#instead of slicing with a knife

[stylesispunk]

'Landed too hard'

outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: You save Joel's life from raiders but instead of thanking you, he gets mad at you.

or

You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.

wc: 7k

warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff

a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no wind, just the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel, who was ahead of you, and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day; his broad shoulders seemed tense under his jacket, his grip on the rifle was tighter than usual.

It felt like the premonition of something bad coming your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand. Staying alert in case something bad could happen.

“We’ll set up camp soon,” Joel muttered exasperated, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.

Ellie groaned. “Finally. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall soon.”

You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel's back. His jaw was tight, the scar on his temple crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signs; he was worried. More than usual today.

That’s why you didn’t even hear them coming.

One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed, came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.

“Stay down,” he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. “If anyone gets close, you shoot. Don’t move unless I say so.”

“Joel—”

“Stay here."

You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another, and so on.

But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man who’d done this a thousand times before, as you already know, but even then, it was too much to bear; he didn't feel strong enough as before. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those men’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.

“Shit,” you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellie’s panicked breathing next to you.

Joel clawed at the man’s wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t going to get out of it, and you couldn’t just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you as if it wasn't worth saving.

“Stay here,” you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.

“Wait, what are you doing?!” she whispered.

Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.

You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own knife into the man’s neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attacker’s chest before he could think of recovering. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.

You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.

Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. “Joel? Hey, hey, are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yours, not with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he rasped, still coughing.

You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. “I-I-I had to...He was going to—”

“And you didn't listen to me!" Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole body trembling with anger. He hated when you had to put yourself in danger because he hadn't been strong enough to save the day. “I told you to stay hidden! What if he’d killed you?!”

“Well, he didn’t kill me,” you stated, “I saved your life.”

“And you risked yours doing it." His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.

“Well, thanks to that risk you are not fucking dead." you spat back.

Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.

He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn’t even look at you right now. "You put yourself in danger. You could’ve been killed. Do you even get that?"

"I get it. I just saved your ass." You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"

He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I won't do this with you."

"Fine," you bit out.

The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed as if sensing the tension.

You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the cut on your cheek burned, you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellie’s eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didn’t say anything. Joel still wasn’t looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.

"We should get moving," he muttered, voice strained.

You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like the open wound on your cheek.

That night, you found a small clearing tucked between big trees, far enough from the road to feel safe enough to spend the night. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.

You weren’t hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly dying and feeling at peace with it. How easy would it be for him to leave you behind and on your own?

You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.

A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.

"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."

You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the liquid and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.

"Sorry," Ellie murmured, biting a laugh, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "You’re lucky it’s not deeper."

You let out a small chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Lucky isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe this day.”

Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, you’re not dead, so that counts for something."

You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadn’t turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, Ellie."

She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."

As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfort, at least from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of your little camp.

Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over your sleeping form.

You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.

The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his thermos, sipping coffee out of it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.

Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day before, reminding him of how you always put yourself in danger for him.

He hated himself for it. How he had come to the point where he felt useless to protect you.

Now, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well to know what was happening.

Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel.

“Should I wake her up?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.

Joel shook his head. “Not yet.”

Ellie raised a brow. “Why?”

Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. “She has a frown.”

Ellie blinked. “Yeah, because she’s mad at you. Even in her sleep.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasn’t much fight in it. “No. It’s different. She gets that when she gets migraine.” He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. “Just let her sleep a little bit longer.”

Ellie’s teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer in her gaze, “You really pay attention, huh?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire, fading. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “When it comes to her, of course I do.”

Ellie sighed, dropping back down next to him. “So are you gonna fix this or what?”

Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. “She doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

“Yeah, because you yelled at her.” She reminded him.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”

“She saved your ass, Joel.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “That isn't the point.”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, it kinda is. She did what you would’ve done for her.”

Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.

“Do you think she would be fine if you were dead?” she pressed on, sighing.

Instead of an answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look; tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.

Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. “Wait… do you carry her pills?”

Joel didn’t look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, like he didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.

Ellie crossed her arms. “Huh.”

Joel finally glanced at her. “What?”

Ellie smirked. “Nothin’. Just, you act all tough, but you’re, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.”

Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Keep it to yourself, kid,” as he moved toward you.

You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once; he wouldn’t fail you now.

Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still weren’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop taking care of you.

As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression.

Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.

Ellie nodded. “You’re doing the right thing, at least.”

Joel wasn’t sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling and fading nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion from the last day.

And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didn’t have to ask who put them there.

Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, and Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what you’d do.

You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.

Joel’s voice came before you could say anything. “Drink some water with that.”

It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.

You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didn’t have the energy to fight with him again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.

Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.

Ellie, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long. “Sooo, does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?

You shot her a look. “Ellie.”

“What? I’m just saying—”

Joel cut in; his voice flat. “Eat your breakfast.”

Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.

You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.

He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasn’t working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.

Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didn’t always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to. The way he always did when you were hurting.

But things weren’t the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.

You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldn’t need him like that.

Except you did.

Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. “Did you take the pills?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed it— “Still hurts?”

You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.

His lips pressed against your temple, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.

You closed your eyes, breathing him in, savoring the feeling of his lips on your skin.

“Get ready, we have to go now,” he said, still closer to your face.

You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.

He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadn’t just touched you just a moment ago. Like he hadn’t just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.

You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest. "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.

Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one who didn’t know how to bridge the gap now.

Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning.

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."

She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended to, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely, like he always did.

The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.

Joel was beside you, his pace slow, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, and you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments.

Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.

Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of them.

Joel’s outburst had been raw and desperate, yes, but now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just losing you. But what did it mean to him if he did it?

Because Joel didn’t think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasn’t enough, that he never had been. And maybe, he would never be the man you need it.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You don’t have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.

Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"

"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you, you shout at me and I'm angry about it."

His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.

You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for days, something's been different, and yesterday you just broke."

Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothing’s different."

You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.

Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth opening—then closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.

Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.

That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.

So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothing’s different, then let’s just keep moving."

He heard the way your voice broke at the end, and he just watched as you joined Ellie.

Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. He’d done this again.

Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable, before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didn’t look back.

And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.

Because, deep down, he knew. It wasn’t the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.

A few hours later, when the cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.

Joel stepped inside first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasn’t just looking for supplies; he was looking for danger, as always, and he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible.

He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.

Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. “Is it safe?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.

You didn’t answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished.

“He’ll let us know when it’s safe,” you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. “Yeah, but what if-”

You cut her off with a shake of your head. “He’s careful. He’ll check everything first.”

She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Then, Joel’s voice echoed from ahead. “Clear,” he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.

His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.

You didn’t react, didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.

Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead.

You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joel’s voice came from behind you again, “You good?”

It was automatic, the way he asked. Like, even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldn’t help but care.

You hesitated, keeping your back to him. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Then a quiet, “Alright.”

But it wasn’t alright.

Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close, but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder again, as if he didn’t want to let go.

Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the building’s dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show.

You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.

A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin; your foot didn’t feel right.

"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldn’t hold any weight. You couldn’t put it down.

Ellie’s voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. “What happened?”

“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You were grateful for his presence when you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.

He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"

“I—I fell,” you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldn’t focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.

Joel’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. “I’m gonna need you to stay still, alright?” His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“Ellie, get over here,” Joel called out, his voice low and strained.

Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. “Shit, are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “It’s just my ankle.”

Joel’s gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. “We need to get you out of here, now.” His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.

Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. “I’ll go grab what we need.”

Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."

You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldn’t suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but something was comforting in the way Joel’s arms secured around you.

“Joel,” you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.

“I got you,” he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."

As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle was still lingering.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you weren’t talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.

Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands working carefully as he pulled your boots off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.

Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

You didn’t respond. Joel didn’t either.

Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.

You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t have to pretend you care about this.”

Joel’s hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“Do you think I’m pretending?” His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.

You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Joel. One second, you’re mad at me. The next, you’re acting like...like this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like it actually matters.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. “It does matter. You are the most important person to me. ”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Does it? Because you sure as hell didn’t act like it when you were yelling at me.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was mad because you almost got yourself killed.”

“I was saving you.” You protested.

“I don’t need saving,” He replied, rough as always.

Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. “And I don’t need you acting like I don’t have a say in whether or not I protect you."

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

You frowned, your voice softer now. “Can’t what?”

His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. “I can’t lose you.”

The words hit you hard. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “So do you think I want to lose you?”

Joel’s expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.

Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper.

“You are always so willing to die,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Like you’re just waiting for the exact moment. Like, none of this matters to you. Like, I don’t matter.”

Joel’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didn’t say anything.

You sniffed, shaking your head. “Do you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?”

He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasn’t saying.

“You walk into danger like you’ve already made peace with dying,” you continued, your voice raw. “And maybe you have. Maybe you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter if you make it out. Like you don’t care if I have to watch you—”

Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do care,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. “You sure don’t act like it.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. “I’m not waiting to die.”

You scoffed, looking away.

“I’m not,” he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. “I just…I don’t know how to protect you.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. “I spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then you—” He stopped, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words.

You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable to your eyes.

"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.

"You're strong," he stated.  

"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death," you said, tired of the cycle.

“I’m not trying to--” he started, but you cut him off.

“Yes, you are,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You act like you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I don’t know what’s worse, watching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, you’d probably think I’d just move on.”

His brows furrowed. “That isn't-"

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joel’s wrist. “Do you love me, Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say it, that maybe, after everything, he’d still hold back.

But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing traces of your face.

“I do love you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”

Your breath stilled.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “More than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.

“Then stop trying to leave me behind,” you whispered, pleading to him.

He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.

“How do you even love someone like me?” Joel’s voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely saw, something raw and unprotected. He was always protecting people.

Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didn’t have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, “I love you because you’re you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls you’ve built around yourself, I still see the man who’s been there for me. You’re not perfect, and none of us are. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldn’t shake.

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “Stop saying that,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You deserve me. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way. I’ve seen who you are, Joel. You’re not what you think you are.”

“Why do you think I keep pushing you away?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.

You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. “Because you’re scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,” you said softly. “You’re scared of losing me. But pushing me away won’t make it any easier. It’ll just leave you with a regret you can’t undo.”

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasn’t enough to break him completely, not yet.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do… I won’t be able to protect you. I can’t live with that.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.

Joel’s hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasn’t lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn’t the pain from your ankle that caught your attention; it was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.

Joel’s fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was careful, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didn’t want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.

You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place in them. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.

Joel’s gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Don’t laugh,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. “I’m just trying to make it better.”

You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Joel,” you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “It’s just... never thought you’d be kissing my ankle better.”

Joel’s smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious.  Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.

And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was everything he hadn’t been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment in the middle of this kiss.

“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Ellie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.

Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what she’d just walked in on.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re already making out. Unbelievable.”

Your face burned, but you couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatic tone. “Ellie—”

“No, no,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “I mean, it’s kinda sweet, but gross.”

Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. “Ellie.”

“What?” She shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. But, uh—maybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.”

Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. “We should get movin’.”

You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.

As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, “God, I hope I never have to see that again.”

As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.

“Joel, it’s fine, I can walk,” you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes.

“Not gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.” Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. “Get on.” He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.

You blinked at him. “Joel, I can—”

He shot you a look over his shoulder. “I'm not asking...”

Ellie snorted. “Just get on, lovebird.”

You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.

“Easy, old man,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. “Call me that again, and I’m dropping you.”

You laughed softly, “Thanks,” you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadn’t realized you needed until now.

You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with slow steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.

Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. “You trying to distract me?” His voice was lower now, rougher.

A smirk played on your lips. “Is it working?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, “I love you, Joel.”

His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.

He didn’t answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.

But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, “I love you too, darling. Always”.

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.3

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

★ A/N: some intimate mark time this chapter, yay!! also, cough cough, let's not talk about that tiny break i took 😭

★ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 ★ | ★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

YOU COME BACK TO DAMIAN'S SWORD AGAINST MARK'S THROAT—

—because of-fucking-course you do. You just can't catch a break for the life of you today.

"Damian—"

"This scum," spits the ex-assassin, cutting you off with the same sharp edge as the blade he wields, "had the nerve to claim we couldn't keep you safe."

Subtly, ever so subtly, Mark's jaw flexes. "I never said that."

"It doesn't need to be said to be implied." Damian narrows his gaze back at the meta, fingers readjusting themselves around the handle of his katana, twitching with an urge—to swing. To slice.

To kill.

You should've known. You should've known something like this would happen. That the brothers would be incapable of even so much as getting along with someone (a meta, no less) who claimed to be in any sort of relationship with you. Or, for fuck's sake, not holding some sort of weapon against his damn throat for something as little as a hug.

Maybe you expected a little too much. These are, after all, the same men who watched you through traffic cameras to ensure your safety when the Joker left hiding with a big bang. Literally.

You pinch your nose with a sigh, the start of a headache steadily clambering up your skull—

"Do you need some aspirin?"

—only to immediately cease its climb for a second.

Your eyes shoot open, quickly finding themselves on the unmasked viglante sat with a sword still to his throat, but his pupils trained onto you.

"How did you..?"

"You always get a headache after pinching your nose a few times," he answers, eyes crinkling a little in something soft and fond, "and I've always told you to stop pinching so hard 'cause of it."

You stare at him with parted lips and wide eyes, feeling that familiar heat crawl through you when he just continues to hold your gaze, smile a little too genuine to be directed at a stranger. 

Though, at this point, you're pretty sure that's not what you are to him.

The rattling of pills snaps you out of your little daze, and you blink to find Mark with his hand gestured out to you, a box resting neatly on his palm.

Aspirin.

"I always keep some on me," he says with a smile. But then his gaze falls down, and that smile is no more. "Even if... you're not around to take them anymore."

Something sharp punctures your chest, like a knife to the heart, and you almost clutch it from the pain, from his expression, but before you can even think to offer some words of comfort, the sword against Mark's throat presses down harder. 

"Damian," comes slipping out your mouth instead, stern and cross.

"He just tried to drug you in front of me," growls the swordsman, pressing down harder, the skin of Mark's throat hugging the sword's edge.

"It's just aspirin," you shoot back, narrowing your gaze at the demon heir. He narrows his right back.

"You don't know that."

Another pinch. Another ache. And the next thing you know, you're snatching the pill box right out of Mark's hand, Damian's eyes widening and stance faltering long enough for the meta to wrap his hand around the edge of the blade and squeeze.

Metal shards fall to your floor with a clang.

"You—!" Damian seethes, gripping the remainder of his shattered sword with teeth gritted hard enough to break boulders. "How fucking dare you."

Mark's face scrunches, a little bit in disbelief, a little in judgement. "You're the one that pointed a sword at me, man."

"What are you anyway?" comes a new voice, gruff and tough and seeping the same judgement that's in Mark's expression but a hundred times over. "Bullet proof, flight, super strength... you a Kent or somethin'?"

Damian clicks his tongue. "That idiot would tell me if his father were to adopt another of his kind."

Mark scrunches his face. "What's a Kent?" Then he shakes his head, steeling himself before answering, plain and simple, "I'm a Viltrumite."

You raise a brow, exchanging a glance with Duke and Dick, the two of them silent, but very much just as bewildered as you.

"A Viltrumite...?" you echo in a whisper.

"Why does that sound so familiar?" Duke finishes your thought.

"You're thinking of Kryptonite," comes yet another new voice—one that just entered the room; one that locks eyes with you, longing and pleading, before breaking away as if torn to, "as in: Kryptonian." 

Tim's gaze falls on Mark, and he continues with a question, "Did you mean you're a Kryptonian?"

Mark's brows knit. "Uh, no. What's a Kryptonian?"

"Our world's version of your kind, I'm guessing," you answer, lips pulled thin. Then a thought occurs, and you're quickly fumbling with the pills in your grip. "Uh—here. Thanks."

You place them back in his hands, fingers brushing against his own for a split second.

But a split second enough.

With a blink and tingles exploding in your fingertips, you're suddenly surrounded by blue. Blue and white and a vast expanse of nothing else. Not even the ground.

You blink, swaying gently, when a pair of hands settle on your hips.

"Careful," a voice whispers, the same voice that showed up at your door just hours ago, "you don't wanna fall."

Your head tilts, and a smile tugs at your lips, the next words tumbling out without you even having to think, "But you'd catch me if I did."

It's said with such certainty, such natural cadence, that you can't help but believe it yourself.

Then Mark smiles—soft and fond and filled with so much love—and your heart begins to bleed that belief.

"Yeah," he starts—quiet, intimate, "I would."

Your breath hitches, his nose moving to press against your own while the hands resting on your hips wind around your waist, pulling your back into the warmth of his chest as if he needs you to breathe.

And with the way he looks at you, you'd believe it.

Those crinkled eyes, that soft smile, the swirling brown that floods you with so much warmth, you'd need a fire to cool down.

He looks at you like you've strung up all the stars in the night sky just for him.

Then he tilts his head, and he leans in, and his lips press against yours.

...And you blink back to reality.

Your head whips around, lips parted and tongue so far from wet, it's practically a desert.

No one seems to be particularly concerned, all still glaring at Mark like he murdered stray kittens right in front of their eyes without so much as a blink.

"So let's just say that you are from another world," Tim starts like you didn't just see a whole ass vision right in front of your eyes, and you blink back your disbelief, "and in your world, Viltrumites are Kryptonians...

"Where the hell is this world's version of you?"

You blink again, looking around one more time and locking eyes with Duke, who raises a brow and flashes you a look that practically screams 'we'll talk about this later'.

So you put it to rest for now.

"How the hell would I know?" Mark questions, raising a brow in that same disbelief and judgement he gave Damian.

"You knew where [Name] was," Jason accuses.

"That's different."

"Oh yeah? How? 'Cause she's your little girlfriend?"

Mark's jaw ticks, but before he can even think to lunge, a chime interrupts him.

Multiple chimes.

The boys all raise a brow, each reaching for their phone and taking only a second to check it before their eyes are widening and their muscles go as taut as a tightrope.

"The Joker," Dick whispers.

"Of all times," Damian growls.

And the room bathes in a tense silence for one... two... three seconds before Duke breaks it.

"We have to go."

"No," replies Damian, firm and sound and more final than a runner passing the finish line of a race in first place.

But before anyone can say anything, can rebuke his claim or, dare you say, agree with it, you speak up, "And why the hell not?"

The demon head turns to you, gaze narrow and lips pulled down into a stern frown.

"We are not leaving you alone with him."

"You have a city to save." You cross your arms, jutting out a hip. "You don't have a choice."

He crosses his arms right back at you. "I don't think you understand, Beloved. I refuse to let him hurt you."

"And don't you think he would've already if he wanted to?" you retort, before letting your gaze soften a bit, "I have a feeling he's telling the truth."

In return, his own gaze hardens. "I'm not risking your safety on a feeling."

It's dumb, and you know he doesn't mean anything hurtful by it, but you still can't help the way your voice falters. "You don't trust me?"

Instantly, he uncrosses his arms, instead holding them out towards you as his expression all but softens into knitted brows and all soft edges. "Of course I do," he whispers. "You know I do, Habibti. It's him I don't trust."

Damian's gaze flickers over to Mark for a brief second, narrowed and pointed and filled with nothing but suspicion, before returning to you, all the aforementioned feelings like a ghost in his eyes.

You take a moment to steel yourself, breathing in with closed eyes and out with open ones as you say, "I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust me."

His jaw ticks, gaze far-off, and you move to press both hands against his chest to reel him back in.

"Go, Damian. I'll be fine. I promise."

He stares into your eyes, guarded, but still swirling, still loving, still listening.

And listen he does, for not a moment later, he relents with a sigh. "Fine, but I will come back as soon as I take down that scum of the Earth. And I expect you to alert me should anything go wrong."

With another dirty look sent to Mark by Damian, you smile. "I'll lead you guys out."

The loud slam of your door follows your words, and you flinch, looking around to find all the boys but Jason there and looking back at you.

Dick shakes his head. "Always such a temper."

Your lips pull down, but you force yourself to shake it off, walking over to your door to open it once more for the rest of your house guests.

"I'll see ya later, Trouble." Dick winks, heading out first.

Tim follows, not saying anything so he can, instead, hit you with that longing glance that can't seem to pull away until he's craning his neck awkwardly enough to have to face forward again.

Then Damian takes it upon himself to go next, giving you a swift goodbye as he continues to murmur what you can only assume are curses under his breath in Arabic.

And finally, there's Duke, who takes just one step out the door before swiftly turning around, grabbing your arm, and gently tugging you towards him.

"What was that earlier?"

You blink. "What was what?"

He narrows his gaze, lips pulling into a thin line. "The looking around aimlessly." Then his eyes turn sharp; sharp enough to cut a diamond. "Did he drug you?"

His fist clenches as he says that, the lights flickering enough to have you using your hand to grip his free arm lightly.

"No, no." You shake your head. "It's not that. I'll tell you later, I promise."

He shoots you a look, one of those ones that tell you he expects you to follow up on that offer, before nodding his head once, spearing Mark with one last narrow look, and turning back around to continue down the hall.

And just like that, all your invited house guests are gone, having never once watched even a second of the promised movie they had come over for in the first place.

