#eventually you will need to talk back. please

[yanadolls]

preying on u tonight

18+, mdni ୨୧

jealous!nagi x fem reader, unprotected sex, degrading, praising, overstimulation, size kink, sending ur nude pics to reo

part one

part two of this req <3

at first, nagi was overjoyed to be with you. after all, this was the girl of his dreams we were talking about. you were perfect- so sweet to him, always giving him a smile and cheering him on during his games and spending time with him when nobody else wouls. then, when he had asked you out and started dating you, it was only going uphill. you made him feel special and loved, always making sure he felt cared for and even making meals for him whenever he was too lazy to eat. nagi was sure he was in love with you from the very start.

so when he eventually found out that you had been sleeping with his best friend for MONTHS, it made his heart drop.

nagi felt betrayed for the first time in his life- both by reo who he trusted, and a bit by you. the white haired boy had gushed over you for god knows how long and the other man who was always supportive; how could reo have been fucking you while encouraging nagi?! then..there was you. after confronting you about this entire situation, he did understand that it was just a friends with benefits thing, and nothing more. he knew you had no feelings for reo and he really did believe you when you said you had loved nagi all along. you were just doing it for stress relief.

however, just because he understood didn't mean he wasn't seething with jealous, blood boiling the entire conversation. nagi didn't hate reo per say, he was just very angry with him at the moment. it was a normal reaction to discovering the fact his best friend was sleeping with his crush for half a year, and had even called you over to fuck the night prior to nagi's confession to you. it made his stomach twist in an uncomfortable feeling, and maybe even causing him to feel anxious.

what if you got bored of him, and went back to reo? what if he couldn't pleasure you as good as his best friend could? nagi needed to prove that he was the right choice, not the other rich man.

"hah..s-shit sei! aah, too much! slow down!"

nagi clicked his tongue at your crying, holding you down by your wrists with one of his larger hands which entirely covered both of yours, thrusting brutally in and out of you. nagi wasn't one to get so worked up emotionally, but this was different. he was jealous and angry, so what better way to make himself feel a bit less bad than burying himself deep into your pussy and showing you who you belonged to? you always took it like a good girl, anyway.

"shut up." he growled against your neck, "sluts like you don't get to command. take all of it and stop complaining."

he didn't intend to be so mean to you, but could you blame him? multiple feelings were bubbling in his chest, primarily jealousy and lust. his intense gaze locked onto your fucked out face, before bringing his vision down to your sopping little hole which had cum leaking out. this was, what- maybe the third time he made you cum already? you were so sensitive it was overwhelming, yet it felt too good to stop. your boyfriend's hand grabbed your face and squished your cheeks, slamming his lips down onto yours with a heated passion.

"do you even understand how it feels to find out- shit.. t-that my girlfriend was fucking around with my best friend before all of this? what are you, some hooker? were you with other men as well?"

he moved his hands to your thighs, pushing them up to your chest so he could dick you down even more. your mind was clouded at this point, and the only thing you could babble out unconsciously were apologies that fell from your lips like a chant, and cries of his name. you really were sorry- you felt awful about it.

"m'so sorry sei! f-fuck, so sorry!!" you choked a sob, trying to bring your eyes to meet his. "was only reo- m'so sorry, baby! please please, w-wish i never did it..!"

nagi's eyes softened at the way your dolly ones were filled with fat tears, guilt written all over them with a hint of lust from how good he was fucking you. he knew that you couldn't have known about his feelings for you while sleeping with reo- if you had, then you definitely wouldn't have been going to him instead of the lazy genius. the purple haired man was the one at blame.

"mh.. such a cute thing, aren't you? can't believe fucking reo got to see this as well."

the mere thought made him feel jealous all over again, although he wasn't mad at you anymore. if he was gonna be angry at anyone, it was 100% going to be his best friend who went behind his back knowing how much nagi liked you.

"m'sorry, so sorry sei! i-if i knew you liked me-"

"shh, love. i know, i know."

with another kiss to your lips, you felt more reassured. nagi wasn't really good at expressing his feelings, but he was starting to feel a bit bad for being so mean during the entire night you two were having sex, even if being a bit more rough with you was turning him on secretly. while the fact reo slept with you still would be on his mind for a month or so.. nagi couldn't find it in him to stay frustrated at you, even if he wanted to.

"you're mine now, yeah? reo could never fuck you the way i do, only my dick could make you get like this.."

nagi was confident in his words for once as he intently watched your expressions, slamming his heavy, fat cock into your overstimulated cunt over and over. you were squirming under him, smaller body bucking up into his larger, much more muscular one without even meaning to. the mere size difference between you and him made his dick throb in your gummy walls, groaning at the bulge his length made every time he thrusted inside you.

"i'm all yours, sei! love you so much..! haah, love your dick s'much.."

"such a cute little thing, aren't you? so tiny and easy to manhandle.."

he pressed deeper into you, tip kissing your cervix and stretching out your walls so deliciously. he didn't miss the way your walls clenched around his dick when he mentioned how small you were compared to him, silently noting that reaction. you felt so full, so connected to him on an intimate level- something you never felt when you were fucking with reo. you never wanted nagi to feel insecure or jealous again- you just loved him too much.

"aah.. g-gunna cum again! oh sei, please please please-"

nagi moved his head back to yours, pressing more gentle yet passionate kisses to your lips, tongue clashing with yours. his rhythm became more sloppy as he buried himself deep inside you, dumping his load into your tummy once more while you cried out and came on his cock.

looking down, the messy sight made his dick twitch again. your hole was leaking with both your cum, dripping onto the bed- and your sweaty, fucked body was just the perfect sight; eyes rolled to your skull, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling quickly, hips still bucking a bit from how stimulated you had been..it was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

"stay still, babe."

nagi reached out and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, snapping a photo of you (and you were far too delirious right now to even acknowledge what he just did), before opening a certain someone's messages..

nagi: attachment: 1 image

nagi: you jealous, reo? ur never fucking her again lol

would he regret sending that in the morning? probably. however, he was far too tired now to care. with a lazy clean up and a kiss to your forehead, he held your tinier body in his arms and fell asleep, happy you were only his from now on.

AN; new layout! i hope yall like it xoxo i loved writing this sm ugh jealous nagi is so hot <3

[buckysthunderbolts]

Maternal Instincts

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After avoiding Bucky for far too long, you're forced to come to him and ask him to help you walk through memories you don't believe are real. Only this time, it involves two people that look suspiciously like you and Bucky.

Warnings: Eventual 18+ content, canon-typical violence, knives, injuries, drugging

Word Count: 3.5k+

Author's Note: I'm baaaaaaaack (for now at least)! I got inspired to write this after seeing thunderbolts* a few weeks ago. I originally posted this on my AO3 lokislaufeysons. Hopefully my fanfic skills aren't rusty, I've been out of practice for way too long. Anyway, please let me know what you think by leaving comments! Ta ta for now!!

Chapter 1: Little Viper

NOW

Even after all this time, I still don’t trust my memories. I can’t talk to the two people who would know what was real and was not real. Steve is gone. I’m too ashamed to go to Bucky. He’s healthy. He’s moved on. He doesn’t need me. I just remind him of his past and mine. He’s too busy now. He’s gotten the hero’s treatment he’s always deserved and earned. The gaps in my memory are my punishment, a reminder of every bad thing I’ve done.

Bucky calls and leaves messages. His voice is earnest and full of concern, gentle. His tone reaches to the back of my mind, bringing back memories I don’t know are real and I am too afraid to ask him if they are. Flashes of soft laughter, gentle touches, and lingering kisses. If I told him the nightmares I have and the flashes of memories that I don’t know are real or not, I know he would tell me the truth. I don’t know if I could handle the answer.

Instead, I bury myself in liquor and work. It dulls the pain and loneliness I feel. The ache in my chest, the emptiness I feel, the void in my life. There’s something missing and I can’t figure out what. It only comes in flashes in my dreams and nightmares.

Sam tries his best to be there for me, but I think I’ve pushed him away too many times for him to keep trying. He reminds me too much of Steve and it hurts too much. He hasn’t given up on me, no matter how many times I tell him there is no point. He’s patient and doesn’t say much and doesn’t mention Bucky.  

It’s one of the reasons I now have a court mandated therapist. It’s part of my own journey to make amends with everything I’ve done and everyone I’ve hurt, even if I didn’t have a choice. I don’t think I’m worthy of forgiveness or redemption, not in the same way Bucky is. I just have to carry it with me every day and move forward, without burdening Bucky and holding him back from moving on and healing.

“You know, pushing away the people that care about you the most tends to have the exact opposite effect you want it to,” Yelena murmurs, leaning against the balcony, looking down at the party beside me.

I scoff and roll my eyes, taking a long drink of my champagne. “Now that you’re an Avenger, you’re therapizing me?” I asked. “Once upon a time you did the exact same thing.”

Yelena hums and nods in agreement. “I know I did. It just made me feel worse. You should just talk to him. You’ve said you don’t trust your memories. Talking to Bucky about it will give you clarity. He can tell you what was real and what was not.”

I swallow hard, my eyes following Bucky’s every move below. His hair is slicked back, and he’s dressed in a tux that does nothing to hide his strength. He’s surrounded by politicians and other powerful people. I haven’t told anyone about the flashes of memories I get when they’re triggered.  

“That’s what scares me.”

“Gregor is entering the building,” Sam’s voice breaks our conversation through the earpiece, and I look towards the main entrance. 

Dr. Gregor Markov enters the massive ballroom flanked by his private security team. He’s dressed in a maroon suit. His silver hair is perfectly combed and beard neatly trimmed. I’m responsible for intercepting him. Dr. Markov is responsible for selling unsanctioned biological weapons and has avoided capture for many years. He helped finance the Black Widow program and has never been held responsible for his crimes. He hides behind philanthropic efforts and his deep pockets. Familiarity gnaws at me as I look at him and it twists my stomach. Dread fills me.

“On it,” I replied, turning from the balcony and hurrying down the grand staircase, pushing down the warnings I feel stir inside me.

“Remember, you need to get him alone. We need to quickly and quietly subdue him. An exit is just beyond his private study. Joaquin and I are just outside. Yelena and Bucky are inside if there are any problems. Once you get him alone, you have five minutes to exit.”

I walk around and through the ball room, weaving through the thrones of people. My gaze never leaves Markov’s frame. I watch him smile and shake hands with guests. He moves closer to the bar, and I lean against an empty chair. His eyes catch mine and he drinks me in.

I’m dressed in a long, dark blue gown with a plunging neckline and open back and high slit that ends near the top of my thigh. The top of my dress is tight against my chest and hugs my body in all the right places. He smiles and breaks away from his group and comes up to me. I smile coyly and let him take my hand. He brings it up to his mouth and kisses the back of my hand. It itches something in the back of my head, but I push the feeling down.

“What would you like to drink, Ms.…” Markov asks, trailing and waiting for my name.

“Ana,” I replied, the fake name slipping easily off my tongue. The wig I have on itches my scalp. “Martini, as dirty as they can make it.”

He grins, nodding towards the bartender. “Two extra dirty martinis please.”

The bartender works quickly and pushes them on the counter towards us. He takes them both in his hands before handing one of the glasses to me. We cheers silently and I take a long, hard drink.

“Would you like to dance?”

I smile again and take another long sip before nodding. He takes my hand and guides me to the middle of the ballroom. His security team lingers at the edge of the dance floor. He spins me around settles a hand on my waist and the other inside my hand. I rest my free hand on his shoulder.

The sound of violins and other string instruments fill the speakers. We move gently to the music and my eyes flicker over to Bucky. He’s standing by a table surrounded by rich philanthropists and world leaders. He has a drink in his hand and listens and observes quietly. I watch him turn towards the dance floor and he finds me. He follows my moves and I can’t read the emotion on his face.

“What brings you here to my home?” Markov’s thick Austrian accent breaks my focus, and my eyes find his again. The hand on my waist slides down and he greedily cops a feel of my ass. I resist the urge to twist his hand and grit my teeth.

“Professional curiosity. What made you open your home and host this gala? Rumor has it that you enjoy your reputation as a recluse. Why change that?” 

He laughs in my ear and hums in reply. “To stroke my ego, I suppose. Are you really a philanthropist if you don’t host a fundraising gala in your honor?”

I laugh and creep my hand towards the back of his neck, twirling a piece of hair between my fingers. “I guess not. It’s for a good cause, so why not celebrate all your efforts? You’re making a difference.”

“I like you. You know exactly what to say to make me want to sneak away and take what I want from you in my study.”

“So why don’t you?”

“My age doesn’t put you off? I’m at least 30 years older than you.”

Too bad you don’t know I’m technically over 100 years old. I’m old enough to be your mother.

“Not at all. You’re still very attractive. You’re philanthropic and filthy rich. Does me being younger than you put you off?” I asked, throwing the question back at him with a sly grin.

Markov grins again and shakes his head. “Touche.”

We part briefly before he grabs my hand again. We walk towards the grand staircase and his security detail follows closely behind. He turns and leans into the ear of the largest man on his detail and whispers something. The men back off and Markov turns to look at me again. He guides me up the stairs, down the hall past a set of guards towards his private office and the closest exit.

My heart races and I swallow hard as he opens the door to his study. The room is massive. His desk is backed up against a massive bookcase. Picture frames are on the desk and piles of paper are neatly organized in front of the chair. A couch sits on the far wall across from the windows. The curtains are drawn, but the moon light leaks in. The door clicks quietly behind me, and Markov’s fingers reach out and touch my bare spine. I have to act quickly and strategically. If I’m not out of this room dragging Markov’s unconscious body behind me within the next five minutes, Yelena and Bucky will come storming in. I need to act fast.

I can’t help but shiver. I turn and reach for him, my hands brushing up his chest towards his shoulders before I grip his shirt between my fingers and pull him towards me. His mouth finds mine and we kiss aggressively. He turns around and pushes me against the door. I smile against his mouth and rest my hands on his chest, slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt. His hand finds my waist and pulls my leg up, brushing his fingers up and down my bare thigh.

I carefully reach down my other leg for the syringe strapped to my thigh. I’m seconds away from plunging it into the side of his neck when he pulls away from me. I fix my dress quickly and watch him wipe his mouth. He laughs and shakes his head.

“You’ve lost your touch, malen'kaya gadyuka,” Markov hummed. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me. Hydra and I did a good job erasing your memories and turning you into a monster. Has Barnes tried to jog your memory or are you too ashamed to ask him?”

Little Viper. I haven’t heard that name in so long. Dread fills me, and my brows pinch together. I stare at Markov for a long, silent moment. Instead of his silver hair, it’s a curly dark brown. Glasses appear on the bridge of his nose. His full cheeks thin out and his straight, narrow nose moves slightly off center, like it had been broken one too many times.

“Anton Bierhal,” I murmur in disbelief. He grins and claps like I’ve just won a prize. I could hardly recognize him. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

I shot him dead when I escaped the mountainside compound in Russia just before Bucky was transferred to D.C. to take out Nick Fury. I wanted to take him with me, but he was too fresh from coming out of the cryogenic chamber to remember who I was and what I meant to him.

“It’s amazing what technology can do to save lives.”

Something clicks near his desk and two people enter from a hidden door from behind the bookcase. It takes my attention away from my target briefly, but it’s too late. Bierhal blows a powdered substance in my face. It startles me and I try to bat it away from my face. I’m running out of time.

I reach for the syringe on my thigh and stalk towards him. I pull my arm back and push down until the needle is just inches from the side of his neck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t push it any further. Bierhal grins and slaps the needle out of my hand.

“Even after all this time, I still control you. Who knew such a small substance could have all this power over someone? You can’t touch me. It overwhelms your sympathetic nervous system to the point you can’t even speak. You’re fully aware of what you are doing but can’t do anything to stop it. Your enemies become your allies. Your allies become your enemies. It’s amazing how easy it is to overwhelm and confuse the sympathetic nervous system with the right combination of drugs. You’re so overwhelmed you can’t speak. You have no control.”

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Bierhal laughs again and circles around to his desk and sits down. He buttons up his shirt. The two individuals that came in through the bookcase entrance flank his side before walking towards me. I brace myself and square my shoulders.

My eyes flicker between the two and familiarity hits me in the chest. The man looks like Bucky did when he was drafted for the war. It felt like entering a time machine the longer I stared at him. Looking at the woman felt like looking in a mirror. She looks like how I did when the war started. Deep down, I knew them somehow, and that whatever I did to them would be the thing I regretted the most.

Flashes of being held in captivity and training them break through. My inability to show emotion and care when I would beat them until they broke. More memories pass by, one different than the rest. This time, I’m crying and reaching towards something, desperate sobs rip through my chest. A team of doctors ignore my pleas. I’m exhausted and broken.

They both pull knives from their suits and charge at me. I dodge and move defensively. I can’t attack. Every time I try to respond to protect myself, one of them easily blocks it. It’s like they know every move I make before I make it myself.

The man jabs me in the side with his fist, and I stumble into a side table. The woman throws the knife in her hand towards my head, and it scrapes my forehead. My head hits the floor and pain blossoms. Blood slides down my face and I struggle to my feet.

The man kicks my stomach, and I fall to the ground again with a loud gasp. He’s knocked the wind out of me, and I struggle to breathe. He pins me to the floor and holds a knife to my throat. His eyes find mine and I can’t help but feel like I’m looking at someone I should know. I feel the blade slowly slice my skin open just enough for it to burn.

