#and they asked. if i got stuck on a word again

[maskedbyghost]

For those who were asking for a yearning Simon fic… enjoy, my loves.

You always said it with a laugh or a shrug—“He’ll be fine,” or “He doesn’t get attached.” God, if only you knew. If only you knew the mess you’d made of his head, the way you’d slipped into his bones and made a home there, the way he sat alone in his flat, in the dark, tracing the outline of your name in his mind like a fucking brand.

He’d replay every conversation you two ever had like some lovesick teenager, except he wasn’t a teenager; he was a fully grown man, a soldier no less, and here he was—yearning.

Pathetic. He was pathetic.

He’d think of calling, thumb hovering over your name on his phone, but he’d talk himself out of it every time. You were probably busy. You always were.

And he couldn’t risk hearing you sound distracted or annoyed, couldn’t bear the weight of you asking, “What’s wrong, Simon?” when the only thing wrong was that he missed you like air, and he was too much of a coward to say it.

You’d always been easy with him, bright and teasing, calling him “Riley” in that tone that made his skin tighten, poking at him when he got too serious. And God, he missed that. He missed your voice. He missed the way you’d glance up at him through your lashes when you were pretending not to be flirting. He missed everything.

And it wasn’t like he was subtle about it. Everyone in his unit probably noticed the way he’d check his phone during downtime, the way he’d get quiet after you called, and the way his face would go soft and stupid when he thought no one was watching.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew how he looked. He knew that Price would probably knock his head off if he found out he was falling for someone so hard it made his chest ache.

But it didn’t matter. Because you weren’t his.

And that was the worst part.

He was used to wanting things he couldn’t have—he’d grown up that way, used to pressing himself into the background and pretending he didn’t need or want.

But you? You made it impossible. You made him think, just for a moment, that maybe he could have something soft. Something real. And now he was stuck in this loop of almosts and maybes and if onlys, stuck in the quiet that filled his flat when you weren’t there.

He’d pace sometimes, hand running over the back of his neck, thinking, Just call her. Just tell her. But the words always caught in his throat.

Until tonight.

He was standing in his kitchen, staring at his phone, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t stand the silence, couldn’t stand the weight of his own wanting. So he called.

It rang once. Twice.

Then your voice came through, a little breathless and surprised. “Simon?”

His mouth was dry. “Yeah. Uh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to call so late.”

“No, it’s fine. Are you okay?”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning against the counter. His chest hurt. His whole body felt tight, like he was holding something too big inside him.

“I just—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I just missed you.”

The silence stretched out between you two until you said softly, “I missed you too, Simon.”

And it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course.

But for the first time in months, he let himself breathe.

He could’ve said more that night; he could’ve let the words fall out, but he’d bitten his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Couldn’t risk scaring you off. Couldn’t risk the silence that might follow if you didn’t feel the same. So he just stood there with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to you breathe, telling himself it was enough.

It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Days bled into weeks, and he was no better off. Every time you messaged him—just something stupid, a meme or a “Hey, did you see this?”—he’d feel that sharp sting behind his ribs, that warm pull like gravity.

He’d reread your texts over and over, memorizing them like a man starving for scraps. He’d type a reply, delete it, type it again, hover over send, and then finally hit it with a deep breath. You probably thought he was calm and collected, sitting there on the other side of the screen, when really he was a mess of nerves, thumb trembling, heart hammering so loud it echoed in his ears.

The worst part was seeing you.

When you two met up, it was just casual for you—two friends having a drink, just a quick catch-up. You’d sit across from him in the booth, your legs brushing his under the table like it was nothing, your laugh cutting through the air sharp and clear.

He’d nod along, trying to keep his hands steady, trying to act like his pulse wasn’t racing every time you looked at him. You’d lean in to show him something on your phone, and he’d catch a whiff of your perfume, something soft and warm that made his throat tighten.

And then, just when he thought he might get his shit together, you’d glance up at him with that look, that easy smile, and he’d feel himself unraveling all over again.

He’d catch himself staring at your lips, at the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, at the way you’d brush your fingertips over the rim of your glass like you didn’t even know what you were doing to him. And he’d hate himself for it—hate the way he wanted you, the way he craved something he couldn’t have.

You were so close. So damn close. And yet, you weren’t his.

He’d lie in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, the dark pressing in around him. He’d picture you, picture the curve of your smile, the warmth of your laugh, and the softness of your skin. He’d imagine what it would feel like to just reach out and pull you into his arms, to bury his face against your neck and breathe you in, to finally, finally let himself have what he wanted.

But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

So he’d turn over, press his face into the pillow, and will himself to sleep.

The next day, he’d put on his mask again, and he’d text you back like everything was normal, like he wasn’t dying inside. And he’d tell himself that it was enough. That this yearning was all he was ever going to get.

PART 2

-------------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

[my-castles-crumbling]

discussion - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 306

“Okay, Haz. We need to have a…discussion,” Remus said hesitantly, eyeing Sirius, who looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

“About what?” 6-year-old Harry asked, eyes wide behind his circular glasses. “Did someone eat all your chocolate again? Because that’s Paddy, not me.”

Remus chuckled. “No, Harry. But I know Sirius is the one who does that.”

Sirius stuck his tongue out at him quickly before refocusing. “No, this is about your friend Agnes. At school.”

“Oh, yeah! She’s weird,” Harry nodded, eyes wide and genuine.

Remus grimaced. “Yes. That. Harry, you can’t call people weird.”

“You call Paddy weird all the time,” Harry insisted. 

Remus couldn’t fault him for that logic.

“Yes, but this is different. Why do you think Agnes is weird, Harry?” Sirius asked, voice a bit strained.

“Because her family! She’s got all mommies and daddies, Moony!” Harry explained beseechingly, trying to get the words out. “Like…her aunt? She’s married to a boy. Her mom? She’s married to her dad! Her grandpa’s married to her grandma, even!”

“Your Grandma Hope is married to your Grand’da Lyall,” Remus offered weakly.

“Yeah but you and Paddy and Auntie Dorcas and Auntie Marlene…it’s all different! Not all weird and the same,” Harry grimaced. “Isn’t it weird?”

Sirius, who was listening with rapt fascination, began to nod. “I mean, you have a poin–” he began to say, before Remus cut him off.

“That doesn’t mean you can call her weird,” he said firmly. “Even if Agnes’s family is a bit less special, we can’t choose our family, can we? Otherwise, would you choose to be cousins with Dudley?”

Immediately, Harry’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Yes, okay.”

“So you’ll apologize tomorrow?” Remus pushed.

“Yes, Moony.”

“Go play, then.”

It was only after Harry left that Sirius whispered, “He’s got a point, though,” and they both burst out laughing.

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader - Chapter 9 | Attachment

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader

Read it on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 8

2.3K words

Life changed after that. It went unspoken, but Bob had emotionally attached himself to you in a way that was unprecedented. You barely spent time at your own apartment anymore. 

Bob was in his little spot on the windowsill, reading one of the books you’d picked up with him. He looked tired, but content. You looked around the room and spotted your shoes stacked neatly next to his. One of your sweaters was draped over the couch. The contents of your bag were strewn around, never quite making their way back to your home.

You got up from your spot at the breakfast island. You hadn’t claimed it, exactly, but you noticed just the other day how nobody ever sat there anymore but you. Bob shifted in his seat, eyes following your every move. It was a new development.

“Where are you going?” He asked anxiously, just like he’d done a million times already these last few days. 

“I’m just gonna put my bag in my room,” you chuckled. 

“Ah– Okay,” Bob nodded, returning his attention to his book. You could tell he was still watching you from his peripheral. 

That too, was a development. The empty room next to Bob’s had unofficially become yours. You’d stayed over more often than not. If anybody had noticed Bob sometimes sneaking into your room after he’d had a nightmare, nobody cared to mention it. 

✶

The first time it happened, he’d scared you. He stood in the doorway (which had been repaired during his time in the bunker) like a toddler scared to tell their mom they’d thrown up. You had no clue how you’d even woken up that night, but the dark figure looming in the hallway was enough to make a yelp escape your mouth, quickly turning on the light on your nightstand.

“Jesus, Bob, you scared me!” You whispered loudly. 

“Can I come in?” His voice was so small. 

“Yeah,” you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. A glance at your phone revealed it to be 3 in the morning. “What’s up?” 

“It’s just–” he paused, stepping inside and softly closing the door behind him. “I can’t sleep…” 

“Okay?” You encouraged him to continue, still confused about what he was doing in your bedroom at this time of night. 

“I, well. I was asleep at first. But then… Y’know. I woke up?” The story was vague. Too vague. 

“So what’s the problem?” You were still half asleep and didn’t have the brainpower to connect what he was on about. 

“I had a nightmare,” it was barely audible. “I can just, this is stupid I’ll just go–” 

“No, no. Stay. C’mon,” you scooted over, lifted the blankets and made extra room for him to sit. The bed sure was big enough for the two of you. He hesitated for a second before shuffling over to the bed. He got under the blankets but stiffly stuck to one side of the bed. 

“D’you wanna talk about it?” You asked, lying on your side and propping your head up on your elbow so it was easier to look at him. 

“Not really, if that’s okay,” he admitted.

“Yeah, of course that’s okay. We can just talk, or sleep. Whatever you want,” you smiled. 

“Can you– no. Uh,” he started, but rubbed his palm against his face. His shaky hands had returned once more. 

“Can I what?” You reached for his other hand, playing with it mindlessly to distract him a little.

“No, it’s dumb. You can just go to sleep. I’ll go back to my room.” He moved to get up, but you gripped his arm tightly. 

“No, tell me. It’s not dumb. You can stay here, I don’t mind, I swear,” you reassured him.

“Can we maybe, like, hug? Not anything weird, I promise, just–”

“Aww, you want to cuddle?” You teased lightly. 

He groaned. “Don’t laugh!” 

“Of course we can cuddle. If that’ll make you feel better. C’mon, get in here,” you lifted the blanket again and patted the extra pillow he was leaning against. He shuffled around a bit, awkwardly trying to find a comfortable position without disturbing you. You sighed, grabbed his arm and slung it over yourself. On the outside you tried to look collected, but your heart was racing. 

Bob tugged you a little closer, pressing you up against his chest. “This okay?” He mumbled. You could feel his lips move against the top of your head as he talked. You nodded and snuggled against him. You could hear his heartbeat with your head on his chest, somewhat relieved to find it matched yours, beating fast. Whether from this situation or his nightmare, you’d never know. 

He reached to turn off the light on the nightstand, dousing you in darkness. A content sigh left his lips as he finally let his limbs relax. His breathing slowed, light puffs of air hitting your face. 

✶

So Bob had some attachment issues. Could anyone blame him? You indulged him to the best of your ability, but it was hard, sometimes. You kept thinking about the days he’d spent as Sentry, about what had happened in the bunker. You knew he didn’t remember, but some part of you wished he did so you could talk with him about it. You knew Bob had noticed you were distracted at times. He’d probably figured out it had something to do with those days, too. 

When you returned to the living room Bob visibly relaxed. Though you didn’t blame him for the way he’d anxiously attached himself to you, at some point it would have to stop, realistically. You couldn’t always be around and he would need to learn to be able to depend on himself. 

For now, though, you poured him a drink and handed it to him without thinking twice. 

“What are you thinking about?” Bob wondered, sipping his soda. 

Your brows furrowed. “Nothing in particular, I guess. Why?” 

“You looked a bit far away, there. Happened yesterday too. I’m just curious,” he shrugged. 

You sat down on the other side of the windowsill, pulling your legs up and mirroring his pose. You’d have to talk about it eventually. 

“Do you remember anything that happened in the bunker?” You asked tentatively, absentmindedly pulling at the skin of your lips. Bob’s gaze dropped to your hand, and you quickly stopped the action. 

“No, I don’t remember anything. Never do when he shows up,” he pressed his lips together in a light grimace. 

“I didn’t expect you to remember,” you admitted. 

“What happened that makes you keep worrying about it?” He closed his book and put it away. You tried to find the best way to tell him, but it was difficult. 

“You can tell me,” he encouraged. 

“You… I know it wasn’t like that. It’s just…” You looked down at your hands, refusing to make eye contact. Was it hot in here? 

Bob leaned forward, putting a hand on your knee. Your eyes shot up to meet his investigative gaze. 

“You kissed me,” you sheepishly admitted. You wanted to avert your eyes, but couldn’t tear them away from the intense look on his face. 

When he didn’t respond, you elaborated. “I’m pretty sure it was just– There were cameras inside and he wanted to prove to me that he knew that. I think.” You let your eyes wander to the city skyline through the window as you awaited what he’d say. 

“Oh– I’m sorry? That’s not– He shouldn’t have done that,” he shook his head, leaning back, his hand leaving where it had been resting on your knee to rub at his temple. 

“You don’t have to apologize. I just thought you should know that that happened.” 

He nodded. “Thanks for telling me. Don’t know what I expected but it sure as hell wasn’t that,” he chuckled. 

“Yeah, needless to say I hadn’t expected it, either,” you laughed stiffly. You nervously rubbed your hands on your thighs, glad it was off your chest. 

“What was it like?” Bob asked. Your jaw dropped ever so slightly before you could catch it. 

“Huh?” 

“The kiss,” he clarified. “I wanna know what it was like.” 

You tried to read his expression to understand what he was getting at, but it was illegible, aside from a hint of amusement.  

“Well… It was a kiss. I’m not sure what else you want me to say about it.” 

“Did you like it?” He smiled. You opened and closed your mouth several times in an attempt to formulate a response. 

“I– I was a bit preoccupied at that moment, Bob!” You huffed. 

“That’s not a no, though,” he shrugged. 

“You are unbelievable,” you moved to get up, done with this conversation. Did you like it???? What kind of question was that?????? 

Bob called after you as you turned into the hallway. “You’re not denying it!” 

“I’m done talking about this, Reynolds!” You yelled back. You heard a soft chuckle from his general direction before you closed the bathroom door. You quickly turned on the tap, splashing your face with cold water. 

Did you like it? 

You looked at yourself in the mirror, noticing the flustered expression still painting your face. What a jackass. Did you like it, my ass. 

But, did you? Did you like it? God, this was going to haunt you for even longer than the kiss itself had. At least he’d found it amusing. 

You thought back to the question Sentry had asked you. Would you rather it have been Bob? The answer was yes, quite obviously. You knew Bob. You didn’t know Sentry. Bob was sweet. Of course you’d rather it had been him. 

But… 

Did you like it? 

GOD. SHUT UP.  

You unlocked the door and walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. You ignored the smug look on his face and walked past him into the kitchen, ready to go make some dinner. 

Most of the team was out, though not on a mission. It wasn’t any of your business what they were up to, yet you couldn’t help but be curious. The only person whose whereabouts you were up to date with was Yelena. 

She had a meeting with a therapist to vouch for her and set her up with regular appointments with Bob. Mel had said the therapist came greatly recommended by other enhanced people. Where she’d gotten that info, she was unwilling to disclose. It didn’t matter, as long as Bob finally got professional help with his issues. 

It wouldn’t be a walk in the park. Far from it, even. But you were sure that with the help of the team, the therapist, you and most importantly himself, there was a lot of progress to be made in the coming time. 

Yelena had returned by the time dinner was finished. It was just the three of you, for once. It was a nice change from the loud environment the penthouse was usually basked in. Sometimes you wondered what the rest of the tower was used for now, as it hadn’t been Stark Industries property in a long time. You assumed something OXE related, as Valentina owned the building. It was better to not ask questions. 

“Didn’t know you were such a deep sleeper, Bob,” Yelena casually mentioned with a mouthful of rice. 

“What do you mean?” Bob asked. He wasn’t a deep sleeper whatsoever, from his recollection. He’d describe himself as a light sleeper, if anything. 

“I knocked on your door like four times this morning. No answer,” she shrugged. You narrowed your eyes. What did she know? Her eyes glanced over to you, delight clearly shining bright in them. She definitely knew something. 

“Huh, interesting. I guess I must’ve been sleeping very deeply then, yeah,” Bob replied, scarfing down a few more spoons of rice. One day you’d teach him to eat with chopsticks, though you doubted that would slow him down in the bulldozing of his meals. The spoon was more efficient, anyway. 

“Yeah, it was almost like there was nobody in there, at all,” Yelena prodded. 

“Interesting, indeed,” you interjected, trying to shoot the subject down. You knew it was an innocent thing, the arrangement you had with Bob, yet you felt caught. 

When you finished dinner the three of you made quick work of clearing the table and doing the dishes. 