You shake your head, clicking your door shut with a sigh before turning around, a smile—shaking and nervous—nestled onto your face.

"Well then. That was quite the show, huh?"

TAGLIST: @silas-222, @bloofairyfox, @wiseavenuelove, @inkycapps, @velovicy, @mmentallyelsewhere, @verysynical, @1abi, @bluepartywobblernickel, @krys0210, @patatasolitaria, @mazixxss, @nova916, @federalprison78-4, @crissy09yesso, @minhyrin, @nutella-hitler, @kvzutora, @starslightzz, @alishii, @crybabyghostie, @jsprien213, @cupid73, @doggyteam2028, @invinciblewaffles, @love-theangel, @butterbiscuit444, @thecrazyone2007, @reaperxdeath, @gaychaosgremlin, @pookiei-bookie, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @eugenekori, @khaos141, @saltedcoffeescotch, @thatoneraeder, @pix-stuff, @lingxio, @mxvoid26, @winterhi09, @pengmar, @natsukicookies, @bronermalls, @marinefreaakk, @starmee-lodurrson, @bbsaeko, @vellichor01, @frothymilkdrink, @brooklynbbxo, @sleepygirl-inc

[bywons]

MAKE YOU MINE ⭑ 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾

𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄， 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ ｡ vamp!enha 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1765────── fluff ✿‎ kissing skinship bruises blood 贅沢 𖥔

★ 𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦 𝖥𝖮𝖱 𝖠 𝖪𝖨𝖲𝖲

LEE HEESEUNG

“get away from her,” heeseung’s voice cuts in like a knife in the darkness, and in a flash of a moment, he’s standing in front of you, the dark figure before you a second ago vanishes in the air.

his chest rises and falls steadily, but his eyes burn with a fierce protectiveness that makes your heart skip. “are you okay?” his voice is softer now, trembling slightly, as if the threat had shaken him more than he wants to admit.

you look at his red glinting eyes, a horrifying sight, and yet it’s what draws you in, the real him. you finally nod at him, his cold hands cupping your jaws.

“don’t ever scare me like that again,” heeseung whispers, his forehead pressing against yours, breath cool and ragged. his hands are still on your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a touch that borders on reverence.

you don’t move—you can’t. not when his lips are this close. not when his eyes, red and unholy, flicker down to your mouth like he’s starving for more than just blood.

“you don’t know what it does to me,” he breathes, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “seeing someone else near you—touching you.”

his lips graze yours, not quite a kiss, not quite innocent. it’s restraint. torture. heeseung’s fingers curl slightly at your neck, thumb dragging down to your pulse. “this… it’s mine,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth against the skin there, not biting—just claiming.

you feel the chill of his breath, the heat of his desire. it’s terrifying. intoxicating. and you don’t want him to stop.

PARK JONGSEONG

“stay behind me,” jay says, voice low, dangerous—like a blade unsheathed in the dark.

you barely have time to breathe before he moves, a blur of motion that leaves the air sliced and stilled. the threat—another vampire, fangs bared—crumbles to ash at jay’s feet without a sound.

you stagger back, heart pounding, your silk gown torn at the hem. jay turns to you, eyes burning red, blood trailing down his temple.

“you’re bleeding,” you whisper, reaching up to touch him.

he catches your wrist midair. not harshly, but firm. “don’t.” his voice is tense, too tense. “i’m barely holding back.”

you search his face—the furrow in his brow, the tightness in his jaw. he looks more beast than man, yet still beautiful. yours.

“you keep risking everything,” you say, stepping closer, ignoring his warning. “you’re not just my bodyguard anymore, jay.”

his expression shatters. “you think i don’t know that?” he breathes. “every time you look at me like this, i forget what i am. what i could do to you.”

“then don’t forget,” you whisper, pressing your palm to his chest. “remember who you are with me.”

his breath stutters. “you’re playing with fire.”

“maybe i want to burn.”

his lips crash onto yours—desperate, bruising, filled with the hunger he’s buried for too long.

and as he pulls you into his arms, shielding you once again from the world, he silently vows:

he’d rather burn with you. than live forever without you.

SIM JAEYUN

“you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you whisper, voice trembling as your fingers brush over the purple bruises blooming down jake’s ribs.

he winces, but not from your touch. his eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark shadows, lift to meet yours. a dried line of blood streaks from the corner of his mouth, sharp against his pale skin.

“i had to,” he says quietly. “he was getting too close to you.”

your heart clenches. “you let him hurt you just to protect me?”

he doesn’t answer. instead, his gaze drops—shame flickering in the red that still glows faintly in his eyes.

“jake,” you murmur, cradling his face. “this isn’t saving me if you’re killing yourself.”

he leans into your touch like it’s the only warmth left in the world. “i don’t care what happens to me,” he says hoarsely, “as long as you’re untouched. unbitten. alive.”

you feel his pain under your fingertips—the fractured ribs, the bloodless chill of his skin, the weight of everything he’s endured just to keep you safe.

“i never asked you to suffer for me.”

he looks up, jaw clenched. “i need to suffer if it means you’re okay.”

your hands tremble as you pull him into your arms, his body too cold, too still. “then let me take some of the pain, jake. please. let me save you for once.”

his voice breaks against your shoulder. “you already did… you just don’t know it yet.”

PARK SUNGHOON

“your father won’t approve this,” sunghoon breathes, lips just inches from yours, swollen from the kiss he couldn’t resist. yet he doesn’t move. his cold hands stay firm on your waist, pulling you tightly against the chestplate of his armor.

you tilt your head, breath hitching, heart pounding like a war drum beneath royal silk. “he never approved of anything that made me feel alive,” you whisper. “but you… you do.”

sunghoon’s jaw clenches, fangs just barely visible in the moonlight that spills through the stone corridor. “i’m not a man, princess ,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet. “i’m a monster in armor. your father assigned me to guard you, not—”

“—not fall in love with me?” you finish, eyes shimmering with both defiance and longing.

he exhales shakily, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

you reach up, fingers trailing over his jaw, cool and sharp under your touch. “then show me.”

and he does—he kisses you like a man who’s starved for centuries. his hands slip into your hair, down your back, trembling as they memorize every curve like it’s his last night breathing.

��we can’t stay,” he whispers against your lips. “if i stay, they’ll kill me in front of you.”

your breath is shaky, but steady with resolve. “then take me with you.”

his eyes flash red.

the next night, the princess’s bed was cold. her chamber empty. and far beyond the kingdom’s borders, a knight rode fast beneath the moon—his arms around the only thing he ever dared to love.

KIM SUNOO

the night is soft, wrapped in a quiet so complete it feels like the world is holding its breath just for you. sunoo’s hand slips into yours, warm and gentle, grounding you in the stillness. his eyes gleam faintly crimson as he studies your face, searching for the words he can’t find.

“you don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly, voice like a lullaby in the dark.

you swallow hard, heart fluttering against your ribs. “but what if you hurt me?” your voice is barely a whisper, trembling with the weight of uncertainty.

sunoo’s fingers tighten around yours. “i would never hurt you,” he promises, voice breaking with the honesty that feels almost too fragile for someone like him.

he leans closer, breath warm on your skin, and you can’t help but shiver. “there’s a darkness inside me,” he admits, eyes locking with yours. “but with you, it’s quieter. softer. like i’m… learning to be human again.”

his lips brush yours, hesitant at first, then with growing certainty. the kiss tastes faintly metallic, but beneath it is something sweeter—hope, trust, something new.

you rest your forehead against his, breath mingling. “teach me,” you whisper.

sunoo smiles, a delicate, almost shy curve of his lips. “we’ll learn together.”

and in the quiet night, with stars watching overhead, you find yourself willing to take the leap—into the unknown, into forever—with him.

YANG JUNGWON

you shouldn’t be here. not in the shadows of the balcony, not with jungwon’s back pressed to the stone wall and your hands clutching his bloodstained collar.

“this is wrong,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t stop you. his eyes glow faintly crimson in the moonlight, flickering between restraint and something dangerously close to desire.

“you’ve said that every night,” you murmur, fingers brushing the healing gash on his neck. “and yet, here you are.”

he exhales, sharp and shaky. “if your brother knew—”

“he’d kill you,” you finish for him. “but i’m not his to protect, jungwon.”

your words hang heavy between you. the space is thick with tension, charged with every stolen glance, every quiet moment over the years where you knew—he was always soemthing more than he let on.

“you smell like blood,” you whisper, stepping closer, voice softer now. “you’re hurt again.”

“i’m fine,” he lies, jaw clenched.

you reach up, cradling his cheek. his breath catches. “you keep fighting for me in the dark, jungwon. when will you let yourself have something… light?”

his composure cracks.

his hand wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his forehead pressed to yours. “you don’t understand what i am,” he whispers.

“then show me,” you say.

and he does—kissing you like he’s spent centuries waiting, like you’re the only thing that makes him feel alive in a world of shadows.

he’ll regret this. but not tonight. not while you’re still in his arms.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“vampires aren’t real, right?”

your voice is barely above a whisper, shaky, like you’re afraid the truth might answer back. you stand in the doorway of your shared apartment, hoodie pulled tight around your frame, eyes wide and fixed on riki—who’s sitting on the windowsill, bathed in moonlight.

he doesn’t answer immediately.

he just looks at you. too still. too quiet. like he’s trying to decide whether to lie or let everything unravel.

“why are you asking that?” he finally says, voice low, almost careful.

your eyes dart to the blood on his sleeve. your breath catches. “i saw you,” you say. “last night. in the alley. your eyes… they weren’t human.”

he stands. not rushed, not startled. just slow, graceful, quiet in that unnatural way you never noticed until now.

“you weren’t supposed to see that.”

you take a step back, heart pounding. “so it’s true.”

he sighs. his voice is softer now. “i didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“how long?”

he meets your gaze, something ancient and sorrowful flickering behind his eyes. “since before we were roommates. since before i knew what it meant to want something… i couldn’t have.”

he moves closer. you don’t run. you should, but you don’t.

“are you scared of me now?” he whispers.

you tremble. but you don’t look away. “should i be?”

riki leans in, just enough that you feel his breath on your lips, he smiles through his nervousness, hand caressing your cheeks.

“absolutely not,” he murmurs, “i want to keep you safe, even from myself.”

스루 ܃ the way each one of these can be a seperate drabble or oneshot .. TT i love vampire enha 🫰🏽

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[youthguk]

Vestiges | jjk (m)

He built a life without you — success, power, everything you once dreamed of. You spent six years pretending you didn't destroy him. One night is all it takes to tear the silence open again.

 jungkook x reader | exes to lovers 

warnings: second chance romance, heavy angst, explicit language and sexual content, emotional manipulation, slight depiction of addiction struggles, toxic relationships, trauma themes, mature emotional content.

wc: 15k

author’s note: I didn’t mean for this story to hurt as much as it does. But heartbreak feels a lot like mourning — and sometimes, writing is just another way to grieve what you lost. Feedback is always welcomed. 

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed, longer than it should to run a comb through your hair, longer than it should to fasten the thin, trembling clasp of the necklace around your throat — because everything inside you feels reluctant, slow, half-stuck in a memory you wish you could forget but know you never will, no matter how many years or cities or mistakes you stack between yourself and that boy who once promised you the world with his trembling hands and reckless heart.

The mirror doesn’t help; it only shows you a stranger, one with hollows under her eyes and a dress that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to, an almost-pretty woman wearing borrowed pearls and borrowed courage, trying to pretend that she hadn’t spent the last hour sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing, wondering if the version of you he remembers — if he remembers at all — would even recognize what’s left.

The room smells faintly of turpentine and old paint, the corner where your canvases lean still cluttered with yesterday’s half-finished dreams, and when you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a message from Minho, simple and sweet and unbearably distant: Call me when you’re free. Love you.You don’t answer. You can’t. You wonder if that makes you cruel or simply too tired to pretend tonight.

Your fingers fumble with the cheap clasp at your wrist — a borrowed bracelet too — and in that one careless moment, memory slices through the present like a blade: Jungkook, twenty-one, grinning boyishly as he caught your hand outside the university library, threading a handmade beaded bracelet over your knuckles with such earnest pride that you had laughed, embarrassed, your cheeks warm, the world so soft around you it felt unreal.

"Now you have to marry me someday," he had teased, and you had rolled your eyes, but you hadn’t said no.

You blink hard, banishing him from the glass, watching the woman who stares back at you set her jaw a little harder, fix her earrings a little faster, breathe a little shallower — because you can’t afford to cry over ghosts, not tonight.

The group chat blinks awake: Sora: “Can’t wait to see everyone tonight 🖤 love you guys.”

The words should be comforting. Instead, they twist inside your chest like a dull knife, because you know her love is real, but you also know that weddings are for the blessed, and you — you are only here because Sora never chose sides when everyone else did.

You wonder if Taehyung will even look at you, wonder if the cold shoulder he gave you six years ago will stretch into tonight’s vows and toasts and forced smiles. You wonder if seeing him beside Sora will feel like a betrayal or just another quiet ache to add to the pile you stopped counting long ago.

But it’s not Taehyung who makes your palms sweat, your ribs tighten like a vise around your lungs. It’s him.

You haven’t seen him since the day everything broke, since the night your voice cracked on the phone and he didn’t pick up, since the day you stopped being someone’s future and became a cautionary tale instead.

Jungkook might have buried that reckless smile you once loved beneath all the sharp suits and colder women; or maybe success never touched the part of him that burned for you. Maybe hatred is all that’s left now, a slow, steady fire smoldering out of sight — or maybe you’re nothing more than a scar he learned to live around.

Either way, standing in front of him tonight will feel like pressing your hand against an old wound, desperate to prove it's healed when you already know it hasn't.

The taxi honks outside — a short, impatient sound that feels impossibly loud in the quiet dusk — and you stand because there’s nothing else to do, grabbing your small purse, slipping your trembling fingers into cheap heels, locking the door behind you with a finality that feels too heavy for such an ordinary sound.

The city beyond your window is a watercolor blur of neon and shadows. Each streetlight you pass feels like a countdown, leading you closer to the moment you'll have to face him again. Not the boy who promised you forever with handmade bracelets, but the man he's become – all sharp edges and success stories, probably with a model on his arm and victory in his smile.

The driver barely glances at you when you climb in, muttering the address with a voice that barely feels like your own, and as the car pulls into traffic, the low murmur of the radio fills the silence between your heartbeat and your fear, a love song from another decade humming like a ghost you can’t quite outrun.

Outside the window, the world blurs into a thousand small, careless lights — neon signs flickering above half-empty restaurants, the gold smudge of streetlamps bending against the slick black of the road — and you realize, distantly, that you don’t even remember when this city stopped feeling like home and started feeling like exile.

Your hands twist the strap of your purse tighter in your lap, knuckles aching from the pressure, and you wonder — not for the first time — if tonight will shatter you, or if you have already been living inside the ruins for so long that you won't even feel it when the final pieces fall.

The venue creeps into view before you’re ready, a soft, golden glow spilling out onto the cracked sidewalks like an invitation you should have never accepted, the kind of place built for promises and photographs and futures you don't belong to anymore.

The car stops with a jolt that rattles up your spine, and you pay the driver with fumbling fingers, stepping out into the cool night air that smells like jasmine and distant rain, clutching your purse to your chest like it might somehow shield you from what’s coming.

You hear the music first — faint, lilting strains of a string quartet filtering through the open doors — and then the laughter, bright and careless, the kind of laughter that used to be yours once, when the world was smaller, safer, sweeter.

Somewhere inside, Sora is probably floating down the aisle in a dress spun from dreams, her hands steady, her smile untouched by the kind of ghosts that still cling to your skin.

Taehyung must be standing there too, pride pressed into his spine, betrayal still thick in his chest like old smoke.

And Jungkook — though you can barely force yourself to think it — is breathing the same air as you for the first time in six years, close enough to touch and a thousand lifetimes away.

You press your hand harder against your ribs, feel the panic fluttering there like a trapped bird, and when you finally force your legs to move, to step toward the door, it feels like walking into the mouth of something hungry and merciless, something that has been waiting for you all this time.

"Please," you whisper to whatever god still listens to lost causes, "let me survive this night."

The lobby is bright and soft and aching with gold, and familiar faces blur past you — old friends you barely recognize, old friends who barely recognize you — and you keep your head down, keep moving, telling yourself it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine, until the lie thickens and clots somewhere at the back of your throat.

You are halfway to the main hall when you hear your name, soft and almost startled, and when you turn, Sora is there — radiant, trembling, beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes shining with something between relief and apology.

She rushes toward you before you can move, gathering you into a hug that knocks the breath from your lungs, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, let yourself believe in the warmth of her arms, the truth of her loyalty, the small, fragile spaces where you are still loved.

"You came," she breathes against your hair, pulling back to look at you with a smile that wobbles at the corners. "God, I was so scared you wouldn’t."

"I wouldn’t miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds almost real, almost steady.

Behind her, the world shifts — guests milling about, waiters balancing trays, the glittering haze of champagne — and then, through the blur of light and sound, you feel it, before you even see him.

A weight against your skin. A gravity pulling your gaze without mercy. You lift your eyes — and there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing across the room, half-turned toward you, a glass in his hand, a black suit cut sharp against the broad frame of his shoulders, his hair dark and slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times.

He looks different now — older, harder around the edges, devastating in a way that feels less like beauty and more like a warning.

The noise around you dulls, falling away like heavy snow, until it’s just him and you and the space between your bodies that aches like a phantom limb.

His eyes — the ones you once memorized better than your own reflection — find you across the golden crowd, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing: no recognition, no anger, no tenderness, just a flicker of something vast and unreachable that knocks the air from your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away — leaving you suspended in the terrible silence where strangers live, where memories rot, where love once existed and now nothing remains.

The air inside the hall feels heavier now, thick with perfume and champagne and the kind of brittle laughter that stretches too wide over old wounds, and you realize as you stand there, clutching the small wrapped box to your chest, that your fingers have gone almost numb.

You try not to look for him again — you try, you swear you try — but your eyes betray you anyway, sliding across the glittering room until they find him near the bar, a dark figure half-turned away, laughing low at something someone says, and for a moment it stings more than it should, the way he looks — older, sharper, all clean lines and heavy shadows, the easy beauty of boyhood burned away into something colder, something harder, something you could cut yourself on if you dared get too close.

He doesn’t belong to you anymore — maybe he never really did — and yet some foolish, broken part of you aches anyway, aches in the marrow of your bones where even time cannot reach, where memory still reigns.

It hadn’t always been like this — hadn’t he once leaned against a chipped kitchen counter in the dead of night, grinning, offering you the last slice of cheap pizza like it was a crown, like you were something holy worth starving for? Hadn’t he once promised you — reckless, breathless — that he would fight every single battle for you, even the ones you didn’t see coming?

You had believed him. God, you had believed him so much it made you foolish.

Your throat tightens as you move forward, your heels silent on the polished floors, the soft music wrapping around you like a noose, and somewhere in the back of your mind the memories start to bleed — his parents’ disapproval, sharp and sterile in their polished dining room; the thin-lipped smiles, the cruel little glances they thought you wouldn’t notice; the way Jungkook had slammed down their checkbook one night and said he’d make it without them, because loving you mattered more than money, more than power, more than blood.

He meant every word — you never doubted that — but standing here six years later, wrapped in a borrowed dress and trembling under the weight of everything you lost, it’s hard not to wonder if they were right all along. You were the disaster they warned him about, the mistake they tried to tear from his hands, and maybe — if you’d loved him less selfishly — you would have let him go before you ruined everything he could have been.

You press the thought down, hard, like smothering a fire with bare hands, and you fix your eyes on the only safe thing left — Sora, radiant and teary-eyed in her wedding dress, laughing softly at something Taehyung mutters in her ear.

It should be enough to anchor you. It isn’t.

You force your feet to move, weaving carefully through the crowd, dodging the familiar faces, the flashes of recognition, the stares that linger a little too long.

You see him again — just for a second — Jungkook leaning casually against the far wall, speaking to someone in a low voice, his profile sharp under the warm golden lights. It hits you harder than it should, the way he holds himself now — heavier somehow, not in body but in gravity, in presence — the easy recklessness of boyhood hardened into something colder, something that doesn’t bow for anyone.

Sora had mentioned it once, in a hurried, breathless phone call you almost didn’t answer: how Jungkook had started a tech company straight out of university, how he had built it from nothing, refusing every offer of help from his family even when it would have made things easier, how now he stood at the helm of one of the fastest-rising startups in the country — a CEO at twenty-seven, sharp and brilliant and terrifyingly untouchable.

You never asked for the details — you didn’t need them. It was already clear enough: he had survived without you, built a life where you were nothing but a forgotten name.

The shame settles heavier against your ribs as you clutch the small wrapped gift tighter, pressing forward toward Sora and Taehyung where they stand near the main table, a little island of perfection in a sea of strangers. 

You reach them just as they turn toward you, and for a brief, foolish moment you let yourself hope — just for tonight, just for Sora — that you can pretend the past is not clawing up the back of your throat.

Sora’s face brightens when she sees you, her hands fluttering excitedly to her mouth as if she might cry, and you feel the first crack in your armor when she pulls you into a hug so fierce it knocks the air from your lungs.

