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aajjks · 4 months ago

Text

The Boy (I)

synopsis. All he ever wanted was someone to love.

pairing: yandere!brahms doll jungkook x fem!nanny reader. ft. Cha eunwoo.

genre: 18+ horror, smut, angst and yandere.

warnings. 18+ YÁNDÈRÈ, dàrk thèmès, dïstúrbíng thèmès, mèntïóns ôf à míscárrïàgè, yn ïs brókè & hórny, dóll, erríe thèmès, únsèttlíng thèmès.

wc: almost 3000.

fic note. Please keep in mind that this fanfiction is the exact copy of the movie from the same name “the boy” (2016) so if you find any similarities, that’s on purpose. Also viewer discretion is highly advised.

note. OH MY GOD, HE’S HERE.. this is everything and I have worked really hard on this so don’t let this flop and I’m really nervous… BUT if you want to be tagged, please reply under this post only. PLEASE ENJOY AND SHARE YOUR FEEDBACK. OH MY GOD OK???

•••

You’re scrolling through job listings on your phone, your eyes glazing over the endless options.

Babysitting, waitressing, house cleaning..

none of it seems even remotely appealing, and none of it pays nearly enough to escape your mess of a life.

Why the fuck does your life have to suck so much?

As you keep looking, you almost roll your eyes at the ridiculous job offers, but then, your eyes flicker when you see this one.

This is the most weirdest thing you’ve ever seen on the Internet so far.

But you find yourself intrigued so you click on it.

Live-in nanny position. High pay. In Busan.

You blink, not quite believing it. Busan? That’s hours away from Seoul.

You could use the distance. You could definitely use the money.

But a nanny job? You squint at the screen, a laugh escaping your lips. A nanny? To take care of some kid in a big house somewhere far from your current mess?

It sounds too good to be true.

And it sounds hilarious.

You tap on the message from Alina.

Allie:

I found something for you. Live-in nanny job. High pay. Busan.

This is weird because you’re looking at the same mall for it’s like the universe wants you to have this one.

You laugh out loud.

you:

Are they serious? Who needs a nanny for a kid that badly?

Alina texts back almost immediately.

Allie:

Trust me, Yn. It pays enough to start fresh. You need this. And yeah, they’re serious.

You shake your head. A nanny job. You don’t even like kids. But the thought of getting away from everything..

the mess of your relationship, the toxic memories of Min Jae, the grief from losing your child—

it’s tempting. Hell, you need it.

you text back before you can second-guess yourself.

You:

Fine, I’m in.

The money is too good to turn down. You don’t have a real family to keep you tied down. Alina’s your best friend, but she’s too busy with her own life.

And the salary? You look it over again.

5 million Korean won per month.

Five million. For what? Looking after a kid? The job sounds too good to be true. And you can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it all is.

You really hope this isn’t some scam. But the thought of the money, of freedom… it makes you push past the doubt.

You need to take this.

•••

You honestly don’t know what you’re doing but the next day you find yourself driving.

You might regret this, but what’s the point in looking back now you’ve been through a lot of shit anyways?

You drive down to Busan, with your luggage and it feels like an eternity. But you’re not complaining.

The farther you get, the more you feel like you’re shedding the weight of your past life. like you’re heading toward something that doesn’t have Min Jae’s name written all over it.

When the massive house finally comes into view, you stop dead.

You’ve heard of the Jeon family, everyone in Seoul has, but you didn’t expect a mansion that large.

The house looks like something straight out of a gothic horror movie.

Cold, imposing, almost too perfect.

You ring the doorbell, echoing through the hallway like it belongs to another century. It takes a few seconds for someone to answer, and when the door finally opens, you’re greeted by a woman in her early fifties.

“You must be Yn,” she says in a voice that’s a little too calm for your liking. “I’m Jeon Ji-seon.”

“Umm yeah, HI! I’m… yn. Kang Yn..”

You smile, trying to keep your composure.

“I’ll show you inside,” she continues, stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

You walk through the door, and as soon as you step into the house, the silence hits you.

The place is huge, far too big for just a couple of people. And it’s cold, like the air here has been frozen for years.

Ji-seon leads you down a hall that feels way too quiet. You don’t even know why, but your skin prickles as you walk behind her.

“Come, this is the boy,” she says, opening a door to a sitting room.

You glance around, expecting to see some child, maybe a little too spoiled, maybe a bit over the top.

but what you find is… not that.

It’s a doll. A life-sized doll sitting on the couch, its eyes too wide and too real. It’s sitting there like a person, and you can’t help the chuckle that slips from your mouth.

“This is JK,” Ji-seon says, her voice soft, almost motherly.

“The boy you’ll be looking after.”

You blink, unsure whether you’ve heard her right.

“Wait, this is… this is the kid?” You can’t help yourself. The laughter bubbles up again, louder this time. “A fucking doll? You want me to look after this?”

This is not even a kid, but this is a doll..

Ji-seon’s smile doesn’t falter, but you can see a flicker of something in her eyes.

“Yes, JK needs care. He’s like a child, in many ways.”

You laugh again.

The idea of it is absurd. Who would hire a nanny for a doll? And who would pay five million won a month to do it?

You can’t resist a glance back at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Ji-seon says, her voice unflappable. “He requires attention. He’s very… sensitive.”

A sharp chill runs through you, but it only lasts a second before you shake it off.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you mutter under your breath. “Okay, I’ll take care of the… kid. Whatever.”

Ji-seon doesn’t seem bothered by your sarcasm. She just nods, smiling softly.

“You’ll be well compensated, yn” she adds. “And Eunwoo will be overseeing everything. He’ll make sure you’re doing it right.”

You don’t like the way she says your name like she’s already familiar with you.

“Eunwoo?”

“His name is Eunwoo. He checks on JK. He’ll be checking on you as well,” she explains, her gaze a little too intense.

You try to stifle a yawn. This whole thing is weird. And for the amount of money they’re offering,

it’s almost too weird.

And then, as if on cue, a man enters the room. He’s tall, dressed in a sleek black suit, his eyes cold and assessing.

“I’m Eunwoo,” he says in a deep voice that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink. For a second, you think you’ve seen him somewhere before, but you push the thought away.

“I’ll be overseeing things here,” he continues, not bothering with pleasantries. “Make sure you’re following the rules.”

You squint at him. “Rules for taking care of a doll?”

Eunwoo’s smile is sharp, almost predatory. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

You’re about to ask more questions when Ji-seon interrupts.

“Remember the doll can actually speak a few words so don’t be freaked out about that, JK is capable of crying and sometimes even complimenting.”

What the fuck?

“Eunwoo will show you around. He’ll tell you what’s expected of you.”

You glance at Eunwoo, who watches you closely, as if evaluating every inch of you.

“I’ll be back later,” he says, before turning and walking toward JK, adjusting the doll in a way that makes you shiver.

You feel like you’ve stepped into some strange, twisted world. But you try not to let it show.

You need this job.

After all, you’ve got five million won to make.

The house feels too quiet as you stand there, trying to process everything.

You walk around, pretending to look busy while your eyes are fixated on the doll, JK, sitting perfectly still on the couch.

You can’t help but feel like you’re under some kind of microscope.

How could anyone need a nanny for a doll?

you think, your thoughts dripping with sarcasm. But then you remind yourself that you’re here for the money.

Five million won.

That’s what you keep telling yourself to push down the absurdity of the situation.

Eunwoo’s movements seem calculated as he adjusts JK’s position on the couch.

You don’t know why, but his actions feel almost… gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

It’s unsettling.

You swallow, trying to mask the unease creeping into your stomach.

“Right,” you say, trying to force a grin as you break the silence. “So, what exactly am I supposed to do with… him? Do I play with him, or is he more of a… I don’t know, a silent companion?” Your tone is light, as if you’re joking, but it feels strangely hollow.

But he doesn’t seem to find your joke funny.

What a weirdo but at least he’s got a pretty face.

Although he looks very familiar… you just can’t put your finger on why you have probably seen him somewhere but you’re not sure at this point.

Eunwoo doesn’t respond at first, his gaze locked on the doll, then finally, he mutters, “You’ll interact with him when it’s required. He has specific needs. You’ll figure it out.”

His voice is colder than you expected, but it’s a different kind of cold— more like a warning than a suggestion.

You shift uncomfortably, looking over at JK.

. The doll’s porcelain eyes are wide open, locked onto you in an unnerving way, and you fight the urge to laugh at how absurd the whole situation is.

How could anyone possibly think this thing is alive?

“Got it,” you say, forcing a smile, trying to make light of the situation. “I’ll treat him like a… like a kid, right?”

Eunwoo’s eyes snap to yours, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing between you two.

“You’ll take care of him,”

he says, and you can feel the weight of his words sink in, much heavier than you expected.

His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long before he nods, as if ensuring you understand.

Ji-seon reappears, smiling pleasantly, and her presence brings a sense of eerie calm to the air.

“You’ll be fine here, yn. Eunwoo will help you get settled. We just need you to follow the routine.”

You nod, trying to sound agreeable. “Of course. No problem.”

She leads you down a hallway, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she motions toward a door.

“This will be your room while you’re here. Make yourself at home.”

You step inside, and your breath catches. It’s bigger than any space you’ve ever lived in before. bigger than your tiny apartment in Seoul, bigger than anything you’ve ever imagined.

The room is sleek, minimalist, and pristine, with soft, neutral colors that almost feel too perfect.

Rich people are ridiculous but at least you get to live in a really nice room and a literal man just to take care of a fucking doll. life is being nice to you at least.

At the far end of the room, there’s a large window with a view of the sprawling estate grounds, but it’s not the view that catches your eye.

It’s the family photos.

They’re everywhere— on the walls, on tables, in frames.

At first, it seems normal, just a rich, respectful family showing off their prized memories.

But then you start noticing things. In one picture, there’s a child, a little boy who could be no more than five or six. His features are strikingly similar to JK’s.

sharp Bambi eyes, a mole under his lower lip, and a smile that mirrors JKS.

It’s unsettling, the way the child looks so much like the doll, so much like… him.

In one photo, the child is sitting on a chair beside a younger version of the doll, his tiny hand placed possessively on the doll’s shoulder.

The similarities between them are too eerie to ignore.

You feel a slight shiver creep up your spine. What the hell is going on here?

you want to ask about this but you decide to let it go.

“How strange,” you murmur under your breath, though you’re not sure if you’re speaking to the doll or to yourself.

You force yourself to look away from the photos, but it feels like they’re following you.

You walk over to the desk, where another photo sits—this one of the couple holding hands with the child, all three of them beaming at the camera.

And again, the resemblance between the child and JK is too uncanny. It’s like they’re trying to prove something, some perfect image of family that feels staged, artificial.

A sudden knock on the door interrupts your thoughts, and before you can answer,

Eunwoo enters.

He doesn’t wait for permission, just steps inside, his eyes immediately scanning the room before they rest on you.

“Get settled. We’ll talk later,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You give him a forced smile, trying to keep your nerves in check. “Of course. Thanks, Eunwoo.”

“But where are Mr. and Mrs. Jeon?”

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than comfortable.

There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, but then he turns and walks out without another word.

“Didn’t you read in the advertisement? They have to go on a business trip to the states and they need you to take care of…. JK.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The air in the room feels dense, thick with unspoken things. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched, monitored, like a subject in some twisted experiment.

You move to the bed, setting your bag down, and glance back at the photos.

The resemblance between the doll and the child is enough to make your stomach turn.

You try to push the thought out of your mind, but it sticks with you. What kind of family is this?

You pull out the piece of paper Eunwoo gave you earlier.

The list of instructions. It’s simple, even ridiculous at times. But the last line sticks out to you, making your heart skip a beat:

1. Do not leave him alone for extended periods.

• JK requires constant companionship. Never leave him for more than an hour at a time. If he is left alone for too long, you may hear him calling out for attention, sometimes saying things like “stay” or “hello.”

2. Talk to him regularly.

• Speak to JK as if he were a real child. He understands more than you think and benefits from daily conversation. You may hear him respond in his own way, even if it’s just a faint whisper of words like “pretty” or “hello” that seem to come from nowhere.

3. Do not ignore him.

• If JK’s eyes are on you, he is expecting attention. Never leave him in a room alone without acknowledging him. If you do, you might hear him softly say “stay” or something equally unsettling when you’re out of sight.

4. Maintain his appearance.

• Clean JK daily, especially his clothes. Ensure his hair is brushed and neat, and that he is positioned properly. If you don’t care for him properly, you may hear him complain.

5. Do not place him out of sight.

• Always keep JK within your line of sight. If you leave the room, take him with you, or he will become distressed. If left alone for too long, you may hear him calling out, perhaps asking for you in a low, soft voice.

6. Respect his space.

• Do not move JK without carefully considering his position. He prefers to be seated in his chair or on the couch—never leave him lying down for long. You may notice him suddenly changing positions on his own if you don’t follow these guidelines.

7. Follow the daily routine.

• A structured schedule is important for JK’s well-being. The routine is as follows:

• Morning: Greet JK. Talk to him about your day.

• Afternoon: Engage in activities with him (reading, conversation, or watching TV together). He might ask you things like “pretty” or “play” when he wants to interact.

• Evening: Ensure he is settled before you sleep. You may hear him say “stay” if you don’t give him a kiss goodnight.

8. Do not let him become distressed.

• If JK begins to look upset or agitated, stop what you’re doing immediately and comfort him. You’ll know he’s upset if his eyes seem unfocused or if he “stares off” for too long. At these times, you may hear him say things like “hello,” reaching out for attention.

9. No visitors unless approved by us.

• Do not invite anyone into the house unless we have specifically authorized them. This includes friends, family, or strangers. JK may also react to unapproved visitors by whispering, “go away,” or “stay,” in a chilling voice that’s hard to ignore.

10. Follow all of JK’s instructions as they are given.

• While he cannot speak in the traditional sense, his needs will make themselves known. You must be attuned to his behavior and respond accordingly. This includes listening for his soft, eerie phrases like “stay” or “pretty” when you least expect it.

11. Always keep his room organized.

• JK’s environment must remain tidy. His room should be cleaned and arranged according to how you find it each day. If you don’t, expect to hear him muttering things like “stay,” as if reminding you of your duties.

12. Never speak ill of him or treat him disrespectfully.

• JK is a special member of the family. Disrespect or neglect will not be tolerated. You may hear him call out to you in a hurt tone, saying “why” or “pretty,” if he feels abandoned.

13. If you feel discomfort or fear, contact Eunwoo immediately.

• Eunwoo is to be your point of contact should you feel overwhelmed or need assistance. He is also here to make sure everything is running smoothly. He may even contact you if he notices JK has been more vocal than usual, or if things seem off.

14. In case of an emergency, stay calm and follow the procedure.

• If anything unusual happens, contact us immediately. Keep calm and ensure JK is safe. During these moments, JK might cry out, or ask you “why” or “stay” in a soft voice, leaving you with an eerie feeling of being watched.

15. Do not attempt to move or alter JK’s appearance without prior approval.

• His positioning, attire, and overall state must remain as it is unless told otherwise. This is crucial for his well-being. If you disobey, JK might say things like “don’t” or “stop” under his breath, which you’ll hear clearly when the house is quiet.

16. If you need to leave the house, make sure JK is placed safely in a position to rest.

• Ensure he is seated comfortably before leaving. If you are gone for more than an hour, contact Eunwoo to check on him. You might also hear him call out faintly, “stay,” as if trying to hold you back.

17. Keep your emotions in check around him.

• JK can sense emotional changes. If you are feeling upset or disturbed, try to manage it before interacting with him. He may respond with a quiet “pretty” or “hello,” as if trying to comfort you, or, more chillingly, he might ask you, “stay.”

18. Remember: JK is not a doll.

• Treat him as you would any living child. He may not look alive, but his needs are very real. If you treat him like an inanimate object, you may hear him cry softly, pleading for attention, and saying “stay.”

19. Always give him a goodnight kiss.

• Before you sleep, you must give JK a kiss on the forehead. It’s a requirement for his comfort and peace of mind. If you forget, he will become unsettled, and you might hear him whisper, “stay” or “please” in a voice that feels too real for comf

You look over at JK. The doll’s unblinking eyes stare back at you, and for a moment, you almost think it’s smiling.

The money is still the only thing keeping you here. Five million won. But the unease crawling under your skin refuses to let go.

“Umm well these instructions are quite… haha… ummm… thorough…”

Eunwoo looks at you and he almost looks annoyed by you.

“Obviously. People like you need thorough instructions. You have to make sure that you follow each and every one of them or we will deduct your salary.”

What a little bitch he is.

“Yn you can go to your room now I can take care of him right now and keep the set of instructions with you and read them over again and again until you can remember them. Good night. The dinner will be on the dining table so eat whenever you want.”

•••

The next morning when you wake up, you realize that you didn’t really get much sleep last night because your head is pulsing, but you barely have time to breathe when you hear the older woman call out your name and there is a knock on your door.

When you finally compose yourself and dress up, you rush downstairs and you see the couple with the brooding, butler guy.

“Ummm good morning.”

Ji-seon and Jeong-hwan sit you down in the grand living room, the air thick with a seriousness that immediately puts you on edge.

You’re seated across from them, the doll, JK, still in his usual spot on the couch, eerily quiet as always.

The room feels colder now, as if the warmth has been sucked out of the house overnight.

“We have to leave for an extended period,” Ji-seon says, her voice smooth but with an undertone of finality.

She’s holding her hands in front of her, fingers laced together, her perfectly manicured nails catching the light.

She’s dressed as if she’s about to attend a gala, the elegance radiating off her like a fine perfume.

Jeong-hwan nods beside her, his expression unreadable, his posture stiff.

“We’ll be in Europe for business,” he says, his voice calm but firm,

“and we won’t be back for a few months. Maybe longer, depending on how things go. But we need you here, yn. You’re crucial to this arrangement.”

You blink, not sure what to make of the sudden reveal. You were told they were going away for a short time, but this? This feels different.

You glance at Eunwoo, who’s standing by the door, arms crossed, looking like he’s barely keeping his composure.

He’s so serious you almost want to fuck him.

His eyes are intense, unwavering, but there’s something else there too. something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Ji-seon leans forward, her eyes locking onto yours.

“The job isn’t just to care for the house, or to clean up after us. It’s to take care of JK while we’re gone,”

she says, her voice unwavering, almost as if she’s testing you. “

“We’re trusting you with a very special task. We have rejected 25 Nannie’s before you but something about you stood out.”

You feel a strange knot tighten in your stomach. “Right. I understand,” you say,

Though you can’t help but question how anyone could need someone to look after a doll like that.

Eunwoo’s gaze flicks to you briefly, a warning lingering in the way his lips press together. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

Jeong-hwan speaks up again, his tone cold, almost stern.

“You’re to follow the rules exactly as they’re written, and there will be no exceptions. JK needs consistency. He’s… special,” he adds, his words leaving a strange, unsettling weight in the air.

Why the fuck does everyone keep on saying that it’s almost starting to piss you off and you’ve been here for a day?

You frown, your mind reeling from the bizarre nature of their instructions.

“Special?” you ask, glancing nervously at JK, who’s still as ever on the couch, eyes wide and staring.

“What do you mean by that?”

Ji-seon’s expression softens slightly, but there’s a sharpness behind her gaze that makes you hesitate.

“What we mean,” she begins, her voice careful but insistent.

“is that JK, has particular needs. He requires attention, affection… care. You’ll need to spend time with him, talk to him. Don’t leave him alone for too long. You understand?”

You nod, unsure of what to say. You can feel the tension rising in the room, the weight of their expectations pressing on your chest.

Eunwoo shifts, stepping further into the room as if to emphasize his role.

“And I’ll be visiting, here to make sure everything goes smoothly,” he adds, his voice is smooth, almost too calm.

“If you ever have any issues or doubts, I’ll be here to help. Just… keep him company. That’s all we ask.”

You bite your lip, your thoughts racing. You never imagined this job would be anything like this.

The money was appealing, but now, the reality of it is setting in— and it’s starting to feel far too strange,

too unnerving.

“You’ll be fine,” Ji-seon says, offering you a smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ll be back when we’re done with business, but until then, please make sure JK is well taken care of. He’s very important to us.”

Jeong-hwan stands, his suit sharply pressed, and gives you a small bow of his head.

“Take care of everything. Follow the rules, and everything will go smoothly.”

You nod, trying to remain composed, even though everything inside of you is screaming for a way out.

The money.

That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ll stick it out.

But as you glance over at Eunwoo, his unblinking stare fixated on you, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being drawn into something far deeper and more dangerous than you ever imagined.

The door closes softly behind Ji-seon and Jeong-hwan as they leave, and you’re left standing in the silent house with JK and Eunwoo.

And as soon as the door closes, there is a mechanical sound leaving the doll.

“pretty, pretty, stay… stay.”

And for the first time ever, you got serious shivers down your spine.

“Nice.. JK seems to like you a lot.”

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

•••

I watch you, every move you make, every breath you take.

Your body, so unaware, so oblivious to the presence of the one who truly owns you.

You laugh, that soft sound echoing through the room, and I can’t help but let my eyes linger on the curve of your neck, the way your lips part when you exhale.

You’re beautiful.

But it’s not just your beauty that calls to me. It’s the way you touch the doll. Your fingers graze his face, your movements slow, almost hesitant.

You don’t even realize it, do you?

You’re already giving him a piece of yourself, even if it’s just a touch. But it’s not for him, is it?

No, it’s for me.

You think you’re in control, that you’re simply playing a role, but I can see the way your body betrays you.

The way your hands shake just a little when you adjust him, how your breath hitches when you think no one’s watching. You want him, want me, more than you’re willing to admit.

I can feel the heat radiating from you, the tension in the air thickening with every second you linger in that room.

You don’t know it yet, but every time you speak to him, every time your skin brushes against his, you’re inviting me in. You want to be touched, you crave it.

Your body, so starved for affection, desperate for someone to care, to see you.

I see you. And soon, you’ll feel me.

You’re not just taking care of a doll. You’re taking care of me.

The doll is just a way to keep you close, to watch you, to savor every second of your vulnerability.

You don’t realize how deep you’re sinking into this.

Every time you move, every time you shift, it’s like you’re drawing me in closer, pulling me into your world.

Your eyes flicker toward the doll again, and I can almost hear your thoughts, wondering why you’re drawn to him so much.

You want to feel him. You want to touch him.

But what you don’t know is that the only thing you’ll feel is me. The only thing you’ll touch is me.

I let out a quiet breath, my fingers curling into a fist as I watch you through the shadows. You’re perfect for this. You’re perfect for me

And the longer you stay here, the closer you’ll get to me, to the things I want from you.

You’ll beg for it soon enough.

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wonallofme · 4 months ago

Text

pinching!

tw and tags: bully!heeseung x plus size!fem!reader, descriptions of bullying, a lot of physical contact, noncon then heavy dubcon, oral sex (f receiving). word count: 2.3k note: originally written with a different idol in mind, this fic was already posted in my old blog. while talking to one of my best friends in the app we decided to re-post old fics for fun and idk why but while checking some of them I felt this one fitted Hee. I changed it a lot tho. anyway, hope someone here likes the concept. i’m a big fan of plus size/chubby reader but haven’t had the opportunity to talk about it here in the blog yet so, if you like it too, please don’t hesitate to hit my (empty) inbox! special thanks to fairy for being my first-ever beta reader ❤️

You have a couple of memories from that place, like how good it felt to hug your grandmother before bed, how there was a little stall in front of your school that always had tasty sweets, and how there was a little boy you used to walk home with after classes finished.

There wasn’t much objection once your mother said you would go back and live together in your grandmother's place not to leave the house empty. You had a couple of friends, but it was nothing special, so you said goodbye to them and moved with your mother without problem.

You had to admit you were kind of happy to move. Yeah, you wouldn’t be able to hug your grandmother, but at least you would feel her presence with the old floors and flower decorations that surrounded every room. Perhaps you could eat those sweets again, and there was the chance of making new friends too. Good things could come, you thought.

If you’re honest, you just hoped you could see him again.

You should've known at that point in your life that having expectations only leaves the sour aftertaste of disappointments.

The stall wasn’t there anymore, the entire house had changed because of your mother's decision, leaving no trace of your grandmother behind, and the sweet boy that used to follow you with a smile now followed you to make fun of you.

It was easy to recognize him. He had the same eyes and shiny smile, and you were elated to see a good, old friend all grow up into a real man. Sadly, he wasn’t as happy as you to see you again, showing you a disgusted face once you told him who you were.

‘’Don’t fucking talk to me,’’ he said, and you didn’t understand what you had done wrong. Perhaps you were too confident, your perfume wasn’t to his liking, or your hand was sweating too much when you touched him. You honestly had no idea why he reacted like that, but you understood that, just like his appearance, he had changed too.

After all, that sweet boy you used to know would’ve never talked to you that way.

That interaction alone was enough to make you never want to approach him again. You didn’t want to hear that tone or see that expression again, so you did your best. You avoided him in the hallway, you stayed in your seat not to cross his way during breaks, and you didn’t look his way when you recognized his voice.

It was all useless though.

You had become his new favourite thing.

At first, he was all words and no bite. He’d throw comments every now and then about your physical appearance, like comparing you to a pig when you ate your lunch in the cafeteria or mocking your uniform for being bigger than normal because of your size.

His friends only laughed at these comments, and those who weren’t his friends stayed silent. They were different groups but shared one same trait– None dared to approach you, afraid of receiving the same treatment from him.

Then, he started to touch you.

He pinched your arm, telling you to give him your homework to copy it. Later, it was your cheeks, telling you to stop eating if you didn’t want to gain weight. Finally, one day, when everyone had left for the PE class while you were searching for your towel in your seat, approaching you silently from behind, he pinched your waist.

Scared, you turned to him. It had hurt a lot more than when he did it to your cheeks. You knew that, more than to bother you or call your attention, like on the other occasions, he had done it with all the intention of hurting you.

When you looked at his face, you noticed that his typical grin wasn’t there, replaced by a surprised expression and curious eyes instead. Somehow, you felt that something bad was about to happen, so you pushed him out of the way and walked out of there as soon as you could without caring that you were leaving with empty hands.

‘’Where’s your towel?’’ your teacher asked you.

‘’I forgot it,’’ you answered, not wanting to return to the classroom.

Later, Heeseung arrived with your towel in his hand, and you got punished for not bringing all the obligatory material.

He got worse.

if he crossed you in the hallways, he would shamelessly pinch your waist until you hissed, and when he found you in the library, between shelves, he would pinch your ass, grinning from ear to ear at the picture of you biting your lips not to make a sound so you wouldn’t get in trouble again.