The door to the study breaks open and Yelena and Bucky burst through the door. They both have guns trained on them and Bierhal cackles, standing up from his chair and clapping. The man loosens his grip on the knife against my throat and stands up.

I scramble to my feet. Yelena turns and moves the gun away from Bierhal onto the woman nearest him. Bucky’s grip on his gun hesitates and he quickly looks over to me. I can’t help what I do next. I can’t speak, I can’t tell them I have no control over what I’m doing, that whatever Bierhal gave me makes them into my targets instead of my allies.

I turn away and lunge towards Yelena. She stumbles back into Bucky and her eyes widen and fill with betrayal. I can’t apologize. I can’t tell her I didn’t have a choice. Instead, I swipe a blade from a holster on her thigh and swipe at her. She quickly dodges the knife and the pair exchange hits against Bucky.

Yelena yells my name, but I can’t hear her. I side swipe her and kick her to the ground. She back flips and kicks me in the stomach. I fly back against the far wall with a crack. I’m disoriented and dizzy. I watch with horror as Yelena reaches for her gun and aims it at the woman, her attention and energy focused on Bucky. Yelena’s finger sits on the trigger.

I don’t know what to do without hurting anyone. I scream loudly and reach for the fallen blade. All eyes are on me and Bucky reaches for me, but it’s too late. Time moves slowly as I plunge the knife into my gut and fall to my knees. He catches me and Yelena runs to my side. I still try to hurt them by reaching for the knife inside me. Yelena pins my arm to the floor. Tears blur my vision and I struggle against their bodies.

“Well, I certainly did not expect that,” Bierhal laughed. “How noble of you. I guess even if you don’t remember your own children, the maternal instincts are still there, deep down.”

“What did you do to her? Why is she trying to kill us and not you? Why can’t she speak?” Yelena asked, pressing her hand against the wound. Another scream rips through me and it makes me dizzy with pain.

He shrugs and grabs his jacket from behind the chair where he sat. “All I did was remind her nervous system who she was. She just forgot who was in control.” He disappears through the bookcase with the pair and Bucky gently caresses my face. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and I’m struggling to breathe.

“Slow breaths, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured quietly, lifting me in his arms. Yelena is hot on his heels and kicks the exit door open.

“Prepare the med-vac!” Yelena yelled as my vision went dark as we climbed into the jet.

….

THEN

“If we had kids, what would you want their names to be?” Bucky asked out of the blue the weekend he received his draft card and uniform. His head laid in my lap as we sat on a blanket in Central Park. I stop twirling his hair between my fingers and my eyes meet his.

“Kids?” I asked in disbelief. “How are you thinking about having kids right now? You’re leaving in three days to who knows where and I’m going to England right after. Not to mention, we’re both poor and unmarried. I think both our ma’s would kill you if you got me pregnant before marriage.”

Bucky must see the distress in my face and sits up. The soft smile on his face disappears and he reaches for my hands. He squeezes them gently and kisses the back of my hand. “I’m not. I just want to picture our future when things are tough, and I forget why I’m forced to fight in the first place. When I’m cold, dirty, and missing you wherever I am, I want to be able to look at the picture of you I have tucked against my chest and picture what our lives will look like when this is all over. I want to picture our children and marriage and what our lives will look like after the war.”

Tears threaten to spill over my cheeks, and I turn my back to him. The last thing he needs to see is me crying. He’s been drafted and is leaving New York in a few days to join the war. He’s been nothing but strong and stable, and here I am crying like a baby.

Bucky pulls me against his chest and I hold his arm against mine. My shoulders shake as I cry quietly in his lap, and he lets me. He rests his chin on top of my head and kisses my hair. “You’re too good to me,” I sniff, hugging his arm. “How did I get so lucky?”

I feel him smile against my head and his mouth lingers against my ear. “Nonsense, sweetheart. I’m the lucky one.” He kisses my temple.

We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The sounds of children playing fill the air with the summer breeze. The warm sun flickers through the trees and on to my skin. My fingers play with his.

“Alice Margaret for a girl,” I answer after a while. Bucky’s free hand stills in my hair. “Peter Steven for a boy.”

He grins against my skin. “Those are beautiful names. How long have you had those names picked out?” he asked teasingly.

I scoff and playfully elbow him. “Junior year of high school. What about you, hmm? I’m sure you’ve thought of names since you were the one who asked me about names for our future children.”

He hums. “Hmm…. I like the sound of that…. Our children. Faith or Grace for a girl. Steven or William for a boy.”

I grin and turn my head so our eyes meet. I brush my nose against his and press my mouth against his. Bucky smiles against my lips and returns the kiss eagerly, his hand holding the side of my face.

“I like those names,” I mumbled against his lips. “We’ll just have to put all those names in a hat and draw the names of our children.”

Bucky laughs again and my lips kiss his teeth.

[kikiiidym]

heyyy i really like your writing, and i wanted to know if you could do one of the pjo & hoo boys with a curly haired reader? like a reader with long, curly hair like merida's one (fem!reader, pls) and could you add nico??

PJO/HOO reacting to you asking them to define your curls

Percy Jackson :

You groaned dramatically as you sat down with your detangling brush and three different curl products. “I can’t do it tonight. My arms are made of seaweed.” Percy poked his head into the room like a curious dog. “You okay?” You looked up at him. “Will you help me do my hair?”

Cue confused Seaweed Brain noises.

He blinked. “Uh… define? Like, in a dictionary? Wait—OH, hair. Got it.” “Define my curls,” you clarified. “It’s a thing.”

Percy stood there like you just handed him a loaded celestial bronze brush. “...Babe, I fight monsters. I control the ocean. This feels like a harder quest.” To his credit, Percy actually listens. He tries his absolute best. He rakes the product through way too fast at first (like he’s sword-fighting your hair), but you guide him through the rhythm: water, product, rake, scrunch.

Eventually, he gets into it. At one point he pauses and goes, “Wait. Is this what Aphrodite kids do for fun? Because I kinda get it now.” “You’re gonna look like a goddess. Well—you already do. But now you’ll be a well-moisturized one.”

He squishes a curl, watches it bounce back, and grins like it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

Haircare Skill: 6/10 (Great learner. Needs to slow down, and stop scrunching like he’s putting out a fire.)

Grover Underwood :

“Oh, yes! Of course! Nature blessed you with curls—it would be an honor to help.”

Grover is full of awe when it comes to your hair. He calls it “earth’s crown” and treats it with the same reverence he gives wildflowers and acorns.

How he helps: He uses way too much product, especially the “natural” ones. Your curls smell like eucalyptus and lemongrass for a week. But his fingers are soft and warm, and he sings little woodland songs while he works.

Sometimes he talks to your curls: “You’re doing great. Just relax and bloom, little spiral.”

Moment: “Curls are like vines. You don’t force them—you guide them.”

Haircare Skill: 6/10 (So much love. So much rosemary-scented chaos.)

Connor Stoll :

“Babe. My time has come.”

You had just flopped onto your bunk like a weary Greek goddess after war—except instead of a sword, your weapon had been a wide-tooth comb, and you’d lost.

You groaned, head hanging off the edge of the mattress. “I can’t do it tonight. The curl routine. The steps. The arm workout. I have no will to live.”

Connor peeked in from the doorway with a mischievous grin. “You calling for backup?”

You lifted a hand like a damsel in distress. “Please. I beg of you.”

His eyes widened, hand on his chest. “You… you want me to do your hair? Like, actually?” “Please. I trust you.” He gasped. “You trust me with the curls? Babe. This is a sacred honor.”

Then he dropped his voice an octave. “Activate… Curl Daddy 3000™.”

How he helps: It starts off ridiculous. He makes a grand show of inspecting your products like he’s a curly-haired sommelier. “Ah yes, this one has notes of coconut, regret, and post-shower desperation.” You slap his arm, laughing. “Just do it!”

Then something terrifying happens: he gets serious. Like, almost too serious.

He rakes through your curls gently, muttering to himself like a man on a mission. “Water first. Then product. No raking on dry hair, Stoll. You got this.” At some point, he pauses and goes, “These are type 3b spirals, right? Mid-density? High porosity? You need extra hydration.”

You stared at him like he’d just recited the Iliad backwards. “How do you know that?” He winked. “Let’s just say I’ve seen a few TikToks. For research purposes.” “Research?” “You’re hot. And I like watching people do satisfying hair videos, okay?”

He sections your hair like a pro, uses a misting bottle to rehydrate as he goes, and squishes your curls like he’s testing the bounce on Olympic trampolines. He even sings a dramatic fake theme song while he works: 🎶 Curl Daddy 3000, here to slay / detangling demons all the way 🎶

Every so often, he pauses just to admire your curls like they’re magical. “People fear the curls. But I respect the curls.”

Moment: When he finishes, he steps back and puts his hands on his hips like an artist admiring their masterpiece. “Oh yeah. She’s got volume. She’s got bounce. She’s got hold. She's got face. She's got body. Look out world.”

You glance in the mirror. Defined. Moisturized. Practically red carpet ready.

“I think you did it better than I do it,” you murmur.

He shrugs, smug. “I contain multitudes.”

Then he kisses the top of your head. “Next time you’re tired, you don’t even have to ask. Your curls are safe with me.”

Haircare Skill: 100/10 (A student of the internet, master of chaos, and shockingly gentle. Would 100% start a prank haircare channel. You’d be the model. He’d be the chaos.)

Luke Castellan :

“You want me to help you with your hair? You trust me that much?”

You sat on the edge of his bed, curls dripping onto a towel, shoulders drooping. It had been a long day—training, stress, the usual existential dread—and your arms simply refused to lift again.

Luke looked up from his book and closed it instantly. “Of course. Sit down, sweetheart.”

How he helps: He moves like he’s holding something sacred. You hand him the leave-in, the curl cream, the oil—he studies each label like it’s a prophecy.

“I don’t want to mess it up,” he murmurs.

“You won’t.”

He sits behind you and runs his fingers through each section slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t rush. You can feel how focused he is, like your hair is a language he’s learning one curl at a time.

He pauses sometimes just to kiss your shoulder. To tuck a damp curl behind your ear. To exhale softly.

“I didn’t have a lot of softness growing up,” he admits quietly. “But this? Taking care of you like this? It’s the kind of softness I want to keep.”

Moment: “I never thought I’d have something this soft in my life—this peaceful.”

You lean back against him and close your eyes, the scent of your curl cream mixing with the faint warmth of his hands.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper.

“I’m good at you,” he answers, and scrunches a curl with reverence.

Haircare Skill: 8/10 (Not perfect, but everything he touches turns into devotion. The curls come out lovely—and so does your heart.)

Travis Stoll :

“Wait—you’re letting me touch your curls? Babe, you trust me that much? I’m honored. I feel like I just got knighted.”

You were halfway through your post-shower routine, your curls wet and clumping without definition, and your arms were done. You called for him, half-jokingly. “Travis, come do my hair before I shave it all off.”

He peeked in like a raccoon, wide-eyed and immediately hyped. “Ohhh, you want the full Stoll Special?”

“No chaos,” you warned.

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

How he helps: It starts silly, of course. He makes a little crown out of your microfiber towel. Tries to name each curl section like “The Royal Court of Spiral-Land.” But when you hand him the leave-in, he buckles down.

He gets weirdly focused. Like, tongue-sticking-out-while-sectioning kind of focused. He rakes through your hair carefully, occasionally mumbling, “This is so satisfying…” while watching your curls bounce back.

You catch him twirling a few around his finger like he's braiding ivy. “Look, I made a heart curl!”

“You’re supposed to be defining them, not flirting with them.”

“They’re an extension of you. I can’t help it.”

Moment: He finishes by scrunching gently and sitting back with this proud, goofy smile. “If loving your curls is wrong… I don’t wanna be right.”

You peek in the mirror. Defined. Bouncy. Surprisingly even.

“Holy crap,” you say. “You actually did it.”

He smirks. “Told you. Curl whisperer.”

Haircare Skill: 6.5/10 (Solid execution. Loses points for getting distracted halfway through and briefly trying to make a TikTok about it.)

Will Solace :

“YES. Absolutely. Sit. Sit down, goddess. This is my battlefield now.”

You barely got the question out before Will rolled up his sleeves like a seasoned pro. “Do you want the lightweight curl cream or the medium-hold? And I brought a wide-tooth comb. Just in case.”

How he helps: Will treats your hair like a sacred healing ritual. He detangles your curls gently while humming, uses the perfect ratio of water to product, and actually sectioned your hair before you even asked.

He even diffuses with a hairdryer on low heat. On low. Respectful king.

Moment: “Do you know how soothing this is? I think I’m healing myself just doing this.”

He kisses your forehead, then adjusts a coil that fell out of place. “You’re perfect. Let me help you feel that way, too.”

Haircare Skill: 10/10 (Hair god. Probably has a Pinterest board for curl types. Would run a self-care workshop.)

Nico Di Angelo :

“You want me to… touch your hair?”

He said it like you just asked him to handle radioactive material. The idea both terrifies and intrigues him.

You were lying on his bed in the Hades cabin, too tired to even reach for the curl cream. “Please, I’m exhausted.”

His cheeks flush. “What if I mess it up?” You smile. “I trust you.”

How he helps: Nico becomes eerily focused. He kneels behind you and carefully separates each curl like he's defusing a bomb. His fingers are cold but gentle, and he asks before doing every step. He even mutters little “sorrys” every time he accidentally tugs too hard.

By the end, he’s still not sure he did it right—but your hair looks great.

Moment: “These curls… they’re kind of like you. Wild. Untouchable. Beautiful.”

Then, in a whisper only you can hear: “And I would never change a single thing about them.”

Haircare Skill: 7/10 (Surprisingly careful and follows instructions to the letter. Afraid of leave-in conditioner like it’s a spirit from the Underworld.)

Jason Grace :

“I… don’t know how to do that. But I can learn.”

Jason takes your hair as seriously as he takes being a Praetor. He gets mentally prepared, asks for a step-by-step rundown, and salutes the conditioner bottle like a soldier reporting for duty.

How he helps: He’s gentle, very methodical, and so respectful. But he mixes up the products once and tries to apply mousse with gloves for “hygiene.” You have to stop him from overthinking it.

Still, his focus and care make the whole experience feel like a soft, golden dream.

Moment: “I’m starting to understand why you look so tired after wash day… this is a whole workout. You’re a hero just for dealing with this every week.”

Haircare Skill: 6.5/10 (He does well! Just needs to relax. He’s treating each curl like a Senate bill.)

Frank Zhang :

Reaction: “You want… me to help? Are you sure? I’ve never… I might mess it up…”

Frank is so nervous at first, like he’s afraid your curls will turn into snakes if he touches them wrong.

You reassure him, and he kneels behind you with the careful gentleness of a knight polishing his lady’s armor.

How he helps: He asks for approval after every step. “Is this okay?” “Too rough?” “Too much product?” It’s endearing, and honestly, he ends up doing really well.

Every so often he just stares at your curls and mumbles something like, “Whoa... they’re so pretty up close.”

Moment: “This is like… art. Your hair’s like a painting, and I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Haircare Skill: 8/10 (Tender baby bear. Only flaw is over-worrying. But you’ll feel so loved.)

Leo Valdez :

“I GOT THIS! I watched a YouTube video once. Wait, where’s the diffuser? Is that the one that looks like a UFO or…?”

You ask for help and Leo immediately turns it into a science project. He’s hyped. Possibly too hyped.

How he helps: Leo’s method is… chaotic good. He puts too much leave-in conditioner on one side of your head, then forgets to use gel on the other. But he talks to your curls like they’re sentient:

“Behave. Be bouncy. Don’t embarrass me in front of my hot girlfriend.”

He ends up with curl cream on his nose and some in his eyebrows. But you’re laughing the whole time.

Moment: “Curly girl method? Pfft. More like curly genius method—wait, is it supposed to be this crunchy?”

Haircare Skill: -4/10 (Fails scientifically. Passes emotionally. 10/10 would let him do it again just to watch him talk to your curls.)

Octavian :

You were exhausted, flopped dramatically on a Roman lounge couch, your detangling brush abandoned beside you. “I don’t have the energy, Octavian. Please. Help me or bury me in a toga.”

He glanced up from his scroll like you’d offered him a rare relic. “You want me to tame the storm of your curls?”

You nodded pitifully.

He placed his scroll down, stood up slowly, and rolled his sleeves like a priest before a sacrifice. “Bring me your finest tools. This will be my masterpiece.”

How he helps: Octavian treats this like a ritual. He doesn’t just section—he maps your head like a Roman general planning a siege. Each product is applied with precision. He scoffs at store-brand gel and pulls a jar from his own stash. “From the Venus cabin. Only the best.”

He says things like “This curl clumps like a Senate faction. We must break it apart to restore order.”

And he loves scrunching. He treats your hair like he’s sculpting a statue. Gentle but with deep control. Like he thinks your curls represent the fall of Rome and the rise of natural glory.

Moment: “If Rome had statues of women with curls like yours, maybe it wouldn’t have fallen.”

You blink at your reflection—defined, shiny, coiled to perfection—and can’t even argue.

“Octavian?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“…You’re terrifyingly good at this.”

He bows. “I accept your worship.”

Haircare Skill: 9/10 (Meticulous. Dramatic. Smells faintly of lavender and tyranny.)