"You made it," she whispers, voice thick with emotion, and you smile — a broken thing, but a smile nonetheless — as you hand her the small gift wrapped in trembling paper.

"For you," you manage, your voice smaller than you remember it being.

Sora presses the box to her chest like it's precious, like you are precious, and for a moment the noise of the party dulls into something almost kind.

But then Taehyung steps forward, his expression carved from something colder than marble, and the weight of him — of everything you once trusted — hits you square in the ribs.

You brace for it instinctively, the way a body remembers impact even after the bruises have faded. He smiles — wide, charming, empty — and leans in slightly, his voice low and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

"I’m surprised," he says, his words like silk over a blade. "That you had the nerve to come, knowing he'd be here."

The sentence slices you cleanly down the middle, and for a moment all you can do is blink at him, your hands limp at your sides, your breath sticking somewhere between your heart and your throat.

Sora’s eyes widen in horror, but she says nothing, and Taehyung only straightens his jacket with an easy grace, as if he hadn't just peeled the skin from your chest in front of half the wedding party.

You don’t even flinch — not really. Maybe you expected it, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always believed he earned the right to hate you.

Taehyung hadn’t just been Jungkook’s best friend. He had carried Jungkook’s heartbreak like it was his own, had stitched the bleeding pieces of him back together when you weren’t there to do it. Of course he would still bear the wound like a badge of honor, would still sharpen it against your skin whenever you dared step back into their world.

You swallow down the rising sting of tears, swallow down the shame that floods your gut like dirty water, and somehow — somehow — you manage to stay standing.

You wonder if he’s right — if you should have stayed away, if you’ve become nothing more than the ghost they all wish they could finally forget.

The air outside is cooler than you expected, crisp against your overheated skin, and for a moment you just stand there on the terrace, clutching the banister with both hands like it might anchor you to something solid, something real. Inside, the wedding hums on — champagne glasses clinking, laughter blooming like overripe fruit — but out here, under the weak glow of fairy lights strung across the courtyard, it feels like another world entirely.

You press your fingers against your temples, willing your heart to slow, willing your body to forget how it trembles from the inside out.

Footsteps sound behind you — soft, lazy, unhurried — and you already know, without looking, who they belong to.

The air always shifts differently when he’s near.

Still, when you finally turn, the breath catches sharp in your throat, as if your body wasn't prepared for the sight of him after all.

Jungkook stands a few paces away, his black suit rumpled just enough to look careless rather than messy, the knot of his tie loosened at his throat. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass that tilts dangerously in his loose grip, and for a moment you can't decide if he looks more like a fallen prince or a soldier long after the war has ended.

He lifts the glass slightly, a mock-toast, his mouth curling into something that might have once been a smile if it hadn’t turned bitter somewhere along the way.

"Well," he says, voice low and rough like gravel. "If it isn’t the ghost herself."

You flinch before you can stop yourself, the words scraping raw against old wounds, but you force your spine straight, force your lips into something that might pass for calm.

"Hi, Jungkook," you manage, the name strange and sacred on your tongue after so many years of silence.

For a beat, he just looks at you — and it cuts deeper than anything he could have said.

Because for a second — just a second — you see it flicker there, the ghost of another boy entirely, the one who used to trace your skin like it was a prayer, who used to kiss you like it hurt him to stop. Gentleness pools in his dark eyes, unguarded and aching, and it guts you with how badly you want to reach for it.

But just as quickly as it came, he shutters it away, his mouth hardening into a line you barely recognize.

"So," he says, voice lighter now, mocking almost. "How’s life?"

You swallow, wishing the earth would swallow you first.

"It’s..." you fumble, your mind blanking under the weight of his gaze. "It’s good. Busy. Art shows, part-time jobs... the usual."

He nods once, a jerk of his chin, his glass tipping slightly in his grip. You notice the way his fingers tremble faintly around the glass stem, how his pupils are blown too wide for the soft light — little things that tighten the pit of your stomach before you can reason why.

"And you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "You’re... doing well?"

He huffs out a laugh — not cruel, not kind either — and sets the glass down on the stone ledge beside him, missing it slightly before correcting the movement with a small curse under his breath.

"You know everything already," he mutters, and there's something brittle under the words, something breaking. "CEO. Big company. Fancy suits. Bullshit meetings."

You flinch again — not at the words, but at the hollowness behind them.

And because some masochistic part of you can’t help it, you whisper, "Are you... okay?"

For a moment, he goes very still. Then his mouth twists, slow and sharp, and he laughs — a low, broken sound that makes the fairy lights above you seem suddenly, unbearably cruel.

"Am I okay?" he repeats, tasting the words like they’re poison. "God, you really don’t get it, do you?"

You open your mouth, close it again.

"You should have done me a mercy back then," he says, voice dropping lower, softer, deadlier. "You should have just confessed. You should have just told me you didn’t love me anymore."

"I—" You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. The guilt surges so thick it almost drowns you.

He chuckles again — the sound rougher, edged with something manic, and when he speaks next his voice is shaking slightly, like the words cost him more than he can afford to give.

"I thought," he says, looking past you into the night, "that I thought if I became enough — if I built something so big it touched the sky — you’d love me again or regret betraying me."

The weight of it hits you harder than any accusation.

"Jungkook," you whisper, stepping toward him without even realizing it, "please... don't."

But he moves faster. His hand closes around your arm — not painfully, but firm, desperate — and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleeve like wildfire.

"Don’t what?" he demands, voice rough. "Don’t say it? Don’t feel it?"

You stare up at him, heart beating so hard you think it might break through your ribs, and for a moment neither of you breathes.

Something in him falters; the fight drains from his body, and his grip loosens. You tear yourself free, stumbling backward as if the air itself turned against you. Without thinking, without looking back, you turn and flee — pushing the door open, slipping back into the too-bright, too-loud reception, the noise crashing over you in waves.

You don’t stop until you find the bathroom, collapsing against the cool tile, gasping for air that won’t come.

And when your shaking fingers brush against the marble counter — smooth and cold and smelling faintly of expensive soap — a memory surges up so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs:

Six years ago.

The walls of Jungkook’s tiny off-campus apartment seemed to shrink around you, the air too thick with the leftover taste of the night you couldn’t forget, no matter how tightly you crossed your arms or how fiercely you jutted out your chin to hide the hurt leaking through your bones.

You were pacing, barefoot on the worn carpet, your dress wrinkled from hours of sitting stiffly at a dinner table where every glance, every polite smile, every icy comment had felt like a slap delivered with a silver fork.

"You didn’t hear the way your mother said it," you muttered, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, your voice wobbling even as you tried to sound defiant, bratty, anything but the small, shaking thing you felt like inside. "The way she asked if I needed help... pronouncing the wine list."

Jungkook sighed heavily behind you, the sound rough, frustrated, loving all at once, and when you dared glance back at him, he was scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, his white dress shirt rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the very picture of someone who wanted to punch something but was too busy loving you to bother.

"I told them to back off," he said, stepping closer, voice low, tight. "I told them you’re it for me. What else do you want me to do, baby?"

The word burned into you — baby — the way it always did, softening your anger just enough to make room for the real thing: the sadness.

"It’s not just about you standing up for me," you said, your voice small now, your throat raw from holding too much back for too long. "It’s your family, Jungkook. They’re supposed to... I don’t know... accept me. If they don’t — if they think I’m just some poor girl you’ll grow out of — maybe I don’t belong there at all."

Your hands twisted together in front of you, trying to tie yourself into a knot too small for pain to find, and you hated how broken you sounded, how much you still cared even after everything.

For a heartbeat, Jungkook just stared at you — something fierce and wounded flashing through his eyes — and then he crossed the room in three strides, his hands gripping your arms, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

"If they can’t love you," he said, his voice a growl against your hair, "then they’re not my family anymore."

You froze — heart thudding painfully — but he only hugged you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck, like he could physically shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"I already have a family," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

And something inside you — some fragile, terrified thing — cracked wide open and poured itself into his arms, because even though the world outside these walls was sharp and cruel, even though you could feel the future trying to tear you apart already, in that moment, he was enough. He was everything.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his lips brushed your neck — a featherlight touch that sent shivers chasing down your spine — and then he was kissing lower, onto your shoulder, the strap of your dress slipping down your arm under the insistence of his mouth.

Your body betrayed you instantly, leaning back into him, your pulse pounding wild and helpless beneath your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, each word punctuated with a kiss that burned hotter, lower, softer."No one else matters.I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

His hands slid down your sides — warm, steady, reverent — and when you arched instinctively into him, you felt it: the hard, urgent line of his arousal pressing into the small of your back, undeniable, desperate.

"I love you too," you breathed, tilting your head to the side to give him more skin, more access, more of everything he wanted.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound vibrating against your neck, and his hands moved faster now, not rough, but hungrier, slipping under the hem of your dress, mapping the familiar landscape of your body like a man tracing the borders of a country he already owns but never tires of conquering.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice thick, broken, worshipful. "You’re everything."

And standing there — half undressed, half unraveled, completely loved — you believed him.

You believed that love could be enough.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere — frantic, reverent — as he lifts you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like you’re something sacred he’s afraid he’ll break if he isn’t careful, and when he lays you down, the mattress dipping under your back, his gaze devours you with a hunger so raw it leaves you trembling before he’s even touched you properly.

He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm, the other already tugging at the hem of your dress with impatient fingers, and you raise your arms without thinking, letting him peel it off you inch by inch, baring you to the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.His shirt follows quickly — buttons popping loose under his fumbling hands, sleeves yanked off — and then he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, flushed, beautiful, the muscles of his arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside and drops back over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals every thought you ever had.

You moan against his lips as he grinds down into you, the hard line of his cock pressing hot and heavy through the thin barrier of your underwear, his jeans rough against your bare thighs.The friction is maddening — too much and not enough — and you arch against him instinctively, your hands clutching at his back, dragging your nails down the ridges of muscle as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, swallowing the broken gasp you let out into his mouth.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips, grinding into you again, the air between you electric, desperate, filthy. "You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep moving like that, princess."

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy with the heat coiling low in your belly, and nip at his bottom lip, making him groan again, deeper, rougher, before he pulls back just enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones.

He takes his time there, kissing, licking, sucking soft bruises into your skin, before moving lower, capturing one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his hand kneads the other breast greedily.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked with devotion and hunger, and you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucks harder, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper, something almost frantic.

"You," you pant, grinding up into him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything. "Always you."

"Good girl," he rasps, the praise making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

And then he’s kissing down your stomach, dragging your panties down with his teeth, leaving them forgotten at the foot of the bed, and when he settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him, you think you might die from how much you want him.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself, before he licks a slow, devastating stripe up your center, making your hips jerk, your hands fly to his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he groans against you, like he’s the one losing control.

He works you with his mouth until you’re writhing, gasping, begging — filthy, broken sounds spilling from your lips as he sucks your clit between his lips, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right, making your vision white out at the edges.

"Jungkook— fuck — please," you sob, grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing the high building so fast it terrifies you.

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs, teasing you with his breath, his fingers still thrusting slow and deep inside you. "Tell me. Wanna hear you beg for it."

"You," you gasp, shameless, lost. "Need you inside me. Need you now."

He groans again, desperate, wrecked, and kisses your inner thigh before pulling away, climbing back over you, his jeans shoved down just far enough to free his cock, flushed and leaking at the tip.

"You drive me fucking insane," he mutters against your mouth, grinding into your soaked core, making you both moan.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel him, needing to be filled.

"Beg for it," he demands again, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock, just barely pushing inside before pulling back, making you whimper.

"Please, Jungkook," you cry, breathless, broken, desperate. "Need you — need you to fuck me — please —"

That’s all it takes.

With a growl torn from his chest, he pushes into you in one slow, devastating stroke, stretching you, filling you, making you gasp, making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand lifts your leg higher, changing the angle, pushing deeper, hitting places inside you that make you sob. "So tight, so good — always so good for me."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he starts to move, thrusting slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to live there.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, voice shaking. "Like you were made for me."

"Yours," you gasp, clenching around him, loving the way his eyes darken, loving the way he loses control when you say it. "Always yours."

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin obscene, beautiful, necessary.

But then — he flips you, rolling you easily until you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you start to move.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, head falling back against the pillows, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy. "Ride me, baby. Let me see you."

You move — slowly at first, grinding down, rolling your hips — and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper, making you move faster.

"You’re so beautiful," he says, voice wrecked, worshipful. "So fucking beautiful like this — my princess — my fucking queen."

You preen under the praise, loving the way he looks at you, loving the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan every time you clench around him just right, loving the way he can’t even think straight when you’re on top of him.

You ride him harder, faster, rolling your hips the way you know drives him crazy, loving the way his breath stutters in his chest every time you slam down onto him, loving the way his hands clutch your hips like he’s holding onto something sacred he doesn’t want to lose.

"Look at you," Jungkook groans, voice so low and rough it makes you clench around him without meaning to, "riding my cock like you were fucking made for it."

You whimper, heat flashing through your veins at his words, and grind down harder, faster, setting a brutal pace that makes the bed creak beneath you, the headboard thudding faintly against the wall with every desperate movement.

"You like this?" you gasp out, nails dragging down his chest, watching the way his abs tighten under your touch, watching the way his eyes darken impossibly. "You like me using you like this, Kook?"

"Fuck, baby," he curses, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts again, squeezing them greedily as he thrusts up into you, matching your rhythm. "I fucking love it — love watching you fuck yourself on my cock — love how messy you get for me — how wet you are, fuck, you're dripping all over me —"

You moan at his words, at the filth of them, at the way he says it like he worships you, and the pleasure inside you coils tighter, tighter, unbearable.

"You drive me insane," he pants, bucking up harder, dragging guttural sounds from deep inside your chest."You ride me so good, baby — fuck — gonna make me come just from watching you —"

"You’re so big," you whimper, losing yourself completely, grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own high with no shame now, loving the way he watches you like you’re something holy and obscene all at once. "Feel you so deep — filling me up — love it, Jungkook — love you —"

"Say it again," he begs, his voice wrecked, desperate, lost to you. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you gasp, nearly sobbing with it, pressing your palms flat against his heaving chest to steady yourself. "Love you, love your cock, love everything about you —"

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, hips pistoning up into you, chasing your pleasure with frantic, punishing thrusts. "Take it — take everything, baby — it’s all yours —"

You feel the orgasm building, spiraling out of control, and with a shaking hand you grab his wrist, dragging his fingers to your clit, needing more, needing him.

"Touch me," you gasp, voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, need you — need you to make me come —"

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease — just rubs tight, messy circles against your swollen clit with the rough pads of his fingers, fucking into you harder, faster, his mouth open on a gasp as he watches you fall apart above him.

"Come for me," he groans, wrecked, begging. "Show me how good I make you feel — want you to fall apart on my cock — fuck, baby, please —"

And you do — you shatter with a cry, back arching, nails raking down his chest as you come hard, clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so violently your vision goes white at the edges.

Before the last waves of your orgasm even finish crashing through you, Jungkook’s hands are gripping your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back, knocking the breath from your lungs with the sheer force of him, the sheer need — and then he’s pushing into you again, deep and hard and desperate, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside your trembling body.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, doesn’t give you a second to breathe — just fucks into you in long, dragging strokes, slow enough to make you feel every thick inch of him, deep enough to make you cry out again, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, holding him there, locking him to you like you’ll never let him go.

"You’re mine," he gasps against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged and tasting like desperation and devotion."Always fucking mine. No one else gets you — no one else ever fucking will —"

"Yours," you sob, clinging to his back, your nails raking down the slick muscles there, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow, proof that you were here, that you belonged to him in every filthy, holy way.

"You feel so good," he pants, thrusting harder now, the rhythm messy and beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene, perfect sound of your bodies coming together. "So fucking good around me — fuck, baby, you were made for this — made to take me — made to be mine —"

You whimper, lost to him, to the brutal tenderness of it, the way he looks at you like you’re breaking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

"Want you to come inside," you gasp, dragging your nails up his arms, feeling him shudder under your touch. "Want to feel you — want you to fill me up, Jungkook — please —"

He groans like the sound is being ripped from somewhere deep inside him, thrusting deeper, faster, his hips snapping against yours in wild, desperate movements that have you seeing stars.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out, voice wrecked, forehead slipping to your shoulder, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin."Gonna fucking come so deep you’ll feel me for days — fuck, baby, can’t hold it — can’t —"

You tighten your legs around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and he loses it — with a hoarse, broken cry of your name, he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you, his whole body shuddering violently against yours, cock pulsing as he fills you up just like he promised.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your soaking, fluttering walls, his body trembling from the force of it, from the emotion choking both of you.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate bursts against your throat, each exhale brushing hot and trembling over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can feel the way he’s still fighting for control even though it’s already shattered, the way his whole body trembles against you, the way his heart hammers so violently inside his chest you can feel it pounding against your own.

When he finally lifts his head — slow, heavy, reluctant — his hair falls into his eyes, messy and damp from sweat, and you barely recognize the expression on his face, so raw and wrecked and open that it feels like a sin to look at him and a greater sin to look away.

His eyes are glassy, undone, burning with a kind of desperate devotion that punches the air straight out of your lungs, and you realize too late that he’s not just holding your body — he’s holding everything he has left.

You barely manage to blink back the sting of tears before he’s reaching for you again, finding your hands where they lay limp and boneless against the mattress, threading his fingers through yours with a fierce, almost frantic tenderness, squeezing tightly, like if he lets go even for a second, you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.

He keeps your hands pinned above your head, locked against the pillow, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s not the desperate, sloppy thing you expect — it’s slow, reverent, aching, his mouth moving against yours like a promise he’s too afraid to say aloud.

The kiss deepens slowly, messily, lazy and languid, tongues tangling, teeth scraping, lips dragging — a thousand whispered apologies and confessions bleeding between the spaces where your mouths meet and part and meet again.

Every tiny shift of his hips still buried inside you makes you whimper into the kiss — makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his whole body — because even now, even after he’s given you everything, he’s still not satisfied, still not ready to be apart from you, still thrusting shallowly inside you, tiny desperate movements like he’s trying to fuse you together permanently.

His nose brushes yours, clumsy and sweet, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh against your mouth, pure emotion bleeding out of him in every ragged exhale.

"Can't... can't let you go," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking with the weight of it, with how much he means it."You're mine, baby. Always mine. Always, always —"

You squeeze his fingers tighter, pressing your forehead against his, your heart splitting wide open inside your chest, because you can feel it too — the way you still belong to each other, stitched together by something reckless and terrifying and beautiful that no amount of distance or time or heartbreak could ever fully tear apart.

And as he rocks into you again, slow and tender, just to stay connected, just to keep you in his arms a little longer, you kiss him back with everything you have, everything you are, everything you’ll never be able to say.

You don’t know when it happens — maybe in the soft press of his forehead against yours, maybe in the trembling way his hands refuse to let go of yours, maybe in the way your bodies are still joined so completely it feels like one breath between you — but something inside you shifts, something warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile blooming deep in your chest, and for a moment you think you might actually break from how much you love him.

You think about how unfair life has been in so many ways — how you weren’t born into a family with silver-lined houses and gilded bloodlines, how you’ve spent so much of your life feeling like you were always standing on the outside looking in — but none of it seems to matter anymore, not when fate, or luck, or some reckless, merciful god saw fit to gift you with the only treasure that ever really mattered.

Jungkook.

You think, with a fierceness that leaves you trembling, that maybe you weren’t born into riches, but you were still the luckiest person in the world, because somehow, against every odd, you were loved by someone like him — someone who fought the whole world just to keep holding your hand.

You think about the past three years — about finding your way to each other through crowded lecture halls and late-night coffee runs and countless small moments stitched together into something so much bigger than either of you could have imagined — and you realize you’ve never been as happy as you are right now, wrapped up in him, in his messy devotion, in the future you were stupid enough to believe was already written in your favor.

You had friends — good ones.Taehyung with his bright, mischievous smile; Sora with her endless, unconditional love; Sungwon and so many others who filled your days with laughter and reckless plans — but when it came down to it, when the world blurred at the edges, it was always only him.

You needed only Jungkook, and he needed only you.

Even when you fought — and God, you fought — you always knew it was temporary, just a storm passing between two people too stubborn and too desperate to ever really let go.It was never about the two of you. It was always about the others — about the judgment of his parents, about the sharp words whispered behind closed doors — and even then, Jungkook had made it clear where he stood.

He cut them off without hesitation — the gold, the promises, the blood-ties that once weighed him down like anchors.

He built a life with you instead, stubborn and scrappy and achingly beautiful, guided by nothing but your trembling hands and his reckless heart — and somehow, against everything, it had been enough.

You believed in it with a desperation that left no room for doubt: that love like this could survive the world outside your window, that he would catch you when you fell, fight for you when you bled, hold on even when everything else told him to let go.

You were the luckiest girl in the world — and lying there beneath him, your fingers locked together like a prayer you hadn't realized you'd been whispering for years, you truly believed that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Because back then, you still believed forever could be real. Back then, you still believed love like this was enough to save you both.