“By the way, Bob. Can I borrow your charger? My cord is all frayed. It’s a miracle it still worked this long,” Yelena asked. You exchanged a quick look with him. She was good, you must admit. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll go get it in a sec,” he replied, drying the last plate. 

“No, that’s fine. I can just get it from your room,” Yelena replied. Fucking spies. Can’t hide shit from them. Yelena waited for an answer, a self-satisfied smile stretching her cheeks as far as they would go. Bob sighed, put the now dry plate on the stack and hung up the tea towel. 

���It’s not in my room,” he admitted. 

“Oh, really? I wonder where it is, then,” Yelena tapped her chin theatrically. 

“Oh my god– Yes, he’s been sleeping in my room. Just go get the damn charger, Belova,” you attempted to throw some soap suds her way, but failed. 

“Your words, not mine! I didn’t say anything!” The Russian yelled over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.

“Do you think she’ll tell the rest?” Bob asked, putting the plates in the cupboard. 

“Bold of you to assume they don’t already know, at this point,” you sighed. 

“We’re not doing anything wrong, though.” 

“No, but you know that hiding it in the first place kinda implies…”

“Implies what?” 

“Shut up, you. I’ve had enough of you today,” you took the plug out of the sink and let the dirty water drain away. 

“You wound me,” Bob put a hand to his chest, laughing. You scoffed, but let out a laugh. These people were going to be the death of you. 

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki @chimchoom @spidermiraculous-blog @s00ty-feet @28cnn @tinythebunni @softpia @roeroeroeyourboet @secretkittydreamland @cultish-corner @greenbean-4ever @t-rexs-world @thebitchiestnerdtowalktheearth @ifilwtmfc @renren-006 @10ava01 @kawaii1369 @hawkinsavclub1983 @paleepeaches @lnmp89 @frozenhuntress67 @my-name-is-baby @a-moranguei @daisyyy47 @petersluvbug @articel1967 @purplefluffycows @midnightecko @lizzylynch1 @keira-kaz2y5 @lightinbug @thefriendlyferretwriter @xblueriddlex @funkyfable @papapappapapapa @darling-eos @neenieweenie @poppingaround @ren-ni @badbishsblog @makepastanotwar13 @spongelll @qardasngan @homiesexual-or-homosexual @reverieisaway @sammysgirl1997 @chonkybonky @theflowerswillbloom @etheralponygirl @daughterofthequeen

[presepohne]

Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

cw: nsfw, minors dni, 18+ | John Price himself is the trigger warning. choking, p in the v, buff arms, made her recite her wedding vows because the reader was being a brat, married man and filthy married man John Price. 1.15k words

note: you need to know how much i need an older man and that older man needs to be JOHNATHAN PRICE. RAWR. also I'm bad at marriage vows :(

You have been on it for a while. Maybe more than a while.

John is sitting adjacent to you, evening you as you huff and puff around, slamming drawers, aggressively chopping the vegetables for dinner, and snapping at him any moment he even breathed near your direction.

And it has been bothering him a lot. His sweet wife, always calm and composed, easy going most of the time— here, acting as a brat around the house. Almost breaking his favourite mug as you slam it on the counter to pour him some tea.

He cocks and eyebrow at you, as if saying You gonna drop that attitude?

He also knows the reason why you were acting such, as silly as it may be. You had asked him to come back home on time. Asked politely that morning, as every morning you did— with a kiss on his lips and a murmur against them; Be back soon today? Please.

And he did say Sure love, I will.

But he didn't. His excuse was a valid one, got stuck in traffic.

It didn't get a reaction out of you simultaneously, but there were after effects and he was very certain at this point you were acting like a brat on purpose. Brushing off his touches, muttering curses on him, slapping his hands away.

The audacity.

You were pushing him again.

Snapping back. Eye-rolling. Throwing out half-serious insults with that scowl that said, What are you gonna do about it, Captain?

He’d already warned you once.

But now?

Now you've crossed the line.

“I hate you, John. You’re a selfish, arrogant bastard who only knows how to give orders. If I wanted to be married to a dictator, I would’ve signed up for the bloody military myself.”

He stood there for a moment, eyeing you. The silence lingered long enough.

You felt the shift before you saw it.

He was across the room in three strides. You barely had time to gasp before his body was on yours, heavy and hot, pinning you to the counter.

“Oh, is that right?” he said, voice calm—too calm—as his knee forced your legs apart, his forearm sliding up to press firmly across your throat. Not cutting off your breath entirely. Just enough to remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

“You hate me so much you wear my ring to bed?” he murmured, glancing at your hand crushed against the sheets.

You arched up, defiant.

“I don’t wear it for you.”

“Oh, love,” he rasped, tightening the pressure slightly. “You wear it so you don’t forget.”

You struggled—not because you wanted him off—but because you wanted to feel how much stronger he was. How easy it was for him to break you down without even trying.

He dipped lower, lips brushing your ear. “You wanna mouth off, brat? Fine. You’re gonna earn every bloody second of this.”

You squirmed under him, half-laughing through the tight grip around your neck.

“Can’t even talk, John,” you whispered, voice strangled and teasing. “How the fuck am I supposed to mouth off now?”

That earned you a low, dangerous chuckle. “Then I’ll make it easy for you.”

His free hand curled into your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat even more. You were breathless now—but not from fear.

“Your vows,” he growled. “All of them. From the top. Or I won't let go.”

Your eyes met his—dilated, dark, daring. You were burning alive under the weight of him. You wanted to spit something bratty, something cruel—

But your throat clenched when his free hand pushed down the waistband of your panties. You hadn't realised yet, but you were dripping, cunt exposed to the cool air as a defiant pout made its way to your face.

“No”

You meant to be a brat, really. You wanted to piss him off as bad as he had angered you, you wanted to get to his head and fry his nerves away with your mouth and actions. Act like some immature kid just to get him all riled up.

Now you think that might have been the greatest idea because your husband, John Price has never looked so good and so worked up because of you. And certainly turned on because of your behaviour.

His hands unbuckled his belt, a forearm still choking you. You squirm as he increases the pressure slightly. Patience brat, he snaps. He unbuckled his belt, languidly and helped his semi hardened cock out.

Rubbing the tip on your entrance as he pushed in slowly making you whine, Not fast enough. You try to push your hips back at him but he has one leg between yours and you pinned to the counter.

You whimpered.

“Come on brat, speak up” he grunted, the pink head of his tip stick rubbing against your folds to gather all the slick before he pushes in, “Come one don't make this hard for yourself baby girl, just obey” he huffed, softly pushing in and then pulling out again, leaving you empty.

“John please—” you whine, wiggling your hips again. He chuckles before pushing himself in you in one string thrust and pulls back out again, expect the tip, “Come on sweet thing, don't make it hard for both of us”

And you obeyed, nodding with a moan as he pushed in.

Through gasps, half-choked, you whispered them.

“I… I choose you.”

The pressure didn’t lift, his other hands now rubbing your clit in slow circles.

“I… follow you. Trust you.”

Still nothing. He keeps himself inside, deep as you can feel him— he hums praising you a little, urging you to say more.

You reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt like a white flag.

“I love you. Even when I hate you. Even when I wish I didn’t. Even when it hurts.”

Finally—finally—his grip eased, his hand replacing his forearm, rough fingers stroking the flushed skin of your throat. He looked down at you with something like pride. Or possession. He pulls back his hips and snaps softly, a slow rhythm. Nothing close to satisfaction between your legs and in your belly.

“No more of that hate talk, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “You don’t hate me. You just want me to remind you.” He chuckles, increasing pace as his forearms tighten again, making you go lightheaded.

His thrusts are relentless, making you gasp and claw at his shirt. Mouth slack open as you gurgle on your spit and beg with sweet whines and please of John please please please. But to a certain extent, the brat in you still there reveals itself.

Your lips trembled.

“Remind me again tomorrow,” you whispered, lips curling faintly followed by a moan.

That grin—the dangerous one—came back.

“Oh, I will.”

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you - part 9

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: y/n's sulking, Kika disappeared from training, Alexia's noisy, and Vicky's really bad at signalling with her hands.

Word count: 4.8k

a/n: Sorry it took so long to update. The last few weeks were hard, but not harder than Y/n and Kika's relationship, so let's go.

..

Y/n woke up the next day.. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and for exactly thirteen seconds, she didn't remember what had happened the other day with Kika.

It was the best 13 seconds of her life.

She went down to have breakfast, but god forbid they had a normal, casual breakfast in the Putellas household;

Y/n was stabbing eggs, a frown on her face, remembering Kika's words over and over again.

Across the table, Olga and Alexia were staring at her, not saying anything, just staring pitifully at her.

She hated it, of course. It mmade her feel vulnerable, and it wasn't even 7 am yet.

"What?" she snapped, glaring up from her plate. "Why are you both looking at me like that?"

Olga reached over to squeeze her hand gently. "Cariño, please. Just tell us what happened."

"Nothing happened," Y/n said, pulling her hand back and grabbing her juice, as if the glass could shield her away from Olga's interrogation.

"Eso no es justo," Alexia huffed, taking a bite out of an apple.

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "What's not fair?"

Alexia leaned forward, her mouth full. "We always tell you about our relationship, when we argue…when we make amends, it's just fair that you do the same with us and tell us what happened at the book club!"

Y/n lifted her eyebrow. Alexia was never this much interested in her personal life in general, she would only ever intrude in Y/n's business if it was impacting her physically; normally, she would just leave the emotional part for Olga to deal with.

So for her to almost beg to know what happened between Y/n and Kika only meant one thing: it was eating her alive. Curiosity got the best of Alexia Putellas.

"You lie! You guys never tell me anything," Y/n said, waving her fork at them. "You two are, like… weirdly secretive… You went on a date last week and didn't even tell me! I was worried that someone had kidnapped the two of you for money!"

"Okay, now you are being dramatic," Alexia said. "We didn't tell you because we just didn't think it would be a big deal, not because we wanted to keep it a secret."

"I called the police," Y/n said flatly.

"I know," Alexia replied stoically. "I remember the police lights."

"Forget the police," Olga said, waving her hand. "That does not make us secretive, we just had a… communication lapse."

"I still don't know when your anniversary is!" Y/n said. "And I've been living with you two before you got engaged, don't you think that's a bit weird?"

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Our anniversary is on October 31st."

Y/n tilted her head, confusion on her face. "Halloween? Who asks somebody to marry them on Halloween?"

"Alexia does," Olga murmured, spreading butter on her bread. "Ever the romantic."

"Oh, come on, Olga," Alexia turned to her wife, a slight pout on her face. "You said yes!"

Olga ignored Alexia, turning her attention back to Y/n, her voice soft. "Nena, we're just worried. You've been off since yesterday."

"It looks like you're more nosy than actually worried," Y/n said, deadpan.

"Well… maybe a little," Olga admitted, shrugging. "But can you blame us? You haven't dated anyone since Laura, and that didn't end up well. We just wanna make sure you don't get hurt again."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I haven't dated anyone and I'm not even close to that with Kika, so you don't need to–" she made quotation marks with her fingers, "–worry about me."

"Well, I would say you two are almost dating," Olga corrected, holding up a finger. "She came to have dinner here a few months ago, you guys talked, you bought her books, you two went on a date, that's practically dating."

"We're not dating," Y/n said firmly. She really couldn't keep having this conversation, not when she knew Kika had no interest in her. "Nothing happened yesterday. And I don't want to talk about it."

Olga opened her mouth, probably to push again, but Alexia beat her to it; her arms were crossed, her eyes narrowed in that same determined way Y/n had come to know.

"I'm going to find out," her captain said. "Even if you don't tell me… I'll get Kika to spill it, she's too nice not to."

"I think that's some sort of abuse of power," Y/n groaned, letting her head fall down against the table.

"It might be… it might not," Alexia said, chin up. "Who would know?"

"I need new guardians," Y/n murmured.

"Oh, come on, you love us," Olga said cheerfully. "Plus, we're kind of the only ones you got, so…"

"That's comforting," Y/n said, eyes back to her plate. She had barely eaten anything.

She thought about threatening Alexia: if she tried to pry information about the date with Kika, Y/n would never speak to her again. 

But deep down, Y/n knew it wouldn’t matter.

When Alexia wanted to know something, she would go to hell to find it. God forbid La reina not know something about her teammates, or else, about her kind-of-adopted-sister…?

…

Monday

The next day, Y/n noticed Kika wasn't at training.

At first, she felt a wave of sadness, which she guessed was how her body physiologically reacted to the absence of Kika, but then her conscious mind reminded her of everything that had happened at the book club, and then she convinced herself that Kika being gone for the day was probably for the best.

Her ego was still too bruised to face Kika right now. If she was being honest, she didn't know when she would feel ready to see Kika again. It would be too much of a reminder that she wasn't wanted in the way she envisioned herself to be.

The whole "I've only invited you so you wouldn't feel alone" hit her deep in her chest, hurting her in a way she didn't allow Kika to.

That's why she didn't let people get too close. It hurt.

Vicky and Salma, blissfully unaware of the tension, cornered Y/n in the locker room after practice once everyone else had already made their way to the pitch.

"So…" Vicky wiggled her eyebrows playfully. "Tell us everything. Did you hold hands?"

"Did you kiss?" Salma asked, way too casually for Y/n's liking, as if it was her right to know what happened.

Y/n rolled her eyes, trying to wriggle out of the circle they had her in.

She wasn't in the mood to entertain their teasing or to remember everything once again. Olga and Alexia were annoying enough at home, she didn't need that at training as well.

"Just… not now, girls," Y/n said in a low voice.

The tone in her voice surprised even her. It was soft, not the usual grumpy way she had grown accustomed to. It wasn't a bark. She was tired… sad. She wished people around her would understand that and just leave her be.

Vicky and Salma exchanged a knowing glance before the realisation hit them. They had stepped over a boundary. 

"Oh," Vicky said, tone shifting as she caught on. "Uhn, maybe it didn't go well, then…"

Y/n didn't answer; she just got her boots and left for the pitch. The ball wasn't going to ask her to make a podcast about her failed date.

The rest of the day, Y/n didn't see Kika. Although when she was on her way to the bathroom, she heard a conversation between Esmee and Alexia. She didn't stop to listen or anything, it just happened that the laces to her boots untied at the same time.

She bent down and listened through the corner of the wall.

"She's not coming?" Alexia asked. Y/n could picture her face, mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. "I heard Romeu saying something like that, but when I asked, he told me he couldn't say… Is it private?"

"Yeah," Esmee told her, in a voice that sounded like she didn't want to have this conversation. "She's not feeling good."

"What's wrong with her?" Alexia asked.

"Uhm, well–"

"Is it the flu? I can take her to the hospital if she wants, Olga can make some soup and bring it to her house or–"

"No, it's not the flu," Esmee replied. "She's just not feeling well… emotionally."

"Oh," Alexia said in a knowing tone. "Do you know if it’s because of what happened in the park? I'm not sure if Kika told you about that?”

Oh, for god's sake. Alexia was going out of her way to find out about her date. 

She was even interrogating poor Esmee, who had no idea of what happe–

"Yes."

Yes?

"I don't know much about it," Esmee continued. "She just told me she messed something up and that she wanted to give Y/n some space."

Y/n must have gasped, because Alexia’s face appeared around the corner immediately, uncovering Y/n's hiding spot.

"Y/n?" Alexia said, eyes squinting. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Y/n froze, but her brain tried to come up with something, anything, that wouldn’t make her seem like an idiot.

"Hm, just tying my boots," she said. "So I don't fall and… hurt my face, you know?"

Alexia didn't answer. Instead, she turned around and said goodbye to Esmee, who had a confused expression on her face, but also didn't say anything. Then she helped Y/n off the floor. 

The two walked to the locker room in silence. Alexia opened the door, checking that they were alone, before she made Y/n sit on one of the benches.

Y/n rolled her eyes. 

Not the bench talk again.

"What happened?" Alexia asked seriously, her arms crossed tight on her torso. "And what did Esmee mean about Kika wanting to give you space? Did you two fight? Can you fight in a book club?"

Y/n dragged her hands down her face. "Alexia, if you keep pressing on this, I swear to god, the vein in my head is gonna burst."

Alexia leaned over, touching Y/n's forehead. "It does look a little weird. You should check it out."

Y/n pushed Alexia's hand from her face as she got up from the bench, walking to her cubby. "Just… let me deal with this."

They didn't share a word as they left the training centre, but Alexia kept sighing, as if it was oh so inconvenient that Y/n hadn't shared what happened with her.

