#god that's barely even scraping the surface | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

orphicmeliora · 2 months ago

Text

Evermore

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC!Reader

SUMMARY: You have spent your life inside hospital walls, your world stitched together with IV lines, late-night alarms, and the quiet acceptance that some things cannot be fixed. You've been passed from one doctor to another, another test, another trial — all chasing a miracle that never came. Somewhere along the way, you stopped waiting for tomorrow.

But life, in its quiet cruelty and unexpected grace, gives you something you never thought to ask for — a glimpse of another world. A different kind of heartbeat, steady and sure, weaving its way into your fragile one. Moments you never believed you could have: laughter, longing, dreams too big for a hospital bed.

You don't know how long it will last. You don't even know if you dare hope for more.

But when the night is quiet and the snow falls just right, you let yourself believe — for one stolen breath — that maybe your story isn't meant to end here.

Maybe, somehow, you are just beginning.

WORD COUNT: 9.5k

You're dying.

For as long as you can remember, you've known more of hospitals than your own house. It's gotten to a point where when you think of home, it's not a cozy living room or the scent of your mother's cooking that surfaces — it's the sterile, cold corridors of Akso Hospital. The beeping machines. The too-white sheets. The antiseptic sting in the air. That's home.

You've been passed from hospital to hospital like a worn file folder, a case study waiting for a miracle. Doctors, researchers, specialists — all curious, all clinical. Some of them smiled too brightly when they poked at you; others barely met your eyes as they dictated notes into recorders. No matter their faces, it was always the same: a child with a heart too fragile for the world she lived in. Congenital heart disease, they'd say, like it was a sentence you had to carry. Words like hypoplastic, cardiomyopathy, degeneration slipped off their tongues without a second thought.

Research papers had been written about you. Trials run, theories floated, hands reaching inside your chest like gods trying to rewrite fate. But there was no saving you. Not really. Only delaying the inevitable.

At some point, death stopped being a frightening monster lurking at the end of the hallway. It became a quiet fact. A gentle inevitability. Like winter following fall. Like the last leaf leaving the branch. Sometimes you even think of it fondly — a release from the endless pricks of needles and the sting of failed hope.

You don't cry about it anymore. You stopped doing that years ago.

Just you, and the slow ticking of monitors, and the muted conversations outside your door.

But there are still things that ache. Things that death doesn't erase.

Like the school uniforms you never wore.

The scraped knees you never had from playground games.

The friendships you only knew from books and half-forgotten fairy tales read to you by bored nurses.

You grew up surrounded by adults: brisk nurses with kind smiles, tired doctors with far-off eyes, other patients far older than you. No childhood secrets whispered under blankets at sleepovers. No first crushes shared during recess.

Today is supposed to be your sixteenth birthday. A milestone for most kids — laughter, cake, maybe even a little rebellion. You asked for so little. Just a single scoop of ice cream. Something sweet, something that would make you forget, just for a second, that you're broken inside.

Maybe your body decided it was too much joy. Maybe it was just bad timing. Whatever it was, the chest pain started fast and sharp, a blooming fire that stole your breath and sent the world spinning. They rushed you to the ICU, alarms blaring, voices cutting through the fog of your consciousness.

Doctor Li was there, of course. He's always there. A steady presence when everyone else felt like passing shadows. You caught glimpses of his furrowed brow, the tightness in his voice as he barked orders you were too far gone to understand. He was fighting for you. He always did.

The world blurred. Faded. You remember thinking — distantly — how strange it was to die with the taste of vanilla on your tongue.

You don't die that night. Not yet.

But something inside you, small and bright and hopeful, dims just a little more.

The next few days bleed together in a haze of machines and murmured reassurances. You drift in and out of shallow sleep, tethered to the world by the soft beeping of your heart monitor and the cool, practiced touch of the nurses adjusting your IVs. Doctor Li checks on you more than usual — lingering longer at your bedside, as if afraid that if he looks away, you might simply vanish.

You hear snatches of conversation sometimes. Fragments that weren't meant for your ears.

It’s strange how even in survival, you feel like a guest overstaying her welcome.

"She stabilized, but barely."

"Should we consider moving her back to the general ward?"

"Give her time. Let her rest."

On the third day, you notice a figure lingering near the doorway. Not a nurse — they’re always in motion, efficient and brisk. Not Doctor Li, either — this figure carries a stiffness to his stance, a sharpness that cuts into the sterile quiet.

You glance over, disinterested. A boy, maybe a few years older than you, dressed in street clothes that look out of place in the hospital’s sanitized world. Dark hair that falls messily into his eyes, a scowl permanently etched across his face like it was born there. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he doesn't want to be here.

You recognize the look immediately — resentment barely contained behind a mask of detachment.

You turn your head away. You couldn't care less.

Let him glare. Let him hate. You’re used to people looking at you like that — like you’re an inconvenience, a burden. You’ve spent your whole life apologizing for existing, even when your lips stayed silent.

He says nothing to you, and you say nothing to him.

Good. Silence is easier. Cleaner.

Later, you hear the nurses whispering about him.

You don't understand why any of it matters. To you, he’s just another shadow passing through your world. Another person whose life will keep moving forward, even when yours stands still.

"Doctor Li’s son. Came straight from his graduation. Poor kid."

"Must be hard, sharing your father with the hospital."

"He'll understand someday. Sacrifices have to be made."

You close your eyes and let the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lull you back into sleep.

Tomorrow will come. Or it won’t.

It hardly makes a difference.

Tomorrow comes. And then the day after that.

Somehow, despite everything, you keep breathing.

You're moved out of the ICU eventually, back into the quieter, less urgent wing of Akso Hospital that has become more familiar than any childhood bedroom you never had. The walls here are softer shades of green, the windows wide and bright — an illusion of freedom you stopped believing in a long time ago.

Your days fall into a familiar rhythm: early morning blood draws, midday vitals checks, whispered conversations with nurses who treat you like a little sister they can't protect. You read when you can, mostly battered romance novels left behind by old patients, and sometimes you simply lie there, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles like they hold some secret map to a life you’ll never live.

And Zayne —he starts appearing again.

At first, it’s just glimpses. A flash of dark hair down the corridor, the low murmur of his voice when he trails after Doctor Li during rounds. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. He keeps his gaze clipped to charts and clipboards, face tight with the kind of focus you recognize all too well: the kind born from trying to control what can’t be fixed.

You wonder — briefly — why he keeps coming back.

Most people your age would run from a place like this. Wouldn't they? Chase the world outside with hungry hands, desperate to live, to feel something more than fluorescent lights and beeping machines.

But Zayne stays.

He stands at his father's side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat, frowning at words too complicated for you to care about. He listens when Doctor Li explains your charts, your declining numbers, the latest tests they want to run. Sometimes he asks questions, voice low and rough around the edges.

You don't bother trying to hear the answers.

You’ve long stopped hoping anyone had any real ones to give.

The way his shoulders stiffen when Doctor Li mentions your heart’s deterioration. The quick, darting glances he thinks you don’t catch when you wince from another IV insertion. The rare moments his mouth tightens in something almost like frustration, or helplessness.

Still...

You notice things.

You pretend you don't see.

You pretend it doesn't matter.

And you — you have always been leaving.

Because it doesn't.

You have learned, through years of slow dying, that getting attached only makes the leaving harder.

It happens on an afternoon like any other.

The kind where the sun slices through the window just enough to make you ache for the world outside — a world you’ve only seen in pictures and half-forgotten dreams.

You’re sitting up in bed, a book resting on your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like hours. Your IV pole hums faintly beside you, the only real reminder that you’re still tethered here.

You glance up without thinking — and there he is.

You hear footsteps before you see him.

Not Doctor Li’s sure, even strides.

Softer. Slower. Hesitant.

Zayne.

Hovering awkwardly just inside your room, clutching a thick textbook to his chest like a shield. He's not wearing his usual scowl today. Instead, his face is carved into something tighter, more uncertain, as if he isn't quite sure whether he should even be standing here.

You raise an eyebrow, silently daring him to speak.

He clears his throat. It sounds painful.

"I—" he starts, then immediately cuts himself off, glancing away. His hand tightens around the book's spine.

You blink at him, unimpressed.

If he’s here to offer hollow pity or awkward small talk, he can save it. You’ve heard it all before — the forced conversations, the clumsy sympathy from visitors who can't even look you in the eye for long.

You drop your gaze back to your book, pretending he isn't there. Silence stretches thick and heavy between you.

For a moment, you think he’s going to retreat, like so many others have.

But he doesn't.

You freeze, your thumb hovering over the corner of the worn page.

Instead, after a beat of hesitation, you hear him mumble — so quiet you almost miss it —

"…That book’s terrible."

Slowly, you glance up again. He’s staring at the battered cover, expression wrinkling in disdain.

"I mean," he says, awkward and stiff, like every word is being dragged out of him by force, "the plot makes no sense. The heroine falls in love with a guy who literally tried to kill her in the first chapter."

You blink once. Twice.

"Yeah," you say, voice hoarse from disuse, "but it's not like I've got a lot of options."

And then, unexpectedly, a small huff of air escapes you — not quite a laugh, but close.

You hadn't realized how long it had been since someone your age spoke to you like that. Not like you were breakable. Not like you were already halfway gone.

He shifts his weight, looking vaguely guilty now. Like he hadn't meant to insult your sad little world.

You watch him for a moment longer, studying the way he fidgets — a boy trying very hard not to look like he cares, even though it’s written in every line of his posture.

Without thinking, you extend the book toward him, offering it out like a peace treaty.

"Got any recommendations, then?"

He stares at you, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting you to talk back. Like he wasn't expecting you to choose to talk to him.

Slowly, almost warily, he steps forward. Takes the book from your hand, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second—warm and real and alive.

Something small shifts in the air between you.

Barely there.

But you feel it all the same.

But right now—for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Maybe tomorrow he'll disappear again.

Maybe you’ll still die before you ever really know him.

The next day, you don’t expect him to come back.

People make gestures sometimes — quick, impulsive things born of guilt or pity. You’ve learned not to get your hopes up. You've learned not to expect anyone to stay.

But late in the afternoon, as the sun dips low and the room fills with that golden, aching kind of light, you hear familiar footsteps outside your door. Slower, more deliberate this time. No shuffling nurses, no hurried doctors.

You glance up from your spot on the bed just as Zayne leans into the doorway, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding something behind his back like a guilty secret.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, frowning faintly, like he’s annoyed to find you still there. (Or maybe annoyed with himself.)

You raise an eyebrow, a silent question.

He scowls a little deeper — a defense mechanism, you think — and mutters, "You said you didn’t have good options."

Before you can reply, he pulls his hand from behind his back and tosses a book onto your bed.

It lands with a soft thud against the sheets, the cover facing up.

You blink at it, surprised. It’s thick, heavier than the flimsy paperbacks you usually get stuck with, and worn around the edges like it's been read a dozen times. A fantasy novel, from the looks of it — something with sprawling kingdoms and sword fights and impossible magic.

You run your fingers lightly over the embossed title, almost afraid it might disappear.

"I had it lying around," he says quickly, too quickly. "Figured you could use something... less stupid."

You look up at him again, and this time you catch it — the faint pink dusting the tips of his ears, the way he can't quite meet your gaze.

You almost smile. Almost.

Instead, you trace the cover one more time, letting the weight of the book settle into your lap like something precious.

"...Thanks," you say, quiet but sincere.

Zayne shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t care. But he lingers a moment longer than necessary, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Finally, he jerks his head toward the book. "Page ninety-seven is the best part," he says gruffly. "Don't skip to it, though. You have to earn it."

And with that, he turns and stalks off down the hallway, disappearing before you can say anything else.

You watch him go, your chest feeling strangely full, like someone had opened a window inside you after years of stale, closed-off air.

You pick up the book, flipping it open carefully. On the inside cover, in faded ink, there’s a name scribbled messily: Zayne Li.

You smile — small, private, and fleeting.

—

Maybe you were wrong.

Maybe not everyone leaves.

You tell yourself it’s just a book.

And every single one of them — every single page — is littered with traces of him.

One book turns into two. Then three.

Each one arrives without ceremony — sometimes left on your bedside table when you’re asleep, sometimes handed over with an awkward grunt and averted eyes. Always worn. Always loved.

Little notes crammed into the margins. Sharp, neat handwriting in black ink. Observations. Sarcastic comments. Underlined passages with a single word beside them — you. Sometimes a whole phrase: this reminds me of you or you'd probably argue about this part.

It’s like Zayne is sitting beside you as you read, muttering in your ear.

The strange thing is — the words, the quiet thoughts he left scattered across the pages — they make you feel something. Something unfamiliar and terrifying. A buzzing under your skin, a pressure behind your ribs, too wild and heavy to name.

You devour the books hungrily.

You savor every messy annotation like it’s oxygen.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You're just imagining things.

Until the night it isn’t.

You’re halfway through another novel — a sweeping, painful story about a dying girl and a boy who loved her too much — when it happens.

Your heart flutters.

You freeze, book slipping from your hands onto the bed.

Not in the way it usually does — the panicked, stuttering rhythm that sends alarms shrieking and nurses running.

This flutter is different.

Soft. Gentle. Terrifying.

For a second, you can't breathe — not from weakness, but from something that feels suspiciously like hope, like longing.

Within seconds, your room explodes into motion — nurses flooding in, monitors flashing to life, Doctor Li himself arriving in a whirl of urgency.

You panic.

You hit the pager beside your bed, repeatedly.

They swarm you with equipment, prick your fingers, measure your heart rhythms. Voices rise and fall in a symphony of concern.

In the middle of it all, you sit there, dazed and mortified.

Because you realize — slowly, stupidly—you’re not dying.

When the chaos finally ebbs, when the monitors hum their steady, forgiving rhythm again, Doctor Li kneels beside your bed and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder.

Not yet.

Not from this.

"You’re alright," he says, voice warm and steady. "It was just... an excitement response. A little arrhythmia. Nothing dangerous."

You nod, face burning.

You don't tell him it wasn't excitement about life. It was about his son.

It was the first time in your memory that your heart had jumped not from fear, but from feeling something more.

It was a start.

Time moves strangely after that.

You learn him.

Weeks blend into months.

Zayne visits more now — under the pretense of study sessions with his father, but you both know better. He still brings you books, still pretends it's nothing, but sometimes he stays to see which parts make you smile. You argue with him over characters. He rolls his eyes when you get too emotional. You learn the patterns of his dry humor, the sharp warmth hidden under his guarded exterior.

And, quietly, dangerously, you start to want more.

One afternoon, you find yourselves alone. Doctor Li is caught up in surgery. The nurses are busy elsewhere. The hospital is unusually quiet.

Zayne sits slouched in the chair beside your bed, tapping a pen against his knee. You’re thumbing through the latest book he loaned you — a nonfiction this time, something about stars and deep space, endless distances that make your small, fragile life feel even smaller.

For a while, you exist in comfortable silence.

Then, without looking at you, Zayne says, "You know you’re sick. Really sick."

It's not a question. It's a fact, laid bare between you.

You close the book slowly, pressing your palm flat against the cover to keep your hands from shaking.

"I know," you say, voice barely a whisper.

Zayne leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

"I want to fix it," he says roughly. "I’m studying to fix it."

You stare at him, heart twisting.

"You can't," you say, almost gently. "Nobody can."

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.

"I have to," he mutters. "Otherwise... what's the point?"

The words hang there between you — raw, desperate, infuriatingly beautiful.

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes.

"You don't have to waste your life on me," you say. "You have your own future. Your own world."

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you — really looks at you.

And in his dark, tired eyes, you see it.

"I'm not wasting it," he says.

The stubbornness.

The grief.

The terrible, trembling hope.

He says it like an oath. Like a prayer.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe — just a little — that maybe, just maybe, you're not fighting alone anymore.

You glance up from your book, startled to see Zayne standing by your bedside, a mischievous glint in his otherwise serious eyes.

A rustle of cloth. The scrape of a chair being quietly pushed back.

He holds out his hand to you — palm up, steady.

"Come on," he says, voice low and urgent. "Before someone notices."

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

"I’m not exactly mobile, in case you forgot," you say dryly, gesturing weakly at your IV stand and the tangle of wires monitoring your heart.

Zayne’s mouth tugs into the smallest, briefest smirk.

"I planned for that," he says.

He lifts a second IV pole from behind him — wheels it forward like a grand conspirator revealing his secret weapon. It’s empty except for a few dummy wires and a hastily knotted hospital gown draped over it like camouflage.

You blink.

He actually planned this.

"You're insane," you whisper.

"Maybe," he says. "But so are you for trusting me."

His fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something electric under your skin — something alive.

You don’t trust easily.

You never have.

But tonight — with the sterile hum of the hospital around you, and the fierce, reckless light in Zayne’s eyes — you find yourself reaching for his hand anyway.

Carefully, painstakingly, he helps you out of bed, maneuvering your real IV to look as inconspicuous as possible. You clutch his arm for balance, and he doesn't flinch or pull away. He just stands there, solid and steady, like he was built to hold you up.

Together, you slip out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

The hospital at night is a different world — softer, quieter, suspended in time. The usual sharp edges of sterile life blur into something almost magical.

Zayne leads you through the labyrinth of corridors, past empty nurses' stations and closed doors, moving like a ghost through his second home.

Eventually, he pushes open a heavy door, and you find yourself on the hospital’s rooftop.

You don't ask where you're going.

You trust him.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing. Linkon city sprawls out below you, lights blinking like a thousand tiny stars scattered across the dark.

Above you, the real stars stretch in endless constellations, faint but stubborn, refusing to be erased by the city's glow.

You stand there, breathing in the night, the IV pole at your side forgotten for a moment.

Zayne leans against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"This," he says, tilting his chin toward the sky, "is the closest I could get to taking you out of here."

You stare up at the heavens, feeling something bloom painfully in your chest.

"You’re not supposed to do this," you whisper, but there’s no anger in your voice. Only wonder.

Zayne shrugs. "Sue me."

You laugh — a small, broken sound — and he turns his head slightly, like he wants to hear it again but is too proud to ask.