You believed that nights like this could hold back the tide of everything waiting to destroy you. And that Jungkook — your Jungkook — would be the one thing in this world that never broke.

The next morning, sunlight bleeds soft and golden through the thin curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and discarded clothes and the two of you, still wrapped together, still skin to skin, still smelling of sweat and sex and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like forever.

You wake first — blinking slowly, drowsily, your body aching in the most delicious ways — and for a long, perfect moment, you just lay there, staring at him, at the boy who somehow managed to crawl inside your chest and build a home there without you ever realizing it was happening.

Jungkook is sprawled on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head, his other hand still loosely tangled in the sheet that barely covers either of you, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — messy hair, flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised lips parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still dreaming about you even now.

You can’t help yourself.

Your fingers move without permission, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the muscles shifting slightly under your touch, warm and firm and familiar, and you take your time — outlining the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the sheet — memorizing him, hoarding him, because some part of you already knows you’ll never love anyone like this again.

He stirs under your touch, a low, sleepy groan rumbling deep in his chest, and before you can even think about pulling away, his hand is shooting out, grabbing your wrist and dragging you down for a kiss — lazy, messy, desperate in the way only mornings can make kisses desperate.

You giggle against his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to tease, "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, trouble," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open but his mouth already chasing yours again, already greedy for more.

You shift slightly — intending only to reposition yourself — but when you move, you can feel it: the hard, heavy press of his morning erection against your thigh, hot and insistent and utterly unignorable.

You smirk against his lips, pulling back just enough to glance down, and then back up at him with a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

"Someone’s awake," you whisper, sliding your hand slowly, wickedly, down his chest, your nails grazing lightly over his abs, watching with smug satisfaction as his whole body tenses under your touch.

"You’re evil," Jungkook groans, head tipping back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck flexing beautifully as he tries and fails to control himself."Pure fucking evil."

You laugh, delighted, and throw one leg over his hips, straddling him easily, feeling the thick, twitching heat of him pressing against your bare core through the thin layer of the sheet.

"Am I?" you ask, feigning innocence as you grind down ever so slightly, making him curse under his breath, making his hands fly to your hips like he can’t help it. "I thought you liked me like this."

"Like you?" he rasps, his voice cracking deliciously. "Baby, I fucking worship you."

The words burn through you, leaving you flushed and reckless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin — above his heart, across the slope of his pecs, down the tight ridges of his stomach — while he fists the sheets, his muscles trembling under your tongue.

"You’re killing me," he groans, head thrashing slightly against the pillow as you kiss lower, lower, lower still.

"Good," you whisper against his hipbone, laughing softly when he growls in frustration.

And then — slow, deliberate, teasing — you trace your lips along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock throbbing against your mouth, so big and thick and perfect you almost moan at the taste of him, the sheer heat of him.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses, his hands flying to your hair, not to force you down but to anchor himself, to keep from losing his mind completely.

You lick him lazily, dragging your tongue from base to tip, savoring the way he twitches against your mouth, savoring the broken sounds falling from his lips, savoring the way his thighs tremble under your palms.

"You’re so big, baby," you murmur against him, your voice sweet and filthy all at once. "So hard for me. You want me that bad?"

"Always," he gasps, his hands tightening in your hair. "Fuck, baby, you’re so good — driving me fucking insane —"

You giggle breathlessly and press teasing kisses all over his length along the thick vein pulsing along the underside, nipping playfully at the swollen head, loving the way his hips jerk up off the bed like he can’t help it, like he needs you too much to stay still.

"Please," he groans, utterly wrecked now, his voice shaking, desperate. "Please, baby, please suck me — need your mouth so bad — fuck, need to feel you —"

You finally take pity on him — finally wrap your lips around the flushed, leaking tip — and the sound he makes is nothing short of obscene, a strangled moan that punches straight into your core.

You suck slowly at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, hollowing your cheeks to create a suction that has him cursing, babbling, begging.

"God, you’re so fucking good," he pants, hips thrusting shallowly up into your mouth."Look at you — look so pretty with my cock in your mouth — fuck, baby, you’re made for this — made to suck me off —"

You moan around him, the vibrations making him curse even louder, and then you take him deeper, swallowing inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat, until he’s gasping your name like a prayer, until his hands are trembling in your hair.

You bob your head faster, working him with your mouth and your hand, feeling him grow even harder, even heavier against your tongue, until you know he’s close — until you feel his thighs tensing, his breath catching, his hands fisting desperately in your hair.

"Baby — fuck — gonna come —" he warns, his voice raw, frantic.

You suck harder, faster, moaning around him, and with a broken, hoarse cry, Jungkook falls apart, spilling hot and salty down your throat, his body jerking helplessly, his mouth falling open in a silent, beautiful scream.

You swallow everything, licking him clean, savoring the taste of him, savoring the way he collapses back against the bed like he’s been hollowed out, like you’ve stolen every thought he ever had except for you.

And when you finally lift your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Like you hung the fucking stars just for him.

You crawl back up his body slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of warm, trembling skin under your palms, and when you finally reach him, when you finally meet his mouth again, he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’ll never get enough, like he’s still drunk on everything you just gave him and desperate for more.

It’s a messy, perfect kiss — mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, gasps and laughter bleeding into each other until neither of you knows where you end and he begins — and when you finally break apart, panting against each other’s lips, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to savor the weight of you pressed so completely against him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks — just breathing each other in, suspended there, floating somewhere that isn’t entirely the world and isn’t entirely a dream either — and when he does finally find his voice, it’s rough, low, laced with something too big for either of you to name.

"I know," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, "that we live in a bubble."

You blink, lazy and drowsy and sated, but he just smiles — that soft, crooked smile he only ever gives you when it’s late and the world feels far away.

"I know," he says again, threading his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like something precious. "That out there—" He jerks his chin vaguely toward the window, toward the city waking up beyond the glass. "—the world is still waiting for us. Still expecting things from us. Still trying to pull us apart."

You frown at that, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten, pouting without meaning to, your voice soft and bratty and unbearably adorable when you mumble, "I don't want the world."

He chuckles, the sound low and full of something aching and infinite, and pulls you tighter against him, like he can shield you from everything with the sheer force of his body alone.

"You," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, each one softer than the last, "are my whole world."

And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, endless — you realize it’s true.

In this little bubble made of tangled sheets and whispered promises and reckless hope, there is no city, no parents, no expectations, no fear.

present time

The fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror buzz faintly, a cruel, ugly sound in the soft, gilded hush of the wedding venue, and for a long, dizzying moment, you just stand there — your palms flat against the cold marble counter, your chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon you didn’t realize you’d started until it was too late.

Your reflection stares back at you, wild-eyed and red-rimmed, mascara smudged in soft gray shadows beneath lashes that flutter helplessly against the tears you can’t seem to stop.

You try. God, you try. You dab at your eyes with trembling fingers, blotting the damage, smoothing your hair, painting a brittle, empty smile onto your mouth — the kind of smile that fools no one and saves nothing, but maybe buys you just enough time to get the hell out of here before the weight of the past buries you alive.

Your heart still races from the memory, from the aftershocks of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your mouth, his voice breathing love into the hollow places you hadn’t even realized existed until he filled them.

You stand there, willing yourself to move, whispering that the past can’t touch you anymore, that you’ve outgrown this kind of pain — that you have to be stronger than you feel.

But grief — true grief — has no sense of time, no mercy for logic or willpower; it doesn't politely fade into the background like an old scar — it waits, it sleeps under your skin, and then one careless thought, one familiar smell, one remembered kiss, and it awakens ravenous, dragging you back under as easily as if you had never crawled out at all.

You draw a shuddering breath, taste salt and bitterness on your tongue, and turn away from the mirror before you can shatter completely.

The wedding hall is a kaleidoscope of color and noise as you step back into it — laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking together like tiny, mocking bells — and for a moment the world tilts under your feet, the sheer vibrancy of it so at odds with the funeral you feel unfolding in your own chest.

Someone calls your name — a polite, curious lilt — and you manage a weak smile, nodding vaguely at a group of guests you barely recognize.

"Leaving so soon?" a woman asks, genuine surprise softening her features.

You mutter something about a headache, about early work tomorrow, about anything that isn’t I’m drowning and if I stay here another second I will die where I stand.

You make it halfway across the floor before you feel it — that unmistakable pull, that gravity that never stopped tying you to him even after everything tore apart.

You look up, helpless against the instinct, and there he is — Jungkook, across the room, frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he can feel you slipping through his fingers all over again.

For just a moment, it’s there — the worry, the confusion, the stunned, aching tenderness he still hasn’t managed to bury.

But beneath it, something harsher stirs — raw and unrecognizable, dark enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

It flickers at the edge of him — in the slight tremble of his hand as he sets his drink down too fast, in the faint glassiness in his gaze that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with exhaustion, with habits he can’t seem to outrun.

He looks... thinner, somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like the success sewn into the cut of his expensive suit is holding together a body that's burning itself out from the inside.

It twists inside you, sharp and familiar, because you recognize that look — the hollow stretch of someone slipping out of their own skin, the weight of a world too heavy to carry sober, the slow erosion of time when surviving becomes the only thing left. Even after everything — after the betrayal, after the years — your heart still aches for him without permission, as natural and inevitable as breathing.

The years sharpened him: the expensive suit, the calculated ease — but none of it masks the way he carries his grief like a splinter buried too deep to remove. And somehow, with a clarity that feels like a blade to your ribs, you understand: no matter how high he climbed, no matter how much he built, some part of him never moved forward either.

Something inside him still folded back to you. He takes a step forward, almost involuntary, like he doesn't realize he's doing it — but it’s enough. It’s too much. You break the gaze like it burns, shove your way through the crowd, nearly tripping in your haste to reach the door.

The evening air slaps your face, cool and sharp, as you stumble outside, waving frantically for the first taxi that slows down, ignoring the concerned calls of a few lingering guests.

You hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind you — faster now, urgent — and you don't have to turn around to know it's him.

You keep your eyes down, refusing to look and to hope. You dive into the taxi, slam the door, choke out your address to the driver with a voice you barely recognize as your own.

The car pulls away, and you catch a final, fleeting glimpse of him through the window — Jungkook standing alone on the curb, hands clenching uselessly at his sides, his face carved into an expression that looks far too much like grief to belong to someone who supposedly moved on.

A vicious thought flickers through you — wondering if he feels the same hollow ache, if the hatred ever faded, or if somewhere deep down he never stopped loving you.

The city blurs past — streetlights smearing into liquid gold, shop windows flashing by like tiny, glittering ghosts — and you press your forehead against the cool glass, your breath fogging a small circle into the world you can no longer reach.

The thing about loss is that everyone tells you it gets easier. That time smooths out the jagged edges, that grief dulls like an old knife, that someday you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt to remember. But the truth — the ugly, merciless truth — is that time doesn’t move forward at all.

It folds, bends you back into the shape of your own broken heart, trapping you inside memories you thought you had outlived, making you relive every kiss, every fight, every promise you failed to keep as if it’s happening right now, as if it will always be happening, as if you will never truly escape the moment you realized forever wasn't a promise after all — it was just another kind of lie.

The taxi carries you deeper into the night, but part of you never moves at all — still trapped six years ago, clinging to the boy who held you through every storm, still bleeding in the ruins of everything you couldn’t save — and maybe, you realize, some pieces of you always will be.

***

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and wet paint when you stumble through the door, still half-frozen from the chill outside, your thin jacket doing little to protect you from the colder, heavier things clinging to your skin.

Minho is slouched on the battered couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees, his pencil tapping absently against the paper in a restless rhythm, and he looks up at you with surprise when he hears the door click shut.

"Back so soon?" he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if you’re real or just a ghost wandering in from the street.

You shrug, forcing a small smile that feels brittle and wrong on your face. "It was boring without you," you lie, peeling off your shoes, your jacket, your skin, your heart.

He smiles — small, touched — and you hate yourself a little for the way you can’t feel anything when you look at him.

Because it isn’t the wedding you fled from.

It wasn’t the guests or the champagne or the polite conversations that drove you out like a storm looking for somewhere to crash.

Jungkook, standing across the room like a living wound you couldn't stop bleeding from, his eyes carving you open in places you thought had long since scarred over.

How predictably stupid it was to think that six years of silence — six years of precision avoidance, of carefully stepping around mutual friends and blocked numbers and old memories — could survive a single collision without splintering into a thousand sharp-edged regrets.

You told yourself — foolishly, naively — that you could be normal tonight, that you could smile and toast and laugh at old jokes without shattering, that you could pretend you hadn’t once built a whole life inside his arms only to lose it all in a breath.

You laugh under your breath — a dry, humorless thing — as you drift toward the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower before he can ask any more questions.

The hot water scalds your skin, but it does nothing to burn him out of you. You press your forehead to the cool tile, water pouring down your back like tears you refuse to shed where anyone might hear, and you find yourself whispering silent, stupid prayers to a world that stopped listening to you a long time ago.

You beg the water, the walls, the hollow silence — anything — to take it away, to stop the endless aching, to grant you even a moment’s relief. But grief doesn’t listen.

It isn’t a wound that scabs over, or a fever that breaks; it is a parasite, patient and merciless, sinking its teeth into your ribs, your spine, your lungs, gnawing through every part of you until you forget there was ever a time you were whole.

When you finally step out, you feel no cleaner than before, just wetter, colder, heavier.

You towel your hair half-heartedly, throw on a worn sweater and sweatpants, and emerge from the bathroom with the blank, practiced face of someone who knows how to act normal when the world expects it.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice the cracks you’re bleeding from. He tosses his pencil onto the coffee table and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair.

"Club canceled the gig again," he mutters, frustration curling under his words like smoke. "Said they’re cutting back on live performances."

You offer him a tired, sympathetic noise — something noncommittal — as you collapse into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into your bones like a second skeleton.

"I should probably find another part-time job," you say absently, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing down like a hand around your throat.

Minho hums, toeing off his sneakers with a grunt. "Maybe we’re just idiots," he says after a moment, not cruel, just tired. "Thinking we could survive as artists in a world like this."

A faint, broken smile tugs at your mouth — because isn’t that the cruelest joke of all? Not the falling apart, but the fact that, for one bright, reckless moment, you believed you could win.

"Maybe," you whisper, voice almost lost to the hum of the cheap refrigerator rattling in the kitchen.

He tilts his head, studying you with a quiet frown. "Since when did you stop believing?"

You only sit there, silent, because there’s nothing left inside you that knows how to answer. Because the truth is — you stopped believing the night Jungkook walked away.

Not because Minho isn’t good enough, not because you don’t love your art anymore — but because something inside you shattered that night, something vital, something sacred.

But because when Jungkook accused you, when he looked at you like you were something dirty, something cheap, something less — it broke more than your heart.

It shattered more than your heart — it stripped you of the faith you once had in yourself, the belief that you were someone capable of being loyal. 

And no matter how many paintings you hung on cold gallery walls, no matter how many late shifts you survived or coffees you poured or exhibitions you faked your way through, you never really found her again — the girl who believed she deserved to be loved without shame.

You glance at Minho, who has already gone back to sketching, his pencil moving in soft, furious strokes across the page, and you feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles you over.

He is good, and he is kind — steady in ways that should have made you feel safe, in ways that deserve something better than the hollowed-out version of you still clawing through the wreckage.

Minho deserves someone whole. Not this —  a girl still haunted by a boy she couldn't bury, still stitched together with threads too thin to hold under real weight.

You press your palms against your thighs, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, and the thought slips in, unwelcome but familiar — that maybe grief is not something you outlive, but something you learn to carry, heavier with every passing year.

If some loves do not die cleanly, if they rot instead — festering quietly inside you, hollowing out everything they once touched — then maybe that decay is the only thing you have left to claim as yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

Time doesn’t heal wounds so much as it teaches you how to live around them — teaches you how to carry them in the quiet spaces between conversations, how to fold them neatly into your chest where no one else can see, how to laugh and nod and keep moving even when the old pain still howls beneath your skin.

You learn that grief becomes a kind of muscle memory — a reflex, a twitch just beneath the surface — and eventually you stop noticing the way you flinch when the world presses too hard against the places you are still bleeding.

You learn to live with it, folding the weight into your bones until it feels almost natural. You master the art of pretending — smiling, nodding, breathing like you're whole — and you almost convince yourself it's enough, until something sharp and familiar tears the stitches open all over again.

It’s been a week since the wedding.

A week of avoiding every thought that bears his face, every memory that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. A week of moving through your days on autopilot, smiling when expected, speaking when required, dying quietly in the spaces between.

When Sora’s message pings onto your phone, you almost don’t answer.

Sora:"Hey love, can you meet me at Primrose Café today? Need help planning honeymoon stuff! 🤍"

You hesitate — thumb hovering over the screen — but guilt sinks its teeth into your ribs and drags you under.

You owe her — more than silence, more than your fear, more than the cowardice clawing up your throat. So you tell yourself it’s fine, that he won’t be there, that it’s just coffee, simple, harmless, easy — but the lie tastes bitter even before you swallow it.

The café bells chime softly as you push the door open, the warm smell of roasted beans and vanilla flooding your senses — and for a brief, stupid moment, you allow yourself to relax, to believe that maybe today will be easy.

And then you see him. Jungkook is already seated at a corner table, his hands folded stiffly around a coffee cup he isn’t drinking from, his eyes dark and unreadable under the soft light.

The world tilts. Your stomach drops through the floor.

You freeze, every muscle locking tight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, to run — but then you see Sora, waving you over with that bright, frantic smile she only uses when she knows she’s asking for forgiveness before the crime has even been committed.

You move because standing still feels worse — because running has never really saved you, only delayed the inevitable.

You slide into the seat across from him, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, feeling the air thicken around you, feeling the familiar prickle of his gaze skating over your skin like a brand you can’t scrub off.

Sora clears her throat awkwardly, twisting a napkin between her fingers.

"I know this is... a lot," she says, voice too loud, too brittle. "But I just— I love you both. And with me and Tae... with everything changing... I just want us to be able to be around each other without... without it being like this."

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on Sora, on the way her hands shake slightly while she bites her lip like she’s scared you’ll hate her for this.

You could never. She’s the only reason you still have anyone at all.

"I’m not asking you to be friends," she rushes on, voice cracking slightly. "Just— just civil. For me. For family events. Holidays. Birthdays. I don’t want to have to choose between the two people who mattered most to me for so long."

The weight of it all presses down harder.

You nod because it’s the only thing you can do without breaking apart in public.

Sora’s face softens, relief flooding her features, and she reaches across the table to squeeze your hand briefly before rising to her feet.

"I’m gonna give you two a moment," she says, and before you can protest — before you can even breathe — she’s gone, leaving you alone in the heavy, aching silence of too many unsaid things.

You feel his gaze on you — steady, sharp, unbearable — and for a long moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up.

But eventually, inevitably, you do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, the past hits you like a tidal wave — dragging you back to the night everything shattered, the night you learned that some betrayals don't bleed out cleanly but rot inside you for years.

The night everything you believed in burned to ash in his hands — the same night you lost him, and somewhere along the way, yourself too.

Six years ago

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind of suffocating stillness that clings to your skin, and you had been sitting alone in your small apartment, half-listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, your sketchpad abandoned at your feet, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and slow, like maybe — finally — you could start piecing yourself back together after the stupid little fight you had with him a week ago.

You weren’t expecting anything.

Which is why the furious, violent banging at your door made you jump so hard you nearly toppled off the couch, your heart slamming against your ribs as a thousand terrible possibilities flashed through your mind — none of them preparing you for the sight waiting on the other side.

Jungkook.

But not the Jungkook you knew — not the boy who used to kiss you until the world melted away, not the boy who used to call you his princess like it was a sacred word.

This Jungkook looked like something broken loose from a storm — wild eyes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his rage, with his grief.

"Who is he?" he choked out the moment you opened the door, his voice raw, splintered at the edges."Tell me who the fuck he is, Y/N."

You blinked at him, confused, terrified, stepping back instinctively as he stormed past you into the apartment, his presence filling the small space with something frantic and electric and wrong.

"Jungkook, what are you talking about?" you asked, your voice shaking, your hands reaching out to him without thinking — but he jerked away like your touch burned him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together."I saw it! I fucking saw it — you and him — you telling him you loved him like I meant nothing!"

The words didn't make sense.

They slammed against your brain but refused to stick, refused to arrange themselves into anything real, anything you could understand.

"I— I don't—" you stammered, tears already welling up because the look on his face — God, the look — was worse than anger, worse than hatred.

It was betrayal, heartbreak — and somehow, impossibly, you had been the one to put it there, even if you didn’t understand how.

"You're protecting him," he spat, eyes glinting wet under the cheap ceiling light. "You love him that much, huh? You love him so much you'd throw everything away?"

"No!" you cried, stepping closer, desperate, frantic. "Jungkook, I swear to you — I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

But whether he didn't listen or simply couldn't anymore, it made no difference — the part of him that once trusted you was already too broken to reach and had already shattered beyond repair.

He shook his head, laughing hollowly, wiping his mouth like he was trying to scrub the taste of you from his skin, and then he was gone — slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook, that your bones rattled inside you.