[viviansturns]

𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒚!𝒔𝒖𝒃!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔

cw: nsfw content, dirty talk, mentions of edging and humiliation, fluff

𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒚𝒔𝒖𝒃!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑨𝑼

✧ he swears he’s in control

he’ll run his mouth all day:

“you’re obsessed with me,” “you’re lucky i even let you look at me,” “bet no one else gets you off like i do.”

then he’s flat on his back 10 minutes later, begging for more. the minute you touch his thighs, his attitude disappears.

✧ has to pretend he’s not soft when you baby him

if you call him “pretty,” he’ll scoff, roll his eyes, and turn fully red. mutters “whatever” while visibly melting into you.

doesn’t really know how to process gentle affection. can be an ass sometimes when he feels emasculated. Sometimes when you stop, he pretends he doesn’t want it back but gives in, nudging you with his foot like “why’d you stop?”

✧ absurdly sensitive 

when you go down on him, he tries so hard to be quiet, but he’s sweating, fists grabbing the sheets, biting his lip to try and keep the noises in. furrows his brow like he's enduring torture. when you flick your tongue a certain way and he whimpers, he goes fully red and feels humiliated.

✧ brat brat brat brat brat

rolls his hips without permission. bucks them unintentionally. talks back when you tell him to sit still: “make me.” will push your hand away just to be annoying, even when he wants it. until you unravel him enough—then he’s flushed and obedient.

✧ post-nut self-awareness hits him a truck

lays there blinking at the ceiling like he can’t believe what he just did.

"I was NOT whimpering" “nah you heard that wrong.” “don’t look at me like that.”

will deny everything he just said/did. you tease him and he turns into a tomato and refuses eye contact.

✧ tries to dirty talk but gets flustered halfway through.

thinks he’s smooth. starts off strong with cocky lines—

“bet you missed me,” “you’re so wet for me already”

—and for about five seconds, it’s believable. but then you give him a look, tilt your head just a bit, or say something back like “yeah? prove it.” and it ruins him. he stumbles over his next sentence, eyes flicker to your mouth, throat tightens. By the end of it, he’s gasping into your shoulder, voice breaking, whispering “fuck, I missed you” like he didn’t start this whole thing trying to act cool.

✧ sucks balls at aftercare

awful at knowing what to do when it’s over. He’ll pull his boxers on fast, avoid eye contact, act like it wasn’t as intimate as it was. You try to cuddle him, and he’s like “I’m fine. I don’t need to—” but his voice is already softening.

He’ll eventually bury his face in your neck and mumble, “that was good. you’re… really good at that,” like he’s complimenting your cooking and not the best orgasm of his life. It’s awkward. He needs guidance.

✧ possessive in a pathetic way

if someone flirts with you, he’s like “you’re mine, right?” even when he’s begging under you, he’s muttering shit like “nobody else gets you like i do,” “you wouldn’t let anyone else see you like this, right?” he gets all moany when you say he belongs to you.

✧ love hate relationship with edging he'll beg you not to do it. “Don’t be a dick—please,” he whines, hips lifting desperately as you hold him just on the edge. but he keeps coming back for more. Every time you let him get so close and stop, his eyes roll back like it’s killing him, but the next night he’s like, “you can do that thing again. um, i don't know. you seem to like it though"

✧ texts you later like nothing happened

chris: wanna go to chipotle? you: you were crying in my mouth 20 minutes ago?? chris: shut up?? and?? do u want extra guac or not.

𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒚𝒔𝒖𝒃!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑨𝑼

my cutie fr!!! i love these headcanons so much i might write moreee

[39confetti]

SubSkips NSFW Headcanon

MINORS DNI

Yeah I wrote this for myself during work time, dontcare, I love his beast vers but goshhhh his human version is sooooo yummy... He's so easy to flustered aaaaaaaaa.... Sub emo is my soft point, so I'll put that here...

Skips is a horny nerd, but he won’t assume his dirty thoughts.

He never makes the first move, not clearly. He wants you to take control.

So he plays a (not) subtle game, to make you understand. He gets close, his voice turns into a whisper, he plays with his shirt as if he was trying to tell you his deepest secret… (He wants you to destroy him.)

Saying things like “I really need you my penumbra…” “What could I do without you…” “You know, I can do… A lot. If it means you’ll stay… Please ?”

If you don’t play along, (or simply tease him by staying distant) he’ll get frustrated, and eventually, he’ll speak his mind, whining about how he’s craving your touch, saying how cruel you are to let him in such a miserable state, with his heart pounding out of his chest.

Details

A soft caress on his chest draws a shaky gasp from him. He tries to hide the blush blooming across his cheeks with his hands, yet the way he moans and whimpers under his breath? It betrays him. Completely.

Skips is very sensitive. He’s a shadow after all, he’s not used of feeling anyone’s hand on him. His most sensitive spots are his nipples. When your fingers start playing with them, he always has the reflex to say “No !”, but then, he change his mind, “I mean… Y-You know I’m… I like it too much, penumbra. I-I’m sorry, please…”

Skips talks a lot. Not coherent words tho. He simply wants all of your attention.

When you finally take care of his c*ck, the first touch always leaves him out of breath, like it was too good to be true. He’ll bite his upper lips to not moan only at a simple grab. Once you start moving? It’s over. He’s gone, helpless under your hand, completely lost in the sensation.

If you tease him while doing it, he’ll melt, whispering, approving your words, even asking you to affirm he belongs to you and only you. Somehow it reassure him.

Humiliation ? He’s into it, but nothing too hardcore. Just tease him about how weak he is under your touch, how needy he is, he’ll blush and try to mumble something bratty, but it’s just not who he is. Since he can’t keep up, he’ll simply whine about it like a good boy.

Good boy ? Call him that way and you’ll hear him panting like crazy.

He also loves when you watch him. Tell him to touch himself while you sit back and watch, he’ll obey, eager, embarrassed, painfully turned on. He wants you to see how ruined he can become just for you.

If you give him orders, he’ll execute them, asking you, “Am I good enough for you, penumbra ?” “Do you like when I do it like that ?”

When he finishes, it’s always messy, he’s a sweating mess, shaking on the verge of tears… But will it be over ? No.

He loves overstimulation. Take back that c*ck in your hand, mouth, or somewhere else, and he’ll just make some gibberish noises.

 He tries to talk, but it’s just broken syllables and sobs, swearing he can take more of it if it’s for you.

He’ll apologize for being too much, for his crying, for his moans, for enjoying his destruction, for being such a desperate little pervert

Pegging ? Oh hell yeah. Feeling you inside of him is his deepest pleasure. 

He loves to feel your weight on him, that’s why when he’s the one penetrating you, he wants to be under your body, he needs to feel owned.

He wants to be strong, but sometimes, it can be too much… His safe word is “Oblivion”

Aftercare

First, let him catch his breath. This poor shadow gave all of him to you, and he needs to reconnect with reality… 

Maybe grab some water for him ? His throat hurt after all that panting and begging.

Skips love to be glued to you after doing it, he becomes very clingy after, even more than usual, so he might pull you close with too much strength

He’s terrified by the idea that you’ll leave him right after, “Please stay my penumbra.” “You’re here, right ?” “I don’t want to be alone…” “If only we could be together forever… Like this.”

He always ends up complimenting you, “You’ve been so kind to me…” “ I know I can be… intense. But it’s you. You’re the one who makes me feel this way, Penumbra.”

[prettyliittleviolets]

NEEEEEEED remmick BADDDDDDUHHHHHH. You think he talks to *her* while he’s in it? no? just me? alright 😀

ohohhoho don't get me started. got a liiiiitttle off track here but... enjoy.

remmick is a fucking mess during sex. doesn't matter if he's on top of you or beneath you, inside of you or out — he is shattered to a million pieces from your first touch. he's reduced to tears and whatever words you can actually make out through his heaving breaths and broken sobs.

surely, part of it stems from how absolutely starved for touch he is. it's been ages, actual ages, since the last time he's been with someone like this, and all the built up tension and desperation finally breaks loose once your hands are on him. he can hardly control himself, bucking his hips against any restraint he's held on to, little cries and pleas falling from his lips like a prayer to you.

and god, he talks. if you thought he can't shut up most of the time, you're in for a nice fucking surprise once you're in bed together. this man can't keep his mouth shut for the life of him, he's extraordinarily vocal. sure, he moans and whines and such, but what will really catch you off guard is how every single thought he has will just fall out of his mouth. no shame, no consideration, you're not even sure if he's aware of the words streaming of his mouth.

it's flustering, at first, the things he says. how he's pulling you to your room, desperate for your touch, and can't help but whine out,

"god, i– please, darlin'. jus' need to feel you 'round me."

you're flushed like a strawberry, frozen against him and he's just continuing like nothing happened, pressing sloppy kisses to your now agape mouth. how he's going down on you, tongue pressed into you like it's his last meal, and he's moaning into you like he's talking directly to your cunt.

"mm, so fuckin' wet. so pretty f' me. wan'ta drink up all of you."

it takes a while to get used to how talkative he is, but you eventually adjust, not getting caught off guard by every comment he makes. and with some observation, you learn just how to use it in your favor.

god, it makes him so easy to tease.

you come up behind him, kissing on his neck all innocently, and it drives him insane. before you can do anything, he's all over you, moaning into each kiss and already half hard as he grinds against your thigh. he's right where you want him, and you can't help the grin that tugs at you lips as you tangle your hand in his hair.

"come on, baby. just gotta tell me what you want."

and that just sends him. he's a babbling, flustered mess, and words are spilling out of his on each breath.

"fuck, i– need you baby. mm, just need y' to touch me. need you so bad."

and if he's close? oh baby, he's gone. good luck trying to understand him through hiccuping sobs and pleas. he's halfway to a different world, eyes rolled back into his head as he begs you to let him cum.

© PRETTYLITTLEVIOLETS

[over-and-over-and-over-and]

a little bit harder now ... || lottie matthews x reader

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

🩻 lottie "accidentally" discovers she yearns for the drag of teeth on her neck ... your bite is to blame

🔪 MDNI - biting , fingering ( lott receiving ) , porn without a plot

( uhm. once again constructive criticism welcome and appreciated (/gen) because this is my first time writing about pussy. something which i didn't think would be so difficult considering i fucking have one. )

🎵 "A Little Bit Harder Now" - She Wants Revenge

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"they say people who bite are the worst to have sex with."

it was a sleepover at jackie's house which somehow provoked the conversation. one of those friendgroup chats you have way past midnight when everyone is delirious and their filters had effectively been shut off.

lottie doesn't remember who brought it up - just that they made a point to explain how biters are supposedly violent, rough, and all around biting during sex was a no go.

unless you were into that kinda thing

ever since the sleepover lottie was stuck thinking about what was said - not the sleepy confessions or the half awake shit talk brought about by the short lived game of truth or dare ( the unpleasant sound of vomiting which chased the dare natalie received to swallow a raw egg was enough to kill the mood for the night )

the only thought running laps around lottie's brain for the following weeks was the idea of deep bite marks littering her collar bones.

she figured she'd let it live as a fantasy. her mind would wander and inevitably end up manifesting a daydream about someone shoving her down and digging their teeth wherever they could - her neck, tits, tummy, and thighs ... it honestly didn't matter where, so long as her skin was being broken by molars somewhere where she could admire it in the mirror the next morning.

it was a dream, that was all. something for her mind to toy with when she got bored and needed something exciting to chew on while her hand played with the waistband of her panties.

problem is, lottie has always had a bad habit of thinking out loud.

the original plan was a casual hookup because you've always known how to rock lottie's world just the way she liked it. she brings you to her place, entertaining conversation over mediocre takeout before you two are softly kissing in her living room. that quickly evolves into a hasty makeout session, one which has the two of you colliding into furniture as you try to find your way into lottie's room with minimal separation, articles of clothing being left in a messy trail along the way.

it isn't long until you're on the mattress, one of your hands interlocked with lottie's with your other hand tracing her inner thigh. as your fingers ghost over her entrance, she breaks the kiss and gives you the opportunity to nuzzle into the crook of her neck.

"bite me."

to be honest, she didn't mean to say it out loud - her mind lingers on how with your current position it would've been perfect. the words have already left her lips with a bit more authority than she would've hoped, and seeing as it's too late to take it back she tries to ease the moment with a gentle,

"please?"

you do as you're told, gently nipping at her skin all the while running your fingers through her folds - she's pretty wet, something you take as a sign to push one of your fingers in. her breath hitches as you curl your finger, words attempting to form but getting lost underneath her shaky gasps.

" ... bite ... harder ... "

eventually she finds her words while you push another finger in. you bite her again, properly this time, earning a sigh which breaks into a moan as she struggles not to buck her hips.

you don't mean to bite her as hard as you do - you've always been a piss poor multitasker and as such sacrifice your focus on being delicate with her skin in favor of thrusting your fingers just right. whatever you did seemed to work as lottie quite literally whines and tosses her head back. a soft thud echoes around the room, which you don't immediately process as lottie accidentally hitting her head against the bedframe until you realized that simple action earned yet another soft gasp from her lips.

"m ... m ... more ... harder ..."

her words are dissected by a mean stutter, one that you've come to recognize as a telltale sign that she's getting close. you're not quite sure if she's requesting you work your fingers faster, or you sink your teeth into her neck once again-

as a middle ground you decide to do both.

your arm begins to ache from how hard you pump your fingers, and it almost feels nice to distract yourself when you focus on clamping your teeth onto lottie's skin. you pull back, kissing the tender spot you had been attacking and she seems to quietly whimper in the few seconds your mouth isn't pressed against her neck. as you try to work your fingers faster, you press your lips into her shoulder, kissing it softly before biting as hard as you could muster. temporarily you feel bad for intentionally hurting her, but it's quickly washed away as her moans continue to grow in volume the more you work your jaw.

you feel like a goddamn vampire, all too unsure if this is really a good idea, but before you can think about it for too long lottie's orgasm crashes into her. no more desperate pleas leave her lips as her eyes squeeze shut and the only thing she can manage are loud gasps and louder groans. you work her through it, removing your teeth from her shoulder and instead gently kissing her cheek and jawline as she cums on your hand and her thighs.

her eyelids flutter open as she shakily sighs, and you bring your hand up to lick her cum off your fingers but before you get the chance she grabs your hand and takes your fingers into her own mouth, quietly moaning as she tastes herself while rolling her tongue over your knuckles. her big brown eyes stare into your own, and you can't help but admire your handiwork as you take in the sight of her pleasantly blissed out state.

and then you notice her neck. red, bruising, and tender.

wordlessly you watch as she presses the marks on her skin, sighing as her fingers prodded the newly forming bruises.

"sorry i didn't mean to ... i just got kinda caught up in the moment -"

lottie shushes your quiet apology, grabbing your hands and pressing them against her thighs. she then taps the other side of her neck, clean skin free of bitemarks.

" ... do it again. please."

[midnightquips]

Something Like Salvation

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT. Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

💫 Something Like Salvation Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 5: Out Into The Wilderness

Three months had passed since you left.

Austin was warmer now. The kind of heat that sank into your skin instead of sitting heavy on your shoulders. The city had slowly welcomed you back. You’ve changed apartments. Developed new routines. A version of yourself you were still trying to recognize in the mirror. You weren’t sure if you were healing or haunted, maybe a little bit of both.

The morning light has always felt different in this city. It spilled through your windows warm and slow, golden instead of gray, soft instead of judgmental. You embraced the way it kissed your plants, the floor, your bare skin. There were still shadows, but they didn’t feel like warnings. Just reminders that light had arrived.

You stirred your coffee with one hand, opened your laptop with the other. Your manuscript was waiting, nearly halfway done now. Pages filled with words you used to be afraid to say out loud.

The working title sat at the top of the document: Something Like Salvation.

You smiled at it. You hadn’t planned for it to stick but it did.

An image of Owen flashed through your mind briefly. You had tried to forget him. You’d thrown yourself into work. Into walks at dusk. Into new playlists and old books. Into learning how to be alone again without feeling lonely.

But still, he crept in.

Then, there’s quiet mornings like this.  When your body sometimes curled unconsciously to the side of the bed he never laid in. Hearing the voice you imagined he’d say when writing certain lines—soft, reverent, conflicted.

You didn’t hate him. You weren’t even angry anymore. You just missed a version of him that you hoped still existed.

A soft ping broke the silence. It was a voicemail from your sister.

You paused, sipping your coffee before pressing play.

“Hey. Um... I just wanted to say I got your last email. I read it twice. Maybe three times.” A nervous laugh. “I’m okay. I started writing too. Just in a journal, nothing big. And... I think I might apply for a job out of town. Nothing’s for sure yet. But I’m thinking about it.”

You paused again, taking a deep breath.

Her voice continued. “I miss you. I hope you’re well. I’ll call again soon.”

Click.

You held the phone to your chest for a beat. Maybe not everything was healed. But the cracks were letting light in.

You went back to your writing. The words came easier now. You had stopped waiting for permission and it showed.

Three months.

Owen marked them by Sundays. Three months of standing at the back of the chapel instead of behind the pulpit. Three months of driving past your family’s house. Three months of imagining what it would’ve felt like to reach for your hand and not let go.

He had officially stepped back. He told the elders he needed space, though he hadn’t explained from what. How could he when wasn’t sure he even knew.