Finally, you glance over at him.

For a long time, you just stand there.

Two kids on a rooftop.

One dying, one refusing to let her go quietly.

"Thank you," you say simply.

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile.

"You’re welcome," he mutters.

Then, after a beat:

"You’re not allowed to die yet, by the way."

You blink at him, startled.

"That’s an order," he adds, looking away as if embarrassed. "Doctor’s orders."

Not if there’s still more of him.

You bite back the emotion swelling in your throat, smiling instead.

Because you realize, deep down, you don’t want to die yet.

Not if there’s still more of this.

After that first night, the rooftop becomes your place.

Whenever the nights are quiet and the staff is distracted, he appears in your doorway with a raised eyebrow and a silent question.

You and Zayne never talk about it.

You never plan it.

It just happens — an unspoken ritual.

You always nod.

And then you're off again — sneaking past monitors, wheels squeaking faintly, IV pole rattling slightly as you creep through the halls like co-conspirators against fate.

The rooftop feels almost sacred now.

Up there, the air smells less like bleach and more like possibility.

Up there, you aren’t just a patient strapped to machines — you’re alive.

You learn more about him — the way he hates instant coffee but drinks it anyway. His ridiculous sweet tooth. The way he grips the railing a little too tightly sometimes, like he’s afraid of losing control. How his smiles are rare but real, and he saves most of them for you.

Sometimes you talk.

Sometimes you sit in silence.

He listens. Really listens.

And he learns about you — the real you, the one buried under layers of hospital gowns and medical files.

He learns you love thunderstorms. That you used to dream of becoming an astronaut before you got too sick to dream at all. That you’re terrified, not of dying, but of being forgotten.

And something inside you, long frozen, starts to thaw.

You start pushing yourself during physical therapy. You sit up longer. You fight to stay awake through bad days just so you can catch a glimpse of him passing by.

You get stronger.

Not in the way that matters medically — your charts still fluctuate, your heart still falters sometimes — but your spirit grows stubborn. Fierce. Hungry.

And even if you don’t say it out loud, you know he wants it too.

You want more time.

You want more nights under the stars.

You want more him.

But the clock is always ticking.

Some nights, the pain comes back — sharp and sudden, clenching around your ribs like an iron hand. Some nights, the monitors scream and the nurses race in, and Zayne isn't allowed to visit until you're stabilized again.

On those nights, you stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how fleeting all of this is.

And then one night, when you’re both on the rooftop again, he blurts it out.

You wonder if he knows.

If he feels it too — the way the future presses down on you both like a heavy, inevitable sky.

"You’re getting worse," he says, voice low and tight.

You don't argue. You don't pretend.

Instead, you lean against the railing, the cold metal digging into your palms, and whisper, "I know."

You expect him to retreat. To shut down the way most people do when confronted with the ugly truth of you.

But Zayne just steps closer.

"You’re still fighting," he says roughly. "Even when it’s pointless. Even when you’re scared."

You laugh — bitter, broken.

"There's no winning this," you say. "No miracle cure. You know that, don't you?"

Then, very quietly:

He says nothing for a long time.

Just stands there, breathing hard, like he’s holding back something too big for words.

"I’m still going to try."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in what feels like forever.

There’s no pity there. No empty promises.

And for the first time, you allow yourself to lean just a little closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

Only determination.

Only him.

He stiffens — startled — but then, slowly, carefully, he shifts so you fit against him better.

The IV line tugs against your arm. Your heart monitor blips faintly in the background.

But here, in this small, stolen moment, you aren't a diagnosis. You aren't a prognosis.

You're just a girl.

And he's just a boy trying to save you.

The night it happens, you’re both too tired to pretend you're fine anymore.

The rooftop air is thick and heavy, the heat of the day still clinging stubbornly to the concrete. You sit cross-legged on a worn blanket Zayne smuggled from the staff lounge, your IV pole parked dutifully beside you, your heart monitor muted to a low, steady pulse.

Zayne lounges beside you, long legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the stars.

Neither of you say much.

The sky stretches overhead in an endless velvet sweep, pinpricked with faint light. Somewhere far below, Linkon city hums and breathes without you.

Words feel too heavy tonight.

Besides, you don’t need them.

You turn your head slightly, watching him.

His face looks softer in the dark — the stern lines of his mouth eased, the tension usually buried in his shoulders melted away. You can see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the little crease between his brows he probably doesn't even realize he has.

You realize — with a strange, aching clarity — that you want to remember this. You want to burn this version of him into your memory so you can carry it with you, no matter what happens.

Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute.

The monitors hum quietly beside you, a gentle lullaby.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your body leans sideways — just a little, just enough — and without thinking, without planning, you drift closer until your head finds his shoulder.

Zayne goes rigid at first — like someone just pulled a fire alarm inside his chest — but after a long, tense second, he shifts carefully, allowing you to settle against him.

You half-expect him to tease you. To make some snide remark.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, perfectly steady, like he’s afraid even breathing too loudly might wake you.

You don't remember falling asleep.

But you remember the feeling —safe, warm, suspended in something fragile and golden —as you sink into dreams for the first time in months without fear clawing at your throat.

You wake up hours later to the faintest touch — Zayne carefully adjusting your IV line, his fingers clumsy with sleep, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

He blinks down at you, caught between guilt and something deeper, something raw.

"Sorry," he mutters, voice rough. "Didn't mean to—"

You cut him off by curling a little closer, burying your face in the crook of his arm.

Later, when you’re both back inside, tangled in warmth and silence, the question slips out before you can stop it.

And for once, he doesn't argue.

He just lets you stay.

You’re still curled under your hospital blankets, the faint beep of your monitor filling the room like a heartbeat. Zayne sits in the chair beside your bed, scribbling distractedly in his med school notebook, but you know he’s only half-focused at best.

"Zayne," you say quietly.

He hums in response, not looking up.

"If you could have anything," you whisper, "anything at all… what would you wish for?"

He freezes, pen hovering midair.

The silence stretches so long you wonder if he’s going to answer at all.

Looks at you.

Then, slowly, he sets the pen down.

Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

His eyes are tired and beautiful, reflecting every terrible truth you both carry.

You open your mouth — to ask with who, to demand more clarity — but he beats you to it.

"I’d wish," he says slowly, like dragging the words out of his chest hurts,

"for more time."

"With you," he says, voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest — not from illness, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of him, of this.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s there, wiping a thumb under your eye, the touch so painfully gentle it almost undoes you completely.

He just stays.

He doesn’t ask for anything more.

He doesn’t try to kiss you, or make promises he can’t keep.

Because he knows. You both know.

This love—whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming—isn’t about grand declarations or fairy-tale endings.

It’s about now.

It’s about this fragile, fleeting moment where you are still here, still breathing, still together.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The days that follow feel… different.

It’s subtle at first — a lighter step in your walk, a softer smile tucked at the corners of your mouth — but it’s there.

Hope.

Tiny, fragile, impossible hope.

And it’s all because of him.

You don’t dare speak it aloud — not when your body is still betraying you at every turn, not when your doctors still whisper in careful, practiced voices outside your room — but it grows inside you anyway.

A stubborn little flame.

Because of the way Zayne looks at you now — not like a patient he’s sworn to protect, not like a lost cause — but like a person.

A girl with dreams worth fighting for.

One night, when the hospital halls are unusually quiet and the rooftop is bathed in a silver wash of moonlight, you find yourself blurting it out.

Your secret list.

The things you thought you had buried.

"I want to see snow," you whisper, breath misting faintly in the cold. "I want to dance without an IV pole dragging beside me." A soft, broken laugh slips from your mouth. "I want to eat an entire cake without someone telling me it’s too much sugar."

You glance at him, embarrassed, cheeks hot. "And I want someone to kiss me like it’s the end of the world."

But Zayne just listens — really listens — every word sinking into him like gospel.

You expect him to laugh.

Or worse, to pity you.

And when you fall silent, when you turn your face away to hide the burning in your chest, he steps closer.

You blink up at him, stunned.

"So we’ll do it," he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

"We’ll do all of it."

"Zayne—"

"I mean it," he cuts in, voice fierce and steady. "Whatever time we have — we use it. Every second. No regrets."

You want to believe him.

God, you want it so badly your heart physically aches with it.

Still—still—

But you’ve been burned by hope before.

You know how cruel the world can be to people like you.

The way he looks at you now, fierce and soft all at once —the way he says we —you think maybe, just maybe, it’s worth believing again.

"Okay," you whisper, a little breathless, a little terrified.

He smiles then — not the small, careful smirks you’re used to, but a real, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face.

"Good," he says, offering his hand to you like it’s a promise.

You slip your fingers into his, and the night folds around you, carrying your fragile hopes into the stars.

Later, back in your bed, curled up under warm blankets and still clutching the memory of his hand in yours, you allow yourself to dream.

Tiny dreams.

Stupid, beautiful dreams.

You fall asleep smiling.

You imagine catching snowflakes on your tongue with him.

You imagine dancing barefoot in a field, laughing until your lungs ache for the right reasons.

You imagine frosting on your nose, stolen kisses, clumsy hands trying to twirl you around.

You imagine living — even if it’s just for a little while — like you were never sick at all.

The night it happens, it’s unbearably hot — heavy, clinging summer air that sticks to your skin and makes the hospital walls feel even more suffocating.

You’re dozing restlessly in your bed when he appears at your door.

Zayne.

"Come with me," he says, without preamble.

His hair is a little messy, his white coat half-buttoned and wrinkled like he’s been moving fast — a little frantic, a little reckless.

He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the sprint through the halls.

You blink blearily at him, confused.

Before you can protest, he’s wheeling you out of the room, fast and determined.

He doesn’t explain. He just strides forward, unhooks your IV pole from the wall, checks the portable monitor strapped to your wrist, and mutters,

"You’re stable. Good enough."

You always have.

Your heart kicks wildly in your chest — a mix of fear and excitement and confusion — but you don’t ask questions.

You trust him.

—

He leads you to the rooftop.

It’s empty, quiet — the city sprawled out below you like a glittering sea.

The sky overhead is a deep, endless blue-black, scattered with stars.

And then —

Zayne closes his eyes.

Takes a slow, steady breath.

And the world shifts.

It starts slowly — a faint chill curling into the warm summer air, the barest shimmer of cold gathering around him.

Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible hum, it begins to fall.

Snow.

Tiny crystalline flakes drift from the sky, swirling in delicate, shimmering patterns.

You gasp — a real, sharp, alive sound — and reach out instinctively.

A flake lands on your fingertip, melting instantly against your warm skin.

"You said you wanted to see snow," Zayne murmurs, voice low and a little shy. "Real snow’s impossible right now, but…"

He trails off, lifting a hand helplessly, as if embarrassed.

As if this miracle he’s created isn’t enough.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You can't speak. You can't even think.

You just stand there, under the impossible snowfall, heart thundering in your chest like it might break free entirely.

He watches you — watches the wonder bloom across your face — and his own expression softens, the usual tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

And then—

As if the night wasn’t already enough—

He pulls something out from behind a nearby bench.

A small, messy cake.

"I made it," he says gruffly, ears turning pink. "Don’t laugh."

Lopsided.

Clearly homemade.

Icing smeared unevenly across the top.

You laugh anyway — a bright, broken sound — and it feels good, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds.

He steps closer, offering you a plastic fork.

You scoop a big, absurdly sugary bite and shove it into your mouth without hesitation, icing smearing at the corner of your lips.

Zayne chuckles under his breath — a rare, breathtaking sound — and reaches out with a thumb to wipe the frosting away.

The touch lingers longer than necessary.

The world slows down.

Your heart is pounding so hard now it’s probably setting off alarms somewhere inside the hospital.

And you realize — you don't want this moment to end.

You don’t want to forget any of it.

But you don't care.

Because then—he sets the cake aside.

Takes your hand in his.

The snow still falls around you, shimmering under the rooftop lights.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just pulls you into a slow, clumsy dance — his hand on your waist, your IV line dragging along but forgotten, your feet stumbling awkwardly in hospital socks — and you laugh again, breathless and giddy and so impossibly alive.

You sway together, turning in small circles, the city spinning lazily beyond the rooftop’s edge.

You think maybe your heart is breaking and mending all at once.

You think maybe you’re falling in love.

And when the song of the night winds down to a hush, when you’re standing chest-to-chest and he’s looking down at you with that unbearably soft expression —

You rise up on your toes.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And you kiss him.

Soft.

Gentle.

Trembling with all the things you’re too scared to say.

It isn’t perfect — your noses bump, you’re both a little off balance — but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s yours.

Because it’s every wish you never dared to make coming true at once.

You pull back a fraction, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the cold he summoned just for you.

Neither of you speaks.

You don't have to.

Everything you feel is written in the way his thumb strokes over your wrist, in the way your fingers curl desperately into the fabric of his shirt.

You are here.

You are together.

For however long you have left.

And for now, for tonight, that's enough.

The plan takes a week to set in motion.

Doctor Li is cautious, of course — his worry etched in the lines around his tired eyes — but in the end, he agrees.

Maybe because he sees the way you light up now, the way your charts have stabilized just a little, like your heart has found something worth fighting for.

Or maybe because he remembers — painfully — what life is supposed to feel like outside sterile hospital walls.

Clearance is granted. Nurses fuss and fret, loading your bag with medications and emergency supplies, setting strict curfews and contingencies.

But you don’t care about any of that.

Because when Zayne wheels you out the front doors into the bright, wild world, it feels like stepping into another life entirely.

The city is buzzing, golden sunlight pouring like honey over everything.

And the park — oh god, the park! It's huge and sprawling and alive, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of children laughing.

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours as he leads you through winding paths, under archways draped in climbing roses, past glittering fountains that catch the light like tiny rainbows.

At one point he finds an empty patch of grass, drops a threadbare blanket he must have stolen from the hospital laundry, and you sit side by side under a tree, dappled sunlight dancing across your skin.

You’re breathless with wonder.

Breathless and alive.

For a long time, you just exist.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Watching the clouds drift by like lazy ships.

And then — quietly, almost shyly — Zayne starts talking about the future.

"Our own place," he says, tracing patterns in the air. "A tiny apartment, the kind where you can hear the neighbors arguing through the walls. We'd have to get a cat. Or a dog. Or both."

You laugh, heart aching sweetly.

He grins, warmed by your smile, and keeps going, voice steady and dreaming.

"I'd cook. You'd probably hate it. You’d tease me until I ordered takeout."

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a blessing.

"And someday…" His voice falters, softens. "If you wanted — we could travel. Anywhere. Everywhere. Mountains, oceans. I’d show you real snow."

You open your eyes, finding him already watching you.

There’s a look in his gaze that’s almost unbearable in its tenderness.

"You’ll see everything," he murmurs, like a vow. "I’ll make sure of it."

You smile.

You don't say what you’re thinking — that you’d be happy seeing anything at all, so long as he’s standing beside you.

You just tuck the dream away, precious and impossible, into the quiet spaces of your heart.

You spend the afternoon like that.

Eating terrible ice cream from a street vendor.

Dancing barefoot in the grass even when your knees wobble and Zayne has to catch you, laughing into your hair.

Taking blurry, ridiculous photos with his phone — him pulling faces, you struggling to keep a straight one.

You are tired beyond words when you return to the hospital — every muscle aching, your chest tight with strain — but you are happy.

So unbearably, blissfully happy.

For the first time in your life, you feel like you belonged to the world.

Like maybe you could carve a little piece of it for yourself after all.

But happiness, you learn, is a fragile thing.

Easily shattered.

Easily lost.

It starts slowly.

Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.

A missed heartbeat here.

A dizzy spell there.

Nothing serious.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

But soon it’s undeniable.

You don’t want to worry Zayne.

You don’t want to darken the light he’s given you.

You can’t catch your breath after simple movements.

Your fingers tremble when you try to hold a fork.

Your chest burns with a constant, gnawing ache that no amount of oxygen seems to soothe.

Zayne notices, of course.

He’s not stupid.

And he’s terrified.

The night you collapse in your room — monitors screaming, nurses rushing in a panic — Zayne shoves through the crowd like a force of nature, wild-eyed and desperate.

He’s the one who grabs your hand as they work frantically around you. He’s the one who keeps whispering your name, again and again, like he can anchor you here just by speaking it.

"Don’t," he chokes out, voice cracking for the first time since you’ve known him. "Don’t you dare give up. Not now."

You’re so tired.

God, you’re so tired.

Your vision flickers, the world tilting dangerously, but you find his face — blurry, beautiful — and focus on him with everything you have left.

"I’m so close," he says, begging now. "I’m almost there. Just a little longer — I swear — I’ll find a way —"

You smile.

Small. Broken.

You feel your heart weaken again — a tangible, physical slip inside your ribcage — but you hold his gaze.

You don’t have the strength for promises you can’t keep.

But you can give him this:

"I’ll try," you whisper.

It’s the truth.

It’s everything you can offer.

And it’s enough to make his fingers tighten around yours like he can hold you here by sheer force of will.

Like maybe love alone could be enough to save you.

It’s snowing again.

But not like before.

Not like rooftop snow under hospital lights, summoned from Evol and desperation.

This snow is real — thick, heavy flakes falling from a grey sky, the kind you can lose yourself in.

You’re standing in the middle of a wide, open field. Everything around you is blanketed in pure white.

And he’s there.

Zayne.

Not in a lab coat. Not with tired eyes and trembling hands. But whole.

Bright.

Smiling that rare, breathtaking smile he saves only for you.

"You made it," he says, voice warm as he reaches for you.

You laugh — really laugh — the sound echoing across the empty field like a song.

Your body moves easily, no wires tethering you, no weight dragging at your limbs.

You run to him.

You run.

He catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off your feet in a dizzying, laughing spin.

"You kept your promise," you murmur against his shoulder.

"I told you," he says simply, "I'd show you everything."

You don’t want to let go.

You don’t ever want to let go.

And so you don’t.

You stay like that — pressed against him, his heartbeat steady and sure under your palm — as the snow falls heavier, swirling around you like a blessing.

You close your eyes.

