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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

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We Will Be Okay

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: After days of silence, you’re attacked and left broken. Only then do the Marauders realize what they’ve done. Their apologies remind you that, even in darkness, you're not alone.

w/c: 4.6k

warnings: Angst, emotional vulnerability, emotional hurt, major argument ,mentions of injury / physical harm, guilt , violence (graphic), hurt/comfort

a/n: lowkey more angsty than what i planned :D

part two masterlist

It started quietly. Like most heartbreaks do.

You’d been off all day, and somewhere deep down, you were hoping someone would notice. That maybe one of them—just one—would catch the way your hands trembled when you picked up your quill, or how you hadn’t touched your food since breakfast. But the hours passed like shadows stretching long, and no one looked your way with concern. Not Sirius with his careless charm. Not James with his golden heart. Not even Remus, who could read poetry between the lines of silence, but somehow missed the silence in you.

You weren’t angry then. Not really. You were something smaller, something colder. Disappointment had a way of settling in your chest like frost—beautiful and quiet and cruel. You walked beside them through the halls, their laughter echoing against stone walls, and tried to match their rhythm, but your steps felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else.

You asked them to meet you after Defense. You hadn’t said much—just that you needed them. Your voice had been thin, barely tethered to your throat, but James nodded distractedly, Sirius brushed his lips against your cheek like a promise, and Remus gave your hand a soft squeeze. You held onto that gesture like a lifeline.

They never came.

You sat outside the greenhouse as the sky turned a muted gray, your cloak pulled tight around your knees. The wind bit through the seams. You waited. Five minutes. Ten. Thirty. A full hour. No footsteps. No familiar voices. No Marauders. Only the hollow ache that curled in your stomach like something starved.

When the cold crept into your fingers and the numbness reached your spine, you stood, slowly, as if your bones had aged a hundred years in a single hour. You didn’t cry until you were halfway back to the common room, and even then, it was silent. Just wet cheeks and the burn of being forgotten.

By the time you pushed through the portrait hole, the weight in your chest had turned molten.

They were there, of course. Sprawled across the common room like they had never made a promise to you. Sirius lounged on the couch, his grin lazy and effortless. James was on the floor, tossing a snitch between his hands. Remus sat by the fire with a book open, though his eyes weren’t reading.

Your voice was quiet when it came. “Must’ve been a good practice.”

James glanced up, flashing a bright smile. “Yeah, brilliant actually. Padfoot nearly killed me though, bloody show-off.”

Sirius chuckled, stretching like a cat. “You’re just mad I scored.”

“You never showed up,” you said.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you, the air around them suddenly heavier.

“What?” James blinked.

“After Defense. I asked you to meet me.”

Remus straightened in his seat. “You said you were fine.”

“I lied.”

The silence that followed was not surprised. It was guilty. The kind of silence that knows what it missed.

“I waited,” you said, your voice thickening. “Outside. For an hour. I was freezing. I was crying. I felt like I was coming apart and I waited because I thought one of you might care enough to come.”

Sirius stood, brows furrowed. “Wait, we didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask.” The words came sharp, bitter on your tongue. “You didn’t even look.”

James stood too, hands half-raised. “Love, we had practice. You didn’t say—”

“You don’t need me to say anything when Remus limps after the full moon. You’re all around him before he even opens his mouth. When Sirius gets a letter, you can feel it without even reading it. And when James is quiet, you know the sadness before he does. You read each other like scripture. Like something sacred.”

Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“But me? I’m invisible unless I’m breaking in front of you.”

“No, that’s not true,” Remus murmured.

“Isn’t it?” You looked at him now, the ache in your chest shining through your eyes. “I go silent, and none of you flinch. I pull away, and you let me. I stop laughing, and you just talk louder. Do you know what it feels like to be surrounded by the people you love most and still feel completely alone?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “You could’ve said something, baby.”

“I did. I said I needed you today. I asked for one thing. One moment. One chance to not have to carry it alone.”

James stepped closer, slower this time, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “You’re being unfair.”

“No. I’m being honest.”

There was a long breath between you. The kind that hangs before something shatters.

“You’re not mind-readers,” you said, looking at Remus again, voice quieter now, more tired than angry.

He nodded slightly, guilt lining his expression. “We’re not.”

“No. You’re not. But you read each other. You always do. You feel it. You respond to it.”

You blinked, and a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“But not me.”

This time, no one spoke. Not to deny it. Not to argue. Not even to explain.

You stood in the middle of the common room, feeling like a ghost in your own life.

And they just watched.

Like they finally saw you—only after you broke.

You didn’t speak to them for four days. You didn’t sit beside James in the Great Hall, didn’t brush shoulders with Remus as he passed you your favorite quill in Transfiguration, didn’t catch Sirius’s eye when he hovered behind you on your way out of class, searching your face for something—anything.

You were polite. Distant. Deadly quiet. A nod here, a murmur there. But nothing real. Nothing kind. No softness left in your gaze, no warmth in the corners of your smile.

It was worse than screaming.Worse than fury.It was absence. And it was killing them.

James had started bringing an extra pumpkin juice to breakfast every morning, still setting it beside him out of instinct, only to watch it go untouched, growing warm while he sat beside it like a boy with no idea how to undo the damage he helped cause. Remus had stopped asking questions aloud. He already knew the answers—or worse, knew he didn’t deserve them. He buried himself in parchment, eyes red-rimmed from nights spent rewriting apologies he couldn’t find the courage to speak, because what words could reach a silence like yours?

And Sirius—he was unraveling. Coming apart at the seams. Pacing the corridors at night like a man possessed, all sharp movements and bitten lips, a storm held barely in check. He didn’t sleep, didn’t speak unless he had to. The glint in his eyes had dulled to something dangerous. He looked like a ghost who couldn’t stop haunting the last place he’d seen you smile.

They tried everything. Notes slipped under your dormitory door—ink smudged with trembling hands, hearts poured into parchment. Waiting for you after class, offering hesitant smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Gentle words murmured like confessions into a silence that refused to give anything back.

But you remained untouched.

Because for once, just once, you needed them to feel it. To feel what it was like to be ignored. To be pushed aside. To ache alone. Even if it shattered you, too.

It happened on the fifth day.

The air had turned bitter, the kind of cold that felt personal—something that clawed beneath your robes and curled into your ribs. The soft amber light of the afternoon filtered weakly through the cracked greenhouse windows, shadows slanting long across the tables as you repotted Fluttering Ferns with numb, clumsy hands. Professor Sprout had given you space, sensing the storm in your silence.

But peace was a fragile illusion. It always was.

By the time you stepped outside, dusk had begun to fall, painting the world in hues of gray and gold. You moved like something hollow, each step heavy, each breath scraped raw against the walls of your chest. You were so tired. So endlessly tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t hurt. Tired of missing people who didn’t seem to miss you back, at least not when it mattered most.

You didn’t hear the first hex. Not until it was too late.

One moment, you were standing beneath the bare branches, the cold threading through your fingers. The next, a bolt of red light slammed into your chest, knocking the breath from your lungs as if the world itself had struck you down.

Your legs crumpled beneath you. The ground rushed up fast, unforgiving, your palms scraping across dirt and gravel as you landed hard. The ache in your ribs bloomed sharp and immediate, spreading outward in shuddering waves. You gasped, but no air came. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, and you blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious.

A second curse hit. This time your shoulder—a crackling burst of pain that felt like lightning poured straight into your bones. You cried out, or tried to, but it came out a hoarse gasp. The pain was immense, searing through the muscles and down your arm until your fingers went limp.

And then the third hit you like a whip.

It tore through your side, slicing clean through fabric and flesh. You screamed then, you know you did, because it felt like the scream came from somewhere deeper than your throat. Somewhere buried. The pain was bright and brutal, wild like a creature with no name.

Blood soaked through your robes, warm and sticky. It slid down your ribs in rivulets, staining your skin in rivers of red. You tried to reach for your wand, to move, to crawl, but your limbs betrayed you. Your fingers twitched and spasmed, nothing more.

You were trembling. Shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Your body was going into shock, you knew that. Part of your mind screamed to stay awake, but the rest of you just wanted to rest. To close your eyes and let it be over.

Then came the laughter.

It was low, mocking, and cruel.

Rosier’s voice, thick with amusement, cut through the haze of pain. “Isn’t it pathetic?” he sneered, his words slipping into your blood-slicked skin like poison. “The Gryffindor princess thinks she’s untouchable. Thinks the world will bend to her.”

Mulciber’s laugh joined, jagged and dark, ringing through the trees. “She’s nothing without her little pack of fools.”

You tried to turn your head, tried to look at them, but your vision was swimming—dizzy, unfocused. You could taste the earth on your tongue, gritty and sharp, and the world was starting to spin in the most awful way.

The words felt like daggers, slipping between your ribs, cutting deeper than any spell could. You couldn’t even find the strength to lift your wand, to scream. All you could do was lie there, broken, helpless, blood pooling beneath you like a dark promise.

The fourth curse hit your ribs. Something cracked. You felt it. Something inside you gave way completely, not just bone, but something more fragile. Your spirit. Your hope.

You thought of James’s gentle eyes, the way he’d always saved you a seat. Of Remus’s quiet steadiness, his soft laughter. Of Sirius, loud and brave and furious, looking back at you in the corridor, hoping for a smile that never came.

What if this is the last thing they remember of me?

You were just a bleeding body in the woods. Just another cautionary tale. Just another girl the world didn’t save.

“Doesn’t even matter if she dies,” Mulciber sneered. “Who’s going to come for her now?”

But the world had already started to fade. Everything was slowing down. The cold wasn't biting anymore. It was crawling in.

And in that final, terrible moment, you wished—not for a miracle, not even for revenge—but for a hand to hold.

Just one. To remind you that you weren’t alone.

But no hand came. And the world went silent.

You don’t know how long you lay there. Time ceased to exist, and all that was left was pain, a tidal wave that swallowed every inch of you. The only thing that tethered you to the world was the cold, the bitter cold that gnawed at your limbs, the faint buzzing in your skull, and the odd, rhythmic thumping of your heart.

It wasn’t until the wind shifted, until the first rays of dusk began to curl their fingers through the trees, that the world came back into focus.

And then there was nothing—no air in your lungs, no strength in your body, only a strange detachment. The stars above you were a distant thing. So far away, so far beyond your reach.

It had been four days. Four days of desperate hope that you’d walk into the Great Hall, that you’d knock on their door, or slip back into your usual routine, but you never did. Every corner they turned, every moment of looking into the spaces where you used to be, only made it worse.

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. He could barely remember the last time he’d felt anything other than the sharp ache of your absence.

Remus hadn’t said much at all. He’d been quieter than usual, retreating into his books and their shared study sessions, but they both knew—he was spiraling. Not as visibly as James, but you could see it in the way his hand trembled when he flipped through the pages of his Potions textbook or how he would glance at your usual seat at dinner and then look away, like a wound that couldn’t heal.

Sirius? He had become unrecognizable. His smiles were gone, replaced by a constant scowl, and when he wasn’t throwing punches at the walls or muttering under his breath in frustration, he would pace the corridors, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a plea. If anyone had asked, they’d have thought he was furious, but if you looked closely enough, you’d see the raw pain underneath it all, the brokenness no one dared acknowledge.

They were walking, not really speaking to each other, not really aware of where they were going. James’s eyes kept flicking to the doorways as though you might suddenly appear from behind one, and Remus’s fingers were twitching with the need to reach out and touch you. Sirius’s hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, trying to keep himself together, but everyone could see the storm brewing in his eyes. It was like they were waiting for something to give, for something to break.

And then someone came rushing toward them—a student they didn’t know, pale, wide-eyed, their steps panicked.

“Why are you three here!?” the student asked, breathless, eyes darting back down the hall behind them. There was no greeting, no civility, just the sharp edge of disbelief.

The Marauders stopped in their tracks, confusion rippling through them. “What do you mean?” Sirius asked, his voice hoarse, his brow furrowing. “What’s going on?”

The student’s eyes flickered nervously. “You don’t know?” they said, voice trembling slightly. They looked between the boys, clearly startled by the way they seemed to have no idea what was happening. “She’s in the Infirmary. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.”

James’s heart slammed in his chest. His mind struggled to catch up with the words, but they pierced through him, leaving nothing but a hollowed-out, agonizing ache. “What… what do you mean? Who?” he managed to choke out, but he knew. Deep down, he knew.

“(Y/N)” the student said, their voice trembling now. “She’s hurt. She’s really hurt. Bad. Really bad. They found her out by the greenhouse, half-dead… blood everywhere.”

James’s breath hitched. Remus’s face went ashen. Sirius froze, his hands falling to his sides. The world seemed to go still for a moment, as if the reality hadn’t quite sunk in yet. And then, as if something inside each of them snapped, they turned on their heels, all rushing toward the Infirmary.

Every step felt like a thousand miles.

Sirius, usually the calm and collected one, was the first to lose control. He ran faster than the others, his mind already spiraling. No no no no—the mantra echoed in his brain, a chant that couldn’t stop. He could barely feel the cold stone of the floor underfoot, only the pounding of his heart in his chest as it thudded in his ears.

James’s voice cracked as he called out to you. “Please… please be okay…”

And Remus? He was already half a step behind, his steps hurried but strained. His heart was pounding in his throat as a mix of guilt and panic twisted his insides into knots. I should’ve done more. I should’ve done something.

They reached the Infirmary door, slamming it open, breathless, panic-stricken, and there she was.

The sight of you, broken and bloody, was something they weren’t prepared for. Something they’d never wanted to see.

You were there, lying on one of the beds, pale, drenched in sweat and blood, and the entire room seemed soaked in it. It pooled at your side, staining the white sheets a stark, crimson red. Your robes were ripped, jagged tears in them, and your skin was bruised and battered. Blood was still trickling from a gash on your temple, down your neck, staining your collarbone. Another wound on your side was still bleeding, the cut too deep for any normal healing charm. And the bruises, dark and swollen, bloomed over your arms, your legs, everywhere.

James felt like the floor had just disappeared beneath him.

He stumbled forward, his hands shaking as he reached out for you, but stopped himself, not knowing how to touch you, afraid of making it worse. He was too late. He had been too late. He couldn’t hold back the tremor in his voice as he called out to you, “Y/N, please… please wake up, please… We’re here, we’re here, love…”

Remus fell to his knees beside you, his breath ragged as he looked over every inch of you. The color drained from his face as the realization hit him—he hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t saved you when he should’ve. “I—I should have been there,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. “I should have seen it. Why didn’t I see it?”

Sirius… he didn’t know what to do. His chest was tight, every word in his mind coming out as French curses under his breath. “Putain… non, non, non…” The words came out as angry sobs, harsh and jagged. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry… please, please be okay. I—I can’t lose you. I can’t—” His voice cracked, the rawness of his panic making his chest ache. He reached for your hand, but his fingers were trembling so violently he could hardly make contact. “I should have protected you, damn it…”

And then James collapsed beside you, his whole body trembling. He broke down, tears streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking violently as he sobbed uncontrollably. “I—I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, I never meant to hurt you. Please—don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t live with myself if you—”

Remus tried to pull James back, his own hands shaking as he gripped his shoulders. “James… calm down, my love, breathe, breathe,” he urged desperately, his voice filled with pain, but his words were faltering, as if his own chest was collapsing in on him. “We’ll fix this. We can fix this—”

But James was beyond hearing. The panic was rising in him, clawing at his throat, choking him, until it felt as though he couldn’t breathe. His sobs were louder now, broken, desperate.

Sirius had fallen silent, staring at you, his eyes wide, frantic, as if he was seeing the reality of your injury but couldn’t believe it. He kept muttering in French under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mon Dieu… no, this can’t be real. Please, no—not like this…”

The scene was chaos, the air thick with their grief, their guilt, and the blood that kept staining the floor. Their world had shattered, and all they could do was stare at you, broken and bleeding, and wonder how they’d ever put the pieces back together.

It had been a week since the infirmary bled scarlet.

Seven days since your unconscious body was carried in, limbs limp, robes torn and stained the color of mourning. Since your blood had dried beneath their trembling hands, since Madam Pomfrey had pushed them out of the room with a glare sharp enough to cut bone. Seven days since the world tilted on its axis and none of the boys had been able to breathe quite right.

Now, the hospital wing was cloaked in silence. A strange, reverent quiet. The kind of stillness reserved for cathedrals and funerals.

You were no longer on the brink of death—but barely.

Wrapped in bandages, some still stained pink. Salves coated your bruised ribs. A potion-infused cloth was tied gently around your temple. You hadn’t said much since waking. Not to them, not to anyone.

And yet they came. Every morning. Every hour they could.

Sirius would sit by your bedside, speaking in low, broken French, brushing your hair away from your eyes even when they were closed. James paced endlessly, muttering half-formed thoughts to himself, fingers twitching like they itched to hold your hand but feared the weight of your rejection. Remus had taken to reading to you—old poetry, mostly—his voice soft, barely above a whisper.

None of them said the thing they were all thinking: We thought you’d die. And we weren’t there.

The days that followed bled into one another, soft and silent and slow, as if time itself were limping alongside your broken body.

The Infirmary lights were always dim now, flickering like candles at a funeral. The scent of antiseptic clung to every breath. You stirred in and out of consciousness—each awakening a slow crawl through pain. Your body felt like it had been stitched back together with trembling hands and tears. Every breath hurt. Every inch of skin screamed. But you were alive. Barely. Beautifully. Tragically.

