#leaving breadcrumbs behind

[loveisfriendship]

Leaving Breadcrumbs behind [12/?]

Author’s Note: Wow, it has been a while…

But nonetheless the love this story still gets is overwhelming and I’ll probably never can make up for it. Here is to a new part.

Enjoy.

Love,

Lis

Leaving Breadcrumbs behind Masterlist

“Hey Kono, did you find anything that needs a password?” Steve asks, after he hung up with Hawkeye.

“So far nothing. Why?“ she asks, double checking everything again, just to make sure.

“We just got a password from Hawkeye that (Y/N) left. If anything pops up, let me know.” Steve answers, as Kono nods. Steve turns around as he hears the other entering the HQ again.

“Anything new?” Steve asks them.

“No, nothing in the houses. No more clues.” Danny answers.

“Sorry, Steve.” Chin says, giving Steve a pat on the shoulder.

“Thanks. But I didn’t think there would be more.” Steve answers, giving Chin a forced smile. Before they can continue, Joe arrives and has two Navy Officers with him.

“Commander McGarrett, nice to see you alive and well.” One of the Officers says, making Steve clench his jaw.

“Yeah, well, let’s leave it at that.” Steve answers, standing straight.

“Steve, these are Lieutenant Rath and Lieutenant Wily.” Joe introduces them.

„They have reportedly been handling the case we are working on.” Joe continues, keeping it vague and giving Steve a specific look, making it clear to not give away too much information. Steve sends another look to Kono, who puts up the Screensaver on all the screens and putting the letters and everything else beneath it.

“Nice to meet you Lieutenants. We hope you can explain to us what has been going on with my fiancée, that made her shoot me in the first place.” Steve greets them with a tight smile, challenging them to lie to him. Everybody of the 5-0 team, gathered next to him, including Joe. Whereas the Lieutenants stood opposite of them.

“Commander McGarrett, we can assure you, that we didn’t know, that she would turn to such drastic measures.” Lieutenant Wily says, trying to calm the atmosphere.

“Really, then enlighten me and tell me what you did know or expect to happen?” Steve answers.

“Sorry to say this Commander, but we are not allowed to just give out this information to anyone.” Lieutenant Rath said sternly, making Joe and Steve scoff.

“We are not just anyone, are we? I am her father and he is her future husband.” Joe snaps, taking a step towards Rath, eyeing him up and down.

“Nonetheless, we are not allowed to give out classified information.” Rath responds, getting closer to Joe as well, being practically in his face.

“Oh well, if that is the case…” Steve starts as he takes step towards the Lieutenants and Joe takes a step back. “Take us to someone who can.” Steve says, both SEALs standing straight trying to intimidate the Lieutenants in front of them.

Somewhere in the jungle…

“What do you mean until yesterday?” JJ asks concerned at the phrase and your behavior.

“That what it cost me to get to you… I was engaged to Steve.” You answer, new tears flowing down your cheeks.

“What happened?” your brother asks, grabbing your shoulders and making you look at him.

“I shot him…” you answer, starting to sob and loosing the strength in you legs and falling to the floor. Thankfully not hard, as JJ catches you as much as he can with the strength that is left in him.

“…and he is dead.” You sob into his shoulders, as he puts one arm around your shoulders and grabs the back of your hand with his other hand, trying to sooth you.

“Oh, (Y/N/N).” he answers, giving you a kiss on your hair.

“I miscalculated my shot…” you hiccup, trying to gain composure. “I shot him with my eyes close, but I apparently miscalculated. I saw him clearly and I did shoot him with my closed eyes on purpose. But I practiced beforehand and never missed. And now… I killed Steve.” You sob and you brush away your tears with your sleeve.

“Are you really sure?” he asks, moving your chin up with his hand, to make you look at him.

“What do you mean?” you sniff. “That’s what Wo Fat told me and I saw Steve on the ground before I ran. I didn’t see where I hit him in that moment.”

“When I know one thing, then that you never miss. Or miscalculate your shot.” JJ answers, grabbing your head again.

„And the other thing I know is that from all people Wo Fat is not to be trusted. He might have lied, to break you.” He continues.

“You think I didn’t kill him?” you look into his eyes, your mind racing, that of course your brother is right and you can’t trust Wo Fat with anything he tells you.

“I think, that you are the best shot the Army ever had. And when I still know my sister after all these years, than yes, I think you didn’t miscalculate.” He answers, giving you a smile and pulling you into another hug. You hug him back and when you pull back, you both stand up again.

“Okay, but whatever the case. We need to think about how we can get out of here.” you say, making your brother grin.

“Now THAT is my sister talking.” He says and you grin back. With some littler glimmer of hope inside of you, you start discussing what JJ knows about the surroundings, that Wo Fat and his minions.

LBB Taglist: @geeksareunique @fandomoniumflurry @rahma29417 @letsstarsfalling @fairchild21 @fungk17 @woodworthit666 @honestlyoriginalthing @evyiione @everygoodusernameistaken16 @littlewhiterose @reincarnated-ghost @damedoctoroftardis @princess76179 @jessica-tree @writingmeow29 @nocturnalherb16 @drakelover78 @kalanimcgarrett @mercyy98 @jessica-tree @auttumnsayshi @football1921

[morningstargirl666]

I'm reading over what I already have for part two of TBBW's rewrite and finishing some scenes for chapters 22-36 while I'm ill lol and have a few days off work. And, gotta say...

This is some good shit, man.

I wrote it so I could read it, and god, am I enjoying reading this so much.

[silverthelovebug]

All this SDCC 2024 Talk, but all I wanna know is if The Handler is gonna follow the Nublar Six around the world 😭, like they got on the boat to where ever it’s going, probably not in the states, and I know she’s gonna be a reoccurring antagonist, so I’m picturing her just pulling up via boat or like plane and the N6 are like “Oh hell naw what the fuck”

[wataksampingan]

Things I Would Tweet if I Still Had Twitter

[nerdygirlramblings]

omegaverse 141

previous

The following morning, after formation, you have your squad follow you onto the trail that runs around base. The same one Soap had seen you running a few weeks back.

"You didn't tell us we be runnin' today, Sarge," Geoffrey says, barely concealing a whine.

You chuckle to yourself and roll your eyes. Glancing over your shoulder you ask, "When have I led ya wrong?" Your squad is quiet behind you. They may not want to socialize with you as an omega, but there's no denying you've been getting the job done. "Brought ya out here cuz I wanted to talk. And to do it without any alphas or other CO's around."

There's some muttering behind you, not loud enough to make anything out, but not quiet enough to dismiss either. You notice a change in the air around you. Though they're betas and have learned how to project their calming scent, most are still working on controlling their fear and distress. You can smell the slightly sour milk and rush to allay their worries.

You turn to face them and say, "You're not in trouble! We are not in trouble." You face the trail again and resume your walk, talking as you go, "But something's come up, and it impacts everyone." You pick up your pace ever so slightly . You're looking for the clearing you'd passed the first time you ran here. It's a little space set off from the main trail, big enough for a few people to camp or for a squad to meet. You want to get there quickly to have this whole conversation out rather than dropping breadcrumbs. Your squad deserves that.

Once everyone is off the trail and standing around you, you tell them about the offer you've received from the 141. "Oh my God," Molly whispers, awe in her voice. "There, like, the best!"

You bob your head in acknowledgment and respond, "Some of, yes." It's clear that your squad doesn't understand the full implications of you joining the 141. So you lay it out for them. "If I take this opportunity, they'll pull me as your CO. Captain Price said -"

A voice interrupts, "You mean you actually talked to Captain Price?!?" You smile self-indulgently remembering how awed you were when the man first approached you.

"Yes, and 'e said that it's too disruptive for any of the 141 to have a squad of their own. Apparently, we can be called out at any point, and be gone for weeks. It would leave ya without a commanding officer." You look at each member of your squad, meeting everyone's eyes. "If I do this, you'll have a new CO. I don't know who it would be, and I don't know what that would mean for your trainin'. 'At's why I brought ya out here. Wanted to get yer honest take on what this means fer ya." There's some uneasy shuffling as it seems no one wants to quite be honest about their feelings. You remind them that you're not like other COs, and that you're an omega. Not that they need the reminder about either, but it seems to help settle some nerves. "I know it's hard fer ya having an omega as a CO. I know the stigma it carries. While this decision is mine and mine alone, yer time here is impacted by it, so I wanted to know what ya think."

It finally occurs to some members of your squad that they can be honest with you. "Yeah, 's tough around base having you as our CO. There're still a lot of alphas who won't want us on their team because you're the one who is trained us," Connor says.

One by one, your squad shares how they feel about you joining the 141. Some are like Connor and recognize the strain it puts on their careers to have you as their CO. Some are like Molly, excited for your opportunity regardless of what it does for them. Some are like Geoffrey, recognizing how they've struggled and realizing that a different CO, a beta or an alpha who is harsher, will make their time in the military much more difficult.

You get the sense - from what they say and how they smell - that most of your squad have already accepted that you'll leave them. Some may be happy about this because of the way it might benefit them while others simply seem happy for you. You close by telling them to make their way to the shooting range to practice on the Glock 17s. You remind them that after range practice is lunch with the promise of a decision for them by the time you see them in the mess.

"An' I promise, if I do take Captain Price up on his offer, I'll still keep tabs on you. Gotta make sure you all make it through basic as brilliantly as I know you can," you say with a rueful grin.

Your squad disperses from the clearing, making their way in twos and threes back to base, but you hang back. You pull your phone out and call home, finally ready with a decision.

This time it's Mum who answers. She takes one look at your face and shouts off screen to Mama and Dad "We've got a decision!" There's commotion on the other end as Mama and Dad come into frame.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," you say apologetically.

Dad reminds you he's on glorified bedrest, "So either yer Mum or yer Mama is always home. This morning I've got both." He smiles, "But a call from you is never an interruption. Or, if it is, it's the best kind."

Mama nods and leans close to the screen. "So, what did you decide?"

You take a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, and release it slowly. Before you can tell them, Mum says, "Good fer you, love."

"But," you sputter, "Mum...I didn't even tell you-"

"You don't have to, dear," she interrupts. "I can see the decision in your eyes. You're gonna join the task force." You hear the price, and fear, in her voice.

Beside her, Mama nods and tries to hide her emotions. "We're proud of whatever decision you make. And while I'm not happy with how much more dangerous this is, I think it's the right thing for you."

Dad is beaming, but you see the tears caught in his lashes. "Pretty girl, we love you so much! This is such an amazing opportunity for you. And if it feels right, if your omega feels safe, this might be the best thing for you."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ JUST WHAT I NEEDED

pt. 2

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin x fem!reader

summary: announcing your engagement to jake’s parents

warnings: brief mention of alcohol

word count: 1.9k

a/n: enjoy this fluffy hangman piece and let me know in the replies if you’d like a part two with his sisters!

The proposal had been perfect.

You’d told Jake the sort of thing you wanted, leaving a breadcrumb trail of hints for him until he’d finally popped the question and, clearly, he’d been hanging onto your every word.

Whilst you were away on vacation, you’d taken a trip to a private stretch of beach for an afternoon picnic.

Jake’d told you it was casual-wear, that it was just a way to escape the tourist-swarmed beaches. You should’ve known better when he wore his grandpa’s old watch - something he only brought out on special occasions

There was a real nice bottle of champagne in the cooler - no expense spared - and an assortment of snacks and easy-to-eat bites.

A beautiful bouquet of flowers laid beside it, but that was practically standard for Jake. How were you supposed to know anything different that day?

The sunset painted the sky in soft streaks of pink and orange, and as the light dipped over the water, Jake had gotten down on one knee. You didn’t think you’d ever felt giddier in your life.

His grin had been just as wide as your own, like he already knew exactly what your answer would be. Of course, it had been an overwhelming yes, followed by a flurry of joyful kisses and laughter.

Now, almost two weeks later, you were pulling up to the front gates of the Seresin family estate in Texas, about to break the news to his family.

You took a deep breath from the passenger seat of Jake’s pick-up. The truck rolled along the driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath its wheels.

Jake glanced over at you briefly, aviators settled on his nose, “You nervous?”

“A little,” you confessed, eyes fixed on the looming silhouette of the Seresin house.

He reached over and laced his fingers with yours, “You don’t need to be, honey. They all love you. I promise.”

“They do now,” you said with a laugh, leaning your head against the window and looking at him, “but what if they change their minds once they find out they’re stuck with me forever?”

Jake barked a laugh, running his thumb over your knuckles as steered one-handed, “They won’t. Trust me. I bet you twenty bucks, my mom cries.”

You smiled, heart squeezing a little at how good he was at grounding you with just his touch. His thumb continue to trace lazy circles over your hand.

“Mm… thirty says she cries and interrupts herself to hug me.” you countered, a teasing lilt to your voice.

Jake grinned, “Deal. But, if she starts planning the wedding before we sit down, you owe me dinner.”

“Steak?”

He nodded, smug, “Yes, ma’am. Ribeye. Medium rare.”

One hand on the wheel and the other braced on your headrest, Jake glanced over his shoulder as he reversed the truck, letting it roll to a gentle stop by the front door.

There it was: the Seresin home, in all its glory.

Jake killed the engine and gave your hand one, last, reassuring squeeze.

He hopped out of the truck and came around to your door, taking your hand as he helped you down. Softly, you said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, honey.” Jake pecked your cheek, gently closing the truck door behind you and guiding you forward, with a warm hand at the small of your back.

Before either of you could utter another word, the front doors burst open with the unmistakable arrival of Carol Ann Seresin; perfectly-styled, honey-blonde curls and an overwhelming aroma of wildflowers.

“Jake! Baby, how’ve you been? Oh, I’m so glad you came - it feels like it’s been years!” she gushed, sweeping her son into a hug.

“Hey, Ma,” Jake said, smiling with an amused affection as he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

Her smile lit up even brighter when she turned to you.

“And my favourite girl - there you are! How are you?” Carol Ann beamed, practically drinking you in, “Lord, you just get even prettier every time I see you, you gorgeous thing.”

“Thank you,” you replied, a little bashfully, resting your left hand to your chest.

Her eyes, immediately, zeroed in on it - and the dazzling ring not living on your finger.

There was a beat. A pause. And then-

“Oh my Lord! Is that what I think it is?!” Carol Ann gasped, grabbing your hand with both of hers and staring down at the ring in awe.

“George! Come out here and see this!” she called into the house, to her husband, voice alight with emotion.

Jake was grinning from ear to ear.

A moment later, footsteps arrived at the front door as George Seresin stepped out into the Texan sun.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel as he made his way down the steps, “What’s all this fuss about?”

Carol Ann didn’t even look up from your hand, still twirling it in the light, “Look at this ring, George! Our baby has a fiancée!”

He chuckled, low and slow, clearly not the least bit surprised, “Well, I’ll be… Jake finally wised up.”

Jake scoffed, “Finally?”

“Yes, finally, boy,” George replied, mimicking him as he clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, “You should’ve locked down a girl like this years ago.”

Then, he turned to you, smile softening, “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” you said, warmth blooming from your head to your toes from under the weight of all their love, “We’re so happy.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” Carol Ann sniffled, eyes glistening with tears as she pulled you into a hug.

“I knew you were gonna propose, Jake,” she said, voice a little wobbly with emotion, “I told your father - didn’t I, George? I said, Jake’s gonna propose before the Fourth of July!”

“I just knew it!” she patted your hand, then pointed at you with a proud wag of her finger, “I’ve got an intuition for these things.”

Jake caught your eye and smirked, mouthing: Pay up.

You rolled your eyes at him with a smile before turning back to his mother, “Well, it seems you do because here we are, happy as can be.”

“Oh, I bet you are!” Carol Ann repeated fondly, dabbing at her eyes as she took a deep breath to steady herself.

“This ring, it’s just perfect. Did you pick this yourself?” she asked you, running her thumb delicately over the stone.

Jake raised his eyebrows at her, “Would it kill you to give me a little credit, Ma?”

She waved him off with a playful smile, “Oh, hush, you. I know she must’ve given you a few hints.” she said at the same time his father added, “Watch your tone with your mother.”

You laughed, unable to deny it. Carol Ann knew you both far too well.

Jake grumbled under his breath, though he was still grinning like a fool.

“Well, come inside,” Carol Ann sighed dreamily, finally releasing your hand, “I’ve got a pecan pie cooling on the counter and this news definitely calls for a slice.”

She continued talking, but her voice was already fading into the house, George following behind her.

Jake leaned in and kissed your cheek, “Told you,” he murmured, low and proud, “They love you.”

He tapped your hip, ushering you inside. The front doors fell shut behind you, sealing in the scent of the Seresin house - warm wood and a buttery, sweet sugar lingering from Carol Ann’s baking.

Carol Ann was already halfway through setting out plates on the counter, her pie resting proudly as its centerpiece.

“Jake, get the good tea pitcher, would you?” she ordered, motioning vaguely to the cabinets.