As if everything he did was an innocent game, he smiled at you after nipping different parts of your body, like the side of your ribcage when you decided to walk away from his teasing, the back of your hand when you tried to push him away, or your thighs when he sat beside you in the cafeteria or the study room.

‘’Why are you doing this?’’ you whispered, pushing his hand away from prying under your skirt and pinching your upper leg.

‘’Look at all that skin,’’ he answered, grabbing your round hand with force to stop you from getting away. ‘’Your body is begging for it.’’

When you tried to do it again, to get away from his hands, he pinched the space of your chest that your bra didn’t cover.

Making you whimper in pain, he laughed at your hurt expression.

‘’It really hurts!’’ you tried to reason with him, but he was a lost cause. It didn’t matter that you were full of little purple and green spots, flinching at the mere sight of him lurking around, he wanted more.

This is going to end at one point, you tried to tell yourself.

He’d get tired and leave you alone when he found a new toy. It was impossible he only focused on you the entire time, and even if it was like that, it was your last year. After that, you prayed, you’d never see him again.

Everything comes to an end.

Your house was the only safe space you had. Even if it wasn’t anything like the warm memory you had about it, it was a place that had never been tainted by Heeseung, unlike your school, or the streets you walked to arrive there.

Sometimes, he would follow you while murmuring insults, pretending to be a good friend walking you home. Nonetheless, once you opened your entrance door and saw that he stayed feet away, you would exhale, relieved that he didn’t try to follow you inside, too.

‘’Your friend is waiting for you in your room,’’ your mother smiled. ‘’I’ll go and buy something for you to eat later’’

She, unlike you, was excited to have him there, and you, trying to breathe properly not to show how the panic was consuming you, nodded.

‘’He’s become such a handsome man,’’ she murmured before leaving.

There was nothing you could do to run away, it was your house, and opening your room door, you saw him calmly looking at your stuff.

Your pillow wasn’t where you left it, so it was impossible to deny he had been roaming around for a while, invading your space and doing whatever he wanted, like he always did.

Standing in front of your bookshelf, one of your diaries open in his hands, he sensed your presence.

‘’Didn’t know you took so many walks, thought you would never come,’’ he said, passing the page and inspecting its content as if there was something in particular he was looking for. ‘’It doesn’t explain why you still look like that though.’’

‘’Heeseung, I’ve done nothing to you,’’ you sounded as if you were begging at that point. ‘’Why– I just don’t get why.’’

‘’I have my reasons,’’ he answered, closing the book and leaving it where it previously was.

You flinched when he showed the intention of getting close to you. Your hands became fists behind you, fully alert, one of them gripping the knob, ready to run into another room in case he tried to hurt you again.

‘’We were friends,’’ you said, lower lip slightly trembling. ‘’Please, stop. It hurts, Heeseung. It hurts a lot.’’

He saw you like that, broken, vulnerable, and he beamed.

Walking towards you, you thought your body would listen to you and escape, but it didn’t.

As you remained frozen in your place, caging you with his body, he finished closing the door behind you. Too late, you only reacted after hearing the loud click the secure did.

You started trembling as you realised he had blocked the only way of running away you had.

‘’But if I don’t touch you, who else will?’’ he whispered, taking your shaking hand in his.

Not pinching it this time, he interlocked his fingers with yours and pulled you closer to him. Your torso compacting his made you more conscious of how you were completely alone in your room, and, therefore, of how unrestrained he was allowed to act.

‘’If you’re good, I’ll stop being so hard on you. What do you think about that?’’ he offered.

You didn’t understand him. Being good with what?

Looking up at him, you couldn’t move your chest from pressing his because his other hand, forcing you to stay in your place, went to rest over the small of your back, the generous curve from your ass to your waist that was the object of so many of his jokes.

You could see where his actions were going.

You felt yourself get nauseous with his body temperature and his aroma suffocating you due to the inexistent distance between your bodies.

‘’My mom will come back in any second…’’ you didn’t know what other excuse to use.

‘’I’ll be quick,’’ he smiled, wetting his lips, unconsciously sending a signal to your brain that screamed for you to just be good and get it over with.

‘’Will it hurt?’’ Your face betrayed you, plainly showing all the fears you had, giving him, once again, the upper hand.

‘’Not anymore,’’ he assured you. His hand that used to bring you so much pain suddenly became gentle and trailed up, caressing your arm with multiple marks created by him before finding your chest, and groping it with obvious satisfaction a few times, he felt them until he decided he wanted to touch more of you.

His hands continued their way until he found his new goal.

He cupped your face with a tenderness you had never met from him before, and not wanting to provoke him in any way, you muted yourself.

To his unpleasant care, thumbs caressing your cheeks, you didn’t make a single noise, not the hiss you always let out when he pinched you, nor the cry when he painfully rubbed your soft skin.

‘’Well done,’’ he praised you, proud of what he recognised as your acceptance.

He expected you to continue being so obedient when he obliged your thighs to open with his knee.

Quickly, he found his place.

You didn’t know what to expect, but you never imagined the situation would end with him ditching your pants somewhere in your room and desperately dropping to his knees so he could accommodate between your trembling legs, slurping all the involuntary wetness your body made you drip not to suffer when the moment of taking him arrived.

Not being able to call his name properly, you whined when his palms gripped your meaty thighs a bit too hard and his tongue found your entrance, penetrating it with sloppy stabs.

The sensation of the tip of his nose bumping against your clit and his fingers separating your plump folds made you bite your lips to stop what felt like a moan.

He was eating you out like a starved man.

Your hands went to his hair, and you have no idea what flooded you, but you felt free to hurt him too.

You wanted him to suffer too.

Full of unknown courage, you pulled his hair and moved your hips to crush his face, using him instead of the other way around.

Then, it felt good– To hurt him felt way too good.

You thought, maybe this is why he does it, because you had never felt so powerful and in control before, especially, with him.

Looking down, you two made eye contact even with your chubby stomach prodding out.

His eyes had nothing of the mockery they always showed. Instead, they were completely lost, drunk and unfocused. You couldn’t contain your moans anymore when his eyes batted and he seemed pleased to have your attention on him.

Not much after he started fucking you harder with his tongue, the knot in your stomach started to feel so tight you knew it would snap in any second.

Without intention, or maybe with all the intention, you closed your large legs around his head, not caring that you were crushing his face as you strongly came over his mouth and nose.

He mewled, hugging your legs as you asphyxiated him for many seconds before your orgasm finished and you inevitably relaxed.

Just after giving him everything you had, you finally allowed him to breathe.

You freed him from your hold, but he didn’t move away immediately.

Gulping your remaining juices, he hardly inhaled once through his nose before he started licking the drops of your orgasm inside your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses along the way until he found his new favourite thing.

With both hands on the back of your thighs, he blinked multiple times before his tongue found its way between your folds, searching for your clit to leave a last loving lick.

As if he was proud you had abused him, only separating forcedly because of your hands pushing his head away from your sensitive clit, he took open-mouthed deep breaths with a still dazed expression.

Regaining some of his senses, he talked with the lower half of his face glistening.

‘’See? This didn’t hurt, right?’’ he smiled.

#─★dark enhypen #─★heeseung #─★fanfic #─★plus size reader #tw dubcon #enhypen smut #heeseung smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enha smut #heeseung x reader

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ginnsbaker · 8 days ago

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All Of Your Pieces (28 - Coming Home)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Can you believe we are more than halfway to the end? Thank you for sticking with me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Three years have passed.

A gentle exhale brushed your skin, slow and steady, like waves retreating from the shore. The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight slipping through the curtains—it was Kia’s arm draped loosely over your waist, her leg tangled with yours. She was still asleep, pressed close, her body radiating heat that expelled the never-ending cold of Reykjavik. Three years and you were still not used to its climate. You blinked once, twice, trying to shake away the remnants of dreams that clung to your mind.

Then you shifted, careful not to wake Kia. But she stirred anyway, sensing your movement, her eyelids fluttering as she peeked at you through one half-lidded eye. Her dark hair was mussed, and you almost laughed at how absolutely perfect she looked—sleep-warmed cheeks, lips parted in a silent yawn. She fixed her eyes on you, and a smile slowly crawled its way to her dry lips.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still husky.

You responded by pressing a soft kiss to her temple. In return, Kia took your hand and let her lips graze lightly across your knuckles. Your mornings had been like this nearly every day—quiet, simple, sweet. The kind of peace you never thought possible back when you were sweating through old mattresses in rundown rentals as Ronin. That life feels like a distant nightmare now—one Kia somehow managed to wake you from.

You shifted to prop yourself on one elbow, looking down at her. “So… any chance you could stay home today?” you asked, light teasing in your tone as you massaged her neck, causing her to purr. “I know you have to work, but I was thinking… we could call it a personal day.”

She laughed weakly. “I can’t exactly make a habit of it. Besides, I don’t think my patients would appreciate me vanishing on a whim.” She reached to smooth the collar of your sleep shirt, her fingertips dancing down your collarbone. “You know I’d love to, though.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “You never bent the rules for me,” you said, hoping to coax another smile from her.

“I did,” she replied softly. “Just not the ones that put other people’s health at risk.”

“You’re irritatingly noble, Dr. Heimisson.”

She leaned in for a kiss. It lingered, your fingers sliding into her hair. You tilted your head, chasing more, your mouth parting slightly as your tongue brushed against hers—testing, asking. She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned in, her hand tightening at the back of your neck. You smiled into it, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Then, just as things started to tip, she pulled back. “I’ll make us coffee,” she said, her voice low and a little reluctant.

She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing just for a second before standing. Her scrubs were still folded on the chair from last night. Always neat.

By the time she’d pulled on a shirt and stepped out of the bedroom, you found yourself glancing around the room, the life you’d built together mapped out in the small details. A couple of photos on the dresser. A shared sock drawer. A small stack of your books in the corner (you’d stopped hoarding them a while ago), trading in the ones you’d finished for used copies you hadn’t, from the only bookstore in town. Sometimes, in moments like this, you could still feel the shape of who you used to be. The horrible things you’ve done. But it didn’t take over anymore. Not like it used to.

You passed into the kitchen and saw her hovering by the coffeemaker, quietly humming a tune you had taught her. She offered you a mug, steam curling into the air.

“You heading out today?” she asked, her soft blue eyes curious. It’s your favorite part of her body. Eyes always held the most power over you, capable of commanding you in ways nothing else ever could.

“Just errands,” you answered. “Groceries, maybe. If you think of anything else we need, text me.”

She nodded before inching closer to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear like she always did. You reached past her for the sugar; her hip nudged yours, a silent order to hold still. You answered with a playful grin, letting her plant a quick kiss on your cheek before she slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind her.

The house went still. You stood there for a while, basking in the quiet morning.

You didn’t know it yet, but that quiet wasn’t going to last.

—

A call came a few hours later. You were halfway through your grocery list, staring at tomatoes that didn’t look particularly ripe, when your phone vibrated. You missed it. But it was quickly followed by a text, signed by a name glowing on the screen that made your pulse spike.

Steve Rogers. You hadn’t heard that name in… well, in a long time.

You hadn’t really spoken to anyone from the old team in the last three years. Just a handful of letters from Natasha after she somehow tracked you down. You responded, politely, once. You told her you were okay, but asked her not to write again, and she respected that.

When you stepped into life with Kia, you swore off everything that came before. No ghosts, no familiar faces, a clean slate. You told yourself it was the only way anything could feel real again.

Though, somehow, you never managed to throw out Wanda’s things.

They stayed in the basement, buried in boxes you hadn’t opened in years. Somewhere back there were old photos, her worn red jacket. The ring you picked out together—meant to match Wanda’s—now hangs from a chain around your neck. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, but you couldn’t wear it either.

Hers, you imagine, turned to dust long ago.

Your phone when it rang again, causing you to jump in surprise. For an instant, you almost let it go to voicemail. Old instincts kicked in, though—your heart pounded with the sense that if you ignored it, you might have regretted it forever. So you tapped the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear.

“Y/N?”

That voice that used to inspire a room of heroes was unmistakable. It really was him. Your response got stuck in your throat, so you managed little more than, “Steve… yeah. Hey.”

He asked how you were, and you gave him the kind of answer people give when they don’t want to get into it. He tried to stretch the small talk, but you could feel it—this wasn’t that kind of call.

“You can skip the pleasantries, Steve,” you said, not unkindly.

He let out a quiet sigh, then got to the point. “There’s a way. A way to bring them back.”

You swore the world tilted. You gripped your phone tighter, your steps faltering. “What are you talking about?” you asked, but you already knew. The question was just instinct, something to fill the space where air had suddenly become hard to find.

Steve breathed heavily on the other end. This wasn’t some vague, wishful bring-them-back idea, you could tell that much already. Whatever it was, it ran deeper than a theory. It felt like driftwood tossed to the drowning—long overdue, and just barely enough to hold onto. And he was clearly trying to figure out how to explain it to you. Still, you held out any hope that it was true.

“We’re close to a plan,” he explained. “We think we can reverse what happened five years ago—undo the Snap entirely. Tony and Bruce have figured out how the Quantum Realm—”

“What’s that?”

Steve paused. You could practically hear the internal God help me sigh. It made your lips quirk a little into a small smile.

“It’s… okay, so, it’s like a pocket dimension where time moves differently. Or slower. Or maybe not. I don’t know, it’s—” He stopped himself, clearly spiraling. “Look, kid, if you want more science, you’re gonna have to ask Banner or Tony. Or basically anyone else on the team.”

You let out a small, stunned breath. “Okay…”

“All I know is, they’re almost entirely sure that it would work. And we need you.”

That last part settled into your chest and lodged itself there.

“We’ll retrieve the Infinity Stones from different points in our past, bring them back here, and use them to bring everyone back,” Steve continued. “But we’ll only have one shot at this. Once we’ve fixed things, we’ll return the Stones to their rightful moments so we don’t create alternate timelines.”

“You’re saying time travel?” It came out in a choked whisper.

“Yes. It’s a ‘time heist,’ as Scott calls it.”

The longer the call dragged on, the more questions piled up—none with clear answers. But for now, you let them sit. There’d be time to sort through the mess later.

“What exactly do you need from me?”

“Tony’s got two jobs for you,” he began. “First, there’s a mineral he needs for the time-space GPS we’re building. Without it, the machine might be too unstable to use. There’s a museum in Houston that has it. It’s heavily guarded. Unofficially, too, since this mineral isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“And after I hand over this mineral?” you asked.

“You’ll join the team to retrieve the stones.”

It sounded simple enough. But you were curious about one more thing.

“Why me?” you asked.

“This has to be a stealth job, and with Natasha going after Clint, there’s no one else who can handle this off-the-radar. You’ve got the skill and the anonymity.”

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the ‘end call’ button, giving yourself one last chance to forget about all this. “So… no official channels?”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “We don’t want to risk alerting the government, or anyone else. If this fails, it could devastate people all over again.”

“You said it would work,” you replied evenly.

“I know this will work. It has to.”

You wanted to laugh at the irony. The phone felt hot against your ear.

“Do I have time to think about it?” you asked.

Steve sighed. “You have until tonight.”

—

The hours between that call and Kia’s arrival home were excruciating. You found yourself pacing the living room, your mind stewing in guilt as it replayed Wanda’s laughter, the perfect shape of her face and the feel of her hand in yours. Over and over and over again.

And then there was Kia. The woman who’d patiently, gently pieced your broken heart back together, who had stayed through the wreckage until life began to feel solid again. Who loved you at your worst. Was it even right to push against destiny like this? To rewrite history, bend the universe to your will, and reverse events already set in motion?

But as quickly as you questioned it, your own logic countered: nothing about Thanos snapping half of all life into oblivion had ever been natural or just. Maybe this—this chance Steve offered—wasn't defiance at all, but a way to correct a cruel imbalance, to make things whole again. You’d never felt whole since that incident. And neither did Kia even though she’d never said it out loud.

You told yourself firmly this wasn't a choice between Wanda and Kia. But deep down, from the moment Steve uttered those three impossible words—bring them back—you knew the decision had already been made. If there was even the slightest chance to undo the damage, you'd reach out and take it, consequences be damned.

By the time Kia’s key rattled in the lock, you’ve turned over Steve’s proposal a thousand times in your head. She stepped in, setting her work bag on the nearest chair. The way she looked at you—face drawn, concern evident in her eyes—told you she could sense your tension.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, drawing near.

You forced yourself to speak. You told her about Steve’s call, about the mission to reverse the Snap, the potential to bring back everyone who vanished. The unspoken word at the center was Wanda, but there was so much more: thousands of families, including Kia’s. Her own daughter, her husband.

Kia stood perfectly still as she processed it. You saw the flicker of hope in her eyes even as her features twisted with longing and fear.

Then she spoke softly, her voice trembling. “Is this really possible? Can they… can they bring my daughter back?”

That question squeezed your heart. Suddenly, you realized that your desire to see Wanda again paled next to Kia’s longing for her child. She had carried that emptiness with her every single day.

“Yes,” you managed to say, your voice thick. “We think so.”

Kia’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t cry, but you could feel how much she’s holding back.

“Then do it,” she said. “Help them.”

You reached for her hand, needing to feel her close, even as the distance between what you had and what might come stretched wider by the second. Neither of you said it out loud, but the truth hung there. If this plan worked, everything would change. Bringing everyone back meant rewriting entire lives, and this thing between you and Kia, it didn’t exactly fit into the world before, or the one that might follow.

Even thinking about it felt wrong. Selfish. Ugly.

You could feel yourself splitting into two realities. This reality with Kia, and the reality that dissolved with Wanda. You couldn’t find the words. You just held her hand tighter.

Kia looked away for a moment, like she could already see the ripple effects waiting on the horizon. Then her eyes found yours again. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “we do this for them. For everyone who didn’t get a choice.”

In that moment, your love for her swelled and bloomed and gave you courage.

—

You left before dawn the next morning, a small duffel in hand, its contents carefully chosen and arranged the night before. Sleep had come in sparse increments, anxiety keeping you company. Houston was a thirteen-hour flight away; Tony had arranged an unregistered Quinjet, and you spent the journey reviewing the museum’s floor plans on a tablet.

The museum in question was near the outskirts of downtown Houston, housed in a stately old building renowned for its obscure geological exhibits. The public wasn’t aware of just how rare that “obscure” gem in its vault truly was. According to Tony’s notes, it was a type of mineral that reacted unusually to quantum energy—a piece critical for stabilizing the time-space GPS he and Bruce Banner were building. Without it, the device might overload on its own power.

As soon as you landed, you made your way to a safehouse on the city’s edge—just a nondescript apartment Tony had secured. There, you changed into dark clothing that offered maximum agility and minimal interference. You double-checked your infiltration tools—glass cutters, a slim electronic lockpick, and a tiny EMP device for any modern security measures.

There were nerves crawling under your skin you hadn’t felt in years. After everything—the missions,bloodshed you and Clint left scattered across cities, you didn’t think you were capable of feeling this shaken anymore.

Maybe it was because the entire operation hinged on this one task. If you failed, the rest of the plan fell apart. You cursed Tony under your breath. Now it made sense why he picked you. If things went sideways, you were the easiest to blame. He probably never thought much of you to begin with.

But he wasn’t wrong to choose you. Because no one had more riding on this than you, and no one was more determined to see it through.

Kia’s face flashed in your mind. Then Wanda’s. You forced your thoughts back to the present mission. “Let’s do this,” you muttered.

It was close to midnight when you arrived at the museum. The streets were quiet, most of the late-night commuters having already cleared out. You surveyed the main entrance from a safe distance—bright spotlights illuminated the grand facade, and security cameras perched like watchful owls along the eaves. Slipping around the side, you found a smaller service door just beyond a chain-link fence. There was a single guard on patrol, circling the perimeter with the slow, practiced boredom of someone who never expected trouble.

You timed the guard’s route, waiting behind a low hedge until he disappeared around the next corner. A quick jolt from your custom lockpick shorted the rusted padlock on the fence; it fell open with a dull click. You eased through, crossing the short distance to the service door in a half-crouch. Its old keypad glowed faintly. You attached a signal disruptor over the panel and waited, heart pounding in your ears, until the tiny light flickered green. The door clicked open.

Inside, darkness swallowed you. Only emergency exit signs and faint overhead safety bulbs gave any illumination. You consulted the mental map you’d memorized from Tony’s briefing, picturing the route to the restricted vault near the geological exhibits. There’d be motion sensors in the main corridors, so you stayed pressed to the walls, gliding past an open archway into a side hallway. You activated your handheld scanner, just enough to detect where infrared beams might crisscross. Sure enough, a series of faint red lines sliced through the corridor ahead. You ducked below one beam, then twisted sideways to avoid another. The entire maneuver would have made your old trainers proud.

Though there was a dull ache in your lower back from having been sedentary all these years.

Step by careful step, you progressed until you reached the thick, steel-reinforced door of the vault. A digital keypad glowed in the quiet gloom, showing an eight-digit lock. You expected that. What you hadn’t expected was the second biometric scanner installed next to it—an update not in Tony’s blueprint. You forced yourself to calm down, reminding yourself you’d done this before. Stealth ops always required a bit of improvisation.

You removed a small device from your belt pouch—another one of Tony’s countless inventions. It emitted a pulse that temporarily scrambled biometric scanners, forcing them to default to a bypass code if the user had one. But that code changed daily. You hoped the museum staff wouldn’t have updated the secondary system just yet.

By some cosmic stroke of luck (or Tony’s genius), the device beeped once, and the scanner’s screen flickered. A prompt for a four-digit override code replaced the biometric prompt. With your electronic lockpick engaged, you let it cycle through potential combinations at high speed. Tense seconds ticked by. Finally, a soft click hissed from the latch, and the vault door slid open two inches, revealing a small interior chamber lined with secure cases.

Your target lay in a sealed glass cylinder at the center, the mineral’s deep violet hue faintly luminous even in the shadows. In that moment, you sensed how important it was, how it seemed like a full circle moment. This was the literal keystone for rewriting history, for forging a path back to life as it once was. Or as close as it could get.

Carefully, you placed a glass cutter against the cylinder. The diamond tip whirred almost silently, creating a neat circular hole in the thick glass. You inserted a slim vacuum rod and slipped out the mineral. It was heavier than expected, humming with an odd energy in your hand.

Before you left, you remembered your promise. You took a small folded note from your pocket (paper, so it couldn’t be easily traced), and placed it inside the now-empty cylinder.

It read:

“I’m sorry I had to do this. Don’t worry—I’ll return what I borrowed exactly two weeks from today. It needs to save the world first.”

You signed it with only a small symbol at the bottom—a private insignia you once used on covert ops, but nothing that would blatantly identify you. Then you turned, tucking the mineral into a padded case in your suit.

A short ride later, you were safely back at the safehouse, the artifact secured. You tossed your gear onto the small kitchen table and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The note you left would cause a stir; the museum might tighten security. But you planned to keep your promise.

You just hoped you’d live to see that day.

—

Three days later, you’re back where it all started.

You thought you’d be a little teary-eyed, considering this is where you’ve spent nearly half of your life. But what you felt instead was relief. Relief that the compound still stood. You watched the building for a long moment, soaking up the calm before the storm. In your right hand, you clutched the mineral that would complete the time machine.

“Aren’t you coming inside?”

You’d know that voice anywhere.

Clint Barton stood a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, looking nothing like the Ronin persona he’d worn over the past few years. He looked more like the old Clint, the one you didn’t know you missed so terribly.

You offered a faint nod and took a step forward, your boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Didn’t expect to see you here first,” you said.

He gave you a wry smile. “Didn’t expect to be here at all.”

You exhaled slowly. The mineral pulsed faintly in your hand—your hand that had once gripped a weapon more than anything else, had learned to hold Wanda’s fingers with reverence, and later, Kia’s with gratitude.

Clint’s gaze dropped to it. “That’s what I think it is?”

You gave a small nod. “Final piece.”

“So… we’re really doing this?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. “I’m not sure we are. This part’s on me.” You offered Clint the mineral and he cupped it carefully, turning it over in his hand.

“I thought you’d be suiting up with us,” he said. “Steve and Tony said you’d bring the piece. Didn’t think you’d just—”

“Drop it off and leave?” you finished, managing a faint smile. “That was the plan.”

Clint tilted his head. “Mind telling me why?”

“I told Steve and Tony I’d help find the last component. That’s it. That felt… enough.”

Clint stared at you for a beat. After all these years, he knew you too well to take your words at face value. “That’s all there is to it?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “No. Of course not.”

Clint waited, giving you the space to say it when you were ready.

“There’s a whole life waiting for me,” you said. “Far away from this place. With Kia. We built something that doesn’t need saving. And if I sign up for this—really sign up for this—I’d have to see it through to the end. To the moment someone snaps their fingers and brings everyone back.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze.

“And if she’s there, if Wanda comes back before I’m ready—” your voice faltered. “I don’t know if I’d be able to make a fair choice.”

Clint was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes soft. Then he nodded, slow and solemn.

“I get it,” he said. “God, I really do.”

He kicked at the gravel lightly. “I used to tell myself I went down that path to protect my family. After they were gone, I needed someone to blame for the world falling apart. You know that better than anyone.”

“I do,” you murmured.

“I dragged you down with me,” Clint added. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “No. We dragged each other. We weren’t… good for one another back then. We weren’t accountable. We made each other worse.”

Clint looked away, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

You both stood there in silence for a while, watching the horizon blur into a late afternoon haze.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” you asked.

“It has to,” he said.

“And when it does?” you asked. “What are you going to do when you get them back?”

He glanced at you, resignation in his eyes.

“I’m going to surrender,” he said simply. “Turn myself in. The Accords were a mess, sure, but they weren’t wrong about everything. We need to be kept in check. All of us. We don’t get to come back from the things we did without consequence.”

You hadn’t expected that. Not from the man who once broke half a dozen laws to make it home in time for his kid’s birthday.

“You’d really do that?” you asked quietly.

Clint nodded. “Even if the mission works. Even if they come back… I won’t get to just go back. I’m not the person they left, Y/N.”

You swallowed, his words hitting too close to home.

“They’ll still love you,” you offered, though it felt insufficient. They didn’t land with the comfort you intended. Maybe because you didn’t believe them yourself.

Because you’d been asking yourself the same question for years.

Kia had offered you peace when the world gave you nothing but silence. She saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen. She gave you a reason to keep going.

And yet, Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know. And the truth of not knowing had been eating at you for longer than you were willing to admit.

“Yeah,” Clint said, almost smiling.

You nodded slowly, not sure whether to admire him or mourn him.