You dream bigger.

You see it all — the tiny apartment, the noisy neighbors, the stupid cat knocking over potted plants.

Burnt pancakes in the morning.

Train tickets to everywhere.

Laughing on crowded streets in cities you can't even pronounce.

Wedding rings slipped onto shaking fingers.

A life.

A real, messy, miraculous life.

With him.

Always, with him.

And for one shining, impossible moment—you believe.

You believe you’ll live long enough to see it.

You believe you already have.

The world is harsh when it drags you back.

Cold.

Bright.

Noisy.

You blink against the glare of fluorescent lights, the steady beeping of machines surrounding you.

The familiar, sterile scent of antiseptic stings your nose.

ICU.

Again.

You shift slightly — everything aches — and feel the tug of new wires and IVs threaded into your skin.

And then —

Warmth.

A hand.

Wrapped around yours.

You turn your head with effort.

And find him there.

Zayne.

Slumped in a chair too small for him, still in his hospital scrubs, dark circles bruising his eyes.

Sleeping.

But even in sleep, he doesn’t let go of you.

His hand is firm, steady, fingers laced with yours like a lifeline.

You watch him — your heart aching with something too big, too fierce to name.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare wake him.

And that’s enough.

Because for now — for this fragile, precious moment — you are still here.

He is still here.

—

You don’t know how long you just lie there, feeling his hand wrapped tightly around yours, listening to the steady blip of your own heartbeat on the monitors.

Eventually, he stirs.

You’re so tired.

But you're also… at peace.

A soft, broken noise leaves him — like even sleep can’t protect him from whatever war he’s fighting inside.

And when his eyes blink open, dazed and bloodshot, they land on you immediately.

As if he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks again.

For a moment, he just stares.

As if he doesn't quite believe you’re real.

"Hey," you rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His face crumples.

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against your joined hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurts.

You manage a smile — small, but real.

"You're awake," he breathes, voice wrecked with relief and exhaustion.

"God — you're awake."

"I wasn’t gonna miss your dramatic collapse," you joke, because you have to. Because the alternative — the raw fear in his eyes — is too much to bear.

It works, a little.

A huff of helpless laughter shudders out of him.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters against your knuckles, his breath shaking.

"You scare me all the time," you tease, lighter now, though your chest aches with every word. "But I’m still here."

He lifts his head, looking at you like you're something sacred.

"You have to stay," he says fiercely. "You have to — just a little longer —please —I'm so close —I swear—"

Your heart twists.

You wish you could bottle it up and drink it, let it heal you from the inside out.

He’s been saying that for so long.

So many promises.

So much hope.

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the stubble that wasn't there yesterday.

"I know," you whisper. "I know you're trying. I’m trying, too."

Your hand falls back to the bed, too heavy to hold up.

His hand follows immediately, cradling it again like he can shield you from the whole world.

"I can’t lose you," he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, desperate and tender all at once.

"You won't," you whisper.

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

But it’s a kind lie.

The kind you tell someone when love outweighs truth.

His eyes glisten, wet and angry and afraid.

"You’re going to live," he says, like it’s a fact.

Like he can will it into existence.

You smile again — soft and sad and full of all the things you don't have the strength to say.

"I'll make sure of it," he vows, fierce and breaking.

"I’ll tear the world apart if I have to."

Even now, when your body feels like it’s slipping further away from you with every beat.

You believe him.

You always believe him.

Even now, when you know some promises are too big for this world.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

"I love you," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

The first and — you know — maybe the last.

He lets out a broken, shuddering sound, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.

"I love you more," he whispers back, trembling.

"I love you enough to move heaven and earth if that's what it takes."

You close your eyes.

You let yourself believe it.

Just for a little while longer.

Just until the morning comes.

The days bleed together in a haze of too-bright mornings and too-quiet nights.

Sometimes you’re strong enough to sit up, to laugh a little when he brings you sweets hidden in his bag, the ones the nurses pretend not to see.

Sometimes you can’t even lift your head.

But he never leaves.

Zayne is there through all of it — a constant, stubborn presence.

He drags a battered medical textbook everywhere he goes, flipping through it with growing desperation between moments spent at your side.

You catch him muttering to himself sometimes — notes, formulas, theories — a language only he and the universe seem to understand.

His eyes never lose that fierce, determined light. Not even when the others — the nurses, the doctors, even his father — start looking at you with that pitying softness usually reserved for lost causes.

Zayne refuses.

Refuses to believe you are anything less than a miracle still waiting to happen.

And for a while, you let him.

You let yourself believe it too.

You dream together — quietly, in snatches of exhausted conversation.

Little things.

You fall asleep with his hand in yours, and for a moment, you almost think you’ll wake up to that future.

Trips you’ll take.

Places you’ll see.

A life waiting just beyond the next sunrise.

Almost.

It happens in the middle of the night.

At first, it's nothing.

A shiver.

A slight breathlessness.

You're used to it. You think you’ll ride it out like all the others.

But then the pain hits.

A blinding, seizing agony in your chest that knocks the air from your lungs.

You’re distantly aware of Zayne shouting — your name over and over—his voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before.

Monitors shriek.

Nurses rush in.

The world explodes into chaos.

You try to find him — try to reach out — but your limbs are so heavy, your vision swimming.

You catch one glimpse — just one — of him being dragged back by hospital staff, his face twisted in a raw, desperate kind of terror that tears something deep inside you.

But you can’t speak.

You want to tell him it’s okay.

You want to tell him you’re not afraid.

You can’t even breathe.

And as the darkness rushes up to meet you —you think, faintly —

I’m sorry.

He’s still holding your hand.

Hours later, long after the machines have fallen silent.

Long after the nurses have cried quietly behind the curtains.

Long after his father stood at the door, silent and broken, and then walked away because he couldn't bear to watch his son shatter.

Zayne is still there.

Head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Your hand cradled in both of his like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Come on," he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. "Come on — you promised. You said you’d try —"

He presses your hand to his mouth, breathing you in like maybe he can still find some piece of you, some lingering spark that he can fan back to life.

"You can't leave yet," he says, broken. "I’m not ready — I’m not—"

The words dissolve into a rough, gasping sob.

It’s not fair.

You were supposed to have more time.

You were supposed to see the world, to laugh and dance and live.

You were supposed to have a lifetime — not just borrowed days.

Zayne buries his face against your cold fingers.

He doesn’t care who sees.

Doesn’t care if it’s undignified or messy or hopeless.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Enough to move mountains.

Enough to break himself into pieces trying to save you.

Enough to hold onto you, even now — even when the world is cruel enough to have taken you away.

"I’m sorry," he chokes out against your skin. "I’m so sorry — I wasn’t enough —"

It isn't true. You would have told him that if you could. You would have told him he was always enough.

But all that's left is silence.

Zayne stays there, long after the world outside your hospital room forgets.

Long after the snow he once summoned for you has melted away.

Long after the rest of the universe moves on.

Just like you.

He stays.

Because love doesn’t vanish with the heart that carried it. It lingers—stubborn and beautiful and devastating —like the first snowfall on a summer night.

The rooftop hasn’t changed much.

Zayne stands there now, a tall figure in a dark coat, hands tucked into his pockets against the cold.

The same cracked tiles underfoot.

The same rusted railings.

The same battered bench, where once — a lifetime ago — two dreamers sat and imagined a future they could almost touch.

It’s snowing.

Soft, heavy flakes drifting down from a sky the color of mourning doves.

The night he watched you dance in the middle of summer, your laughter lighting up the world more than any stars ever could.

Exactly the way it did that night.

The night he made it snow for you.

His throat tightens.

He tilts his head back, lets the snow kiss his skin.

Lets the memories wash over him — sharp and tender all at once.

The wind whistles softly around him, as if in agreement.

"You'd hate this," he murmurs to the empty air, a wry smile ghosting across his face.

"You always said snow was pretty, but cold was overrated."

He closes his eyes.

He can almost see you — spinning in the falling snow, hands outstretched, that shy, luminous smile you only ever showed him.

Almost.

Zayne shifts, pulling something from his coat pocket — a small, delicate bouquet.

Not flowers.

Paper cranes.

Hand-folded, each one painstakingly creased.

A thousand wishes, a thousand promises.

He sets them carefully on the bench.

A silent offering to the girl who once taught him what it meant to dream — even if dreams don’t always come true.

"I did it," he says quietly, voice rough.

"I kept my promise."

He swallows hard, staring out into the snowy city lights.

"I couldn’t save you," he admits, the old grief still a raw, tender thing inside him. "But I saved others."

Hundreds of them.

Patients who would have died, now living because of the research, the surgeries, the relentless fire you lit inside him.

Because of you.

Always because of you.

Zayne breathes in deep, the cold burning his lungs, grounding him.

"I hope... wherever you are," he says, soft and sure, "you're proud."

The snow falls heavier now, blurring the edges of the world.

Zayne stands there a little longer, letting the silence wrap around him like a memory, like a prayer.

Finally, he turns to leave.

But before he goes, he glances back one last time —and for just a heartbeat —he thinks he sees you.

He doesn't blink.

Standing there in the snow, smiling.

Weightless. Free.

He just smiles back, tears blurring the world into stars.

"Happy anniversary, angel," he says.

And then he walks away, carrying you with him — in every beat of his heart.

Always.

#meliora writes #I cried writing this #love and deepspace #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #zayne x you #zayne love and deepspace #lnds zayne #lads zayne #angst #heavy angst #li shen #li shen x reader #li shen x you #fic: evermore

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verstappenverse · 1 month ago

Note

max with a reader who is having a panic/ anxiety attack (if that's ok with u)

Just Breathe

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max finds you in the middle of a panic attack and gently helps you through it, refusing to leave your side.

TW: Contains depiction of a panic attack.

1.4k words / Masterlist

It hits out of nowhere.

One minute you’re in the Red Bull hospitality unit, scrolling through your phone, nodding along to someone’s story you’re not really listening to. The next, your chest is too tight, your vision is too narrow, and you can’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

You don’t even know what triggered it.

Maybe it was the camera flashes earlier. The endless pressure to smile. The social noise. The fact that your brain hasn’t shut off in three days and sleep was a joke last night.

Whatever it is, it’s drowning you now. You stand up too fast, your chair scraping against the floor. Someone says your name but you’re already walking out. No, fleeing.

You push through the crowd on instinct, eyes darting but unfocused, heartbeat slamming in your ears like a drumline. The air feels thick, too warm, too full of other people’s perfume and chatter. Your hands shake as you shove open the side door, stumbling into the cool shade of the paddock tunnel like you’ve just broken the surface of the water.

You barely make it around the corner before your knees threaten to buckle. Your back hits the cold concrete wall and you slide down until you're sitting, elbows digging into your thighs, forehead nearly touching your knees as you brace yourself, breathing in short, shallow bursts, but it doesn’t help.

You can’t catch your breath. Can’t calm down. Your lungs are on lockdown, your body refusing to obey as panic swells like a wave and crashes over you again and again. Your heart is thrashing against your ribs, wild and unmoored, and your fingers tingle like they don’t belong to you. Everything feels too loud and too quiet at once. The world is distant, muffled, warped through the sheer force of your anxiety.

And God, you hate this. Hate how powerless it makes you feel. Hate that it’s happening here, of all places. Hate that there’s nothing to fight, no obvious enemy to punch or outrun or reason with. Just this invisible weight crushing your chest, stealing your air, fraying your edges until you're certain you'll shatter.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Clench your fists. Count.

One. Two. Three. Four.

But the numbers blur and the control slips.

You don’t even notice Max until he’s kneeling in front of you.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle, softer than you’ve ever heard it. Not like he usually speaks, confident and blunt. This is different, careful and quiet, like he’s afraid to startle you. “Hey, look at me.”

You try. Your eyes flick up to his, glassy and wide. You think you must look like a mess. Your cheeks are flushed, chest heaving, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes, but if he notices he doesn’t react. He doesn’t wince or pull back or look embarrassed for you. His expression stays calm and focused, like you’re the only thing in the world right now.

“You’re okay,” he says, quiet again but steady. “You’re having a panic attack.”

No shit you want to say, but your throat is too tight to say anything at all.

“Alright,” he continues, Max says, voice like a tether. “I need you to do one thing for me, okay? Just one thing.”

You can’t speak, so you blink once, slowly. It's the best you can manage.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Just try and breathe with me.”

He takes an exaggerated breath in through his nose, slow and loud. You hear it, feel it, almost like he’s trying to lend you some of his air. He holds it, counts, then exhales through his mouth.

“In,” he says gently, nodding at you to follow. “Out.”

You try. It’s not graceful. It’s messy and shallow and broken, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct you. Just watches, eyes never leaving yours, like he's anchoring you to the present with nothing but sheer will.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Again. You’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

You stare at him, at the curve of his brow, the set of his jaw, the faint crease between his eyes that always shows up when he's concentrating. His hands hover near your knees, not touching, not crowding you. Waiting. Letting you set the pace.

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“Yes, you can.” His voice drops lower, firmer. “You’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”

Your chest still hurts, but the ringing starts to fade. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it loosens its grip just enough for you to suck in another breath deeper than the last, less fractured.

Max nods still mirroring each inhale and exhale, calculating what you need.

“Good. That’s really good,” he says. “You’re doing so well.”

Tears burn at your eyes from the relief or the frustration or both. You close them for a second, letting your head fall forward, and he finally reaches out just enough to rest his hand lightly on your knee.

“Can I…?” he asks.

You nod without lifting your head and that’s all he needs.

He shifts closer, sliding down until he’s sitting beside you, shoulder to shoulder against the cold wall. His presence is warm. Solid. Real in a way the rest of the world isn’t right now.

“I’m right here,” he says, and you feel his voice more than hear it. “You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe. That’s all.”

The silence stretches between you, but it’s not heavy. Max doesn’t speak yet. He doesn’t fidget or fill the space with noise, he just stays, his presence grounding you.

His shoulder is warm where it brushes yours. His hand still rests on your knee, steady and unshaken. The contrast makes you feel a little more real.

Eventually your breathing evens out. The trembling in your fingers slows until it’s just a faint echo, and your chest doesn’t ache with every inhale. You wipe at your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your hoodie and exhale a still slightly shaky, embarrassed breath.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Max turns his head toward you. “Don’t do that.”

You glance over, startled. “Do what?”

“Apologise for your feelings. For being human.”

You huff a soft laugh, small and dry. “You're good at this.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, lips tugging into the faintest grin. “Or maybe you bring it out of me."

You smile for real. “You okay?” he asks, softer now.

You pause. “Getting there.”

He nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You consider it. The weight of the question. The memory of the panic still buzzing faintly beneath your skin. You shake your head. “Not yet.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t push.

Your gaze drifts forward, toward the end of the tunnel where sunlight slices across the paddock in golden strips. The world beyond is still moving people walking, voices rising, radios crackling, cameras flashing. The chaos continues, utterly unaware of how everything inside you had unraveled and slowly stitched itself back together.

But here in this small, hidden corner, you feel still. Safe.

“Why’d you come looking for me?” you ask eventually.

Max shrugs, like it's obvious. “I saw your face... and when you left in a rush I knew something was wrong.”

Your brows draw together. “You always notice that much?”

“When it comes to you?” he says, looking over. “Yeah. Always.”

Your throat tightens again, but for a different reason. It’s something warmer, sharper, and more dangerous in its own right. You blink down at your lap.

“You didn’t have to sit with me,” you murmur.

“I know.” His voice is so sure. So simple. “But I wanted to.”

It’s the quiet sincerity of that, not panic or fear that makes your heart stutter this time, because you and Max… you’re not just friends. Not really. You’ve been hovering on that uncertain edge for weeks now. Something unspoken curling tight in the air whenever you’re alone. He hasn’t crossed the line, and neither have you, but it's there. Always there.

Right now, with your walls cracked wide open and his hand still resting gently on your knee, you feel it more than ever.

Max.

Sitting beside you on a cold concrete floor, his presence solid and steady. Just being there because he wants to be, because you matter to him.

He shifts slightly, and before you can say anything, he leans in not too close, not overwhelming, just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

It’s barely anything. It’s everything.

Your eyes flutter shut at the contact and for the first time in what feels like hours you feel your heart slow instead of race.

He pulls back, resting his head lightly against the wall beside yours. “I’ll always be here,” he says quietly.

You turn to look at him, and he’s already watching you. The moment stretches, tender and a little unspoken, until you both smile, small, knowing, almost a laugh.

Just like that, the worst passes.

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sansgout · 6 months ago

Text

Vincent often contemplated how a man of Rody’s stature managed to behave so similarly to a mouse.

He’d barely met the big idiot’s eye before he stumbled over nothing more than air—fumbling with his own two feet despite standing utterly still: incredible—and while the dolt whipped himself this way and that all for the sake of reclaiming the towel that had fallen from his shoulder, Vincent remained as attentive as ever. Now in this proximity, he had a better view of what the rush of today had done to him so far: from the unkempt nest of auburn atop his head to that damned tie that refused to stay . . . as if mere contact with Rody made it impossible to keep its own shit together, too.

He couldn’t find himself annoyed by it. Again. Seemed to be a shocking regular on the menu, Vincent’s ability to look past all of the poor work simply because it came from . . . him. Would he call it charming—? No. But maybe just endearing enough. Endearing in a way that had him gently shaking his head to himself—as much at Rody’s returned blabbering (reminding everyone of today’s mistakes, for some fucking reason) as it was directed at his own intentions.

—and why the hell he was still pursuing them. (Endearing, indeed. Jesus.)

What was most important here, and something Vincent parsed by simply ignoring the useless blathering, was the next reaction: what Rody would absentmindedly give him after the well-placed praise. And, hardly to anyone’s surprise, he was as taken (and taken aback) as Vincent had hoped. Transparent shock, first. That which had Vincent quirking an inquisitive brow while he waited for the rest to sink in. Then . . . Well, he was most certainly on the right path for a checkmate.

