#and finding them all is harder than you think | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velvetvisionsaurora · 3 days ago

Text

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior, mentions of suicidal thoughts.

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.

18+ only- Minors do not enter

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 3: The Dinner Declaration

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, jaw set with determination. If they expected you to play the part of the grateful, compliant bride-to-be, they were about to be sorely disappointed. Your fingers work methodically, pulling your hair into a messy bun and scrubbing away the last traces of makeup from earlier.

The silk pajama set you slip into is designer—black with delicate lace trim—but unmistakably sleepwear. Let them see exactly how little effort you're willing to put into their charade.

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Marco's name lights up the screen, and for the first time today, you smile genuinely.

"Little sister," his warm voice fills your ear as you answer. "How's life in the wolves' den?"

"About as welcoming as you'd expect," you reply, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "They're all here, Marco. All eight of them."

A pause. "And how are you handling that?"

"Like a Ricci," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. "Though I'll admit, seeing them all together again... it's harder than I thought it would be."

Marco's voice turns serious. "Y/n, listen to me. These men broke you once. They shattered you so completely that I almost lost you." His words carry the weight of that terrible night seven years ago, when he'd found you on the balcony, ready to step over the edge. "Whatever game they're playing now, whatever excuses they have—don't let them do it again."

"I won't," you whisper, but even as you say it, you remember Wooyoung's enthusiastic embrace, the way Mingi looked at you with such longing.

"Steel your heart, sorellina," Marco continues, using the Italian endearment that always makes you feel protected. "Make them pay for every tear you shed, every night you cried yourself to sleep wondering what you did wrong. You owe them nothing but contempt."

His words straighten your spine, reminding you why you're here—not by choice, but as a pawn in a larger game. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm your big brother." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Now go show them exactly what kind of woman you've become. The kind who doesn't break twice."

After ending the call, you sit in the silence of your temporary prison, Marco's words echoing in your mind. Steel your heart. Make them pay.

By the time you descend the stairs at exactly seven o'clock, your armor is in place—not silk and steel this time, but defiance and deliberate disrespect.

* * *

The dining room falls silent as you enter. Eight pairs of eyes track your movement, taking in your appearance with varying degrees of shock and something that might be appreciation. The massive table is set with formal china and crystal, multiple courses already laid out with military precision.

Hongjoong's jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over your pajamas, his knuckles whitening where they grip his wine glass. Good, you think with savage satisfaction. Let him see exactly how little this arrangement means to you.

"Y/n!" Wooyoung's voice cuts through the tension, bright and welcoming as if no time has passed at all. "You look comfortable! I love that you're making yourself at home already. Oh, and your hair looks so cute up like that—remember when we used to braid it? You'd sit between Seonghwa and me while we watched movies, and—"

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa's voice carries a warning, but Wooyoung barrels on, his energy filling the room like an unstoppable force.

"—and you'd always fall asleep halfway through, so we'd have to carry you upstairs. Your mom would laugh and say we spoiled you rotten, but honestly, we loved taking care of you. Remember that time you got sick with pneumonia and I learned to make your mom's minestrone from scratch because it was the only thing you'd eat? I must have made it twenty times that summer—"

Your heart clenches traitorously at the memory. You do remember—the fever, the way Wooyoung had sat beside your bed for hours, spooning soup into your mouth and reading to you when your throat was too raw to speak. The gentleness in his hands as he smoothed your hair back from your fevered brow.

But then the storm clouds gather, dark and vengeful, reminding you of other words he'd spoken. God, Y/n, you're exhausting. Do you know that? You're exhausting and needy and you never know when to stop.

The memories collide—past tenderness and past cruelty warring in your chest until you can't breathe properly. You look around the table, seeing all of them watching you with expressions ranging from hope to wariness to barely contained longing.

That's when it hits you. The sheer audacity of it all.

"Are you all fucking delusional?" The words explode from you like shrapnel, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you think you could each break my heart over and over with your words, and I would come here and play house with all of you?"

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Wooyoung's smile falters, his hand halfway to his wine glass freezing in mid-air.

Hongjoong sighs, setting down his utensils with deliberate care. "We were trying to—"

"Protect me? Right?" you sneer, cutting him off. The word tastes like poison in your mouth. "Poor little Y/n. Needs everyone to protect her with secrets and lies. I don't give a fuck why you did it."

You stand so quickly your chair topples backward, the crash echoing through the silence like a gunshot. Every eye in the room is fixed on you now, but you don't care. Seven years of buried rage is clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be heard.

"You were all my first friends," you say, your voice deadly quiet, look at Hongjoong. "You took away my first kiss." Your gaze shifts deliberately to Yunho, whose face goes pale as understanding dawns. Around the table, surprise ripples through the others—apparently, he'd never shared that particular secret.

Yunho's mouth opens as if to speak, but no words come. His eyes are wide, almost panicked, as if he's afraid of what else you might reveal.

"Now you want to take away my marriage?" You laugh, but there's no humor in it—only broken glass and bitter irony. "What's next? Am I going to be expected to have a child with you too?"

Hongjoong's eyes flash with something dangerous, possessive. His grip on his wine glass tightens until you're surprised it doesn't shatter.

But you're not done. Not even close.

You smile then—sharp and vicious and completely without warmth. "Don't worry, dearest fiancé. You won't have to take my virginity. That honor went to someone else."

The silence that follows is deafening. You can feel the jealousy rolling off them in waves, thick enough to choke on. Hongjoong looks like he could murder every man in the city with his bare hands, his carefully controlled facade cracking to reveal something primitive and possessive underneath.

San's knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the table. Mingi has gone completely still, like a predator preparing to strike. Even gentle Yunho looks stricken, as if you've physically wounded him.

Good, you think viciously. Let them feel a fraction of what they put me through.

"Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen," you say with false sweetness, gathering what remains of your dignity around you like armor. "I'm sure you have much to discuss."

With that, you turn on your heel and head for the door, your bare feet silent on the marble floor. Behind you, you hear the scrape of chairs, raised voices, the sound of something shattering—whether it's glass or composure, you neither know nor care.

You've delivered your message loud and clear: the naive girl they once knew is dead and buried. In her place stands someone who won't be broken twice, someone who learned that the only way to survive wolves is to become something more dangerous than they are.

As you climb the stairs to your room, you don't look back. But you carry with you the image of eight faces, each reflecting a different shade of devastation, and for the first time since arriving, you feel like you've won a battle.

Even if the war is far from over.

***

The silence after your departure stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. Eight men sat frozen around the dinner table, the wreckage of your words settling over them like fallout.

Hongjoong's wine glass lay shattered on the floor where he'd thrown it, red liquid seeping into the pristine white marble. His chest rose and fell with barely controlled fury, his carefully maintained composure crumbling piece by piece.

"When did you two kiss?" His voice was deadly quiet, but his eyes burned as they fixed on Yunho.

San's hand slammed against the table with enough force to make the crystal jump. "That's what you're focusing on? Did you hear what she said?" His usually charming features were twisted with anguish.

"We broke her," Seonghwa said steadily, though his face had gone ashen, the careful mask he wore stripped away to reveal raw devastation beneath. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his wine, the only outward sign of the turmoil raging inside him.

Yunho shifted uncomfortably under Hongjoong's intense stare, running a hand through his hair. "It was nothing," he said, but his voice cracked slightly. "We were fifteen, at that beach bonfire. Everyone was drinking, and she was upset about something—I don't even remember what—and I just... I comforted her. It didn't mean anything."

But his eyes told a different story. His eyes remembered everything—the taste of salt on your lips from tears and ocean spray, the way you'd looked up at him with such trust, such innocent affection. The way his heart had stopped when you'd pressed your mouth to his, soft and tentative and perfect.

"Bullshit," Hongjoong snarled, starting to rise from his chair. "You never—"

"Enough." Jongho's voice cut through the air like a blade, stopping Hongjoong mid-motion. The youngest of them rarely spoke with such authority, but when he did, they all listened. "You weren't the only one in love with her, Hongjoong. Just because you're going to be her husband on paper doesn't change that. It doesn't give you the right to interrogate the rest of us about our feelings."

Hongjoong's jaw worked furiously, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I'm her—"

"Her what?" Jongho challenged, rising to his full, intimidating height. "Her fiancé? A title forced on both of you by circumstances and family politics? You heard her tonight—she doesn't want this any more than we do. So don't stand there acting like you have some special claim when we all lost her seven years ago."

The words hit like physical blows, each one landing with devastating accuracy. Hongjoong's face cycled through emotions—rage, pain, frustration, and underneath it all, a grief so profound it was almost unbearable to witness.

Across the table, Wooyoung had begun to cry—silent tears streaming down his face as he stared at his untouched plate. His shoulders shook with the effort of containing sobs that wanted to tear free from his chest.

"She hates us," he whispered, his usual bright energy completely extinguished. "Did you see her face when I was talking? She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was nothing." His voice broke completely. "I used to make her laugh every day. Every single day, and now she can't even stand to hear my voice."

Mingi hadn’t moved since you’d left, his eyes fixed on the doorway as if he could still see you standing there. His face was a mask of quiet devastation, all the light drained from his features. Of all of them, he seemed the most deeply affected, as if your words had physically wounded him.

“Someone else,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She gave herself to someone else.”

The words sent another ripple of tension around the table. The implication that you had been intimate with someone else—someone not in this room—was like salt in an open wound for all of them.

“Who?” Hongjoong demanded, turning his fierce gaze to Seonghwa. “You’ve had people watching her. Who was it?”

Seonghwa’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Our surveillance was for her safety, not to monitor her personal life. If she was involved with someone, we weren’t aware of it.”

“Find out,” Hongjoong ordered.

“Why?” Yeosang spoke, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. “So you can what—track him down? Threaten him? Kill him?” He shook his head. “Her life is her own. It always has been.”

“She’s going to be my wife,” Hongjoong said through gritted teeth.

“On paper,” Yeosang countered. “This is a business arrangement, remember? Your words, not mine.”

The two men stared at each other across the table, years of friendship straining under the weight of the moment.

"She's gone," Mingi said quietly, his deep voice barely audible. "Even when she's here, she's gone. The girl we knew... we killed her that day."

San laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and broken. "And for what? To protect her? Look how well that worked out. She's alive, sure, but she's nothing like the person we fell in love with."

"She's stronger," Yeosang said quietly, speaking for the first time since you'd stormed out. His observant eyes had been taking in every detail of the confrontation, analyzing and processing. "Harder. She's built walls that would make ours look like paper."

"Strong enough to hate us," Yunho added miserably. "Strong enough to look us in the eye and tell us exactly what we took from her."

Seonghwa set down his wine with shaking hands. "The way she looked at me when I walked in yesterday... like I was a stranger. No, worse than a stranger. Like I was an enemy." He closed his eyes, pain etched in every line of his face. "She used to run to me when she was scared. Used to trust me with everything."

"We all lost that," Jongho said grimly. "The way she used to light up when she saw us, the way she'd curl up between us during movies, how she'd share every thought and feeling without hesitation." His massive frame seemed to shrink in on itself. "She was so open then. So trusting."

"And now she threatens to shoot anyone who touches her," San said flatly. "We did that. We created this version of her."

Hongjoong finally sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wild with frustration and something that looked dangerously close to desperation.

"We had no choice," he said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "The threats were real. They would have killed her."

"Would they?" Yeosang asked quietly. "Or did we just make the easy choice? Take the money, break her heart, and tell ourselves it was noble?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation. Around the table, seven men faced the weight of a decision made in desperation and fear, a choice that had saved your life but destroyed your soul.

Wooyoung's sobs finally broke free, raw and devastating in the silence. "I can't do this," he choked out. "I can't sit here and pretend this is fine. She's upstairs right now, alone and hurting, and I can't even comfort her because I'm one of the reasons she's in pain."

Mingi's chair scraped against the floor as he finally moved, standing abruptly. "I need air," he muttered, heading for the terrace doors. "I can't... I can't breathe in here."

"Running away again?" San called after him, his own pain making his voice cruel. "That's what we do best, isn't it? Run when things get difficult?"

Mingi stopped at the threshold, his broad shoulders rigid. "What would you have me do, San? Go upstairs and beg for forgiveness? Explain that we broke her heart to save her life? You think that'll make her hate us less?"

"At least it would be honest," San shot back. "At least it would be something other than sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves."

"Enough," Seonghwa said wearily. "Fighting each other won't fix this."

"Nothing will fix this," Yunho said hollowly. "Don't you see? We can't go back. We can't undo what we did. And she's made it clear she doesn't want our explanations or our apologies."

Hongjoong's hands clenched into fists on the table. "So what? We just accept this? We marry and spend our lives as strangers? She lives in our house, bears our name, and hates us every second of every day?"

"Maybe that's what we deserve," Jongho said quietly. "Maybe that's the price we pay for the choice we made."

The words settled over them like a death knell. Seven years of guilt and regret crystallized into a single, awful truth—they had saved your life, but in doing so, they had lost any chance of sharing it.

Yeosang stood quietly, pushing in his chair with deliberate care. “You all keep talking about her like she’s a problem to be managed,” he observed. “She’s not. She’s Y/n. Our Y/n. And right now, she’s alone and hurting.”

“Where are you going?” Seonghwa asked as Yeosang moved toward the door.

“To do what none of you seem capable of,” Yeosang replied. “Listen to her.”

“Yeosang,” Hongjoong warned. “The agreement—”

“I won’t tell her anything she doesn’t need to know,” Yeosang assured him. “But someone needs to make sure she understands that whatever happens next, she’s not alone in this house.”

Without waiting for permission, he left the dining room, his steps purposeful as he headed toward the staircase.Before anyone could stop him, he was gone, his footsteps echoing up the stairs toward your room—toward a conversation that was seven years overdue and might already be too late.

Next>>

Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @imagine-all-the-imagines @green-moon @thelordofshadows21 @yunyunrin @vinylphwoar @thuyting @mdurir @dachshunddame @ninjakitty15 @moonchild-stuff7 @stellmeiv @spenceatiny18 @herpoetryprincess @m00njinnie @starz-choisanii @ateezswonderland @mxnsxngie @purple-bell @awkward-fucking-thing @hecateslittlewitchling @pixie0627 @parkthothwa8 @hwa2tiny @s1ar4s @atinystay-xxx @moonxxlover @babymbbatinygirl @londonbridges01 @miracle-sol @killerwaifu @peachyplumsss, @cksanpurpleluv, @teafortarry, @fudgeflyssworld, @deafeningpandareview, @ramadiiiisme, @frankielou02, @mjaudrey, @leahhhher, @poptartsandpopstars, @silentwhisper666, @whyme11, @special4u, @sparda1234, @scuzmunkie, @ayayaeyato, @everglow98

366 notes · View notes

cayleeuhithinknott · 1 day ago

Text

✿ — better off . . . chris sturn

in which . . . chris wants more, you can’t give it, and somehow you both keep ending up here anyway.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , public sex (party bathroom) , creampie , angst , emotionallyunavailable!reader , kinda mean!reader , unrequited love , alcohol consumption

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #11

the music is too loud. the air smells like cheap vodka and weed. the lights are too dim, and chris shouldn’t even be here—should’ve stayed home, should’ve ignored your text.

but he didn’t.

he never does.

you’re across the room, laughing at something someone said, half-empty drink in your hand, that same unreadable smile on your face. you look like you’re having fun. like none of this means anything to you. like you haven’t spent the last three months calling him at midnight and crawling into his bed just to leave before the sun comes up.

he hates that he’s watching you.

he hates that he’s waiting for you to notice him.

and worst of all—he hates that the second your eyes finally flick over to him, his stomach flips like he’s sixteen again and seeing you for the first time.

your gaze lingers just a little too long.

then you smile. lazy, slow. like you know exactly what you’re doing.

he watches you slip through the crowd, drink still in hand, swaying a little more than you need to as you make your way toward him.

“didn’t think you’d come,” you say, voice light, casual. like it doesn’t matter.

chris shrugs, leans against the wall like he’s not dying inside. “yeah, well. didn’t have better plans.”

you smirk. “lucky me.”

it’s always like this. flirty but empty. close but never close enough.

you take another sip, eyes dragging over him slowly. the alcohol’s making you bolder tonight. chris swears there’s a lazy warmth in your stare, something softer underneath. but just for a second.

“you look good,” you say finally, like it’s an afterthought.

he swallows hard. “you always do.”

you don’t respond to that. you just step closer, close enough for him to smell your perfume. close enough that your hip brushes his when you lean past him to set your cup on the table.

it’s subtle. intentional. cruel.

he grits his teeth. “you drunk?”

you shrug. “mmm…tipsy.”

he narrows his eyes. “you always get handsy when you’re tipsy.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you murmur, but there’s a teasing smile on your lips now. dangerous and sweet.

before he can answer, your hand curls around his wrist light and fleeting, but enough to get your point across.

“come with me.” you say.

and like always, he follows.

you drag him down the hall like it’s nothing. like this isn’t some twisted routine you both keep falling into. like this doesn’t mean anything.

he barely has time to process before you’re pushing open the bathroom door, shoving him inside, and locking it behind you.