Y/n ignored her, as always. 

She spent the drive home thinking about Esmee and how she knew about the park, about her and Kika's date–how Kika had told her.

Had Kika told her everything? Had Kika told Esmee what she told Y/n? About the whole wanting to hang out with her because she didn't want Y/n to be left out?

Probably not, Kika wouldn't do that. 

She wouldn't disclose it, right? It was a rather…private thing to talk about, no?

Perhaps Kika only told her vaguely that they went on a date and it didn't work out.

Y/n hoped so, at least.

..

Tuesday 

It was lunchtime. And once again, no sign of Kika.

Esmee, Jana, Vicky, Salma, Sydney and Y/n sat together at the table. The conversation was flowing nicely, but Y/n was quiet, just sharing bits here and there, but not really engaging in any topic.

"And then she said I should be the one to text first," Jana said, her voice filled with frustration. "Which is ridiculous, right? Why would I reach out first after the date if I was the one who invited her?"

"Yes, you're right!" Salma agreed.

"It just seems like she's always waiting for you to do something,” Vicky chimed in, her mouth full of food.

Jana was talking about one of the girls she was going on dates with, but Y/n didn't remember which one it was this time.

The only thing on her mind was a certain Portuguese girl, and how she didn't want anything to do with her.

She had truly believed Kika wanted to spend time with her–wanted to be around her because they clicked. At least Y/n thought they clicked. Obviously, Kika didn't think the same.

That date's only purpose was to remind Y/n why she kept her feelings at arm's length. They hurt. They always hurt. It was so much safer to have nothing, to shut it all out, than to open yourself up and risk being disappointed.

Her spiralling thoughts were snapped away as she felt a hand on her wrist.

"You're gripping the knife too tightly," Esmee said quietly. "Your hand is all red… messing with your circulation."

Y/n blinked, looking down at her hand, realising she really was unconsciously gripping the knife too tightly.

"Oh," she mumbled, "Didn't notice it." She released her grip, holding it properly now.

Vicky leaned forward, pushing her plate out of the way. She rested her elbows on the table.

"Okay," she said, looking at Y/n, "You seriously need to tell us what happened at the park. You've been sulking ever since! We've been giving you space, but… You can't hold it all in."

Y/n flinched at the word. 

Sulking.

It was a pathetic word. She felt pathetic.

"I'm not holding anything in," Y/n told them, eyes on everyone at the table. "This is just who I am, I don't like to talk about feelings."

"But you need to!" Vicky rolled her eyes. "We've had this conversation a dozen times already."

"You know people get sick, right?" Salma chimed in. "Like with real diseases because of suppressed emotions?"

Now it was Y/n's turn to roll her eyes. 

"Suppressed emotions? Please! You guys are talking like I have some sort of PTSD. I just went on a date that was clearly a disaster."

"But why was it a disaster?" Sydney asked. "Did Kika punch a dog or something? I can't really think of her doing something wrong or bad."

Y/n turned to Sydney, her eyebrows raised. "How do you even know what we're talking about? I haven't told you anything about Kika!"

"Vicky told me," she said casually. "Now, are you going to tell us or not? I have physio in like thirty minutes, I don't want to be left hanging."

Y/n ignored Sydney, just giving Vicky a very sharp glance. She really needed to stop sharing her secrets with Vicky. The girl couldn't keep her mouth shut for more than two seconds.

"Did she find out you didn't read the book and got mad?" Salma questioned, drinking her juice. "Because if that's what happened, then it's a very dumb reason."

"Yeah," Vicky agreed vehemently, as if she hadn't just told Y/n's secret crush to another teammate, "That's dyslexiphobia."

"That's not even a word!" Salma said, turning to her.

"And that–" Vicky said, arms crossed, "–is erasing somebody's identity, Salma. We should call it for what it is: dyslexiphobia."

Vicky said the last part aloud, so in a matter of seconds, every player turned to their table, faces filled with confusion as they heard the made-up word falling out of the young girl's mouth.

Y/n's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She looked angrily at Vicky."Can you shut up?!"

Vicky looked around her, realised she was the centre of attention. She looked down at her plate, hands up on her chest in surrender.

"Sorry! I just wanna know what happened!"

"Me too!" Salma said.

"Can you guys stop?" Jana said angrily, putting her fork down. "We should respect Y/n's decision to not say anything!"

Salma rolled her eyes. "Oh, that’s easy for you to say! You already know what happened, that's not fair to the rest of us who were left in the completely dark"

"Yes! I totally agreed," Vicky said, or maybe it was Sydney.

Y/n wasn't sure anymore, since the whole table continued to create assumptions about her date, and it got to a point where all of their voices blended into one another. All of that while they were eating.

Clearly, none of the Barcelona girls were gracious.

Y/n dragged her hands down her face, completely hopeless.

"Maybe Y/n tripped and fell in a very embarrassing way, and Kika got the ick?"

"What if Kika stood Y/n up?"

“Once a bird pooped on my head during a date, maybe the same happened with Y/n ans Kika and they just couldn’t recover.”

"Oh god, you three shut up!" Esmee said while scrolling on her phone. "None of this nonsense happened! Kika told Y/n she wanted to hang out with her because she felt bad and didn't want her to feel left out, that’s why Y/n is upset.”

It was like the entire table went quiet in sY/nc.

Forks paused mid-air. Sentences were left unfinished. Even the chatter of the other tables seemed to hush for a second too long.

Y/n sat frozen, like her brain was struggling to catch up with what Esmee had said.

Y/n knee, Esmee was aware of the date because she overheard that conversation yesterday… she just didn't expect Kika to talk about it in so much detail.

Kika had explained to Esmee how pitiful she felt for Y/n. So much that she called Y/n out on a date because of pure pity.

Great, everybody knew how pathetic she was.

"What did you just say, Esmee?" Salma asked sharply. "What the hell?"

Vicky straightened in her seat, caught between confusion and disbelief. "What did Kika say? Are you serious?”

"That's so bad…" Sydney said, incredulous.

Everybody but Esmee turned their eyes to Y/n, guilt and empathy in their eyes. It was the same kind of look you would give to someone who was absolutely helpless.

Y/n hated that she was that person now, that her friends saw her like that.

Y/n slowly turned her head to Esmee, who was now finally looking up from her phone, realising the weight of what she had just said.

"Esmee, did Kika really tell you that?" Y/n asked, her voice was low, but controlled, as if trying to hold every emotion in.

She still had hope that maybe Kika said that without meaning to. 

That maybe it was just the awkward way she had of expressing herself, but now that she found out that Kika had told Esmee…then it was probably a hundred per cent real.

That Kika really felt nothing, not even some sort of platonic feeling for Y/n.

Esmee's face went pale. Her fingers tensed around her phone. She looked at Y/n, then the others. "Oh. Um… okay," she stammered, "I guess I… probably shouldn't have said that."

Y/n groaned softly, pressing her palms to her face. "Oh god, I hate this whole fucking situation. Why did she even tell you?"

Esmee shrugged, a little defensive, a little unsure. "Hm… because I'm her friend? I guess? Look, I'm not trying to insert myself into whatever's going on between you two, alright? I just–ugh, sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

Y/n wasn't upset that Esmee knew. She was upset that anyone knew.

She hadn't even told Vicky or Salma what really happened in the park. Not really because it was a secret, but because it was hers.

Because it had been humiliating and vulnerable, and even if Kika hadn't meant to hurt her, she had… and now it felt like the whole thing was a story being passed around behind her back.

Like it wasn't hers anymore.

"Look–she really didn't mean it like that," Esmee said, voice gentle. "She just got nervous, and, honestly, I can't even explain it. Just… talk to her, okay?"

Y/n didn't respond.

She wasn't mad at Kika. Not really. She was just a little disappointed. Feeling like a line had been crossed, even though she hadn't asked Kika not to say anything.

In the end, she also told someone what happened. So in a way, they were even.

Y/n had told Jana. Kika had told Esmee.

The table stayed quiet for a while. An awkward and uncomfortable silence was thick in the air.

Then, Y/n began to eat again, pretending nothing had happened, not saying a word. The others followed her.

Across from her, she noticed how restless Vicky, Salma and Sydney looked, almost as if they were resonating with the urge to ask questions.

She could feel it in them. But every time one of them opened their mouth, Jana shot them a sharp look.

A silent ‘shut up. Not now.’

Y/N didn’t have it in her to speak, but she caught Jana’s eye and gave her the smallest, grateful smile.

Her friends were a little out of touch sometimes, but Y/n would’t change them for anything.

..

Wednesday.

Romeu had decided to do a split training session during the afternoon: midfielders on one end of the pitch, defenders on the other, and forwards in the middle.

Something about improving intra-position dynamics, sharpening communication and developing better passes throughout the whole pitch… It was definitely something important.

Y/n barely heard the explanation or what they were expected to be doing, and judging by the look on Jana's face, she was rather lost as well.

Y/n and Jana were supposed to be working on positioning and defensive transitions, but right now? They were both standing still, unenthusiastically stretching while staring across the pitch.

On the other side, Alexia and Kika were talking.

Yes. Kika had finally come to training after two days of not showing up.

They weren't just talking, though. They were deep in it, heads tilted in that serious conversation kind of way. Their brows were slightly furrowed, arms occasionally gesturing like they were trying to get a point across.

"Oh god," Y/n muttered. "Why does it look like they're talking about something serious?"

"Because they probably are," Jana replied, arms crossed, not even pretending to stretch anymore. "Do you think she's asking about what happened Sunday between you two?"

"No," Y/n said calmly. "I don't think Alexia would get herself and Kika distracted during training just to get some gossip."

Next to Alexia and Kika was Vicky.

She kept glancing back at the two of them and making increasingly unhinged hand gestures.

She pointed at Kika. Then at Y/n. Then she made a motion that looked like either a broken heart or… a butterfly? Y/n wasn't sure.

"What the hell is she trying to say?" Jana asked.

"Okay, okay…" Y/n squinted at Vicky. "She pointed at Kika. That's definitely Kika. Then at me… oh god. Fuck–"

Y/n looked at Jana desperately. "You were right, Jana, Alexia's definitely talking about me and Kika."

"You should go over there and make it stop," Jana said deadpan.

"I'm not going over there." Y/n's stomach twisted. "Kika is probably over-explaining herself right now."

"Then at least tell Vicky to stop signalling like that… she looks like a mad woman. Oh--" Jana nudged her lightly. "Wait, now she's… sliding a finger across her throat? Y/n, I think Alexia is threatening Kika's life."

"Shit, Alexia can just go straight ahead and plan my funeral if she wants to see me die of embarrassment," Y/n mumbled. "Seriously, tío, why does she have to always be in my business?"

"Well…" Jana said, turning her head slightly. "Maybe you should start opening up to her and Olga a bit."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Not this conversation again."

"I'm right, though!" Jana continued persistently. "They're always there for you, I think it would do you some good to get their perspective about this whole thing."

"It's not like I kept it all a secret," Y/n tried to defend herself. "They know I like Kika, I told them that… hell, I even cried! It was humiliating!"

"If you think crying is humiliating, then you should get back to therapy," Jana said stoically.

"Forget therapy," Y/n tied her hair tighter, for no reason, maybe she hoped that it would keep the blood flowing to her brain better. "Plus, I kind of told Alexia a little bit about what happened at the park."

"Did you tell her, or did you just groan and go to your room?"

Y/n opened her mouth. Closed it. "...I groaned and went to my room."

"Exactly." Jana shook her head. "You are hopeless."

Y/n let out a miserable noise.

"Like… Vicky, signalling with her weird hand signs is better at communicating than you are," Jana said as they watched the young girl continue her attempt at communicating what Alexia and Kika were talking about. "-And that's honestly sad."

Now, Vicky was dramatically miming wiping tears from her cheeks.

"Oh my god," Y/n muttered, dragging her hands down her face. "I'm never leaving this side of the pitch again."

Y/n and Jana were focused again, ready to decode Vicky's latest hand gesture, when suddenly, Alexia turned to Vicky with a sharp look and gave her a light slap on the top of her head.

The slap wasn't hard, but the sound echoed across the field, and Y/n could hear what Alexia said.

"Vicky, stop being an idiot and go away."

Vicky froze, her mouth forming a small pout as she blinked rapidly, clearly caught off guard.

Y/n could see her expression fall, all her elaborate signals crumbling into confusion.

"She's telling her to go away," Y/n muttered under her breath.

"I know, we all heard," Jana snorted. "Damn, Alexia doesn't play around."

Vicky shuffled away from Alexia and Kika's side, her shoulders slumped, and her face in a pout. She moved to stand next to Esmee, still visibly mad.

Y/n couldn't help but smile. Alexia normally would baby Vicky around–a lot– so it was funny to see the contrast with what happened today. 

But that also only meant one thing: Alexia was having a serious conversation with Kika, or else she wouldn't mind Vicky's silliness.

Jana and Y/n still had their eyes glued to Kika, Alexia and Vicky, but it didn't last long.

There was a loud, very deliberate noise right between them.

"Hello, ladies," came a voice that was too cheerful for this moment.

Both Y/n and Jana froze, their eyes wide. It was Romeu. They hadn't even seen him approaching.

"Is there something wrong here?" he asked, his voice filled with mock sweetness.

Y/n and Jana exchanged panicked glances, immediately straightening up.

"No, nothing's wrong!" they both blurted in unison.

Romeu raised an eyebrow, a sly grin on his face. 

"Oh, I thought there was something wrong, because surely my number one defenders aren't just standing around gossiping, right?"

"Uhm, no, of course not, we're trainin,g–"

"I better not catch you two standing still for no reason," Romeu cut in, his tone hardening. "If you're not hurt, then you're supposed to be training. No excuses."

He paused for a moment, scanning the two of them, before his eyes narrowed.

"I don't want to see you standing still on a pitch unless you've got an injury to justify it, got it?"

Y/n and Jana exchanged another look and nodded at their manager. They had no choice.

Quickly, they grabbed a ball and began a series of quick tackle drills to show they were definitely not slacking off.

As they sprinted to position, Y/n shot a glance over at Alexia and Kika, who were still in their conversation, only to catch Alexia's eye for a second.

And then Kika's.

Y/n turned to look away. Less than a second later, she wasn't ready for that.

But still, she could feel Kika's eyes on her back. People often described others’ glances as a burning sensation, but Y/n didn’t feel that. Kika’s watchful eyes felt like a weight.

 Y/n didn't like it. The growing tension between them was not something she had expected to happen.

They couldn't stay like this forever. 

At some point, they would have to talk. Not about the park, necessarily, just…talk. greet each other, say Bon dia.

Ultimately, they were teammates first; they needed to have at least a somewhat professional relationship.

And if Kika didn't like her… well, fine. It wasn't like Y/n hadn't survived without her before.

She had lived almost twenty years perfectly well without Kika's attention or her smiles or the way she made everything feel a little better, brighter.

She could do it again.

At the end of the day, they hadn't even dated, kissed or held hands. It shouldn't hurt this much.

She just hoped, really, really hoped, that whatever this was between them, that Kika didn't see her as some obligation. As someone to pity, to look after out of kindness or guilt.

If Kika didn't like her, that was one thing. But if the only thing she felt for her was some sort of pity? Well… that would be worse.

a/n: hope you guys liked it <3

[cherryite]

seven minutes

summary. you've been a constant in mark's life for as long as he can remember, and he can't wait to spend the rest of it with you too. (word count. 2.2k)

content. mark grayson x reader, fem!reader, childhood friends to lovers, established relationship, angst, hurt no comfort

warnings. major character death, blood/gore, suggestive themes, sinister mark because that guys a freak

author's note. yeah um.... im so sorry for the emotional damage this could cause (was listening to all i need by radio head while writing so.... prepare yourselves)

Mark has never experienced life without you.

He first met you on his fifth birthday. It’s one of his earliest memories, and he can always recall with a startling level of clarity. 

Your mom and his mom were college roommates and your family had just moved back to the neighborhood, so of course you had to attend Mark’s birthday party. Your mother had swept you into the backyard like a whirlwind, chatting up Debbie with the kind of excitement that Mark could only compare to opening the Seance Dog figurine his parents had got him earlier that day. You clung to your mother like a barnacle stuck to the side of a ship. Your eyes were wide, curious but cautious as you observed him. 

Debbie crouched down in front of you, tugging his hand gently to bring him closer to you. 

“This is Mark, sweetheart,” she said softly. “He’s your new friend.” 

