrives to the clinic he doesn't waste time.

Gotham City General was closer—and technically, the more “reasonable” choice, but given the circumstances, he has to make sure those who treat her are people he can trust.

He glances down. Her blood coats his arms and chestplate, and the pressure in his throat tightens until he struggles to breathe.

Time's running out.

At any other hospital, he’d lose precious minutes trying to convince the staff not to touch her blood. He’d have to explain without explaining, dodge questions, navigate protocol. And she would die before getting the help she needed.

No—there's only one place he trusts to handle this.

Thompkins Clinic.

Dr. Leslie is already moving when he bursts through the doors, her staff following close behind, but pauses when she sees the girl in his arms.

"She needs urgent medical care," he says quickly, voice shaking. "I don't know how long she was bleeding before I found her, but she stopped breathing, and I know she must've broken something. Please—"

The woman cut him off with a raised hand.

"I can see it, boy. Don't worry, leave it to me."

She turns, motioning to her staff—

But Duke takes a step back, shifting his weight protectively.

"Wait—before you do anything, there's something you have to know."

They all pause.

"Her blood...is dangerous. I can't explain it, but if your skin touches it, it'll hurt you."

Shock flashes across the faces of the medics. A couple of them glance nervously at the blood still fresh on his gear.

Dr. Leslie squints at the girl’s body.

"You mean her blood is toxic?"

"Just—" he swallows hard. "Make sure you clean her first. And wear protection."

The woman stares at her, then at him. And lets out a deep sigh.

"Honestly, this isn't the weirdest thing I've had to deal with. Okay then, avoid contact with her blood. Noted. Now hand her over."

But he doesn't move. Doesn't let the doctors do it.

Instead, he lays her down on the stretcher himself, as carefully as he can. Like she'll shatter if he’s not.

She still doesn't stir.

He has to force himself to tear his eyes apart from her and turns to Leslie, who’s already barking instructions.

"Alright. Prepare the surgery room. I’m betting on internal damage. Full scan. Strap her in and put her on oxygen—we need to restart her breathing immediately."

She looks at Duke again.

"Have her parents been notified of this?"

"Well—"

"Yes, I have been."

A sudden voice speaks from behind them.

Duke spins around—

And breathes out sharply.

"Mrs Wayne?"

Another figure appears, stopping beside her.

"Batman?"

a/n: I'm sorry if it feels short. I'm still figuring out the pace. The chapters will be longer in the future. If you like this story, show your support by commenting and rebbloging. It'll be very appreciated💕

Taglist: @lithiumval @i-simp-for-women

[inkedinshadows]

Red or Black

Pairing: Azriel × Cassian's sister!Reader

Summary: Cassian insists on helping his sister out when she needs to choose an outfit for a date.

Warnings: brief allusions to sex

Word count: 908

A/N: I was watching Friends, so of course this silly little blurb happened. If you're a fan of the show, you probably already know where this is going 👀

You had a date with Azriel tonight, and you didn't know what to wear.

You two had been going out together for a few months now, and you were both smitten with each other. You were sure things would become more serious very soon. But for now, your time together consisted mainly of dates that usually resulted in spending the night with him. You would mostly cuddle until you fell asleep, but a few times, cuddles had led to discarded clothes, heavy sighs and pleasure like you had never felt before.

You wanted tonight to be one of those times, and you wanted to look alluring and sexy. You wanted to feel alluring and sexy.

But you couldn't decide which lacy slip to wear under your dress to surprise Azriel when he'd take it off, so you picked up both options and walked out of your room to ask the most fashionable person you knew for advice.

Mor was lounging on a couch in the living room and you smiled at your friend.

“I really need your opinion about something,” you said as a way of greeting.

She sat up straighter, her brows raising, but when you stepped through the doorway, you noticed your brother sprawled over the armchair. You quickly hid the slips behind your back.

“Hi, Cass.” You gave him an awkward smile. “I didn't know you were already home.”

He shrugged. “I came back earlier and I thought I'd wait for Rhys here.”

“Yeah, yeah, always talking about yourself, Cassian,” Mor chimed in, waving a hand in the air to dismiss him. She turned to you with a smile. “What do you need my opinion on?”

You glanced at your brother. He was looking at you expectantly, no idea of what you were struggling with.

You backed away a step. “Maybe you could come into my room and we can talk?”