“seriously?” he says, but it’s already breathless.

you just smile—lazy and slow—and then you’re on him.

hands on his chest, mouth pressed to his like you’ve been starving for him. it’s not sweet. it’s hungry. messy. like you’re trying to shut him up before he can ask what this is or why you’re doing this again.

his hands find your waist on instinct, pulling you closer.

you taste like liquor and lip gloss and every single bad decision he’s ever made. because almost all of them involved you.

you moan into his mouth when he backs you against the wall, and it shoots straight to his head—makes him groan low in his throat, makes him bite at your bottom lip harder than he should.

but you don’t stop.

you kiss him deeper. let your nails drag down his neck. let your thigh slip between his legs like you’re trying to rile him up on purpose.

“you’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters against your mouth, half-laughing but not really joking.

you smile like you don’t care. “you already let me.”

your hands slide under his shirt, cold against his skin, and he hisses when your fingertips dip low enough to make him tense.

he’s trying to pace himself.

trying to remind himself that you’ll leave again.

that you’ll pull away and smooth your dress back down and act like none of this happened.

but when you twist your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug him toward the counter, it’s like every ounce of self-control snaps.

he spins you fast—bending you over the sink without thinking, one hand gripping your hip, the other fisting in your hair to tilt your head back just enough for him to kiss your neck, hard.

your breath catches.

your hands scramble for balance on the edge of the counter.

and when he drags his mouth down your shoulder, growling low and desperate—he knows there’s no going back.

not tonight.

not with you like this.

and as his hands slip lower, making you arch back against him with a soft gasp, he knows exactly where this is going.

he knows he should stop.

but he won’t.

not when you’re standing here—half drunk, half laughing, flushed and gasping for him—bent over the counter like you’re daring him to take you apart.

like you want this just as bad.

like you’re giving him one more chance to forget how this always ends.

and when his fingers slip beneath your dress, dragging slow and possessive up your thigh…he stops thinking altogether.

he grabs the hem of your dangerously short dress, lifting it up to bunch it around your hips. he’s met with the sight of your ass, barely covered by your panties. the dark cadet blue adorned with prints of white carnations, the hem decorated with delicate white lace.

he knew they were your favorite. of course, you didn’t know he knew that. but he cared that much. he always had.

he smooths his hand over your fabric-covered skin, admiring you. when you push your hips back against him, he snaps out of his trance. “chris, c’mon…”

chris hooks his fingers under the lacy waistband, pulling them down until they drop to your feet, pooling around your ankles. he softly groans at the sight before him. your rounded, bare ass bent over the counter for him. one thing he knows is for him.

he squeezes your plump flesh softly, earning a hushed moan from you. he fumbles with his belt, the sound of the buckle filling the bathroom. you hear the weight of his belt and jeans falling to the floor. he immediately pulls down his calvin klein boxers, his hardened dick tapping his lower abdomen as it springs out of the constricting fabric.

chris’s hand dips between your parted thighs, feeling the wetness between your folds. “god, you’re soaked…” he mumbles.

he runs his fingers through it, coating them before bringing his hand to his stiff cock and stroking it a few times. once he thinks he’s lubed enough, his hands grip your hips, steadying you. you look up at him through the mirror, noticing how he’s staring down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing this world has ever known.

chris drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds, lingering at your clit before trailing himself back to your entrance to line himself up. you feel the pressure, and your gaze locks with his in the mirror. your head drops, forehead hovering above the counter.

“you ready?”

you nod, bracing yourself for him. chris is big. you both know that, which is he’s pushing himself very slowly. the heat of your cunt wraps around him, your walls squeezing him as he eases himself inside of you. your legs wobble, matching the poor stability of your breathing.

you let out a soft whine as he bottoms out, feeling him in the deepest places you didn’t even know possible. “tell me when, baby.” the word slips out of him soft and easy—like it means everything. and maybe it does. but to you? it’s just a word. another thing he gives too much weight to. another thing you’ll forget by morning.

you feel full. brutally full. he starts slowly easing himself in and out of you, grip tightening on your hips. you’d have bruises for sure. you feel each of his veins drag against your velvety walls, your cunt greedily sucking him in with each thrust.

chris lets out a shaky breath, followed by a groan as he starts to pick up his pace. he sets a steady yet fast rhythm, just the way you both liked.

chris always remembers what you like. down to the smallest, stupidest things. he knows how you take your coffee. he knows what songs make you roll your eyes and what ones make you sing along.

he even knows what flowers you like—like he’d ever be in any position to get you flowers. like that would ever be something you’d let him do.

and still, here he is. fucking into you like he’s got something to prove. like memorizing you wasn’t already enough. like this will be the thing that makes you stay.

he’s so deep in it, too—silent for once, teeth clenched, hands tight on your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. lost in his own head. too caught up thinking about you—about how even now, even like this, he can’t stop wanting more.

he doesn’t snap out of it until you moan soft and wrecked, followed by: “chris…”

the sound hits him like a punch to the chest.

his hips stutter, breath catching, and before he can stop himself, he grips your flesh harder and fucks you deeper, chasing the sound again.

“fucking—shit—“ chris grunts, hips stuttering slightly before gaining back the steady pace. he drills into you, pouring all his feelings into his thrusts. the head of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside you with a sickeningly delicious pressure, tightening the knot in your gut.

your legs tremble beneath you, your body completely relying on chris’s hands on your hips and the counter you’re bent over.

one of his large, veiny hands snakes around your waist, splaying itself on your lower tummy and applying a sweet, momentary pressure. the feeling goes just as quick as it came as his hand trails down to your cunt, his fingers finding your swollen clit to lavish it with attention, the pace of his hips never stuttering once.

you borderline shriek, grip tightening on the edge of the counter. “fuck fuck fuck!” you repeat, warm walls clamping down on chris’s length. he’s so beyond fucked.

chris feels his balls draw tight, his hips slapping harder against the reddened flesh of your ass. “m’gonna cum, chris, i—“

“go on.” he assures you. and as soon as the words leave his lips, you fall over the edge. your vision flashes white, a hot, fiery feeling violently trembling through your body.

when chris feels you constrict around him, your creamy release coating his length, he can’t take it anymore. his hips stutter, his own high crashing into him like a tidal wave, his seed painting your walls warmly white, mingling with your own release.

after a few moments, he pulls out with a quiet curse, breath heavy, hands still lingering on your hips like he’s reluctant to let go.

you don’t look at him.

just adjust your dress like this was always the plan. like you weren’t just coming apart on his dick less than two minutes ago. you smooth the fabric down over your thighs, tugging it back into place. no blush on your cheeks. no softness in your eyes. just that same casual, detached nonchalance you always put on after.

chris breathes out slow, dragging his boxers and jeans back up. the metal of his belt clinks softly as he fastens it, and it feels…final somehow. like the end of another round in this game you keep playing.

you grab some toilet paper, sliding it between your legs, cleaning yourself up with the same tired efficiency like you’ve done this before. because you have. no ceremony. no care.

chris wipes himself off with a wad of paper towel from the counter, tossing it in the trash with a low sigh as he watches you pull your panties up beneath your dress. for a second, he just leans against the counter, watching you silently like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your shoulder, the way you fix your hair in the mirror like nothing happened.

he watches you swipe at your neck and chest with a paper towel, like you’re scrubbing him off you.

you catch him looking.

“what?” you ask, flat, like you’re annoyed he’s still staring.

he shakes his head. “nothing.”

you huff out a little laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “don’t look at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like this means something, chris.”

it guts him a little, the way you say it so easily. like he’s the idiot here. like he’s the one making it complicated.

you grab your purse from the sink, slipping the strap over your shoulder like this was just another hookup with some guy whose heart you aren’t busy breaking.

before you leave, you pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder just once. “don’t wait up.”

he swallows hard, nodding like it’s fine. like he’s fine. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

the door shuts behind you. he stares at it for a long time.

and god, he knows he’s better off without you.

but knowing that never stopped his heart from aching like this.

never stopped him from loving you.

even when you’ll never love him back.

author’s note . . . sorry chris…😞

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

211 notes · View notes

wonluhver · 3 days ago

Text

S.Coups Focus

M = Content Warnings for Smut

! = Personal All Time Favs.

! The Great War [M] - historical! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, fluff, oneshot.

there was only one thing you hated more than your restricted life, and that was choi seungcheol—the greatest venetian general who has ever lived. when a marriage is arranged between the two of you, you were sure it would end in bloodshed. however, as you and seungcheol are forced to attend balls and share a few hard truths, you realise you have more in common with the mysterious general than you thought.

Please [M] - Alpha!Seungcheol x Omega! f.reader, Smut, A bit of Fluff, the barest hint of angst, oneshot.

A heatwave in your city makes dealing with your hormones more difficult than usual. Getting locked in a lobby at work for an hour with an alpha makes it ten times worse. Thankfully, Seungcheol is there to help you - and maybe a little more.

Amortentia - fluff, angst, one-sided love, oneshot (series for other members)

Being head-over-heels for the Gryffindor captain is harder than it seems, especially when everyone knows about your little crush on Seungcheol and he takes it lightly. Until when you’re partnered up and forced to be in each other’s lives on a daily basis, that’s when things take a bit of a turn

! You Think You Might [M] - Seungcheol x fem!reader angst smut fluff fake dating!au, kind of sort of exes to lovers? Fake exes to lovers? I guess? completed series.

Seungcheol agrees to be your fake boyfriend at your sister’s destination wedding, under the condition that it “stays there”. You didn’t expect it to hurt when he holds you to that promise.

! The Hidden One [M] - pirate!choi seungcheol x assassin!fem!reader, smut, fluff, humor, some action, historical au, assassin's creed: black flag au (although you don't need to know the lore to read this), pirate au, royal au, strangers to lovers au, oneshot.

choi seungcheol is supposed to be dead. following a tropical storm, the notorious pirate loses both his ship, the golden corsair, and a majority of his crew to the cruel tides. now stranded in sevilla, spain, seungcheol and his three remaining sailors must find a way back to england; however, an unexpected altercation ends up tying their fate to you, an assassin who wants nothing to do with the four of them. despite your reluctance, he must work alongside you in exchange for a way back home. of course, complications arise once his heart decides to have a say in the matter, and, somewhere along the way, seungcheol realizes this mission is bigger than himself.

Up in Flames [M] - seungcheol x f.reader, smut, action, slow burn, firefighter au, author au, damsel in distress au, ‘let me help you’ wildland firefighter!cheol x ‘i can do it myself’ miss independent yet clumsy!reader, completed (i think) series.

When your sister calls with an emergency, you drop everything to house-sit while she’s out of town. What she forgets to mention is that her fiancé’s friend, a handsome stranger who might have saved your life earlier, is already expecting to stay there too. Awkwardly sharing the space, you manage to get through two weeks with Seungcheol—only to unexpectedly cross paths again when he saves you from another dangerous situation outside your therapist’s office.

Seungcheol, a wildland firefighter, is back in the city taking his leave and debating whether to join Station 17 or return home. While sorting out his own issues, he keeps finding himself in situations where he has to save you—the fiery, stubborn little sister of his best friend’s fiancée who has a terrible habit of calling him the most obnoxious nicknames ever. Despite your resistance to being rescued (and his denial of how much you affect him), the sparks between you two continue to ignite. As you grow closer, it’s only a matter of time before everything goes up in flames.

! Camp Seventeen [M] - Afab!reader x ot13 (Focused on Reader x Seungcheol), Greek Demigod AU! crack, smut, fluff , angst, hurt, comfort, uncompleted series.

It's been a week since you stepped foot in Camp Seventeen - as you navigated the days trying to wrap your head around the 13 boys, one's touch and another's voice start to become a bit too bothersome....

! Too Many Beds [M] - Choi Seungcheol x afab! Reader, Rivals to lovers? Frenemies to lovers? Lovers to lovers? Idk man, these two are idiots, that's all. Oh and smut. oneshot.

Choi Seungcheol may be your parent's best friend's son, your next door neighbour for 20 odd years and the one face you saw every damn time, every damn where but that didn't mean the two of you wanted anything to do with each other. But a business trip - one room, three nights, and seven beds - might just be what it takes to change it all....

! Challenge Me [M] - College!Au, porn with plot(s), crack, OT13 x afab!Reader (Scoups/Mingyu focused). Unfinished series.

you have never been a person who turns down a challenge, but when your best friend challenges you to hook up with 13 boys in one semester you kind of wish you were.

When a killer obsessed with theatrical “roles” starts leaving bodies across Seoul, two rival detectives—Reader and Seungcheol—are forced to reunite. He’s cold, calculating. She’s headstrong and haunted. Together, they decode cryptic notes, wooden masks, and staged corpses. But as the killer targets her, the case turns intimate. And for Seungcheol, losing her was never an option—even if it means becoming the bait.

Still reading through a lot of scoups fics on my tbr !! but as soon as i make it through them i will add a part 2.. apologises for a smaller rec list than my hoshi one !!!!! :,( i will make up for it soon.

other recs

269 notes · View notes

ginnsbaker · 1 day ago

Text

All Of Your Pieces (31 - Paradise Calling)

Chapter Summary: After several weeks of looking for her, you do eventually find Wanda Maximoff after she leaves Westview, but not in any way you ever imagined.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: violence, mention of blood and injury

A/N: The story continues in the aftermath of Wanda’s release of Westview. I’m still debating whether to stick with the canon concept of Billy and Tommy’s souls being real but bodiless since I started this story long before Agatha All Along entered the picture. Also, there might not be an update next week as I'll be out of town. Thanks to everyone who still continues to follow this story :) You guys are awesome. P.S. can you guess which mutant attacked y/n? :P // More author's notes here. // gif

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The Hex dissolves completely at midnight.

By then, more and more of Westview have become accessible, its walls shrinking like the last breath of a dying storm. Throughout the wait, Monica’s order remains ironclad, which is that no one who isn’t a Westview resident is to step across the boundary.

It turns out to be the right call. Letting Wanda end it on her own terms—without pressure, or interference—is the last mercy anyone can offer. So they wait at the edge of town, in the solemn dark, while those inside slowly begin to come back to themselves.

And when the last of it winds down, Monica gives the signal. The military moves in, not with weapons this time, but with medics in tow. People stumble into the streets, dazed and hollow-eyed, like toys winding themselves up after years on a shelf. Some of them rush to scoop their children into their arms, while others just stand there, holding each other, staring at their hands like they’ve only just remembered what it means to move on their own.

It’s harder than anyone on the rescue team expected. Because how do you assess damage like this? These people aren’t injured in any conventional way. Their minds weren’t broken so much as hijacked. Puppeted. Made to smile and speak and move without their consent. It’s not madness, and it’s definitely not grief that they are experiencing.

It’s something more…alienating. Locked in the backseat of your own body, watching your hands move and your mouth speak, knowing none of it is you. It’s the kind of trauma that leaves even seasoned therapists unsure where to begin. So the medics do what they can. Blankets for the cold, water for the dry-mouthed, and a hand on the shoulder for those who can’t seem to stop shaking.

And you—you stay rooted at the edge of the ground where Wanda’s house once stood, silently taking in the aftermath. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at the lot you bought on a whim five years ago. It feels larger than you remembered, and standing here now, it stirs more regret than pride.

“There’s no sign of her,” Clint says as he approaches. He glances between you, Monica, and Darcy. “She’s gone.”

Monica exhales sharply. “Of course she is,” she mutters.

Agent Woo’s already packed up and gone too, reassigned mid-crisis to another urgent matter. Those left behind are burdened to help pick up the pieces.

“I guess she escaped?” Darcy offers.

You wince. “Don’t say ‘escaped.’ She didn’t—” The sentence stalls, the logic collapsing halfway out of your mouth.

Monica catches it and shrugs. “Yeah, maybe ‘escaping’ wasn’t her plan.” Then, more pointedly, “But what did you think was gonna happen? That she’d stick around? Turn herself in? Like you did, Y/N?”

Right. You’re still technically a prisoner. Still walking around on borrowed time, under a conditional release that’s quickly running out, especially now that Wanda’s vanished, and no one has a clue where she went.

You’d been hoping for a moment—just one—to talk to Wanda alone. And now, you’re starting to think your presence never mattered at all. The other you, her you, was the one who got through to her, who helped her bring down the Hex.

All you’ve ever done here was make it harder for Wanda.

“And her children?” you ask quietly, turning to Clint, your voice stripped down to worry.

Clint just shakes his head. “No sign of them. Or your copy.”

Everyone’s face falls at that. They’d all felt so real, the idea that they simply blinked out of existence is hard to swallow even if the theory always seemed to suggest that direction.

Darcy breaks the spell. “Shame, really. I kinda liked that Y/N.” She shoots you an apologetic grin. “No offense to the original, it’s just... we never got our moment.”

You manage a weak smile. “None taken.”

Monica claps her hands together. “Well, I guess… that’s it.”

You turn to her slowly, frowning. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

Monica’s hands drop to her sides. “I mean… she’s gone. The Hex is down. Everyone who was trapped is free. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Clint gives a weary shrug. “Sometimes disappearing’s the only thing a person has left.” You shoot him a glare, but he honestly seems oblivious that his words just struck you straight on.

Before you can argue further, a young S.W.O.R.D. tech jogs up, tablet in hand.

“Uh, Director?” He gestures vaguely at Monica. “We found a vehicle just outside the old perimeter. Abandoned. Figured you’d want to take a look.”

Monica glances between you and Clint. “Yours?”

You shake your head no.

“Color?” Clint asks.

“Deep maroon,” the tech says. “Old Volvo wagon. New Jersey plates.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “That’s Wanda’s.”

You’re already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth.