As Jake reached for the nearest one, she pointed sharply, “No, not the plastic one. The glass one with the lemon slices. We’ve got company.”

“Technically, she’s family now,” Jake quipped over his shoulder, grinning as he moved to the next cupboard along.

You smiled shyly, taking in the practiced dance of the three Seresins manoeuvring around the kitchen.

You perched on one of the tall, kitchen stools just as Carol Ann set a plate in front of you with a generous slice of pecan pie and a dollop of fresh cream.

“Go on, sweetheart,” she said, eyes crinkling with joy, “Eat. You’re glowing already, but we’ve got to keep you well-fed if you’re planning a wedding.”

You took a bite, the pecan pie melted on your tongue. You moaned in delight, “This is absolutely gorgeous, Carol Ann, thank you.”

She beamed, “I knew you’d like it. You’ve got good taste, just like the rest of my girls.”

Jake snorted as he set the glass pitcher on the counter, “Here we go.”

Carol Ann didn’t skip a beat, “Speaking of which, your sisters are coming over for dinner tonight. All three of ‘em.”

You blinked, fork pausing mid-air, “All three?”

Jake groaned dramatically, as he grabbed two glasses from the shelf, “Ma, you said it was just gonna be a quiet visit.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Carol Ann waved him off, brushing crumbs from the counter, “They were gonna come by this weekend anyway, so, it made sense to have all of you over for a meal.

“Of course, I would’ve picked up nicer meat if I’d known what kind of news you two were bringing.” she sighed wistfully, tucking into her own slice of pie.

You laughed, setting down your fork, “I’m flattered, but you really don’t have to worry. I’ll eat anything, I’m not fussy that way.”

“Maybe so, but you deserve nice things,” Carol Ann winked at you, pouring tea from the glass pitcher.

“That’s right,” Jake gave you a side glance, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “And I make sure she has plenty.”

He leaned his forearms on the counter, sidling up to you. You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest from his unabashed affection, “You certainly do.”

Carol Ann took a seat with a pleased sigh, “Well, I expect to hear every single detail of his proposal tonight.”

“Give her some time to breathe first, Ma,” Jake smirked, leaning over and stealing a bite of your pie, “You’ll hear it, I promise.”

You laughed softly, brushing a stray crumb from your lip, “It was perfect, though. Jake completely surprised me, I really wasn’t expecting it, even though I’m usually so observant.”

He winked, grinning cockily as he slid his arm around your waist, “Maybe it’s just ‘cause your guard’s down around me, sweetheart.”

“Maybe,” you conceded, smiling as you leaned back against him.

Jake’s squeezed gently at your waist, grounding you as Carol Ann let out a little sigh, her heart full.

The doorbell rang and George got himself up with a grunt, shuffling over to the front door.

“Well, I’m just over the moon,” Carol Ann smiled, setting down her fork with finality, “Jake, you better take good care of this girl.“

Jake snorted, glancing between you and his mother, “I’m holding her tight, aren’t I?”

“That’s affection,” she countered, “I’m talking about care. That means not letting her plan this wedding by herself.”

He kissed the top of your head, his stubble brushing lightly against your cheek, “Don’t worry, Ma, I got her.”

“Girls are here!” George called from the doorway, stepping aside as the front door opened and the sound of chatter poured in.

Carol Ann clasped her hands together, knocking the countertop with an excited grin, “Brace yourselves.”

Jake groaned softly under his breath, and you turned in your seat just in time to see each sister come through the door with their own families in tow.

Jake leaned down, murmuring in your ear with a crooked smile, then nipped at the lobe, “Let the games begin.”

[elventhespian]

So like... it's a Thing in all fandoms where fans sort of latch onto fanon versions of characters and their dynamics with each other that are actually completely off-base, right? I don't know if this phenomenon has an official name, but I've seen it so many times and it's fascinated me every time. Especially when a character's popular fanon selves don't end up just diluted from their source material, but straight up OPPOSITE their canon portrayal.

So one of my "favorite" variations on this was how the early PotC fandom used to get Will EXTREMELY wrong, especially in comparison to Jack, and it made finding in-character fics SO. DAMN. DIFFICULT.

I've talked about this MULTIPLE times before, as have several other fans. It's a dead horse being beaten. But basically certain prevalent takes on fanon!Will have in the past leaned towards a personality that was very patient and grounded and even demure to contrast against Jack's off-beat personality and Elizabeth's fiery rebelliousness. Because Elizabeth has the drive to push back against social norms, Will became the foil who fell back to his pre-pirate version, reluctant to break rules unless she pulled him into it, even in post-CotBP timelines. Likewise, Jack was the one with the WTF decision making, while Will was more rooted in reasonable decisions.

And by their appearances, archetypes, and certain elements of their world views, you'd THINK that's how it works. When we meet Will in the governor's foyer, Will is so lovestruck and doe-eyed and subservient to the governor, I think that people thought that's just Who He Is. Especially because he often acts as Jack's straight-man foil in the comedic elements. Straight-laced. Rigid. Even boring or timid.

But if you actually pay attention to the movies, it's very much the opposite. In canon, Jack's USUALLY the level-headed one who just happens to have chaos follow him, because of the way he can wield it. He thinks in long run, tries to solve problems with words and as little fighting as possible as often as he can. Ideal situations for Jack are more like a thief--he wants to be in and out of the job as silently and slick as possible. The scenarios he's in are insane, because the way he throws other people around with those scenarios is kind of insane, but he himself remains largely cool and collected.

That's Jack.

THIS is Will:

Canon!Will starts out literally so impulsive and rash, Jack has to physically manhandle him at certain points to keep him from blowing up his plans--and then still gets taken out because he underestimates his listening skills and impatience. Will corners Jack into what is functionally a cage match to the death by sanely locking the door with his sword and very nearly wins. He is constantly at 11, constantly demanding things be done faster, more directly, and at the same time quietly scheming behind Jack's back almost from the get-go. He does flashy jumps and flips off of things because using the stairs is too slow or whatever. He shows up in DMC yelling at Jack to give him his compass at the point of the sword, and insisting he'll get Davy Jones' key by just "cutting down everyone in his path."

Even when Will mellows out significantly in AWE, there are remnants of this contrast still there. Jack's plan for leading Beckett to Shipwreck Cove seems to have been a very reasonable and underhanded effort to deliberately make sure Elizabeth is inside the Cove while Will is on Beckett's ship, in command of the Compass. Meanwhile Will's plan was to leave a breadcrumb trail of vulture-sea gulls feasting on dead soldiers' corpses.

What I'm getting at is, yeah, Jack's a charismatic "rogue" and Will's a "romantic hero" TECHNICALLY. Jack makes quippy jokes, and Will glares and scowls and WTFs back. But not only are they are both more alike than people give them credit for, they are also totally opposite their roles' traditional personalities in ways that the fandom tends to overlook.

TLDR; Jack's crazy, Will's a sweetheart. But Will is also a manic gremlin, and Jack doesn't always know what to do with him about it, so they often end up something like this:

And more fans need to play with this fact, the end.

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I epilogue

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: the last box is sealed, the key turned, and the future is now smaller, quieter—measured in soft laughs, careful steps, and the warmth of someone who stayed. there are still aches, and some ghosts linger, but they no longer lead.

⤿ warning(s): panic attacks

⟡ story masterlist ; previous

✦ word count: 2.6k

Boxes line the hallway like a trail of breadcrumbs—taped, labeled in your tidy block print: LINENS, TEA, FRAGILE, MISC OR MEMORIES. Every lift sends a dull ache through the ribs that never fully forgot the fall, but you manage, pacing yourself the way physio taught: lift with legs, breathe, rest. Sun slants through the doorway of the apartment you kept so neat for so many years, catching dust motes that dance like reluctant confetti.

Mr. Donnelly hovers near the radiator plant that once refused to die. He’s thinner, cardigan buttoned crooked, but his grin is boyish. “Raccoon-proof lid’s coming with you, right?” he teases, voice cracking with emotion.

“It’s practically an heirloom,” you answer, sliding the lid into an open box. The laugh costs a twinge of pain, but the heaviness in your chest feels lighter than it did months ago.

Donnelly’s eyes mist. He pulls you into a gentle, grandfather-safe hug—arms careful of your still-tender shoulder. “Neighborhood rounds won’t be the same,” he murmurs.

“You’ll keep the stairwell in better shape than I ever did,” you reply, patting his back. When he lets go, he presses a spare key of his own place into your palm. “Just in case,” he says. You squeeze it once, then tuck it into your pocket.

A knock—two quick, one slow—taps on the open door frame. Jack steps in, shouldering a duffel and wearing that battered leather jacket you once accused of having more patches than cow. He’s kept the beard, now trimmed but defiantly scruffy, and the sight sparks warmth behind your sternum.

He surveys the room, eyes dancing.

“Thought I’d missed the heavy lifting,” he says, setting the bag down. “Turns out you’re ahead of schedule.”

“Blame the chronic insomnia,” you answer, wiping a wisp of hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist.

Jack’s eyebrow arches, the playful one. “Doctor’s orders were no solo heroics.”

“Doctor wasn’t here at 5 a.m. when the tea crate mocked me,” you shoot back. That earns a low chuckle.

He crosses the small distance, palms settling on the sides of your face—careful of the tiny scar above your brow—and steals a kiss: warm, deep, edged with laugh lines. It tastes of peppermint gum and promise. You kiss him back until Donnelly coughs politely into his sleeve.

Jack eases away, eyes unashamedly bright. “Morning, Mr. Donnelly,” he offers, handshake firm.

“Take good care of her,” Donnelly tells him, voice gruff. “She’s got more lives than my ex-wife’s cat, but let’s not test that again.”

“Plan to keep her bored,” Jack says, scooping up the TEA  box. “New place has zero rooftop access, improved locks, and a big kitchen.”

The mention of your new place still hums strange in your ears—half thrill, half fear. You’re not moving into Jack’s loft (that conversation ended with both of you laughing at the idea of one bathroom), but you did choose an apartment two blocks from his, sunlight slanting through south windows, rooftop well-secured.

Little by little, independence and closeness found a compromise.

Jack hefts another box, the LINENS one, pausing when you wince adjusting your knee brace. “Break time,” he declares. “Physio rules.”

You don't argue and perch on the lone chair left unboxed while Jack and Donnelly ferry cartons outside. From that seat you can see the empty wall where photos once hung and other small details that showed this place had truly been lived in. The place doesn’t feel haunted anymore, just emptied of relevance—ready to be someone else’s normal.

The quiet invites reflection, so you pull out your phone and open the family thread—one you swore you’d never leave on read again after Laura discovered second-hand how close you’d come to dying. Your thumb hovers a moment, then you flip the camera and frame the living room’s bare walls, the single chair, the roll of bubble-wrap like an un-popped promise. Officially moved out. You type beneath the photo. New chapter loading. Love you three—updates soon.

Laura’s reply dots appear almost instantly, but before words land, a tiny GIF of confetti rains across the screen courtesy of Paul, followed by Lily’s voice memo: a giggling Good job, Auntie! Don’t forget the glitter in your new house! Laura’s text arrives last: Proud of you. No more martyr radio silence—daily report accepted in emojis and cake photos. ❤️ You send back a selfie—sweaty, mascara smeared a little at the edges, but smiling—then tuck the phone away, promise kept.

As if on cue, Jack returns, wiping sweat with the hem of his sleeve. He kneels, resting his hands on your good knee. “Pain scale?” he asks softly.

“Three,” you admit. “Maybe four when I breathe wrong.”

“Breathing’s overrated,” he says, smile crooked but eyes serious. “We’ll ice in the truck, med when we unload.”

You nod, trusting him the way you learned to on a roof at sunrise. Chronic aches will linger; nightmares still punch through sleep some nights. But therapy, good food and Jack’s hand during the worst waves—they’re scaffolding that holds.

Donnelly waves from the doorway, keys jangling. “Everything’s loaded. I’ll follow in my jalopy—make sure you two don’t ditch that raccoon lid on the highway.”

You laugh. Jack rises, helps you stand. Your body doesn’t argue today; maybe tomorrow it will. He threads fingers through yours, guiding you to the threshold.

“You ready to lock up?” he asks.

You glance around at the bare walls, the echoing floors, and despite the bittersweet tug, your answer surprises even you:

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

You turn the key, hand it to Donnelly for the landlord, and step into the bright corridor. Mr. Donnelly pats your shoulder one last time, then heads for the stairs. Your knee aches, your ribs protest, but the pulse at your wrist beats steady under Jack’s thumb, reminding you that healing, like love, is rarely quick but always possible.

Down on the street, autumn wind flutters loose tape on cardboard. Jack opens the passenger door, steadies your brace, and kisses your temple before you climb in. The window frames Mr. Donnelly waving like a proud uncle. Jack starts the engine, turns the dial to your favorite blues station, and pulls into traffic heading east—toward sunlight, tea, and whatever comes next.

. . .

The plan had been simple—Friday-night tapas on Carson Street, your first real evening out since the cane went back in the closet.

You showered early, traded compression sleeves for a floral blouse, even swiped on lipstick you hadn’t worn since for ever. But as you twisted at the sink to add the finishing touches to your look, a bolt of pain speared from rib to spine—nerve lightning you’d hoped was dying out. It stole your breath, and with the breath came memory: slick scaffold, the whump of bone on metal, Moylan’s whisper in your ear.

The bathroom lights tilted. Steam from the shower crowded close, suffocating, and suddenly you were back on the roof fighting for oxygen.

You braced both hands on the counter, forcing slow inhales the therapist drilled into you—four counts, hold, eight counts out—but your heartbeat wouldn’t quit sprinting. Jack’s text chimed and it up your phone—Leaving now. Can’t wait to see you twirl.

You stared at the words until they blurred, anger flaring hotter than pain. Twirl? With this body? With memories clawing up your throat? You silenced the phone, locked the screen, and curled onto the bath mat, palms over ears as if that could dam the noise inside.

Ten minutes later someone jiggled the front-door key—Jack’s spare you’d given him “for emergencies and forgotten lunches.” You didn’t answer. Keys clacked, hinges sighed, and his boots crossed hardwood, steady, searching.

“Hey, running late?” he called, voice light but laced with concern.

He stopped outside the bathroom when he heard the stifled breaths. The door cracked; you shoved it hard, catching him in the shoulder.

“Go away,” you snapped, vision tunneling.

Jack didn’t flinch. “Pain spike?”

“Not your problem.” You backed against the tub, arms wrapped around ribs as if that could bolt them in place. A sob escaped, acidic with shame. “I-I can’t even button a shirt without seeing him—how am I supposed to go out like nothing happened?”

Jack stepped in, slow, palms visible. “Then we skip everything,” he said softly. You glared, chest heaving. “Skip tonight, skip me—doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it matters to me.” You snapped as he crouched, careful of your knees, and you shoved him again, heel of your hand against his chest. “You want ugly?” you hissed. “This is it. Panic attacks, rage, the works. Go date somebody whole.”

He caught your wrist—not in restraint, but as if pinching a bleeding line. “Whole is a myth,” he murmured. “I’m missing a leg, remember?”

The quip should have made you laugh, but tears crushed it. You slid down the tub, hands over face, shoulders shaking. Jack sank beside you, back to the cool tile, and said nothing else. A minute. Five. Just the two of you breathing, your ragged inhales gradually syncing with his measured ones.

When words returned, they were whisper-thin. “It still hurts,” you confessed—ribs, knee, the memory. “Sometimes I hate this body.”

“I love this body,” he answered, eyes bright. “It’s the one that came back to me.”

Silence again, but softer. You let him guide your hand to his chest, feel the even pound there. After a while the pain eased to a livable hum, the room finally steadied.

“Tapas another night,” he said, pushing a stray lock behind your ear. “Tonight: couch, rice packs, bad rom-com?”

A shaky laugh. “And tea.”

“Always tea.”

He helped you up, pain flaring then ebbing under his grasp. In the living room he propped pillows just so, tucked the heating pad under your ribs, queued the cheesiest movie he could find. Halfway through, when the heroine tripped into the hero’s arms, you caught Jack studying you—not with pity but with fierce, patient affection. You thought of your shove, your anger, the ugly side you’d warned him about.

“Still here?” you murmured.

“Still here,” he echoed, and kissed the scar at your brow like a vow.

The movie’s credits crawl in silver letters across a pink-and-cotton-candy sky. Your tea sits half-finished on the coffee table, steam ribboning into the lamplight. Jack’s arm is a warm bar across your shoulders, palm idly tracing circles at the curve of your upper arm—slow enough that your ribs hardly complain.

You clear your throat, voice still raspy from the surge of panic. “I… also did something today.”

Jack’s thumb stills on your arm, waiting. “Yeah?”

“I handed Gloria my formal notice.” Saying it aloud again makes your pulse skitter. “Two weeks. I’m officially done.”

A beat of silence—then his arm firms around your waist, not possessive, just steady ballast. “How’d she take it?”