You stood there for a long time after, staring at the door, at the emptiness he left behind, feeling something inside you collapse so completely it left nothing but ashes in its wake.

You called, you texted, you sat up all night watching your phone flicker to life and die again, over and over, until even the light felt like a knife against your eyes — and still, he never answered.

And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you understood that this wasn’t a fight you could fix with an apology or a kiss or a whispered promise under the covers.

This was something bigger and fatal. Days passed — long, gray, aching.

When he finally agreed to meet, it wasn’t at your apartment. It was somewhere neutral, somewhere cold — a small, empty parking lot behind a coffee shop you used to visit when you were too broke for anything but each other's company.

You spotted him leaning against his car, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the tension vibrating through him even from yards away. You approached cautiously, heart hammering against your ribs, clutching your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from whatever was about to happen.

He didn’t speak at first — just unlocked his phone with shaking fingers and shoved it toward you, and you saw the images, the videos, spilling across the screen like a slow, relentless gutting.

You — in a too-short dress you didn’t remember wearing — laughing too loudly, leaning too close to a stranger, kissing someone whose face you couldn't place, slurring out words you didn't recognize as your own — "I don't care about anything. I love you. I love you."

You stared at the screen, horror blooming in your chest so fast and so hard you thought you might be sick.

"I—" you stammered, throat closing, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the phone."I don't— I didn't—"

But you couldn't say it with certainty. You remembered going out that night after your fight, remembered the sharp, desperate need to forget how much it hurt when he raised his voice, when he walked away. You remembered drinking too much, laughing too hard.

But after that, your memory dissolves — slipping into darkness, into empty spaces where something should have been, leaving you grasping at shadows that will never take shape.

"Say something," Jungkook rasped, his voice barely more than a breath now."Fucking say something, Y/N."

You lifted your eyes to him, saw the devastation there, saw the way he was barely holding himself upright — and you realized, with bone-deep certainty, that you had destroyed him.

You had destroyed everything beautiful you had built together — every late-night secret, every whispered promise, every desperate, trembling hope — crushed under the weight of one stupid, reckless night you could barely even remember.

"It’s not real," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue."It can’t be real."

But doubt had already sunk its teeth into you, gnawing at every fragile truth you thought you knew, until even the ground beneath your feet felt like it was crumbling away.

"I need you," you whispered again, broken, desperate, hating yourself for even daring to ask when you were the reason he was bleeding out in front of you."I need you, Jungkook. Please. Now more than never."

For a heartbeat, something soft and familiar cracked through his face — something that looked almost like the boy who once loved you without fear — but it withered too fast, collapsing into bitterness, into fury, into a sadness so sharp it barely looked human.

"You needed someone to pay your bills," he snarled, stepping back like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "You needed someone to lift you out of your shit life, and I was dumb enough to think you actually loved me."

The words sliced clean through you, sharper than any knife.

"I never—" you tried to say, but your voice cracked, the tears spilling over now, unstoppable, humiliating.

He laughed — a hollow, broken sound — and wiped his mouth again like he could still taste your betrayal.

"You played me," he said. "You played me, and I fucking let you."

And then he was gone again — turning away, walking off into the night — leaving you standing there under the flickering streetlights, broken, abandoned, a ghost of the girl you used to be.

Present time

The silence between you stretches so taut it feels like it might snap and slice both of you open, and when you finally blink, the café shifts back into focus — cold coffee on the table, the faint scratch of chairs against wood, the distant hum of conversations you can't quite catch.

Jungkook is still sitting there, watching you with an expression that isn’t hatred, not exactly, but something worse — something exhausted, something hollowed-out, something like a man still bleeding from wounds that never truly closed.

You straighten in your seat, fingers tangling awkwardly in the hem of your sweater, your mouth dry, your heart thudding against your ribs like a battered bird desperate to escape.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first.

"You still painting?" he asks, voice low and rough, like it scrapes his throat just to speak to you.

You nod, barely, afraid if you use your voice it might crack apart.

"And still working those shitty jobs?" he adds, the corner of his mouth curling into something bitter, something that was never his real smile.

"Yeah," you whisper, and it sounds so small you almost hate yourself for it.

He doesn’t respond at first — just looks at you, and for a moment you think he might say something else, something sharp or cruel — but his gaze drops to his hands instead, to the way they tremble slightly as he grips the paper cup, knuckles whitening.

Your throat tightens.

You notice it then — the way the shadows cling too tightly under his eyes, the way his skin looks drawn and dry, the way his body seems almost too light in the chair like he's been losing something important slowly and no one cared enough to notice.

Without thinking, without weighing the danger, you lean in slightly, voice breaking through the shield you’ve built around yourself.

"Are you okay?"

The words are soft, tentative — a whisper stretched thin with guilt and fear — and for a second, just a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something startled and hurt and unbearably familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Jungkook huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing not with malice but with a tired kind of disbelief.

"You don’t get to ask me that anymore," he says, and the way he says it — low and tired and irrevocably sad — stings worse than any shout could have.

You drop your gaze, staring at the table between you, counting the little scratches and coffee stains like maybe if you focus hard enough they’ll tell you what to say, how to breathe, how to survive this.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, struggling under the weight of everything that’s never been said. And then — so low you almost don’t catch it — he murmurs:

"It’s funny, isn’t it?"

You look up, and there’s something broken and almost wistful in the curve of his mouth, something too raw to be a smile.

"So many years," he says, voice rough, thick with the kind of grief that doesn’t dull, "and it still fucking hurts."

You swallow hard, your throat burning, your hands curling into fists in your lap just to keep from reaching for him.

"Me too," you whisper, the truth of it carving fresh wounds into your lungs.

He turns his gaze on you then, sharp and cutting, and the tenderness in his features vanishes like smoke.

"Then why don’t you just confess it already?" he snaps, and for once it doesn’t sound cruel — just desperate, like he’s begging you to make sense of the senseless wreckage you both live inside.

Your chest caves inward.

"I didn’t cheat," you say, the words trembling between your lips, and you hate the way your voice shakes, hate the way the tears well up without permission, blurring the world around you.

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid.

"Don’t," he says, voice low and strict, the command so familiar it punches straight through your ribs. "Don't you dare cry. You don’t get to cry. You did this to me."

And maybe you would have obeyed and swallowed the tears like broken glass and let them shred you from the inside. But the truth rises before you can stop it, ugly and shaking and alive.

"I was pregnant."

The words tear themselves from your mouth, leaving you gasping, weightless in their aftermath, as the world around you collapses into a silence so complete it hums inside your skull — your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your eyes locking helplessly onto Jungkook as he goes rigid across from you, his body stiffening, his face freezing, until he looks less like a man and more like something carved from stone.

You stay frozen too, trapped in the wreckage of the moment, breathless, unmoored — suspended in that terrible space where time folds in on itself, where every grief you thought you had buried, every memory you thought you had survived, comes roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Across the table, Jungkook stares — not with anger, not even with disbelief, but with the hollow, shell-shocked emptiness of someone standing at the edge of their own undoing, with no ground left to stand on.

.

part 2

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[yunamoona]

maybe unpopular opinion: when Suguru gets comfortable in yours and his relationship, he gets a little loosey-goosey instead of being a perfect gentleman 24/7…we can’t forget him and Satoru are two sides of the same coin.

of course he loves you a ton and you still get the princess treatment, he’s just more comfortable and the banter never dies. He appears more civil than his white haired counterpart, but he’s really just as bad in a different way

It can be things like lazy mornings, you draping the upper half of your body over the side of the couch as you hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, met with the sight of a tanned back, toned muscle partially obscured by silky ebony strands gathered loosely in a hair tie.

“What’re you making?”

“Toast.” He answers without turning away from the counter. You hear something like the dull sound of springs, and it must be him adjusting the toaster.

“Make me some?”

“You know how to get it yourself.”

You give him a pointed, pouty look. It’s what makes his lips curl into an amused grin when he turns just to see it. “Stop that, I already put one in for you.”

You grumble something anyway as he asks you what you want on it. “Mmm… jelly.”

Your eyes trail him to the fridge, and then back to the counter. “Wait, what’re you putting on yours?” You intone.

“Butter.”

“I change my mind, I want that too.” He walks back to the fridge to deposit the jam, and back to the counter. But just as he raises the knife to the second slice of bread— “no, never mind, I want jelly.” You’re being like this on purpose. He can tell by the downward turn of your smile-stifled lips.

With a condemnatory squint of his eyes, he gives you a long look as he marches back over to the fridge to fetch the jam jar again. All while you watch with a self-satisfied smirk.

But just as you thought you won this pointless little breakfast battle, your eyes widen at the sight of his wolfish grin, bared teeth taking a huge chomp of your piece of toast.

“Heyyuh!” You scoff, leaping up from the couch to reprimand him.

He only barks with laughter as you scarf down his toast in retaliation, the sight of your cheeks puffed as you defiantly chewed too endearing, too much. Jam stained lips kiss “Sorry,” and “I just couldn’t help myself,” into your crumb covered ones, fingers dancing over yours as he promises to make you another.

[peachsayshi]

minors - ageless - blank blogs dni

pirate!sukuna and mermaid!reader grow to have an unlikely friendship with each other. both try to steal moments with the other person. in a way, sukuna isn't as miserable that he's stranded on this island with his crew. it just means it gives him ample opportunity to seek you out while everyone else is busy.

it's late, the crescent moon a bright smile in the dark sky. he finds you perched on a rock, the crashing waves hitting the jagged surface. your hair is cascading down your back, your naked torso facing the horizon. this makes him blush, of all things. the fact that you aren't even aware of what your nudity does to him. of how it makes him pulse and stir in ways that remind him of how weak he is as man.

he avoids his gaze at all costs, even though he knows you're not bothered by it. but he still does it out of respect for you.

"I saw you earlier this morning by my ship," he speaks casually. his white shirt is unbuttoned low, revealing his sun kissed chest and the tattoos underneath. his one eye squints with an amusement, the other hidden by the patch. he climbs the rock to meet you.

your cheeks warm.

"I saw your fin when I looked over the deck," he teases, "were you looking for me?"

you turn to face the horizon.

maybe you were curious. you haven't seen him in the last couple of days.

"no," you lie. "I was just making sure that your men weren't going to cause any trouble..."

sukuna smiles, and you can feel the way it radiates despite not looking at him. it makes you nervous how your heart can't contain its beats around him. how your stomach flips into itself. the way your fin almost quivers with excitement when he's around.

he sits on the rock, his body just slightly behind you.

"I got you something," he says, prompting you to glance over your shoulder to gaze up at him.

he's holding something in his hand, it's color a bright orange blended into green. he pulls out his knife and slices into it, revealing the golden yellow flesh inside.

"what's that?" you ask with a furrow of your brow, your mouth pouting slightly as your nose scrunches.

"fruit", sukuna explains, offering you a slice from his hand but he keeps it a slight distance away to tempt you closer.

you oblige, sliding your way up towards him. you carefully pick it up from between his fingers, your heart pulsing at your throat when you notice just how large his hand actually is. you remember the way he carried you, distinctly recall how he circled them around your delicate neck. you take in the scars on his exposed forearms, blurred with the dark ink of his tattoos.

you accept the offer, and bite into the fruit.

your eyes widen, your mouth coated with a luxurious taste that reminds you of the sun and happiness. you swallow the custard like fruit, before sinking your teeth into it again for another bite.

sukuna huffs out a laugh with approval. "you like it?"

"mhmm," you say eagerly with a nod, and the devour the slice quicker than expected.

sukuna hands you another slice, and you give him a sheepish glare. "if this is poisoned., just know that you'll be haunted by my spirit..."

he just chuckles, his eyes locked onto the fruit cradled between your fingers. he places his blade on his lap, and tenderly clasps his hand around your wrist. he pulls your hand towards his mouth, his lips circling around the fruit as he takes a bite for himself. your tail flaps with subtle excitement, your skin tingling as the juice trickles down your wrist.

sukuna licks his lips before pulling your wrist to his mouth. he laps up the sweet nectar that dribbled, then smooths his thumb over your skin and gazes back up at you.

"care to ask me that again?"

you gulp, your words catching everywhere and tangling on your tongue. sukuna doesn't let you go, but instead trails his hand down to your elbow, then moves to the smooth curve of your hip. he can feel the stitch of flesh and scale, and he uses his strength to pull you into his frame so that you were both sitting much, much closer to one another.

your back was pressed to his shoulder, and he keeps one arm around your waist before proceeding to continue what he was doing earlier.

it's quiet and still, the world around moving slower than molasses. you eat the fruit while he cuts it for you. making note then that this man comes to offer you something every time he visits.

by the time you're done and lick your fingers clean, you know what he is going to say next.

"so, what will I get this time for my act of kindness?"

you can't help but smile. your mind spinning on what you would like to give him next. but instead you simply ask, "what would you like from me, pirate?" you flirt.

a hand moves to hold your chin, it's perched between his thumb and index finger. he tilts your face towards his, and taps your bottom lip.

"I want a taste of something sweet too..." he murmurs, the depth of voice like the vast breadth of the ocean itself.

you stare up at him with deep infatuation. at his ruggedly, handsome features that feels sinful to even gaze upon. you think he'll just go straight for it, but he waits.

only then to give him a small nod.

he arches forward and at the same time pulls you closer. his mouth meets yours and he holds the kiss for a few brief seconds, making the tips of your ears twitch as the heat rushes through your body. it's a chaste peck, and sukuna pulls away but leaves only a sliver of space.

your lips tingle with anticipation. "I thought..." you whisper, the waves crashing as it sprinkles against your tail and his legs. your hand grips over his forearm, and you give him a gentle squeeze. "I thought humans taste with their tongue..."

his eyes burn into yours, but he smirks against your mouth as he leans down to give you another kiss. your lips part granting him permission to indulge. your hand moves to hold the back of his head, while his own drops to cup just underneath your breast. the pulse in your ears is almost deafening, because you can't remember how long it's been since you've been kissed liked this. as for sukuna, he can't think of anything else but the sensation of you on his tongue. of how the taste of lingering fruit and salt has settled on your buds. he's kissed many before you, but nothing even comes close to this. it’s as if he's been bewitched by a creature like you, but he doesn't see it as a curse, and instead finds it to be a blessing.

it’s a kiss fueled by an unknown hunger, by an unnatural desire. you both push against one another with lips, tongue and teeth, until the air is drawn out of both your lungs.

when it’s over, and you both have your foreheads pressed to one another, you’re panting just to catch your breath. sukuna dips his hand from underneath your breast to your stomach which heaves, as you both try to settle into the moment. you ease the grip on his hair, and allow your hand to slide down to his exposed chest, slipping it just underneath his shirt.

“was that…” you exhale, nipping at your bottom lip because you’ve never kissed a human before.

“as good as I imagined?” he answers with a contemplative sigh. “yes.”

[goodluckbab]

helena going to lunch with her father and having a single boiled egg. slicing it in perfectly equal slices and arranging them perfectly on her plate. eating it with a fork and knife in tiny bites with perfect posture. and he still criticizes her, tells her he wishes she would eat raw eggs instead. there is so much here. she makes herself so small and does so much to try to please him and it’s still not good enough. she can’t even eat a fucking boiled egg

[enderlovez]

out on the couch

Spencer Reid x Reader WORD COUNT: 1300+

Summary: You and Spencer have an argument, and in the heat of the moment, he says something pretty hurtful.

Content Warning: arguments, it's winter and cold, hurtful words, guilt

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The argument starts over something stupid. It always does—not to say you fight with Spencer frequently, but when you do, it's always over something ridiculous.

Maybe it's the way he corrected you on something small—some minor detail that really didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Or maybe it's the way you left your coffee mug on the counter instead of rinsing it out immediately.

You don't even remember the specifics. All you know is that it escalated fast, the frustration mounting between you like a growing storm.

"I don't understand why everything has to be a debate with you!" you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

Spencer's jaw tightens, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm not debating you. I'm just pointing out that—"

"That I'm wrong?" you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended it to be.

"No, I—" He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. "You're twisting my words again, Y/N. You always do this."

That does it. His tone is clipped, dismissive, and it slices through you like a hot knife. Your chest tightens to the point of pain as you glare at him, trying to hold back the sting of tears.

"Right," you say bitterly, your voice trembling. "I'm impossible to deal with, aren't I? That's what you're thinking."

It's cruel of you to say. Even in the moment, you know it's wrong. Spencer's eyes flash with irritation, and before you can take back the words, he says the one thing he shouldn't.

"You said it, not me."

The room goes quiet.

It's not the loud kind of quiet (you know), where tension hangs thick and heavy. It's the hollow kind (you know that, too), the kind that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

You stare at him, your lips parted in shock, but no words come out. He doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he does, but he's too stubborn to back down.

Instead, he turns on his heel and storms off, his long legs carrying him into the bedroom. The door shuts behind him, not quite slamming but still loud enough to echo in your ears.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he stood. The weight of his words lingers, heavier than the argument itself. You swallow hard, the ache in your chest growing as the tears you'd been holding back finally spill down your cheeks.

But you don't follow him.

Instead, you grab the old throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and curl up on the sofa. It's not comfortable—the cushions are firm, the blanket thin, and the chills of winter seeps into your bones—but you can't bring yourself to go into the bedroom.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

In the bedroom, Spencer sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

The anger that had burned so hot just moments ago is gone entirely, snuffed out like a candle. What's left is the cold weight of regret, pressing down on him like a lead blanket.

He knows he shouldn't have said what he did. He knows it was cruel, unnecessary, and completely unfair—especially when he could see the beginning of an apology on your face.

But at the time, it had felt like the only way to defend himself.

Now, with the argument over and the silence settling in, all he can think about is the look on your face when he said those words. The way your shoulders sagged as if weighed down, the way your eyes widened just slightly, as if he'd struck you.

The thought makes him feel a little nauseous.

He waits for you to come to bed, his heart sinking further with each passing minute. The silence stretches on, broken only by the faint hum of the heater kicking on in the corner.

You don't come.

Maybe at some point in his life, he'd have been grateful for the quiet. But now that he's spent almost every day with you when he's not working, listened to your quiet ramblings, it feels more suffocating than comforting.

You're comforting.

Finally, he gets up and steps into the hallway. The dimmed light from the living room spills into the darkness, and he follows it, an unfamiliar discomfort swirling around his stomach.

When he sees your curled up on the couch, trembling slightly, his chest tightens painfully.

You're lying on your side as to stay on the narrow sofa, your knees tucked up to your chest, the thin throw blanket doing nothing to shield you from the cold. He can see the way your shoulders are hunched, the way your body is curled in on itself, as if trying to make yourself small.

The sight breaks his heart.

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stir, blinking groggily as your eyes flutter open. For a moment, you just stare at him, the hurt in your gaze twisting the knife of guilt in his chest.

"What're you doing out here?" he asks, kneeling beside the couch.

You shift slightly, your voice quiet and trembling when you finally speak. "I figured you wouldn't want me in the room."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

There is nothing on Earth that could make him not want you around, not even a silly argument. Nothing that could convince him to keep you at arms length for more than a few minutes.

His breath catches, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. You don't flinch, but you don't lean into his touch like you usually would, either. The hesitation in your posture is enough to make his broken heart ache.

"Y/N," he murmurs, his voice thick with regret. "That's not true. I didn't mean what I said. I was angry, and I wasn't thinking. I... I never should have said that, I promise you're not impossible to deal with."

You don't respond, your gaze dropping to the blanket. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into his palms as he tries to find the right words. His hands somehow find your face, thumbs wiping away the dampness still there.

"I'm sorry," he continues. "I was wrong. I hurt you, and I hate that I did. You're not impossible. You're—God, you're everything to me..."

For a long moment, you don't say anything.

Finally, you sigh, your voice barely audible. "It d-didn't feel like that earlier."

Spencer's shoulders slump, his head bowing as shame washes over him. "I know," he whispers. "I was awful to you. I don't have an excuse, but I... I can't stand the thought of you feeling like I don't want you around. Because I do. Always."

You look at him then, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. "It's hard to believe that when you say things like that, Spence."

"I know," he says again, his voice breaking. "But I'll spend every moment for the rest of my life making it up to you, if I have to. If you want me to."

Your lips press together, and for a moment, he thinks you're going to push him away. But then you shift, sitting up slowly and letting the blanket fall away from your body. You lean into him slightly, nose pressing against the top of his head.

"Come here," he says softly, holding his hand toward yours.

You hesitate, but eventually, you take it. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in his embrace as if he's afraid to let you go. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, chasing away the lingering chill.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, his lips brushing against your hair. "I'll do better, I promise."

You rest your head against his shoulder, the tension in your body slowly melting away. "Please... just don't make me feel like that again."

"I won't," he vows, holding you tighter.

He'll never let you feel like this again—like you're less than enough. Like you're not everything and more to him. Like he doesn't want you around. Like he doesn't love you. Never.

And as he carries you back to the bedroom, his arms never leaving your frame, you let yourself believe him.

[thehorrorgirlstyles]

Make you Scream

Billy Loomis x reader

Summary: You find out your boyfriend is Ghostface, which should scare you, instead it turns you on even more.