“I hope they see the man who kept trying,” you said softly.

Clint gave a small smile. “You too.”

He held out the mineral to return it, but you shook your head.

“Give my regards to Tony,” you said.

You reached out, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bring them home,” you said. “All of them.”

“I will.”

He looked down at the mineral in his hand again, and then back at you.

“Go,” Clint said. “Before you change your mind.”

You nodded, taking one last look at what remained of your past before turning away. You wouldn’t look back. Not this time.

—

You returned to Reyjavik a few days later. By then, it was all over the news—

The impossible had happened. The Avengers had done it. They brought everyone back.

Airports were flooded with reunions. There was celebration and chaos. The world was finally waking up from a nightmare. And you… you were still trying to process the fact that it worked.

The first thing you did was look for Kia. You needed to see her face, hold her hand—just know she was okay. You walked into the apartment and found it empty, cold in a way that went beyond the absence of people. Kia wasn’t waiting for you at the door.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to you, shoulders rigid. Her fingers were curled tightly around a mug.

You spoke her name—soft, almost a prayer.

She turned, and that’s when you saw it. Something in her had already retreated.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she said.

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You hadn’t expected a joyful reunion, not with everything this victory implied. But you also didn’t expect it to feel this fragile, like tiptoeing across eggshells.

Kia looked down at her lap, and for the first time, you couldn’t read her at all. Moments later, she stood up and walked to the window.

“Maria is back,” she said. “And so is her father.”

‘Her father’, and not ‘my husband’. A deliberate choice of words. Kia talked to you often about them, but it was different now that they aren't gone.

You forced a smile. Whatever this might mean for you, some part of you was genuinely happy for her. Deeply, fiercely happy.

Because you remembered the way Kia used to trace the shape of her daughter’s photo with her fingers late at night when she thought you were asleep. You remembered how she’d spoken about her husband with reverence and regret in equal measure. The two deepest holes punched through her soul—now filled again.

“They’re back,” you said softly, like you needed to say it yourself to believe it.

She still hadn’t looked at you. “They’ve relocated to the other side of town for now. Temporarily.”

Temporarily.

A quiet warning. A gentle ending dressed up as a maybe.

You nodded, jaw clenched against the tremble that wanted to rise.

“Are you okay?” you asked, because it mattered more than anything else. Even now.

Especially now.

She turned to face you then, finally. Her eyes were raw, rimmed with exhaustion and uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “You gave me a reason to keep living. You helped me breathe again. But he’s here. They’re here. And I—God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Your heart split clean down the middle, slow and silent.

You took a step back, giving her space even though you were already drowning in the distance.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you said. “You’re allowed to not know.”

Her eyes continued to brim with tears. “This—them—none of it would be possible without you,” she prattled on.

You opened your mouth, not knowing what to say, but then she closed the distance between you.

And kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Tasting of salt, mostly. Her hands tangled in the collar of your jacket like she was scared to let go, and for a moment, you let yourself believe.

But you felt it. The tremor in her fingers. The guilt in her kiss. How it was more of gratitude than desire.

“I love you,” she said again and again against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

Because you believed her. You really did.

But you also knew.

You had always known.

This was the last fire before the ashes. She would always carry you in her heart. She would always remember what you gave her. But you would not be the person she came home to when the dust settled.

And you would never, ever ask her to be. You wouldn’t be the one to imprison her in your arms when everything she’d ever lost had finally come back to her.

You brushed her cheek with the backs of your fingers and kissed her forehead.

“I know,” you said quietly.

She tried to hold your gaze, eyes swimming with confusion, as if she could see something in you starting to slip away. She wiped at her face, breath shaky. “What should I make for dinner?”

You smiled at her gently. “Nothing. Just relax, okay? I’ll pick something up from our favorite place.”

Kia blinked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded.

You gave her one more look, soft and grateful, then turned your back before she could see you fall apart.

And as soon as you reached the patio, your shoulders shook.

You pressed your hand to your chest to steady yourself, biting back the sound that wanted to escape your throat.

Because that kiss—her love—was real.

But it wasn’t enough.

—

You turned yourself in to the international authority a week later, after making sure everything was in place for you to disappear cleanly.

Steve handled the details—wiping your existence from every known database, scrubbing records, clearing traces. All except one. A single dossier remained, buried in Stark’s system, written by Natasha herself. Steve couldn’t bring himself to erase it. Not something she’d written. Not even if it’s something as small as a file about you.

You understood. All you asked was that he marked your status as deceased. He tried to talk you out of it, of course. That there were other ways.

But when that didn’t work, he reached for the one thing he thought might—

“You were the first person Wanda looked for,” he’d said quietly. Well, you weren’t that person from five years ago. Wanda would’ve been mistaken.

You took Clint’s place without asking his permission. He had too much to lose, and you figured you didn’t—at least not compared to him. You listed the crimes in clear, practiced detail. The missions you’d completed. The blood on your hands. The times you looked away. You took it all.

Owned it all.

Not because they were all yours—but because someone had to.

They processed you like any other criminal. Stripped you down. Tagged your belongings. Asked you questions you didn’t flinch answering.

Clint was furious when he found out. He caught up with you before the transfer. They had you in cuffs, but it was immaterial. The guards gave you both a moment, recognizing that Clint wasn’t going to be stopped by protocol. After everything, they’d grown lenient with the Avengers. Especially now, with the miracle of the return still fresh in everyone’s minds. They didn’t even understand why they were incarcerating one of them in the first place.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint’s voice cracked, his hands fisting at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan.”

You didn’t bother correcting him. There had never really been a plan after you retrieved that mineral.

You shrugged. “Oops.”

Clint slammed his fist against the nearest wall, startling the guard by the door. “Goddammit, I was supposed to be the one—”

“Your family is waiting for you,” you told him gently. “Natasha didn’t sacrifice herself so you could just throw your life away. You know that.”

The name alone unraveled him. “And she didn’t die so you could do this, either.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m making sure something good comes from all of it.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged in defeat. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the desire to talk you out of it, to remind you that Wanda would want a choice in the matter. But you had already made yours, and time felt precious then.

“I’m not just taking the fall for you, Clint,” you said softly. “I’m taking responsibility. For the things I’ve done. The choices I made. I can carry this.”

His eyes reddened, tears threatening to spill. You’d only ever seen him like this once before.

“I never wanted this,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he asked the one thing you’d been waiting for. “What about Wanda?”

Wanda was alive and well now. There’s no more war left to fight. You could still picture her living in the suburbs, watching her sitcoms, maybe even finding love again someday.

“Give her back everything,” you said. “The things I’ve kept. The property in New Jersey. It’s hers. She should have a home.”

“It’s going to kill her to think you’re gone.”

You exhaled slowly. “Wanda’s stronger than anyone thinks. Stronger than she thinks.”

Clint shook his head. “She’s not stronger than losing you.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. There’s just the hollow ache of knowing you wouldn’t be there to see if your words held true. Instead, you merely asked Clint to look after her.

And when the guard finally escorted Clint out, your entire frame gave out like a deflated balloon.

You spent your first night in the cell sitting upright, hands in your lap, staring at the far wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you. The world outside moved on.

And inside, you stayed very still.

You had given Wanda your heart.

You had given Kia your hope.

And now, you have given away your liberty.

Somewhere, in a kinder universe, they all got to live their lives without grief. And maybe, you were there with them.

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harryssyndrome · 7 months ago

Text

Hoax | h.s

summery: “don’t want no other shade blue but you. No other sadness in the world would do…”

based off this request. Thank you so much anon for this idea, this was so fun writing and I hope it’s something you were looking for. I tried to be as angsty as possible with a blend of cutesy sweet, hope it’s a perfect mix. Let me know in the comments? [thank you! mwah mwah mwah 💋]

Posted on: November 26th, 2024. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY OR TRANSLATE MY WORK IN ANY PLATFORM. Like, comment & reblog are appreciated 💓Italics are past memories. Hope you lovelies enjoy this little big piece.

wc: 6.6k (oops🤭) || Masterlist 🤍

Tag-List: @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 @wheredidmyeyesgo @cherryloveshs | TAGLIST IS OPEN! || REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! 💌

The morning had started just like any other, the sun streaming in through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over everything, but YN barely noticed. She sat at the counter, her hands curled around a coffee mug, its warmth barely a match for the cold ache building inside her. The apartment felt empty, despite the soft hum of the city just outside the window. She could feel the weight of the silence pressing down on her, a silence that had grown more oppressive over the past few weeks.

Harry had been on tour for what seemed like forever now, and their communication had dwindled. What had once been late-night calls and stolen moments between sound checks had turned into rushed, distracted conversations, where he was either too busy or too tired to give her his full attention. YN had always known the demands of his career, had always been willing to share him with the world, but it was starting to feel like he was slipping further away from her.

She had tried to be understanding, tried to remind herself that this was just a phase—that he was only gone for a while, and they would find their way back to each other. But today felt different. Something in the air was charged with tension, a sense of dread that hung around her like a cloud. Harry had promised to call her during his break between rehearsals, and as the minutes ticked by, that sense of unease only grew. She hadn’t heard from him, not even a text to explain why.

When the phone finally rang, she grabbed it with an anxious breath, hoping for the reassurance she so desperately needed.

“Hey, babe,” Harry’s voice crackled through the phone, distant and strained. There was a tiredness in his voice that made her heart ache even more.

“Hi,” she replied softly, trying to keep her tone light, but the worry slipped out anyway. “I was starting to wonder if you forgot about me.”

Harry didn’t immediately answer, and YN could feel him shifting on the other end, perhaps looking for the right words, or maybe just gathering the energy to engage with her. “I didn’t forget,” he said after a beat, his voice uncharacteristically flat. “It’s just… things are hectic right now. You know how it is.”

YN frowned, her fingers tightening around her mug. She knew how it was. She knew that Harry’s tour schedule was demanding, that he barely had time to breathe, let alone talk to her. But it was different now. It had been different for weeks, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“I get it, Harry,” she said softly, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. “But it feels like we haven’t really talked in days. I feel like I’m losing you.”

The words hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken emotions. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to accuse him of pulling away, but she couldn’t ignore what was happening anymore. She missed him. She missed the way they used to connect, how they’d stay up all night talking about their dreams and fears, how they’d laugh until their stomachs ached. Now, it felt like all they did was talk about logistics and time zones. She wanted more than that.

Harry let out a heavy sigh, and for a moment, she thought he was going to apologize, that he would offer the comfort she so desperately needed. But instead, his voice grew colder, his words sharper. “You miss me? Maybe you miss the version of me that you had before all of this. But I’m not the same person anymore, YNN. I’m just tired. Tired of feeling like I’m constantly being pulled in a million directions.”

Her heart sank at his words, the finality in them hitting her harder than she had expected. “What does that mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s words came out in a rush, almost like he couldn’t stop them, as if they were coming from a place deeper than he intended. “It means that I don’t have the energy for this right now. I don’t have the energy to keep pretending that everything is fine when it’s not. And maybe I’m just tired of pretending that you’re not asking for more than I can give. Maybe I need space. Maybe we both need space.”

The words stabbed her. She felt them deep in her chest, each one like a dagger, twisting further with every breath. “Space?” she echoed, barely able to form the word, the hurt creeping into her voice despite her best efforts to hold it back. “I’m not asking for space, Harry. I’m just asking for you. For the person you promised me you’d always be.”

Harry didn’t respond right away, and when he did, his voice was tight, defensive. “Maybe that person isn’t here anymore, YNN. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to say.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. YN could hear the faint rustling of something on his end of the phone, the noise of people moving in the background, but it didn’t matter. The emptiness between them felt so loud, so unbearable. The connection that once held them together was fraying, thread by thread.

She swallowed hard, the tears welling in her eyes. “Fine,” she said, her voice breaking as she spoke. “If that’s how you feel, then I guess I’ll leave.”

The words came out before she could stop them, and she immediately regretted them. But the damage was done. The silence that followed was deafening, and the weight of Harry’s absence felt so heavy, so crushing, that she could barely breathe. The person she loved, the person she had given everything to, had just told her he was done. He was tired of her.

Before she could say another word, she ended the call. The click of the phone disconnecting felt like the final nail in the coffin, sealing whatever it was that they had left.

YN sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone in her hand as if it were some foreign object. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her mind was numb, her thoughts tangled in confusion and hurt. The apartment, their shared space, felt so small now. It felt suffocating. Every corner of the place was a reminder of everything that had once been good, everything that was now falling apart.

Tears blurred her vision as she stood up from the counter. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where to go. But she couldn’t stay there. Not with him, not with the words he had just said. The love they had built felt like ashes, and she couldn’t breathe in the smoke any longer.

She started packing her things, her movements automatic, like she was on autopilot. Her hands shook as she threw clothes into a bag, not caring if they matched or if they were folded neatly. Nothing mattered in that moment except the urgent need to get away from the place that had once been home. She ignored the phone buzzing with messages, messages from Harry, apologizing, pleading with her to call him back. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not after the things he had said.

When she finished packing, she grabbed her bags and walked out the door. The apartment felt even emptier as she closed the door behind her. There were no more goodbyes, no more promises. Just the echo of his hurtful words ringing in her ears.

YN drove to her parents’ house in a daze, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened, about how quickly their love had unraveled. She needed space to think. To breathe. To figure out how to move on from this. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t that simple.

It wasn’t just a fight. It was something deeper. Something that couldn’t be fixed with apologies.

When she pulled into the driveway, she didn’t feel the relief she thought she would. Instead, the silence that had followed her from their apartment seemed to follow her here. Even the familiar sight of her childhood home didn’t offer the comfort it once had. It all felt distant. Empty. Just like her heart.

She stepped out of the car, closing the door behind her with a soft click. As she walked up to the front door, her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. She couldn’t bear to look at it. She couldn’t bear to see his name flashing on the screen. The man she loved had just shattered her heart into a million pieces, and she didn’t know how to pick them up.

The night had been a blur for Harry. The anger, the disappointment, the gnawing guilt in his chest from the argument with YN—it was all too much to bear. In the solitude of his hotel room, far from her, he drowned out the pain with alcohol. He knew he had messed up, knew he had hurt her with his words, but the overwhelming pressure of being on tour, the constant demand of being a public figure, and the exhaustion had driven him to the brink. He had never intended for it to escalate the way it did, but in his drunken haze, it all came crashing down.

Somewhere between the blurry shots and the endless stream of drinks, he found himself in a bar, surrounded by strangers, feeling more alone than he had in a long time. His phone was buzzing on the table, the screen lighting up with YN’s name flashing, but he didn’t pick it up. The coldness in his heart had become too unbearable, and he pushed her away instead of confronting the hurt he had caused. He just wanted the world to stop spinning for a moment. He wanted to forget everything that had gone wrong.

And that was when Emily Ratajkowski had walked in.

They had known each other for years, casually friendly in the way celebrities often are when their circles overlap. Emily, ever the charmer, had greeted Harry with a friendly smile. They sat and talked, their conversation casual at first, just the usual small talk about work and life. But Harry, caught in his haze of regret, had let his guard down. The more they talked, the more the words flowed. In some strange way, it felt easy to talk to her—like she was a stranger he could confide in, someone who didn’t carry the same weight of their past, the years of intimacy and history he shared with YN.

It didn’t take long before the alcohol took its toll. Emily’s laughter had filled the air, and Harry had found himself leaning closer, her presence soothing in a way that made him forget the ache in his chest. Before he knew it, they were kissing. His mind screamed for him to stop, to think about YN, to remember everything he stood to lose. But in that moment, he didn’t. The guilt had been smothered by the fleeting comfort of the kiss, the escape from his spiraling thoughts.

He didn’t remember much after that. The night blurred into incoherence, a jumble of laughter, flashes, and fleeting touches. Harry woke up the next morning, disoriented and groggy, the light filtering through the hotel room window far too bright. His phone was buzzing incessantly, and his stomach churned when he saw the series of missed calls and messages from YN. The weight of it all hit him like a wave, and for a moment, he just sat there, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories.

Then, his phone lit up with an alert—a notification from a gossip website, and his heart dropped into his stomach. There, in front of him, were pictures of him and Emily Ratajkowski, the kind of photos Harry had spent years avoiding. They were kissing, their lips pressed together, captured in a moment of reckless abandon that Harry didn’t even fully remember. The headline was cruel: Harry Styles and Emily Ratajkowski—A New Romance in the Making?

His throat tightened as he scrolled through the photos, his mind racing. He didn’t remember kissing her. He didn’t remember anything about that night except the overwhelming sense of regret that now gripped him. He had ruined everything. The fragile thread holding him together seemed to snap in that moment. He had lost YN, and now the media would make sure the world knew it. His personal life was on full display, and all he could think about was how much he had fucked it all up.

Desperation began to rise in his chest, and without thinking, he began sending text after text to YN, each one filled with apologies, regret, and pleas for her to talk to him. But she didn’t answer. The silence on the other end was deafening.

Meanwhile, YN was in her parents’ house, sitting in the living room with the muted glow of the television casting long shadows across the room. The house, once a place of comfort and warmth, now felt suffocating. Her mother had been quiet ever since YN arrived, sensing the heavy tension in the air. She tried to comfort her daughter, offering tea, but YN couldn’t bring herself to care. The weight of the argument, of the harsh words Harry had said, sat heavily in her chest, gnawing at her.

But when the photos surfaced—when she saw Harry with Emily, their lips locked, the headlines flashing across her phone—her world shattered all over again. The room spun around her, and she felt like she was suffocating. The love she had poured into her relationship with Harry now felt like a cruel joke. She had trusted him. She had believed in him. And now this—this betrayal was too much to bear.

Tears blurred her vision, and she quickly turned away from her phone. Her mother noticed the change in her expression and asked softly, “YN, what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I can’t do this,” YN whispered, choking on her tears. “I can’t keep doing this. I thought he loved me… but now… now I don’t know who he is anymore. It didn’t even take him a night to move on?”

Her mother hugged her tightly, murmuring comforting words, but YN couldn’t hear them. The pain of what she had seen—the public humiliation of it all—felt like a physical weight on her chest. She needed to get away. She needed to clear her head.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said, her voice distant, as if she were speaking to herself rather than her mother.

Her mother nodded, understanding the need for space, and watched as YN stepped outside, the cool evening air wrapping around her like a blanket.

The lake stretched out before her, calm and unbothered by the storm raging inside her. Its surface shimmered faintly under the overcast sky, the golden light of the fading afternoon barely breaking through the thick clouds. The familiar sight of it— the way the trees reflected on the water, the distant sound of birds, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore-should have brought YN the comfort she was seeking. But all it did was make her chest tighten with a suffocating ache.

She had always come to this place for solace, even as a child. The lake by her parents' house was her sanctuary, a space where the noise of the world couldn't touch her. But now, as she stood there, arms wrapped tightly around herself against the crisp autumn air, the silence was deafening. It wasn't peace she found here today. It was the echo of memories she had desperately tried to bury since she walked out of the home she had once shared with Harry.

Her boots crunched softly against the earth as she made her way closer to the water's edge, the damp grass soaking the hem of her dress. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine and earth. But YN didn't notice. Her mind was far away, replaying a reel of memories she wished she could turn off. No matter how much she tried to focus on the present, her past with Harry came rushing back to her, vivid and bittersweet.

She crouched down near the shore, her fingertips brushing against the cool surface of the water. As ripples spread outward, her thoughts drifted to another time, another version of herself-a happier one. She closed her eyes, and it all came rushing back as if she were still there.

It had been a summer evening, the sun setting in brilliant hues of orange and pink.

Harry had been sitting on the dock, legs stretched out, his feet just barely skimming the water. YN had been lying beside him, her head resting on his thigh as they shared a bottle of wine they had stolen from her parents' pantry. The lake had been their escape that summer, a place where the chaos of Harry's career and the pressures of the world seemed to melt away.

"This place is magic," Harry had murmured, running his fingers absentmindedly through her hair. His voice had been low, almost reverent, as he looked out at the water.

YN had tilted her head to glance up at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "You always say that," she teased. "But you're not wrong."

He grinned, his dimple deepening as he looked down at her. "It's true, though. Don't you feel it? It's like... time stops here. Like nothing bad can touch us."

She had laughed softly, the sound blending with the gentle rustle of the trees.

"That's what l've always loved about this place. It's quiet. Peaceful. Away from everything."

Harry had hummed in agreement, his gaze softening as he studied her. "One day, YNN... one day l'd love to settle down somewhere like this. Away from the noise. Just us."

Her breath had caught at his words, her heart skipping a beat. "Just us?" she'd asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Well," he'd added, his lips twitching into a playful smile, "maybe not just us. I'm thinking a couple of little ones running around, maybe a dog... or two."

YN's heart skipped at his words, her stomach flipping in that way it always did when he hinted at their future. She laughed, nudging him playfully. "Little ones, huh? You planning on starting a family with me already, Styles?"

Harry grinned, his dimple showing as he leaned closer, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something deeper. "Why not? I mean it, YNN. I'd love that. A house by the lake. Waking up every morning with you by my side. Teaching our kids how to fish or swim or whatever it is people do out here. It sounds perfect."

Her breath caught as she looked at him, the sincerity in his words tugging at something deep within her. "It does," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It sounds perfect."

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "You're perfect," he murmured, and before she could respond, he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

The world had faded away then, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in a bubble of love and possibility.

“I wouldn’t want anything less than forever when it comes to you.”

His words had settled into her heart like a warm glow, and she had leaned in to kiss him, the taste of wine still lingering on his lips. In that moment, with the sun setting and the world quiet around them, she had believed him. She had believed in forever.

YN blinked, the memory dissolving as the present came crashing back. The lake was still, the air cold, and Harry wasn't there. Her chest ached as she stared at the dock, the image of them sitting there overlaying the reality of its emptiness. She could almost hear his laughter, feel his hand in hers, but it was all in her mind.

The betrayal burned anew, the image of him with Emily flashing behind her eyes.

How could he have said those things, painted that picture of their future, and then so carelessly let it all fall apart? How could he kiss someone else after everything they had shared?

How had they gone from that to this? How had the man who once promised her forever ended up kissing someone else? The image of Harry and Emily flashed in her mind again, sharper this time, and her stomach twisted. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, trying to hold together the pieces of her heart that felt like they were falling apart.

The lake, once her sanctuary, now felt like a cruel reminder of everything she had lost. The life she had envisioned with Harry-the house by the lake, the little ones running around, the forever they had dreamed of-felt like a distant, unattainable dream. And yet, no matter how much she wanted to hate him, to shut him out completely, her heart wouldn't let her. She still loved him, even now, even after everything.

YN sank down onto the grass, her knees pulled to her chest, tears streaming freely now. She thought of the countless nights they had spent talking about their dreams, their plans. The way Harry had once made her feel so safe, so sure of their love. And now, it all felt like a cruel joke, a dream turned nightmare.

"Why, Harry?" she whispered into the stillness. "Why did you have to ruin everything?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the sun dipped lower on the horizon.

She let herself cry then, the sobs wracking her body as she finally allowed herself to feel the full weight of her heartbreak. The lake bore silent witness to her pain, its surface rippling gently as if trying to offer her some semblance of comfort.

The lake, once her sanctuary, now felt like a graveyard for their love.

When she returned to the house, her heart felt heavy, each step laden with the weight of everything she was feeling. But it wasn't the emptiness of the house that grabbed her attention; it was the faint sound-the small, deliberate taps against the window. At first, she thought it was the rain playing tricks on her, the gentle taps against the glass. But when she heard it again-sharp and insistent-her breath caught in her throat.

Her mind didn't even have time to process it fully. She spun toward the window, her heart pounding in her chest. And there he was.

Harry.

He stood in the pouring rain, his face pale, his hair clinging to his skin. His clothes were soaked through, and his hands trembled slightly as he threw small pebbles at the window, as if trying to wake her from a nightmare she couldn't escape. She stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Was this real? Was this the same man who had hurt her so badly?

But then, she saw it in his eyes-the desperation. The raw vulnerability. The silent plea for forgiveness that spoke louder than words ever could. He was standing there, drenched, with nothing left to lose. He was a broken man, and in that moment, she could see that he knew he had ruined everything.

Before she could stop herself, she ran to the down to the front door, threw it open, and without thinking, rushed outside into the rain.

The rain fell in torrents, its relentless downpour drowning out all sound except for the beat of water against the ground. Harry stood before YN, drenched, his eyes wide with desperate urgency, a look of raw pain etched into every line of his face. His clothes clung to his body, soaked through, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil inside of him.

“YN…” His voice broke, as if the weight of her name was too much to bear. His hand reached out shakily, desperate to bridge the gap between them, but she pulled away slightly. He flinched, not from her rejection, but from the weight of his own guilt that seemed to pull him lower with every passing second.

“I—” He took a breath, trying to steady himself, but his words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “I never meant for it to be this way. I never meant to hurt you, YNN. I swear, I never thought—God, I was so drunk, so damn stupid. I don’t even remember what happened, but I know I messed up. I know I messed everything up.”

YN’s heart clenched painfully in her chest. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much he had hurt her, how much his words still stung like a constant ache in her soul. But instead, she stood there, her breath coming in ragged bursts, staring at him as he trembled in the rain. She wasn’t sure whether it was the cold of the storm or the pain inside him that made him shudder, but it was impossible to ignore the depth of his regret.

“You do remember, Harry,” she finally spoke, her voice shaking but strong. “You remember everything, even if you don’t remember that moment. You remember the things you said to me. You remember how you treated me. How you—” She stopped herself, not wanting to continue with the painful words. But the memory of his cutting tone, his dismissive words, echoed in her mind, taunting her, making her question everything they had ever shared. “I trusted you. I loved you. And you—you broke me.”

Harry’s eyes welled with unshed tears as he took a step toward her, this time not caring if she pulled away. He was beyond caring about the rain, beyond caring about anything except for the woman standing before him, the one person who had always been his everything.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, and she could see the raw vulnerability in his eyes. “I know I broke you. And that’s the worst part of it. I never wanted to hurt you. Not in a million years. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, YNN. You’re it for me, you always have been.” He reached for her again, but this time she didn’t pull away. His fingers brushed against hers, a tentative touch, as if he were afraid she might vanish the moment he let go.

“But I let my stupid insecurities, my stupid mistakes, cloud everything,” he continued, his voice cracking. “I’ve never been more scared of losing someone than I am of losing you, and I couldn’t see that until now. I couldn’t see that you are the one I need. That it’s not the fame, it’s not the tour, it’s not anyone or anything else—it’s you, YN. You’re the only thing that matters.”