“She understood—signed it right away, actually.” You swallow. “I wanted to tell you over dinner, make it a celebration.” You gesture at his rumpled blouse now half-untucked. “But instead—boom.” You tap your temple, wincing at the memory of white-hot pain and rooftop ghosts. “Another episode.”

Realization crosses Jack’s face. “So quitting—good news—but also the straw on the haystack.”

“Pretty much.” You offer a shaky smile. “Sorry the fancy tapas plan went to hell.”

He shifts, starfishes a hand over your ribs in a gesture equal parts apology and promise. “This counts as a whole ass party when the news is this huge.” His eyes search yours. “And for the record—I’m proud of you. Even if the landing was messy.”

His beard is rough velvet against the fine hairs along your hairline. The living-room lamp has dimmed to a single amber pool, and the rain’s soft percussion muffles the city to a hush so complete you can hear the faint tick of the second hand on your thrift-shop wall clock. It’s the same beat that once timed your post-op vitals; now it keeps tempo for a quieter life.

“And Margot—” warmth swells behind your sternum just speaking her name— “pulled strings at Allegheny Community College. They need a clinical educator. I have an interview Tuesday morning.” You exhale, half terrified, half thrilled.

Jack leans back, eyebrows climbing. “Look at you. Should I start calling you Professor?”

“Please don’t,” you groan, though the grin won’t be contained. A bubble of giddiness rises—half fear, half freedom—and escapes in a laugh that shakes your sore ribs. You wince, and Jack’s hand instantly stills.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though he’s smiling too. “I’ll need you in one piece when I fend off every starry-eyed first-year who develops a crush on the hot new teacher.”

You snort. “Hot? They’ll be too busy watching me limp past the whiteboard.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Trust me—limp or not, you’ll spark academic heart palpitations. I’ll swing by on my dinner break, flash the ER badge, scare ’em straight.”

“Jack Abbot, campus watchdog.” The idea dissolves you both into breathy laughter. When your mirth fades, a hush settles—thick with kettle heat and bergamot. Jack’s fingers resume their lazy circles.

“So,” he says quietly, “new job, new apartment, no rooftop drama. Think we can call this a fresh chapter?”

“Feels like one.” You study the living-room shadows, faint tremor still in your knee but nowhere near the earthquake it once was. “There’ll be bad days. Pain spikes. Flashbacks.”

He smiles against your hair. “Whatever comes, we handle it."

The word settles warm and sure. You melt farther into him, head on his chest. Beneath your ear, his heartbeat drums a steady four-four rhythm—no alarms, no rooftop wind, just the man who stayed even when you shoved him away.

Another siren wails somewhere—life moving at hospital pace—but it fades under the domestic hush of this small room. You picture your future: wax-polished halls, rows of curious students. No scalpels, no midnight pages anymore. It hurts, but the possibility of teaching, guiding...nurturing, it swells your heart, still fragile, still hesitant.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “What’s first on your syllabus?”

“Drain-labeling protocol,” you say without hesitation.

Jack tips his head back and groans—half agony, half delight. You’re still laughing when he lunges, gentle but unstoppable, scooping you sideways onto the sofa cushions. His arm braces your ribs just right, the other cradles your neck, and his mouth finds yours with a hunger that’s all slow burn, no rush. His beard rasps your skin, sparks everywhere your nerves remember how to feel good.

Suddenly, the kettle in the kitchen clicks to a rolling boil—an impatient little whistle. Jack break of the kiss with another groan and starts to rise, murmuring something about pouring before the leaves scorch, but you fist the front of his shirt.

“Stay,” you whisper against his lips. “It can wait.”

He hesitates only a breath—long enough for you to drag him back down. The second kiss melts any lingering protest: slow, exploratory, tasting of bergamot and promise. Your fingers slide into his curls; his hand skims the healed curve of your waist as though relearning a map he hopes never to misplace again.

Steam puffs into the room from the unattended kettle, curling like a curtain around your laughter when you finally surface for air. Jack presses his forehead to yours, breath warm, eyes bright. “First you quit Surgery, then you corrupt tea-brewing standards,” he murmurs. “Total anarchist.”

“Only the important rebellions,” you reply, catching his lower lip between your teeth just enough to make him grin.

Somewhere beyond the rain-streaked window, streetlights blink through mist, buses groan, and life rolls its everyday credits. But inside this circle of lamplight and residual steam, beginnings feel soft as fleece, endings quiet as a held breath, and the two of you—tangled together on a well-loved sofa—taste what comes next one kiss at a time.

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[patrixjia]

No Ordinary Groupie

Plot Overview: You’re Bang Chan’s groupie. It started as a no-strings-attached fling, just the thrill of being close to him after the concerts. But as the nights blur together, so do your feelings—his and yours. What began as fun and games quickly becomes something more complicated, and you’re left wondering if this was ever just about sex or if you’re falling for the one person you can’t have.

Warnings: smut, explicit content, angst, lust/passion, angry sex, emotional intensity, tension and jealousy, explicit language, a bit of degradation, happy ending

☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧☆☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧☆☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧☆☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧

It started like any other concert. The deafening music, the blinding lights, the collective energy of thousands of voices singing in unison—it all blended into one euphoric moment. But you never imagined you’d be standing here, watching him from across the room, a little too close for comfort. The sweat on his skin, the intensity in his eyes as he scanned the crowd—it was like his gaze lingered a fraction too long. Maybe it was just your mind playing tricks on you, but somehow, it always felt like he was looking right at you.

You’d told yourself it was just a coincidence the first few times. You were just another fan in the crowd, right? Another face in a sea of screaming STAYs, eager for a glimpse of their idol. But now? Now you were here backstage, lingering in the shadows, waiting for him like it was your spot. You’d slipped past security more times than you cared to count, your secret handshake with the staff—one only they seemed to know—making it easier each time. You’d been to so many concerts now that your face had become familiar, and with each show, your role seemed to shift. You weren’t just a fan anymore. You were his groupie.

You never thought it would be like this. Hell, you didn’t even know what the fuck a ‘groupie’ really was until it was you—until you were the one he pulled behind closed doors, the one he made sure was always there after the show, the one who stayed when everyone else was long gone. The one he’d kiss like it meant something, only to vanish into the night, leaving you with nothing but the thudding of your heart and the memory of his touch.

It had started with stolen moments—quick glances across the stage, backstage conversations as if no one else was watching. The text messages, casual at first, but slowly, gradually becoming something more. His words would linger, text after text, like a breadcrumb trail leading you deeper into a place you weren’t sure you wanted to go. You’d told yourself you’d stay detached—that you’d just enjoy the ride, keep things light, and move on. But every time he looked at you, every time his hand brushed against yours, every time he grinned like there was a secret only the two of you knew… it became harder and harder to pretend it was just about the music.

The first time you caught his eye? It was during the encore of a show. You’d always thought of him as just another idol, another guy performing for a crowd. You’d seen plenty of famous faces before, but there was something different about him. Maybe it was the way his energy filled the entire room, the way he didn’t just perform but became the music. Maybe it was the intensity in his gaze as he swept over the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of people until they landed on you.

You didn’t think it was anything special at first. A passing glance, nothing more. You were just another face, another member of the audience, right? But as the seconds stretched on, his gaze didn’t waver. It felt like he was staring at you—like he saw something there that you didn’t even see in yourself. And that look… it was like an unspoken promise. A silent invitation to something you couldn’t name.

After the show, you weren’t expecting anything. But somehow, you found yourself in a coffee shop the next morning, standing in line, hoping to grab a caffeine boost to get through the day. You’d been going about your usual routine, convinced that meeting him the night before was just a one-off encounter. But fate had other plans.

There he was. Chan. In the same coffee shop, no more than a few steps away. You froze, unsure if you should act like you hadn’t seen him or just pretend it wasn’t a big deal. But then, he turned, his smile wide and unbothered like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“I swear, I’m not following you,” he said, his voice light, playful, as he slid into the seat across from you like he had every right to be there.

You couldn’t help but laugh, an involuntary response to the absurdity of it all. “You’re following me now?”

He smirked, taking a sip from his coffee, looking way too comfortable for someone who was supposed to be famous. “I’m just getting coffee. You happen to be in my favorite spot.”

“Uh-huh.” You raised an eyebrow, barely containing the smile tugging at your lips. “I’m sure. You just happened to pick the same coffee shop on the same day at the same time…”

He shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Yeah, alright. You got me. But I’m glad I ran into you.”

There was no hiding the smile that broke across your face. Of course you were glad. After everything that had happened the night before, you both knew this wasn’t just a coincidence. This wasn’t just a random meeting. This was something—something that had started the night before and would continue whether you admitted it or not.

By the time you made it backstage that second night, you were already in too deep.

The whole backstage area felt like it belonged to him—every corner, every hallway, every whispered conversation. It wasn’t the music that kept you there anymore; it was him. The way he looked at you when no one else was watching. The way he touched you, lingering just a bit too long when no one was looking, his fingers brushing your skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he made you feel like you weren’t just a face in the crowd, but someone who mattered to him.

And then, that first time—that first night.

You couldn’t quite remember how it happened, only that it was like everything changed in an instant. One minute, you were standing there, talking casually, as if the world hadn’t shifted under your feet. And then, the next moment, his lips were on yours, demanding, soft, and completely overwhelming. His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, pulling you close, pressing you against him like you were the only thing that mattered.

You could have stopped it. You could have pulled away, told him it was a mistake, told him you weren’t the type of girl who did this. But you didn’t. Because it felt right. In a way you couldn’t explain, it felt like this was where you were supposed to be.

And here you are again. Another concert. Another night where everything feels different. The lights are still blinding, the music still pounding in your chest, but this time, you don’t feel like you’re part of the crowd. This time, you’re his. The one he seeks out, the one he texts between shows, the one who’s always there in the background, waiting for him. It’s complicated, it’s messy, and it’s nothing like what you imagined when you first moved to Seoul.

But you can’t deny it anymore. It’s not just the music you’re here for. It’s him. And now, you’re his ‘regular groupie’. The one who knows all the backstage secrets, the one who gets special treatment, the one who stays long after the lights go out. You’re not just another fan anymore, and neither is he.

You never thought you’d be here. But then again, you never thought you’d end up falling for him.

The moment the final song ends, the roar of the crowd still vibrates through the walls of the venue. The adrenaline is thick in the air, the members still breathless from the performance, their bodies damp with sweat, grins plastered across their faces as they stumble off stage. The energy is chaotic, electric—post-show euphoria still buzzing in their veins.

You’re already waiting in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, leaning against the wall with a casual ease that only comes from experience. This isn’t your first time here. You know exactly how this goes.

The first to spot you is Seungmin, his eyes lighting up as he jogs toward you. “Hey, look who’s here!” he calls, loud enough to get the others’ attention.

“Y/N!” Han beams, his voice slightly hoarse from performing but still bright with excitement. “How was it? Did we kill it or what?”

Felix, still buzzing with energy, practically bounces on his heels as he waits for your answer, while Hyunjin shoots you a knowing grin from behind him, tossing his sweat-damp hair out of his face.

“You guys were insane,” you say with a wide smile, your voice genuine. “Every show I go to, you just keep getting better. The energy, the performance, everything was unreal.”

Chan appears through the group, his presence like gravity, pulling your attention immediately to him. He’s still catching his breath, his hair a mess, sweat glistening on his skin, but his eyes—his eyes are locked onto you, unreadable yet intense.

Then, that smile. The slow, lazy curve of his lips, the kind that makes your stomach tighten, your pulse spike.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice just low enough for you to hear over the chaos of the dressing room.

His arm finds your waist like it belongs there, fingers pressing lightly against the small of your back as he pulls you in. It’s subtle, almost casual, but the warmth of his body against yours is anything but. It’s a quiet claim, one that doesn’t need to be spoken.

The others, used to this by now, don’t bat an eye. They just keep laughing and talking, still riding the high of the show.

Then, Chan leans in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks. “Come back to the dorm with us. Little afterparty, just to celebrate.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze. There’s something behind those words—something heavier than just a casual invitation.

“And after a few drinks?” you tease, your voice low, playful.

His smirk deepens. “Something more,” he promises, fingers subtly squeezing at your waist.

You pretend to consider it for a second before giving a small nod. “Alright. You convinced me.”

From the side, Minho watches the exchange with a quiet knowing. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t call Chan out for the way he looks at you, for the way his hands linger on you longer than necessary. He just observes, his gaze sharp, understanding something that maybe even Chan himself isn’t ready to admit.

Chan pulls away, satisfied, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something deeper, something unspoken.

“We’ll head out in a bit,” he says, turning toward the others. “Y/N will meet us there.”

You already know the drill. You can’t just walk out with them, not without risking recognition. So, as the members pile into their usual cars, you’re led to a separate vehicle—a staff car, discreet, barely noticeable.

You settle into the backseat, the events of the night replaying in your mind, but most of all—his voice, that promise lingering in the space between your ribs.

Something more.

And you wonder, not for the first time, if either of you even knows what that really means anymore.

The atmosphere in the dorm is lively, the kind of buzz that lingers long after a good show. The music is playing low in the background, the members scattered across the living room, sprawled on couches or sitting on the floor. Empty soju bottles and half-eaten snacks litter the table, proof of the celebration already in full swing.

You’re comfortably seated on the couch, a half-filled shot glass of soju in hand, the warmth of alcohol already settling pleasantly in your veins. The energy is light, effortless, the conversations flowing easily between teasing and reminiscing about the night’s performance.

“You seriously nailed that last verse, Jisung,” you say, pointing your glass at him before taking a sip. “You looked possessed out there.”

Jisung laughs, leaning back with a smug grin. “Possessed by talent, obviously.”

“Possessed by something,” Felix chimes in, making the group chuckle.

From beside you, Chan snorts, shaking his head. He’s sitting close—not close enough to be obvious, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the awareness that’s always there between you two. His arm is stretched over the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing the ends of your hair, subtle but deliberate.

You glance at him, playful. “You were good too, I guess.”

Chan scoffs, tilting his head with an amused smirk. “Guess?”

You hum, tapping a finger against your chin as if you’re in deep thought. “Yeah, I mean… you were okay,” you tease, dragging out the word just to rile him up. “Not bad for a guy pushing thirty.”

The others burst out laughing, while Chan gapes at you, feigning offense. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m just saying,” you shrug, barely biting back your grin.

“You know what?” He leans in a little, voice low enough that only you can hear. “I’ll remember that later.”

Your stomach flips at the weight in his tone, at the underlying promise beneath his words. You tilt your head, smirking. “Oh? You gonna prove me wrong?”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, but there’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes. “You have no idea.”

Before you can retort, Changbin—who has definitely had one too many shots of soju—suddenly flops onto the couch beside you, his broad arm slinging over your shoulders.

“You’re so fun to have around, Y/N,” he says, his voice slightly slurred but affectionate. “Seriously, why aren’t you here all the time?”

You chuckle, leaning into his side without much thought. “Because I have a job, Binnie.”

He makes a dismissive sound, tightening his hold around you in a half-hug. “Your job should be hanging out with us.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t say anything. Jisung snickers behind his glass.

You just shake your head, entertained. “Oh yeah? I should just quit and become your full-time party companion?”

“Yes!” Changbin exclaims, grinning. His hand slides down to your waist, resting there casually, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over the fabric of your shirt. It’s nothing too much, nothing you haven’t seen before—Changbin is always like this when he drinks, all warm affection and teddy bear energy.

So you don’t think anything of it. You indulge him, letting him rest his head against yours, laughing when he dramatically sighs and says something about how comfortable you are.

But you don’t see the way Chan’s jaw tenses.

He’s watching. Burning.

The fingers resting on the couch behind you curl into a fist. His easygoing posture remains the same, but there’s a tightness to his shoulders, a flicker of something sharp in his expression.

Because he knows what Changbin is doing.

It’s not random, not just the usual drunk affection. No, Changbin is making a point—a very deliberate one. Because unlike you, he knows exactly how deep this runs for Chan.

And Chan hates it.

Hates how easily you lean into it. Hates how you laugh, how you let Changbin touch you so freely. Hates how unbothered you look—how it doesn’t even register to you that this might be a problem.

Because to you, this is just fun.

But to him?

This is his worst fucking nightmare unfolding in real-time.

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He just grips his shot glass a little too tight, jaw clenched, the warmth in his veins now burning.

And the worst part?

Changbin smirks at him from over your shoulder.

Like he knows.

Like he’s challenging him.

And fuck—Chan hates losing.

Changbin hasn’t moved from your side. If anything, he’s only gotten bolder, the soju clearly fueling his every action.

His fingers, once resting innocently at your waist, now trace absentminded patterns over your hip. His arm around you lingers a little too long, his body leaning into yours just enough that the line between friendly and something else starts to blur.

And then there’s the flirting.

