#and i have so much respect for him its crazy

[taeeflwrr]

oh my god was this a rollercoaster of emotions #bringbackangst #imafeministdespiteallthethoughtsthatthisficmademeentertain #forgivemesinceitwashyuck

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[lmlknn]

I BEG OF YOU ENDO, CHIKA, AND SAKURA WITH A OMEGA THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE AN OMEGA (really big, plus sized, hairy) with smut

An Omega!?

Pairing: Alpha! Yamato Endo, Alpha! Takiishi Chika, Alpha! Haruka Sakura (separated) x Omega!Male! Reader

Advertencia: MDNI, todos los personajes son mayores de edad, obscenidades, malas palabras, sobreestimulación, sexo semipúblico, dacrifilia, degradación, se menciona que el lector tiene características específicas, Dub-con (en la parte de endo), la parte de Takiishi puede sonar un poco tóxica, supongo que eso es todo.

Summary: An omega who in fact does not have any of the typical characteristics of his caste, his dynamics with other characters is somewhat complicated for their friends.

I haven't read the manga, I've only seen the anime so the characters may have (specifically Endo and Chika) behaviors a little OOC, I'm based on what I understood about their personalities in wiki 😭

English is not my first language, excuse any spelling or grammatical errors

Yamato Endo

Endo was used to being humiliated; he did it for Takiishi, for the love he had for him. And then, you appeared.

You were almost the same height as him; if you were doing well, you took out about 5 centimeters more, but you were much more muscular.

He wouldn't say you make him nervous; in fact, Takiishi intimidates him more. But it was strange; your pheromones captivated him, they were not sweet, in fact it was rare that they were, because he could swear that you were an alpha.

With you he felt a little freer; he could talk to you about many things that interested him. You praised him, which was normal in his day to day, but when the compliments came from you, he felt different.

He didn't know at what point his attention stopped belonging to Takiishi and you appeared, stealing ninety percent of the space in his mind. It didn't matter what was going on; one way or another you managed to appear in it.

The way he discovered that you were an omega was not exactly the prettiest. It was not planned, in fact you never intended to tell him the truth, it was not that you wanted to lie to him or anything like that, but you were used to only being able to admire him from afar. Of course, being from Noroshi gave you certain privileges, but you still didn't feel close enough to Endo.

He came to your house by surprise after worrying too much because you hadn't shown up in two days. When he entered your apartment. The first thing he received was the smell of your crazy pheromones.

His heart shrank and he could feel his stomach falling. He was an alpha who didn’t have good control over his alpha; despite being known as a carefree person with a calm nature, when his wolf decided to make an appearance, he could not control him so easily.

When you saw him at the door of your room, you regretted having given him a key to your house. You were in heat; it is public knowledge that omegas suffer when they don’t have a partner with whom to spend this difficult season.

Endo saw you squirm in your bed, totally blushing, with natural lubricant dripping and naked.

He never imagined himself in this position; all the alphas had their respective cycles of heat, but seeing you left him speechless.

A small moan came out of your lips. "Alpha"

And his instincts came to light.

He pounced on you, his lips collided with yours, starting a fiery dance that drove you crazy. One of his hands went to the back of your neck and the other to your waist. Being careful not to place all its weight on you.

It didn't take long for him to start unbuttoning his belt so he could catch your wrists in it. His lips moved to your neck, with the sole intention of leaving marks.

His shirt left his body quickly, as did his pants. All Endo wanted was to fuck you.

He didn't care about the previous preparation, without giving you even a little warning; Endo put his member all the way down. Both let out deep moans. In some miraculous way, Endō had found your prostate in the first lunge. "Ah! There! It's there, alpha!" Your moans were the most beautiful melody Endo's ears had ever heard. So sweet, so perfect.

You both looked like wild animals; the bed grinded, the headboard hit the wall hard, your teeth left a mark on Endo's shoulder while he hid his face in the hollow of your neck.

His lips were right in your ear and with each growl they made, an electric current ran down your spine.

It didn't take long for you to reach your climax; Endo did it wonderfully. Your back arched, sweat ran through their bodies, the clash of skins created an exciting sound, added with their moans and grunts.

You felt that you were in a fantasy, product of the pain caused by being jealous alone. Endo attracted you, too much, but you knew he liked Takiishi. You didn't have a chance and you weren't willing to risk yourself and make a fool of yourself.

"Please, don't make this a dream." You whispered as the fluids flowed down your abdomen.

"Oh, love. This is far from being a dream.” Endo's provocative tone turned you on even more. His cock rammed you again; this was undoubtedly the best heat you had ever gone through.

Letting yourself be carried away by pleasure and your instincts, you let yourself be enveloped by what seemed to be an illusion, a delicious illusion.

Of course, what was the surprise you took the next morning when you had Yamato Endo himself wrapped in your arms with bite marks and scratches.

"My God..." The shock was too much, and your poor tired and stunned mind could only make you let go of those words.

Chika Takiishi

It was weird; you awakened emotions inside Takiishi that he had never felt before. For him, there were only two types of people: those who stand in his way and need to be eliminated and the people who will give him the things he wants.

But you... you were something he couldn't decipher, you were different in the whole extent of the word. When Endo brought you, he couldn't help but feel confused.

You were an alpha, that was clear to him just by smelling your pheromones, but even so he couldn't help but wonder, why were you so big? You easily took it twenty centimeters tall; with your figure you could easily hide it, you had muscles big enough to drown someone there.

If it wasn't so strong, Chika could swear that if you set your mind to it, you could bend it like a simple toothpick in half.

"He is (M/n), is very good at fighting." Endo took him out of his thoughts; he directed his cold orbs to the black-haired man.

Takiishi never thought he would get so close to you; it was a great surprise to discover that, in fact, you were an omega.