Vincent let that smile spread over his lips, faux patience in the face of that stunned silence resting in the lines around his eyes. He was half-tempted to make a sarcastic remark, if not for his becoming well aware of just how easily anything of the sort went over Rody’s head. And for now, he was determined to let that feeling sit, to let the attention-starved man bask in the best form of said attention he could ever receive. (At the moment. . . . Oh, most definitely just at the moment.)

“Or”—he finally interjected at mere mention of the skates again—“you would’ve crashed into the woman and made her angrier.” Fully resisting a roll of his eyes, he pinned Rody down again after another long sweep of his current state. Vincent heaved out a breath with a small shrug. “No point dwelling on it, now.” Leaning forward, he set his elbows down on the window counter, propped a chin in one hand. His lips twisted contemplatively. With one finger, Vincent beckoned Rody closer.

“You’ve made a mess of yourself, you know,” he announced, his tone low and soft beneath the din of the kitchen behind him. “Before the next rush begins, at least let me fix it.”

Rody barely had time to catch his breath before his boss' voice startled him out of attempting to relax for five damn seconds. Having not even registered Vincent walking over, the moment he spoke, Rody jolted with all the grace of tumbling out of bed. He immediately stood up straight as if his posture would improve how disheveled he looked. Half a second later, he realized the state of the necktie that Vincent had already fixed for him once, and hastily tried to tug it back into neatness.

"Oh, u-uh—!" he tried, only for his stammering to turn into a chuff when blindly fiddling with his tie just knocked the towel around his neck to the ground. Rody blinked dumbly down at it. Then at Vincent. Back down then up again in a flash. Finally, he stooped to snatch it and popped back to standing straight with a bounce on the balls of his feet, so fast that he could feel the way his hair stuck out every which way from the momentum.

When Rody finally got it together enough to process what he was hearing, he was surprised at the lack of reprimand. He'd figured Vincent came over to yell at him for taking a break. "I did drop those plates earlier..." he found himself saying, as if he wanted to get yelled at. Which he didn't, to be clear. He just never knew what to do when Vince gave him that amused little smirk. (Partially because Rody was pretty sure it meant Vince was laughing at him internally...and also because Rody usually didn't get the joke.) "But, I mean—no crashes yet today! So...'somewhat,' I guess, yeah! It happens."

At the mention of a particularly irate woman from earlier that afternoon, however, Rody couldn't smother a grimace. "I know, I tried to tell her—..." But before he could try to explain, Vincent...

Wait. Hold up. Did Vince just...praise him for a job well done?

Rody's eyes widened a fraction. If asked, he'd defend that it was from the shock. (But that wouldn't explain the way his hands unconsciously clenched that towel a bit tighter, now would it?) "Wha...really?" The question was carried on a weighted exhale. In truth, Rody hadn't thought he'd done an overly great job handling that customer, but hey—what did his opinion matter, anyway? If Vincent thought he'd done well enough to go out of his way to tell him as much, then...

"Wow, uh..." He was too focused on fighting down the flutters in his chest to care that he'd spent the last five seconds just staring at Vincent like a slack-jawed idiot. When he finally snapped out of it, he laughed incredulously as a big grin spread from ear to ear. "Thanks, Vince. I'll...I'll keep that in mind for next time!" After all, anything he could do to please his boss got him one step closer to remaining employed for at least another day.

Clearing his throat sharply, he slung the towel back over one shoulder and scratched idly at his cheek that was, possibly, a subtle shade rosier than before. "If I had my skates, I could've been faster and maybe that lady wouldn't have gotten so mad." He shrugged a shoulder. "I dunno, though; it seems like everyone's way more impatient today than usual."

#howthesleeplesswander #↳🔪₊˚. 《 v: main 》#↳🔪₊˚. 《 prose 》#AAAA omg never need to apologize!! >w<#we love rody's clumsy bumbling -- it's endearing and precious to read x'D #AND I ALSO APOLOGIZE bc this reply is 95% vincent in his own head and barely gave you anything to respond to so uh #yes pls no need to match length on your end either gfnhjaodgnha #he is MOST DEFINITELY continuing to get a show here #and he is enjoying it >) this is barely even scraping the SURFACE boys #just you wait >w>#and now vince is over here like LEANS FORWARD SUGGESTIVELY WITH CHIN IN HAND ALL ewe #“let me fix you up~ /SO I CAN RUIN YOU AGAIN LATER imeanwhat :0”#they are such idiots but god do i adore them XD

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bi-writes · 10 months ago

Note

Would you ever do like mob and Simon’s first date night together or something like that ( love your writing )

mail-order bride (18+)

the wine sits idle in the middle of the table. simon leans back against his chair, sighing deeply as he runs a big palm over his lower stomach, all pudgy and full from the meal you had placed on the table.

you had surprised him. candles on the table, his favorite red wine decanted into a crisp glass, beef short ribs falling apart over a plate of mashed potatoes. he had no time to scold you for cooking because you had been finished by the time he stepped through the door.

immaculate, sweet girl. the first bite of the food had him sucking on his teeth, biting back a moan. such a good meal, perfection in a pot, with creamy potatoes that had him licking the prongs of the fork as he watched you from across the table, eyes glazed over with love for feeding him better than he ever had been in his whole life. he had seconds, thirds, pawing at your skirt when you asked if he wanted more, his tongue sliding over the knife that he didn't even need to get any piece of sauce off the plate.

and then dessert. perfect little chocolate cakes in pretty little tins, with a cracked top. and when he broke the surface with his spoon, it was flooded with hot ganache, a gooey molten lava cake that he gave you heart eyes for as he ate it up with dramatic slurps.

fuck, he cannot stop looking at you. maybe you put poison in the food because you've never looked more beautiful than you do right now. you're sitting there, hair off your face, spoon in your mouth as you lick off the warm chocolate from it. that pretty pink tongue sliding over the edge of it, gathering that sweet center and swallowing, the bob of your throat making his breath catch as he follows it all the way to the low neckline of your dress. that sweetheart neckline makes your tits look so perky, so bouncy, and he can tell you aren't wearing a bra because he can see your nipples between the polka dot pattern.

"come 'ere," simon says lowly, dropping the spoon with a defiant clatter onto his plate. you smile, standing from your seat, and you bounce over to where he's sitting. simon sits you down on the table in front of him, shoving his plate far back to give you room. he picks up his glass of wine and chugs it practically, licking the last drop before setting down the glass and flipping you over with practiced ease.

you gasp as your hips hit the wood. you bend, barely having enough time to catch yourself with your hands before you hear his chair scrape against the floor. you can feel his size as he stands up and towers over you, and your toes curl when you hear the buckle of his belt.

"w-what--"

"'m not gonna fuck ya, baby," simon sighs, smoothing his hands up the back of your thighs before flipping your skirt up. he snorts when he sees you're wearing polka dot panties to match your little dress, and you squeak when he grips the flimsy fabric with one big hand and shreds it with ease, tossing it aside. "first time 's gonna be so nice, i promise..." he clicks his tongue, "but fuck, ya gotta let me, luvvie..."

"please," you gasp, sliding back a little, pressing your ass against the front of his jeans. you can feel the open zipper scratch against your cunt, and he sighs shakily. you hear the rustle of fabric, and you sob with relief when you feel the warmth of his cock slap against your ass. "oh, god--simon!"

"i know, luv," he groans, "i know...not ready for it, not yet..." he licks his lips, sliding your dress up further, exposing your lower back and the sweat that's gathered there. he grips himself at the base, swiping over his wet tip before using it to give himself a languid stroke. at the first sound of a squelch, you whine, and he squeezes your hip gently. "agggh--fuck--"

your back bows when he slides his cock between your thighs. he's so big. thick and wide, not as lengthy as you might have expected but god, he's got the girth of your fucking arm. he keeps your back arched as he grips your wrists and tugs, drawing you up until your neck leans back against his chest. he gives you a slow thrust, the tip of his cock catching on your clit as he rolls his hips just right.

"oh--simon--"

"can't wait," he mumbles, sliding a thick palm over your throat, mouthing against your ear. "fuck, i can't wait to 'ave ya...can't wait to devour this fuckin' pussy--"

"simon--" you cry, reaching up and gripping his hand around your throat, and you sob again when you feel the cold band of his wedding ring. mine, mine, mine, mine--

"wot's y'r fuckin' name, baby?" simon asks, rocking his hips. you shake every time he hits your clit, and with his tight grip, all you can do is stand there and take it as he fucks your thighs. his cock is moving so nice between your folds, stimulating every little part of you, and you aren't coherent enough to be ashamed of how wet you are, starting to soak his cock and contribute to the intense wet shlick that sounds from between your legs. "huh? tell me--"

"'m mrs. riley," you babble, sucking his fingers into your mouth as they move up your throat. your eyes flutter shut, your entire body going slack as he lets go of your wrist with his free hand and pulls your hips back against his.

"tha's right," simon grunts, "my pretty girl. my perfect little wife, cookin' so fucking good for me, takin' such good care o' me, fuck--" simon groans, "rock fuckin' hard ever since i walked through tha' fuckin' door, baby."

"mmm--!" you squeal, bracing yourself against the edge of the table as he cups your pussy with one hand and cums between your folds the next. with just a few warm strokes, you're spilling into his palm, jelly in his arms as he collapses into the seat behind him and cradles you in his lap. "mrs...mrs. riley..." you're babbling again, giggling all warm and lucid, and simon chuckles as he cups the back of your head, feeding you his wet fingers and cursing under his breath as he watches you lick the slick off his hand.

you pay special attention to his ring finger, tongue swirling around the gold band. when you let his finger go with a pop, your eyes flutter open, and they meet his.

yeah, he thinks. she's ready.

#remember when i said i couldnt write #well i got this thought and just had to write it down #im still mentally FUCKED right now #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley smut #ghost smut #simon riley smut #order up

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snail-day · 3 months ago

Text

Hush Now, Sweet Lamb

Sum: When the spankings won't stop unruly darling lambs, perhaps a lobotomy will.

Yandere! Geto x Reader

WC: 3.9k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Lobotomy, Body Horror, Non-consensual medical procedure, Gore, Non-con/dub-con, Drool, Vore/Cannibalism (idk he licks the needle), Mental Regression, Death, Unreliable Narrator, ANGST, No happy ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. MDNI

a/n: Hugggeee shout out to @pink-cakes-and-treats for hearing me ramble about this for like what seems like months. Thank you for being my buddy and yapping with me about horrific ideas <3

“I love you.” The words managed to scrape from your throat as if broken glass, torn from the depths of you, raw and trembling, drowned beneath sobs that had started as fragile whispers - please don’t do this. Please. But pleading never worked with him. Not anymore. Not now that he believed in something greater than mercy.

I love you.

Three little words, simple on the surface. But words like that, they grow claws in the wrong hands. Those are words that dig deep. They change shape. Once, they meant comfort. Now, they meant surrender.

A slow blink of your eyes, vision awash with salt and candlelight, and tried to look at him clearly.

Geto Suguru.

The man who stood before you cradled your face like a lover - not the monster delivering your demise. Those violet eyes, once soft and bright with life, were now eclipsed by the sermon room’s dim, flickering glow, like stained glass in a cathedral set aflame. Somewhere within those depths, buried beneath devotion and delirium, was a love that hadn’t died. Instead, the love had festered.

You wanted to close your eyes. But even the darkness behind your lids pulsed with memories of him. The boy next door with pink, sun-kissed cheeks and chubby fingers that always curled around yours. The boy who kissed your scraped knees after washing them clumsily with water that was always too cold. Who made a whole ceremony out of applying Doraemon band-aids, pressing the softest kiss on top of the bandage, despite your complaints about cooties.

He used to say, “I’ll protect you.” You had, foolish and small at the time, believed him.

You remembered your mother’s fingers ruffling his inky, silken hair, laughter spilling from her lips like sunshine on a summer's day - He’s so strong, isn’t he? Like a little guardian angel.

But angels don’t whisper in tongues only curses understand.

Angels don’t weave bindings made of curses around the people they claim to love.

Angels don’t press needles into soft, trembling skin and call it mercy.

The curses - grotesque, sinewy things born from nightmares and grief - curdled in the air around you like sour smoke. They slithered closer, tighter, their slick, obsidian tendrils humming with quiet, predatory malice as they coiled around your limbs, your throat, your wrists. They weren’t angry. No. They purred. Like obedient beasts, eager to serve. And their master, well, he wanted you still as a sacrificial lamb. Fitting for his little nickname for you. His little lamb.

Suguru - who had always moved with the effortless grace of a man both adored and feared - looked almost divine in the candlelight. A priest cloaked in ritual and reverence, lit from below like a god born of scripture and shadows. Or perhaps a martyr - beaten holy by his own devotion. His shadow stretched across the altar like a veil of ink, falling over you where you lay: trembling, meek, and bare as birth, reduced to little more than breath and bone.

Not a woman. Not even a body.

Just a vessel. Just a lamb. Who had become soft. Submissive. Shorn of will. A beloved offering, cradled in ritual, smothered in grace. Something holy only to him. You tried to run in your mind as he stepped closer, tried to fold yourself into some memory where he was still safe to love.

You remembered the summer festivals, when fireworks lit the sky and he bought you watermelon-flavored ice you could barely finish. You remembered sitting on his porch, legs kicking in sync, cicadas screaming so loud it almost drowned out the silence between your hearts. You remembered the way he used to almost hold your hand. Always almost. Until he didn’t.

You remembered that day at the train station - he was leaving for that strange religious school. His shoulders had grown broader. His smile softened. “I love you. Stay safe,” you had said, like you knew something was already being lost.

He stared at you through the closing doors, lips parted in surprise. And then his hand rose, maybe to hide a blush. Maybe to keep from reaching out.

You blocked him after that. His messages grew too much. The words were too insistent. Desperate of sorts. You didn’t know why. You only knew your body was warning you, whispering in every nerve: This love will consume you.

And now - here you are. On the altar. Bound and beautiful in his eyes. A sacrament. He still reaches for you with that same tenderness from your childhood; the same hands that once held juice boxes and glow sticks now steadied a needle. The metal glinted as he lifted it gently, reverently. Not like a tool. Like a gift.

Like he was about to free you from something as a chilling smile curled upon his lips. Soft. Adoring in more ways than one. That left an unshakable unease rippling through your skin.

“Don’t cry,” Suguru whispered, brushing a tear from your cheek with the roughened pad of his thumb. “You’ll feel so much better soon. I promise. Then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Your gaze flickered to the ceiling. Candles flickered like stars. The kind you used to wish on together.

It's funny how you used to think monsters lived under the bed. But the real ones? They grow up beside you. They kiss your wounds. They fall in love with you. When they finally snap, they smile as they make you forget everything you ever were.

You didn’t scream, just a shallow gasp. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because screaming no longer belonged to you. Nothing did. Not your voice, not your body, not your memories. Not even your pain.

It all belonged to him now.

The first prick of the needle behind your eye slid in with a sickening certainty - too precise to be mercy, too gentle to be anything but intimate. You felt it bloom inside your skull like a flower made of splinters. It slipped past flesh like it was always meant to find you there. As if your body had been made for this moment. As if your skull had been carved to cradle his madness.

And in that stillness, something warm trickled down your temple.

He wiped it gently with his thumb, kissed the damp skin with trembling lips. “Shhh, my sweet little lamb,” he whispered, low and soft, as if you were a child crying over a scraped knee. “I know. I know it’s frightening. But I promise you - it’s all for your own good.”

His voice trembled not with guilt but with awe. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally holding you like this. Like he was performing communion - your blood, his wine. Your silence, his scripture. You wanted to move. To recoil. To bite. But your limbs were tangled in a lattice of cursed tendrils, slithering just beneath your skin now - stroking you, soothing you, restraining you. They purred when he touched you. They loved you because he did.

You blinked. Or tried to. The world fuzzed, then snapped. The light was far too bright. Or maybe it was inside your head now, blooming behind your eyes like rot disguised as sunrise. He hummed under his breath, some soft, low hymn that no god ever asked for. And you thought or at least did your best:

This is the boy I loved. The one who carried your schoolbag when it rained. Who tucked tissue in his sleeve just in case your nose ran in the cold. The boy who picked you flowers with dirty hands and whispered, One day, I’ll marry you.

You remembered the shape of his laugh. The way his cheeks would puff when he was sulking. How he used to stand too close, hoping you’d notice. You remembered the way his hands used to shake the first time they touched yours.

They weren’t shaking now.

His hands were steady as death as he adjusted the needle, guiding it deeper with the devotion of a priest performing holy rites. You felt it slip - inside.

Your vision shuttered. The pain was distant now. But the wrongness, that had the luxury of staying and growing in the pits of your stomach.

“You were too soft for this world,” Suguru murmured, pressing his cheek to yours. “Too delicate. That’s why I had to take you. The world would’ve broken you. Used you up. But I kept you safe. I preserved you.” He smelled like incense and iron. Like sweat and sanctity. You could feel his smile against your skin, stretched wide, trembling with overwhelming joy.

“And now… now you’ll finally be perfect. Pure. Still. A lamb in the arms of her shepherd.” Your lips parted, but no words came. Your tongue felt thick. Like it didn’t remember language. Something fizzled - snapped. You twitched again. He caught your jaw in his hand and steadied you, looking into your eyes like he was watching the stars flicker out one by one.

“I used to wonder,” he said softly, “why you kept trying to run. Even after I gave you the twins. Even after I gave you a purpose. A family.”

He tilted your head back. A trickle of blood slipped down your nose. He didn’t wipe it away this time. He watched it.

“You were just scared, weren’t you?” he whispered, nearly too soft compared to the ringing of bells in your ears. “Still clinging to the old world. But that world is gone, my love. I burned it down - for you.”

You remembered the smell of it. The fire. The smoke. The wet, coppery heat of your mother’s blood soaking into the hem of your pajamas.

You remembered him cradling your body as your knees buckled, stroking your back as you retched. Whispering into your ear like a lullaby, “Don’t cry, little lamb. They were wicked. They would’ve turned you against me.”

And then he had carried you through the carnage like a bride.

He took you into the cult’s sanctum and gave you a bed, a brush for your hair, and two scared children who clung to you like reeds in a storm. Girls whose names you didn’t even know until they started calling you mama.