And they were still there.

Your boys.

Silent. Fragile. Hollow.

They never left your side, not for a second.

Sirius sat nearest to your bed, always in the same chair, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers tangled in his hair. He didn’t speak, not really. He whispered sometimes, soft little French nothings like prayers he didn’t know he was saying. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, the gleam in them long extinguished. Once, you caught him reaching out, like he meant to brush a curl from your forehead. But his hand stopped midair and trembled there before falling back to his lap like it weighed a thousand pounds.

James looked the worst, like he hadn’t slept since they found you. His curls were unwashed, his face ghostly pale, dark shadows carved beneath his eyes. He paced most of the time, back and forth in quiet fury, hands flexing helplessly, like there was something he should be doing, could be doing, but didn’t know what. And when he wasn’t pacing, he was crying. Quietly. In corners. He tried to hide it, but you heard it. You always did.

Remus was the stillest, the softest. He barely moved at all. He read aloud sometimes, in a voice that cracked and shook. He fluffed your pillow, changed your bandages, held your hand gently, like it might crumble in his. But his silence said more than any of it. He was unraveling at the seams, guilt eating through him like moths through silk.

The healers came and went. But the boys—your boys—they stayed. And though none of you spoke much, though your voice was weak and their courage was weaker, something lived in the silence. An apology. A hope. A promise not yet spoken.

It was evening again. The sky bled lavender and gold through the infirmary windows.

Remus was the first to break the silence.

“You used to hum when you read,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Did you know that?”

You blinked slowly. It was the first time you’d responded at all.

“I didn’t realize I missed it until it was gone.”

Sirius looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were rimmed in red. “I miss everything. The way you laugh. The way you argue with me like you’re not scared of me. Even the way you kick me in your sleep.”

You shifted slightly in the bed, a wince ghosting across your face. James immediately straightened, panic in his eyes. “Do you need Pomfrey? Are you—are you okay? I’ll get her, I—”

You shook your head gently.

He collapsed back into the chair, dragging his hands down his face.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered. “I keep thinking about it—about that night. I keep seeing you bloodied, in the dark, broken, and I—I can’t fix it. I’m supposed to fix everything.”

“You’re not,” you rasped, voice weak and raspy.

The room fell still.

James looked up like he’d just seen a ghost. “What?”

You exhaled slowly. “You’re not supposed to fix everything.”

Sirius stood abruptly. “We didn’t see you. We didn’t hear you. And then we nearly lost you and we—” His voice cracked. “I—I didn’t get to say I was sorry.”

Your eyes found his. And for the first time in days, you saw him. Really saw him. The grief swimming in the gray of his irises. The guilt carved into the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” you whispered.

“We’ll wait,” Remus said immediately. “We’ll wait forever, dove.”

James dropped to his knees beside your bed, forehead pressed to the mattress beside your arm. “I love you,” he sobbed. “God, I love you so much, and I keep thinking if we’d just listened, if we’d seen you, you wouldn’t have been out there alone—”

“I thought about you,” you murmured. “When I was on the ground. I thought about how mad you’d be if I died.”

That shattered something in all of them.

Remus leaned forward, pressing a trembling kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be left behind.”

“I didn’t want to be the girl who needed,” you said. “But I did. I needed you.”

Sirius stepped closer, his voice barely holding together. “I’m so fucking sorry, mon cœur. I didn’t mean to make you feel small.”

“You didn’t make me feel small,” you whispered. “You just stopped making me feel anything.”

James sobbed harder.

And then you reached for them. Shaky, slow, but open.

They came at once. A tangle of limbs and apologies and muffled cries into hospital sheets.

Remus’s forehead pressed to yours. James held your hand like it anchored him to the earth. Sirius whispered every endearment he knew, over and over again, until your breathing slowed.

“I’m not okay,” you said.

“We’re not either,” James replied.

“But we’ll be.” Remus promised.

And in that tiny, broken moment, surrounded by your boys and your wounds and your silence, you believed him. Just a little.

#poly!marauders fic #poly!marauders x reader fluff #james potter angst #remus lupin angst #remus lupin x reader #sirius black angst #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #james potter x reader #marauders fanfic #marauders x reader #marauders

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novthirty · 3 months ago

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OUT OF BOUNDS | you get isekai-d into the N109 zone

— pairing: sylus x non-mc! reader

— synopsis: you land in the world of love and deepspace. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of his personal secretary. wc: 3.8k

— tags: isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, pining, slice of life, birthdays, holiday season, reader is not the main character, boss/employee relationship

— edit: i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here.

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open!

It was just your luck to be walking home from a 7PM class on a desolate road, only for a vehicle to swerve and crash into you. The impact is like a sledgehammer to your body as you hear the crunch of glass and the snap of bones. This is it, you think, as the world around you blurs into nothingness.

—————————————————————

You wake up in a hospital bed, where you promptly have a panic attack from the IV attached to your arm. You desperately thrash against the nurses’ hold, trying to remove the intrusive line from your body, but it’s no use as your injuries and the numerous drugs hamper your movements. You hear muffled explanations— inaudible to your clouded mind— before they decide to sedate you. You drift back to sleep.

Sometime later, you wake up again, this time with the IV detached and a familiar face sitting by your bedside. You laugh, thinking you must be in some sort of dream or coma-induced hallucination. Because why was Sylus, a love interest from Love and Deepspace— the game you’ve been obsessed with for the past few months— sitting beside you? You say as much, and the only response he deigns you with is, “Did you sustain brain damage on top of your other injuries?”

You shake your head at the absurdity of your delusions, quickly falling back into a medically-induced sleep. Things should be back to normal when you wake up.

—————————————————————

Newsflash: they weren’t. Days passed, and you gradually had to accept that whether it was reality or not, you were gonna be stuck here until you figured out how to go back to the normal world. Sylus visits you from time to time, the strange girl who landed in his backyard and claims to be from another world. It turns out that the place you’ve woken up in is not a hospital, but Onychinus’s medical ward.

When you’ve healed enough to be discharged, you have nowhere to go. So you turn to the only person you’re familiar with in this world.

You had been a college student, just months away from graduation before you found yourself here. It fills you with spite, how everything you’d worked hard for was taken away in the blink of an eye. But you push the bitterness aside, offering whatever skills you have to Sylus so he doesn’t kick you out. You know that this world isn’t kind, the N109 Zone one of the worst places you could have ended up. A normal civilian such as you wouldn’t survive here alone. Though you don’t have much to contribute to a criminal organization, you’re grateful when Sylus offers you the job of his personal assistant.

Although you don’t have much work experience, your previous internships and methodical nature help you to excel at this job. Never has the leader of Onychinus been so…. organized, his colleagues around him observe the stark change in the following months. You whip him up to shape, scolding him when he arrives late to meetings, making sure he actually calls back when he says he will. His business partners now call his office to be greeted by a chirpy voice, “How may I help you? Oh, Sylus isn’t here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

He had initially given you this job as more of a placeholder role, so you can occupy yourself with the illusion of real responsibility while he investigates his suspicions about you. Where did you come from? Who sent you? And most importantly, how did you manage to infiltrate his base right under his nose? But his investigation leads him to the simple truth: there was nothing on you. It’s as if you materialized from thin air. No records, no blood ties, no evidence of your existence before you walked into his life.

But if reincarnation can be fact, and dragons more than legends, why deny the possibility of other realities? This, more than anything, makes him inclined to believe your claims.

Besides, you’ve proven yourself to be… useful, he supposes. Although the fear he instilled in his business partners was enough to put them in their place, he now had you to act as a buffer to their complaints and concerns, handling matters that were beneath him. You easily adjust to his nocturnal schedule; you’re like a little crow chirping at his shoulder at all times of the day, reminding him to leave on time for meetings, to eat three meals each day (even going so far as to ask his preferred meals to inform the chefs in advance). You physically force him out of his office the moment noon hits in an attempt to prevent him from overworking, “Sun’s up, boss. It’s time to hit the sack.”

Your office is connected to his, although it's less a room and more an alcove he cleared away when he gave you the job. You have a small desk, a fluffy pink swivel chair, and a shelf covered in the trinkets you spend your salary on. (Another thing you have in common with Mephisto, he notes to the ever-growing list.) He finds amusement to idly watch you during his downtime, twirling the strands of your hair and chewing your pen as you talk on the phone about weapons shipments and insuring someone who lost a finger in an operation.

Contradictory to his initial expectations, you prove yourself in a professional capacity and cement your place in the ranks of Onychinus.

—————————————————————

The first surprise is truly when the clock strikes twelve on April 18, and he enters his office to find a cake on his desk. Decorated in black and maroon frosting, it’s topped with his name in crooked cursive and a crow-shaped candle to boot. Moments after, you stride in from behind with Luke and Kieran, all carrying gifts and wearing patterned party hats, singing a terribly off-key rendition of the birthday song.

“Happy birthday, Sylus! Make a wish!”

He blows the candles (and wishes for the only thing he truly desires).

“Do you like the cake? The chefs helped me decorate it!” You say as you slice it into even triangles, giving him the largest one. Mephisto is perched on your shoulder, with his own red party hat, as you feed him small bites of your own slice. (The resemblances between the two of you are truly uncanny). The celebration is a silly endeavor that lasts no more than an hour before he kicks everyone out of his office. But try as he might, he can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day.

When May comes, you rope him into the preparations for Luke and Kieran’s birthday. Due to your incessant nagging, he’s since discovered your shared digital calendar— complete with monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly agendas— and chosen to ignore it. “The calendar exists for you to be on time,” You seethe whenever he steps into his office late, the little shit smirking as if you didn’t just rearrange his schedule to hell and back for that one hour-long meeting he missed. However, that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from any festivities you force upon the household.

The twins’ celebration is a significantly more chaotic affair than his, involving a two tiered cake and a booking for a laser tag arena, and ending with a trip to the medical ward. Despite the casualties, it’s the most fun Luke and Kieran have had since they joined Onychinus. (Fun that wasn’t self-orchestrated, at least).

Your presence brings a liveliness to his found family, something that grounds you all in this high-paced line of work. A presence that, little by little, seeps into his life to the point he can no longer imagine living without it.

—————————————————————

When he finds you on a cold midnight in November, sitting alone on the kitchen island with a puny cupcake and a candle, he asks you what the hell you think you are doing.

“Well, it’s just a birthday. I didn't feel the need to have a lot of celebration this year." The answer is nowhere enough to appease him, especially given your grandiose efforts to celebrate literally everyone else’s birthday. So, you admit to him, “I felt a bit sad, I guess. This was my last year of college. I had so many plans for before my entry into the workforce… and now, I can't really do any of them.”

Without missing a beat, he asks, “And what were those plans?”

You list off the various places you wanted to visit, the items you were supposed to cross from your bucket list this year. As you reminisce on old plans, you split the cupcake with him and bid him goodnight, returning to your office to catch up on work.

When you wake up at 5 PM later that day, it’s to streamers and balloons in the living room.

“Happy birthday!” Everyone in the house cheers as you enter the room, decked out in all sorts of party favors. Even Sylus, who was notoriously un-festive, is wearing a cone-shaped party hat striped with your favorite colors.

What follows is an impromptu day-off for everyone in the base (you feel an oncoming migraine thinking of how you’re going to readjust Sylus’s schedule). They bring you to Linkon City, your first time visiting since your arrival, following an itinerary that matches your original plans to a T.

Sylus is upset that you’ve kept the date to yourself for so long, but more than that, he’s angry at himself for not bothering to ask. So he does his best to make up for it in the final hours of your birthday. Throughout the evening, he drags you to every activity that had been on your wishlist, lavishing you with all sorts of presents on the way. It’s a little too much. You’re not used to being spoiled, not used to treating yourself without deserving it first, and you tell him as much.

He tips your chin upwards with a feather-light touch, his gaze unreadable as he asks, “And who says my lovely secretary doesn’t deserve the world at her feet?”

The atmosphere shifts, the effortless ease at which you interact with him dissipates into stutters and heated stares. You ride home on the back of his motorcycle, finding yourself flushing despite the winter chill in the air. It’s a comfortable silence, yet your heart is thumping loudly against your chest. Does he hear how he makes you feel? You wonder.

Before he retires to his bedroom, you place a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for today,” you whisper before shutting the door behind you.

—————————————————————

From then on, things are significantly more… tense, between the two of you. What were once casual interactions turn tense with every brush of your fingers, with every meeting of your eyes across the room. He's always lavished you with the sweetest of pet names; darling, little bird, sweet girl. You assume it’s just his speech pattern, given what you had known of him from the game. But why does it make your heart race every time he refers to you with such terms of endearment? Why does it fuel your delusions of having something more?

—————————————————————

It comes to a head during the week of Christmas, where you once again strong-arm him into having your festive way at the Onychinus base.

You were appalled at their lack of holiday spirit for the previous years, “How can you run an organization like this?!” So you drag your boss out to the nearest Christmas tree farm. “You’re rich enough to afford a real one,” You decide definitively. He rolls his eyes but drives you there anyway.

Each night on the week before Christmas goes similarly. The moment your work is done for the evening, you drag the whole house into some sort of festive activity. Decorating the tree, baking a gingerbread house, making eggnog. Holiday tunes fill the Onychinus base 24/7 and for once, Sylus finds that he doesn’t mind. Not when he sees the way you dance to yourself when you think no one’s looking, the way you know the words by heart and hum them under your breath. But he doesn’t participate much, mostly checking in and making a sardonic yet supportive comment before returning to his work.

One evening, he decides to bring his work to the living room while you’re setting up the tree. It was a great source of amusement to see you struggle on your toes to place the ornaments, hoisting yourself up on whatever surface was available to you. But even he found it a bit too pitiful to watch you struggle to place the star, too vertically challenged to place the finishing touch. Couldn’t you just get a ladder? “Let me help you,” His breath tickles your ear as he grabs your waist and lifts you up.

You squeal, holding tight to his arms and kicking at the air beneath you, “Sylus, what the fuck! Put me down!”

“Place the star, darling. While I'm still being nice.” In the end, you call it a team effort, despite his only contribution being his role as a human ladder.

—————————————————————

You’ve been very festive and cheery the whole week of Christmas, so it disturbs him when the eve of the 25th arrives and you’re downtrodden. A shell of your typical self. He's never seen you like this before— absentminded and listless, it takes you a whole minute to realize he’s calling your name for the grand Christmas dinner you had insisted upon. You open presents with everyone in the early morning, smiling and thanking at the right cues, but he can tell your heart’s not in it.

After the gifts have been given and the wrapping paper cleaned up, he takes you to the rooftop to ask what’s wrong.

And so, you bare your heart to the only person who holds enough of it to break it.

It’s a bittersweet Christmas for you, the first one you’ve ever spent away from home. For the first time since you were whisked away to this surreal world, you speak of your original life. Your family. Your friends. Your dreams. A fragile boundary that you haven’t touched with anyone here, for it hurts too much to speak of what you left behind. Of what was taken away from you.

And it is here, underneath the midnight sky where he tells you of his search for the other half of his soul. He speaks of a similar homesickness, resonating with how out of reach home feels for you right now, as he’s waited what seems like a millennia for the person he calls his.

You already know, of course, that sooner or later, he will meet her. This world was once your favorite game, and you had shed tears at their loss, at their cursed fate. You stay silent, listening to the tragic tale from the man himself. The affection in his tone as he speaks of her— his sorceress, his soulmate— makes you hurt for this man, for the trials he’s endured in the name of true love. But it is also a bitter reminder that you have no place by his side.

—————————————————————

On New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t even give you the chance to feel homesick. The moment the sun goes down, he takes you on a joyride to Linkon City, bringing you to a cafe to have dinner together and sightsee the various festivities for the holiday; making sure you don’t even have a moment to feel sad.

He brings you to the tallest building in the city, for the best view of the sky when the fireworks show starts. Despite the chilly air, his hand is warm in yours, clutching it in a tight grip as he wades through the crowd of people who had the same idea. You find a secluded corner where the two of you sit down and sip your milk tea, talking about your new year’s resolutions.

“I don’t do resolutions,” He waved a hand, unimpressed. “If I want to change an aspect of my life, I won't wait until the start of a new year to do so.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You stick your tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s internally pleased with how well he’s distracted you thus far. “My resolutions are always the same. Exercise more, eat healthy, and save money!”

“Dear, there is a private gym back home that you haven’t touched even once,” Your heart flutters at the word home. A word that brings you melancholy most of the time, but now fills your heart with a sort of domestic bliss.

“Well then, it’s perfect! I'll have no excuse not to start tomorrow.”

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. Your eyes are glued to the magnificent colors soaring through the sky, legs bouncing in time with the countdown. But unbeknownst to you, his gaze is entirely on you.

When the clock strikes midnight, you jump to give him a hug. “Happy New Year, Sylus!”

He cradles you in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “Happy New Year.”

—————————————————————

As the months pass by, you grow more accustomed to the harsh edges of your new job. It's not exactly the first job you had envisioned for yourself; you had once hoped to start somewhere more in line with your aspiring career, somewhere you could make use of your degree. But plans don’t always work out. What you do is unorthodox, but it’s fulfilling and allows you to live in this dangerous world from a safe vantage point, almost like dipping your toes into a ten feet pool.

That doesn’t mean you’re completely sheltered from all the dangers of the job, however. Given the type of clientele you handle, more often than not, you’re faced with threats of being maimed over the phone when you can’t give somebody what they want. Each time, Sylus promptly takes over and matches their energy twicefold with a more heinous, yet very real threat.