Of course it was strange for him that you disappeared for a week every two months, but he assumed that you had your own problems. He decided not to investigate further; the last thing he wanted was for someone to discover the affection he had begun to hold for you.

But your pheromones were strong, not the typical sweet smell that the other omegas had. Honestly, the news had surprised him, although he didn't complain; that you were an omega fit him like a ring on his finger, means that he could woo you without obstacles in between.

When he left Furin, he was a little surprised that you were in Noroshi (even when he couldn't help but feel a weight in his chest at the mere thought that you had decided to stay with Umemiya).

His approach happened suddenly, it doesn't have a beginning and won't have an end; your mentality and Takiishi's were similar, enough to attract the temperamental alpha even more.

And now, he had you in his bed, just as he wanted you.

Despite your large size, something Takiishi loved was the good flexibility you had; he could put you in all the positions he wanted. He could bend you and mistreat you, and you never complained.

He loved to bite your thighs, which were the softest thing in the universe, also penetrate you without rest, until you fainted, until he had stolen your last breath, until you had no more semen to take out, until your pretty little eyes had no more tears to shed, until your walls remembered every millimeter of his cock, until the footprint of his hands was marked in violet tones by the force with which he grabs you. He wants your whole body to scream that you are of his property, the smell of your mixed pheromones is not enough, nor the mark that unites you; he wants more, much more.

Your cock was in his fist, pumping again and again rudely; tears rolled down your blushing cheeks, it was an ethereal sight, small gasps escaped from your swollen and reddish lips.

"What would others think if they saw you like this? So submissive, my precious omega." Takiishi's eyes shone with adoration, like this, how could you didn’t feel on heaven?

"Looking like this, what would the rest of the idiots who idolize you think, seeing you bent so easily, begging to be touched?" The way he degraded you was addictive, it was a vicious circle that no one was willing to break.

His touch left your skin burning; you didn't know how many orgasms you had, but Takiishi had shown no signs of stopping soon. Your legs began to tremble; Takiishi's sadistic smile did not calm you down at all.

"Do you want me inside?" He loved to mock, to see your face distorted by pleasure, to give you so much that you would be stunned, too drunk to be able to think of anything other than him.

"Yes, yes, yes," your tearful voice made his cock shake, your hips swayed desperately. You knew that with tantrums you weren't going to get anything, but Takiishi made it so difficult for you.

Freeing your member from his torture, he lift and bend your legs to his liking, settling down to be able to penetrate you freely and comfortably.

Takiishi was not soft; you could count on the fingers of one hand the times you have had vanilla sex, although it's not like you were complaining.

His member made his way through your entrance; a choked moan left your lips. "Always so greedy, you love to be fucked until you get tired." "Gah!" Grabbing your hips, he began to push even harder. Your eyes rolled, his tip hit your prostate fucking well; you tried to close your legs impulsively, but Takiishi abandoned his previous grip to sink his hands into your thighs. "Are you going to cum again?" His mocking tone almost makes you let out little whimpers. "Please," you begged.

"Mmm, I don't know. You've already come many times, do you deserve another one?" You knew what it meant; Takiishi only had two options for you in terms of climax: you could cum as many times as you wanted or he would start taking you to heaven and stop at the right time.

"Please, Takiishi!" More tears came down, causing their thrusts to be faster. "For your size, you're very crybaby." Takiishi loved to make fun of you, he always loved to remind you how ironic your physique was.

"You can take it longer, right?" Poor you...

Haruka Sakura

Going out with Sakura wasn't easy. He was very shy, he didn't like to kiss or hug in public. You wouldn't be surprised if half of his friends didn't even know they were a couple.

It's not that you both kept your relationship a secret, but no one expected that the thermometer of walking affection that was Sakura and you were together.

Starting with personalities, both are very different: Sakura exalted himself easily, he couldn't stand teasing and, if he didn't like something, he complained at the first moment; you, on the other hand, were quieter, you didn't start conversations and much less claimed when something didn't suit you.

Even if Sakura didn’t say it, everyone knew that he preferred to be alone they had never seen him flirt with an omega, his pheromones were not so intense and he had never been attracted to someone.

You had only been seen surrounded by alphas and betas, and although once Nirei, Sakura and Suo saw you with a beta, you soon introduced her as your mother, who came to visit you from outside the neighborhood.

Probably, that was the only approach they had seen you have with a female besides Kotoha.

It's not that you didn't have suitors, when they did their guards, many girls, omegas and betas, approached you to ask for your number.

Sakura couldn't blame them; you were handsome, tall, muscular, you knew how to fight very well, you knew how to cook and you were attentive to your friends. In short, you would be a very good match.

It was a surprise when Umemiya said that you were going to miss the meetings for a whole week because you were sick.

The second and third years understood in an instant, but he didn't, and how was he going to know that you were an omega, if they never bothered to tell him directly.

He surprised himself, going to the store to buy you medicines and the odd sandwich to go to your apartment and give you the food he had previously bought in Pothos.

When he arrived at your house, he was stopped by Kaji, who with his typical frown sent him back to his house, after calling him an idiot for not understanding that Umemiya meant that you were in heat.

Clearly, Sakura turned totally red. He complained to Kaji claiming how difficult it was to say that you were in that season of the month, from the beginning, instead of giving that silly hint.

In addition, to ask him why he was there. "What do you mean, what am I doing here, idiot? Umemiya and I always bring clothes to (M/n) to make his nest." Kaji shouted back.

"What do you mean what nest!?" Sakura asked, getting even redder. "Oh! How stupid do you have to be not to know that omegas make a nest when they are in heat?" Kaji began to shake him by the shoulders, getting more angry with each passing second.

"How do you want me to know that he is an omega, if I could assure that he was an alpha!?" Sakura defended himself.

Kaji stopped his attack; Sakura was not the first person who confused your caste. "You're such an idiot." Without saying more, Kaji turned around and walked away from your house; Sakura didn't take long to follow in his footsteps, making sure to leave the shopping in a safe place.