Warnings: Blood, Violence, sexual content, 18+ themes, swearing, foreplay, knife-play, mature themes, sex, reader is in denial

________________________________________________

"It's gotta be him right, I mean in a horror movie, it's always the person closet to you that turns out to be a fucking killer, I'm telling you man" Randy says to you as you both walk down the hallway of your school.

"Randy for the last time, Billy... who is my boyfriend as you know, is not a fucking killer.. trust me I know him better than anyone else... and besides if he was Ghostface I don't think he would be able to hide it from me" You reply, holding you books closer to your chest.

It's been a week since news of Casey and Steve's murders and Randy won't stop coming up with ideas on who the mystery killer is. First he pointed fingers at you because you never liked the girl, which he claims is a perfect motive. You don't like half the people at your school, but they're all still alive, so his reasoning is invalid. Now, he's claiming it's your boyfriend, which you think is ridiculous, I mean why is he naming all the people in your friend group for starters, you guys are friends for crying out loud.

"I don't know man Billy is pretty scary looking" He says opening the door to the library.

You walk in and drop the books off, "Well I think he looks sexy"

"Gross"

"Can we stop talking about Ghostface now, you know Stu is hosting a party tonight, you going?" You ask him.

"Yeah right, the killer will probably show up there, a bunch of drunk, not to mention high teens that probably won't notice if someone gets stabbed...but yeah I'll be there".

You roll your eyes at his dramatics.

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

After you left Randy, you went to grab a book you forgot in your locker. You decided to go now since everyone was in class and the halls would be empty.

You turn the corner and run straight into a hard figure. You look up to quickly apologize, but see no other than Ghostface himself. You gasp in shock and back away quickly, your heart starting to race.

Ghostface stares at you, mocking your movements. You see him pull out a knife from behind him. He looks at it and runs his fingers along the blade, toying with you. Quickly, you run past him and reach the stairs towards the main entrance of the school, but he's quicker. He grabs your arm, halting you from going down and pulls you backwards, your back meeting his chest. You try to break free, but he slices at your arm, the knife cutting into your shoulder. You scream out and fight against him.

He brings the knife up to your throat and pushes against it, cutting just enough to draw blood. You close your eyes, thinking this is your final moments and you curse yourself for not putting up more of a fight, but it never comes. He stays still, holding the knife against your throat, but not going deeper. You open your eyes and look up at him, but he's looking off to the side. What is he distracted by? You don't stay to think as you use this as a time to escape, you push at his arms and he lets go without putting up a fight. You didn't realize how easily he would let you go, as you were close to the edge of the stairs. You trip out of his arms and your foot skips a step, making you tumble down the stairs.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, your vision goes black and you can faintly make out two voices arguing.

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

When you wake up, you feel your head pounding. You take in your surroundings and try to make sense of where you are. You look around the room and see your boyfriend sitting in a sit next to you, his face in his hands.

"Billy?" You rasp out.

He immediately looks up at you and rushes over to your side.

"Y/n, how are you feeling, are you okay?" He grabs your hand and goes to touch your hair.

"Yeah, I-I'm okay, are we at a hospital?" You ask leaning into his touch.

"You fell down the stairs, I found you and called the ambulance"

"Oh my God, I remember now..Billy the killer he was trying to kill me!.. He was at the school!"

He looks off to the side like he's angry at something, "I'm dealing with it, but uh- the doctor said you should be free to go tonight, your injuries where just minor, nothing serious, they think you weren't looking and tripped"

"That's goods, but the killer...wait what do you mean dealing with it?" You ask, confused by his response.

"Nothing, listen I have to go to Stu's party tonight, are you still up for it?" He ask, moving a stray hair behind your ear.

"Are you serious, I just told you I got attacked by the killer and you want to go to a party?" You look at him in disbelief.

"Trust me nothing's going to happen to you, I'll be by your side at all times... and you don't have to go, but the doctor said you'll be fine, I just really have to go Y/n"

You roll your eyes at him, "Fine, I'll go with you.. I need a drink anyways".

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

After you got cleared from the hospital, you went home to change. Luckily you didn't break anything on the way down the stairs, getting away with the few marks left by Ghostface. Billy was adamant on going to this party, which makes no sense to you. Now that you think about it he didn't seem phased when you mentioned that a literal killer had you in his grasp ready to slice your throat. Weird.

"You look so hot Y/n... I heard what happened at school you okay?" Tatum says to you when she opens the door.

"Thanks, you too and yeah I'm okay it wasn't anything serious" You give her a hug and walk inside, your hands interlocked with Billy's.

"Hey I'm going to grab a drink, you want anything?" You shout to your boyfriend, over the loud music.

"No, I'm fine sweetheart, come straight to me after, don't want anyone slipping something into your drink".

"Ok, meet you by the front" You saying giving him a final kiss on the lips then leaving.

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

After you grabbed your drink, you walked back, frowning when you realize that Billy wasn't by the front.

Instead you see Randy by the door, drinking a beer, "Hey Randy, have you seen Billy?"

"I saw him go upstairs" He nods towards the stairs, continuing to drink his beer.

You go to walk upstairs, but he stops you, "Hey what happened at school?"

"What do you mean?...everyone heard that I fell down the stairs".

"Yeah..but like did you fall, or were you pushed?" He asks you, looking dead into your eyes.

You sigh, "It was Ghostface, he tried to kill me at the school, but something distracted him... He let go of me and I missed the step, when I woke up in the hospital Billy was there and he said it was better if I didn't tell the cops anything, that way Ghostface won't come after me anymore".

Randy scoffs, "Don't you see, it is so clearly him.. "don't tell the cops", that's complete bullshit, in what world would you not tell the cops a literal killer came after you?... and your stupid enough to agree with him, HELLO?!"

"Randy, enough with this Ghostface shit, I know you think it's Billy, but its not and if I was pushed down the stairs, it wouldn't be by him.. I do think it's a little weird he didn't seen phased by it, but I trust him.. he probably just didn't want to scare me into thinking Ghostface was going to come after me again and besides I'm pretty fine, just a few scratches".

"Whatever, you're either in serious denial or your a complete fucking idiot, I'm leaving.. call me later, if you're still alive be then" He grabs the door handle and walks out, slamming it shut.

You think that maybe Randy's right, even though he could have worded it nicer. I mean you were just in a hospital a few hours ago and now you're at a party?!

You brush off Randy's words and start to head upstairs. You pause when you get to the top, hearing hushed voices.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!..Why the hell would you go after Y/n.. when was that part of the plan?"

"You're going to kill Tatum, why can't I kill Y/n?"

"Uhh- maybe because Y/n is my girlfriend dumbass".

"Tatum is my girlfriend!"

"Yeah, but Tatum is just a means to an end, we actually want Y/n alive because I love her!"

"Whatever I'm going to go talk to Tatum before you kill her!"

Just as he stops talking, your phone starts to ring. Shit! You hurry up and try to turn it off seeing that it's Randy. This man has perfect timing.

"What the fuck was that?" Stu asks.

Before you can leave, a tall figure appears from around the corner. Billy stares at you, his facial expression unreadable. Your heart drops.

"Well What is it?" Stu asks.

He continues to stare at you for a minute before answering, "It's nothing, someone was probably at the bottom of the stairs".

You don't wait to hear Stu's reply and hurry down the stairs. WHAT THE FUCK?! Randy was right this whole time, Billy is ghostace? Stu is ghostface? THERE ARE TWO GHOSTFACE?!

"Y/n!" Someone calls your name.

You look behind you and see Billy standing by the stairs, he nods his head, wanting you to follow him upstairs. This is dumb right? You shouldn't go upstairs BY YOURSLEF with someone you know is a killer. You should call the police and turn both of them in.

You follow Billy upstairs. He leads you to one of the guest bedrooms, opening the door for you. You walk in first and he closes the door behind you, locking it.

You face him, waiting for him to speak. He smiles at you, shaking his head, "Why were you on the stairs?"

"I was looking for you".

"Hmmm, and you found me" He chuckles. "What did you hear?" he asks, walking closer to you.

You back up, your legs hitting the side of the bed, "Nothing".

"Mmmh, okay... Do I scare you?" He closes the gap between you.

"No".

He nods at your answer and he reaches behind himself, pulling a knife out of his pocket. He holds it up and quickly grabs you, applying pressure to your neck. You gasp at his quick movements.

"And what about now?" He says adding pressure, but not enough to actually hurt you.

"No".

"No? I don't make you scare sweetheart, even after you know what I have done, the people I've killed?"

"No".

You don't know why, but you're finding this to be extremly hot. Billy threatening you with a knife, but knowing that he would never hurt you. Maybe you're just sick in the head, after all your boyfriend is a murder, you shouldn't feel this way, but you do. Maybe it's because of all the dark romance books you have been reading or maybe it's because you love him too much that you can cast away his flaws. You should probably call the cops, but instead you rub your legs together, the friction does nothing to ease your aching cunt.

Billy catches the movement without his eyes, and groans when he sees what you're doing, "You're enjoying this?".. "You're more sick than I am, what a dirty whore you are" He chuckles out.

You moan, "Billy pleasee, I-I just need you".

"You want it baby?" he guides the knife over the top of your chest.

"Please, Mr. Ghostface".

His eyes darkenen in response as he halts his movement, looking at you. He grabs at you quickly and slices your top open with the knife, exposing your breast. The cold meets your chest, your nipples hardening. He looks down at your breast and moves his mouth to meet your bud. He licks and flicks at it with his tongue. He moves up to your neck and laps at it, leaving marks. You moan and wrap your arms around his neck, encouraging him to continue his bitting.

When he finishes attacking your neck, he picks you up and throws you on the bed. You gasp as your back meets the mattress. He gets on top of you and starts to undo his belt.

"Turn around and get on all fours" He tells you, slapping your cheek.

You listen to him and flip over on your stomach. After he gets his pants off, he flips your skirt over, exposing your bare cunt.

"You didn't wear anything underneath?" He asks in shock, but he quickly turns unfazed.

"Always prepared for me huh sweetheart" He pulls your legs closer to his hip and you can feel just how hard he is. He rubs his tip against your entrance, making you grow wetter by the second. Without warning he pushes his length past your folds. Making you scream out. You quickly adjust to his big size, the pain turning into pleasure.

He snaps his hips back and forth. Your whines egg him on as he continues to fuck into you ruthlessly not caring if you can take it. He doesn't let you gather your breath, each movement your face pushes more into the sheets. You cry out, but it's muffled by the sheets. He repeatedly hits your g-spot, making you cry out even more.

"Fuck, look at you making a mess on my cock, you're a fifthly little thing aren't you?" He pulls you up, your back meeting his chest, waiting for you to answer him.

"Only for you Billy~" You whine out, tears forming in your eyes from the pleasure.

He pushes you back down into the sheets, his movements continuing, "That's right baby, you're mine, my dirty slut, my pussy to fuck, my cunt to cum in".

You feel his dick twitch inside of you, knowing that he is close. You moan out his name, begging for him to fuck into you faster. He listens, his pace picking up. Your wet pussy hugs his dick, clenching around it tightly.

"Fuck, Y/n..I'm gonna cum, you feel so good... so wet for me baby"

You moan in response, as you feel yourself getting closer and closer. With one final snap of his hips you clench down on his cock, causing him to reach his climax too.

"Fuckk~" He pulls your body closer to him, making sure that his dick is fully inside you as far as it can go. You feel his cum painting your walls as he comes undone. He collapses on top of you, his dick twitching inside of you. When you both calm down from your highs, he flips you over, pulling your naked body on top of his.

After you both finish, you lay on the bed together. He holds you to his chest and strokes your hair. You look up at him and he grins at you. You reach up to meet his lips. He kisses you back immediately, humming into the kiss. After a while, you pull back and look up at him, meeting his eyes.

"Please don't kill Tatum, I like her".

He chuckles, "Whatever you want baby".

[limethefirst]

Hello! I've read you're shadow fanfiction and it's just absolutely amazing!! Can I request a shadow x teen reader(platonic) where the reader stays with robotnik and stone but isn't related like they just decided to keep them because they were useful and when shadow comes around he grows an attachment to them and constantly wants to protect them

Please and thank you!!!!

Guardian Hedgehog

pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: slight sonic 3 spoilers

summary: Shadow finds himself getting attached again, but maybe this outcome will be different from the rest

a/n: thank you so much for being patient and enjoying my other stories! Here’s your request, I hope you enjoy it as much as the others!

When you first met Shadow, he quite literally jump scared you. You were walking down the dark corridor with Knuckles the Echidna, he was letting out a nervous mumble about supposedly not being scared but you could tell he was from his shaking. You didn’t blame him though, this place was creepy that’s for sure, you wanted to go with Robotnik or Stone but Sonic had very little faith in you three so instead you had to pair up with Knuckles.

As you walked with him, your arms crossed you let out an annoyed groan, sure this place was creepy and weird and actually somewhat scary…but nothing would get you, so why make a big fuss anyway.

“Boo”

And that is how you met Shadow. By getting unintentionally scared and jumping behind the smaller echidna.

From that point forward it seemed as if he wanted to just stick by your side, which you didn’t really mind. It was actually quite funny; when Robotnik would reprimanded you for messing up a task, Shadow would give him a mean glare, which happened a lot in the short amount of time he was with you.

Even Gerald noticed it, although he didn’t say anything about it. It was you and Shadow’s little thing, like he was your little guardian.

Currently you were in London, inside The Crab, watching the novela on the T.V.

“Gabriela should kill them both, she’s not a prize to be won,” Shadow grumbled, his focus on the show in front of him. You let out a small nod, not turning back to look at him, disgustingly engrossed in the show.

Stone only let out a chuckle, telling Shadow not to be so negative before he called out to you, “Hey, could you slice up these avocados for me while I use the mortar to grind them?”

You gave a quick glance back before standing, eyes lingering back to the show every once and while. Shadow watched the interaction subconsciously moving a bit closer to where you were.

As you stood next to Stone on the counter you weren’t paying as much attention to the knife in your hand as you should’ve as you suddenly cut the tip of your index finger.

“Ah shoot,” you hissed out, dropping both the knife and the avocado in your hand onto the counter. Within a second Shadow had immediately teleported to your side, his head raised to get a look at what happened to you.

Stone also turned, putting down his bowl and taking a look, “Just a small cut don’t be so over dramatic,” he sarcastically said.

“If it were the Dr you’d probably already call an ambulance…” you replied with a snarky tone, teasing him a bit. He gave you a short glance before grabbing a first aid kit and handing it to you.

Shadow watched you the entire time, his face as stoic as ever, but his moves precise. He would check the cut then your body language seeing if you were in anytime of pain. Honestly it was a bit of an over exaggeration on his part but he felt the need to protect you and in that moment he sensed it was like he failed you.

As you took the first aid kit you turned over to Shadow, before you even got the chance to open it he’d already taken it from you, “What are you doing?” You questioned him.

“Fixing your cut,” he plainly replied.

“Awe you’re like an angel sent from above!”

“Don’t call me that.”

You chuckled before sitting down on the ground so Shadow had an easier time helping you. Shadow didn’t want to admit it but he found your banter with him endearing and tolerable compared with most others.

As you sat there, you watched Shadow disinfect the cut, drying it once he was done.

“You’re good at that, have you done this before?” You asked him, watching as he grabbed one of the kiddy bandaids in the kit.

“I have experience,” was all he said, not feeling the need to go into detail, most of his focus currently on making sure your cut was secure.

Slowly he unwrapped your bandaid, Patrick the Starfish was the one you got, they were all little kid bandaids since you were in charge of making sure all the first aid kits were packed.

You watched as he put it around your finger, his eyes very focused on the task at hand. Quietly he gave a curt nod once he was done, signaling that you could get up now.

As you stood up you took a look at your bandaid, you gave a small smile, “Thanks Shadow,” you quietly said, patting the hedgehog on the head.

He didn’t tell you anything, his job was done, you were okay now and he could relax.

Shadow wouldn’t do what he had just done for you for most people, but even he knew it was a little different when it came to you. The longer he’d been around you, the harder it was to detach himself, in fact, he’d found himself growing more attached.

Maybe it was okay for him to finally get attached again, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad this time. Everything would be alright.

[wholemeallbread]

⟢ CUTTTING FRUIT FOR YOU !

what bllk boys do when you ask them to cut/peel fruit.

⟢ including ... isagi yoichi, barou shoei, reo mikage, itoshi rin

⟢ notes ... fluff, mentions of knives, mentions of food, picky-ish reader (barou)

ISAGI YOICHI

makes it his life mission to make sure he does it as perfectly as he can.

he takes three minutes to cut his first slice. then, he spends decades trying to eyeball around the same size, and it ends up being so off.

overthinks it so much. he'll be cutting an apple into slices, and one of them comes out as a square. why? he thought you'd rather have bite sized pieces, and this one was "too big".

you can tell he's beating himself up in his head about it because he can't even look you in the eyes when he serves it to you.

please reassure him cutting fruits is not that serious </3

BAROU SHOEI

you don't have to ask, he's forcing you to eat them.

at least once a day he scolds you about your poor eating habits. you want something sweet? well, he'll give you something sweet. fruit.

if you're particularly reluctant, he'll cut things up in the most extravagant ways possible. even just one grape is too pretty to eat because how did he even make it rose shaped with such a massive knife?

he gives up.

when he serves you fruit, the slices are perfect. no blemishes, no odd cuts, all even sizes, picture perfect. you don't even need to inspect each slice because they're just that perfect.

REO MIKAGE

is already cutting fruit for you before you even ask.

it's almost instinct whenever the two of you end up having a conversation in the kitchen. he doesn't stop talking, just preparing a bowl of mixed fruits with all of your favourites at the same time. he's probably got his house stocked up with everything that you like.

if he knows you're eyeing a piece of fruit because you can't wait, he doesn't hesitate to hold up a chunk that he just cut, feeding it to you.

if you don't want it, he'll make you take it anyway. not only is it healthy and refreshing, but also hydrating; you need to eat some.

ITOSHI RIN

always gives you a funny look when you ask.

like he'll do it, but why him?

is suspiciously good at peeling oranges. he could be ripping the thing apart and it'll come out smooth with no piths sticking to it. that's true skill.

if he really wanted to, he could squeeze one with his bare hands and make juice. (copied from sae) he did it once in summer because you were dying for some "nice, fresh orange juice", and your eyes were basically begging him to do the thing.

honestly he'd rather just give you a bowl of small berries and grapes instead of going through the process of cutting fruit.

[monzabee]

hotch, hotchner and the other hotchner - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: sean meets jack’s nanny. aaron is not happy about it.  

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: girlies are fighting in this one, not much of sean i have to admit, aaron is a little bit of an ass but he comes around, almost crying but not, arguing (duh)

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Family is complicated. That much, at least, you and Aaron agree on. 

“What was I supposed to say?” You ask him, aggressively chopping up the remainder of the carrot in front of you. “‘Sorry, your emotionally unavailable brother doesn’t want to see you, it's because he's so emotionally constipated that he doesn’t know how to speak to you?’” 

Aaron's jaw clenches from where he stands across the kitchen, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and his tie is tugged loose—an unspoken sign that he's not just here as the unit chief tonight. He's here as Jack's father. As Sean's brother. And, apparently, as the man who thinks you're out of line. 

“I'm not emotionally constipated,” Aaron says, slowly and evenly, like he’s trying not to bite. 

You raise an eyebrow, still focused on the chopping board. “Really? Because the last time someone tried to hug you, I swear I saw you glitch like a robot short-circuiting.” 

That gets a flicker of something across his face. Maybe amusement. Maybe guilt. It's hard to tell with Aaron—his expressions are like those security-locked doors at Quantico: hard to crack and probably booby-trapped. 

“You didn’t have to let him in,” he says, quieter now. 

You pause mid-slice and finally look up at him. “He’s your brother. Jack’s uncle. And maybe—just maybe—he was trying to make an effort. You don’t get to be the gatekeeper of someone else's second chance, Aaron.” 

The silence that follows is thick enough to chew on. You don’t break eye contact, and he doesn’t flinch. Typical. It’s been nothing but a war of wills between the two of you ever since he took you to that FBI gala. You’d expect things to be different, and not like this. 

“I trust you with Jack,” he says after a beat, voice gruff. “That doesn't mean I trust you with Sean.” 

The words sting more than you expect them to. Your hand tightens around the knife before you set it down with deliberate care. “Noted,” you say, wiping your hands on a towel. “Next time your brother stops by, I’ll make sure to usher him out with a smile and a cookie. Or better yet—maybe you should actually talk to him yourself instead of having me turn your family members away.” 

Aaron looks away first. 

The sound of Jack's laughter drifts in from the living room—light, effortless, untouched by the adult tension simmering just a room away. You both glance toward the hallway like you’ve been summoned, reminded of the reason you're even standing here, arguing like this. “I'm not trying to come between anything,” you add softly, more to fill the space than anything else. “I just... I care about your kid. That includes the people in his life.” 

Aaron exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. The defenses lower just enough for you to see the man underneath—the tired father, the conflicted brother, the maybe-something-more you haven’t dared to name yet. “I know you do,” he says, finally, but you can see his disapproving expression.  