The words hung in the air like fragile threads, each one trembling with a rawness that made YN’s heart ache in ways she didn’t think possible. The anger, the hurt—it was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now there was something else too: hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all lost.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. She wanted to push him away, wanted to shout at him for what he had done, but when she looked at him—really looked at him—there was something so devastatingly human about him, standing there, shaking in the rain. He was broken, but there was sincerity in his apology, a plea that reached her heart in ways his words never had before.

“You don’t even understand what you’ve done to me, Harry,” she said, her voice quivering as she took a step back. “You think it’s just about what happened with her, with Emily? It’s not. It’s about everything that led up to that moment. It’s about the words you said to me, the way you dismissed everything we had, everything I gave you. It’s about how you made me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Harry closed his eyes, a silent tear slipping down his cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, YNN. I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough. You’re everything to me. I’ve been an idiot, and I know I’ve hurt you, but please… don’t let this be the end for us. I can’t lose you. I just can’t… live without you. I can’t.”

The storm raged around them, but the silence between them felt deafening, thick with the weight of everything unsaid, everything unresolved. YN could feel the anger still bubbling inside her, but she also felt the pull of something deeper—the love she had for him, the love that she had thought was gone, but now seemed to flicker in her chest like a fragile flame.

She wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the hurt, but something inside her was giving way.

“Harry, I…” Her voice faltered, the words catching in her throat as her chest tightened painfully. “I don’t know if I can forgive you right now. I need time. I need space to figure this out.” She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes as the tears finally spilled over, mingling with the rain. “I don’t know if I can go back to who we were. You hurt me too much.”

He stepped forward again, his hand reaching for her, trembling with the force of his desperation. “Please, YN. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you all the space you need. I’ll be patient, I swear. I’ll wait as long as it takes. But don’t walk away from me. Please.”

She didn’t respond immediately. The storm had drowned out every thought, every hesitation in her mind, but there was still one thing she knew for certain: she couldn’t let him go. Not yet. She wasn’t ready. Not when her heart was still so tangled up in him, so unable to let go of the person he had once been to her.

“I need time,” she repeated softly, her voice barely audible against the pounding rain. “I need to think, Harry. Please, just… just go inside. I can’t—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, not without breaking apart completely.

Harry nodded, his face a picture of heartbreaking understanding. His heart was in pieces, but he was willing to wait, willing to do whatever it took to prove that he could make things right. Without another word, he turned toward the house, slowly, unwilling to leave her in the storm but knowing that he had to respect her need for space.

YN watched him go, her heart heavy in her chest, torn between love and hurt, between forgiveness and anger. The rain continued to pour, and as she stood there, feeling the cold seep into her bones, she wondered if they would ever find their way back to each other—or if this was the beginning of the end.

The night had felt like an eternity. Each minute stretched on, filled with haunting thoughts and the pounding rhythm of YNs heart. Her mind was tangled in knots, the anger still burning bright, but beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t deny: the love she still had for Harry. It was the kind of love that had once felt so pure, so easy, but now felt fractured, jagged, like trying to hold onto a shattered glass piece that was bleeding into her heart.

She hadn’t been able to sleep. The past few days, the pain, the betrayal, the anger—it all swirled together in a mess that made her restless. Harry’s words from the night before—the desperate, raw apology—replayed over and over again in her mind, like a broken record. And yet, each time she thought of it, the hurt crept back in. She had tried to push it away, tried to convince herself that she could ignore it, but the reality was that she couldn’t. Not when the memories of their love, of their happy moments, still clung to her like the scent of his cologne.

But it wasn’t just the hurt she was feeling. There was something else, something deeper, something that felt too real to ignore. She couldn’t escape the way her heart still responded to Harry, no matter how hard she tried.

As the morning light began to filter through the windows, YN could no longer stay in the silence of her room. She had to see him. She had to confront everything that had happened and, maybe—just maybe—find a way to heal. But even as the desire to see him grew stronger, there was still that gnawing uncertainty. Could she really trust him again? Could she really forgive him for what had happened?

The house was quiet as she made her way down the stairs, the soft creak of the wooden steps echoing in the otherwise still air. The soft hum of the morning felt foreign against the heaviness that weighed on her shoulders, but she ignored it, pushing forward. When she stepped outside, the cold hit her like a rush, but it was nothing compared to the chill in her heart.

The lake was quiet, still as glass, the air thick with the faint scent of damp earth and fresh water. And there, sitting on the grass at the edge of the lake, was Harry. His posture was slumped, his shoulders drooped, as though the weight of the world was resting on him. The sight of him in this state, so broken and vulnerable, pulled at her heart in ways she couldn’t explain.

He looked so small, so lost.

For a moment, YN stood there, watching him. She wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. But as she watched him, she realized that she couldn’t stay away. Not anymore. She had to speak. She had to let him know how much he had hurt her, but also how much she still cared, despite everything.

Her footsteps were quiet on the soft earth as she made her way toward him. Harry didn’t look up immediately, but she could see the slight twitch of his head as if he felt her presence. His face was blank, his eyes staring out at the water, but there was something in the way he held himself that spoke volumes.

YN stopped just a few feet away, standing still as the silence stretched between them. For what felt like an eternity, neither of them spoke. The tension was thick, palpable, like a heavy fog.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. The silence, the uncertainty. She had to break it.

“I don’t even know where to start, Harry,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to protect herself from the rawness of the moment. “You hurt me. You really hurt me. And I don’t know if I can ever forget what you said to me. What you did to us.”

Harry flinched, as if each word she spoke cut through him. He finally lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes meeting hers. There was guilt in those eyes, raw and undeniable. His voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, YNN. I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to explain how much I regret everything. I was angry, and I was drunk, and I didn’t—” He cut himself off, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists at his sides. “I never meant to hurt you. Not like that. You’re everything to me, YNN. You always have been.”

YN took a deep breath, her chest tight with the conflicting emotions. She wanted to stay angry, to protect herself from the pain he’d caused, but she couldn’t deny that his words, his remorse, were hitting something deep inside her. It wasn’t enough to erase the hurt, but it was a start. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw how broken he was. He was a man who had made a mistake, but he was also a man who still cared for her.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to live in the hurt and the anger. I want to move past this, but I need to know that you’ll never do this again. I need to know that you’re willing to fight for us.”

Harry’s eyes welled up, the emotion overwhelming him. He reached out then, taking her hand gently, almost like he was afraid she might pull away. “I swear to you, YNN. I’ll fight for us. I’ll fight for you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. I’ll spend every single day proving to you that you’re worth more than anything, more than the stupid mistakes I’ve made. You mean everything to me.”

YN’s breath caught in her throat. It was impossible to ignore the depth of his words, the rawness in his voice. But it wasn’t just the words that got to her; it was the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability that he rarely showed anyone, let alone her.

She stepped closer to him, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. She had been so angry, so broken, but looking at him now, she realized that she couldn’t just walk away.

“I want to believe you, Harry,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I really do. But I need time. I need time to heal, to trust you again.”

Harry’s face softened, relief flooding through him. “I understand. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here, every step of the way. I’ll prove to you that I’m worth it. That we’re worth it.”

And in that moment, everything felt a little bit clearer. The storm inside her had not fully subsided, but the clouds were beginning to part, and the sun was starting to peek through. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and in one slow, careful motion, she placed her hand on his chest. The steady beat of his heart under her palm was a reminder of how much he still cared.

“I’m willing to try,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m willing to try if you promise me that you’ll never let me go again.”

Harry’s eyes shone with tears, and he pulled her into his arms, his hands cupping her face gently as he kissed her forehead, his lips brushing softly over her skin. “I promise you, YNN. I’ll never let you go. You’re my everything. I love you.”

YN closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her. She hadn’t been sure if she could forgive him, if she could ever move past the hurt. But standing here in his arms, feeling his heart beat against hers, she realized that love wasn’t always easy. It wasn’t always simple. But it was worth fighting for.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with emotion.

And as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around them felt a little less heavy, a little less uncertain. The future was still unclear, but for the first time in a long time, they both had hope.

They’ll be alright.

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artbiter · 8 months ago

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wolf in sheep's clothing

art donaldson/reader nsfw summary: art falls for you first yet patrick gets the fortune of having you. what else is art supposed to do but play dirty? tags: stanford!art, stanford reader too, art is a borderline homewrecker, art donaldson is a SNAKE, patrick gets cucked right under his nose </3, oral, slight body worship, TBH idk note: hi this is my first time writing ff since .. 2021 .. and this is definitely a diff style from the ao3-approach i usually take to writing but please enjoy i really like art donaldson i really like challengers and i really like art taking what he wants (and i really like mike faist in blonde curls)

art donaldson is not a homewrecker, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't waiting for his chance with you.

he first meets you at one of his games, eyes flitting over the crowd and panting hard after a rather close singles win, before his gaze is magnetically drawn to your pretty face in the bleachers. smiling with your friends, you look so happy to just be watching this game, and when you make eye contact with art you wave excitedly like he's a celebrity, and whisper to your friends after he salutes back with a grin, trying to catch the breath your gorgeous smile has knocked out of him.

he wants to find you so bad after, and so he does. your friends are tennis groupies, hanging behind to flirt with any guy with a racket in hand, but you're just there for moral support. he chases after you just before you leave, just to say hi. an innocuous greeting and thanks for your support. and he sees how jealous your friends are that you tag along once with them and immediately get picked up by art freaking donaldson, but you seem to be oblivious, beaming at him and clasping your hands to your chest. you tell him he was great out there, that you've never "gotten" tennis but that you can feel he's a pro anyway. you part ways and he can't stop thinking about you.

when he tells patrick that he's met the prettiest girl he's ever seen at one of his matches, patrick thinks it's endearing and the epitome of dumb puppy love.

"did you even get her name? or were you just drooling over her?"

"nah, that would've been weird... right? oh shit, should i have? i was trying to be normal about it, i don't know." art beats himself up for not even picking up on your name in conversation, and resolves to seek out your identity and ask you out.

so when he finally has the fortune of seeing you again at a party, he's heartbroken when you smile and wave to patrick in tow.

"patrick!" you laugh and bound up to the pair. "didn't take you as a stanford party type of guy."

"i'm a plus one tonight. lucky i ran into you, huh?" patrick is eye-fucking you and doesn't even try to hide it, and art feels like doubling over in pure grief.

patrick notices but says nothing, only introducing you to art. "yeah, i'm here with my buddy art." he slaps art on the back lightly and art finds out that you and patrick met at another party before this. he remembers you from patrick's anecdotes over lunch, where patrick wouldn't shut up about the hottest chick he's ever seen who wouldn't go home with him, but has been texting ever since.

some other girl, presumably one of your friends, attaches herself to art's arm for the rest of the night, but he can't bring himself to notice or care when patrick kisses you and you lean into it.

patrick got to you first, and art hates himself for it. he won't admit it, but he feels the resentment festering inside of him as soon as patrick announces it's official.

the next best course of action for art is to play the best friend role, obviously. except like the unassuming snake art is, he's going to be your best friend, too.

he's your puppy, waiting on your beck and call — whatever you need, he's got it. your bio homework is impossible? sure, you can copy his. you got no sleep last night? he has your regular order from your favorite café committed to memory. patrick's being such a bad boyfriend? oh, tell him all about it.

"he's so inconsiderate," you whine, slumping over your pillow. "can you believe he forgot our six months? and when i brought it up, he didn't even say sorry. he was just, like, 'i didn't know we were still in high school.' i wanted to die, art, really."

art clicks his tongue in sympathy, criss-crossed on your dorm floor and nodding along to your laments. "no, he's definitely wrong here. i'm sorry he forgot something so important." for good measure, he adds in, "guys should be looking out for their girlfriends all the time. i'd be celebrating monthly anniversaries if i had a girl."

"ugh, right? i thought so, too." you flop back onto your bed, turning your head to gaze at art. he thinks you're so beautiful like this, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, bare faced with tears tinging your eyes. "you're a good guy. i don't know why you don't just date."

he doesn't want to date anyone if it isn't you, but he doesn't say this.

art watches you and patrick continue for another few rocky months, marked by arguments spawned from patrick's chronic nonchalance and your sensitivity to his perceived lack of care. and art gets the full report from both sides; patrick tells him all the time about how he's really trying to make you happy and support you, but he doesn't see why you value such small things. and you cry to art, sobbing that patrick never takes you out anymore if it isn't to fuck, that patrick is too friendly to other girls. art thinks to himself that patrick doesn't deserve you, but he rubs small circles on your back and reassures you that you need to do what's right for yourself.

(he's elated when you don't remove yourself from his touch.)

when you finally break it off with patrick, he hears it from his best friend first.

"dude, she dumped me." patrick's voice buzzes over the phone. "not gonna lie, i saw this one coming. but i thought i was doing good, seriously. fuck, what am i gonna do?"

"i'm sorry, man," art sympathizes before he hears a knock on his door. "yeah, it really does suck. take a breather for a few days. i'm sorry, but i really have to go right now." he peeks into the peephole and sees you standing outside. "let's talk more later?"

patrick is still rambling on the other end, but art hangs up and opens the door for you to immediately come spilling.

"art, i broke up with him. i really couldn't do it anymore." you tell art more things he already knows, like that you liked patrick a lot but you were just uncompatible in the end, and that you wished he listened. as always, art feeds into you, agreeing with your every word. something deep inside art tells him it's wrong to coax his best friend's girlfriend into breaking up with him, and that he's messed up for offering you his support when patrick technically should come first. but when you look up at art through wet eyelashes, sniffling and yearning for comfort, who is he to deny you?

art cups your face gently and presses his lips to yours. he doesn't miss how your eyes widen, but you don't jerk away. his heart pounds in his chest as he holds the small of your back with one hand while the other caresses your cheek. you smell so clean and warm, and your lips are so soft art wonders how patrick could ever give you up without a fight. it solidifies art's need for you, that if patrick won't make you happy, he will.

when you pull away from him, you're breathless, voice barely above a whisper. "art, i don't think we should—"

he can't contain himself from kissing your neck, relishing the soft, smooth expanse, inhaling your scent so deep into his lungs he finds it oxygen. "tell me you don't want this." he laps at your jaw, sucking light bruises onto the sides of your throat. "tell me you don't want me to treat you the way you should be, and i'll stop."

you moan his name involuntarily, and art takes it as the green light to carry you to his bed and kisses back up to your lips. "i'm sorry," he murmurs into your skin. "i'm sorry. i want you so bad."

"then show me," you sigh softly, hands rooting themselves into his blonde curls as his tongue probes your mouth.

like you even had to ask.

tugging down your sweatpants and feeling like coming just as the sight of your underwear, art immediately tears it off of you. he latches himself to your cunt, already weeping, and he looks up at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. "already so wet for me, baby?"

"mmf..." your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tighten their grip as you push his head forward, and he obliges.

he licks wide stripes, feeling you convulse and twitch every time his tongue comes in contact with your clit. his dick throbs in his pants just from eating you out.

"you taste so sweet. fuck, you're delicious," he pants, making out with your pussy like it's your lips. "don't know how i survived this long without you."

you buck your hips up into his mouth, mewling and spasming as he suckles and licks at just the right places. your cunt is soaked, but neither of you can tell whether it's from your arousal or how much art is slobbering over your pussy. "right there," you squeak out, a hot wave washing over your body as you cum on art's face.

and fuck, art almosts busts on the spot with you. his mouth doesn't cease, swirling patterns all over your vulva, grazing over your clit, dipping his tongue inside of you as you lock your legs around his head desperately.

"too much, too much!" you feebly try to pull his head up from your cunt, but he's so addicted to your taste he barely notices how sensitive you are now, how your clit twitches and aches for a break.

art can only laugh softly as he pulls himself back up to you, kissing you gently as his hands roam underneath your shirt and to your bra clasp.

"mm, you're so good," you gasp into art's mouth as his kiss becomes sloppier. "so good to me, art."

"it's what you deserve," he mumbles back, unhooking your bra and clumsily pulling your shirt off so your tits spill free. and even art is admired by his own self-restraint, just staring at your perfect body on display for him. he's been dreaming of this day for months now, jerking himself off late at night to thoughts of you sucking his cock, to pictures of you smiling on his phone, to the memory of your voice the day he met you. it's so wrong of him to fuck his best friend's ex fresh after the split, but why do you feel so right beneath him? "i've been waiting for this," he whispers into your neck. "been wanting to show you how much i want you. want to make you feel good. want to treat you so much better."

"fuck me, art, please," you beg him, relenting and palming at his boxers. you're so fucking easy, letting him touch you like this and being compliant as he undresses you, kisses you all over, shrugs his boxers off as you help him position his cock right at your entrance. it's not your fault that art has been nothing but kind and gentle to you. it's not your fault that he's been flirting with you since day 1, and now all his desires have culminated into head of a lifetime. and art finally has what he wants now: you.

and even when he barely pushes the tip in, he wants to cum inside of you so badly he feels dizzy. "so fucking tight, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum right now," he gasps in your ear as he unsheathes himself, stretching your warm, tight hole. "so perfect, holy shit. fucking made for me, baby, you feel so—" he can't stop himself from rutting into you, and he just about comes undone when he hears his name tumble from your lips in pained moans. it takes all the self-control in the world for art to not pour himself into your wet heat right now.

"slow down, art, fuck, you're so big," you sob, clawing at his back. he wishes he could fuck you nice and slow, the way he always envisioned his first time with you would be. he'd fantasized about nights with you full of languid strokes, making you scream his name with calculated, intentional thrusts straight to the spongy patch buried within you. but art is just a humble man, and when your walls, silky and warm, are choking his dick, he can't resist fucking into you like a jackhammer. you cry, moaning uncontrollably as your hands clutch tightly at him, letting his cock ruin you.

art's head goes fuzzy, and all he knows now is your pussy trying to milk him dry and that he can't say anything coherent besides strings of guttural moans telling you how warm, how tight, how good you feel on his dick, how your sweet cunt was made for him, how beautiful you look and sound at his mercy, how he wants you to be his so bad and that he'll do anything for you to be his. that his only regret is not claiming you first.

you keep crooning in his ear, honeyed moans that intoxicate him dizzier and dizzier as you tell him that he can have you. with a few more stutters of his hips, and a convulsing squeeze from your walls onto his cock, his head falls into the crook of your neck as he pulls out and shoots ropes all over your stomach, right as you cry out his name uncontrllably, heaving beneath him. a low, resounding grunt rips from his throat while his seed paints your abdomen, and he feels you shiver upon the warmth touching your skin.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again like the gentleman he is. his breath still heaves at an uneven rhythm, staggering as he attempts to regain his composure, but every time his eyes fall upon you it feels like he wants to go for round 2. "i'll clean you up, pretty girl. you were so perfect." he presses his forehead to yours, sweaty and damp, and whispers, "you were made for me."

some sick sense of pride fills art from head to toe as your body trembles in an attempt to catch your breath, your hair disheveled and lips puffy, patches of skin blooming pink and red from art essentially making out with every inch of your body. and you blush when you catch him staring, covering your face and murmuring for him to come back to bed.

he did this to you. he made you such a picturesque image of ruined perfection, splayed out on his bed and stained with his cum, pleading for his embrace.

patrick would have to pry you from his cold, dead hands.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson #art donaldson x you #challengers smut #challengers x reader

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vampsol · 7 months ago

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THE START OF TIME | 박종성

⟢ PAIRING: park (jay) jongseong x reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 8.6K ⟢ GENRE: angst, semi-fluff, smut ⟢ TAGS: friends to strangers to lovers, childhood friends, miscommunication, pet names (baby, love, etc.), unprotected sex, TRIGGERS FOR DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND PARENTAL ABUSE IN THE LATTER HALF OF FIC. ⟢ SYNOPSIS: You've lost your creative spark for the first time since moving away from Jeju Island, leaving behind your best friend in the process without an explanation. But when a work assignment sends you back to your hometown, truths come to light and perhaps lost love can come back with a little time and effort. ➸ bless @pars-ley for following this fic to the very beginning and being one of the best betas ever! this story is for you, ley, and thank you ♡💿Listen to the story's playlist here!

Over the thin railing that separates Jay from the cliffs below, the waves crash violently together. The weather mirrors the feelings circulating through his veins. The ripples of the seabed meeting the sand make him long for what his life could be instead of its current state. The wind whips his trenchcoat in angry thrashes against his back. His hands grip the lighthouse’s iron bars to keep his body steady. The upcoming storm was forecast last night to be one of the biggest downpours of the summer.

As the second in command of the lighthouse keeper, his father, it’s standard practice to be prepared for what’s to come. As the sea continues its visceral reaction to the weather, Jay thinks about her and what her life has become since she’s left. Is she happy? Is Seoul everything she dreamed of? Was running from Jeju without saying goodbye worth it? Or is she closer than he believes, her heart’s desire turning out to be not far from the fishing town they grew up in?

His father calls for him inside, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Probably for the better, anyway. Thinking about those chapters of his life, the book separated cleanly and harshly with a before and after, does him no good. So, like he should, he runs inside to do the next task that keeps one of the last lighthouses in Jeju working properly. Even if his heart has to be sacrificed in the process.

The subject of your next photograph takes no interest in the lens standing three feet away. Her tail wiggles rapidly as she inspects the bush in front of her with her perky, wet nose. You giggle quietly behind your camera, trying not to disturb her inspection of the roses.

Rule #1 of photography, according to your department head Sunghoon, is to make yourself nonexistent. To get the perfect shot, conceal yourself as much as possible. It’s taken many practice sessions since your first magazine catalog, the original photos coming out less than perfect. Thankfully, you’re now lead photographer thanks to Sunghoon’s tutelage and tips. After five years, you feel like you’re on stable ground.

It reminds you of Jay, the sudden memory of him being the focus of your lens many times before a punch to the gut. Your oldest friend in the world probably wonders what the reason was for your sudden departure. You couldn’t even leave him a letter to provide some semblance of an explanation, one that he definitely deserved more than anyone else.

If only you had a reason that made sense or could salvage the bond you once shared. You know now it’s been eaten away by silence, so what could be said anyhow to repair it?

Your guilt gnaws at your empty stomach the entire way back to the headquarters of Otherworldly, the magazine you interned at and subsequently were hired to take pictures for. You greet the rest of your team when you make your way upstairs.

”Finally found some inspiration?” Sunwoo asks. Your friend tries to balance a pencil on the top of his nose.

”I’m working on it. In the meantime, I got the copies you wanted.” You give him the folder that holds your pictures for the month’s spread.

”Barely made the deadline this time, kid.” Sunghoon tuts his head at you.

“Leave her be,” Chaewon chides him, thwacking her notebook on the back of his head. It’s nice to know the writer’s room has your back when the boys decide to tease, especially in the form of Chaewon. She may be a stern leader, but she also happens to have a soft spot for you, the only female photographer.

You hear your boss, Kim Taehyung, call your name and ask you to come to his office. Your body bristles at the command, but Chaewon pats you on the shoulder. “Probably just a timesheet thing.”

Tip-toeing into Taehyung’s office, you smile at his back. Your boss is focused on a box of files on the windowsill, the outline of his button up shirt highlighted by the sun. “Please sit,” he says.

You do as he asks, putting your hands on your knees to pinch the skin, an old habit you couldn't kick. You tuck your hands under your legs to stop when Taehyung turns to you. He presses his glasses higher to the bridge of his nose, a soft smile emerging on his lips. “I wanted to say your photos from the last column were very impressive.”

”Oh!” You respond instinctively. Expecting reprimands that turned out to be compliments, you mentally take a deep breath of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

"Also," he says, "I was wondering how you’d feel being sent out on an assignment. Well, you and Sunwoo, actually. Sunghoon was discussing a location-focused piece, and he recommended you for it since you may need a change of scenery for some fresh inspiration.”

You nod your head immediately. “Of course!”

Taehyung claps his hands together, clearly pleased. “Perfect. I’ve already booked you two for the next flight to Aewol in two days. It’ll probably be easy to find a place to stay, right?”

The pit in your stomach that faded immediately widens into a chasm. The sound of your hometown’s name on Taehyung’s lips could have been a figment of your imagination. A sick joke your guilt materialized to punish you further. But as you look longer at your boss, his glee transforming into hesitant confusion, you know the reality is far worse.

”The location piece is for Jeju,” you say, the realization on your lips hitting your ears like a cannon.

”Is that an issue? I can always send Jungwon with Sunwoo instead."

”No sir! Not a problem at all.” The words tumble out before you can stop them.

Jungwon, the little prick, wouldn’t get in the way of your success if you could help it. It’s bad enough that he reminds you of your creative block whenever he gets the chance. No way would he steal a cover piece from you. Particularly the one Sunghoon recommended you for and your boss expected you to complete without problems.

Despite the implications creating intense dread in every fiber of your being.

”Perfect. Get some sleep for the flight! I’ll send the piece details in an email first thing tomorrow morning.”

You walk back to your desk in a daze, unsure what to say when Sunghoon, Sunwoo, and Chaewon ask about the meeting. All your thoughts can center on is Jay, his smiling face continuously playing in your mind’s eye.

“This town is cute! A bit barren, but cute,” Sunwoo says as he exits the car parked in front of your childhood home. Your mother’s rose bushes stand tall near the mailbox, the only color in the dry grasslands surrounding your house. Aewol pales in comparison to the colors of Seoul, the city’s vibrant hues suddenly replaced with sepia tones. The only color that seems to shine through the landscape is the sea a five-minute walk away.

”Say that again, Woo, and your face won’t look so cute.” You roll your eyes and grab your luggage from the trunk.

Two weeks, only two weeks, you can survive two weeks. Your mantra on the flight to Jeju Island has been giving you some relief at the thought of going back home in half a decade. Standing in front of the brick and mortar that encapsulates your old house, you find the words to be extremely hollow.

With her uncanny senses, your mother is already out the door and greeting you and Sunwoo with hugs and kisses on the cheeks. How she could tell the two of you were barely out of the car without spying out the window, you’re unsure.

Sunwoo melts under your mother’s attention, his gummy smile and polite aura on full display. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

”Ah, my prayers were answered. Glad to see my daughter returned with a boyfriend!”

Yours and Sunwoo’s eyes grow to saucers. Your tongues are erupting with explanations at an absurdly fast speed. “No, Mom,” you shush her as Sunwoo’s blush creeps across his neck. “Woo’s my coworker. He’s here with me on an assignment.”

”Oh! Apologies.” She laughs behind one hand and pats Sunwoo on the back with the other. “Doesn’t mean one day you can’t be more than coworkers! That’s how your father and I met, remember?”

You give her a close-lipped smile and nod, the muscles in your jaw tightening.