“Y/N—” Monica calls after you, but you don’t look back.

Clint mutters a curse and follows. Monica and Darcy hang back, letting you go.

You’re desperate for any sign of Wanda, anything that might tell you where she went. You haven’t run this far or this fast in years, and your lungs are burning from the effort. But the thought of her out there, alone and possibly hurt, keeps your legs moving, pushing through the ache.

Soon, just past the edge of the boundary, you spot the Volvo.

You slow as you approach, heart thudding in your chest.

Clint catches up beside you. “That’s definitely hers.”

You nod, already reaching for the handle. It shouldn’t open, but it does. The door gives with a soft click, swinging open without resistance. You slide into the driver’s seat and glance around.

“She didn’t even lock it,” you murmur.

“The keys?” Clint asks.

You check the ignition. Nothing. Then the cupholders, under the seat, the center console. Still nothing.

“Glove box,” Clint says, leaning in through the open door.

You press the latch. The compartment drops with a soft thunk, and something slides forward: a single manila folder, edges crisp, your name penned in Wanda’s looping cursive across the tab. Your breath catches. Carefully, almost like it might break in your hands, you lift it. It feels like it holds everything you’ve been chasing.

Inside, everything is heartbreakingly familiar. The property deed you mailed Clint weeks ago. Photographs you never had the courage to burn when you first became convinced that Wanda wasn’t coming back. Letters and notes you randomly wrote to Wanda throughout the years she was gone.

And resting on top of it all, catching the faint moonlight—

Your wedding ring. The one you gave her. The match to the one you still wear around your neck.

With trembling fingers, you turn the band over between thumb and forefinger; it’s still warm, as if she’d only just set it down.

“She left this car here,” you whisper. “Because she wanted me to find this.”

Clint drifts a few steps back, giving you space but not leaving. He folds his arms and waits, giving you time to come to terms with Wanda’s clear response at having found out you lied to her. And it’s not pretty.

After a long, brittle silence, he clears his throat. “So… what are you going to do now?”

It’s the same question everyone’s thrown at you all day, and you still don’t have an answer.

Instead of answering, you whisper, “Did I make a mistake, Clint? Walking away back then, leaving her to sort through the rubble alone, was that when everything started to fall apart?”

He exhales and lowers himself onto the curb beside the car. “We all made mistakes,” he says, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckles. “But no one could have known it would lead to this. We were careless, sure, maybe blind to how much she was really hurting. But this,” he says, nodding at the folder in your lap, “this was Wanda’s pain. Her choice. Not something you could have predicted.”

“I should’ve seen her slipping. I asked you to look after her and—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “And I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t there for her like you asked. I was drowning in my own mess, trying to keep my family together once we got them back… I missed the signs.”

You nod slowly and slip the ring into your pocket. Then, flat and quiet, you say, “I’ve still got about a decade of my sentence to serve.”

“I can buy you more time,” Clint offers. “Tell them Wanda escaped. Technically, this whole thing isn’t over.”

You huff a humorless breath. “It won’t matter. I don’t want to go back.”

Clint studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed. “You mean that?”

You nod again. “The second I saw her… I wanted to take it all back. The deal. The surrender. All those years I spent trying to convince myself that moving on was the right call.”

He sits with that for a while, then says, quiet and honest, “You know I can’t turn myself in either.”

You glance over at him. “I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ve got my family back,” he says. “I’m rebuilding. I can’t walk away from that.”

“I know,” you reply. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “Then what are you thinking? You planning to go back on the run? Because you remember what it was like after the Accords, right? We didn’t end up in the Raft, but we weren’t free either. We were always looking over our shoulders.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Wanda was with me back then.”

He raises a brow, watching you carefully.

“And somehow,” you add, voice soft, almost to yourself, “that made all of it bearable.”

After a long lull, Clint asks, “What were you hoping for, Y/N? When she saw you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit with a shrug. “Maybe that… that she’d recognize me, at least.”

“She probably did,” Clint says. “That might be why she destroyed the Hex herself.”

You shake your head, hard, unwilling to accept that. “I doubt it was that simple.”

The idea feels impossible. You remember the look on Wanda’s face: hurt, disappointment, the unmistakable sting of betrayal. You have put that look there before, but this time it was different. This time, that betrayal caused her this guilt she now carries with her for something she’d done out of her mourning you—

When she never should have had to mourn at all.

—

With Clint’s quiet blessing, you slip into the night, becoming a fugitive once again, determined to reach Wanda before the authorities do. It isn’t enough that Wanda released the town willingly; the damage is already done. Westview’s residents remain traumatized and disoriented, and dissolving the Hex doesn't absolve her actions. This is exactly what Tony always fought for—the idea that even heroes, even Avengers, must answer to laws meant for everyone, not just hide behind the duty of saving the world.

You don’t blame them for hunting her. You just don’t trust them to understand her.

So you go first.

You swap your jacket for a plain coat, leave your comms behind, and start reaching out to contacts you haven’t spoken to in years. A woman like Wanda can’t move without leaving a ripple, and eventually, you learn to follow a pattern: unexplained power surges in rural areas upwards north. Clint checks in with you every now and then, but you don’t expect anything more. He’s busy these days—a civilian fully occupied with being a father.

The first few weeks blur together. Deep down, you keep hoping Wanda will be the one to find you—not because she misses you or wants to forgive, but because she finally wants answers. Isn’t there at least one question she needs to ask? Maybe she hates you too much to bother. Maybe she hates you enough to stop caring about your reasons altogether.

That thought hurts more than you’d like to admit. Still, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve put her through. You don’t know how you’ll face her when the time comes. All you know is that she’s hurting—and a hurting Wanda Maximoff isn’t just a danger to the world. She’s a danger to herself.

Late one evening, while tracking rumors of strange sightings in the forested mountains of Vermont, you feel unease settle in your gut. The trees grow denser, their branches knitting overhead, and the pale yellow moon offers little light. Shadows slither and shift across the narrow trail. You stop, breath misting in the cold air, certain now that you’re not alone.

You hold still and listen. Over the thud of your own unsteady pulse comes a faint rustle in the undergrowth. It’s too careful, too deliberate to be wind or wildlife.

“Who’s there?” Your voice is brittle, an uncertain challenge.

In the dark forest, you know you shouldn’t make a sound. But if it’s Wanda—

A low growl answers, so deep and guttural it sends a chill racing down your spine. You spin, eyes straining through the gloom, just as a shadow barrels toward you. The movement is fast, smooth, and completely inhuman.

It slams into you with brutal force, all muscle and claws—definitely not Wanda—knocking you hard to the ground.

You scramble to your feet, breath ragged, eyes sweeping the darkness in search of your attacker. The figure rises slowly, towering and hunched, its skin a sick, mottled gray. Its limbs are grotesquely stretched, ending in claws slick with fresh blood (yours).

Its face—

No. That can’t be right. Tony’s snap wiped out all of Thanos’ army. This thing shouldn’t exist. So how is it standing here? How did it survive?

“What the—” you gasp, stumbling back.

It lunges again, jaws gaping open with teeth glinting sharp and savage. You swing your arm wildly, and your fist connects with its jaw. The impact jars painfully up your arm, but the creature barely reacts, snarling viciously as it swings one massive clawed hand toward your face. You dodge by inches, claws slicing the air with a sharp hiss.

You stagger back again, trying to regain your footing. Your breath comes out in uneven bursts of fogged air. The creature circles slowly, blocking any clear route of escape. You study it, desperately searching for a weakness, but its movements remain erratic, unpredictable.

Your combat skills are still there, but you’ve aged some, and it’s not as easy to fall back into your old rhythm and speed, especially when facing such an aggressive foe.

“Stay back,” you warn weakly, your voice trembling despite your attempt at bravado.

It snarls louder, head twitching, neck muscles spasming unnaturally as it stalks closer. You backpedal and your foot slips on wet leaves, throwing you off-balance. You hit the ground hard, skull cracking sharply against something hidden beneath the foliage. Stars burst in your vision.

As you struggle to sit upright, the beast approaches slowly, enjoying this, you realize sickeningly. It flexes its claws, taking its time.

“Wait,” you choke out, tasting copper as blood fills your mouth.

It stalks towards you leisurely as if hearing nothing. It snarls again, lips peeling back to reveal teeth sharp as blades. It raises a hand for the final blow, claws poised high—

And all you can think is how ironic it is. That this is what you craved, once.

Back when you were Ronin.

When death felt like the only honest language left, and violence was the only thing that could answer it.

You spent five years chasing this moment. And now? Now, with Wanda back in the universe. Now, when for the first time in years, you actually want to live.

Now is when death decides to show up?

Of course it is.

You laugh, or try to, but it comes out as a choked breath through blood. The creature roars, the sound tearing through the trees. And as the snow drifts down and your vision begins to fade, you manage one last word, soft as a prayer.

“…Wanda.”

—

You wake slowly to warmth, a fire crackling nearby. Every part of you feels bruised, sliced open, and carefully stitched back together. Bandages wind tight around your ribs, your shoulders, your arms. Your throat burns dry, but you're breathing. Miraculously.

You push yourself upright, careful and slow. The world sways around you as the blanket slips from your shoulders.

Blinking up at the slanted ceiling overhead—wooden, rough-hewn, beams exposed, nothing familiar about it—you realize you’re still in the forest. The earthy, damp scent of pine needles teases your nose. There’s no electricity, just lanterns, candles, heat from flame and old wood. The furniture is simple, hand-built, and worn from use.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet sinking into a rug so soft it draws a quiet sigh from your lips. You have no idea how long you’ve been unconscious—hours, maybe even days.

Unsteady, you find the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance. You pass a small kitchen, simple but well-stocked. A kettle rests near the fire, still warm, like it was used not long ago.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the front door slightly ajar, a narrow strip of gray light slicing into the room, dust suspended in its path.

You drift closer.

Outside, there’s Wanda.

She sits on the porch steps, wrapped in a thick sweater, her back to you. Her hair falls in loose, tangled waves, longer than you remember. Despite the biting cold, she’s barefoot, her arms draped over her knees as she stares into the woods.

You stop at the doorway, saying nothing at first.

She looks so… peaceful.

“Wanda,” you say at last, barely above a breath.

She doesn’t move.

You try again. “Wanda.”

Still nothing. You can’t tell if she’s ignoring you, or if your voice is simply too weak for her to hear.

Of course it was her who found you. Of course it doesn’t mean anything’s been forgiven. You take a step back, and the door eases shut behind you with a quiet creak.

You head deeper into the cabin. It’s not large, but in your condition, it feels like a maze.

At the end of a narrow hallway, you find a door left slightly open.

Something pulses beyond it—low and red and constant. Your fingers graze the frame as you nudge it open.

The hair on your arms rises.

Wanda’s there, too.

She’s floating a few inches off the ground, legs crossed. Her eyes don’t blink. They don’t move. Just glowing red, unwavering and endless.

She’s reading. The book in her hands is anything but ordinary. Its pages shift and shimmer, symbols rearranging themselves the moment you try to make sense of them.

You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come. You’re frozen.

Slowly, like she already knew you were standing there, she lifts her head.

Her gaze locks onto yours.

The book snaps shut.

154 notes · View notes

scannainscanrula · 1 day ago

Text

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed.

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together.

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual.

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it.

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl.

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back.

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think.

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them.

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly.

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England.

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker.

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning.

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush.

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit.

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now.

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about.

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you.

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong.

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke.

He laughs at that and you grin.

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page.

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair.

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar.

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified.

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever.

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent.

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back.

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television.

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration.

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket.

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing.

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him.

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.”

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants.

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing.

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy.

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach.

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

#remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick #remmick sinners #sinners fanfiction #remmick fanficiton #remmick fanfic #jack o'connell x reader #sinners 2025 #sinners

169 notes · View notes

orellazalonia · 3 days ago

Note

i love your blog and writing style so much! reading x reader fics is my only type of comfort (besides my cat) so you're making my days better and more bearable i'm really thankful for that! 😭🌷

soo i wanted to ask you to write a fic for me 🥺 i literally have NO ONE like no friends (i have 3 or 2 but not 'friends' friends you know?) and my family is messed up i feel like i have no one in my corner and i would love love love if you write something like reader is lonely and bucky goes in her life and etc etc i would be SO thankful if you choose to write this and if you don't, don't worry you're already making my days better while writing your fics 🤍🩶

Hello, dear! I’m glad you have enjoyed my work and that they’ve been of comfort to you! I appreciate the kind words. It was nice completing your request since I could relate to some of it and always enjoy writing some hurt/comfort. However, I do hope you find some good friends or people you can turn to someday! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Stayed Through it All

Summary: You’d spent most of your life convinced you were too quiet, too much, not enough for anyone to stay. But then Bucky Barnes started showing up in your life slowly and gradually became the first person who made you feel like you didn’t have to be anyone or anything else to be enough.

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t mean to let it get this bad.

You didn’t even notice when the loneliness stopped feeling like something temporary and started becoming something permanent.

It was probably after your friend stopped texting back to hang out with their new friend. Maybe it was after your father stopped returning your calls, blaming you for being “too much” when all you’d done was cry quietly on the phone one night. Maybe it was the way your mother’s voice always sharpened when you dared to mention being tired. “You think you have it hard?”

Eventually, you stopped sharing at all. Even in the smallest ways. You nodded along to your coworkers' stories, laughed at the right times, learned to say “I’m good, you?” like a reflex.

But one day turned into a week, then a month of missed calls and unanswered messages. Not that there were many to begin with. Your friends, if you could still call them that, had slowly drifted, slipping into group chats you were no longer in. Family remained… complicated. Cold shoulders wrapped in guilt-trips and sharp words. You’d grown tired of pretending you didn’t notice when they began talking around you instead of to you, or when they only reached out to check boxes you didn’t fit in rather than check on you.

Work had been your only escape, but even that now felt fragile. Hours were cut, supervisors were vague or micro-managing, and you faced an endless stream of people who smiled right through you. It was like being invisible while still somehow feeling too much.

Too sensitive. Too strange. Too needy. You hated how easily you cried these days. How easily you cracked.

It got harder to go home after work with each passing day. The silence in your apartment was different now. It wasn’t peaceful anymore, it reminded you of every thought and thing wrong about yourself. How you must have done something wrong for people to not want you around. How you couldn’t host dinners or parties because there was no one to invite. How even living in this apartment was seen as another disappointment rather than an achievement by your family.

Maybe that’s why you started walking at night, even though you claimed it helped you sleep. Sometimes it did. Sometimes you wandered until your legs ached, until your phone’s battery blinked red. It wasn’t safe, but you didn’t care. You weren’t reckless, you just didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere long enough to be missed.

That night, you weren’t planning to go far. You’d just needed air. You hadn't even bothered with proper shoes, just slipped on your jacket and walked. The streetlamps buzzed overhead as a breeze tugged your hair across your face.

You focused on the ground as you rounded the corner of a quiet street, when you almost ran straight into him.

“Oh–sorry,” You said, stepping back instinctively, your hand pressed to your chest. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The man raised his hands slightly in a gesture of peace. His eyes were sharper than the streetlamp above you, but not unkind. “You okay?”

You blinked. He was wearing a hoodie and gloves, but you’d seen enough photos on newsfeeds and headlines to know exactly who he was. “You’re… Bucky Barnes.”

He looked surprised for a split second, like he hadn’t expected to be recognized. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. Not because it was funny, but because your nerves were starting to catch up. “Didn’t expect to bump into an Avenger tonight.”

“Didn’t expect to get bumped into,” He replied, something vaguely teasing in his tone. “But it’s alright.”

There was a pause. You shifted awkwardly, hugging your arms around yourself. “Sorry if I messed up some kind of mission or something.”

His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Not exactly a mission, just walking the neighborhood. Making sure things are quiet.”

You nodded. “They usually are.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet way that made you feel like he was seeing too much. “You’re out here a lot.”

You hesitated. “That supposed to be a warning?”

His expression softened immediately. “No–no, I didn’t mean it like that. Just… noticed. That’s all.”

You gave a small shrug, trying not to look embarrassed. “It’s quieter out here than it is at home.”

Something in his eyes changed, recognition. “Yeah,” He said quietly. “I get that.”

You looked at him then. His hood couldn’t hold the weight behind his eyes nor could he hide the way exhaustion lived in his posture. You didn’t know all the details, but the world had made sure you knew enough.

“I’m fine,” You added, mostly out of habit.

“Are you?” He asked gently.

You swallowed, glancing away. “I don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence before he took a slow step back, giving you space. “Do you want company? Just to walk. I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

You hesitated. Your gut said no. You didn’t let people in, couldn’t. Not anymore. But your heart, the part that had been bruised and stretched thin and aching for something steady whispered yes.

“…Sure,” You said. “Walking with someone sounds… nice.”

He nodded, falling into step beside you. “And what should I call you?”

You glanced at him and smiled softly, giving him your name. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt like someone might care enough to remember it.

You never said it out loud, but you started looking for him.

Not in an obvious way. Not with expectation. But your heart would lift, just a little, whenever you turned the corner and saw him there. Hands in his pockets, hood pulled low, and watching the world like it might turn on him at any second until he saw you. Then he softened.

He never greeted you loudly. Just a simple, “Hey,” or a nod, like you’d both agreed long ago that this was normal.

And somehow, it became exactly that. Normal.