The worst days are post-missions, when you have to witness your newfound family return bloody and bruised in the name of Onychinus. You become conditioned to waiting with a first aid kit and a change of clothes for Luke and Kieran, immediately patching up their wounds. But Sylus— you almost think he’s invincible, with how he returns from even the most high-risk operations without a scratch.

That is, until one night when he walks through the front door, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. His evol is working overtime to knit his skin back together, but the blood still pools beneath him on the marble tile. You stay by his side through the night as he recovers, listening to deluded murmurs about a time long past, and an ever-so-familiar name.

You grip his hand in yours throughout the night. But it’s not your hand to hold.

—————————————————————

Over the span of a year, you become one of Sylus’s closest confidants. He treats you with all the gentleness and care in the world, revealing to you a softer side of him that you knew existed in the game, but that he rarely ever showed to anyone else. You feel honored that he trusts you with these facets of himself, but you also feel guilty.

Because what Sylus doesn’t know is that he was your favorite. You, a student facing burnout in your final year of university, began to cope with a game suggested to you, subsequently becoming engrossed with one of its newest characters. His soft treatment of the main character, juxtaposed with his violent nature, had drawn you to him. Your heart had fluttered at every tender moment, each call and text message, each appearance in the main story. You had foolishly indulged in the delusions of romance with a fictional man.

When you landed in this world, there was a cognitive dissonance as you came to terms with the difference between the 2D character that lived on your phone screen and the living, breathing person in front of you. For a while, you were too focused on your new situation to even think of the implications of the fictional character you’d been crushing on being in close, real proximity. He had not trusted you, either. You could practically visualize his defenses in each interaction, as he contemplated what to make of you.

At the time, you thought that by now, surely you would have woken up from this coma-induced hallucination already. Surely you would have woken back up to reality. But as you grow to accept that the situation you’re in is real, and the likelihood that you may be stuck there for the foreseeable future— before you knew it, he had crept into your heart.

You don’t know when it started. All you know is that his presence in your life is more than the surface-level distraction it once was in your reality. No, Sylus— the living person who comforted you on the saddest birthday you’ve had, who indulged your demands for a Christmas celebration, who makes your heart race like no other— has you wrapped around his finger. He could ask anything of you, and your heart could do nothing but surrender to his whims.

But in the back of your head, always lurking, is the distant reminder of the main character. The vivacious hunter whose life is tied to his. The other half of his soul. There’s no chance you could ever come between something destined by the universe itself, so you yield in the face of their cosmic love. You shove away your feelings and resign yourself to finding a way back home, desperately, before this world forces you to lose a love you never had a chance at.

—————————————————————

What you don’t know is that he’s desperately blocking off every potential lead back to your world, not wanting to face a reality where you are not in his life.

He finds himself conflicted, because his soul is tied to her. His sorcerer, his soulmate, whom he has yearned for for what feels like a millenia. But here you are, his lovely secretary, the woman who forces him into mundane festivities and stays by his side even in weakness. The two images war in his head; the dragon roaring at how distracted he’s become from searching for his mate, and the man, falling fast and hard for a woman from another world, brought to him by pure fate. A love born out of an unexpected connection.

His search for his long-lost love continues, but alongside it are his attempts to tie you down to his world, to keep you in his grasp. Because he cannot, will not, live without you.

He will watch the world burn before he lets it take his love away again.

—————————————————————

So, the two of you continue in this cycle of push and pull, of moving closer but not close enough. You live in a limbo, desperately searching for ways to get home before the main storyline catches up to you. Haunted by the narrative, you two move in and out of each other’s orbit, just out of reach. Just out of bounds.

—————————————————————

like and reblog if you enjoyed!

i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here (comment there if you’d like to be tagged!)

#novthirty-writes #out of bounds 🐦‍⬛#love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x non mc #sylus #qin che #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x non mc reader

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cleoselene · 1 year ago

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Did you know?

Democrats have won the popular vote in seven out of the last eight presidential elections going back to 1992? The only time the GOP has won the popular vote in the last 36 years in a presidential election was in 2004, and it was a pretty narrow margin. This was a wartime election and the first election post-9/11. The Democratic candidate was the unfortunately uninspiring John Kerry, who had been lied about. You know how in politics we say someone has been "swiftboated" when a successful lie is told about them? That term originates with the 2004 election because a bunch of people concocted an elaborate lie about John Kerry's military service. He wasn't super inspiring as a candidate, but that was the worst thing he did. He wasn't a bad guy. He was just running in a very gross, jingoistic time after the worst terror attack in American history, and had a bunch of successful lies told about him to the point where a whole word about a specific kind of lie was invented about it. THIS is the only time since 1988 that the Republican party has won the popular vote. George W. Bush did not win the popular vote in 2000. The Supreme Court ordered that votes stop being counted in Florida and handed the victory to Bush.

Donald Trump has never ever won the popular vote. The electoral college handed him the victory in 2016, less than 15,000 votes across three states decided the election. Hillary Clinton in total won about 3.7 million more votes than Donald Trump. Trump HATES hearing this number. He hates even more that Joe Biden got about 7 million more votes. He hates even more that you bring up the fact that he lost his midterm elections for his party in 2018, badly. And that the "Red Wave" in 2022 did not happen because of backlash at his Supreme Court. Or that in 2023 voters continued to reject his Supreme Court at the polls.

He knows, the Republicans know, that if more people vote, they lose. They don't want small d democracy. They want authoritarianism. They want to suppress it.

So when you get cute about not wanting to vote, you're not doing activism. You're surrendering.

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burningdevotion · 17 days ago

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best way to warm up

Joel Miller x fem!reader

summary: after spending the day out in the cold, Joel wants nothing more than to get back home to his girl. once he has you in his arms, you both agree to retire back to bed, so you can replace the shivers of cold with shivers of pleasure

a/n: this was my first time writing a proper fic for him and I ended up really enjoying it! theres just something about old man!Jackson!Joel that’s so... yeah. this is filth with a bit of plot <3 - (ca. 6k words)

warnings: big age gap (reader in her 20s, Joel close to 60), oral and fingering (r!receiving), brief hand and blowjob, unprotected p in v, praise, multiple orgasms, coming inside, cum eating, pet names, one singular use of "daddy", bf!Joel who goes hard in a loving way

Joel would never get used to the snow.

it didn’t matter how long he’d already lived in Jackson, it went the same way every year, him taking the cold as a personal attack on his summer-loving soul, cursing under his breath whenever his teeth chattered and the tip of his nose and ears turned red from the biting winds.

that particular day it was no different. a blizzard had swept through town a few days before and had left some damage on a few houses, which of course made people turn to your lover when they were looking for someone to help them fix it all up.

Joel was the resident handy man, along with a few other guys, and he wasn´t too happy about it, especially not once he got older and had a pretty girl waiting at home who he´d rather give all his energy to, since waking up sore from tending to you was pleasant, whereas waking up sore from work... not so much.

you had to push him out of the door that morning while he regretted being that skilled at home renovations, to which you just said “come on, show them how strong you still are compared to all the men here who are half your age” which gave him just the right amount of pride and spite to go out there and be a dutiful neighbor while flexing his skills in front of guys who´d tried their luck with you before, smug whenever they struggled to lift as much as he did, thinking about the countless times he´d used his strength for your pleasure, shooting daggers at them whenever they dared to ask him about you.

while he was out being helpful, you spent your day gathering wood for your fireplace and stoked the flames until they were intense enough to make the house feel cozy again. you cooked a hearty soup and left it to simmer on the stove, so you could share a nice dinner later on, taking your time with it, picking all the right herbs. just as you got done cleaning the kitchen, you heard the front door slam shut, followed by Joel kicking off his boots anf letting out a few foul words that made you smile to yourself.

his grumpiness always amused you, his blatant inability to keep his grievances to himself, to put on a convincing poker face - which had gotten him in trouble more than once - because it held no threat of true aggression, Joel was not an angry man, at least not with you, never with you, not over his dead body - one touch, one word from you was always enough turn him into a man about as tender as they come.

you´d managed to soften his tired spirit like a rough stone that got smoothed down over time, just as tough as before, but less prickly, less irritable, more at peace, and he worshipped you for it, the patience that you´d shown him when he had felt so undeserving of it, after everything he´d done, all the pain he’d caused. you both gave each other the kind of solace you never dared to hope for, especially during the darkest nights of the year, savoring the evenings spent cocooned in a glow of love on the couch, clinging to each other while the outside world was covered in ice.

he came into the kitchen looking all gruff and flushed and achingly handsome, snow melting in his graying hair and beard, dressed in those jeans that fit him just right and a white shirt with a flannel on top, an appreciative long glance from you over his figure that matched his as he spotted you and rushed over. “hey baby” you cooed, smiling at him, “hey there.” he said, still a bit irritated by the whole ordeal outside, but glad to be home at last. “you´re freezing hm?” you asked and beckoned him closer, so he pulled you in and wrapped his arms around you while uttering “like a damn icicle, darling” shivering a bit as he buried his face in your neck and breathed in your familiar scent, his heartbeat slowing immediately, a tight grip on you as he soaked up your heat.

you mirrored his gesture and held him close, rested your head against his shoulder, caressed him up and down his back which made him hum in approval. “poor thing, gotta get you warmed up. what do you need? some coffee, a bath? both maybe?”.

“you” he murmured against your skin, eliciting goosebumps. “right now, all I need is you”, the words barely audible as he started trailing feathery light kisses up your neck, your pulse point, your jaw, your cheek, making you sigh and shut your eyes, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt to hold onto something, a smile as he took the sign to continue and gave the sensitive spot below your ear little licks and kisses, lavishing you with affection.

you let out a faint moan as he did this, your arousal stirred not just by his lips but the way he smelled, so fresh and crisp from the ice-cold air, musky and sweet from his own natural scent, leathery and woody from his jacket and the fire smoke he´d been around, a mix that was so deeply addictive to you.

without warning, he gripped your sides and lifted you onto the countertop, so you instantly wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, as close as possible, hands on his neck, increasingly turned on, his own hands on your shoulders as he leaned in to whisper “thought of you the entire time I was out there, sweetheart…what I´d have done if I´d stayed in bed with you all mornin” his voice all low and husky as he said it, his breath tickling your ear, his thumbs kneading away the tension in your muscles.

“god..” was all you could respond, your voice all strained from the lust that was slowly spreading through you, pooling at your core, so he didn´t waste any time and leaned in, cupped your face and captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, teasingly licking over your bottom lip before you opened your mouth and made him turn the kiss into something more perverse and charged, making out in a way that would´ve been highly inappropriate in public, his hips moving forward in a way that made you feel it: that he was already straining against his jeans. a strangled moan escaped you as his clothed groin pressed against yours, already wet and waiting for him.

in the middle of kissing you, he pushed his hands under your shirt and heard you gasp into his mouth as he cupped your tits, his large, cold palms right over the swell of your breasts, squeezing, feeling you up, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples to soothe them, circling motions that made you moan louder than you intended and lean back in a way that nearly made you knock a jar to the floor, which didn´t deter him, at all, still pressing against your sensitive area, groping you, as he used your position to his advantage and sucked on your exposed throat, heard those little whimpers that drove him wild every damn time.

eventually, you pulled back, out of breath, and sighed “want me to help you get hot all over, hm?”, staring into his eyes with a kind of desire that rivaled even the brightest fire while un-buttoning the top of his flannel, so he skipped the talking and only gave a gravely sound in response as he lifted you up, your legs already where he needed them, carrying you up the stairs, your arms wrapped around his neck, your lips ghosting over his cheek as he reveled in the feeling of being strong enough to carry you over the threshold bridal style, which gave him the brief fantasy of making you his wife, slipping a lacy gown off your frame, pulling garter belt down your leg with his teeth.

the moment he laid you down on the bed, he hurried with getting his shirt and undershirt off, his jeans too, unbuckling his belt in a way that made you want him even more. he needed, he craved the body-to body feel, and the vision of him right then was like a wolf who´d roamed through miles and miles of snow and finally found something to sink his teeth into: impatient, greedy, salivating at the thought.

you pulled your shirt off too as he was already crawling over to you and told you “good girl, now lift your hips for me”, so you obeyed and tossed your top to the floor and helped him shimmy down your jeans, which left you in nothing but thin cotton panties, which drove him wild when he saw the dampness at the center, a brief brush of his fingers over it that made you twitch before his eyes fell to your chest, which made him pounce on you.

within seconds he was palming your left tit as he put his mouth to the other, switching between sucking and licking motions that made you squirm and whimper under him, the tip of his tongue flicking over your nipple before he put it between his lips and suckled on you like he was trying to get milk, so eager, so hungry, so lost in your softness, his knee purposely pressed up between your thighs, creating friction at your core that left you soaked and desperate for more. with a wet popping sound he finally let go but didn´t give himself or you time to catch your breaths, instead pinning your arms to the side, gently but firmly, while placing his mouth between your tits, then your sternum, moving down all the way to your lower stomach while leaving a trail of wet kisses. once he reached the waistband of your panties he paused and left few love bites until he looked up to see you all undone from his impact already, confessing to you “god I can´t take it… you´re too beautiful baby… too soft and delicious… need you all over my mouth, right now”.

before you could say anything, he ripped down your panties and praised “hmm, yeah, nice and open for me” as you parted your legs wider for him so he could settle between them, his kissing from before continuing all the way up your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the tender skin here and there. Joel needed you to a point where he almost humped the mattress, his cock throbbing just from a bit of foreplay, the way it always did, matching the utter sensitivity on your part that made you sound like he was already fucking you, when he hadn´t even reached the apex of your thighs yet.

before he could taste you, he reached up and played with your pussy a bit, rubbing your clit with his middle and ring finger in circles as he heard you whine so beautifully for him, your eyes cast down, propped up on your arms, so you could get a good look at the way he savored the feel and sight of your slick folds, your swollen clit, pussy-whipped already, rubbing you so softly that it almost felt more shameless and filthy than if he´d jerked you off with force.

when he felt you losing your composure even more and heard a sweet little “baby…” tumbling from your lips, urging him to get to it, he gave a light slap of his hand against your needy pussy that made you wince not from pain but the bolt of pleasure, a devilish smile shot in your direction before he finally wrapped his big arms around your thighs and pulled you down against his mouth, buried himself in you, groaned like an animal as your cunt enveloped his nose and mouth, drowned out all previous worries, left him feeling like he was the luckiest man on planet earth, never ever getting used to your velvety, salty juices that could sustain him through the harshest winter, bring him back to life each time he got a taste of you.

you fell back against the pillows and mewled as he started eating you out, lapped at your cunt in broad, self-indulgent strokes, diving between your folds like a man starved, your slick heat healing his previously frozen up skin as he moved his face up and down to gather up every last drop, drenched in your fluids within no time, the way he needed and wanted it, all the time, sometimes spending entire evenings between your legs like that.

Joel made out with your pussy while you moaned and rocked your hips up to chase his mouth, whining to him about how good it felt, so he pushed you further and slipped a finger into you, no resistance, your cunt greedily taking it in, pleasure noises flowing from between his glistening lips as he pulled back to watch it, “yes, yes.. more” you cried, so he quickly pushed in a second finer and curled them up just right to hit your sweet spot over and over, adding his tongue again once you sounded like you might finish soon, sucking on your clit hard enough to make you see stars as his big fingers pumped in and out of you, got you read for something bigger, your walls throbbing around his knuckles, your back arching up, as the first orgasm hit you like lightning and made you shake and cry out, fully drenching his fingers as you rode it out while he kept his lips firmly suctioned to your clit, his free arm holding you in place as he soaked up the feeling of having you come all over his tongue and hand.

as you laid there all flushed and riled up, he put his fingers between his lips and licked your cum off while uttering “divine.. like honey…”, keeping eye-contact with you in a way that made you breathe even heavier than before. the sight of you splayed out for him like that, so gorgeous and dripping and clearly in need of more of his service, it made him adore you so fiercely and need you so badly that he frantically pulled down his boxers and tossed them to where your underwear was already crumpled on the floor, his hardness springing free in a way that made him take a sharp breath in and stroke himself as he came over to you and saw your eyes turn down to where he was touching himself, clearly turned on by how rock hard he was, pre-cum leaking out of his tip, his big strong thighs and hairy chest and broad shoulders only driving you even wilder in combination with that view, his stature looming over you in the most dizzying way. “been like this all afternoon…” he groaned “just from thinkin of you”.

before he could protest, you sat up, spat into your palm, and reached forward to replace his hand with yours, his head falling back as he felt your palm close around his length, rubbing up and down, slicking him up as an almost pained “ohhh hmppff fuck” escaped him while he gripped your arm for support, bucked up into your grip without thinking, groaned like an animal as you just smiled all sweet and and kept stroking him, savoring the feel of him in your hand like that, aroused and throbbing for you, whispering to him “need this cock in me, baby”.