You hadn’t thought about your father or your parents’ relationship once since you had flown out to the mainland. Admittedly, your life was all the better for it.

Feeling the air of his presence surrounding yours again twists the veins in your neck to tense knots. The ends of your hair prickle in anticipation. You make it to the front of your doorstep, wondering where he is and why he didn’t barge outside to greet you.

Like she can read your mind, your mother says, “I forgot to call and tell you, honey. Your father had an accident at the factory a month ago.” You see a tear in the corner of her eye, but you don’t address it. “So…he’s been bedridden for the past few months now.”

Sunwoo expresses his deepest sympathies. Unbeknownst to him, they deserve to go to the next beggar before him.

Like any other child, you should worry about your father’s sudden health change with a heavy heart and a frazzled mind. You should feel guilty for being away for so long, wondering how to make up for the lost time.

But you feel nothing. Not an ounce of what you should feel.

Even when you sit by your parents’ bed, his eyes lazily gazing out the window while your mother tells him in a loving voice that you’re home, your emotions are devoid of anything negative or positive. Sunwoo smiles and greets him politely. Your father says nothing. The seizure that overtook him stole his ability to enunciate coherent words.

Some moments later, when it’s just the two of you in the room together, you itch to leave. It should be a pleasure to see him. But you’re unsure to see it any other way but objectively: he’s just a body in a bed, doing nothing every day.

You hear your mother shouting in the living room. Her voice is at an abnormally high pitch to exemplify her happiness. You forgot she could achieve such a decibel when she wanted to.

”You won’t believe who’s here, Seongie!”

Seongie.

The childhood nickname Jay was blessed with by his parents, and the name stuck like a second skin. Now, it bounces off your ears and exacerbates your already conflicting emotions. Your body goes into overdrive from the sudden overstimulation, at ease from knowing Jay is close by but petrified you're seeing him after so long.

You fix your hair and take tentative steps out of your parents' room and into the hallway, hearing your mother call your name to beckon you to welcome your old friend.

When you see him, his frame filling the doorway of your childhood house, you’re transported back in time. You see yourself and Jay on a day when he could barely stand at half the wall height. You were etching pencil markings into the doorframe, the wood concealing the handwriting perfectly when the door was fully closed. A time when there were no worries or anxieties placed on you, the two of you against the world.

Looking over his face now, you realize the years have not shown physically. He still has the same angled jaw and smooth cheeks. His bottom lip remains puffy, especially when he pouts. The only thing that has changed with time is his eyes, most likely from the image before him, one he hasn’t seen in so long.

He has every right to be confused. One second, you stopped being a staple in his life. Now, you’re back in it without a warning.

You can’t deny your heart clenching. The muscle seizes when he looks over your figure, his jaw ticking when he finally meets your eyes with his own.

”You’re back,” he says finally. His first words to you in five years hold an air of uncertainty, laced with unspoken pain. He’s unsure what to do with his body, his arms pressed to his sides and his hands stuffed tightly into his pockets.

Knowing you’re the cause of it makes you want to run to Seoul all over again with your tail between your legs, hoping you can forget the misery you’ve caused. How can one apology hold enough weight to make up for what you did to one of the only people you’ve ever loved?

Sunwoo, aware of the sudden tension flooding the room, holds out a hand to your best friend. “Hi, I’m Sunwoo.”

Jay breaks eye contact with you to take Sunwoo’s palm, shaking it with a gentle but present grip. Jay gestures to your mom when he discusses yours and Sunwoo’s job at the magazine. “She’s very proud of her daughter, you know."

”Of course!” Your mother exclaims. “‘S not everyday that your child becomes some hip photographer.”

Jay inhales a heavy breath and looks down at his watch. “I have to go back to the lighthouse, but—“

”I thought your dad still ran that thing,” you cut Jay off. Aewol’s lighthouse was one of the last on the island, and the last love Jay’s father had left after his wife passed away twelve years ago. You expected it to stay in the family, but not in this way. Not when Jay has so many dreams to fulfill. Or, at least, you hope so.

Jay releases a humorless laugh, eyes falling at the corners. “Pop’s getting old. Can’t do it forever.”

He hugs your mother and gives a soft wave to Sunwoo. You feel the pit in your chest from a few days ago re-erupt when Jay looks in your direction before he departs. All you’re left with is the grim line of his mouth to haunt you for the rest of your afternoon.

The shutter of your camera makes Jay turn his head to you with a shy grin, his hair blowing in all directions from the wind. Your spot on the cliffside overlooking the sea is close enough to the lighthouse for you to see Jay’s father going in and out of the structure with supplies shipped from the mainland. Jay only runs over when his father calls for him to help, but his father hasn’t bothered to in the last hour or so.

In the downtime, the two of you have been alternating between science homework and enjoying the cool, cloudy weather. You’ve taken a number of shots of the water’s current and weeds surrounding your picnic blanket, but the majority of them were of your best friend. He pretends he’s going to smack your lens away, but he never does.

“Are you done taking candid shots of me?” Jay asks, his pencil scratching against his notebook.

“Depends. Maybe once you tell me what you’re writing,” you tease. “Because it’s definitely not a chemical equation.”

Jay chuckles and puts his notebook between the two of you. The words are jumbled in front of you until you recognize them as a recipe. “I was testing out this version of hoedeopbap last night, but I used white fish instead of salmon. It turned out really good, even Jaeyun liked it.”

You rest your head on your hand, sprawling out on the blanket to look at Jay. He always appears so animated when discussing food. You wonder when he’ll take the initiative and do something with his passion.

“What?” He asks when he catches you staring.

You grin and turn your eyes away. “You’re just a dork for food, is all.”

“Says the nerd with her camera always around her neck.”

You click your tongue at him. “I consider myself an opportunist. How else will I get good shots if I don’t have my baby with me?” You rub your camera’s body lovingly, and Jay releases a hearty laugh.

The booming sound of your father’s voice calling your name makes your entire body flinch. You swear his figure is as tall as the lighthouse as he comes towards your picnic blanket, stopping short when he sees Jay next to you.

“It’s almost dinner time. Let’s go home.” Your father says the words with a false ease; they hide his warning to follow him back to your house. Your anxiety rumbles low in your stomach, but you play it off like it’s nothing as you pack up your stuff.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jay says, his eyes hopeful for the next morning. As it is your routine for him to bike with you to school, you’re also counting the minutes until you see him again.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, your eyes soft but your stomach wrapped in knots. When you’re out of sight, and your father wraps his hand around your upper arm on your way to the car, you calculate the next seconds until you’re away from him and back in the safety of your best friend’s presence.

You and Sunwoo have been around the town square of Aewol all morning and afternoon. The crisp hour of 4 PM hits you sharply with the sound of cows and other livestock sounding off somewhere nearby. The pictures you’ve both taken of the local townspeople, random animals passing through the pale greenery, and subtle landscape have been average at best. They don’t hit you with awe or fuel any further inspiration. It’s the same cycle you’ve repeated for the past three months, trying to strike some sort of match of creativity only to come up empty.

“Let’s be honest,” Sunwoo says, looking over his own camera’s reel. “These kinda blow.”

“You don’t say?” You kick a free cobblestone off the road in front of you, lips downturned.

“The assignment is ‘Hidden Treasures’ right? Maybe we’re just looking in the wrong place.”

“Where do you think we’ll find something like that here?”

“You’re a local,” Sunwoo says in his defense. “Where did you go all the time in this backwater town?”

The beginning of your sarcastic remark dies on your lips the second you see Jay walking out of the laundromat with Heeseung, one of your old high school friends. He looks the same as Jay, still youthful but showing maturity around the edges.

Jay catches your eyes as they continue walking, his face contorting in surprise but unsure how to address it. Heeseung is the one to run towards you and pick you up in a tight hug, practically squeezing the remaining energy out of you.

“Holy shit, Jong wasn’t lying! You’re really back!” Heeseung laughs, his eyes becoming crescent moons from his happiness. You match his reaction, genuinely glad to see another familiar face.

You introduce Sunwoo to Heeseung, and Sunwoo exchanges pleasantries with Jay. Jay remains tense, the two of you conflicted about how to bridge the awkwardness that lingers.

Heeseung, like Sunwoo, is a great detective, sniffing out tension and immediately directing the conversation to your cameras. “So, Jong was saying you’re here for an assignment?”

“Yes!” Sunwoo says before you can. “We’re trying to find hidden treasures, actually. Our boss’s words, not mine.” Heeseung laughs at Sunwoo and then flicks his fingers.

“Jong could show you guys the inside of the lighthouse! Or even the view from that damn balcony would be a treasure in its own right. You can practically see the whole town from up there. Right, Jong?”

Jay rolls his eyes and rolls the cuffs of his sleeves up to his elbows. “Yeah, that would be fine.”

“Perfect! We were dying here without any good material. No offense to you small town folk,” Sunwoo apologizes, but neither of your old friends mind. They welcome Sunwoo’s city perspective with laughter and an open hand, just like they always have with newcomers.

On your walk to the lighthouse, Heeseung and Sunwoo taking the lead, you’re left to walk alongside Jay. The tension is a tad looser than it was before, but it still pervades the space between you both.

Finally, Jay says, “I can’t believe you’re actually home, y’know.” He says the sentence more like a question, his voice unable to mask the traces of hurt that linger.

It makes your heart rip, but you avoid the workings inside your chest to keep the conversation light. "It took a long time, didn't it?”

”Yeah. It’s like you dropped off the planet.” Jay’s voice turns a degree lighter. He smiles, the crack in his solid facade giving you a way back in.

“I basically did. All I had was my camera and some clothes in my bag.”

Jay's eyes widen, startled by the thought. “You’ve never traveled light once in your entire life.”

”I know! I barely had time to grab the necessities.”

His eyes are filled with humor. “And by that, you mean…”

“Obviously my Pokémon collection, for starters. I had to start from scratch,” you joke. “Good thing I saved all of the old cards under my bed.”

”Even the one of Charmander that I dropped in Jaeyun’s homemade soju?”

You nod, laughing. “It still smells like watermelon.”

”Bullshit!”

You both fall into an easy rhythm of witty banter and taunting, recalling old memories and brushing shoulders in a mocking fashion.

By the time you’re taking photographs on the highest floor of the lighthouse, the tension has dissipated by a large portion. Your relationship with Jay may not be completely back to where it was before, but the first lighthearted smile he throws in your direction proves it’s a start.

And a start is just enough to make your heart feel a million pounds lighter.

“So Jongseong is flailing this card around, not realizing that the bowl of my signature soju punch is right there behind him…” Jake tells the story of the Charmander card with animated expressions. Heeseung and Jay roll their eyes, but Sunwoo laughs the entire time, his buzz bumping his energy to a level you had never seen before.

The bonfire Jake and Heeseung set up a walk away from the lighthouse is big enough for all five of you to sit comfortably around it. It seemed to be the only way your old friends could hang out together at this point in their adult lives. The bar that still stood in town filled with too many old people to feel like an acceptable hangout location.

“And he completely dropped not only her precious Pokémon card, but his whole fist into the punch bowl! I had to make a whole new batch without my parents knowing about it!” Jake laughs incredulously.

The memory still holds a level of insanity for him, clearly—not just at the situation but the level of teasing that you and Jay would devolve to when you were in your own little world together. You couldn’t help that you wanted to take your card from Jay’s hands, even if that meant soaking him in alcohol to get him to give it up.

You lift your beer to your lips, blushing. Jay sits beside you and notices the humor in your expression, smiling to himself too. You didn’t expect to reach this level of closeness again so soon. Who knew it would take a work project to find your way back to each other? With the week coming to a close and a good catalog of photos under your belt thanks to him, you could say the glass was looking half full.

“You guys got any more stories? This shit’s hilarious!” Sunwoo says, still laughing.

“Loads, man,” Jake responds.

“He’s got the best memory of all of us. Probably remembers all of our first naps in elementary,” Heeseung adds.

“How about we focus on the present, please? Otherwise we’ll be here until the sun comes up, Dee and Dum,” Jay says, pointing to the prime suspects with their all-knowing smirks.

“What else is there to say, Jay? Jake and I have been toiling on the dredging boats. You keep guarding that white tower and saying no to your uncle every time he asks you to work at his restaurant. Same old, same old.”

You turn your head to stare at Jay, perplexed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

It’s always been Jay’s dream to make something of himself with his recipes. Bookmarks, sticky notes, anything with free space held an ingredient here or a step for a recipe there. It was like it was second nature, as were photographs for you.

How could he deny himself from what he wanted?

“I already have responsibilities here. I can’t drive up and down the highway to Park & Co. every day.”

“Start small, idiot.” You chide him, half-serious in your pestering. “Who said you couldn't do both? You can be a good son and still have your own dream.”

“Careful,” Jake says to you. “He might listen to you.”

“You’re the only one who gets through that cold heart of his,” Heeseung teases.

Jay gives the older boys a stern look, and they back off immediately.

On the walk back to your house, Jay’s jacket nestled around your shoulders, you grill him further on the prospect of him cooking seriously. “You should do it.”

Jay shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “And what’ll happen to the lighthouse? My dad will go back every morning on his cane and keep it working himself? No way.”

“Come on, who says you can’t do both?” You flaunt your arms in the air, emphasizing your point. “It’s not like it rains every day here.”

He looks at you with humored eyes, their shape becoming extremely thin when he smiles. “You’re even more stubborn as an adult, you know?

You poke your tongue out at him. “I could say the same about you, Seongie.”

The rain soaks your clothes when you run through Jay’s door. You shake off the droplets in your hair, most of the strands needing to be wrung out in your fist. Jay gets you a towel to dry off with, laughing at your current state of affairs.

”Don’t make fun of me. Be glad I still came, asshole,” you warn, warming yourself with the dryness of the cotton towel.

Jay raises his hands in mercy. “I told you to come earlier! Forecasts are no joke.”

”Sometimes they’re wrong,” you say.

”Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re not. Trust the lighthouse keeper next time, maybe? I’ve been watching those skies for three years. I know if and when the weathermen are full of shit.”

You roll your eyes and shuck your shoes off, “Whatever. Any chance you have a spare pair of warm socks for me? I may get frostbite.”

”One, that involves snow,” Jay says as he walks into his small bedroom, leaving you alone for a second before coming out with what you requested. “And two, promise to bring them back. I only have so many pairs before I have to go to the city for more.”

”Scout’s honor,” you promise. You switch out your soaked socks for Jay’s, the feeling of the fabric making you immediately warmer. It could also be the fireplace that Jay put kindling in before you got there, but it’s mostly the socks. “Thank you. I feel better already.”

“I’d offer you a set of clothes too, but I’m moving a lot of my stuff from my dad’s.”

“It’s not that far away, though. You really want to live in this tiny shack?”

Jay laughs and returns to his food on the stove. “Do you think I could bring a girl home living with him? I love him, but I’m getting too old to be his roommate.”

You smile and press your arms into the kitchen counter, but you know it’s false. The thought of Jay being with someone else sprouts a gargantuan knot of jealousy in your stomach. He’s never belonged to you, not by any means. Not only that, but your illogical departure gives you no right to claim him now. And yet…

“Hey, where’d you go?” He waves a dish towel in front of your face, a smile on his lips.

“Sorry, just lost in thought,” you play off your prying thoughts.

“Obviously.” He sticks his tongue out at you and continues to stir the concoction on the stove.

“What are you making anyway?”

“Seaweed soup. I haven’t been able to make you any since…the last birthday we spent together.”

Your body warms deep down to the soles of your feet at this surprise. “My birthday was three months ago.”

He chuckles and turns his head to you, smirking. “Consider it a belated birthday gift then.” He carries on stirring, but continues talking. “Besides, you always liked my soup compared to your mom’s. Too watery, if I remember right.”

You blush and step away from the counter. “Let’s not talk about her or her food.”

Jay’s face turns puzzled. “You’ve always been so bristly when we talk about your family. Your mom is one of the sweetest ladies in town."

“You don’t get it. You didn’t grow up with her.”

“Hey, at least you have both parents around.”

You slam your hand down on another laminate countertop, growing more frustrated the longer the topic is broached. “Jongseong, please drop it.”

“Why are you getting so upset?” He asks, puzzled and growing alarmingly quiet at your outburst.

“Because you don’t get it! And you never will, okay? So let it go!”

The kitchen suddenly feels too suffocating, the memories of the past and your argument melding together in a way that makes any hunger that you had become a full stomach stuffed with nothing but anger and fear. You run out of the house and back into the rain, knowing if you say anything more, your secrets will fall around you like pellets soaking your skin.

The lanterns fill the sky like a thousand stars, close enough for you to touch before they’re whisked away into the dark clouds above you. Even for your small town, every adult and child knows the end of summer festival is a time to make the last set of wishes and affirmations before autumn comes. If Jay’s father yearned for an easy season, he would buy a lantern to release on a night light tonight, as would your friends’ families who hoped for good health and fortune.

You smile when you manage to catch one, holding on tight despite knowing it’s against tradition. Once one is meant to float away, it was considered rude to stop it from continuing on its path upward.

Jay chuckles and grabs it from you, matching your pout in jest. “Next year, I’ll buy you your own, alright? Don’t be greedy!”

You roll your eyes and watch the lantern rise up and away from your spot on the beach. It shimmers in an amber glow until it slips away into the black sky overhead.

You turn to him, eyes lit up not just from the lantern flames. “Did you wish for anything this year?”

Jay shrugs. “I can’t really wish for anything ‘cause I didn’t get—“

“Don’t give me that! It’s symbolic, anyway. Just tell me,” you whine.

Jay only side-eyes you, a smirk playing on his lips.

You attempt to throw a bundle of sand in his direction, but he sees your upcoming attack the second you raise your arm. He takes your wrist in his hand, the clump disintegrating between your fingers. The two of you laugh as you try to wiggle free from his grasp.

You’re both a tangle of limbs until he finally pins you down on the ground. He hovers above you, panting hard. “I win,” Jay replies, his breathing ragged but eyes still sparkling from a successful takedown.

“You wish.”

In the flicker of lantern lights and midnight stars overhead, Jay can’t help himself from leaning down closer until there’s barely a breath between your lips. He lets every doubt that has lingered over the past fourteen years dissipate and surrenders to the moment, feeling the softness of your mouth as he kisses you.

You could be glowing as bright as the lights still being sent off into the sky. You feel like you are, anyway.

He doesn’t go faster or push you further, the simplicity of the act making you sparkle from within with every ebb and flow of your conjoined lips. The crackle of a firework is what makes the two of you come up for air, unaware of how much time has passed.

You let the moment hang between you the entire walk home. He holds your hand, squeezing it every now and then, the action more valuable than any words he could say right now. He holds himself back from giving you another kiss to say goodnight, knowing there’s always tomorrow.

Minutes after you make it inside, the scene in front of you turns whatever joy was left from Jay’s presence into acid.

“Can you not do anything right around here? I ask for the simplest things and even that’s too much.” Your father points to the food in his hands with an air of disgust directed at your mother.

He spits his vitriol in her face, the pattern commonplace. The behavior is nothing new, but his eyes show something worse than normal brewing beneath the surface.

“I can fix it,” your mother assures him, trying to take the bowl from him. “I’ll throw out the old batch and—“

“So now you think wasting food is the better choice? Are you stupid?”

The two of them are unaware of your presence, but even if they were, you doubt that would change the downward spiral they were heading towards.

She tries to walk away from him like she always has, diffusing the situation in the only way she knows how, but he drops the bowl on the counter and takes her by the arm.

“You’re not leaving,” he warns. The next moments pass in a blur, each one that plays out making you hover outside of your body, looking down in disbelief. Your mother’s temple hits the wood with a terrible thud. The next second, your body is pressed against your father’s to pull him away, begging, “Daddy, please stop!”

His upper arm has enough force to jam into your chest and knock you onto the kitchen tile below. Pain reverberates up your tailbone from hitting the floor in a violent bang.

Your mother comes from the daze of her assault to cover your body with her own. It’s a pointless defense, your father’s feet slamming hard on the floor as he walks away and into the bedroom without looking back once.

She apologizes profusely, holding your head in her hands as tears stream down her face without an endpoint. You can barely form a tear yourself, still unsure the past ten minutes happened at all. An hour ago, you had your first kiss, and now…

“Your aunt lives on a coast off the mainland. I can’t let you stay here anymore, my love.”

That moment is when you feel the water form in your eyes. You couldn’t leave now, not with so much left uncertain.

“Promise me you’ll leave this place. Don’t think about this night again and find something better, please.”

That entire night, the waves knocking into each other with the same force as you had encountered hours ago, you feel your heart shatter into a multitude of pieces, each fragment tinier and more painful than the last. The thought of Jay waking up to see you in the morning only to find you erased from his life, robs any chance of you sleeping on the boat ride to Wando.

He’ll try to call and text, for sure. But what could be said that would explain the last twenty four hours without breaking your promise to your mother? How could you live with sharing such intimate details of your household, even with someone as sacred to you as Jay is?

How could you make him believe it wasn’t his fault that you fled without revealing your most vulnerable and harsh reality? After coming so close to the future you always dreamed of with him, what would he think? What would he do?

So, like any coward does, you let the phone ring until your battery dies, not bothering to charge it again until you make it to your aunt’s. You tell yourself he’ll move on and life will be better with you safe and out of the picture. Every beat of your breaking heart may call you a liar, but you’ll learn to twist it into the truth one day.

The next afternoon, sun slowly setting to meet the waves below, you walk towards the lighthouse with the courage your younger self didn’t have the night you ran away. Your heart tosses around in your mouth when you take the first step through the threshold, but now is the last time you fear the truth. If you couldn’t explain the circumstances back then, the least you could do was explain them now.

You take the trek up the steps to the top floor of the lighthouse, every step heavier than the last. Jay stands inside the lantern room cleaning the large bulb at the center of the space. He immediately tenses when you walk through the open door, but he says nothing. He only holds the same somber expression he had the first day you arrived back in Aewol. Only now, so much more rests behind his face that you cannot decipher.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. The words release something you believed couldn’t be separated from your being. Your guilt remains present, but the apology provides a long-held breath of fresh air.

He looks up to meet your gaze, eyebrows furrowing just a touch. The setting sun casts amber shadows across his face, making his confusion breathtaking. Clearly, he’s unsure what exactly you’re apologizing for.

The next words already taste like lead in your mouth, but you can’t hold the weight of them for another second.

Speaking them out loud is what will set you free.

“The night I left, my dad pushed my mom into a cabinet,” you confess. The eight words you just uttered create a well of tears in your eyes, but you keep your voice level and solid. “He had always been…harsh before, not just with her, but that was the first night I ever saw him hurt her with his hands instead of his words.

“I tried to stop it from getting worse, and I fell down—no,” you take a breath, “h-he threw—he threw me down on the floor.” You feel foolish for trying to minimize his actions, knowing there’s no reason to protect him anymore. You lower your head, ashamed. “That was when my mom called my aunt in Wando. She begged me not to say anything, so I kept it a secret. You’re the first person I’ve ever told about it… and about how much of an asshole my father really is.”

You can’t help the way your words crumble on your tongue or the low whimper that erupts from your lips. You had accepted in silence the harsh reality of your father being a violent and cruel human being, but speaking the words aloud is another beast entirely.

You go cold, your figure limp until you feel Jay’s gentle fingers under your chin. They pull your face up to meet his, catching his glassy and red eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

You sniffle. “What would you have done? We were seventeen—“

“Fuck that,” Jay seethes, his face a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I would’ve killed him then, just like I want to right now.”

You laugh and take his fingers in yours. “I made a promise.” You lock onto his gaze harder, trying to convey every ounce of regret you still feel. “I thought about calling you every day. I’d pick up the phone and didn’t know how to come up with the right words, especially after…”

Jay laughs, passing over the curve of your cheek with his thumb. It’s the rhythmic pattern of his touch that makes you come down from such heightened emotions. It’s always been his superpower, grounding you like this. “If I had known I wouldn’t see you again, I would’ve kissed you until the sun came up.”

You blush, your body flushing with heat. “Nothing’s stopping you now, Jongseong. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He steps forward, the shy boy you grew to love appearing in front of you. The last time you were this close, you both were unsure about most things in life, but not about how much you meant to him, and vice versa.

Now, the feelings he had put on hold for so long take hold of him, his heart a kaleidoscope of pent-up sensations when he finally presses his lips to yours. His mouth is ravenous, his tongue finding yours as his arms clutches onto your body with fervor.

You’re encased in him, all the lost time suddenly found in the spaces of his mouth on yours, your hands on his body, and the moans that leave your mouth. He undoes the buttons of your cardigan with quick ease, taking it off of your shoulders and somewhere in the room you don’t care to remember. You help him pull the sweater over his head to kiss the column of his throat and top of his chest, making him shudder.

You both pause to hurry down to the drawing room below, not wanting to continue on the iron floor next to the bright bulb of the lighthouse. Yes, the cot off to the side of the room is not incredibly comfortable, but you care little about its lack of comfort when Jay lays you down on your back and smothers your body in kisses. He makes a map of your skin until he meets the apex of your thighs, your body highly strung by the time he kisses the center of your legs.

You clutch his hair with both hands and hold tight in the midst of his ministrations, his whispered words of affirmation and the figure-eight patterns of his tongue saying just enough to push you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

He lifts his head from your body to crawl over you, his heart in his mouth as he says the words that have always been in his mind and heart from the second he saw you. “I love you.”

You’re unsure if it’s normal to cry at such a confession or in the midst of your current situation, but regardless, there are no tears of fear or pain. They’re ones that fill the silence between you with what he already knows to be true. But you say the words he needs to hear anyway. “I love you, too, Seongie.”

This is what it feels like to be at home. His body against yours, him sliding so easily inside of you without a word needed for the immense amounts of pleasure that already exists. It could be a handful of minutes or a span of time that carries over into the next morning. All that matters is his lips on your own and his hips meeting yours with every thrust.

And in between every movement, he has to remind you how much he loves you. His words and feelings are already embossed into your heart, but it’s nice to hear the breathless cadence of his voice. “I love you so much,” he groans, his end close with the sudden stutters of his body.

You fall off the cliffside together, your bodies in sync in the best possible way as your eyes see the stars from the very first night you kissed in the back of your eyelids. And when he has his hands in your hair, his touch lulling you to sleep, you wonder why it took you this long to come back to the one person who has always been the safest space in your world.

The two of you stay nestled in the thin blanket, Jay’s body your source of warmth in the small drawing room of the lighthouse. The cot barely holds your bodies, but with you both squeezing together and not wanting to let go, you make it work.

Jay takes stray hairs from your face to tuck behind your ears. “I can’t believe you didn’t know how bad my crush was until the festival.”