"For God's sake, it means I have the opportunity to do it my omega." Sakura's thoughts made his blush intensely again.

The way he courted you was very subtle; in a few months both were a solid couple. It's not that they told anyone who crossed their path that they were now a couple. Their routines did not change; Sakura continued with Nirei and Suo while you stayed with Kaji, Enomoto and Kusumi.

You two didn't have dates, you didn't occupy your alpha's clothes, when it was your zeal you gave him your clothes to smell them and when your cycle ended you washed them so that no one suspected anything.

However, this was totally different. Tsubaki had invited all the kings, captains and sub-captains to a party in the red light district. The thing looked good. Everyone was having fun and, although some were reluctantly going, the atmosphere was pleasant.

A waiter brought drinks, claiming that they were complimentary. At the table where you were sitting he also had your respective trio of friends, in the company of Sakura's trio.

Everyone took a drink to the drink; surprisingly, it was not just any cocktail, but an aphrodisiac distinctive of the place where the party was held.

A blush adorned your cheeks, it was the first time you felt like this. Your legs closed with discomfort, your heart began to beat faster, you mentally thanked the idea of putting on a patch to hide your pheromones. You knew how dangerous the red light district was for omegas, no matter how big or how strong you were.

Your dilated pupils went to Sakura's two-colored orbs. They both knew what it meant and with a small nod, Sakura left the table, with the excuse of wanting to go to the bathroom.

After about three minutes, you told Kaji that you were going to go talk to the rest of the boys, getting away with it easily.

You weren't obvious but you didn't take so long either, the discomfort you had between your legs didn't allow you. You made sure you didn't have anyone's gaze on you, before you could go to the bathroom where Sakura was waiting.

It was not the first time you both had a sexual encounter, but it was the first time in a public place. While you were in the bathroom with bright eyes, the emotion of what you were going to do began to bubble in the pit of your stomach.

Aphrodisiacs were not good for omegas; they resembled the felling of heat, that's why you were so excited.

Sakura was leaning on the sink, moving his foot nervously, playing with his fingers. "Sorry for the delay, I didn't want us to be so obvious." You caught his attention subtly, your steps were slow, approaching shyly.

Sakura was the first to approach; his soft lips touched yours, starting the kiss with despair. His hand slipped into your pants, playing with the elastic of the boxers you were wearing.

With a slow back and forth, he began to stimulate you. Sighs of satisfaction left your lips in the middle of the intense kiss. Your hips followed his movements looking for more friction. Red monsoon invaded Sakura's face. If you look down to be able to see it, the mere sight made your orgasm reach.

"Ah" a soft moan from Sakura, he hit your lips and was also masturbating.

He stopped his movements on both members, when he also reached climax. The semen left an uncomfortable feeling of humidity. Your agitated breaths, blushing faces and crazy hearts, gave an atmosphere of intimacy.

"We must leave now, I don't want Suo or Nirei to come in and find us." Sakura took his hand out of your pants, turning around so he could wash his hands.

You agreed, you also washed your hands and let Sakura go out first, while your breathing was controlled.

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 2x09, "deception"

it makes sense that house would be so averse to a munchausen's diagnosis.

the (first) foreman era has made landfall, and it's already spelling out chaos. it's been AGES since we've had a foreman-forward episode, too, and i think this one slots nicely in with 2x01. back when foreman was so troubled by the patient on death row, we learned about his crucial trait that sets him apart from house: his ability and willingness to reflect. 2x09 features that trait of his pushed to its limit (among what we've seen thus far).

my experience with foreman has been that, so far, he respects what house does but does not like him, but even this respect is floundering a bit in light of recent events, like the chase and house debacle of 2x08. foreman enters the Boss Man Role with a naive idea of cooperation - if he can find a way to control house (his words) without being so blatant, he can introduce proper hospital ethics and morals and guidelines while also keeping house at ease. it's a silly endeavor from the outset and predicated on foreman's refusal/inability to see any part of house in himself.

it's not just audiences who pinpoint this as a doomed endeavor - wilson calls bullshit immediately. :"can i talk to you about something in confidence?" "of course." "it's about house." "oh, then. no."

i mention this mostly because the conversation reads not like words of wisdom or chastisement from wilson to foreman, but more so wilson saing "only i can fuck with house like that." little protective moment that doesn't do too much to advance the plot, but it does confirm that foreman does not have an ally in wilson. and ofc wilson has to be all theater kid/greek tragedy about it, comparing the idea of "controlling" house to "usurping" caesar.

what 2x09 also highlights are the leadership qualities, or lack thereof, between the fellows. foreman tries his hand at diplomacy here, but at the cost of his usual brilliance. house (rightly) accuses him of taking the safe route when he folds to a combination of both his and cameron's diagnoses; the resulting ridicule, while most inspired by how angry house is that he's not in charge atm, also comes from disappointment. he knows foreman is more than this, and he, at some level, wants foreman to see what he's sacrificing by playing cuddy's game.

chase, meanwhile, isn't granted any opportunity to showcase his leadership skills - instead, he gets back to scheming. this is so fucking funny given that in 2x08 both house and chase's entire careers were threatened because of their combined devilry. but what i also like about this little alliance between them is so prophetic it is - chase, despite claiming otherwise, still thinks that house considered loyalty to be transactional. he still thinks that, by sticking at his side, he'll be rewarded in the end. and while this is technically true come season 8, house firing chase in season 3 is one of the most insane moments of the show for me.

chase does make the important realization that, "no matter what i do, you're still going to treat me like crap," to which house makes a threat: "crap is a relative term." so chase's decision to conspire house against foreman here is equal parts an internal and externally motivated choice. but it's not like we haven't seen chase relish in this sort of thing before.