“yeah? need it right now?” he moaned and felt you going a bit faster to really tease him, so he slipped his thumb into your mouth in retaliation, felt you suck on it, his eyes dark and half-lidded then as you jerked him off and licked all over his finger, until you let go of both at once and leaned back, nodding and saying “hmm yeah, need you deep inside me” emphasis on the “deep”, your eyes never leaving his as you spread your thighs wide enough for him to see your cunt spread open and pulsating for him, inviting him in, so he lunged forward and whispered “oh youre really asking for it now, darlin…” and pushed you back onto the pillows.

you let out a squeal as Joel roughly put you into the position he needed you in, hovering over you, and went on to slide his tip over your wetness, teasing, slapping his cock onto your cunt a few times to watch you turn weak and helpless again, until he guided himself to your entrance and let go of his cock, put his hands by the sides of your face, stared down into your eyes and then kissed your neck right as he pushed himself into you, slowly for the first inches, and then all the way, one swift push, balls deep, no holding back anymore, your pussy aching in relief the moment he bottomed out and had you nice and full again.

your heat and wetness overwhelmed him as he felt it all, a broken-up “Christ..” as he let you adjust to his size and held your gaze, both of you staring into each other´s soul´s with parted lips, hitched breaths, that delicious moment whenever he first entered you, his palm reaching up to caress you, soothe you, as you matched his low, rumbling sounds with a higher-pitched moan, your pussy stretching around his girth in just the right way, his hardness buried deep inside of you, the ache at your core suddenly pleasurable instead of maddening, a burning need to have him deepen that ache until you couldn´t take anymore, which he sensed, so he moved his hands to grip yours and pin them against the mattress as he slowly started moving in you as the scruff of his beard tickled your neck just right, his moans and kisses covering the skin right above your shoulder as you wrapped your legs around his waist and trapped him in the best way.

you ran your nails down his spine and felt him give you the most dizzying slow, yet hard, deep strokes, so you could feel every single thrust in its entirety, a whimper with each one, throbbing around him as you whined “yes…yes”, so he lifted his head a bit and breathed against your cheek “hmm yeah? like that, baby?”, a weak “hmm” and nod from you in response as you felt him go in and out of you, your pussy relaxed and soaking wet by then, both of you whispering sweet nothings to each other as he picked up the pace, unable to keep his desire contained any longer, his hands leaving yours then so he could brace himself better as he fucked you the way he wanted, intense, hard, and yet so loving, radiating such adoration with each push of his hips, his groans turning louder and more pornographic by the second, a mix of “ohh” and “ughh” sounds rising out of his depths as he got lost in you, the way you looked right then, all flushed and and pretty in your lust-induced haze, head pushed back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut from that deep pleasure that was starting to possess every little inch of your body, his strokes steady and skilled, his lips suddenly on yours so he could drink up all of your moans and whimpers, kissing you softly as he fucked you intensely, a contrast that drove you wild as you gripped his big arms and held on.

you loved that he was big but not to a point where it hurt, his cock just girthy enough for you to have to adjust to it a bit at first every time, a mild kind of pain that was more thrilling than punishing, a perfect size and feel for you, the flesh of his length still slightly soft even when he was hard, ideal to a point where you became obsessed with it, sometimes having him fuck you on the couch in the middle of the day, just to feel him for a few minutes, or riding him on a chair in the kitchen, or if things got really heated making him take you inside other people´s bathrooms, one time even fully out in public, at night, too eager for him to fuck you to wait til you were home. Joel loved it. every time. how eager you were for him, the delicious build-up to it, the way you always made him feel like the most virile, desirable man who ever lived just by batting your eyelashes at him and nudging his leg to say “come here, take me, please.”

right then it was no different as he was fucking you into the mattress with determination until he lifted himself up onto his knees and quickly pushed your leg up into an angle that allowed him to really rail the fuck out of you, your back arching up as went as deep as possible then, fast and hard without ever neglecting your comfort, your need, your level of arousal, keeping a close eye on your body, the little tells that gave away how good it felt for you as he kept going and going, praising you, watching you twist your head to the side and bite your lip, groaning “goddd this pussys gonna ruin me one day… feel too fuckin good around me, baby...” and right then he hit the exact right spot, so you whimpered pathetically and stared up at him while moaning “fuck right there, yes” your insides twisted in pleasure, threatening to burst within the next few minutes.

“yeah? right here? this the spot, sugar?” he asked, not actually needing an answer, only saying it to turn you on even more as he kept the exact pace he was going at and hit you deep inside, over and over, your muscles coiled tight, lewd wet sounds echoing through the room, his body looking all godly and manly like that, taking you as if he wasn´t pushing sixty at all, an ease and power to his movements that made you lose your mind completely.

just as you were bracing yourself for your impending climax, Joel reached down and added his thumb to the mix and oh. you were done for. the way he circled your clit right then.. the way he rubbed over your sensitive bundle of nerves.. it made you choke up for a second. “ohhh fuck baby, oh” you cried out, begging for mercy as he kept fucking and touching you just the right way, admiring the sight of you all sexy and primal in that state of pre-release, drunk on the power to please you that way.

“there you go.. look at you.. gorgeous girl..” he cooed as you begged “don´t stop, just like that, fuck”, so he assured you “shhh, you´re doin so well, takin me so damn well, baby” sweating by then, his scent only messing with you even more, that animalistic, intimate smell of his that always ruined you, Joel rutting into you with the need to see you lose yourself, which you were about to, your pussy leaking all over his cock as you moaned “I´m coming, I´m-” your words silenced by the orgasm that started to hit you, your whole body tensed up, your voice drowned out, right at the peak then, so he leaned forward during his relentless fucking and groaned “I´ve got you, I´ve got you baby girl, just let go for me”, and with that you did, unclenching every muscle at once, suddenly flooded by pleasure, crying out and shaking as he held you in place by your hips, caressed your sides, and slowed down bit by bit, let you ride it out, while uttering “hmm, good girl, such a good girl…”.

as you laid there catching your breath and twitching, he slowly moved his cock out and stroked it in a way that kept him riled up enough to keep going without coming too fast. he wanted to hold out, desperately, he needed more of you, and the second you had enough strength again, you moved your trembling body over to him, kneeled on the bed, and leaned down to lick his tip for him, nudging his hand away and replacing it with your own as you drooled all over his length and licked up the side of the shaft back up to the top, circled his tip, tasted yourself on him, and finally took him into your mouth, not all the way, but enough to make him moan “oh.. youre killin me” while he caressed your hair and watching in awe as you greedily sucked him off. he couldnt help but grunt and buck up a bit, trying his best not to choke or gag you, but so damn sensitive to your pretty mouth wrapped around him like that, a pained “goddammit” leaving him as you sucked his dick until he couldn´t take any more. before he could cum in your mouth, he peeled you off and grabbed you to get you where he wanted you, panting, desperate, hard as a rock.

Joel gave your leg a loving squeeze and told you “come here baby, come lay on your side for me, nice and comfortable, right here” maneuvering you into the position he was aiming for as he laid down behind you and watched you lift your own leg up, knowing what he wanted to do to you. “that´s it, perfect” he whispered as his arm slipped under your side and wrapped around your front, over your tits, to hold you flush against his chest, so strong and warm and comforting as he did it, his face right by your neck, a soft kiss as he settled in his big spoon position and groaned from the desire to dive back into your heat already.

you needed it too, badly, your pussy twitching around the emptiness, so you moved your free hand down to guide his cock back into yourself, both him and you watching your lower half as he slipped right back in, both of you so sensitive and raw by then that he shuddered as you swallowed him up again while you let out a faint “ohh… oh” and pressed yourself back up against him to feel his entire body pressed against yours, your eyes shut as he kept his arm wrapped around your front and kissed your shoulder, your neck, groaned and bit down lightly as he picked up a pace and started fucking you from the side, possessive and protective at the same time the way he thrust himself into you with increasing passion while holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world, which to him, you were, always and forever.

the sensation of being filled over and over from that lazy angle did something to you, made you surrender and lay in his arms all docile and sweet, which got him good: the way you trusted him, moaned for him, let him take you like that, so he fucked you a bit faster and rougher while peppering gentle kisses over the slope of your shoulder, slapping sounds filling the room as he kept going, his cock nice and deep inside you, so good that you were overcome by love and twisted your head back a bit to chase his lips and kiss him, your tongue in his mouth as you struggled to kiss him properly but tried your best amidst the frenzied fucking, his heart beating faster not just from the way you felt on him but the adoration he saw mirrored in your eyes as you briefly looked at him, all dazed and fucked out, so perfect, so angelic for him, his girl, all his, another deep, sloppy kiss from him as you whimpered to him about how good his cock felt, his own affection for you ruining him then as he whispered “this pussy was made to be worshipped by me, this body, all of it” which got you good, clenching around him so hard that he groaned “oh god hmmm” and tightened his grip on you, slamming into you as you submitted to it and got fucked into a blissful oblivion while he was right behind you, steading you, warming you, the neighbors down the street probably well aware of what was going on by then, your cries too loud to be drowned out by wooden walls, which made you feel even more aroused: that smug feeling of spending the afternoon getting your brains fucked out instead of doing anything to prove how dutiful you were, sinfully self-induldent in the best way.

the softness of the cuddle-fucking somehow got you wet to a degree that was so intense that each thrust made a squelching sound, filthy and nasty and just how he loved it, his finger back on your clit as he briefly slowed down and moaned “fuckkk gonna make me cum baby” less intense strokes then, a brief pause to draw the sex out longer, he refused to cum, needed a few more minutes, so you gave in and savored the sensual, romantic feel of having his cock slide in and out your mess without much force, which held its own intense pleasure, an ease to it that turned you on, made you push your ass back against him and whine “ohhh… oh yes please” so he kept going like that for a while as you made out in a way you couldn´t before, catching your breaths a bit until the went faster again and braced himself for his orgasm, but before he could finish like that, you had the urge to change positions once more to really get fucked hard for your next orgasm.

you mumbled “baby I need-” and trailed off as you freed yourself from his grip and pushed him onto his back to get up and straddle him, your cunt slipping over his thigh for a moment, a grinding motion as he held his length and nodded “yeah darlin, take just what you need, drench my lap, lemme see”, a few more desperate rocking motions of your hips against the muscle of his leg, leaving a glistening trail of your cum once you got up and aligned yourself with him and sat down on it, sighing in relief once you felt him all the way in again and started riding him. you were too weak to really bounce on it, to give him the whole fantasy, but frantic and needy enough to give him a perfect view of your tits bouncing as you slid up and down his cock and saw him lean back against the heaboard, watching in awe, his hands on your sides as he supported and guided you, eager to tease another high out of you before his own would leave him wrecked for good, marveling at you on top of him looking like a goddess.

after a moment, he ordered “come down here” and made you lay chest to chest, wrapped both of his strong arms around your back, and held onto you tightly as he said “just relax for me now baby, okay?”, so you braced yourself, aware of what he was gonna do, and muffled your cries against his shoulder as he slammed up into you from below, over and over and over, truly ruining you, giving you a final round of achingly deep, aggressive thrusts that left you helpless on him - you didn´t have to do a single thing but take it all and stop resisting the overwhelming feeling that was about to unravel you, body and soul. you held on for dear life as he moaned that he was getting close, so you begged “come in me, please baby, please”, so he groaned “yeah? want me to fill you up?”, which made you insist “yes daddy… please”.

the word slipped out. it wasn´t on purpose. and that was what killed him. the innocent, fully instinctual way you uttered it, the word "daddy" going right to his head and heart and groin all at once as he grunted “jesus baby.. gonna make you mine now, gonna fill you all the way up”, his movements stopping all at once as he kept himself all the way inside you after last thrust and released his cum, shaking and twitching as he felt himself leaking and heard you moan in relief as you came right at the same time from the heavenly warm sensation of having him claim you that way, a decent amount of his juices splurting out until he was empty and shuddered one last time before he went as slack as you were by then, his arms still around you, keeping you safe, always.

for a moment, you just laid there like that, inseparable, entwined, panting and sweating, lost in the haze of your shared orgasm, until you peeled yourself off and flopped down on your belly on the empty side of the bed.

Joel moved and told you “lift that pretty peach a bit for me, baby” so you smiled against the pillow and did as he said, arching your butt up a bit as you felt him press a few kisses against your backside before he leaned in and did something that almost made you black out during your intense afterglow: he lapped up his own cum where it was leaking out of you and gently ate you out from the back.

another man might’ve just gotten a towel but not him. Joel wanted to make sure that he was cleaning up the mess he´d made of you, while also using the excuse to spread your cheeks open and lick all the way from your puffy lips to right below your hole, teasing you, feeling you wiggle a bit in response. Joel was a tits man the same way he was an ass man, so he shamelessly ate you up and kissed the plump flesh as you laid there on your stomach, blissed out, enjoying your man´s lack of shame when it came to his desires - whenever he came on you or in you, it was an excuse for him to keep going for a little bit longer: if he came on your tits it was an excuse to suck on them again, if he came in your mouth it made him tongue kiss you again, if he came inside of you it was a way to make himself get a final taste of you. eventually, his primal energy left him and made him slump down next to you, your pussy nice and soothed by his soft tongue after all the fucking before.

you both laid there, spent, satisfied, quiet, his hand resting on your thigh, leaving you some space to calm down as he did the same, until you turned over and snuggled up to him, your head on his chest, his arm around your back again, a dazed smile on Joels face as you nuzzled up to him like that and asked “you all warm again now?”.

“hmm, you know just how to get me hot and bothered.. my pretty lil sunshine” he whispered and pulled your hand up to kiss each of your knuckles, adoration radiation from him in a way that almost made you shed a few tears when he briefly pressed your fingers against his cheek after that tender gesture, his eyes closed, a shuddering breath out that told you his level of comfort and happiness matched yours.

“needed this so bad...might´ve died without it, I swear” he mused and gazed down at you while he caressed you, traced your side, marveled at how silky smooth you were, drawing idle patterns right above your hip .“dont know how I survived the winters before you” he admitted, both to you and himself.

you turned your head to look up and smiled at him, “you wish you could keep me in here and just hibernate through the winter, don´t you, old man?”.

“excuse me, ma´am?” he asked, exaggerating his shock for effect, giving you a playful squeeze in response. “oh, I´ll show you old, you´re in for it next time, little lady, just you wait.”.

“oh no, how will I manage?” you exclaimed, clearly not scared but very pleased by that threat, a barely suppressed smile on his face as you draped your leg over his and laid on him all boneless and smiley.

it was a game you two liked to play: you making a remark about his advanced age, compared to yours, so he could willingly walk into that trap and prove himself to you, which always got you what you wanted, for example, one time when you made a comment about his knees being too weak when he got down in front of your chair after breakfast to give you head, which ended in him keeping you pinned to that chair until you´d come three times and had drenched his whole mouth, begging for him to go easy on you by the end, which had made him pull his head away, wipe his mouth all smug like “yeah, I think my knees work just fine, thanks for the concern though, baby”.

“such a tease” he said then, as he splayed his palm over your lower back and felt the heat there. “only for you” you murmured against his stomach, almost dozing off for a second there. “hmm damn right, all mine.. all mine..” he whispered in awe as he watched you, felt your weight on his body, thanked whichever version of God he was still capable of believing in that you´d been sent his way, that he got to have you like that, all to himself, throughout the harshest winters he´d ever known, his own personal sun, his source of light, his everything.

after ten more minutes of peaceful silence, he said “I´ll take that bath now, I think. only if you join, that is”. you got up and sat on the bed, caressed his arm and said “if you´re gonna wash my hair for me, then yes” giving him doe-eyes and rubbing his shoulder, which made him laugh “always, anything you need, princess. five more minutes though”. the last part was mumbled as he pulled you in, so you could sit on his legs and rest your head in the crook of his neck.

“ten.” you countered. “deal..” he whispered and rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes closed, relaxed, content, both of you melting into each other.

by that point it had started snowing again but you were blissfully unaware, not a care in the world about how cold it would be in the coming days or weeks or months until it would finally turn milder again, since you knew: we´ll keep each other warm. we´ll always come home to this. this endless source of life-affirming heat.

#hope u enjoy :)#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #joel miller x you

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cathnospam · 7 months ago

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SFW BoyfriendAlphabet for Postimeskip!Katsuki Bakugo

MHACollege AU!Bakugo, Black girlfriend reader in some parts, fluff

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Believe it or not he warms up to affection relatively fast into the relationship I see him as the type that only dated someone he has already known a while so he already had a few moments of affection with you anyway. Opening the door for you subconsciously, saving your ass from villains (or falling because you’re so clumsy), he mostly uses acts of service and quality time to express his affection. Whatever you need/want, boom you got it. Some nights he’ll just come to your dorm to relax and stay quiet for majority of the time. It’s a comfortable silence but you love it because he’ll still be silent watching you play your switch as you lay on his lap.

He may not be a lovely dovey kind of guy but his love is always shown his own way through aggressive words of affection or keeping you close beside him, squeezing your hand/thigh from time to time.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

If anything he gives Childhood friends or Academic rivals to lovers so if he was already your friend as a kid it begins to blossom more throughout middle school, but you couldn’t tell because he was a little shit during that time so it’s not noticeable until high school lmao.

Bakugo as your best friend is like having a hard headed brother/son to take care of. He pretty much took YOU in declaring at a young age you were just his sidekick but here you are damn near his equal, not just in fights or power but academically and supporting one another.

Best friend bakugo is ALWAYS who you can depend on and whether he says it or not he wants you to. He wants to feel needed. Especially by you.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Bro loves to BE held. Only in private though. PDA isn’t his strong suit but when it’s just you both hold that man or he’ll turn into a lil pissy boy.

By pissy I mean giving you the silent treatment or acting passive aggressive until you take charge and grab him into your arms. It’s kinda cute.