You pause mid-slice, again, the knife hovering above the cutting board. “He was standing outside your front door with coffee and a damn toy dinosaur, Aaron. What did you want me to do—slam it in his face?” 

“Yes,” he snaps, and it’s the sharpest thing he’s said all night. “If it means protecting Jack from people who only show up when it’s convenient for them? Yeah. I’d rather you close the door.” 

Your hand tightens around the knife before you set it down with more force than necessary. “What is wrong with you?” You ask, eyebrows pulled together in a full-on frown. “He is your brother, and you can’t let him in? What kind of a person turns their own brother away?” 

Aaron’s expression hardens, jaw tightening like he’s grinding down whatever ugly truth is pressing on his tongue. “The kind of person who’s been burned by him more times than he can count,” he says. “The kind of person who doesn’t want his son waiting by the window for someone who doesn’t come back.” 

The words are flat. Final. And they leave no room for argument—but still, you don’t back down. “You really think Jack can’t handle disappointment?” you ask, voice rising now. “He’s a kid, Aaron. He’s going to face a hell of a lot worse in life than a flaky uncle, in fact, he has! What he needs is to see that people can try. That sometimes they come back.” 

“You think I don’t want that?” he shoots back. “You think I don’t wish Sean could be someone Jack can rely on? But he’s not. He never has been. And I won’t risk letting him in just so Jack can watch him walk away again.” 

You cross your arms, the frustration bubbling over. “So what, you just cut him out completely? Pretend he doesn’t exist? That’s not protecting Jack, that’s isolating him.” 

The silence hangs there, dangerous, and just when you think it might settle into something quieter, Aaron speaks again. His jaw clenches before he says, “It’s called setting boundaries,” he bites. “Something you might try sometime, instead of inserting yourself into situations you don’t fully understand.” 

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that you feel it in your chest—a hitch in your breath, a spike of heat behind your eyes. You open your mouth, then close it again. Because what are you supposed to say to that? He might as well have slapped you. “I wasn’t inserting myself,” you say finally, voice low. “I was trying to help. God forbid someone else in this house give a damn.” 

Aaron exhales harshly, pushing a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about giving a damn. It’s about knowing when to stop hoping someone’s changed just because they showed up with a toy and a smile. You are not Jack’s mother, you don’t get to decide who enters his life for him.” 

You shake your head as the words bitter in your mouth. “You know what, Aaron? You’re not the only one who’s been disappointed by people. You think you cornered the market on pain? On family that lets you down?” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The look on his face—tight, unreadable, frustratingly blank—says it all. You wait for something. A flicker of regret. A softening. Anything. It doesn’t come. You blink, once, then again, willing the burn behind your eyes to go away. You won't cry. Not in front of him. Not over this. You turn sharply, wiping your hands on the towel, more of a habit, one last time before tossing it onto the counter. “I’m going to my room, don’t forget to take the lasagna out.” 

Aaron doesn’t stop you. Just watches as you walk away, footsteps brisk and quiet down the hall. The moment your door clicks shut behind you, the tension in your chest snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. You lean against the door for a second, eyes closed, breathing in the silence. It’s thicker in here, somehow. Quieter. Still. 

Family is complicated. That much, at least, you and Aaron agree on. 

The immense need to cry you were feeling moments ago seem to have left its place to anger—it’s an emotion you try bury, but tonight, it claws its way up too quickly, too loudly. You pace the length of your bedroom, fingers curling into fists at your sides, jaw tight. 

Because how dare he. 

You’d stood by him through everything—through the sleepless nights after a case, through Jack’s nightmares, through the moments when he’d forget to eat and you'd wordlessly hand him a plate like it was nothing. You’d been there. Present. Steady. And now suddenly, you were the problem? Just for giving a damn about his family? 

You drop onto the edge of the bed, scrubbing your hands over your face. You don’t cry, but the sting lingers behind your eyes anyway. The thing is—you do understand. Maybe not the full scope of Aaron and Sean’s history, but you know what it means to be disappointed by someone who shares your blood. To want better. To expect worse. To still hold out hope anyway. 

And maybe that’s the difference between you and him. You haven’t yet figured out how to let go of people, even when you should.  

A soft knock interrupts your spiral, softer than you'd assume Aaron would prefer. 

You don’t answer. There’s a pause. 

Then, another knock, and a faint, “Y/N.” You jump up to your feet when you realize it’s Jack at the door.  

“Come in,” you say, your voice softer, hastily wiping at your eyes just in case. 

The door creaks open, and Jack steps in, his tiny arms wrapped awkwardly around a tray that's a little too big for him. There's a plate of lasagna, a fork tucked neatly beside it, and a juice box balancing precariously at the corner. 

“I brought you dinner,” he says, proud and solemn, like he's delivering peace offerings in a war he doesn’t fully understand. 

Your heart clenches. “Hey, bud,” you murmur, crouching down to help him with the tray and setting it aside onto the nearby nightstand. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But you didn’t eat. And you always make sure we eat, so I thought… maybe you needed someone to do it for you this time.” 

You don’t trust yourself to speak right away. Instead, you pull him into a hug, holding him tightly against you. His small frame relaxes in your arms without hesitation, and it makes your chest ache. “Oh, Jack,” you whisper, swallowing down the need to cry, “thank you. It means a lot.” 

When you let go, he settles on the bed beside you, legs swinging off the edge. You take a bite of the lasagna, if only to make him smile, and he watches you carefully like he’s checking to make sure you actually eat it. “Uncle Sean and Dad are talking downstairs,” Jack says after a minute, casual, but also not—he sounds like he is testing the waters as he adds, “like… actually talking. Not yelling.” 

You blink. “Really?” 

He nods. “I think it’s your fault.” 

“Jack,” You sigh as you throw him a sideways glance. “That sounds bad.” 

“It’s not,” he says confidently. “It’s like… the kind of trouble people get into when they care too much. You and Dad are good at that.” 

You snort lightly, setting the plate aside. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?” 

Jack shrugs again, then yawns, his head tipping slightly toward your shoulder. You glance at the clock—past his bedtime by now—but you don’t have the heart to send him away. Not when things are so raw. Not when you could both use the company. He shifts a little, curling up closer to your side, and you instinctively reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed, pulling it over both of you.  

“Just for a bit,” you whisper, brushing his hair gently off his forehead. Jack mumbles something into your side that you can’t quite catch. Then he’s still, breathing soft and even. You don’t mean to fall asleep—but exhaustion always has a way of sneaking in when the adrenaline eventually fades with Jack by your side. Downstairs, you can hear the low murmur of voices. You don’t try to make out the words. For once, it’s enough to just know they’re talking. That some part of what you said might have broken through the ice Aaron insists on wearing like armor. 

Maybe tomorrow you’ll talk again. Maybe you’ll yell again. Maybe you won’t. You decide you don’t want to think about it right now—no, you want to fall asleep and just forget that this day ever happened.  

The hallway is dim when Aaron finally climbs the stairs after Sean leaves for the night—with a promise to drop by tomorrow before his train, Aaron doesn’t know what to feel about that. The house is quiet—too quiet—but the kind that makes him hope, not panic. The kind that tells him the storm passed, at least for now. He hesitates outside your door for a moment. Then, carefully, he pushes it open. 

The sight makes him freeze in the doorway. 

You’re fast asleep on the bed, turned slightly on your side. Jack is tucked into the crook of your arm, his head resting against your shoulder, one hand tangled loosely in your sleeve. The blanket’s half-slipped down to your waists, and the tray of now-cold food sits forgotten on the nightstand. 

For the first time that evening, something in Aaron’s chest eases. 

He steps inside quietly, his movements slow and deliberate. He knows he should wake Jack and take him to his own bed. He knows that. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he takes the empty tray downstairs and finishes the rest of the dishes. He tells himself that although there is a likely chance that you won’t be forgiving him for all the things he said tonight any time soon, at least you won’t need to deal with dishes tomorrow morning. It’s a peace offering, he decides, though he also decides that there is something therapeutic about doing dishes, so maybe he should consider adding it to his nightly routine. When he eventually makes his way back to your room, the hallway light casts a soft glow behind him, his shadow long and quiet across the floor. He pushes the door open just enough to slip inside again, his gaze immediately drawn to the bed. Nothing's changed. You're still there, curled protectively around Jack, both of you breathing slow and steady. 

He stands there for a moment, unsure of what he’s doing, only that he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. The room feels warmer now. Not in temperature, but in something else—something softer. Something that makes his shoulders finally drop from where they’ve been tensed all evening. Carefully, like the movement itself might shatter the fragile peace, he toes off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket. He folds it over the armchair in the corner, glancing once more at the bed before crossing to the other side and easing himself down onto the mattress. 

The space beside Jack is narrow, not quite wide enough for comfort, but he makes it work. He lies on his side, facing the ceiling, his hand resting just inches away from yours. Jack shifts slightly in his sleep, his fingers still tangled in your sleeve, and Aaron watches the way your arm adjusts instinctively, holding the boy a little closer. 

What he doesn’t expect is his eyes to meet yours when they move above. He can see the way you are looking at him sleepily, having just woken up by your slumber. For a moment, neither of you moves. Your eyes are wide, blinking in the dim light of the room, still adjusting. But as they settle on him, there’s something in the way you look at him that makes Aaron’s breath hitch—like you’re not sure what to make of the fact that he’s here, lying beside you, in the quiet space that’s become a little more complicated than it was before. 

He watches the slight curve of your lips, how they seem to want to form a question, but nothing comes out. The silence is heavy, thick with the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid between you two. “Hi,” His voice is low, hushed, as if saying it any louder would disturb the delicate moment. 

You blink a couple of times, your fingers still lightly grazing the edge of the blanket where your arm is draped. “Hi,” you murmur back, your voice hoarse from sleep. Aaron studies you for a beat longer, like he’s trying to memorize the way you look right now, sleepy and soft around the edges, with Jack tucked into your side like he belongs there. 

Maybe he does. Maybe you both do. 

Your eyes flicker down to Jack for a second, then back to Aaron, and you see something flicker across his face—something quieter than regret, gentler than apology. A kind of yearning that doesn’t need words to be understood. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

“You didn’t,” you reply, voice just as soft. “I think I was waiting for you.” That catches him off guard, just slightly, and you catch it. His brows twitch like he’s trying to hide how much that affects him, but he doesn’t look away. He never was good at hiding things from you—not the real things. “Are we going to continue to fight?” 

Aaron doesn’t answer right away, and you don’t push him for an answer either. When he does, it’s almost a whisper. “You’d make a good mother.” 

The words hit you like a punch you weren’t ready for. You blink fast, biting the inside of your cheek. “You don’t get to say things like that,” you murmur. “Not after tonight.” 

“I’m sorry,” his whisper breaks the silence, and you can see he means it—truly, deeply. There’s no defense in his voice, no sharp edges or clipped tone, just regret laced with sincerity. His eyes don’t leave yours, and the quiet honesty and regret in them makes it harder to breathe. 

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did,” he continues, softer now, like even speaking it aloud risks unraveling what little remains between you. “I was angry. Scared, definitely. And that’s no excuse, but…” He trails off, swallowing thickly, the words catching somewhere in his throat. “You didn’t deserve that.” 

You look at him for a long moment, your heart aching with the weight of everything you’ve both carried—what was said, what wasn’t, what hurt more because it came from him. “I’d never want to replace Haley—I've never tried, and I would never.” You glance down at Jack again, his tiny hand still curled into your sleeve, safe and unaware. The sight grounds you. Reminds you that some things, some people, are worth staying soft for, even when it hurts. “You hurt me,” you admit, voice thin with emotion. 

Aaron nods, his jaw clenching like he’s holding back everything else he wants to say. “I know.” 

“And I don’t know if it’s fixable,” you add. “Not all of it. Not overnight.” 

“I’m not asking for overnight,” he says. “Just… the chance to try.” 

There’s something fragile in the way he says it—hope, maybe, or fear—but it’s real. And for once, he’s not trying to control the outcome. He’s just giving you the truth, and waiting to see what you do with it. You let out a slow breath. “Okay.” 

His brow lifts, just a little. “Okay?” 

You nod, brushing your fingers lightly against his under the blanket and hooking your pinky finger against his. “Start here.” 

“Sean and I talked,” he sighs, “I think... I think it went okay.”  

You take a moment to go over his words. You know he’s waiting for you to ask him about it, you can see it in his eyes. You meet his gaze, quiet and steady. There’s a soft beat of silence before you speak again, your voice barely louder than a whisper. “Okay,” you say, slow and cautious, “I’m tired. Tell me about it tomorrow?” 

Aaron hesitates, as if weighing your request, before giving a soft nod. “Tomorrow,” he agrees, his voice calm but still thick with emotion. He shifts slightly, trying not to disturb Jack, though the movement feels too large in the quiet room. Aaron shifts again, more carefully this time, and you feel his warmth next to you as he pulls the blanket up just a little higher, wrapping it snugly around all three of you. 

Family is complicated. That much, at least, you and Aaron agree on. 

But his feelings for you don’t need to be—in fact, they shouldn’t be. And he finally realizes that.  

[rafesbimbo]

ᴄʀʏʙᴀʙʏ ꜰᴛ. ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ

Warnings: 18+, 2.2k words, porn with plot, LOTS of tears, choking, dacryphilia, degradation, praise, overstimulation, make-up sex, (toxic??), pet names used, possessive!rafe, doggy style, hair pulling, reader is def sensitive !!!, unprotected sex, creampie

Pairing: Mean!bf!Rafe Cameron x Crybaby!Reader

You looked too pretty tonight.

Too fucking pretty for your own good.

Rafe hadn't stopped watching you since you stepped out of the bathroom of your shared hotel room earlier, wearing that soft little dress — dark blue, strappy, hugging every curve. You’d even worn those little heels he liked, the ones that made you sway when you walked.

Now, standing beside you at the wedding reception, Rafe’s hand rested heavy on your waist. His thumb was sliding slow circles over your side, possessive, hidden from everyone else's eyes.

"You look good, baby," he said low against your ear.

"Real good."

You smiled up at him, sweet and soft, cheeks warm.

But Rafe's eyes were colder than his voice. He saw the way other people — other men — kept sneaking glances at you across the ballroom. The way the waiters lingered a second too long at your table when they refilled your champagne glass. The way your pretty laugh carried when you talked to anyone that wasn’t him.

And it was getting under his skin. Fast.

"Rafe," you said, laughing when he squeezed your waist a little too tight, "relax."

"Can't." His voice was clipped. "You don't see the way they’re lookin' at you."

You gave him a look — gentle, patient. "Nobody’s looking at me like that, honey. You’re just bein’—"

"Don’t tell me I'm being crazy," he snapped, a little too loud, a little too sharp.

Your smile faltered.

A few people turned their heads.

You pressed your hand to his chest, trying to soothe him, your eyes pleading.

"Please," you whispered. "Not here. Let's just have a good time, okay?"

Rafe forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

He kept his arm around you the rest of the night, grip firm, jaw clenched, like he was daring anyone else to even look at you.

2 Hours Later

The drive back to the hotel was suffocating.

Rafe’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His jaw was locked tight.

You sat curled against the passenger door, arms folded, trying to make yourself small. The pretty dress you wore felt too tight now. The silence buzzed between you, thick and ugly.

Finally, you tried to break it.

"Baby—"

"Don’t."

His voice was sharp, slicing through the space like a knife.

You swallowed hard. Turned to look out the window instead. The streetlights smeared gold across your blurred vision.

Rafe let out a humorless laugh, bitter and cold.

"Bet you liked it, huh?" he muttered. "Them looking at you. Bet it made you feel real special."

You turned sharply toward him, heart cracking. "That's not fair!"

"Not fair?" he sneered. "Sweetheart, you were fuckin’ eatin' it up. Laughin' with every guy that came near you. Flirtin' like you didn’t have a man right there next to you."

"I wasn’t flirting!" you protested, voice breaking. "I was just being nice!"

"Yeah? Maybe you’re just a dumb little slut who doesn’t know the difference."

The words hit you like a slap.

Silence.

Crushing, awful silence.

You curled in on yourself, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood.

Tears blurred your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not in front of him.

Rafe gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles straining.

He heard your sharp, shuddering breaths.

He knew he went too far.

But he was so fucking mad he couldn’t stop himself.

"You got no clue what you do to me," he muttered. "Walkin' around lookin’ like that. Actin' like you’re free."

You flinched.

"I’m not free," you whispered. "I’m yours."

Rafe’s hands flexed on the wheel.

The hotel came into view, glowing against the dark.

"You sure about that, sweetheart?" he said, voice low, dangerous. "You sure you’re mine?"

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

The lump in your throat was too thick to speak around.

And Rafe didn’t say another word as he pulled into the parking lot, yanked the key from the ignition, and stormed around to your side of the car.

You sat frozen until he ripped the door open.

"Get out," he ordered.

You stumbled out on shaky legs, trying not to cry.

He grabbed your hand — rough, unforgiving — and dragged you behind him into the hotel.

Rafe slammed the hotel room door shut behind you, the sharp click of the lock echoing in the silence.

You stood there trembling, your little clutch purse slipping from your hands onto the floor.

Rafe just stared at you.

Breathing hard.

Eyes dark.

Jaw ticking.

You didn’t know whether he was going to yell or walk out.

Both would have gutted you.

"You’re mine," he said finally, voice low and wrecked.

You nodded shakily, tears pooling in your eyes. "I know, Rafe."

He stalked forward, chest heaving, grabbing your chin rough between his fingers. Tilting your head back to make you look up at him.

"You don’t act like it," he hissed. "You act like some little whore that don’t know who she belongs to."

The first tear slipped down your cheek.

You gasped, trying to pull away, but he didn’t let you go.

"Aw," he sneered, even as his voice broke. "Cry me a fucking river, sweetheart."

Another tear fell. Then another.

You whimpered, chest heaving with the effort not to sob.

You didn’t even recognize yourself — standing there in your pretty dress, makeup smudged, heart breaking right open in your chest.

And maybe that’s what finally snapped something inside Rafe.

Because suddenly he was cursing under his breath, yanking you against his chest, hands fisting in the back of your dress like he could tear it right off you.

"Fuck," he muttered harshly, burying his face in your neck. "Fuck, baby, I'm sorry."

You hiccupped a breath, body trembling.

"I didn’t mean that shit," Rafe whispered fiercely, kissing up your jaw, your temple, frantic. "Didn’t mean a fuckin’ word."

"I-I hate when you’re mean," you sobbed, fists weakly pushing at his chest.

"I know, baby, I know," he groaned, squeezing you tighter. "I’m a fuckin’ asshole. But you—you make me lose my goddamn mind."

He dragged the zipper of your dress down with shaking hands, yanking the straps down your arms, baring you to the cool hotel air.

"You’re so pretty, sweetheart," he whispered against your skin. "So fuckin' sweet. Don't wanna hurt you. Just wanna make you feel good."

You whimpered when he pushed you gently onto the bed, flipping you over onto your stomach.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed behind you, big hands shoving your dress up around your waist.

"Need you," he rasped. "Need to feel you cryin' on my cock, sweetheart. Need to hear you tell me you're mine." You heard the sound of a belt buckle coming undone.

You nodded frantically, tears still spilling down your cheeks.

"I’m yours," you cried. "Always yours, Rafe."

He groaned like the words physically hurt him.

"You’re my good girl," he praised, lining himself up at your soaked entrance. "My sweet little crybaby."

Then he pushed in — one hard, brutal stroke — splitting you open so deep and rough you choked on a sob.

"That’s it," Rafe growled, snapping his hips into yours, relentless. "Cry for me, baby. Let me fuck it all outta you."

Your fingers scrabbled at the hotel sheets, bunching the crisp white fabric in your fists.

Every brutal snap of Rafe’s hips drove you forward, the bedframe creaking under the force.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, dragging one hand down your back, nails scraping lightly. "You're so fuckin' tight. So good for me."

You sobbed into the mattress, overwhelmed — by the stretch, by the heat, by the way his cock hit that perfect spot inside you over and over and over.

"Fuck. I love hearin' you cry for me," Rafe muttered, voice raw with need.

He grabbed your hair, not too hard but firm, pulling your head up so you weren’t hiding your pretty tears from him anymore.

"Wanna see you," he panted, rutting into you harder.

"Wanna see my sweet little slut fall apart."

You whimpered helplessly, tears streaking down your cheeks.

"Fuck—baby, I'm sorry," Rafe groaned, pressing kisses to the back of your neck even as he kept fucking you rough. "Shouldn't have said that shit. Should’ve been tellin' you how perfect you are."

You clenched around him, making him curse under his breath.

"You forgive me, sweetheart?" he rasped, voice breaking, hips slamming into you without mercy.

"Y-yes, Rafe, yes!" you cried out, the words high and broken.

"Good girl," he praised, biting down gently on your shoulder. "My good fuckin' girl."

You felt so small under him — crushed by the weight of his body, the heat of his love, the intensity of his need.

Your thighs shook violently, the pressure building unbearable.

"Can't," you sobbed, hips jerking. "Rafe—gonna—"

"You can, baby," he coaxed, fingers slipping down to rub quick messy circles over your clit. "Be my good girl and cum for me."