cameron, meanwhile, looks for ways to improve her leadership skills by appealing to leadership. i love and relate to her lol. i think house being needlessly harsh to her is a symptom of his unwillingness to acknowledge the moral effect she has on him and the team at large; that's leadership, but at a deeply subconscious level. yet his invitation for her to take a ride on his motorcycle with him is a powerful statement of equality - house shares the embodiment of his freedom with someone who's nearly survived the gauntlet of Having A Thing For House lmfao.

she deserves this moment of favoritism lol. also it's crazy that we've had no mention of cameron and HIV yet.

amidst all of that, however, i think the root of this episode's tensions comes from a rock (foreman) and a hard place (house) trying to communicate. foreman, saddled with new authority that he instantly takes very seriously, makes futile attempts at getting house to budge without understanding why house is being particularly petulant about this case. the patient, anica, has munchausen's disease, but beneath that, she harbors a real and dangerous condition.

house, just like in 2x07, can relate to her, and this idea of nonexistent pain haunts house and the viewer from 1x21. house refuses to write off anica because a real problem may be lingering beneath her mental illness, and that mental illness doesn't negate the resulting pain. house's vicodin addiction does not negate his leg pain and disability.

i think this shot/scene is very effective in drawing this parallel. it definitely looks like he's helping someone shoot up. but he's right, to a point, and to the chagrin of the team. he doesn't undo their diagnosis of munchausen's (he can't deny his addiction), but he can see to the heart of the issue (they can't deny his leg pain).

that's why i found cameron and house's exchange at anica's house so captivating. she says, about munchausen's patients, that "attention is attention," and house gets immediately defensive. he understands that need for attention and the chaotic ways he's tempted to get it, without exposing himself as lonely. and admitting to cameron, of all people, that he's lonely would be worse than death for him lol.

later, foreman reiterates this house/patient parallel to anika after they confirm the aplastic anemia: "you jumped through a lot of hoops to be here." anika returns with: "i just want to be healthy." in house's shoes, people are loath to believe that house wants any help because he refuses to ask; he complicates his life and his health with his vicodin addiction, but he just wants that pain to go away. i'm pretty confident in this comparison since we have 2x13 waiting for us in the wings.

moving forward, i'm interested in keeping tabs on all the moments where house is especially sensitive to medical negligence...despute having nearly been charged with it in 2x08. i also consider this to me ground zero for the never-ending tension between foreman and house that carries us alllll the way to about 8x02.

[hoe-in-deepspace]

Im literally obsessed with your blog, and the fact that were practically the same age..their both a warm.balm to my soul 😫! Can i request something from one zayne girlie to another? We all knkw that caleb is considered a panty sniffer but...what if zayne is a bra feeler, and you catch him in the act? (We know he got some crazy hidden kinks as well 🤭). If you decide to do this, then my aether embedded heart will beat once more.

Omg thank you so much!!!! That makes me very happy 🥰 Similar age AND both Zayne girlies??? The universe must want us to be friends 🙂‍↕️ I'm drooling over the Zayne pic bc goddamn he looks breathtaking 😍

You are absolutely right about Zaynie being kinky (it's always the quiet ones) and I could definitely see him having a thing for bras

I haven't really written much fanfiction so there is no guarantee that it'll be good but I did my best for you!

P.S. I made the bra a red lace one to match the red lace panties in that panty sniffer Caleb edit 🤭

Dividers: enchanthings

Caught Red-Handed

Zayne x Reader

CW: Mentions of reader having breasts/wearing a bra but otherwise written as gn as possible (tagging as x fem reader just in case), pre-established relationship, two yearning idiots, Zayne realizing he is a horny freak for reader's bra (pops a boner that's never mentioned again). I think that's everything. Let me know if I forgot anything that should be here please.

Everybody knows that Zayne shows his love and care through acts of service. Which is why he's currently in your laundry room moving your freshly cleaned clothes out of the dryer and into the laundry basket that's resting gently between his arm and hip.

You had casually mentioned to him earlier in the day that you were exhausted from the countless missions the association had sent you on for the past week but couldn't spend your day off resting as there were many things you needed to take care of at your place. You had been putting the tasks off until you had more time and now that you finally had the time your body decided it only wants to rest. To say you regret leaving everything to be done on the same day is an understatement.

When you confided in Zayne about your predicament you hadn't thought he would show up on your doorstep 20 minutes later with your favorite drink in hand along with a small paper bag containing a few sweet treats for you two to share.

Once you both finished eating, Zayne adamantly insisted on helping you with your chores under the guise of not wanting the stress of it all to overwhelm your already exhausted body and heart. You knew he was helping simply because he cares about you but you couldn't resist the urge to ask if he's this caring with his other patients. His response? "Only the ones who cause as much trouble as you." You gasp. "There are others?" you joke with a faux look of shock displayed on your face. The corners of Zayne's lips quirk up ever so slightly before he breathes out a small "No".

Seeing as how Zayne wasn't going to take no for an answer you decided to leave him in charge of washing the laundry since it was the easiest task on your list. You know he works hard day in and day out at the hospital so the idea of letting him take on your biggest tasks on top of all that made a twinge of guilt bubble up in your chest.

Zayne carried the now full basket of clean clothes to your room and sat it down on the edge of your bed before proceeding to fold its contents.

When you had suggested for Zayne to wash your laundry he had politely asked if you wished to remove any intimates you didn't want him to see from the pile. He reassured you that he had no issue with handling such garments and was only asking out of respect for your privacy. You quietly thanked him before sorting through your laundry pile until you had collected all of your intimates to be washed by you later.

Zayne sorted your clean clothing as he folded them making separate piles for your t-shirts, jeans, socks, hunter uniform, etc. Once everything in the basket was folded and separated he began putting them away in the places you instructed him to. The closet was first and once everything that belonged in there was put away he moved on to the dresser. You had specified that your t-shirts go in the top drawer on the left but when he opened said drawer he came face to face with your collection of bras and underwear instead.