He carved a home from your prison - a gilded cage lined with velvet and rot. Kissed you goodnight like a good husband would.

He called you blessed. In front of his followers, he praised your existence like a miracle, declaring it a divine mercy that a non-sorcerer like you still drew breath within his arms.

As if your survival was a gift. As if your captivity was sacred.

Every time you fled, every time you clawed your way toward freedom, gasping for air outside the pretty cage he built - he found you. Forgave you after he had the luxury of breaking you.

With the kind of love that tasted like blood in your mouth. The kind that turned screams into moans as he dragged you to the dirt, pinning you down on cold, splintered floors in whatever half-lit corner you thought might hide you.

With chains that bit deep into your wrists as he forced your legs apart, lapping at you like a beast in heat - obsessive, starving, single-minded - until your cries melted into gutted whimpers, soaked in shame and submission.

With arms that clamped around you as he rutted into your limp, trembling body, whispering filth like worship against your throat. He liked to hold you close while he took you. Said that’s what good husbands do. Said it made him feel close to your soul.

“I could’ve punished you,” he whispered now, nose brushing yours, dragging you from your thoughts. “I could’ve let them tear you apart. But I didn’t. I saved you. And now, I’m saving you again.”

The needle pushed deeper. A strange warmth bloomed through your skull - thick, slow, unnatural. Then cold. Then silence.

Something vital inside you didn't have the grace of death, instead, the fight in you burned out. It gave up as you tried to gasp outwards. Your chest rose, then failed. Your throat strained, but no sound came, just a trembling echo of what used to be a voice.

The motion hitched halfway through your lungs and collapsed in on itself like wet fabric. Your throat made a sound, but it didn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It dragged out garbled and raw, something caught between a sob and a death rattle. Like your body had already started mourning itself.

“There now,” Suguru sighed, almost dreamily. He sounded like a man slipping into silk sheets, not someone pressing steel into brain tissue. “It’s working.” You felt his breath against your cheek, humid and reverent, as though your suffering was a sacred thing to be exhaled over. His fingers moved through your hair with that same obscene gentleness he used on the twins when they cried. Like he believed he was comforting you. Like this wasn’t desecration.

“You won’t need memories where we’re going,” he whispered, fingers sticky with whatever he’d pulled out of you. “You won’t need thoughts. Or fear. Or doubt.”

You blinked, at least, you think you did. Your eyes were open. Or partly. But the light fractured, soft, too gold, too much. The world stuttered and blurred around him like a fever dream unraveling into a nightmare.

His voice curved into a smile. “You’ll only need me.”

You weren’t sure when it happened. When your eyes dulled. When your breath fell into someone else's rhythm. When the needle slid out, smooth and glistening, red and glinting like something freshly birthed.

You didn’t feel it. But you heard it. A soft, wet pop - like something precious giving way inside your skull. A balloon rupturing in thick fluid. He hushed you as your body spasmed, more out of instinct than resistance.

“Don’t move, little lamb,” he murmured. “Don’t scramble what’s left.”

You couldn’t have moved if you tried. Your limbs had forgotten themselves. Your muscles were pudding beneath your skin, twitching without coordination. Your mouth hung open uselessly.

That was when the drool began. Thick, ropy strings of it, tinged pink and metallic, sliding down your chin in slow, shameful drips. It clung to your lips like it didn’t want to leave. Slid over your teeth. Fell in beads to your collarbone.

You tasted it as the saliva filled your mouth - thick and warm, crawling slow over your tongue like something alive. Copper. Meat. Rot. And something else. Something wrong. Something slick and electric, like licking the edge of a live wire soaked in acid. Your mouth tasted like what you used to be. Like memory liquefied. Like identity spoiled into nectar.

And Suguru… watched. Watched like he was witnessing a miracle unravel. Like your unraveling was the miracle. His gaze devoured you, eyes wide, glassy, rapt. Worshipping the mess of you. The way your lips hung open. How your drool pooled like syrup along your chin. The way your body, even now, still gave. His fingers trailed adoringly along your jaw, collecting the viscous spill of drool-blood-spit that clung there like a sacrament. He brought it to his mouth.

There was no hesitation as he licked the obscene liquid from his knuckles slowly - slowly - as though savoring something rare and precious. Letting the fluid coat his tongue. Letting your essence melt into the heat of his mouth like the candy he used to feed you.

He swirled it across the roof of his mouth like wine, eyes fluttering closed, lashes trembling. Releasing a soft, breathless sound close to ecstasy from his lips as his gaze flicked to the needle. The needle was still warm and glistening, still wet with the remnants of your mind. With a reverence that bordered on religious delirium, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along its length, slow, unhurried, adoring.

Suguru licked it clean the way one might lick honey from a spoon. Red. Silver. Viscera-smudged. He moaned, quiet, breathless. A sound that would be beautiful, if he wasn't such an insane bastard. Oh, how he moaned, like the taste of you, your thoughts and ruin, was from one of his holy sermons. As if your suffering was something sweet.

He lifted the object of demise like it was precious. Sacred. Like it belonged in a reliquary, not his hand. But Suguru never did worship like the others did. No, he needed to taste divinity. To consume it. To consume the fight you're leaving behind.

So he brought it to his lips.

Opened his mouth.

And lowered his head.

His throat welcomed the steel like it was communion. The glinting metal disappeared inch by inch, his lips stretching, jaw relaxing as he swallowed it down. Past tongue. Past teeth. Down, down, until the hilt kissed his lips, and his throat bobbed around it. Pretty, violet eyes that rolled back, lashes fluttering, a soft groan slipping from deep in his chest.

It wasn’t pain.

It was rapture.

He held it there for a moment - the instrument of your undoing lodged in his throat like a holy relic, his breath trembling around it. Then he pulled it back out - slow, glistening, wet. No longer coated with your blood, but his saliva.

Suguru looked back at you with something like ecstasy, and everything inside you screamed to recoil. But your body didn’t move. Couldn’t. You could only watch him watching you. His teeth, once pearly white, were now stained a soft pink as he spoke.

“I’ll always love that little fight in you,” he said, crouching beside your slack, drooling face. His thumb dragged your lip down slightly, just to watch it bounce back up uselessly. He smiled. “But in my new world…”

His voice lowered, thick with affection.

“…pets like you don’t need to fight.”

He cupped your face between his palms, cradling it like a fragile fruit, kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - smeared in drool and blood, the flavor of your mind still on his tongue.

And then he kissed you deeper.

Your jaw didn’t move. Your lips didn’t purse. It didn’t matter. He kissed you like you were kissing him back. Like your silence was consent. When he pulled away, strings of spit - your spit - clung between your mouths like a web. He licked them away. Didn’t waste a drop of the sweetest nectar known to man.

-----

The air was warm today.

Cherry blossoms fluttered like slow snowfall across the temple courtyard, sticking to your hair, your lashes, the white fabric of your dress. The wind teased them loose from the trees, scattering them like blessings. You didn’t move when they landed on you. Didn’t blink when one brushed across your cheek and stayed there.

You just sat on the stone steps, knees tucked to your chest, head tilted toward the sun. A trickle of drool slid from the corner of your mouth, glistening in the light like nectar.

And you were smiling.

Suguru stood just behind you for a while, watching. Breathing. Listening to the soft rustle of petals and the small, wet click of your throat when you swallowed.

You looked so content. So quiet.

So loved.

He approached slowly, letting his sandals scuff against the stone so you’d hear him. Not that it mattered. You no longer startled when he moved. You no longer stiffened under his gaze.

When he knelt beside you, your head turned - just slightly, slow as honey dripping from a spoon. Your eyes fluttered toward him, soft and unfocused.

And then you smiled again.

That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made something in his chest crumple and swell at once.

You smiled like you loved him.

“Hello, my sweet little lamb,” he murmured, brushing a blossom from your hair. You didn’t react, but you leaned ever so slightly into his palm as it cradled your cheek. The skin beneath his hand was warm. Damp with sweat. Or maybe just the sun.

Your lips parted. “Sun…” you said, voice slow and syrup-thick, your tongue barely moving. “...pretty.”

It nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Yes,” Suguru whispered. “So very pretty. Almost as much as you.”

He sat beside you and wrapped his arm around your waist. You didn’t lean in. You just… folded. Like your body recognized the weight and allowed it, welcomed it out of some primal muscle memory. Like an animal curling into its pen. He pressed a kiss to your temple. The scar was healing. Still red. Still swollen. Still a reminder.

Of what he’d done. What he’d chosen.

Sometimes, he dreamed of the needle. Of how your body twitched when it pierced the soft tissue behind your eye. Of how the drool began, slow at first, then steady. Of how your voice choked itself trying to say his name one last time.

And sometimes, in the rare moments when guilt crept in - when he remembered the way you screamed and kicked and begged him not to - he would look at you now.

Look at this.

The sun glowing on your skin. The way you tilted your face toward the warmth. The way your hand twitched faintly, as if reaching for him. The way you smiled when he touched you.

And the guilt would go quiet.

How could it be wrong, when you were so peaceful now? When you smiled at him like he was everything?

He whispered into your hair, “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

You blinked slowly. Your head lolled toward him. Another strand of drool slipped down your chin, caught on your collarbone. A blossom landed there. You didn’t notice.

“Pretty…” you murmured again, eyes glassy. “Suguru…”

His heart hammered once, twice. Pounding against his chest. The sound of his name - spoken like a lullaby. Like a sacred word. Not with fear. Not with rage. Just soft devotion. He swallowed thickly. His hands trembled as he pulled you closer. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it aches. I’d do it all again, you know that?”

You stared past him.

“I had to,” he said, his voice cracking, guilt peeking through like weeds beneath stone. “You would’ve left me. You did. Again and again. I couldn’t let you. You understand that now, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But your hand - slow, clumsy - found the edge of his sleeve. Your fingers curled around the fabric and stayed there.

His breath hitched. That touch, that tiny act of agency, undid him. It didn’t matter that you no longer understood who you were, who he was. That you barely spoke, barely moved without prompting.

What mattered was this: you reached for him.

“You love me now,” he whispered, and it sounded like confession. “Even if you don’t know it. Even if you can’t say it. I made it true.”

A breeze passed. More petals fell. Your dress fluttered gently against his leg, and your head dropped against his shoulder.

Suguru held you tighter. As the twins ran around the garden barefoot and full of giggles, collecting flowers for their mama's flower crown. A mama that will no longer run away. You smiled as you watched, and Suguru believed - truly, deeply - that you were happy with this makeshift family.

"I love you," He whispered, pressing another lingering kiss to your temple. Three little words that made his heart swell for his little lamb.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #jjk geto #dead dove do not eat #yandere geto suguru #yandere geto x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere suguru x reader #yandere jjk #yandere geto #yandere suguru #yandere suguru geto

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littlelamy · 2 months ago

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the mountain spring shimmered like poured glass, cold and humming with snowmelt, tucked deep in a cleft of slate rock where only the hawks and mythical dragons lived. you—bare bodied—laughed as you waded in, arms lifted as if embracing the cloud covered sky itself. your hair clung in wet coils down your spine, hips swaying with that careless innocence you had.

rafe saw too much.

he stood at the edge, armor off but duty cinched tight around his chest like a second skin. you turned, water dripping off your lashes, and beamed.

"rafe! you're going to make me scold you again if you just stand there sulking." you waded backward, waves blooming from your thighs like petals, and dipped until the surface kissed the soft curve beneath your collarbone. “you act like you haven’t seen me nude before.”

that made his jaw clench—his hand twitched near the hilt of a sword he hadn’t worn today.

“i shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice hard and gravelly. “not like this.”

“but you are.” your smile went sly, twisting into something he hadn’t earned but had been given by you over and over anyway. “you always come, even when you say you won’t. that is your duty, isn't it?”

he stepped down—boots crunching grit, shedding his tunic in a moment too deliberate. the covered sun shone slightly across the scars of his shoulders, those hard-earned things you used to trace when curled against him in moonlight, whispering stupid things like “tell me again how many men you killed for me.”

but after months and years, you were growing—riper, bolder, speaking to visiting dukes with honey in your voice and your chin tilted just so.

he hated it, completely.

you floated closer, breasts brushing the surface, nipples tight from the cold. you stared at him with those wide, infuriating, charmed eyes. “you used to look at me like i was a woman. now you barely look.”

rafe’s eyes snapped to yours. "don’t tempt me, your highness.”

“why not?” you said, playful, mouth a wicked curve. “you scared of the king? or scared that i’ll beg you again, and you’ll give in?”

he exhaled like it hurt and stepped into the water.

it swallowed him up slowly, and his body responded like it always did around you—blood hot, cock heavy, aching before you even touched him. the space between you shrank and you closed the last of it, hands at his waist.

“you remember the last time, don’t you?” you whispered, fingers skating up his chest. “you had your mouth between my legs and you said if i ever let another man touch me—”

“stop,” he hissed, grabbing your wrists, but his grip trembled. “you’re still a girl—”

“i’m a woman and princess,” you cut in, a breathless bite to your tone. “and i chose you, way before i ever knew what my cunt was for.”

he groaned—actual, helpless, gut-deep—and kissed you. it was fierce, messy, almost like he was dying of thirst.

you gasped against him, clinging to his neck, water sloshing around your waists. his hand found your ass, squeezed like he was checking to make sure it was still his. you giggled breathily against his mouth, nipping his lower lip before diving down his chest with your tongue, slow little kitten licks that made his thighs twitch. your nails scraped the lines of his abdomen. his cock stood hard against your belly, though he still held back, holding you by the shoulders like he needed to remind himself of something.

“you keep running,” you whispered, rubbing yourself against him with a sweet little whimper. “but you always come back.”

his forehead pressed to yours. “because i’m the only one who won’t hurt you, my star.”

“but you’ll still fuck me?”

he bit back a moan. “gods help me.”

“then fuck me,” you purred. “but make it mean something.”

he grabbed your hips and hoisted you up, thighs parting around him in the cool spring, his cock pressing up between your folds but not yet in. not yet, he mind whisper to you. just close enough to feel the heat of you, the needy little flutter of your walls already clenching around nothing. your eyes fluttered half-shut.

“you’re mine,” he growled against your throat.

“always.” you purr before he sank into you. the water did nothing to hide the way your cunt clenched tight, slick and greedy around him. your head dropped back with a moan so sweet he wanted to bury himself in it. and he started moving, slow and deep, water rocking with you, his name spilling from your lips in breathy gasps between kisses like a prayer you’d say even if he left you.

but he wouldn’t. never would, not when you wrapped around him like this: heart, body, and soul.

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#my readers!𐔌´⠀ ᩙᩙ `๑꒱#younger!princess!reader₊˚⊹ ᰔ #knight!rafe #rafe cameron #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe fic #rafe x you #rafe obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe

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hoshigray · 10 months ago

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꯳⃘꤫⃛✿ contents: soft dom! true form! Sukuna x afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - anal fingering - oral (f! receiving) - double penetration; anal & vaginal (2 dick! kuna) - missionary position - unprotected sex - pet names ([little] dove, human, pet) - soft sloppy kisses/make-out session.

“Stay still, pet.”

"Yes, Sukuna..."

Let's be real: Sukuna going gentle on you is borderline imaginary – a fantasy that contrasts with the brutality and selfish-centeredness of the King of Curses. However, it’s a sensational moment on the rare nights he is.

The King has you propped below him, back to his futon, and his front facing his. Your lips quiver as you scan across the view, his broad torso engulfing you easily as his lower arms slide you lower. His bare cocks tower over your vulva, the twitch of your insides embarrassing to your notice.

His fingers in your ass have you gripping the sheets beneath, the thick digits stretching you in ways you could never. Fingertips scrape the texture of your insides, whimpers wishing to leave your chewed lips. A tongue on his palm flattens across your cunt, nestling between your inner labia to have every surface wet. It’s been a few minutes of this foreplay, having you accustomed to the thicker limbs he’d bury inside you shortly.

Sukuna then removes his fingers slowly before kissing the tip of the upper cock to your folds and the other to your anus. He catches the minuscule quirk of your thighs. “Don’t move, dove, or this will hurt.” Your eyes glimpse at him and nod — a hesitant gesture yet obedient nonetheless. He’s pleased; a curl to the corner lifts his lips. “Good, now take some breaths for me…”

Crimson orbs observe your stomach, watching the rise and fall of your tummy, assessing the right time. Then, he pushes both cockheads to the entrances simultaneously, another jerk of your body, but you keep breathing. The giant man grasps his dicks while pressing them, groaning at the sensation of your warmth greeting him. “Fuck…” he curses while you gasp, moving them deeper into you. Your hands find his marked pectorals to hold, your legs held up by his thighs almost wrapped together.

“Hooooh, God, Sukuna,” you mewl at the brush of your G-spot and the wholeness of both your holes. “So big…and, f-full…Ahhh!!” The poke of your cervix shuts your eyes immediately, turning your head away instinctively.

However, “Hmph, who told you to look away?” Sukuna’s lower left hand grabs your chin and have you look his way again. “Keep your eyes on me, human, understand?” Albeit the atmosphere is anything but hostile, his intense gaze halts your breath, and your cheeks heat up. You nod curtly, and the pink-haired man moves his hips again.

Sukuna thrusts into you sluggishly; each pull of his cocks leaves you experiencing the stretch of his girths with every second, and the push of him stirs your insides just as rapturously as the last. Your lips fall to an ‘o’ shape, and your moans more uncomplicated to fly out with your panted breath. The flex of his abdomen is marvelous to watch, the pleasure intensifying even when the mouth of his stomach licks your belly gently.

Your eyes continue to scan, taking in every detail of the dark tattoos on his skin and the quick tension of his upper arm muscles. How the sunset light is shielded from the shoji frames highlights his massive body, almost as if he came out of a painting. And then — dear God — his four deep scarlet eyes fixed on you, misty with wanton, and his sole human-like eye hooded gorgeously. Again, you turn away, the image too much to handle! And, of course, the behemoth laughs hoarsely with his stomach mouth.