He fills his days differently now. He helped at the shelter on Tuesdays, spent afternoons rebuilding the old fence behind his mother’s house. Read books he once would’ve dismissed as ‘worldly.’ Wrote letters to you that he never sent.

Sometimes, he’d fold them neatly and tuck them into the back of his worn-out Bible. Sometimes he’d tear them up. But always, they spilled from him like confessions—raw and full of the things he should’ve said when it mattered.

There were too many nights when he sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your contact. Debating whether he should call. Whether he should text. Whether reaching out would be the bravest thing he’d ever done or the most selfish.

He was terrified you’d answer. Because if you did, he knew he’d get in the car that second, drive straight to you, and never look back. And he didn’t know yet if he was allowed to want that.

Everywhere he went, he saw you. Heard your laugh in passing voices. Saw your silhouette in corners where you’d never stood. The chapel especially reminded him of you. Of the way your back arched in the shadows. Of how your mouth trembled when you whispered his name. Of how he had felt whole in the one place he was never supposed to sin.

He missed you. More than that, he missed the way he felt when he was with you. Like he was more than duty. More than ritual. Like he could be whole without needing to earn it.

He often thought of your last words.

“I just didn’t think it would cost me my heart.”

Those stayed with him. Every day. God knows he was trying. Trying to be brave. Trying to find himself beyond stained glass and shame.

He didn’t know what he was walking toward yet. But for the first time, he knew it wasn’t back.

It was late when the knock came.

The kind of late where the world goes quiet, when even the city seems to soften around the edges. You had just turned down the lights. A candle flickered on the coffee table, casting long shadows across your small apartment. You were barefoot, curled into your couch, hair in a messy bun, an old novel open in your lap but unread.

You’d recently gone on a few dates.

A man from your writing group. Another from a bookstore reading. All of them were kind. All of them... were not him. Every conversation felt like translation and every laugh forced. None of them knew how to say your name the way Owen had, like it meant something sacred.

When your sister called a week ago, her voice trembling with curiosity, she said it casually: “By the way, I think he left. Like… for good.”

You hadn’t asked who. You didn’t need to. But it had bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

So when the knock came, soft and hesitant, your body went still before your mind could catch up.

Two slow steps to the door. One glance through the peephole. And your breath caught.

You opened it slowly.

Owen stood there in the low hallway light. Hands in his pockets. Same worn jacket. Same shoes. Same mouth you’d dreamed about more than once in the past three months. But the look in his eyes was different.

It was softer. Like he’d laid something heavy down.

“Hey,” he said.

You simply stared at him. Blinked to make sure you weren’t imagining him.

His voice broke through the haze. “Can I come in?”

Your hand stayed on the doorframe for a moment longer than necessary. Then silently, you stepped aside.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. It was slow, measured. Like he was walking through a memory. His eyes skimmed everything: the framed art, the houseplants, the half-finished mug of tea still warm on the counter.

You shut the door gently behind him, pulse thrumming in your ears.

“You’re really here,” you said softly.

He nodded, voice low. “I am.”

You crossed your arms, grounding yourself. “Why?”

He turned to face you fully, brow furrowed like it hurt to say it.

“I left,” he said. “The church. The house. The town.”

You blinked. “When?”

“A week ago.”

You took a breath, unsure what to do with the information. “Why now?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I wanted to be sure I wasn’t coming here just to get you back. I needed to know I was doing it for me.”

You stayed quiet, letting the weight of his confession settle.

“I don’t expect anything,” he added quickly. “I’m not here to ask for something you don’t want to give.”

You tilted your head. “Then what do you want?”

“To be honest,” he said. “Maybe for the first time. I think I owed you that.”

You stared at him. The air between you vibrated with something fragile.

“Was it hard?” you finally asked.

“Leaving?”

You nodded.

He exhaled. “Terrifying. But it felt right.”

You looked away, eyes flicking toward the window. Outside, the streetlights painted soft yellow arcs across the floor.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “But I knew that didn’t mean I deserved you.”

Your jaw tightened.

He took a step closer, slow. Careful.

“I’ve thought about this moment every day. But I didn’t want to come until I could stand here and mean it. Not because I missed you, but because I knew who I was without everything else.”

You watched the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

“I don’t want to be the reason you lose yourself again,” he said. “I want to be someone who walks beside you this time. If you’ll let me.”

The room buzzed with the silence that followed.

Then, you moved just enough to gesture toward the couch.

“Sit,” you said.

He followed, shoulders tense as he lowered himself.

You brought over two mugs. The tea was lukewarm now, but it didn’t matter. You sat beside him, not touching, but close.

You turned your body slightly toward his.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s talk.”

And so you did.

Slowly. Softly. Carefully.

He admitted to you about the letters. The nights he almost called. How every corner of town became a shrine to you. Your laugh echoing in empty spaces, your name a constant prayer.

You listened, letting it wash over you like something cleansing. It was late when the quiet finally came. The kind of late where the words ran out and only truth remained.

You looked at him, wondering what else could you offer now.

In Owen’s eyes, you felt more grounded than you did than that time he saw you again in the chapel. Your strength magnified. Even the way you watched him, arms folded, brow slightly arched, made his throat tighten.

He didn’t know how you would receive him. He hadn’t let himself imagine this far. The drive was quiet and long and full of self-doubt, but still he came.

And now, here you were.

Close. Listening. And if he was letting his imagination get away, almost forgiving.

Your fingers were wrapped around the curve of her mug, knees brushing his leg every so slightly. Your gaze was steady and open.

He didn’t know what to do with the hope it stirred.

“I missed you,” he blurts quietly, breaking the silence. “In ways I can’t name. In places I didn’t know existed until you left them empty.”

You didn’t cry but you didn’t smile. And you didn’t move away.

He braved to lean forward, heart pounding.

He let his eyes wander to your mouth. Longed to feel it again. Yearned to taste it again. He almost laughed at himself at his audacity.

But then, he saw your breath caught. So he waited a second or two. Waited for you to pull back, but you didn’t. So he took the leap and kissed you.

It’s soft. Questioning. Slow.

His heart almost jumped with joy when you met him halfway. But when your mouth touched his, everything stilled.

The kiss was full of every word not said between you. Of every night you’d both spent alone.

Of a beginning, unafraid and finally, together.

You didn’t move quickly after the kiss.

You remained in place, foreheads pressed together, breaths softly shared between you. The room settled around you like a hush, the intimacy of the moment deepened by its slowness. This wasn’t a hurried collision; it was a conscious pause, a deliberate choice made together.

It would have been easy to fall back into something familiar, to let physical desire erase the distance that had grown between you. But you resisted the impulse. Instead, you took him in, mapping the subtle lines of his face, the vulnerability in his eyes, the rhythm of his breathing beneath your touch.

“Are you staying tonight?” you asked quietly, with measured clarity.

“If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice low and even.

You nodded. Even that small gesture felt weighted.

Still, neither of you moved. The air between you was dense with unspoken meaning — months of longing, hesitation, and rediscovery all contained in the space of a few heartbeats.

Eventually, you stood and reached for his hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers curling gently around yours. You led him down the hall to your bedroom, the muted glow of candlelight illuminating the soft path ahead.

The bedroom was warm with quiet shadows, golden light dancing across the walls. You turned to him, fingers resting on the hem of your shirt, but he stopped you gently.

“Let me,” he whispered.

You let your hands fall, and he undressed you with slow reverence. His hands trembled slightly, understanding the gravity of what it meant to be this close again. He lifted the fabric over your head, taking his time, eyes lingering not on your body, but your expression.

His hands skimmed your arms and waist with careful intention, rediscovering you like an old song he’d nearly forgotten. When he kissed your shoulder with reverence. You removed his shirt in return, pressing your palms to his chest and feeling the strong, steady rhythm beneath.

“You okay?” he asked.

You met his eyes. “I want this.”

That was all it took. He kissed you again, this time more passionately. It wasn’t demanding though, but assured. His hands curved around your back as he pulled you close, and together you drifted to the bed.

He sat up against the headboard, and you climbed into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. Your arms settled around his shoulders as your chest pressed into his.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmured into your neck. “Missed you. Not just the way you feel, but what it means to hold you.”

He traced the length of your spine. His kisses lingered across your jaw, collarbones, the hollow of your throat. Like he wanted to leave traces of him all over.

“I saw you everywhere,” he said softly. “In every room I walked into. In the silence of the chapel. In the way nothing else felt right.”

You moved slowly against him, your body syncing to his, his voice breaking slightly as he added, “I dreamt about this. About you. And I’d wake up aching for you.”

When his hand slipped between your thighs, he found you open and waiting. His touch was precise but tender, his fingers drawing soft circles until your breath hitched and your forehead fell against his.

You came undone in his arms, your body curling inward as he whispered your name, grounding you with his voice.

You kissed him again, guiding him down with you. He followed, his weight settling gently against you, his mouth trailing lower across your chest, your ribcage, your hips. Every kiss felt like a reassurance, each touch reaffirming that he was still here.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, lifting his head to look at you. “You always have been. But now… it’s like seeing you clearly for the first time.”

When he entered you, it was with care. You gasped as he filled you, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. He buried his face in your shoulder.

“You feel like home,” he said into your skin, voice heavy with truth.

He moved slowly, deeply, every thrust measured and purposeful. There was no rush, no urgency. Pure connection tethering you. Just two people finding their way back to one another.

At one point, he rolled you both onto your sides, pulling you tightly against him. He kissed your shoulder, then your jaw, while your hand guided his down to your center.

“I missed you,” you whispered. “All of you.”

He took that as his cue to touch you. Gently at first, then more firmly as your breath caught again. When you came, it was with a trembling exhale of his name, your body tightening around his.

He followed moments later, his groan muffled in your neck as he pressed as close as possible, spilling into you with one final, breathless push.

Afterwards, he didn’t move. His arms encircled you, his forehead resting against yours. You lay together in the quiet, bodies tangled, your skin still humming with the afterglow.

He kissed your temple. Spoke your name again. Like a confirmation that you were real.

There were no promises spoken aloud. No need. Because in the silence, everything was understood. The decision was set. 

You were allowing yourself to choose him. And this time, he was choosing you back.

You must have fallen asleep in each other’s arms, because when you stirred a few hours later, the bedroom was still cast in that dusky, candlelit glow.

Except now, you felt his hand slowly trailing up the curve of your thigh.

“Owen,” you breathed, voice still heavy with sleep.

“I thought maybe I was dreaming again,” he murmured against your shoulder. “I didn’t want to waste it if I was.”

You smiled, turning your head to face him. “You’re not dreaming. I’m not going anywhere.”

His expression flickered with relief, followed by a small exhale of something too big to name.

“I just… I wanted to stay in this moment a little longer,” he whispered. “You’re everything I’ve wanted to come back to.”

You pulled him closer. “Then stay.”

This time, the intimacy bloomed fast and warm. His mouth is on yours with growing urgency, his fingers exploring you like he needed to relearn you again in the dark.

He rolled you onto your side, your back pressed to his chest, his body wrapped completely around you. One arm under your head, the other sliding between your thighs.

“You’re already so wet,” he whispered, voice rough with need. “You were always so ready for me.”

His words built the heat within you. While his fingers circled your clit slowly, before he slid into you from behind, both of you gasping as he buried himself fully.

“Just like that,” you whispered, arching against him.

“You take me so well,” he groaned, pressing kisses along your neck. “So perfect. You’re perfect.”

The praise poured from him without filter, and you found yourself tightening with every word.

“You like that,” he said in your ear, almost surprised. “You like being told how good you are for me.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, hand gripping his.

“I won’t,” he growled. “You’re mine.”

And when he brought you over the edge again, his fingers never leaving your clit, your whole body shuddered. Every muscle clenching around him as you cried out his name.

He thrust through it, deeper, rougher, but still in control. Then he wrapped both arms around you, fucking you through the aftershocks, holding you so tightly it was like he needed to fuse you together.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. “I don’t think I ever will.”

You turned your head, kissed his cheek.

“Then don’t.”

The sun was barely up when you stirred. The apartment was quiet. Morning still clinging to the edges of sleep, the light soft and golden as it filtered through the windows.

You reached out instinctively and felt him still there.

Owen lay on his side facing you, one arm draped loosely across your waist, his chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that always calmed you. You watched him for a moment, smiled softly, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder before slipping out of bed.

In the kitchen, you moved quietly, padding barefoot across the tile, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. The kettle began to whistle.

You didn’t hear him approach. You only felt it when his arms slid around your waist from behind, his mouth warm against the side of your neck.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled into your skin.

“Morning,” you murmured back, tilting your head so he could kiss that spot behind your ear.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep again,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. “Woke up and you weren’t there.”

“I was just making tea,” you said, letting your back rest fully against his chest.

He turned you gently to face him, still in nothing but the shadows of the early light.

“You’re a dream,” he said, hands resting low on your hips. “I keep waking up thinking you’re gone.”

“I’m not,” you said simply, removing any doubt

Your fingers traced his cheeks softly before he kissed you softly at first. Before getting deeper with more intent. The mug slipped from your fingers and clinked softly against the counter.

He pulled away gasping as he whispered. “I need you again.”

You nodded. “Here?”

He only nodded, lifted you onto the counter in answer and captured your lips again. 

Your legs wrapped around his waist. His hands roamed your chest, thighs, the curve of your back. Every touch was as certain as the sunrise behind him.

He slid into you slowly, both of you exhaling together. You held on to his shoulders, his hips meeting yours with steady rhythm.

“You always feel like this?” he said breathlessly. “Like you were made for me.”

You nodded, biting your lip, unable to look away from him.

“You’re so good,” he whispered. “So good for me.”

You gasped as he thrust deeper.

“I love when you say that,” you admitted.

His smile was crooked. “Yeah?”

You pulled him in tighter. “Say it again.”

And he did. Over and over, his voice breaking with every word until you came undone in his arms.

He followed with a groan, holding you close as he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said assuringly.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I needed to feel it again.”

Later, the two of you sat at the small kitchen table, mugs in hand, your legs draped over his lap. His thumb stroked absently along your shin.

“So what now?” he asked.

You looked at him.

“Now we start over,” you said. “No hiding. No half-measures. We choose this. Every day.”

“You’re not scared?”

“Terrified,” you said with a soft laugh. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

He leaned forward, kissed your knee.

“Then we’re in it. Together.”

You rested your cheek against his shoulder, letting the quiet fill the space between your words. Then, after a pause:

“What do you want to do, Owen? Now that you’ve left?”

He looked at you, surprised.

“I mean it,” you said. “Whatever it is. You don’t have to have all the answers but I want to help you find them. I want to help you build something that feels like yours. You don’t owe the past anything anymore.”

He felt like the air had left the room. In a way that made him feel breathless and alive at the same time. Your words wrapped around him, soft but unshakable. Like a home he never knew possible.

He didn’t know what he wanted yet. Not fully. But he knew what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to return, to stay quiet, to keep living in a story written by someone else.

He looked at you, heart aching with something that felt like disbelief.

How did he get this lucky? How was he sitting here with you, in the warmth of a morning that didn’t feel borrowed or imagined?

You had given him a future. And more than that, you had given him space to imagine one.

“I don’t know what I see myself doing,” he said finally. “But for the first time, I want to try and find out. I want to try everything.”

You nodded. “Then we try it all. Together.”

He cupped your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“I hope someday I can give you everything you’ve given me,” he whispered. “Especially the hope.”

“You already have,” you said.

And when she you kissed him again, it felt like the beginning.

Because it was.

Taglist: @shantellorraine @slvt4her @anxious-alto @irlbaristaoc @dontpulloutman @re-permadrivercurse @lostwhitebunny @loonysbarn @msbyjackal @lewispullsman @wildflowernightmere @ae-aeitch @midnighttithe @sarapixieelliott08 @cloudyzip @yoong1stangerine @crashingout2point0 @alltimelowsuckedmydick @kez-bez @a1exisdelreys1eepy-bear @louloulemons-posts @dazed-and-confused101 @wowitsafemale @theoraekenslover @messinaprettydress

[thecuriousbeauty]

Different Frequencies- Part III (Harry Styles!Au x autistic!reader)

Series Synopsis- College heartthrob and football captain Harry Styles needs extra credit to survive the year. His only shot? Mentoring Y/N, a brilliant but blunt autistic student who couldn’t care less about his charm. What starts as an obligation soon sparks something neither of them expected.

A/N:- Most awaited Part 3! Please like and reblog if you like it, and here's the link to Part 1 and Part 2 if you haven't checked those out yet. Now gear up for lots of soft fluff!

Warnings: Talks of abuse, mild violence.

Word count: 6,043

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The soft buzz of chatter and the clink of dice filled the air, mingling with the scent of melted cheese, warm chocolate, and too many fizzy drinks. The Game Den, a cozy corner café was a haven for people who liked their socializing with a side of strategy and snacks.

y/n was in her element.

Curled into the corner booth, she arranged her game tokens with careful precision, sleeves tugged halfway over her palms. Her eyes scanned the board like it was a puzzle only she could decode, and she looked completely at peace doing it. The golden glow from the overhead fairy lights caught the curve of her smile as Zayn cracked open another can of soda beside her.

Harry, on the other hand, looked like he’d wandered into a high-level math exam by accident.

“Okay, so, if I land here,” he said, pointing to a space marked with a tiny wizard hat and a skull, “do I fight the goblin, or summon a storm?”

y/n tried to hold back a laugh and failed. “No! That’s the negotiation tile.”