You hid shyly behind your mother’s legs, peering out at him with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen. Sweet and innocent as you stared at him— remnants of chocolate cake smudged on the corner of his mouth and grass stains on his knees. Eventually your mom nudged you out from behind her, landing you right in front of him. 

“Hi!” Mark chirped, offering a little wave and a gap toothed smile.

You just blinked at him owlishly.

“... Do you like chocolate cake?” Mark tried again, his head tilted to the side. After a long pause, you nodded as a soft ‘yes’ fell from your lips. He grinned, grabbed your hand, and led you to the table, handing you the last slice of his birthday cake. 

You’d smiled at him so sweetly that day, both of you giggling happily with your matching chocolate covered smiles.

That was the moment — though he didn’t know it then — when something rooted itself in his little heart. Something permanent. Something that would never let go.

~

One of Mark’s favorite memories was when you’d said ‘I love you’ for the first time. Right after the moment when he finally got the nerve to ask you out, of course. That memory, too, lived in his chest, beating like a second heartbeat. He’d always remember the way your cheeks had flushed such a pretty color when the words finally tumbled out of his mouth— how you threw your arms around his neck in delight, how you’d kissed him like he was air and you were drowning.

But somehow, it still didn’t hold a candle to the other memory.

It was just like any ordinary night, nothing special about it at first glance. Officially, you’d been dating for three months, after years of friendship, years of loving you quietly. He hadn’t known this level of contentment before, like every cell in his body was sagging with comfort. 

You both lay, limbs tangled in his bed sheets, your face tucked in his neck. Your breath warmed his skin with soft puffs, sending a tingling through him. He ran his hands idly through your hair, carding through gently as he released any tangles. Your body was so warm against his, soft and sleepy as you curled into his embrace. 

“Did you know your brain plays seven minutes of your happiest memories when you die? It tries to comfort you because it can’t save you,” you mumble quietly, placing sweet kisses along the curve of his jaw, “fun fact.”

Mark frowned and looked down at you. “How is that… fun?”

“I think it’s very interesting, thank you very much,” you reply with a puff of your cheeks as you tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Your palm rested gently over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm against his ribs.

“You’re so weird,” Mark responds back, though all that can be detected in his voice is affection. Your eyes are warm as he stares into them, a tired giggle leaving your throat. 

“Says you!” You exclaim, pretending to pout, shoving him away from you a bit. He caught you immediately, dragging you back and peppering kisses along your jawline.

“We’re both weird,” he mumbled against your skin, brushing his teeth against the spot below your ear, where your jaw hinged. “That’s why we work, baby.”

You squirmed in his hold, your arms wrapped lazily around the nape of his neck.

“You’re so cheesy, ugh. Remind me why I love you again?”

Mark froze, his lips pause as he pulls his head out of the crook of your neck. You’d said it plenty of times, but that was before you started dating. Before you spent any and all free time kissing, and holding him like he was the most precious thing you’d ever had.

“You mean that?” He asked. He barely recognized his own voice. Soft and uncertain, he just knows his face is bright red too. You just nod. 

“Yeah. I love you. A lot actually. If you’d believe it.”

And then he kissed you, passionate, sweet, real. Mark mumbled ‘I love you’s’ in between kisses, pressing you into the blankets of his bed as his hands cradled your face.

That’s when he knew he’d always love you. 

No matter what happens in the future. 

Because you were his future, his past, and his present. 

~

You had been so happy, so in love. 

Even after he got his powers. Even after the late nights, the bruises, the guilt he carried when he came home and you’d already fallen asleep in your shared bed waiting. You never made him feel like a failure. You never made him feel like he had to choose. Your lives together had been planned out, he knew he wanted to marry you — he had for a long time if he was honest— but he wanted to wait, make it perfect. Because you deserved perfection.

If he missed a date or a movie night, you didn’t make a fuss. You would just smile, a bit sadly, and press a kiss to his jaw, murmuring against his skin. 

“You have the rest of our lives to make it up to me. Go save the world.”

Mark clung to those words, because that felt like a promise to him. A promise of forever. A promise to love him always.

And then the variants showed up. 

You had been stowed away somewhere safe while Mark fought. You were supposed to be safe. Hidden.

Mark was never very lucky.

He feels like all the air has left his lungs when he looks up, his vision partially obstructed by the swelling of his left eye. Mark gasps as he props himself up from the crater of earth he’s found himself in, his vision swimming with pain as he focuses his gaze on the sight before him.

Above him, hovering with a smile on his lips, is himself. A variant of him, donning yellow and black, a cape billowing behind him just as he remembers his father’s doing. But that's not what scares him. What scares him is how, within his grasp, is you. The variant's hand grips at your face, his palm obscuring your features as you struggle against his hold, like he’s holding a toy. Mark knows that you know you can’t escape, but his heart twinges as you claw at the man who wears his face. Your legs kick, your body quivers. 

He rises shakily to his feet, his goggles almost entirely shattered from his earlier encounter with a different variant. Smoke and copper sting his nose as he calls your name, a broken sound crawling from his throat. He holds his hands out in front of him, trying to find a way to get out of this situation. Mark can hear you call his name back— your voice trembles, your hands coming up to grip at the variant's forearm, trying to ease the strain on your neck. 

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” The variant all but coos, cocking his head to the side, a sickening grin on his face. “You cling to humanity, cling to her.” The variant shakes you a bit in his grasp, and you can’t contain the shriek that erupts from your throat. 

“Stop—,” Mark says, his voice cracks as he lurches forward, his chest tight and his heart burns in his chest. “She has nothing to do with this. You want me. Just— Just put her down.”

“She has everything to do with this,” the variant croons. “She is your weakness. You will be stronger without her. I was. She only held me back from my true potential.”

The variant hoists you higher, tightening his grip, his fingers dimple your soft flesh.

“DON’T–” Mark can’t help the scream that shreds from his throat. He dashes forward, narrowly missing a devastating blow to your captor. He stumbles, his eyes wide and his heart in his throat.

Your voice pierces through the smokey air, shaking. “Mark–!” 

He can see the panic well in your eyes, the way your chest rises and falls as quickly as a frightened rabbit. You’re prey, and the predator has you in his jaws. Mark can see the way your eyes fixate on him, wide and frightened. The variant giggles, a sickening sound that makes Mark’s spine straighten.

“I’m doing you a favor,” the variant replies.

“And I’m warning you,” he rasps, blood in his mouth, blood that stains his teeth and dribbles out of the corners of his lips. “Put her down. And fucking fight me!”

The variant's fist tightens and your eyes flit around in fear. Your voice is so raw when you speak. Mark doesn’t want to listen. He doesn’t want to hear you like this. He wants to hear your laugh as he snakes his arms around your waist. He wants to hear the sweet way you say his name when you're tired. He wants to hear the way you sigh when he kisses your neck. Not this— not laced with fear and desperation.

You’re shaking. “Mark. Mark, please look at me,” you call. 

Your voice is raspy and raw, it shakes in a way he’s never heard from you before. Not when his father beat him half to death. Not when he cried in your arms about how this is all too much. 

“I love you. I love you so much and I always have,” you manage out. Mark tenses because this seems like a goodbye, but he can see the defeat in your face. “You’re my seven minutes, Mark. It’s all you. Every second will be you. I’m so sorry, you’re so strong. I lov—”

The variant’s hand closes and Mark freezes as a burst of blood splatters across his face. He stares as your body drops to the ground, limp, like if a kid threw a ragdoll. Discarded like you meant nothing. Mark can’t tear his eyes away from you, still amongst the flames and smoke, as the variant scoffs.

“She always says that. That's all she said when she tried to convince me not to kill her in my world.” The variant flicks a piece of your skull off his shoulder, like you’re trash. Mark isn’t listening though, because all he can think is that the person that took you away from him took your final comfort too. No seven minutes — your brain can’t comfort you as you die if it’s splattered all over. 

It all happens so fast, because one second Mark has the man who wears his face pinned to the ground— blood and gore gushing as he pound his fists into his face until nothing is left but a few pearly white teeth— and then the next he’s delicately lifting the remnants of his heart in his hands. Part of your jaw still clings to your form, the necklace he got you for your four year anniversary rests against your blood stained collar bone. Mark presses his cheek to your chest, right above where your heart should still be beating. He stays like that for who knows how long, holding you in his arms until Cecil has to tear him away from you.

The days and months that follow go by in a blur. 

Your funeral happens. The flowers are your favorites. The faces that come are people who don’t know you like he did.

You haunt him. He sees you everywhere. The bed in your apartment— Mark can’t bring himself to wash the pillow you used, because it still faintly smells like you after all this time. His hero suit— the one he couldn’t save you in. His childhood home— he swears he can still hear your laughter echoing down the halls. The giggle of children— a reminder of the ones he’ll never be able to have with you.

Mark knows he’ll live a long life, a life riddled by loss. He can’t bring himself to move any of your things, because you were a part of him, sewn into the very fabric  of his being. You were the largest part of his heart, so intertwined into his life that he can’t do anything without seeing your face, thinking about your sweet touches.

Mark prays you were right. That when his time comes, his final seven minutes will be filled with you. 

So he can finally see you again. Just one last time.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

heyy<3 I really loved your writings . I was thinking if you could do where y/n Or reader who has daddy issues and she had no other choice but to leave the house one night cus’ her dad was getting a bit aggressive and she came to her bf ( tbh I'm good with any character but I'd love it if you included Park Hu-min or Go Hyun tak) and she's a mess, teary face, puffy nose and overall tired. I'm really sorry if I'm asking too much.

Heyy<3 thank you so much for the sweet words—that means a lot 🥹 and you’re not asking too much at all, I promise. tell me if you want humin's version

Go Hyun-tak x Reader – “You’re Safe Now” Genre: Angst + Comfort Length: ~2.5k words (for now, can extend if you'd like more!) POV: Third person

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain wasn’t supposed to start until morning.

That’s what the forecast had said when Y/N checked it, barefoot on her bedroom floor, hands trembling as she stuffed a hoodie into her backpack. But of course, it lied—just like he always did.

Thunder rolled in the distance, low and angry like her father’s voice had been only twenty minutes ago. She didn’t even remember what triggered it this time. Something about the dishes. Something about respect. Something about her being too much, never enough, always the problem.

She wiped her sleeve across her face. It was already soaked from rain and tears. Her knees were shaking. Her eyes burned. The city streetlights made her squint.

There was only one place she could go.

Go Hyun-tak wasn’t expecting anyone. Least of all her.

He opened his door to a sight that knocked the breath out of him.

Y/N stood in the hallway, dripping wet. Her hoodie clung to her skin, strands of hair stuck to her tear-stained cheeks, and her nose was red, either from crying or the cold or both. Her arms hugged her chest tightly, like she was holding herself together. Like if she let go, she’d fall apart.

“Y/N...?” he breathed, immediately stepping aside. “Come in. Come here, come in.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said everything.

The moment the door shut behind her, she dropped her backpack to the floor and let out a shaky, wrecked sound. Her face crumpled, and before she could fully collapse, Hyun-tak was already there—arms wrapping around her, holding her as she broke down.

“I-I’m sorry—” she whispered into his chest, but he shook his head, brushing his fingers through her wet hair.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, gently but firmly. “Not to me. Never to me.”

She clung to his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. He led her to the couch and knelt in front of her, brushing the hair from her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked softly, eyes scanning her face for injuries. “Did he—? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head quickly. “No... just yelling. Slamming stuff. Got close this time, but I ran before he... I just—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You did the right thing,” he whispered. “You came here. I’ve got you.”

She looked so small. So tired. Her lip trembled as she opened her mouth again.

“I hate that he makes me feel like I’m the one going crazy.”

Hyun-tak’s jaw clenched, but he kept his voice soft.

“You’re not. I promise, Y/N. None of this is your fault. You don’t deserve this.”

She nodded slowly, as if trying to believe him. As if maybe hearing it from him would make it true.

“Can I stay here tonight?” she asked, voice barely audible.

“You can stay as long as you want. Hell, move in. I don’t care. Just don’t ever go back if it’s like that again.”

She blinked at him, lips parting.

“I mean it,” he said. “He doesn’t get to keep hurting you. Not if I’m around.”

Something in her broke again. But this time, it wasn’t the same kind of tears. These were quieter. Relief-filled. Almost like she could breathe for the first time all night.

“I brought some stuff,” she whispered. “Clothes. Charger. I didn’t know how long…”

He gently took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“You don’t have to know. We’ll figure it out together.”

Later, after she had showered and borrowed one of his oversized shirts to sleep in, she lay curled against him in bed. Her fingers gripped the hem of his sleeve. Her face was pressed into his chest, like she needed to hear his heartbeat to feel safe.

Hyun-tak rested his chin on the top of her head and whispered:

“You never have to pretend with me. Not even when you’re messy, or scared, or tired. I want all of you, okay?”

She nodded into his chest.

“Even this part of me?” she asked, voice cracking.

“Especially this part,” he said. “The part that was strong enough to leave.”

She didn’t reply, but her grip tightened around him. And when she finally fell asleep—peaceful, warm, safe—he held her even closer, like he was daring the world to try and take her back.

[redrosydiaz]

it is unbearably hot today, so i am thinking about buck and eddie, whose AC is very inconveniently out, and can’t be fixed until at least tomorrow. christopher is at a friend’s house, for the first pool party of the summer, lucky kid, meanwhile buck and eddie are stuck inside with every single fan they own plugged in on full blast — but even that’s not really helping much. the fans offer a nice breeze, but they’re also kind of just circulating the hot air that’s already inside, so it does very little to actually cool them down. eddie is wearing (sweating through, more like) a pair of basketball shorts and one of those thin, slutty black tank tops of his, meanwhile buck’s got on a pair of (teeny tiny) running shorts and no shirt — he lost his about an hour ago when the feeling of the fabric sticking to his back started to bother him too much.

they’re sitting on the couch together — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, even though it’s way too hot for that — because doing anything other than just existing is unthinkable in this heat. two fresh bottles of beer sit on the coffee table, condensation sweating down the sides and pooling into a slowly growing puddle on top of the coasters. there are also two discarded popsicle wrappers — because things got desperate enough that buck and eddie raided christopher’s popsicle stash in the freezer to try and cool down.

buck eats his popsicle with relish, chasing the cool relief it offers, brief as it is, with abandon. he eats it quickly, not minding the brain freeze it might prompt because, well, at least something will be frozen in this oven of a house. eddie, on the other hand, is a little more controlled about it. he takes his time with it, opting to savor every cool lick, every chilled bite. but, of course, in a temperature this hot, eddie’s popsicle is not winning the race against the heat, so, naturally, it starts to melt. eddie tries to catch the juice as it starts to run, but he’s not quick enough, and it ends up dripping all across his fingers, own his wrist, too. a few drops even land on his bare thigh, where his shorts have ridden up in his sprawl.

buck teases him about it, about not being fast enough, about making such a mess, but he also can’t take his eyes off of it. the sticky sweet fruit juice clinging to eddie’s knuckles, gathering in the webbing between his fingers, trickling over the delicate bones of his wrist.

eddie finishes the popsicle quickly after that, tossing the empty stick alongside buck’s on the coffee table. his hand is still raised in front of him, fingers spread as he examines the mess, laughing at it a little. he shifts, then, like he’s about to gather the energy to rise up and head for the kitchen, for the sink, to clean up.

and maybe it’s the heat getting to him, or maybe it’s just eddie, who always drives buck crazy, but just as eddie makes to stand, buck’s hand darts out to stop him. to curl around eddie’s forearm, to draw him back down onto the couch, to pull that messy hand towards himself.

eddie laughs again, opens his mouth to ask buck what the hell he’s doing, but his words die on his tongue as buck, without any preamble, folds eddie’s hand into a loose first and guides the two fingers he left sticking out right into his mouth.

eddie makes a choked noise, mind going blissfully blank as he gapes at buck — buck, who is going to town on eddie’s hand, just like he did that popsicle, only this time he’s taking his time with it. trailing his tongue carefully over eddie’s knuckles, in between his fingers, down the veins on the back of his hand, flat across his palm. 

it’s— it’s fucking intoxicating. makes eddie’s head swim more than it should be after just one beer and a popsicle. it sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. it’s from an entirely new heat coursing through eddie’s body. one he can feel building in his gut, licking into his veins, lighting up his nerve endings. something that is all buck.

once eddie’s hand is as clean as it can be, buck lets it go, and for a moment, eddie thinks that might be it. that buck will send him one of those cheeky smirks and settle back into his place beside eddie, perfectly content to start something and not finish it, the fucking tease. eddie wouldn’t put that past him. if there’s one thing buck loves, it’s riling eddie up.