It wasn’t every night of course, but it was often enough that absence felt strange. A small ache in your chest when he wasn’t on the corner. You told yourself it was fine, that he had a life, a job, a past filled with shadows. You weren’t owed anything.

But you missed him anyway.

There were other nights where you spoke in fragments.

“What do you do when you can’t stop thinking?” You’d asked once, voice barely audible.

“Walk,” He’d said. “Or hit things.”

You’d laughed, and he’d smiled, just a little.

Other nights, it was quiet. Just walking. Just being near someone who didn’t expect anything from you. Someone who didn’t need you to perform happiness or push down your grief.

Bucky never asked about your family. He never pried. But you could tell he knew something wasn’t right. He noticed the tension in your shoulders. The way your voice got flat when you mentioned home. The way you avoided talking about weekends or holidays altogether.

But he didn’t force you to explain. He just stayed.

And on one Tuesday night, you realized something.

You’d left work exhausted, your brain buzzing from a manager’s sharp words and the hollow ache of pretending to be okay all day. You weren’t thinking about much when you turned the corner that night and there he was.

Same spot. Same faint, crooked smile when he saw you.

And it hit you: he was waiting.

Not just showing up. Not just passing by. He was waiting for you.

You swallowed thickly, not trusting yourself to say much.

“Hey,” You managed.

“Hey,” He said, falling into step beside you.

Like always. Like routine. Like something steady that just kept growing.

Because the next night, he was there again. This time, with two paper cups.

“Tea,” He said simply, holding one out to you. “Figured I’d guess this time.”

You took it, your hands feeling the warmth from the cup.

“…You always this nice?” You asked softly, only half teasing.

He glanced at you. “No.”

You smiled faintly. “So why with me?”

He looked away, the way he always did when he was thinking too much. “Because you remind me of me,” He said finally. “Back when I thought no one saw me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…I see you,” You whispered.

He looked at you then, something softening in his expression. “I know.”

And that was the night you stopped pretending it didn’t mean anything. The night you realized you weren’t just walking anymore. You were building something. And Bucky Barnes was becoming part of it.

One afternoon, you didn’t expect to see him in the daytime.

Your connection lived in the quiet hours. After sunset, under flickering streetlamps, where shadows were long and words were soft. That was your world. The only time you felt allowed to exist without needing to explain yourself.

But then came Saturday and there he was.

You spotted him from across the street. His hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looked more like a guy running errands than a former assassin on patrol.

He saw you at the same time, gave a little lift of his chin and crossed the street with purpose. You froze halfway to the bus stop, unsure why your stomach flipped the way it did.

“Hey,” He said, a little breathless, like he’d hurried.

“Hi,” You replied, confused but smiling anyway. “Didn’t think I’d see you in daylight. Thought you were strictly nocturnal.”

Bucky actually chuckled, quiet and rare. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t sure if this would be weird.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna grab lunch. There’s this spot a few blocks away. It’s tiny, but kind of quiet. I figured I’d ask if you wanted to come.”

You blinked. It took you a full second too long to register what he meant.

“Oh,” You said. “Like… lunch. Together?”

“Yeah,” He said, then quickly added, “Just food. I mean, not like–unless you–hell, I’m bad at this.”

You bit back a laugh. “You’re fine. I just… didn’t expect that.”

“I figured,” He said, eyes scanning your face. “If you say no, it’s okay. We can just stick with nightly walks.”

That made your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

Because part of you wanted to say no. Not because you didn’t want to go. But because some part of you was convinced you’d ruin it. That he’d realize you weren’t enough.

That someone like him who was kind, observant, and careful, wasn’t meant to stick around people like you. People who carried too much in their chest and didn’t know how to set it down.

But then you looked at him. Bucky Barnes who had every reason to close himself off and still offered you tea when you were shaking, and quiet when you needed space.

And he was asking to spend time with you. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Just… asking.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

The place was small and tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty, just calm. You sat across from each other at a little table by the window. And for the first time, you talked in full sentences. About music. Food. The ridiculous number of people who apparently still thought Bucky liked plums because of some file Steve mentioned once.

You laughed more than you had in weeks. He smiled more than you’d ever seen.

You caught him watching you a few times, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. And every time, your heart did that quiet, painful twist that came with realizing someone actually wanted you around.

You didn’t talk about family. Or trauma. Or loneliness. But you didn’t need to. Not yet.

Because for now, you let yourself sit across from a man who kept showing up. And for once, you didn’t feel like a burden for accepting it.

When it ended, you both had exchanged numbers and you smiled the whole way home. Not a big, giddy grin. Not the kind that buzzed with new love or rose-colored excitement. Just a small, warm curl at the corner of your mouth that wouldn’t go away.

Because the lunch had been… easy. Natural.

You didn’t remember the last time you’d felt like that with someone. Just sitting across from them and not having to work so hard to be interesting, or likable, or fun. You hadn’t needed to fill the silence, because Bucky never made silence feel like failure.

And he’d even paid, grumbled a little about modern pricing, but still held the door open when you walked out.

You should’ve felt safe. Happy. But of course, that voice came back. The one that always did when something good happened.

He was just being polite. He probably felt bad for you. You talked too much. Or not enough. Or said something weird. He’s probably second-guessing it now.

You told yourself to stop, that none of it was true. But you’d lived most of your life watching people lose interest in you like clockwork. So instead of walking with that same lightness you felt at the table, you found yourself shrinking again.

Head down. Hands in your jacket pockets. Smile fading, bit by bit

And to your surprise, texted later that evening.

Just a simple:

Made it home okay?

You stared at it for a full minute.

Then typed:

Yeah, thanks. And… thanks again for lunch. I really appreciated it.

You added a second message, hesitating.

You didn’t have to do all that.

You almost deleted it. But your finger slipped, and it sent.

A minute later, he responded:

Didn’t do it because I had to.

Another pause and he sent another message.

I wanted to.

You stared at those three words for a long time.

The next night, you almost didn’t go on your walk. You weren’t sure if he’d be there. If it would be weird now. If the quiet thing you’d built would somehow be different just because you’d shared a meal like two normal people.

But you went anyway. And when you rounded that corner, heart in your throat, he was there. Same spot. Same faint smile when he saw you.

“You came,” He said.

You swallowed. “So did you.”

“Of course I did.”

And just like that, without needing to explain the ache in your chest or the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind, he started walking beside you again. As if the doubt within you never stood a chance.

However, good things never last.

You hadn’t meant to cry.

You’d gotten good at holding things in. Good at keeping your voice even, your expression neutral, your heart locked up behind carefully stacked defenses. You knew how to keep walking. How to keep breathing through the ache.

But some days, some days it didn’t matter how strong you tried to be. And that night, everything hurt.

It wasn’t even about something new. Nothing fresh or sharp. It was the old stuff, the words that never really healed. The ones that resurfaced in this mornings phone call with your father, when he’d said it without hesitation. “You’re just too hard to love, you know that?”

It had gutted you then and it still did.

Because even if you didn’t show it, you’d started to believe it.

The way friends drifted away. The way family only called when they needed something or to criticize. The way people got tired of your quiet, your sadness, your needs. Even when you tried to shrink yourself, to not ask for anything… it was never enough.

You were always too much, and somehow not enough all at once.

So when you walked that night, when you saw Bucky waiting in his usual spot, you almost turned back.

But he saw you. And the moment he did, something in his expression shifted.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked right up to him, stopped short, and stood there with your arms crossed tight over your chest, like if you let them drop, everything would spill out.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “You alright?”

You shook your head once, too quickly as your voice cracked when you whispered, “Why do you keep showing up?”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him then, eyes confused. “Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep… being nice to me?”

He took a step closer, cautious. “Because I like being around you.”

“You shouldn’t.” The words burst out before you could stop them. “I’m not…– people don’t stay. They get tired of me. They always do.”

“Who said that to you?” He asked quietly, his voice low, steady.

You laughed bitterly. “Does it matter… Friends. Family. Pretty much everyone I ever let get too close.”

You looked away, blinking hard.

“They all said the same thing… that I’m just too hard to love.”

It was out now. Ugly, raw, and terrifying. You waited for him to flinch. To pull away. To prove them right. But he didn’t.

He stepped closer, slow and sure. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he reached out, one hand hovering at your shoulder until you gave the tiniest nod.

Then his palm pressed gently against your arm.

“They were wrong,” He said.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” He said firmly. “Because I know me. And I don’t waste time on people I don’t care about.”

Your throat tightened.

He wasn’t trying to fix it. He wasn’t telling you to be positive or that it would pass. He wasn’t saying it didn’t matter.

He was just there. With you.

“You’re not hard to love,” He spoke softer now. “You were just surrounded by people who didn’t know how.”

And that broke something loose.

The first tear slid down your cheek. Then another. You tried to speak, to apologize, but your voice disappeared behind a sob that ripped straight out of your chest.

You folded into yourself, ashamed, but Bucky caught you. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms. Not tight. Not smothering. Just enough.

Enough to say I’m here. Enough to say You’re not too much for me. Enough to say I’m not going anywhere.

And in his arms, safe for once, you let yourself cry.

Really cry.

For the first time in a long, long time.

When the tears had finally stopped, you felt worn out like a storm fading to drizzle. You’d stood in the dark with Bucky for longer than you realized, his arms wrapped gently around you. He never rushed you. Never asked you to talk more or explain.

And when you finally stepped back, breath unsteady but lighter somehow, he didn’t say a word about the crying. Just looked at you like you were whole.

“…I’m okay now,” You’d whispered, not sure if you believed it yet.

His head tilted slightly. “You want to walk?”

You nodded.

And you walked until you were both sitting on a cracked bench outside a 24-hour café near a closed bookstore. He’d offered to buy you something, no pressure, just a question, and you said yes without thinking.

It felt… nice. Like last time. Letting someone do something for you without guilt clinging to it.

You had a small paper cup between your hands of warm chai, still steaming. He had black coffee, of course. Of course he drank it black.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t awkward. It was gentle. Companionable. Like your sadness didn’t scare him. He wasn’t expecting you to bounce back or smile to make him feel better.

He was just there.

You took a small sip, then glanced over at him. He was watching the empty street like he was half on patrol, half at peace.

“Thanks for the tea,” You murmured.

He looked at you then, eyes soft. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You looked down at your drink. “I didn’t mean to cry like that.”

“I know,” He said. “It’s okay.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “But why didn’t you walk away?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back on the bench, hands wrapped around his cup like it grounded him.

“Because I know what it’s like,” He said finally. “To think you’re too broken or too much. To think you’ve ruined the moment just by being yourself.”

You glanced at him, surprised at the honesty.

He kept his gaze forward. “I’ve been there. I still go there. But… I also know how much it means when someone stays anyway.”

Your heart ached in a different way now. Not from pain. From being understood.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

“Anytime.”

You sat in silence again, drinking your tea slowly, letting the warmth from the cup seep into your fingers.

The city was so quiet this late. No shouting. Barely any cars. Just wind and dim streetlights.

Eventually, you looked over and gave him a small smile. “You think next time we could get donuts or something instead?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, his version of a grin. “You saying I’m not a good coffee date?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile widened. “You’re passable.”

He let out a soft huff of amusement. “Alright, donuts next time. But only if they have the jelly-filled ones.”

You nudged his arm lightly. “You got a deal.”

And just like that, something fragile began to stitch itself back together inside you.

It may not have been fixed or finished. But it was held together by his love and care.

And for now, that was more than enough.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky x you #hurt/comfort #bucky hurt/comfort #angst fic #angst #request fulfilled #thank you for the request!

143 notes · View notes

rafayelxsylusho · 2 days ago

Text

The land of no return part 8

Hello everyone!!! Thank you so much for the comments and all the love given to this fic ❤️❤️❤️

Now, look at this beautiful art! Isn't it gorgeous? It's based on this fic. Go follow @roschea-arts she is amazing!

Also i reached 2000 followers!🥳🎉 I have no idea how but I love you all!

"I once loved a flower so much that instead of picking it, I left it alone."

Zayne

Caleb leaned back against his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

"What exactly do you want, Zayne?" Caleb asked, his voice tinged with a note of impatience. "You show up here, unannounced, looking like you haven't slept in days..."

Zayne barely heard the criticism in his friend's tone. "I want to know how she is doing, she cancelled her appointment last week, with no reschedule date." He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, that he was overstepping boundaries, but he couldn't help himself. "After Elijah left..."

Caleb cut him off, his expression hardening "She is doing fine," he said shortly. "She is a big girl. Perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

He pushed off from the desk, straightening to his full height, a clear signal that he wanted this conversation to be over. "You can leave now," he said, a note of finality in his voice. "I have a lot of work to do right now."

Zayne's jaw clenched, a surge of frustration and desperation rising up inside him. He took a step closer to Caleb, his eyes flashing with a intensity that made it clear he had no intention of leaving until he got the answers he needed.

"I'm not going anywhere..." Zayne began, but Caleb cut him off again with a sharp, biting remark.

"You could have done with adopting that viewpoint two years ago"

"Do you know why Elijah left?" Zayne asked, his voice rising with a note of urgency.

"If I knew why, do you really think I would tell you?" he asked with a note of mocking incredulity in his voice.

He walked to the open door of his office, his hand gripping the handle tightly, a silent command for Zayne to leave. His posture was rigid, his shoulders tense, a clear indication of his growing irritation and reluctance to engage in this conversation any further.

Zayne, however, remained rooted to the spot, his eyes locked onto Caleb's face, a desperate, almost pleading look in their depths. He was pushing the boundaries of their friendship, knew that he was being a burden, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when it came to her well being.

"I hate to pull this on you...but you owe me one, Caleb."

"You're really going to pull the 'you owe me' card right now?"He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face as he turned away from Zayne, striding back to his desk.

"She's a mess, alright?" he said shortly, his voice tight with an emotion he couldn't quite disguise. "She's hurting. Hurting like hell. Elijah leaving...it hit her harder than I think anyone realized it would."

He paused, a shuddering breath leaving his lungs as he struggled to find the right words. "She's strong, though. Stronger than you give her credit for. She's picking up the pieces, bit by bit, day by day."

"Caleb, I need her back" Zayne said, his voice raw with longing and regret.

Caleb's expression softened, the anger draining from his eyes as he looked at his old friend. The tension in the room shifted, the animosity giving way to a tentative, fragile understanding.

"I know, and I think..." Caleb began, his voice hesitant, as if he were wrestling with his next words. He paused, his jaw clenching as he tried to find the right way to express the truth he had been holding back.

"I think she still loves you, Zayne," Caleb said at last, the words coming out in a rush, as if he had to force himself to say them. "She's angry, she's hurt, but the love...it's still there. It hasn't gone anywhere."

"What if she hates me more?"

"She hates what you did, not you"

"I don't know what to do anymore"

"You chased her until you got her, so now chase her until you get her back. But if you screw up again, if you hurt her again..."

Zayne nodded at Caleb's warning, the gravity of the words sinking in like a stone in his gut. He couldn't afford to screw up again, not just because of the pain it would cause her, but because he knew his friendship with Caleb would be irreparably broken. And he had no doubt that Caleb's retaliation would be far worse than the single punch he had received before.

With a heavy heart, Zayne turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence of Caleb's office. He had taken only a few steps towards the door when Caleb's next words stopped him in his tracks.

"I will not get in the way this time," he said, a note of support in his voice. It was a small olive branch, a sign that perhaps their friendship could be salvaged if Zayne succeeded in his mission.

But then, with a glint in his eye and a smirk that was equal parts encouraging and threatening, Caleb added, "But I'm not so sure about the rest of her friends." It was clear that he took a dark delight in imagining the obstacles that lay ahead for his friend.

"Good luck."

❄️❄️��️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

"Just because I carry it so well, it doesn't mean it's not heavy"

Y/N

It had been nearly three long weeks since Elijah had walked out of your life. The pain had begun to feel more familiar, like a constant dull throb that you had grown accustomed to. This heartache was different, though. This time, you couldn't blame anyone but yourself for the mess you were in.

As you sat at the bar, the dim lighting casting shadows across the polished wood, you found yourself contemplating the wisdom of drowning your sorrows in alcohol. A certain doctor swore by the numbing effects of alcohol, claiming it made the pain of a broken heart bearable. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and you were nothing if not desperate to feel something other than the constant ache in your chest.

The bartender, a man with a thick beard and a tattoo snaking up his arm, slid another shot of tequila in front of you. You didn't bother to ask how many you'd had already. Three, four, five? Who was counting? It was Friday night, and for once, you didn't have to worry about being at work tomorrow. Tonight, you could let yourself go, could indulge in the sweet oblivion that alcohol promised.

As you knocked back the shot, you couldn't help but think about how much your life had changed in such a short amount of time. Just a few months ago, you had everything you ever wanted a successful career, a home, and a man who loved you.

You glanced at your watch, realizing that Rafayel was running late, as per usual. He was probably running around the city, trying to find the hottest new bar. Rafayel always did have a flair for the dramatic. But tonight, his tardiness only gave you more time to wallow in self pity and drown your sorrows in cheap tequila.

The alcohol began to take effect, you felt a faint buzzing in your head, a pleasant warmth spreading through your limbs.

As you were about to down another shot of tequila, a firm hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist, stopping your hand mid motion. Startled, you looked up to see who dared to interrupt your self destructive quest for numbness.