“The what now?”

Zayn grinned, sliding a card toward him. “You barter with the next player. If they roll a five or higher, they get your amulet. If you roll a six, you steal their spellbook.”

Harry blinked. “This is illegal. I’m reporting both of you.”

“We didn’t do anything wrong.,” y/n said, wondering what made him say that. Then it slowly clicks. “Wait..that was a joke, right?”

“Yes, Cherry, it was a joke.”, Harry grins, poking her nose and her cheeks tint a little red.

“You already signed the wizard code, by the way.”

“I what?”

She giggled, and the sound, soft, sudden, real, hit Harry like warm sunlight through stained glass. He didn’t care that he was losing miserably. He didn’t care that he had absolutely no clue what the rules were. She was laughing, and for the first time in days, she looked light again. Not floating, but steady. Present.

They played for two hours, switching games mid-way and half-finishing a plate of curly fries while Zayn waged war against the soda machine and Harry tried to convince Y/N that his strategy of “vibes only” would eventually pay off.

It didn’t.

When their energy mellowed and their fingers were sticky from too much candy, they found themselves in the quiet back booth, arms brushing now and then as they leaned in over the table.

“Leah told me everything’s fine,” Y/N said softly, her voice different now, flattened, quiet. Her eyes didn’t lift from her drink.

Zayn, halfway through a caramel pretzel, froze.

“She actually said that?” he asked, wiping his fingers on a napkin.

Y/N nodded. “She said he didn’t mean it. That he just gets angry sometimes. That he loves her.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He pushed his fries away, appetite gone. “That’s bullshit.”

“Harry,” Zayn warned gently, but the sharpness in Harry’s eyes didn’t fade.

“No, I mean it. Darren’s a dick. I’ve seen the way he talks to people. He’s a walking red flag. The guy’s had three warnings already this semester from Coach.”

“Yeah, but warnings about his attitude in practice,” Zayn pointed out. “That’s not the same as this.”

“He’s dangerous,” Harry muttered. “All I need is something solid to get him off the team. Just one reason.”

y/n looked down at her hands, quiet. “But Leah doesn’t want to report anything. She says it’s her choice.”

“It is,” Zayn said gently. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do something.”

“I can talk to Darren, it’s probably end in a fight but if I can get him to-”

“-No, no fights.”, y/n cuts Harry off and Harry nods, pressing his lips together. “Then you just have to get through to Leah..any other ideas?”

“We could keep an eye out for any other abusive instances.”, Zayn says.

The evening began to wind down as other patrons started clearing their tables, folding boards, and placing cards back into boxes with reluctant goodbyes. Someone flicked the lights above the café door, a subtle nudge that it was almost closing time.

y/n stretched her arms over her head with a small yawn, the kind she tried to hide behind her sleeve.

Harry smiled at the sight.

“You okay?” he asked, sliding the empty fry basket to the side.

She nodded. “Tired, but… yeah. This was good.”

Zayn stood, brushing crumbs from his hoodie. “We should do it again. Maybe next week?”

y/n turned to Harry, uncertain. “Would you… come again?”

He raised his eyebrows, mock serious. “Even after getting destroyed by the ‘Wizard’s Union of Honor and Card-Stealing’? I’d be honored.”

She laughed again, softer now. Her shoulders didn’t look so tense anymore.

As they walked out into the cool evening, the sidewalk quiet under their feet, Zayn had parked the car somewhere at the back, he ran off saying he’d go get it and pull up. That left just Y/N and Harry.

They stood near the curb for a beat, neither quite ready to say goodbye.

“So,” Harry said, rocking back on his heels a little. “We’ve officially eaten our weight in carbs and lost all sense of board game logic. Want to take it to the next level?”

Y/N blinked at him, confused again. 

He grinned. “Come to my game. Day after, evening. Home match. You don’t have to stay long if it’s too much, but..I'd really like it if you were there.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You want me to come watch you play?”

“I do,” he said, more gently this time. “It’s loud, yeah. But I can save you a seat. Somewhere quieter. You’d be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

She hesitated, not out of fear, but out of surprise.

Then, after a second, she gave a tiny nod. “Okay. I’ll try.”

His smile broke slowly across his face, wider than he intended, and warmer than he could hide.

“Good,” he said. “It’s a date.”

She looked up sharply, eyes wide again.

He backpedaled instantly. “I mean, not a date date. Unless you want it to be? Or we could pretend I didn’t say that. Up to you.”

Y/N bit her lip, hiding another smile. “Okay.”

“Okay, okay or okay to ignore it?”

She turned and started walking toward the dorms, her voice drifting behind her like a ribbon. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Styles.”

Harry stood there a second longer, watching her disappear down the sidewalk, heart doing something stupid in his chest.

Then he exhaled, shoved his hands in his pockets, and grinned at the empty street.

_____________________________________________

The squeak of sneakers and the sharp echo of bouncing balls filled the gym. Whistles blew. Sweat dripped. The energy was off.

And Harry felt it crawling under his skin.

Darren was playing like the court belonged to him. Hogging the ball, ignoring plays, showboating with unnecessary spins, and shooting from angles that made zero sense.

“Pass it, Darren!” Harry barked as he ran for an opening.

Darren ignored him and launched a wild three-pointer that hit the rim and bounced hard off the backboard.

Missed. Again.

“That fucking shithead.”, Nate groaned, the rest of the players murmuring curses as well. 

Coach blew the whistle. Hard.

“Enough!” he snapped. “We play as a team or we don’t play at all.”

Harry clenched his jaw. His fists were already twitching. Not just because of the selfish play, but because every time he looked at Darren, all he could hear was y/n’s voice from last night.

He didn’t mean it. He loves her…

Bullshit.

“Get it together,” Coach growled, throwing Darren a sharp look. “One more screw-up and you’re benched for game day.”

Darren muttered something under his breath and jogged to the bench, sulking like a child.

“Harry?” Harry realizes Nate was talking to him and unclenches his fists, slowly moving his gaze away from Darren. “I was saying how coach himself will throw him out soon if he keeps this up.”

“I hope he does.”, Harry mumbles. The only reason why Darren was still in the team was because he is a good player. Doesn’t miss the basket often. Only if he gets in his head too much.

Practice ended ten minutes early. Coach stormed off and the players scattered.

“Not coming mate?”, Nate asks him as Harry head’s towards the locker room. “I’ll catch up, you get going.”

Harry stayed back, and so did Darren.

The locker room was nearly empty when Harry finally walked in, towel over his neck, sweat still cooling on his back.

Darren was at his locker, shirtless, humming like nothing happened. Harry didn’t wait.

He slammed his locker shut with a loud bang that echoed through the room.

Darren didn’t flinch. Just smirked over his shoulder. “Problem, Captain?”

Harry stepped in close, voice low but sharp. “You’re done. One more stunt, one more attitude, and I’m taking it to Coach. All of it.”

Darren raised an eyebrow. “What’s all of it, huh?”

Harry stared him down. “You and Leah. I know.”

Darren scoffed. “You know nothing.”

“I know enough.”

There was a moment of silence, heavy and charged. Then Darren turned around fully, tossing a shirt over his shoulder as he sneered.

“Oh, wait. This is about that little weirdo you’ve been babysitting, isn’t it?”

Harry’s jaw tensed.

Darren leaned in mockingly. “She got you wrapped around her quiet little fingers? I saw her, all twitchy and awkward. Speaks so damn slow and looks like she’s in play school still. Heard she’s quite stupid and hopeless. Freaks like that are easy to-”

Crack.

The punch came before Harry could think. It landed hard, knuckles against jaw, skin against bone.

Darren staggered back, hitting the locker door behind him.

“Say her name again,” Harry snarled, his voice shaking with fury. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

Darren wiped blood from the corner of his lip, staring up at him. His cocky grin was gone now. “You just screwed yourself.”

Harry didn’t back down. “No. You did. And if I hear anything about you putting your hands on Leah again, or so much as breathing in y/n’s direction, I will make it my entire mission to make sure you lose everything. Team, scholarship, reputation, everything.”

Darren glared, chest heaving.

Harry turned and walked out before he could throw another punch. His heart was still pounding, but not from adrenaline.

It was rage. 

____________________________________________

A half-empty coffee cup sat forgotten beside Harry’s open textbook, and he hadn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.

y/n noticed.

She sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, her pencil tapping lightly against the edge of her notes. She tilted her head slightly, studying him, noticing the way he kept drumming his fingers on the table, how his eyes kept flicking to the window like something outside was pulling at him.

“You’re not reading,” she said quietly, touching the tip of the pencil to his nose.

Harry blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“You’ve looked at the same sentence four times.”

He dropped his gaze and gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… got a lot on my mind.”

She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Is something wrong?”

He looked up at her then, her eyes soft and searching, and immediately felt bad for not being fully there.

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I think I’m just… nervous. Big game tonight.”

Y/N nodded slowly, accepting the explanation, though she didn’t entirely buy it. Still, she didn’t push.

Instead, she smiled a little. “I’ve never been to a basketball game before.”

That caught his attention.

His lips quirked into a grin. “Seriously?”

She shook her head. “Not even one. I don’t know the rules. Or… where to look.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, suddenly amused and more relaxed than he’d been all morning. “Alright, well… it’s not rocket science.”

“Zayn has said that to me before. He said the same for social cues, and it’s not true.,” she rambled.

He laughed and the tension in his shoulders finally began to ease.

“Fair point,” he said, grinning. “Okay, let’s do a crash course.”

He pulled his notebook toward him and drew a rough outline of a court. “This is the hoop. You want the ball to go in the hoop. Not rocket science. We’ve got five players on each team. Two guards, two forwards, and a center.”

“You?”

“Me? I’m point guard. I run the plays. Set up passes. Kind of like the guy with the map.”

“So you’re the map guy.”

“Exactly. Except if the map guy is also yelling and sweating and trying not to get elbowed in the ribs.”

She leaned forward, chin resting on her hand. “Is it dangerous?”

“Nah, I’ll stay safe.”, he smiles, leaning towards her too.

“I’ll be honest,” she said, voice softer now, “I’m a little scared. The noise. The crowd.”

“I get that,” he said gently. “I’ll save you a seat near the front, by the benches. It’s not as loud there. Less people. Coach will be cool with it.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, grateful.

“I’ll be okay,” she said, more to herself than him.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he promised, without hesitation. He reached out to gently tuck away a strand of her hair that came out of her side braid, behind her ear. y/n just smiled but her heart beat just a little faster at his soft gesture.

“Green.”, she whispered, her focus shifting. 

“What’s that, Cherry?”, Harry watches as her eyes focus on his, which rarely happens. 

“Your eyes, green like the forest. There’s gold too, like..like sunlight and the left one has more brown around the iris.”

Her brain panicked a little, maybe she made things weird and said too much. She quickly looked down. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I think about yours too.”, Harry mumbled and his gentle, warm fingers grab her chin and tilt it up so she looks at him again. “They’re soft. Quiet, but not dull. Like they’re always thinking ten layers deeper than what you say out loud. You know, even if it’s for a few seconds, I love it when you give me your eyes, Cherry.”

She took a few seconds to process what he meant and when she did, she felt warmth unfurl in her chest. And she was still maintaining her eye contact with him, his green eyes staying still too. 

She realized that she was starting to trust him. With her words, and with her eyes.

______________________________

y/n stood in front of her bedroom mirror, staring at herself like she wasn’t quite sure who she was tonight.

It was just a basketball game.

Except it wasn’t.

It was his game. And she was going for him.

She tugged at the sleeves of her soft navy sweater and smoothed her jeans, mentally checking the list of things she needed. Fidget cube. Water bottle. Small weighted lap pad folded into her tote bag, just in case. She didn’t know what the bleachers would feel like. Or how loud it might be. But she was going. Because he asked.

A quiet knock came at her door, and then her mom peeked in. “You look great, honey.”

y/n turned, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not… too much?”

Her mom smiled. “It’s just right. He’s going to love seeing you there.”

She blushed. “It’s not..it’s not a date.”

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm.”

Before she could protest, a honk sounded from outside.

“Zayn,” she muttered.

Her mom pulled her into a hug before she left. “Be safe. Text me when you get there. And after. And if you need to come home early—”

“I know,” y/n said softly. “I’ve got it.”

And strangely… she really felt like she did.

Zayn had music playing low, one hand on the wheel and a smug grin on his face.

“So,” he said, after five whole minutes of silence, “are you gonna tell me what you’re wearing under that sweater, or do I have to assume it’s ‘I heart Harry’ merch?”

She groaned. “Zayn—”

“I mean, I get it,” he teased. “Hot basketball guy? You? Mentorship turned romance? It’s giving a YA novel realness.”

She turned her face toward the window, biting back a reluctant smile. “It’s not a date.”

He snorted. “He invited you to his game, is sitting you front row, probably gonna win MVP while looking at you dramatically mid-free throw… Yeah, alright. Not a date.”

She sighed, cheeks hot. “You’re annoying.”

“Extremely. Also, if he so much as breathes wrong near you, I’m throwing hands. Don’t care how pretty he is.”

y/n laughed quietly, and Zayn’s smile softened at the sound.

“You okay, though?” he asked more gently. “We don’t have to stay the whole time.”

“I think I’m okay,” she said. “I want to try.”

And she did.

The moment they walked into the gym, the shift hit her like a wave. Lights. Noise. Movement. A dull roar of voices. The smell of popcorn and sweat and the sharp echo of basketballs bouncing.

y/n’s fingers found her tote bag instinctively, grounding herself.

And then she saw him.

Harry.

He was already walking toward them, towel slung around his neck, jersey half untucked, curls wild and damp with pre-game sweat. The second his eyes landed on her, his face changed, lit up in a way she’d never quite seen before.

“You made it,” he said, a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she managed, voice soft.

Zayn gave Harry a look, protective and unreadable. Harry gave him a polite nod, then turned his full attention back to Y/N.

“I saved you a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the far side, near the team bench. “It’s quieter over there. You’re not too close to the student section.”

As they walked, he pulled something from behind his back. “Also… got these for you.”

Noise cancelling headphones. And it was a baby pink shade. 

“I figured it might get loud,” he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice held a nervous edge. “And uh, I also brought those chewy mints you like. For, you know. Sensory stuff. Read that it helps.”

She stared at him.

“I just wanted to make it easier,” he said, quieter now. 

For a long second, she didn’t speak. Just stood there, heart doing strange and sudden things.No one had ever done that for her before. She didn’t know what to say, so she just gave a tiny nod and mouthed, thank you.

His smile returned, softer, just for her.

“I have to go warm up,” he said reluctantly, already backing away. “But I’ll see you after, yeah?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He turned, jogged a few steps, then looked back, just once. Like he had to make sure she was still there.

_______________________________________

Harry reached the bench, jaw tight again.

Because he felt it.

Eyes.

Darren.

Sitting just across the court, lacing his sneakers with a slow, mocking smirk on his face. He was watching Harry, like he knew something.

Like he was waiting.

Harry’s fists clenched.

He didn’t care if he threw another punch tonight. Didn’t care if it cost him the game. The season.

But if Darren so much as looked at y/n the wrong way-

He’d bury him.

He scanned the crowd one more time, just to be sure. And there she was, settling into her seat beside Zayn. But something else made his stomach twist.

Leah.

Sitting only a few seats down from Y/N, alone.

Too close.

Harry tore his eyes away and jogged back toward the huddle, trying to shake it off.

Focus. Play. Win.

And after that?

He’d deal with Darren. One way or another.

The gym was electric.

Music pumped through the speakers. Students screamed in waves. Sneakers squeaked across the polished floor. The scoreboard buzzed as the numbers climbed. Harry’s team was holding the lead, but barely.

Y/N sat near the bench with Zayn beside her, hands pressed against the warm cup of cocoa he’d insisted on getting her from the vending machine outside. Her headphones dulled the roar of the crowd to something distant, like waves crashing behind thick glass. She breathed easier because of it.

But she was still watching him.

Harry.

Number 7.

He moved across the court like he belonged to it. Fast, sharp, focused. But every few minutes, after a pass, a rebound, or a timeout, his eyes found her again. Quick glances. Like silent check-ins. She didn’t know how he always knew where she was, but he did.

“Damn,” a girl a few rows behind her giggled to her friend, loud enough to hear through one ear cup. “Is it just me or is Harry Styles actually looking over here?”

y/n smiled faintly.

He was.

But not at them.

She didn’t need to turn around to feel their curious stares. She just lowered her eyes to the cocoa again, her fingers curling a little tighter around the cup.

She didn’t need to say anything.

She knew.

The buzzer rang and players jogged off the court toward the locker rooms. The gym roared around them, full of cheers and music, and Zayn got up to stretch.

“I’ll grab you a protein bar,” he said, heading toward concessions.

y/n gave a small nod.

She didn’t notice Leah until she was already beside her.

“Hey.”

The voice made her turn, and the tone made her stomach twist.

Leah looked pale, too thin, her hands shaking slightly as she folded her arms over her chest. Her makeup was smudged in the corner of one eye. She didn’t look like someone enjoying a basketball game.

She looked like someone trying not to fall apart.

y/n sat up straighter. “Leah… are you—”

“You need to stop,” Leah cut in quickly, eyes darting around. “This thing you’re doing. Trying to tell people something’s wrong.”

y/n froze.