but, buck doesn’t do that. 

he lets eddie’s hand go, and he starts to shift on the couch, but instead of returning to his previous sprawl, he turns fully towards eddie, scoots back, stretches out, then—

— he starts to lower himself. slowly, slowly, slowly, until he’s nearly flat against the couch, level with eddie’s lap. he’s mere inches from the unmistakable bulge eddie is now sporting in his shorts, close enough that eddie can feel each hot pant of breath against the inside of his thighs. he squirms in his seat, anticipation thrumming through his body.

one of buck’s hands moves towards eddie, and eddie’s breath catches in his throat — only, buck curls his palm around eddie’s hip, fingers pressing into the soft skin of his waist. and buck starts to lean down, but— instead of nosing at his trapped cock, like eddie half expected him to, buck drops his mouth open, wets his lips, then closes his mouth over the soft skin of eddie’s thigh — right where those few drops of popsicle juice landed. he laves at the skin, thick, slow strokes of his tongue, then sucks hard. hard enough to leave a new stain of red in its place.

eddie gasps, drops his head back against the edge of the couch. bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and does everything in his power not to jerk his hips up, to seek out some sort of pressure, some sort of friction. buck is so close, but, still, so far, too. and with each kiss, each bite, each new bruise he sucks into eddie’s sensitive skin, eddie feels his resolve slipping. 

and then, buck’s grip loosens on his hip, and his hand starts to snake its way up. up eddie’s abdomen, catching the hem of his tank top and taking it with him, pushing it up his stomach, up his ribs, up his chest until it’s bunched near his collar. he presses his hand to the center of eddie’s chest, palm flat, fingers splayed, and then, in one fluid motion that eddie’s sluggish brain can’t quite comprehend, he finds himself suddenly flat on his back on the cushion, buck half straddling him and poised above him.

and then buck’s ducking down to catch eddie’s mouth in a kiss. hot and wet and luxurious. slowly, his body presses down into eddie’s, pinning him to the couch with his weight. and, it’s way too hot for this, to be crushed together like this, flush at every point possible, but buck doesn’t care, and eddie doesn’t care either, is, in fact, clutching at buck’s back, holding him down on top of him. buck’s practically mounted atop eddie’s thigh, one of his own wedged between eddie’s legs, his other trapped between eddie and the couch. their hips move against each others in a lazy, lethargic grind. it’s too hot to pick up a really good rhythm, but good god, if this isn’t perfect anyways. they’re working up even more of a sweat, their skin sticking together where it’s touching, clothes soaked through. their kissing is barely even kissing anymore, just the two of them pressed together, panting into each other’s mouths, until buck trails his wet mouth across eddie’s cheek and buries his face into eddie’s neck. he breathes in the musk of him, presses his open mouth over eddie’s sweat-slick skin. his tongue lolls out, laps up the salt clinging to eddie’s heated skin. he sucks bruise after bruise into the crook of it.

they keep that up, that languorous grind until they’re both on the edge, and it only picks up the pace then, turning into something more desperate, something more frenzied in these last few moments, before they both fall over the edge, making even more of a mess of themselves as they come in their shorts.

they collapse into one another, as the highs of their orgasms start to fade. and it’s— it’s gross, probably. the both of them still slick with sweat and spit and now come, too. but it’s so hot, still, and neither of them want to move. not yet. so they just lie there, on the couch, a total mess. it is uncomfortable — buck’s body is heavy, on top of him, and eddie can feel both of them sweating in places he didn’t even know they could sweat. but— he kind of loves it. 

he kind of loves buck. obviously. 

so he doesn’t move. and buck doesn’t move. and they just, bask, in each other. in their sweat. in their stink. 

until finally finally, eddie doesn’t even know how much later, buck starts to squirm, and he lifts himself up onto his elbows over eddie, leans down for a kiss, then tells him they should probably go shower. and, eddie still kind of doesn’t want to move, still kind of just wants to lie here with buck, melding together. but, he nods, agrees. lets buck get off of him, and then takes buck’s hand when it’s offered, and he lets buck lead him into the bathroom—

—where they squeeze into their shower together, turn the water on cold enough, and proceed to get messy in a whole new way.

[vanesycho]

han jisung + fem!reader • warning! smut, manipulation, emotional abuse, toxic dynamics. • 1,5k • m.list

Teaser ⟩ you're stuck in a cycle with him—late-night calls, empty promises, and the kind of love that hurts more than it heals. he says he’s not ready, yet he always finds his way back into your bed. and you let him, every time, hoping it’ll mean something more.

a/n | edited and reposted it, still not happy with the result but yeah, enjoy reading!

"hello?" you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to—the laughter, the pounding bass of the music, the clinking glasses… it was loud enough to speak for you. a sigh slipped through the phone, low and tired. "don’t go anywhere. I’m coming." you smiled, bitter and practiced. he always said that. like love only showed up when you were falling apart. like you had to be broken enough for him to remember you existed.

there were always sweet words in the air. floating, delicate, almost believable. and you knew—god, you knew—they’d only shatter later. but even then, you still wondered when he’d disappear again. because he always did. and yet you couldn’t enjoy a single moment without waiting for the ending.

to you, he was a coward. terrified of anything real, of anything that demanded consistency. he never wanted to stay. but his touch…his touch told different stories. and you were so starved for the fairytale that you clung to his hands like they meant something. like they meant forever. the lies were dressed in warmth, and it was easier to believe them than admit you were alone.

and when you asked for more…when you wanted clarity, something steady—you got the same answers every time.

"I'm not ready for this."

"just give us a little more time."

the hand that wrapped around your arm pulled you out of your thoughts. you didn’t even need to look. you knew it was him. “can you walk?” you just nodded. you weren’t drunk. not really. It was never the alcohol that made your head spin. It was him.

jisung kept an arm firm around your waist, guiding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. when you both got in the car, he didn’t start it right away. his hand gripped the steering wheel—tight, unmoving. his mouth opened, like he had something to say, but the words never came. he hesitated. maybe it wasn’t the right time. maybe he didn’t know how to say it. so he drove in silence, and the quiet filled everything he couldn’t.

though the silence felt like hell, the ride home was short. jisung walked you to the door. you opened it—but before you could step inside, his hand landed on your wrist. “can I come in?” his voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling even though he knew your answer. he always knew. he just asked to make himself feel better. to pretend like this was mutual. like it was your choice, too.

you didn’t say anything. you just left the door open behind you. your steps were slow, almost lazy, like your body was there but your mind wasn’t. jisung followed. he watched you.

you didn’t speak.

you didn’t look back.

and that silence? It started to eat at him.

he sat on the edge of your bed, eyes glued to the trail of clothes falling from your body—one by one. when his hands finally reached your waist, you didn’t flinch. you just turned to face him. his eyes lifted to meet yours, searching for something—anything. “please,” he breathed, “don’t stay silent like this.”

your emotions were spiraling, like a storm you couldn’t calm. you couldn’t think straight when he was around. what you wanted—what you knew you should do—was scream at him, curse him until your throat burned, and shove him out of your house for good.

but then his hand moved.

warm. gentle. too familiar.

It slid slowly across your waist, over bare skin.

and just like that, your thoughts scattered. “It’s okay,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “I’m here, hm? you don’t need to hide your feelings from me.” god, he always said the right things. even when he didn’t mean them.

you flinched. tried to pull away from his intoxicating touch. but your feet refused to move. because you didn’t know when you’d see him again.

your hands moved to his shoulders,hesitant, trembling. and the ghost of a smile curled on his lips. he didn’t dare break eye contact. "just like that,” he whispered, his voice sinking straight into your spine like warm poison. his grip on your waist loosened, only to travel lower, his fingertips trailing slowly, achingly, down your thigh. you shuddered.

and when your hips finally settled on his lap, your throat clenched around a hard swallow. because you knew. you knew exactly what was about to happen. again.

another night.

another repeat.

another cycle you swore you’d break but never did.

one of his hands kept grazing your thigh, light, lazy, cruelly gentle. the other moved to the back of your neck, fingers curling like a promise. his breath brushed your lips—warm and familiar. “I feel like you want me to stop,” he murmured, almost like a challenge. “but your silence is confusing me.”

because your brain was screaming at you to stop—telling you this was wrong, that you'd just end up hurting all over again. but your body? your body was already burning for him. needing him. craving the twisted sense of love he always left on your skin.

“no. I want you,” you whispered, your voice barely steady before you crashed your lips against his. jisung didn’t see it coming, he froze for a second, but then he kissed you back like he’d been holding it in for weeks. his hands were everywhere, desperate, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. your own fingers slipped under his shirt, searching for warmth, for comfort, for anything real. his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you down onto him, and when you felt him hard and ready beneath you, the moan that left your lips was pure surrender.

jisung pulled away just enough to guide you down onto the bed, his hands never leaving your skin. his shirt was off in seconds, discarded somewhere on the floor, both of you moving too fast for a night that was supposed to be yours. but it felt rushed, reckless… like something forbidden, like the thrill of getting caught was part of the pleasure.

he hovered above you, his breath mingling with yours, and this time his lips moved slower—pressing soft kisses to your skin as if he was afraid you might break. “let me take care of you,” he murmured, voice low and warm. another kiss followed, this time to your jaw. “just give yourself to me.” a final kiss landed on your neck, sending a chill down your spine as your body arched up to meet his.

you’d heard those words a hundred times before, but still, you let them in, hoping that if you didn’t think too hard, maybe the regret wouldn’t hit as hard later.

“jisung… please…” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. your body was on fire, the dull ache between your thighs now impossible to ignore. jisung leaned in, pressing one final kiss to your lips before slipping off his pants, not wanting to make you wait a second longer. the sight of his swollen cock, already dripping with pre-cum, made your breath hitch. every part of you was screaming for him.

he lined himself up at your entrance, pausing just long enough to lock eyes with you, as if silently asking for permission he already knew you'd give. then, he slowly pushed the tip in, his breath hitching at the sudden warmth. “fuck, I missed this feeling,” he moaned, voice low and desperate.

you both let out a breathy moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch. jisung leaned over you, his forehead pressed to your neck, one of his hands searching for yours in the dark. the fullness, the heat, everything about him was overwhelming. It made the world blur.

“I love you so much,” he whispered against your ear. “I need you to believe me… y-you’re the only one I’ll ever come back to.” he pulled back slightly, his grip on your hand tightening. “you’re on my mind...every single night.”

your eyes welled up with tears, though you weren’t sure if it was from the overwhelming pleasure or the unbearable truth that his warmth would be gone by morning. you didn’t speak, words felt pointless. jisung knew that, too. so he just held you close, letting his voice be the only thing grounding you.

his thrusts grew harder, deeper. the way your walls clenched around him made his breath stutter. “jisung…” his name fell from your lips, half a moan, half a cry.

“shh, I know, baby… just come for me, yeah?”

your moans tangled together, bodies moving in perfect, desperate sync. jisung shut his eyes tightly, biting his lip to hold back. he made sure you reached your high first—watching you fall apart beneath him—before pulling out with a strained groan and spilling himself across your stomach.

after a while, he lay down beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion. his arms instinctively found you, pulling you into him while your eyes stayed glued to the ceiling. the blanket he tugged over both of you was cold, making your body shiver for a moment.

jisung smiled softly and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “get some sleep,” he whispered. you wrapped your arms around his waist, quietly desperate, maybe if you held him tightly enough, he wouldn't be able to leave in the morning.

as your eyelids grew heavy and you drifted into sleep, the last thing you heard was a gentle, "I love you." and god, how you wished it were true this time.

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support !

taglist: @velvetmoonlght @laylasbunbunny @emkvlixsx @inishij

[angelickks]

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌, 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐊𝐈

synopsis. Lion Kaminski has only ever fought for two things—Stan’s approval and your hands in his hair. In the hours before every underground fight, he doesn’t come alive until he sees you. You are the ritual. The reason. The tether. After the fight, when his body is wrecked and his soul frays at the edges, you hold him together with slow kisses and whispered promises. warning(s). nsfw. mdni 18+. established relationship. reader's nickname is "lucky." language. canon-typical violence. some bruising/blood. lowk softdom! reader. emotional dependency. breeding kink undertones (possessive language). touch-starved trauma. praise kink. quietly feral lion. no use of y/n. not proofread. angel talks. HAAAAA told u. i needed this fr cuz i love him sm.

pairing. walter "lion" kaminski x fem!reader

BEFORE EVERY MATCH, Lion waits. Quiet. Still. Like he’s not fully there until you touch him.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

The motel smells like cigarette smoke and bleach. Thin curtains, bad pillows, the kind of bed that groans even under your soft weight. You're painting your nails—black with little stars—because it’s the one girly thing you still get to do when you're on the road with them. You sit cross-legged in one of Lion’s ratty old shirts, sleeves pushed up, your lip tucked between your teeth as you concentrate.

Lion’s watching you from the foot of the bed, knuckles bruised and swollen in his lap. He should be asleep. Fight’s tomorrow. But his eyes are heavy-lidded and stuck on you like gravity.

"You're gonna chip ‘em," he mumbles.

You look up and smirk. "You watching me that close, baby?"

He doesn’t answer. Just ducks his head, a faint blush creeping up under the hollows of his cheekbones.

You put the polish down and crawl across the mattress. Your knees brush his thigh. “What’s goin’ on in that head, hmm?” You whisper, voice soft like lullabies and lull in the storm.

He doesn't say much. He never really has. But his hand—rough, scarred, and trembling—rises to curl against your cheek.

“You’ll be there tomorrow, right?” he asks. And you know that question isn't about attendance. It's about survival.

"Yeah, baby. I'm always there."

────────────

Stanley’s pacing outside the locker room like a cat in a cage. Lion's got his hoodie on, fists tight in the pockets, head bowed like he’s praying to whatever’s left.

But he doesn’t move until you walk in.

You look out of place here, too pretty, too soft—like moonlight in a dungeon. You don't belong here, not in this washed-out world of sweat and blood and broken noses—but you come anyway. Like you always do.

His girl.

Lucky.

The whole ring. That’s what they started calling you too. Fighters spit to the side when you walk past, tap their gloves, muttering prayers under their breath like you're some saint.

But they don’t really know. Not like Lion does.

Because for him, his "Lucky" isn’t a charm.

You're oxygen.

No one dares mock you anymore. Not after they saw what happened the last time someone tried.

Lion sees you and straightens. Like his spine’s been tied to your heartbeat. Like your presence reassembles him.

You walk over, lip gloss glinting under fluorescents, wearing one of his oversized flannels over a tank top. You've got two rings on your fingers and that necklace he gave you the night he won in Trenton.

“Hi, baby,” You say softly, kneeling in front of him.

He exhales like he’s been underwater.

“Hey.” His voice comes out low, barely there. Hoarse from the weight he carries and the fact that he doesn’t speak unless it’s to you.

“Head okay?”

He nods. Lies.

You take his face in both hands and kisses the tip of his nose. “You been thinkin’ too much again.”

He nods again. That one's honest.

You move closer, hands sliding down to his chest. Your fingers splay across his ribs. That’s where you always touch him first. Like a key fitting into a lock.

“You need me to do it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just presses his forehead to your collarbone and breathes. So hard you feel his ribs move under her palms. That’s his answer.

You pull back enough to see his eyes. They're glassy. Desperate. Like they’ve seen the worst of the world and still found one soft place to land: you.

Your thumbs graze his cheeks. “Look at me, Lion.”

He does.

You start the blessing.

His hands are already out, palms up, desperate.

You take them, cold and calloused, and press kisses to every knuckle, slow. Deliberate. Your thumb brushes the scar near his thumb—the one he got the first night they met. Back when you weren't “Lucky” yet. Just some girl in the back of a dive bar who stitched up his hand without asking questions.

You kiss his jaw, then his forehead.

“Win or lose,” you whisper into his ear, “you come back to me.”

He nods.

You rest your hand over his heart. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s mine. It stays mine. Okay? Right here—you stay mine. You don’t lose that.”

Lion closes his eyes and leans into you, like he’s trying to breathe you in. You kiss his lips, slow. Not deep. Just enough. Just to center him.

When you part, Lion’s hand cups your neck like he’s grounding himself. Like he’ll lose control of his body if you leave too soon.

────────────

The crowd roars. Or maybe it doesn't. Lion doesn’t hear any of it. Blood drips down his lip, ear ringing, body sore like always—but the only thing he cares about is finding you in the blur.

He wins.

He always does when you're there.