Standing beside you was the last person you expected to see, Zayne. Without a word, you unwrapped his fingers from your wrist, using your other hand to break his grip. Your skin tingled where he had touched you, a sensation that you both welcomed and feared. Swallowing the tequila shot defiantly, you felt the liquid burn its way down your throat.

You choked slightly, your eyes watering from the sudden onslaught of alcohol.

Ignoring Zayne's presence, you turned back to the bartender, your voice slightly slurred as you asked for another shot. "One more," you said, holding up a finger and gesturing to your empty glass. The bartender, sensing the tension between you and the man standing beside you, hesitated for a moment before pouring another generous measure of tequila.

You turned to face Zayne, your eyes narrowing as you searched his face for any sign of deception. The tequila had started to cloud your judgment, but not enough to ignore the coincidence of running into him here, of all places.

"Are you following me?" you asked, your voice sharp and accusing. You held the shot glass aloft, the lime wedge perched precariously on the rim. Without waiting for his response, you knocked back the tequila.

His face mirrored your own, a slight grimace flashing across his features as the memory of the alcohol's burn echoed in his mind. He had tasted it before, many times, when he had tried to drown his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.

"This is a coincidence," he said, his voice unconvincing even to his own ears. He shifted his weight, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture of nervousness.

You sucked on the lime wedge, the juice mingling unpleasantly with the lingering taste of tequila on your tongue. You made a face at the bitter combination, before fixing Zayne with a hard stare.

"Then why did my coworkers say they saw you outside HH all week?" you demanded, your words slightly slurred but no less accusatory. "And don't try to tell me it was just a coincidence, Zayne. I know better."

"I'm just worried about you"

You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you shook your head. "Well, I'm not yours to worry about," you retorted, a sharp edge to your words. You were tired of being a source of concern for Zayne, tired of being a problem that he felt the need to solve.

Glancing around the bar, you hoped to catch a glimpse of Rafayel, desperate for a distraction from the tension that had taken root between you and Zayne. But alas, your friend was nowhere to be seen, leaving you to fend for yourself in this awkward encounter.

Undeterred, Zayne slid onto the barstool beside you, his thigh brushing against yours in the close quarters. "Did you break up with him?"

You cut your eyes at him, a look that screamed, 'How dare you ask me that?' But even as the thought crossed your mind, the words spilled from your lips. "Maybe he dumped me," you said, a shrug of indifference in your shoulders.

Zayne chuckled "He isn't that much of an idiot"

You turned to face him again "Then what does that make you?" you asked, a challenge ringing in the words.

Zayne's fingers toyed with the small glass in front of you, turning it slowly on the bar's smooth surface. A rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a look of self deprecating honesty in his eyes.

"An asshole"

"That's right," you agreed, a note of grim satisfaction in your voice.

You leaned back on the barstool, crossing your arms over your chest as you studied Zayne's face. The alcohol had begun to blur the sharp edges of your anger.

"And yet, here you are," you said, "Why do you keep showing up, Zayne? What is it that you want from me?"

"I'm here because I can't stop thinking about you. Because every day without you feels like a day wasted. Because I'm going to fight for you"

Please Zayne, whatever it is we can work it out, you won't hurt me

"What if I don't want you to?"

Please don't leave...

"What if I don't care?" he countered, stubborn determination in his tone. "What if I can't just walk away and pretend that I don't love you anymore? You might not want me to try and win you back, but I can't stop myself from trying. I won't stop until I've proven to you that you mean everything to me."

Please

"Just give me a chance. One chance to show you that I'm not the same man who walked away from you."

I can't...2 words, 5 letters

You could only stare at Zayne for a long moment, his words hanging heavy in the air between you. The weight of them pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe, let alone formulate a response.

You fumbled for your wallet, your fingers trembling slightly as you pulled out two twenty dollar bills. You didn't trust yourself to speak, afraid that if you opened your mouth, you might say something you'd regret. So you simply placed the money on the bar next to your empty shot glass.

Without giving him the satisfaction of seeing the turmoil written all over your face, you slid off the barstool. The sudden movement made your head swim, a side effect of the alcohol and the emotional whirlwind you found yourself in.

You took a deep breath and made your way towards the exit, your heels clicking against the floor. You could feel the weight of Zayne's gaze on your back, could almost hear the unspoken questions and pleas that hung in the air between you.

As you pushed open the heavy door, the cool night air hit your face, a stark contrast to the stuffy, alcohol tinged atmosphere of the bar. You took a step forward, blinking in the sudden brightness of the streetlights, when you spotted the salvation you needed.

A cab sat idling at the curb, without hesitation, you made your way towards it. You needed to get away, to put some distance between yourself and the man who had once again turned your world upside down.

As you slid into the backseat of the taxi, you gave the driver your address, not trusting yourself to think clearly enough to give him directions. The cab pulled away, and as you watched the bar recede into the distance, you couldn't help but wonder if you had just made the right choice.

Only time would tell if walking away from Zayne had been the smartest move, or if you had once again let fear and pride guide your actions. For now, all you could do was stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past as you tried to make sense of the tangled mess that was your heart.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

"If you can't pick, flip a coin. Because for that split second it's in the air, you know exactly what side you want it to land on"

Months later

Zayne

Zayne stood at his door, surprised by the late night knock echoing through his home. It was pouring rain outside, the sound of it pattering against the windows a constant backdrop to the usual silence. He had been about to retire for the night when the unexpected visitor interrupted his plans.

Opening the door, Zayne found himself face to face with the one person he had been longing to see. She stood before him, her hair plastered to her head from the rain, water dripping down her face and onto her clothes. In her hand, she clutched a bouquet of roses, the same kind he had been sending to her house every week for months.

The flowers were a last ditch effort at trying to win her back, a desperate attempt to show her that he was sincere in his apologies and regrets. But it seemed that his efforts had been in vain, for here she was, standing on his doorstep, a look of frustration etched on her beautiful face.

"Stop this, Zayne," she said, tossing the flowers at his feet. They landed with a soft thump on his doormat, a soggy mess of petals and stems. "I sent them back for a reason, all these months. And now you send them to my job?"

Zayne opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he could utter a word. She shook her head, her wet hair whipping around her face as she turned to walk away.

In that moment, something inside Zayne snapped. He couldn't let her go again, not without a fight. Not without telling her everything he had been holding back, everything he had been yearning to say.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her inside his home with a sudden jerk. The door slammed shut as he pushed her up against the wall, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly, the rain soaked fabric of her clothes leaving damp patches on the painted surface behind her.

"Just hear me out," Zayne pleaded "For fuck's sake Y/N, please just listen to what I have to say." He braced himself for her anger, knowing that he deserved every ounce of it.

She pushed hard against his chest, the force of it a physical manifestation of the pain and fury that had been building inside her for years.

" I don't..."

But before she could finish, before she could unleash the anger that had been simmering within her, Zayne covered her mouth with his hand. His fingers trembled slightly as he silenced her.

"I know you're mad at me," he said, his voice rough with feeling. "I know I hurt you, and I know I fucked up. I made a mistake, and to be honest, I hate myself even more for making you cry than you could ever hate me." His eyes searched hers, a profound sadness and regret etched into their depths.

Zayne's other hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had escaped her angry gaze. "I'll never forget every single tear you cried for me," he vowed "I'll pay them all back, every single one. But we both know this isn't the end."

He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. "Punish me, make me beg and crawl, make me wait and torture me by ignoring me. I'll take it, I deserve it, but when you're ready to forgive me, I'll be here waiting. It doesn't matter if it's next week, next year, or ten years from now," he murmured, "I'll be waiting," Zayne continued, his voice dropping to a fervent whisper. "Because you are it for me, Y/N. We belong together, and nothing, not even your anger or my mistakes, can change that."

As he spoke, Zayne's hand slid from her mouth to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her damp hair. He leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest against hers, their breath mingling in the scant space between them.

"I know I have to earn your trust back," he murmured, his lips brushing against hers with every word. "And I'm willing to do whatever it takes, to wait as long as it takes. Because you're worth it. You're worth everything to me."

Zayne's other hand slid down her arm, his fingers lacing with hers. He brought their clasped hands up to his chest, holding them over his heart as if to emphasize the sincerity of his words.

"So go ahead," he said, a note of challenge in his voice. "Hate me, ignore me, make me suffer for the pain I've caused you. But know this, I'll be here, waiting for the day when you can look at me without seeing the man who broke your heart. And on that day, I'll be ready to love you the way you deserve to be loved, for the rest of our lives."

Her lips were so close, so tantalizingly close that he could almost taste her. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to close the distance, to claim her mouth and pour every ounce of his love and longing..

But he held back, forcing himself to exercise the restraint he had once lacked. He knew that he couldn't take this step without her consent, without her active participation. It had to be her choice, her decision to bridge the gap between them.

So he waited, his eyes searching hers, silently begging her to make the next move. As he looked into her eyes, he saw them flicker down to his mouth, a momentary distraction that told him everything he needed to know. His heart leapt in his chest, a fierce surge of hope and anticipation coursing through his veins.

"Thank God," he breathed out, the words scarcely more than a whisper. They were a plea of gratitude for this second chance, this opportunity to make things right.

And then, before he could say anything more, he felt it. Her lips brushed against his own, nipping and teasing, a fleeting whisper of contact that sent a shiver down Zayne's spine.

He could feel the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her breath. It was a tantalizing preview of the passion that had once burned between them, a memory of the way she used to kiss him .

He endured the torturous teasing, his body tensing with the effort of maintaining control. Until, with a sudden boldness that made his heart race, her tongue flicked out to lick at his lower lip.

It was a subtle gesture, but it was enough to break the last of his restraint. A low groan escaped him as he pulled her flush against him,his hand gripping her hair possessively as he slanted his mouth over hers. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a deep kiss that spoke of a love that had only grown stronger in the time they had been apart.

His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking along her own, a sensual dance that quickly turned passionate. He kissed her like a man starved, a man who had been wandering in the wilderness and had finally found his way home.

The kiss deepened, turned hungry, turned desperate. Her moan, muffled against Zayne's lips, spurred him on, urging him to take more, to claim her completely. His hands slid from her hair to grip her thighs, squeezing the soft flesh as he hoisted her up.

Instinctively, her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in close. Zayne groaned into her mouth, feeling her heat, her softness pressing against him.

He carried her, stumbling in his urgency, towards his bedroom. The hallway stretched out before them, a long expanse of polished wood and artwork. But the bed seemed too far, too distant.

Her hands fumbled with the hem of her shirt, yanking it up and over her head in one quick motion. Buttons popped in her haste, scattering across the floor. Before Zayne could react, she had his shirt in her grip, tugging at it desperately.

In a flurry of movement, Zayne shrugged out of his shirt, not caring as it joined hers on the floor. His hands slid under her skirt, gripping her hips, pulling her harder against him.

With a sweep of his strong arm, Zayne brushed everything off the desk in the hallway, papers, pens, a lamp, all crashing to the floor in a clatter. With the surface now bare, he sat her down on the edge.

Zayne's fingers found the clasp of her bra, unhooking it deftly and tossing it aside. His hands cupped the soft swells of her breasts, thumbs teasing over the hardened peaks.

She gasped as Zayne's hot mouth descended upon her nipple, his lips wrapping around the sensitive bud and suckling hard. Her back arched, pressing her breast more fully into his mouth as a sharp cry tore from her throat. "Please, Zayne..." It was a plea, a prayer, a demand.

She took him out of his pants and his cock throbbed, hard and heavy against her stomach. Her hands fumbled with her panties, shoving them to the side in a desperate bid to feel him, to have him inside her.

And then, with a thrust of his hips, Zayne buried himself deep inside her. A guttural groan ripped from his throat at the exquisite sensation of her tight, wet heat enveloping him.

He started to move, his thrusts slow but incredibly hard, each powerful drive of his hips rocking her body and making her breasts bounce enticingly. The desk creaked beneath them, a lewd rhythm accompanying their lovemaking.

Zayne's mouth never left her breasts, kissing, licking, biting at the soft mounds as he pounded into her. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her in place.

She could only cling to him, her nails raking down his back, her heels digging into his ass as she urged him on. Each thrust struck deep, reaching places that made her see stars, made her scream his name into the relative quiet of his home.

It was a joining that felt both achingly familiar and thrillingly new, a coming together of two souls who had once known each other intimately, but with a depth of emotion and hunger that was more intense than ever before.

Zayne could feel every inch of her, every flutter and clench of her inner muscles as they gripped his thrusting cock. He could hear every breathless moan, every whispered plea and gasp of pleasure that fell from her lips. And he could see the way her eyes, hazy with lust and desire, gazed at him with a trust and longing that made his heart swell in his chest

He knew he had to slow down, to savor this moment, to pour every ounce of his love and devotion into each powerful drive of his hips. So he forced himself to rein in his urgency, to focus on the feel of her body, the taste of her skin on his tongue, the scent of her arousal perfuming the air.

He felt her body begin to tense beneath him, he knew she was teetering on the brink, just as he was. No words were needed, no explicit instructions given. They were both so attuned to each other's bodies, so desperate for release, that they moved in perfect sync.

As if reading her mind, Zayne's fingers found her clit, circling the sensitive nub with a pressure and rhythm that he knew would drive her wild. His mouth latched onto her nipple once more, suckling hard as he thrust deep and grinded against that special spot inside her.

"Zayne!"

Her walls clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and milking his cock as she came undone. The sensation was overwhelming, the feel of her coming on his cock, her arousal flooding his shaft, pushed Zayne over the edge.

He buried himself to the hilt as his own release overtook him. His cock throbbed and jerked inside her, spilling hot and thick, painting her insides with his seed.

They clung to each other as the aftershocks rolled through them, their bodies trembling and shaking, their hearts pounding in tandem. The hallway was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the musky scent of sex.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the future, not the mistakes they had made. All that mattered was the feel of their bodies joined together, the knowledge that they had found their way back to each other.

There is another chapter after this, it will be the last chapter. More smut and fluff coming after all the angst.

@lioria @midiplier @gawa-ng-gabi

@certainduckanchor @asakiyu @crazyzombieblaze @roschea-arts @feralkuromi @redhead-maiden @zaynies-wifey @lorddyz @hoe-in-deepspace

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads x reader #lnds x reader #lads x you #lnds x you #love and deepspace reader #lads smut #l&ds zayne #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne l&ds #zayne lads #zayne li #zayne lnds #zayne #love and deepspace death and rebirth #main story: death and rebirth

99 notes · View notes

bewitched-hours · 2 days ago

Text

Fantasy!Forsaken | Pirates!Noli7n7 x Siren!Reader (+ C00lkidd, Bluudud & Pr3typriincess)

When two pirates set out to find their kids, the last thing they expect is for a creature of distant tales to have grown protective of them.

Reader's getting She/Her~

You were a dangerous creature to behold.

Though you looked normal at first glance, most are smart enough to cover their ears when they notice your scales. That is, if they manage to before you spot them.

They say the voice of a siren is powerful but even more powerful was your wrath.

A simple scream can be enough to call forth the wrath of all the animals in your area and beyond.

To mess with you is to mess with the force of the ocean. A sin so great no sane person would dare to call upon it.

You always thought robloxians were ridden with greed and lust. Disgusting, vile creatures that will do anything for their own gain.

Even if the cost is that of innocence or whatever you used to believe in.

Back when you were still a guppy.

But you learned fast through your years.

They would do anything to get their sinful hands on your scales... And you didn't dare to wonder why.

Yet, you knew their young were as innocent as you used to be.

You couldn't fault them for the sins of their peers. Nor for the sins they had yet to commit.

What you didn't expect was to get into direct contact with such innocence.

You were stuck in a fishing net on a beach.

Although you were hidden between some boulders, it was getting harder to stay conscious with the lack of water and it caused you to have less and less strength to try and get yourself out of your restraints.

You were sure this would be the end. You just knew this would be the reason any Sirens outside of the deepest depths would be forced to lose to robloxians...

... Until you were suddenly splashed with water.

Taking a sharp and deep gasp, you sat up to notice your restraints had been cut open and you were glistening again.

And then you noticed three little shadows to your right.

Looking up at them, you noticed they were just kids. Innocent younglings who saved you from certain death with who you presume to be the eldest holding a pocket knife.

"Are you alright?!" The pink one spoke with concern and you couldn't do anything but nod with surprise.

Looking around, they seemed to be alone.

"Where are your parents, little ones?" You asked softly, glancing at each of them to note their unusual looks. Though you liked it, you had a bad feeling for the answer you might ge-

"They're still nearby! They're apparently looking for treasure!" The red child spoke with excitement and although you were glad your fears were for nothing, you knew from the way he spoke about it that you were dealing with the children of pirates...

Just your luck...

The blue one, who had cut you free, seemed a little confused. "Are you a mermaid or a Siren?" He asked bluntly, his straightforward question causing a chuckle to escape your lips.

"I'm a siren, my darlings. But I prefer to eat bigger meals than innocent children." You smiled, noticing that they seemed to have taken a liking to you. Only natural, given their instinctive curiosity and naivety.

They took turns keeping you from drying up as they asked you all sorts of questions and lifted you onto one of the boulders together to make it feel more like a game.

You couldn't remember ever having this much fun in a conversation but their honesty and innocence sparked an odd sense of warmth in you. They had to be protected.

For weeks you'd come back to the same spot and for weeks they'd find you to talk about anything and everything.

Sometimes you'd answer questions about the sea, sometimes they'd answer questions about the surface.