She nodded, already rising from her seat, but Cassian leaned forward in his chair. “Oh, come on, Y/N. I'm your brother. You don't want my opinion?”

You clutched the undergarments behind your back with one hand while grabbing Mor's wrist with the other to drag her out of the room.

“Not really, no,” you replied quickly. “But thanks, Cass.”

“Y/N, you're my little sister. What can you possibly need that I can't help you with?”

Mor was snickering now, probably having seen what you were trying to hide by her new position at your side. You felt terribly awkward and embarrassed, but you knew Cassian wouldn't let it go easily and a part of you wanted to make him feel just as embarrassed.

“Alright, big brother,” you made sure your words were dripping with sarcasm, which made him frown.

You let go of Mor's hand and held up the two slips for him to see. One was red, with some intricate swirling patterns, but still the most revealing thing you had ever bought. The other one was black, much simpler and just as see-through as the first one.

“Which one of these should your little sister wear,” you went on, watching as his eyes went wide with shock, “so that your best friend would want to do her?”

Cassian looked away and leaned back in his chair, his face contorted into a scowl as he muttered, “The red one.”

You chuckled at his reaction, and while normally you would crack a joke and go up to him to kiss his cheek, right now was probably not the best moment. Especially because Mor reached out to study the lingerie you had displayed, and you waited patiently for her input on the matter.

“I never thought I'd say this, but I agree with Cassian.” Her fingers brushed the thin fabric. “Actually, you have to tell me where you bought it. No one could resist this.”

You smiled as you looked down at the small piece of clothing. Red was your color, you knew that. It complimented your skin tone and your hair. But you were leaning more toward the black one, thinking that maybe Azriel would prefer it.

“You sure?” you questioned. “The red one?”

Mor nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, absolutely. Azriel won't be able to keep his hands off you. He—”

“Oh, yes, Mor. Please go on.”

You both turned to your brother, now glowering at you from his seat.

“I mean it, Mor. Go on,” he grumbled. “Tell us exactly what Azriel would do to my sister. Pretend I'm not here. Don't let my presence bother you, I'm begging you.”

Even as heat rose to your cheeks, you bit your lip to keep from smiling at his tone. He did have a point, though. While you might be comfortable talking about these things with Mor, and Cassian might imagine you and Azriel were past chaste kisses, you definitely didn't want to discuss what happened behind closed doors with him. He was still your big brother.

“Anyway, thanks guys.” You offered one last smile as you began to walk out. “I'm going to get ready now.”

When Azriel knocked on the front door an hour later, Mor and Cassian were still in the sitting room, Rhys now with them. Your friends wished you a nice evening, but your brother refused to even look in your direction and opted to glare at the wall with his arms crossed.

Luckily, Azriel didn't seem to notice or care as you took his hand and followed him outside.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @andreperez11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate

[i-like-writing-stuff]

grateful [ five hargreeves x reader ]

“Fancy seeing you here,” You crossed your arms, trying to act natural as the boy before you eyes you curiously.

“In front of the CIA headquarters?” Five mimicked your posture, “Jee, Y/N, fork spotted in the kitchen. What are you doing at my work place?”

You sighed, trying to fight back the urge of rolling your eyes. You were lying to yourself if you wanted to say that Five’s sarcasm actually annoyed you. After all, it was one of the traits you loved about him- surprisingly. You hated to admit it, even to yourself, but even if you were actually waiting for him to talk business, you never once missed an opportunity to meet him.

Especially if you weren’t surrounded by your noisy family. The Hargreeves siblings became your family by choice, and as much as you loved each and every single one of them, you couldn’t help but appreciate deeply the one on one time you got to spend with Five.

“I just got off the phone with Luther,” You said, putting your hands in your pockets, “Viktor got kidnapped, Five.”

As soon as those words eat your lips, you saw Five’s expression go from cocky to shocked, to worried and then to shocked once again. You hated you had to be the one to break these news to him, after six years of peace where all of you managed to live normal lives. You hated that you had to see him worried again for his family’s safety, but you had no other choice.

You all had to reunite to save your loved one.

“I’ll drive,” Five nodded, already realizing that the gang would have to get back together.

You and Five met during the JFK mission in 1963, when both of you were working for the Commission. You only heard of him around the work place, but never actually worked together. The Handler assigned you both for the first time to get the assassination done, but one thing led to another and you accidentally woke up in 2019, in your teen body, alongside him.