“What did I just say?” He warns you, a smirk stuck on his face as he thrusts again harshly. “Too stubborn to follow a simple order.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whine from another jab to your womb, and your anus contracts around his second girth. “You just…look too—Ahhaa!!”

He lowers down – the bands of his upper arms come to hold your head. “Too what?” A few more thrusts have your legs around his waist, and the man holding back a laugh that rumbles his stomach like a purr.

“Ohhnn, ‘Kunaa!!”

“Answer me, pet.” He forces you to look at him again. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

You gulp thickly, the heat on your face worsening under his patronizing temperament. “Because…you look so good when you use me—shit—l-like this…”

He chortles again, and you wish to hide your ears from the sound. “What a stupid reason for disobeying me,” your breath hitches when he kisses your forehead and nose. “But I guess that explains why you’re squeezing me so hard…Hm? You get all shy when looking at how good I fuck you?”

Sukuna’s pace of the hips goes faster, and your hands frantically find his shoulders to purchase. Broken sobs fill the intimate space between you, his heavy balls smacking onto your taint as he drills his dicks so far into you that you can’t keep up. “Ohhhfuuck, oh fuck, fuck!!” You cry, Sukuna adding more weight by placing his substantial forehead onto yours. “Nmmm, ‘Kuna, I’m gonna cum—let me cum on you pleaseee…!”

The giant sighs heavily, groaning at your frequently puckered holes. “You wish to cum on me?” You nod frantically, and he purrs as he brushes his lips onto yours. “Fine, you may.” Before that, he claims your lips with his, and you mewl underneath him as he forces himself to kiss you patiently — in exchange for having you let loose on him.

You sink deeper into the kiss, swirling your tongue with his, exploring his canines, and meshing together with his tongue before he sucks on yours. Compared to the erratic cadence of his hips, the flex of his abs growing feverish, the kiss is comforting, smothering you to the point you’d be breathless, yet you don’t wish to hide the whimpers he’s causing you to make. It makes you wetter and tighter, and you soon fall into your orgasm.

The peak leaves you as a wailing mess, Sukuna drinking your screams and saliva even when your body is trembling uncontrollably. Eyes sewn shut but hiding the roll of your pupils; your brain undoubtedly turned to mush as it hurts to think outside of kissing the man above you and your vagina and asshole fluttering on the two massive lengths buried deep inside you. The tip of his cock grazes your delicate womb once more, his pelvis grinding down for deeper spots to rub on.

“Little dove,” Sukuna lifts his mouth from yours, licking your spit on his lips before you pepper his hot cheek with pecks of your own. “What should you be saying?”

“Mmmm…thank you, Sukuna,” you whisper between smooches. “You always treat me…Hahhh, so well…”

He scoffs faintly to your ear. “And don’t you forget that.”

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seyvith · 10 days ago

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“ AND STILL, YOU CAME ”

FERAL XIAO — a beast who was never meant to be seen, and yet you found him . . .

gender neutral reader / feral xiao x reader / emotionally scarred / aggressive trauma response / desperate under the surface / he says he’ll kill you but you’re the only one who’s ever spoken gently to him / turning him soft

masterlist | intro post | carrd . . . a/n: been searching for a fic like this about xiao for so long, so I decided to just make it myself!! I think it's perfect with his lore. (btw dw!! part two of my last post is coming after this)

Ruins bore no name here. Time had long since scoured the stonework bare, ivy veining over toppled columns like bloodless threads on a withered corpse. What lingered of the ancient structure slumbered beneath the cliffs of Minlin, swallowed by bramble and a fog thick as mourning veils. Locals spoke of it in hushed tones, whispers of madness, of vanished travelers, of the god who once ruled here and went mad beneath the weight of his divinity. Even so, your footsteps carried you forward.

Wind stirred the trees restless, circling like breath from something snoring just out of sight. The lantern in your grasp flickered at your hip, casting unsteady shadows across the moss streaked walls. You hadn’t meant to stray this far from the trail, but the pull had been undeniable; an invisible string winding into your chest, plucking something deep behind your ribs. It wasn’t a voice. It was a hum, thrumming low against your heartbeat, and it asked only that you listen.

Soon, the corridor narrowed. Then came a breath, a sound so low and guttural that it was almost animalistic. Beyond the final archway, the air shifted, heavy with the scent of rust and ancient stone. When your fingers brushed the wall, dust fell away to reveal carvings: clawed talons, coiling beasts, a sigil wrapped in iron chains. Something had lived here, or died here, perhaps both.

The corridor opened into a cavern, hush settling over it, broken only by the slow drip of water and the soft glow of fungi clinging to the ceiling like scattered stars. Below, a shallow pool mirrored the pale light, sending ripples over iron bars sunken deep into the floor. Behind them, hunched in the furthest corner, was a man. Or what was left of one.

At first glance, you took him for a beast. Too lean, too sharp, limbs curled tight, hair falling in tangled, sage-dark knots across his face. Thick shackles clasped around his wrists, wrought from iron that shimmered with faint sigils. Seals, still active, still pulsing with containment. A muzzle was plastered over his mouth, forged from the same cursed metal. He didn’t move, but the weight of his gaze struck all the same, piercing the dark like a blade sliding clean between ribs.

A growl vibrated from his chest, ragged and low, somewhere between warning and wound. You startled, but didn’t back away. There was no true malice in the sound. Only pain. When he finally raised his head, you saw the color of his eyes—gold, but not the gentle hue of fireflies or autumn fields. Starless gold, fierce and ancient, the kind that remembered ruin, the kind that burned without warmth.

“Leave.” His voice scraped like gravel, coarse from disuse. “Go now. Before—” He choked on the words as his body shuddered, then lunged just far enough for the chains to snap taut and yank him backward. The force dragged him to his knees, spine arched, breath torn in broken bursts. Still, you did not flinch.

“You’re hurt.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, sweat glinting despite the chill. “I said go,” he snarled. The muzzle warped his words, saliva stringing at its edges. You took a step closer.

His entire frame recoiled like a wounded thing. He thrashed, slamming his shoulder against the bars, wild with panic. But in the midst of the fury, you saw something else. Not rage, not madness, but fear. His hands trembled where they met the ground, not from wrath, but restraint. And that tremor said more than any growl ever could.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said gently.

“I will,” he grounded out through clenched teeth. “That’s what I do. That’s what he made me do. I—” His words faltered, voice cracking like splintering ice. “I don’t get to choose.”

“I believe you,” you whispered. “That you don’t want to.”

No reply came, just the rasp of breath and the soft clink of chains. But as you studied him, you began to see more than just shadow and weaponry. A jawline, high cheekbones half obscured by matted hair, the silver web of scars across his collarbone, thin and branching like frost on a window. He had once been something else. Someone else.

“You should hate me,” he said at last, voice hollow. “They all do. They scream when they see me. Or they don’t get the chance.”

“I don’t hate you.”

His head jerked, disbelief lighting his face like a spark. Anger, sorrow, and something else flashed in his eyes. “You should,” he said, almost a plea. “You have to.”

“What’s your name?” you asked.

The question hit him like a blow. “That’s not—names don’t—” A swallow. “I don’t have a name. Not anymore.”

“Then I’ll give you one.”

“No.” His voice broke. “No. Don’t. Don’t make me something I’m not.”

You knelt by the bars, closer now than anyone had dared in what felt like centuries. The space between you was thin, filled only with breath and stillness. “Then I’ll come back tomorrow, and maybe the day after that.”

His head whipped up. “Don’t.”

“I will.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I trust you not to.”

“You’re stupid,” he spat. “Naive. You think kindness will undo what I am? What he made me into?”

Your hand rested just inches from the rusted bars. “No,” you said. “But maybe it will remind you that you were more, once, and can be again.” A silence thicker than smoke settled between you. Then you stood, his breath caught, and you turned away.

“Wait,” he said, but too softly for you to hear. The word broke apart behind his teeth, something like a sob, or maybe it was only the wind through the cracks in the stone. He pressed his forehead to the ground once you were gone.

Prayed you would never return.

Prayed that you would.

It began again with footsteps. Softer this time—not the cautious tread of a stranger stumbling through forgotten ruins, but the quiet return of someone who remembered the way. They came like the first stirrings of spring through wintered trees, patient and inevitable, brushing against the silence with the grace of thawing snow.

He remained still in his chains. The memory of your voice lingered like the sweetness of a forgotten lullaby, one he had not permitted himself to dream of. Dreams were dangerous things, after all. He knew this better than anyone.

When you appeared at the entrance of his prison once more, light wrapped around your figure like a misplaced sunbeam breaking into a tomb. In your arms, a cloth bundle was cradled against your chest, tied with a ribbon the color of old blood. Red—like orders barked through gritted teeth, like shackles that seared his skin, like the stains on his conscience. Yet somehow, in your hands, the color seemed gentler. Like the ribbon of a child’s gift, not a soldier’s command.

“I brought you something,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “It’s not much.

He didn’t look at you. If he stayed still long enough, maybe you would vanish like all the other foolish ghosts who thought they could reach him. Maybe you'd realize what he was and leave him to rot among the stones and silence. But you were already kneeling, already unwrapping the bundle with fingers as careful as if you were handling something sacred. From the folds emerged a small wooden container, simple and worn. Steam curled from its seams.

“It’s Almond Tofu. My favourite. I thought you might like it too.”

He bared his teeth, slow and deliberate, the muzzle pressing against his cheekbones with the motion. “I told you to stay away.”

“And I told you I don’t listen very well,” you replied, calm as though he hadn’t just threatened to maim you.

“I could tear your eyes from your skull.”

“If you wanted to, you would’ve done it already.”

You stood, walked past the shattered threshold of his cage, ignoring his previous words. As though you weren’t walking into the belly of a creature who had once been made to devour dreams and leave behind husks. The metal of the muzzle clicked faintly as Xiao’s breath hitched, chains groaning beneath the sudden tension in his limbs.

He said nothing as you sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed the boundary of his karmic debt. And then, without asking, you reached toward the clasp of the muzzle that had seared skin and spirit alike. He flinched, not from fear, but from disbelief.

It did not burn you.

Your fingers brushed the iron like it was no more dangerous than a breeze on stone. With a soft click, the clasp gave way. The muzzle slipped free and fell to the ground with a hollow sound that echoed louder than it should have. Xiao blinked. The air against his lips felt strange, wind against skin that hadn’t felt the sun in years. He said nothing, but the silence was no longer sharp.

You lifted a spoonful of the tofu, steam curling from the trembling surface. “Here.”

“I don’t eat human food,” he muttered, though his gaze followed the spoon with the reluctant intensity of a starving animal who refused to beg.

“Then pretend. Just one bite.”

He stared at you like you were made of thorns and light. Then, without breaking the stare, he leaned forward and took the bite. The taste bloomed on his tongue like a long buried memory, soft, sweet, subtle as snowfall. It was nothing like the raw meat the god used to feed him between commands. It was gentle, kind. As if food could carry emotion and this one had been made by someone who’d never once tasted cruelty. His brows drew together.

“Well?” you asked. Another beat of silence.

“...More.” A smile tugged at your lips, and you didn’t hide it.

The second bite came easier. Then the third. And by the fifth, he was sitting straighter, eyes no longer wary, but puzzled. He couldn’t understand why something so simple had shaken the dust off a corner of his soul he thought had died centuries ago. And when the last bite was gone, he looked at the empty container with the quiet devastation of someone realizing a miracle had a limit.

He looked at you then, truly looked, and hated that something in his chest gave way when he did.

You began to talk. Not of this prison or the god whose voice still echoed in his bones, but of the world beyond these walls. You painted it with your words, each one a brushstroke: ships that floated among clouds, skies blooming with lanterns during moonlit festivals, gardens that glowed like constellations, and markets alive with the scent of dumplings and the sound of laughter.

He didn’t interrupt. Not once. His eyes remained fixed on your face, as if the movement of your lips could become a lifeline. He drank in every word like a man parched, terrified to ask for more.

When you told him about the wind on the Jade Chamber’s terraces, his fingers twitched.

When you spoke of honey lotus pastries, his mouth parted ever so slightly, as though tasting them from memory he never had.

And when you said, barely above a whisper, “I’ll take you there one day,” he turned his head from you.

“You wont,” he said, but the words no longer bled bitterness. They sounded tired, soft.

He didn’t stop you when you placed the empty tofu dish beside his chains, didn’t growl when you stood, brushing dirt from your knees. Didn’t speak when you turned to leave, but his eyes clung to your back. When the echo of your footsteps began to fade into the cavern, his voice cracked into the silence.

“...Bring more tofu.” It was the first time in four hundred years he had asked for anything.

The chains didn’t feel quite as heavy that night.

#sub genshin impact #sub genshin #sub!genshin impact #sub!genshin #sub xiao #sub!xiao #sub character #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #oneshot #x reader #reader insert #writing #fanfic #fic #genshin fluff

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xobunni0 · 5 months ago

Text

𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃’ 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓅𝒾𝒹

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➵ ℳ𝓔𝓝𝓤

- DAY 2 💌 , friend!shadow, confession, fluff, wc-1537

Shadow loved being in control; in control over his emotions, his actions, his thoughts. but when it came to you that control crumbled completely

and that was unacceptable.

you were his friend. nothing more. nothing less. someone who had somehow wedged into his life

yet here he was, standing outside your apartment door hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tense. the cold night air cooling against him, but he barely felt it. his pulse could be heard in his ears

he had been standing here for at least five minutes. maybe longer.

it was ridiculous. the idea of knocking on your door left him paralyzed

it was just you. his friend.

but that was the problem wasn’t it? you were just his friend. and he was just a coward who couldn’t say the words that would make you see him as anything else.

his fingers twitched toward the door then curled back into a fist. you had invited him over, for what reason? he wasn’t sure of.

it was just going to be you. him. and that terrified him.

he exhaled sharply forcing himself to knock. once. twice. a second later he heard footsteps. then the door cracked open and there you were hair slightly tousled, wearing a loose sweater that looked too soft for your own good eyes blinking up at him in confusion before softening.

“perfect, you're here to help me make cupcakes!” you said, this what you invited him over for…

cupcakes?

he stared at you, trying to piece together how that was relevant to whatever this was.. this weird, nervous feeling coiling in his chest the reason he had been standing outside your apartment debating whether to knock in the first place

with a quiet exhale, shadow followed

your kitchen was small but cozy, the counters cluttered with bags of flour, sugar, and other baking essentials. a recipe on top of the counter though you didn’t seem too concerned about following it exactly. you handed him a whisk.

“Alright you’re on mixing.”

Shadow eyed the whisk like it was a foreign object.

“I don’t bake.”

“you do tonight!” you said, dumping ingredients into the bowl. “It’s just stirring. you can handle that right?”

he scoffed but took the whisk, moving it through the batter.

the room was quiet except for the soft scrape of the whisk against the bowl. it should have been comfortable but Shadow felt restless. his mind was screaming at him to say something anything

god he couldn’t stop staring. even if we wanted to he couldn’t.

you were humming to yourself as you spooned cupcake batter into the tray, completely unaware of what was going in in his mind. the way a few loose strands of hair framed your face perfectly, the way your sweater hung a little too loosely over your frame, the slight flour that had gotten on ur temple. it was all so you. and it was driving him insane.

because all he could think about was what would happen if he just said it.

if he turned to you right now and admitted what had been clawing at his chest for months. if he just told you how you made him feel, how sometimes he just wanted to kiss you badly, how sometimes he found himself wanting to hear your voice when he was alone.

how would you react?

would you laugh? brush it off as a joke? or worse would you look at him with that soft, apologetic expression that told him you didn’t feel the same?

the thought made his stomach twist.

“You’re quiet again” you noted, glancing at him as you slid the tray into the oven. “What’s on your mind?”

you. always you.

but instead, he just shrugged leaning against the counter fingers drumming lightly against the surface. “Nothing.”

you sighed, unconvinced. “one day, you’re actually gonna tell me what’s on your mind, you know.”

he huffed, looking away. “Doubtful.”

either way, he was infuriating.

because no matter how obvious it was, no matter how many times you caught him staring when he thought you wouldn’t notice, no matter how he always found excuses to be near you he still wouldn’t say it.

and you were getting tired of waiting.

you stole a glance at him now, leaning against the counter arms crossed lost in thought. his eyes had that faraway look again, like he was lost in thought, you wanted to shake him to tell him to stop overthinking and just say it already.

but instead, you sighed and grabbed the two frosting containers. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

Shadow blinked, pulled from whatever internal debate he was having. he eyed the options then shrugged. “Chocolate.”

“you sure are slow when it comes to making decisions.” you remarked, popping open the container.

something changed in his expression just for a second. then it was gone. “I don’t make decisions without thinking them through.”

you leaned against the counter beside him, crossing your arms. “And how long does it take before you finally do something?”

Shadow tensed just slightly. maybe it was your imagination, but you swore his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for something. for you.

you held his gaze, waiting.

his jaw clenched. then, just like always he looked away.

of course he did.

you exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you grabbed a spoon and started stirring the frosting with more force than necessary. “you are so frustrating, you know that?”

Shadow didn’t respond. but out of the corner of your eye, you saw his fingers curl into a fist.

you were both too stubborn to say first.

after all friends didn’t ruin things. friends didn’t make things complicated. right?

you didn’t know what possessed you to do it. maybe it was the tension that had been growing between you two for months. maybe it was frustration. maybe it was just him the way he was always so composed, so impossible to read.

for whatever the reason, before you could second-guess yourself, you swiped a dollop of chocolate frosting onto your finger and smudged it right onto Shadow’s cheek.

for a moment, he didn’t move.

he just stared at you, his red eyes wide with something unreadable.

then, slowly, he reached up, swiped a finger across his cheek and examined the frosting like he couldn’t quite believe you had actually done that.

as he turned toward the sink, you scooped up another bit of frosting and without hesitation again smeared it across the back of his neck.

you let out a startled laugh, shadow had lunged forward. before you could make it two steps, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back toward him. the sudden shift in weight threw you off balance, and you tumbled backward taking him down with you.

you landed on the kitchen floor, Shadow landing directly on top of you

for a moment, neither of you moved. the only sound in the room was the distant ticking of the oven timer, and the shallow rise and fall of your breaths

you blinked up at him.