But unfortunately they would also talk about their parents which taught you some stuff you didn't bother thinking about but you remembered it regardless.

However, it might've been a mistake informing them where you've made yourself a home in an underwater cave...

You awoke in the gentle glow of the moon, smelling blood in your waters.

It wasn't just any blood, but robloxian blood...

That's when you perked up. What was a robloxian doing on the surface of your waters this late at night??

It sure as hell wasn't a pirate ship or you would've felt the water vibrate.

You groggily made your way towards the source only to break the surface and-

"Hi again!" C00lkidd's voice rang out gleefully.

... It was the kids...

... OH SHIT IT'S THE CHILDREN-

You panicked as the realization settled in and you quickly grabbed C00lkidd's hand, noticing the pocket knife in his other.

"Told you this was stupid..." Bluudud commented as you quickly drove back down and came back up within seconds to wrap the bleeding wound in some seagrass.

It wasn't much but it at least stopped the bleeding and could aid in the healing process. You just sighed in relief when he thanked you.

"We're sorry for the disturbance but we just really wanted to see you!" Pr3typriincess spoke with concern, likely not wanting to be scolded.

"Don't worry, I'm just happy to see you but please don't ever harm yourselves like that again or you might attract sharks." You lied, seeing as you knew sharks usually disliked robloxian blood but it was easier than to admit you might get hungry.

You didn't want them to fear you after all...

"I'm just surprised your parents would allow you out of the house this late..." You muttered, holding onto the edge of their little boat just in case.

"Oh, they didn't..." Bluudud answered, causing a small "Eh-?" To erupt from your throat.

C00lkidd kinda chuckled. "Yeah, we snuck out! We know when to go back though so they won't notice a thing!" Which brought a slightly louder "Eh-??" From your mouth.

"That's unless they wake up for a glass of water or something because I may have forgotten to close the day on the way out..." Pr3typriincess added, your "EH-???" Sounding more and more worried than before as you realized you probably had pirates to deal with now...

How many would there be?? Six- maybe eight??? Could you even handle that many without using your voice to lure them to their deaths???? You didn't want to cause your favourite children such trauma, for crying out loud!

But by the time you could finish that thought...

"Kids!" A voice rang out behind you and you instinctively turned around to prepare to protect them.

Surprisingly, it was a small boat with only two pirates that approached. They were equally as shocked to see you as you were to see them, though C00lkidd's voice brought you all back to reality.

"Hi dad! This is the friend we've been talking about!" You looked back in surprise. They've been telling these guys about you and they weren't immediately drawn to the hunt??? Surely they-

"Uh- yeah! That sure is a Siren..." One of them said and suddenly it made more sense.

They probably hadn't believed their own kids while talking about you. I mean, who would?

Still, you were hesitant to swim aside. "Alright, how about we all just relax. We came alone, so let us get our children back." The man in the back spoke up, his appearance not one you'd expect from a pirate but rather a jester but oh well...

"... You're lucky I'm a Siren with morals. For I refuse to destroy the innocence of a child." You spoke hesitantly, swimming to the other side of the boat and carefully pushing it towards them.

It wasn't a threat or a warning, it was a simple fact. And they could tell you cared as C00lkidd rambled on about you warning them of the sharks and helping with his cut.

But remembering the blood was making you hungry now... And that made you guilty...

You didn't want to be hungry... Not after the blood of a child was spilled...

"Uhm... How about we eat something? I happen to have brought some tuna with me." The gentler one spoke, seeming to notice your hunger first.

It was embarrassing but... You accepted.

That night was mostly spent talking about what you and the kids would often do while you secretly admired the way robloxians prepare tuna for consumption...

But ever since, you've decided to visit a cousin in the depths inbetween your visits to see the children and those... Pirates. You cousin was a sea witch who offered you a once in a lifetime deal for a favor. And you accepted.

Though you've waited to get close to your oddly charming robloxians, you eventually fulfilled your end of the deal by overthrowing a bigger pirate ship that had been heading past your territory and threatening the lives of those you actually cared about for once.

It was easy as can be, delivering the bodies to your cousin and receiving a necklace in return.

The necklace gave you the ability to turn into a robloxian when you dried up, allowing you to continue living but not being able to use the abilities of your voice in that form.

Really, it wasn't a complicated deal. And you'd be able to switch at will.

So it was obviously a shock to see you with legs for the first time, asking your pirate boys- Noli and 007n7- for help finding balance and learning to walk. It was like watching a baby deer wobble around. They found it adorable even when you'd scoff at them and tell them off for laughing at you, claiming they were cruel which was still a thousand times better than what you'd call regular robloxians.

But they weren't just regular robloxians to you...

They were your dumb but cute pirates with simply adorable children who gradually took to calling you their mother, making you emotional each time they first said it because the warmth and joy felt overwhelming.

"The change feels so weird every time..." You groaned, holding onto 007. You didn't have to re-learn walking necessarily but the first bit of path back to their home would always be spent with you getting used to the lack of buoyancy and needing to get used to moving your legs again instead of a singular tail.

But while Noli was making lighthearted jokes over it, 7n7 did his best to keep you upright while you slightly leaned against him to avoid falling. "Take it easy, love. You're being impatient." He spoke calmly, holding you gently against his body as you looked down at your legs to make sure you're moving them correctly. In sync with his.

Your voice was even a little off in this form but that was because the necklace covered your usually hypnotizing echo. "I swear I could kill Noli..." You muttered to your robloxian walking cane. "But you won't." He simply answered with a kiss to your cheek as a soft pink spread across your cheeks.

"Yeah, I won't..." You admitted as your tone softened, sighing. "You're both too cute to be harmed..." You decided to let out, watching 7n7 blush himself while the kids were waiting ahead.

In a way, this life was nice. You didn't have to give up the sea for love, you didn't have to give into the demands of some annoying pirate captain and you even became somewhat of a secret protector for this new home you've gained.

And news spread quickly. News how much safer the lands were that you lived in because any pirates looking to invade were mysteriously taken care of, how the two pirates in town managed to not only find themselves a wife to add into their relationship but also suddenly had a lot more power with you by their sides...

But you mostly focused on keeping this new life of yours. You were a wife, a mother, a guardian and still a siren. You could do it all and rarely had to crave robloxian meat after discovering that pig meat was actually a good substitute that even satiated you better.

As such, your unofficial(but you can't really make it official because you have nothing to prove you aren't a siren) husbands made sure to keep at least a bag of pig meat around for your visits. Just in case you got a craving.

The gesture surprised you when it first happened and had you getting flustered because of how sweet they were being with it but Noli's jokes obviously ruined the moment...

But you weren't a goody-two-shoes either. As stated earlier, you helped your husbands become more successful and would often join them in their searches for whatever treasure they set their minds too.

You were basically a natural at helping them, considering you could effortlessly delve deep into the waters and weren't afraid to get get your hands dirty or even recruit the help of nearby sealife.

They were both grateful, you knew that. Even if 007 was the only one to say it.

But this was nice... Just a family of your own...

It felt better than you would've thought...

This was actually really fun to write- I may love yanderes but by god do I love powerful women falling for pathetic men too-

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken roblox #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #fantasy #fantasy forsaken #pirates #noli forsaken #007n7 forsaken #noli x 007n7 #007n7 x noli #noli x reader #007n7 x reader #mermaid reader #siren reader #Of course I'm including the babies #I might have favourites #trust me chat

139 notes · View notes

animeomegas · 2 days ago

Text

Let's talk about Jamil and conditional heats.

Conditional heats are a version of the omega heat cycle that are a little more... sentient? Rather than heats happening like clockwork, conditional heats only happen when an omega's instincts believe that certain criteria have been met.

For a sexual heat, they decide there's a fine piece of alpha nearby that is perfect to mate and make babies with.

For a soft heat, they decide that there is a safe alpha who can protect the omega while they deal with some kind of stress, sickness, or burnout.

...

So, imagine Jamil, someone who has never had a real heat before, waking up a little warmer and stranger than normal. He's confused, he thinks he might be sick, which sucks because he really doesn't have time to be sick.

It's harder to pull himself out of bed than normal, but when he thinks about how he has a meeting planned with you, an alpha that he... enjoys the company of... he manages to get up.

But when he pulls back the covers, he's hit with his own scent, crazy strong and thick. He just stares for a moment, confused, and then a horrible, horrible thought runs through his head.

No.

He races to the nearest mirror. His flushed, sweaty face stares back at him in horror. The scent glands on his neck and thighs are swollen, his pupils are dilated, his skin is flushed all over... and he can't help but wish that you were here with him.

No.

"Don't you dare do this," he whispers to his reflection. "Don't you dare. I'm just... sick. I'm just sick."

He's been busy and stressed beyond normal the past few weeks, perfect conditions for getting sick... He ignores the voice inside his head which points out that those conditions are perfect for a soft heat as well.

He doesn't have time for this, and he's choosing denial, so he slaps on as many scent patches as he has available to try and reign it in, splashes cold water on his face and get ready like normal.

He manages to convince himself that he's doing well, until the second he opens the door to his room, and everything in him is screaming that it's not safe.

He's trained to pay attention to his instincts, to seek danger, but today his anxiety is through the roof. Every step feels like the last one he'll get to take and he doesn't know why.

He's on edge, snapping at everyone over everything. Even Kalim notices that something is very wrong and thinks Jamil is sick. Several people figure out he's in a soft heat, and try to gently steer him back to his room, but he bites the head off of anyone that even hints at it.

Eventually, word must have got back to you, because you find him at lunch. He was trying to hide in one of the more shadowy corners behind a building, just to take a moment to regain his composure, when he hears your voice.

"Jamil?"

No. No, anyone but them.

Underneath all the scent patches, he can feel his scent glands working overtime to try and desperately produce a scent that will bring you close to him.

No, he's sick! He's just sick!

"G-Go away," he manages to grit out, the words causing him physical pain. "Leave me alone."

Unhappy with his resistance, his legs buckle beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Yes, if he falls, if he's weak, his alpha will protect him, they'll stay by him, this is good.

No! No, it is not good!

"Jamil!" You rush to his side, supporting him with one arm around his waist while your other hand gently pushes his hair away from his face. He can feel you studying him, looking for what's wrong. He just hopes you don't find anything.

"Jamil? Did someone trigger your heat?" you asked delicately, voice quiet and soothing, like he's some sort of child that needs mollycoddling.

"No!" he denies. "I'm sick. I'm just sick." He doesn't know which one of you he's trying to convince at this point.

You don't believe him, he can tell. Honestly, he doesn't blame you; it's a rather pathetic attempt at a lie. But you don't call him out on it, either.

"Jamil, if you're sick, then you should be resting in your room." You scoop him up in your arms before he can protest. He let's out a little strangled noise of surprise though. "Let me take you back to your room, you won't gain anything from forcing yourself through the day like this."

"But Kalim-"

"But Kalim nothing. You're just as important as he is, and you need rest when you're sick, Jamil. If Kalim needs anything, I'll handle it, okay?"

Part of him croons at your words and the other part resents them. It's this ridiculous attitude of yours that has him all... ruined. It pisses him off; life was much simpler before you turned up.

There's also another part of him, a much louder part than he would like, that's angry at the thought of you helping Kalim. You're supposed to be helping him, looking at him, being with him, not Kalim!

He doesn't say anything out loud though. He's honestly worried he'll make an embarrassing noise if he opens his mouth to speak.

Besides... your arms feel nice. Maybe he should take a nap? His eye lids feel heavy... he's been overworked so much recently, he needs a break, and you're here to protect him...

No... he shouldn't... it wouldn't be a good idea...

You're shushing him now... the vibrations from your chest are soothing...

A good idea...

To...

"Sleep, Jamil. I've got you."

To...

His eyes slip closed and his body goes limp. He'll regret his succumbing to his instincts later, but for now, some good sleep is well needed.

...

Jamil is perfect for this set up imo, because he needs an outside force to make him admit he likes an alpha. It's not convenient for him, so he'll ignore it until he literally can't anymore lol.

I don't remember the point I was making when I started this post but... Jamil 🥰

[I'm still learning about the TWST characters, so hopefully this is okay! Thank you for reading!]

#jamil #omega jamil #a/b/o #omegaverse #alpha!reader #twst #twisted wonderland #hcs #headcanons

83 notes · View notes

pathofcomets · 2 days ago

Text

death of peace of mind

fandom: love and deepspace pairing: sylus/reader (2nd POV) summary: “Are you dating him?” he asks you, trying real hard to keep his voice calm and collected; he’s not angry at you, he’s angry at any man who thinks he might be good enough for you. “Does it matter?” you bite back to him, your head swimming with the right excuse. “That’s not a no, kitten,” and he moves his hand, as he gathers some stray strand of hair, pushes it behind your ear, so he can clearly see your face: make up done perfectly, your lips adorned in a dark red. “You look beautiful tonight. Did he tell you that?" (8.9k, explicit)

“Will you help me?”

Sylus is taken aback at the ease with which these words come to you, as if you’re entitled to all the goodness and kindness the world has to offer. He should have known, from this moment, that you are not the same person you were, that something is missing, that you have no idea who he is. But he has spent such a long, lonely time chasing you that failure doesn’t feel real, tastes bitter in his mouth.

It is when you look at him with fear that he gives up any hope. You were never scared of him, even when you knew the kind of stuff he is capable of. He cannot bear it. The lack of your resonance is like a shiver that he can’t shake, stiff on his back, and each time you catch him staring at you, he grabs at his hand, as if phantom pains are haunting him. As if he’s stopping himself from offering it to you, from offering more help.

But he never tells you no. When you drag him into your mission, he merely follows. And it feels so good, for a moment, to have someone protecting you, having your back, not alone in what are more and more dangerous missions. It feels… familiar, safe, your confidence growing until battles are won with a grin on your face, adrenaline making you turn to see him staring at you, as if he’s seen a ghost.

You don’t know what to make of the leader of Onychinus. But when all is done, you’re back in your own room, world, as if nothing happened. You check your phone, more often than not. You answer all calls a bit too quickly, none of them being Sylus.

And it takes ten days to spot him, car parked in front of your office. You don’t even care, the risk he is taking, you’re just surprised to find yourself relieved that he is still alive.

“I’ll let you go,” Sylus says instead of a greeting, a determination to equal the one he’s felt back when he thought he could make you realise who he is.

“What?” you’re confused, taken aback by his seriousness.

“If you tell me you want nothing to do with the N109 Zone anymore, I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.”

You press your lips together, hands crossed over your chest as you stare at him. The silence stretches, for a long and awkward time, and you see all kinds of emotions passing over Sylus’s face: part fear, part elation, settling on undeniable smugness.

You smile at him, turning on your feet, lifting an arm in a parting wave.

***

“Harder, kitten,” he coos, and that makes you angrier than it should, combined with the nickname.

No, scratch that, you don’t really mind the nickname. But you’re sweaty and warm, and Sylus has been goading you into using more and more force with each attempt at taking him to the floor. You asked for the sparring match when he marched into his office looking like he might have already killed several people, tension taut and thick in the air, his body stiff like a bow ready to let an arrow go. You didn’t want to be its target, you didn’t want anyone else to either. It’s early morning - late for him, but as usual, he agreed to your suggestion.

You try not to overthink why he had comfortable clothes exactly in your size. You try not to overthink the lingering touch at your wrist, thumb against your pulse, when he wraps your knuckles. You try not to overthink why he keeps pushing, why he wants to see you win.

“I can’t,” you say, panting hard, palms resting on your knees as you’re catching your breath.

He steps closer, guard down, a frown decorating his face.

He’s seen you leaving Dr. Zayne’s office once, and he could have asked you for the truth, but was too scared you wouldn’t tell him. Hacking into the hospital’s data was much easier, and less painful - that is, until he read your file.

And you smile, moving as fast as you can, hands at his shoulder, a leg hooking around his ankle and pulling. There’s no way to avoid going down with him to the floor, but he catches you in his arms, shifting you just enough that your fall is entirely cushioned by his body. He gets his breath knocked out of him, part because you truly did take him by surprise, part because you’re straddling his hips, looking like the prettiest sight in the universe: cheeks flushed, a truly honest grin of happiness on your face.

You’ve never looked this unguarded before, and it is worth having lost, ten thousand times over.

You’re doing a little celebratory dance, on top of him. And Sylus is just a man, hurrying to still your hips, before -

“Oh,” you say, finding his eyes, noticing the slight reddening of his face.

He’s hard under you, growing harder still when you press down against him, and he bites his lip, looking away from your gaze.

“Harder you said, Sylus?” you tease, because it’s a heady feeling, knowing and understanding the effect you can have on this man.

“No,” he hisses out, and in the blink of an eye, your positions switch, your body underneath his, the ease with which he’s manhandled you making your body warm up even further.

He leans his forehead on your shoulder, forcing his body to still, to calm and slow down, sure you have no idea what you’ve started. You lift your hand, letting it caress him, fingers going through hair strands, ignoring the way his body trembles at the lightest touch.

“Do I really have that effect on you?” you ask, voice low, no judgment, just some form of awe which doesn’t sit well with him.

“I’d have to be dead to not react to having you on top of me,” he breathes out, all in one go, and you know he’d probably never have admitted it if not for the intimacy of this moment, the burning of desire coursing through both of your bodies.

“Liar,” you whisper to him, and he turns, meeting your gaze, his eyes burning with fierce anger.