He will be more cuddly when he’s tired or feeling uneasy, he still has his panic attacks and moments of overstimulation so he’ll actually hunt you down and if you’re in your dorm in your bed he will move whatever is on your lap and spread your thighs to lay on your chest or tummy just to get away from the world for a second. He squeezes very hard so be prepared.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Bakugo doesn’t give “casual” or even likes the term “situationship” you guys are either together and going to get married or nothing. He does in fact date to marry because he doesn’t want to consistently waste his own time with multiple people every few months. He’s either ganna be married with his one and only or nobody at all so you’re his first, last, and only.

He’s a pro hero in college but he always gave househusband. Whenever he comes to your dorm he will tidy up, throwing a few “Why is there so much shit everywhere.” When all there is is a few empty bottles on the floor. It’s cute and sweet how he makes sure you’re clean.

He will cook for you, and has no problem doing it every single time he visits, he loves to show off his talents to you, so shut up, sit and look pretty as he makes you some of your favorite meals. BONUS points if it’s a home/childhood meal he’s never heard of and you teach it to him.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

I believe if any reason bakugo would break up with you it’d be for a valid reason, I.e. you cheating. If he found out you cheated he’d of course upset, angry, but more betrayed. It takes a lot for him to gain that level of trust in a person and for all those moments of vulnerability and love and laughter with you to be thrown away will cut him deep to the point he wouldn’t ever focus on a relationship again. It’s painful for him to know that the thoughts of once sharing his whole world with you are now a painful faded memory .

F = Fiance(How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

He doesn’t seem like the type to have super long engagements, at most 1-2 years and that’s even pushing it. He has money for days and Bakugo is a man that if he wants it he will get it so the moment he decides you’re going to be his wife(which is most likely after the first date) he is preparing to propose. He does not mind being a husband.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Now I’m not going to say he’s just a complete soft baby boy when he’s with you. Not necessarily, He can still be brash with his words, but he never once harmed you physically. Ever. Down to how he grabs your arm when rescuing you.

A few examples of gentleness he expresses is when you lay on or beside him, his scared hand rubs against your cheeks and sides, he kisses your forehead every once in a while and even before he gets up to grab you both a snack. Bakugo tends to examine your body after a fight, even a simple run in with low life villains he rushes towards you after, he has been doing it since high school, after sparing, training, whatever he caresses your face (a few times a big rough than usual if he is impatient) and critiques how you did as if he was a teacher, but all the while he’s praying in his head thanking God He kept you safe.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

You initiate 90% of the hugs, and He grew to like YOUR hugs, but he says he doesn’t. When you first hugged him he instinctively pushed you away, but you didn’t let go. For a few years he never hugged you back because hugs wasn’t a common thing for him and they were awkward, but one day after another fight with the league of villains he seen you, bloodied up and limping towards him he finally grabbed you and surrounded you in his sweaty arms. You nearly couldn’t breathe for how tightly he hugged you, but you felt your body relax, mostly because you fell unconscious on his shoulder for a second. He didn’t let you go until you were on a hospital bed.

Bakugo’s hug feel safe and warm, one arm around your waist and another holding the back of your head. Almost like a cradles you. He never does a regular side hug with you it’s either a bear hug or nothing else.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Does NOT say it a lot . It’s HARD, his actions show it so much though that it’s not to the point where you question, but he does say it at the most random or intimate times.

The first time he said it was when you both were taking a shower together and you were scrubbing his back and playfully said “I love you, jackass.” Mid conversation and he was in a sligghttllyyy good mood so he chuckled and said “I love you too, dumbass.” You knew if you pointed it out he’d get red as a tomato so you tried not to make a big deal, but bakugo felt your pause briefly and knew he finally said the world you been wanting him to say for the longest.

He’ll say it after and during sex a few times, and before going to work. Instead of a goodbye it’s “I love you, see you later.”

Because he never wants to experience telling you goodbye

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

His jealously is loud, but not verbally. It’s with glares and action. He trust you he just don’t trust other men. It’s not OFTEN but it’s enough that when it happens you never forget it.

He usually gets jealous when another guy is too close to you for comfort and makes you anything above happy. Why the hell are you happy with them? You have Katsuki Bakugo as your man he’s the only one that should make you happy?

He’s a little delusional in the head but it’s okay.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Goodness his kisses are slutty. It’s not even on purpose the dick just loves dominating everything. He tends to always initiate when you both are alone, and brace yourself because when he kisses you he goes all out. He has a habit of staring at the location as to where he wants to kiss you, usually when you’re rambling he stares at your lips, almost annoyed liked until you stop and that’s when he dives in, it’s almost like he is pushing you from the force but he slowly moves his mouth in tandem with yours, by default he uses his tongue a lot. He is also a buyer to prepared for little nips at your bottoms lip. He barely allows either of your to breathe so you are usually the one to pull back first which leads to a pissy Blondie, but it’s not even a second until he pulls you back in by your neck. You can always feel his thumb rubbing your throat or cheek as he nearly swallows your tongue, his lips are always soft and his breath super minty or sweet from a candy he popped in his mouth earlier.

He loves your lips. He does, but next to that you always catch him kissing your shoulder. Bakugo will ends his days or just pause

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

…I’m sure you all know how he is with kids.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Okay so it depends if he has to work or not so let’s start off on his off days; for one, He isn’t an actual early bird. I know a lot of people say he is because he went to sleep early but if you all remember his own mom pointed out he wakes up around noon, so if it’s his day off he is snuggled in bed with you for while drifting in and out of sleep. Legs and arm stretched over your body OR you’re on top of him, if he wakes before you he will place you comfortably on the middle of the bed, a small forehead kiss and head to clean the room a bit. He often cooks breakfast while you sleep so many mornings you wake to his famous pancakes and bacon. Casual mornings are quiet, nonverbal communication between you both with him giving you a glass of water and OJ, sometimes letting you taste test different pancakes flavors he has made, and comfortably eating on the couch watching the news/yall favorite show.

If he has to work he usually sets out a bottled water for you and have your coffee already brewing to your liking. It sucks to wake up to a cold bed, but when he gets home he makes it up to you.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

A mix of settling down but in the most chaotic way. Surprisingly some days Bakugo wants to stay up late and you go to bed with him, so you try to convince him to just watch TV in your shared room. Some nights he working out and you would rather lay with him and be lazy. Some nights it’s vise versa. However it’s always ended with cuddling and relaxing in bed while eating the most unhealthy snacks. Bakugo doesn’t like to admit it but he definitely gained a few pounds since dating you due to this.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

I believe the first time he opened up to you was after the war. He had his few moments of TRYING to be more vocal about himself and his feelings towards you, but his heart softened more after he woke up from the hospital. It was when you were helping him during his time in rehab and he was making such fast process you told him how proud of him you were. That’s when he finally spewed as much of what he could out before shutting down a gain.

He told you about how he felt about you, how he thought about you in the moments you weren’t there, the way he’d always hope you come back sooner rather than later when you left, he spoke about his insecurities with you and even though it wasn’t worded THE BEST, you understood. Since then he became more comfortable with telling you certain “secrets” he kept from you. How he likes hearing you laugh, how he enjoys watching you switch up your hairstyle every other week, he especially loves when you wear braids.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

….its bakugo. He usually has just enough patience with you that’s noticeable to others, but he still gets irritated. It’s kind of his default mood at this point. With you though it’s somewhat different, he doesn’t scream at you in genuine anger instead he pouts, grumbles even like a hardheaded child. Sometimes even give you the silent treatment, but it doesn’t last long when you baby him.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Yall talk about Deku being the observant one, have you seen his bestie Bakugo???? He remembers a lot and He’s nosey too! He remembers things you don’t even notice, like how your face grimace when you eat something too sour, or the look in your eye when something clearly annoys you but you don’t say anything. Bakugo pays attention to body language above anything else about you. He subconsciously uses it as mental notes to learn more about you. It’s kind of attractive in its own way.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

He wouldn’t tell you but he loved yall first date. It was in a small village you two happen to find after driving to the original date place but his car ran out of gas and their gas station was the nearest one. You wanted to walk around because it was so pretty and even had a sunflower field to visit. He stole a few pictures of you while you wasn’t looking in the field and you looked ethereal to him. He has it as his lockscreen.

It was his favorite moment because you really showed your true self around him, your corny jokes, yapping about your latest fixation to him. It was endearing. But most of all it was just you both. In a place nobody knew you both so he felt more comfortable himself. Bakugo even remembers the old lady that called you both a beautiful husband and wife and you didn’t correct her. He didn’t either.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

You have a personal guard dog with this one. Pro hero AND naturally strong? Girl you’re winning. He literally has told his classmates he will protect them so what makes you think he wouldn’t go even further for you? You can quite literally turn off your mind when you are with him. He got you.

Bakugo doesn’t necessarily need protection but he likes to know you have his back too, villains, fan girls, or even tripping over his feet you’re right there to help him. And he loves that.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

At first he would just do whatever you wanted to do honestly. But if it’s true he reads romance mangas then he definitely would try to recreate some dates with you he has read.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

If you had a boyfriend before him he’d probably have an insecurity about it. Bakugo would constantly compare himself to your ex even if you never speak about him. So if you can. Try to reassure him every single time that he is not your ex and that’s exactly one of the many things you love about him.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Bakugo genuinely did not care for his looks until you kept giving him compliments. He knew he wasn’t UGLY but hated to be called pretty. You however stroked his ego, you called his lips soft so he began doing more lip scrubs in his routine, you talked about how good he smelled naturally he began to buy more hoodies for you to steal after he wore em, you talked about how nice his arms are he started walking around your dorm shirtless and wearing more sleeveless shirts, every compliment you gave him was something he adored…he may have a praise kink.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He wouldn’t admit it but he would feel empty if you left him. I hc one of his fears is being alone after he has already has someone to be with which is probably why he didn’t want any interest in dating until you came along. He didn’t want to grow a bond that would eventually fail, but knowing you he has no intention on leaving you so you can’t leave him.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Bakugo was born in Germany, but moved to Japan when he was one, growing up his mother would switch from speaking English/Japanese/German so Bakugo could be bilingual. And he is he can fluently speak all three.

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humanityinahandbag · 8 months ago

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Steve would absolutely be down to play D&D with Hellfire. The only condition is that he gets to be whatever character he wants (with Eddie's help crafting the sheet, of course), and Eddie is so completely enamoured and excited that he agrees wholeheartedly.

Turns out, Steve didn't really understand the concept of fantasy characters and assumed that it included all kinds of fantasies. Elves, Dwarves, Mages.

And naturally the lineup of Steve's 1987 Fantasy Basketball League.

The rest of Hellfire is ultimately accepting of it, and even gets into the character as time goes on. But those first few sessions were confusing as hell. Especially because they weren't quite sure what to think when Steve's only supplies and weapons included sports bars, tiny shorts, and a basketball.

Eddie though?

Eddie's been having a goddamn field day with the chaos his beloved hath wrought.

"Alright Steve. Roll to attack."

Steve rolls and lights up. "Eighteen!"

The other players cheer.

"Good luck," said Will sullenly after his magic missile failed to take the villain down. In fact, so far, nearly every attack from each member had failed to do enough damage to even make a dent.

Eddie writes down a note behind his DM shield. "Alright so the ghost approaches you. What are you..." He pauses. "Wait. Sorry what's your name again?"

"Larry Bird," says Steve helpfully.

"Right. What are you, Larry Bird, going to do to the Ghost?"

"I'm going to dribble across the enchanted bridge and hit him with a hook shot."

"This is the weirdest thing we've ever done..." Dustin whispers.

He's shushed by everyone else who has become absolutely invested in the fate of their resident Point Guard Paladin.

(the best part is that the end of the campaign in what was meant to be a difficult and long battle, in which almost every single Hellfire character dies a gruesome death, Steve effectively ends it by rolling a single D20 and dunking a zombie's head into the Boss' face.

Hellfire is elated but isn't sure how to explain to future Hellfire members that a kill shot was once carried out by the small forward of the Boston Celtics.)

#steddie #lol #just saying #it's the wizard - the bard - the elven healer #and Larry god-damned Bird #steve harrington #eddie munson #hellfire club #dungeons and dragons #d&d #a point guard paladin if you will #a basketball boy

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archive-doll · 1 month ago

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Oh, sweet neighbour. II

Johnny Mactavish x f!reader. He cannot let you move a little finger because no, and well, you need a guard dog.

18+ CW: the military. you're pregnant, that's a warning on its own. takes place in Scotland, AU where Johnny is forcibly retired and finds a new project - you. breaking and entering. food is mentioned. foot fetish. panty-stealing. noncon - he kisses you while you sleep, touches you too. fantasy of somnophilia. hints of dom/sub dynamic.

Have mercy on my grammar, English is not my first language.

PREV. MASTERLIST. NEXT

Days continue to pass by as peacefully as they did before. The bull you had been negotiating to buy is now happily roaming around, in the middle of all the chickens and the goats. An old guy, rather calm for one of his kind, who comes to greet you every morning. He even starts to play with your Bernese Mountain dog, not that you're surprised, Leo can make everybody his friend.

While you sit on your porch, slowly shifting on the rocking chair after a long day of work, you can see them running after one another. You name him Cowboy. The stable starts slowly being renovated, and your ankles are more sensitive than they used to be. But you get one wall done thanks to your nail gun, and you slowly start to get used to the recoil, barely even gasping at the loud sound anymore.

Evidently, it is seeing you perched on your stool that makes Johnny leave the security of his new house and cross the distance. It is barely day six after your meeting, and Johnny is growing restless, watching you from his window. He had been unable to do anything, and there was a mountain of chores waiting for him inside, but nah. Each time he sees you in the morning, a cup of dark coffee dwarfed into his hand, and you take his breath away.

With your laugh when the sun rises, when you go about and around with a skip in your step, a bucket of grains in hand. How you pat that dangerous bull and scratch at his head and trim the ginger hair around his head, uncaring of those giant horns that could impale you. Your yellow raincoat makes his heart ache with tenderness, but god, does he hate seeing you sitting on that stupid stool. Shouldn't be doing this, not by yourself anyway, not as long as he has something to say about it.

And you listen very well.

You’re trying to adjust the gutter, standing there while grumbling about it, a frown curling your eyebrows. It is not raining this morning, which is why you want to clean it and see if it needs changing as well, taking a handful of debris out. You hate the feeling of it, the leaves all wet that stick around your fingers, and the sight of dead insects and other things you don't want to know the name of. Your nose twitches in disgust, and you gaze away for a moment before dropping it down.

Johnny can feel a cold sweat pearling on his skin at the sight of you, sitting so prettily in such a dangerous position. You are wearing an adorable pink jacket today and a green silky scarf around your hair to keep your face free, with a little bow at your nape. It makes him want to nestle into you, cradle your elbow and kiss the soft flesh there. The sight of you is almost too difficult to watch for a man like him.

“Hen, ya’re goin to giv' me a heart attack.”

You jolt at the sudden aggravated voice, so concentrated on your task that you don’t notice the shuffling sound of him approaching your position. Your heart shudders in your chest, the rumble of his voice making your skin flush when you flicker your eyes at him, one hand securely holding onto the edge of the roof.

“God, Johnny!” You whine with the remaining of your fear, shifting so you sit with both feet on the stair, making the man hurriedly walk to you.

“C’mon now, lassie.” He asks of you, standing at the bottom of your high stool with careful eyes. His hair is unruly today, making you want to brush it back, and his black pants are already stained with mud. You can't imagine the state of his sneakers.

“What?”

“Get down. I’ll do it f'r ya.” He says back with no hesitation, already raising his hand for you to take.

The worry on his face is evident as he waits for you, warm eyes flickering along your silhouette, ready to rescue you if you fall. It’s what makes you accept his hand, that and the pain in your shoulders. You’re not certain how he’s going to take care of your gutter with one arm in a cast, but you don’t bother asking him, not as he is readjusting the silky scarf around your head with such a concentrated face.

It brings a shy grin to your face, having such a strong man bending down to you, his thick fingers pushing your scarf back carefully, and curling your hair back around your cheeks. You nibble on your lips, gazing up at him quietly when he wipes something from your cheek, his hair grazing your forehead at the proximity. It's with a gentle word that you give him your thanks as he thumbs at your jaw.

You watch him raise up on the stool easily, bulging arm catching your attention for a moment when he asks you for a tool. You feel your face slightly heat up as you falter toward your box, taken out of your admiration. Your hands push in the mess of it, and Johnny doesn't judge when you first show him what you think he asked with hesitation. He nods, and you grin once more before approaching, one hand on the edge of the stool, before you raise up and give it to him. You don't miss how his broad shoulders shift at each of his movements.

Once again, Johnny starts asking you questions, not that you mind much. It is rather nice to have someone to talk to. And Johnny is good company, always listening to everything you say with attention. His eyes flicker to your mouth occasionally, as if drinking the words you give him straight from the source.

"I decided on Scotland when I saw pictures of the mountains." You recall a little haze in your eyes while you think back on it. It's a happy memory, though it didn't start as one. "I lived in a city and grew up there. I wanted a change, and it called to me."

"Mountains, eh?"

"Yeah! I like the quiet. The nature. When it's spring or summer, I want to hike up there." You confirm, pointing at one mountain there, up west.

Johnny stares at the mountain, one hand busy screwing back the gutter in its rightful place, where it can't fall into your path or, worse, on you. When he gazes back at you, you're still admiring the landscape, with a gentle smile grazing your mouth. He can't really understand, having seen these mountains and nature all his childhood and travelled in dazzling places during his missions.

But if it's what brought you here, safe, to him, then he's pleased.