The fight’s a blur of fists and flashes and his own blood dripping from his eyebrow—but you're there in the hallway after, holding gauze in one hand and his hoodie in the other.

And when he stumbles off the ring, dazed and shaking, he walks straight past everyone. Straight into your arms.

You catch him like he’s a crashing wave and you're sand. Your arms around his ribs. Your lips brushing the crown of his sweat-soaked hair.

“I got you,” you whisper. “Always.”

He presses his forehead to yours. Closes his eyes. Breathes you in like the first inhale after drowning.

“Take me home,” he says.

────────────

Lion never had soft things growing up. Not for long.

His life’s been cold water, cold concrete, cold hands. Everything that ever touched him left a bruise. So when you, his Lucky, came along—with your lip gloss smiles and pink hair clips and the way you always said his name like it meant something—it rewired his entire system.

He doesn’t know how to ask for touch. Doesn’t know how to beg. So he clings instead.

Sleeps with a fist in your shirt. Rubs his face into your neck like a feral cat. Kisses your wrists like prayers.

You call it sweet. Call him your baby in that soft, sing-song way that makes his teeth ache.

You don’t know it’s obsession.

That it’s faith.

That he wakes up in a cold sweat some nights terrified you’ll leave and take all the warmth with you.

When the world finally goes quiet and the cuts dry under stinging antiseptic, he never asks to be touched.

He just lays there—quiet, watchful, fists clenched—and waits. Like he’s hoping you'll crawl into him without him having to say it out loud. Like he thinks asking would scare you off.

But you know. God, you know.

He only breathes easy when you're on him. Above him. All over him. Like your weight alone keeps him from floating out of his body. Like you're the only thing holding the pieces of him together.

So you straddle his lap in the dim, creaky motel bed. The room smells like cheap soap and old blood, but Lion smells like salt and adrenaline and sweat-soaked cotton.

His hoodie is half-off. His eyes are glassy. He’s starving.

“Baby,” you whisper, brushing her fingers along his jaw. “You with me?”

His hands come up slow. Almost like he’s afraid. Then they land—tentative, reverent—on your thighs.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I just—fuck, I just missed you.”

“You saw me three hours ago.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. But his voice is a wreck. “Doesn’t matter. Miss you the second you’re not on me.”

You lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, and Lion whimpers.

Whimpers.

Because it’s too much. And not enough. And because every part of his body is begging to be kept.

When your hips rock forward, he gasps. You're warm, slick, barely grinding against him through your panties—and he’s aching.

“Please,” he breathes. “I need—I need you.”

“What do you need, baby?”

His jaw clenches. His hands shake.

“You. Just you. All of you.”

It’s not fast. Not rough. Not like what people expect from someone who fights for a living.

It’s slow. Deep. Devastating.

Lion is gentle. Not because he’s afraid he’ll break you—but because he needs you to stay. Because every thrust is a confession. Every breath is a vow.

“You feel like home,” he groans into your neck.

You cup his face, keep him close. “You are home.”

He loses it a little then. Voice cracking, hips stuttering, arms locking around you tighter like you're slipping away and he’ll never survive it.

“You’re mine,” he pants. “My Lucky. My girl. My fuckin' girl.”

The air shifts, his hips moves faster, like he’s scared you’ll leave.

Like this is the only moment he gets.

Like if he doesn’t show you—prove it—you’ll vanish and he’ll shatter into dust.

He’s kissing you everywhere. Your neck, your chest, your shoulders. Mouthing at your jaw like he’s praying. Whimpering your name.

Chanting it.

“Lucky. Lucky. Lucky—fuck—please, don’t go—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “You have me. I’m yours.”

And that breaks him.

His head drops to your shoulder, and his body shudders. “I love you. I love you so much I can’t fuckin' breathe—”

He falls apart inside you—arms locked tight around your back, lips at your collarbone, moaning your name like it’s holy.

You feel every tremor. Every broken breath. Every part of him unraveling in your arms.

And you hold him through it.

Because Lion Kaminski doesn’t need a lucky charm.

He needs someone to catch him when he falls.

Lion doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t speak.

He just stays inside you, face buried in your chest, breathing like a man dragged back from the dead.

You stroke his curls. Kiss his forehead. Murmurs to him like he’s your favorite secret.

“You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re mine.”

He whispers it back without even meaning to:

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

[morallygreycactus]

Burnt pancakes

Note: This is my first attempt at writing a story x reader. It‘s also the first story I ever consider posting. Also, please be aware that I researched literally nothing for this fic. The idea just got stuck in my head and I needed to get it out. Plus, English isn‘t my first language. So, sorry for any inaccuracies or mistakes, please be kind, but feel free to give suggestions.

Summary: having unexpected breakfast after a one night stand and slowly things start to turn into more

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!baker!reader

Warnings: self-doubt, anxiety, hints at past sexual activities/implied sexual content (but no explicit descriptions)

Word count: ~2.9k

Part 1 - The morning after

I don’t know how many parts this might turn into in the end, right now I’ve got two more just waiting for the last touches. The plot should be enough to wrap things up without leaving anything open, but maybe I‘ll write some more parts (if my motivation doesn‘t leave me)

When you wake up, the sun is already filtering through the white curtains, filling the bedroom with its light and warmth. Wait. You look again, slightly confused. You don’t have white curtains. And the window isn’t where it’s supposed to be. This is not your bedroom.

Groaning at the realization, the memories start to come back. You went partying yesterday with a few of your friends and a lot of alcohol. Like, really a lot. And then, there was this guy. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn around in this big and really soft bed. Then, you nearly choke. It is really him. You thought, he just looked like him, especially since you were drunk when you met him. But it’s true. You just slept with Lando Norris. And judging by the way this room looks, he even brought you to his apartment, not a hotel room.

Unsure about the meaning of this, you look at him while thinking. He looks so peaceful and comfortable, his curls being a complete mess (partly your fault, if you remember correctly) and his quiet snores telling you that he’s still asleep.

You ponder your options while not moving, not wanting to wake him up. You could disappear, silently leaving him, so you wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of him asking you to leave. Or you could stay, hoping he wouldn’t want you to go, watching him for a while longer, maybe getting to know the real Lando Norris, without cameras or press, and without being drunk. You have to stifle a laugh at this thought, knowing this is only delusion. You were probably just a quick hookup to him, nothing serious.

You take another look at him, still snoring, his face turned to you but eyes closed, asleep. He looks…cute. He is hella attractive when awake, but this side is more sweet than hot. You slightly shake your head. No point thinking about this. You are basically a nobody, what could he want with you besides a little hookup? Even that was surprising, considering he could have basically anybody.

Not able to suppress the small sigh that left your lips, you carefully move to get up. Luckily, he wasn’t hugging you while sleeping, so you just had to move out from under the blanket without startling him. You start looking for your clothes, scattered across the room, some hidden underneath his clothing, but eventually you find everything and put it back on.

“Y’know, you don’t have to leave”, comes a mumble from the bed, sounding like he still has his head buried in the pillow.

Freezing on the spot like you got caught doing something forbidden, you slowly turn to look at him. He shuffles, then sits up, also looking at you while the cover slips down to reveal his chiseled torso.

“Sorry if I woke you up, didn’t mean to”, you stutter, “I was just… I thought it would be better if I leave. Not wanting to… didn’t want to bother you.” You feel heat creeping up your face and know that you probably look like a tomato. With the alcohol gone from your system, the anxiety and self-consciousness come back, reminding you that he is famous and you’re just someone, who used her inheritance to open a tiny bakery in Monaco.

The feel of his gaze still fixed on you brings you back from your thoughts, his eyes soft, looking like he knows more than you.

“I can’t force you to stay, but I could get you breakfast. And please consider that I decided to bring you to my place instead of some shaggy hotel room”, he says, leaving enough room for interpretation, “I’m going to the bathroom down the hall, there’s another one en-suite for you to use, if you want. I hope you’ll still be here by the time I’m back, but I won’t be disappointed or angry if you leave. A bit sad maybe, but it’s your decision.”

His small grin and reassuring words are doing something to your heart, but you try to play it down and just nod, while he collects some clothes and vanishes down the hall.

You need a moment to unfreeze yourself, still feeling glued to the spot. What on earth was that? Did he really ask you to stay? Not sure whether you might be dreaming, you walk to the bathroom, splashing your face with water. Your makeup is long gone anyways and to freshen up never hurt anyone before. The cold water helps to ground you but won’t make a decision for you. You know that you’re not dreaming, but it still doesn’t feel real. It would be easiest to just leave, vanishing while Lando’s still in the bathroom. But a part of you wonders where this could go, why he wants you to stay.

“Y/N, you still in there?”, you hear him calling from the bedroom. Obviously, you pondered so long that the decision is now made. Sucking in a deep and steadying breath, you open the door, facing Lando, who was about to do the same. “You didn’t leave”, he states, a smile tugging on his lips while a flicker of emotion crosses his eyes but vanishes again before you could identify it.

“Yep, still here”, you mutter, basically repeating what he just said. “You…”, your voice breaks and you have to clear your throat before continuing, “You said something about breakfast?”

Nodding, he takes a step aside to allow you to leave the bathroom. “We could go somewhere, order takeaway or I could try finding something in the kitchen. Toast should be there, or maybe even pancake-ingredients, I need to have a look first though, no promises”, he suggests, either oblivious to the awkwardness you feel or simply ignoring it.

“I could also give you something more comfortable to wear.” Without waiting for you to answer this, he starts rummaging through his wardrobe, before offering you a pair of sweatpants and a McLaren hoodie.

Like being on auto-pilot, you take the clothes and thank him, still not knowing what to think or feel about this.

“I’ll wait in the kitchen. You can’t miss it”, he smiles, “I’ll look what I have here, then we can decide what to have for breakfast, okay?” You nod and he walks out of the bedroom, leaving you alone once again.

Finally, you manage to shake off this uncertainty and change into his clothes. Breathing in, you enjoy the way it smells fresh but also like him, the whole place giving off this feel. It reminds you of him actively asking you to stay, reassuring you that it’s okay to be here. Taking in another deep breath, you follow him and find him in the kitchen, a variety of stuff on the counter, anything that could be used for breakfast in some way. Your passion for cooking takes over and you select the ingredients to make pancakes.

Jumping at the sound of you setting aside the pack of flour, Lando turns around to face you, one hand on his heart. “Jesus, I did not hear you coming. Don’t scare me like that.” Then he looks at what you’re doing. “Looks like breakfast at home then, I suppose?”

You nod, selecting more items you’d need. “You said something ‘bout pancakes and I figured, that sounded good. I love cooking actually”, you explain with a genuine smile.

“I’d feel like a bad host with my guest having to make her own food, but if you really want to…probably better than me trying something, I’m not used to making my own food”, he laughs, stepping back from the counter to make room for you. “But I’m more than happy to help, just tell me what to do!”

You can’t help but smile, he looks like a dog eager to retrieve a ball. „Considering that I have absolutely no idea where you have pans or bowls and so on, you could actually be useful. Can‘t make pancakes on your counter“, you grin, causing him to laugh.

„And here I was, starting to wonder whether all that attitude I met yesterday just came from the alcohol“, he says, but starts to retreat everything you need for pancakes from his cabinets.

„Nope, that‘s actually me. I just had to get used to the fact that I‘m now making breakfast for famous F1 driver Lando Norris. Wasn‘t on my 2025 bingo card.“

„Well, I guess there is a lot hidden underneath that pretty smile and shy impression“, he counters, and the playful banter goes on, feeling natural with him, while you make pancake batter.

When the first one is baking in the pan, you turn around, seeing that he now sits on the counter, unable to help any more. But when you wipe a strand of hair out of your face, he snorts, and when you look at your hand only to see flour, you have an idea why. Closing the distance with one long stride, you swipe your hand through his face, smearing the remaining flour across his cheek.

Lando goes quiet and time seems to freeze for a moment. Suddenly you are afraid that you took it a step too far, but then he bursts out laughing, almost doubling over. The sound‘s infectious and you can‘t help but join until you are both wheezing. That is until you smell something burnt and immediately turn to the stove, gasping, the pancake already smoking slightly. You try and flip it, but it‘s already black.

„Beyond saving, I‘d say“, you hear his voice directly behind you, teasing, „Thought you love cooking? Expected more than a burnt pancake from that.“

You whip around, glaring at him, the spatula raised like a weapon, actually causing him to jump back, hands raised in surrender. “This”, gesturing to the black crust, now rested on a plate, “Is entirely your fault. Obviously. And if you say one more word, I will make sure that you won’t get to try one that is actually good.” With that, you turn back around, trying again and not leaving the pancake out of your eyes this time.

You feel Lando’s gaze on your back, but ignore it, focused on the pan in front of you. The man behind you is quiet now, maybe you scared him, you’re not sure, but you also don’t dare to face him since that would mean taking your eyes off the stove. It doesn’t take long though, until you take the pancake out of the pan and put some fresh batter in. It looks perfect, golden brown and fluffy, and when you set it on a plate, it gets snatched away almost immediately.

“Sorry, but I had to make sure I get to try some”, Lando mumbles, already chewing on a big bite. Then, his eyes widen and he practically moans before taking another bite, even though it looks like he’s almost burning his tongue. “These are the best I’ve ever had!”

You arch an eyebrow in best told-you-so fashion and ignore how your body wants to react to the sound he just made, before turning to make sure the next pancake is just as good. It takes a little while, but Lando refrains from stealing another pancake and by the time you are finished, the last drop of batter transformed into a perfect piece of golden brown deliciousness, he already prepared the table.

“I’m sorry that I ever questioned your cooking skills. I swear, I won’t make this mistake again”, he tells you while you are both indulging in your breakfast. “I could eat so many of them my trainer would quit out of pure desperation.”

You huff out a laugh while your mind stopped at the second sentence. „Again, huh?“, you can‘t stop yourself from asking, not allowing yourself to fall into a spiral of thoughts about what he just said. Even when the playful banter with him is easy and feels natural, it’s just too easy for you to fall back into your shyness and self-doubt, especially around people you don’t really know, to which he definitely counts.

“Yeah, why not? I’d love to have to eat something that delicious regularly”, he grins, though it looks a bit like he is hiding some emotions underneath, “But only if you promise not to kill me with a spatula.”

“Can’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep”, you reply, earning a shocked glance from him, “I will defy my food with everything it takes!”

He starts to pout and looks at you with big puppy eyes. “How could you damage this face?”, he asks, gesturing to himself, “I have never met anyone who didn’t fall for this perfect smile, let alone someone ready to hurt it!”

You snort and he looks like you just insulted him.

„You‘re mean!“, he pouts, „But not mean enough to make me abandon your pancakes. Is this like a special talent or can you make even more delicious things like that?“

You smile, but shrug your shoulders. „Maybe you‘ll find out.“ You don‘t really know why, but you don‘t want to tell him about your bakery just yet. Even though you can already imagine him there, probably pretending to help you but in reality only stealing the things you bake. The thought makes you happy, but only until a mean little voice in the back of your mind tells you that Lando Norris would never be happy with a simple baker, not when he can have basically anyone. His mischievous grin while he grabs the last pancake says something else though.

„You should be glad that I‘m not hungry anymore“, you chime, sounding like pure innocence. Of course, you‘d never seriously hurt him, but the way he always looks so shocked is simply amusing. He almost looks genuinely scared, while his gaze flickers between you and the pancake, before he dives in.

You watch him finish the last bite, trying to memorize the whole scene. It’s quiet now, the kind of quiet that is heavy and uncomfortable.

“I should go,” you say, gently pushing back your chair and fidgeting with your fingers. “I’ve got something I need to take care of.”

He straightens up, a flash of something - concern? disappointment? - crossing his face before he takes on the same look he had this morning when he tried to convince you to stay. Then hides it behind a practiced grin. “Big day?”

You nod. “Something like that.” You don’t say more, and he doesn’t ask.

It’s not that you want to keep it a secret. It’s just… yours. The bakery, the cake you need to finish for tomorrow, the early mornings and the scent of cookies constantly wafting through your home. It feels too delicate to hand over just yet, especially to someone whose life is all cameras and speed and headlines. Fame. Maybe later. Maybe next time - if there is one.

You walk to the door, where your shoes sit, then hesitate. Looking down at yourself, you see Lando‘s sweatpants and his hoodie.

„Don‘t worry. I wouldn‘t mind you keeping them. Or… I mean, suits you better than me anyways.“

You look at him, uncertainly. „Actually, um… do you mind if I change back? It‘s just… it would feel weird leaving in your clothes.“

He nods, hiding whatever he might think. „Of course. You already know where the bathroom is. Take your time.“

You smile gratefully, then vanish down the hall to gather your clothes and change back into them. Folding his stuff neatly, you set it down on his bed, gently, before walking back to the door, finally slipping on your shoes.