“Not to you,” he says, and he lowers his hips, his erection hard as it settles between your legs, just enough that you can tell exactly how much he wants you.

And then he’s up, away, leaving you a heaving mess on the floor, body on fire, staring at his back.

***

This is different, you think, as your fingers shake, going through cupboards and drawers. You’re frantic, slightly panicked, deaf to the smooth, calm words of encouragement coming from over your shoulder. You don’t want to hear it right now, not when - and you refuse to look at your hands, thought only fixed on what you need to do next, because Sylus’ blood is drying over your skin. You rip the case of first aid open, in a haste. He’s sat on the closed toilet seat, head leant against the wall, eyes never leaving you. It’s just a brief moment of contact, but his gaze is enough to steel you, the unflinching trust he has in you that you realise is set deep within him. You do not deserve it, not when it’s your fault he’s hurt, taking a hit meant for you.

You think, half insane, of what could have possibly possessed him to do a thing like that, for someone like you.

You’re calmer now, your focus clear. You drop to your knees in front of him, and he chuckles, even though you notice the slight wince at the corner of his mouth. It would have been difficult to catch, months ago when you first met him, but it’s so much easier these days, to understand the type of man Sylus is, to read the emotions he has been trying to hide ever since he thought you believed him disgusting. You would have let him bleed out, if this situation played out any earlier - and what does that say about you, when Sylus never did anything but protect you, time and time again?

Ungrateful brat. This is the only thing you can do, and even this is difficult, vision blurred by the tears you cannot hold in. You can feel him shift, the space between you growing warm, and you hiss, panicked, trying to push at his shoulder, scared he’ll tear at his wound, bleed all over again. But his tender touch stops you, fingers holding to your chin, eyes careful as they follow the path of your tears across your face. You sniff, his form focusing as you blink the weight against your lashes, and he sighs.

“You’re pretty even when you cry,” he says, and his face is so close you can see the start of freckles across his nose bridge.

It sounds like he doesn’t want to admit it, a slip of his tongue at a moment of weakness, Sylus’s entire demeanour unbothered at the fact that you can hear him, could interpret this to mean… maybe more than it should.

The press of his lips against your cheek startles you, but he holds you in place, still, with the barest of press of his thumb against your chin. The slight peek of his tongue against your skin, tasting the salt of your tears, surprises you less. Your body trembles, in his hold, half in desire, half in hate, and this is new, because the hate is entirely intended for yourself.

A new fresh wave of tears, which Sylus catches, licks away off your face, the red against his white shirt blooming anew, as he bends over you, trying to put you together in a different way than you’re trying for him.

You push him away, touch soft, nothing like he’s used to from you. So maybe this is why he listens, leans back again, moves his other hand away from where he’s been pressing hard against an open wound. His hand, too, turnt red with his blood.

You move now, Sylus’s comfort, regardless of how shocking, at least working. Your hands still tremble as you undo his shirt’s buttons, but you’re making quick work of it regardless. The gash is still bleeding, slower now, and it’s an angry, dark red bite, striking against his pale skin. He bites against his cheek when you clean the wound, the alcohol burning. He hisses anew when you wrap the gauze a bit too tight around his body, but he does not complain. You’ve heard him throw an angry word every second when it was Luke and Kieran patching him up, which is maybe why you’re so scared.

You settle back, looking up at him from the floor between his legs. The bandages remain clean, and you sigh with relief, shoulders slumping.

“I’m so sorry, Sylus.”

He kicks against your knee with his foot, but you refuse to meet his gaze, you have painfully tried to avoid it all throughout. He kicks again, harder.

You have the prettiest frown on your face when you finally look at him, and his face explodes in a smile that cannot not be painful for him.

“I’m not,” he says, voice more like a hum, and he allows those words to fully reach you, settle not only in your mind, but your heart too.

He’s saying more, so much more than two mere words, encompassing so much more than this one moment in time, in your relationship. You don’t know if you’re ready to hear it, you don’t know if there’s any way you can stop yourself.

You allow your eyes to roam now, looking him up - the large expanse of his chest, the hardness of his muscles, the faint trail of hair below his navel, pointing down. He is beautiful, even when half alive and hurt. You don’t think you’ve ever thought of him as much, and what a stupid idiot you’ve been for it, because this is the kind of shit that's a universal truth.

You lift to your feet, turning to wash off his blood from your hands, his eyes trailing all your actions in the mirror. The heat of that gaze changes, as you meet it, as he turns it all over your body, as you watch him watching you.

You turn, extending your palm to him, offering to help him up. It takes a second, the shifting painful until he finds the right weight to pull himself up, even with your support.

“Stay with me?” and you haven’t heard Sylus this uncertain in a very long time, his touch barely there, and you squeeze his hand in yours, forcing his body on yours.

It’s the type of request you would not have humored before… before you realised how easily you could have lost him. You’ve taken Sylus for granted, horribly so, always there and always annoyingly strong, almost a myth, the stuff of eternal nightmares. You didn’t realise how easy he made your life, by simply being him, by simply being by your side.

So what is it, now, accepting such a simple request?

It’s not simple at all.

“There you go,” you say, encouragement and relief at once. “Be more selfish, Sylus. Think only of yourself. Please.” Your voice cracks on that last word.

He smiles down at you, softly, but he doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t done that in a really long time, and he will not be starting now, not when it comes to you.

The bloodied shirt remains forgotten on the bathroom floor, only to be picked up in the morning. And for days after, no matter how much you try to wash it in cold water, until your fingers go red and numb, you won’t be able to salvage it.

You’ll cry again, bitter tears, ugly choking sounds, the snot liquid down your face, the breathing so labored that you’ll need to cough it all out.

***

The cat and the crow, in hot pink, all over his helmet. He is careful not to touch the design, scared it’s too fresh, that he might smudge it. He leaves you alone too much, he thinks - of course you’d grow bored. It’s special, though, that your first instinct is to think of him, make something in both of your images. It means something shifted, it’s not just you and him, separate entities, if not outright enemies. It means something shifted, now it’s you and him, together and next to each other. The way it was always supposed to be.

Luke and Kieran laugh at first. The laughter dies, when Sylus simply shrugs it off, keeps using the hot pink helmet. It doesn’t take a long time, to be recognised by it through the area, and if you’ve painted him as outrageous, he may as well go all the way out.

Next time he comes and picks you up with his motorcycle, he throws you your helmet with a very proud smug smile. It has kitten ears, and you laugh for a long time, before you put it on.

***

“Move,” Sylus commands, and the voice settles down your spine, warm between your legs.

It’s the certainty that he’ll be listened to and heard that makes this so charming. It’s just a tiny bit annoying that your date scrambles out of his chair so damn quickly, the menu slapped on the table. He tries, for a mere second, to stand face to face with Sylus, demanding an explanation that everyone knows he won’t get. But the height difference, the pure indifference in him that Sylus is projecting… bigger men have fallen for less, and the other man can tell, at least.

“You know him?” he turns to ask you, but you’re looking at Sylus and that is an answer in itself.

With a mutter, he indeed leaves. Now, the two of you are merely staring at each other, trying to figure out where each of you is standing in this situation, Sylus came to ruin your dinner. He steps closer to you, and you need to lean your head back to properly look at him - no wonder the other man got intimidated so quickly.

You’re just peeved, growing more annoyed when you realise how handsome he looks, in all black formal attire. But you can’t let him off the hook just because he’s gorgeous, Sylus always is.

“Are you dating him?” he asks you, trying real hard to keep his voice calm and collected; he’s not angry at you, he’s angry at any man who thinks he might be good enough for you.

“Does it matter?” you bite back to him, your head swimming with the right excuse to offer the other man.

“That’s not a no, kitten,” and he moves his hand, as he gathers some stray strand of hair, pushes it behind your ear, so he can clearly see your face: make up done perfectly, your lips adorned in a dark red. “You look beautiful tonight. Did he tell you that?”

You slap his hand away, but softly, with no real fire behind it. Because he didn’t. He showed up late, already half drunk, and he started ranting about himself before he even greeted you.

“Leave me alone, Sylus,” you bite out, but he simply settles himself in the chair in front of you, ignoring the stray looks you two are catching, your dinner partner changed so easily,swiftly.

The other man didn’t even put up a fight, just one look at Sylus and it was enough to get him out of the door. You try to swallow a smile, imagining how he might have tripped if he actually knew who Sylus really was.

“You asked me to be selfish. So, break up with your boyfriend. If it’s what I want, you’ll do it, right?”

“Only a selfish bastard would ask someone to do something like that.”

“That’s not a no, sweetheart.”

You swat at his arm, over the table, though not with as much force as he’d truly deserve. You’re not even a full month into this relationship, which was a bad move regardless because you should be focusing on your work anyway. You just didn’t know how to say no, when he confessed to you, when he was one of our colleagues, albeit from a different department, when you needed some way to try and forget how Sylus looked and felt above you, how you almost lost him because of what you mean to one another. How much worse would it be, if whatever is between you two was more?

He orders for both of you, somehow guessing at exactly the dish you were thinking of. It’s not surprising, Sylus is always attentive, always guessing at your needs before you even realise them. The conversation is light, but somehow always focused on you: how’s work lately, how your research is going, if you’re sleeping enough. Every question directed at him swiftly avoided, shortly answered, you the star of the evening.

This is how it’s supposed to feel, you know.

His gaze is locked on you as you push the desert spoon in your mouth, licking up any of the remaining cream, your tongue swirling around the metal curve. He swallows, takes a new sip of his drink, says nothing as he continues to look at you eating your cheesecake, a torture to his self-control, his mind down in the gutter, because he can only imagine what you’d feel like, doing something like that to his co-

“Why, Sylus?” you say, spoon in your mouth, talking around the cutlery, voice softened, but so much left to read into the question: why ruin your date, why chase the other man off, why stay after and have dinner with you, why show up now?

“Here’s one more person who won’t let go,” Sylus says, his palm spread over his chest, over his heart.

One more brings the total to one. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. You excuse yourself for the bathroom, and when you return, he is gone. When you want to pay, the waitress looks confused, all having been dealt with.

***

You’ve driven around with Sylus countless of times, nights of insomnia and fear turned into laughter and adventure. You don’t even care how he knows, only that when you’re sitting looking at the night lights out your window, contemplating picking up smoking again, Sylus always rings you, regardless of the time. And you pick up everytime, and you get dressed in record time, and you meet him.

The N109 Zone never sleeps, not at night anyway. You walk down markets, trying out snacks that faintly remind you of your childhood, but that you cannot recall from your memories. You play games, and you shoot down pretend enemies until you win cheap plushie after cheap plushie, matching ones on each of our keys, and then an entire row of them placed on one of the shelves in Sylus’ office. You counted them all, since your nightly rendezvous started, and you know he hasn’t thrown away not even one.

“You sure this entire city won’t crumble without you?” you ask, half a joke, half awareness that wherever you go, there’s every pair of eyes stuck on you.

“If me missing for a night made it all crumble, then I’d be horrible at my job, don’t you think?” he answers, and you don’t press, that it’s not just one night, that you have no idea who deals with all of his work when he’s doing this instead.

It’s been happening more often; these types of random meetings. You know he knows, that you listened to his request, so maybe this is comfort for heartbreak, or thanks for your amiability.

He stuffs the last of the bun in your mouth with a sigh that makes you feel even more of a burden.

“You’re stuck in your head, aren’t you?” he asks, and he leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours, the world suddenly made small, made up of nothing else but him and you. “If you’re so worried, come work for me.”

Simple as that, the truth offered like something precious, because it is. An invitation, which he’s kept open for months, since the start.

You shake your head, and Sylus knows you so well now, because he guides you instead back to his motorcycle, throwing you your helmet. You love this, the rush of adrenaline, the wind turning everything else quiet. But lately, you’ve also been loving the feel of his body under your palms, the speed giving you the excuse to press against the muscle of his abs; the heat against your front; his velvety voice chuckling in your earpiece as you shriek in joy at a tight corner; the heavy weight of his fingers splayed over your thigh when stopped at a red light; the quiet hum of his singing voice when you rest your forehead against his back for a few seconds before moving away.

You’re going home, bike parked right in front of your apartment, so there’s no need for your next action, but Sylus palm is still against your thigh, thumb rubbing firm circles over your skin, and you don’t want to be the only one who is being punished.

It’s a smooth movement, you’re on your feet at the same time you take off your helmet, shoving it in Sylus’ now empty hand. His fingers flex, tight and then tighter still, against the hard material, nothing like the softness of your flesh.

You turn to face him, your lipstick already in between your fingers. The street lamp is enough, and using his helmet’s visor as a mirror, you open your mouth, dashing a dark red over your lips, half of it turned light pink after your meal.

He wonders, for a moment, how easy it’d be to mess it all up again: his lips over yours, tongue against tongue, hunger spelled out in open kisses; maybe you on your knees before him, and his body shudders.

You cannot read his expressions, but the silence, the inactions says enough in itself.

It makes you bold.

You hold on to his helmet with both of your hands, as you lean closer, pressing a kiss over the surface where the corner of his mouth would be, against the edge of his visor.

“You always look beautiful, kitten,” he says instead, and you smack your lips together, lifting your eyes to him.

“Good thing I’m going for sexy then.”

And the way your hips sway, you must know that he’s staring at you, all the way.

***

When Luke and Kieran message you, each more frantic than the other, first thing in the morning, you know something serious must have happened. You never take days off, even when you’re sick, but for Sylus, you do.

The emergency is that their leader is… sad. Sadder than they’ve ever seen him, sadden than you’ve ever known him. It’s strange, because he’s a neutral man, so self assured and confident, the emotional extremes don’t suit him, are perhaps as strange and worthy of panic as his friends painted it. The second he catches sight of you, though, the frown deepens, and you don’t know if you should feel honoured or offended.

“Are you okay, Sylus?” you ask, stepping closer, the door closing behind you, leaving just the two of you together.

You didn’t realise, until now, that you know each of his entry codes, that you pass all his alarms, that he’s made it so easy to come to the centre of his lair, to reach him, if only you want to.

You settle on the couch next to him, and he shifts immediately, his head resting in your lap. Who’s the grumpy kitten now, you think, as he guides your hand to his head, your fingers playing with his hair in soothing motions, as he hums. You don’t say anything more, push him harder, instead letting him take whatever comfort he needs from you.

Eventually, he moves once more, turning to face your body, an arm curled around your waist, tight and growing tighter still when he feels you trying to get up.

“You going to break my heart, kitten?” he asks, and you huff an incredulous laugh.

Is this what this entire tantrum is about? You?

“You’re drunk,” you say, pushing lightly at his shoulder, suddenly aware of how close he is, how overwhelming his mouth just mere centimeters away from your core can be, even through the layers of clothing.

“That’s not a no,” he says, and he’s the one moving away this time around, and this is a ghost of previous conversations, as he gets on his feet, moves to the table, pouring himself another drink.

He is sulking, but you’re more worried about where all of this came from. You follow him, snatching the glass right from his lips, stepping close enough that your chest is glued to his, the rise and fall of your breath felt through your shirts. Sylus feels a bit insane, because he can notice the lace of your bra through the small cut of your shirt, helped by the angle, can feel the soft press of your breasts against him.

“I won’t break your heart,” you say, looking him straight in the eye, with a ferocity that makes you a more dangerous kitten than he deemed you to be.

“Prove it,” he demands, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth, because this is a challenge he knows you will fail.

Your hands lift, coming to grasp the collar of his shirt, dragging harsher than you’ve intended, covering the distance between your mouths, the press of your mouth against his almost violent. You can feel him melting against the kiss, his body relaxing as if it finally reached home. And the second you want to move away, he presses harder, his tongue at your lips, asking for entry. You allow him, because maybe you’ve learnt how not to say no to Sylus too, and his kiss devours you, like he’s a starved man.

When he finally shifts away, he’s wearing a dazed look, and you can’t bear the relief in his gaze.

“Is that proof enough?” you ask, and you turn on your feet, realistically running away from him, because you’re not sure what you would have done if you stayed.

***

“What are you doing here?!”

You’ve panicked! It’s normal, when the leader of what might as well be your enemy organisation just shows up at your work social. It’s normal, when you kissed said leader in a way that was childish and scared, and then like a coward ignored all his texts and calls. You know why Sylus is here. It’s normal, when the woman he has spent most of his time with decides to suddenly ignore him, after making him want to bend you over and fuck you senseless. It’s normal, when he has paced his entire place, waiting for a sign from you, and all he had were the annoying reminders of how he has never been able to deny you: your favourite shampoo in his shower, an extra colorful umbrella in his hallway, your perfume on a pillowcase he hasn’t allowed being washed.

“I was in town,” he says, refusing to keep his voice down, if only to see you fret some more.

It’s not a punishment, for trying to hide him from your friends, but it is close. He grins at you, trying not to be hurt when you don’t even use his name. He turns towards everyone, and his smile turns sharper, crueler, and you feel a shiver go down your spine, the way it did when he shot himself in front of you.

“We’re besties,” he explains, and you swear someone cooed at how cute the two of you are.

Although it’s said like a joke, the truth behind the words settles in your chest, your heart embraced in the safety of his care. It’s the truth too, even as both of you want more: he is your best friend.

Neither of you drink too much; aware of each other’s presence throughout the night, even as your colleagues drag Sylus to karaoke, so that someone else can interrogate you on where you’ve hidden such a good-looking friend, and is he single?