Shadow hovered just inches above you, his hands on either side of your head, his chest pressed lightly against yours. his breath was warm against your cheek and you could feel the warmth radiating from him his entire body locked in place as if one wrong move would send him over the edge.

your own breath hitched. your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it

this was closer than you’d ever been. too close. and yet… not close enough.

Shadow’s gaze flickered to your lips.

just for a second.

you saw it. you felt it..

say it.

you didn’t know if you were pleading with him or yourself but the words were on the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill out and break whatever existed between you.

Shadow swallowed hard. his jaw clenched.

his voice was low, strained like the words had been clawing at his throat for too long.

“I like you.”

your breath caught.

“I’ve liked you for a long time” he admitted, eyes never leaving yours. “but you’re my friend. and if I said anything if I ruined what we already had I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I wasn’t willing to risk it.”

Shadow searched your face like his entire world depended on your next move. like he was waiting for rejection, for you to laugh it off or tell him this was all some mistake.

but you didn’t.

Instead, you smiled the kind of smile that made his chest tighten in ways he still didn’t fully understand.

then without hesitation, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek

Shadow froze.

he let out a slow breath, his mind still struggling to catch up. your lips had been warm against his skin, soft, real. you were real. And you weren’t pushing him away.

you actually… wanted this.

his crimson eyes stayed locked onto yours, searching for any hint of doubt. any hesitation. but there was none. only you.

day 3 out this friday!💌

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ⏦ﾟᢉ𐭩 - 𓊆ྀི𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

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papayainsectorone · 27 days ago

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teach me about feelings

════════════════════════

summary: Unresolved feelings, a rain-soaked night and an unspoken longing lead you and Oscar to finally choose closeness over fear.

content: angst, fluff, second-chance tension, mutual pining, unresolved feelings, physical closeness, gentle longing, rekindled connection, emotional honesty, bittersweet hope

word count: 3 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: i appreciate you all so much — we just hit 500 followers (!!) and there’s even a post with over 1000 mentions and i’m honestly over the moon.

this series came (is still coming) so easily and i’m genuinely so glad i decided to start posting again after (not an exaggeration) literally ten years of not writing or sharing anything.

coming back to this space felt scary at first, but you’ve made it feel exciting and safe like something i actually missed without knowing it. (how fanfiction-y of me lol)

thank you again. truly. and since i’ve got a little stockpile of prewritten chaos, it looks like i can keep the updates coming pretty smoothly

also sorry in advance, i do not take responsibility for any feelings haha

teach me series

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You didn’t even want to come.

The group chat had been relentless all morning — heart emojis, guilt trips, caffeine bribes. You resisted until the guilt won.

Now you sit on a chipped metal chair outside a street cafe, letting the sunlight warm your hands, trying to pretend the ache in your chest is just leftover sleep. The coffee is decent. The company is easy. You almost forget you’re trying to forget.

After a part of the group had already left, you stayed behind talking and enjoying the last rays of sun, with clouds already nearing on the horizon.

But then your friend freezes mid-sip. “Oh my god. Is that—”

You follow her gaze and everything inside you stops.

Oscar.

Hood up, shoulders hunched, head down like he’s just walking, not expecting anything.

Your friend calls out before you can stop her. And suddenly, he’s crossing the street, like something inevitable.

He reaches your table. “Hey,” he says, his voice low. His eyes barely skim yours.

Your friend beams. “Oscar! Sit with us.”

He hesitates. Looks at you.

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no.

He sits.

The conversation drifts, polite and surface-level. You stay mostly quiet, your fingers tight around the cup in your hands.

Then your friend checks her phone and stands with a flurry of apologies about trains and schedules. Just like that, she’s gone.

You and Oscar are alone.

He shifts, his thumb tapping against his knee. “You look…” he starts, then trails off.

You raise an eyebrow.

His mouth twitches. “Like you’ve been laughing.”

You glance down. “You look like you haven’t.”

He huffs softly. “Fair.”

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. Just heavy. Familiar.

“I’ve been trying not to text you,” he says eventually.

“Have you?”

“Every night.”

You say nothing. But your heart thuds like it remembers exactly how that used to feel.

“I figured,” he adds, “if you wanted to talk, you’d have answered.”

“I wanted to.” You finally meet his eyes. “I just didn’t know if I��d be able to stop once I started.”

His breath catches.

“Do you want to start now?” he asks.

You swallow. “I don’t know what I’d say.”

He leans in just a little. “Then let’s walk.”

You fall into step beside him, but not quite in sync. His hands are in his pockets. Yours fidget with the edge of your shirt, like the fabric might anchor you.

The street is quiet — golden with late sun, washed in a kind of hazy stillness that feels like the world is holding its breath. You can hear the scrape of your shoes against the sidewalk. The whisper of wind tugging through your clothes. The soft, unspoken weight of everything neither of you has said.

You glance sideways at him, barely.

He’s not looking at you. But you can feel him.

His shoulder brushes yours once, then again — not enough to be intentional, but enough to make your chest tighten. Every brush feels like a question he’s too scared to ask.

You want to say something. Anything. But the words curl on your tongue, sharp and uncertain. So you just walk.

You turn a corner. Then another.

Still no talking.

His hands itch to reach for yours, but his heart is louder. What if you pull away?

He slows near a small shop window. You pause too. Not to look. Just to breathe.

He exhales next to you. The sound is low, like it costs him something.

And suddenly, you know. He’s thinking the same thing you are — if he speaks first, it might break. If you speak first, it might be too much.

So you both stay silent.

But his shoulder stays close.

So close.

A breeze cuts through the space between buildings. Not sharp, but sudden and it slips under your clothes. You shiver without meaning to.

He notices.

Doesn’t say anything. Just stops, shrugs off his hoodie, and holds it out to you.

You hesitate for half a second — not because you don’t want it, but because accepting it feels like something bigger. Like saying yes to something you're not ready to name.

But your fingers close around it anyway.

You pull it on. It’s warm from his body, sleeves too long, the collar faintly smelling like him, like soap and skin and the faded ghost of the cologne you liked too much.

He looks at you.

Only for a second.

Then walks again.

You follow.

Your steps are slower now. Not dragging — just measured. Like you’re both waiting for the other to speak first, and neither of you will. There’s tension in it. Not anger. Just... care. Held tightly. Unspoken.

Another gust of wind and you curl your arms into the sleeves, burrowing deeper into the hoodie. You shiver again, smaller this time, but not unnoticed.

Then, the sky shifts.

A sudden scatter of cold raindrops. One, then three, then a soft, steady patter that darkens the concrete at your feet. The storm didn’t wait.

You look up.

So does he.

There’s no question in his voice when he turns toward you — just a quiet offering. A way out. A way in.

“My place is just up the block,” he says. “If you want.”

You nod before you even think.

His apartment is dim when you step in, the kind of quiet that feels intentional. Like he left it this way in case something like this ever happened.

You toe off your shoes by the door, water still dotting your shoulders. The hoodie clings slightly — it’s damp now — but you keep it on. It feels safer than anything else.

He disappears for a moment, comes back with a towel and wordlessly hands it to you. His fingers brush yours.

Neither of you speaks.

You dry your face and let the silence settle again. Not awkward. Not cold. Just full — thick with things that want to be said and haven’t been yet.

He gestures to the couch. You sit. Your knees nearly touch.

Rain taps at the windows, soft and rhythmic. Streetlights glow faintly outside, golden through the glass.

He disappears again, returns with two mugs and passes one to you. Your fingers brush again. You don’t pull away this time.

The cup is warm in your hands.

Still, you don’t speak.

He sits beside you, but not too close. Like he’s giving you the space to decide what this will be. What you want this to be.

You watch the steam rise from your mug. Let your eyes flicker to him and then away again.

He’s doing the same.

Breathing carefully. Shoulders tight. Like he’s afraid if he moves too much, it’ll scare you off. Like he’s still holding that version of you from months ago — the one who left before anything real could happen.

And maybe you’re still holding that version of him too — the one who was always a little too open, too ready to fall, too easy to want.

Your knees brush again. Neither of you moves.

He looks over at you, finally. Just looks. And this time, you don’t look away.

Still no words.

The question burns in your throat before it ever touches air. It’s the only thing you can think to ask. The one thing you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

But then it slips out.

“How was she?”

It lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t move at first—just stares. Like the words didn’t register.

You don’t look at him. Just tighten your grip around the warm ceramic in your hands. You add, voice low, bitter:

“The girl. In the picture I sent. Was she good? Did you like her?”

His body stiffens. You watch the flush crawl up his neck.

“Oh… uh…”

He hesitates, like he’s sifting through every possible version of the truth. Then his mouth twitches downward, jaw clenching.

“It was…” He shifts. “I couldn’t even—”

A sigh rips out of him. Frustrated. Honest.

You glance sideways. “Couldn’t what?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

You set your cup down slowly.

“Tell me.”

His throat works before his voice finds shape.

“I couldn’t even come. Not until I imagined it was you.”

Silence follows. Heavy and close. The air crackles.

You don’t flinch. Just breathe in.

And in that breath, something inside you shakes loose — a piece of pride, maybe, or guilt, or longing. Maybe all three.

He leans back suddenly, dragging both hands through his hair. The sleeves of his hoodie fall back, exposing his forearms.

“I remember everything,” he says, eyes flicking toward you. “Your lips. The way you kissed me. How your fingers curled into my shirt. The sound you made when I—”

He stops. A soft, broken noise escapes his chest.

“I still hear it. I still feel it.”

The silence that follows feels like a heartbeat.

Then, quieter:

“The smell of your skin,” he says. “Your voice. Your mouth on my—”

He stops again, pressing his lips together, trying not to say too much.

But it’s already too much.

And still not enough.

He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together slowly. You can see how tightly he’s wound. How hard he’s trying to hold himself back.

Your breath is shallow. You sit still, but inside, everything shifts. The weight of his confession presses against the hollow ache that’s lived in your chest for weeks.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“No one was like you.”

His head lifts, eyes locking with yours instantly.

“I tried to forget,” he says, words trembling with truth. “I really did. I think they liked it. I know they did. But it never felt the same. Not like… with you.”

He doesn’t move—but his body leans in, almost unconsciously. Pulled by the gravity of your words. Of you.

Nearly whispering you say “I missed the way you looked at me. Like I was worth seeing.”

You’re not sure which of you reaches out first, but your hands find each other in the middle. Quietly. Like a promise too scared to say itself out loud.

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

“You were the only one who ever really listened,” you murmur. “Even when I didn’t say anything.”

His brows twitch—almost a wince.

“I tried to forget, ” he says. “I kept trying to… replace you. Make it easier. But it just made it worse.”

Silence settles between you again, but softer now. Shared.

There’s something new in the air. Not the storm, not the memory—just this moment.

And then, thunder rolls in the distance.

You both flinch at the same time.

You glance at the window. The rain now heavier. Fast. Cold.

“I should probably go,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

He looks up quickly. “No. I mean—just wait until it passes. It’s not safe like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

But he’s already standing.

“You can take my bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep out here. I swear.”

You glance up, startled by the way he’s already fussing—pulling pillows, finding a blanket.

And then his voice softens, breaking through the hum of rain:

“It’s not about the bed.”

You look at him.

He’s standing there, eyes shining with something you recognize and fear all at once.

“It’s not just the physical stuff,” he adds. “It’s you. Your laugh. Your silence. The way you knew when I was falling apart. You taught me how to be seen. That’s what I really miss.”

You feel that pull again. The warmth that isn’t memory.

“I’d give anything to feel that again,” he says. “Not just your body. You.”

You want to argue. But you can’t.

Because the storm has settled in.

And so have you.

You nod, quiet.

“I know it’s not like that for you,” he says. His voice is soft, almost too careful. “I know you don’t feel the same. And I’ve made peace with that.”

You flinch, barely—but he sees it.

“I just…” he runs a hand over his mouth, exhales. “If this is only physical for you, that’s okay. I’ll take it. Whatever you’re willing to give.”

Your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. You can't look at him.

He hesitates. Then you ask, gentler, “Is that why you think I stopped?”

You finally meet his eyes. Something in your chest lurches, sharp and scared.

You open your mouth again. But nothing comes out.

He nods like that’s the answer.

The silence thickens. Fragile. Breakable.

Then he shifts, clearing his throat.

“I’ll get the bed ready for you.”

Later, you lie in his bed, changed into his clothes. His hoodie hangs off your shoulders like memory. Water waits on the nightstand beside a carefully folded blanket—his, not yours.

You hear faint movement from the couch. The door is cracked open, maybe on purpose.

His scent is in the sheets. Your thoughts won’t stop.

You lie still, curled into the silence.

From the other side of the wall, you can almost hear him breathe.

You turn onto your side, staring at the open door.

“Osc?”

A pause. Then, from the other side of the wall, his voice:

“Yeah?”

“Are you still awake?”

Another pause. Softer this time. “Yes.”

You wait, letting the quiet settle again. The storm has dulled into a steady hum, like the world is holding its breath with you.

You sit up a little. “That night... in the club. It was a mess.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. You can tell he’s sitting up too.

You can’t see his face, but you can hear the breath he takes. “Did I—did I cross a line?” he mumbles.

“I don’t know. I think we both did. Or maybe we didn’t.”

He nods, even if you can’t see it. “It felt like everything and nothing all at once.”

There’s a small sound from the other room. Maybe a laugh. Maybe a sigh.

“It wasn’t just the alcohol,” you say.

“No,” he whispers. “It wasn’t.”

More silence. Not cold, but weighty.

“I left because it felt too close,” you murmur. “Like if I stayed, I’d never leave again.”

It’s quiet for a long time.

Then, you hear footsteps. Soft.

He pushes the door open and leans against the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair is mussed. His expression unreadable.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, but there’s no sharpness in it. Just quiet confusion.

You sit up fully, blanket sliding down your arms. Your heart is beating way too fast.

“Oscar.” His name cracks as it leaves you. “I didn’t want it to be serious because I didn’t want to need you.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches.

“I thought I could walk away before it got too hard,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t. Not really.”

He takes one slow step into the room. Then another.

“I couldn’t make myself stay,” you say, “because I’d have to admit...”

His breath catches.

“Admit what?”

“Admit how I felt about you.”

For a second, he just stands there.

Then: “What are you saying?”

You finally look at him.

And everything in you aches.

He crosses the room like he’s afraid to scare you off. Careful steps. Bare feet on wooden floor. Like if he moves too fast, this will vanish.

He stops at the edge of the bed, searching your face. “Can I sit?”

You nod.

He lowers himself onto the mattress, close enough to touch but still giving you space. The air between you hums with everything unspoken.

For a long moment, neither of you says a word.

Then, softly: “You didn’t answer me before.”

You glance at him. “About what?”

He holds your gaze, changing the question “What if you stayed now?”

His voice is so tentative it sounds like a bruise. He blinks down at his hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on the blanket.

You swallow. “Do you want me to?”

His laugh is almost silent. “More than anything.”

You shift, inching just a little closer. His breath hitches.

“Would you still want me to” you ask.

He lifts his head, eyes wide. “It was never just physical. Not for me. So yes”

You hold that for a beat, your breath trembling.

Then, gently, your fingers graze his.

And he takes them.

His hand wraps around yours like it’s instinct. Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

“I-I think.... I love you,” he says. Not a confession. A truth. Simple. Solid.

You stare at him. Everything inside you is soft and full and terrified.

But when you speak, it’s steady.

“I love you too.”

A pause. A quiet, shattered breath.

And then you lean in.

The kiss is slow—reverent. It tastes like memory, like longing, like home.

He moves closer, lips warm, hands framing your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It isn’t desperate. It’s sacred.

Like he’s kissing you back together.

It doesn’t rush.

Your mouths stay close, breaths mingling in the hush. His fingers brush along your cheek, then trail behind your ear, slow and careful like he’s learning the shape of you all over again.

You shift, just enough for your thighs to touch. He draws in a breath, low and shaky.

Your hand slips beneath the hem of his hoodie—not out of hunger, but familiarity. Comfort. And when your fingertips find his skin, warm and tense beneath them, his eyes flutter closed.

Still no words. Just feeling.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Still not fast, not demanding. Just more. His tongue slides gently over yours, like he’s asking permission for something he already has.

You nod into it—subtle, instinctive.

He moves, easing you back against the pillows, his body following yours. The weight of him settles over you like warmth, like gravity.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your throat. The path is slow, reverent. Like each inch of your skin means something.

He whispers your name once, like he’s anchoring himself.

Then he stills.

A breath. A muttered, “Fuck.”

You blink up at him. His eyes are closed, forehead resting gently against yours. Like it hurts to stop. But hurts more not to.

“I don’t want to just have sex again,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I don’t want to rush this.”

Your heart kicks. Not from surprise but recognition.

You lift your hand, fingers brushing his jaw.

He looks down at you, like there’s too much in his chest to hold.

“I—I really want this to work,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I need it to.”

You nod. Slow. Honest. “Me too.”

Something releases in him at that. His body softens, not in disappointment, but relief.

So you just lay there, skin to skin, his head slipping down to rest half on your chest. His arm drapes over your waist, possessive but gentle, like muscle memory.

You feel the weight of him, steady and warm, blanketing you.

The storm still hums outside, but in here, it's quiet.

Safe.

You breathe together in sync. One beat. One rhythm.

And somewhere in the dark, between heartbeats and everything that was said, you both finally fall asleep.

PREVIOUS PART - NEXT PART

v smol taglist

@sealife-for-life @notgirlsummerr @koalalafications @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wadupppp @elle-28 @saudianna @18lovers @kaworusgf @random-movie @lilasthoughtss @maiyaholics @theskinofakillerbella

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri #op81 #𓊆papayainone𓊇

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hellinistical · 2 months ago

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11:07 Swamp Monster Rafayel - a lil bit of a stalker but just out of curiosity! tw: stalking, you're bathing, afab reader (does refer to you as a woman and does use female anatomy.) slight mention of sucking tits. mdni. not proof read.