"And, everyone always told me the people were nice here. And the food." You add, twisting on your feet to lean against the stool, which barely moves under Johnny's weight. You cross your arms on a lower stair, and he huffs a laugh, catching your little smile.

"Food, righ'."

"That, and the houses cost less than in Island. And it's warmer, if you can believe it."

The screw dig into his palm when you say it, Island. Fucking hell, he could have never meet you. Could have awakened to an empty land, alone. Never known the sound of your breathing, or how your nose twitches when you smile.

"Everythin' is warmer than Island." He gruff, giving a good tug on the gutter and watching it stay put.

"True. So I came here."

The more he listens to you, the more certain Johnny is of the good in you. He makes quick work of the gutter as you explain it all to him. You desire for a refuge and have a family of your own to look after and care for. With your precious hand smoothing up and down your tummy and that genuine smile curling your mouth, it feels like redemption. To help you. To make you safe when you walk further in, your fingers curling around his palm, your rain boots sinking into the mud. You don’t care for the mess, he finds out. Not when you settle inside the stable, and tell him the work needed to be done next, with dust floating around you and a piece of spider web on your shoulder.

His knees shake as you settle one of your hands on his elbow, guiding him to where you keep the tools and the rest of the materials you will need for the rehabilitation of the stable. Your fingers tense inside the crook of his elbow, and he feels frustrated with his own state, not able to secure you with both hands. You lead him toward a table there, with the plan you have imagined laid out on paper. The drawing is rather rough, but he understands it easily.

"Five? Plannin' on buyin' horses, bonnie?"

"Mhm. A stallion, two mares. Then, time will tell," You hum, leaning into the table as you nod in confirmation. You had years of dreams, years of imagination, and of planning behind you. You know what you want and how you'll get them, too - there are so many horses that need a home. There are so many strays that need shelter. "I'd like a donkey too, but it'd be noisy for you."

"Dinnea care, bonnie," Johnny says, voice unwavering, completely honest. A donkey or not, it doesn't matter much to him. As long as you're happy. As long as it's not quiet anymore, empty. Anything else, it's fine.

"Then a donkey it is." You grin up at him, leaning closer into his space. He doesn't care much either, not when your shoulder nestles into his side while you go back to your explanation. Little independent girl, already thought of it all. Only need a strong man to help you.

Johnny is good at listening. His lieutenant might say something else, but he's well-behaved now. Better than when he first enrolled, a pent-up kid who only knew demining figures, the weight of negligence, and parents who could hardly remember his name. He's a good soldier now, broken apart and shaped back by an entity bigger than himself - bigger than the whole sky he even thought for a while.

Finding intel, chatting up some guys for distraction, following a plan. Johnny can do that, shit he wants to, feeling useless by himself, without anything to do in the silence. And your plan, it's a damn good one. He can see you don't really know what to do, but you went and looked it up, and did it yourself, sweet girl, finding what tool to use for what, the width each box needs to be, and what's the best wood to buy for a decent price.

He doesn't mind having you guide him. Pointing his target, the next step for this mission and even less when you reward him with a smile, much better than any medal or tight handshake he ever received in return for his service. You look so pretty there, doing your best as you measure the planks and cut them carefully with gloved hands. Even with the protective glasses perched on your nose, you're a sight for sore eyes. And the doc said exercise is good or something like that.

So he listens to you, well. Intently. Never turning his back on you, always adapting to your soft orders and determined wishes with no hesitation, his mind quiet as you soothe him into action. You don't have Kyle's sickening smile, or his Lt's rough hands that dig deliciously into him, nor Cap's approving eyes that make his teeth hungry for more, but god, you are something.

He's desperate for your praise, for that smoothing hand down his back as you come to watch the finished result. It makes his chest puff, makes his hands tingle with anticipation, and he's eager to do more, just for another look from you. You have these soft eyes, a dreamy voice that sounds like a melody, and he feels like a damn pup, a lovesick mutt famished for the warmth of you that makes him drool. Aye, you don't need to be Kyle, or Lt, nor Cap. He'll do anything you ask, do anything you need. He'll be good.

It’s well into the afternoon when you enter the stable again, with a plate filled with a warm teapot, two mugs, and some sandwiches you made for the two of you. It’s no surprise to find that Johnny is very quick with his hands, even with one not in good shape, and you find yourself standing there, by the table, with shining eyes as half of it is already finished.

After a long and grumbling discussion, Johnny had let you work too but not without the threat of making him leave and doing it all by yourself. Though he managed the heavy lifting all on his own, you can't deny that. Your heart stutters, finding him putting on a lock, his large form bent forward and strong shoulders rolling underneath his sweater.

“Johnny?”

“Aye, hen?”

“Let’s take a break, hm?” You propose, watching him gazing at you from over his shoulder.

It’s almost immediate how he puts down the screwdriver and shifts on his feet to face you. Black boots he went and fetched in his house, trudges on the ground, and your eyes flicker to the dark curls around his head, seeing drops of sweat shining on his skin. He does not move away from you anymore when you approach.

Before, there was a moment when Johnny would stiffen, all of his body rigid as he watched you close the distance.

Instead, now, he leans into you as if anticipating your next move, blue eyes blinking as he waits patiently. You pass the clean towel around his face, wiping away the crass and wood dust accumulating on him. The arch of his nose, with a slight bump, the bones of his cheeks that you gently rub clean, even his scarred temples that you do not mention.

Johnny allows you into his personal space gladly, his eyes shining with an energy you can't quite decipher. Your head tilts back when you roll your weight to your toes, raising yourself to slide the towel over his nape with a smile. You have to shuffle closer, enough that your shoes tap his own, your belly pressing into his coat as you slide the towel over his skin. You blink before finding his eyes that never left you.

“You hungry? I made us sandwiches.”

Big blue eyes stare down at you, and you have half the desire to stroke them and feel his long lashes tickle your fingertips before he offers you a nod. Your mouth turns up into that beautiful smile once again – a sight he will never get tired of – before you step backwards. His body sways forward; the magnetic force you affect him with is inevitable. He stays close, towering on your right side, and watches quietly as you fill the two mugs there, and your shoulder brushes his chest when you cut the sandwich in two.

He relishes in everything you grant him with.

From where you both sit, you can see well into your land. The little river there, down the slight hill that leads to Johnny’s house. The trees at the edges of the forest bend and dance beneath the wind. The thyme tea warms you as you listen to Johnny eating with gluttony.

Your lips twitch at the groaning he lets out, and with warm cheeks, you glance his way. His eyes are closed, and he munches about one sandwich already eaten. His legs are spread out as he bites another piece of it, barely breathing between mouthfuls, and you let out a little amused giggle, seeing him nod mindlessly to himself.

“I’m guessing it’s good, then?”

“Bloody amazin’, hen.”

Your face brightens again as you let out a chuckle, finding Johnny endearing. It's a strange thought to have about a man, but one you can't contest. Your hands cradle your cup as you watch him, a smile lingering on your lips when he sighs, finally satiated. It’s the least you can do after today. Your hands twitch then, when he raises his hand to his lips, licking at the tip of it. A pink tongue passes the threshold of his mouth and curls around his thumb, licking the last crumbs.

There is something slightly erotic in it all, seeing how his fingers shine with his own spit as he leans back in his chair, completely satisfied by your cooking. Big, large hands, calloused and scarred, now used to help create your home, knuckles pink under the little dark hair there. Large frame, warmed by the tea you made for him, and the food you nurtured him with.

“What’s next, bonnie?”

“Mhm?” You hum, almost losing yourself in the sight of him.

“After tha’, what do we wan' to do?”

“Oh! My porch needs some repairing.” You answer, shifting in your chair to face him, noticing his use of the ‘we’ with affection. You don’t mind it. Could definitely use the help and the strong arms.

"Mhm. Nothin' inside needs some restoration?" He hums, squinting his eyes at you from his place. It makes you fidget in your seat, lips pinched down before you shrug your shoulders, trying to appear innocent.

"M'eudail." He groans, thick accent twirling around the foreign word at your bad little acting. "Need to think abou' yarself, ya know? Can't let ya be cold oll winter."

"I'm not cold. T's just the bathroom, well, the heater doesn't work. And the sink in the kitchen is having some trouble." You try to dismiss, eyes finding the view of the hill again, only trying to ignore his grumpy frown.

"We'll dae yar house first." He finishes on, and though you sigh, you don't refute his decision. You know better than to lie to him, not that you want to anyway.

You pass the early evening finishing the last touch in the stables – the little chamber there, where you sand the wood carefully. Actually, Johnny uses the sander while you do the finishing touches behind his passage, running your palm over the smooth texture with appreciation. There are five boxes done, and while Johnny rearranges all of your tools, you looks at it, hands on your hips.

This would have taken you ages to do by yourself because, even with all of your good intentions, you do not know what you’re doing most of the time. But there is no hesitation in Johnny’s actions, and with a few sentences, he always reassures you, giving you the options before allowing you to make your decision.

It's easy how he walks you into your home as if you've done it before. Your hand is warm, settled into his elbow as he slows his steps for you. The air is cold tonight, and you figure winter is not far anymore with how soon the sun sets over the green land. Johnny’s hand moves and curls around your fingers, helping you take the first step toward the porch.

Johnny walks you inside, hovering behind you and finds the collar of your coat quickly, without a word. You sigh when your feet finally go into the comfort of your slippers, ankles slightly hurting from today's work. You don't question it when, after wiping your hands, you give him the little towel you always keep there to dry his face and hair.

"I was thinking of making bruschetta for dinner." You reveal to him, turning to watch him pass the towel over his hair, seeing how the usual brown of his hair had turned black from the evening rain. "With cream cheese, some tomatoes."

"Ya intivin' me to dinner, m'eudail?" It's a tease you know, just from the little tingle in his lips when he stares down at you.

"If you want to." You say, watching him putting his khaki raincoat on the wall. You pinch your lips as he wipes his hands on the towel, his blue eyes electrifying in the dim light, making you slightly nervous. It should be a bad idea, literally, inviting a stranger - an acquaintance? - into your home.

But you don't think Johnny could ever hurt you. Not with how delicately he handles you or tries to anyway. He's not used to this life, to people who aren't shaped by the sound of gunshots, and trained to assess everything around them as a potential threat. Not used to the softness of your wrist, of the light in your eyes. His fingers may circle your forearm too strongly, and he may stomp around silently to avoid alerting anyone of his presence and so scare you, but he always tries. He's always careful.

Your weight shifts from foot to foot as you keep looking at each other before you offer him a smile, softly moving to the side in silent invitation.

"Got nothing to thank you for your help. But I can cook."

"Shouldn't stand too much on yar feet, hen. Yer legs are goin' to hurt ya."

'I'll be fine, can handle a bit of pain, Johnny." You answer back after a moment of silence, seeing him squint at your legs as if they're a mathematical problem he can't resolve - or an untamed being who doesn't listen. Which, really, could be.

"I ken. But you shouldn't have ta." He grumbled then, passing the threshold of your house, coming to you easily. And it warms you how serious he is with it, with your health and your comfort. "C'mon then."

You don't say anything, simply accepting his help when he places a hand on your back. Johnny doesn't talk much, you find; he simply stays by your side as you open the old fridge. Your left hand skims over your belly as he looks into a high cabinet, finding there the plates you'll need for dinner.

Every ingredient is placed on the wooden island you also need to repair, and you hear him grumble as he opens and closes one cabinet, making it hiss. You hide your smile as he moves around, quickly finding every little thing that will need reparation or to be changed. It's actually rather amusing, seeing such a grown man mumbling to himself as he cusses and huffs and puffs.

"You know, I didn't invite you here, so you'll swear at my kitchen."

"Bonnie," He says, almost a warning as he gazes back at you, brows curling into a frown when you arch your eyebrows.

"That's a problem for tomorrow, okay? Come sit with me." You invite him, patting the high chair at your right, voice sweet and soft, like honey. It easily softens the exasperated glint in his eyes, and he sighs deeply before closing back the drawer.

You have to bite back a laugh when it squeaks. Johnny stared at it for a while longer, and you burrowed your face into your shoulder with a giggle. With a shake of his head, he finds you, large form settling by your side comically in that badly painted white high chair. It's much too small for him.

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long has it been for sale?" He asks again for your attention, watching you cut the tomatoes into four pieces. Your nail polish, a soft red, is slightly breaking on the edge after today's chore, and he pinches your thumb, moving it up and down under the light. You have a blister. That annoys him; you should never be in pain.

"Twelve years, I think. The previous owner was in a care facility for a while. It's in relatively good shape. The beams are still healthy."

"Walls dinnea make a home, hen." He grumbles, large fingers pushing into the side of your hand before he tugs the tomatoes in front of him, swiftly taking the knife out of your hand. "Someone came ta look at it?"

"No, not yet. Needs a bit of cleaning first, and then I need a plan." Your elbow presses into the counter, and your chin nestles into your palm as you watch him. The knife barely makes a sound as it slides into the plate.

You don't say another word for a while, simply enjoying the quiet as you watch Johnny skillfully use the knife on your tomatoes. Even with only one hand, he's doing it better than you are. Then, you turn and quietly slide the book in front of the two of you, abandoning your stubborn act. You don't say anything when you hear his snort and pointly ignore his look, and tap at the page so he can anticipate the rest of the recipe as you go and start taking care of the bruschetta.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You already doin' it." He says back without hesitation, and you push your shoulder into him at his teasing before seeing him nod. "Why do you help me?"

"Dinnea have better to dae."

It's a simple answer. While you believe it might be true, you don't think it's the truth either. Johnny doesn't seem the type of man who busies himself with other people's business, whether they are pregnant or not. From his manners, you don't deny he's polite and would never let you put your groceries away by yourself, but not to the point of restoring some stranger's old stable.

Your fingers reshape the bread, easily going through the motion as you let your eyes on him. Your nose twitches as you ponder it. You are eternally grateful for his help, really. But you know for certain there is something else. Another reason that makes him do it all, from cutting your tomatoes in that tiny high chair, to sanding the door of your dream stable.

For a moment, your eyes linger in front of you, hazy as you wonder. Does he look for a sense of stability? For a purpose? Or simply to occupy his days? Well, it's not any of your business, but you can't help yourself, trying to understand him, to discover every piece that built him. You know you shouldn't, and it's only a hypothesis anyway.

"Well, alright. You make good company so it's fine."

His fingers twitch around his knife, and the blade flutters over the chives at your words. He can feel the tip of his ears heating up at your compliment, and for a moment, he doesn't dare to look at you. Worried about what he will find.

When he does, though, under that little layer of sarcasm he brings out of you, Johnny finds honesty. And a smile - genuine, and pure. He's rooted to the damn chair, watching you, admiring you there, with a little apron tied around your neck.

You're the epitome of domestic life. Of civilian life. With that little thing tied around your waist, the brushing of your hair or whatever it is called, that make them so beautiful and shiny. No worries in your eyes when you turn your back on him, and soft fingers that linger on his arms.

If it's what awaits him, it can't be so bad.

"Even when I yell at yar kitchen?" He dissipates it, the bitter acceptance, pushing away the tension in his chest with what he does best - humour and a crooked grin.

"Yea', even when you yell at my kitchen." You chuckle, the edges of your eyes pinching slightly, and you do it again - that little scrunch of your nose. He thinks you're cute. Definitely too trusting, but rather cute.

The banter is easy with Johnny, keeping you skipping your steps, with a little glow in your face as he grills the bread in an oiled pan. Italians might despise you for this, but it's good, and you thought of bruschetta since you woke up this morning. You knew being pregnant could give you cravings, but not to this point.

With a ginger beer in hand, you walk behind Johnny, who's holding your plate, into the living room, where a very old TV is waiting for you and the most comfortable couch you've ever seen. Leo is there too, lying on the carpet by the fireplace, and you give him a few scratches before settling on the couch. Johnny is already there, lap spreading so hard that your knee bumps into his when you sit.

"So, ya said the bathroom and the kitchen. What else?"

"Mhm, the stairs creak. And I'd like to take out most of the paint on the furniture and varnish the wood. The heaters need a look, and the fireplaces, too." You think about it, lips pinching on the side as you unfold one thick cover before laying it on your legs, sensing Johnny's attention on you.

The television is running a show, and you can't understand half the words in it. The English teachers you had in school definitely didn't concern themselves with the slang or the different accents. But Scottish, surely, could easily make you feel like a fool. But you don't pay much attention, not when you hear Johnny asking you about what you want to do first.

"Well, the heaters and fireplace. I'll find someone tomorrow to come and look at it. Then, I'll have to buy some new furniture. Or a way to restore what's here."

A tingle slides on the bottom of your feet, and you mindlessly pass a piece of your ham to Leo as you push a warm tomato between your lips.

"Need a hand?"

"Mhm. Don't even know where to go."

He nods absentmindedly, curling a finger behind your ear to slick back some dishevelled strands of hair. Your eyes shift to his face, finding him there, relaxing, and his plate already empty. Johnny must have been starving, a big man like him doing work all day. Your lashes flutter when his fingers linger, his thumb passing over the arch of your jaw.

"Can't hav' strange men here when ya're alone, m'eudail."

His voice is similar to the echoes of thunder that swirl around in the mountains. It's a familiar sound in the back of your mind, one that makes this situation comfortable even if you don't know him. Because it's true, you don't know Johnny, hell, you don't even know his last name, but here you are, both of you. On your couch, sitting in front of the telly while he thumbs at your cheek, so close.

You smile, cheeks round as he presses into it with a grin, watching how your eyes light up momentarily.