At the door, he lingers, the handle already in his hand but suddenly awkward in his own space. “So… will I see you again?”

You glance up at him, heart beating a little too fast in your chest. “Do you want to?”

He huffs a breathless laugh, almost like he can’t believe you’d ask. “Yeah. "I mean… yeah.”

You nod, feeling the weight of a thousand thoughts swirling behind your eyes. “Okay.”

Just that. One word. Like it’s easy. Like it’s not hiding the fact that he’s always on the move, that people know his name, and you spend your days covered in flour. Like your brain isn’t already spiraling with doubts - that he’s out of reach, his life loud and fast, and you’re just someone who bakes in a small, quiet bakery.

But then he smiles at you, soft and real, and it makes you believe - just a little - that this might turn into something.

You reach for the handle, then pause. “Hey, Lando?”

“Yeah?” He shifts a little closer, not too much. Just enough.

“Maybe… you should have my number. Just for, you know… logistics.”

His expression softens in a way that makes your breath catch, an amused sparkle in his eye. He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to you. “Only if I get yours too.”

You type it in, quickly, before you can second-guess yourself. Then you pass the phone back and meet his eyes one last time.

You don’t wait for anything else - you just step into the hallway, casting a smile over your shoulder as the door clicks shut behind you.

And for the rest of the day, as you pipe frosting and box orders and brush flour off your apron, you catch yourself thinking about his face. The way it lit up when you gave him your number. And you wonder - just a little - if he’s thinking about you too.

[wordpress-blaze-169939984]

What is a narcissist?

What characterizes a narcissist? I've encountered this term frequently, not because my friends or colleagues have applied it to me, but rather due to my older sister's frequent use of it. She appears to believe that I fit this description. To diagnose someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD), five out of the nine criteria from the DSM-IV-TR are necessary. Some of the traits associated with NPD include a heightened sense of self-importance, preoccupation with fantasies of power, wealth, success, and love, a constant need for admiration, a belief in one's uniqueness, a lack of empathy, arrogance, entitlement, a preference for associating only with important or special individuals, and a tendency to exploit others for personal gain.

It's crucial to distinguish between narcissism and narcissistic personality disorder. Narcissism refers to certain exhibited traits in a person, where they don't meet enough criteria to be categorized as having NPD.

Allow me to elaborate on the fact that most of us possess elements of personality disorders to some degree. For instance, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is one of the most commonly discussed ones. Each of us experiences varying levels of OCD tendencies. Similarly, anxiety and periods of depression are universal; the key lies in the extent to which these disorders disrupt our daily functioning.

This principle applies to both narcissism and NPD. Celebrating our achievements occasionally and taking pride in reaching goals are healthy behaviors. There's no issue with that. Therefore, if someone labels you as a narcissist or suggests you have OCD, don't be overly concerned. More often than not, they might be projecting their own emotions onto you. Give them space to express themselves, and eventually, the genuine truth will emerge.

Examples and Anecdotes: Imagine a coworker who consistently seeks praise for their achievements and often downplays the accomplishments of others. While this behavior might seem narcissistic, it doesn't necessarily meet the criteria for NPD. On the other hand, someone with NPD might manipulate their colleagues into doing their work for them, exploiting their desire to please for personal gain.

Treatment and Coping Strategies: For those dealing with narcissism or NPD, seeking professional help from therapists or counselors is a crucial step. Cognitive-behavioral therapy and other therapeutic approaches can be effective in addressing the underlying issues and promoting healthier behaviors. Developing empathy, self-awareness, and coping strategies are integral parts of the recovery process. For friends and family, setting boundaries and encouraging open communication can help manage interactions with individuals exhibiting narcissistic traits. Remember that change takes time and dedication, but it's possible with the right support and commitment.

Source: What is a narcissist?

[linoskitty]

Kitty cuddles

idol!lee know x f!reader

word count: 07,5K

genre: fluff/comfort

warnings: kissing (that's all i think)

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ─────

The moment you woke up you felt like something was wrong. Your hair wouldn't cooperate, your makeup looked cakey, your breakfast tasted like shot even the cats were giving you na attitude. You thought maybe it's just a bad morning and it would get better...yeah right.

Your boyfriend was at the dance studio with his members the whole day you've thought about texting him but after a while decided he propably wouldn't like to be bothered while working. After finding the dancer's hoodie, you plopped onto the couch and put on a show called "Blood of Zeus" (i've been obsessed with the 3rd season🙏) and started watching clutching a Leebit plush in your arms. You didn't even notice that a few hours have passed and it was now evening.

Minho said he would come home late the previous day and you were missing the feeling of his arms wrapped around you and kisses being pressed to your forehead. It was the worst kind of day, where no one cared enough to even text you, you felt like no one cared that it would be better if you didn't exist. You didn't even notice the tears streaming down your cheek or how Soonie was nudging your arm, trying to get you out of the trance. But you didn't notice, you were stuck in your head just overthinking everything, you didn't even notice the front door opening and your boyfriend coming in exhausted after practice.

He called your name once, instead of you Dori came in to greet his dad before padding back into the living room, making sure the man followed him. That's when Minho found you slumped on the couch sobbing with the cats trying to get your attention. He instantly ran up to the couch, crouching down in front of you "What's wrong, Kitty?" He asked in the softest tone you ever heard. "It's just... everything has been too much today." you replied between sobs "I felt so lonely all day, no one called, no one texted, even the cats ignored me, Min." you gestured to Doongie and Dori now looking at you with a regretful look. "I'm sure they meant no harm, look they're already looking apologetic after not giving their mom affection." You sniffle but let out a little chuckle at his words. "Theres my happy Kitty" the black haired man said with a soft smile, kissing the tears away from your cheeks, "Now does my girl want anything to eat before we head to bed for kitty cuddles?" He asked stroking your hair. "Your special fried rice, please Minnie?" You asked, looking at him with puppy eyes. "Got it, fried rice for my pretty girl coming right up." He lifted you up carrying you to sit on the counter while he makes the food. You shrieked and slaped his shoulder jokingly, for lifting you up so suddenly.

While he worked on the food, he chatted to you about his day, taking your mind off of unpleasant thoughts. After the food was done, you both sat at the table with Minho watching you eat with a tender smile. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You asked, looking up from your food. "I'm just trying to understand how someone can look so effortlessly cute even when doing such a basic thing like eating." He replied with dreamy eyes. You roll your eyes at him teasingly. "Now that you're all finished we're gonna get this Kitty into bed." He added, lifting you up again and making his way up the staires into your shared bedroom with the cats following you.

Lee know helped you change before getting into pijamas himself and laying you down on the bed. As soon as he settled in as well, Soonie jumped onto the bed with his brothers following him. He layed down near your head, while Dori spread by Minho's back and Doongie layed by your feet. You sigh comfortably and the dancer brought you into his chest, stroking your back. "Minnie?" You asked in a soft tone and he humed waiting for you to continue. "Thank you for being here." You continued, snuggling into his chest. "I'll always be here for my Kitty." He replied but is met with soft snores coming from you, smiling he kissed your hair and closes his eyes as well. Even the worst day can turn into the best when you have Minho by your side.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ─────

Hii kittens!! Thank you for reading this it's my first fic ever so i hope it's at least decent. I will write more once i'm done with school stuff and also thinking about opening requests, let me know if i should do it byee love y'all!!!

~Kitty

[demie90s]

𝗡𝗶𝗸𝗮 𝗠ü𝗵𝗹 X 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

“ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʙᴜʏ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ”

MASTERLIST, ALL PARTS

Pairing: Nika Mühl x reader (spoiled!nika x rich!reader, fem!reader)

Summary: Nika keeps saying she doesn’t want anything. You keep not listening. This time? She finds a Vespa in her favorite color waiting for her outside the gym, with a bow on it and everything.

Genre: Spoiled love, humor, luxury fluff

Warnings: Reckless gift-giving, brat behavior, domestic soft moments

Word count: ~0.7k

Nika’s already annoyed when she walks out of the gym.

Not in a real way. Just in that bratty, half-muttering-under-her-breath kind of way where you know she’s tired, sore, and way too dramatic about walking a hundred feet back to the dorm.

She adjusts her hoodie, tosses her gym bag over one shoulder, and squints toward the parking lot.

Then she stops.

Like—physically stops.

There, parked right out front like it owns the damn sidewalk, is a Vespa.

Shiny. Creamy. Custom painted in the exact soft sage green she always says she’d pick if she “ever got one.”

There’s a glossy helmet hanging from one handlebar.

And a fat red bow slapped across the front.

She doesn’t have to ask. She already knows.

“No,” she says flatly, turning back toward the gym door like maybe if she re-enters the building it’ll disappear.

You lean against the rail, arms crossed, smiling like you didn’t just casually drop a few grand for no reason other than the fact that she complained two days ago.

“You said you were tired of walking.”

Nika turns slowly. Deadpan. Unamused.

“I said I was tired. Period. Not tired of walking. Not tired of existing without a motorized Italian accessory. I was just tired.”

You shrug. “Tomato, tomahto.”

She walks over, dead silent, until she’s standing toe-to-toe with you. She glares at the bow, then the Vespa, then you.

“I told you not to buy me shit.”

“And you tell me that every time,” you say sweetly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “And every time, you wear it. Ride it. Drink it. Eat it. Break it. Love it.”

She squints. “I don’t love it.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t?”

She stares at the Vespa again. Then down at the helmet. Then back at you.

“Is it insured?”

You blink. “What?”

“Because if I crash it, it’s not my fault.”

You grin. “So you’re getting on it.”

She snatches the helmet from the handlebar and slides it on with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbles, strapping it under her chin.

“And yet, you still date me.”

“I’m rethinking that.”

“No, you’re not.”

She throws one leg over the seat and settles in like she’s done it a hundred times. You toss her the keys. She catches them without looking.

“You’re gonna spoil me into an attitude,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Too late.”

She starts the engine. It purrs like money well spent. As she drives off, she flips you off with one hand and blows you a kiss with the other.

You smile, watching her fade down the path, helmet slightly crooked, hoodie bunched up behind her.

She said don’t buy me that. And yet— She’s already texting you five minutes later:

“Okay but where’s the matching gloves?”

“Whose Vespa is that?”

KK’s the first to say it. She’s standing in the hallway, half-tied bun, iced coffee in hand, staring out the glass doors at the perfect pastel Vespa parked like it owns the damn sidewalk.

It’s got a leather seat. A shiny bow still stuck to the mirror. And Nika’s helmet—her helmet—dangling from the bar like a signature.

“She did not,” Paige says, stepping beside her. “Tell me she did not get a damn scooter.”

“She did,” Azzi confirms from the bench, lacing her shoes like this is old news. “And don’t ask who got it for her. You already know.”

“I swear to God,” Paige mutters, rubbing her face. “Your girl spoils her like she’s on royalty payroll.”

“She is,” Inês says from the corner. “At least, that’s what it looks like.”

Because when Nika strolls in—late, of course—she’s got sunglasses on and coffee in hand, hoodie off one shoulder, helmet swinging casually by her fingers. Not a care in the world.

KK looks at her amused. “You pulled up in a Vespa?”

Nika shrugs. “I was tired of walking.”

Paige blinks. “That’s not even the line you used yesterday—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nika cuts in, already peeling off her outer layer like she didn’t just flex on all of them with a two-thousand dollar entrance. “I made it here, didn’t I?”

Azzi snorts. “You made it here wearing a Cartier ring she bought you.”

“She got you that too?” Paige gapes.

Nika smiles. “That one was because I made my free throws.”

KK whips around. “You got her a Cartier ring for making free throws?”

You stroll in just behind her, sipping something green and expensive-looking.

“I said I’d get her something small,” you say, casually sliding into your usual seat against the wall like you’re not the drama.

“That is not small,” Paige points.

“She only wears it on game days,” you reply, deadpan. “I’m reasonable.”

Azzi is trying so hard not to laugh. “And the bag?”

Nika glances at her shoulder. “Oh, the Dior? That was for remembering to eat lunch.”

You say nothing. You don’t have to.

Because you are spoiled, yeah—but not like her. You buy your own things. Wear your own fits. Pull up in your own car. But when it comes to Nika? You hand over your card and your heart like they come as a set.

“She gets more from you than you get for yourself,” Aubrey finally says.

You shrug. “I like seeing her happy.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in love,” you correct.

Nika walks by, smacking your drink out of your hand just enough to annoy you.

“And I’m still thirsty,” she adds.

You’re already pulling a second one out of your bag before she even turns around.

“See?” she says, sipping. “I’m spoiled. But I’m worth it.”

The room groans. Paige actually throws a towel.

KK shakes her head. “I don’t know who’s worse.”

Azzi hums. “It’s both of them. Equally.”

[alltimecharlo]

One of the didn’t realize they were dating until the other refers to him as boyfriend in a conversation to someone

hehe yes! it’s will in this ficlet that needs to do some catching up on his and mack’s relationship… ;) fic under the cut!🩵

They’re in the locker room after morning skate, half the team milling around and half already headed out for smoothies or naps or whatever pregame routines they’ve got. Will’s tugging off his gear, jersey peeled halfway down when he hears Mack talking a few feet away.

“Yeah, my boyfriend’s a nightmare before coffee,” Mack’s saying with a huff of laughter, handing Delly one of the protein shakes the trainers keep stacked in the fridge. “He bit my head off this morning before I’d even gotten a word out.”

Delly snorts. “Sounds like love.”

“Wouldn’t trade him for anything.” Mack grins, soft and easy.

Will freezes.

Not dramatically. Not so anyone would notice. But his heart lurches in his chest and he blinks hard, suddenly way too aware of the way his undershirt is sticking to his back with sweat, of the fact that his mouth is hanging open just a little.

Because.

Boyfriend?

Delly doesn’t say anything weird, just claps Mack on the shoulder and heads out. A couple more guys follow him. Then it’s just the two of them again, silence stretching thick between them.

Will slowly turns around. “Wait… what?”

Mack stiffens like a board. His eyes dart to Will’s. “What?”

“You just called me your boyfriend.”

Mack goes white. Like, honest to god loses all the color in his face. “I mean. You are. Aren’t you?”

Will’s still blinking, trying to catch up. Because it makes sense, kind of. They hang out constantly. They text good morning and good night. Will falls asleep on Mack’s hotel bed after movies more often than not. They’ve shared hoodies, toothbrushes, drinks. They’ve fought, made up, called each other by stupid nicknames. Mack brings him his favorite post-game cookies without asking. Will patches Mack up when he gets cut in practice. They do everything.

He hasn’t even kissed him yet.

But still—

“Yeah,” Will says, slower now, like he’s feeling it out. And then again, firmer: “Yeah. Of course I am.”

Mack lets out a breath that sounds like it’d been stuck in his lungs for hours. His shoulders slump, eyes going soft. “Okay. Cool.”

Will stares at him, at the way his hair’s still wet from the shower, at the flush coming back into his cheeks, and he suddenly feels like the biggest idiot in the world.

“You’re my boyfriend,” he says aloud, like he’s trying the word out. And then, “I’m your boyfriend.”

Mack ducks his head, bashful now, but he’s smiling. “You are.”

“I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

Mack shrugs, small and awkward. “I figured you were waiting for the right moment.”

Will doesn’t even let himself think. He steps forward, catches Mack’s jaw in his hand, and leans in. Kisses him. Just once, soft and sweet, mouths brushing like a promise.

Mack makes a little happy humming sound, eyes fluttering closed.

Will pulls back half an inch and says, quietly, “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Mack’s grin turns crooked, eyes sparkling. “Starting now?”

Will laughs, giddy and warm all over. “Yeah. Starting now.”

♡

[x-prettyboy-x]

The last time

Established relationship! Erik campbell x reader

Hello, I got bored and couldn't stop thinking about an established relationship after the.. mri✨️I am not a writer but I hope at least a few of you enjoy this sad little drabble🫶🏻

Pairing: Erik Campbell × reader

Warnings: character deaths, spoilers for blood lines if you haven't already seen it

No gendered language used:)

483 words

You'd spent many, many nights- and days for that matter- in the campbell house. You knew these halls as if you'd lived here your entire life, and as far as everyone was concerned, you had, you were part of the family. You and Erik had been together since highschool after all.