“Come on, Y/N,” Changbin says, voice playful, slurred just enough to be noticeable. “You sure you don’t wanna quit your job and just be my personal cheerleader?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh? Yours specifically?”

“Obviously,” he grins. “I’d treat you right, you know? Spoil you. Carry you around the house if you’re too tired. You’d never have to lift a finger.”

From across the room, Jisung snorts. “Dude, you can barely carry your own weight when you’re drunk, let’s be serious.”

Changbin ignores him, his focus entirely on you. “Think about it, though,” he hums, his fingers lightly drumming against your thigh now, his voice dipping into something suggestive. “Bet you’d love the attention.”

You scoff, nudging him playfully. “You’re full of shit, Binnie.”

But you’re smiling, entertained by his antics. Because to you, this is just how he is—warm, affectionate, a little ridiculous when he drinks.

You don’t notice the way the room has shifted.

The way everyone has gone quiet.

The way Chan hasn’t said a single fucking word.

But the others? They see it.

Felix glances between the two of you and Chan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Jisung raises an eyebrow, like he’s waiting for the inevitable.

And Minho—Minho just sighs, shaking his head slightly, because he knows. Knows exactly what Changbin is doing.

And he knows exactly why it’s working.

Because across from you, Chan is seething.

His fingers grip his shot glass so tightly his knuckles have gone white. His jaw is locked, his breathing slow and measured, like he’s forcing himself to keep it together.

But his eyes.

His eyes are burning, locked onto every single movement, every single touch, every single word that leaves Changbin’s mouth.

And then, Changbin—fucking Changbin—takes it one step further.

He turns his head, leans in just a little closer, his lips near your ear as he murmurs, “Or maybe you already like all the attention you’re getting, huh?”

And that’s it.

There’s the sharp, sudden scrape of glass against wood as Chan slams his drink onto the table, standing up so abruptly that the entire room freezes.

His chair scrapes back against the floor, his movements tight, controlled—but his expression?

Fury.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The words slice through the air, low and dangerous, his voice taut with restrained anger.

You blink, startled, finally looking up at him. “What?”

But Chan isn’t looking at you.

He’s staring directly at Changbin, his eyes dark, his body tense, barely keeping himself in check.

Changbin, to his credit, doesn’t back down. If anything, he looks satisfied, like he’s been waiting for this.

“What?” he echoes, feigning confusion. “What’s the big deal, hyung?” His voice is light, taunting. “I mean… after all, you’re just fucking, right? That’s what you said. Or what?”

Silence.

A thick, suffocating silence that stretches through the room.

Chan’s entire body locks up.

And the worst part?

You feel everything shift.

Because the way Chan stiffens—the way his breath catches—tells you everything.

This isn’t just about Changbin being drunk.

This isn’t about harmless flirting.

This is about something else entirely.

And suddenly, you get it.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

The tension in the room is thick, suffocating.

No one moves. No one breathes.

And then—Chan laughs.

But it’s not his usual laugh. It’s not warm, not full of amusement.

No, this is something sharp, something bitter, something that barely conceals the sheer rage simmering beneath his skin.

He tilts his head slightly, his jaw clenched so tightly you can practically hear his teeth grinding together. His hands ball into fists at his sides, muscles tensed like a predator about to pounce.

“Say that again,” Chan says, his voice dangerously low.

His tone makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

Changbin leans back slightly, but his expression is unapologetic, his mouth curling into something almost challenging. “I said,” he repeats, slow, deliberate, “what’s the big deal, huh? You’re just fucking, right? That’s what you said. Or what?”

The second time he says it, the words sting.

Because now you’re fully aware—of the way Chan’s fists are shaking, of the barely contained fury in his eyes, of the way his entire body looks like it’s about to snap.

But most of all—you’re aware of your own reaction.

Of the way your stomach twists.

Of the way your chest tightens.

Because it’s true.

That’s what Chan’s always said. That’s the unspoken rule between you two, the line that’s been drawn and reinforced over and over again.

And yet—he’s standing there, looking like he wants to fucking kill Changbin for just saying it out loud.

The air crackles, seconds stretching into an eternity.

And then—Chan moves.

Faster than you can register, he lunges.

The table between them rattles as Chan grabs a fistful of Changbin’s shirt, yanking him forward, their faces inches apart.

“You think you’re funny?” Chan growls, voice thick with barely contained rage. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Changbin’s smirk falters slightly, but he doesn’t look scared. If anything, he looks vindicated.

“Oh, I know it’s not a joke,” he says, his voice lower now, something pointed in it. “But you keep acting like it is. Maybe it’s time you fucking admit it, Chan.”

Chan’s nostrils flare, his fingers tightening in Changbin’s shirt.

“Chan,” Minho warns, standing now, his voice calm but firm.

But Chan isn’t listening. His breathing is heavy, his entire body coiled, seething with something primal.

And then—Changbin glances at you.

Right at you.

And his next words are for you, not Chan.

“You really think this is just sex?” Changbin asks, voice quieter, almost pitying. “Because if you do—” His gaze flicks back to Chan, and he smirks. “Then why is he about to beat my ass over it?”

Something cracks in Chan’s expression.

Like something inside him has just snapped open, raw and exposed.

You feel it happen.

And it makes your heart fucking race.

Before anyone can react, Chan lets go of Changbin’s shirt—but only to turn on you.

The shift is instant. One second, he’s staring Changbin down like he’s about to throw a punch—the next, he’s grabbing your wrist, tight, his grip possessive.

Your breath catches.

“Come with me,” Chan says, voice low, rough—demanding.

You freeze. “Chan—”

“Now.”

The authority in his tone leaves no room for argument. He’s not asking.

And you—fuck, you should resist. You should say something, should call him out for how he’s acting.

But you don’t.

Because the way he’s looking at you—the fire in his eyes, the sheer desperation laced beneath the anger—sends a rush of heat down your spine so intense it almost knocks the air out of you.

So when he pulls you toward his room, his grip unrelenting, his movements rough, you don’t fight it.

You follow.

And the moment the door slams shut behind you, you know exactly what’s coming next.

And fuck—you want it.

The second the door slams shut, Chan has you.

Your back barely hits the wood before his mouth is on you, crushing against yours in a kiss that is desperate, furious, all teeth and tongue and raw need.

You gasp into it, barely able to keep up as his hands roam—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, pressing you against the door like he needs you there.

And fuck—you feel it.

The anger. The frustration. The jealousy that’s been burning in him, now spilling out in the way he holds you, in the way he devours you.

This isn’t just sex.

This is a claim.

You barely have a second to process before he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the door, his breath hot against your mouth.

“You think this is just fucking?” he growls, his voice rough, dangerous. “That what you think, huh?”

Your breath hitches.

“Chan—”

“Answer me.”

You swallow, your body burning beneath his touch. “I—”

But you can’t. You can’t answer, because you don’t know.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like he needs you, like he hates that he needs you—makes your head spin.

His grip on your wrists tightens, his body pressing flush against yours, pinning you there.

“Changbin touches you once,” he grits out, his jaw clenched, “and suddenly you forget who you belong to?”

Your stomach drops.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

And Chan notices.

His eyes flick between yours, something dark flashing in them—something possessive, something dangerous.

“That it?” he breathes, his voice low, pressing in even closer. “Say it.”

Your body shudders.

Because you can’t.

Because the moment you open your mouth, the only thing that comes out is a ragged, “Chan—”

And that’s all it takes.

Something inside him fucking snaps.

Suddenly, his grip breaks—only for his hands to move fast, dragging down your arms, over your shoulders, grabbing your hips as he spins you around, pressing your front against the door now, his chest firm against your back.

“You want me to remind you?” he murmurs darkly against your ear, his hands sliding under your shirt now, gripping at your bare skin. “Want me to show you?”

Your breath stutters, your fingers flexing against the door.

“Chan—”

“Say yes,” he rasps. “Say fucking yes.”

And fuck—fuck—you do.

“Yes.”

And then?

All hell fucking breaks loose.

The second the word yes leaves your lips, Chan moves.

His hands yank at your clothes, his patience completely shattered. The shirt you’re wearing is gone in seconds, peeled off like it’s offended him just by existing. His fingers dig into your waist, pressing you harder against the door, making sure you feel just how much he wants this—wants you.

“Fucking teasing me all night,” he grits against your ear, his breath hot, his tone dangerous. “Letting him put his fucking hands on you like it’s nothing.”

You shudder, your forehead falling against the door as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your hips, leaving you bare.

“I—”

“You what?” he interrupts, his palm smacking against your thigh before gripping at the flesh, kneading hard. “Didn’t notice? Didn’t think it was a big deal?”

You whimper at the sheer possessiveness laced in his voice, at the way his hands are claiming you.

“Didn’t think it’d fucking matter,” you gasp, your cheek pressing against the cool wood.

Chan laughs—but it’s dark, bitter.

“Didn’t think it’d matter?” His teeth graze the shell of your ear before he bites down, just hard enough to make you gasp. “Look at where you fucking are right now, baby. Look at what I’m about to do to you.”

His hands are everywhere—gripping, marking, making sure you feel him. His breath is ragged, his movements rough, his usual careful touches completely gone.

Because tonight isn’t about taking it slow.

It’s about making a fucking point.

You belong to him.

And by the time he’s done with you—you won’t forget it again.

Chan’s hands are everywhere—gripping, pulling, forcing you closer to him with each sharp motion. He’s barely holding on to the last sliver of control, and it’s obvious in the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way his breath comes out in heavy, uneven pants.

His mouth trails down your neck, biting harshly at your skin, marking you like a fucking claim.

“You think you can tease me like that?” he spits, his voice hoarse with frustration. “Think you can let him touch you and nothing’s going to happen? You really think you’re just gonna waltz in here and walk out untouched?”

The anger in his tone is palpable, each word hitting you like a blow, each word reminding you how much he wants this, how much he’s burning for it.

You can barely hold yourself steady against the door. His hands are pulling at your underwear, tossing it aside with the same force as the rest of your clothes, stripping you of any semblance of control.

You’re shaking, your mind spinning as you finally understand the depth of his frustration. This is no longer about just sex—it’s about him needing to own you in the worst way possible. He’s not asking for permission. He’s demanding it.

His fingers slide between your legs, making you flinch at the roughness of the touch. He’s not being gentle. He’s not being careful. He’s giving you exactly what you’ve awakened in him—a need, a hunger that won’t be tamed.

“You’re mine,” he growls, voice low and dark. “Mine to fuck, mine to touch. Don’t you fucking forget it.”

You gasp, his fingers moving faster now, pushing you closer to the edge with each rough motion, but you don’t know if it’s because of him or the frustration rising inside you.

“Chan—please…” You don’t know if you’re begging for mercy or for more, but he’s not stopping.

“You want it? Want me to fuck you like you’re begging for it?” He growls, his hands pulling at your hips, guiding you to him. The heat from his body feels like a furnace behind you, and you’re desperate for it, desperate to feel all of him.

Without warning, he slams into you—hard, unforgiving.

You moan, your hands scrambling against the door for balance as he begins a pace that’s frantic, angry. There’s no rhythm, no gentleness. Just a fucking need to feel you, to claim you, to show you who you belong to.

Each thrust is a punishment. Each movement feels like an explosion of frustration, of desire that has finally been set free. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, but it’s not enough to calm the storm between you.

The only thing that matters is the sound of his voice—growling, demanding, pushing you to the edge of everything.

His hands grab your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, his mouth now ravaging your skin like he’s trying to mark you for good. His words are gritted out in between thrusts, filled with venom and need.

“You think you’re just gonna walk away from me? Think I’ll let you leave here, like nothing ever happened?” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “You’re fucking wrong.”

You can barely breathe, your body giving in to him, to the need, to the rage he’s pouring into you. The heat between you is suffocating, overwhelming.

You’re his. In this moment, you’re nothing but his.

And when the pressure builds to a point where you can’t take it anymore, you give in, your body shattering around him, your fingers gripping at the door for dear life.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you, pulling you back into him with an intensity that makes everything burn.

You hear him curse under his breath, and with a final, powerful thrust, he follows, his body jerking against yours as he holds you tight, like he’s afraid to let go, afraid to lose the one thing that’s finally his.

The two of you are left panting, sweating, your bodies still locked together.

And as he pulls away slightly, his hands find your hips again, guiding you back toward the door.

Neither of you says a word. Not yet.

The silence between you is heavy. Too heavy.

But Chan doesn’t look at you with the same anger anymore. There’s something darker in his eyes, something that hasn’t quite settled yet.

And you know.

This isn’t over.

Chan’s hands are back on you before you can even catch your breath. He grabs your arm, tugging you towards the bed with a force that makes your heart race. He’s silent, but the anger in his eyes is louder than any words he could say. There’s no softness in the way he touches you, no tenderness, just an urgency that makes everything else disappear.

He doesn’t give you a moment to think before he’s pushing you down onto the mattress, positioning you with a swift, almost harsh movement. The edge of the bed digs into your knees, and you don’t have the chance to protest before he’s behind you, his hands gripping your hips to steady you.

“You don’t get to act like this,” he growls, voice thick with frustration. There’s no hesitation, no slowing down, and it’s clear this is no longer about lust—it’s about something deeper, something darker, something that’s been simmering beneath the surface for way too long.

You feel the cool air against your skin as he presses against you, his body hard and unforgiving. His breath is hot on your neck as he speaks again, each word a harsh reminder of everything that’s been building.

“Thought you could just waltz in here and let him put his hands on you,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Thought you could just—”

Before he can finish the thought, he thrusts into you, a sharp, punishing movement that makes your body stiffen in response. The pain is quick, the intensity raw, and there’s no gentleness in his touch—this is his punishment. For everything.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you back against him, and the way he moves is rough—demanding, punishing, as if he’s trying to carve the frustration out of him.

You can’t breathe properly, every thrust pushing you further down, the bed creaking beneath you, but it’s almost impossible to focus on anything other than the overwhelming force with which he’s taking you.

“This is what happens when you act like a slut,” he growls, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”

You want to answer, want to push back, but your words get caught in your throat as he pulls you back to him again. You’re lost in this—lost in the anger, the tension, the sheer intensity of what he’s doing.

His grip on you doesn’t loosen. It tightens with every movement, as if he’s afraid to let you go. His body presses against yours, his breath ragged in your ear, his voice demanding, possessive.

“You don’t walk away from me,” he spits, the words almost a command, a declaration of his need, his desire, his control.

The rawness of the moment, the way he’s fucking you in such a frantic, desperate way, makes everything inside you twist, your body responding to his anger, to the heat, to the frustration.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice lower this time, softer almost, it feels like the weight of the moment hits you. “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.”

As the tension between you both builds, Chan’s movements become more frantic, more desperate. The anger, the frustration, the unspoken emotions—everything is tangled together in this moment. And as his body presses into yours with a final, powerful thrust, a gasp escapes your lips. His name slips out in a breathless moan, and everything inside you breaks, the pressure, the need, the raw energy finally unraveling.

He follows right behind you, his body tense and straining as he shudders, pushing himself deeper with one last, heavy motion. His hands dig into your sides, holding you in place as he rides out the last waves of his release, his breath harsh in your ear. The world seems to slow down as you both find your rhythm, as the energy between you finally begins to settle.

Chan, still pressed against your back, stays there for a moment, both of you still tangled together, unable to move just yet. His fingers slowly loosen their grip on your waist, but he doesn’t let go. The weight of his body on yours is comforting, almost possessive, and his breath fans over your ear.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough and low, like he’s barely holding it together. His lips brush against your neck, leaving a trail of heat behind. “I fucking love fucking you.”

The words hang in the air, loaded with meaning, and the rawness of the moment lingers as the intensity of the night finally starts to settle.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy, his chest still heaving from the intensity of it all. There’s something in his eyes—something possessive, something soft, but raw all at once. He’s still trying to piece together the storm that just passed between you both.

He doesn’t move right away. Neither of you does. And even though the anger has died down, the connection is undeniable now, clearer than ever.

As Chan pulls away, the silence between you both feels heavier than the storm of emotions that just ravaged the room. Your heart is still pounding, your skin flushed, but there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Everything is so intense, and yet there’s something lingering that feels like it should have been addressed—something more.

You push yourself up, your legs shaky as you sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air feeling sharp against your heated skin. The satisfaction from moments ago seems to slip away, replaced by something darker, something uncertain. You want to understand, but you can’t.

Your voice trembles, shaky with frustration, as the tears start to pool behind your eyes. You look at him, his gaze still soft but guarded, his chest rising and falling with every breath. But you can’t ignore the feeling creeping up inside you—the anger, the confusion, the hurt.

“That’s all?” You say, your voice tight. “You just love fucking me?”

The words taste bitter in your mouth, like they don’t even belong to you. You never thought you’d be the one asking these questions, and yet, here you are, lost in the aftermath of his raw need.

Chan’s silence stretches, his jaw clenching, eyes still on you, but it’s like he’s struggling to form an answer. He’s not the one caught in the mess this time—it’s you.