You giggle into his chest. “I wasn’t paying attention to boys back then! How would I have known?” You hold his gaze, suddenly vulnerable.

He chuckles. “I think I was pretty obvious.”

“To everyone but me, I guess,” you joke. “Besides, I think I always knew I’d end up with you, strangely.”

“That’s not strange, not at all.” He kisses you tenderly, nipping your lips until you laugh into his mouth. “Perfect. At least to me.”

“Same,” you agree. “I’ve never felt more at home than when I’m with you.”

Jay responds by holding you tighter between his arms. He kisses the top of your head before whispering, “So where do we go from here?”

The answer is simple, but that doesn’t make it any easier to face.

Jay looks deeply into your eyes and senses the words you cannot say, and the strength of his stare and his arms as your protective walls from all the harm that still exists in this world gives you the power to confront what you need to.

That afternoon, leaving Jay in the lighthouse with your heart fully in his possession, you know you have to face the demons that wait for you in your childhood home. If you are to have a future together, the first thing you have to do is make peace with the past.

A handwritten note on the fridge tells you your mother went out for groceries, giving you the perfect excuse to release the words that would end your terror once and for all.

You enter your parents’ room to see your father, unmoved from the spot you saw him in on the first day you were back home. Your mother pleaded for you to check in every now and then now that you were back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Not until now.

You move the chair by his bedside out to sit down. When you finally face him again, you take note of the details you were too blinded by indifference to notice before. You observe the wrinkles on his forehead, the sunken divots under his eyes, the age lines surrounding his mouth, the frailness of his body.

The weight he’s lost since his accident makes all his features stand out more. All that he’s lost, but has also always been, is on full display now: this husk of a man without the venomous words and bravado to hide behind is truly nothing to be scared of anymore.

“You’re so much smaller than I realized.” You say it with a breath of relief, any fear or anger that was left behind for him in your soul replaced with pity. You can walk away without regrets or words you wish you could’ve said, because you know now it’s a waste of your peace. Maybe one day, you’ll find it in your heart to forgive, even. Not today, but someday.

You walk away with no grievances left, back in the direction of the lighthouse with a new purpose and ready to take the path you were always meant to. Back to the home you’ve always had resting inside of the one you love.

Jay stands with his back facing you, staring off into the expanse of sea in front of him. His shoulders ease as you step closer.

“You’re back,” he says with saccharine happiness. He takes your hand in his and presses your fingers to his lips.

“I am,” you respond. You kiss him with your whole soul, incredibly in love and unafraid of what will come next.

“Babe! The new issue is here!”

You open your eyes to the sound of Jay’s words. You could barely doze off when he was so excited to grab the mail this morning. It was only delivered a few minutes ago, but of course he has to check for the newest spread of Otherworldly in your mailbox. To his happiness and your shy pride, your name’s plastered in almost every section of the photography credits.

Convincing your boss to let you work for the magazine from your hometown turned out to be easier than expected. With his happiness from your newfound inspiration, it seemed like you could take pictures of algae for all he cared and it would be a hit in the magazine’s eyes.

You weren’t the only one who could take credit, though. Jay’s name was also included in some of the photos, his insight into Aewol’s cuisine and new sous chef position at Park & Co providing more than enough influence for your photography. The lighthouse would always be his priority (aside from you), but his second love of food could not be kept at bay any longer.

He opens the magazine to the first page that features your photos, the centerfold being of Jay’s original recipe for hoedeopbap. “It looks even better in print,” Jay says, his face three shades brighter staring at the meal.

You giggle and wrap your arms around his middle, peeking your head out from the side of his shoulder to look at the pages. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”

“Some of the best you’ve ever done.” He turns in your hold to press your chest to his, kissing your forehead in the process. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“Actually, getting lucky is how we got this.” You take his hand and rest it on the curve of your stomach, fifteen weeks peaking out from under the midriff of your tank top.

He laughs and presses his lips to your cheek. “I love you.”

To your surprise, peace was easier to find than you had expected. Confronting what you ran away from all those years ago feels like a distant memory, the pain of the past a part of another reality. There are no monsters that creep in the shadows or secrets to keep locked behind closed doors.

All that remains is the ease that comes from a life filled with nothing but love and happiness, as weightless and freeing as a lantern floating through the sky.

“I love you too, Park Jongseong.”

@junekissed (thank for beta-ing also june!! ilysm) @yvnempire @sjylouvre @mini-mews @jayparked @heesuncore @yoursjaeyun @sungbeams @jenoslutie @loserlvrss

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kvanity-main @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @sayxonet @violetanet @svthub @whipped-kpop-creators

#kvanity #svnet #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #park jongseong x reader #park jongseong smut #enha smut #jongseong smut #enha fic #enha fics #enhypen fics #enhypen fic #park jongseong fic #park jongseong fics #enha x reader #park jongseong scenarios

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theastralsage · 2 days ago

Text

Folded Hands

❤︎ tags and content: strip poker, friends to lovers, emotional sex, soft dom caleb, possessive, praise kink, table sex, first times, caleb x f!reader ❤︎ author note: reuploaded 🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 theastralsage do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

It starts with a bottle of wine and an innocent game of poker—just a quiet night on Skyhaven, something light to pass the time between missions and memories. But when the clothes begin to come off, the stakes rise higher than either of you planned.

For Caleb, restraint has always been second nature: in battle, in command, even in love. But when he sees you again—sitting before him, laughter on your lips and old longing in your eyes—he learns what it means to fold.

You don’t warn him that you’re coming.

You know his schedule by now—know the window when patrol shifts ease and the briefing rooms go quiet, when he might have a sliver of time to breathe without a headset pressed to his ear or someone barking his title down a comm line. It’s selfish, maybe, showing up unannounced, but something about Skyhaven’s artificial skyline and the faint hum of the platform beneath your boots feels too sterile without him.

You pass two levels of clearance before reaching his wing. The security personnel stationed outside glance at you but don’t question a thing—they know your face, probably know your name too. Caleb’s name gets you into places most people never dream of, and the thought settles strangely in your chest.

You pause outside his door, hand hovering near the chime for a beat longer than you mean to. Then, with a quiet breath, you press it.

The door slides open almost immediately, like he was already on the other side.

He doesn’t speak at first—just stands there in the entryway, jacket sleeves rolled to his elbows, dog tags peeking from beneath the collar of his half-buttoned shirt, hair still damp from a recent shower. There’s a moment of silence, but it isn’t awkward. If anything, it stretches soft and golden between you like the sun lingering just a little longer on the horizon.

Finally, his voice breaks it. “Pipsqueak. You came.”

You smile, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “I figured you might need someone to make sure you were still eating real food and not surviving off nutrient packs again.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Guilty as charged.”

You expect him to step aside, to usher you in like he always does, but instead he studies you for a second longer—eyes flicking briefly down your frame, as if double-checking you’re really there and not some illusion conjured by exhaustion or hope. Then he steps back, wordlessly holding the door open.

The moment you cross the threshold, the quiet hum of Skyhaven gives way to something softer—his space is dim, cozy, nothing like the sterile exterior of the station. A warm light glows from a small lamp near the couch, casting lazy shadows across the room. There’s a pot simmering somewhere beyond the partition, faintly spicy and comforting. And the faintest trace of your favorite scent lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable.

“Been working late?” you ask, shrugging off your jacket and draping it over the back of his chair.

“Always,” he says, closing the door behind you. “But… I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance toward the source of the smell, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “You cooking?”

He nods, sheepish. “Trying to, anyway. Got roped into making a proper meal tonight. I may or may not have bribed someone on the logistics team for decent ingredients.”

You raise a brow, mock seriousness. “You bribed someone for dinner?”

“Only a little,” he says, lifting one hand in mock surrender. “I didn’t know you were coming, but there’s enough for two. Stay?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a moment longer, the faintest crease between his brows, like he’s still calibrating the reality of you standing in his space. Then something eases in him—shoulders relaxing, expression softening—and he gestures toward the small dining nook by the window.

“I’ll plate up,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

And just like that, you’re back in orbit around him again, the two of you drawn together in quiet gravity, as if no time has passed at all.

Dinner is quieter than you expected, but not in a bad way. Caleb sets the table with military precision—two bowls of something simmered and savory, still steaming from the pot, a bottle of wine between you, half-full glasses catching the soft light like blood-red glass. You’re close enough to see the fine scar just under his jaw when he leans forward, but far enough that you still feel the distance he keeps around most people.

Except you’re not most people.

He waits until you’ve eaten a few bites before speaking, and when he does, his voice is softer than usual.

“So,” he says, watching you over the rim of his glass, “how’ve you been holding up?”

You shrug, rolling your shoulders as if it’ll shake off the weight of everything. “Same as always. Working, reporting, picking up intel where I can. Got clipped by a rogue Wanderer last week, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. You catch it even if he thinks you won’t. “You shouldn’t be dealing with that alone.”

You offer a small smile, lifting your glass to your lips. “I wasn’t alone. Zayne had my back. We made it out clean.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes dropping to his plate. When he speaks again, it’s low, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you. “I hate that you’re still in the middle of all that.”

You tilt your head. “You think I should be locked away in here with you?”

He looks up sharply, but there’s no bite to your words—just a trace of amusement, tempered with something softer.

“I think,” he says after a pause, “that I’d sleep better if I knew you were safe.”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but full—like a breath you’re both holding, unsure when to let it go.

Eventually, you break it with a quiet laugh. “God, this wine is strong.”

He glances toward your glass, brow lifted. “Already feeling it?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, nudging your plate away. “But in a good way. I think I needed this.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. You lean back in your chair, swirling the last of your wine lazily, and glance toward the side table where the deck of cards sits, half-hidden under a data tablet.

“Hey,” you say, catching his gaze, “still keep a deck around?”

His eyes flick toward the cards, then back to you. “Always.”

“Good.” You smirk, setting your glass down. “You up for a game of poker?”

He leans back, arms folding across his chest, that familiar amused glint in his eyes returning. “You’re tipsy.”

“Which means I’m just reckless enough to win,” you shoot back, giving him a mock-challenging look. “Unless you’re scared I’ll beat you again.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, already reaching for the deck. “You cheated last time.”

“Did not.”

“You stacked the deck when I blinked.”

“Prove it.”

He stands, pulling the cards free with a flick of his wrist, and walks slowly back toward the table. “You’re on, then. But I’m warning you... I play for keeps.”

You look up at him, heartbeat catching just a little at the way the warm light slides over the edge of his jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“That so?” you murmur, voice soft with challenge. “Guess we’ll see what you’re willing to bet.”

And just like that, the room feels warmer. Not just from the wine. Not just from the way his eyes linger on you a second too long. But from something simmering beneath the surface—just waiting for one of you to fold.

The cards move fluidly between Caleb’s fingers, shuffling in smooth, practiced motions, each flick of the deck precise in a way that feels entirely him—controlled, deliberate, like even this moment of downtime is something he needs to master. He sits across from you now, long legs stretched under the table, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fitted line of his jacket hugging his frame like it was made for him. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he cuts the deck, but it softens the moment he glances up and catches your gaze, a spark of amusement flickering there.

You lean into your hand, the curve of your mouth lazy. “You gonna deal, or just admire the cards all night?”

His gaze lingers on you, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Thought I was admiring something else.”

Your stomach tightens, not because of the wine—but because of that voice, that look, and the way he says it like he means every word.

He starts to deal, and the first few rounds pass easily—banter traded, hands won and lost. You bluff; he calls it. He folds; you grin. There’s tension simmering under the surface now, subtle but growing with each glance, each casual brush of fingers on the table or leg beneath it. The room is too warm. Or maybe it's just him.

“So,” Caleb says, tapping his cards against the table, “what exactly are we playing for?”

You shrug, watching the way the light catches in his hair, casting faint gold at his temples. “Didn’t set terms.”

He hums, as if weighing options. “We could make this interesting.”

You arch a brow. “Interesting how?”

He lifts his glass for a slow sip, gaze unwavering. “Loser of each hand removes something.”

There’s a quiet beat—just a moment where the air stills and your breath stalls—but then you set your wine down, fingers brushing your cheek as you pretend to think.

“You’re serious?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you are.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “Alright, Colonel. But you’re going to regret this.”

He grins, all confidence and something darker beneath it. “Can’t wait.”

The cards are dealt. You lose the next round, of course—whether by fate or the fact that your mind is no longer entirely on the game. With an exaggerated sigh, you slide your sweater off your shoulders and toss it over the arm of the couch behind you. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his eyes track the movement like a predator watching the first sign of weakness.

The round after that, he folds way too early.

You tilt your head, not bothering to hide your smirk. “Really? You’re giving up that easy?”

“Maybe I just wanted to even the field,” he says, and this time, he unzips his jacket.

He peels it off in one slow, smooth motion, the fabric whispering over his skin as he drapes it over the back of his chair. The dark shirt beneath fits him too well—clinging to the curve of his shoulders, the line of his arms, like a second skin. You swallow a little too quietly.

The game continues, barely. Small losses, smaller victories. Neither of you’s really trying it seems. Your bracelet ends up on the table. His socks go next. It’s almost ridiculous, but neither of you laughs.

It’s your deal. You flick a card onto the table with the sort of flair only three glasses of wine can inspire. “Call it.”

Caleb leans forward, folding his arms against the table, his voice quieter now. “Don’t tell me you’re throwing this one too.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Who says I’m not just bad at poker?”

He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that sees straight through your act. “You forget I grew up with you. I know when you’re pretending.”

You hold eye contact, the challenge clear, but so is the invitation. “Your turn.”

He looks at his cards, then at you. There’s a slow exhale, almost like he’s bracing for something—and then he lays them down.

A flush. A clear win. But he doesn’t smile.

“I had a choice,” he says softly. “And I’d rather lose to you.”

Then—without waiting—he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

This time, the motion isn’t quick. There’s no humor in it, no shrug. Just slow, deliberate movement as he drags the fabric up his torso, revealing inch by inch the toned expanse of his chest—cut with lean muscle, marked by faint scars, the synthetic gleam of his right shoulder catching faint light. His eyes don’t leave yours. If he’s giving you a show, it’s intentional. If he’s waiting to see how you’ll react—he’s watching closely.

The shirt hits the floor shortly after. And when the silence stretches, heavy and filled with a different kind of charge now. Caleb doesn’t reach for more wine. He just breathes slow and deep, bare and still, like the next move is yours to make.

You should have folded.

The thought hits you a moment too late—right as Caleb places his hand down on the table with quiet finality, his cards a clean, easy win. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, eyes steady and dark with quiet heat, is far more effective than any smirk or tease.

The silence that follows stretches, weighted and slow, and you feel it settle over your skin like the hum of something electric waiting to arc.

There’s no way out. You’ve lost the round. You take a breath, steadying your hand as you reach down to the hem of your shirt, feeling the faintest tremble in your fingertips—not from nerves, not exactly, but from the awareness that this moment has long since stopped being about poker. With careful fingers, you lift the shirt over your head and pull it free, the air cool against your skin as your bare shoulders meet the open room. You’re still in your bra, modest and simple, but under his gaze, it might as well be nothing at all.

You place the shirt beside your jacket with what you hope is casual ease, though you can feel your heartbeat stuttering just beneath your ribs. When you glance up, Caleb is watching you, unmoving, his expression unreadable—but the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingers, betrays him.

You clear your throat softly, needing something—anything—to cut through the moment.

“I, um… I need more wine,” you say, pushing up from your seat before he can respond.

You cross the room with too much purpose, your steps just a little too quick, the air against your skin feeling too sharp now, too exposed. Your fingers reach for the bottle, more for something to do than for any real need to drink. You’re not even sure if you meant to escape the moment, or if part of you just wanted to feel the cool glass in your hands before the warmth burning in your chest gets too much to hold.

But before you can pour, you hear the quiet scrape of a chair behind you, the soft sound of his footsteps—slow, deliberate—drawing closer.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

His presence fills the space behind you like a shadow stretching in the light—close enough that you can feel the heat of him ghosting along your back, but still not touching, not yet.

“You sure you need more wine?” he asks, voice low, with just the barest hint of gravel at the edges.

Your fingers pause on the neck of the bottle. “I’m just... cooling off,” you murmur, trying to sound breezy, unaffected, though your voice is already tighter than you’d like.

There’s a beat of silence, and then he hums—not skeptical, exactly, but amused in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“That why you’re trembling?”

The words land too softly to be accusatory, but they knock the breath from you all the same. You close your eyes, just for a moment, and instantly regret it—because now every inch of him feels closer, like the air has folded in around you, and you’re standing in the center of a storm that’s just barely restrained.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder, and you find him already watching you—his gaze pinned to yours like it’s holding you in place.

“I thought you said you play to win,” you manage, your voice low, barely more than a breath.

There’s something in his eyes now, something deeper—desire, yes, but also something rawer beneath it, something like vulnerability wrapped in steel. He lets his gaze drop, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips, then lower, lingering at the bare skin of your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to lose,” he says softly, and there’s no teasing left in him now—just honesty, quiet and bare and thick with everything neither of you has said aloud.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to. Because then his hand lifts, slow and careful, and his fingers brush the side of your arm with a touch so light it barely registers as contact—just a whisper of skin against skin, a question asked without words.

You don’t pull away. And in that silence—warm, charged, breathless—the line you’ve both been toeing begins to blur, then fade entirely.

Caleb’s fingers linger at your arm, unmoving for a breath, and then they trail upward—slow and deliberate—sliding over the curve of your shoulder and up along your neck, his touch featherlight but sure. He’s watching you closely, as if waiting for hesitation, for a sign that you’ll step back.

But you don’t.

Your breath catches as his hand finds the edge of your jaw, thumb brushing just below your cheekbone, his palm warm and steady against your skin. And still, he waits—so close now you can feel his breath on your lips, but he doesn’t move that final inch until you do.

You lean into him, just barely, and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance like gravity finally winning—no pretense, no gentleness, just years of wanting poured into the kiss as his mouth crashes into yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not soft. It’s not polite. It’s a question, a claim, a thousand unsaid things slammed into one desperate kiss. His hand tilts your jaw up, deepening the angle, and you meet him with just as much urgency, fingers digging in the bare line of muscle at his side, pulling him closer, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto him. His other hand braces at your waist, grounding both of you as your bodies come flush, heat meeting heat with nothing left between but breath and skin.

You sigh into his mouth—soft, shaky—and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he’s needed since he came back from the dead. You can feel it in the way he kisses you: the hunger, yes, but also the grief, the guilt, the impossible devotion he’s been carrying like armor. His mouth moves with desperate precision, lips parting yours like he’s memorizing every second of this in case it gets torn away again. When you pull back for air, just barely, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, eyes fluttering shut like the moment is too much to hold.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, voice rough, thick with something cracked open and raw.

You nod, your fingers curling against the base of his spine. “It’s real.”

And then he kisses you again.

The second kiss is deeper, hungrier—less careful now, as if something inside him has cracked open and there’s no point in trying to put it back. Caleb’s hands slide down your back with firm, reverent pressure, like he’s relearning the shape of you by touch alone, his grip tightening when you arch into him.

Then—without a word—he pulls you back toward the table. With one swift motion, he sends the deck of cards, the half-empty wine glasses, everything scattering to the floor with a crash that makes your heart leap. The sound doesn’t faze him. If anything, it makes his breath deepen.

He looks at you, chest rising and falling with barely leashed control, his hands already sliding down to your hips, guiding you back until your thighs press against the table’s edge.

“I’ve been patient,” he says, voice hoarse and low, each word like gravel dragged across silk. “For years, I waited… I held back… but not anymore.”

You don’t speak—you can’t. Because the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing left in the universe that matters, steals every coherent thought from your mind.

He turns you with careful insistence, hands firm but reverent as he guides your body to face the table. You grip the edge, breath catching, the cold surface against your palms a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from him behind you.

When his hands return, they’re rougher now—claiming. He drags them slowly over your sides, then up your back, the tips of his fingers teasing the band of your bra. He bends down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower, teeth grazing the skin just enough to make you gasp.

“You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as one hand slides around your waist, the other flattening over the small of your back. “Of you, right here—mine.”

The last word is a growl.

He presses against you, chest to your back, hips flush to yours, and you feel how hard he is already, the heat of it grinding just enough to make you whimper. His metal arm braces against the table beside yours—cold steel humming with quiet energy—and when you shift your hips back into him, he curses under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, forcing them to part. “Keep doing that and I won’t last.”

He dips his head again, this time kissing down your spine, slow and reverent, but each kiss feels like a brand—like he’s marking you one breath at a time. His hands return to your hips, and when he straightens, you feel the weight of his stare on your back like a spotlight.

“You don’t get to hide from me anymore,” he says, hands gripping your waist like you might vanish if he lets go. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

You bite your lip, breath ragged. “I’m yours.”

Your breath catches when you feel Caleb’s fingers slide into the waistband of your pants, his touch both reverent and possessive, and though his movements are deliberate, there’s no mistaking the weight behind them—he’s not teasing anymore; he’s unraveling, and he’s going to take you with him.

He leans in close, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Don’t move,” and the way he says it, low and threaded with rough restraint, leaves no room for disobedience, only heat curling low and fast through your core.

You brace your hands against the table as he begins to tug your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric with agonizing slowness, like every inch he reveals is something sacred, something he’s waited too long to see again. His knuckles brush your thighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck, and when your pants pool around your ankles, he lets out a quiet, nearly broken groan that vibrates straight through you.

It’s your panties he lingers on.

His fingers trace the waistband, sliding along your skin like he’s memorizing you by feel alone, and then, without warning, he curls his fist into the lace and tears it clean in one savage motion—just a sharp, decisive snap, and then nothing but cool air on bare skin and the hot, heavy sound of his breathing behind you.

“I’m not waiting anymore,” he says, almost like a confession, and the ruined fabric is discarded without care as his hands return to your hips, steadying you, grounding you, claiming you all over again.

His touch drifts lower, smoothing over the curve of your ass, then up the small of your back, the contact so firm and slow that it borders on worship, his thumb brushing along the dip of your spine like it belongs there. He leans down, lips pressing against your shoulder, trailing heat with every kiss as he works his way downward, pausing only to let his teeth graze lightly against your skin, the quiet sound of your gasp spurring him on.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he’s been holding back, “how many times I dreamed of this—of you, bent over in front of me, mine to touch, mine to take.”

The sound of his belt unfastening fills the silence like a drumbeat, followed by the low scrape of a zipper and the shuffle of clothing pushed hastily down his thighs, and then he’s behind you again, thick and hot and hard, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in the slick evidence of how ready you are for him.

He doesn’t press in—not yet.

One hand anchors you by the hip, the other coasting along your front, splaying across your belly before drifting downward, parting your thighs further until you’re open for him, exposed and trembling beneath his touch.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” he murmurs, his voice cracking on the edge of a growl as he guides himself to your entrance, teasing the sensitive skin with slow, shallow strokes. “Thought I’d never get to fuck you like I always wanted.”

When he finally pushes in, he does it in one slow, brutal thrust, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs as your body stretches to take him, your hands clutching at the edge of the table for dear life. He doesn’t move right away—just stays buried inside you, fully sheathed, his hands tight on your waist as if he’s holding himself back from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he groans, low and guttural, his mouth pressed against your shoulder blade. “You feel like heaven.”

And then he begins to move.

Each thrust is hard and deep, perfectly paced to drive you wild, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that’s all hunger and dominance and years of frustration finally, finally, breaking loose. The table creaks beneath you, your legs spread wide, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room with every punishing snap of his hips.

His hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades and urging you further down against the table, and when your cheek hits the cool surface, your breath escapes you in a soft, desperate moan.

“You were made for this,” he growls, his mouth near your ear, the heat of his voice sinking into your skin like a brand. “For me. This body, this sound—mine.”

You manage his name on a broken gasp, your voice shaking, your body already on the verge of losing itself entirely as he continues to thrust into you, each movement rougher, deeper, more desperate than the last.

His hand slides between your thighs again, this time to circle your clit with unrelenting pressure, the pads of his fingers slick and confident, and when you cry out, he doesn’t stop—he doubles down, whispering, “Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And gods, you do.

The orgasm crashes into you like a storm, seizing you from the inside out, your entire body tensing, walls clenching around him as pleasure tears through your spine and explodes behind your eyes. You sob his name, breathless and undone, and he holds you through it, his hand on your hip tightening, the rhythm of his thrusts faltering as he loses himself in the feel of you shattering around him.

“Ah—fuck—gonna come inside you,” he groans, every muscle in his body going taut as he drives into you one last time and stills, buried deep, spilling into you with a guttural moan that’s as much pain as it is relief. His chest presses flush to your back, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself there, like he can’t bear the thought of letting go.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The air is thick with heat, your bodies tangled, breath syncing in a slow, uneven rhythm that speaks more than either of you could right now.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you, the way his lips brush the side of your neck in a kiss so soft it almost breaks you, says everything he can’t.

The silence that follows is heavy. It’s the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones, warm and full, like the world has finally stopped spinning long enough to let you catch your breath. Caleb doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest still pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s anchoring you to the earth itself. His breath ghosts over your shoulder in slow, unsteady exhales, his body still trembling faintly against yours as the aftershocks roll through both of you.

Then, with a gentle murmur—your name spoken like a vow—he presses a kiss to the back of your neck and pulls out of you slowly, carefully, as though he’s afraid he might hurt you if he moves too fast. He catches your waist as you sway slightly, already reaching for you before you even realize you need the support.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and still rough at the edges, but his hands are impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him. You always have.

He helps you straighten, one arm still firmly around your middle as the other brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. When you glance up, your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you see all of him—not just the soldier or the survivor, not the boy who left or the man who came back, but Caleb, who looks at you like you’re the one thing that kept him tethered while the rest of his world burned.

Without a word, he leans in and kisses your temple, slow and soft, before guiding you gently toward the bed in the corner of the room. The lights dim as you pass—probably movement-commanded, but it feels like the room itself is exhaling.

“Stay,” you murmur, already missing the warmth of his body as he helps you sit at the edge of the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb over your thigh as if to reassure himself more than you. “Just getting something.”

He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth and a fresh towel, kneeling in front of you like you’re something precious, like tending to you is the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb’s silent as he cleans you—tender, focused, his touch slow and steady as he wipes between your thighs, along the insides of your legs, his hand cupping the back of your calf as he works. There’s nothing hurried or clinical in his movements; everything about the way he touches you now speaks of devotion, of reverence, like this is part of the ritual. Like this is sacred, too.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he dabs the cloth gently between your legs.

Your voice is small, but sure. “Better than okay.”