You knew Erik's room like the back of your hand. That smell of cigarette smoke and old leather and the faint scent of his cologne. It was cluttered, but everything had its place, and he swore up and down he knew where everything was, so what's it matter if its a little messy? It never bothered you.

What bothered you, is how quiet the house was. Like it'd been frozen in time. Stuck. The campbell house was never quiet. The sounds of Brenda and Howard making lunch, Bobby and Erik arguing in the living room over a game, Julia asking Charlie way too many questions about his prom date- and Stefani wanting to know more- but there was none of that tonight.

The only sounds you could hear from where you sat on Erik's unmade bed, untouched from the morning, was crying from down the hall. Brenda's tears and the sounds of Stefani and Charlie trying to comfort her the only things heard throughout the house. A house that once brought you happiness and comfort, a house that now made you feel empty.

Empty. Because that's what this house was now. When Iris and Howard had died, everyone took it for what it was. A freak accident. No one believed the wild story about the family being on some.. list. You definitely didnt. Until the fire in Erik's shop.

He'd laughed at you, said it was nothing. You shrugged it off. Until Julia died. Thats when everything started to turn. You'd begged Erik to stay home, to let the others figure everything out. But he'd just kissed you and refused.

If you'd known that would've been the last time, you'd have fought harder. The last time you'd ever kiss him, hear his voice, feel his touch. You'd never see him again, because in a matter of hours, Erik and Bobby were gone too. You'd thought Stefani was fucking with you when she called, that's what you told yourself. But you heard her tone, how she was fighting back tears. Heard the sirens in the back.

Thats how you find yourself here, sitting in his bed. Staring at the posters on the wall, the half finished cigarette in the ashtray that would never be lit again, the laundry in the corner that would never be washed, the bed that would never be made.

Stefanis words echoing through your mind, what she'd told you when you asked how this happened. This wasn't fair, Erik wasn't even on the list, he wasn't in the bloodline, he wasn't meant to die.

"When you fuck with death, things get messy."

[likeumeanit9497]

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ | ᴄ.ꜱ. |

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɴᴇ

series masterlist here

summary: Eleanor moves through the world like a shadow searching for light, and Chris burns too brightly, as if trying to outshine a buried grief. When they collide on a night filled with a mutual self-loathing, something quiet but insistent begins to grow between them — a pull that they never dare speak of, yet orbit in harmony nonetheless. Their bond deepens quickly, shaped by vulnerability, near-misses, and the ache of things left unsaid. As their lives pull and blur at the edges, they learn that what they are for one another in the moment may matter more than how it ends. 

warnings (throughout the series): smut; angst; addiction; family trauma; depression; heavy drinking; mentions of death; mentions of abuse; 18+

Chris had always liked parties — or more accurately, he had liked what they offered: the clamour, the curated disorder of young people indulging in their recklessness under dim lights. He liked being recognized — half-nods from strangers who seemed to know his face from a screen, girls who smiled just a second too long before walking away. He liked the rhythm of it all, the low drumbeat of human existence, the soft roar of people trying to forget themselves through cheap thrills. He liked being known in small, disposable ways. At parties, identities floated and nothing stuck.

He spotted her at once. Not by sound or silhouette but through a kind of atmospheric shift — an attunement he had developed for even just the smallest essence of her. She was at the centre of some flurry, bright and spinning. Parties did something to her, he had learned —they oxidized her. Whatever dark pressure built in her daily life, whatever ache she stubbornly nursed in silence, it evaporated in places like this. She moved without purpose, laughing too hard, too easily, a bottle of Bacardi in hand that caught the light like a mirror.

Even with her back still turned to him, he felt steadied by her presence. And in that moment he really did believe that what he had spent the past few days telling himself could work. That he could push it all down — the heat behind his ribs, the ache that bloomed in his chest every time she touched him without thinking. He could keep her close without letting it twist into something messy, something complicated. He didn’t have to be anything more than what she needed.

So tonight, if she reached for him again — if she asked — he wouldn’t stop her.

This had been his quiet preparation all day. That people reached out in different ways, and if that’s what she wanted, he’d give it to her. No strings. No expectations. Just warmth; escape. If it ruined him, so be it. And if it ruined everything…well, it wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let it.

He weaved through the crowd, polite smiles and half-hearted greetings, until he reached her. She turned just as he was about to place his hand on her shoulder and lit up, and suddenly his pep-talk seemed to hold very little merit.

“There you are!” She beamed, tugging at his wrist. “For a while there I thought you weren’t going to actually show up.”

“You doubted me?” He asked, and even to his own ears his voice sounded thin, like an elastic band pulled too taut.

“Always,” She teased, her fingers warm as they slipped away from his skin. From her purse — a ridiculous thing, bulging at the seams — she produced a can of Pepsi and handed it to him like a treasure. “Snagged one for you before they all got used as mixers.”

His chest felt tight, seeing her so confident. So at peace. He grabbed the can from her, letting out a choked thanks.

“Having fun?” He asked after chugging half the soda to clear the words he wished to say from his mouth.

She grinned and took a swig of whatever was in her cup. “More now that you’re here.”

He rolled his eyes, part reflex and part armour. “You say that to everyone?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

He looked at her then, properly. And in that moment, the promise he had sworn to uphold began to unspool. Because in that moment, with the suggestion of her body lit in shadow, her mouth curved into something sly, her eyes dipped in gold, his desire for her was staggering. No words were spoken for a moment, though it almost felt like a mutual question was fluttering in the tight space between them. When he finally found the strength to form a question, his voice was thicker than before.

“You drunk El?”

She smirked, and for a brief moment he saw in her eyes a look of recognition. “Nah. Pretty sure my mother’s tolerance was passed onto me at birth.”

He chuckled, nerves swirling in his stomach like a tornado that picked up speed with each slow blink she sent his way. “What drink are you on?”

She tapped her chin, pretty eyes squinting as she whisper-counted. “I think only number four. Speaking of which I promised Grant I’d take a shot with him ten minutes ago, so I should probably do that.”

Something in him went suddenly still. “Grant?”

“Yeah, you know him? Tall, kinda jacked? One of those generic faces you forget instantly until he’s right in front of you.”

“Right,” He said evenly, “He in your program at school?”

“Ha,” Her laugh was short, fake. “No. I met him at a party a few months ago and ran into him earlier tonight.”

Chris contorted his face into a smile, a smile that he hoped allowed him to remain unreadable. His hands slid into his jacket pockets. “That’s cool.”

And that was it. She looked at him for a moment — waiting, perhaps. Waiting for a flinch or a question or a look. But he gave her nothing. He couldn’t, or else he would give her everything. All he could do was take another sip of his soda, perfectly casual, like she hadn’t just knocked the air out of his chest.

She was searching him, he could tell. Not obviously. She was good at pretending she wasn’t. But her eyes had a quiet intensity to them — almost begging, mostly taunting. She was looking for a crack in his armour, but it was as if in an instant that armour had become impenetrable once again.

His smile was the physical manifestation of the armour, a smile used only when things felt too raw. “Sounds like you’ve been set up to have a fun night.”

She tilted her head, searching for lightness, “You mad I didn’t wait around for you?”

The question had sharp edges, and it made him want to throw up. “No,” He replied, forcing out a light chuckle, “Just trying to catch up.”

Another beat passed. Her smile faltered by half, and she blinked, looking away as if she was giving up on whatever moment she had been hoping for.

“You wanna come with?” She asked.

Chris’s hands were still in his jacket pockets, where they were curled into fists. He thought about the look in her eyes earlier — what could have been an invitation or a dare. Beneath that, could there have been the smallest trace of hope?

He swallowed it down.

“Nah, you go ahead,” He choked out, “I’m gonna go say hi to a few people. I’ll find you in a little bit.”

Her face shifted again, he truly saw it this time. Something that looked so close to disappointment, his head spun with the sudden urge to scream. But Eleanor was just as practiced as he.

“Sure,” She replied easily, walking backwards through the herds of people in the direction of the kitchen. “Don’t get lost.”

“I won’t,” Chris whispered to the space where she once was, even though he felt like he already was.

—

The night, once so promising, had grown heavy, like a too-warm coat suffocating him. Chris had drifted from room to room, half-present in every conversation, half-listening to every joke. He kept sipping sodas as if they were anchoring him to the moment, but still his mind floated — aimless and aching — unable to land anywhere but on her.

He hadn’t spoken to Eleanor since she disappeared to the kitchen. He’d told himself it was better this way — distance, detachment, determination to return to his old ways. That way he could stay safe.

But still, his eyes kept finding her. Across crowded rooms, over shoulders and through dimly-lit doorways. Like gravity, she pulled him in no matter how hard he tried to fight it. Now, from the living room couch where he sat like a ghost among the living, his eyes were on her again.

She was with Grant.

The lighting had grown blue and hazy, shadows skimming the walls like smoke. Grant was leaning back against the far wall of the living room, relaxed, at ease. Eleanor stood in front of him — close. Her drink was in one hand, the other gestured as she talked; animated and electric in a way she only ever was at parties. Her head tipped back with laughter, her glossy hair danced along her back as she did. She looked so amazing, he almost felt drunk at the sight.

But then he saw it. Grant’s hand, casual as breath, sliding up the back of her mini skirt. Fingertips disappearing into the soft fabric, onto her soft skin. Eleanor didn’t flinch. If anything, she leaned into his touch a little more. Chris blinked once, twice — but nothing could make that image vanish as it was playing out right in front of him.

His mind felt stagnant and his mouth tasted sour as he battled away the thought of what had been unfolding before his very eyes — and why was everyone in the room so unaffected? Didn’t they know his soul was crying out in excruciating pain? The world should have stopped at the very moment that Grant’s hand vanished under her skirt. Instead, the room was buzzing with life as the people around him — friends, strangers — raised their glasses to his agony.

His eyes glazed over as he welcomed the thick, grey fog that filled his brain. He began to disappear. Not in motion, but in substance. Just as he was finally slipping away into a place where he felt nothing at all, the smell of her skin, the tickling of her hair against his arm, the angelic sound of her voice — they all worked in unison to pull him back to her.

“Wanna smoke?”

Feeling his inhibition slipping away in an instant, his lips curled into a warm smile as he turned. There was her staggering face, her open pack of cigarettes; his lollipop snug between the sticks of tobacco.

“Yeah,” He said.

And followed her out into the night, like he always would.

The back door clicked shut behind them, drowning out the pulse of music and laughter from the house. Out here, there was a cooler hush beneath the porch light’s dying flicker. Chris finally took in a breath that didn’t burn.

Eleanor pulled out the packet of cigarettes, tapped one into her palm, then handed him the lollipop without another word. Her fingers brushed his as he took it, and the warmth there startled him.

Only once her cigarette was lit and she took her first drag did she speak. “You’ve been hiding,” Her voice was low and amused.

Chris popped the lollipop in his mouth and spoke around it. “Nah,” He replied, “Just floating around.”

Eleanor huffed a laugh. “Very on brand for you, Mr. Mysterious.”

He glanced at her sideways, unsure of what to say to that.

She let the silence hang for a moment, taking a long drag, eyes fixed over in the distance where the night was the darkest. Then, too casually,“I may be leaving with Grant soon, just a heads up.”

Chris didn’t flinch, at least outwardly. He kept his eyes forward, watching as headlights drifted past like ghosts.

“Yeah?” He replied, detached, though trying not to be.

“Yeah,” She turned to look back at him, sharp and silent. Searching, again. “He’s…convenient.”

Chris blinked. “Convenient.”

She shrugged, flicking ash before taking another pull. “Doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Texts back. Shows up.”

Each word was a knife. Each pause an invitation to protest. He said nothing, at first.

He scratched at the back of his neck. “Sounds like a hefty resume.”

Eleanor let out a dry laugh. “You’d be surprised how rare that shit is.”

“Guess I’m overqualified then,” Chris blurted out before he could stop himself.

She glanced at him, clearly caught off guard but amused despite herself. “Are you now?”

Chris didn’t answer right away. The smoke lingering in the night air felt heavier than it should have.

Then, fumbling, awkward, almost panicked at the fleeting moment he had just barely captured, he spoke. “It’s funny, I kind of told myself earlier that…if you needed me tonight, in any way…I wouldn’t stop you. I’d be there. Whatever that looked like for you.”

She went still. The air between them shifted. Her expression didn’t change at first, but something flickered behind her eyes — brief, almost like pain. Then it was gone. “Is that what you think I need?”

“No,” he said quickly, cracking a nervous smile. “But I’m not great at guessing.”

She stared at him, searching his face with vigour as she continued, “But if I said that I did?”

He swallowed, just the thought, the vague words spoken between them enough to make him dizzy. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

It wasn’t smooth, but it was the truth at last, laid down like an offering he couldn’t take back.

Her gaze dropped to the space between them, then back up again. “That sounds like something someone says before doing something really stupid.”

Chris gave a short, nervous laugh as he took a small step closer to her. “You think?”

There was a glint in her eye, a dare. “I know.”

“Alright, then this should fit right in.”

And he closed the space between them.

There was a hesitation in him, a hesitation in her. A mutual question mark — the kind that rose not from uncertainty about what was wanted, but from the knowledge that desire this strong had consequences.

It wasn’t smooth. Their noses bumped, a graceless nudge that might have made them laugh in another moment. But now, it only added to the sense that this was real — flawed, human. Not a fantasy. Not a clean plunge but the gradual wade into something cold and deep. Chris paused halfway there, his breath catching, eyes flickering down to her lips as if asking: *Now? *****One last exit ramp, one final opportunity for her to pull away. But she didn’t take it.

When their lips met, it was with an awkward kind of urgency and it sent something electric through him. Her lips were as soft as they were in his dreams, parted just enough for him to fall through. He deepened it instinctively, hungrily, without thought.

The kiss grew quickly warmer, no longer careful as they settled into the relief that came with it. He kissed her like a man who had waited too long, like someone who had dreamed of this moment in distorted fragments, always waking just before contact. And now, granted its full weight, he could barely hold himself back.

Her hand grazed his chest just barely as if unsure of where to land. His own fingers hovered at her waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch her — didn’t know if he could handle touching her with the adrenaline already surging through his veins. But she leaned into him, and suddenly his hands were no longer his. They knew the curve of her frame on instinct.

Her breath was ragged against his lips, and within it he could taste her — lipgloss and something close to lemon. And beneath that, he could taste the ache in her. Not the ache of lust, but the ache of sadness. Grief personified. Her breath broke against him in shallow, broken waves, and it hit him — she wasn’t just kissing him. She was drowning. And some part of him wanted to follow her under, to be part of whatever current had taken her, just so she wouldn’t be alone in it.

He reached for her jaw with trembling fingers, meant to steady her, to offer her something quiet and solid. But just as he did, suddenly, she pulled away.

She didn’t move far. Just enough to look at him, her expression unreadable except for the slight flicker of guilt in her eyes, creating the faintest distance with the loudest echo. She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed and her lipgloss smudged. He wanted nothing more than to pull her back into him, let himself get dragged underwater by the anchor of her touch.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” She said quietly, breathlessly, “About what you said at my place the other day. I don’t know what exactly we are, but I know that whatever it is will be ruined if we let this go any further tonight.”

Chris felt something cave in his chest — silently, almost calmly. As if some part of him had known this was coming.

“I don’t want it to be ruined.” She added, her voice no more than a pained whisper.

And suddenly they were speaking about it. Not quite naming it, but circling it in closer rings. The thing that had sat unspoken between them like a sleeping animal — powerful, deadly if disturbed. And there were a million things that Chris could say, wanted to say. He could have joked, could have protested. He could have lied — said it didn’t matter, said he agreed or disagreed.

But none of those things would have fit in his mouth. He tasted only her on his lips — rum, breath, sadness, a touch of smoke. A sweetness half-buried under everything she didn’t say.

“Me neither,” Was all he managed to pull from his dry mouth. It was all that he could do to keep himself from reaching for her again.

And that was the tragedy of it, really. The tragedy of them. That two people could kiss like that, with that kind of desperate heat, and still not quite find the words to say what they meant. It wasn’t because they were cowards. Not exactly. It was something closer to preservation. A desire to not break the very thing they were trying to build.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but dull. It expanded between them — slow, like an elastic — stretching wider than it had been before. The space that had just collapsed, that moment when their breath and skin had become something indistinguishable, reopened. Not yet a wound, but something very close.

͏𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ❤︎ ͏ ͏

tags: @slvtf0rchr1s @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @switchstvrns @ellssturn @idefinitelyhateu @courta13 @b-eharrlichkeit

a/n: if y'all thought the edging was over ive got some news for u ;) love yaaaa