“He didn’t do anything,” Leah said, too fast, too rehearsed. “We’re good. We’ve worked things out. You misunderstood.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did,” Leah insisted, voice a little louder now. “Just… drop it, okay? I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not. You’re making it worse.”

And there it was.

y/n could see it. In Leah’s trembling hands. The way her eyes never met hers. The small flinch when a loud whistle echoed across the gym.

He’d threatened her.

y/n’s heart ached.

“Did Darren tell you to say that?” she asked quietly.

Leah blinked hard, jaw tightening. “Just leave us alone. Please.”

And before Y/N could say anything, she was gone. She was distracted for the rest of the game, repeatedly running the conversation with Leah in her head, her body cues, her tone, everything.

The buzzer blared, the crowd roared, and just like that it was over.

Victory.

Harry’s team had won.

Confetti cannons went off somewhere near the student section (probably Niall’s idea), and people were flooding the court before the players could even make it to the benches. Teammates clapped Harry on the back, ruffled his hair, shouted his name like he was royalty.

But all he was looking for… was her.

And there she was, still in the same seat, standing up now, hands clasped in front of her, headphones pulled off, eyes wide.

He pushed through the crowd to reach her, breath still heavy from the last quarter.

“You saw that?” he asked, grinning like a kid. “You watched the whole thing?”

y/n smiled, a little softer than before as she gives him a victory pat on the shoulder. “You were incredible.”

His heart swelled.

But before he could say anything else, Niall threw an arm around his neck, dragging him backward.

“C’mon, Styles! Team photo! You can flirt later!”

Harry groaned but let himself be pulled back, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t leave! I’ll be right back!”

She nodded.

But she didn’t say anything.

___________________________________

y/n turned to sit again but before she could reach the bench, a voice cut through the noise behind her.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

She froze.

Darren.

He stepped beside her, too close, his breath hot with sweat and something sour. His smile was twisted like it always was when no one was watching.

“You’ve got a real hero complex, huh?” he said, voice low so no one else could hear. “Trying to fix things that aren’t yours?”

“I’m not trying to-”

“You are,” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “And you need to stop. Leah’s fine. We’re fine. Whatever Harry thinks he knows, he doesn’t. And if you don’t want things getting messy for you, you’ll keep it that way.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He leaned in, voice a whisper of venom. “I’ll say this one last time. Drop it.”

Then, just like that, he slipped back into the crowd, smiling, laughing, blending in like he hadn’t just poisoned the air around her.

_____________________________

Harry was finally free from the circle of teammates and photos and coach talk. He ran back to the bench, looking for her and found her standing quietly, arms wrapped around herself, her eyes distant.

“Hey,” he said, gently touching her arm. “You okay?”

She blinked, like coming out of a trance. “Yeah. Just tired. I think… I want to go home.”

His smile faltered. “Right. Yeah, of course. Do you want me to drop you or-?”

“Zayn said he’d drive,” she interrupted quickly, her voice light but hollow.

Harry frowned, searching her face. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I am,” she said. Too fast.

He didn’t believe her. But he could already see Coach waving him over, teammates calling his name again.

“I’ll text you later?” he offered, reluctantly stepping back.

She nodded, forcing a smile. “Good game, Harry.”

He watched her walk away with a strange ache in his chest.

Something was wrong.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

__________________________________________

y/n sat curled into the far end of Zayn’s couch, legs folded under her, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn’t sipped from in an hour. Her eyes were on the rug, distant. It was the next day, and her radio silence with both the boys had made them curious, or rather concerned.

Zayn paced.

Harry sat in the corner armchair, elbows on knees, bouncing one leg restlessly. He’d come over as soon as she stopped responding to his texts, because something was wrong, and he couldn’t stand not knowing.

“I just don’t get it,” Zayn muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not saying anything. Either of you.”

“Because we’re trying not to overwhelm her,” Harry said, a little sharper than he meant to.

y/n didn’t react.

Harry turned to her again, more gentle now. “y/n… did Darren do something to you? At the game?”

She blinked. Slowly.

Zayn looked between them, brow furrowed. “Wait, why Darren? What does he have to do with anything?”

Harry’s mouth opened, then shut. He exhaled through his nose.

Zayn stared at him. “Harry.”

“...After practice the other day,” Harry started, reluctantly. “He said something. About her. About y/n. It was disgusting. I hit him.”

Zayn stared. “You what?”

“I didn’t tell you because—” Harry glanced at Y/N. “I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I thought I could handle it. And I thought maybe he wouldn’t try anything.”

Zayn’s jaw locked. “He talked about her how, exactly?”

Harry looked away. “You don’t want to know.”

“No, see-I do want to know,” Zayn snapped. “Because I let her go to that game, Harry. I left her there while you were taking photos and Darren was, what? Circling her like a fucking vulture?”

“Nothing happened,” Harry said quickly. “I swear.”

“But he could have! You knew he had a problem with her and you still—”

“Stop.”

Both boys froze.

Y/N’s voice wasn’t loud. But it cut straight through them like a knife.

She looked up slowly, eyes clearer now, voice shaking but steady.

“Just stop.”

Zayn swallowed, guilt pooling in his throat. “y/n-”

“You’re both talking about me like I’m not sitting right here,” she said. “Like I’m not the one who got threatened. Twice.”

Harry went quiet. So did Zayn.

She put the mug down. Stood up.

“I know he’s dangerous. I know Leah’s scared. I know none of this is easy. But I’m not made of glass, okay?”

Harry stepped toward her, careful. “We’re not trying to treat you like-”

“Then don’t,” she said. “Don’t yell at each other and keep secrets and make decisions without me. I’m tired of everyone trying to protect me by excluding me.”

They both looked gutted.

Zayn cleared his throat. “Okay. You’re right.”

Harry nodded. “You are.”

y/n’s voice was quieter now, but still firm. “What we need to do now is stop panicking and think. Because Darren isn’t going to stop. And if Leah won’t speak up… then we have to figure out what comes next.”

Harry looked at her with something close to awe.

She wasn’t shaking anymore.

She was steady.The living room had shifted.

No more pacing. No more arguing. Just three people sitting on the floor, a half-empty snack bowl between them, and tension humming like static in the air.

Zayn had a pen in hand, tapping it against his knee. Harry was cross-legged, frowning at nothing. y/n sat between them, blanket draped around her shoulders, focused in a way they hadn’t seen since before the game.

“She won’t say anything,” y/n said, breaking the silence. “Not unless she feels safe.”

Zayn nodded. “Then we make her feel safe. Pull her aside at school.”

Harry shook his head. “That won’t work. He watches her. All the time. He’s like... attached.”

“Then what?” Zayn muttered. “We can’t go to the dean with nothing but vibes and bruises we haven’t seen.”

Y/N was quiet for a second. Then: “What if we don’t ask her to come forward?”

They both looked at her.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said slowly, “what if we find a way to prove it without needing her to speak first? Something he’s already done. Or is going to do.”

Zayn leaned forward. “Like… catching him in the act?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not baiting him. That’s dangerous. But maybe… maybe we just need Leah to know she has a way out.”

There was a pause.

Then Harry’s voice came low.

“What if we talk to someone she trusts?”

“Does she even have anyone else?” Zayn asked. “She’s always with him.”

“Maybe we’ve just never seen her alone long enough to know.”

y/n looked down at the blanket around her, then back up.

“I can try,” she said. “I know how to be quiet. Invisible, even. That’s what people expect from me. But I see things. If I can find her… just her…”

Harry leaned closer. “You’d do that?”

“I have to.”

Zayn exhaled sharply. “Alright. We try to reach her. We give her a safe out.”

Harry added, “And if she still doesn’t talk, we make sure Darren doesn’t have anywhere left to hide.”

y/n looked between them.

“Then we need a plan.”

Zayn grabbed a notebook, flipping to a blank page, pen at the ready. “Okay. Let’s start with where she goes when she’s not with him—”

Harry’s phone buzzed just then. A text.

He glanced down and tilted his head in thought as he read the message.

y/n saw it immediately. “What?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He read it again, then looked up, slowly.

“Coach,” he said. “He just texted to ask if I knew where Darren was. Said he never showed up to review.”

Zayn frowned. “Weird. Wait..Leah didn’t show up for the morning class. I heard her friend say that they hadn’t seen her after the game.”

“And you’re telling this now.”, Harry groaned. 

“It was the first class Styles, I was barely awake! And I was busy thinking about what can happen to my grade if I skip my next class because you two losers called an emergency meeting-”

y/n’s fingers tightened in her sleeves.

“Both of them?” she whispered. “Gone?”

Harry nodded. “Looks like no one’s seen either of them since the game.”

The silence in the room turned cold.

y/n swallowed hard. “Then we’re already out of time.”

_____________________________________

Harry jogged down the front steps of the Fine Arts building, phone to his ear. “Nothing. Checked the studio wing, the greenroom, even the vending machines. No Leah. No Darren.”

Zayn’s voice crackled from the other end. “Try the back exit near the theater. I’m heading toward the library now.”

“You sure this isn’t just some Romeo and Juliet ‘run off together’ kind of thing?”

Zayn sighed. “Leah didn’t even look at Darren after the game. She looked… terrified.”

Harry muttered, “Yeah, well, if this is Romeo and Juliet, I hope we skip the dagger-to-the-heart ending.”

He hung up and turned, nearly crashing into y/n.

“Whoa,” he said, grabbing her arms, steadying himself and her. “Didn’t see you there, Cherry.”

She rolled her eyes, and Harry moved his hand to grasp hers, looking into her eyes. “Hey, I want to apologize for not telling you about the locker room incident. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you. But I shouldn’t have kept it from you, I understand it now.”

She nodded, weirdly comforted by his hand in hers. “Okay. Now search.”

Harry smiled, letting her hand go with a kiss on the back of her hand, making her blush furiously. He kept looking at her, so she said, “Not for me, Harry, for Leah.”

“Right. Sorry, Cherry, you’re distracting.”

Zayn joined them a few minutes later, slightly breathless from running. “Nothing at the library. But guess what? One of the assistants said Leah didn’t return her books this morning.”

“She always does that. Like… clockwork.”, Harry said.

“So either she’s sick,” Zayn offered, “or she’s being held hostage in Darren’s basement while he reads her feminist theory books out loud in a threatening tone.”

y/n looked at him. “You’re not helping.”

“Dark humor is a coping mechanism,” he said, hands up. “I’m fragile.”

Harry laughed softly, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Why do I feel like I’m in a true crime documentary and you’re the sidekick who gets us all killed?”

“I might die first,” Zayn agreed solemnly. “But I die hot and beloved.”

y/n looked at both of them and groaned. Why did she have friends like them?

__________________________________________________

“I don’t like this,” Harry murmured, frowning as he slowed. “Something feels… off.”

They were heading down the sloped walkway behind the old Science building, a quieter part of campus students usually avoided unless they had class or were hiding something. Cracked concrete, empty bike racks, the back door of the greenhouse padlocked shut.

Zayn glanced around. “Creepy. This is definitely where I’d lure someone if I were a serial killer.”

“Stop saying stuff like that, Zayn.” y/n  muttered, walking slower now.

Harry stopped.

“Wait.”

He crouched near the base of the wall, beside a utility shed.

“What is it?” Zayn asked, stepping closer.

Harry held up a phone.

A pink case.

Cracked screen.

y/ns heart dropped. “That’s Leah’s.”

Zayn reached for it but Harry was already staring down at the screen.

A message was still open.

One that hadn't been sent.

“Please don’t tell them. I’m fine. Just needed space. Don’t—”

Harry read it aloud, then stood slowly.

“She didn’t get to send it.”

Zayn was quiet for a beat. “This wasn’t just her skipping class.”

Harry looked around again, closer this time. His eyes caught something on the side of the shed.

A mark. Red chalk?

A crude arrow. Pointing toward the woods behind the fencing.

y/n followed his line of sight.

Her stomach twisted.

“Guys,” she whispered. “Darren wants us to follow.”

Zayn squinted. “That’s weirdly theatrical, even for him.”

“No,” Harry said, voice low. “It’s a setup.”

And just then-

A buzz.

Harry’s phone.

One message.

Unknown number.

“So predictable. Come find her.”

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

Please let me know if there are any changes to be made to the tag list.Taglist: -@livypops12352568 @harrydeary, @harryswifee, @harrysbxtchh, @gracelovesethan, @kiwitsayedsugar, @angeldavis777,@madstyles3204, @youngpastafanmug, @fruity-harry, @wannaliveinparadise@hermionelove@mayalove014 @vikiii07@ell0ra-br3kk3r @thelooneytoon @charlesleclercwifey, @stylesftcher @mads3502 @somewiseguy @huhidontknowstuff @sincerely-yours-marsbar @p3ach-m1lk

[polkadotloser]

heyy can i please ask for a scott barringer x reader where he gets jealous or something please

mdni .•*

Scott Barringer x reader • jealous!scott • oral (f receiving) • puss eating • proving he’s better • smut with plot • jealousy makes him hotter some how • not proof read yet sryyy

I’ll keep it short and sweet :-)

Scott Barringer is on a good day, very sure of himself and his relationship with you. very sure until he saw laith making you giggle and laugh.

BANG.

“what was that [name]?” Scott asks, his hands pinning you to the stone wall by your shoulders. you crinkle your nose and manage to push him off. “what are you talking about?” you scoff.

his face hardens and he stays silent before eventually speaking up. “do you like him?” he asks, voice more madder than before hand. you roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. “no Scott, I don’t.” you say it like it’s common knowledge.

he sighs, reaching a hand out to grab your hip. his thumb circling your hip bone slowly. “You like driving me crazy, don’t you?” he accuses angrily, voice picking up some more volume. “don’t say that Scott” you shake your head at the accusation.

“Say it. say you want that dickhead and not me—go on” Scott dares, though there is more insecurity in his voice, then anger. you frown and shake your head again. “I want you Scott, you know that.” your voice is now softer.

he pushes you against the stone wall, this time he’s gentle. his hands slide down to your arse—grabbing a handful of soft flesh before grunting. “Say it again.” he whispers, eyes flickering down to your lips. he wants to see your lips move around the words. “I want you Scott.” you whisper, more sure and firm then before.

before you can say anymore his lips are against yours in a heated kiss, his hands let go of your ass and are already working on your shorts. your hands reach up to unbuckle his belt but he stops you. “no, i wanna make you feel good” he whispers as he tugs down your shorts. he leans back down to continue kissing you, his fingers hook under the waistband of your panties before sliding them down.

he slowly kneels down on the wood chips, grabbing one of your legs and throwing it over his shoulder. making you gasp and grab his sandy blonde hair for support. he looks at your pussy—already swollen from the kiss. he pokes out his tongue and slides the wet muscles up your slit, you shiver and tug on his hair.

he flattens his tongue and continues to lick your ashy pink clit, tasting your sweet arousal. he groans, effectively making his tongue buzzed against your clit. you yank his hair and whine. “hurry” you beg. usually he would tease but now he’s proving how much better he is than laith. he wraps his lips around your clit and begins to suck.

you gasp before throwing your head back, your face scrunching in pleasure and need. his hands grip your thighs tighter as he eats you out, putting in all his effort until you begin to shake and moan. you try to suppress your moans but it’s no use, your a mess for Scott. “oh my god!” you inhale before cumming on his mouth.

he give your pussy one last lick before looking up at you, his chin and mouth covered in your juices, a huge grin on his lips.

much better than laith,

xoxo polka :-)

(I love this ask! I hope I did well)

[lazysoulwriter]

clingy ghost problems - tate langdon ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: angst-tinged fluff, needy!Tate, established relationship, soft possessiveness, clingy behavior, oblivious reader

---

He’s been following you around the house for the last thirty-five minutes.

Not saying much. Just… hovering.

Like a shadow with feelings. A blond, emotionally repressed, slightly murderous shadow who wants nothing more than to be held.

But you don’t seem to notice. You’re distracted — phone in hand, laundry on your arm, a playlist going, talking about some new show you started. And Tate? He’s just there. Watching. Waiting.

He bumps into you in the hallway. You laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Walking,” he says flatly. “Same direction as you.”

You don’t question it.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge after you and closes it without taking anything. Then he sits at the table and stares at you while you scroll. You glance up and smile at him.

“You good?”

He nods.

But he’s not good.

His fingers twitch. His heart’s heavy. His mouth wants to say come here but something inside him makes it stick to his tongue instead. So he watches. Quiet. Frustrated.

Eventually, you get up to go do something else. Probably nothing important. But you walk right past him. Again. No hug. No lap time. No couch cuddles. And it’s killing him.

He lets out a dramatic sigh and flops back into the chair.

“Are you mad at me or something?”

You pause at the door. Turn. “What?”

He shrugs, not looking at you. “You haven’t touched me all day.”

Your brows raise, caught off guard. “Tate— I’m not mad at you.”

“You sure?” he mumbles. “Because it kinda feels like you’re punishing me.”

You blink at him. “Baby. What are you talking about?”

He finally looks up. Eyes big, lashes dark, mouth all pout.

“I just… I want you to cuddle me,” he says, voice quiet and sharp like a paper cut. “You haven’t even looked at me like you missed me today.”

You cross the room in two steps, heart cracking.

“Oh, Tate,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know— I wasn’t ignoring you, I swear.”

He doesn’t say anything as you wrap your arms around his shoulders — but the way he melts into you instantly tells you everything.