Your whole body locked up, toes curling, vision whiting out as you came hard around him, your wails muffled against the sheets.

Rafe groaned loud, thrusting deep, deeper, chasing his own release.

"That's it," he hissed. "Fuckin’ love you, my crybaby."

"My perfect little slut."

With a strangled growl, he buried himself inside you to the hilt, spilling hot and heavy, grinding his hips against yours as he rode out every wave.

He collapsed over you, not pulling out yet, panting against your skin, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he could keep you from slipping away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, over and over between desperate kisses to your shoulder blades. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, baby. Never wanna hurt you. Only wanna love you."

Rafe didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried deep inside you, both of you shuddering from aftershocks, breathing hard.

His arms wrapped around your waist tighter, chest pressing against your back.

You could feel his heart hammering, feel how hard he was trying not to lose it.

"You're mine," he murmured against your ear, softer now. Reverent. "My sweet girl. My only girl."

You hiccupped a tiny sob, the last of your tears spilling.

Not from hurt this time.

From love.

He kissed your temple, your damp cheeks, your hair, whispering little apologies between every kiss.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he breathed. "Didn’t mean to say all that ugly shit. You’re too good for me, sweetheart. Too good for this world."

You turned your head just enough to look at him, your pretty lips trembling.

"I love you, Rafe," you whispered.

His whole face crumpled.

"I love you more, baby," he said hoarsely, brushing your hair back from your face. "So fuckin’ much it makes me crazy."

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you.

You whimpered at the loss, at the sticky mess between your thighs, at the emptiness.

Rafe caught the sound instantly, shushing you gently, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to keep you flat against the bed.

"Stay there, baby," he said, voice full of warmth. "Lemme take care of you."

You nodded weakly, too floaty to argue.

You listened to him move around the room — wetting a warm cloth, muttering curses under his breath when he couldn’t find what he needed fast enough — and then he was back.

Rafe cleaned you up so tenderly it made more tears slip free.

He kissed every spot he touched.

Murmured praises nonstop.

"Such a good girl," he whispered. "So fuckin' beautiful, even when you're a mess."

You whimpered when he wiped between your thighs, the cloth soothing against your sensitive skin.

"Did so good for me, sweetheart," he praised, kissing the curve of your ass, your lower back. "Took it all like my perfect, sweet girl."

Once you were clean, he grabbed one of his big T-shirts from his suitcase and slipped it over your head.

It swallowed you whole.

You looked so tiny in it it made his chest ache.

Then he climbed into bed, dragging you into his arms, tucking you tight against his chest like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

You nestled into him, breathing in his warm, familiar scent — soap, sweat, cologne — and finally, finally relaxed.

"Don’t wanna ever fight with you again," you mumbled sleepily.

Rafe's arms tightened around you.

"Me neither, baby," he murmured into your hair. "Next time I'm mad, you just sit on my lap and remind me who the fuck you belong to, yeah?"

You giggled softly against his chest.

Rafe grinned, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you slow, deep, and sweet.

"My girl," he whispered. "Always my girl."

And you fell asleep right there — wrapped up in him, heart full, body sore, soul safe.

[p1astr81]

Helloooo!! Can I request a smut fic with Oscar? The reader is a model and they had a campaign with Calvin Klein or something revealing and he gets jealous bcs some celebrity (doesn’t matter who) simps over it on tv :)

cw: smut 18+, major dom and sub dynamics, rough sex, slow sex, mirror sex, piv, unprotected sex, lingerie, doggy, orgasm denial if you squint, teasing, pet names (baby), crying, begging, aftercare

Oscar didn’t have a problem with you being in Victoria Secret’s fashion show. Not even when you mentioned that they might put you in full lingerie and nothing else.

He didn’t have a problem until he opened social media afterwards to see videos of you flooding his feed. And not just of you. No, your celebrity crush was the main focus. Gave you a full up and down, and everyone caught it. Everyone was posting it.

You were in the kitchen when he caught you, slicing your apples into thin pieces. You hadn’t heard him, so you hadn’t expected it when his two hands landed on your ass, gave it a rough squeeze.

Gasping, you whipped your head over your shoulder. “I’m holding a knife you idiot! What if I stabbed you?!”

Oscar licked his lips, eyes focused on your own plush ones. “Maybe then I’d have something to think about other than you.” He replied, voice low and rough.

Feeling his hard cock pressing into your ass, you put down the knife and turned around. “It’s midday.” You pointed out, as if that was meant to make him not want to take you on the kitchen counter.

“And I just want to remind you where you belong. You know, with me.”

You raised a teasing brow, arms floating up to circle around his neck. “Now that’s a look I haven’t seen in a while.” You smiled, your tongue sensually licking your lips.

His hands tightened on your hips. “What look?”

“Jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Unconvinced, you hummed. “Really? Because-“

He wouldn’t hear it, shutting you up with a feverish kiss. Messy, too many noises to be wholesome.

Despite the teasing, you couldn’t resist him. You leaned into the kiss as soon as his lips collided with yours. Not as needy, though.

“Put on some lingerie,” not an ask, more of an order. his words rushed and his voice low.

“Wha-“

“Just go do it.” He left no room for arguments.

You gave a short laugh. “Right away, your majesty.” You laughed.

A few moments later, you came out in a lacy dark blue set. It was tiny, and not leaving much to the imagination as he could see your nipples right through the bra. His favorite set.

When he laid eyes on it, he groaned. An animalistic, desperate sound. He palmed himself through his shorts without even thinking.

You giggled, the sound low and teasing. “Well don’t make me get dolled up if you’re not going to do something.”

It was all the invitation he needed. He picked you up, threw you over his shoulder like it was the easiest task in the world. Not a sign of struggle.

That did a number on you, arousal wetting your panties.

He threw you on the bed. He shed his clothes while you stared at him, propped up with your elbows. “Fuck, you’re so hot.” His comment sparked a blush across your cheeks as he crawled over you.

He ignored your lips, deciding to ravish your neck and the swell of your tits instead. Hot breath fanned over your skin with every open mouth kiss, every time he sucked into your skin. He licked your nipples through the lace, the roughness of it making you gasp and arch into him.

“Oscar,” you sighed, needy hands gripping into his shoulders, his sides, digging into his back.

“Say it again.”

“Oscar.” You repeated, needier this time.

His head spun, high off the raw sound of you desperate for him. Off the sight of how quickly he could get you this desperate. He cursed. “tell me what you need.”

“You- need your fingers or mouth or dick!” You arched into again him as his teeth grazed your nipple. “Fuck, please!”

He groaned, just as needy for it as you but refusing to show it as much. He contemplated opening you up with his fingers first. But you asked for more, didn’t you? So who was he to deny you?

“Gonna fuck you with this on,”

Three quick nods from you and he was pushing your panties to the side. He paused at the sight of you soaked, glistening, body begging for him. He could say that didn’t do wonders for his ego, but that would be the biggest lie he’d ever told.

You jolted when his tip brushed your folds. “Already sensitive?” He teased, sinking his dick into you so you couldn’t even respond with anything more than moans. “Yeah?” He mocked.

He didn’t give you a second to get used to the stretch before he was pounding into you. Each thrust driven to prove a point—that you were his, that only he could have you like this.

Quickly, you were reduced to nothing but moans and whines. Defined by how your nails clawed into his back—which fueled Oscar’s ego. The only coherent thing you could conjure was, “so good,”

Oscar grinned and sucked your tits through the thin lace of your bra. You whined and arched up into him. “Yeah, who’s making you feel this good, baby?”

“Y-ah, hmm” you couldn’t even speak if you tried. It was a ravishing sight.

And Oscar was cruel about it. He pulled out of you fully. Earned a long, drawn out whine of “no!”

“I asked you a question.”

You blinked up at him, half dazed. You wet your lips, inadvertently enticing him. “You! You, always, Oscar! Please, I need you so bad!” You rambled, legs circling around his waist to try and draw him closer.

He gripped your thighs, looking too satisfied with the answer. He slammed back into you, tearing a scream out of your lungs.

He didn’t let up, pounded into you so hard your tits bounced with every thrust. Your eyes rolled back, mouth open in silent moans. A sight he’d put in the louvre.

“So pretty when you’re like this.” He mumbled.

Then caught sight of the mirror in his peripheral vision.

Only when your moans got pitchier and you started squeezing around him did he pull out. You whined again, being denied of your orgasm. “Oscar, please,” you begged, breathless.

He dragged your body up and positioned you on your hands and knees in front of the mirror. He positioned himself behind you, lined himself up, tip nudging your clit and teasing your hole.

You squirmed. “Stop teasing,” you begged, voice fragile, eyes watering.

“Who do you belong to, baby?” He asked, too calm and too kind for how cruel he was being.

You choked, crying from so much stimulation and no release. “Oscar, you,” you whispered, trying to push yourself back onto him.

He frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Fucking liar. He heard you. He just wanted you to scream it.

“You! Oscar Jack Piastri!” You cried, your eyes catching his through the mirror, begging for him to do something. “Please, I need to cum so bad.”

And he slipped in. Not rough like the other two times. Small centimeters, nudging into you bit by bit. He watched you shutter in desperation, and fail to get a grip on the hard wood floors.

When he was fully seated inside of you, he didn’t move. You squeezed him tightly, whining and crying about how bad you need to cum!

“Look at yourself. Look at how desperate you are for me.”

You didn’t fight him on it. You nodded. “For you, only for you. Always for you.”

You were a lost cause as soon as he started to roll his hips. Pulled out half way before slowly sliding back in. You were gasping with every move, begging incoherently.

When he caught you with your eyes closed and head bowed, he stopped. You immediately protested.

His hand was around your jaw, forcing you to look up. “Keep watching yourself, or you’re not cumming.”

You whined in protest.

His pace wasn’t as slow when he started again, nor was it as rough as before. A torturous medium.

His hand trailed from your jaw to your tits, giving one an experimental squeeze. You whimpered, clamped down around him.

“Oh, do you like that?”

“Yes,” a breathless reply.

And he did it again, and again, alternating between your tits, squeezing your nipples too. Until you were squeezing him so tightly. “Oscar! Fuck, fuck I’m gonna cum!” A quick warning.

He responded by driving into you harder, reaching deeper.

“Fuck! Please!” You cried, eyes darting between yourself and him. Toned abs in sweat, looking hotter than every person named ‘sexiest man alive’ combined.

When you came, it was with his name on your tongue, repeated like some sacred prayer. He pumped you full on his cum seconds later, telling you that, “you’re all mine,” as he did.

Minutes later, sitting in opposite ends of the bath together, you asked him, “was that about the show?”

He played dumb, raising a brow. “What show?”

You smiled softly, playing with his fingers. “The VS one.”

A moments silence. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugged.

You weren’t so convinced, but laced your fingers together anyway. “Right. So it has nothing to do with that video of-“

“Say his name and I’ll edge you for a week.”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head. He chuckled.

The room was bathed in a calm silence again. Only the quiet waves of the water echoed in the room as he cleaned your body. “I’m over that crush, by the way.” You spoke softly as to not disrupt the peace. “Haven’t thought about him in years.” Oscar didn’t say anything. He gave a single nod in acknowledgement. “How could I when I have the world’s hottest and sexiest man in front of me.” You added after a moment.

“Is that all I am to you? My looks?” He knew otherwise, obviously, but he loved teasing you.

“No.” You hummed. “You’re also incredible in bed.”

He laughed at that. Loud, disregarding of the quiet whispers you were exchanging.

You leaned over, going in for a kiss but you slipped. He caught you. You both laughed over it, quiet chuckles.

“I love you.” You confessed quietly, hands braced on his bare chest.

He tilted your head back with a finger under your chin and kissed you. “I love you, too.”

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

Oh, look, I had to stop writing porn so I could get some 815 feelings out. I got those feelings out the best way I know how: via Tommy Kinard. Here's 1700 words of feelings and sad about how Tommy's dealing (he's not, neither is anyone else, except for maybe Sal?). There's hints of Buck/Tommy because of course there is.

There’s so much leftover food that no one at the 118 will go hungry for weeks. Every single person showed up to the wake with a platter or a dish or a pie tin or something and all the sympathy in the world. Instead of eating, Tommy’s been running after Evan and Athena all day, holding things and handing them tissues and handkerchiefs and water. His shoulder still aches from carrying the casket, he tries to ignore it.

When Sal shows up, his eyes are swollen and red, and all he can do is set down a casserole dish amongst a sea of others, grab Tommy, and cry for a long time. He holds Tommy’s face after, pats it gently with one meaty paw, and kisses him on each cheek. It’s the most aggressively Italian gesture Tommy’s been on the receiving end of since his Nonno passed. It very nearly makes him smile.

“I’m so sorry, Tom,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Tommy nods and squeezes Sal’s arm, unable to actually speak for a moment. When he looks over, Evan is watching the exchange with a blank expression.

“Hey,” Tommy says, looking at Sal. “You want to see his family?”

Sal nods and walks with Tommy, keeping an arm around his shoulder all the way to Athena, May, Harry, Michael, David, and Evan.

“Sarge,” Sal says, letting go of Tommy to grasp Athena’s hands. “I don’t know if you remember—”

“Maurice,” she says, a small smile on her face, and he cracks a smile, nodding. “How the hell am I ever gonna forget something like that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his expression screwing up just the slightest amount as tears roll down his cheeks. “I am so sorry. He was—he was one of the best men I ever knew. I know you’ve probably been hearing it all day, but I just thought it should be said again. He changed my whole life. I’m a captain now—a good one—because of him.”

“Thank you,” she says, sounding like she means it as she’s squeezing his hands. “You know something? That’s the day I met him.”

Sal gives her a wobbly smile. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she says, looking over at Tommy. “Both of you were there to see it. Look at you now. A captain and a chopper thief.”

“Not my actual job title,” Tommy jokes weakly, and she grins for just a brief, beautiful moment. It slices through him like a knife. “Whatever happened to Maurice?”

“Went to a farm in the valley,” she says, shrugging. “Never heard about him after that. That’s usually a good thing in my line of work. Thank you for coming. Really, it—it’s good to remember that day. Didn’t seem so important at the time, but—”

She cuts herself off, and May and Harry’s arms come around her from either side, already well-practiced at comforting her when the tears come again. Her lips press together, her eyes glittering with tears, and all she can do is nod.

“Nah, you could feel it. The second he handed that damn bird over,” Sal says, bringing her hands up to kiss the backs of them before he releases them. “You ever need anything from the 122, you call. Any day, any time, any shift. If I’m not there, tell them Captain Deluca said to give you whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she says, and he shakes everyone else’s hands with soft murmured condolences.

When he gets to Evan, he pulls him into a hug and slaps his back.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says before pulling back and giving Evan the same treatment he’d given Tommy, kisses and all. When he steps back, Evan looks a bit surprised.

Evan had seemed to like Sal the few times they’d all hung out, even though he didn’t understand most of his references and clearly thought he was kind of a dick. They’d bonded over being from Pennsylvania and shared recipes like old ladies. They’d never been family, but loss does crazy things for relationships. Tommy hopes it sticks. Sal’s a good guy to have in your corner, and everyone can stand to have more Evan in their lives.

“Same goes for you,” Sal says softly. “The brass tries yanking you and yours around, you come to me. I’ll deal with ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Evan says, his voice a soft rasp. “Sounds kinda like you’ll kill them, though.”

“Eh, depends on the day,” Sal jokes, squeezing the back of his neck and shaking him gently like they’re fucking Scorsese characters. “I’m serious. Get my number from Tommy. Day or night, you call me.”

Evan nods with a tight, watery smile. “Okay.”

Sal finally lets him go and turns to say something to Tommy, but he looks over his shoulder instead. “‘Scuse me.”

He brushes past, and Tommy watches as he approaches Chimney, Maddie, and Jee. Chimney looks surprised for a moment before he yanks Sal into a hug. When he looks back at Evan, Evan’s watching him.

“You want to know something funny?” Evan asks, finally sounding quiet because it’s private and not because he’s barely been able to talk above a whisper all day.

“Hm?” Tommy asks, stepping closer.

“Thought he was competition,” Evan says, nodding toward Sal.

Tommy smiles, just a little. “Nah. He’s basically my brother.”

“Yeah,” Evan says with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “Exactly.”

It’s something they’ve been avoiding, even though Tommy has used all of his mandatory leave following Evan like a lost puppy and asking how he can help. But it’s pretty effective, as far as points go.

“Ah,” Tommy realizes, and Evan nods, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Do you need anything? Water?”

Evan shakes his head. “Just be here.”

Tommy can do that. He stands next to Evan and nods to every new person that comes up, quietly thanking them for their condolences. He settles back into feeling like a zombie, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Evan as he does the same.

They’ve had their moments. Evan has cried here and there. He broke every plate in his house one day. Tommy’s nursing a broken toe and a few bruised knuckles from overdoing it with his punching bag the day Evan had found him in a heap on his mats while he stared at the medal hanging in its shadow box on the wall of his garage.

Everything starts to blur, even the people he knows. They’re the last to leave outside the Grant family, laden with dishes of food. Harry and May had crawled onto the bed with Athena after she went and laid down still dressed in her clothes. Tommy had taken her shoes off while Evan settled a glass of water on the nightstand, and they’d told her they’d be back the next day to clean.

“Thanks, boys,” she’d said, sounding brittle for the first time all day. From their places on either side of her, the kids thanked them, and they’d left.

They sit in Tommy’s driveway for a while, since it’s closer to the condo. Eddie and Chris are staying at Evan’s place, and he waits for Evan to text Eddie to not wait up. Then they just sort of stare out the windshield for a long time.

“Okay,” Tommy says eventually, sighing. “Let’s go.”

They heave themselves out, grab everything from the back of the truck cab that they need, and shuffle inside. Tommy watches Evan rearrange the fridge, knowing better than to deter him after getting snapped at. He lifts the lid on one of the containers and sees that it’s some kind of cake with chocolate frosting. Mechanically, he cuts a small square and heaps it onto a plate before poking a fork into it.

It’s some kind of Boston creme-adjacent cake. He chews slowly, the sugar turning sickly sweet in his mouth, but he keeps chewing.

“How is it?” Evan asks.

“How’s that cake taste, Tommy?”

The plate falls from his fingers, shattering on the floor, and Tommy’s frozen in his kitchen, his hands raised like he’s still got a plate and fork in his hands. His vision blurs for a long moment, and he thinks he might pass out, but it’s just tears. It’s just more tears for a man who made him feel like he was part of a family for the first time since he was a kid, who’d remembered everything about him when they reconnected years later over a capsized ship, who’d told him out of the blue that he was proud of him for settling into his own skin.

“How’s that cake taste, Tommy?”

The sugar’s turning to glue in his mouth, and he turns and blindly spits into his sink, resting his forearms on the edge and screaming.

Arms go around him, and he tries to fight them for a second, but Evan’s voice is in his ear, drowning out the echo that’s shot through time to wrap around his heart and try its best to strangle it.

Bobby’s dead, Bobby’s dead, Bobby died.

“I ca—” he gasps, feeling like he can’t breathe.

“I know, I know,” Evan says, hauling him up and turning him around until Evan can hug him. “With me.”

Evan’s breaths are big and exaggerated, pressing against Tommy’s sternum from the outside as a guide so he’ll stop trying to gulp in air. When Tommy pushes air through pursed lips and breathes in deep after, he feels like his head’s being squeezed. Then there’s something at his nose—one of the tissues from the packet he’d given Evan for his pocket—and he takes it, blowing his nose and meeting wide, wet eyes.

“You lost him, too,” Evan says, and Tommy shakes his head, his breath hitching.

But it’s not—he’s not. He’s not Bobby’s son. Evan shouldn’t be saying this to him.

“‘Tommy’s good people,’” Evan says, sniffling. “That’s what he said when I told him about us. ‘He’s good for you.’ H-he cared about you, he liked you. You—you lost him, too. And I am so sorry. You’ve been taking care of me so I can take care of everyone else. He s-said I’d be okay. I’m not. I don’t think ‘m ev-ever gonna be okay again.”

Tommy nods, biting on the small piece of skin behind his lip that he’s worried bloody more than once recently. “I know.”

“But this,” he says, gesturing between them. “It helps. You’re helping. You’re good people. And he knew it. Okay?”

He nods again and feels more tears roll down his cheeks and more snot flow from his nose, and he pulls Evan into a hug, exhaling the tension from his shoulders and feeling Evan slump against him. They’re holding each other up. It’s a load-bearing embrace for both of them.

“What happened?” Evan asks, and Tommy bites back a sob.

“The c-cake,” he admits, his voice broken and hitching. “Wh-when I transferred—was just s-something he s-said.”

Evan rubs his back. “You want a salad instead?”

It startles a laugh out of Tommy, and he squeezes Evan, grateful that he can take it, even more grateful when Evan squeezes back with equal intensity.

“Maybe later,” he says, burying his face in his shoulder. “I should get a broom.”

“In a minute,” Evan says, his voice slightly muffled against Tommy’s neck. “I need this.”

Tommy swallows, the knot in his throat easing a little. “Me, too.”

“Okay.”

He sighs. “Okay.”