“I don’t fucking understand, Chan!” You stand up now, unable to stay still, your body trembling with frustration. “We do this over and over, but you don’t even talk about it. Don’t even acknowledge it.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “What the fuck, baby?!” The words escape in a rush, the emotion finally pouring out of you. You’re not even sure if you’re angry or heartbroken, but your voice cracks as the tears finally spill over. “What are we doing? What do you want from me?”

You wipe your face, your hands shaking. “Am I just a fucking game to you, Chan? Is that it?” Your breath hitches. “Because I can’t— I can’t do this anymore if you don’t—”

That’s when he moves. Fast, like he can’t stand seeing you like this anymore. His hand reaches out, gripping your wrist to pull you towards him with a desperation you weren’t expecting. He’s on his knees in front of you now, his face inches from yours. His voice is low, strained, a mix of frustration and something softer, something deeper.

“No,” he breathes out. His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s an intensity in them that makes your heart stop. “No.” He presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathing heavily. “It’s not like that.” His voice cracks with the weight of the words he’s finally letting slip.

“I don’t fucking know how to say this,” he admits, his hands shaking slightly as they rest on your waist. His thumb brushes against your skin, almost like he’s grounding himself. “But this… this isn’t just about sex. It never was. I—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes softer now, full of that raw vulnerability that he’s rarely shown. “I care about you, Y/N.”

You feel your chest tighten at the confession, the weight of it crashing into you. It’s almost too much to process, too sudden. You’re a mess, your tears still fresh on your cheeks, but there’s something in the way he’s looking at you now that’s different. Something that finally feels real.

“I can’t just fuck you and let you walk away,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “You mean something to me. You’ve always meant something.”

Your heart flutters, but you’re still confused. “Then why the hell do you keep doing this? Why push me away?”

Chan’s expression softens even more, and his hands come up to cup your face gently, wiping away the remnants of your tears. “Because I’m scared, okay?” He finally admits, his voice shaky. “I don’t know what to do with this. With us.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. It’s thick, but there’s a vulnerability there that wasn’t before. You’re both breathing heavily, still trying to understand what just happened, what you’ve just confessed to each other.

“I’ve never been good at this… at feeling things, Y/N.” His voice is almost apologetic. “But I can’t lie anymore. I want you. I want more than just the fucking. But I don’t know how to make you understand that.”

You stay quiet, letting his words sink in. You’re still processing everything, but it’s clear that the anger between you is shifting into something else. Something that feels real.

“So, what now?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, your heart still racing but lighter now, finally beginning to understand the rawness of it all.

Chan takes a deep breath, his fingers gently cupping your face as his eyes trace over every detail of your expression. He can see the vulnerability, the confusion, and the hope all mixed together in your gaze. He knows this moment—this conversation—is the turning point, and he wants to make sure he doesn’t screw it up.

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead before lowering his lips to your jaw, placing gentle, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin there. His hands slip around your waist, guiding you back onto the bed with careful, deliberate movements. His body hovers above yours, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him, but not pressing—just enough to keep the connection. His gaze is soft now, steady, as he speaks again, voice lower, softer than before.

“Now,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your neck as he speaks, “now you let me take you out on a proper date.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as his hands trail down to your hips, gently caressing the curves of your body. “I’ll buy you flowers,” he continues, his words a whisper against your skin, “take you to a nice place to eat… and we’ll see from there.”

You close your eyes for a moment, the tenderness of his words colliding with the warmth of his touch. It’s so different from the rawness of before—so much gentler, more vulnerable. And something about it makes you give in, your body relaxing beneath his touch, your fingers curling into the sheets.

“I never thought I’d hear that from you,” you say with a soft laugh, a playful edge creeping into your voice despite the emotion you still feel in the pit of your stomach. “A date… flowers? You sure you’re not just saying that to get in my good graces?”

His lips pull into a smirk as he pulls away slightly to look at you, his gaze filled with amusement. He leans in again, kissing your neck softly before brushing his lips against your ear. “Trust me, I’m not that smooth,” he says, his voice teasing, yet sincere. His hands move back up your body, gently running along your arms, the touch almost too tender compared to the previous moments. “I’m just trying to make this right.”

You feel your heart flutter again, his affection suddenly making you feel like you’re the only person in the world. Chan isn’t just saying these things—he’s showing you, in the way he holds you, in the way his touch is no longer rough but soft, deliberate. His hands caress your arms and shoulders, a gentle reminder that the anger has melted away, replaced by something deeper. You meet his eyes again, allowing yourself to fall into this moment with him.

“You always know how to make me feel conflicted,” you say, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. You run your fingers through his hair, just to feel him a little closer, to keep this connection.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “I’m full of surprises,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. His lips trail down to your collarbone, his hands now resting lightly on your waist as if holding you in place, not to restrain you but to keep you with him. “But seriously, Y/N… I don’t want to keep pretending like this is just a thing that happens. You deserve more. And I want to give you more.”

His words strike you deeper than you expect, and you let out a small breath, the weight of everything sinking in. The sincerity in his voice, in his touch—it’s enough to make your chest tighten with a mix of emotions.

“Then show me,” you whisper, meeting his gaze again. “Show me you mean it.”

He nods, his hand gently brushing the side of your face as he moves even closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, not desperate or angry, but slow, tender. It’s a kiss that feels like an unspoken promise, something more than just the heat between you. It feels like the beginning of something new, something real.

He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you still tangled together in the quiet aftermath of everything. “I’ll take you anywhere you want, Y/N. Just say the word,” he says, his voice soft and sincere. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght

[spikedfearn]

vent post 🗣️

been trying to keep it cute and ignore the indirects but i just saw one that had enough context clues to basically have my @ in it without saying it. wild how someone can drag a fic without naming it, but still leave just enough breadcrumbs that anyone who's read As If It's Heaven's Gate would know it's about my Remmick fic.

it’s one thing to not vibe with a fic. that’s fine. not everything is for everyone. but to post some holier-than-thou rant about how “tumblr is nothing but smutty fanfiction” and how that fic was “Remmick in name only,” and “this is why I don’t read fanfic on tumblr”—like okay??? then don’t?? close the tab?? go touch grass?? it’s giving deeply online yet allergic to minding your own goddamn business!!

and then to discourage other people from reading Tumblr fic? how about you write your own instead of bitching about mine. tumblr has so many amazing writers—many of whom put their whole heart into what they make—and the fact that you saw one fic you didn’t like and decided to generalize everyone else’s work with it says more about you than it does about fanfic culture.

this is a hobby. i do it in my free time. for fun. and for the people who do enjoy it. no one’s forcing you to read my stuff. if it wasn’t for you, move on. but posting an indirect that’s so obviously about me while acting like you’re being subtle? nah. say it with your whole chest. be a big brave bitch and @ me next time instead of being a gutless pussy behind a screen.

also: if my smutty little fanfic about a fictional vampire man hurt your feelings that bad…get a grip you fucking loser 😭

[kuronarnze]

a/n: i have came back with a sae x reader oneshot... Idk this oneshot idea just randomly came to my mind, sooo i randomly made this oneshot, its pretty cheesy hehe, but enjoyyy !

Itoshi Sae x Reader !

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

“P.S. I Love You"

The mornings always started the same way. The smell of fresh coffee. The faint sound of a closing door. And a folded note on your nightstand, written in neat, sleepy handwriting.

Buenos días, cariño.

You looked too peaceful to wake up, so I didn’t. You kicked me in your sleep again, by the way. I think I bruised.

There’s breakfast in the fridge. Drink water. I love you.

—Sae

You smiled, pressing the paper to your chest, still wrapped in his blanket. He always left letters. Every morning. Without fail.

Sometimes they were just a few words, other times full of sleepy rambles about the dream he had (“we were fish… I don’t know either”) or small reminders like “Don’t forget your scarf, it’s cold today.” But always—always—signed with “I love you.”

You stretched and wandered into the kitchen. And there it was: another note.

Tucked behind the honey jar:

P.S. I’m watching you. Eat something. I mean it.

Inside the coffee mug:

P.S. This mug smells like you. I’m keeping it next time.

Under the potted plant on the windowsill:

P.S. I bet you didn’t expect one here. But now you’re smiling. Gotcha.

You giggled. “He’s such a nerd.”

Your phone buzzed.

Sae: Did you find the one in the sock drawer yet?

You gasped and ran back to the bedroom. Sure enough, buried under mismatched socks, was a tiny folded note.

P.S. I miss you already. Come visit me at practice later? You can pretend to be my manager. Or my wife. Or both.

Your cheeks burned as you fell back onto the bed, clutching the note.

~

That evening, when he got home and dropped his gym bag, you were waiting at the door with your own little folded letter.

He blinked. “What’s this?”

You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “P.S. I love you too.”

~

You had gotten used to Sae's morning letters.

Sometimes short, sometimes teasing, always left carefully by your pillow or the coffee pot or even inside your book, like little breadcrumbs leading you back to him.

But this morning felt… different.

There were no short notes on the counter. No hidden scribbles in the fridge or mug. Just one thing—an envelope. Thick, sealed with a little wax stamp you didn’t know he owned, resting on top of your folded blanket.

Your name was written across it in his handwriting. Not his rushed post-practice scribbles. This was slow, deliberate, careful.

You sat on the bed, the early sunlight casting gold across the page as you opened it.

~

Mi amor,

I know I leave you silly notes every day. Sometimes they’re not even full sentences. Sometimes I’m half-asleep while writing them, and I forget words. But I thought today I’d try something else. Something I’m not good at.

I wanted to write you a real letter. One I’d be proud to leave behind, even if I couldn’t write another one after.

I don’t talk much. You know that. I’ve always struggled to say what I feel in the moment. But when it comes to you, words get stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. Like I’m trying to explain the feeling of morning sunlight, or the smell of rain. Like no word really fits.

You make this apartment feel like the only home I’ve ever wanted. You laugh at my bad coffee. You steal my hoodies. You fall asleep with your face in a book and wake up saying my name like it’s something soft.

You make it easy to love you, and terrifying to imagine a life where I don’t.

I used to think football was everything. That I had to choose between chasing the future and holding onto something real. But you’ve taught me that love isn’t the thing that slows you down—it’s what keeps you grounded while you fly.

Every time I kiss you, I think: I’m lucky. Every time I leave a note, I think: I want you to smile when I’m not there.

And every day, I fall more in love with the way you say my name, the way you touch my wrist like I’ll disappear, the way you make even silence feel like music.

So… this is my way of saying it.

I love you.

Completely. Quietly. Wildly. In every language I can’t speak.

Yours, always,

Sae.

~

You read the letter three times, hands shaking slightly, heart aching in the gentlest way.

And when he walked through the door that evening, sweaty and tired and freshly showered, you didn’t say anything.

You just kissed him—slow, sure, lingering—until he whispered, “Did you read it?”

You nodded, eyes warm. “Write me a million more.”

He smiled softly, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “Only if you keep reading them.”

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! i hope you have a nice dayy (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) this one shot was super cheesy lmao

[dramagodesss]

ex boyfriend! jj head canons

part one

ex boyfriend! jj who shows up to group hangs “not because you’ll be there” he says it’s coincidence. swears he forgot you were coming. but he wore your favorite hoodie. the one he left at your place and secretly stole back when you weren’t home. he spends the night throwing glances your way. laughs louder when you laugh. sits next to you “because there wasn’t anywhere else.” you move your leg slightly. it brushes his. he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink. he’s just… still. like the contact might break him.

ex boyfriend! jj who leaves things behind on purpose. a lighter in your car. a ring he used to fidget with. the hoodie that still smells like his cologne. each one like a breadcrumb, leading back to him. you find one, days later, and your chest aches. he pretends he didn’t do it on purpose when you text him about it. “oh, weird. guess it must’ve fallen out.” (it did not fall out.)

ex boyfriend! jj who tells your friends he’s fine .“yeah, it’s cool. she’s cool. i’m cool.” he says it with that half-grin. then downs a drink way too fast. walks off before anyone can ask if he’s actually okay. he’s not. he spends the next hour smoking behind the chateau, staring at the sky like it’s got answers.

ex boyfriend! jj who keeps asking for your opinion “do you think this cut looks good?” “is this song actually trash or am i just being dramatic?” “should i bleach my hair again?” he pretends it’s casual. but it’s not about the song or the hair—he just wants to hear your voice. wants you to notice him. wants you to care.

ex boyfriend! jj who still calls you when he’s hurt. not physically—emotionally. when he’s spiraling. when his dad gets too loud. when the weight of everything feels too heavy. you’ll get a call, his voice small: “i know i shouldn’t be calling. i just… didn’t know who else to—"you always answer. you always will.

ex boyfriend! jj who flirts like you’re strangers, just to see if he could win you again “you always this pretty, or is it just today?” you raise an eyebrow. “trying something new?” he shrugs, but his grin falters for a split second. “just wondering if i still got it.” he means your heart. he wants to know if he still has your heart.

ex boyfriend! jj who looks for you in every crowd every party. every beach day. every late-night meet-up. his eyes sweep the space automatically. he lights up when he finds you—even if he doesn’t say a word. he just watches. memorizes. hopes.

ex boyfriend! jj who’s trying so hard to be the guy you deserved the first time. he’s less reckless now. he listens more. stays out of fights unless they really deserve it. he’s doing the work. and yeah, he still messes up sometimes. but when he looks at you, it’s with something softer. something new. something like please give me another chance.

ex boyfriend! jj who still calls you “mine” in fights without meaning to he’s yelling, wild-eyed, fists clenched—ready to throw hands over something stupid. and someone shoves him, says, “you’re just a dirty pogue—always have been.” you’re already moving before you think. “get the fuck away from him,” you snap, stepping in front of him. jj blinks, swaying a little—drunk, bloody lip, pride bruised worse. “she yours, maybank?” the guy scoffs. “yeah,” jj breathes. too fast. too soft. “yeah—she’s mine.” you both freeze. no one corrects it.

ex boyfriend! jj who leans into you on the way home he’s quiet now. all his fire burned out. you drive. he rides shotgun, knuckles scraped, knee bouncing like he’s nervous. you don’t say anything. just glance over every so often to make sure he’s breathing okay. at a red light, he says, “you didn’t have to do that.” you shrug. “yeah, i did.”

ex boyfriend! jj who kisses you like it might kill him not to you help him into his room. he sits on the edge of the bed, hair a mess, eyes glassy. you kneel in front of him, start cleaning the cut on his cheek. he’s not looking at you. not really. until he is. you feel it before you see it—the shift. his hands slide into your hair, tentative, like asking permission. you let him. and then he kisses you. desperate. soft. a little broken. like maybe this is the only thing still keeping him together.

ex boyfriend! jj who doesn’t ask you to stay—but looks at you like he hopes you will he’s lying back now, shirt off, bruised and barely awake. you tuck the blanket around him and turn to leave. his hand catches your wrist. he doesn’t say anything. just holds it. his thumb brushes your pulse. your heart stutters. you stay.

ex boyfriend! jj who wakes up the next morning, afraid it was a dream sunlight’s leaking through the blinds. you’re curled up on the floor in one of his old sweatshirts. he shifts, winces at the pain in his ribs—but his eyes go to you instantly. and for a second, it’s peace. his voice is hoarse: “you stayed.” you blink awake, stretch, yawn. “of course i did.” he smiles so softly it almost doesn’t look like him. but it is. and he’s still yours. even if neither of you have said it yet.

[nadvs]

watch and learn (part seven)

pairing fratboy! rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

content warning drug and alcohol use

summary it takes one conversation with your college dorm neighbor to know you won’t get along. rafe is loud, rude, and short-tempered. after he overhears you talking about a disappointing fling, he loses his confidence in his sexual abilities and suggests you start hooking up to both improve your skills in the bedroom. you can’t stand him, but it’s too good of an offer to turn down.

» masterlist

*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

The next morning, you sleep in, recovering from the party. Your head is still foggy as you scroll through your phone in bed, thinking about last night.

You spent a lot of time with Blake. He was nice and charming and all you did was talk and share innocent touches. He’s nothing but green flags.

Yet your mind kept reminding you of Rafe. And it kept replaying the sight of him kissing another girl.

Something between you two shifted the other day, when you dropped by after his dad’s visit. You agreed that you were friends. And then did something that friends definitely don’t do.

Then, of course, he took a few days to be a jerk. But last night, he mustered up a sorry for you, flirting with you again.

It’s almost like he’s leaving breadcrumbs, making you think he has feelings, with the possessiveness and the compliments and the looks he gives you. But time and time and time again, Rafe proves to you that he’s a douchebag who’s not looking for anything more than sex.

And neither are you, you remind yourself. Not with Rafe. He would break your heart if given the chance. And you’re not giving him the chance.

You see a text from Rafe from a couple of hours ago: you up?

You reply: i am now.

You open Instagram to see that Blake posted a story a few minutes ago. It’s a photo of a sign on the side of a building. He’s at a paintball range with his frat brothers. It must be another bonding event.