“I just want you to need me like I need you,” he says into your neck. “Even when I’m annoying. Even when I’m too much.”

“You’re not too much,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re just... very Tate.”

He lets out a tiny laugh, and you press your lips to his temple.

You pull him to the couch after that, curl up with him tangled all around you like ivy. He clings like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

You don’t.

Not for the rest of the day.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[vicodini]

Ashes and Embers - Hilson

picture bye @r3burials

It was late—past the time that the city gets quiet and only gets stirred awake as a police car, fire truck or ambulance pass by with blaring sirens. The air outside was still hot, the breeze didn't do anything to cool down the day or the night. Wilson had fallen asleep on the couch again, or maybe he'd just let himself drift—there wasn’t much of a difference these days. House sat beside him, leaned back on the couch, his legs stretched onto the coffee table, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazy patterns above them. Wilson's head against House’s shoulder. Not in a dramatic kind of way, it was the exhaustion that came from weeks of chemo, and months of knowing there weren’t many more weeks left.

House didn’t say anything. He rarely did now—not unless he needed to break something. These days where to fragile for words. So instead, he just sat there, letting the smoke twist upward, letting the weight of Wilson’s head settle against the edge of his collarbone. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. Neither of them had the energy to unmute the television. House looked down at the man beside him. Wilson’s hand had gone slack around the TV remote long ago, fingers twitching now and then. His other hand rested, palm-up, inches away from House’s thigh.

House took another drag from the cigarette, then leaned into Wilson slightly, careful not to disturb the other man. "You’re drooling on me, Jimmy," House said finally, voice dry and almost affectionate. He expected no answer and got none.

It had been a good day.

That was a ridiculous thing to say, House knew. There was nothing “good” about watching the only person who ever stayed, and he truly loved more than he wanted to admit, begin to vanish in front of him. But Wilson had smiled that morning—genuine, teeth and everything. They’d played cards. House had let him win. House reached for Wilson’s hand—the open one—and after a moment, their fingers found each other. He expected Wilson to stir, maybe grumble. But Wilson just sighed, subconsciously or consciously snuggling into House that bit more.

“You still with me?” House asked, barely above a whisper.

They’d both known from the beginning that there wouldn’t be a miracle. No cure, no Hail Mary, no eleventh-hour clinical trial that would save the good oncologist from the one thing he couldn’t out-diagnose. But that didn’t stop House from sometimes imagining it—an alternate reality, maybe, where he wasn’t sitting on a couch in the middle of nowhere, holding hands with a man who used to shine like a goddamn lighthouse.

Wilson shifted again, just slightly. His head slid lower, resting fully in the crook of House’s neck now, breath warm against the thin cotton of House’s shirt. "You smell like cheap tobacco and lemon soap," Wilson mumbled without opening his eyes.

House blinked. "You always did have a talent for turning me on."

Wilson smiled, and for a moment, the weight on House’s chest eased. Not gone—never gone—but manageable.

“Did you take your painkillers?” House asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Did you lie to me just now?”

A pause.

“Mm-hmm.”

House rolled his eyes but didn’t press it. Instead, he stubbed out the cigarette on the edge of a chipped ashtray, careful not to jostle Wilson. There was something painfully domestic about it all. Two men in a borrowed house with secondhand furniture and too much silence. One dying, one already halfway there.

But then Wilson’s thumb brushed against the back of House’s knuckles in a slow, lazy circle.

And House—who never believed in anything he couldn’t dissect—closed his eyes.

They stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Not talking. Letting the quiet between them speak all the things they didn’t know how to say:

I’m sorry.

You matter.

Please don’t go.

I’m not ready.

Eventually, Wilson murmured, “Hey… Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for… being here.”

House didn't answer. Just wrapped both his arms around Wilson, pulling him closer. 

[popfishjr]

House MD × The Last Of Us AU

The two of them kneel in the damp dirt, lungs rapidly working for air. House stares at the wound on Wilson’s forearm. It’s oddly bite-mark shaped. He pulls Wilson’s rolled up sleeve over the bloody, broken skin.

“You’ll be fine,” House’s voice is unnervingly calm. He rips a section off his blood-stained The Who band tee (most people wouldn’t know that, due to the fact that it’s faded beyond recognition), and knots it around Wilson’s upper arm, though he’s not sure why he does that.

“You’ll be fine, you’ll- you’ll be okay,” his voice breaks. Why does it hurt so bad? House pushes the question away.

I’ll have the time to figure it out later, House thinks as he gets to his feet. The prosthetic leg chaffes against his skin. Long hours of running has taken its toll, it seems.

Re-adjusting his bag-strap over his shoulder, he offers a hand to Wilson, who just stares up at him. There’s something swirling like a storm in gaze. House is afraid. He doesn’t want to know what that look means, but it reveals itself to him anyways. Wilson stares up at him, and in his eyes he sees pity and longing, and under it, the fear and the desperation. Wilson doesn’t take his hand.

“Time to wake up and go-go, Jimmy.”

The joke doesn’t sit right in House’s chest.

“Two hours,” Wilson chokes out. His throat fills with overwhelming anguish, threatening to spew out his trembling lips. He can almost feel the tendrils of cordyceps creep through his veins, finding its greedy way to the host’s brain.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

House’s hand is still outstretched insistently.

“I have two hours, House.” Wilson’s voice is soft like an apology, almost a whisper. He pats the ground next to him. The grass is wet and muddy. “Sit, please.”

The neurons in House’s head fires signals at their own clumsy and desperate accord. They tell him to run. They tell him to yell. They tell him to yank Wilson to his feet. They tell him to sit. But sitting feels too difficult. He just stood up. Shouldn’t they be walking away by now? His mind echoes with the mangled remains of Wilson’s words.

Two hours.

“You could have eight hours,” House points out, and something in him rips itself apart. He adknowledged it. It’s real, it’s happening.

“I’m giving myself two hours.”

And so House sits. Wilson tenderly holds his hand, as if House is the one who’s dying.

Fuck the oncologist and his stupid oncologist habits.

The first thing Wilson does is lean in and kiss him. His lips are soft, and they tremble slightly.

From emotion, not from the infection, House reminds himself. He kisses back, and he knows that will be the very last time they do it. Better now than risk infection when the fungus eventually invades the trachea, growing and spreading till it crawls out Wilson’s mouth. House shudders at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson says after the kiss breaks. He mutters into their interlocked hands, “I’m sorry.”

“If you plan to spend your two hours apologising, please tell me. I’ll happily shorten it to five seconds.”

Wilson laughs. House wonders how he still has the strength to form anything resembling a smile, much less a laugh.

For a long moment, they just sit in silence, bloody fingers brushing and circling tender goodbyes on bruised knuckles. The need for words had left their relationship long ago. If there’s anything that needed to be said, they’d have said it already.

In this moment, Wilson’s presence reads like a sad song. Or perhaps it reads like the macadamia nut pancakes that will never be made by his hands ever again. A cold and lonely winter awaits Gregory House.

House can’t help but resort to earlier memories for comfort. He sinks deep into his own head.

The night he bailed Wilson out from jail. House had felt the thrill of having a complete stranger to pick apart in front of him. Wilson owed House, and so he let himself be picked apart. Too soon, House found himself stuck in the rabbit hole of Wilson, and apparently Wilson had done some picking and digging of his own as well.

He moves forward in time. The day the infection had begun its ruthless attack on humanity. Wilson had dragged him out of the hospital and drove him home. Chase’s wheezing and gasping breath still haunts his mind.

Then, there came the day, three years later. Wilson begged him to amputate his bad leg. He’d just came into contact with a doctor specialising in prosthetic limbs. Turned out that Wilson had been searching for one for a year.

“Please, House,” Wilson begged. “You'll die if you can’t run.” I can’t afford to lose you.

“That’s ableist,” House joked, but he knew Wilson was right. He usually was. And so after one night of quiet sobbing, he finally agreed. Wilson held House’s head close against his chest, fingers caressing tufts of hair. “Thank you.”

House threw all his painkillers he’d gotten from trading that day.

House’s mind returns to the the present. He pulls Wilson closer, allowing him to rest his weary head on his shoulder. His hand found its way to the back of Wilson’s neck, toying softly with the soft strands of hair.

House doesn’t know when, but Wilson’s hands had begun to tremble.

He tightens his grip, trying to quell the twitching muscles, only for Wilson to pull his hands away.

“No.”

The word slips out of House’s lips involuntarily. His voice is small, weak.

With unsteady hands, Wilson unzips his bag, and pulls out his gun. He presses the cold metal into his hands.

House evaluates Wilson’s state. He shakes his head, attempting to push the gun away. “You still have time.”

“Yes,” Wilson makes sure House’s hands held firm on the weapon. “So you can take your time.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Wilson doesn’t miss a single beat. Yeah. No, he didn’t.

“Why do you want me to do it?” House doesn’t want to stop talking. It’ll be just like the old times, where House would say something stupidly genius, and Wilson would say something geniusly stupid in retaliation, then life would go on.

“I need to know if you can m…move on,” Wilson guides House’s hands up, until the gun is aimed at his forehead. “If you can do this, you can move on.”

“I’ll shoot myself after I shoot you,” his hands shakes, as do Wilson’s, but for painfully different reasons.

He sighs. “I can’t stop you, but, please… please d-don’t,” Wilson swallows, and he swears he can feel tendrils creeping up his throat. It’s getting hard to talk, like he’s forgetting how.

Wilson wonders if his memory is starting to fade. He can’t remember the last time House cried like he does now.

He sees the amalgamation of grief, anger and loss in his tears. And yet, there is acceptance. He reaches out a hand to dry the other's tear-stricken face. House will go on without him.

"I love you."

"This is such a chick flick moment," House manages through his tears. "I love you, too."

Wilson smiles, and it reaches his eyes. "I know."

And House pulls the trigger home.

[angelxsturns]

IS THIS FAKE? (pt. 9) - M.S.

IN WHICH... matt and reader start fake dating. no feelings attached.... right?

SERIES CONTENTS... fake relationship. cursing. kissing. angst. fluff. smut. probably more idk!

he waits outside your house in the rain like a walking, talking cliché. hoodie soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, sneakers squelching with every shift of his weight.

you watch from the window for a second too long before finally opening the door.

“what are you doing, matt?” you ask, arms crossed tightly over your chest, like it’ll stop the way your heart’s starting to hammer.

he doesn’t move closer. just stands there, dripping and breathless.

“i fucked up,” he says. “but it wasn’t fake for me. not after the porch. not after you.”

you stare at him. the rain patters between you like a pause. your throat tightens. your hands curl into fists at your sides.

you say nothing. but then, finally, softly—

“then don’t kiss me like it is.”

his eyes search yours for only a second before he crosses the space between you and presses his lips to yours.

it starts slow. careful. his lips brushing against yours like a question. his fingers ghosting your jaw, your waist, unsure.

and then you kiss him back.

harder. deeper. your hands fisting in his wet hoodie, pulling him closer like you’ve needed this for weeks. it shifts. becomes hungry. desperate. like you’re both trying to say everything you couldn’t before.

his hands are on your hips, your waist, your back—everywhere. your lips don’t leave his, not even as you tug him inside the house, slamming the door behind you.

you stumble backward as he follows you inside, kicking the door shut without looking. water drips from your clothes, soaking the floor, but neither of you care.

his hands are under your shirt, trailing heat across your skin. you tug at his hoodie, struggling to peel it off his soaked frame. he breaks the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head, hair even messier now.

you reach for his belt. he groans, hands dropping to help you, your fingers fumbling with the buckle as his lips find your neck.

“upstairs,” you breathe, tugging at his wrist. he follows like gravity’s pulling him to you.

your bodies are soaked, water dripping to the floor as you stumble toward the stairs, kissing between ragged breaths.

you don’t make it all the way to the bed at first. just the doorframe, slamming into it as his hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head. your hands are already working on his jeans as he tugs his own shirt over his head.

clothes hit the carpet, one after another. his mouth on your neck, yours on his shoulder, his chest.

you fall into the sheets, tangled in each other, feverish. his tongue is practically down your throat, his lips eventually breaking away from yours to move further down. his hands travel to your pink lace panties and he gently pulls them off as he kisses your neck, then your collarbone, then down your stomach.

“you’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. he gently presses a kiss to your core before looking up at you. “can i?”

“please, matt. i need you.”

that’s all it took. his tongue slowly slides through your folds, sending shivers through your body. you moan his name breathlessly.

he brings himself up so you’re face to face with him. “are you okay with this?”

“yes, matt.”

“do you have condoms?”

“in the nightstand.”

he reaches into the nightstand and rips open a condom with shaking fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. he rolls it onto himself before positioning himself at your entrance. his length slowly enters your soaked cunt, eliciting a near pornographic moan from you. your head falls back, mouth open on a moan. he groans into your shoulder, fingers lacing with yours as he starts to move.

he’s slow, at first. like he’s savoring every second. then deeper. harder. desperate. greedy. like he can’t get close enough, can’t take enough, can’t believe you’re his.

your bodies move in sync, the room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, ragged breath, low moans, the occasional gasp when he hits that perfect spot inside you.

his hand tangles in your hair. yours claw down his back.

he groans like he’s breaking apart, like the words snapped something in him.

your release hits first. sharp, overwhelming, stars behind your eyes. he follows seconds after, burying his face in your neck, cursing softly, his whole body trembling. he moans your name like it’s a prayer.

you stay like that, tangled up in each other, the rain still tapping against your window.

quiet. raw. real.

and for the first time, it’s not fake.

maybe this was real all along.

maybe it always had been.

a/n: for my freaks 😛😛 i kinda suck at writing smut lowkey but that’s a barrier we’ll overcome

tags!: @h8aaz @auttysturnz @katiebae333 @ladyatwalmart @izzylovesmatt @stonermattsgf @ineedchrissturniolo @deathst6r @zniyadgaf @whore4chris @matts-hersheys-kisses @courta13 @sturnslux3 @kenah-sturniolo @aaliyah-sturns @whereralltheavacados @riggysworld @d0llworld @mattsdiva

[vicolette]

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐘𝐞𝐭 !

– Warnings : English isn’t my first language, uses of y/n & pet names, storms, not proofread

"Already?"

"Yes, already." You replied to his whiny complaints, his arms tightening their hold around your waist as Marc pulled you closer and didn’t let you stray away from him just yet. It has been a while since you had last seen each other, and now you had to go.

In Marc's mind, he thought that you needed to go, because you simply couldn’t resist his charm and attraction – which was exaggerated, but the truth. In his mind.

"Not yet…" He repeated for the thousandth time, which was also exaggerated, but you had never experienced Marc being such a clingy person. Sure, he liked physical touch and occasionally hugged you without any reason, but now?

Now, Marc had you caged within his arms and had a tight grip on you, his face hidden in your shoulder as his chest was pressed against your back. He didn’t care if it was too late, probably around ten in the evening, or if your parents wanted you home.

You felt safe in his arms. He felt safe with you in his arms.

"Just a little bit longer, then my father can drive you back." Before you could reply and argue back, saying that you didn’t want to disturb his parents this late, you heard something happen.

All of a sudden, a thunderstorm was audible from outside, followed by another one, which was much louder.

Marc had seen the prediction of the weather early in the morning today, so he wasn’t so surprised, even if he hadn’t thought that it would have been this bad. Meanwhile, your fear of storms made your heart race faster by each passing second, looking at his window before a lightning appeared.

As you squirmed and moved within his arms, Marc looked down at you and raised an eyebrow at how afraid you seemed, thinking that it was just pure shock from the moment. However, when you kept your face hidden from everything and pulled him closer, his eyebrows furrowed.

He gave it some time to let you talk, to tell him if you needed something or if you were truly scared. When you had yet to responded to him, Marc gave it some thought as to whether or not he should be allowed to still force you stay in his arms.

He quickly got an answer when he had tried to unwrap his arms around your waist, only for you to pull him closer – or yourself – impossibly near him. Marc seemed surprised, with a raised eyebrow and his lips slightly agape, yet no words left from his mouth.

Silence stretched over the room, if you excluded the noise from outside of the storm happening, until you finally spoke up. "… are you scared?"

"Me?" Marc laid down in a more comfortable position, which was to just lay on the mattress on his back and have you on top of him, slowly stroking your lower back with his fingertips. "Nah, not really."

A few seconds passed, and when he saw that you were only getting more anxious by the minute, Marc decided that enough was enough. "But I was as a kid."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, really scared." Empathizing the word 'really', Marc started to tell you a story about how he had always clung to his mother whenever there was bad weather, even reminding himself of the time when he couldn’t go back home due to an extreme weather and then had to sleep over at his cousin’s house, which was the only good thing about that.

Over time, you slowly loosened your grip on his shirt and listened throughout his speech, even if you eventually heard a few more lightnings and hugged him tightly.

"You're scared, aren’t you?" The question made you tense up, having thought that you were perfectly hiding it away from him. He merely rolled his eyes at you, amused by the foolishness of the situation. "Please, you’re literally trembling."

"Oh, shut up!" You yelled and immediately regretted it, hoping that his parents weren’t bothered by the volume of your words. However if that was what awakened them instead of the thunderstorms, then Marc didn’t know how it was possible.

Then, as you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket and also felt Marc reach out for it with a wide grin, you flicked his forehead and watched as he read a message, yet wasn’t able to when you suddenly grabbed it back.