Is he single? Saying yes would be accurate, but it’s the opposite that leaves your mouth. Because maybe you don’t want anyone else to want him.

See, this is why you’ve told him to be selfish. Because otherwise you’ll just take and take and take.

But you’re undeterred, even when your colleagues throw you dirty looks, for leaving together with Sylus, in the same direction. He’s just being gallant, walking you back to your apartment, close and cold enough that it’ll sober you both up.

Ten minutes of awkward silence, neither of you knowing how to broach the topic of what you’ve done, why he’s here. Ten minutes in, and the rain falls, heavy droplets, in the type of storm that should go away as instantly as it arrived.

You seek shelter underneath the nearest roof, in front of a closed shop. It only takes a short jog, but when you stop, you’re soaked through, hair in tangled knots at your back, clothes sticking uncomfortably to your body.

At the first shiver of your body, Sylus’ jacket lands on your shoulders. It didn’t fare that much better either, but the inner layer is still dry and warm from his body. You hug it closer.

At the second shiver, he pulls you close, an arm around your shoulder, palm absent-mindedly rubbing against your shoulder, warming you up. It sounds like out of a cliche book, and you’re already almost standing on top of Sylus, but you still turn to face him. Your chest presses against his forearm as you go on your tiptoes, forcing him to meet your gaze through wet locks of hair.

He raises an eyebrow at you, waiting.

“Shall we just go to yours?” you ask, because he is still who he is, and that’s surely more doable than asking the sky to stop its rain.

“I thought you declined my invitation,” he replies, gaze shifting away from you, though not before it drops, for the merest of moments, to your cleavage.

You did not wear this on purpose, but you’re so glad you did, even though it does nothing to protect you from the chill in the air now.

“To work for Onychinus. Not to stop being your friend,” you clarify, and you move to search for something in your purse.

You come up with a handkerchief, which you use to wipe at Sylus’s face.

“Is that all we are, kitten? Besties?” He asks, head bending to chase your touch, just the flutter of his eyelashes as he closes his eyes when he can finally feel your skin against his.

He’s bringing it back up, how despite all the time you’ve been spending together, you still introduced him as just a friend to your coworkers. You didn’t expect this thoughtlessness to have offended and upset him so much, but clearly it did. It was unfair of you, even if you did it to try and protect his identity, keep him away from your boss’s list of interested parties. Things are getting complicated, and you’ve dragged Sylus in enough dangerous situations, he does not need the Unicorns team on his back too, not if that means it could end up in you having to hunt him.

“Is it?” you ask back, heart thrumming in your chest, its beat growing more hurried as Sylus wraps a hand around yours, slotting his fingers in-between yours, lightly squeezing.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” he whispers, so close to your lips that you can almost feel the touch of his mouth.

Sylus never asks anything of you. This is the first time, and he merely asks you to be brave.

“Let’s go to yours,” you say, promise and avoidance at once.

He settles his forehead against yours, chuckling.

***

Your shower takes so long that you’re all soft and sleepy by the end. You were cold and half frozen, and you desperately needed warmth. And when you finally exit, you notice the soft t-shirt left on the side, and you feel warm all over for a different reason. Because Sylus has been in here, even if only for a moment, and maybe… maybe he did look at your figure through the frosted shower glass, you think, biting your lip.

The shirt smells like him, and it’s big enough that you can wear it as a dress. You put your old clothes in the dryer, this a familiar rhythm, done before.

And Sylus is waiting for you, something unsaid but expected now, no more sleeping in spare bedrooms, no more pretending separation when there should be none. You are shy and careful getting in the bed next to him, and when you think you’re settled, on the edge farthest away from him, he simply wraps an arm around your waist and pulls.

He cradles your body close, face buried at your neck, inhaling the smell of you, under the smell of his shower gel, his nerves calmed at last. You shift though, wiggling around to face him, smiling at him, both at the sleepiness in his eyes and the indignation at having moved.

His hand dips under the hem of his shirt, now ridden up your thigh, palm resting heavy at your waist, and you settle into his embrace. His pinkie rubs lazy circles against your skin, hand splayed across the naked expanse -

“Kitten,” he says, and you can hear the weight in his tone, accompanied with a light squeeze over your body. “Are you not wearing underwear?”

You shift, embarrassed, your body pressing tight against him, your face hidden at the crook of his neck. A leg hooks around his, your naked warmth hovering barely any distance away from his growing cock.

“I was wet all the way through,” you whisper an explanation, which is close to having him lose his mind because you’re only covered in the light material of his spare t-shirt and nothing else and you’re like that in his bed.

It’d be so easy to shift his hand, guide your legs apart, fingers spreading your pussy lips, dipping inside your wanting cunt. It’d be so perfect, too, and he wants it like he hasn’t wanted things in years.

He traces instead lazy circles against your inner thigh, until your body shivers and trembles, hips moving, searching for some form of friction. Sylus is infuriatingly patient, even when you accidentally brush the back of your hand against the tip of his erection, and he hisses a curse in your ear. The sound burns something inside you, and you want to hear it again, but that’s when Sylus’ hand moves, a finger teasing your pussy lips apart, feeling your wetness already, as it has grown and leaked out of you.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes out, just as he pushes two fingers inside you.

You take them, down to the knuckles, with a hot gasp against his neck, the first syllable of his name on your lips. He starts fucking you with his fingers almost immediately, and you’d be embarrassed that two shoves in, your hips are moving, seeking and meeting his movements, the tension building in your body, if it didn’t feel so damn good. He maintains a constant rhythm, not giving in to you even when you whine, nails digging into his shoulder. The squelching sound of your wet pussy is the only one in the room, Sylus stoically silent, merely staring at all the pretty expressions on your face, remembering what feels good, how you look when he’s close to making you fall apart.

His thumb pushes at your entrance, the stretch delicious, gone as soon as the digit is coated in your wetness, a loss you sigh at. And then it’s on your clit, pressing and rubbing, and you scream, wordlessly, so pent up that you come immediately, Sylus’ ministrations continuing through your orgasm, until it becomes a lot, too much - and even further, building up the need all over again inside you, his hand and your thighs all covered.

You come back to your senses to Sylus murmuring a soft question in your ear, in-between kisses placed against your neck, fingers still pumping, lazily this time around, inside you, with so much ease that he could easily fit more.

“D’you think you can fit me? Hmm? Please?” It’s more begging than questioning, the voice low and groveling.

Your pussy squeezes his fingers tight, and you can feel him smiling against your skin, your hands already desperately pushing off his shorts and boxers; not all the way through because you can’t wait and he kicks them off instead. You don’t even complain about him moving his hand, not when it grasps at your knee instead, moving you onto your back, pushing your leg open, your cunt his for the taking. The smell of your arousal hits you both at once, and Sylus groans, as he grips his cock in his other hand, giving it a few pumps, lost in admiring how pretty you look, fat clit and wet open pussy, in his bed and all for him.

And then he’s there, his thick length resting between your legs, your body trembling as he moves it in-between your slit, coating it in your juices, the tip of his dick pressing against your clit with each slide. You whimper, catching it with a bite of your lip, and Sylus grabs your chin, turning your face to force eye contact, shifting slightly to position himself at your entrance.

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, and then he pushes inside you.

His tip slides in with ease, and you moan, trying not to look away from the fire of pleasure in his gaze, hearing the rush of breath as he feels you clenching around him. He doesn’t move any further, allowing both of you the time to get used to the stretch. If he feels this good already, then you’ll be truly fucked once he properly fucks you, ruined for all other men forever.

Sylus nuzzles your neck, his hip moving, just the tip in and out of you, moans growing as you grow wetter and wetter still, your body trembling underneath him, telling him so cutely what you like and how. You roll your hips, pulling him closer, seeking -

The alarm is sharp and loud, all over you, and you both freeze for a moment. Then Sylus barks a curse, anger overwhelming him, and he rolls his hips, a hand coming to where you’re barely joined, pushing aside one of your pussy lips, pushing at your entrance. Your hips buck, and he curses again, but then he presses the same finger against your clit, rubbing hard and fast.

Your moans grow, loud, as Sylus continues to fuck you, just the quick snap of the tip of his cock stretching you, in and out. You still in sync again, when you squeeze around him, coming soundlessly, hair sticky to your forehead, and he continues to touch you, shivering above you, trying not to cum, and not even the blasting alarm does anything to take him out of this moment.

He doesn’t give a shit if the world goes to hell, he’s got heaven right here.

You’re still breathing hard when you push him away, sighing at the lack of him, your cunt walls squeezing against nothing.

“Just go,” you say, trying not to sound disappointed.

He pushes a hand through his hair, getting it out of his face to stare at you, naked from the waist down, hunger growing in his eyes. You see him hesitating, so you push again, with your foot against his shoulder.

“Wait for me,” he says, softly, catching your chin again to pull you close, pressing a hard kiss against your lips, even as you both know that you’ll be gone by the time he clears up this emergency.

You watch him get dressed, fitting a painfully hard cock with his belt, too big to fit otherwise, and you sigh in goodbye.

***

You ride the pillow on your side of the bed, hard enough that you moan his name, choke on it as you come, leaving a dark stain against the satin material.

Sylus will rewind the cameras, watch on the screen in front of him as you satisfy yourself, clearly frustrated at it not being quite enough, his name on your lips, his hand down his pants, the tip of his cock leaking precum, so red that it looks almost painful. And he’ll rewind again, refusing himself release once more.

***

His body goes easily, back slammed against the wall, as the door closes behind him, your body pressed against his.

“You said this was an emergency, kitten,” he says, grin wiped off his face by a hungry kiss, his palm resting at your waist to stabilise you on your tiptoes.

“Sylus!” you whine when he’s the first to pull apart. “I want you so badly.”

He hums, pleased, face leaning closer, pressing his lips against your chin, neck, moving over the sliver of skin at your chest.

“Why?” he asks against your skin, so low that you would not have heard him if he wasn’t this close, lips a ghostly touch against your earlobe, his voice, slightly strangled, sending a shiver down your spine.

You push away for a bit, enough to properly look at him: Sylus, put together as always, just the tiniest bit flushed at the intensity of your want and earlier ambush. Sylus, who you know left in the middle of an important sale just because you texted him. Sylus, who is still smiling faintly at you, even as he is waiting and expecting that you will break his heart.

He asked you not to, even if not directly.

Your hands tighten around his shirt. You’re tired of breaking promises to this man, forgetting just how important he is to you.

“Because it’s you,” you reply, and you wait for him to make the next move because you need him to understand exactly what you’re trying to say.

No one else but Sylus. Half a soul, cradled in his care, tied by fate but also by the mundane, by the little things, by choosing and picking each other over and over again. Because you may just love this man, even though you’re not sure you know how to say it yet.

You yelp when he gathers you in his arms, holding on tight, walking you towards your bedroom, where he throws you on the bed. You’re already shoving clothes off, throwing your blouse over your head.

Sylus hesitates, hand under the shoulder of his blazer, and he lifts his gaze to meet yours. You’ve seen him before, right when you first met, but this is different. This time around, you want him and he is not sure if he is worthy of the heat and admiration in your eyes. But that’s what makes him brave enough, as he slips off item after item, half the actions done under the full weight of your staring.

His entire back is adorned in scars, something you haven’t really cared about at the start, not before you realised what it means. And what an amazing person Sylus is, to have turned so kind despite all that pain.

Your palm settles over his skin, fingers kindly trailing the path of past wounds, and he closes his eyes, this a baptism in love, particularly when you follow the touch with presses of your lips. He can’t bear it, but he must.

He startles when your hand guides him on his back on the bed, when the kisses don’t stop, in a downward path over his body, now over his navel, now at the dip of his hip, now against the soft flesh at his inner thigh, always almost right where he’s growing needier.

And then, finally, at long last, just when he thought he’d be killed right here, on your small bed and with a plushie staring straight at him, you place a kiss right on the tip of his cock.

You look up at him, your eyes meeting, and you smile.

“Can I?” you ask, moving to place a kiss at the base instead.

Sylus merely nods, and then your lips are wrapped around him and he swears, willing his hips to still. You’re so damn fucking wet and warm and he’s never thought it’d feel so fucking good. What you lack in experience you make up for in enthusiasm, as you grab at the base of his dick, your hands matching the rhythm of your lips, working your mouth over him, up and down. He grabs at the sheets, head thrown back as he bites his lip on a moan. And then, because of course you want to kill him, you grab his hand and place it on the top of your head.

He is kind first, pushing the hair away from your face, so he can better see the saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth, the reddened eyes as you try to take more of him inside your mouth. But then you lick right at the tip of his cock, and his hips buckle, his fingers gripping onto your hair, forcing you to take him inside your mouth until you choke.

When you lift your head again, he’s already halfway to an apology. But then he whimpers instead, seeing how excited you look, the string of saliva connecting your mouth to his dick, your gaze fixated on it, before you lick your lips and break it. You’re hot all over, trying to calm down, but you can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, wetting the bed sheet, and your hand squeezes around Sylus’s member by reflex.

“Please,” he says, and you let your hand come loose around his cock. “I want to be inside you.”

“You think begging is going to work?” you smirk, though the thought of having this stretching you makes your mind blur, makes your cunt squeeze, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Yes, judging by your expression, sweetie.”

You can’t help it, really. It’s the teasing, when he’s in such a position.

“You’re just so pretty like this, Sylus,” it sounds like it’s a thought that just slipped out, rather than an owned admission, and you press your thumb against the tip of his dick, hard, making it twitch against your fingers. It makes him whimper, and your grin widens. “And the sounds you make are so cute.”

Sylus throws an arm over his face, trying to hide the blush over his cheeks at the praise, trying to hide how excited he is when you move, straddling his body, his dick twitching against your thigh. And still the other settles at your waist, fingers rubbing soothing and encouraging touches.

“Wanna sit on my face, sweetie?” he asks, and you shake your head, your body hovering above his, as you guide his cock to your entry.

It’ll be a stretch without an orgasm, but you don’t want to wait, you need to feel him right now. You both gasp when his tip goes in, barely any resistance, and you roll your hips, another inch down. His forehead is dressed in sweat, as you breathe, trying to relax. He feels so nice, the burn delicious, the promise of something more, as he shifts his hand, settling a finger against your clit, lazy circles against the bundle of nerves.

With a moan, you sink down a bit more. Sylus grits his teeth, nails digging at your waist, his ministrations picking up speed.

“You feel so good,” Sylus says, as he continues to stretch you, as you continue to take him in.

You nod, humming, desperate to agree, mind half lost to the feeling.

“You too,” you say, words all rushed, and just as you settle, all of Sylus inside you, he pinches your clit, sharp.

You moan, body bending over him as you’re awash in an orgasm you did not see coming. Sylus swears, holding you close as your walls squeeze him, and it takes you both a bit to come down from that.

You pepper kisses over his face, trying to gather the energy to move. It’s the twitch of his cock inside you that does it, your hips rolling, your clit pressing hard against his pelvis bone, seeking friction. Sylus grins, both hands resting around your body, guiding you now. In and out, bouncing on his dick, the satisfying slide of his thick, fat cock inside you, like this until your legs tremble around him. In and out, until you come again, and he’s fucking you still, through your second orgasm. In and out, until he’s doing most of the work, your body slumped against his, as he snaps his hips, your juices coating him entirely, the slide easy and smooth, half moans and half whimpers the only sounds you can still make.

You talked so much shit, about him being pretty, but nothing beats your expressions now, fully lost in your lust, and Sylus fucks into you even harder, angry now that it took you so long to get to this point, proud and crazed to know he’s the one to have gotten you like this.

“Can I cum inside you?” he asks, with a slight nudge of his shoulder against yours, making you aware of this request, your abused pussy close to getting a break.

“Yes,” you whisper, finding the energy to meet the snap of his hip midway, making him stutter. “Please, I want to feel you fill me up.”

And it’s all he needs, his movements now grown frantic, not much needed now that he is so close. He’s chasing his dreams right now, he can’t wait to see his cum dripping out of you. He comes with a roar, half bitten as he latches his teeth over your shoulder. It’s the stab of pain, coupled with the load pulsing inside you that has your pussy fluttering around him, milking him for all he has to offer.

And when you move, the cum leaking out of you, drips over his thighs and belly, Sylus merely cups your pussy with his palm, a finger used to push it back inside you. You whimper, sensitive, body trembling, and he coos as he soothes a wet and dirty finger against your clit. It’s too much, too soon, so it’s just the weight of it resting against you, as he works his cum back inside you, holding his palm to stop it.

“Take a picture,” you jest. “It’ll last longer.”

You don’t expect him to actually turn, blindly grabbing at the nightstand, until he picks a phone - his, yours, doesn’t really matter - and snaps several pictures in quick sequence: his hand spread across your cunt, a close up of his finger inside you, covered in cum, the spread of your swollen pussy lips, your gaping hole still leaking around his finger.

He swipes through them, his finger still rubbing inside you, though most of the cum is now a mess all over the bed and your bodies.

“Can I take more next time?” he asks, seeking something in your face.

You hold his stare.

“Yes.”

#sylus #love and deepspace #qin che #lads fanfic #sylus fanfic #sylus fanfiction #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace fanfiction #lnds fanfic #lads fanfiction #sylus x reader #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #SORRY but bad omens as a band is SOOO sylus coded!!!#and then love's the death of peace of mind??!!!! SORRY IT'S HIM

82 notes · View notes