The text on the photo reads: let’s goooo red team.

You reply to the story: putting all my money on the red team.

He responds: I’ll win for you :)

Rafe has never played paintball before, but it couldn’t have come at a better time. His gun is loaded with blue pellets and he has Blake in his sights before the starting bell even rings.

This will be the best way to release his anger over the fact that he’s losing you. Well, other than getting naked with you and fucking until he can’t think straight. But you weren’t answering your phone this morning. So, this’ll do.

The field is vast under the cloudy sky, cluttered full of obstacles and barriers and embankments. When the game starts, Rafe has one goal and one goal only.

He hates how you were smiling at Blake last night. He hates how you touched his shoulder. How you laughed. How close you were.

Mere minutes into the game, he’s behind a colorfully splattered wall and finally finds Blake in his crosshairs. His finger presses down on the trigger over and over and over again, each pop loud and echoing, coating the front of Blake’s vest with bright blue drops of paint.

“Jesus, Rafe, I think you got him, man!” one of his teammates shouts with a laugh.

Even though one of his buddies on the red team nails Rafe in his arm a couple of times near the end of the round, the game ends in a blue team victory.

As the boys make their way back into the building, Blake shoves Rafe’s shoulder.

“The fuck was that, Cameron?” Blake asks, pointing to his vest, sheathed in blue. His smile is wide, but his tone is sharp. He’s trying to hide it, but he seems actually pissed off. Good.

“My bad, man,” Rafe half-chuckles, lifting his helmet off his head. “Got lost in the game. I love to win.”

The high from winning this stupid game is so intensely gratifying that Rafe wants to keep beating Blake in everything. Including in getting your attention.

When Rafe checks his phone as they leave the range, he sees you finally responded. He’s craving you now, but he’ll see you in a few hours at tonight’s party. And he wants Blake to see you with him.

He was stupid to think he could stay away from you. He’s going to see you as many times as you let him before your touches with Blake have more meaning behind them.

The “anything but clothes” party is slated to start at the Sigma Chi house in a few minutes. You and Liv decide to show up right on time to hang out with the guys and drink before the liquor runs out.

You made a stop at a party store off-campus to buy rolls of caution tape together, deciding to wrap the bright yellow nylon into haphazard tube tops and mini skirts, stuck together with clear packing tape. You’re careful so that the sticky tape is only on the caution tape, not directly touching any skin at all.

When you enter the house, you follow the noise in the kitchen. A group of frat boys are in the dining room, setting up the keg and putting out cups.

Blake and Rafe are standing with four other guys, talking as they set up.

Rafe should’ve put more effort into what he wore. He has a towel around his hips and when you walk in wearing next to nothing, he regrets it immediately. A boner would be way too fucking obvious.

Blake greets you with a side-hug and Rafe cracks his knuckles under the table.

“Hey, how was paintball?” you ask. “Did you win?”

“Lost and I’m wounded.” Blake’s wearing a plastic bag over his chest and another around his hips. He puts his hand over his sternum, the bag crinkling beneath his fingers.

“What the hell happened?” you laugh, placing your hand on his. He pretends to wince in pain when you touch him, making you laugh again. The sight makes Rafe scowl.

“Rafe went all Scarface on him,” Sam says. You look to Rafe, and at the same time, glass shatters in the kitchen behind you.

“Shit!” a guy shouts.

“So glad tomorrow’s thing is outside,” Blake mumbles. “This place is a mess and it’s only gonna get worse.”

“What’s tomorrow?” you ask.

“Family day,” Sam says. “We’re having a barbecue.”

“Do you guys have something going on every weekend?” Liv asks.

“Pretty much,” Blake in a bragging tone.

“And when do you study?” you say.

“During the week, fun police,” Blake mumbles with a playful smile. You hate the label and think back to a conversation you had with him over text about nicknames.

“Don’t call me that, babe,” you respond. Blake told you before that he loathes being called babe.

Rafe doesn’t know you’re saying it ironically. And he’s trying not to lose his mind. He looks down at his beer and takes another sip.

A moment passes and he doesn’t notice that Blake is trying to get his attention until he realizes seven pairs of eyes are on him.

“What?” Rafe asks.

“Who are you bringing tomorrow?” Blake repeats.

“I’m not coming.” Rafe can’t imagine even mentioning the event to anyone in his family.

“What? Why not?” Blake says. “I need to meet who raised you to be so fucking competitive.”

Rafe looks away the same way he did when you confronted his dad for yelling at him. It’s not exactly annoyance in his expression, like you’re used to seeing. It’s discomfort. Embarrassment.

You don’t want anyone to grill him. Not about his family. You can still hear the way his father snapped at him, asked what he was crying for.

“Sounds like you’re just mad that you’re such an easy target,” you say to Blake, primarily to take everyone’s eyes off of Rafe.

You earn a few jeers, heads turning back in your direction. Rafe’s eyes find yours and you glance at him to see a softened expression, the hard lines in his face suddenly gone.

“I’d like to see you try to play paintball,” Blake says.

“Yeah, you’re really selling it,” you respond sarcastically, snapping your gaze back to meet his.

“What other events do you guys have planned?” Liv asks.

As Blake goes into the schedule for the rest of the year - including a community service drive, a Sadie Hawkins formal, and a camping trip - Rafe can’t keep his eyes off of you.

He can’t forget how you stood up to his father, a total stranger, and told him to calm down. He can’t forget how happy your silly little gift made him.

Maybe you were just flirting with Blake, but he wonders if you purposely took the attention off of him, knowing what you know about his family.

You two are friends that have great sex, he knows that, but he’s staring at you like you’re more. You can be irritating and a tight-ass, but you’re kind and thoughtful, too.

Rafe looks away. These thoughts make him uneasy all over. He’s not a feelings kind of guy. And Blake is so obviously your type and Rafe is nothing like him.

He’s not stupid. Anything more than sex between you two would be ridiculous.

The house fills up with partygoers quickly, air thickening, music loud and conversations even louder.

Later on in the night, Rafe’s buzzed and standing by the keg, watching you dance with your friend. The way you roll your hips reminds him of how you move when you’re on top of him and he needs to force himself to look away before he gets hard. Again.

Eventually, he notices you head towards the back of the house alone and he takes the opportunity to talk to you.

When you leave the bathroom and head down the dark hallway back towards the party, you notice Rafe leaning by the wall, a beer bottle in his hand. There’s only a handful of people around, engaging in quiet, private conversation as the music throbs around you.

“Hey,” he says. He wishes he thought of something more clever to say, but he’s pretty close to being drunk.

It’s kind of sweet that he’s waiting here for you. But then you remind yourself he’s just horny.

“Hey,” you say, eyes flitting down his athletic body and to the navy blue towel sitting at his hips. “Pretty lazy of you to use a towel.”

“Nah, it’s smart,” he quips. “That tape is perfect for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say.

“You can read, can’t you?” Rafe simply says, his hand ghosting over the bold CAUTION on your chest. You look down at the way his long fingers just barely brush over your breasts, imagining the way they were massaging you earlier this week.

The reminder sends a swirl of warm passion in your core. You want him again. And again. And again.

“Are you trying to say I’m dangerous? I’m not the one attacking people during an innocent game of paintball.”

“I got hit, too, okay?” Rafe complains. He brings his right arm forward, showing you his flexed bicep.

“I don’t see anything,” you laugh.

“These red marks are turning into bruises,” he says, pointing to his skin. “I’ll need you to take care of me.”

“I think you’re just being a fuckboy,” you respond.

Rafe’s smirk is playful and inviting and you realize you’re only inches away from each other, eyes connected and smiles mirrored.

You want to see him naked again. Neither of you had any pointers last time you hooked up, but that doesn’t mean you’re done learning, right?

“I’ve never gotten a ‘you up?’ text at ten in the morning,” you say. Admittedly, you were a little dejected that he didn’t reply to your message earlier today.

“You woke up late,” Rafe says, eyebrows quirking up for a second. “When’d you even get home?”

In reality, he wants to know if you were with Blake. He didn’t see you at last night’s party after he made out with a girl just to unsuccessfully make you jealous. Maybe you messed around with Blake and stayed up late with him.

“I don’t remember,” you admit with a defeated laugh. “I think I need to cool it on the partying. You frat boys never stop. I can’t believe how many things you guys have going on.”

Rafe breathes a sardonic chuckle, looking down, and you’re immediately reminded of tomorrow’s event.

Just like that, the air between you shifts. You’re both thinking of the same thing. You’re painfully aware of it.

Silence settles between you and you nervously scratch your arm.

“I wouldn’t want to bring him, either,” you finally say. Rafe’s eyes meet yours. He instantly knows you’re talking about his father.

Now he’s sure you weren’t just carrying on conversation with Blake earlier. You purposely took the attention off of him. Because you’re friends. Friends help each other.

“Yeah,” is all Rafe can say.

“Did you…” you say softly. “Do you not have anyone else you’d want to come?”

Rafe thinks of his life back home. His father, who never shies away from expressing his disappointment. His step-mother, who he has no relationship with. Sarah, who’s the clear favorite. Wheezie, who Rafe actually likes and sort of misses, but wouldn’t be able to visit on her own.

“No,” he admits. “It’s… I don’t have that kind of family.”

“Must be why you’re into this whole frat thing,” you say. You can’t stop yourself from trying to understand his complexities.

Rafe didn’t think about it that way. But the sense of camaraderie he has with his frat brothers, except for one in particular, does give him a sense of belonging he’s been chasing forever. He didn’t even realize it until you said it.

But that’s what you do. You make him think and feel things he hasn’t before and it’s so uncomfortable and exciting at the same time.

“You’re…” Rafe tugs at his earlobe. “You’re a really nice person.”

“What?” You laugh in disbelief. Is he being sweet to you outside of the bedroom?

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he says. “When he asked me why I’m not going tomorrow, you changed the subject.”

He can’t say Blake’s name.

“Guilty,” you say. You settle into eye contact that’s unlike anything you two have shared before. Rafe huffs, wanting to force away the tension sitting in his chest.

“I think you’re into this whole frat thing, too, by the way,” he says. He leans even closer to you, blue eyes focused on your lips.

“Not at all,” you joke, shaking your head. “I hate you guys.”

“Really,” Rafe mutters, his tone low. “Even me?”

“Especially you.”

“You don’t remember what you said last time we fucked? When I asked if I could put it in?”

Your skin burns as you think back to the way he asked you if you were ready before burying into you.

“You must be thinking about another girl,” you say. He won’t even entertain the thought.

“You said please,” he rasps.

“Well, at least I have manners,” you reply, looking him in the eye as anticipation curls in your stomach, refusing to shy away.

“You gonna beg me for it again?”

“I did not beg,” you respond.

You want to tease him even more, tell him you thought you were experts now, so what’s the point of hooking up anymore? But you don’t need it to be instructional to have sex with him. He doesn’t seem to need it, either.

“Don’t tell me you’re still shy about liking it.” His smirk is taunting. This cracks you, a smile spreading on your face again, your eyes trailing down his bare chest.

“Maybe,” you tease. It’s a lie. You’re not shy at all anymore. The sense of shame you felt around sex before is gone. At least with Rafe, it has.

“How can you be shy when you’re wearing that?” Rafe asks. “Showing fucking everything.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, nose crinkling. The way you cock your head as you gaze at his body, your lashes fluttering as you blink, makes his gut warm and his groin tighten. Wow. He really doesn’t even need to touch you to get hard.

“And don’t act like you don’t like my outfit,” you say, meeting his eyes again. You shock yourself with your forwardness. He looks pleasantly surprised, too.

You hear your name being shouted. Liv rushes towards you, hands pressed over her chest.

“My tape broke,” she laughs. “I almost flashed everyone.”

“Really?” you gasp. Rafe is annoyed that you got interrupted, but he finds that he really likes what caring for somebody looks like on you. Your eyes deepen. Your brows lower. Your guard is down. You’re stunning.

“We should’ve brought extra tape,” Liv says.

“We can borrow a shirt,” you suggest. “Let’s find Blake.”

Rafe is seething. Blake. Of fucking course.

You offer Rafe a tight smile before taking your friend’s hand and walking in front of her to shield her.

When you find Blake, he leads you and Liv upstairs to his room, scrambling through his dresser to find a shirt for Liv.

“I’m not gonna get kicked out for wearing clothes, am I? It’s against the rules,” Liv says.

“No, only ‘cause you’re friends with fun police over here,” Blake replies, smiling over his shoulder as he hands a black shirt to Liv. “Special privileges.”

“I told you not to call me that,” you say with a laugh. Liv pulls the shirt over her head.

“Thanks!” she calls as she walks out of the room, a grin on her face. You know she’s purposely leaving you alone with Blake.

You meet Blake’s eyes, standing in the middle of his quiet, private room.

“Study fort’s gone,” you notice, looking down at his bare floor.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says stiffly. It’s awkward between you and you’re not sure why. “You look…”

Blake doesn’t finish his sentence. You knew he was a bit on the shy side, but he’s actually nervous.

You would normally find it endearing. But because of the intoxicating way Rafe was talking to you downstairs, how he’s so unafraid of telling you how attracted he is to you, you feel tense around Blake for the first time.

Still, intrigue coarses through you. You like him. You want him to flirt with you and to touch you and to finally kiss you. But he’s still.

Rafe spots your friend in the crowd with a t-shirt on. And you’re not next to her. He pushes through people to stand beside Liv and ask her where you are.

“Upstairs with Blake,” Liv simply responds. Rafe glances up the staircase, lips twisting as he nods. He stalks away, storming through the house with no real idea of where to go.

He paces around for a few minutes. He wants to rush upstairs and hurt Blake. Badly. Without a paintball gun this time. The thought of you being up there in his room, of his hands on you, of him on top of you… It’s too much. He’s grinding his teeth so hard that it hurts.

Rafe has had enough. He heads back towards the front of the house, not sure what the hell he’ll do if he walks in on Blake on top of you, but before he can go upstairs, he sees you in the crowd, chatting with your friend.

“I left you alone up there for a reason,” Liv says quietly when you approach her.

“Oh, I’m aware,” you laugh. “But the vibe was weird, so I left. I think we were both nervous.”

After Blake couldn’t finish his sentence, you thanked him for helping your friend and split.

“Do you not like him?” Liv asks.

You do. But you think you like someone else, too. And it’s terrifying.

Rafe weaves through the crowds, approaching you, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist. You watch him duck to speak into your ear.

“Leave with me,” he says so only you can hear him over the music. You look at Liv, who has a sly, knowing expression on her face.

“I can’t abandon my friend just to hook up with you,” you say to him. A painful pang of rejection twists inside him.

“But do you want to?” Rafe asks. He needs to be sure. What if your next words are that you’re with Blake now?

Your pulse is racing. The promise of another night with Rafe is electrifying.

“Yes,” you admit. He smiles to himself, pulling back to look at Liv.

“You gonna be okay if she leaves?” Rafe says, tilting his head towards you.

“Of course, if she wants to,” Liv replies with an amused laugh.

Rafe pulls you towards him, out of the crowd. And for once, he’s actually glad to see Blake, who’s standing by the keg with a few friends.

He wraps his arm around your waist, mumbling to you that he’s going to rip that stupid tape off of you, as he glares at Blake, who’s staring at you two with a disconcerted grimace.

He leads you out of the rowdy house, grip tight on you as if he could lose you again.

The second you’re in Rafe’s dorm room, his hands are on your ass, fingers dipping under the tape. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, kissing him heatedly as you stand by his bed.

You can smell his cologne and his shampoo as his tongue runs over yours.

“You know everyone was looking at you tonight, right?” he says between kisses.

“No,” you scoff. While he’s helped you gain some confidence, you can’t imagine thinking of yourself as the most desired girl in a room.

“I told you not to do that,” he says against your lips. You feel the nylon around your ass lift off your skin as he tugs it away, pulling apart the material, tape unsticking.

“Do what?” you mutter. He grips your ass, feeling the fabric of your underwear on his palms. You lower a hand to undo the knot keeping up the towel on him.

“You pretend like you’re not beautiful and it pisses me off,” he says. Beautiful. He said hot before. But not beautiful. He never used that word with you. “How hard do I have to fuck you for you to get it?”

“Rafe,” you gasp with a giggle.

“How hard?” he asks. “Until you can’t talk?”

His towel drops and he kisses your neck, tugging at the tape bound around your chest. You shift to wrap your hand around his length over his boxers, aching for the feeling of him inside of you.

Rafe loves that you touch him like this now, without any hesitation. He rips the tape off of your chest, his fingers burning.

While you wore panties just in case, you’re glad you went without a bra simply because of the way Rafe breathes when he looks down to see your bare chest.

He fondles your tits with eager, rough movements, squeezing as he clenches his jaw.

“Every guy was staring at you, but only I get to do this.” His lips are against your neck, breath hot.