As you felt your body tremble once again due to the lightnings, you saw that it was a notification from your mother, reading it before you gasped in surprise. "Oh my- I can stay over!"

"Yeah? Let’s go!" Marc pumped his fist into the air, watching as you giggled at how ridiculous he looked beneath you. Nonetheless, it was sweet to see how much you trusted him, even though he had lied about his previous fear of storms and the story was also completely made up, yet he kept it both a lie and a secret.

With his arms now once again circling your hips, Marc pressed a soft kiss on your forehead and threw his head back, just barely managing to hear the sound of your yawn, knowing how late it was and how exhausted you must be, even if your adrenaline is too high to sleep.

"Dream about me, alright?"

You gave him a look, rolled your eyes and snuggled closer, slowly shaking your head at your boyfriend's weird request – as if you could fall asleep now.

"Nope."

– A/N : the moment he’s gonna play again we WILL be there‼️‼️ also there was a storm yesterday and I thought it hit my house🌚

[cercess]

Beneath New Skies - Chapter III

Death's Door

𖤓 Tags: Depictions of violence, mentions of death, depictions of injury, depictions of blood, angst 𖤓 Rating: Explicit 𖤓 Word Count: 3.3k 𖤓 Notes: hey all! Sorry or the time it took to get this out, I really struggled writing some parts. I want to add a trigger warning for this chapter: it depicts scenes of the city being attacked, as well as descriptions of a wound on a character's arm. If these make you uncomfortable in any way, please skip this chapter. When I upload chapter four, I will include a summary so you don't miss any critical information moving forward. I'm hoping to get chapter four out either tonight or tomorrow, because I know this one took me a long time. This chapter isn't my favourite writing-wise, but it was important for events that will come later. Please excuse any clunky parts, as this is not the type of story I typically tell; I'm much more of a slice of life/romance author. Thank you all for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! 𖤓 Previous Chapter 𖤓 Read on AO3 𖤓 Divider Credit: X

The day started like any other, with you working the counter at the apothecary. Kyros, the restaurant owner, was browsing the wall of dried herbs, while your father helped Akmonides with some ailment in the back room. 

“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” Kyros asked as he smelled a vial of crushed ginger.

“Is gossiping about the gossip-monger really a good idea? He’ll find out eventually.”

Kyros laughed, as he added the ginger to his basket, “not unless you say anything.”

“That depends on how much coin he offers.” 

It was just a cough. You knew because your father had grabbed eucalyptus on his way back. In your business, the answers to people’s suspicions were often much more boring than what they’d imagined. One day, you planned on taking over your father’s position and treating patients yourself. But, seeing as the man was still as spry as ever, there was still time before that happened. Sometimes he’d test you pool by simply stating the ailment. It was then your job to figure out what ingredients needed to be used. After doing it your whole life, mixing the proper tonics and ointments came as naturally as breathing. Peppermint for colds, feverfew for fevers, valerian for insomnia, ginger for mild pain, and poppies for severe pain. Those were the common afflictions you saw, but every once in a while, there would be a curveball, and you’d have to consult your journal. 

“These are pretty,” Kyros held up a blue flower, “maybe I could use those as a garnish.

“Those are flaxseed flowers, and we use them as laxatives. Probably not something you want your customers eating.” You grin as you fiddle with the necklace Phainon had given you.

He would have found that funny. 

It had been a few days since he’d left for the ruins of Janusopolis, and you’d spent most of your time yearning for his return. It was almost sickening how much you longed for him; like a lovesick teenager who had to be glued to their partner’s side at all times. 

The door behind you opened, and out walked Akmonides and your father. The former held a vial of what you assumed to be a tonic for his cold. The other telltale sign of his affliction was his nose, which had been rubbed raw from wiping mucus away.

“Could you run to Demetria’s?” Your father asked, placing a hand on your shoulder as he slipped behind the counter. “We need oranges.” 

You nodded and hopped off your stool, taking the opportunity to emphatically stretch your arms and legs. He sometimes sent you on errands throughout the day, knowing that you appreciated a break from the mundanity. 

As overwhelming as Marmoreal Market could be, you could never shake your love for it. You had lived your whole life with the bustling stalls right at your doorstep. The sound of customers haggling echoed in the back of nearly all your childhood memories. 

The walk to Demetria’s was short, and when you arrived, the grocer was quick to welcome you with a hug. 

“Have you grown since I last saw you?” She asked. 

“Maybe,” you say brightly, knowing full well you stopped growing years ago. 

When you placed the oranges in your basket, she took a long pause, before adding a bundle of grapes. “That doesn’t quite seem heavy enough, here. A treat from me.” 

“Thank you,” arguing with the old woman was futile. She was too kind for her own good. 

Before returning to the apothecary, you made a detour to find an old friend. She was usually easy to find, as she spent her days running along the streets. 

“Serena,” you called down a row of plant-adorned homes. It wasn’t long before she poked her head out from behind a pot. You waved, beckoning her closer. 

She scanned the street before running over to you with a smile on her face.

Gaining the girl’s trust had taken considerable effort. The first time you met her, she robbed you blind. After returning home from The Grove, you were unfamiliar with certain changes, namely the orphaned children that used the market as their hunting ground. When you told your father, he merely laughed; apparently everyone had fallen prey to her antics. At the time, you were angry, and spent two days searching for the thief. After clamouring over the rooftops, you eventually found her hideout on a balcony overlooking the market. Your anger immediately subsided when you saw her huddled in the corner, surrounded by empty boxes and various stolen mementos. A sudden appreciation for your stable childhood had blossomed since then, especially as more desperate children arrived from Castrum Kremnos.

Serena was from Icatus, and had no means of supporting herself. She insisted her parents would return, but the disillusionment of maturity told you otherwise. Since then, you made an effort to leave her food whenever you could. When you and your father had leftovers, you’d set them outside the shop for her, and in the morning there would be a flower on your windowsill. 

“Were you looking for me?” She asked, trying to get a better look at the gift you held behind your back. 

You laughed, and showed her the bundle of fresh grapes. “I thought you could use a treat on a hot day like this.” 

The little girl’s eyes widened with excitement, and she snatched the fruit from your grasp. She looked at the gift like it was a rare gem, “this is all for me?”

“Of course, I-”

An earth-shattering scream cut through the gentle moment like a knife. Instinctively, you pulled Serena behind you, her hand tightly grasping yours. “What was that?”

“Stay close, and don’t run ahead,” you instructed in a harsh whisper. 

Keeping your back against the wall, you carefully shuffled to the end of the building to peer down the main street. The lone scream had multiplied into an overwhelming rumble of panic. Ahead, people were fleeing a towering figure clad in blue and white. You’d learned of the Titankin through Phainon, but had never laid eyes on one. It’s marbled skin was exactly as he had described, and the golden dagger it brandished was far from an inviting image. 

“What’s happening?” Serena tugged at your arm. 

Primal fear overtook you when the Titankin turned its head in your direction, it’s stiff, inhuman movements only adding to your terror. Had it seen you? Was it coming your way?

“We need to run,” you pulled the girl further down the street, away from your possible assailant. 

“To where?” She asked shakily as she struggled to match your pace. 

You slowed down slightly, needing a moment to think. What you needed was to get to your father. For all you knew, he was alone in the shop. He was not a trained fighter; neither of you were. A feeling of hopelessness began to gnaw at your confidence as you realized the dire nature of the situation. 

“We need to get to my father,” your attempt to keep your voice steady failed. Getting to your father meant returning to one of the main roads on opposite ends of the street. The southern road was blocked by Titankin, and the other route would still be a gamble, especially with Serena in tow. Still, you refused to abandon the child. 

“We can get there from the roof!” Serena pointed to a set of stairs leading up to a nearby balcony. 

A low groan sounded from around the corner you had previously checked, and it became abundantly clear that you had to make a choice; risk finding more Titankin on the main road, or follow Serena’s plan. While you had about a hundred logistical questions about Serena’s route, you decided that a petty thief probably knew all the cutie’s secret passages better than you. 

“Up the stairs then, and don’t look back.” 

She nodded, and led you up the nearby building. From above, you could see the extent of the chaos. It turned out following Serena’s idea was for the best, as a particularly burly Titankin stood guard on the northern road. 

“What are those things?” The little girl was trembling, so you knelt down to meet her eye. 

“Those are Nikador’s Titankin. They are very dangerous, and want to hurt us. If one gets close, you run. Do you understand?” You hated how grave your voice sounded, knowing it would only make her more afraid. But fear no longer mattered; survival was your only priority. “Can you still get us to my father?”

To your surprise, she didn’t cry. Instead, Serena furrowed her brow and led you across a nearby canopy. You rushed after her, eager for your feet to once again stand on a solid building. 

“We can climb down here,” she gestured to the ledge below. 

You realized that she was pointing at the protrusion under your bedroom window. The route you had taken must have been how Serena left flowers for you. 

The girl scrambled down the side of the building, using the uneven stone as foot grips. Given you were larger than a child, the drop was a nonissue. You thanked yourself for leaving your window open, and slid inside your bedroom after Serena. 

“Let’s find my father,” you instructed as your anxiety became almost unbearable. You had no idea what you would find, and prayed that the worst case scenario had not yet occurred. 

The two of you crept down the stairs to the shop, the sound of your racing heartbeat thundering in your ears. Everything was painfully normal; the herbs neatly arranged, the phials on the alchemy bench perfectly in order. The only thing out of place was your father, who was nowhere to be found in the main area. 

Serena trailed you, her eyes widening as she took in the shop. If it were any other time, you might have felt a bit of pride at her reaction. Alas, posturing was hardly appropriate during an attack. 

“I need you to stay ducked behind the counter, I’m going to check the exam room.” 

She nodded and did as she was told, curling into a ball. You took a breath, and opened the door. Inside, your father sat at the desk, hunched over a book. 

“Father! What are you doing?” You asked, equal parts relieved and dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think it would take you so long to get back, I-“

“Do you not realize what’s happening? The city is under attack by Titankin.” 

He adjusted his glasses, “if this is some kind of joke, I do not find it funny.” 

Exasperation threatened to overtake you, but the urgency of the moment far outweighed your irritation. “No, it’s not a joke. We need to run now.” 

Your father rose from his chair, and followed you out into the shop where Serena remained under the counter. “You’ve found a child.” 

“Father, this is Serena. I was visiting her when the attack started. She got us here safely.” 

“Then I owe you my thanks.” He smiled warmly at the girl.

“Where do we go now?” 

Before your could respond, your father jumped in, “I suspect they've started evacuating the market. We need to get out while the guards still have a foothold. Otherwise, we’re trapped waiting for the Titankin to find us.” 

You were relieved to have the pressure of responsibility lifted from your shoulders. It was something your father always bore well, and you trusted his intelligence wholeheartedly. 

“Stay in between us,” he guided Serena to stand in the middle of himself and you. Then, your father addressed you, “did you notice where the Titan were gathering? 

“There's one on both the south and north road. We almost had a run in with the southern one.” You shuddered at the thought of that encounter going any other way. “It was farther up, though, so if we make a run for it then we may reach the guards quicker.”

“Good idea,” he nodded, “it’s also closer to the gates. Follow me.” 

The two of you trailed your father as he exited the shop. “Leave the door open. We don’t want to make any more noise than necessary.” 

He crept forward, checking around the corner as you had earlier. The angle of the building made it difficult to see the rest of the street, but you noticed him straining to see past the restaurant. 

“Now,” your father instructed, grabbing Serena’s hand. They took off down the street with you floating close behind.  

As you ran, you found yourself clutching your necklace, your grip so firm that it left star-shaped indents in your palm. If Phainon were here, you’d all be safe. If you can hear me, please come home. I need you. 

The sudden realization of your own mortality was frightening. You thought of everything you had left unsaid, to your father, and to Phainon. He’d never know just how proud of him you were; how lucky you felt to call him yours. All of the little things you were too afraid to say would die along with you.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted by your companions coming to a stop. By the time you slowed down, the cause for their interruption was clear. A Titankin, larger than the other two, blocked your way with its massive sword. 

Serena trembled behind your father, her shaky hand clenched around his pant leg. 

As for the man himself, he slowly raised a hand, “we mean you no harm! Just let us pass.” 

The Titankin’s growl seemed to encapsulate the area in cool air, freezing everyone in their place. At its feet were discarded weapons; a warning for any who wished to challenge its mighty authority. 

Your eye was drawn to a spear that laid a few feet away, its blade shining in the midday sun. It called to you like a weapon of legend, beckoning you to be the hero your father and Serena needed. 

If I die today, I will make him proud. 

You lunged for the spear, albeit not as gracefully as you would have hoped. Still, when you regained your footing, the spear sat in your hands, sharp blade pointed towards the looming Titankin. 

It shifted its attention to you, sword prepared to strike. 

“What are you-“

“Run!” You interrupted your father as the monster lifted its sword high in the air. 

You shut your eyes, bracing for the impact against your defensively positioned spear. The weight that bore down on you was unbearable. Upon impact, you were sent stumbling backwards, but your spear remained raised. 

The Titankin grunted, and shifted more of his weight to the sword. You could hear the wood of the spear splintering under the force, and you focused on moving out of the way of the opposing blade. 

Behind the beast, your father shouted your name. His desperate tone almost brought tears to your eyes. You wanted to tell him you loved him, but the Titankin had successfully broken through your spear, causing you to lose your balance. 

The weapon’s two halves stared up at you sadly, and you almost felt the need to apologize for reducing the beautifully crafted weapon into such a sorry-state. However, there was no time for that, as the Titankin had raised its sword once again. 

You scrambled backwards, holding your arms in front of your face. The pain that exploded through your left forearm as the blade cut through your skin was unbearable. A pained cry escaped you as your vision blurred. Had you been hit elsewhere? You dropped to the ground, cradling your injury close to your chest. 

“Don’t touch them!” Your father cried, before a loud thump echoed through the streets. You wanted to go to him, to see if he was alright, but your legs wouldn’t work. 

Instead, you squeezed your eyes shut and waited for the end to come. I love you father. I’m sorry I failed to protect you. I hope I made you proud Phainon. I’m sorry I never told you-

An awful sound, like nails on a chalkboard, overwhelmed your senses, but the impact never came. You blinked open your eyes to see a blade sticking out of the Titankin’s chest. It stumbled as that sound filled the air once again, and collapsed into a pile of dust. 

For a moment, the debris shrouded your saviour in mystery, but when they ran forward and took you in their arms, you knew your prayers had somehow been answered.

“What are you doing? Your arm, it’s…” Phainon’s voice trailed off as he observed the gash in your skin. You wanted to wrap your arms around his shoulders and never let go, but decided upon remembering your bleeding injury and his white coat. 

“Phainon?” His name fell pathetically from your lips as tears clouded your vision. Your whole body numbed, until the pain in your arm was nothing but a dull ache. 

“I’m here,” he cupped your face in his hands, “I should have gotten here sooner, I’m-“

“Ahem,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in, interrupting your tender moment. 

Behind Phainon stood a beautiful woman with golden eyes. She held some sort of stick in her hand, its shiny material covered in the same dust-like material the Titankin had been reduced to. Her short skirt and accessories were unlike anything you’d ever seen in Okhema.

“Are you going to introduce your friend?” She grinned down at you and Phainon, slugging her weapon over her shoulder. 

“Leave them alone, Stelle.” An equally exotically dressed man called as he helped your father to his feet. You noticed he had a small scar under his right eye, although it did nothing to detract from his handsome features.

“You’re no fun,” the woman huffed, nudging his shoulder.

You turned your attention back to Phainon, who was watching the duo with as much confusion as you. “Who are they?” 

Before Phainon can speak, the grey woman responded: “we’re visitors from beyond the sky, come to rescue you in your hour of need.” 

Once again, the man tried to real-in his companion. “You can’t tell everyone that,” he hissed, which was met with the woman—Stelle—rolling her eyes. 

“Is she being serious?” You asked Phainon, as he and your father hoisted you off the ground. 

“Yes… Kind of,” Phainon answered once your feet were securely on the ground. “They really are from beyond the sky. And they helped me get to you.” 

You and your father exchanged confused looks as he examined your arm. “It’s nothing major, but we need to get this stitched up.” His hand lingered on yours. 

“The path ahead is cleared, find the guards, and get yourselves to safety.” Phainon orders, having adopted his “hero” persona.

“What about you?” 

A mere touch momentarily shatters his mask. “I’ll come back to you, I promise. We need to clear out the rest of the city and get to Nikador.”

“Nikador is here?” Your father suddenly seemed uneasy. 

The man from beyond the sky ushered Serena to the exit, “leave the Titan to us, sir. Get your children to safety.” 

“You’re facing Nikador? Now?” Your voice wavered with emotion. 

“The Chrysos Heirs will defend the city from this threat,” Phainon’s words were rehearsed, his mask slipping back into place. 

“They’re right,” your father placed a calming hand on your back. “We need to get to safety. Let the Chrysos Heirs do the fighting.” 

Phainon patted your hand reassuringly, “we’ll be okay. I promise.” 

There was much more you wanted to say, but the pain in your arm had returned. Your head was starting to feel fuzzy, and from the trail you left behind while walking, it was clear you were losing too much blood. 

“Good luck,” you told Phainon as your father led you from the market. As you left, the city’s mortician passed, but said nothing. 

Death had come to Okhema, and all you could do was pray that Phainon remained on its good side.