The rest is history.

As you got into his car, you watched him as he started the engine in silence. He was deep into thought, obviously worried half to death about his brother. You were as well, since Viktor was his first sibling you warmed up to, and honestly it felt surreal that he was in danger again, after six years.

Six years where nothing, and quite literally nothing out of the ordinary happened. After your third attempt at stopping the apocalypse and the Hargreeves losing their powers, you all moved on with your lives, keeping in touch now and then. All nine of you went separate ways, rebuilding your lives. Allison was back to acting, Klaus was finally sober, Diego and Lila were a family with kids, Viktor was running a bar and Luther was working somewhat as an astronaut. Key word, somewhat.

Five became a CIA agent and you were running a marketing agency, so you really only saw the family on holidays or random gatherings. You and him kept in touch the most. You were happy to say that he was your best friend, but sad that nothing more went on. If you were supposed to be together, you would have been by now.

After all, there was this drunken kiss you shared on the night of Luther’s wedding.

“Shut the fuck up, Hargreeves!” You giggled, pointing a finger m at him, “I respect Delores, I swear I do, but I do not understand why in the world she would put up with your ding dong face, honestly.”

“Oh, spare me the reverse psychology in which your jealousy lays, Y/N,” Five smirked, softly waving away your finger in his face.

You were the only ones left on the dance floor, intoxicated over the safe limit. After the whole family went to sleep, the two of you were still left quite energized. You didn’t know if it was because you were sixty year olds back in your teen bodies, or simply too drunk to realize how hyperactive you were, but you were not about to end the night any time soon.

You couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment you fell in love with Five, but he definitely could write an entire book of how he grew feelings for you. It all happened at such a slow pace, how could he not? When he first met you in 1963 at the Dealey Plaza, he was immediately taken aback by your quick wit and intellect. He also didn’t think someone who looked so sweet and elegant, like the grandma who would take her grandchildren all the time to fancy restaurants and then bake fresh cookies for them at home, could also be a trained assassin, ready to fight off three people at once wearing dresses and heels.

It was love at first sight for him.

Then, when you kept Delores safe from Hazel and Cha Cha, he realized just how big your heart was. He was completely blown away by the way you held onto the mannequin with one arm, while dodging attacks incoming from both of them.

There was also this moment in 1963 when you held him in your arms after he went on a spree, taking out the entire board of the Commission.

He was so infatuated with every single action of yours, so deeply and intensely in love it was actually pathetic to him, to some degree. Now, as his hands were firmly gripping your waist, swaying your hips in sync to the melody on the speakers, all he wanted to do was feel your lips on his, for a first and last time.

“What’s on your mind?” You asked, as your arms were wrapped around his neck. You didn’t know when you got so close to one another, it was all just so natural.

“Ironically enough, you,” He scoffed, making you roll your eyes;

“Only you could make such a romantic comment and at the same time make me want to stomp on your face, Five,” You said amused, shaking your head in disbelief.

Five laughed, looking into your eyes. In his drunken state, he was not thinking rationally as he usually did anymore. He didn’t know for certain if he’d make it out of the apocalypse this time, and after the two attempts at saving the world, the regret of not tasting you was finally getting to him.

He moved his hands up your sides, resting them on your cheeks at last. Rubbing your face gently, Five leaned in to capture your lips, tasting the alcohol you shared all night. You were relieved to finally feel his touch you so deeply craved over the months spent together, pulling him even closer, as if that was possible.

That led to nowhere, unfortunately, as neither of you ever mentioned it again. Like little stupid kids, all these years you both assumed that the other didn’t remember that part, since no one ever brought it up ever again.

“Viktor will be fine, Five,” You broke the silence, watching as his knuckles turned white while gripping the steering wheel, waiting for the green light.

“I just forgot how fucking stressful all this shit was,” Five sighed, letting go, but not looking at you yet, “So stupid.”

“Hey,” You placed a hand on top of his, “We will rescue him and go back to our lives before, okay? Who knows, maybe it’s not even that serious- maybe it’s just some misunderstanding or a real easy mission. We stopped the apocalypse three times, I think some amateur kidnapping will be a walk in the park, okay? Besides, maybe by the time we get there, Viktor will have already handed their asses to each other.”

Five scoffed amused. You did always manage to be the voice of reason in his life whenever the over-thinking got the best of him.

You didn’t have any idea just how grateful he was for you.