A soft smile tugs at his lips, and he presses another kiss—this time to your knee—before setting the cloth aside and wrapping the towel gently around your hips. He helps you ease back into bed, pulling the blankets up over your shoulders, and then, finally, finally, he slips in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight as his arms curl around your body and bring you close again.

You rest your head against his bare chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart as his hand drifts through your hair in lazy strokes, his other arm banded around your waist, holding you like you’re the last thing worth protecting in the universe.

“I missed you,” he says after a while, voice barely more than a breath. “Just—” his hand squeezes gently at your waist “— you. Everything about you.”

You tilt your head, fingers brushing lightly over the scar near his ribs. “You always had me. Even when you weren’t here.”

He doesn’t answer with words—just a long exhale, a kiss pressed to your forehead, and the way he holds you tighter like he’s finally allowing himself to believe it.

And in the quiet hum of Skyhaven, tangled in Caleb’s arms, with nothing between you but skin and truth, you feel more safe, more known, more his, than you ever have before.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads smut #lnds smut #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x reader #caleb smut #xia yizhou #.aslads

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deanbrainrotwritings · 10 months ago

Text

— LIFE AIN’T EASY WHEN YOU'RE A MYTHICAL CREATURE

SUMMARY : you don’t suspect that dean has been in the shadows of your life for months, but he’s managed to make you his friend. he feels hopeless about making you fall for him, and it’s worse when you agree to go on a date with someone unexpected.

PAIRING : vampire!dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), baker!dean, kidnapping, stalking (it’s only hot if dean does it), angst, unhealthy obsession, yandere!Dean, possessiveness, soft Dean, reader isn’t perfect, vague chronic illness, panty kink, masturbation (m.), dumbification, a bunch of kinks actually, kinky!dean, sub!dean, jealousy, and more to come

WORD COUNT : 5.2k

A/N : this series will soon fill the square for stockholm syndrome on my @jacklesversebingo card. back to the baking bc it’s so fun and cute to write dean like that. also, their relationship is going somewhere, or is it!? muahahah. xx

Deep in thought, Dean carefully sliced through the soft, warm dough with a sharp knife. The rolled up cinnamon rolls slowly took shape as they were severed from each other along the lengthy roll. Each was cut one-inch thick, all almost perfect and similar from years of experience. The delicious spicy aroma of sweetened cinnamon filled the space around him, keeping him in his affectionate state as he thought of you.

He usually had a handful of customers this early in the morning but never so many that he couldn’t work slowly and do the work all alone. If he hired anyone, it would only make it difficult for him to be relaxed and all by himself. It’s safer. With the speed he worked at, he didn’t need the help anyway, and with the time… he didn’t want to talk about the time.

Today, he didn’t have a problem with the idea of not seeing you—if it meant you were resting. It could have been either because he had been at your home or because he understood now how you spent most of your precious time. Perhaps it was all of those things, along with his sudden concern for your health.

Which was why he didn’t expect you to walk through the door.

It was Saturday. A too-early, cold Saturday morning.

He wanted you to sleep in, but he was thrilled that you were there anyway, letting in the chilly air as you clenched your fists tightly at your sides and shivered cutely. You brushed your hair off your shoulder with reddened fingers and Dean briefly abandoned the dough to admire you.

You looked more beautiful than he remembered. Could it be real, that you were so stunning? So, so breathtaking in that crisp morning sunlight as it poured over your body like glittery gold; with your delicate features, your skin bitten by the cold morning air, and your lips lightly chapped.

He wished someone could paint you. He wished he had picked up the hobby a lot longer and had the skill to do so himself. To paint the gentle wisp of your hair, the ethereal angles of your face, the plump shape of your lips, your glimmering eyes, and the elegance of your body. All on his own, because only he could capture every exquisite detail of you.

He was pulled away from his thoughts when he heard the way your lips brushed against each other as you murmured, “so fucking cold.”

He grinned adoringly, silently wishing to kiss your lips until they were bruised and warm. Your teeth clicked against each other quietly and you subtly shuffled on the mat in front of the door before walking normally towards him.

Your gaze slowly lifted to meet his own and your body visibly relaxed as the warmth within the bakery finally encompassed you. Dean relaxed his grip on the knife and let his shoulders drop, copying your movements subconsciously.

“Hey,” you grinned, standing in front of him and rocking on your feet with your hands behind your back shyly as you looked up at the menu.

He blinked. Was this real? Were you really here? Was the universe trying to embarrass him for what he’d done most of the night? He swallowed, his eyes glazed over at the memory of you naked.

“Hey,” he whispered, smiling softly.

“What have you been up to?” You wondered, letting your eyes move over him once again. Dean looked down at the abandoned cinnamon rolls he’d been making, he thought about your question, and felt a little bit guilty.

What was he up to, you asked? Stalking you, going into your house illegally, stealing your things, and thinking of you. Oh, and also jerking off to the image of seeing you naked, using your underwear that he’d stolen from your drawers.

Dean had eagerly peeled off his clothes as soon as he got home.

His clothes were strewn across the floor but the things he’d stolen from you, he’d thrown on his bed. Except for your underwear, he held onto that. He knew if he were human, he’d be burning red in the face with pinkish splotches spreading down his freckled neck and chest.

All he could think of was you.

And he’d been resisting the urge to touch himself every time his cock would harden at the thought of you for so long that he felt like he was going to combust if he refused any longer.

He settled into his bed and slowly dragged his calloused palm along his dick. Everything was done languidly despite his impatience, despite the sensitivity becoming nearly unbearable in between his legs. Slowly, behind his closed eyes, your silhouette became more solid and more vivid—like a dream made true.

He swiped away precum and dragged it down along his cock, imagining that it was your spit instead. He moaned. The thought of you naked, breasts bared to him, just in the lace panties he’d stolen, leaning above him on your knees with a small smirk on your soft lips, made his stomach clench.

“Fuck,” he whined, trying to keep the fantasy alive. He imagined it was your hand wrapped around him, soft and small, slowly moving up his painfully hard cock.

“Dean,” you’d say his name the way you said it the first day he met you. You’d rub your thighs together and keep torturing him with gentle strokes. He’d take it because he finally had you and he didn’t care about anything else. “You wanna come so bad, don’t you?” You’d taunt, because he knew you were secretly wicked.

He wouldn’t even be embarrassed when he nodded dumbly, squirming as you waited for every dribble of precum to fully slicken his cock. He’d take every degrading comment as you slid your fist his base to tip, and he’d watch stupidly like a devout man as you touched yourself with your free hand.

Your fingers would pinch and brush against your nipples until they were tight, you’d teasingly squeeze your breasts, and then you'd sneak your hand inside your underwear to rub at yourself. He would only beg pathetically for you to let him touch you, but you’d never allow him to.

You’d just keep moving your hand up and down until he was glistening wet, hot and red at the tip, and throbbing in your soft palm. “God, look at you,” you’d tease. He’d drop his eyes from your naked body to watch his cock and the way it looked in your grasp. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck, yes,” he’d grunt steadfastly.

“Yeah, you’re so good for me,” you’d praise, because finally you had something you could control. Something that would change and adapt to your every need because you were his purpose. You were what he was meant for—who he was meant for.

And he’d moan loudly, bucking his hips upwards involuntarily, and shoving his cock fast into your hand because you finally recognized it. He’s good for you. Only you.

Maybe once he was stupid and desperate, you’d bring yourself closer. You’d drag your soft, warm lips across his cold skin. You’d drag your tongue across his neck and suck gently behind his ear and he’d still moan at the sensation.

Your hot mouth and hotter breath would drive him crazy. Your warmth, once you leaned over him completely, would make him feel alive again. And your warm hands would move over his body, desperate to feel every inch of him because you needed him as bad as he needed you.

“I want to fuck you so bad, Dean,” you’d murmur against his ear and then you’d drop your warm cunt down over his cock without warning. He’d moan softly as you gently rubbed the lace covering you over his painfully-hard cock. He’d be able to feel how hot you were between your legs and how wet you were as the soaked lace stuck to your folds.

He rubbed the cotton of the crotch of your lace underwear against his cock with a moan. He stained it with his precum and continued to tease himself as he imagined that you were on his lap, rubbing your clothed pussy against his cock.

You’d definitely torture him this way.

You’d pant against his mouth and balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders, rocking your hips against his. The lace would make him more tender and more desperate to finish, but he’d wait for you. As you undulated your hips and lifted yourself up just to drop your pussy back down, he’d finally be able to touch you.

His name would slip from your lips breathlessly and he’d bury his face in your breasts, licking, biting, and kissing at them until you were puffy and tender. You’d praise him for all the pleasure you felt and your words would be stemmed in affection and warmth.

He’d claim you with bruises on your soft body and he’d mark you with light bruises from his mouth on your breasts, shoulders, and neck. His bites would only be surface level and visible by redness and never by a wound. But you would be his entirely. And he would be yours completely.

“I’m so close,” you’d warn him and he’d plead for you to let go. And when you finally came, you’d moan his name a dozen times, and he’d feel your body tremble above his and he’d hold you up. He’d continued to grind against your pussy until you found yourself again. “Come for me, Dean. I want to see you.”

And he’d finally come. His entire body would feel the release and he’d shout your name because you’re all he’s ever wanted. “That’s right, Dean. Look at me.” He’d force his eyes open just to watch you and your amazement as his cum covered your thighs and his stomach. “You’re so hot, baby.”

Dean wished he could stay in his fantasy, but instead, he opened his eyes to reality. To his darkened room and the moon as it hung above him instead of you. He swallowed hungrily, his throat was dry and he forced himself to look down at your ruined underwear now covered in his release.

He bit his lip as he clutched onto your dampened lace underwear. And closed his eyes, smiling softly as if all of that had really happened.

“I’ve, uh- nothing.” Way too guilty Dean, relax, this is the woman you love. “Just trying out some new recipes. What about you?” For the first time, Dean realised you had dimples as you chewed on the inside of your cheeks. You looked cuter, if that were somehow possible.

“Workin’,” you answered with a small smile, “I’m gonna do some unpacking so I can just get it over with. I’d come here more often, but work is so chaotic.” You would? Did that mean you thought of him? Or did you mostly think of the food? He wished you would add why. Maybe you wouldn’t tell him, but offering to help you unpack was a great opportunity for him to insert himself into your life. Unfortunately, you started talking before he could ask, but he kept it close. “You said you were trying new recipes. Anything I can try?”

“I made a few giant pop tarts earlier,” he admitted and hesitantly resumed slicing through the roll. He wanted to keep watching you, to notice every change and every detail in your face as you spoke and looked around curiously.

“Oh really?” Your voice changed, more curious and excited than before. He looked up and smiled, setting the knife down now that he was finished.

“Yeah, wanna try it?”

“Yeah, soon as you’re not busy.” Your eyes flickered down to the unbaked cinnamon rolls he’d forgotten all about. You grinned playfully when he looked back up at you after slowly following your gaze. He chuckled. He appreciated your consideration, but leaving you was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Alright, I’ll finish up and get to you in a bit.”

He picked up the cinnamon rolls and put them into a tray as you walked away to sit at a nearby table. He stole a quick glance at you as soon as he got to the back with the tray carrying the cinnamon rolls to make sure he could safely put them in a baking pan and put them in the oven faster than humanly possible, but not so fast that you’d be a little too bewildered.

He waited patiently after he’d finished and listened to you as you tapped on the screen of your phone. You laughed quietly occasionally and he assumed you were texting someone or watching a video with the sound off. He couldn’t stand the thought of you talking to someone else and he also couldn’t stand not being there to see you smile.

So he stepped out of the back to get your attention and you instantly looked up at him, still trying to stop your soft laughter. He smiled at you and your flushed cheeks and your watering eyes. You shut your phone off and got up to meet him at the counter again.

Still, even surrounded by sweet sugary pastries, all he could smell was your flowery perfume. The heat of your body, from your blood, made him hyper-aware of you. You were a giant blossoming tree in the middle of a meadow, calling to him in a bed of pretty flowers. You were the most beautiful, always, among everything.

Your eyes flitted over his face, always so curious and confused in your eyes, but content in your smile. He wished to read your mind, to compel you to spill your truth and make your thoughts known to him. What did you see?

He forced himself to look away from your eyes to retrieve a medium tray containing what looked like a literally large pop-tart. The top-centre was coated in pink frosting and had white sprinkles, the sugary scent filled the small area between you and him.

“Strawberry filling,” he informed you, because he wanted your feedback. He wanted to know what you were thinking, always; but he didn’t want to ask that of you.

“Ooh,” you grinned, “my favourite. I'll buy it.” He blinked at you. Most people asked for samples before buying something they’ve never tried before.

“Want a drink with it?” He asked, starting to package it for you. You hummed softly.

“Anything with vanilla. Surprise me?” You surprised him with your request and he nodded dumbly. Were you always going to choose something different? Would he never be able to memorise your single favourite order and have it ready for you whenever you found yourself in his bakery?

He turned around and looked at the coffee machine, the coffee beans, the syrups, spices, and everything else, wondering what would go perfectly with vanilla. What was something that was so beautiful in flavour? Something that tasted the way he thought you would? Your skin, of course, not in a cannibalistic or vampiric way. What would your skin taste like when he pressed his lips to it, when his tongue smoothed across your flesh, when he sucked at your body?

You entertained yourself again on your phone, but this time you were quiet. For about ten minutes he looked over at you as he worked on your drink, adding the perfect mixture so that the final product alluded to you—at least to him.

You knew you were being watched. He figured by the way you bit your lip and hugged yourself with one arm as you played some game on your phone. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help himself. You were the most magnificent being in the whole universe. More wonderful, more unique, and more intriguing than the Hercules-Corona Borealis Great Wall.

It's how he ended up making a vanilla-lavender latte.

He handed it to you once he’d finished, the sun was shining a little brighter now behind you, against tinted windows. It was the perfect choice for a drink, as the sun created a celestial aura around your body, you didn’t know it. You never did.

“Is it okay if you try them now and tell me what you think?” He wondered if he was asking too much. He’d take it like a champ if you rejected his offer. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable, but he also couldn’t be so afraid that he’d never get to make a move and see the outcome of his choice.

You blushed and your brow twitched inquisitively, but after a few seconds you agreed. “Sure.”

You opened the paper bag and plucked the corner of the pop-tart, large enough to capture the filling and the frosting at the top.

He watched your mouth as it opened, your tongue as it held the treat, and then your lips shut around it. And he snapped his eyes up to yours watching you. Your cheeks burned timidly, and your eyes stared directly at his name on his chest, at the black word lined over his pink shirt above a white long sleeve.

However, you quickly relaxed and your eyes brightened as you chewed. You moaned softly and moved your eyes up to Dean, using your face to say everything. You thought it was good and Dean was a little too preoccupied with the way you moaned. The softness of it, slightly drawn out as the jam and bread sank into your tastebuds.

“That’s really good,” you told him cheerfully once you’d finished, then you moved on to the latte. You held it in your hands for a few seconds to test the heat of it in your palms and lifted it up to your lips. You took a few careful sips and your eyes became more vibrant. “It’s so good,” you moaned, then you licked your lips, and Dean had to keep himself in check. “How are you so good at this?”

He chuckled and opened his mouth, but a gust of wind followed by three young women swept through the door and stole your attention from him. They giggled, one of them stared directly at him and the other two whispered to each other, something about Dean being hot. He didn’t care.

“How much is it?” You asked, immediately turning back to him. His face fell and his mouth opened and closed. He didn’t want you to leave yet, but you suddenly became guarded all over again. He sighed and made his way over to the cash register to, once again, lower the price and wait as you collected your things before paying.

“Bye, Dean,” you murmured with a rueful smile.

“Um, bye,” he said stupidly, watching as the small group of women took your place. “Wait!” He called after you and made his way to you when you stopped to regard him with a lifted brow. Your eyes dropped down to his legs and quickly back up to his face. Did you just check him out?! Focus, Dean. “I wanna help you… unpack,” he added the last word after your confused face said everything.

“What? No, you’re busy here,” you blushed, and looked down at his feet. Just accept his help!

“I, uh…” Shit, what excuse could he make. “I can get off an hour early and I’ll meet you at your place,” he suggested. You still looked unsure and chewed on your lip as you thought it over. “If you're worried about my tiredness, don’t be. God knows I have too much energy at the end of the day, and can't ever sleep.” He knew you’d take his words as an over-exaggeration and you conceded with a sigh. He grinned and you smiled with a roll of your eyes at his triumphant expression. “I should get back to work…” he wanted to touch you now that you were so close to him, looking so soft and sweet. Now that he could feel your warmth a little more, like he’d been pulled even closer to your orbit, he almost wanted to just reach out and kiss you.

He just clenched his fists and bid you farewell again. He’d barely turned around to watch the three women stare judgmentally at you and him. He grimaced.

“Dean,” you stopped him. He turned to look at you without faltering, dazzled by the amusement in your voice. “You need my address, don’t you? And my phone number?”

“Oh, right,” he was embarrassed. Wait, your phone number? He grabbed his phone from his back pocket a little too excitedly and handed it to you, unlocked. Only after you’d searched his phone for his contacts did he hope he didn’t leave anything inappropriate about you open.

You handed him his phone and smiled softly. You appeared indecisive and he waited for you patiently, he’d always wait for you. And he was glad he did. You stepped closer and he held his breath, your warmth felt like sunfire now. You raised your hand, brushed your fingers against the softness of his cheek down to the stubble near his jaw. He knew you felt the unusual coldness of his skin when your touch lingered, but he hoped that it was because you felt as fluttery and breathless as he did. Then you dropped your hand.

“Sorry, you had a bit of flour on your face, but I guess it’s part of the job.” He could feel your blush even more now, it didn’t matter seeing it, just the feeling of your body reacting to being so close to him was making him feel like a feral animal. “It’s kinda cute so don’t even worry about it,” you shrugged and then blinked after realising what you said. You flushed and stuttered, “uh, bye, Dean. I’ll see you later.”

He blinked as you made your way out before he could process what you said and the way you’d touched him. His mouth was agape and he really thought he might just start singing. You thought he was cute after all? And you felt so warm.

He smiled boyishly and turned around dreamily, almost ignoring the three women he’d forgotten completely about as he found his place back at the counter to take their order.

After a few hours, once he was sure you were home safe he texted you—after thirty minutes of deliberation: hey, it’s Dean.

He knew his heart would be hammering against his chest only because he couldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his fist as he waited. Only a minute had passed when he saw you read his message, and he started to pace and tried to ingore his phone as he attended to his costumers.

And you’d responded after a few long minutes: hey, dean, do you like burgers?

4 months later — January, 2024

Dean had to admit, you played the mystery card fairly well.

You were relatively quiet and preferred to listen, which was hard because there was a lot Dean couldn’t say to you.

Even though you’d both hit it off the day he helped you unpack the heavier items in your home, there was still something in the way.

He knew that was the reason why you and him had a minimal distance that neither of you could crossover. He wished you were braver, but mostly, he wished he were braver. If he didn’t feel like he had too much on the line, because he did. Any information of his past could put you in danger and if he told you about himself and you didn’t accept him, that could put him in danger.

He was completely fixated on you and trying to close the gap between you and him that he had missed so much about the real world. But he couldn’t help it, you inspired him. Since he met you, he’s made dozens of new recipes and mixtures that reminded him of what you’d taste like or what you smelled like.

And when he wasn’t using work as a distraction for when you were busy at work yourself, he spent his time scrolling through your social media. Now that you had included him in your life, it was easier to keep track of you and the things that you perhaps wouldn’t share with him or anyone else unless it was behind the safety of a screen.

He knew about your colleagues, new friends, and even managed to find your professional account. It was how he got to know you a little better, seeing you from your years in highschool and throughout university. He read people’s comments on your posts, their niceties and their relationships with you. He looked over all your followers and the people you followed back.

He was just going to have to be content with what he had so far with you. He’d probably have carved his own heart out if you ended up falling for someone who wasn’t him. The only thing keeping his heart intact was the fact that you never spoke to him about anyone and when you did tell him about someone, it was because they’d upset you somehow.

It took everything in Dean’s body to not do something extreme about those people in your life. From your horrible colleague who never shared important information about work with you, to your irritating friend Nico who would “wait” for you to end up falling for him. It would be petty and dangerous.

And that infuriating part of his brain would sneer at him that he was no different than Nico. But he was! Dean was not pretending to be your friend so that you would miraculously realise he was the one for you. He wasn’t good to you because he wanted an advantage, he was good to you because he knew it made your life easier. He did things for you without you knowing because he loved you. He didn’t want anything in return, not even your love. That’s not why he did what he did for you.

He’d always keep you safe. He’d do anything for you, for the rest of your life. Even if the moment never came, that you’d never loved him as much as he loved you.

Now, here he was, watching you from his spot behind the counter as he kneaded the dough to make a new batch of doughnuts. He couldn’t help himself; you were always worth looking at.

He loved watching you.

You made cute faces when you were focused and you’d eventually find comfort as you sat in the corner alone working on your projects. He’d smile at you and you’d smile at him and it was perfect. It felt so intimate that you were just there with him. That there were no words that needed to be spoken. The space between you, filled with people and food was never enough to stop the way blood rushed up to your cheeks whenever he caught you looking at him.

There was no one who caught his attention anymore, but he still knew how to play it off—for frequent visits that he’d benefit from finally. Some things never changed. Unfortunately, he felt that this was the only way to keep his bakery open when he was so enthralled in your life. He may not lure women to their deaths for a nest, but he sure did lure them into his bakery so they invested in his business.

He’d considered that maybe his customers weren’t shallow, that it wasn’t true that he was attractive and that was his only worth. He hated thinking that it didn’t matter how good or bad he was at baking because to the people who frequented his bakery, he was pretty and that’s all that mattered. He hated having to settle for it, if it was what brought business to his bakery.

At least you were more interesting than that, he knew you were honest, and he knew when he’d really screwed up a recipe. It took him a while to get Mexican sweet bread right but you were the perfect person for that.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket and he pulled it out, brows furrowed, mouth still in a pout. He smiled effortlessly at your name as the text notification lit up his screen.

You: You okay?

He looked over at you and smiled reassuringly. Were you watching him the whole time? Oh, God, you were. He now realised your laptop was shut and you were sitting facing the front of the bakery instead of facing your laptop.

You looked down at your phone and started typing. He stared at you as you chewed on your lip and knocked your knees together, restarting your fidgeting habit. He only looked away to read your messages.

You: I think I want a concha

You: And maybe some coffee

You grinned at him when he lifted a brow at you, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. You were already restless, it wouldn’t help you to have more caffeine.

Dean: You sure about that coffee? It’s almost 6.

You: Make it small

Dean: Decaf

You: Fine :(

He laughed. You were so adorable. He felt it warm and bubbly as it rumbled through his chest and he heard the way you blushed. It made his body feel wild and tender every time he felt you became flustered. You laughed demurely and your fidgeting stopped momentarily.

He shook his head and put his phone in his pocket. Your wish was his command. He couldn’t bear to look at you for a second longer, you were made to be adored and loved by him.

When he walked over to you, coffee and sweet bread in hand, he sat down in front of you. You smiled cheerfully and leaned forward curiously, pulling the coffee into your cool hands. “What?”

“Nothing, just bored,” he shrugged with a smile. You hummed softly and brought the cup to your lips. You moaned at the flavour, he felt the warmth of it pouring down your throat and spreading through your torso. “Got any plans this weekend?”

You paused to look away and stared at the lid of your coffee as you brushed your fingers against the cardboard sleeve. Then, you relented. “I’m going on a date, actually. On Saturday.”

Dean felt his heart sink. His face emptied every emotion and he was glad you didn’t look up.

“Oh,” he muttered tightly, “do you.. like… the guy?”

Now, you looked up at him. He rearranged his face to smile softly. You shrugged, noncommittal. God, woman. He was not interested in hearing a yes, but he also hated the way you kept everything close to the chest unless it was eating you up inside. How could he hate something about you when he loved you? No, he was just jealous. Your mystery was part of your charm and knowing things about you that others didn’t, demonstrated your trust in him. No one else had gotten that close to you and he knew it because you dedicated a vast majority of your free time to him.

“He’s alright,” you faltered again. “It’s Clayton.”

The fucking mechanic? You're joking.

-> heartbeats and flatlines

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#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x female!reader #dean x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader

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blackcat-star · 2 months ago

Note

Hi, this is the girl who asked about giving you ideas, to say there are many sung jinwoo x readers that have a happy ending or angst for the reader, why are we hurting to us readers? i see a specific post where jinwoo is traumatized angst, so why make him feel our pain with bittersweet ending? i don't hate him it's just that there are many posts that don't give up the vibe and slowly start to be tedious when all readers are in pain except for him.

(it may be ooc and a bit oc because I've seen readers impersonating another character like this that should be the reader, not some insert character. not to mention when having the same power, skill and strength like the character that already exists? might as well put oc!reader or out to stereotype yn/reader/name but i would want to have a reader as their own perspective due to the fact people wanted attention to tagged, i understand the popularity but please to all readers reading this, understand to the perspective point of view that we should put oc! reader instead of 'x reader' if they're having features of the characters you want to impersonate, to copy skills and other ability and powers, ok i ramble too much so I'll stop)

how about this: either you make the longest one shot or make a cliffhanger draft, series and a few chapters. take your time to think us readers are not rushed and i would gladly help you as the requester for specific details and ideas to add to your writing as an author, i have a few more ideas if you write this to continue.

a Isekai reader, similar to your previous post yet let's make a different path? the reader Isekai to solo leveling, let's make it female reader/f(y/n), (sorry to gn or male because I don't understand genders perspective but i want everyone to be fair, it's just that I'm more comfortable with female perspective). ok so back with the topic.. the reader, let's say sure we love the protagonist mc sung jinwoo but we only see him as an inspiration and to admire from afar, when the reader Isekai to jinwoo's world, the reader would remain friends and partners, nothing more and would never reciprocate jinwoo's feelings, the reader would turn a blind eye and 'oblivious' of his feelings, let's say we did help him to the minimum but reader has a limit because of the system.

the system would give powers but there are consequences like jinwoo(when he grew stronger, he would slowly lose his emotions) so i suggest that when the reader looks at the consequences once they grow stronger, she holds a book that contains a lot of information spoilers because the consequences are their memory(only to solo leveling) so to a reminder on what their purpose and plans along with reasons. the reader would continue the Life of helping jinwoo like a devoted follower.

once he slowly forgets and doesn't need the reader due to the FL aka cha hae-in, the reader would step back calmly and walk away. in the background reason.. the reader would help jinwoo big time like they would be anomaly without him realizing about it until it's too late when the reader put the system to forget everyone's memories except for him.

with the reader getting stronger, they'll have to cover their tracks so nobody would find the F!reader. maybe in another country— oh wait he would have a million shadows to search for her.. maybe to another planet like the moon? once she left without saying goodbye or where they go when antares battle ends, the reader would say a few words without him knowing that jinwoo would not see the reader again once he used the reincarnation cup.