Realizing he must have made a mistake when remembering your instructions he goes to close the dresser drawer until a certain red lacy bra catches his eye. He stops in his tracks and stares at the garment with increasing intensity. He gets an overwhelming urge to pick up the bra and feel the delicate lace between his fingers but pushes the feeling down. Or at least he tries to.

Before he knows it he's got the red lacy bra in his hands. He drags his thumb slowly across the underside of the right cup. His fingers follow along down the length of the band before gently making their way to the straps. It's clear to Zayne that this bra serves as fashion over function due to the rather fragile natural of the straps. He imagines how they'd struggle to hold up your perfect breasts (no matter what size they are). The way they'd practically beg to be slipped off your shoulders so they can get even a few moments of respite from their losing struggle with your breasts. After Zayne's careful assessment of the garment he concludes it's rarely worn (if at all) based on the near perfect condition it's in. This discovery brings a sense of relief to his yearning heart. Next he uses his long fingers to stretch the cup out as if it were being worn by you. His breath hitches as he imagines your breast filling the cup. The way the lace would stretch across the tissue as if it were a second skin, giving the illusion that the lace was just another part of your gorgeous body. How despite your breasts being covered there is still very little left to the imagination. The growing tightness of his pants pulls him from his lewd thoughts.

He shouldn't be doing this. He knows it's wrong but he can't seem to get himself to stop no matter how hard he tries. He's never been so drawn to a piece of clothing before so he had no way to mentally defend himself against such an occurrence.

After fighting with himself internally, he cautiously continues running his fingers across the bra tracing the pattern of the lace on each cup. His breathing becoming more rapid and audible as a slight blush creeps across his face and ears. Eventually losing the battle with his intense urges, Zayne slowly drags the delicate fabric across his cheek to then ghost over his lips. A languid sigh escapes him as his eyelids flutter shut. The lace barely touched his lips but it's enough to make him weak in the knees.

While Zayne was busy fighting his demons in your bedroom you were in the kitchen putting away the last of the dishes you just finished cleaning. Suddenly you remembered (a bit too late) that you had rearranged your clothes in your dresser last week to make more room and things were now in a different spot than you had told Zayne they'd be. You mentally scold yourself for making such a mistake. You had given him the rundown on where everything goes while you were busy washing the mountain of dishes that accumulated over the last few days. That coupled with how exhausted you were led to you telling Zayne the spots those clothes used to go.

As you make your way to your bedroom to apologize and correct your mistake you can't help but wonder why Zayne hadn't come out to address it as it had been almost half an hour since he had taken your clothes out of the dryer. Surely he wasn't still folding them? Maybe he just opened the rest of your drawers to figure it out himself? But he had been so respectful of your privacy earlier so there is no way he would have gone through your other drawers without your permission, right? Questions ran through your head as you finally made your way into your bedroom.

"Sorry Zayne I-" you start but quickly cut yourself off as your gaze lands on what's happening in front of you. There stands Zayne slightly hunched over your open dresser drawer with your red lace bra in his hands and a deep blush on his face.

Zayne immediately whips his head in your direction and looks at you with widened eyes before quickly looking back down at your bra in his hands. He's been caught red-handed. He stays quiet for a moment while he tries to come up with any possible excuse that could explain why you found him in such a state. All the while his blush deepens.

You were so caught off guard by the situation that all you can manage to say is "is that my bra?" to which he just slowly nods while still avoiding your gaze. Before you can say anything else Zayne speaks up. "I apologize for my behavior. I don't know what came over me." You notice he still has your bra in his hands and has started nervously running his fingers along it. It's such a small movement that you doubt he even knows he's doing it.

The pieces of the puzzle connect in your mind as you realize Zayne, your usually composed doctor friend you're in love with, was just helplessly touching (and who knows what else) your lace bra he accidentally stumbled upon while you were in the other room. Your face heats up at the implication of the situation. Zayne wouldn't have acted the way he did if he didn't have feelings for you right? Maybe you're reading too much into this? Your mind is plagued with questions that you desperately need an answer to.

Mustering up all the courage you have you slowly move closer and gently place your hand over Zayne's to stop his fidgeting fingers. You both look up at each other and lock eyes. The two of you stand there in silence for a brief moment before Zayne instinctively looks away and clears his throat. He knows he should release your bra from his hands but that would mean removing his hand from your gentle grip. It would mean losing the feeling of your warm palm and slightly pruning fingertips against his cool skin. Zayne may often seem calm and collected on the outside but inside he deeply craves touch and affection. But not just anyone's will do, no, he craves your touch and affection. Which is why he's going to stand here as long as you'll let him with your hand on top of his.

Zayne makes no effort to move from the current position so you decide to take it upon yourself to gently remove your bra from his hands. He shows no resistance to your movement but carefully watches you from the corner of his eye. It's as if he's studying your expression for any signs of anger or disgust. He sees neither on your face but that does little to calm his racing heart.

Once the bra is free from Zayne's grip you drop it into the still open drawer and quickly close it. A deafening silence rings in the air as neither of you know where to go from here. Unable to cope with the lingering silence any longer you spit out the first thing that comes to mind. "I've never worn it. I thought I would save it for a special occasion". Zayne hums softly in response. "What occasion would warrant such attire?" he questions with a teasing lilt in his voice. You exhale a small laugh as some of the earlier tension dissipates. "I'd probably wear it on a date if I really liked the person." you half joke.

Zayne finally turns to face you before uttering lowly, "and if I was your date?" He prays you understand the underlying meaning behind his words. That you understand he's not just interested in seeing you in that risque garment. That he wants to see you in every facet both physically and emotionally. He wants to see you when you're happily gushing about a show you like, when you're sad because your favorite restaurant stopped serving your go to meal, when you're laughing over something he said, when you're too tired to get up for work in the morning because you stayed up late playing a video game. He wants to see you.