You tense for a second. He shouldn’t say shit like this. His words are possessive and tender and way too fucking heavy.

But you push yourself out of your head, focusing on how you feel physically, forgetting the emotions that have slowly been tacking themselves onto you like the crumpled tape on the floor.

You dip your hand into his boxers, wrapping your hand around his girth. Rafe inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut as you stroke him slowly. You drag your hand to his tip, feeling the warm precum and spreading it with your thumb.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“You like that?” you whisper with a smile. It’s exciting talking like this. You were always quiet when hooking up with a guy, but Rafe has pushed you completely out of your shell.

“Get on my bed,” he says gruffly, pressing your hips back. You lie down, watching his cock spring out of his boxers when he tugs them off.

Rafe almost asks to skip the condom, but it feels too intimate. Too serious. And he’s sure you’d say no.

You pull your panties off as he rolls on the latex and gets on his knees, sinking onto the mattress, hands gripping your ankles. He shifts and rests your ankles on his broad shoulders, his hands skimming down your legs.

He drags a thumb over your wet clit, gazing down at you with yearning as he spreads your slick arousal over you. You moan at the sensation, realizing just how sensitive you are from how long it’s been and how much you missed him.

“You’re fucking soaked,” Rafe rasps. “Who got you like this, baby?”

“You did,” you reply. The words coming out of your mouth are so fucking soothing. He can’t think about anyone else doing this to you. Only him.

Rafe pulls his hand off of you to grip your thigh and holds his cock at its base with his other hand, tapping it over your middle. You look at him, eyes meeting in an exquisite, mutual longing.

“Say please,” he teases.

“You say please,” you reply, smirking. Rafe shakes his head in disbelief and awe and desire, his hair falling over his forehead.

He can’t wait. He guides himself into you, slipping in so easily, feeling just how drenched and tight and warm you are. He groans as you take him in with a deep breath, tilting to feel the curve of his cock.

“That’s so fucking nice,” he whispers, watching himself push into you. “Your pussy is so fucking nice.”

His fingers dig into your thigh as he pulls back and pushes in again. You throw your head back as he shoves himself into you, filling you completely, the pressure hard and incredible.

Rafe’s thumb is on your clit again, rubbing in circles as he thrusts, making you tremble. Your mouth is agape, your hands above your head as he pleasures you.

It’s such a phenomenal view to him. Pleasure written on your face, your tits bouncing, your chest heaving, your body jolting.

You feel your stomach tighten, the rising sensation making you moan. Rafe starts to go harder, rubbing faster, a smile curling on his lips as he watches you.

“I…” you breathe. “Fuck, I…”

“Can’t talk?” he rasps, amused. You bite your bottom lip and moan a giggle, willing yourself to look at him before he has to tell you to.

His gaze is piercing into you as you feel yourself dissolve into ecstasy, your body going numb before it heats with the most amazing feeling you’ve ever had.

Rafe feels you clenching around his cock and he leans over to get as deep into you as possible, your legs bending as his shoulders push you forward.

After you come down from your orgasm, he places his hand on your cheek, dipping his thumb into your mouth.

You stare at him as he drives into you and you wrap your lips around his thumb, tasting yourself. Rafe might just go crazy. You take him so much better than he’s ever had before.

He tightens and you watch the euphoria wash over his face, his brows furrowing and his lips parting. You love that you can do this to him, that a man so commanding and dominant and brash crumbles like this when he’s inside you.

He cums in hard pulses, hips bucking with every jerk, seeing stars. When he slowly pulls out, you close your eyes, sighing in pleasure.

Your palms rest over your eyes, feeling high off the feeling as you feel him shift off the mattress. When you catch your breath, you open your eyes to see Rafe offering you a towel.

“You have fun?” he asks. You can tell he’s trying to do the whole aftercare thing, but because it’s not genuine, you’d rather not play along.

It’s clear he wants you to leave with the way he’s holding out the towel, surely wishing you’d cover up and go. You’re not surprised. You sit up, taking the towel and wrapping it around your body.

“C-minus,” you say.

“What?”

“Kidding,” you laugh. You stand to leave and decide to let him deal with the mess of caution tape on his floor, desperate to be alone so you can pull yourself together.

You go so suddenly that Rafe watches his door shut with confusion. He thought you’d wipe yourself down with the towel he gave you, maybe sit a while with him.

He oddly wanted you to stay a little bit. He liked joking around with you earlier tonight. It was fun.

But you were so eager to go. Probably because Rafe is the kind of guy you fuck and forget, and Blake is the kind of guy you make love to and stick around for.

He knows that he’s in a competition he’ll eventually lose because he can’t offer you a relationship. You said yourself he’d be the worst boyfriend ever the night he told you not to cuddle him.

But he’ll happily take these nights with you for as long as possible. And he’ll keep fighting for as many as he can.

When you make it to your dorm, you sit on your bed, breathless. Just when you think the sex can’t get any better with Rafe, it does.

He almost disappointed you with his lack of emotion afterwards, but you’re glad you didn’t give him the power to. He’ll always let you down in that department. As long as you keep any feelings for him at bay, you know you’ll be fine.

After you feel a bit calmer, you check your phone to see five texts.

Liv: didn’t get a chance to tell you but rafe is down BAD for you

Liv: when i told him you were upstairs with blake he looked like he was about to kill someone

Liv: hope you have fun lol :)

Liv: i sure am… i made out with sam after you left… oops

Then you see a block of text in the next notification.

Blake: Gotta be honest. I wanted to kiss you when we were in my room but you make me really nervous haha. Can I take you on a date? A real one. Not just a study date lol. All good if you’re not into it. Let me know.

(part eight)

author’s note: thank you anon for this iconic idea!!

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[nastybuckybarnes]

Mouse Trap

Pairing: Ghost X Reader

Summary: Ghost's little mouse finds herself stuck in a trap. Who better to save her?

Warnings: Violence, Language, Angst, Fluff, kinda unhinged Ghost?, Torture ig, murder, Injuries, self-hate kinda i guess

Word Count: 2.5k

A/n: I'm literally in love with this little series, i think it will forever have a special place in my heart

~*~

Days go by since Ghost last saw you, since he fucked you, and the skulls seem to disappear once again.

His little street mouse has disappeared without a trace.

Ghost is a man of logic. A man who can use the information at hand to come to the most realistic conclusion.

And, in this case, you've realized what a fucking nutcase he is and have decided you never want to see him again.

I mean, what else could it be?

His sour mood is taken out on anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to get in his way.

And today is no different.

His brows are permanently furrowed and his grip on his riffle is unwavering as he and Soap do their rounds.

The Scot is quiet for a long while before deciding to try and poke the bear.

"Still nothin from yer mouse?" He asks, knowing damn well the answer.

Ghost says nothing, doesn't even address the fact that the man has spoken.

"You ever think of... lookin for her? I mean, she doesn't exactly spend time in the safest areas," he presses.

If Soap hadn't spent as much time with the bigger man as he has, he wouldn't have noticed the slight falter in Ghost's steps.

Sure, he'd looked for you, but the idea of you being hurt or even killed wasn't one he entertained.

In his mind, no one would be stupid enough to touch what's his, but people have certainly tried before.

His world shifts slightly, the tension in his shoulders changing. He's no longer worried that you're hiding from him, no. Now he's wondering who would take you and where they'd hide you.

Those are the thoughts that occupy his every waking moment for days, until he finally gets his answer.

While combing the streets for any sign of you -or the hostiles he's supposed to be looking for- there's a gift from God.

On the ground, in what looks alarmingly close to blood, is a skull drawing. And a trail of the same blood-like substance leads him better than breadcrumbs.

"Soap, on my six," he murmurs into his radio, carefully following the blood trail as it leads deeper into the city, into enemy territory.

Soap is quick to meet up with the Lieutenant, eyes and ears peeled as Ghost comes to a halt outside of an old office building.

"Wha're we doin' here, Lt?" He asks quietly, watching his back as Ghost picks the lock.

"Savin' my mouse."

The lock opens with a soft 'click' and he shoulders the door open, staying low and scanning the first room quickly.

He motions for Soap to follow and the Scot does, sticking close as the slowly sweep room after room.

As they go up the stairs, Ghost slows, tilting his head to the side as he hears the sound of muffled voices not far away.

He follows the sound, being extra careful as the voice gets louder and louder, until he can make out the words.

His stomach drops the tiniest bit as they approach the third floor.

He's done this countless times, this should be no different.

But it is different.

You're in there. He has no room for error. Not when your life could be on the line.

A man is speaking, and Ghost takes that as his cue to creep into the hallway.

Soap grabs his shoulder, giving him a strong look.

"This could be a trap. We should call the rest of the team."

The skull-faced man only stares at him for a long while then tugs out of his grip.

"S'not a trap, Johnny. She's in there. You wanna leave, go. M'not leavin without her." With that, he turns back to the hallway and moves forward.

Though he has his doubts, Soap follows closely behind, staying silent as the voice gets louder.

Other sounds are able to be heard now, too. These ones confirming Ghost's suspicions.

Feminine grunts, groans, and cries of pain.

At the sound of your voice, a switch flips inside of the large man and he's quickly and silently moving forward, taking down any hostiles in his path. Anyone that stands between him and you is promptly killed, dropping to the ground with quiet 'thud's.

The man that's been torturing you drops his knife onto the table and yanks your head back by your hair, forcing you to look at him again.

"I'm gonna ask you one last time, doll face: who sent you?"

Your eyes roll in your head for a moment before finally focusing on him.

It's been several days of this, if not longer, and you're starting to worry that your Ghost, that Simon, isn't coming for you.

You still stay strong, saying nothing.

This only seems to aggravate him further. He drops your head and walks back over to his table of torture toys, looking for something suitable for what he has planned for you.

Your eyes flutter to a movement in the doorway of the room, and you feel your heart fill with hope as one of the guards gets yanked into the hallway.

Familiar eyes peer into the room, immediately locking on yours, and you feel safe.

He's here. He came for you.

You knew he would.

He presses a finger to his lips, urging you to stay silent, and you give him a soft nod of understanding. Your eyes flutter back to your kidnapper, and you watch as he picks up a pair of pliers.

He clicks them together a few times then turns to face you, a wicked grin on his face.

"If you're not going to use that tongue, there's no sense in having it, is there?" He asks rhetorically.

He steps forward, grabbing your jaw roughly, and then he's collapsing on top of you, his blood spilling across your face.

You let out a startled scream, jerking your head back as he rolls onto the floor.

The room is suddenly filled with chaos.

A gun is pressed to your head, and Ghost has another man in a headlock, his eyes on yours.

"Keep those eyes on me, Mouse," he orders, making sure your gaze is locked on his as he snaps the mans neck.

"Don't come any closer!" The man holding the gun to your head warns, pressing it against you harder.

You wince but your eyes never leave Ghosts. Not even when he produces a small blade and whips it at the man beside you.

Ghost steps toward him as he writhes on the ground, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt and ripping the blade out of his eye socket.

"That's for lookin' at her. Imagine what m'gonna do to you for touchin' her," he snarls, big hand nearly crushing the man's windpipe.

You stare at them as Soap comes to your aid, freeing you from the rope binding you to the chair.

"Maybe, if you apologize nice and proper, I'll let you live," Ghost whispers, his eyes empty and hard as he looks at the man.

"Look at her with your good eye and tell her how sorry you are."

The man's head whips around to you and he stutters out an apology.

"Now, tell me how sorry you are."

He turns back to Ghost with his mouth open to apologize and you flinch as another gunshot rings out, and then he's crumpling to the floor in a heap, blood pouring from both eyes.

You stare at his corpse, at the dead man who threatened your life, then slowly bring your eyes up as the man who saved you approaches.

"How's she lookin', Johnny?" He asks, crouching down in front of you as Soap presses some gauze to your thigh tightly.

You whine at the pain, and Ghost gives one of your hands a squeeze.

"Not great. Bleedin' real heavy. We can drop her off at one of the med tents and-"

"Not happenin'," Ghost interupts.

He pulls you from the chair and carefully lays you on the floor, working with Soap to try and slow the bleeding as much as possible.

Your head spins as the adrenaline slowly leaves you, and you lift a hand in search of your big soldier.

"Simon," you whisper, vision going blurry.

Soap's eyes shoot up to you, shocked that you know the Lieutenant's real name. He can't help but wonder what exactly would happen when Ghost would go on patrol alone. How many nights were spent with you if he's trusted you with his name.

Ghost grabs your hand in an instant, his eyes over yours.

"M'here, Mouse."

Your bottom lip quivers and tears streak down your temples into your hair.

"Tired... so tired," you whisper.

He shoots Soap a worried look then gives your hand another squeeze.

"I know, but you can't sleep yet, Mouse. We'll stop for a coffee on our way back to base, how's that sound?"

You frown, edges of your vision slowly going dark.

"Simon," you whisper once more, pushing your hand up to dust over his masked face.

Soap watches, eyes full of wonder as Ghost, the man who just murdered over a dozen people, is soft and gentle with you.

Your fingers smooth over his masked lips, and then your hand is tumbling down beside your head and your eyes are falling closed.

"No, none of that. Eyes on me, Mouse. On me."

You try, you really do, but you just need a moment to rest. That's all. Just one moment.

~*~

You're in and out of consciousness from that moment forward, finally fully coming to in a dimly lit room.

You're groggy and confused, blinking several times to get the fog clouding your vision to go away.

When things finally clear up, your heart jumps in your chest and you look around frantically.

This isn't familiar.

None of this is.

"Easy, Mouse. You're safe. M'here."

Except that.

Your eyes dart over to the source of the sound, finding those familiar piercing eyes.

Instinctively, you relax and reach for him, stopping with a hiss when something tugs at your arm.

"Easy, love," Ghost murmurs, reaching out and taking your hand in both of his.

Tears well up in your eyes and you look away from him, shaking your head.

"'S'alright, little one. M'here. Not goin' anywhere anytime soon."

It's true. He has no intention of leaving your side until you allow it. Something he has made explicitly clear to the members of his team.

You look up at him with big teary eyes and his icy heart cracks in his chest.

"Don't make me go. Not back to city, please," you beg quietly.

His gaze softens and he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment before tugging his mask up over his lips and leaning down to kiss your knuckles.

"You're not going back there. Not if I have any say in it."

Your breaths start coming in faster, more shallow, until you're hyperventalating, one hand grasping at the gown on your chest.

Everything is too much. Too constricting, too enclosed.

You can't breathe.

"Hey, hey! Eyes on me."

You obey, your eyes finding his once more, and he nods encouragingly.

He brings your hand to his chest, flattens it against the thin shirt, and you can feel his heart beating against your palm.

"I want you to breathe with me, Mouse. In... and out."

You slowly copy him, slowing your breathing to match his and keeping your hand against his warm chest the entire time.

Eventually, the feeling of his skin only one layer away is too distracting. You slide your fingers up to the small area of skin between his shirt and his balaclava, stroking it gently.

Your breath hitches at the feeling of his flesh against yours, and you lean toward him, desperate to feel more of him.

He leans forward and takes your other hand in his and you stare in awe, pressing your palm against his. His hands are rough, calloused and hardened, but they feel so good, so right against yours.

You slide your fingers up his forearm, tracing the scars, veins and tattoos while your other hand wraps around the back of his neck, slipping under the back of his balaclava and tangling into his hair.

"Simon," you whisper, tugging him closer by the nape of his neck.

He leans in, scarred lips tilting up in a soft smile at the sound of his name on your tongue.

He presses his forehead to yours, his eyes falling closed a moment after yours.

Carefully, he nudges his nose against yours, then tilts his head to slot his lips against yours.

You kiss him back softly, tugging away after a moment and drawing your brows together.

"What?" He asks softly, his free hand coming up to stroke your cheek.

"Where do I stay? Here?"

He shakes his head, pulling back a bit more after pressing one more kiss to your mouth.

"You'll stay with me. Unless you'd prefer your own room."

You're shaking your head before he's finished speaking, and he nods knowingly.

"Then you'll stay with me. We should only be here a few months longer. Then you can come home with me, if you'd like."

He'd be lying if he said he hasn't given much thought to the future. But after this? After nearly losing you before he truly got to have you? He's not willing to let you leave his side.

You only nod, eyes full of awe and adoration.

He gives you one more kiss, then gets up to get a med officer to check on you.

~*~

You spend a few days in the medical wing, and then, once you're given the go-ahead (under the ever-watchful eye of Ghost), you're changing into military-grade pants and a black t-shirt, and sitting patiently while Ghost laces up your boots.

"We match," you say proudly, beaming up at him when he rises to his full height.

He grins down at you through his mask, his eyes crinkling around the corners, and presses his forehead against yours sweetly.

"That we do, Mouse. Now, lets get you on your feet again."

He takes your hands and gently helps you to your feet, steadying you when you try to put weight onto your injured leg.

Your face screws up in pain, but you push through it, taking a few careful steps with his help.