"Guess I'll have to ask you to leave then."

He snorts, square shoulders shaking before he squeezes your chin in his hold. You swat at his wrist with amusement before he gathers your plate. The couch trembles as he rises up, making your body shift deeper into its comforts, and you snuggle beneath your blanket. Johnny pivots to look at you, and his shadow looms over you when he stands between you and the fireplace.

You're reminded of him, the first time you met. How he took your breath away. With the light coming from behind him, he looks bigger - stronger. Your breath halts for a second before he tilts himself closer, breaking the spell.

"Want sweets, hen?"

"Mhm?" You sigh, momentarily taken aback.

"Desserts." He repeats for you, not even missing a beat. Never making you feel stupid either, the same expression on his face, waiting for your answer with patience.

"Oh." You sigh, chin hitching up to gaze at his face before you offer him a little nod. "Yea', that would be nice. Do you want some tea?"

"I'll dae it, hen. Stay warm, aye?"

Johnny doesn't let you do much the rest of the evening. He said that since you cooked, he can do the rest. Dishes, the tea, and taking care of the fire by adding a few more wood. Don't have ta move bonnie, should stay comfortable. It makes you smile, and while in any other case, you would have put up a fight, he is your guest after all, you can see that Johnny needs it. To move around the place, never sitting down for long.

It almost gives you whiplash, but when you see him trudge around, looking out the windows, you force yourself to settle back. Your fingers curl around the mug, and you take a little mouthful as he closes the curtains, securing every entry point.

"What time tomorrow?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"I'll have to go to the city. Varnish and everythin'. What's the best time for you?"

Your eyes never leave him as he slides another curtain close, his silhouette flirting with the shadows of your house. You know he is looking at you, you can feel it - the weight of his eyes on your curled form. You wonder if he is surprised, or simply accepting what it implies, another day working around your place. If he's content with you, rely on him of your own accord. Making the first step his way.

"Nine-fifteen will do."

"Ok. I'll probably be on the phone with the contractors by then, so you come in, alright?"

"Yar door bett'r be locked, hen."

"I only keep it locked when I sleep." You answer, at peace with your own answer, not reacting when you hear him grumble. You can see him shake his head again, unhappy with your dangerous habits.

"I'll knock." He warns you, and you sigh, unamused, when he takes the teacup out of your hands.

You twist in your spot, throwing an arm on the back of the couch and watch him step into your kitchen. Your chin settles on your forearm as he cleans the place, putting everything back in its spot with perfection. You don't want to ask him about it; you don't want to bring back bad memories. But, you wonder what he was in the army if he had a title of his own, and why did he left and came here of all places.

You stay silent, knowing it isn't your place. If he wants to talk about it or share it with you, he will do it at his own pace.

You make the last step alone on the porch, and you find your hand cold from his absence when he slithers away in the darkness. With a gentle rub at your tummy, your door half open, you turn his way one last time, your eyes finding him with purpose.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yea'?" You ask, hoping, wondering if he would want to. Giving him an out, if he needs it, even if you already asked before.

His hands twitch at his side, the desire to hold you hitching under his skin. You look so peaceful. Your skin is soft and plump, with that little dew under your chin that he loves, and your knitted cardigan pushed closed around your torso. He wants to cradle you, keep you warm and safe in his arms, where he knows no one could ever pain you.

He gives you a nod, not finding the right words to answer you, and it makes the curls around his head sway prettily. You giggle before giving him a sweet wave and entering your home. Johnny takes a breath, keeping watch for a little while, seeing you moving around. Didn't even look back. You'll have to change your curtains soon because he can see you, back arched as you clean up the living room. Will have to add a few bolts to your door, too.

There is no hesitation when Johnny crosses the distance between your homes. His steps are silent, and his strong frame disappears in the shadows in swift motions. The animals, now used to his presence, barely react to him when he passes. He will search for a guard dog for you next week.

His boots press into the wooden planks of your porch. He sees the light in what he guesses is your bedroom. He stands there for a moment, watching your silhouette shift on the other side. Clothes are being taken off, and the sight of you leaves him rocking on his feet, looking more delicious than any delicacy he's ever had. And there is nothing he can truly see, only the curves of your hips and the sway of your flesh as you walk around. His shoulders tremble before his eyes watch the shutter start, and then the light is turned off.

It's with ease that he enters your sweet little home. Barely a few tries and your lock is off before he steps inside. He will reinforce your security, especially now that he knows you barely even lock your house. There is no sound here as he pushes the back door closed. The dog must be with you, good, he thinks. The smell of the fire fills his nose as he walks inside, eyes shifting about, catching sight of your open kitchen needing a good remodel, and then the living room. He settles into the seat there, a recliner, by your couch.

It is only day six of knowing you. And already, he feels himself needing to be here - to guard you. You give him purpose, a sense of self, during the day. Building you a home, the farm that you so dreamily wish to have. But in the darkness of the night, he feels restless, so far away from you. His bed was cold and empty, and he couldn't restrain the urge anymore, not after your adorable little goodbye.

See you tomorrow? Of course you will, hen. Where else will he be, if not by your side? Where else could he crawl to, if not you?

He settles rather quickly, his knife secured by his hip, one gun beneath his armpit, and the other hidden beneath his jeans. And when he closes his eyes, he can imagine you, see you there, resting gently in your bed.

Do you have a bed large enough for two, he wonders. Do you sleep there, your hands between your legs, or are they resting by your pillow? Do you wear one of these long little night dresses to bed? Or these see-through babydolls? Oh, you might rest bare. He has to take a deep breath through gritted teeth at the vision. He hopes the little one doesn't wake you too much during the night. His hands shift and linger down the armchairs as he lets his head fall backwards, pressing into the cushion.

His nostrils flare as he sees it, you, buried into your comforter, your mouth open as you breathe out peacefully. And your belly, oh, he wonders if the little one there would feel it if he cradles you for the night. If it could hear him when he tells a little bedtime story. He sighs. Only day six or seven now. It's past midnight. But now, all he can think of is you, your soft curves, and the softness of your hands that you are sacrificing to build a home for yourself and your baby.

He can't understand how anyone could leave you. You said something about wanting no one to have around, but you never quite pushed him away, either. His eyes shift to the ceiling, and his fingers tap against the armchair as he ponders the numerous possibilities. Abusive parents could create that fight-or-flight reaction you had when you first saw him, though you were leaning more toward flight, almost a foot back on the ground. Grooming could, too, with these controlling behaviours and dismissive tone. A partner who took you for granted, who forced you into a role you didn't want and had a hard time fighting away from. Hell, it could be a guy who wanted you to abort.

None of them are good. None of them could ever happen again under his watch.

His shoulder creaks when he jumps into his feet, unable to stay so far. He knows it's unreasonable, even a crime, really. Breaking and entering, that's what they call it. But it doesn't matter. Not when it's you. His feet briskly climb the stairs, avoiding any sound, his hand running across the wall until he reaches the end. His eyes move in the dark, and he can guess three doors. You've talked about a bathroom, and then your bedroom is on his right. Must be a nursery on his left.

The door is pushed only a few inches wide. A dim light made him press his back against the wall, palm grazing the back of your door as he looked inside meticulously. From where he stands, he has the end of your bed in his peripheral vision. There are no movements, apart from the crossing sound of your dog approaching. The old one doesn't bark when he pushes himself into the corridor; he simply comes to sniff at his shoes before turning back around.

Maybe he'll look for that guard dog tomorrow.

The sole of his shoes hovers over the ground of your bedroom as he takes a look inside. The fireplace is facing your bed. It's instinct, how he assesses your environment, the dresser there, covered in jewellery and a little palette of makeup. An antique chest, a wardrobe, and a few bags lying around.

As if you haven't taken proper time to settle in. He doesn't like that.

Then, his eyes find you. And it's better than his mind could have created. He can only see your face and that little bonnet thing around your hair to keep it soft. Your mouth is open, slightly pushed forward with each exhale you make, and there you are. Resting. One hand around the edge of the blanket over your comforter. Can see the little bump your feet make beneath it, and his heart shatters, seeing you curled in there, searching for warmth.

God, you're a bonnie lass. Temptation resting there, just out of reach, for now.

His fingers push the door closed again without a look, and he approaches one slow step. Johnny has time. You don't react to him. Don't react to Leo jumping by your side. His gloved palm finds your feet, lithering there, up and down before squeezing your little toes. Do you have nail polish there too?

His chin hitches up as his hand disappears beneath your sheets, pushing inside, in your reprieve until he finds them. His eyes blink, hooded, as he shelters one in his hand. Thumb caresses the sole of your foot, up and down, up and down again, and a little grunt leaves his throat when he feels himself twitching. His index stroke over your toes, passing through the crevices and the gristles, before circling your nail. Oh yeah, nail polish.

With one smooth gesture, he pushed your blanket back in place. Palming at your ankle, he times his breathing with yours, pupils dilating as he focuses on your mouth. He could devour you, really. Right now, he could push your cute underwear aside and have a taste - or give you his tip for now. Just a little. Maybe you wouldn't even wake up. The idea makes him chub up against his zipper. Johnny didn't know he'd like that.

His hand trails up your leg, circling your fragile knee before raking along your thigh. Leo wags his tail, his head lying by your shoulder, when Johnny sits down by your waist. Nails digging into the layers of your sheets, he feels it, the fat of your hip and kneads at it, respiration quickening. His boots press harder into your carpet as he leans over, his attention passing over your closed eyes, the arch of your nose and god, that dewy chin.

His lips find it, the little roll covering your jaw. First, a feathery kiss, before his beard scratches your skin. You whine. He's immobile until he feels you melting back into sleep. That's exactly why he needs to guard you, who don't even react when his hand cradles your nape, pushing into your flesh when his mouth opens over your temple. Your sweat is a little bitter, and he can taste your night cream, too. One last kiss, and he has to physically push himself away, hands clawing at his thighs when he raises back.

You'll need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.

His body circles your bed, and he secures your bay window before approaching the chair there, where today's garments rest, folded neatly. Good girl. Your grey little panties are hurriedly hidden in his pocket before your door opens and closes.

line divider by cafekitsune

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rcjackie · 1 month ago

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fun fic idea if anyone wants to read whatever this is!!! It kind of got away from me ngl

!!!!tw for swearing!!!!

okay so soulmates bagginshield au where the name of your soulmate is written on your wrist

except Bilbo’s soulmark is written in Khuzdul, so he had no idea what it says and only knows it’s dwarvish bc of his mother’s books/stories (or maybe he doesn’t know. there are no laws)

So Bilbo at the ripe age of 50 decides to leave the shire to look for his soulmate bc he’s not getting any younger and they have to be out there SOMEWHERE.

on the road he meets Gandalf, and bc that wizard is a grade A Meddler (TM) and knows exactly whose name is on Bilbo’s wrist, he sends Bilbo in the direction of Erebor

now I know what you’re thinking: how is Bilbo, a hobbit, going to get into a dwarf kingdom? well, Gandalf sends him there as his ‘emissary’ bc all good wizards need hobbit secretaries to deal with politics on their behalf, yes this is completely normal.

and that’s how Bilbo ends up as a diplomatic negotiator in a dwarf kingdom while secretly looking for his soulmate. and you best believe he does not know what the hell he’s doing for the first few days, but he’s a baggins AND a took so he bullshits his way through without problem.

and bc of his fake position as Gandalf’s envoy he eventually ends up meeting Thorin, the eldest prince of Erebor, who happens to be deeply suspicious of him and thinks he has ulterior motives besides regular politics

and Bilbo is like yes you’re right I do have ulterior motives but how dare you ASSUME—

cue the beginning of the enemies to friends to lovers pipeline

on the other hand, the first friend he makes in Erebor is Ori, who is the kingdom’s librarian. Bilbo asks him to read the name on his wrist and Ori nearly has a heart attack on the spot before running away bc he found the prince’s soulmate and he HAS TO TELL SOMEONE (that someone being dori)

and, of course, Bilbo misinterprets that as meaning his soulmate is evil. so then Bilbos only thought is FUCK I must have someone absolutely horrible as a soulmate. like how is their reputation THAT bad

so he spends most of his days sulking around Erebor, too scared to ask anyone about the name on his wrist, when he notices some shady figures doing shady figure things

being the naturally nosy hobbit that he is, he listens in, trying to uncover a bit of juicy gossip to entertain himself with.

except that Bilbo uncovers a plot to assassinate the entire royal family and indirectly saves the lives of almost the entire line of Durin. so now he’s being welcomed by open arms by the entire kingdom bc he accidentally speed ran becoming a national hero

this does away with most of Thorin’s distrust, and the two gradually get closer as Bilbo’s place in Erebor becomes more and more permanent.

and just. for plot purposes, Bilbo has been going under a pseudonym this whole time bc it’s a big world and he’s gotta keep himself safe yk, so no one knows his actual name

but now Bilbo’s like we’re friends now and I kind of saved your life, so I feel like I should probably stop lying to you ;)

Bilbo, holding out his hand: Bilbo Baggins, at your service

Thorin, about to keel over: What.

bc Thorin knows that name, as he has in fact been repeating it over and over again for literal decades. it’s the one inscribed on his wrist in a neat cursive, and suddenly everything falls into place.

Thorin, now ripping his own hair out: I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOUR NAME WAS BEEBO TWINDLEWIRE???

Bilbo: I lied :D

unfortunately Thorin’s been having grand delusions of meeting his soulmate since childhood, already planning to woo them by acting like the perfect gentleman and by being on his best behavior—just to find out that it’s the guy that he’s been actively hating on (and also guiltily crushing on) for months

knowing this, Thorin begins pulling out all the stops to make Bilbo like him. he’s sending him handmade gifts, giving him rocks of great value and meaning, showing off his craft, and making sure to train where he knows Bilbo can see. Bilbo may not be in love with him yet but it’s only a matter of time, once he realizes that Thorin is such a skilled provider

Bilbo, however, is just…deeply confused as to why Thorin suddenly seems to go from tolerating his existence to sending him longing looks from across the room, along with many, many shiny rocks and various pretty things. not to say that he doesn’t like the attention, as he’s grown very fond of Thorin over his time spent in the mountain

Bilbo eventually just chalks it up to misplaced gratitude for saving Thorin’s life and moves on. so all of the courting rituals being thrown at him continue to go over his head

meanwhile Thorin is in the midst of planning their wedding bc Bilbo is responding to all of his offerings positively, and he wants to marry his One as soon as possible

(EDIT: IVE SEEN ALL OF UR NICE COMMENTS AND THEY ARE SO SWEET, if anyone writes/draws anything w this please TAG MEEEEE)

#Bilbo’s like damn this bitch is sad and grumpy glad it’s not this guy that im tied to for life #OH HOW THE TURN TABLES #I always have to put Thorin in worst possible scenarios someone save him #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #thorin x bilbo #the hobbit bilbo #Bilbo #the hobbit thorin #Thorin #baggenshield #the hobbit #cultural misunderstandings my beloved

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glossdebut · 1 month ago

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best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that.

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is.

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know.

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit.

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic.

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette.

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine.

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck.

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch.

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy.

“Fuck—”

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely.

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space.

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair.

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long.

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down.

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going.

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence.

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he��s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe.

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up.

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter.

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week.

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot.

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option.

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast.

Yoongi��s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls.

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch.

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst.

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go.

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too.

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands.

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up.

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath.

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is.

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back.

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time.

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine.

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life.

Especially if he’s in it.

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horny-marbles · 1 month ago

Note

How do the different creeps react with a girlfriend that's very physically affectionate? She loves to kiss them hello and goodbye. Loves cuddle with them on the couch and in bed. Sit on their lap. Loves to play with their hair, scratch their scalp. Will sometimes get overcome with love and attack their entire face with kisses.

I myself am very much like this lol. Can be as fluffy (or even smutty) as you wish

me too me too 🙂‍↕️ they'd die smothered by my lips fr. i also added liu (and sully) in here because i thought he was prime material for this lol :p cw for some very mild smutty mentions but nothing too crazy. enjoy! :D

Creepypastas with a Cuddlebug Girlfriend — Headcanons

Eyeless Jack

⚉ it took forever to get here. months of flinches, vanishing acts, stiff body language and cold silences. you were patient, but he really fucking tested it. he kept pulling away like your affection was something poisonous, like he didn’t deserve the warmth in your hands. there were nights you nearly left—not because you didn’t love him, but because he clearly didn’t think he should be loved in return.

⚉ as emotionally constipated as he is, Jack is unironically the quietest simp on earth. no grand gestures, no soft declarations, no love poems in the dark—but he’ll go pliant under your hands the moment you put them on him. lets you crawl all over him, straddle his thighs, bury your face in his neck, press open-mouthed kisses to his ribs. sometimes you wonder if he’s just enduring it, if he’s humoring you.

⚉ but then he starts purring. subtle, constant, low like a distant engine. you don’t hear it as much as you feel it, thrumming through his chest when you’re tangled up together and the world is silent.

⚉ he still rarely initiates. but once the gates were down, he started soaking it up like bone-dry earth after rain. he doesn’t stop you when your affection goes over the top—when you're curled in his lap, peppering kisses across his jaw, calling him stupid pet names just to see if he’ll twitch.

⚉ he never asks for cuddles, never says he wants to be held. but the second you climb into bed or settle beside him on the couch, his arms snake around you like they’ve been waiting all day, grip firm and protective, like he’s anchoring you both.