He looks at you with a mix of hope and fear in his eyes. Hope that you'll return his feelings and fear that your friendship is over if not. His heart is beating a mile a minute as he awaits your response.

Luckily for Zayne, you understood exactly what he meant. You knew he was never the type to make crude comments so it was clear to you that he was saying a lot more than the words that came out of his mouth. After being friends with Zayne for so long you had learned to pick up on the subtle ways he would express his intentions without actually voicing them. Even after all those years apart this still rang true.

A small smile appeared on your face and Zayne's heart clenched in his chest. Finally, after what felt like hours, you respond.

"I'm free this Saturday if you'd like to find out."

A/N: Ahhh I hope you liked it! I didn't mean for it to be this long but my inspiration was just raring to go apparently. I thought about making it smutty but didn't want it to be too long so maybe I can do a part 2 if people are interested. Never wrote smut before but I read a lot of it so maybe that'll be enough to help. Anywho, thank you for reading!

[rottingpink]

honestly i don’t know why you’re being attacked for the whole cod thing…😭 like i understand both sides but legit when i scroll through the cod tag or 141 tag GAZ IS NOT THERE. its always mostly simon or price here and there but its not so crazy that you didn’t know about him if you got your info from tumblr or even tiktok because i never see edits of him either.

i also saw someone’s comment on a post saying that because you’re mixed you can’t call yourself a black women which is kinda crazy?? like😭😭

i’m assuming you’re mixed with white and if you resonate with the black culture more (meaning you’re raised in it, respect the culture, and your white side doesn’t define you because you weren’t raised in it - that sounds so wrong) then i think it’s completely fine to call yourself a black women, no?

unless you’re like super colorist or smt😭😭

anyways, you don’t have to post this but i think that yes, gaz not being included in cod fics is a micro aggression, but i don’t think it’s right to zone in on you and call you a liar when a majority of cod writers are white and dgaf about inclusion - that is the source of the problem.

ALL COMING FROM A BLACK WRITER MYSELF😛😛😛

THANK U SOOOOOOOO MUCH FOR SAYING THIS.

you guys need to recognize a genuine mistake over blatant racism. taking two seconds to try and understand where im coming from instead of rushing to attack me is all that needed to be done. some of you guys are directing ur frustrations the wrong way and i've received TONS OF HATE AND EVEN ANOTHER BLACK AUTHOR INVALIDATING MY RACE TO MAKE ME LOOK BAD.

nothing needed to happen except for my apology, explanation, and an open convo with the people i've hurt.

[timeslipcamp]

thoughts on episode four

we made it to sinostra :D i remember reading this episode for the first time just thinking "oh my god he's insane!!!" and by the end of the episode i was like "oh he's REALLY insane. compelling, though." and i've been obsessed with him ever since

let's go rescue peekaboo!

vague spoilers through episode 16

fr though i love sinostra. problematic favs. so good

speaking of problematic favs i LOVE that the frostheim gen students just gossip immediately. the second they have the opportunity they start spreading rumors. respect

ritsu's inital meeting is so funny. this whole episode is just golden, i love that his main personality trait is just Lawyer early on. also ren being surprised that we got reassigned :') its ok bb i can sense it you dont have to say anything

also him immediately accusing taiga is so real. mc sitting there watching these three argue like "well he did try to throw me out of a train so"

ritsu wouldve raised hell in frostheim. get him an internship with tohma

also!! love that kaito recognizes its the chancellors fault we don't know anything. ritsu keeps calling us ignorant but boy howdy has mc been trying. kaito you're a real one

taiga who hurt you

like genuinely what the FUCK happened during the clash. the way jin and taiga both came out of it so different than how they are now. it's so interesting seeing how people talk about taiga. god i want to know what he knows so bad. this whole post is just gonna be me rambling about taiga i can feel it

girl you dont even KNOW!!!!

taiga became captain and owner six months ago according to ritsu at the time of this episode, and given that it seems like the clash happened right before the prologue time wise, does that mean he became the owner and captain before the clash? or am i being too nitpicky. maybe. hm. also love that ritsu is like 'darkwick was toootally in on this agreement to let it stay open though' he's so funny

i remember the first time i read this chapter and we found haru in taigas room, my immediate first thought was THEYRE HOOKING UP??? and then i remembered peekaboo lmao

i really do think taiga likes ritsu lmao. like especially by the time they get around to episode 16, they get along well--as well as taiga gets along with everyone. this first meeting hes like "wow, smart and ballsy, okay i'll hear you out" and i think he just finds ritsu entertaining--and potentially useful. taiga's smart, he knows a good ally to have when he sees one.

haru and taiga, on the other hand. UGH. i would LOVE to hear about when these two first started working together and why. two rebellious and wild redheads linking up and investigating the faculty. like, taiga just pulled a gun on him and tried to eat his kid and haru still stuck his tongue out at him. he's close enough to have a nickname. i already talked about them but UGH i love them i wanna read about the previous year so bad 😭

oh, missed the part where taiga said lulu's family got fucked over. i always assumed it was something they brought on themselves. huh.

he says ritsu is too twiggy to be a ghoul 😭 taiga PLEASE

love love LOVE that taiga went cold at the mention of darkwick investigating sinostra, and then the second ritsu brings up haru and shion is where he starts acting like this. TAIGA IS SO MUCH SMARTER THAN HE LETS ON he is calculating!! everything is intentional!! GOD i love him so much dude

rui's bar interlude!! ugh i love haru and rui. also haru "stealing is easier i get it" especially how we've gotten little peeks at his past in newer episodes 👀 haru let me hold your hand

did ritsu just call romeo ugly lmao

dude the absolute 180 change in taiga's demeanor when he sees the like dove is so crazy. the whole rest of that he's tense and over aggressive and then just leaves. UGH. and it appeared when it was only taiga and romeo in the room 😭 bamiromi real