"You sure you're ready?" He asks warily, watching you intently until you glare at him from the corner of your eye.

"Ready. Want to leave."

He nods, wrapping an arm around your waist and all but lifting you off the ground every time you try to step with your injured leg.

He leads you through the base, his glare sharp enough to have the onlookers scurrying out of sight.

Ever since he brought you back, bloody and wounded in his arms, you've been the talk of the base.

Who are you? Why does the Lieutenant like you so much? Can you be trusted?

That last question has plagued even some of his closest friends.

But as he helps you to the barracks, you lean further into him, you trust him at your most vulnerable, and he knows deep in his soul that you are someone he can trust.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he unlocks the door to his quarters and pushes it open.

The trek took far more energy than you'd like to admit, and you eagerly take a seat at the desk against the wall.

"You hungry?" He asks after a moment of silence, watching you as you look around curiously.

You nod, glancing up at him when he takes a step to the door.

"I'll be back in a minute. Try not to get into any trouble while I'm gone." He can't help but grin when you cross your arms over your chest.

Without another word, he exits the room, leaving you alone to explore.

You do exactly that, carefully taking in your surroundings.

There's a bed, a real bed, against the far wall. Across from that is a small wardrobe.

On the opposite side of the room is a door, and you find yourself limping over to it curiously.

You push it open and flick on the light, your eyes widening when you see the bathroom.

A proper bathroom, with running water that probably gets warm.

You turn the faucet on, watching in awe as it takes only a few moments for steam to start billowing. Your eyes follow the steam until they meet your own reflection in the mirror.

An audible gasp leaves your lips, and you lean forward, staring in a combination of disgust and horror.

You've seen your reflection since hiding out, but never quite so clearly.

The stitches at your hairline are crusted with blood, and you have bruises all over your face. Dark splotches that paint your skin in a way that makes your stomach churn.

How could Simon stand to look at you like this?

You splash some of the water on your face, hissing when it's a little bit too hot. Not a problem you thought you'd ever have.

Turning it down, you wait unti lit cools slightly to try and scrub your face clean, to make yourself more presentable for him, to look pretty.

No matter how hard you try, however, you can't clean the evidence of the torture from your face.

Hot tears streak down your cheeks and you turn your back on your reflection, angry that you ever dared to look at yourself.

At least before, you didn't know what you looked like. You didn't know what your Ghost had to look at, to touch, kiss.

"Mouse?"

You sniffle and wipe your cheeks quickly at the sound of his voice, opening the bathroom door a crack.

He takes one look at your face, at your red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and he's pushing his way into the bathroom and inspecting you for injuries.

"What happened?"

You shake your head and tug on his balaclava gently.

"I want one."

His brows furrow and you can almost see the gears in his head trying to process what's going on.

"What?"

"Please. Want one... like Ghost."

He cups your cheek gently, big warm hand soothing your aching skin.

"Why? I like seeing your pretty face. Dont want you to cover it up if you don't need to."

This makes you tear up once more and you tug out of his grip, turning your back to him and hiding your face in your hands.

"Need to," you whisper thickly, "not pretty. Not now."

He's appalled by your words, stepping in front of you and gently pulling your hands away from your face.

"Where'd you get an idea like that?"

You sniffle and shake your head, avoiding his eyes.

"Broken... ugly..." Your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror and you glare at what you see, your bottom lip quivering as you try to hold back your tears.

A surprising rush of emotions floods him and he takes a few moments to breathe and steady himself.

He's not used to this whole softness thing. Not great at it, either.

"You think I'm ugly? I've got more bumps and bruises than you can count, little one. Scars, too. Does that make me ugly? Should I forever keep my face hidden from you?"

You frown up at him and shake your head quickly.

He could never be ugly, not to you.

"Then why are you any different? I see these," he strokes the mark on your cheek gently, "and it makes me want to protect you. It reminds me that you're fragile. Delicate. It makes me angry that someone would put their fucking hands on you, but thats it."

He pulls you into his arms and lays a few kisses on the top of your head.

"You're precious, Mouse. So very special, and so beautiful. M'more than happy to prove it to you if you don' believe me."

His voice drops a bit lower, as do his kisses, and you can't stop the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth.

"There she is, there's my pretty girl," he whispers, kissing your lips briefly then pulling back once more.

"Now, you need to eat something and I need to debrief with Price. Rest while I'm gone, because you're not gonna be doing much sleeping when I get back."

[feelfreetopleasemexo]

hi, can I request smut for virgin bakugou x virgin reader first time, reader and bakugou are in their mid 20s, and have recently started dating maybe like a 6 months or so, make it a shy and slow one pls and thanks

Of course! I love this idea :)

The first of many.

You and Katsuki had been dating for roughly 4/5 months now, and because you were both pro heros it unfortunately meant that you didnt get chance to spend a lot of quality time together. You sometimes had quiet evenings after patrols, but they were usually filled with tending to wounds, collapsing exhausted in bed, trying to muster up the courage to touch each other then ultimately falling asleep in a warm embrace, ready for the next torturous day of saving the city. Until, he text you in the morning just as you were getting ready to leave for work.

“Hey bitch, don’t bother coming in work today. Weve been fired for two weeks as of today.”

Your stomach flipped as your heart leaped into your throat. Fired?! What the fuck was he on about? You tried to ring him only for it to her declined straight away.

“Wtf?! FIRED? What did we do?! Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke so I get called out for missing a day of work or something….”

A quick reply instantly popped up,

“Open your front door dumbass.”

You ran down to your front door, one shoe on and your hero costume barely tightened up properly, only to see him stood at your door already opened, handful of roses and a box of something in his other hand. He leant against the open door, holding the roses out infront of him and putting the box in his pocket, as he smirked up at you and clicked his tongue.

“Not bad for a surprise holiday acceptance ey. Might actually get to be annoyed by you now, Yano, that I can actually spend more than 30 seconds with you. “ He walked up to you and grabbed your waist, pulling you into him as the roses pressed against both your chests. He wrapped that hand now around the side of your face and pulled you into a fiery, intense kiss, making the butterflies in your stomach set alight and fill the rest of your body with burning venom. His intensity was new, it wasnt something youd never seen before but with you he rarely had chance to show it, rarely the energy to muster it, so to say it surprised you would be an understatement. He pressed his hips into yours as the force of his body pushed you against the wall, dropping the roses to the floor and embracing you in a tight hold, kisses now being placed along your jaw and onto your neck. This was the Katsuki you had always wanted, always dreamed about having, not that the sleepy Katsuki wasnt nice, you just felt like you never got to experience him as his peak, until now.

As the kisses turned to bites, he kicked your door shut and picked you up so you sat on his lap, crossing your legs around his hips, as he walked you both up the stairs towards your bedroom. When he kicked your bedroom door open, he flung you onto the bed and began to trail his hands all over your body, forcing goosebumps to follow behind his burning touch like tiny breadcrumb trails that showed exactly where he’d been. The more intense the heat rose between you two, the more your chest tightened, you knew he was big, youd seen it and wrapped your hand around it a few times before, so the thought of it destroying your insides made your anxiety spike more than your lust. As he trailed his hand down to your thighs, you placed a hand on his chest and pulled away from his kiss,

“Katz, this is so fucking hot but…” Your words made him instantly stop, he was monstrously horny but the respect he had for you and your happiness could never be outshone.

“You okay baby? Did I hurt you? Do you want me to stop?” He fingers tenderly slide back up towards your waist as he spoke, fear lingering in his voice that he was getting too ahead of himself.

“No,no, trust me, this is beyond perfect and everything I’ve ever wanted but…im kinda scared. I don’t think….youre gonna fit Yano, ive er…never actually done it before so.” Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you spoke, you couldnt remember if youd already told him before, your mind far too fuzzy with euphoria and rising intensity to think about anything other than how fucking good his hands felt on you. He smirked up at you and placed a tender kiss to your lips, a drastic change to his previous ravenous ones,

“I haven’t either don’t worry kid, I got you. I might be acting all tough and forward now but wait till it gets to actually being inside of you, I’ll probably fall apart and start humping the side of your leg thinking im already inside or some shit.” His usual cocky and confident tone simmered down slightly, leaving a sweet and comforting timber echoing through your entire body. His honesty and humour made your anxiety lessen slightly, for everything that he showed the outside world, Katsuki was actually really rather tender and considerate.

He slowed his movements as you smiled and pulled him into another tender kiss, taking his time to warm you up and wait for your signal to continue. The more you kissed, the more you found yourself rocking your hips up towards him, inviting his sweet thrusts to rub against you, the intensity of your slick becoming almost too much to handle anymore.

“C, can we go slow first?” Your voice trembled between your pants, shifting your hips up so he could help take your trousers off.

“Of course we can, i don’t wanna cum within two seconds on my first time Jesus,im probably gonna h,have to just keep it in there for a bit anyway, Yano, warm us both up for it. Fuuuuck, I want you so badly.” His moans stuttering between his words as he pulled your trousers down slowly, exposing your pretty pink lace pants. He stared at the tiny bow on the top of them, before his eyes locked onto the damp material between your legs. His mouth gapped open slightly as his half lidded eyes fluttered,completely transfixed at how good you looked, all because of him. He gulped heavily as he then undid his trousers, pulling his cock from them and resting it against the warm heat of your pussy.

“Fuuuuuck” Escaped his mouth, almost a whisper as he gently guided himself up the crease of your pants, the wet lace feeling like nothing keeping him from being against you. You arched your back as you felt his throbbing cock glide against the material, dancing delicately against your clit as he rocked ever so slightly against you, your breathy pants only making him harder. He kissed you as he rocked his hips, trembling from the feel of you almost being too much already as you tried to speak,

“Pl,please, please fuck me, I think I, im ready, fuck kats.” Your voice begging for him was too much, he pulled your pants to the side and let the head of his cock push against your slick, causing his own moans to escape low and gruff, praising how good you felt and how bad,y he needed to be inside of you. He guided himself to your entrance, pushing his head slightly inside before throwing his head back and almost whimpering.

“Jesus fuck baby, holy fucking fuck, you feel like a drug that I can’t get enough of…i dont think I’ve ever wanted something so badly in my entire life. Can I, can I do more? Fuck im scared im gonna cum already. You feel so fucking good baby.” His eyes watered slightly as he spoke, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as he relished in the feel of you. You cried out for him, feeling the stretch of his swollen head already.

“Please kats, fuck, please more. I need you, i need to feel you.” He rocked slightly more inside of you, careful not to stretch you too fast, fighting his own primal instincts not to delve straight into you fully. As he entered you more, the painfully slow stretch only made the wave raise inside of you worsen as you dug your nails into his back, fighting off the urge to pull him into you more.

“Look at me, fucking look at me. I wanna see your eyes scream for me when I get fully in. Fuuuuck baby, fuck. You ready? You gonna take me yeah? Gonna be a good girl and take all of me?” His words made your brain go blank, the only thing you could do was frantically nod your head at his request and focus on the intense feeling of being full only worsen.

He rocked his hips back and towards as he entered more of himself into you, fully plunging himself inside of you causing him to grip tighter onto your hips and nearly bruising you under his clench. His eyes widened as he filled you up, holding himself still as he stretched your walls around his throbbing cock. One more thrust and he was going to be tipped over the edge, grabbing you over it with him. Your moans turned to whimpers as you felt like he was already pushing the air from your lungs, having never felt so full in your entire life. He leaned down slowly and pressed his forehead to yours, panting into your open mouth.

“Oh my fucking god baby, I never thought I could feel so good. Fucking hell, you’re going to ruin me arent you pretty girl. Fuck your pussy is so tight, so inviting, so fucking good.” His words hummed around your ears, barely able for you to concentrate on, as your hip’s involuntarily started to move, begging for him to cause more friction. He felt your hips move as he gulped hard, dragging himself out slightly to then gently push back inside. With each thrust, more pleasure engulfed your body, your eyes forcing their way to the back of your head as you felt every inch of your walls burn with intense pleasure and stretching. He was soft, gentle and intimate, it was everything youd ever wished it would be, for all his fiery cockiness outside of the bedroom, this is exactly what you needed your first time to be like.

The more he thrusted, the more your slick made it easier for you to accept him into you, causing less painful stretching and more intense pleasure to build up in your stomach. You whimpered out that it felt like you were going to cum,and it took everything in his being not to start pounding harder and faster, helping you chase your high quicker. As soon as he felt your walls clench around him, he knew he only had a few more moments until he was shoved over the edge himself, begging to cum inside of you.

“Baby, cum with me, cum with me please. I fucking need it. I need to feel you cum all over me as I fill you up. Fuck, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect my girl. Let me fill you, let me make you mine.” As soon as his words came out, you were forced over the edge, spilling all over him as your walls tightened and convulsed, squeezing every last drop of him out into you. As your walls tensed around him it felt like they were dragging every ounce of his cum out and forcing it against the right walls that surrounded him, claiming every inch of you as his own.

As you both panted into each others mouths, coming down from your high together, your smile broke the intermittent kisses, causing his own to sprinkle across his open mouth. You let out a small laugh between pants, nuzzling your nose against his as you fell even more inlove with him. The sweat between you both caused the air to feel cold and sticky, as he pulled out of you slowly and laid next to you on his back, still frantically panting and smiling worse than when denki would go stupid. You cuddled into his chest as he lazily lifted his arm to invite you in, both crashing after your first experience of making love. You laid together in the moment, immersed in its euphoric intensity, only for the silence to be broke by his words,

“I love you Yano that? Fucking shit that was intense.” You smiled as he tried to hold you tightly, failing as the exhaustion took over his entire body.

“I love you too Katz, im so glad I got to share this with you. Even if you are a little bit of a perv.” His lifted his eye slightly at you, looking down at you as he tired to scowl at yours words.

“Im not a perv, you just feel good. Dont ya know you ain’t supposed to bring up sex talk after sex….idiot.” His smile broke the intensity of his words, causing you to giggle lazily and snuggle tighter into his chest. This was the first of many times youd tease him about what hed say during sex, and the last time he’d ever let you get away with it so casually.

[seishroo]

Hiori from blue lock eating readers ass since we felt like we weren't good enough for him now he has to prove us wrong by eating us out until we're dumb

cw. smut mdni, ass eating, insecurity, dumbification, gun mention, little bit of sadist hiori LOOL

bf!hiori who can’t stand when you belittle yourself in any kind of way. he adores everything about you, even the things you criticize the most about yourself. 

when it came up in conversation that you felt as if you’re out of his league, he stilled beside you, lips parting and mind blanking.

“..ya really think that, hm?”, he asks, his tone low and warm. when you confirmed it with a slow nod of your head, he wasted no time pulling you into his lap to wrap his arms around you. 

despite him giving you sweet words of reassurance and a face full of gentle pecks, you still felt this unease in your stomach. hiori could tell by the look on your face and frowned, tucking a finger under your chin to have you meet his eyes. 

“y’know that ain’t true, sweets”, he whispers, eyes searching yours for any sort of reciprocation. when nothing but uncertainty reflected in those irises of yours, he slowly leaned in, gaze never wavering. “if words can’t convince ya..”, he began, your noses centimeters away from touching, “i’ll have to make ya feel it instead”.

..

“ass up”, the only words you comprehended before you were being bent over the nearest surface, bottoms shoved down with a wet, sloppy tongue diving into your puckered hole. its filthy, erotic, hiori’s eatin you up like a starved man who ain’t seen a breadcrumb in the last decade. your juices coat his chin, sticky and sweet while his tongue circles around the rim. 

“so perfect, all f’me”, hiori mutters to himself as he pushes his face deeper between your globes, tongue-fucking you like a semi-automatic rifle. you throb against his mouth, reaching behind you and tugging on those blue locks. 

“sshhhiiittt, hio..!”, you cry out, his tongue casting fucking spells that you swear make you see stars. he gives your ass a few firm slaps, making you cry out even louder.

“shh, baby”, he coos, sloppily making out with your hole just to make you whine. “jus’ let me take care of ya, ‘kay?”, he mutters before finishing the job, groping your cheeks harder. he was an animal. he could spend the entire day like this, face full of ass, not giving a fuck how sore his jaw may be. nothing’s better than hearing your sweet little mewls while you’re feeling pleasure because of him. only him. 

he was everywhere all at once. you felt every, single, last stroke of his lengthy tongue, digging in every crevice of your entire being, like flashes of heat. you roll your hips closer to his mouth, a needy groan falling from your lips. “pleasepleaseplease”, you whine stupidly before your orgasm rushes through you, blinding almost. hiori slurps up every last bit of your release, leaving no place untouched — face sticky and smeared with you. 

your body went limp as you came down from your peak, hiori’s arm snaked around your waist to stabilize you. “still think yer not enough f'me, pretty?”, he teases with a kiss to the top of your head, more than willing for round two if you still had any doubts.

there was no need for protest.

an. hi babi sorry this took me so long i kept getting too geeked thru the day n sleeping smh hope u like :3

© seishroo | much love ꨄ