⚉ lets you bite him whenever the affection gets too intense for you to handle. especially his arms and biceps. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t complain, doesn’t push you away—even when you accidentally bite down too hard. the marks stay for days, but he never covers them up. if anything, he runs his fingers over them sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking.

⚉ he loves when you trace the hollows of his shoulder blades and spine. long, slow touches down his back when he's shirtless? he’ll sit there, eyes shut, breathing slowed, fingers twitching like he wants to say something but physically can’t. he doesn’t say he wants to be touched, but the way he subtly exposes skin is his way of inviting it. sits in bed shirtless after a shower and doesn’t look at you, but his back is right there. take the hint.

⚉ fixates on your neck a lot. he stares at your throat constantly. or, you know, his face is tilted towards it. it’s not always sexual—it’s fascination. You tilt your head to the side and he just tracks the movement like a predator, sharp and quiet. your throat ends up with faded bite marks all the time once he got comfortable with using his teeth on you, and when you point them out, he just rumbles, “Then stop offering it.”

BEN Drowned

모 from day one, the second you started getting all sticky and cuddly with him, he started teasing the hell out of you for it. not in a mean way—just that mellow, lazy roast voice he has, the kind that sounds like he's halfway to sleep and halfway to a blunt.

“Dude, you’re like… emotionally horny. That’s wild.”

but he’s grinning. that slow, shit-eating grin that says he loves it. that he eats up every clingy kiss and every over-the-top pet name and every time you crawl onto him like a needy little koala. he barks, but he basks.

모 he revels in cuddle sessions when he’s high. joint between his fingers, you in his lap or spread out beside him, some dumb show playing he’s not even watching—he’s in heaven. his hands get real loose, one hand always low on your thigh, thumbing lazy circles or sliding under your shirt with zero fanfare, just to feel skin.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbles into your neck, half-lidded and warm against you. “You’re like… a fuckin’ cloud. Or a hot marshmallow or some shit.” then he starts giggling at his own description and buries his face in your chest like he’s trying to suffocate himself in your tits.

모 zero shame, zero urgency. he’ll rub his cheek against your stomach while you stroke his hair and mumble the nastiest compliments with all the energy of a guy talking in his sleep.

“You’re lucky I’m too high to rail you right now,” he slurs with a kiss to your ribs. “You'd be cryin'."

모 when he initiates affection, it’s barely even conscious. has this thing where he’ll hook a finger through your belt loop or hoodie pocket as you walk by just to pull you into his lap, even if he’s busy gaming. doesn’t even pause his game. he makes an obnoxious smooch sound, presses a lazy kiss to your temple, slaps your ass once, then goes right back to clicking buttons like nothing happened. half the time you’re just part of the furniture. a very warm, kissable, touchable piece of furniture that smells really good.

모 gets this really soft look when you kiss his hands—like an actual visible lag in his brain. he stares for a second, eyes lowered, breathing paused like you’ve just triggered some long-lost human file. Then he flexes his fingers in yours and says something stupid like "Damn. Didn’t realize I was royalty.”

모 a little bitch about you playing with his pointy ears. all "ugh, you got an elf kink?!" and "bro, you're fuckin' weird, stop doing that", until you actually pull your hands away. then it's suddenly, "babe, c'mon stop playing," and tucking his hair behind his ears to give you room.

모 borderline religious experience levels of fixation on your thighs. if you don't open your legs to let him sit between them he gives you this look like you just personally offended him and says, "What?? You mad at me or some shit? What did I do??"

Ticci Toby

𓌏 second-place simp only because Jack’s quiet obsession is unbeatable—but Toby gives everything back tenfold, and then some once you make it known that you're touchy-feely. he’s not gentle about it either. he loves hard, and he loves fast, like you’re gonna vanish if he doesn’t show you right now how much he needs you.

𓌏 the worst kisser on Earth (subjective). when you initiate with sweet smooches, he tackles you like a linebacker and crashes your mouths together so hard your teeth click. no aim, no finesse, too much jaw, tongue immediately. and then he pulls back with this big, stupid grin like, “That w-was good, right? Hah. G-gimme another one.” you're half-way to a concussion.

𓌏 you tried to sneak up behind him and bear hug him once. big mistake. he turned it on you and crushed you so tight against his chest that he almost broke your nose.

𓌏 you bite him playfully, and he bites back with zero restraint. doesn’t register how hard it is until you scream. he jerks back with your arm in his mouth, blinking in horror at the indents like they bit him. mouth wet with spit and the faintest trace of red, his expression crumpling like, “W-what?? Wh-what’d I do?? I-I didn’t—wait, y-you’re crying??” full kicked-puppy energy while you're nursing a war wound.

𓌏 cuddling during a movie is virtually impossible. just being near you gets him half-chubbed and distracted. and if he’s the big spoon it’s over. within minutes there’s a hand under your shirt like it belongs there, groping you like it's his emotional support tiddy. “I’m n-not d-doing nothin’, promise,” he mumbles, already rolling his hips into your lower back. “Y-you’re just s-s-soft… and warm…”

a beat of silence.

“…C-can I p-put it in though? C'mon, just a m-m-minute— Please?? We can s-still watch!"

𓌏 touch-starved to hell and back. has to be in physical contact with you constantly. holding your hand even when it's sweaty and awkward. arm slung over your shoulder. leg thrown across your lap. chin on your head. elbow in your ribs. he’s like a weird affectionate dog that never learned boundaries and never wants to.

𓌏 needy to the point of insanity. you so much as touch his thigh in passing and suddenly he’s grabbing your hand and dragging it to his crotch, muttering, “Y-you did that on purpose, d-don’t act innocent.” you didn’t. but it doesn’t matter, he's already hard.

𓌏 hair-pulling is his heroin. there's no "lazy, gentle scalp massages" with him. you try to detangle his mess of curls and he just keeps going, “Harder. Harder—mmmf, ha-harder" while you're one pull away from scalping him. but he just smiles and leans into it, completely unfazed by the fact that his head is being yanked back.

Brian Thomas/Hoodie

☹ you had to break him down slowly. he had walls of steel, thick as hell with barbed wire on top, but your affection chipped at it like water on rock. at first he dodged it—literally. you’d lean in for a kiss and he’d shift just slightly to avoid it, muttering “Don’t.” not because he didn’t want it, but because he wanted it too badly.

his reasons were always the same:

“You don’t want this. I’m not even here half the time.”

“Stickman fucks with my head. I could forget your face tomorrow.”

“You should be with someone real.”

☹ but none of that stopped the way he lingered. your touch magnetized him. you’d reach for his hand and he’d sigh but let you take it, fingers twitching like he didn’t trust himself to squeeze back.

☹ he’ll tell you he’s not a cuddler, that he “gets too hot,” that he “can’t relax like that,” that he “doesn’t sleep well next to people.” but you soon find out he sleeps better when you tangle your legs with his. can’t fall asleep unless your hand’s resting somewhere on him—his side, his chest, his wrist, doesn’t matter.

☹ he doesn’t initiate often—can’t risk falling harder than he already has—but when he does it’s a problem. it's rare and raw, and it makes your chest cave in every time. because he will just randomly sigh like he had to make a life or death decision in his head, make eye contact so intense it feels like bracing for impact, and he kisses you like he hasn't seen you in years.

☹ weak for domestic touches. tug his shirt straight for him. smooth his collar. wipe something off his cheek with your thumb. his brain just shorts out. he stands there like a statue with his eyes flicking between your hand and your face like he’s not sure which to kiss first.

☹ he LOVES when you kiss the bridge of his nose or the crease in his brow when he’s frowning. you do it to soften him up, and it works every time.

☹ Hoodie takes. affection makes him feral. especially right after missions—blood under his nails, eyes glassy, breath heavy—and you grab his face and kiss him like he’s still human? he ruins you. shoves you against the wall, fucks you like he’s still high on adrenaline. like if he doesn’t bury himself inside you, he’ll forget who he is.

☹ he can’t process gentleness right away. the first time you ran your fingers through his hair while he was still breathing heavy post-mission, he froze like you’d hit him. then he grabbed your wrist and dragged your hand back. "Again. Do that shit again."

☹ when you kiss his jaw while he’s still tense, he exhales like the pressure valve just cracked. you do that enough times, and he starts chasing your kisses with his own—down your throat, across your collarbone, rough and desperate.

☹ when you’re clingy with Hoodie, he doesn’t push you away. he lets it happen, but he doesn’t respond like Brian. he just holds you tighter, stiffer, more possessive. like he’s cataloging every second of it to replay later when he’s buried under orders and blood.

☹ kissing him through the mask undoes him. you press your mouth to the fabric and he flinches like it's more intimate than actual skin on skin. he'll stare at you like he doesn't know how to process it, and then rips it up to his nose just enough to crush his mouth against yours like he needs the proof you’re real and not some hallucination.

☹ if you help him clean up after he comes back—using a clean rag to wipe the blood that seeped through the mask on his face—he'll completely freeze for a full minute before yanking himself away from you with this ragged, broken exhale, like you just slit his throat. "No, no, stay the fuck away, this— you don't— don't fuckin' touch me, you're staining your hands. You don't deserve this." he fully shuts down on you like you just reached some purgatory in his mind, and he only comes back after you coax him softly.

Tim Wright/Masky

⦻ so fucking reluctant. not because he doesn’t want the affection—he wants it like he’s dying of thirst—but because he doesn’t trust it. he'll tip toe around it in the beginning like he's scared letting his guard down would instantly make you vanish. you’ll sometimes catch him just looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. It’s not lustful—it’s like he’s trying to memorize you, afraid his brain’s going to betray him again.

⦻ when you get clingy with him (cuddling on the couch, draping over him while he’s trying to smoke or read), he groans and mutters a half-hearted “Jesus Christ…” but makes no effort to move you. He just lets out this long-suffering sigh like he’s being tortured—and then subtly wraps an arm around you, fingers digging into your hip.

⦻ touch-starved in the saddest way. if you’re rubbing circles into his back while he lays on your chest, this man is out. fast asleep. snores like a truck.

⦻ the real killer for Tim is casual affection. walking past him and you grab his face to give him a kiss like it's second nature. or holding his hand absentmindedly while watching TV. every time, he looks at you like he can’t believe you're doing it without thinking. sometimes tears up because of it and (badly) covers it up with a yawn.

⦻ he won’t initiate affection often, but he will hover. walks too close, sits too close, lingers near doorways so you’ll come to him first. it's his way of saying “please touch me” without saying anything at all.

⦻ back of the neck touches wreck him. you slide your hand up under the back of his shirt to press your palm there—under his jacket, under his defenses. you feel him go still every time. it’s grounding. he’d never ask for it, but if you stop doing it during a hug, he’ll lean back into your hand, subtly chasing the touch.

⦻ Masky is the complete opposite of Hoodie when it comes to you cleaning him up after a mission. he goes still, but not from shame. his head tilts, eyes half-lidded behind the mask like he’s watching prey walk willingly into his den. there’s a flush creeping down his neck, a hungry glint in his eye, and he’s already half-hard under the weight of your care. he gets a rush from this—your soft hands, your worried little frown, the way you treat him like something precious even when he’s soaked in blood. the way you serve him like this without even having to ask for it.

⦻ you say “I missed you,” arms open to hug him, and he makes a low, scoffing sound in his throat—but the way he grabs you by the back of your neck to kiss you says otherwise.

⦻ Masky doesn’t process “normal” intimacy well. you rest your head on his shoulder, and he’s grabbing your thigh like it’s a green light for sex. you hold his hand and he shakes out of it just to grab your throat instead. there’s no filter.

⦻ you try to kiss him and he meets you halfway but way too fast and way too hard. teeth clash, lips bruise; he grabs your jaw to hold you still like you’re prey he’s keeping under control.

⦻ he loves it most when you get rough back, so he can one-up you. when you bite his neck or lips, or yank him in for a kiss like you need him. if he could purr, he would. his way of reciprocating physical affection is making sure you don’t walk right for two days. did i mention he has a control thing yet?

Jeff the Killer

꒷꒦ umm... jk lol

꒷꒦ first year? misery. if you’re naturally clingy, you might as well be kissing a brick wall that sometimes bites. his concept of physical affection was feral. gropey, aggressive, and mostly used to initiate sex or get a rise out of you. he was obnoxious, didn’t get soft stuff, and laughed in your face if you called him “cute.”

꒷꒦ but if you stomached that… congrats. you unlocked bare minimum boyfriend privileges. he doesn’t initiate affection unless it’s immediately sexual. you’re not getting casual cuddles or soft little kisses just because. that’s not “his style.” he groans EVERY single time you start getting handsy and soft, but he never does much to stop you anymore.

꒷꒦ he accepts hugs. because your tits squish against him and he’s a pig. he’ll either slap your ass hard enough to make you squeak, or pull you in by the neck and kiss you like he’s trying to bruise your lips.

“There. You got your stupid affection. That enough for the day?”

it’s not. you keep coming back like a needy little parasite and he acts like he’s put upon—but his grip always lingers.

꒷꒦ the ONLY time he doesn't piss and moan about cuddling is when you pull him over you in bed, face first into your chest. you try to be cute, sure, but he's a tit guy and he makes it foul instantly. cups the sides of your tits and pushes them together to rub his face in while groaning. instantly hard, too.

꒷꒦ he gets annoyed constantly. like, “can’t-breathe-stop-touching-me-I-swear-to-god” annoyed, but it’s mostly all bark. you straddle him on the couch to cover his face in kisses and he flails, groaning, “DUDE. Get the fuck off. I’m gonna suffocate.” but he doesn't push you off. doesn’t even move. he just grits his teeth and deals with it, eyes fluttering shut the second your lips hit his jaw like the hypocrite he is.

꒷꒦ he sucks at cuddling. or rather—he sucks at not turning cuddling into dry humping within five minutes. you slide next to him in bed, all sweet and warm and wanting to be held, and he immediately shifts behind you and grabs your waist like he’s bracing for impact. his mouth is on your neck before the covers settle.

“You’re the one who climbed in here,” he mutters, hand already between your thighs. “I’m just makin’ the most of it.”

he calls it "cuddling with flavor".

꒷꒦ disgustingly into anything involving his neck. you sneak up behind him, arms around his waist, lips on his neck for less than a second, and he growls, “You got ten seconds to stop before I start fucking you right here.”

Liu Woods/Sully

𓄧 at first, he’s unsure how to handle it. not in a “don’t touch me” way—he actually responds well to touch—but it scares him how much he likes it. he’s used to needing control, keeping his emotions tight, so having someone who’s always hugging him and kissing his cheek and calling him pet names just melts him. he just hides it very, very well.

𓄧 his reactions are delayed. you’ll wrap your arms around him from behind and it’ll take him a second to process it—but once he does, his hands automatically come to rest on yours, like his body reacts before his brain can argue.

𓄧 he’s not good at receiving affection without overthinking it. you nuzzle up to him on the couch and he’s immediately like: “What did I do to deserve this? Are you okay? Are you hiding something?” but he also lets out this tiny, quiet breath when you pet his hair, and that’s how you know he secretly loves it.

𓄧 obsessed with your hands. loves when you run your fingers along his jaw, lace your fingers with his, or cup his face when you kiss him. he has this internal reaction every time like he’s been hit in the chest with a shovel. never says a word about it, just keeps looking for it again and again.

𓄧 he needs physical affection, but he thinks it’s selfish to ask for it, so you’ll often find him standing too close to you, brushing up against you, subtly looking for contact like a stray cat that won’t admit it’s hungry. you sit in his lap and he freezes, then lets out the quietest laugh and leans into you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

𓄧 he matches your affection in the softest ways. he’ll kiss your forehead when he passes you in the hallway. pulls you closer in bed while still asleep. kisses your hands every time you cup his face or play with his hair. all that subtle, quiet love that he’s never sure how to say out loud.

𓄧 Sully exists to protect the system—especially Liu. he’s not cruel or evil, but he is intense. he runs hot, emotional, and blunt. he’s used to hostility, so your affection throws him off at first, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

𓄧 you learned pretty early when someone else was fronting. the posture was different. the eyes were harder. he flinched less. and he didn’t say much—just stared like he was trying to figure you out like a puzzle.

𓄧 you once kissed his cheek mid-sentence and he just paused, mid-thought. blank and confused. “...What the hell was that for?”

you said “because I wanted to.”

and he stared another beat and muttered, “...Weird,” but he turned his face for you to kiss the other cheek as well. lol

𓄧 Sully doesn’t seek out affection, but once he starts to trust you, he starts allowing it. he’ll grunt when you hug him, but he won’t move away. he’ll scowl if you hold his hand, but he squeezes back. he’s used to being the one protecting, so being loved so openly makes him feel raw and seen in a way that’s almost unbearable. almost.

𓄧 he’s more physical in return than Liu, though. if you kiss him, he grabs your waist and kisses back like it’s a challenge. if you straddle his lap, he’ll start feeling you up instantly—legs, hips, ass, making it feel like it was his idea to begin with.

𓄧 when you cuddle up to him, he makes this sarcastic little noise like “ugh,” but his hands find your waist automatically. his body betrays him every time. he’s all sarcasm and sharp teeth, but he wraps around you like he’s been cold his whole life.

𓄧 after getting comfortable, he lowkey loves to tease you, but acts like it's just aversion to touch, just to fuck with you a bit. you lean in to kiss him and he turns his head last second so you miss his lips. if you pout, his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile and he leans in with this low tone, "You gonna start crying? Can't you wait until I fuck it out of you?"

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