JIRO JUST WALKING INTO OUR ROOM please hes the funniest mfer in this school I LOVE HIM. and then mc thinking hes giving her the drugs to run 😭 god i love them

dude can you imagine if ritsu would have lost and the day the constitution was made got erased

rereading this episode is so crazy. now that i know some of the bs darkwick has pulled? i honestly can't blame taiga for interrogating us and shooting at us hahaha. am i the problem? am i the red flag now??? and the way he tries to blame it on "trying out a demon impression" after......taiga your mind. wanna put him under a microscope. especially because he could probably smell the anomaly in our blood and that's why he leaned in. UGH.

romeo immediately: kys

for anyone who cares, this is the exact moment i became obsessed with taiga:

oh hey there was incense in the campus store when we meet benkei. do you think maybe he was the one from getting our curse analyzed in the prologue? it said something like long slim fingers and the smell of incense. maybe benkei was brought in to see if we really could enhance stigmas, and he could tell either because of his clementia abilities or he's also a ghoul 👀 damn this chapter reread is full of stuff

ritsu basically saying "he's allowed to be crazy so i can keep being a lawyer" is so funny dude. he saw how taiga was with the mission and was like you know? maybe some crazy is allowed

also taiga's little "ciao" 🫶

also romeo mentions a tango queen statue, that's a kind of flower? or it could be a girl tangoing who knows lol. he did call it an artifact though, so

god rereading this episode was so good. i'm gonna have like 900 more epiphanies doing these read throughs, i can tell. especially since we're going to hotarubi next!!

this whole post was really just me saying how much i loved taiga huh. oh well. i said what i said

[1-800-cuupid]

[charl0ttan]

eventually it becomes unbelievable that you were ever him

[bytedykes]

the way jc and lwj differ in their approaches to each other is so funny. like it's pretty much spelled out during their confrontation on dafan mountain that while they both dislike and snub each other, its kind of like

jc: i hate this asshole so much he does not respect me at all and doesn't even try to pretend otherwise. he is pissing me off right the fuck now in this moment, both directly and by targeting jin ling, which i will not fucking tolerate. however, i can't lose my shit on him because he is backed by the whole lan clan, zewu-jun especially. unless i want to start a whole political mess i cannot retaliate like i want to. also, i'm not 100% confident that i would win a full-out fight against him, so i will grit my teeth and power through dealing with his awful ass

lwj: bichen blast. fuck you

[akkivee]

god kuukou is so tiny next to the yamadas lmaooo

[dennisboobs]

one day i'll post my fic and you can finally witness this monster of a playlist that fuels my insanity

[florida3exclamationpoints]

.

[heatwa-ves]

I miss phoenix so bad

[what-the-floofin]

Just for the aesthetics

Babble of thoughts under the cut ;)

It's a ramble, fair warning

I love the concept of an eventual Ghost King Danny, simply because there are so many questions you can ask for the whys of it and then build up endless answers in a cosy lil sandbox. I love the themes of Space and becoming an Ancient that many folks tie into Danny as well. It's just fun! I'm a real sucker for space aesthetics.

The first obvious question is why does the Infinite Realms have a King? Why does it need one?

I like to dabble in the concept that the state of the Infinite Realms just about runs its own sentience. It's so big and so expansive and so vital to everything it touches that it very well behaves as a being in its own right. And the reasons to have a king is actually to let something as far reaching as the Realms have any ability to focus whatsoever.

(Also the Infinite Realms is the place of everything inbetween. I'd refer to the Ghost Zone as being a territory within that space!)

If you embrace the concept of ghost cores, you could expand on this further. The structure of a Realms Being could be a reflection of the Realm itself – if they function by having a core, it's because they are following the design of the Infinite Realms in the first place (meaning: the Infinite Realms has its own core)

Take a core as being the center of a ghost's everything. Its thought, form, emotion, memory, everything that makes them functional. It lets them exist and it focuses all that energy into something comprehensible. A core is a ghost's stability.

Then give the Infinite Realms the concept of a core – something that provides it a point of focus that lends stability and structure to itself. It lets it tick along without a rampant kind of chaos to its energy that would see realms torn apart as fast as they are made. Having a core to the Infinite Realms provides a coherent consistency. (And thus the ability to reside in it with relative safety)

So here, the title of King could actually be assigning oneself as the Infinite Realms' functioning core. But that's a big ask, taking on something of that much energy and being something like a conduit. Infinitely huge, even. Takes a lot of willpower and strength to maintain without fracturing oneself in the process.

And that could lead us to why ancient artifacts such as the Crown of Fire and Ring of Rage exist in the first place. Why would something like that be made, or need to exist at all?

The Crown and Ring are a combo deal – its only together that they expound one's power 'infinitely'. That's a pretty intense thing to make for the hell of it. But if the reason was because a king needs to be able to cope with the demand of their role, to actually stand up to the task long term and provide that existence-maintaining stability for all, then maybe that was worth the risk to create them.

I like the idea that Danny isn't someone who wanted to have the Ring and Crown, ever. Nor the Ghost King title tbh. I also like the idea that he's already an insanely willful and powerful ghost in his own right by the time this entire concept becomes a tangible issue – enough so that when the Realms began to really need a replacement actually after Pariah Dark, and the purpose of the role is actually made clear to him, and that not just anyone can withstand it frankly, Danny did stubbornly uphold the title without the Crown and Ring for a time! An unintentional display to the public of just how insanely beefy he is by ghost standards (of which perhaps he wasn't actually aware of that doing. He took the title bc someone had to and just… got mad amounts of respect about it??? Crazy).

But even he has his limits, and though exceptional, eventually has to cede to accepting the Crown and Ring if only so he doesn't shred himself completely and fuck up a lot of people in the process. Bc that's a yikes on so many accounts.