Swamp Monster Rafayel who's pupils dilate, slow and wide, until his entire eye is black. You’ve peeled off your clothes like it’s nothing—your back to him, spine curving as you test the water with your toes. You don't even know you're being watched. But to him? This is all new. His lips part. A small, involuntary sound catches in his throat.

Who's gaze drops. He doesn’t understand why he stares, only that he must. That something magnetic pulls his attention down, just below the swell of your collarbone, to where the water hugs the curves of your chest. It clings to you like second skin, beading and slipping off the soft weight of you.

He's never seen a woman before. Not like this. Not without mud. Not without screams. Not without blood in the water. And here you are. Flesh and breath. Soft in a way he doesn’t understand. Curves where he only knows angles. Warmth in a space where he’s only known cold.

His fingers twitch against the tree bark, gripping tighter. Your body is so smooth, glistening with droplets of water that glide down your chest, your hips. He swallows hard, unsure why the sight makes him ache deep in his gut. He doesn’t know what this feeling is—something electric and hot and shameful—but he can’t look away. Can’t even blink. You shift, and your thigh peeks above the waterline. Your skin dimples when you sit. Your neck tilts back as you run your hands through your wet hair, arching your back.

Who honestly...has never seen anything like this. Never knew softness could sit so proudly, floating gently, nipples just barely peeking above the surface when you lean forward to reach for the soap. His breath stutters. His claws twitch. He has no word for them. Not in his tongue. Not in yours. Only a dizzy, confused reverence in his mind. Like a boy staring too long at the moon and not understanding why it makes his chest ache. And for a flicker of a moment, he wonders—do they taste like the rest of you? Would they give under his mouth the way they bounce with your movements? And the thought spirals. He wonders what you smell like up close, all clean and warm. If your cheek would give under his palm. If you'd flinch if he brushed his lips against the curve of your collarbone. If your belly would squish beneath his hands. He shakes his head sharply, like the thought itself burned him. But even as he forces himself to look away, to stare at the tree bark or the dirt beneath his claws, the image is seared into his mind like sunspots. You're unaware of the worship crawling through his bones.

His claws dig into the wood, breath hitching. Then—your head turns. You look toward the window. Your brows knit together. His heart stops. He ducks behind the tree so fast he scrapes his side, the pain sharp and grounding. For a full minute, he stays still. Your silhouette is blurred now, the steam thick. You hum again—something quiet, content. He doesn’t understand that sound either. But god, he wants to hear it up close. In his ear. Against his jaw. He wants to know what makes it come out of you.

He's crouched low outside the cracked-open window, breath shallow, skin damp from swamp mist and sweat—watching, always watching. He tells himself it’s only curiosity, that he doesn’t understand humans, that you’re strange and warm and soft in all the ways his world is not. But then you sigh, shift, the water lapping at your skin, rippling gently around the swell of your chest—and his pupils dilate again, sharp and black. Rafayel's mouth waters. His tongue, long and inhuman, twitches behind his fangs, the forked tip pressing against the back of his teeth. He imagines—pictures, vividly—how one breast would feel in his palm, how the other would arch into the hot drag of his tongue. How your back might curve, mouth part in a quiet gasp as he circled it once, slow, then flicked the tip— How your nipple would perk up, up, up, all too eagerly in his mouth, like a prey too dumb to know its getting eaten. How the other one, in turn, would do the very same. He shudders. He can feel the phantom weight of you in his hands, your soft skin wet and giving under his claws, the taste of you salt-sweet and alive on his tongue. The way you'd twitch when he sucks, the way you'd try to close your thighs and— He snarls, quietly, in frustration.

He doesn't understand it, not fully. Doesn't understand why you make him feel like he's about to burst open at the seams, like his bones want to bend the wrong way just to get closer. You're dangerous. You scrub your shoulder, still unaware, and Rafayel's claws grip the window frame a little harder.

God, he wants to bite you.

Not to kill.

Just to taste.

#hellinistical #pandoras box writing #love and deepspace #afab reader #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #x y/n #drabble #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x you #rafayel smut #love and deepspace x reader #lnds rafayel #rafayel lads #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel x mc #monster rafayel

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puttingherinhistory · 3 months ago

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Thank god I have finally found a phrase for this phenomenon that's been on my mind for years now.

So I've thought about for a while now about how frilly and elaborate fashion vs. plain and practical fashion used to be more of a class marker than a gender marker.

At least up until the 18th century and at least in most of western society (but also in plenty of places outside of western society too) nobles of any gender wore bright beautiful colors, wore ribbons, wore floral prints and pastel, wore makeup, wore uncomfortable pointy heeled shoes.

Meanwhile working class people of any gender were generally prioritizing clothing they could easily do manual labor in without hurting themselves or without fashion getting in the way. No time for a frilly wig full of ribbons or pointed shoes hard to walk in when you had to milk the cows, shovel sheep poop, feed the hens, plow the field, and hand scrub all of your laundry.

But between now and the 18th century I always knew something had just changed because now you look at the most powerful men in the world, and what do you see? Plain, flat shoes in neutral colors. Plain trousers in neutral colors. Plain sweaters or suits in neutral colors.

And on the other hand you look at a working class woman barely scraping by, and she's wearing pointed heeled shoes even though she has to be standing on her feet at her service job all day, and she's wearing makeup even though in most cases the men of her same class standing aren't, and her clothes are elaborate the way an 18th century man's clothes are with frills and colors and patterns, but now only her clothes are and not the men of the same social standing.

It's always driven me a little crazy, when why and how did this happen? How and why was there such a big cultural shift that elaborate and colorful fashion went from a class marker to a gender marker?

So imagine how happy I am that I can finally put a word to it because I finally found the word for this phenomenon: the Great Male Renunciation. The wikipedia article only skims the surface, so I'm excited to read up on it more.

#feminism #intersectional feminism

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waleriqww · 3 months ago

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GRINDHOUSE

Part 1 Part 2

The memory of the two of you meeting when Jong Gun was in prison

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, I suggest you get in line. Hey Bobby, spit that candy out right now!” As you quietly walk beside the guard on your left, you make sure not to make eye contact with anything or anyone around you. You’ve already passed the third cell, and this godforsaken place reeks. Ignoring the stench that tickles your stomach is exhausting, and you’re close to cursing your profession as the bile threatens to rise. You keep swallowing frequently to stop yourself from vomiting in front of the guard beside you. It’s been more than two and a half years since you’ve seen a real mental hospital. During this time, you’ve been working in a clinic that barely qualifies as one it’s basically a cramped room. But even that hopeless, lightless space was a million times more bearable than this disgusting-smelling place. At least it gets aired out half an hour before appointments.

“It’s really good that you came, Doctor. Director Choi hasn’t slept in two days Hey, for God’s sake, put your underwear back on, Aldo!”

When the guard suddenly turns around and yells, you pretend not to notice the tall, burly man walking unsteadily down the hall, completely naked from the waist down.

“Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right! Mr. Choi… This whole thing must’ve shaken him. He hasn’t slept in about two days. Neither have Sister Lee and the Chaplain. They think the boy is possessed by a demon. I’m not a religious person, but I’ve been praying for days. May the gods help us.” As you’re distracted by the man clawing at a wooden table with his nails, your attention shifts from the guard talking beside you. Your eyes involuntarily lock onto the man. His nails scrape the wooden surface with a grating sound, and blood drips from his nail beds down to his fingertips. But he doesn’t seem to feel the pain. He’s muttering to himself, shaking his head as if he forgets what he’s saying, then leaning harder onto the table and scratching more violently. Instinctively, your steps lead you to his table to stop him.

“Ms. Y/N, this way, please.”

The guard’s firm voice makes you pause. Your gaze shifts to him. The stern look on his face, his furrowed brows, is a clear warning: do not interfere. This is the kind of place where you can’t touch even a regular patient without permission. With that awareness, your eyes linger on the man once more. You sigh and return to the guard waiting a few steps away. You can’t even remember the last time you saw a real mental hospital. Let’s be honest you’ve never even treated a real psychiatric patient in your life. You’re a marriage and family therapist. Even your training was molded by a system too comfortable to care about actual patients. This job isn’t for you. And God knows, even you have no idea what the hell you’re doing here.

At the end of the cells, a wave of cold air hits your skin, making you shiver. This corridor doesn’t reek like the last one, which is good. The man next to you is saying something, but your mind is elsewhere. Report structure, next appointment… If you can get out of here without catching hepatitis, you should compile your report and set a time. But the first real thought that crosses your mind? Finding the friend who referred you to this hospital and murdering them.

“Director Choi is waiting inside, Ms. Y/N. Please, this way.”

You exchange a brief glance with the door ahead. Following the guard’s direction, you knock. You wait for a response, but the command you expect comes late. You turn to the guard, but he has already turned around and headed back toward the cells. Just as you open your mouth to call after him, a short “enter” comes from inside. You slowly open the door and slip inside. As your profession demands, you should appear confident—but your shoulders are already slumped. The room is stifling. Clearly a place that hasn’t seen sunlight in a long time. When you make eye contact with the man dozing with his head in his hands, you bow in greeting. He straightens immediately, adjusts his posture.

“Hello, sir. I’m Y/N. I was referred here,” you say.

His expression changes, and he smiles with satisfaction, reaching out with both hands to shake yours.

“Hello, Ms. Y/N. I’ve been expecting you. Please, have a seat.”

You sit where he gestures and observe the man standing. He’s tall, thin—maybe in his early fifties. He’s wearing a white shirt and classic dress pants that end at the ankles. He apologizes for a quick phone call, then asks for two coffees. He even pulls the phone away to ask how you take yours.

“I’m grateful you came, Ms. Y/N,” he says as he ends the call. “Believe me, thousands of patients have passed through these cells, but this… This is the first time I’ve seen anything like this.”

He rolls up his shirt sleeves to the wrists. You meet his eyes. With a tense smile, he pulls a file from the drawer. His voice, like his gestures, is tight. He takes a shaky breath and continues speaking.

“Three different specialists came. All three fled that room in a panic. This… how should I put it…”

He pauses for a moment.

“I haven’t used this word in years, but this is a terrifying case. You’re the best in your field—I’m not afraid to say it, Ms. Y/N. I haven’t slept in two days. I don’t know what it’s called in your profession, but I can say I was psychologically harassed. If I didn’t know he wasn’t a murderer… I’d think he put me in a hypnotic trance.”

“A hypnotic trance?” you ask curiously.

“Yes. A hypnotic trance. I don’t know what happened in that room. Nothing is clear. Not the conversations, not the expressions… You can’t imagine how hard I’ve tried to remember after that session, Ms. Y/N. But I can’t recall a thing. It’s like someone opened my head and stirred the inside with a spoon.”

His pupils are dilated, his voice trembling. He’s scared—seriously scared. You’re about to say something when a knock interrupts. A woman enters, sets the tray down, quietly places the coffee, and leaves.

“Inducing a hypnotic trance isn’t all that difficult, Mr. Choi. Don’t let that scare you. Anyone trained in the technique can do it. Controlling the brain takes effort, but the person you’re talking about must be very knowledgeable. Is there any issue with me speaking to him?”

As you place the coffee cup back down, Mr. Choi shakes his head.

“Your friend worked at this hospital. I know her well. I have no doubt you’re capable, but I hope this doesn’t overwhelm you, Ms. Y/N. The issues with that man’s mind are far more serious than anyone else in these cells.”

You nod and stand. The Director stands with you. He gestures, and you begin to walk with him. As you proceed down the corridor, heading away from the cells confuses you. Realizing he’s in a different section makes you furrow your brows. You pass through a door with a transparent curtain. At the end of the corridor is a locked room. As you approach, the tense aura presses on your gut, but you try to stay calm.

You continue until you stop in front of that locked door.

“This way,” says Director Choi. The guard trailing behind you steps closer with equally nervous steps. You try to maintain your composure as the tension clings to your skin. As the guard unlocks the cell, you hope he doesn’t fumble the job. When the door opens, Director Choi makes no move to enter. The guard turns and disappears. You frown and swallow involuntarily.

“His hands are cuffed. He hasn’t attacked anything yet.”

It sounds like he’s saying he doesn’t want to go in. You give a slight nod. You don’t want to go in either—not one bit.As you step inside, a tickle forms in your throat, but to avoid revealing your anxiety, you suppress the urge to cough, pressing your tongue to your palate. As the door opens, Mr. Choi stays behind, and you enter alone.

He’s right there in front of you. Head bowed, cuffed hands resting on the table. Strands of hair fall over his face, casting a shadow on his eyes. You can’t tell whether they’re open or closed probably closed. He’s wearing a plain shirt, buttoned all the way up to the crease on the sleeve. If not for the cuffs and the rumors, you could mistake him for someone high-ranking. Killers don’t wear neatly ironed clothes.

“Welcome.”

You were lost in observing him. The closing door startles you. The soft chuckle filling the room unsettles you, and your feet freeze in place. You’re not sure if he’s noticed you watching, but you feel observed. You remain composed, take a few steps, and decide to approach the table. His tan hands twitch, then rub together. His head remains bowed, and it unsettles you more than it should. You try not to notice how fast your heart is racing.

“Not going to speak, Doctor?” he says in a layered voice. You place your hands on your legs and take a shaky breath. You don’t want to stutter. You choose your words carefully.

“I’m Y/N. They told me inside that you need help.”

He laughs. Nods slightly, then lifts his head to meet your eyes. Now you get a better look at his face. You encounter his irises, unusually white pupils, which, rather than adding to his intimidation, seem to be a distinctive element that sets him apart from everyone else. The shadows cast by his hair don’t hide the sharp lines of his features, the shape of his nose, his eyes, his lips you memorize them. He has a beautiful face. Killers are supposed to be dirty. His isn’t. You spot a small mole on his nose and a red scar between his eyes. He runs his tongue between his teeth a few times. You’re struck by the shape of his mouth. You pause. You really wonder, is he even a killer?

“I do need help, Doctor” he says. Tilts his head and watches you. He looks like a small child. He swallows. As he does, a pained expression crosses his face.

“There’s a bit of pain between my legs.”

A child? Forget that.

You ignore the dirty joke.

“Director Choi said you hypnotized him and controlled his mind. Do you have that kind of expertise?” you ask, flatly.

He looks around the room. When he purses his lips, your hands cling to your pants without thinking. He appears thoughtful, then looks back at you.

“Did I do that?” he asks curiously. His voice is childlike, but to you it’s just annoying. You don’t respond. You wait.

“As far as I know, there’s no legal restriction in our country on who can or can’t perform hypnosis.”

Despite your tension, you chuckle a joyless laugh.

“If you’re that knowledgeable, then you should also know that manipulating someone’s mind violates a physician’s professional boundaries” you say.

He leans in, closer to your face. You grip your pants tighter, hold your ground. You’re now face to face. His eyebrows are neat, lashes aligned. His face is sharp and symmetrical.

“Sweating from increased body heat, accelerated heart rate…” He smiles. You hadn’t noticed the sweat until he said it. His breath fans across your face, making him harder to ignore.

“You must be having naughty thoughts to be this excited, Doctor,” he says, grinning. Gets closer.

“Or… You’re not a real doctor.”

His breath grazes your face again before he pulls back. He leans into his chair, watching your stunned expression with amusement. You part your lips and release your grip on your pants.

He keeps watching. You avert your gaze. You try to calm yourself down before you slam the door and walk out.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Doctor?” he asks. You look at him again. He’s still watching. His lips are dry, cracked. That dry? They must not be giving him water.

“I’m not satisfied with the service, Doctor,” he says. He must’ve noticed where you were looking. You quickly meet his gaze again. There’s a warmth there it confuses you even more. You take a deep breath and reach for your bag. He eyes the bottle of water you pull out.

“But you still haven’t answered my question, Doctor.”

You stand, approach him. The closeness triggers him, he studies your every move. You’re tense, but not like when you first entered.

“I’m not obligated to answer personal questions. Especially if the person asking is my patient,” you say. You open the bottle and bring it to his lips. He doesn’t break eye contact as he drinks. A drop trickles down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. You swallow. His lips now have more color. But his damned eyes still haven’t left your face. Your hands tremble as you return the bottle to your bag. You clear your throat.

“How sweet of you to already claim me, Doctor,” he says. You frown, face him.

“You won’t answer personal questions with me that makes me your patient too, doesn’t it?”

Is that what he focused on? He must be obsessed with details. You read a little article somewhere about murderers being detail oriented and symmetry obsessed. Now it gives you goosebumps remembering it.

“If that’s what you’re fixated on, I don’t recall implying that I would treat you,” you say.

He clicks his tongue, the sound echoing in the room. He lifts his gaze, meets yours. Tilts his head slightly to the right, keeps watching.

“Pity, Doctor. I could’ve behaved for you.”

Of course he’s playing. You know if you don’t take this job, your friend will kill you. You know what’ll happen if you object once you’re out of here.

“I think that’s enough for today,” you say, standing. “I have a report to deliver to Mr. Choi.”

He must’ve gotten the message. He smirks. Watches your body as you stand.

“I like you, Doctor.”

As you walk down the corridor, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. You’ve just come out of a terrifying session. You breathe easier now than you did inside the room. You wipe the sweat off your neck and shoulders with a tissue from your pocket. When you find Director Choi’s office, he lifts his head from the papers and watches you with curiosity. You drop your bag and speak before reaching for the file.

“In our next session, I want the cuffs removed. Also, I request a pitcher and glass be left in the cell” you say sharply. While he stares at you in shock, your eyes catch the name written in bold ink on the file cover.

7552 – Park Jong Gun

I don't think anyone will read this story, but the fiction suddenly teleported into my mind, so instead of keeping it in my notes, I'm writing it here lol. sorry if I wrote something wrong

#lookism #lookism manhwa #lookism x reader #lookism gun #lookism oc #lookism smut #lookism spoilers #lookism webtoon #gun x reader #gun lookism #jonggun x reader #lookism headcanons #lookism jonggun #park jonggun #gun park x reader #gun park #park jonggun x reader

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