(I) would always choose you to be your partner and ally, (L)et's meet again, alright? (Y)ou brought colors to lit up my life on my grayscale monochrome world, (S)o I'll be waiting (J)ust for you.. after all, we're not in a rush because we always have time in the world.

(it's ily sung jinwoo, you can make him a bit yandere or something. but anyways let's make him feel our pain! it's unfair for us to be sad!! sorry if my grammar and typing is complicated to understand, you can ignore or skip it if you want.)

Thanks for sharing this with me 💗

Your idea is really interesting, and it would be great if it were written as a complete story

But maybe with your idea, it would become a new story and it would probably repeat Farewell which I don't want to do a similar story because I know I would just write it quite similar to Farewell (〒▽〒)

So if possible, I would just write part 2 of Farewell, continuing the story, when the MC (reader) decides to leave, erase everyone's memories of them and erase their memories of everyone. The MC in the story has decided to let go and live for themselves, meaning they will not pay attention to Jinwoo anymore and start a new life.

I'm sorry 😭🙏

________________________

If it were written as a story, I think it would go like this

_________________________

The old book still lay in the pocket of the cloak - the soft leather worn, the edges curled as if it had been through many storms. No matter how many battles, how many times you almost lost yourself, the one thing you never let go of was this notebook.

It had no power. It did not open a portal, it did not activate a hidden skill. It was just a normal notebook, but it was the only place where you dared to be honest.

Each thin page, recorded fragments of memory - sometimes hastily scribbled in smudged ink, sometimes neatly written as if in a false peace. Each word written was a reminder, an anchor to keep you from being swept away by the growing wave of power.

The first page, written in shaky handwriting. "Don't love him. Don't stay because of him."

You remember writing that sentence, your hands were so cold that you could barely hold the pen. You cried, you laughed, you whispered 'stupid' to yourself. But you wrote anyway, because you knew that if you didn't write it down, you would forget why you kept your distance.

Turn to the second page.

"He doesn't belong to you. And you don't belong to this world."

Not belong, that sentence became a mantra. You repeated it every night, every time his eyes accidentally passed you, every time you heard his name from someone else like a legend, like a god, like something forever out of reach.

And you knew, even though your heart was slightly moved, you couldn't get any closer.

The next page, the writing was sharper, as if written when you had better controlled your emotions, when you had learned to accept. "Just a partner. Just a companion."

Not a lover. Not a chosen one. Not a kept one.

You were with him out of obligation. Because you can help him. Because you want this world to have a chance to survive. And because, in some corner of your heart, you can't turn your back on him - even if it means pushing yourself into loneliness.

As your strength increases, each piece of memory fades, you forget the face of the mother you once loved, forget your favorite food, forget the reason you were afraid of the dark. But every time you read these lines again, you remember a little, not in images or memories, but in feelings. A silent but passionate feeling.

You turn to the last page.

Just one line, written in soft handwriting, like a light touch on a wound that has never healed:

"If he forgets you…don't be hurt. Let him be happy."

You pause for a long time on that line. Your eyes close slightly, as if to stop the thoughts from surging.

You know, one day, he won't see you anymore, not because you're not there, but because his heart is full. You know, in the countless things he protects, you're just a faint part - not enough to make him stop.

And you promise yourself, that you won't hold on. You won't cry. You won't ask for anything.

You'll just smile, close the book and walk away.

Because you love him.

But you love him enough not to become a chain.

______________________

The light from the Fragments of Light still hung in the air, like stars that had yet to fall. The battle with Antares was over, but the air still smelled of ashes and sacrifice. Everything had ended - and begun - in an eerie silence.

Jinwoo, still clutching the Reincarnation Cup, looked up at the sky. In that silent light, his eyes shone with a rare peace, as if he could finally rest. He would go back in time, to fix all his mistakes, save those who had fallen, and start over again - this time, without war, without death.

You came in that moment. No one saw you. Not a single footstep, not a single breath. You just came, as you had always come to him in silence, a figure without a name, without a title, just a 'partner'. You don't need to call his name, because he always recognizes you, somehow.

Jinwoo turns around, his eyes softening when he sees you. He doesn't seem surprised. He seems to have always believed that you would be here, by his side, until the very end. "You're here," he says, like a thank you that hasn't been said in all the years of companionship. "Thank you for always staying."

You just smile. No reply, no explanation. You know, if you say more, you won't be able to hold it in. You'll cry. You'll grab his hand and beg him to stay. But you can't.

Because you've decided long ago.

You take a deep breath, as if to stuff all the emotions into your chest, then speak - each word is soft, but falls like a cut.

"I would always choose you to be your partner and ally."

"Let's meet again, alright?"

"You brought colors to lit up my life on my grayscale monochrome world."

"So I'll be waiting…" you stopped, your heart skipped a beat.

"Just for you."

The light rose around everything before Jinwoo could either speak or say your name.

You spoke softly yet uncertainly if he could hear you say " After all, we're not in a rush" while standing there. "Because we always have time in the world."

The cup glowed. The light of rebirth, of a chance to start over, swept through the world like waves. Everything was swept away by it, war, pain, loss, and you.

#i'm sorry darling #sung jinwoo x reader #i love your idea but I can't write it 😭#sung jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo #solo leveling x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #solo leveling

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saintsylestine · 1 month ago

Text

Pit-Born

Angron x Unamed Person (2nd person POV)

Authors note: Angron/World Eaters ≡ New Hyperfixation. This was kind of a "character warm-up". I wrote a 3rd person perspective too (〃ω〃) will probably post it on here or on AO3...

Chapter 1: Old Blood

It started the same way it always did — with screaming and metal.

The forge-pit echoed like a tomb full of dying engines. Down here, sound didn't travel clean — it rattled, bounced, came back wrong. You could hear a chain whip crack a hundred meters away and still not see who screamed.

You didn't look anyway.

That was Rule One: Don't look. Don't listen. Don't care.

You shoved another data-slate into the auto-filer, its screen cracked, half the glyphs glitching. It smelled like promethium and charred bone.

Not the worst thing you’d filed this week.

The Overseer's boots scraped overhead — heavy, servo-reinforced. You tensed on instinct. Not because he always hit people.

Because sometimes he didn’t.

And that was worse.

You could still feel last week’s bruise where he’d leaned in real close and whispered, “Got a sharp tongue on you, scribe. We'll see how long it stays attached.”

You hadn’t flinched.

You just smiled, right in his rebreathered face, and said, “With respect, Overseer, I’m the only one here who can read the requisitions. Unless you’d like another thousand barrels of corpse starch instead of ammo.”

That had earned you a full day scrubbing latrines.

Still worth it.

---

Your cot — if it could be called that — was a sheet of rebar strung between two rusted wall-beams, up in the tech-shed above the arena. The pit was always visible. Always audible. The noise of violence was your lullaby.

You'd long since stopped waking up at the sound of bone breaking.

You'd been born on a ship like this — or maybe it was a hive, or a mining rig. Honestly, it didn’t matter. They all smelled the same. Sweat. Shit. Cheap oil. Despair.

You had no family. Just bruises with dates on them and the memory of learning to dodge a fist before you could read.

Your first language was Low Gothic, spoken through cracked teeth.

Your second was silence.

Your third — learned in the shadows, in whispers — was High Gothic.

You memorized texts like other kids memorized the sound of their mother’s laugh.

You didn’t have one of those.

But you had a perfect copy of the Imperial Hymn etched into your skull, and you could translate six dialects of tribal war-speak from memory.

That made you useful.

And in this place, useful was the closest thing to safe.

---

You were hunched over a dataslate when the click-hiss of metal toes on steel drew close.

You didn’t look up.

Most people looked when Astartes entered a room.

You’d learned early that looking just made it easier for them to decide where to hit you.

The voice that followed was dry. Precise.

A vox-filtered growl wrapped in High Gothic.

"Subject Delta-9-Zeta. Report."

That was you.

Not your name, of course. You didn’t have a name — just a tag on your dataslates and a serial number on your file.

You didn’t stand.

Just looked up slowly, let your gaze drag over the towering figure in red and brass plate. He wasn’t a full Astartes — not anymore. An old veteran, maybe. One eye augmetic, one hand missing.

More administrator than killer now.

That made him almost tolerable.

"Yes?" you said, dry as reprocessed rations.

"Your assignment has changed," he said, ignoring your tone.

Your heart ticked faster — just once.

Reassignment was never good.

"You’re being deployed with the XII Aggression Fleet. Oversector Caduceus."

Your stomach twisted. That was Eater territory.

"Interpreter-class auxiliary," he went on. "You’ll serve under Primarch command."

Silence.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

"I’m sorry," you said, voice flat. "I thought you said Primarch command. I must’ve inhaled too much ceramite dust. Would you mind repeating that?"

He didn’t.

He just handed you a slate with the orders stamped in blood-red ink.

You read it once.

Twice.

Then let out a low, bitter snort.

"So what was it, then?" you muttered. "Did I piss off someone important? File the wrong report? Fuck the wrong officer?"

"Your reassignment is classified," he said. "Report to Dock H in one hour. You will be armed with a Rosette, an auto-transcriber, and a field lexicon. May the Emperor protect."

He turned and left before you could ask what language the Eaters even spoke.

---

You sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the data-slate still clutched in your hands.

You felt nothing.

Or maybe everything, just compressed into a needlepoint of white static.

You’d survived pits. Overseers. Starving.

You’d survived Astartes who treated mortals like flies.

You’d survived by being small, useful, and forgettable.

And now they were throwing you to him.

Angron.

The Butcher.

The Warhound.

The broken thing the Emperor couldn’t fix.

You laughed.

Just once.

Short and sharp and not very sane.

"Fuck me sideways," you muttered, dragging your hands down your face. "Guess it’s a good day to die."

You stood, grabbed your satchel, and walked toward the last job you’d ever take.

---

There was dust in the air, curling like smoke, even though nothing was on fire.

Not yet.

The forge-hold always looked like it was dying, but it never did. It just sagged. Creaked. Bled from its vents like an old animal too stubborn to fall over.

You walked slow, hands in your coat pockets, head down just enough to avoid notice — but not enough to look weak.

The air was thick with machine oil and ash. Someone was getting beaten two corridors over. You could hear the crack of a fist. The small, wet grunt of impact. The quickening rhythm. Then silence.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t even turn your head.

That was just Tuesday.

---

You passed the med-station loading vent — the one that smelled like shit and boiled antiseptic — and nearly missed him.

Small thing.

Pit boy.

Maybe twelve? Maybe less. Hard to say, when hunger took years off your face and added ten more to your eyes.

He was crouched under a rusted console unit, shirt drawn tight to his ribs like it could keep his bones from falling out. His mouth was open a little — not begging. Just breathing wrong.

You walked past.

Then, without looking, reached into your coat and palmed two protein tabs from your stash.

Nothing fancy. Just dry, chalky, corpse-reclaimed synth meat. The kind that kept your stomach from eating itself.

You dropped them by his foot as you passed.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t look.

Didn’t say a fucking word.

He wouldn’t either.

Not here. Not if he wanted to keep them.

But as you turned the corner, you felt it —

that burning little spot between your shoulder blades, where his eyes were pressed like a brand.

You told yourself it was nothing.

That he'd sell them.

That he'd die soon anyway.

You didn’t stop walking.

But your jaw was tight when you reached the lift.

---

The locker room was empty when you slipped in.

Good. You hated witnesses. Especially the quiet ones.

The overhead light flickered, casting sharp silver across rows of dented lockers, a cracked tile floor, and your rust-stained cot wedged up in the corner where the wall never quite stopped leaking.

You didn’t sit.

You just pulled your coat off and hung it on the dented hook that barely held weight.

Your fingers worked on instinct — removing your worn gloves, checking your satchel’s seals, running diagnostics on your auto-slate.

Busy hands made a quieter mind.

But it crept in anyway — the thought you’d been avoiding all day:

You were leaving.

Soon.

For the XII Aggression Fleet.

For him.

The Butcher.

You exhaled through your nose. Rolled your eyes at nothing.

Then you moved toward the locker.

The back one. The one no one else touched.

It took a kick to open.

You liked that about it.

Inside:

One clean dataslate

A bent stylus

Half a rag stuffed with inksticks

A folded rag you sometimes used as a pillow

A shard of mirror, metal-backed, scavenged from an old downed servitor casing

You pulled it out and turned it in your fingers.

It still had a little rust at the edges.

Still smelled faintly of oil.

You raised it.

Looked.

Your reflection was...

Fine.

You looked fine.

Sharp face. Straight mouth. Dark-ringed eyes. Scar across the bridge of your nose where someone had slammed your head into a filing desk last year.

You didn’t remember what for.

You didn’t wince.

You adjusted your sleeves.

The red thread peeked out — fraying, thin, wound twice around your left wrist.

Not a bracelet. Not anything.

Just… there.

You didn’t remember where it started.

You’d replaced it years ago, probably.

But it was the same color. Always that color.

And it stayed.

But your eyes drifted — just a little — to the hollow under your collarbone, where the skin still bore the ghost of a branding scar.

They’d burned the designation into you at seven.

Later, they reassigned you. Gave you the Rosette.

They never scrubbed the mark.

You ran your fingers over it, once.

Then opened your satchel and pulled out the chain.

The Rosette gleamed, faintly. Cold.

You slipped it over your head and let it settle against your chest like a second spine.

Interpreter.

Liaison.

Disposal.

You smiled at yourself — a tired, crooked thing.

"Dead girl walking," you murmured.

The mirror didn’t argue.

The walk to Dock H felt longer than usual.

You told yourself it was the weight of the satchel. The ache in your calves. The extra rations you slipped into the locker for the kid — even though you knew he’d be robbed by nightfall.

It wasn’t the fear.

You didn’t do fear.

Not anymore.

Just… managed expectations.

The corridors stretched on, pipe-lined and blistered with rust. The scent of blood and reek-oil clung to everything. The walls sweated moisture that wasn’t water.

You passed two tech-priests arguing in Binaric over a servitor with a bent spinal frame.

You nodded. They didn’t nod back.

Good.

It meant you were still invisible.

---

Until you weren’t.

The World Eaters came around the corner like a pressure wave.

There were four of them — no escort, no fanfare. Just blood-steam and footfalls that shook the grating under your boots.

They didn’t march.

They stalked.

Armor painted in drying gore. Symbols carved into shoulder plates. Chainaxes clipped at their hips like talismans. Helmets off. One dragged a flayed corpse behind him, trailing blood like a bridal train.

You moved to the wall automatically — you weren’t suicidal — but you didn’t shrink.

Not anymore.

Just… still.

Small.

A shadow in the oil-smoke.

And then one of them looked at you.

Long, slow.

His head tilted, like a predator seeing a noise, not prey.

His face was war-scarred, with ritual cuts down both cheeks, teeth filed into points.

He didn’t snarl.

He smiled.

Just like he was already imagining how you’d look when you stopped breathing.

It was worse than a snarl.

The one behind him said something low — in a dialect you almost recognized. It sounded like Low Gothic, if Low Gothic had been spoken underwater by a dying god.

You caught a single word:

“Pretty.”

Your jaw locked.

You didn’t blink.

The third one — older, scarred across the throat, with a chainaxe in one hand and a ribcage strapped to his back like a trophy — let out a low chuckle.

It rattled your bones.

None of them stopped.

They passed like smoke through flame — too big, too loud, too close.

And when they were gone —

when their scent still burned in your nostrils like hot metal —

you realized your hands were fists.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

Your throat was dry.

And your left hand was pressed to your wrist.

To the thread.

Still there.

Still tight.

You released it.

And breathed.

Once.

---

The dock loomed.

Metal towers stretched overhead like broken ribs, lights flickering red in the fog. Servitors clanked in dull circles, unloading crate after crate of munitions, medicae supplies, and human bodies wrapped in tagged cloth.

No one greeted you.

A grox-skinned quartermaster waved you toward a loading bay with a metal stylus like he was swatting a bug.

You stepped into the hangar’s belly.

And froze.

The ship squatted on the far platform like a beast half-woken from hibernation.

Brass-plated. Bladed. Covered in kill-scars.

The hull was decorated in chains. Bodies. Rusted prayer plates hanging like teeth.

Red banners snapped in the oil-wind, each one stamped with a single glyph:

XII. AGGRESSION.

And there, carved deep into the prow —

etched like a curse into the bone-metal surface —

THE WARHOUND.

You felt your stomach curl.

Your knees didn’t buckle.

But they wanted to.

You adjusted your satchel.

Pulled your coat tighter.

The chain around your neck was cold.

The thread at your wrist, warm.

You took a step forward.

And the doors swallowed you whole.

---

The air inside the Warhound was colder than you expected.

Not freezing — just sharp.

Sterile.

Like someone had cleaned it, but only after too much had already rotted inside.

The ramp sealed behind you with a hiss and a hydraulic moan, drowning out the dock’s chaos.

You stood there a moment, letting your eyes adjust, heart pounding too close to your throat.

No welcome party.

Just the groan of metal bones and the sound of your own breathing.

---

The first corridor was long, narrow, barely lit — a transport vein designed for bulk cargo and soldiers too massive to care about human comfort.

You walked it like a ghost.

Boots too light. Shadow too small.

The walls were not quiet.

You could hear them.

Something. Someone. Screaming.

Deep down in the ship’s gut.

Not pain.

Pleasure.

Or whatever passed for it here.

Metal screamed too — engine parts groaning in their sockets, servitors shuffling, plasma lines weeping gas like breath.

You passed a hanging banner — black leather, red ink, stamped with the sigil of the World Eaters.

A single glyph burned into the surface beneath it, carved with a blade instead of inked:

OBEY.

You didn’t stop walking.

But your pace slowed.

---

They didn’t bother showing you to your quarters.

Just dumped coordinates into your slate.

Barracks wing. Deck 7C. Assigned scribe’s cell.

You found it after two wrong turns and one narrow hallway lined with skulls that might not have all been decorative.

The door didn’t open until you swiped your Rosette — and even then, it groaned like it hated the idea of letting you inside.

You stepped into a box of cold steel.

No bunk.

No blankets.

No personal effects.

Just a hard floor, one wall-plate for filing, and a single fixture: a half-broken shrine to the Emperor of Mankind, blackened by smoke.

You looked at it.

Didn’t kneel.

Just stood in the center of the room, flexing your hands.

The floor still smelled like blood.

---

They fed you twice over the next two days.

You didn’t sleep the first night.

Too cold. Too loud. Too full of footsteps you didn’t want to track.

No one spoke to you.

Except one of the ship-serfs, a half-bent wretch with broken fingers who shoved a tray toward you and muttered:

"Don’t look anyone in the eyes, not even the humans. And if he calls for you — don’t run. Just go."

You didn’t ask who he was.

You already knew.

---

On the third day, the vox pinged.

It wasn’t a request.

Just three words:

REPORT TO PRIMARCH.

You stared at the screen.

Then glanced at the door.

Your hand almost lifted — a half-reflex — but didn’t reach for anything.

Instead, you exhaled.

Flexed your fingers.

Rolled your neck until something cracked.

No ritual this time.

No satchel clutching.

No thread-check.

Just you.

And the sound of your own breath.

Then turned toward the upper decks —

and walked straight into the jaws of the Butcher.

---

You expected a throne.

You weren’t sure why.

Some leftover delusion, maybe. Some half-remembered pict of how a Primarch should sit — tall, clean, golden light behind him, banners fluttering.

What you got instead?

Chains.

Dozens of them.

Massive iron lengths suspended from the ceiling like a meat hook cathedral, half-rusted and rattling with every engine groan.

And in the center — seated on nothing, slouched against a pillar of blackened steel —

Angron.

No armor.

Just blood-washed skin and scars that didn’t look like they’d healed so much as calcified into the bone.

He wore a shorn-off crimson wrap around his waist, a torn pelt thrown over one shoulder like a trophy.

The Butcher’s Nails gleamed in his skull, still hot — you could smell the metal.

Smoke curled from where some of them met bone.

He didn’t move when the guards ushered you in.

He didn’t even look.

You had the brief, surreal thought that they might have brought you to the wrong place.

Then he breathed.

And the chains shifted.

---

You didn’t bow.

You didn’t salute.

You just stood there, coat grimy, Rosette heavy on your chest, arms at your sides like you were bracing to be hit.

Not for show.

Out of habit.

You weren’t afraid of dying.

Not in the normal way.

You’d seen death.

Served it coffee. Filed its reports.

What scared you was what was behind those eyes — the not-rightness, the way he looked like a man who had once had a name, a face, a soul — and someone had taken all of it and left the shell walking.

You knew that feeling.

That was the problem.

---

After too long, he looked at you.

The weight of it landed like a slab of stone between your lungs.

Not heat — not rage — not at first.

Just pressure.

Like the whole ship was holding its breath to see if you’d break.

His eyes were red.

Not glowing.

Just… raw.

Like something had been scraped out of him that was never supposed to grow back.

“Interpreter,” he said, voice low and rough, like every word he spoke clawed its way up from somewhere unwilling.

You didn’t answer immediately.

Not to challenge.

Just to remind yourself you still could.

Then:

“Sir.”

The word tasted wrong in your mouth.

---

He pushed off the pillar with a sound like a mountain shifting —

his weight slamming down into the metal with a shudder that echoed through the chains.

He didn’t walk toward you.

He didn’t have to.

He just stood there. Massive. Half-naked. Covered in old warpaint and fresh, flaking blood.

“You spoke to me,” he said.

Not a question.

“Yes.”

“You mocked me.”

You almost smiled.

“Yes.”

A sound broke in his chest.

Not a growl.

Laughter, maybe.

Ugly. Unused.

“And yet you live.”

You tilted your head.

"Not for lack of trying. Sir."

A beat.

No reaction.

Then —

a step.

Just one.

And it was too much.

Your back straightened. Muscles tensed. You didn’t move. But every instinct screamed animal. Run. Kneel. Disappear.

He stopped inches in front of you.

Looking down.

Heat coming off his skin like a forge.

Scars close enough to count.

He didn’t touch you.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t snarl.

He just looked.

And you felt it.

The way his eyes moved — not lazy, not leering — but scanning.

Like reading a battlefield.

Or an old map he used to know by heart.

Your face first.

The scar across your nose —

A rough line where bone had nearly split skin.

Then your neck.

The spot where your coat gaped open just slightly — not salacious, just exposed —

where the edge of your brand still flared faint and red under pale skin.

He saw it.

You knew he did.

You didn’t flinch.

Then your arms —

the sleeves too light, the shadows too obvious.

Old lash lines. Scar tissue where skin had tried to grow back wrong.

And something behind his eyes… shifted. Just slightly.

Not pity.

Not even interest.

Just that silent filing you recognized from men who used to bet on pit fighters.

What hurt.

What healed.

What didn't.

You wanted to say something.

To break it.

But what would you say?

Yes, I survived.

No, it didn’t make me stronger.

Just meaner.

So you said nothing.

And neither did he.

Only—

you watched him watch you.

And knew:

He’d seen more in those ten seconds than most men would in ten years.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look away.

His gaze traveled lower. And landed.

At your wrist.

Just a flick of his eyes.

Not long enough to be certain.

But you felt it.

Like something being filed away.

---

“Why are you here,” he said, voice quieter now.

Not soft. Just... less full of war.

You blinked.

You weren’t sure if it was a real question.

Or if he even knew what it meant.

You gave the only answer that mattered.

“Because someone wants me to die. And they thought you'd be efficient.”

Another pause.

The heat of him didn’t lessen.

But he didn’t move.

“They were wrong,” he said.

You looked up — full into his ruined face, into eyes that had seen more betrayal than the galaxy had names for.

“Why?” you asked.

His mouth moved. Slowly.

Like a man tasting language for the first time.

“Because I haven’t decided yet.”

….

You didn’t say anything after that.

What would’ve been the point?

The god had spoken.

Not judgment.

Not mercy.

Just delay.

And somehow, that was worse.

—

The guards didn't come to collect you.

No vox chirped in your ear.

No voice told you to leave.

But something in the chamber changed.

The air thinned.

The chains went still.

The pressure lifted—not gone, just... redirected.

Like the Warhound had already moved on.

Or begun listening to the next thing.

So you walked.

—

The doors didn’t creak or hiss.

They just opened.

You stepped into the corridor with your hands still at your sides.

Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

Your mouth dry with the aftertaste of blood and something older.

You weren’t sure if you’d been dismissed.

Or released.

You walked.

Slow. Deliberate.

Not because you needed to.

But because anything faster would feel like running.

And you didn’t run.

—

The halls of the Warhound weren’t made for mortals.

They were made for men the size of statues and twice as dead.

Your boots clicked on steel that bore the stains of a thousand campaigns.

Your coat scraped rust from the walls.

And the light overhead stuttered every five meters —

enough to keep you guessing if the shape in your periphery was a shadow, a machine, or a man.

You didn’t look back.

You knew better.

—

Two decks down, you passed an open bulkhead.

Inside: a war-serf chained to a data pillar, his mouth wired shut, fingers twitching over keys he couldn’t see.

His eyes flicked up as you passed.

You nodded.

He didn’t.

You kept walking.

—

The smell changed first.

Oil. Blood. Meat.

The musk of World Eaters lingered in the air like a second skin.

You turned a corner and—

Froze.

A group of astartes stood at the end of the hall like pillars made of hunger.

Their armor steamed with fresh gore. One of them held a helmet under his arm, where brain matter still clung to the visor.

They didn’t look at you. But they didn’t move either.

Like they were waiting.

You inhaled.

Walked straight past.

No eye contact. No quickening pace.

Just small, steady footsteps, echoing like prey walking through a den of sleeping lions.

One of them said something low, in that same guttural dialect.

You didn’t translate it.

You didn’t need to.

You heard the word “pet.”

And you felt the way they said it — not cruel.

Not even mocking.

Certain.

Like they’d already seen how this ends.

----------------------------- to be continued-------

I feel like I need to know more about Angron to write more dialogue for him (／＼) but thank you for reading!! Would love to know your thoughts.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k x reader #warhammer fantasy #angron #world eaters #angron x reader #slow burn #primarch x reader #wh40k x reader #x reader #reader insert #warhammer x reader #wh40k fic #wh40k

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