Obviously, the entire inner workings of the role is not widely known. There's so much room for the ideas to be skewed and mistranslated and understood in very different ways that you get a thousand different interpretations and every one is just slightly wrong. But you kind of want it that way. Don't think too hard about the inner workings of the universes. It's not good for your health.

[bakug0uzb1thc]

I know you

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou X GN! Reader

Summary: postwar you find out how much you both mean to eachother.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

After the war, everything was different. Including you and Katsuki’s relationship, there was something that changed, wither it was respect for each other or the fact you lost him. You didn’t think in a million years you would lose someone so close to you, someone you cared so much about, someone you loved.

When you saw him after everything it was like you were given your soul back.

“K-Kat?” the blanket that was previously wrapped around you was now forgotten as you abandoned it, you ran as fast as you could over to him despite your injuries. Your eyes watered as you saw the blonde, he was heavily wounded from the blows he endured but he was alive and conscious.

His vermilion eyes widening as he heard your angel like voice call out for him, he’d deny it but it made him tear up. “Y/n?” He scanned the area, he thought he was crazy until he saw your limping figure come closer to him. “Oh my god.” You covered your mouth, now completely forgetting about your wounds and sprint over to him, your body aching in anger but you pushed it aside throwing yourself at him. He groaned but wrapped his arms around you tightly, terrified you would let go. That’s when it happened, you both crumbled into each-others arms. The war finally hitting you both in its severity.

You pulled back grabbing his face, he was your Katsuki. He had a new founded scar on his face but it was still him. “Oh katsuki, I- I thought I lost you.” You kissed his face, yammering off your worry as your tears were now free falling.

He didn’t know what to say in the moment, he just watched you. Watched the concern and worry pour out of you, he didn’t exactly process how much he loved you until that moment. “Y/n I love you.” You paused your rapid thoughts. he started to cry, knowing that he almost left you. Left the person he loved the most behind, he imagined how scared you must’ve been. He also realized that he almost never got to see you again. “I love you so much, you have no idea.” He wasn’t good with words but he was trying his hardest to express his admiration for you. “You have no idea.. I never wanna leave you again y/n . It will never be that easy to get rid of me. ”

the next few days were rough, but he never left your side and you never left his. you guys were attached to the hip, it wasn’t a chore to be around him. It made you feel warm knowing he was safe, that you would never have to worry about losing him ever again.

(Sorry for angst, I needed to barf ideas rq. :^)

[cakypa120]

Billy and Danny are planning wedding with each other because of the observers

They consider Billy as a champion of magic to be too powerful by himself

And they consider Danny as the Ghost came in ancient space is being too powerful to be by himself

So they're married each other because apparently they balance each other out

Could Justice League because of this thing it's an arranged marriage that both of them are really unhappy with

It just them being unhappy with the observers especially Danny this could be tied in with the reverse Persephone thing

Like Billy is really happy with it because the gods are all supportive and Danny is dealing with her the butting heads in the fall of the ancients and observers

I may have misunderstood the question. Sorry(⁠ ⁠･ั⁠﹏⁠･ั⁠)

Marvel: You're invited to my and the Phantom's wedding! *holds out invitations to each hero*

Barry: What do you mean you're not married?!

Marvel: It was just an engagement. You know, meeting the parents and stuff. The Observants were really pushing for us to get married. Something about balance, I think.

Batman: The Observants?

Marvel: Yeah, those idiots.

Danny: *hisses* Why are you jumping in ahead of time?!

Observants: Danny Fenton and Billy Batson may not be married yet....

Observants: But Phantom and Captain Marvel should get married....

Observants: For the balance of the universe.

Danny: *covers face with hands and groans*

Observants: *wait calmly*

That's not how Danny wanted to marry Billy. He was planning something romantic, and only when he graduated. Only the Observers disrupted all his plans. Danny was then grabbed by the arms and placed in front of Billy. Then the Observers said that the engagement had been approved and the wedding date had already been chosen. It was a shock to Billy, but it was Danny who was most shocked.

Phantom: They didn't give me a choice, you know? I wanted everything to be romantic. So that the one I love is really admired. But they bring me to him and tell me that everything has already been decided!

Superman: This is terrible! Why did they do this to you?

Phantom: Like I know. They're all assholes who don't respect anyone. It's good that Marvel understood me when I explained everything to him.

Superman thought that the Phantom was being forced into an engagement with Marvel. And the fact that these two are not very happy about it. Clark now disliked the Observants a little for what they had done to Phantom and Marvel. Forced marriage is always very bad.

While Danny was fighting with the Observants, Billy was very happy that he was marrying Danny. That is, Captain Marvel marries the Phantom. But Billy is Captain Marvel, so it's okay. Today the Captain and the Phantom, tomorrow Billy and Danny. He considered it a victory.

Zeus: I can ask Dionysus to provide alcohol.

Solomon: We want to celebrate quietly, and not turn everything into a binge and an orgy.

Achilles: We should have a fight with the Observants as a competition.

Hercules: I agree. You can also beat Adam.

Atlas: Isn't he our best man?

Mercury: Billy's best man, Marvel's punching bag.

Billy: Guys, we were choosing a menu.

Persephone: Why didn't anyone tell me that my beloved nephew was getting married?!!?

Hades: Run, you fools!!

Preparations for the wedding were in full swing. Billy and Danny were going crazy over the preparations. The league was going crazy about the upcoming wedding. The observers made sure that everything went well.

On the wedding day, Marvel had a lot more gold hanging on him than before and his whole appearance was more majestic. The phantom was blinding in its beauty. A ring of rage glittered on his finger and a crown of fire burned with a green flame. Phantom and Marvel looked great together, as if they were made for each other. As much as the League dislikes this marriage, they admit that Phantom and Marvel balanced each other out.

The ceremony begins.....

....Another alien invasion is taking place on Earth.

It's like a wedding without a fight, right?